They didn’t look like ordinary kids. There was something funny about the way they dressed. All alike, too monochromatic to be real. They looked like they’d just stepped out of an expressionist painting, black and white. Even the pallor of their skin contributed to the effect. They stood oddly outside my front door, swaying in the breeze like young birch trees. They didn’t ring the bell, they just stood there, staring. I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all, but I happened to be passing by the front window with a basket of laundry and there they were: a little girl and a little boy.
I opened the door and looked down at them. Their pupils dilated slowly as they stared up at me with one fixed, stony gaze, and smiles that revealed nothing inside. The street was empty, only a few blowing leaves betraying the scene as not being painted on a giant canvas. A soiled, empty box laying askew on my next-door neighbor’s stoop was the only thing amiss in the otherwise placid street scene.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Would you like to buy some candy?” they asked me, in unison.
I looked past them, up and down the street, searching for the car that obviously held a bored parent, delivering these precocious creatures from door to door. Fundraising was, after all, a natural consequence of procreating.
“Where are your folks?” I asked. They ignored this and smiled.
“We’re selling chocolate,” said the boy.
“For school,” the girl added, “It’s delicious.”
“I don’t really have the cash, sorry, kids,” I said, as I began to close the door. I hated to turn down children, but something about the pair was unsettling, and I suddenly felt as though I needed to find a priest or wash my skin with bleach.
The door thumped against a small foot. With a grimace, I opened it once more. The children’s expressions hadn’t changed. Their faces were pockets of dead eyes and frozen smiles.
“Would you like a sample?” asked the girl. Simultaneously, they both held out small parcels wrapped in silver foil. I noticed boxes of candy stacked behind them, which had apparently materialized during the short period of time when I had tried to retreat back into my house.
As I reached for the candy, my hands shook like I had developed a sudden bout of Parkinson’s disease. The air seemed hot and thick. As I reached out, my vision blurred and it seemed like I was taking both pieces at the same time, even though I knew they were in separate hands.
I slowly unwrapped the candy and sniffed it as the children looked on, never breaking their gaze. My nose couldn’t detect anything odd, so I popped the piece of chocolate into my mouth and sucked. A rich, dark cocoa flavor erupted forth and my mouth flooded with saliva. I chewed just once, breaking the chocolate into two smaller pieces. A tinge of bittersweet flavor exploded in my mouth, like a bursting blood vessel. As the chocolate slid down my throat, I reached for my wallet.
“How much is a box?” I asked, pretending to be a thoughtful consumer even as I shoveled a handful of my money toward the children.
The girl took my cash with one quick sliding motion, and it went into an unseen pocket. At the same moment, the boy handed me a small box with a silver ribbon tied around it. I tore the silver ribbon off the package, cutting my finger open with the edge, and shoved two of the chocolates into my mouth. It wasn’t enough. As I shoveled more of the treats into my gaping maw, I could feel my eyes bulging with panic. The trickle of blood dripped off the edge of my finger, and from the corner of my eye I saw the girl dart underneath me and catch the drop on her tongue like a crimson snowflake. The children giggled.
My box was already empty. I needed more. I tossed my wallet aside as I ran into the house, leaving my door open.
“I’m sure I have more cash around,” I screamed, “Let me see what’s upstairs!” The children silently followed me inside and closed the door behind them.
Michael A Rose is a writer, musician, producer and performance artist who lives and works in Chicago IL. His plays have been produced in New York, Chicago, Denver, Portland and many other cities. In addition to running RoShamBo Theatre and making noise under the name Flood Damage, Michael hangs out a lot with his cat, Dandelion. His story “100 Fingers and the Tree” was featured in the anthology Kizuna: Fiction for Japan in 2011. His debut novel Party Wolves in My Skull was published in November 2011 by eraserhead press as part of the New Bizarro Author Series.
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The castle was cold, barren, and the single fire that was lit barely reached the chair. The Dark Lord looked depressed. He had to admit, his plans had not gone to schedule. First, it was the damned Farm Boy. He’d told his underlings to kill them all, but that hadn’t helped. Then he’d killed all his underlings.
Cretins, all.
That was the reason the Dark Lord was sitting beside a cold fire, drinking a cool glass of whisky, and looking through his photo album. The other people at the Evil Overlord Academy had all made something of their life… he was now 32, and all he had was a castle.
And plans, of course. He’d put the advert in the News of the Night, but no one had turned up. The Dark Lord took another sip, and stood up to put a log on the fire.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” the Dark Lord growled. The mahogany door opened slowly, making a creaking sound. The Dark Lord looked up, and almost fell down in surprise.
She was beautiful, with long blonde hair, and a face that could have come out of a fairy tale. But what really amazed him was the sword.
“We’re not hiring for cooks today,” he said.
“I’m not a cook,” she said, smiling sweetly, “I am Grunt. I came about the advert.”
The Evil Overlord looked up and down her body. She didn’t look like a Evil Henchman. For one thing, she didn’t seem to be evil. Or a man.
“But you are a woman!” he said. “A henchman…”
She pulled out the Equality Act, 2010. “It’s illegal to advertise a job as only available for a man, you know.”
The Dark Lord sighed. Bloody political correctness, he thought. “We’re a criminal organisation…” he said, speaking slowly.
“The law doesn’t exclude criminal organisations,” she said, her voice clear, “You’ve got to give me a chance. Otherwise, I’ll sue.”
He sighed.
“In that case… I’ll give you a trial. Bring… The Farmboy… to me!”
The Dark Lord waited for the dramatic thunder. It didn’t happen. The damned weather was sunny, a heat wave. Nothing ever worked around here.
“Err… Which Farm Boy?”
“The one Fate’d” — he wondered about that apostrophe, but apparently it was traditional — “to overthrow me.”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought it was a girl.”
“Pardon?”
“I thought a girl had been hired to feed you a poisoned apple.”
The Dark Lord pulled out his copy of the script and checked it through. “No, certainly a Farm Boy.”
Grunt looked at him, and saluted. “Right away, sire! You can trust me!”
The Dark lord watched her walking away. She opened the door with a flourish, and stepped through. Leaving him all alone, to gulp down the rest of the whisky in one single movement.
***
Grunt walked out of the castle, her backpack on her back. She’d been tasked with finding the Farm Boy, and so she strode towards the country, her map in one hand, and a stick in another.
She didn’t notice the wagon that passed her as she walked.
It was an ordinary wagon, covered in hay. On the top there was an old man with a long white beard. He raised his hat to her, and then drove the wagon through the castle gate.
As Grunt walked down the path, something was percolating through her mind. Why did that wagon have hay on it? She thought. There weren’t any horses in the castle. In fact, the Dark Lord was all on his own.
She continued walking for a little while, then gave a yelp of realisation, and turned round. She ran back towards the castle.
***
The Dark Lord was well into his next bottle of whiskey when he noticed the door creep open. It must be Grunt, back from the mission. Then a Farm Boy walked through the door. He was carrying a script.
“And Lo!” He said, “We meet at last, Oh Dark Lord!”
The Dark Lord shook his head. It wasn’t as if he’d not had enough. All he wanted to do was get plastered silently on his own.
“Look, son, can’t you come back later?” he asked.
This stumped the Farm Boy. He’d been told it would be simple. Kill the Dark Lord, get the girl, become fabulously wealthy. Job done.
“Uh… I’m supposed to kill you now.”
“Why?” The Dark Lord asked.
“They just told me to,” he explained, sounding unconvincing even to himself.
“I’ve never done anything to you, I suppose?”
The Farm Boy shifted from foot to foot, looking embarrassed about the whole thing. The Dark Lord picked up his glass, poured a single measure of whiskey.
“Do you want a drink?” he said. “Maybe we could work this out?”
Just that moment, the door opened wide, and Grunt ran through. She was carrying a sword, stolen from the castle armoury. It swivelled through the air, making a strange humming sound, and cut the head off the Farm Boy.
“I’m not sure you’re actually supposed to kill him,” the Dark Lord said, “I think it’s against the rules.”
“I’m sorry,” said Grunt, “No one told me.”
The Dark Lords stomach growled, he knew he was hungry, too much drink and not enough food. If this woman wasn’t a very good henchman, she was probably a good cook.
“Could you make my meal, then? A nice pork joint, all the trimmings.”
Grunt looked up at him, her smile looking false on her face. She nodded, and walked to the kitchen. She put the pork in the oven, made dinner, and pulled the special apple from her pocket.
It was red, juicy, and on special offer from a wicked witch of the north east.
“Here’s your dinner, Sire,” she said, watching him eating every last delicious scrap. She waited for a little while, then stepped over the body, and sat down: the new undisputed Evil Overlady.
Thomas Ecclestone is a computer programmer from Kent. In between writing, and work, he also loves to look after a flock of Hebridean Sheep.
Don’t forget to read today’s chapter of Lifting Up Veronica by K.C. Ball — if you missed the first two chapters, you can still start from the beginning and catch up (they’re short chapters).
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Harold expected the lizard to scurry into the ground cover, but then — one hand on a knee to support himself — he knelt and lifted the limp body by the tail. “Damned cats.” He scowled at his neighbor’s house.
With a grunt, he raised himself and examined the lifeless form in his hand. It’s young. Ought to have outlasted me.
The compost heap lay at the end of his lot, and he considered taking the lizard there, but as he shuffled over the brick walkway, his gaze fell on the circle of upright stones to his left. He grinned a crooked grin. Why not? And veered off the path through the horse herb that blanketed the yard.
A few years ago, the large, rectangular stones had been discovered during an excavation on his block. “They must’ve been part of an old walkway,” he said to the workers in passing. “Want to get rid of them?” A mound of earth was left over from the digging of a fish pond in his back yard, and as soon as he saw the stones he thought to encircle the mound with them, like a little Stonehenge with a hump in the middle.
After the stones were placed, and the vegetation grown up a bit, a matron from the library visited. “The structure’s quite old,” he said. “On the solstices, the light used to shine through these two vertical stones onto the heel stone over there. But that hasn’t happened in a long time; the neighborhood’s built up so.”
She regarded the nearby houses askance. “What a shame,” she said, and went on to examine his black iris.
Harold never told her it was a joke.
Standing, now, at the edge of the stone ring, he tossed the lizard onto the top of the mound. It landed upside down, its white underbelly stark against the green blades of monkey grass.
Later, as he knelt in the soft earth weeding his bed of dahlias, he frowned. Depositing the tiny body on the Stonehenge mound no longer seemed a cute idea; gardens were for the living. But when he returned to the mound, the lizard was gone.
He peered beneath the shrubs along the fence and then beneath the tall, Pampas grass. “At least they could leave the corpse alone,” he muttered and stalked into the house, the screen door slamming behind him.
The next morning he returned to the house after an early hospital visit, gauze in the crook of one arm. Why did they always have to draw blood at the crack of dawn?
Thinking to get an early start on his chores, Harold dragged the pitchfork to the compost heap at the back of his lot. The decaying leaves and grass turned with ease, but the last forkful contained a clutch of tiny, white eggs. Damn! The cats were giving the herps in his garden a hard enough time without him destroying their nests. Must be snake eggs, he thought, remembering the rat snake he had seen earlier in the spring.
He picked up the soft, leathery eggs and gently carried them to the Stonehenge mound. After clearing the grass, he deposited them on the top of the mound and covered them with a bit of earth.
Snake eggs, he recalled from Herpetology 101, would die if they were not reburied right side up, so each egg had a fifty-fifty chance that he’d positioned it correctly — not the worst odds for survival. And besides, maybe the circle of stones would bestow some kind of beneficence on the transplanted eggs.
Two days later, he slipped between the big stones and bent for a closer look. Little holes riddled the earth. Pleased that he had saved at least some of the snakes, he scraped back the dirt. Crumpled egg sacks were all he found: twenty-three, the exact number he had buried. How was that possible? The odds that he had positioned every egg correctly were astronomical.
He surveyed the surrounding ring of stones with suspicion, but there was no time to ponder the blessed event: another doctor’s appointment.
Two hours later, he pulled his gray Taurus into the carport, braking quickly to stop. Prolong life for what, to be tortured with radiation? Almost, he didn’t see the furry body in the leaves by the fence.
He was not fond of Squirrels. They scattered the seed in his bird feeders and chewed the wires on his Christmas lights. Still, he hated to find one dead. It hadn’t been there this morning when he left, he was certain of it.
“I’ve lost my mind,” he said as he laid the body on the Stonehenge mound. Still, he hadn’t actually observed what had happened to the lizard or the snakes, so this time he would watch.
He dragged a lawn chair into the midst of the ground cover where he had a clear view. Glancing about, sheepishly, he trusted to the privacy fence to keep the neighbors from witnessing his folly.
When he woke, the squirrel was gone. Damned pain killers. Wonder I didn’t fall out of the chair.
Bracing himself on one of the stones, he knelt to examine the bare top of the mound. The earth was too hard to show any tracks. He groaned with pain, pushing himself back to his feet.
What the hell. I don’t care what the neighbors think. If it worked for the lizard, the snakes, the squirrel…
It took a while. He couldn’t lift but half a spade of dirt at a time, but resting frequently he managed to excavate a hole in the mound big enough in which to set his chair.
***
The next morning the delivery man rang the bell. No one responded, so he hefted the package and took it around back, like always. When he pushed open the redwood gate two mangy cats scampering over the fence and into the neighbor’s yard. Scattered dirt surrounded the peculiar rock garden that Mr. Gompper always kept so neat, and in its midst sat a lawn chair in a shallow hole.
Gerald Warfield‘s short story, “The Poly Islands,” won second prize in the first quarter of the 2011 Writers of the Future contest. The same year, his humorous story, “The Origin of Third Person in Paleolithic Epic Poetry,” took first place in the nationally syndicated Grammar Girl short story contest. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines including New Myths, edited by Scott Barnes. Gerald published music textbooks and how-to books in investing before turning to fiction. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writers Workshop (2010). He is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.
Don’t forget to read today’s chapter of Lifting Up Veronica by K.C. Ball — if you missed the first two chapters, you can still start from the beginning and catch up (they’re short chapters).
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The teenage boy by the door smells like reheated pizza and three-day-old body odour. The red-haired girl on the mobile phone smells of acetone, Garnier shampoo, and red roses, probably given to her by her boyfriend. The tradie slouched in the corner smells of beer, cigarettes, and sweat. He hasn’t showered in days. I can smell the dirt beneath his nails.
The odours of these three people alone are intense enough to make my eyes water. I try to focus on the roses. Their sweet scent dances around in my airways, blocking, for the time being, a plethora of heinous smells. But they creep back in, they always do. I take out a can of deodorant from my bag and spray it in the air in front of me.
Bliss. Strong and artificial, but bliss nonetheless.
A while later, when the deodorant wears off, I catch a whiff of something magnificent; a collection of faint smells, each more wonderful than the last. An exotic soap, honeycomb perhaps? An expensive perfume, something by Chanel? Flowers…tulips, white roses. My lip quivers and my heart skips a beat. I think I’m in love.
And then it’s gone.
Just like that.
I look around, searching for the source of the smells. Nothing. My heart sinks. I feel like I’ve experienced a great loss. A loss that my stomach cares very little about. The heavenly scents are replaced by the smell of roast beef, steamed vegetables, and black coffee. My stomach churns in anticipation. The elderly woman beside me is knitting a scarf. I can smell the Colgate on her breath. It reminds me that I forgot to brush my teeth this morning. One day I’ll start listening to my dentist.
The train bangs and creaks as it turns a corner. A faint ping comes over the PA and then I hear the prattle of something making its way down the carriage – a food cart. I smile ever so slightly. The hostess is wearing Fantasy by Britney Spears. She asks me what I would like for lunch. I tell her roast beef, steamed vegetables, and black coffee. She laughs and says that she hasn’t given me the options yet. I smile as she places my meal on the table. It is delectable; my stomach thanks me with a soft grumble.
The fat guy at the end of the carriage orders the same as me, but three of them. All the power to him I say. I finish my meal and close my eyes. It’s a long trip and I haven’t slept in what feels like days.
Sometime later, the train stops to change drivers and let new passengers on. I get off to go to the toilet, but decide against it when I catch a whiff of the soon-to-be-occupied stalls. As I walk back towards the train, a brisk southerly wafts by. I smell flowers again, but this time the scent is much stronger. The soap, the perfume, the flowers; what a beautiful harmony of smells! If Mozart’s Requiem is considered a masterpiece of music and sound, then this is its equal in smell. But where is it coming from? I look around with purpose, but see nothing of consequence. Reluctantly, I get back on the train. As I am taking my seat I see the fat guy from the end of the train rushing towards the toilets.
Three stops after the train departs, a handful of new passengers get on, including an excessively cute blonde girl. She is wearing vibrant, mismatched stockings and a red and white polka-dot dress; slung over her left arm is a cane basket full of tulips and white roses.
It hits me.
She is the one.
She sits down three seats in front of me. Her scent is overpowering. My heartbeat picks up again. I look out the window. What do I do? Think man, think! I smell her scent growing stronger still – as if she were standing right beside me. I look quickly to my side, but she is still sitting three seats in front. My heart sinks a little. I wish I had the courage to get up and talk to her. But that’s not me.
But I can’t just let her go. Not this girl. Something tells me she is special. Maybe I’ll just casually walk by and check the timetable on the far wall, get the lay of the land and that. As I stand up, I am struck by a tremendous odour of smoke, hot metal, and burnt rubber. My vision blurs and I pass out onto the floor.
When I come to, I hear people murmuring and see them looking down at me. They are all still sitting in their seats; they couldn’t care less about me. Except for her. She is crouched over me. Her hair brushes against my cheek. I can smell her perfume. It is Chanel like I thought, No 5.
‘Are you okay?’ She asks. Her voice is like silk.
I nod and can’t help but smile. She smiles back and brushes a lock of hair out of her face. Her eyes are dazzling; a shade of green I never knew existed. I see her lips moving, but her words are muffled. She signals drinking from a glass with her hand. I shake my head slowly.
Suddenly I remember why I passed out. I snap out of my trance and hop to my feet as quickly as possible. The blood rushes to my head and my vision gets darker by the second. I look around for the emergency button. It’s big and red, where the hell is it? The train jerks to one side and then the other. I find the button and push it.
‘Stop the train!’ I yell.
I hope she doesn’t think I’m crazy.
Ben Carey is 24 years old and lives in Brisbane, Australia. He studies Creative Writing at Queensland University of Technology. He likes reading and writing science fiction, but he also has a soft spot for romance. His favourite book is Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, followed closely by Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep? by Philip K Dick. Ben is currently working on a novella and the beginnings of a crime novel.
Don’t forget to read today’s chapter of Lifting Up Veronica by K.C. Ball — if you missed the first chapter yesterday, you can still read it now and catch up.
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The serialization of Lifting Up Veronica by K.C. Ball starts today at Every Day Novels.
The first five chapters are free for everyone to read, so even if you haven’t already subscribed, you’re welcome to join us every day this week to give serialized reading a try.
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