Archive for April, 2009

CLASS REUNION By: Robert C. Eccles

Thursday, April 30th, 2009

He had been the captain of the football team and pretty much the most popular guy on campus, but high school reunions had never appealed much to Jim Bader.  Of course that was before he became a vampire.  Now he actually looked forward to seeing some of his classmates again, especially the ones who had been a pain in his ass.

Jim pinned his name tag on as he walked into the banquet hall.  The tag included his high school yearbook picture, his name and his occupation, which he had boldly given as “vampire”, figuring everyone would get a big laugh out of it.

As Jim wandered through the crowd he saw that most of the girls he had found attractive in high school had either ballooned in weight, lost much of their hair or otherwise held little interest for him.  The exception stood at the bar; a tall, leggy creature with long, chestnut hair.  She wore a skin-tight sequined red dress, stockings (the ones with the line up the back) and red stiletto heels.  She looked familiar, but Jim couldn’t see her name tag.  He ogled her as she walked from the bar back to her table.

As she reached the table a scrawny man sporting bent wire-frame glasses and a comb-over held her chair out for her.  She kissed him on the cheek and sat down.  Jim didn’t have to look at the guy’s name tag to figure out that this gorgeous woman had come to the reunion with none other than the class dweeb, Chester Nelson.

Jim had kicked Chester’s ass more than once back in school.  Chester (who Jim had dubbed “Chester the Molester” for no good reason) had been the source of much aggravation for Jim.  Jim’s beef with the dork had centered on Chester’s girlfriend, Denise Wixom.  Denise was a looker in high school, and Jim could never understand what she saw in the kid with the pocket protector and the glasses held together by paper clips.  Jim had tried to lure her away, but she had refused his advances.  This pissed Jim off to no end.  So Jim started spreading rumors about Denise.  He told people she was a slut, and people started to believe it.  Denise accused Jim of ruining her reputation, and Jim didn’t deny it.  Truth was, he didn’t give a crap.

As Jim approached their table, he glanced at the woman’s name tag.  Could this possibly be Denise Wixom?  The picture on the tag was definitely Denise’s high school mug shot, but the name below it was Denise Nelson.  Jim’s mouth dropped open.  Chester “The Molester” Nelson had married this hottie?

“Jim!  Great to see you!”

Chester was standing up, extending his hand to Jim.  Jim closed his mouth with a audible snap, took Chester’s hand and shook it, deliberately squeezing too hard.  Chester winced.

“Jim, I’d like you to meet my wife, Denise.  You remember her from school?”

Denise stood up and leaned forward, holding out her hand.  Jim took her hand and gave it a cursory shake, but it was her cleavage he was staring at.

“Nice to see you again,” Jim said, finally shifting his eyes to Denise’s face.  “And of course I remember you.  How could I forget?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Denise said, smiling.  She didn’t seem to be harboring any ill feelings toward Jim, and neither did Chester.  Denise sat down and Jim followed suit, glad to be able to hide his growing erection.

“Hey, Jim,” Chester said, “I’m gonna grab something to drink.  Can I get you something?”

“No, thanks,” Jim said.  If he was going to drink anything tonight it wouldn’t come from behind the bar.

“OK.  I might as well mingle a bit while I’m up.”  Chester kissed Denise, this time on the mouth.  Jim thought he saw their tongues flitting briefly as their lips parted.  Chester straightened up and smiled.  “I can trust you with Jim, can’t I?”

“Of course, silly!” Denise said, smiling back.

Chester chuckled and walked off toward the bar.  Jim opened his mouth to say something and then felt Denise’s hand high up on his thigh.  Jim’s mouth snapped audibly shut for the second time in sixty seconds.  He looked down at her hand, then up at her face.  Denise was grinning.

“You wanna go outside for a while?” she asked.

“Sure,” Jim answered, “but you’re gonna have to walk in front of me.”  Denise glanced down at the tented front of Jim’s pants.

“I see.  Well, just follow me.”

They stood up, and Denise led Jim by the hand toward the exit.  A smile spread across Jim’s face as he realized he was finally going to have the one girl who had shunned him in high school.  And by have her, he meant kill her.  And then he’d drink her blood.

Denise led Jim around the back of the banquet hall and behind a Dumpster.  She leaned against the wall and pulled him to her.  Jim’s hands grasped Denise’s buttocks, and as he mashed his mouth against hers he could feel his canine teeth lengthening into fangs.  Denise pushed him away, gasping for air.

“We’ve been waiting for you to come to one of these reunions,” she breathed.

Jim was puzzled.

“You mean ‘I’ve been waiting’.”

Jim was startled by the throaty growl behind him.

“No, she means ‘we’ve been waiting’.”

Jim spun around and looked up at what appeared to be an enormous wolf.  A pair of bent wire-frame glasses sat askew on its muzzle.  In the instant before Jim’s head was ripped from his shoulders, the name tag hanging from the creature’s tattered dress shirt caught Jim’s eye.  He had enough time to wish he’d paid more attention to it earlier.  The name on the tag was Chester Nelson.  Chester had listed his occupation as “werewolf”.


© 2009 Robert C. Eccles

WE ALL HAVE OUR DEMONS By: Brian Barnett

Tuesday, April 28th, 2009

The smell that he knew so well woke him. The smell of sulfur, the devil’s breath. He groaned and rolled out of bed.

Ronnie Kirtley had written hundreds of stories over the years. He was one of the most prolific writers in history. He outsold every contemporary writer and remained as a best-seller for more than thirty years. Thirty-two best selling novels and two dozen short story collections made him millions of dollars over the years. He wished that he was the genius behind them all, but he was a fraud.

He shuffled down the hallway towards the coffee maker. He stopped at the dining room table and opened his laptop to allow it to warm up.

He flicked on the coffee maker, but nothing happened. The power was out. Great, he thought. His eyes rolled to the kitchen window.

He could see their dancing impish shadows through the mini blinds. Countless creatures entered his house to provide him his muse over the years.

Ronnie slapped the mug onto the counter and grumbled back to his laptop. He pulled up the word processor, stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

The battery only had a few remaining minutes before it died. They were going to have to be quick if they intended to get a story out.

As if on cue, the whispers began. The room flooded with prickly shadows and the smell of brimstone. The air conditioner kicked on from the heat they generated. Hushed whispers caressed his ears and Ronnie’s fingers began writing feverishly, as always.

The stories Ronnie wrote were purely fiction as far as anyone knew. But in reality, what he wrote was more of a script of things to come. He wrote of terrible creatures tearing innocent people limb from limb, and it would come to fruition.

He would write tales about natural disasters, mining accidents, ancient malevolent spirits - anything and everything destructive or evil. And they always came true.

Always.

He was nothing more than a wand for the demons that surrounded him, just a conduit for their destructive energy. He knew that one day it would be over and they would move on to another poor sap, but for now, he was their man.

Ronnie tried not to reflect on the stories he had written for them, but often his mind would wander and remember. There were so many innocents that were blindsided by their despicable tales. One that always bothered him was that poor nameless lady in the wheelchair that was eaten alive by a swarm of harpies. He could practically see her face masked in terror. He shuttered.

Finally a blank page was formatted and their whispers intensified. He lamented over what evil he was about to spread into the world.

His fingers flicked the keyboard furiously. The End of Ronnie Kirtley, he wrote. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He feared what he was about to write.

He spaced down to the second page. His fingers blazed across the keys again. The writer for the ages began to sweat as he felt the heat of his demons creep up behind him. The end would be swift, yet painful. Spontaneous combustion always is, after all.

Ronnie leapt from his chair, but it was too late. They were finished with him. He had served his purpose. It was time to discard him and start fresh elsewhere. He heard their hollow laughter. The walls flickered to life with their shadows.

He felt the intense heat building in his chest. It spread throughout his body. Before he could mutter a sound, he burst into flames.

The newspapers and magazines were flooded by rumors of what happened to Ronnie Kirtley that night. Only remnants of his scorched flesh were left behind.

New stations attempted intense investigations. Everyone wanted to crack the case first. Church congregations grew. People burned his books. Nobody wanted to take any chances. Something was odd about the circumstances.

Scientists argued that the explanation was purely scientific. “Spontaneous combustion is such a bizarre phenomenon,” they’d say, “There have been numerous documented cases.”

The argument raged on, yet nobody had a solid answer, save for one person. Only he knows what happened for certain. His name is Landon Ray, an up and coming painter. He is about to unveil his first masterpiece. He titled it The Death of a Legend and it depicts the late Ronnie Kirtley bursting into flames amid his final story.


©2009 Brian Barnett

Brian Barnett lives in Frankfort, Kentucky with his wife, Stephanie, and son, Michael. He enjoys to write during his free time.