The Meep Sheep
And there
Up in the sky
I saw a dream of Hope
And smiled
From
Darkness
Doubt
Despair
The came.
They are –
Sunshine
Laughter
Daffodils in rain.
I saw them in my heart and the shadows fell away.
And I smiled to see them
Knowing –
Had I eyes I could see them
Had I ears I could hear them
Had I heart I could hope
And had I me, I had them.
I dreamt of hope and found my Meep Sheep.
They dreamt of me and Found their home.
THE FEAR OF CLOWNS
As dark as the night was, the smoke coming from the fire was thicker, and blacker, and blotted out the sliver of moon that hung low in the sky. The moon watched things more closely on Halloween night, and watched keenly, and tonight there was much to see. The man, well into his middle years and groaning with every movement, leaned into the fire and spat and listened to it sizzle as it bubbled atop the once red nose. The nose was quickly losing its shape and pooling with the rest of the mess under the makeshift bonfire he’d made. He stood in the center of a clearing that was lit only by the fire and where he had set up a colorful tent towards the trees. Along the tree line he had hung balloons that were hanging low in the cool air and which nodded to one another as if in agreeing on something secret. Deep in the woods something moved and he spun around to see what it was and saw only darkness and turned back to the fires. It wasn’t time yet for what he was waiting for so whatever else might be moving out there didn’t concern him.
The fire did though.
In the fire the clowns were mess of rubber and greasepaint and one of them, the fat one, was still kicking at the bottom of the pile. The fat one’s leg slipped from the fire and its ridiculous yellow shoe tapped in the dirt and the man frowned and picked up his shovel, intending to cut it off but the foot stopped moving before he could get there and the flames caught up with the forgotten limb and swallowed it. A log gave way and the bodies and they all sunk a foot lower into the pit and the muck there that refused to catch fire. One of the clowns rolled onto its side and its dead eyes fell on the man and he couldn’t help but stare at it for a moment, caught within the emptiness before he broke the gaze and spat into the dirt and splashed lighter fluid onto it. He dropped the lighter fluid and shovel and went over to his lawn chair and sat heavily into it, the seat sinking under his weight and stopping only when it bottomed out on the ground. He was miles from town but still watched the woods to make sure no kids were fooling around out there and that no one else had noticed his fire. This was one of the clearings that had been made some fifty years back when people still were still trying unsuccessfully to log this part of the forest and nothing had grown here since then. The area was just barren and beaten down and was a perfect place for a fire.
A perfect place for a circus.
The man watched the clowns burn, the ten of them collapsing one by one atop one another, their make up running white then red, their satin and silk jumpsuits crackling and once in a while their noses sounding off before popping altogether and melting with the rest. There was more noise in the woods and he ignored it again. He’d heard the stories that these woods were haunted and it wasn’t that he didn’t believe what he’d heard but more that he didn’t care. Whatever was out there could stay there, and he’d stay where he was and hopefully that would suffice. He had been coming here for a good long time, the power here too strong to deny or find elsewhere, but so far he had had no trouble, and that was how he hoped it’d remain. The sound had put him on edge though and he stood up and looked over at his tent and wondered if it was too early for the scotch he’d brought with him. He scratched at himself, first his belly, then his crotch, and looked down at his arms and at how hairy they were, like his father’s arms had been, and his grandfather’s arms. He had their arms, yes, but he had everything else that was theirs too, and he laughed a sad, cold laugh that floated off into the woods and disappeared. He moved over to the fire again and the clowns were just bones now and the fire was getting low. He stared into the dying embers, felt something heavy in his chest and pushed it aside and looked for movement in the pit that wouldn’t be there yet, not quite yet but looking just the same. He heard another sound in the woods, as of something approaching and he smiled and pulled a small jack-knife from his back pocket. That was for him, that sound. He pulled the blade open with his eyes still on the fire as the last of the flames seemed to fall down into the embers that glowed with secret knowledge and as soon as that happened he sunk the silver into his palm and held his hand over the pit which sizzled as soon as his blood hit it.
“Let them arrive.” He uttered to the darkness and took a step back from the pit.
His eyes were keen on the embers and beneath them, watching for movement and in the woods there were more sounds and he smiled. His hand stung as the blood poured from it but once he had sewed it up it would scab, it would heal, and eventually it would scar, as the rest of him had scarred over the years. The holiday took a lot out of him every years but it was worth it, it had always been worth it. There came a sudden sound like a loud sigh and the fire suddenly seemed to go out a moment and the night pushed in closer as the clearing was sent into complete darkness. The man pulled a mask free from the waist of his pants and slid it over his head and adjusted it He closed his eyes and in that blackness he felt the heat of the fire rise, saw the light of it through his shut lids, and when he opened his eyes he saw the world no longer as a man but as something more, something less – seeing everything as something old and dangerous. Around him Halloween was winding down but for him, things were just beginning.
The woods were full of the music of arrival and the fire raged at the night and within the flames there was movement. He got to his knees, his body groaning, his back moaning, but he smiled past the pain, past the weakness from the blood that he’d lost, and past the chill that was creeping into the night. The movement became substance, became form, and from the now roaring fire crawled the small form of a child, an infant dressed in a blue satin jumper with red buttons on it and on its face was painted an expression of indifference. The baby pulled itself free of the flames, unburned and unharmed, and began crawling towards the man. As it left the ring of the bonfire another child began to emerge from the flames, this one a girl with her face painted red and gold and with a look of anger, and as she was free a final child crawled out of the fire and this was another girl done in black and white makeup and with a look of surprise painted on her face. The three children crawled to the man and he laughed a great, deep laugh and as he did, so too did they, their laughter coming in short bursts that came first as coughs, then cries, then full throated howls of laughter that sprang through the woods.
The noise in the woods rose to a great clatter of snapping twigs and breaking branches just as the babies made it to their father and from the darkness shapes appeared. Out of the woods arrived more children, all of them dressed as clowns, none older than a teenager, and all of them silent as they emerged. Each of them was dressed in an elaborate or shabby fashion depending on how their faces were made up and each was done to look different than the others so that together they formed a circus macabre. The children left the ring of trees and walked into the clearing and towards the man, who stood up and smiled beneath his rubber mask, its bulbous red nose and thick red lips shining in the light of the fire that was beginning to die again.
The children gathered in a loose circle around the man in the rubber clown mask and then were still. The man spread his arms out and told them one and told them all – “From ash did you come – from ash will you return. From paint are we born, and through paint do we live. And from pain…shall we make joy.”
He said the words as he had said them for twenty Halloweens and the children, all of them quiet as he spoke, looked at him in silent reverence. Having said this, the man knelt down and touched each of the babies on the forehead once, a light, tender caress, and as he touched them there was a faint blue light that went from his hand to their head and with that each of them slowly pushed themselves so that they knelt, then stood, wobbling but standing, and with every passing moment they grew another inch.
The man grinned down at his babies, then up at the rest of his children and spread his arms wider, nodded, and the children came closer.
“Your brothers and sisters died so you might live. Their pain gave life to your joy. It is their blood that fills your veins. They were born from their brothers and sisters, just as I was born of my father and grandfather. We are born out of the acorns of a great family tree, and old family tree whose roots reach to the center of time and it is to our ancestors that we owe honor for all we have. I have birthed you from the sorrow of ash so you could spread the happiness of your gifts to the world. Now, my children – welcome your new siblings and go give the world its laughter, give the world its joy, and I will see all of you in a year.”
The children gathered together and made a line and walked past the man one by one, touching his hand as they did and then touching the heads of their new siblings before they headed towards the darkness and the world, each in their own direction. The infants were the last ones left and they were toddlers now and the three of them reached up to touch their father’s hand and he looked down at them and laughed.
“No, no, no, not you three. Not yet. In a year perhaps, maybe two you can join the rest of your family but I have much to teach you first and you have much to learn. For now watch your brothers and sisters leave us and know that you will see them in a year. “
The toddlers wrapped themselves around the man’s legs and watched as the last of their brothers and sisters, the last of the clowns, were lost to the darkness.
The man suddenly let out a small cry which startled the babies, remembering he had forgotten something, and he called out to the woods -
“Remember my children, remember I love you. Remember your daddy loves you.”
There was the echo of laughter in the woods after that, somewhere off in the dark, but it too faded and the man was left alone with his three babies. The fire died out completely and the man clapped his hands together and the balloons all began to glow dimly with green light that illuminated his camp and the man made his way towards his ragged big top and the children followed, wobbling after him. The man stopped at the entrance to the tent and jumped into the air and spun around so that he faced the babies, who looked at him with their mouths wide. He honked the nose of his mask three times at them and the children started to laugh and he joined them then turned and headed into the tent. They would remain there a week, and by the time they left the woods the babies would be a full two feet taller and it never ceased to amaze him how quickly they grew up. But for now it was time for rest and sleep, for all of them. It had been a long year and a new one had just begun and there was much to do. So much to do. But through it all they’d laugh. Oh how they’d laugh.
https://www.createspace.com/3386414
On Friday, October 9th, Pages Bookstore will be host to the SKELEBRATION OF SCARES, an event that will bring a little Halloween to the monthly Art Walk in downtown Flint. The SKELEBRATION OF SCARES will feature local and regional writers and storytellers telling tales that will sends shivers down the spine and will bring in the Halloween season a little early. This event will have book signings from local author CHRIS RINGLER and others and will feature readings and book signings from Flint writer’s group Write Now and others. The Skelebration of Scares will be Friday, October 9th during the monthly Art Walk in Downtown Flint. The event will be held at Pages Bookstore, which is at the corner of Buckham and Second Street, just down the street from the Capitol Theater in downtown. So, come out on Friday, October 9th and support the arts, AND the scares of Flint at Pages Bookstore.
WHEN Friday October 9th, 6pm – 9pm
WHERE Pages Bookstore
WHAT The Skelebration of Scares
HOW MUCH FREE (books from the authors on hand will be available for purchase) 
I haven’t gotten a chance to post a couple things SO, it’s time to change that. I have a couple art pieces I have done recently and wanted to post it and wanted to get up some pics from the Service Street Fair, which I did yesterday.
The monster guy a week ago. I like him but see the flaws. I kinda forced him a little and it shows. There are fun things about him but there are some things that nag me.
The rest of the pics are from the Service Street Fair, which was a super fun artist run fair down a funky side street in Detroit. Very cool people and a fun atmosphere. I also am posting a few pics of creepery I recently took.
Enjoy?
c
i dream in darkness, like the light, i dream of nothing, and pray for sight.
i see the future and crave the past.
i dream this dream will be my last.
Ahh, the good old days.
Once upon a time some friends and I had the grand idea to make a totally no budget movie with stuff we could find, make, or get inexpensively. It would be a grand sci fi epic full of cheese and lasers. I wrote a treatment for the first part of the story, and this, friends, is that treatment.
The Age of Freaks – prologue
Prologue –
Since the beginning of time there had been stories of the end of the world, and how it would come. Would it be fire? Ice? Pestilence? Famine? No one would ever have guessed it would come in the form that it did, but perhaps that is because it was the most inevitable.
Following a brutal third world war in which the skies were set ablaze and the gulf coast of America was turned to ash, as well as much of the Middle East, it seemed that the end times were near. But, seeing the devastation that a nuclear war would bring, treaties were signed and the race for atomic superiority ended. But not the race for dominance of the earth.
And so it was that in the year 2214 that the first volley was fired in the Gene War. Scientists had, after two hundred years of research, found the master key to unlock the secrets of the human gene and could now create life, in whatever image they wished, and as soon as that last, great secret was found, Man, the species, was doomed. For it was the Gene War, waged on the poor of the world, commanded from war rooms, and set in action via food rations, that would finally bring Man to its knees and set about the last days. These are those last days.
The dark figure entered the room hunched, a black shape amidst the darkness. There was a sound in a distant corner that echoed in the vast room and the figure paused, hand sliding down to its waist, but when it realized that the sound was from a robotic assistant it let its breath out and moved deeper into the room. The sound of the shape’s footsteps echo as it moves, denoting a room of considerable size, and the flickering of lights fills the room with an eerie glow. The figure moves to a glowing green rod that is planted deeply into a wall and it moves its hand over the end of the shaft and the great room is slowly lit from giant globes that hang in mid-air, seeming to be suspended by nothing some twenty feet above. The room is a lab that has been carved into a cave and there are signs of failed progress.
Of frustration.
There are shattered test tubes, spilled fluids, and across a chalkboard are more scribbles than formulas.
The stranger saw all this and laughed to itself. It stood in the shape of a man, with a man’s hands, but over its head there was a loose sack tied at the base of the neck with two eyeholes cut out in it. It looked like a man, and walked like a man, but the eyes are strange, as if it is no man.
The stranger moved towards the only robotic assistant still active and ran its hand over the things head. It turns its attention away from the experiment it was working on and turne to the figure.
“How can I assist you?”
“I need the Master Code. I need it now.” The stranger spoke softly but with great authority.
“I am afraid there is no such product or experiment listed in my database, perhaps…”
“Omega – Alpha – Zero, Zero, Zero.”
“Processing…The Master Code was created by Doctor Ian Ashmoore on the seventeenth day of November, 2214. It was created under the supervision of the League of Nine, nine scientists brought together to find a cure to the problem created by the mutant strain found in the human race. Master Code will be implemented in an isolated area where it will create a new strain of the human genetic code, essentially re-starting the human race from day one. The mutant strain will be weeded out via a virus implanted into the food supply and then the survivors will be killed in Coalition lead hunts. Estimated end of mutant strain – ninety days from this day.”
“When will the Master Code be implemented?”
“It will be implemented three days from this day. The clock is already running.”
“Where is the Code?”
“That information is listed as code double niner security…”
“The code sequence is Arizona – Roanoke – Omega. Where is the Master Code?”
“Processing…Code is within the Gamma Orange Ray. Human hands cannot withstand the heat. I will acquire the Master Code and give it to you myself, doctor.”
The robot rose from the floor and several spider-like legs emerged from its sides and in a moment it was off and across the room, moving with unnerving speed and grace, its cylindrical body smooth and silver and beautiful against so much rock and rusted metal. This was a laboratory, that was true, but it was one of a dying race, and that was abundantly clear. The stranger doubled over in pain as several harsh coughs erupted from its mouth and spattered blood onto the floor. It fell to one knee and felt something like fire burning in its chest. Time was running out.
“Here is the Master Code doctor, please do be careful as this is a very unstable…”
The stranger could still move quick as well and pulled a black cylinder from the waist of its tunic and plunged it into the wiry guts of the assistant. Without a word or sound the assistant was silenced and dead. The stranger stood and waited to see if the other robotic assistants would wake but none did. The stranger smiled beneath the hood and picked up the blue ball that fit snugly into the palm and marveled at how small the Master Code was and how destructive such a slight thing could be. Down the far corridor there was the sound of machinery coming to life and around the hooded stranger the robotic assistants came to life and returned to the duties they had been assigned. And out in the corridor came the sound of voices and cold electric voice of the Director and with her was Dr. Ashmoore.
The stranger dropped the blue ball into the gunnysack it wore and moved as quickly as it could, though the pain was building in its chest and it could feel the faint trickle as it ran down the throat. The stranger was almost to the door when one of the robotic guards rose from its post and hovered into the area between the stranger and the door.
“Doctor Ashmoore and the Director are looking for you Doctor Fairchilde, shall I alert them to your presence?”
The stranger, still moving, smiled again as it moved past the guard.
“Oh, they’ll know I’ve been here soon enough, believe me.”
And the stranger was down the corridor and gone.
The robotic voice of the Director echoed through the corridors of the underground network and hearing her, all robots halted, all humans stopped what they were doing, and any mutants left in the tunnels as they made their way to the Outworld and their settlement stopped a moment, their blood running cold at the sound of her metallic rage. Dr. Ashmoore clenched his teeth at the sound but was used to her rages and bore them as an adult bears a spoiled child. Her scream loosed, she turned her mind towards the doctor and a solution. And as he turned to face her, he had to stop himself from taking a step backwards at seeing her. This once beautiful woman that had ruled the last kingdoms of Man who was no reduced to a series of electronic pulses and the remains of her face as it floated in pink liquid, grafted onto a robotic skull. She was a mind, a soul, a rage, and little else.
“Director, I…”
“No. I want nothing more from you than results. This was not supposed to happen. Dr. Fairchilde was to have been removed from the program the instant he contracted the mutant strain. This is your mistake, and as such, you will fix it. I will not suffer a failure. Not now. The race is failing, the mutant strain has infected almost fifty percent of the population and that number is on the rise. The end of our species is coming doctor, so what are you going to do to make sure the future of our pure race is secure?”
It took not a moment for the doctor to speak, and as soon as he did, the doom of his words rang through all of the kingdom of Man.
“Release the giants!”
Dr. Fairchilde looked behind himself and saw the other four he had brought with him struggling in the heat of the desert. They were only three hours from the First Kingdom of Man, the capital city of the dying race, and he knew that they weren’t far enough yet. He hadn’t anticipated Ashmoore finding out he had been into the lab and had retrieved the formula, not this quickly. They were in a dangerous spot.
“Fairchilde…”
“What is it Roog, you might be best served conserving your energy. We have to make it to the mountains by nightfall and then must find a safe place to sleep until dawn. The mountains are filled with failed experiments.”
“I know, I know, but, but what we have been wondering, the four of us, is how you managed to get the experiment? Are, well, what we are asking is, are you sure you really have it? I mean, how do you know?”
“I know because it was my experiment. I created the Phoenix program and in fact created the Alpha code, which became called the Master code.”
“But…”
“But nothing. While working on the code, as Ashmoore labored on his precious robots, I also happened upon the origin of the strain that creates the mutations – it’s due to our diet, and the diet of the labor class. The food grown outside of the gates of the Kingdom is poisoned, the soil is bad, and unfortunately I contracted the disease when I discovered it. Ashmoore found out, having had one of his damned metal men spying on me, and I was removed from the program and placed in a cell until they could decide what to do with me. What they hadn’t realized is that I had put my own code into the system, and, at the precise moment, having said the sequence of words, I was freed and able to take the code.”
“But, but why? Can’t you stop the mutation?”
“No Cravix, it’s too late. The Director, against my wishes, has been bringing in food from outside the Kingdom’s walls, the gardens having been ruined within them, and so the strain will only spread. There is no stopping it.”
“But then isn’t it better to let this strain die and to use your code to start again?”
“We are on the cusp of evolution. We are meant to become what we are. The strain changes us, mutates us, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. Man has had its time, and look what we did to this world. It is time for a rebirth, that is true, but it shall not be a rebirth of Mankind but of us, and our kind. It is time for the death of Man.”
And with that there was silence as the moon began to rise. They were at the mountains and the air turned frigid as they entered their long shadows. The five travelers stopped and four of them stretched themselves and huddled together to decide where to camp. One stood separate, muttering to itself, and if you looked closely, you might have seen a brief silver shimmer, though none saw this. There was something far more pressing. As the five stood at the base of the mountains, planning their course of action, there was the sound of something moving, and around them fell stones as something shifted high above them. Fairchilde had feared this and pulled the glowing rod from the gunnysack. Their journey could be over before it even began, and all he could hope was that the Master Code would be destroyed as well.
“All of you, all of you behind me…behind me.” He cried.
“What is it?”
“They’ve summoned their monsters…they’ve released the giants.”
END PART ONE.
…c…
Life is full of challenge. That’s what makes it interesting, to be sure. As a writer though, the challenges are different. It’s about finding publishers or keeping them. It’s finding sales, and keeping them. It’s finding an audience and keeping it.
The list can go on and on but, as a writer, sometimes the biggest challenge is just to find the story. I mean, it’s easy to have an idea, ideas are everywhere, but finding one that stays with you and which speaks to you and makes you want to see what happens next. Writing is all about finding those stories, those flashes of lightning, and bottling them. It is all about mining rocks and turning them into diamonds.
I had a bit of a challenge recently with a story that I wasn’t sure I wanted to write. I was given a lead for a podcast that a friend has been on and which is a good place to get your work out there. I queried the woman who runs the site and she was super nice and told me what she was looking for with the next season, which was tradition monsters, something I don’t really write. I mean, I have some zombie stories and ghost stories and all but, when it comes to traditional stuff ala the Universal Horror variety with your vampires, Frankenstein monsters, and the like, well, I don’t really have those. So I sent her a zombie story and she had one. I sat around and thought about a different kind, one that’d work, that would fit what she needed but was like, well, dammit, I just don’t feel this, so I bowed out.
Luckily for me, the woman with the site wasn’t read to give up on ME. She said to hang in there, presented me with some options, and I sat on it for a few hours before deciding to have a crack at it. So I started working on the piece with a definite idea in mind with what I wanted to write and what I wanted it to be. As I wrote though, it sorta changed. It became more straightforward, and more about the horror of this situation and less about a relationship I saw. I left the story at a crucial point late the first night I was working on it because I needed to get to bed and I needed to leave it at a place where I could move it around still. That night I went to bed with an idea, a germ that infected me and which changed the story and shaped where it’d go.
The next day I worked on the story until it was done and came up with something that really worked for me. It felt right. I sent it off immediately to the woman with the podcast and she happily accepted it. And me, I got to stretch some writing muscles I hadn’t used in a while. I hadn’t really pushed myself to make something work, to make it come together, and it worked. I took something I wasn’t passionate about and made it into something that worked.
It’s one of those things where, without the challenges you forget what you are able to do. They are not always fun but when you rise to them, they are always valuable.
c
I think that most writers these days have their minds turning from time to time to the subject of e-books. It is hard to deny that, knock-knock-knock, the future of the written word is here. Sure, it will take time for things to change over, and the book and printed word won’t ‘die’ for a good many years but the day is coming when books will be harder and harder to find. The fact is that this economy is probably pushing books out of favor faster than anything else.
Love them though we may, books are expensive, expensive to produce and expensive to buy. And in an age where most people believe that reading blogs and texts and tweets makes you well read, well, it doesn’t bode well for the future. As a writer I can attest to the fact that publishers are just not producing as much product as they used to. If you are not an established author, if you are not the next big thing, or if you are not selling a hell of a pitch you are just not getting published. And its a shame, its a shame that so many authors are being lost in the cracks.
Ah, but the internet. The internet opens a lot of doors and offers a lot of new opportunities. Sure, the ‘net isn’t ideal but if you are writing because you love to tell stories then you keep telling your stories. Hell, I know I would love to get published traditionally but the market just isn’t there for short stories and especially for dark short stories. So, I have my blog, I have my books, I have my chapbooks, and I keep working on getting stories out. But there is hope.
With e-books more people will be able to get their work out to the public and, as more people adopt the technology that can read e-book information and relay it, there will be more options for readers and writers. Fiction and Non-Fiction will not die, but it must evolve. The harder part will be figuring revenue for writers and providers that is fair and equitable. I mean, is a story worth less because it is digital and not physical? Hmm, I dunno. I know that we cannot make it too pricey or it will all be lost, at least temporarily.
I am excited for e-books because it is like going from a lake to an ocean – there is just so much to explore. The thing will be that writer’s will have to evolve. They will have to tell more interactive stories, and will have to make sure they are still telling stories worth telling, despite the works not being in print. Print will remain but will be kept for more artistic, classic, famous, or scholastic works. I can imagine that the independent presses that survive will adapt as well and many will find ways to produce some, though not many, print works. Just to stay different.
I love books. I always have. But it is silly to act as if we are not about to push heavily into e-books. It is inevitable. My hope is just that better tools are made to allow us to get more out of books and to at least echo what made books so special in the first place.
…c…
inspired by The Haunting of Hill House.
AS IT STANDS
It had her.
It had her.
It
Had
Her.
It was a simple truth but one which stood just as the house had, tall and straight and unwavering, and unwilling to bend. The house was a hard, cold, bitter truth, and it stood proud amidst the ruins of a dying city. The house, a child beneath the shadows of the other remaining houses on its block, had retained its eyes, its teeth, and its skin while all around it decay had set in. While the other houses had given up, this one refused. This one remained. This one, by pure will and an unwavering hatred stood. The first taste it had had of blood came when this city was thriving and this neighborhood was expanding to match the growth. It was a worker, a clumsy, drunk man named Malcolm who had gotten careless and had severed a finger with a table saw and that first taste was all it took. After that first taste the house needed blood.
Craved it.
And it did whatever it took to have it.
Suicide.
Murder.
Incest.
Rape.
These were the tricks it used. These were its weapons. It drew people to it and as soon as they made it their home it began lying to them, whispering to them in their sleep, and at their most vulnerable times. It was in no hurry so it would chip away at the people, day by day by day until finally their pedestals collapsed and the inevitable happened.
And then came the blood.
Ah, but when the city began to die, the people stopped coming, and the blood finally dried up. And in the darkness, the house raged. Its anger had set the houses to either side of it ablaze while the heat never touched the house itself.
The years passed the house slept, waking only to stop those that might harm it, then dozing again, dreaming of the people, and of a time when the people would come again. Ah, but then it had an idea, and the house woke with renewed life, and with a dark grin within its walls. And it called, called to the lost, the desperate, the alone, and especially to the children.
And they listened.
And they came.
One by one the children came, one by one they came to the house, which stood strong and proud amidst so many dead houses, a safe place away from their lives, their pain, their tears, and as soon as they entered the house they felt happy, they felt safe. And the house would nurture them, would love them, for a time, and then it would devour them, swallowing them whole and leaving nothing behind save for the echoes of their cries. It lived this way for many years, watching as all around it the world fell apart. The house knew an end was coming, but it was still a long way off, and it had its plan, it had its escape, but for now, now things were good. Things were good, and then came the girl.
Her name was Mary, and she wasn’t much of a girl, but the house didn’t see that, the house saw past her skin, past her age, and saw the little girl deep inside. She was taking pictures of the neighborhood, of the ruination of a once proud city, and the house, though it had fed but a week earlier, wanted her, and wanted her in a way that bordered on the sexual. So it called, and as the woman was taking pictures she stopped, stood up straight, cocked her head, as if hearing something, then turned to the house and smiled.
It had her.
It
Had
Her.
And within its walls it smiled.
The girl began walking towards the house and it felt that she was the one, the last one, then it would begin the Push, it would begin the Move. Brick by brick it would have them tear it apart, it would have them move it slowly, and it would take years, decades, but it would move, in the hands of the children, until it found its new home, but now, now it would be here. It would be this.
The girl, who hid in the body of a woman of forty, stopped short of the house though, going instead to her car. With the distant grin on her face the girl opened the trunk of the car and placed her camera in and then looked to be grabbing something, though the house couldn’t tell what it was and her thoughts were filled of faces, faces of a man and woman that seemed somehow familiar. She finally closed the trunk and her smile was wider and in her hand was a can.
A gas can.
“Do you remember the Milton’s, you awful, monstrous thing? Do you remember my mother and father? Do you remember my family? No, there have been so many over the years you don’t, do you. Oh, but you will remember them, just as you’ll remember me. I only saw you in photos they had sent me but when they died I knew there was something more. I knew they’d never do that to themselves. To each other. I knew there had to be something more. And there was. There was you. It took a long time but I found you. See, I am patient too, and I can be just as cruel. And my friend, I will make you Hell.”
The girl tipped the gas can forward and turned her back to the house and began leaving a trail as she backed her way towards the house. And the house screamed at her. And the house cast stones, and sticks, and broken glass at her and though her skin split open, her resolve did not waver. On she came and the house creaked and grown, and in its rage its eyes shattered, in its rage its skin cracked, and in its rage its teeth fell out. It screamed and the houses that remained along the street burst into fire. The girl reached the houses steps and stopped, blood pouring from her nose and ears.
“I cannot be stopped monster. Didn’t you see, can’t you see – I am dying. I am dying and will take you with me. Are you ready?”
The woman let out a shrill laugh and started up the steps and then pushed the door, which stood open, in and walked inside as the house stood muttering to itself now, refusing to believe it can end like this. The girl disappeared into the home and now it was her laughter that filled its walls, and her whispers that filled its rooms, and in a matter of moments, it was by her hand that the last house standing on this street took to flame. And for one night, the world became Hell, and she the laughing devil at its center.
By morning there was only ash.
c
I painted this last week. It’s attached to a story I started and am still not quite sure how to end. This is the image I had though.
