1 of 52

1 of 52

Retirement

Beetle woke at five, just like any other work morning. He crawled from his bed and staggered from his room to the bathroom where he took care of business and brushed his teeth. He was proud of the fact that, even at seventy-two, he still had most of his real teeth. Two were missing in the back, one on each side, but other than that, they were all his. His hair had thinned over the years, but he still managed a decent comb over that didn’t look like one. 

From the bathroom, he went into the kitchen, pressed the silver button on his trusty coffee maker, one he had owned for nearly thirty years now. He went back to his bedroom to dress. Nice gray slacks and a white button-down shirt hung on the closet door’s knob, along with a blue and gray striped tie. 

You can wear jeans and t-shirt tomorrow if you want.

That had been his boss, a woman twenty-two years his junior. He was certain many others would take her up on that offer, but he didn’t. No, Beetle went for his normal, everyday attire.

“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he whispered as he knotted the tie. Gray socks and a pair of black shoes, polished the night before, went on his feet. He thought about putting on a blazer for good measure, but it was mid-summer and would be a blazing high nineties or even low hundred-degree mark by the time he left work. 

Beetle poured a cup of coffee into his favorite mug, the one he took to work with him every day. It was white with a little crack in the side near the handle. On one side was a cartoon image of a beetle drinking coffee. He took a breath and released it. The mug was a gift from his late wife, Maryanne. He was still getting used to her not being around, gone less than ten weeks. 

A minute later, he was out the door and heading down the steps, coffee in hand. The morning was cooler than he expected, but that didn’t matter. Some summer mornings in South Carolina could be in the low seventies at eight in the morning and the mid-nineties two hours later. In the car—an older model Buick he’s had since he was half his age now. Sure, it guzzled gas, but it was reliable and sturdy and rarely needed work done to it. He backed out of the driveway and flicked on the lights. Though it wasn’t completely dark, the sun was still down, and the moon still hung in the sky. 

It was a half hour drive to the office, give or take two minutes depending on traffic and lights and if the CSX had a train running across Morninglow Road. He made one stop, as he did most mornings, at a little locally owned gas station that still had pumps out in front but hasn’t had gas in fifteen years. It wasn’t gas he went for, but a bottle of orange juice. He set his empty coffee mug on the passenger’s seat and got out of the car.

He entered Ned’s, named after the owner, but now ran by his son, also a Ned. The walls were a bland, out of the seventies, green. The shelves, metal and old. It smelled like ancient leather, but Beetle could never recall seeing leather anywhere. The glass coolers that normally lined the backs of other convenience stores were on the side, near the counter. Ned’s sold no beer, not that it mattered to Beetle—he drank no beer. 

“Morning, Beetle,” Ned number two said. Like his boss and many of the people, he interacted with, Ned was younger than Beetle by several decades. 

“Morning, Ned. How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. Are you ready for your big day?”

“I don’t know if it’s really all that big of a day, but I’m as ready as it gets to retire.”

“I’m sure you are. What are you going to do after today?”

“I have my garden, so I’ll tend to it. I’ve always wanted to write a book, so I might try my hand at that.”

“Fiction or nonfiction?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a little of both. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“Are you going to miss anything?”

Beetle thought on it for a second, then shook his head. “Probably not.”

He went to the cooler and plucked out an orange juice—Tropicana was his favorite. At the counter, Ned rang him up and Beetle pulled two dollars from his billfold. 

“Still paying with cash.”

“Yup.”

“You’re one of the very few who do these days. It’s on its way out.”

“I reckon so, but I don’t plan on going the card route.” He tipped his head toward Ned. “Have a good day, Ned.”

“You too, old timer. Have a good retirement party.”

“I wouldn’t call it a party, just some folks getting together at the end of the day.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Beetle drank the orange juice on the way in, capped the bottle and set it on the seat next to the mug. He parked in his usual spot, one not too close to the building, but not too far away either. He had been offered spaces closer but chose to keep the one assigned to him years before. He grabbed his mug, got out of the car, and walked across the parking lot. By then, the sun was up.

Inside, he was greeted with the same thing as always: a dark building. The first in on most days, he went about his normal routine of turning on lights and prepping for the day ahead. Slowly, almost one by one, workers trickled in, all of them younger than him. He delivered mail and did a few routine tasks, nothing requiring tools, many of which he had already taken home. 

Around noon, Beetle was packing a few miscellaneous items into a box. A knock on his door had him turn around. Mitchell stood there, the young fellow who would take his job when Beetle was gone. It wasn’t without being deserved. The kid had worked hard, listened, and learned the way of the office and how to take care of the people. He had been a good study and Beetle was happy to suggest he get the promotion instead of hiring outside the business.

“Hey, Beetle.”

“Hey, Kid. You doing okay?”

The kid, a young twenty-six-years-old from a rough family and even rougher upbringing, shrugged his shoulders. Beetle motioned to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mitchell sat. Beetle did as well. Beetle picked up his mug, drank a little of the semi-warm coffee he made half an hour earlier. “What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know if I can be you, Beetle. I mean, you’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve only been here three years and …”

“You don’t have to be me, Kid,” Beetle interrupted. “You have to be you, and you have to do your best. That’s all you can do.”

“Yeah, but … these people. They know you. They trust you. They rely on you.”

“They will come to do the same with you. After all, you come highly recommended for the job.”

Mitchell nodded and shook his head. “Thanks for getting me the promotion, but do you really think I can do it?”

Beetle smiled. He and Maryanne never had children, but if they had, he would have wanted one of them to be like the young man in front of him. “I know you can.”

The conversation didn’t last too much longer. Mitchell excused himself to haul two boxes to Beetle’s car, even though the old timer didn’t ask him to.

“You don’t have to do that, Kid.”

“I know,” Mitchell said and picked up both boxes, one on top of the other. “I want to.”

With that said, he was out the door, a young man with his life in front of him. Beetle had watched him grow, watched him go from struggling to keep the job he had to flourishing and gaining his trust. 

Lunch came and went amid offers by several co-workers to take him out. He passed on all of them and sat in his office with a sandwich and a small bag of chips Mitchell brought him. He thanked the kid, and after lunch, the two strolled the office, Beetle pointing things out, little reminders he knew the kid didn’t need. Then they returned to his office. 

His plan was to check his emails one last time, turn in his keys and access cards and ride off into the sunset. He washed his mug and set it on his desk. He sat to check emails. The newest one was from Jen, the boss lady. The subject line read HAPPY RETIREMENT!!! He opened it and read the single line: Shut off your computer and come to the lounge.

His shoulders slumped. I don’t want a retirement party. He was specific about that little detail for his last day. I just want to treat it like any other day, just I won’t be returning once I leave. 

Jen conceded, or so he thought.

Beetle took a deep breath, let it out, then clicked off his email. He shut the computer down one last time, stood and pushed his chair beneath his desk. On Monday, the desk, computer, chair, and office would be Mitchell’s. He knew the kid would do well and the others would grow to love him over time. The kid was likeable, for certain, and a hard worker. Beetle slipped a piece of folded paper from his back pocket and set it on the desk. He placed his mug on top of it. Then he looked around the office that had been his for three decades. He nodded, turned off the light, and left the office, closing the door behind him.

The lounge was on the second floor. As he made his way there, he saw no one else anywhere. Office doors were closed, desks were unoccupied. Betsy, the young woman hired not a year earlier to sit at the front desk, wasn’t in her usual spot with her usual bright smile and cheerful demeanor. 

They’re all in the lounge, Beetle.

And they were.

There was no shout of Surprise as he entered the room, but there were plenty of people clapping, a few whistles and one loud yell of Beetle! That was Bob Larson from accounting. He’d know that voice anywhere. 

“Come on in, Beetle,” Jen said. She waved him to the center of the room where a table stood, a black tablecloth covering it and a large square cake on top. She smiled. It was genuine. Her brown eyes dazzled. When he reached her, Jen wrapped her arms around him. It was out of the norm for her and was the first time since before Maryanne passed, he had been hugged. She was warm and smelled of vanilla. A surge of sadness rose into his chest and threatened to reach his eyes. He shook this off and faced everyone when she released him. 

Jen gave a speech, one Beetle reckoned was given at any of a million retirement parties for old fogies like him. She said all the nice things and allowed others to speak. When Mitchell spoke, the kid choked up and wiped his eyes. When everyone was finished, someone started the “Speech” chant. Others joined in until Beetle finally raised one hand in a quiet down gesture.

He didn’t know what he would say. He certainly didn’t plan on saying anything. So, he spoke off the cuff and from the heart, if not the soul.

“When I started here, there were only a handful of people—eleven, I believe. We had a small building on the west end. I was nothing more than a gopher, running from this place to that place whenever Mr. Hayden asked me to. Now … now we’re a large business, making waves. I’ve made a lot of friends over the years, seen a lot of people reach the end of their rope, leave, and go on to do other things, live other lives. After all these years, I’m going to join them when I leave here today.”

He paused. Emotions swelled in his chest. He tried to keep them at bay the best he could. 

“Thank you, all of you, for your kindness, your friendship and for trusting me with your needs, both great and small.”

He nodded, as if satisfied what he said was enough. “I’m not going to say goodbye, maybe see you later, but not goodbye. Goodbye is forever. That’s all I have.”

The cake was cut. It was chocolate with a cream vanilla frosting. He had a slice and talked to several people. He shook hands, gave hugs, and said his see you laters. 

Like every other day, most workers were gone before him. They would be back on Monday and would carry on with the lives they had, doing the jobs they did. Mitchell stuck around and walked him out. At his car, they stood in awkward silence for several seconds.

The kid finally spoke. His voice cracked a little, but he kept himself composed. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Beetle. You’ve been like a dad to me, and I can never repay you for …”

Beetle reached forward, pulled the kid to him, and gave him a hug. Like Jen earlier, it was completely out of the norm for him. When he let go, he looked Mitchell in the eyes. 

“You don’t owe me a thing, Kid. Working with you has been one of the highlights of my career.”

Tears formed in the kid’s eyes. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“Get on out of here,” Beetle said.

“What about you?”

“I’m leaving. I just need a couple minutes before I go.”

“Okay.”

Mitchell stuck out his hand. Beetle smiled and took it. He gave it a good squeeze, then released it. 

“See you later, Beetle,” Mitchell said.

“Goodbye, Kid,” Beetle responded.

He watched the young man walk away, get into his car, and leave. Mitchell gave one final wave before leaving the parking lot and heading off into his weekend. Beetle waved back. When he was gone, Beetle got in his car, wiped his mouth with one hand and stared at the building where he spent most of his waking hours over the last three plus decades. 

He had been wrong that morning when Ned asked him if he would miss anything. He had said probably not. Sitting there, alone in his car, he realized he would miss everything.

Beetle cranked the car up and headed home.

If he were forced to remember anything about the ride home, he wouldn’t be able to. It had been a blur with his mind somewhere else. He parked in his usual spot in the driveway, checked the mail to see two bills and a flyer for someone wanting to buy his house. Inside, he set the mail on the table. He sat down. Beetle cried.

His hand shook as he pulled his billfold out and flipped it open. He plucked out the black and white picture of him and Maryanne on their wedding day. Though some of the image had faded, he knew every detail of it. Again, his eyes filled with tears as he stared at the two young lovers looking into each other’s eyes just before they kissed. The photographer had great timing with that one. 

“All these years, Maryanne … I worked all these years so we could grow old together. Here I am, all by my lonesome and you’ll never get a day older.”

His shoulders shook as the tears flowed down his face. 

“I miss you. I miss you so much.”

Beetle took a deep breath and stood. He looked around the room. It felt so empty, as if the ghosts of days past were gone and they left behind nothing but a hollow shell of a building. It was no longer a home, but a house where his nights were long and now his days would be, too. He set the wedding picture on the table, then walked down the hall. He reached the basement door at the end, the one just beyond his bedroom. He opened the door, flipped the switch, and stepped onto the top step that led down. Beetle closed the door behind him, then locked it. 

On Monday morning, Mitchell Windham arrived early for his first day in a new position. He entered a building completely dark and went through turning on lights and the coffee maker. Then he made his way to his new office. Once there, he smiled when he saw the mug with the beetle on one side on the desk. He picked it up along with the letter beneath it. 

Mitchell read …

…

…

Then he called Beetle’s number. Frantic and panicking when he didn’t answer, Mitchell dialed the only numbers he could think of: 9-1-1.

The dispatcher spoke calmly, then listened as Mitchell all but screamed for him to get someone out to Beetle’s place. He thought about jumping into his own car and heading there.

It’s half an hour away.

“I don’t care.”

He ran to the parking lot and stopped when he reached his car. He stood for a second, his thoughts suddenly halted, not from what he knew the police would find, but in the realization that Beetle had told him his plan and he hadn’t picked up on it. 

“Goodbye is forever,” he whispered. He also didn’t need to know how that goodbye came. He figured that one out, too. Beetle had reached the end of his rope, not just with the job, but life as well. And he hung from it. 

Mitchell leaned against his car, his heart broken, his hands over his face. At some point, he slid down the side of the car until he sat on the ground. 

Hi

Hi.

It’s me, A.J. Brown.

I just wanted to pop on here and say hello and give a, hopefully, quick update on things. This shouldn’t take too long.

Type AJ Negative is in it’s tenth year, which absolutely blows my mind. I started this blog/website in June of 2012 as a way to promote my work, get my name out there and connect with readers. There have been times where I have kept the site updated regularly and times where I didn’t. So is the ebb and flow of life and writing. 

I took a six or so month break last year to reevaluate more than just writing, but life in and of itself. Around that time, I really looked at me, at my head space, at what I wanted in life. You could say I was going through a midlife crisis if you want, but I think it was more of learning how to prioritize, well, me. I started a workout program and dropped thirty pounds of fat and found a confidence in myself that had been sorely lacking for years. I felt better and I was able to run again for the first time in twenty years. That was monumental for me.

I got rid of Twitter, which I found to be the most toxic form of social media. I also culled my friend’s list on Facebook from nearly 3800 to about 700 people. Suddenly, a lot of toxicity was gone from my feeds. I removed in person people from my life and had long conversations with other people I did not want to remove. 

And I wrote, but differently than before. I wrote for me, for my enjoyment, without the pressure of needing to get my work published. I wrote some of the best stories in years. I wrote a course on story telling (so if you know someone who might want to learn hot to tell a story … ). Then, after I reached a place where I was happier, I set out into the publishing world again. I put out Five Deaths in September of last year, then GRIM in February of this year. I’ve written an amazing love story and have three books that are interconnected around the theme of love. Talk about stepping outside of your comfort zone.

One thing I had to look at was holding myself accountable. The biggest of those is not making excuses for not doing things, or why I can’t do things. I think most people are in the habit of making excuses. I had to cut that out. I’m still working on it, but for the most part, it’s a habit I have broken.

I also had to look at RIGHT NOW. There is no tomorrow. It is always today because once you reach tomorrow, well, it’s still today. I know, confusing, but the point is don’t put off until tomorrow because tomorrow never arrives and you only have so much time in this world. Do what you want to do in life RIGHT NOW. 

Before I go, I want to talk about Type AJ Negative. I am currently revamping the site. Please, check out the menus and the links, check out the book pages. I’m adding purchase buttons to each book page, so if you’re interested, check back soon and you should be able to purchase directly from my site. If you’ve read my work, comment on those pages, please. I will be adding my social media links, probably in a menu tab as well as a sidebar menu. I’ll also add my Patreon page on here, which I hope you will give it a visit, and maybe subscribe to it. More on that at a later date. 

I am going back to promoting my books and stories and maybe some other writers as well. I’ve been thinking about a WHO AM I kind of thing where I invite other authors on here to talk about themselves and their works. I know some fabulous people in this business. I will still post stories from time to time, but maybe not as much as before. I hope to post more inspirational things as well. 

I hope, even more than all of that, you will stick around for this. 

I have 370 followers. To each one of you, I want to say Thank you. I know, in reality, it’s probably more like thirty people who follow this site regularly. To each of you, a big thank you. If I’m able to bring one person some entertainment and joy into their life with this site, then I’ve done what I set out to do. 

Okay, so this is important. If you follow this site, if you have read this post, can you do me a favor? Yes, please like the post, but more than that, can you leave a comment? Let me know who you are or say hi. If you’ve read my work, tell me about it, tell me if you liked it, hated it, used it to balance a table. 

I’m done for now. I have a lot of work to do, but it is work I am happy to do. I look forward to hearing from you and thank you for reading. Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

The Rainbow Bridge

She takes a rose with her each time she crosses the bridge that separates one part of the world with another. Today it is bright red, the petals full and thick, its fragrance like Heaven to the senses. She holds a purple umbrella over her head. The clouds are grey, verging on black, threatening stormy weather. The breeze fluffs her brown hair, carrying the promise the clouds have made to her. Her dress billows up and falls back around her legs. 

The toes of her shoes touch the edge of the bridge. She stares ahead at the arched bridge, at the way the stones that construct it shine like black glass. The odd white light that passes through the gray clouds twinkle like stars in a night sky on the stones, reflecting back a prism of bright colors. The rails are wrought iron and black and smooth like marble. There is no flaking paint, no dirt on the stones, nothing to mark a passage of time. 

Here, she slips out of her shoes. They are no more than old pair that has seen far better days, but she hates the click and clack of the heels on the hard stone. She steps onto the bridge, the rose in one hand, her umbrella over her head. The rains will come, but not for a while, not until she is done. At least, she hopes.

The stone is cool under her feet. Shivers run up her legs and into her tailbone. With her head held high, she crosses. With each passing step, the stones’ colors change, from black to reds, to indigos and purples, to greens and yellows and oranges, the colors of rainbows. Halfway to the other side, she stops near the railing to her right and looks out at a world that appears unblemished. Clear blue water flows below. On the bank are tall trees that seemed to stretch into the Heavens. 

A cool breeze blows through her, ruffling her hair and dress. Another shiver follows, this time it’s a full body experience. She steps back into the center of the bridge and continues. 

From where she is, she can see the other side. A dirt path leads from the bridge, bright green grass growing up on either side of it. Trees, not as tall as the ones by the river, stand tall, their leaves green, their bark healthy shades of brown. She’s always liked that side of the bridge, where the grass is truly greener and the world …

She shakes her head and continues on. 

Thirty feet from the end of the bridge, a little girl appears. Her blonde hair is in pigtails, each one dangling by the sides of her head. She has a broad smile on her face that reveals a missing front tooth. Dimples accentuate each cheek and her eyes are a dazzling blue. She wears a pink dress that has pockets on either side of her small hips, but no socks or shoes. 

There are no clouds here, no threatening storms and no breeze to lift her hair or skirt or even pull on her umbrella. There is the sun and there is warmth.

“Good day,” the little girl says and curtsies. 

“Good day,” she repeats back, then extends the rose.

The little girl takes it. “Just the one?”

She nods. “Yes, thankfully.” Or, maybe not. It just depends on how you see things. For her, this could be good, but so often, in so many other cases, it is not. She usually only brings two or three roses, but sometimes she brings half a dozen. Only once has she brought more than ten. On that day her heart hurt as if it had been cut out. That feeling stayed with her all the way until she reached this point, this spot on the bridge. After she would smile, knowing the worst was over, but … 

“Okay.” The girl said. “One it is. He or she?”

“He.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s coming. He’s a bit older than most.”

“A natural?”

“Yes.” She was thankful for this. She didn’t have very many naturals these days.

The girl sets the rose on the ground, it’s red somehow more vibrant on that side of the bridge, somehow more alive. She reaches into one of the pockets and pulls out a brown object, shaped like a bone. “This is for him.”

“I’m sure he will like it,” she says and takes the bone. She turns, her smile somewhat forced. “Here, Boy,” she calls, kneels and holds the bone out at arm’s length, and she waits.

Half a minute passes before she sees him, a tan lab with floppy ears. He’s thinner than he should be for an animal almost twenty in age. His fur is thinner than it was when he was younger. He walks with a limping gate. It’s painful to watch, but not the way some of the others are, those who were struck by cars or killed by their owners or by other dogs. Those are the ones that hurt her heart the most, that make this part so painful. This one, this sweet lab who lived a good life, one where he didn’t fear his owner, but loved him, one where there were no fights or a car that rolled up over him, one where death came naturally as he lay his head in his owner’s lap, his head being petted, this one doesn’t hurt her as much.

His nails click clack on the surface of the stones, much like a pair of heels would a hard floor or concrete. He stops in front of her, his head up, his tail still. He looks exhausted from the walk.

“Here you go,” she says. The dog takes the bone in his mouth but doesn’t chomp down on it. “Good boy.” She pets his fur, feeling the bones beneath.

“Come,” the little girl says. 

The dog looks up at the woman who brought him here, then he steps slowly off the bridge and over the rose lying on the ground. The rose’s bright red petals and green leaves slowly wither until the stem is a dark brown and the petals and leaves are brittle and black. The dog’s pelt grows thick. Meat forms on bones and the limp he had crossing the bridge is no longer there. He sits at the girl’s feet. She pets him and his tail strikes the ground hard.

The girl looks up at the woman. “It’s time to go.”

“I know.” She let’s out a deep breath. “If you don’t mind, I would like to stay a while longer.”

“I don’t mind.”

The little girl turns. She taps her leg with her right hand, “Come,” she says to the dog.

The dog stands, falls in line beside the girl and they begin to walk up the path away from the bridge. 

“Bye,” the woman says.

As if he heard her, the dog stops and looks back. His tail wags fast. 

She waves and the dog turns around to follow the little girl. They disappear into the trees, leaving her on the edge of the bridge by herself. She fights back tears.

It takes a minute, but she finally turns and begins her trek back to the other side of the rainbow bridge. There are other puppies and dogs that need safe travel to the afterlife, others far less fortunate than the one she just walked across with. 

Halfway across the bridge, a breeze cuts through her and she shivers. The clouds are darker than before. She sees the world on the other side. It’s trees are bent and branches lay on the ground. The grass is gray and high, and the path is lined with rocks and roots. It’s a dangerous world, one she wishes not to go back to. A mournful howl beckons her on. Her shoulders slump. She fears this one isn’t so fortunate. With tears in her eyes, she hurries across the bridge.

As she slips on her shoes, it begins to rain. She lifts her umbrella over her head and steps back into the world of the living.

____________________

I started this story in November of 2018. I wrote two paragraphs, maybe a little over a hundred words and had no clue where this story was meant to go. I saved the document with the title, UNTITLED 4. A little while later, I moved the story to a folder titled, UNFINISHED STORIES. I don’t delete any story I start. Ever. I save them and if I don’t end up working on them, I moved them to that folder in hopes of one day coming back, seeing the words and thinking it would be great if I finished it. 

That was the case for this UNTITLED 4. 

I wasn’t looking for this particular story, but something else, a story I thought I might know how to complete. I couldn’t remember what I called it, so I started going through files. Near the bottom of the UNFINISHED STORIES folder are all the untitled pieces. I opened the first three, didn’t find what I was looking for, then opened UNTITLED 4. I read the two paragraphs and thought, Where was I going with this piece? I honestly, have no clue where the story was supposed to go, but I liked the girl with the umbrella and rose and I wanted to know why she kicked her shoes off. 

I moved the story to my desktop and the next day, I opened it, read the two paragraphs half a dozen times. There had to be some significance to four things in the first two paragraphs. They are:

Why was she carrying a rose? What is it’s purpose?

Why was she carrying an umbrella?

There had to be a reason the bridge was pristine. What is that reason?

Finally, why does she take her shoes off? I believed there had to be an emotional connection to that final question. It turns out, there really was.

As I reread the words, my brain started clicking. The stones shimmer with the sunlight. What if … what if the sunlight created a prism of colors that shone off the stones? Then, my brain latched onto the thought of a rainbow bridge. And I knew the story. I still didn’t know the purpose of the rose, but I knew immediately the woman was a sort of grim reaper for dogs and she was ushering one or many dogs into the afterlife, to a place where they can run in the sun with no fears of an angry owner, no cars to hit them and no age to make wither them away. 

I’m normally a fairly fast writer, but this story, though less than 1400 words in length, went painstakingly slow. It’s as if the story wanted me to feel the pain of losing an animal. That brings me to the tan lab. When I met my wife, she had a tan lab named, Sugar. He was smart and sweet. A few years passed and Sugar grew sick. If I remember correctly, he had Cancer and Cate’s brother made one of the toughest, most heartbreaking decisions of his life. In January of 2009, Sugar was, mercifully, put to rest. My brother-in-law was with him to the end. That evening I helped him bury Sugar. He cried. I cried. I wrote a story titled, Farewell Old Friend, the day after we buried Sugar. It was one of the more difficult pieces I have ever written. I might post it here one day. 

This is what I thought about as I wrote about the dog crossing the bridge. For me, this is what I hope happens for dogs as they cross the Rainbow Bridge, they become whole again. 

The rose was the key to becoming whole again. When the dog steps over the rose, he absorbed whatever life had been in it and it restored him to his healthiest. That is why the rose withered and died.

That brings me to the ending of this piece, with her crossing back the way she came. The scenery on the side where the dog was ushered to is a paradise, a dream, a Heaven. But on the other side, the world is gray and dismal and dangerous … and stormy. It is a sad place, a place she never wants to return to but has to. And she puts her shoes back on, the shoes that remind her of paw nails tapping on the stone bridge, and she steps into the gray, bleak world of the living, and into rain. 

I hope you enjoyed this piece, if you can call it ‘enjoyed.’ I hope it moved you and I hope you will take a minute and let me know and share it with others. 

As always, until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Treats at the Aver Residence

If you are wondering, yes, this story has appeared here before. It’s been rewritten half a dozen times and it is still one of my favorite holiday stories.

I want to tell you something real quick before you read on, especially if you have never read this piece before. The character of Cade Aver is the creation of S. Copperstone. When she created it I was actually miffed that I didn’t come up with it. I mean, Cadaver, really? I asked her if I could use the character for a story. She said, ‘yes,’ and she was extremely gracious about it.

Every once in a while it will get republished, or as was the case a couple weeks ago, I did a live reading of it. I always check with her and she is always cool about it.

I hope you enjoy Treats at the Aver Residence, and to S. Copperstone, thank you again.

1

“They’re going to love this year’s treat,” Cade said, giddily. He moved around the large steel table with a carving knife in hand.  His milky eyes dazzled in the yellow glow of the overhead lights. 

“What do you think, Mr. Mason?”

On the table lay Mr. Mason, covered by a sheet up to his chin. The man squirmed. His arms and legs pulled on the restraints that held him. His eyes were wide orbs, glassy and full of fear, a bruise beneath the left one. His dark hair was ruffled.

Cade lifted one eyebrow. His face loomed over Mason’s. “What? No response?” He shook his head, the joy of the time of year—the very day—coursed through his veins.“ Brighten up, Mr. Mason. It’s Halloween—the greatest day of the year.”

He checked the I.V. line running into Mason’s arm. The steady drip told him Mr. Mason would be flying high soon enough, but not too high. Mr. Mason certainly didn’t want to miss out on the festivities.

“All those years of being a surgeon come in handy this time of year, don’t you think?”

Cade looked down into Mason’s green eyes. The man blinked, and a stray tear fell down the side of his face. He let out a groan, not one of pain, but fear. Cade was certain if the white cloth shoved into his mouth wasn’t there, Mason would scream for all he was worth—and at that moment, he may not have been worth much more than a cheap bottle of wine to any drunk on the side of the road, but he was worth all the candy in the world to Cade.

“Don’t worry—you will only feel a moderate amount of pain, and for only a few seconds, maybe a minute, and then you’ll pass out.” He stroked Mason’s sweaty cheek, lovingly, as if he cared for the man before him. Cade’s eyes grew tender, his smile softened. “Then you won’t feel anything at all. At least until the children arrive.”

Mason shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. He strained to move. The veins on his forehead and along his throat, bulged against his skin.

“Stick around, Mr. Mason,” Cade almost sung, then patted Mason’s face. “It’s going to be a wonderful Halloween.”

2

In their homes, children sang and danced. Their mothers painted their off colored skin whatever shade of pale, brown or black they chose. Halloween shows like It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and Monster House, played on the television, and those who were finished with their dinners sat and watched until the sun began to set.  

The anticipation made some of them bounce in their seats. Toes tapped. Fingers drummed. Betsy Wallabanger’s teeth fell out twice, and each time she put them back in she had to adjust her lipstick. Excitement hung in the air like a thick fog on an early fall morning.

3

“Would you like a smiley face or a frown? Or maybe a really scary face?” 

Mason shook his head and moaned.

“Hmm … none of those? I have templates this year—got them cheap at the WalGreens in town. They practically gave them to me.” Cade rubbed the blade of his knife against the side of his head.  A small flap of skin peeled back, and a few strands of dirty brittle hair flaked to the floor. Blood spilled down the side of his face. “Wow, that’s sharp—I guess I should be careful where I put it.”

Cade pulled the sheet away like a magician putting on a show. A pair of red underwear covered Mason’s privates. Other than that he was nude.  His belly was plump, the signs of a man who liked to eat well.  

“I hope you don’t mind, but I shaved your body while you were asleep. You had a lot of hair, and you know how kids are—most of them just don’t like hair on their treats. But I didn’t shave your head. Some of them like to keep scalps for souvenirs these days. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the few traditionalists still out there.”

Mason shook his head and let out a yell that was muffled by the cloth. He chewed on the rag as if trying to eat it so he could cry for help.

“I’m sorry you don’t approve, but you needed the shave. What’s done is done—you’ll just have to get over it.”  

Cade set the knife on a counter behind him and rifled through the templates. “Frankenstein? Oh, how about Shrek—he used to be popular with the kids.” 

After going through all the patterns, he set them down, and picked up a black marker. “None of those will do. Not for you, Mr. Mason. I’ll just have to come up with something on my own.”

He stood over Mason’s ample belly and drew an odd oval just below the ribs. He drew a second oval, then a triangle around Mason’s belly button. Cade tapped his temple with the marker and looked up at the ceiling. Many images ran through his head. Then the right one came to mind.  A smile creased his face.  

“Oh, you are going to love this.”

He drew the large squiggly line below the triangle, then brought it down close to his waistband of his underwear. Cade picked up the knife and looked at Mason. “Are you ready for this?”

Mason screamed as Cade plunged the knife into his stomach.

4

“Come on, let’s get into your costumes.”  

Children squealed with joy when the mothers beckoned them to get ready for the festivities. They hurried to their rooms and donned their outfits. They were vampires and werewolves, neither of which sparkled or walked around shirtless. They were witches with warts on their noses and brooms by their sides. They were zombies—oh so many of them were zombies. Betsy Wallabanger dressed up as a corpse bride, her hair jutting this way and that way, her outfit a natural dirty shade, complete with stains across the front. Her mother had worn that very costume when she was Betsy’s age. There were no princesses or Batmans or video game stars. There were no cute little lions, tigers or bears, oh my. There was an Alice and she carried a bucket shaped like the tardy rabbit’s head that dripped blood every few steps she took.

They practiced the chants they learned from Halloweens past. Their voices rang up to the ceilings and none were off key.

“Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.”

Some of the older kids added extra verses. “If you don’t, I won’t cry. I’ll slit your throat and then you’ll die.”

Mothers gave approving looks and fathers ruffled the enthusiastic heads of the extra verse singers.

There were no idle threats of ‘behave or else.’ Those were reserved for parents in towns where Halloween was more of a burden than a rite of passage. Besides, the kids in Dreads Hollow knew the parents would never stick to their threats of no haunting the neighborhood if they behaved—it was just as much fun for the adults as it was for the children. Then there was always the one house at the end of Corpse Avenue that did something different each year. If anything, the parents wanted to see how Mr. Aver had decorated. If there were no haunts for the kids, there was no visiting the Aver residence for the adults.

5

Cade pulled away part of the flesh of Mason’s stomach. He bit down on a piece of it, chewed and nodded. “Tasty,” he said. Blood dripped down his chin. He wiped at it absently.

He looked inside Mason’s stomach.  He had deadened the nerves and cauterized the flesh where he had carved away the precious meat. Blood still flowed from the chest cavity and Mason still breathed, though shallow as it was. The carved face was gruesome, but Cade hadn’t finished. He left a long slit beneath the reamed out mouth. A mesh was sewn in place, holding Mason’s intestines in.

Cade looked down at the man who had once said, ‘Halloween is for the devil’s children.’ He wanted to correct him—oh Halloween was so much more than for the offspring of Satan, it was for everyone, young and old, tall and small. The day didn’t so much matter, but the spirit of Halloween, that’s what drove Cade and every other person who loved the day so much to celebrate it. He slapped Mr. Mason’s face gently with a bloodied glove, leaving four red imprints on his face. “Stay with me, Mr. Mason. Your moment is coming soon, and you won’t want to miss it.”

Cade carefully moved Mason’s body onto a gurney he had procured from one of the medical catalogues he still received, though he hadn’t practiced his once chosen profession in well over seventy years. Mason moaned and opened his eyes. Gray bags clung beneath them and he seemed to stare off at the ceiling, not noticing Cade at all. A few seconds later, his eyes slid shut and he was unconscious to the world around him. Cade pushed the gurney through the house and onto the front porch.  

Out in the fresh autumn air, Cade took a deep breath. The cool air filled his throat but burned his ancient lungs. 

“I love this time of year.”  

He worked like a cautious burglar, careful not to set any alarms off and give himself away. In Cade’s case, he was careful not to jar Mason’s body and have his efforts ruined by an act of clumsiness. He slid his arms under Mason’s legs and back and carried him down the steps. Cade sat him on a sturdy lawn chair, not bothering to brush off the leaves that had fallen on it or the spider web that hung between one armrest and the seat. The spider on the web crawled from one sticky line to another until it sat on Mason’s forearm. 

Back inside, Cade grabbed the accessories, chip wrappers and empty beer cans. He littered the area around Mason with the garbage and placed one of the cans in the man’s hand.

Cade stepped back and looked at his creation. The backdrop of his old house with its warped steps, shuttered windows and flaking paint would give anyone from outside of Dreads Hollow the creeps. Those people would cautiously walk away, their eyes not wavering from the sight before them, or they would run as if their hair was on fire. Cade smiled and shook with something akin to lust. His body tingled. His heart raced with excitement.

6

They walked the streets of the neighborhood, clothed in their homemade outfits and masks. Each child’s eyes beamed with excitement as they went from door to door. The welcome lights shone brightly at each house, luring the kids to knock and speak their chants. Neighbors opened doors, smiled and played along. They oohhed and ahhed at the costumes; they told the children how scary and terrifying, and even how sickening they were; they gave them treats of lady fingers and animal eyes, of hair necklaces and cooked tongues.

“I got a rock,” one kid said when he left each house.  

Tunes of Trick or Treat rang throughout the night until they reached the Aver residence at the end of Corpse Avenue. A dim bulb hung from the porch’s ceiling. It cast shadows that looked like pointy fingers stretching across the ground. Cade stood on the porch, his face covered by a mask made from the skin of Mason’s stomach.  

Children approached the house. Their bodies hummed with anticipation and their eyes darted about the yard. Mason sat in the shadows near the porch, one hand wrapped around the beer can. He moaned weakly. The children stopped. Some of the parents leaned into get a better look. 

“I call this Drunk Man,” Cade said and flipped a switch that lit up the yard.  

Loud gasps echoed through the night as parents and children alike took in Cade’s work.  Mason’s stomach had been carved out as if it were a normal pumpkin face, the lining of his insides burned black. A trickle of blood still washed down into the man’s briefs.  Mason’s eyes had been sewn open and crusted blood clung to his face. His intestines, which had been held in by the mesh earlier, now dangled on Mason’s lap. It appeared as if they had been vomited out of the wide mouth of his belly. The cloth that had been in his mouth earlier was gone. Mason’s bottom lip trembled.

Betsy Wallabanger—six past a hundred years of age—approached the creation, cautiously. “He’s still alive,” she said with wide blue eyes that held childish excitement in them. She reached forward with one hand, then pulled it back quickly, uncertainty stretching across her face.

“Go ahead. It’s okay, he can’t move,” Cade said.

Betsy set her pillowcase bag on the ground and leaned down. She sunk her teeth into one of Mason’s thighs. A scream came from his throat as she worked her jaw from side to side. She ripped off a piece of flesh, her teeth coming out slightly. She shoved them back in place and chewed. After she swallowed, she smiled. “Delicious.”  

Cade clapped his hands like the young child he no longer was. He motioned with his hands. “Come, little ones. Enjoy this year’s treat from the Aver residence.”

Children squealed as they lit in on Mason. His screams filled the night, much to Cade’s satisfaction. The parents looked on with a happiness reserved for their offspring.

“You really outdid yourself this year, Aver,” one of the fathers said before he walked away with his little boy. Blood soaked the front of the boy’s costume and he licked his fingers clean of the blood that had been on them.

7

Cade sat on the porch in an ancient rocker that squealed like a wounded rat as it went back and forth. The sounds of singing, happy children had long since faded. What remained of Mason lay scattered on the lawn. There were bones here and there, a clump of hair by the sidewalk—the scalp had not been taken this year. One of the kids had bit off his privates. Or was it one of the moms? Cade didn’t know, and honestly, it didn’t matter. The birds and bugs would come and clean up the mess, leaving only bones behind. 

On his lap sat a skull. Part of it was still pink from blood and meat. He pulled a piece of flesh off the cheekbone and plopped it into his mouth. He chewed, then swallowed.

“Hmm … Delicious.”

AJB

Raven’s Brew (Free Fiction)

Raven’s Brew

A.J. Brown

R is for Richie Consuella Rodriguez. He was the first to see the shadow loom large overhead. The man-child with the I.Q. of a five-year-old sat in the sand box his pa had made for him years earlier. Long after Pa’s death, Richie still played in the old box, the sand replaced year after year by locals who felt sorry for him. He played cowboys and Indians with little plastic figures bought from a Five and Dime by his mother, she who now lay in her bed unable to do anything more than piss herself and spit grits down the front of her night dress. Sixteen years of dying and somehow, she held on. 

The fort sat on one end of the sand box, nothing more than sticks poked into the dirt; the Indian Reservation on the other end, with leaves stabbed through by twigs to form teepees. The many plastic men battled in the center of the box, the Indians woo-wooing and the cowboys cursing the red men with the hatchets, bows and spears. 

Richie stopped playing when the shadow passed overhead. For the briefest of moments, the sun had been blocked from the play area and a cool breeze tickled his bare arms. He craned his neck up, saw nothing and went back to destroying the pale men in the fort. 

A breeze began and the sound of something flapping with it caught his attention. He glanced up. A scream froze in Richie Consuella Rodriguez’s throat as he was lifted from the ground. His feet struck the fort and cowboys scattered throughout the sandbox. The only figures left standing were two Native Americans: a warrior with a spear, and the medicine man with his arms held up. On one shoulder sat a black bird.

A is for Alexia Garcia. She was not a man-child. Not even a man. With the kids in school and a couple of hours to herself, the cleaning and keeping of the house was at hand. With the wash done, she tended to hanging clothes. Her hum was a lullaby, her voice smooth. She snapped the clothes out, a crisp POP each time, then one by one placed them on the line; two pins per garment. When she was done there would be three lines filled with pants, shirts, socks, undergarments, linens, rags and towels. 

With two lines full, she worked on the final one. A shadow, like a cloud in front of the sun, passed over her. She paid it little thought and continued her work, a hum on her lips. The clothes fluttered with an up tick in the wind and Alexia fought against the towel in her hands. She placed the first of two pins on one creased corner. Before she could attach the other one, her feet left the ground and her world became a haze of black and purple.

One end of the clothesline tore from the post and cut into her palm. Blood spilled from her hand as four fingers fell to the earth. 

V is for Valena Montoya. She sat in the grass outside the cottage that was her parents’ home. Her three years of life had seen nothing considered out of the ordinary. Her soggy bottom soaked the grass beneath her, but she paid no attention to it. Later it would chafe her behind a deep shade of red, but at that time, she was content to stare at the ants making their way through the jungle of grass. 

Those ants, bright red and large, formed two lines, one to and one from the food not too far from where Valena sat. They bit off portions of it and went along their way, oblivious to the giant in their midst. 

Valena picked up the brown piece of food the ants had been taking from. She shook them off the best she could and placed it in her mouth. A moment later she screamed, as the food hung from her mouth and an ant slipped from between her small lips. 

E is for Elizabeth Montoya. She set the last of the dishes in the drainer and peered out the kitchen window. Her heart skipped a beat, then a second one at the sound that came from outside. She couldn’t make out what Valena had in her mouth, but she could hear the garbled scream. 

She pushed the door open and ran across the yard to her daughter. Elizabeth stopped just short of Valena and one hand went to her own mouth. She lunged forward and knocked the finger from Valena’s gaping mouth. Her stomach knotted and gave way to vomiting. 

N is for Natalia Perez. It was Natalia who discovered the broken clothesline and blood on the ground near where Alexia disappeared. She found two of Alexia’s remaining three severed fingers. Her hysterics echoed in the twilight and the villagers ran to see what was wrong.

They clamored about; their calls for Alexia rang out but they would not find her. 

Natalia sat on her bed, her face tear stained. Her youngest sister gone, she cried her laments and spoke her prayers. In anguish she left from the small hut and set out into the night. Her curses rose to the sky and blackness like none other covered the moon. With sadness still in her heart and on her lips, she was lifted in claws like steel. One talon ripped through her midsection and organs spilled from her eviscerated body. 

With her blood sprinkling the village below, she was carried through the night, her body limp and growing cold. Somewhere in the darkness, she was dropped.

S is for Santavia Alvarez. He, like many others, combed the village well into the night in search of Alexia. Though he would not find her, he felt rain sprinkle from the heavens. He wiped his face and stared at the red staining his fingers. 

Santavia fled beneath a tree and knelt in prayer. The words that came from him were coherent to only him and the one he prayed to. Others around him fell to their knees and prayed as well.

Two more would be taken as they held their heads and hands to the grounds. 

Santavia stood next to the tall tree and watched the sky as Ramon Luiz-Guiterrez was carried off. Santavia fell to the earth again, his body prostrate, and begged for mercy for he and his people.

B is for Benita Alvarez. Santavia told her of the giant bird that swooped down from the sky and took Ramon Luiz-Guiterrez from the ground and how Ramon never screamed as he was carried off.

Benita left her rundown shack and made her way to the chief of the village. 

“We are frowned upon and the great birds have come to take us away.”

“We must make sacrifices,” the chief said.

“We must kill the bird,” Benita countered. 

She left the chief in his bed robes, his head shaking, arms uplifted toward the sky, his words lifted to the gods.

R is for Ramon Luiz-Guiterrez. They found his head near the base of Raven’s Mountain. It was as they feared. It was in that area that the men camped and watched as the giant bird flew to and from, each time carrying another of their number in its giant claws or its monstrous beak. Arrows did nothing to stop it and their spears were too slow.

They bowed and cried out to the gods of their ancestors and begged for mercy and guidance. Morning came, and the four men made their way up the hillside. 

E is for Eduardo Ruiz. He was plucked from the group of four along the mountainside. The bird dove in, its wings silent. It caught Eduardo with its beak and lifted him high in the air before it bit him in half. Eduardo’s body plummeted from the sky. The lower half of his body crumpled into a mass of pulp and splintered bones. The upper half crushed Leo DeLacruz.

The remaining two carried on, their hearts high in their throats and silent prayers whispered from frightened lips. They dashed from tree to tree to stay out of open spaces. Near the top of the mountain, the giant bird swooped down. A loud caw echoed through the hillside and Jose Beltran disappeared in a mass of claws and dark feathers. 

Carlos Guiterrez scrambled along the path. The raven dipped and dove down on him. Carlos ran through the trees for safety as he made his way up the mountain. Refuge was a hillside cave where Carlos ran as far in as he could. The bird flew away.

Night came, and Carlos continued up. With the quarter moon high in the sky, he found himself near the top of the mountain. He peeked out of the woods and toward the open mountain cap. He listened for the bird—the giant raven—but heard nothing. Carlos ran across the opening. 

A hard gust picked up and Carlos heard flapping wings. His screams reverberated all around him and he looked to the sky for the beast that had stalked his people. He saw nothing and then fell headlong. 

Carlos’s eyes snapped open at the sound of wings. He tried to roll over but could get no further than onto his side. He let out a moan as pain ripped through his leg. He felt the heat of something wet seep along his back. 

Carlos looked to the sky. The moon still hung high, its brothers and sisters, the stars, there with him. 

Another sharp pain, this one in his hip, caused Carlos to let out a yelp of pain. He looked toward his legs and a scream that never came stuck in his throat. A baby bird pecked down on his hip and tore a piece of wounded flesh away from his body. All around the bird were bones and torn flesh of the people from his village.

He tried to scramble away.

The bird leaned in, its beak near Carlos’ face. Its head snapped forward and one eye exploded in a burst of pain. Carlos screamed the scream of the dying.

W is for Wilfredo Cruz, the chief of the once quiet village. He spoke again of offering sacrifices, but none would hear him out. The villagers waited for the men who would never come back down the mountain. Their courage and hope waned with each passing minute. Until Santavia Alvarez spoke up. 

Knife in hand, he approached the chief, the leader of their village, his body frail, his mind slipping. And they followed him as he dragged the chief to the edge of the mountain, strapped him to a tree void of limbs. 

Wilfredo begged them to rethink things, but Santavia reminded him, “A sacrifice is needed.”  The knife slid through the chiefs skin, pared the muscle of one arm. They hid back among the trees, spears and arrows in hand. They would wait, and they would have the raven when he came.

Up above, in a nest of branches and mud and leaves and filled with the bones and flesh of the dead, the baby bird ate its meal, and the raven watched and waited.

_________

There’s really not much to tell about this story, except it was based on a prompt, and one I don’t remember. I had also been on bird kick at the time, thanks to another writer, Michael Louis Dixon. At the time, Dixon was part of +The Horror Library+ and he occasionally wrote for the THL Blogorama. He did a handful of posts about fear, but birds had been part of the theme. 

After reading through them, many of us who knew Michael grew concerned about his mental state. The way he wrote them was fascinating, because many of us believed something was wrong with him. We checked up on him, fearing he may have been suicidal. It turned out, they were all fiction posts he wrote. 

We took a collective sigh.

I guess there was more to this than I originally believed. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed Raven’s Brew, and please, like, comment and share. Thank you.

A.J. 

 

Our Once Upon A Time (Free Fiction)

Our Once Upon A Time

By A.J. Brown

Once upon a time …

That’s a funny little phrase, but I guess it could be used for everyone, couldn’t it?

Once upon a time she loved me. It was all she knew, all I knew. Our love for one another … But that was so long ago, back when we were young; back during a time where life had already become overwhelming and the only thing that mattered was love.  Real, unadulterated, honest love.  

There used to be wind chimes on the old house in the woods where we escaped to when her Papa was drunk and ornery and in want of a young body to warm himself with. It’s pipe-like bars used to clang together when the breeze blew in off the lake. It made an awful racket, but it was her favorite thing about the shack I still call home. It comforted her while she slept, far away from the worries of her Papa and his ways; far away from the cries of her Mother that could be heard in their house years after her passing.  

Once upon a time, I didn’t know her very well, my little Rose, with her auburn hair and brilliant green eyes. I had seen her in school, her face downcasts and a distant, sad look in her eyes. All I knew is I loved her, from the very first time I saw her walk into Miss Griemold’s class when were in second grade. There was an air about her that lit my heart’s flames and scared me all at once. For weeks and months, I watched her, hoping to get up enough nerve to talk to her. Instead, I kept my distance, far enough so she couldn’t see my heart break each time I saw her.

Once upon a time she cried while sitting on a bench near the playground. Behind her were swings with plastic seats and metal chains, and a metal slide that burned your legs in the summer time if you wore shorts. Her shoulders were slouched, and her hands were in her lap, one of them clutching to a piece of tissue that looked soaked through. 

I approached her, tentatively. I leaned down a little and spoke, “Are you okay, Rose?”

She looked up at me, her eyelids puffy and pink, a bead of snot beneath her nose. She wiped at it with the wet tissue and gave me the best smile she could right then. She nodded but didn’t speak. Deep down inside, I didn’t believe her. I also couldn’t believe myself. I finally managed to talk to her and I couldn’t think of anything better to say other than ‘are you okay’ and it was killing me.  

I turned to leave. That’s when she took my hand and told me to sit with her. My heart skipped several beats and I sat, suddenly feeling like I was in a dream.  

The dream became a nightmare as she told me of her Papa and the things he had done to her. My Rose, my little flower, the center of my universe, had been crushed by one of her own parents. 

I found myself in tears, heart aching and breathless. 

“Don’t go home,” I said, practically begged.

“I have to.”

“No. No, you don’t. If you go home, he’s just going to … to … do those things again.”

“He’ll come looking for me.”

I stared at her. Both of us had tears in her eyes. I think she knew right then that I loved her. 

“Then run away. I’ll go with you.”

“No. No. He’ll kill you.”

“I know a place. It’s a cabin near the lake. We can go there and you’ll never have to see him again.”

Once upon a time I hung a wind chime on the eave of the house and Rose smiled—a genuinely happy expression—for the first time since I had seen her walk into class when we were little. It had been less than a month after I spoke to her the first time.  My heart fluttered with excitement and joy.  We both quit school and went to the old shack that my father used to live in before he died.  My mother owned it and said when I was older I could have it.  I was older then, or so I thought, and that shack became our home; Rose’s home.  

Once upon a time a man came to the house. He was big and burly and hair covered his arms and face. His eyes were muddy brown, and he had a thick nose. He was searching for his daughter and had managed to track her to our shack. With shotgun in hand he broke down the door. I tried to stop him by pressing my back to the door, but he got it open, knocking me to the ground as he did. I barely got to my feet before he struck me in the face with the barrel of the shotgun. There was alcohol on his breath and murder in his eyes. He dropped the gun and beat me like the young man I was. At some point during the beating, I passed out. I remember reaching up, trying to grab his leg before darkness took hold and everything was gone.

When I woke, Rose sat on the bed we still had not shared, a damp cloth in her hand, rubbing my battered face. Tears were in her green eyes. I tried to talk but she placed one of her perfect fingers on my lips and she shook her head.

“Rest, my knight,” she said. “He’s gone, and he won’t be back.”

She was right. He was gone, but his shotgun remained and there was only one shell in it. There was a dark stain on the wooden floor of the cabin not too far from where I had fallen and taken the beating her father put on me.

Once upon a time we fell in love, a beautiful flower and her knight. 

Once upon a time seems so long ago.  

Once upon a time I stood next to an old Weeping Willow, thinking about our fairy tale came true. I knelt and kissed the wooden cross I made for her grave. Death came and claimed my Rose after all these years together, plucking her from the garden of life. In my hand I held her favorite wind chime, the one that always comforted her and helped her sleep; the one I hung on the eave of our old house when we moved in. I hung it on a nail I had hammered into one of the limbs of the Weeping Willow.

As I walked away the wind picked up and I heard the hollow racket of the wind chime. A smile crossed my face as I thought, again, of our once upon a time and our happily ever after.

__________

Some stories are sad. Some stories have those moments that make you weep inside. I feel this one has a couple of those moments. But this story wasn’t meant to be sad. It was meant to be happy. The main character in this piece—his name is Robert, though he never mentions it—fell in love when he was in the second grade, at eight or maybe nine years of age. He loved one woman his entire life, and he spent that life with her. That’s a happy thing. That’s a joyous thing. 

The wind chimes at the end, though sad in one respect, is a happy thing for Robert. He hung it in the tree above Rose’s grave, and as he walked away after hanging it, he heard the wind rattle the pipes together. It made him smile. It made him think about how they triumphed, how she had saved his life after he tried to save hers.

This story is another of those prompt based pieces. The prompt was simply: Once upon a time … and go. So, I went and I wrote, and this story is the result.

I hope you enjoyed Our Once Upon A Time. I also hope you will take a minute to like this post, share it to your social media sites and comment. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it.

A.J.

 

His Undoing (Free Fiction)

His Undoing

By A.J. Brown

“Aye, it’s a thankless task, but someone has to do it.”  

The words rolled off Ivan’s lips as if he had spoken them hundreds of times. He ran the blade across the grindstone, dipped it in water and repeated the process, making sure the blade slid across the gray stone at a slight angle. He held the axe up, then shook his head when the sun’s rays winked off the shiny steel.

“That should do fine.”

He leaned the axe against the stone house and looked over to Joseph. The young man’s face was a study in worry. The tips of his brows bunched above his nose, his lips pulled down into a thoughtful frown, his eyes focused on the dirt at his feet.

“Lad, what seems to be bothering yah?”

Joseph’s skin was pale white. His hands trembled. He looked like he would run away at any moment.

“This doesn’t bother you?” Joseph asked, his voice shaking.

“Oh, no, my boy. It’s a handy work not many appreciate, ‘cept for those with an odd tastes and a sick humor.”

Ivan picked up the axe and slung it over his shoulder. “Follow me, Joseph, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Joseph hesitated and gave his uncle a weary look. 

“Come, boy. Don’t dally.”

Joseph stood and fell in line behind Ivan. They made their way through town and across the Old London Bridge.  

“Where are we going, Ivan?”

“To the Stone Gateway.”

Joseph stopped in his tracks. An icy finger traced its way along his spine.

“But, Ivan, that is where—”

“Aye, lad, it is.”

“But, then you would be the—”

Ivan stopped, turned to face Joseph and lowered the axe to the ground. “Joseph, yah need not be concerned with what I am—yah need to be moving along and keeping up with me. The king despises tardiness. Especially, when his subjects are present.”

“I thought you just …”

“I just … what, lad?”

Joseph swallowed hard and shook his head. “I thought you only sharpened the blade.”

Ivan let out a laugh that sounded more like a roar. “I do not hone the blade for the executioner. What joy would there be in that? Now, come.”

Again Joseph followed Ivan toward the Stone Gateway. As they neared the entrance, Joseph’s stomach began to curdle. They passed lines of peasants and semi-royalty.  The stone structures on either side of them loomed high in the air, casting shadows on the ancient bridge. The king sat near the foot of the bridge, raised high on a platform.  On the ground beneath him was what looked like a stake, head and arm restraints and a chopping block stained with the blood of those executed before this day. Four men rolled out a large black cauldron on a stone slab with wheels attached to it.

Joseph’s breath caught in his throat for a moment when he saw the many severed heads on stakes lining the road and the fields near the castle. Most of them looked old but had somehow survived the elements and time.  

Ivan looked back with a smile on his face.

“Yah ‘aven’t been to this side of the bridge before, ‘ave yah?”

Joseph shook his head.

“Over there. Yah see that ‘ead?” Ivan asked. “That’s William Wallace’s ‘ead. It’s been there for 237 years.”

The head sat on a stake, its eyes missing, and its mouth frozen in an eternal scream.  There was still skin and hair and teeth on it; its tongue still resided behind its teeth.

“This is absurd,” Joseph said in protest. “This is not right, Ivan. We must stop this.”

Ivan looked at Joseph in astonishment. “Don’t let the king ‘ear you, lad. Or you’ll be one of them.” He pointed to the head closest to the king. “That’s Thomas Cromwell. He’s the newest one—only been up for a little over two years now.”

“But …”

A scream arose from the crowd as guards hauled a young man through the people, his hands in shackles. He fought for all he was worth but the guards held him firmly.

“Oy, here we go. Watch and learn, Joseph.”

A man with a shock of white hair on his head and dressed in a long blue coat and pants, stood. He unrolled a scroll and held it in front of him. “Louis Waddle, you have been sentenced to death for crimes against your king and your fellow man. You shall die by the blade and—”

“I did nothing,” Louis yelled.

“Liar.”

Louis gave one guard an elbow to the ribs and kicked a second one. The third one tried to grab him but missed. Louis ran through the crowd to the edge of the bridge, his chains rattling. When he reached an open ledge he jumped, plummeting into the Thames.

“This is an outrage,” Joseph said. “That man was clearly innocent of his crimes.”

“Joseph, close your mouth.”

“No, Ivan,” he said then toward the king he yelled. “This is wrong. It is a sin.”

The king levied a stern look to Ivan, then nodded without speaking. Ivan turned to Joseph, his only nephew, and frowned.

“I’m sorry, Joseph,” he said.

“What do you—”

Ivan struck Joseph with a balled fist, sending him to the ground. The guards grabbed him and carried him to the chopping block. His hands were put in restraints and he was lowered to the ground.

“I’ve committed no crime,” Joseph yelled in protest. 

Two of the guards held his shoulders, keeping his neck against the stone block.

“Ye should ‘ave kept your mouth closed, Joseph,” Ivan said and swung the axe down.

Joseph’s head fell into the basket at the base of the block. Blood sprayed from his neck.  His body twitched several times and his eyes blinked as if in disbelief.  

Ivan picked up the head as one of the guards lifted the stake from the ground. It pained him to place his nephew’s head upon it, but it was what had to be done. With Ivan’s help, the guard lowered the stake and Joseph’s head into the cauldron. They lifted it up and tar dripped off the head.  

Ivan nodded to the guard and several others came over to help him place the stake in the ground.  

“Well done, Sir Ivan,” the king said and clapped loudly. The crowd joined in, their cheers echoing along the bridge.

Ivan looked up at the head of his nephew. Tar dripped down the spike. His mouth was opened in a scream. One eye was open, the socket empty. The other one was closed. His hair clung to his skull, never to blow in the wind. Ivan nodded to the king. 

“Aye, it’s a thankless task, but someone has to do it.”

__________

Like the previous story, this one was written in the Flash Challenge group. The topic was to write a story of an executioner in old England. I took a few liberties with history but tried to keep it accurate as well. Most of us have heard the name William Wallace thanks to the movie Braveheart. Wallace was executed at the Old London Bridge and he was beheaded. His head was dipped in tar and placed on a spike atop the London Bridge. The amount of time his head sat on the spike and on top of the bridge isn’t accurate. 

Thomas Cromwell also died by beheading and his head was tarred and placed on top of the London Bridge, some 200+ years after Wallace’s. 

Obviously, I took a few liberties with dialogue and dialect. 

I hope you enjoyed this His Undoing and that you won’t give me too much grief for making a few changes to history. If you have a minute or two, please like, share and comment on this post. Thank you.

A.J.

 

Eating Dirt (Free Fiction)

Eating Dirt

A.J. Brown

The ground ate Ronald today.  He jumped from the tree we had climbed, landed on both feet and kept from tumbling to the ground by putting a hand on it to steady himself. 

“Your turn, Gordie,” he yelled up at me. 

I shook my head, not so certain jumping was a good idea. If I landed wrong, I could blow out my knee, break an ankle, or worse, smash my skull. 

“I … I can’t, Ronald. It’s too high, man.”

He laughed. “You’re kidding right, Gordie?”

I shook my head again. “No. It’s really high. I don’t think I can …

He gave me a boo-hoo and pretended to rub his eyes with his hands, “Quit your crying and jump, man.”

“I can’t.” I hated the whine in my voice. I hated feeling like a wimp. But that didn’t stop me from staying put where I was at in the tree, my butt perched against a thick limb, one hand hugging to the trunk.

“Don’t be a chicken, Gordie,” he yelled, as he craned his neck to look up at me. He clucked and strutted in a circle, fingers tucked in his armpits, elbows out and flapping. “Gordie is a chicken. Gordie is a chicken.”

Heat filled my face, shame filled my heart. “Am not.”

“Are too.”

I started down, one foot on the branch beneath me, both arms holding the one I had been sitting on.

“Chickens don’t jump,” he yelled.

I tried not to listen, but he was right. It took all my courage to climb that high in the first place—heights and I never got along, but I had been afraid Ronald would pick on me, or maybe even beat me up if I didn’t climb the tree. He was mean like that. 

Looking down, my head swooned. I thought I would fall, strike a few limbs on the way down and break my head open. My heart fluttered and my stomach rolled. I grabbed a branch with one hand and wrapped my other arm around it.

“I’m not a chicken,” I yelled back, my voice shaky. “I’m just scared.”

“You’re a big, fat chicken,” Ronald yelled back as I lowered myself to the bottom limb. I was about to lower myself further so I could sit on it and drop to the ground from there. Still, breaking an ankle was possible even from only about six feet up. 

Then the ground shifted beneath him. It was like the earth moved under his feet. His eyes grew wide and he looked down. The grass parted and the ground opened up, sucking Ronald in to just below the knees. The ground closed just as quickly, like a teeth biting down on a piece of meat.

Ronald screamed.  

I screamed. 

From where I was in the tree it looked like Ronald had been pulled into the ground by some invisible mouth. I scampered back up the tree, one branch, a second one, third and fourth, until I was back up as high as I had ever been, gawking down as the ground ate Ronald.  By then, he was thigh deep in the shifting dirt and trying to grab a hold of anything to pull himself up.

“Gordie, help me!”

Too terrified to move, I could only watch. Blood appeared in the sand around his thighs and spread outward.

“Gordie, help me, please!”

Waist deep, Ronald reached out as far as he could, clawed at the ground. His hand sunk into the earth, followed by his arm up to his elbow. I climbed higher into the tree, height and I no longer bitter enemies. I closed my eyes and clutched tight to the tree with both arms as I stood on a branch I hoped would hold me.

Ronald’s screams echoed in my ears for several seconds. Then he went silent. I glanced down. Ronald was gone. A moment later, the ground burped. It’s the only thing that makes sense—an earthly burp. One of Ronald’s shoes popped up from the dirt and grass, the shoelace still knotted, a bloody sock lying limp inside it.

Now I sit high in this tree, the ground beneath me; Ronald’s shoe and sock taunting me. I know if I jump down and try to run, the earth will get me too, maybe not as quickly as it ate Ronald—it’s had a dog and two squirrels since then. Occasionally, it burps, the ground shakes and a bone or some fur pop out of the dirt. Then it settles down and waits.

I think I’ll stay here a while. Maybe the ground will go to sleep. Maybe I really am a chicken.

__________

Back in 2010 there was an anthology titled, The Elements of Horror. As the title suggest, all the stories had to be based on an element: Earth, air, fire, water and space. When I saw the call for submissions, I wanted to write a story based on each element. I thought it was plausible seeing how the word count was under 750 words per story. I ended up writing four pieces with the only element missing being space. Two of those pieces were published in the anthology, Eating Dirt being one of them.

I’ve since rewritten a couple of the stories, including the one you read here today. It’s short and simple and I hope you enjoyed Eating Dirt. Also, please comment on the post, like and share it to social media for me. I thank you from the top of my heart.

AJB

Everything I Am (Free Fiction)

Everything I Am

By A. J. Brown

“What can I give you that you don’t already have?” William asked. He stood in the white glow of a streetlamp. His body cast a black shadow at his feet that copied his arms out in frustration gesture. 

She stood in the darkness, outside the circle surrounding him. “Your heart,” she whispered, her voice a soft breeze in his ears. 

“My heart?”

“It’s all I ask.”

“It’s everything I am.”

“Then I want everything you are.”

His shoulders slumped. The shoulders of the shadow at his feet does the same thing. “Someone else already has it.”

“Yes,” she said, “The one who left you?”

William looked down at the shadow trailing from his feet. He nodded as tears slipped from his eyes. Then he turned and walked away. A moment later, the streetlamp winked out.

***

“Love is a treacherous thing,” William said into the empty glass in front of him. A scrim of froth clung to the bottom of it.

“What are you on about?” the bartender asked. He took the glass and replaced it with a full one.

William looked at the older man. He had a bald head, and gray hair in his ears. A dirty dishrag was slung over his shoulder. His white shirt had a stain just below the left breast pocket. It could have been ketchup from a burger eaten years earlier. It could have been blood.

“Love,” William said. “That’s what I’m on about.”

“A sticky subject there,” the old man said. He pulled the towel from his shoulder and wiped the bar between them.

“I guess so.”

“Broken hearted tonight?”

William shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Your girl leave you?”

William took a deep breath. Tears formed in his eyes. He swallowed the knot in his throat. “No. I mean, yes.”

The bartender slipped the dishrag onto his shoulder and put his hands on his wide hips. “Did she or didn’t she?”

William licked his lips, then wiped them. “It’s been months since she left.”

The bartender nodded. William picked up the glass and took several deep swallows. It was cold, but not refreshing.

“You need to move on, Mister,” the bartender said. “You only have one shot at this life. Mourning the loss of a relationship will only bring you down. Find another person to give your heart to.”

William laughed, a sound with no joy in it. “That’s the sad thing about all this.”

“What’s that?”

“I did find someone else.”

The old man smiled, showing he was missing one of his lower front teeth. “Then why are you here, drowning yourself in booze and not out with her?”

William ran a finger along the top of the glass several times before answering. “She wants my heart.”

“Everyone wants someone’s heart.”

“You ever give your heart away?” William asked, his finger still running the edge of the glass. 

“Once or twice, I reckon.”

“How’d it work out for you?”

The bartender shrugged, a simple up and down of the shoulders. “The first time, not so well. The second, well, we’re still together, so I guess that one turned out okay.”

“Second time was a charm?”

“You could say that.”

“I should probably leave now and go find her—the second woman, not the first—and give her what she wants?”

“What do you have to lose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, what are you waiting for? Give it to her. It’s not like it will kill you to do so.”

William stood and placed a ten on the bar. “Thanks for the ear, man.”

***

William heard her calling even before he made it to Itsover Lane. 

William, why won’t you come to me?

Her voice was haunting and hypnotizing, and was that desire he heard? He wasn’t sure—he hadn’t heard that tone from a woman in what felt like years. Still, he listened to the pull of her voice, to the seductive promise in it.

We can be together, forever, William. Just give me your heart.

William stepped into the road. Just as he did, the streetlamp came on, lighting up the spot where he stood. His shadow appeared at his feet.

“I’m here,” he said, a quiver in his voice.

You came back.

He nodded. 

Are you going to give me your heart, William?

“Yes,” he said and slipped the gun from his waistband. 

Just take my hand and I’ll take care of the rest, she whispered and stepped from the shadows. She wore a black robe with a hood that concealed her face. She stretched out a thin hand.

Tears fell from William’s eyes. His chest was heavy, and he was suddenly very tired. 

Do you give me your heart, William?

“Yes,” he said and took her hand. As he did so, he saw the blade in her hand … 

… and the gun went off.

A moment later, the streetlamp winked out.

________

So often my stories come from singular thoughts I have. In this case, an image of a man with his head down and tears in his eyes popped into my head. It was a black and white picture in my mind. He stood in a white circle, his shadow hooked to his heels. All around him the world was black. Reaching from the darkness was a thin female hand. It was like a comic strip image. Above his head was a thought bubble that simply read, What do you want from me? Another thought bubble appeared, and it read, Everything.

My brain spoke up with a question of its own. What is everything? Well, his heart, his love … his life. 

I sat and wrote Everything I Am that night. After I finished writing it, I realized the story wasn’t so much about love, but about desperation. So often love makes us do desperate things, things we wouldn’t normally do. In the case of William, there wasn’t another woman. He was still heartbroken because of the one who had left him. The other ‘woman’ who lurked in the shadows and had a thin, white hand and a black robe was the only way he believed he could get out of the depression and heartbreak: death. 

It’s a painful story. It’s a painful reminder of the power of love, and the ruin it can bring if things end in something other than happily ever after. 

I hope you enjoyed Everything I Am. If you did, please like the post and leave a comment letting me know you liked it. Also, please share this to your social media pages and help me get my stories out to other readers. Thank you for reading.

A.J.

Skipping Stones (Free Fiction)

Skipping Stones

A.J. Brown

“Flat stones, Cadence.  You have to use flat stones.”

Remy ran his hand through the sediment just beneath the water’s surface. Sand washed away with the current of the river as he pulled his hand out. Five black rocks sat in the palm of his hand, four of them smooth and flat. He tossed the one rounded rock back into the water

He looked out over the narrow neck of the river. Tree branches stretched across the water from both sides. Thick moss hung down like heavy strands of hair on a hag’s head. Remy had tied the target to one of the thicker branches so it would dangle a few inches above the water.

Remy turned to his daughter, took in the eyes that were odd: one wide and one like a slit across her face. He took in the way one side of her lip pulled down, the scars on her face and arms where flames had licked her skin. His heart cracked and he clinched his teeth to bite back the anger welling up in his chest. He closed his eyes, released a long breath, tried to relax his suddenly tense muscles and opened his eyes.

“You do it like this,” he said and held his arm out to his side and at an angle. With a flick of his wrists he let the rock go. It skipped across the water, went into the air, skipped again but sailed just to the right of the target. “Dang it, I missed.” He shook his head.  “But, you get the picture, right?”

Cadence nodded, her once curly blond locks were short, barely there and clung tight to her skull.  The one good blue eye shimmered with excitement as she took a stone from Remy, held her arm at an angle and tossed the rock. It plopped into the water and sank.  

“Ah man,” she said, lowered her head. It came out “ah bant.”

“Try again.”

The second rock sank as well.

Remy held the last rock out for her.  “One more, kiddo.”

Cadence took the final rock, one a little bigger than the others. Remy stepped behind her, took her elbow and steadied her arm. “Close your eyes, child. See the target in your mind, feel it in your soul as if it were pain. We don’t like pain, now do we?”

”No sir.” It came out “Doe thir.” She did as she was told. Her eyes closed, her lips a crooked line across her face, one puckered with scars.

He stepped back. “Go on ahead now. Hit the target. You can do this, Cadence.”

Cadence took a deep breath, opened her eyes and stared down the target with her one good one. She stepped out with her left foot and flicked her wrist. The rock skimmed the water’s surface three times before striking the woman dangling upside down from the overhanging tree limb.  She let out a yelp of pain as she swayed from side to side. Blood spilled from the wound above her eye and flowed into her brown hair. 

“Bulls eye,” Remy cheered.

The child’s eyes grew wide, a smile stretched across her young face.

“Do you want to try again?” 

“Yes,” she said, clapped her scarred hands together.

He rummaged through the sediment, came back up with several smooth rocks. The woman cried, her nostrils flaring, her mouth held shut with duct tape, muffling her screams. 

“Aim for the middle of the target next time. She’s still much too pretty. Remember how she looked at you? Remember what she said to you? Remember how it made you feel?”

Cadence nodded, took another rock and closed her eyes and remembered …

__________

This piece was written when my son was five years old. The family had gone to the river walk in Cayce, South Carolina. The river was low and I told a couple of stories how my brother and I would cross the water when it was low enough to. We also used to have stone skipping contests. My brother, older by a year and a half, was always better than me at most things until I got into my early teen years. Skipping stones was one of those things he made look easy. 

My son asked me to show him how to skip stones. For half an hour or so I rummaged around in the water looking for smooth rocks, which there were plenty of. I showed him several times how to hold the rock between thumb and first finger with the middle finger like a resting spot for the rock itself. I showed him how to hold his arm sideways (much like a sidearm pitcher would). I showed him how to flip the rock, allowing your wrist to snap and your first finger to release the rock so that it sailed even with the water, striking it and bouncing up in the air. It took him a couple dozen attempts, but he finally skipped one three times across the top of the water. He jumped up, pumped his fist and yelled, “I did it.”

We walked away a few minutes later, him happy and me proud and my mind turning over thoughts. The first line to the story is almost word for word what I told my son, but I had used his name and not the fictional burn victim, Cadence’s. As we walked the path to the car, the story had somewhat developed into a father showing his child, one with bad scars all over her body, how to skip rocks and take revenge on someone who had looked at her in the wrong way and insulted her. I won’t lie and say I didn’t have a little fun writing this piece.

Hey, while I have you here, did you like Skipping Stones (or any of the other stories posted so far this month)? If so, would you mind leaving a comment, liking the post (and following the blog if you want notifications of future posts) and sharing it to your social media pages? It would help me get these stories out to others. Thank you for reading, commenting, liking, sharing. 

A.J.