E. A. Irwin ~ Dark Fiction Bender

Hmm…

by E. A. Irwin

Mary swiped an anti-bacterial wipe over the desk lest her new cubical mate think her messy. The woman was due shortly and it was Mary’s responsibility, one she didn’t relish, to welcome new employees into the Lusterworld family.

She looked into the mirror, straightening her glasses to perfection, then ran her hand aimlessly through her mousy-colored hair, imagining it blonde and in a sexy style. She sighed. Even if she had blonde hair or a sexy style no one would notice her. She peeked from behind the gray flannel walls of her cubicle to inspect the ongoing office melee, gasping as the elevator’s chrome doors slid open announcing the woman’s arrival.

Out she walked—six-feet, six inches of gliding sex. Men and women stared as she sauntered. Blonde hair worshipped her face in waves, enhancing blue-gray eyes set in an intriguing angle atop cherub-like cheeks. Mary gawked at the voluptuous creation floating her way, instinctively gazing to her own small breasts as her arms wrapped around her in a protective cocoon.

The woman claimed the floor like a red carpet, her hips swaying to her own internal rhythm and didn’t care if anyone knew the tune. Her dress caressed legs that rose beyond half her height and then some with the addition of four-inch stilettos.

Mary stepped from the cubical, cleared her throat and extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Mary. Welcome to our family. It’s good to meet you—.”

The woman dwarfed Mary’s hand as she shook it. A throaty voice replied, “I’m Charlene, good to meet you, Mary. Looks like Lusterworld put me here in time. You do need a makeover.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“Makeover. Just wait, in a few weeks you’re going to look hotter than me.”

Disbelief painted Mary’s face. “Why would I need a makeover?” She surreptitiously looked around. “Am I being punked? Who put you up to this?”

Charlene chuckled. “No, hon, you aren’t being punked. Consider me a gift from Lusterworld with a chance to advance. You have enough brains to run this place but all people see, if they manage to hone in on your invisibility, is a frump, not the charismatic woman I know is hidin’ inside.”

“I’m sure I’ve been insulted, by you and Lusterworld, since I was supposed to ensure you got settled properly. So, I’m not pretty like you,” Mary stared at Charlene’s breasts, “or have the necessary attributes some women possess. I do my job as well as any man and that should be enough.”

“That’s the point, you’re sprintin’ rings around the guys but they know what to wear to stand out and bullshit their way up Lusterworld’s ladder. I’m just gonna help you skip a few rungs so you end up on top.”

Mary sank into her chair in defeat. “I give up. I’m not a man and I obviously am not up to female standards. This is a losing battle. If, that’s a huge if, I let you help me we have to face the facts I don’t have what you have in the um, boob or anything else department. Plus, all the men would ridicule me for making myself into something I’m not and the women would be worse. Forget this. Sorry you had to come here under false pretenses.”

“Men are stupid. Besides, Lusterworld is creatin’ a new job overseas for you so no one will know what was happenin’ inside your caterpillar cocoon until you’re set free. Don’t worry darlin’ what you don’t already own we’ll buy.” 

“Buy?”

Charlene ran her hand over her body. “No one has to know they aren’t real.”

Mary nervously giggled. “Yours look very real. Could I really be as beautiful a woman as you are without anyone knowing I’d changed my appearance? I think I might like that.”

Charlene laughter deepened as she leaned into Mary’s ear. “I like it all darlin’, including being a woman. Now, don’t tell anyone my secret. I used to be a man.”

©E. A. Irwin

Blood Money

by E. A. Irwin

Blood flew from my mouth as a fist connected with my jaw for the thousandth time. Hands grabbed my hair, wrenching my head backward as another set of fists pummeled the slab of meat previously known as my battered face.

“Where did you hide the money, Larry? Tell us now and save yourself the inevitable.”

The many possibilities regarding the unspoken inevitable made my head swim when I shook it. I wasn’t going to pony up information. A foot assaulted my gut. I cringed and sank lower in the chair to avoid having my lungs explode from their perforation by broken ribs. The hands entwined in my hair jerked me upright, assuring I’d experience the full pounding to my body.

Shrill screaming met my ears. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t know anything!”

Through swollen eye slits, I stared at my wife twisting in a chair across from me, her efforts futile as she attempted to free herself from her bonds. The man behind me walked to her, grabbed her hair and jerked her face to within inches of his. “If he doesn’t know anything then I suggest you start talking, Mrs. Moneybags. I’ll give you one second to tell me where he’s hidden the money he stole from us.”

Sheila’s attempt at bravery by spitting in his face ended with him backhanding her across the jaw, causing her head to ricochet against the wall. “That will be the last time you do that, bitch. I’m through playing nice, either tell me where old Larry stashed the cash or you watch him die piece by piece.” His eyes flashed with malice. “Or perhaps you hid the money without Larry knowing.” The flick of a switchblade against her neck produced another scream. “Is that what you did, Mrs. Moneybags? Did you find out Larry’s been a naughty boy and wanted to get back at him for not sharing his misdeeds and the loot? You two in this together? That why you’re holding out on me? Not a good idea, sweet thing, my blade doesn’t like liars.”

Blood trickled from a fresh wound on Sheila neck, her voice strangled as she spoke. “I don’t know anything about any money Larry allegedly stole. Give me a figure. I have the money, all you have to do is give me an amount and I’ll make good on whatever you want. We won’t go to the police. They can’t trace cash. Just don’t hurt us anymore. Please.”

“That so?” His beady black eyes bored into mine. “Is this how it works in your marriage, Larry? You let the little woman pay for your mistakes? Figured you for a loser.” He rubbed the front of his pants with the switchblade while vulgarly laughing. “Maybe we can up the ante here, hey Sheila baby? Looks like you need a real man in your life to show you how it is, not some puny-assed thief making you pay for his crime. Want to bargain by spreading your legs and doing me in front of that piece of crap you call a husband?”

“Stop it! Get away from her!” My words grew incoherent as my tongue swelled.

He bent and whispered seductively in her ear, the calmness of his voice chilled my spine. “I’ll get off more if you scream when I’m riding you. Could be worth a discount on the debt if you go the extra mile with my friend over there and me, kind of a two-fer one thing, you know?”

Hyenas sounded saner than his friend when he laughed. Sheila’s eyes reflected the terror shifting through her brain as she weighed the idea of being raped simultaneously by two savages. Her sudden outburst shattered my reserve. “He’s lying, Larry. Tell them where the money is! They’re going to kill us if you don’t no matter what I do!”

A rivulet of red seeped down Sheila’s arm, her shrieks matching the depth of the cut her assaulter delivered.

Another slam rocked my head. “She dies now if you don’t start talking.”

“Larry!”

Breathing deeply, I watched blood spatter spurt from Sheila’s mouth and hit the wall as her anguished cries filled the room. “I told you, I didn’t steal your money. I don’t know anything.”

“Have it your way, Larry. She gets cut until she dies while you watch. I warned you. You’re next.”

They sliced my wife into bloody strips of flesh barely attached to bone while her insane screeching ran along my ear canal in a frenzied death song. I watched with gory fascination until the last swipe of the knife stilled. “Is she dead, Stan?”

He kicked the chair containing my wife’s remains to the floor. “Yeah, she’s dead.”

I motioned with my head to Stan’s buddy in crime. “Untie me, Tony. Why the hell did you beat me so badly? This could have been accomplished without practically killing me.”

Stan ripped off the latex gloves he’d worn while murdering my wife. “You wanted her dead. Had to make it look real for the cops. Same reason we can’t untie you. You need an alibi.”

I spit broken enamel and blood clots from my mouth. “You broke my teeth.”

Derisive laughter filled dead air. “Buy new teeth with your inheritance. We’ll call the police after we leave and inform them we heard screaming. Should give you enough time to work up a few tears for your dearly departed.”

I smiled despite the pain and Sheila’s growing stench. Yeah, the inheritance would buy everything I wanted … including a new wife. Who said liars never prospered?

©E. A. Irwin

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Moonlight Becomes You

by E. A. Irwin

“I can’t believe you did this to me!”

David ran strong hands along my spine, his fingertips leaving a trail of excited gooseflesh behind. Warm breathy breezes eased around my ear as he spoke. “Sweetheart, I couldn’t help myself.”

Facing my husband, I focused on his face, noting his eyes gleamed more mischievously than normal. If I could put both hands on my hips to accentuate my disbelief in his actions I would, but from this position it was awkward, plus, those damned fingers kept wearing down my reserve. I grabbed the digits of pleasure to stop their advance to other areas I couldn’t control. “Stop. This is important, David. I mean far past the top of the list of imperative items you assured me would never happen. Seriously, what were you thinking?”

David stroked my face, sending the tingle to another location as my mind struggled to remain focused. “Come on, Leah, I didn’t do it on purpose. Believe me I’m as surprised as you are.”

“Likely story. You promised!” Watching David’s eyes melt into smoldering liquid emeralds didn’t foster confidence in his proclaimed innocence. I sighed, touching his ruggedly handsome face, knowing he’d never intentionally harm me even if we took turns toward the bizarre. I squinted at him. Maybe this latest action wasn’t an accident as he claimed. Perhaps he’d planned it and was lying to protect himself. “Did you do this on purpose? David, I need to know. We’ve been married a long time, why did this happen now? Are you losing control?”

“Leah, I’m always uncontrolled with you, that’s the way it’s been for me. I love you more than life. But I’d never put you in danger, I simply needed to kiss you.”

“That was not an ordinary kiss and you know it.”

His facial expression fell further than my desperation. “Okay, I admit the kiss wasn’t ordinary. Nothing we do is ordinary and we both love the outcome. Yet now, an unusual moment of passion and you’re subjected to a foreign lifestyle.”

“I’ve known about the problem since before we married. I don’t want to blame you; we’ve just been able to manage the situation for years.” A heavy sigh escaped me. “Tell me, what’s different tonight? What made you do this?”

“An unbelievable frenzy I couldn’t quell stopped reason. The moonlight bathed you and you became ethereal. The beast rose too quickly to stop.”

I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see his anguish, and then pulled myself into his embrace, wincing as he touched the bloody bite on my shoulder representing David’s true form of a kiss. “What now? When will I know if what occurred will make me like you?”

Hot tears fell from him as he whispered into the moonlit room. “Leah, I’m so sorry, please try to forgive me. Unfortunately we’ll have to wait until the next full moon to see if you become a werewolf.”

©E. A. Irwin

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Truth, most times, is stranger than fiction. I present to you today something which could never be made up. A strange little tale from the annals of my personal life ... shocking, though true. Hope you enjoy.

The Green Grass of Christmas

by E. A. Irwin

“You want what?”

I stared into the small, bloodshot, piggy eyes of my next-door neighbor. His appearance resembled one of the members of ZZ Top—an out of shape, bare-footed, frighteningly tattooed, cigarette-sucking, beer-swilling member none of the group wanted. I didn’t even mind tattoos. Some ink is quite beautiful; however, his were just plain ol’ ugly. Did I mention his fingernails resembled yellowed eagle talons?

He’d been rejected by ZZ Top and me. Sans guitar, sans anything that would make his standing on my front porch on a Sunday morning more intriguing, or more attractive, although, he did wear a baseball hat covering his out of control frizzy yellow head of hair which blessedly cast a shadow on his less than appealing features. Unfortunately, the shadow cast wasn’t dark or deep enough to prevent me from gawking at the teeth that matched the level of hair color, rushing quickly toward brown barn boards.

The urgent desire to vote him invisible accelerated through me faster than if I’d sucked on an extra strong tea bag while eating Sugar Pops. The level of his performance attempted to be somewhat original though; just couldn’t wait to hear the profanity sure to come as he honed his watery, blue pig eyes on mine.

Insanity began with this back story: I informed the gardener he didn’t need to trim the hedges, since the last time he’d cut them back I waited almost an entire day to look at them, knowing his expertise with a hedge-trimmer was similar to doing chemistry in an Easy Bake kitchen. Let me just say when I did look expletives exploded in my head, raining like the last bright white, phosphorescent bursting Fourth of July firework—causing a really saucy curse word to exit my mouth. But the man really was one of the nicest gardeners we’ve ever had, even if he was shorter than me by several inches, and I’m not tall, thus making it decisively difficult for him to get the correct stance on the stool I’d provided for his gardening feats.

I have five large hedges. Personally, I like their fluffy outgrowth and usually cut the hedges until I’m no longer able to reach the height differential with the electric hedge-trimmer known by me as the vibrating dead severed leg. I loosed the gardener with his trimmer. Shame on me. Now that I’m positive that his expertise isn’t bushes, we’re fine, just too much angst on my part due to his getting paid for making them ugly.

Had I tried for geometric puzzle shapes to compete in upcoming gardening magazine design layouts, I was on my way. I now possessed two parallelograms, a trapezoid, and one suspiciously resembling a rhombus. The remaining bush he hadn’t touched (apparently his search for three-hundred and sixty degrees on each bush had boggled his mind to the point of anarchy) so luckily it still remained in a gentle round blob. Geometry gone wild, and he hadn’t even tried. In fact, he’d been quite proud he’d accomplished so much with his hedge-trimmer, and what he’d used to get those really fine cuts down the sides—his weed eater. Truly a man of many talents and wonders, so I’m back to doing them, dragging out my trimmer, holding the vibrating severed leg over my head until I’m finished.

But I digressed. As I mentioned, I’d interrupted the gardener’s conversation with my neighbor, a dual purpose since the ZZ Top wannabe was preventing him from doing his job. Not that I don’t want the gardener to obtain further employment or mind him having unusual friends, I just don’t want him getting in the middle of what I sense coming; Ol’ Long Beard making some demand of the gardener, me, or the people that live in my house. Basically, I don’t want ZZ around. Period.

Apparently, the lilting sound of my voice reached the gardener’s ears. He turned, acknowledging my presence with a seemingly desperate and heightened expression. Like, could I come out and get between him and yellow teeth so he could get back to work?

No. He’s an adult. He’s a man. I’m a short non-confrontational woman who just wants the lawn mown and edged. Besides, my voting ZZ invisible hadn’t worked, and the bag of incantations for insipid bothersome neighbors was truly empty, its last power depleted on my previous attempt at community peace with him. Suffice it to say, ZZ’s last foray into his realm of persecution, while screaming dim-witted and disgusting insults, resulted in me staring into those creepy eyes and demanding he bite me. Simple. Au contraire, nothing is ever simple as we march toward world peace and ZZ’s version of world dominance.

As the gardener acknowledged me, I quickly turned to retreat into the inner sanctum of my home, my wishes known, and my job completed until he is handed a check for his work. Unfortunately, the neighbor also witnessed me, heard my voice as it spoke words intended for instruction, ignoring the fact it was definitely not an invitation for interaction between us. Hiding on my porch as the bush spoke to the gardener reached fail safe. I heard those words. Words I’d rather not hear. “I want to speak to you.”

I ignored him. Not nice, don’t care. He raised his coffee cup, as if noticing the odd-shaped pottery thrown on some off-kilter potter’s wheel would grab my attention and hypnotize me into conversation. The cup? One of those clay things in the shape of a triangle with a flat bottom and a small hole in the top so liquid doesn’t slosh unknowingly onto your car’s interior—some weird tri-color combination which clashed with his otherworldly appearance, the only color in harmony that of muddy brown resembling his teeth. Another influx of geometry to make my brain hurt.

The plea of his triangle cup fell on deaf ears. I stepped inside, watching through the security door to see if he was going to cross the border like a welcomed guest. Yep, the yellow man cometh—straight to my door, his sense of boundaries unknown to him and his kith and kin. Another thing which bothered me far more than any tragically cut hedge could ever accomplish. An infiltrator he was. Come to lay his form of crap on my porch like a member of the Hell’s Angels Taliban. Life was always his way, none other existed.

Side note: The man has the smallest stride I’ve ever seen in a man. What was with the teeny, tiny steps the likes of which I haven’t witnessed since Fred Flintstone approached the bowling lane to throw a strike? As he pitter-pattered his way toward my door, I couldn’t even think about what to say, too mesmerized by those baby steps, as I imagined him toppling off bright red stilettos onto the sidewalk. Perhaps he wasn’t aware the coffee couldn’t escape the triangle cup no matter how big of steps he took. The sight of him became intriguing in the worst possible way, as I struggled with the urge to laugh hysterically, while yelling something inappropriate. I bit my lip and remained mute not wanting to stoke the fire building in his belly.

One step, two, up on the porch, I see you. He bore an expression only his odd features could capture. Something was on his mind, and he was going to be a neighbor in the most ingratiating form. Falsely pleasant, with a giant plop of humility on the side.

I stepped from my living room in an attempt to stop the pollution of his person from entering my sanctuary, while sparing those inside the travesty of his words as he worked up some sort of outlaw conversation. He spoke. The wannabe possessed one of the most unusual voices, muffled, yet strangely piercing as it reached your ears doing a dance of insanity while it pushed along the auditory canal. The man was slightly deaf; most assuredly from listening to head-banger metal most of his life. I listened to the oddity of his speech, suddenly transfixed on his piggy eyes, yellow beard and ochre teeth, the bare feet and vastly protruding beer gut, and longed to pull the baseball cap lower so I no longer had to stare at the freak. The tenor of his voice soon became background noise while my eyes took in the troll before me.

I stood on the porch, my Tara, waiting for his words to ignite the fires that would inevitably burn. My best conversation was going to be short, an economy of words just to get him gone. “What.”

“I like Christmas. I really like to decorate for the season.”

This was September. We’d just had Labor Day, and were nowhere near celebrating scaring each other on Halloween, hadn’t had a chance to honor the veterans, for pity’s sake we hadn’t gotten to eat turkey or be thankful at Thanksgiving. Besides, I’d seen his decorating; the opportunity of not witnessing it again waged uppermost in my mind.

I’d been known to decorate at Christmas. Sometimes the hedges become giant packages tied up in red ribbons leading the way to my home, though I’ll admit one year wasn’t my finest. I’d purchased sets of lights all strung on a grid, placing them strategically over my hedges, hoping a soft glow of illumination would enhance the winter’s night. I was wrong. I know I was wrong, because all I saw in the winter’s night was a grid for algebraic equations. I couldn’t find X or Y, and am still unsure if I had traversed into negative numbers, and couldn’t remove the suckers since everything got tied up nice and pretty in those red bows. I understood the mistake and those lights never went up again.

His decorations? Well, some strands of mismatched lights still hung in their catawampus positions from last year, his form of decorating similar to his disarranged mind. Last year a scarecrow sat in its prominent position on the bale of hay along with a reindeer and various other tributes to the holidays. Frightening in the worst possible way, as if someone decorated while on LSD. I take that back. That comment was unfair to those losing their minds on hallucinogens—he’s just tacky.

I contemplated what to say, his statement expected some sort of response. “And?”

“I really like to do it up, like things really nice and I want to see a sea of green lawn for Christmas. I spoke with the gardener to have him seed our lawns and put something special on it so it will remain green across both properties.”

Something special? Wasn’t part of the promise of winter and cold weather simply that the grass stopped growing and you didn’t have to tend to it? Wasn’t this the circle of life for grass, undisturbed by my interfering with water and seed? Wasn’t this Bermuda grass at its finest?

“You want what?”

“Don’t worry about the expense; I’ll pay for everything to get us going.”

The visions dancing in my head weren’t sugarplums, but invoices for winter rye, fertilizer and all the water wasted on sod meant to die in December. Besides the fact I didn’t want grass, was the mere fact the man had the nerve to usurp our authority as landowners because he’d decided his cockamamie idea was sound. Moreover, he never followed through with anything having to do with money, upkeep of the property he rented, etc., etc. The water flow from his home during the summer season rivaled that of release from the Hoover Dam. I could only imagine how much it would take to sustain winter rye, a grass discouraged by our town because of the water issue.

Christmas was supposed to reflect a wintry feeling unless you lived in a land down under. My thoughts ran to decorating with snow, a scene from Currier and Ives complete with horses and sleighs, or at least layers of polyester batting to simulate a snowy landscape—not the greens of Pebble Beach. A migraine formed somewhere near my left eye socket as he spoke in a voice that sounded slightly mechanical. But wait! He wasn’t through. He hadn’t even looked in my eyes to notice I wasn’t hip to his request.

A voice spoke from the darkness of my home. Great, the man brought forth someone dwelling within. My attempt at circumventing the situation screeched to a halt.

“Get off my property, no one here is interested in anything you have to say.”

Strangely, by this time, I wanted to hear what was truly going on in that drug and alcohol induced sponge he used for brain. He was beginning to give information, as the person inside thwarted my efforts to extract what was really on his feeble, wannabe brain.

He pointed to the door. “Why do they have to be like that? I just came over to try to be neighborly, they’re a real—”

A fight ensued between the dark and the yellow troll on my porch. Expletives escaped him at rapid-fire speed as he cocked his oral gun, shooting rounds of verbal ammo straight into my face. Ah yes, now we were back to reality. I thought I might have had to endure more of his traipsing through nicety while I mentally poked a meat fork between my eyes to alleviate the migraine pain. He continued backing me against the security door. I prayed I’d become liquid and ooze through its holes like a sieve in an effort to escape not only his insulting attitude, but his cigarette, coffee-laden stinky breath.

“You’re on my property, insulting my family; no one’s interested in green grass during winter.” I tried to be nice … honest.

His demeanor changed faster than a lighting strike. More expletives completed his neighborly visit as he tiny-stepped his way off my porch, signaling his discontent with a finger well placed above my tidy, shorn hedge. The gardener gaped in disbelief, his speed finishing the yard surpassing his ability to do a good job. I just thanked God his weed eater hadn’t cut crop circles in the lawn while speeding toward a hasty finish.

I approached the gardener with a tentative grin, embarrassed he had heard the ramblings of insanity from the yellow man. “I don’t think we’ll have green grass for Christmas.”

I watched the wannabe tripping along, his delicate step in direct contrast to his wretchedly, vulgar person, inside and out. His attempt at world dominance once again thwarted his loss of ultimate control over life on my street a hollow victory to me, his neighbor. He’d never understand, and he’d forgotten the most important thing about ZZ Top wannabes. There’s just something about a sharp-dressed man.

© E. A. Irwin

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Today, I thought I'd send a little bit of comedy your way. Hope you enjoy this Friday Flash!

Bon Appétit

by E. A. Irwin

Plates whizzed by my ear, punctuating the wall with a panoramic display of fine cuisine.

“Your throwing distance is getting better, André. Perhaps we can get you a gig as a pitcher after you retire. You’ll have to work on your aim though, that flying saucer missed my head. You do realize I have to actually be injured to collect Workers’ Compensation, don’t you?”

André picked up a cup, judging its weight, and then threw it, hitting the wall alongside me as I bobbed and weaved toward him.

“Stop that!”

I stopped mid-step. “Stop what?”

“The idiotic dance you are doing. I cannot hit you while you continue moving.”

I eyed him, gauging how far he was from his next piece of crockery arsenal. “Good to know. Apparently you never played dodge ball when you were a kid.” I sidled up to André as he relinquished the bowl he’d retrieved and returned to stirring his pot of soup with the velocity of a stage four tornado. “André, what’s wrong? You seem even more excited than usual.”

“It is nothing, and I do not get excited.” He sniffed with disdain while adding cream to the soup. “Retire, indeed.”

“Uh . . . want to try again? You’re not only excited and throwing things, but your accent’s gotten as thick as yesterday’s béchamel sauce.” I swiped the chef’s knife lying next to the stove as André lunged for it. “No you don’t. Stick people on your own time. Now, what’s up? Even you aren’t always this continually agitated.”

“I do not understand Americans.”

I rolled my eyes, waiting for André’s next entrée into his own form of détente. “The entire population, or was there someone in particular disturbing you?”

“That musician in there!”

Listening to the rehearsal assaulting the dining room, I grimaced at the notes from an acoustic guitar that sounded as if it hadn’t been tuned since Woody Guthrie died. “You mean Randy?”

André’s snarled lip rose level with his nose. “Randy. Mon Dieu! The French would never play in such an atrocious manner.”

I thought of the wheezing accordion accompaniment in the songs André listened to, reluctantly admitting their disconcerting sounds far outshone Randy’s attempts at music. Frankly, I wasn’t hip with Randy being an American either, his illusion of art insulting not only me, but my fellow countrymen who were forced to listen to him.

Fingering the knife, I studied André developing his tornado. “I know, André, and that shrieking voice he calls his gift makes me want to take drugs. I’m always afraid to open the alley door lest the cats join him onstage thinking he’s their leader.” André’s drooping moustache lifted fractionally, revealing a slight smirk. “I don’t know what the owner of The Broken Locket was thinking when she hired him, but I’d like to find the lost chain and twist it around Randy’s neck and stop his ramblings.”

André’s eyes turned mischievous. “Ah, but of course, why did I not think of this before? You are the answer. Ma petite, tonight you become clumsy and fall, breaking the offending instrument before he touches it.”

“Me?” The thought of turning Randy’s guitar into kindling made me giddy. “Am I the only one going to have fun?”

André grinned as he retrieved a bottle of Ipecac from the pantry and poured a healthy portion into the tureen containing Randy’s soup. “No, we both shall have fun while we enjoy the glorious sounds of silence, ma petite. I am afraid Monsieur Randy will have to be content giving tonight’s performance in a small porcelain venue.”

©E. A. Irwin

Welcome to another Tuesday Tale. This week's prompt word is "fire" so I thought I'd treat all of you to a tidbit from the new Riley McCabe novel still in the Work in Progress stage. Hope you enjoy. To read other authors and their stories in the Tuesday Tales Blog Hop, be sure to return here.

Caramel

by E. A. Irwin

The aroma of caramel bloomed in my head. Creamy. Sweet. The rich flavor flowed across my tongue, waves of decadence filled my mouth with distinctive pleasure as I savored the thrill-induced taste.

The caramel warmed, releasing ribbons of tantalizing temptation to begin their slide down my throat each time I swallowed. I craved more. Sucked harder. Needed the decadence to move faster than the stingy trickles coating my throat with sporadic stickiness. The caramel grew hot, burning the delicate lining of my esophagus as it seared toward my stomach with liquid fire. The sounds of screaming replaced the fragrant scent of silken seduction in my head. I grabbed my throat as the molten ribbons turned cold, forcing them to coagulate into hardened bands building a dam in my throat instead of the delicate streamers of satisfaction whetting my appetite.

The dam became more. Solid. Unmoving. Impenetrable. My hands clawed my neck unable to dislodge the confectionary lump. Gasping for non-existent air, I clawed my flesh, trying to puncture a hole through which I could breathe. My eyelids flew open, a wall of fathomless black pressed tightly against my sight. Blind and suffocating, my hands searched the solidity of space surrounding me, my ears registering the onslaught of squishing in accelerating fluid decibels as the noise rushed through them like a locomotive careening toward the cliff’s edge as its brakes refused stopping.

Heat engulfed my body as if a blanket of live coals wrapped me in a fiery embrace. Sweat exploded from my core, lying atop the smoldering flesh, adding to the unrelenting heat of an oil-spill fire spreading through a tropical swamp. The screaming continued in my mind as the inability to breathe through the caramel wall increased. Frantically, I fought the air as if I could rend the universe with my fingernails.

“Madeline …”

A sliver of a whisper glanced off my brain.

“Madeline …”

An arctic-blown shiver ran down the length of my spine, chilling me to the bone despite the feeling of flames licking along my skin in relentless pursuit of the unknown dwelling within me. A guttural groan escape between clenched teeth as the black, the caramel, and the scorching fire coalesced into a horror-filled moment I was doomed to never escape.

©E. A. Irwin

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Welcome to a little Tuesday Tale. This should actually be a complete story, however I was a bit late finding out the prompt word “ice” so I decided I would write a scene instead and do what I love to do … get inside people’s heads. To read other authors and their stories in the Tuesday Tales Blog Hop, be sure to return here.

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Conversation

by E. A. Irwin

“Quit pacing, you’re giving me vertigo! Are you trying to wear a tunnel in the floor so you can escape?”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t think I heard that correctly. Did you just tell me to shut up?”

“Yup, going to make something of it? Bite me.”

“Those are strong words coming from a five-foot little girl. What’s your street name, Tinker Bell?”

“Why aren’t you shutting that gaping hole in your face you call a mouth?”

“Why are you still pacing like a freak when I told you to stop? Hey Tink, what got you holed up here anyway?”

“Leave me alone, will ya? Just keep quiet and quit bothering me.”

“Heard it was attempted murder. What’d you do, blow tainted pixie dust on someone?”

“It won’t be attempted if you don’t shut up.”

“Ooo, listen to such big talk coming out of you. You better be able to make good on that threat, Tink. I don’t take crap talk off anyone, not even demented midgets.”

“Quit talking and you won’t have to listen to anything. Should be simple enough, even for the likes of you.”

“Those are fighting words, pixie stick. But I’m going to let it slide since you’ve been hitting your head on the wall trying to knock a hole in it to escape. You’ve been beating the crap out of yourself for thirty-six hours straight without any results other than a bloody head and undoubtedly a killer migraine. You’re too easy a target for me to hurt now.”

“Whatever.”

“You know, since we’re on the subject, why are you into pain anyway? Don’t have someone at home to torture you so you self-inflict? Cutting would be easier.”

“Seems to me I remember telling you to shut up.”

“Can’t do it, Tink. I’m the only one here you can spill your guts to. Give it up and spill the beans on your sordid little life.”

“What are you my shrink? Mental health advisor? Mother? Besides, I’m not the only one in here with problems and a giant attitude filling the room until I can’t breathe. Turn that shiny spotlight on yourself.”

“You got a death wish, Tink.”

“Concerned? Right, spare me.”

“It’s my nature.”

“To butt in where you’re not wanted?”

“I should let you swing, you know that? You think you’re so smart and can do whatever you want. Did they tell you the time you’ll be doing in here? It will make those repeated injections of Thorozine, which never worked, seem like a trip to Disneyland. Hey, that was funny; you’re Disneyland’s faerie. All sweetness and light, waiting to take a slice out of your next victim then blame it on someone else. No one’s going to believe you now, you can’t continue living your lie, little girl.”

“Who said I’m living a lie? That’s your misguided view of yourself and sordid world.”

“Those aren’t power bracelets wound around your wrists. Face it; you clipped your own wings. That’s the act that got you here, remember? Oh who am I kidding, you keep denying everything going on in your life. And really, why should I try to help you anyway. You tried to ice yourself, Tink.”

“Ice? What’s that, some bullying skank term for kill? Is that what you told the people in here so they won’t let me out? That I was going to ice myself? I did not try to kill myself! If you really want to know I tried to kill that dark-haired, black-eyed man.”

“Bradley?”

“How did you know his name? You’re some mole they put here to get information, aren’t you. Sorry, you’re out of luck, I already copped to the crime.”

“You’re whacked, little one. I’ve been trying to help you for thirty-six hours and all you do is tell me to clam up. All you’ve done to help yourself is rock, bang your head, and pace a hole in the floor. Listen, you have thirty-six hours to go, then they’re making a final evaluation.”

“Evaluation?”

“Look around the cell, Tink. It’s padded, you’re here on a psych eval. They’re going to commit you, and from what I’ve seen you’re going away for life. I’m your way out. Let me do all the talking, it’s the only way we’ll survive, including Bradley since he's one of us.”

“We’ll?”

“You really are a dumb little shit. Don’t you remember the word integration?”

“Maybe—”

“I saved us. I’m the one with the sane mind now. You’ve splintered too far for anyone to give you another chance.”

“Splintered?”

“We’re called multiples.”

“Are we bad?”

“Ssh, they’re coming. Tink, stop pacing, shut up and let me talk.”

“What’s your name?”

“Poly Nomial.”

©E. A. Irwin

http://tuesdaytales1.blogspot.com/

Life’s Little Changes

by E. A. Irwin

Standing in front of my refrigerator, reading the note my husband had supplied left no doubt. He was going to be home at the same time—again. An audible groan escaped me. Nothing ever happened which changed his life or perfect punctuality … or it seemed mine either as I stood, something I did every morning, and hoped a paper reminding me of his insipid existence didn’t mar the perfect stainless sheen of the fridge.

An unusual aspect of this note however, was it being affixed to the door by a band-aid. Not only did the band-aid hold the note, but both held smears of blood. This, too, explained in his boring missive. He’d cut his finger while preparing breakfast and used what he could find in the kitchen for the cut and message. A two-fer he’d proudly and profoundly exclaimed in the note. Could the man get any more inane? My two-fer would have included him suffering a paper cut to his carotid and he’d bled out while setting the coffee timer, or egg timer, or any other timer he possessed, which lay around the house in precisely measured footage, as if the alarms led to the Holy Grail of time continuum.

I snatched the band-aid off the fridge door and rubbed the lingering adhesive with the tail of my nightgown until the tape smudge disappeared. If only I would wipe him out as easily. I was dumping him, along with all the other items of tedium he brought to our lackluster marriage. The man never altered his existence. Change would be something he’d have to well, change. Behavior modification wasn’t located anywhere near his to do list. Life to him was just one step in front of the other … one day after another … monotony eked out in daily increments. He was the same with his job, that never-ending sameness which defined him.

The smell of food drew my attention from killing Stewart. I sat at the table and raised the shiny silver dome he’d placed over breakfast. Wednesday—bacon, eggs, and wheat toast, each piece of toast cut into precise wedges surrounding the eggs in a pattern reminiscent of an Aztec Sun Stone. At least the bacon hadn’t been forced into a grim smile sitting below over-easy egg eyes. No, these slices were crisply cooked and framed the toast points as if they were soldiers protecting against the onslaught of jam. A shake of my head to attempt releasing the visual didn’t work. Every Wednesday I stared at the portrait of my breakfast. Tomorrow would hold another staid meal—steel cut oatmeal with raisins to offset the cholesterol of Wednesday’s meal. The raisins always reminded me of rat dung slung onto gray clumps of gelling concrete, but the scent of apple wood smoked bacon made the gray thoughts of Thursday dissipate. I’d deal with tomorrow’s meal when it happened or not at all if I could get Stewart gone. I picked up a fork and dismantled the frame, stabbed an egg eye and watched it bleed yellow onto the toast wall, and then dug into breakfast with delight. I had to admit Stewart was a good cook and I’d miss his meals but I could always hire a chef who wouldn’t plan my meals as if we were still on a grade school monthly menu. As I ate, I imagined my new life with something other than the mundane mucking it up.

A package dressed in plain black and white striped paper sat on the table alongside the silver dome. Huh, prison clothing for packages. Another rudimentary aspect of Stewart’s unbridled whimsy. I was to open it after I’d finished my meal. No problem, it was probably a clock of some sort to remind me I lacked time management. I smeared blackberry jam on a toast point, popped it in my mouth and savored the melting berries across my tongue. I laughed. Right, I’d dutifully finish my last obedient act before walking out.

While a pot of tea brewed I opened the package. The letter inside the box was written on heavy bond paper, nothing like the cheap tablets scattered around the house for Stewart’s constant communiqués. I took a double take at the handwriting to make sure he had actually written the note. This handwriting was free-flowing, unlike his usual pinched chicken scratch scrawl. Just a few words written in beautiful penmanship which rang with a resounding death knell as I read.

“I hope you have enjoyed your last breakfast, Robin. You’ve been poisoned. I know you’re now trying to figure out which part of the meal was lethal. It doesn’t matter. There isn’t time to figure anything out, least of all which morsel held your death sentence. There is no antidote and there will be no trace evidence left when or if you’re found. When you read this I’ll be on my way to a new life without you. You’ve bored me our entire marriage. So, as you think about the outcome of this meal I will let you dwell on the fact I’ve been having an affair for nineteen years. I could never get away from your clinging monotony, thus this final action. The phone is disconnected. Your car is gone, although you won’t have time to get to either before you die. Have a happy eternity. No one deserves it more.”

As I reread the note my breath came in short gasps, my hands and feet going numb while blood flow raced to my heart as my body went into fight or flight survival mode. The paper fell from my hand, landing on the empty breakfast plate still in front of me. My eyesight was failing but not before I witnessed the words disappearing from the heavy paper. This wasn’t a trick of lighting or death, but a well thought out plan using disappearing ink to deliver the final blow. I gazed inside the box as a searing pain sliced through my brain. A silver bell sat perched on a red velvet pillow, its inscription plain and in large print. Defer not time, delays have dangerous ends. - William Shakespeare.

© E. A. Irwin

Author Note: This week is a Death Wildcard at Vamplit, and we are able to write stories without a word prompt.

Well, what can I say ... I love killing people on paper and have many little tid-bits and stories dealing with death. While I'm not strictly a horror writer, I have to admit I'm pretty much a writer who can imagine many scenarios in which characters will die or kill. Many consider that horrific. I merely think of it as writing, albeit with a special horror-ific slant. Yes, it is true, I do think of how to use life's ordinary instruments to create a bit of mayhem as well as just plain old shooting and stabbing or blowing someone up. But that's why you read mysteries, thrillers, adventures and yes, horror, isn't it, to see what's going to happen?

I wanted to add a few other stories here, but I will let you read one that was published several years ago. A story which makes me smile because if you think about it, the scenario might work ... or perhaps it's already happened and no one really knows except for the end result. I'd love for you to click on the link provided and read "Panic" before you leave here (The story is located mid-way down the page under The Odd Mind Magazine Spring/Summer edition in which it was published.) Tell me what you think, along with commenting on "Life's Little Changes." I love to read your comments.

http://eairwin.webs.com/publishedworks.htm

E. A. Irwin/Patricia 

The Pool’s Fool

by E. A. Irwin

A haunting melody of wind buffeted against rock, blending the rhythms of trickling water into a symphony of nature. Kieran paused, relishing the cave’s song mystically drawing him deeper into its hidden recesses.

With torch held aloft, Kieran carefully walked the labyrinth’s passages, searching the walls for the markings of his previous trips. Running his hands along rock brought him in tune with his environment, the tactile pressure a reassurance his quest would soon end.

Kieran reached the cave’s center, the glow of its pool casting eerily colored shadows down moisture-laden walls. The smell of the water blossomed in his head, enticing him with the scent of ecstasy.

He remembered his search had begun as a test of wilderness endurance—twenty years of searching had led to this cave, an additional ten years made his labyrinth study complete. Now, Kieran gazed into the pool, realizing his search might yield a new reign of power.

Removing his hooded cloak, Kieran laid out the needed elements. He played his fingers along hewn wood from the sacred grove and sensed its consuming power. Kieran then summoned the strength of his thousand years, and raised the oaken staff while praying to his god Dagda.

Kieran struck the water three times, recited a druid song, and then laid upon the ground in obeisance and allowed the pungent aroma of ancient water to claim him. The water stirred, growing to a violent boil, then rose, turning on its axis until it resembled a looking glass.

A menacing voice spoke. “You brought yourself grave peril by calling me from the Underworld. Do not misinterpret this as sanctification of power.”

Kieran took runes from his bundle, laying their pattern to enable understanding. “I request knowledge.”

The water rumbled. “Why do you lie?”

Kieran’s heart hardened at the mention of lying. Staring hard at the runes, he attempted understanding their casting, unsure if he should continue.

“Kieran, you are denied further knowledge. Do not seek me until what you understand is your true need. Your quest begins anew. Go back to your people and lead them with the power you possess.”

Kieran had decided this was his quest—the Underworld and its ultimate power. “I am a high druid, living among the ancients and their lands. I ask you grant me knowledge that I may lead as those dwelling within your realm.”

“The water became agitated. “You desire this?”

Kieran stared at his reflection and nodded.

“Step to the pool’s edge Kieran and accept the Underworld’s power.”

Thrilled, Kieran obliged. Soon he would become a demi-god. As he teetered on the edge, the water threw him into its liquid depth. The haunted sounds of disembodied cries entered he ears as he sank lower. Unable to cover his ears, he listened to a canticle of never-ending everlasting horror as he lost control of his body in the roiling waves.

The water strengthened as Kieran’s descent to the Underworld quickened. Soon he was cast upon the shores of a violent river. The spirit spoke, each word ricocheting off the craggy walls as it rose before Kieran in a gigantic waterfall.

“Stand and face me.”

Kieran stood, bowing his head in submission.

The water spoke with command. “You have been tempted by power within the human realm, deluded that this power would allow you to become a demi-god. You have sought the Underworld thinking this gift is bestowed to those who diligently search. By granting enlightenment you would enslave your people.”

Kieran’s guts clenched as each word spoken resounded in his head. He fell to his face to try and pay homage.

The voice rang with anger. “Stand!”

Kieran rose. “I did not realize my temptation led to destruction.”

“Liar!”

Kieran’s insides burned with a fire that grew until it possessed. He watched the waterfall reform into a giant with a glistening crown of jewels upon his head; each jewel dripping rivulets of moisture Kieran knew represented knowledge. The giant began to glow, filling the cave with a prismed light.

“Kieran, walk toward the wall, tell me what you find.”

He obeyed, fear growing with each step. He stopped, horrified by his discovery.

“Kieran, you have not spoken.”

“I do not understand what I see.”

The water laughed. “And you thought yourself enlightened enough for more power. What do you see?”

“I see the entrapment of screaming, desperate people.”

“Yes. Look upon those whose assumption of the Underworld’s power possessed their quest and enslaved them.”

Kieran wished he had his runes to reveal this truth. “Torment lies heavy upon each face. Their continual crying of tears for forgiveness built crystalline coffins from which they stare and plead. I see their faces pressed close against the crystal coffins, and how their hands claw the glass in an attempt to break free of their everlasting torture.”

“These are the living who desired to be demi-gods. What would appease the Underworld to grant these fools’ release?”

“I do not know.”

Brittle laughter exploded from the water. “And you call yourself a high druid. As such you should know or has that calling made your knowledge falter? I have not decided what you are but you will be spared torment—for now.”

Kieran wished he could sink into the riverbank to escape. “Thank you.”

“Kieran, you misunderstood your first quest. This will be your new challenge. You are required to find enlightenment that will release these souls to you. If you are unable to secure that knowledge, you will become enslaved by your tears of regret—forever. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“You will wander the cave until you do. Your quest begins now. Always remember this was your choice. You have not entered the Underworld, but linger on its borders until you are proven worthy.”

The giant slipped into the river with ease. Kieran again trained his gaze on the glass-like coffins and the people struggling to escape. He fell to his face knowing this quest was like no other.

Tears flowed from him, each tear becoming a crystalline brick building his coffin. Screaming as the moisture fell, he quickly wiped it away and jumped up from the bricks and then ran along the river’s shore attempting to control his rising horror. If he could keep from sobbing he might find true escape and not become one of the living corpses shackled by their failed quests now separating them from truth. He couldn’t be as ignorant as them, could he? Realization hit like a tidal wave. His terrifying screams echoed through the now blackened cave to join the anguished chorus of those inside their transparent but stifling coffins.

“I thought I knew! Forgive me!”

©E. A. Irwin

A Visit from Louis

by E. A. Irwin

Louis’ scent preceded his arrival, wafting around me, pulling me close into a seductive, perfumed embrace. Deeply inhaling, I allowed the pleasure of his presence to fill me. “Bonjour, Louis.”

His voice caressed my ear the way his scent engulfed my senses. “Ma petite, you knew it was me?”

Turning from the window, I graced him with a coy smile. “Of course, mon cher, no one else smells as delicious as you.”

He bowed, and then glided toward me, a mischievous grin adorning his rugged face. “Merci.”

A momentary flutter around my heart grew while I gazed at him, as if a small bird lay trapped inside my chest waiting to break free. “You are looking thinner these days. Are you all right, Louis?”

Sadness overshadowed his carefree expression, his eyes abruptly claimed by a phantom mist beginning to form. “Oui. It has been far too long since we have been together. One cannot remain unchanged through this distance, Annette.”

Experiencing his suddenly joyless expression made my heart ache more than our previous separation ever could. The need to touch him became almost too much to bear as we stood only a few feet apart but with a void of infinity lying between us. “Alas, very true.”

Crossing to the settee, I beckoned him to sit beside me. “Why have you come, Louis? Especially now?”

His enchanting smile never made it to his warm brown eyes. “I missed seeing your impertinent look.”

I laughed, finally releasing some of the pent-up emotion his arrival had fostered. “Oh, how I have missed you. No one makes me laugh the way you do, nor do they care that I laugh anymore. I wish you were here every day with me, life would be much happier with your forays into comedy.”

“You wish only comedy, ma petite?”

“You know I do not. It is just that you make life seem more vital when you are here. More important and somehow real. You are my life, Louis, you always were. I cannot stand to be alone any longer. Being separated from you has become unbearable.”

His head tilted slightly to the left as if to gain different view and perspective of me. “What if the situation were no longer unbearable?”

The winged existence battered frantically against my heart needing release so it could fly to him and tell him of my buried longing. Staring into his beautiful eyes made everything in me want to die so I would never have to feel this tortured heartache from him again. “What you have previously suggested is something I will never consider. I cannot and will not foist my affections on someone new despite my loneliness. We built a life together that you and I always desired. We loved each other with a passion only known to us. Everyone felt our love and commented on the fact there would never be anything which would separate us. And then—.”

The creature within me screamed through my head, unsettling my already fragile emotions and thoughts as it beat against my brain in an effort to disrupt my sanity. My voice sounded foreign in my ear as it gasped and broke with emotion. “You left me, Louis. Without so much as a thought or expression to tell me you would never return. To expect me to replace you, even after all these years, is a reality I cannot face, nor will I entertain such a notion. Did our life together mean nothing to you?”

Louis’ hand caressed my face with a wisp of a touch, his voice low and intimate as he breathed words into my ear. “Annette, surely you know how much I love you. You know I had no control over my situation, nor was I given a way to help you understand there was no choice regarding the outcome. My fate had already been decided despite my desire to remain with you. I had no choice but to leave you.”

The room seemed to spin and alter as I listened to Louis’ words. An uncontrollable physical reaction to his nearness which left me dazed and on the verge of anger even though I desperately wanted to lie in his arms and share the intimacies of our previous life. Did he not realize the desolate days I had lived through knowing I would never see him again? I stared into his eyes, their misty allure leaving me breathless. “Why do you tempt me now with your sudden appearance? Have you no regard for my feelings and the torment you bring with you as you speak of our love? Why could you not stay away rather than return to where we were together last?”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The sound of his voice morose as it echoed through my head like a dirge. “Ma petite, you wish me to never return?”

The trapped thing found its way to my mouth, speaking the truth I was unable to share. My body shook with emotion as the release of tears made me gasp. “No, I want you to stay with me forever!”

“This is why I have returned. I needed to hear those words from you.”

My head felt as pinched as my heart when I attempted comprehending this confusing comment from Louis. “What words?”

“That you wish to spend eternity together. We will have only one chance.”

“Chance?” The pinching became like a vise around my temples. The room continued spinning, my focus difficult as I honed in on Louis’ mouth speaking strange words. “I do not understand what you mean about only one chance, to do what precisely? Tell me why you have really come here.”

“Tonight we can alter our fate. We have the opportunity to remain together through eternity if you die … tonight.”

Die? I could not have heard him correctly. Surely he was not asking me to kill myself, was he? “You did you say die, Louis, not just kill my feelings for you or eliminate myself from society, but actually give up my mortal life? I do not understand why you would ask this of me. I do not believe in suicide.”

“You would not have to commit suicide. There are other ways, things can be arranged in order to make it happen. You do not understand how I long for you, ma petite. To be without you has made my life unbearable. I cannot continue existing without you by my side. Please, Annette. Is it so much to ask after all this time? I promise you will never regret the decision to join me.”

I gazed around the room, the sumptuous furnishings paling in comparison to our love. The room we had shared until twenty years ago. All the emotion made me wistful to have him continually with me. Was wistful longing enough? I then stared at my dead husband’s shimmering image begging me to join him.

“Annette, we do not have much time. Annette, did you hear me? … Annette?”

©E. A. Irwin

Price to Pay

by E. A. Irwin

Gretchen opened the door expecting to see the paperboy, not an intriguing stranger. Staring at him gave her a rush of excitement she’d never experienced as his eyes intensely bore into hers.

His voice beguiled as he spoke, its rich and smooth sound as enticing as his stare. “Excuse me; is this the home of Professor John Phoust?”

Gretchen’s mouth became dry, as if all its moisture was drained and directed elsewhere to keep her alive. Watching the man form words grew as appealing as the intensity in his amber-colored eyes.

He beckoned her forward with an enchanting smile. “Ma’am? Does John Phoust live here?”

Gretchen shook her head trying to dislodge the infusion of lust filling her mind, the wave of blood coursing to pleasurable places more than disconcerting as she tried concentrating. “I’m sorry, you wanted John?”

His smiled broadened, showing a perfect row of white teeth. “If he is the professor, then yes, if it is not too much trouble.”

“May I tell him who’s here?” Gretchen attempted an engaging smile, wanting to provide a token of fancy for her new visitor. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t keep her eyes off the man.

“My name is M. E. Fisto, John and I were acquaintances before he became famous as a treasure hunter.”

Gretchen felt rattled to her core. “I’m so sorry. I’m being rude. I didn’t mean to leave you out on the step, please come in.”

The stranger slowly gazed around the sumptuous surroundings before leveling his eyes on her. “You were not being rude, merely careful. You do not know who could be lurking outside waiting to break into your home and do you harm. Luckily, I am not one of those who wish you harm, especially since you might be Mrs. Phoust. Are you Mrs. Phoust?”

The shiver riding down her spine overrode the odd sensation something wasn’t right. She attempted diverting her attention in order to think but the man’s allure kept her transfixed. Alarm niggled at the back of her brain but she ignored the thought, choosing instead to dwell on his intriguing personality. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Phoust … call me Gretchen, please. I’ll get John.”

John sauntered into the living room. “Did I hear the doorbell, Gretchen? Who could be here at this hour?” He stopped mid-stride, his insides clenching when he saw his visitor. He needed to run before he passed out.

Gretchen’s concern showed on her face. “John, you’ve gone pale, are you all right? Mr. Fisto told me you were old friends and wanted to visit. What’s wrong?”

John felt the need to puke. “Nothing’s wrong, Gretchen. It’s just a surprise to see Mr. Fisto here after all these years. I wasn’t sure he was still around, that’s all. Would you mind fixing some refreshments for us? We’re being poor hosts to our visitor.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

John answered more brusquely than intended. “Of course I’m all right. Will you please tend to my request?”

Gretchen nodded and quickly exited the room still unsure of the situation brewing in the living room.

Fisto watched Gretchen’s full hips sway as she left the room, the lecherous look on his face not lost on John. He then turned, giving John his full attention, crossed to the sofa and sat down. “Gretchen has matured into a beautiful woman. I am pleased to find our seduction of the young girl paid off well for you all these years.”

“What are you doing here?” John quietly hissed.

Fisto settled into the sofa and made himself comfortable, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and then slowly exhaled. “Such a nasty habit, but I do love the smell. We all have our little vices, do we not, although some vices are bigger than others, are they not, John? Did you think I would never return? I hope you have provided for your wife with all the riches you have made with my guidance. Gretchen seems like a woman of many talents and should not live as a pauper due to your misuse of my gifts—although, with my help … ”

Cold sweat covered John’s body as his stomach threatened to spill his dinner onto the floor. “Leave Gretchen out of this. She doesn’t know about our deal. She’s the innocent in all of this.”

Fisto eyes turned to orange chips of ice. “You know my love of innocents.” He drew long on the cigarette as he slowly slid his other hand repeatedly across the front of his trousers, the look of hunger evident on his contorted face. “I could show you right now how eager I am to continue what your wife does not remember. I am sure Gretchen would find me a far better lover than what you have given her these past twenty-four years. She would understand what it is like to never know restraint, to be with someone who never had to stop, but who could keep going no matter how long the need. As you know I am good at filling needs, am I not?”

“Get out! I’ll meet you anywhere else you want to meet, but not here. Not with Gretchen in the other room.”

Fisto stood, his presence filling the room with dread as his eyes glistened with malice. “We made a bargain, Dr. Phoust. Tonight you will provide payment for the years I allowed for your lengthy quests into the realms of the magical and forbidden. Tell Gretchen any story you desire and be sure you make the story a good one she will believe and never forget. You will not return—ever.”

The room tilted as John tried remaining calm despite his impotency. “We can strike another bargain, change the timetable or something. I’ll do anything you ask, just give me more time. Another twenty-four years or one year isn’t too much to ask, is it? You know I’m good for it.”

Fisto’s malevolent smile never reached his now flame-filled eyes. “I have been extremely generous, far past what you deserve. You have used your allotted time, there is no further discussion. I will not grant a continuance. Now, perhaps if Gretchen were to ask …”

“You can’t …”

M. E. Fisto drained the soul of Phoust, leaving behind the empty shell Phoust had always been. Fisto released a thought to entice Gretchen’s mind before he walked from the house, imagining the next person’s debt due him. “Ah, but I can.”

© E. A. Irwin

Sound of Silence

Jane moved methodically through the bank. Just place one foot in front of the other, she thought, that’s all you have to do. Don’t fall. Don’t rush. Just place one foot in front of the other. That’s all you have to do. The mantra sawed through her brain with a jagged edge eventually worn dull from repeated overuse. Firm pressure on her arm reminded her not to draw attention to herself … or the man with her.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming as they stepped across the newly tiled floor in a disturbing synchronized ballet. The coppery taste cleared the frenzy eating its way through her brain, until the flavor clung on her tongue as if she’d sucked rotten meat. She swallowed the gathering bile in her throat as the man deftly guided her toward the manager’s desk.

How many times had she visited this bank and been oblivious to its interior? The weekly trips to deposit her paycheck, in hopes of building a nest egg for she and her son, stood out clearly in her mind. She’d merely rushed in, deposited her check and run home to begin the weekend with James before work claimed her attention for another week. The excursions to watch the bank’s renovation excited James until that, too, became a weekly event. What kid got excited about redoing a bank? James, that’s who, her little architect-in-training at age ten going on thirty. Now, all Jane could think about was her son bound and gagged to a chair hidden deep within a rat-infested warehouse about half a mile away awaiting her return. That vision as real and burned into her retinas as the video feed she’d been shown of her child being beaten while these thugs kidnapped her and forced her into this wretched scheme.

Jane breathed deeply to calm the building hysteria, knowing neither she nor James would probably survive this ordeal even though that had been part of the bargain. Thugs didn’t bargain. Terrorists ensured the bargain became unbearable.

 They stopped at the bank manager’s desk. Jane hoped the stiffness in her legs was merely phantom anxiety and nothing which would seem as if she dragged her legs to attract interest. She forced a smile to relax her face. Had her eyes betrayed her? The man next to her squeezed her arm to remind her of their mission. Mission. Hornets buzzed in her ears blocking out everything except the vision of James duct taped to that chair. You’ve been here hundreds of times. Just act naturally so the customers didn’t panic.

“Hello, Mrs. Newbury.” He nodded to her companion. “How may I be of service today?”

Frank Hansen, the manager, hadn’t been that formal with her since she’d been a new customer. Jane honed in on his eyes. Knowledge flashed across them. A fleeting moment where time stood still and understanding wrenched her gut. Frank knew something was wrong and most likely would underplay his actions to get a handle on the situation. He’d been a banker for thirty years and probably had enough robbery stories to fill the vault she needed to enter.

“Hello, Mr. Hansen. It’s good to see you again. How is your wife? I heard she’s been ill.”

“True. Martha had her last chemotherapy treatment, so we’re hoping for remission this time. She’s been a real trooper through all this. I’ll let her know you asked about her, it will bring some joy to her day.”

Martha Hansen had died two months ago after a long bout of breast cancer. Frank was on the same page and knew the situation presented life and death.

The man sneered. A tic in his cheek belied his confidence. He whispered in her ear, the violent sound replacing the hornets with frozen bullets to her brain. “Cut the chit-chat, bitch, or we do this now. In the middle of the bank. With the most victims as possible. I suggest you speed this transaction along before I cut you hard enough to make you wish you’d been eaten through with cancer. Remember, you were chosen for this and little James is waiting for his mommy to come back.”

 Chosen—a relative term. She fit their need: Blonde and slightly dumpy. Unobtrusive, unnoticeable and uninteresting. Plus, she had a kid and would do anything to keep him safe. Terrorists upped the ante for the chosen.

“I’d like to make a withdrawal from my safety deposit box in the vault, Mr. Hansen.”

“Certainly, I just need to get a withdrawal slip and my keys to your box.”

The man nudged her forward. “Janie, be a nice girl and show the man our withdrawal slip so he understands the importance of our transaction.”

Jane reluctantly drew a portion of her coat aside, baring the vest of explosives she wore. A vile of nitroglycerine rested above her heart ready to explode if she moved quickly. A similar vest adorned her son.

“Make a false move and I explode the bank. Don’t sound an alarm or signal a guard. Now, get your keys and ass into the vault. I want box 347 opened … now.”

The manager nodded, walking them toward the vault. Jane whispered, “I’m so sorry, Frank.”

The man stabbed a knife into her hip. Jane bit her tongue to keep from screaming. He hissed, “One more word and you’re dead. That goes for you too, Frankie. Now get in that vault before you find out how unhappy you’ve made me and I hunt your wife and kill her too.”

Jane chanced a glance at the bank’s interior before entering the vault. Not too many people. Good. James presence on the video swam before her eyes. His small voice telling her he wasn’t afraid and could they have pizza for dinner. He’d said he loved her and couldn’t wait to be with his dad later. Jane shut her eyelids hard and fought the sob threatening to fill the room. Jane's husband had been killed last year in a hit and run accident. James knew he was going to die. His swollen face making his small smile a grotesque grimace before they’d slapped that obscene gray tape over his mouth. She’d watched urine wet James’ pants and drip onto the floor and knew she couldn’t comfort or control his fear. She didn’t care about box 347 and its billions in bearer bonds to fund another jihad. She had been chosen for a mission, but not this one.

Life drained from Jane as the sound of the explosion a half mile away ricocheted in her ears. Her son no longer existed except in her heart. Their fates sealed. Jane shoved Frank toward the door. “Lock the vault. Now!” She turned on her kidnapper and ran full force into him, knocking him to the floor. She uttered a prayer of forgiveness as the vault lock clicked into place and she made her vest explode in the kidnapper’s face. Her mission as mom was now complete.

That day, silence echoed for Jane and her son.

© E. A. Irwin

How many times can I say a giant Woo Hoo to this news! I am so honored to be among great writers at Vamplit Publishing. Please check out each of them in the Friday Flash Fiction section, then read their other works..

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