Short Stuff: 5 Stories
Published by C. Dennis Moore
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011, Charles Moore
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Short Stuff: 5 Stories
C. Dennis Moore
Table
of Contents:
Bob’s
Leg
Acknowledgements:
“Bob’s
Leg” originally appeared in Dark
Matter, 2000
edition
“…fruit, unpunctured” originally appeared online in TFUzine
“Inside” originally appeared in Prose Ax, spring 2001
“Preparations”
originally appeared in Sepulchre,
summer 1999
Bob's Leg
Although everyone was curious, no one wanted to ask. Jared was no different.
"Just make it sound casual," Steven said.
"Yeah," Jared scoffed. "I can do that. Hey Bob, how much did we do that hour? By the way, how'd you lose the leg, and while we're on the subject, which leg is it that's prosthetic? Would you like me to check drive-thru's trash before you fire me? Yeah, real casual."
"Come on," Steven urged. "It's not like we don't know he's only got one leg. It's not like the fact is going to be any surprise to him. What, he woke up one morning and, look, one of his legs is gone. He's got to be used to people asking by now."
"Fine," Jared said. "Then you ask."
"Shit, no!"
Then the conversation ceased as Bob came around the corner. He opened one of the cash drawers and began counting out the money. "Hey, Steven," he said, "would you sweep front line before you go? Thanks." Steven quickly grabbed a broom and began sweeping the front line of the fast food restaurant they all worked in while Jared disappeared around the corner and began running hot water into a mop bucket and the mop sink.
The restaurant was empty at this time of the afternoon and the front line was almost totally silent, save the swishing of the broom, the splatter of the mop water, the tapping of Bob's change as he counted it out on the counter, and a quiet, breathy whistle coming from Bob's pursed lips.
Steven reached the drive-thru area where he could see Jared. Jared noticed him and looked up to see Steven mouthing, "Ask him. Come on. Ask."
"You," Jared mouthed back.
"Fuck that," Steven's lips formed. He stopped sweeping and, not seeing a dust pan on front line, went to get the one by Jared.
"Come on, do you wanna know which one it is, or not? You know you do. Just ask him. Now's the perfect time. He's having a good day, he's in a good mood. Shit, he's whistling Chattahoochee. Just ask."
Jared dumped in a packet of floor cleaner, crumpled the empty pack and tossed it away.
"Fine," he said, annoyed with Steven's insistence. What difference did it make? Regardless of whether or not they knew which leg Bob was missing, he'd still be missing it, so nothing would be gained by the knowledge other than that uneasy awareness you get when there's something you shouldn't know about someone, but you know it anyway. But Steven wasn't going to let up, so at least Jared would have Steven off his back.
"Hey, Bob," Jared said as if the thought had occurred just then. "Out of curiosity, which leg is it you're missing? Just out of curiosity, nothing personal."
Bob stopped counting in the middle of the pennies and simply swept the rest of them into their tray, his face losing all trace of good mood. He seemed to be considering whether to answer or walk away. He made his choice and spoke to Jared without looking at him.
"What difference does it make?"
"None, really. Like I said, just out of curiosity."
"Curiosity, huh?" Bob's gaze seemed focused on the miniature Statue of Liberty in the park across the street. He had an air of distraction, as if his mind weren't totally on Jared's query, or even on this plane of existence. Finally he spoke again, only to repeat himself. "Curiosity."
"Mm-hmm. I mean, if you'd rather not," Jared said all understanding in his voice, "that's okay. It's no big deal--."
"If it were no big deal, you wouldn't have asked."
"I told you," Jared said, "it's no big deal. You don't have to answer. Just forget it, okay?"
Steven was sweeping his floor trash into a dust pan, taking his time so as not to miss any of the exchange.
"I'd forget it if I could, Jared. Trust me." There was a moment of silence. Then Bob said, "I'll show you. Then I'll tell you how I lost it. Come on."
Without waiting for Jared, Bob took off for the bathroom. Jared followed and soon the bathroom door was closed, locked, and Bob was lifting his uniform's pant leg.
"Good thing nobody sees us like this," Jared tried to joke.
Bob was silent, his face an exercise in seriousness. He pulled the cuff up to his fake knee and stared straight ahead into Jared's eyes.
Jared glanced down and saw Bob's prosthetic left leg. Well, he thought, no wonder no one could tell. That looks just like a real leg, except it's rubber.
"Happy now?" Bob uttered deadpan.
"Totally," Jared said, and began to go for the door.
"No," Bob said. "I haven't told you how I lost it."
Silence. Then:
"Well? How'd you lose it?"
"The other leg," Bob answered.
"Huh?"
"The other leg. Never go to Enlil," Bob said and dropped his pant leg. Then he grabbed the right cuff and hiked it up to above his knee.
Jared looked down and saw at least two dozen thin, pink scars covering Bob's real leg from the knee down. Then the scars stretched, spread, yawned open, becoming two dozen sneering tiny mouths. The mouths smiled and each contained double rows of pointed teeth and long, forked tongues. Jared gasped. Half of the mouths opened wide and spit tiny, splinter-like objects into Jared's body, paralyzing him.
"The other leg ate it," Bob said. "Like I said, never go to Enlil. It's a magic place, a bad place. This leg ate the other one. Sometimes it does get hungry. Like now." And he took a prosthetic step toward Jared, raising the other, monster leg.
Steven stood at the front of the counter wondering what was taking so long. Finally, the door opened, just a few inches. Bob peeked around and said, "Steven, you might as well see too. I know you're dying to."
Steven smiled and went to the bathroom to see for himself which of Bob's legs was fake and why.
. . . fruit unpunctured.
Get up, get up and he got up and dressed in the same grungy clothes he'd worn the past two weeks, and swallowed oatmeal with water from the tap, then slid into his backpack with the bowling ball inside, the penance he'd carry until he found a way to make it right, into his shoes, then out the door. He locked it, then checked the door and it wouldn't open so it was locked, then he said, "Locked," and checked it again, then repeated it, "Locked," and ran his fingers along the edge, insuring there was no space, and he checked the knob again and said it once more before leaving the building, "Locked."
He squinted up, sniffing the air, and went to his old van that hadn't started since he bought it and rolled it into his parking space. The doors were locked and he ran his fingers along the top of the pane, checking for spaces, then said it, "Locked." Around the other side and it was locked and he said it, "Locked." Back to the other side, check again, and the other side again.
Along the sidewalk, he kept his head down and his back hunched with the weight of the bowling ball. The air was sweet and he suddenly suspected today may be the day he'd waited so long for, even if he didn't know what he'd been waiting for, but the air was sweet, so this might be the day.
He stepped into traffic and it cleared, allowing him passage but he didn't notice as he muttered, "You want to know justice? I'll show you justice. Keep the doors locked, the bad things will get in, and the doors have to be locked to keep them out. You want to know about justice?"
A dog crossed his path. A car stopped beside him. Birds flew overhead, then veered away. At his side, a voice asked, "Whatcha doin'?"
He walked, knowing if he'd really heard a voice like he thought, it wasn't his and it wasn't for him, no one ever noticed him, so the voice wasn't for him.
"Sure I'm talking to you," the voice said and he thought maybe he might have noticed a figure next to him, walking alongside, in step, talking to him, but he had to find it and if he let this person with the voice and the questions get him off the trail, he may never find it again for a long time and he'd already been looking so long.
He walked instead, muttering, "Locked and I'll tell you what I know about justice and I'll tell you the truth of it," but the legs next to his walked along, and he kept his head down his eyes away and his back hunched to carry the weight of his guilt.
"You don't have to carry that all the time," the voice said, but he kept its words out of his brain because sometimes people spoke and they did things to him and he would no longer think truth so he didn't listen, but the voice went on. "It wasn't really your fault. You don't have to carry the guilt of her actions, you know."
He walked across the street and the traffic cleared again, but he didn't notice, kept walking to get away from this voice and stay on the path of the sweet smell and hope it led to what he'd lost and the sweet smell was over there now so he followed it and was nearly tossed aside by a truck who's driver didn't know to stop for him but he was fine and the voice still followed him, stopping once, he could see from the corner of his eye, to pet a dog, then catching up.
"You can stop if you like," the voice said but he ignored it. "My name's Zared by the way and I would like to help you. You don't have to do this, you can leave lost things lost and it's okay, the world will go on just fine, the way it's been since man first appeared. Come with me and leave the smell and memories, lost though they may be, where they are."
He didn't say anything except, "Locked."
His path grew more erratic, weaving among traffic, turning corners and walking streets he'd just turned off of a minute before, and cutting through a park of green grass and innocent, laughing people, but the voice and the legs and the body stayed with him, stubborn, and he worried maybe when he found what he thought he might find today because the air was so sweet and today may be the day, that the presence beside him would keep him from finding it after all but still the air was sweet and that had to count for something.
But the voice remained, and the legs, but he searched, following that smell, the scent of fruit and grass and clean Garden air and he remembered the last time he'd smelled it and perhaps that was where his surety came from, the last time he'd had this scent in his lungs in the Garden before expulsion and he'd blamed it on his sister and now that voice was familiar and he remembered another temptation to do something he wasn't supposed to and he looked sideways and the face was the same with the horns and the tongue and those black eyes but he wouldn't listen this time and there she was--finally!--coming from inside a building, brown sack in one arm, a piece of orange in her other hand, peeled as she walked and he caught her before she bit into it and when she didn't bite, the voice and legs and thing next to him screamed, "No!" and he felt himself clearing, as if waking, thoughts came coherently for the first time in ten thousand years because now he'd set things right, the way they should have always been, fruit unpunctured.
Inside
A speck of blood showed through Michael's shirt. He lifted the bottom away from his stomach and looked at the scratch, then at the nail in the wall, and cursed it. He flopped onto the couch, annoyed.
Not here two hours, he thought, and I'm already killing myself. Can I just unpack? Is that so difficult?
He grunted in frustration and looked at the scratch again. Two inches to the right of his navel, it ran maybe three inches along his front, over to his side. The bleeding was limited to that speck on his shirt and a few drops on his skin. The wound itself no longer hurt. He would be fine.
He stared out the window, onto the city. Yes, his new apartment had quite a view. Not like his last place with its view of the brick wall. But that was behind him now, thank God.
I bet this was one busy area in its day, he thought.
Michael was lost in thoughts of Angel Hill, broken-down buildings, countless other things, and the scratch in his stomach had already been forgotten, until he glanced down and saw his finger in his stomach up to the first knuckle.
Shit! he thought, and yanked it out. The quick, surprised jerk ripped the wound another inch. Not a scratch now, a cut.
"Ow, fuck. Shit!" Wait a second, that doesn't hurt.
He looked at his finger. No blood on the digit. He looked at the cut again. No blood running from the wound.
He took off his shirt, put his hand to the skin and pressed. The cut yawned open and he could see inside a little, but still no blood. He released and the hole winked closed. He pressed again. Still no blood, and still no pain. Michael had a four-inch slice in his stomach, big enough to look into, big enough to stick his finger into. So why didn't it hurt? He should be screaming.
He inspected the cut again, pressing, opening, looking inside. He imagined the things he should be seeing. Intestines, blood, stomach. But there was only black. Slowly, he slipped his finger into it. The first knuckle went in easily, then the second.
He moved the finger around, searching. His middle fingertip poked into the cut and soon Michael had two fingers inside his body, exploring the side of him he never thought he'd explore.
He got careless for a second and widened the cut another inch. Even that didn't hurt. So he tested another minute tear. He felt something, but it wasn't pain, just the feeling of flesh ripping, like tearing dead skin from your foot.
Michael continued tearing the line across his stomach from one side to the other so he could open himself up and look inside.
He saw past the flesh, deep into himself, and he was still black, so he spread the cut open, thinking the black to be only shadow. He removed his fingers and shifted on the couch to let light from the window fall directly into the wound, but still all he could see was black.
He stuck his fingers in again and searched, but felt nothing, no stomach, no intestine, not even the inner surface of his flesh. His fingers sank further, then his palm, and soon his wrist. But no matter how far he reached, how desperately he searched, Michael felt nothing inside himself.
His skin broke out in sweat. His limbs shook for a second and he grabbed near his torn navel and ripped the flesh up his middle. Still, no feeling and no blood. He ripped further, exposing what should have been his ribcage, but instead Michael saw, hard as it was to believe . . . stars. Not just stars, though. He saw blackness, stars, and what looked like tiny planets.
He stood up and watched the stars shift inside him. He grabbed fistfuls of flesh and tore himself completely open, ripping his chest as if opening a shirt. He stuck his arm inside the open space of himself and waved it around.
What the fuck was this? He looked around the apartment vainly hoping something would offer an explanation. Maybe the butt of a joint he didn't remember smoking, a bottle of tequila he didn't remember drinking. This couldn't be real. His insides couldn't consist of space.
Michael stared into himself, then bent forward, trying to get a better look, trying to see as deep into himself as he could. How far did this stuff extend? Did it go past where he should end? Did it curve along the contours of his body? No, he already tried to feel his inner lining and couldn't. So, how far?
He leaned further, peering upside down into his own nothing, and soon lost his balance and toppled. But, instead of meeting the floor, Michael just kept falling and falling, forward and forward, tumbling end over end, deeper into the space, deeper into himself, and then he was screaming and trying to catch himself on nothing, and seeing the stars and planets rising up to greet him.
Mr. Self Destruct
(with inspiration from the Nine Inch Nails song of the same name)
I woke up to a beating in my head. Not just a throbbing, not a hangover, or the onset of a headache--a beating. Something, someone, was inside my skull, whacking my brain with a hard rubber paddle, harder as he went, faster as he went, until I suffered a constant, stuttering WHACK! against my head, like cards in the spokes of a speeding bike.
Then it stopped. Just like that.
The sound--yes, I heard the beating--left an echo in my ears for a second and, on the heels of that, a whisper of “I am the voice inside your head.”
I let this slide, attributing it to the pain in my head playing with my mind. I was wrong.
The creature that would call itself Mr. Self Destruct announced himself that day as Britt arched her back, moaned, strained her body against me until our stomachs met, and came.
I felt my own orgasm mere seconds away and her pleasure only added to mine. A few more seconds and we'd collapse together in a sweating heap of crumpled sheet, neither willing to break the moment. Then Britt would vanish to the bathroom to do whatever she did in there and I'd wipe myself on the sheet and close my eyes until she came back.
But just as my own moment neared, I opened my eyes to find my hands around Britt's throat, my fingers closing like a vice, her features bulging, her face turning a dull maroon. I tried to remove my grip, but my body refused to obey, and even further contradicted me by rattling her head back and forth, hitting it against the mattress.
She looked at me, dying, I knew it, and in my head, Mr. Self Destruct spoke. "I'm the lover in your bed--and the hate you try to hide."
My fingers tightened further around her neck and I saw her on the verge of passing out. Before she lost consciousness, my arms flung her off the bed, just tossed her to the side like a sack of potatoes. I'd forgotten my orgasm, but now, discarding her like nothing, I shot a load onto the bed, doubling over with the shiver of sensation, my legs shaking, my hands trembling.
I didn't notice Britt collecting her clothes and somehow staggering out the door, despite her recent proximity to death. Maybe that was what gave her the strength to flee. Whatever, I was too lost in my own pleasure and the voice in my head, this time telling me, "I control you.
"Women are nothing to you," Mr. Self Destruct said in a fuzzy, screaming voice. "I can take you where you want to go and give you all you need to know. But be careful, 'cause I can just as easily drag you down, use you up. After all, I'm Mr. Self Destruct."
* * *
I went to church the next day, positive I'd been possessed. How else to explain the voice in my head, the loss of control of my own body, and why would I ever try to choke Britt? The hate I try to hide? Well, I didn't really hate her. Okay, she annoyed the piss out of me but, the sex. . . .
Reverend Flood preached about original sin and how everyone would go to Hell if they didn't repent.
"He has no idea what he's saying," Mr. Self Destruct spoke. "Don't worry, though," he told me, "I can speak religion's message clear for you. Am I not denial, guilt, and fear all in one in you? I am the very prayers these plebeians utter made real. I am the lie they believe."
He stood--with my legs--and screamed--with my voice, "Ignore this liar! He is empty and false. He will lead you nowhere. I take you where you want to go and give you all you need to know. I am Mr. Self Destruct and I will drag you down and use you up!"
Then self-control returned and I used it to get out of there, run down the street, into an alley, lean against a building, and rest my burning lungs. I stood panting, trying to block out his whispering voice telling me, "You let me do this to you. Relent to me--I am an exit."
* * *
The first time I plunged heroin into my veins, I'd already slid too far down the spiral to care that I had degenerated so far. Britt didn't know me. After that day in church, I knew a "reserved for" tag saved my place in Hell. But the drugs helped. They didn't block his voice, just the opposite. They made me all the more open to him, to the point that I didn't care that he was in my head.
And through it all, Mr. Self Destruct stuck with me.
"I am everything to you, now," he told me once. "Since you have nothing else, no relationship, no faith, no life, except me; I am your world. I am the needle, the high you can't sustain, the whore you mug after her john comes on her face for money for drugs, I'm the pusher and the undying need in you for more, more, please just a little more. I control you."
Next thing I know, I'm hiding in a bus station bathroom, sweating Mr. Self Destruct from my pores, Mr. Self Destruct dangling limply from my arm after shoving Mr. Self Destruct into my veins, taking me to Mr. Self Destruct, and I slide Mr. Self Destruct into his chamber. I know this is also him because he screams it at me: "I am the bullet in the gun! And the truth from which you run. Yes, look down the barrel, for I am this silencing machine, and I control you."
"Then silence yourself," I manage to say. I can't recall ever talking back before. Normally I just allow his grip on my world to tighten. I tried once before, but he started shouting and filling my head with white noise and then the screams of a million dying souls until I got the message and kept my mouth shut. And all I'd done was ask where he came from, what or who he was.
"No," he says. "I can't bring an end to me, because I myself am the end. The end to all your dreams, little piggy. But only if you fight me. I've told you, if you allow me to, I can take you where you want to go and give you all you need to know. Resist, and I can drag you down and use you up. After all, I'm Mr. Self Destruct."
Then silence. I take his rest from me to try to clear my head, to try to fight through the heroin, the Mr. Self Destruct made liquid, and somehow make myself know what to do, how to get rid of him, or, if I discover that impossible, how to deal with it. But he fights me still, filling my head suddenly with more noise, a jumble of sound that resembles nothing but pure confusion. It drones on and on, drilling into my brain and biting at my nerves, eating away at me. Finally I settle on my decision. He calls himself Mr. Self Destruct? Far be it from me to impede him from doing his job. And I pull the trigger.
Preparations
Mr. Seagle, a timid man, entered the office, took his hat in his hands, introduced himself, and was asked to take a seat.
"I need to make preparations," he said. "My wife's died recently, and I..."
"Yes," Mr. Perry said from across his desk. "We can arrange everything, don't worry."
Mr. Seagle's face showed relief. "Now I want everything perfect, no cost spared. It's the least I can do. She was a wonderful wife."
"Yes," Mr. Perry smiled. "Perfection, of course. We'll make sure, Mr. Seagle, that everything is perfect. Let us take care of the details. Now, may I ask the cause of death?"
"Lung cancer."
"And where is she currently?" Mr. Perry had taken out a clipboard and was writing on a form as he spoke.
"At home. It was just a few hours ago. I was told I should get this underway as soon as possible."
"Yes," Mr. Perry said, making a note on the form. "And her name?"
"Astrid."
Mr. Perry wrote, and commented, "A very beautiful name."
"Yes," Mr. Seagle said, twisting his hat, "it's Norse."
"How many guests will you be expecting?" Mr. Perry's eyes were glued to his form. He'd done this countless times and could fill out the whole sheet without looking, but he was thorough.
"I don't know, exactly. She had many friends."
"Can you estimate? It's very important."
"At a guess," he thought a second, "I'd say, maybe...a dozen?"
"And can you give me your wife's height and weight?"
Mr. Seagle's grey eyes roamed the wall behind Mr. Perry's head as his mind worked. He didn't want to guess too small, but, out of respect, he didn't want to guess too big. Finally he said, "She's about five six. I think close to a hundred and twenty pounds, give or take a few."
"Kind of small," Mr. Perry said, still filling out his sheet. "And when were you hoping to have this?"
"As soon as possible," Mr. Seagle said. "I don't want to wait too long. Decay, you know."
"Yes," Mr. Perry agreed, "it's always better sooner than later."
He passed the form to Mr. Seagle who signed and dated it. While the widower passed it back, Mr. Perry buzzed his receptionist and told her to have Mr. Mignola accompany Mr. Seagle back to his home. "And have him bring the rib spreader, please."
"What's the rib spreader for?" Mr. Seagle asked, worry shadowing his features.
"We'll have to remove the lungs, Mr. Seagle," Mr. Perry said. "We can serve the rest of her, but no one's going to want to eat cancer-ridden lungs."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Seagle said. "I understand."
"We'll have this dinner ready by 8:00, is that okay?" Mr. Perry asked, standing and coming around to walk Mr. Seagle to the door. "Relax, and let us handle everything. You won't be disappointed."
"Thank you very much," Mr. Seagle said, shaking the other man's hand. "I appreciate everything."
C. Dennis Moore is the author of over 60 published short stories and novellas in the speculative fiction genre. Most recent appearances were in the Absent Willow Review’s Best of 2009 anthology, as well as the Vile Things anthology, the first issue of Death Rattle Magazine, Fiction365.com, Dark Highlands 2 and in What Fears Become. Future work will be appearing in Our Haunted World. His other ebook titles include Icons to Ashes, Camdigan, Blood Bitch and his short story collections Terrible Thrills and Dancing on a Razorblade. His novel Revelations is available from Necro Publications, and his novella “The Man in the Window”is available from Crossroad Press.