The Woods
By L. V. Gaudet
© February 2009
It was an ordinary forest, as far as spooky looking woods go, filled mostly with craggy twisted oak trees, their gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers and deeply wrinkled cracked bark. They clustered together, their branches twisted and tangled together, daring any to enter their midst. The land here lay low and wet in the spring, leaving the stand of trees, stick-like saplings, and sparse tall yellow grass invaded by wild roses with their sharp thorns standing in a shallow bath of melt water throughout the springtime months.
These were far from a silent stand of woods. A small stretch of thick growth surrounded by fields of crops interspersed with some stretches abandoned to grass, weeds, and stray crop seeds. Against one side of this stretch of trees, amidst the farm fields, was also nestled a small happy community. The woods teamed with life, red and grey squirrels, rabbits, mice and voles, and a range of birds. With the damp ground, they were a haven also for frogs and toads, and of course, the ever present blood sucking mosquitoes.
It was a typical small town community lying nestled against the miniature forest. It had grown from centuries old land of grasslands mixed with forests. The old forests and grasslands were slowly chopped down, turned over, and settled as the world slowly populated with mankind; the landscape of humanity changing from hunter-gatherers to farms, towns, and villages. Eventually towns and communities grew together to become cities, family homesteads populated into small farming communities, and untouched land became rare pockets of unsullied old growth forests scattered about in tiny fragments bordering farm fields and stretches of small community homes.
Some of these tiny pockets of untouched woods still held secrets. Some of these secrets were perhaps best left that way.
#
The woods sat silent and brooding, an ugly tangle of dead looking leafless skeletal branches that looked like they belonged in a darker and more sinister world, the world of the dead. The clouds hung heavy, dark, and grey on this day; a suffocating thick blanket hanging low in the sky to cast a pall over this small piece of the world.
The snow lay heavy and wet, crystalline flakes shrinking and melding into a dirty slush as the temperatures slowly warmed. In time, the snow would vanish and be replaced once again by the murky stagnant melt waters that would take a few months to dry up.
Most of the rodents, birds, and other small woodland creatures were conspicuously absent on this day, having chosen to hunker down and wait out this gloomy day. Nevertheless, a few squirrels and birds still flitted about the skeletal trees, a small rabbit nervously twitching its nose as it sat motionlessly waiting.
Two children playing in their back yard off the woods dared each other to go exploring into the spooky trees.
“I bet you can’t go to the fallen tree,” said the older and taller of the two boys.
The younger boy blanched, his stomach turning sickly, but stared stone faced at the fallen rotting tree laying nestled within the narrow strip of woods. He was not going to let his brother know how scared he was. He could already smell the mossy rot of the long dead tree, although he had never been near enough to it to catch its odor. It smelled in his vivid young imagination like death and decay and something even darker. He watched a small red squirrel flit around the trees, untouched by the dark brooding sullenness and the spooks, ghosts, and monsters his mind screamed must surely lurk hidden inside these scary woods. He swallowed.
“Can too,” the younger boy said, his voice cracking with fear. “I bet you can’t go stand on that ole’ stump,” he countered.
The old stump was a rotting remnant of an even older fallen tree that had long ago vanished into the mud and scraggly growth of the woods. The stump remained, standing defiant and threatening beyond the fallen tree now laying discarded and tangled in the woods, sharp splinters and points of shattered wood sticking up as though waiting to impale any foolish boy who tried to climb it and fell. Its wood now was soft and crumbly with rot, its sharp jagged edges unlikely to be capable of impaling anything for years.
Kevin “humphed” at his younger brother. He was just as scared, but certainly was not going to let his little brother know that. He nervously hiked up his pants, which did not need it, and stepped forward on a mission. He marched purposely into the woods, careful to keep his back to the younger boy so he would not see the paleness of his waxy fear-filled face.
With a scuff and a shrug, Jesse reluctantly followed his older brother.
The little red squirrel scampered up to the high branches as they passed, pausing to chitter down angrily at the boys.
They reached the first point, the fallen tree Kevin had dared his younger brother to venture to. It was no victory for either boy. On a forced march of pride, determined not to reveal his fear of some silly trees, Kevin continued on. He crawled over the fallen tree, its rotting length sagging with a soggy cracking beneath his weight. His forward march slowed more the closer he came to the wicked looking ancient broken stump.
Unable to let his older brother face the woods alone, Jesse followed. As he drew near the old stump where his brother had stopped to stare motionlessly at it, he noticed something unusual looking at the base of the stump.
“What’s that?” Jesse asked nervously.
The boys would never be seen again.
Published:
Feb 15/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
Showing posts with label Flashes of Horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flashes of Horror. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
A Short Burst of Writing - Ghost Ship 2 (flash fiction)
Ghost Ship 2 - Return the Illopogas
by L. V. Gaudet
(C) February 2009
The waves licked wetly at the dock, muted and dull. The pale moon tried to illuminate the world below with little success. Dark clouds looming on the horizon drifted in, the first tattered fingers splaying across the moon like skeletal limbs. Wind drifted across the sandy edge of the water where the tide lapped the sand like a thirsty beast, drawing up specters of dancing sandy ghosts cavorting across the narrow ribbon of beach. Beyond the reach of the sandy ground tall dry grass whisked and danced stiffly, whispering secrets as the slender stalks rubbed together.
The incessant buzzing and chirping of insects stopped suddenly as a new duller tone joined the symphony of the waves licking against each other, the dock, and the water’s edge. It was a duller sound, of water gently lapping at rotting waterlogged wood.
Somewhere a dog whined, cowering and shivering with fear.
In the houses the people slept, unaware.
The dull shadow of an ancient ship silently crossed the surface of the waves, followed by the blackened rotting timber of its bulk. Tattered shreds of what had once been sails hung limply from the masts, discolored and rotting. Cracked and pealed, the weatherworn paint of the ship’s name was barely readable, “Illopogas”. The very air around the derelict ship seemed to darken and grow heavier, stiller, as it slipped silently through the water toward land.
A homeless old man sleeping in his makeshift shelter at the edge of the beach groaned woefully in his sleep, his face twisting into a grimace of fear. He was an old salt of the sea, having spent his years from a teen until he grew too old and feeble to tow a line working on various ships. He had seen many seas, many places, and many strange things. Only once had he laid eyes upon the ill-fated ancient lost ship that forever sailed the seas empty of crew and cargo except for ghosts and memories, the ghostly Illopogas. Unfortunately, he lived to tell the tale.
Of course, none believed him. Since that fateful day Jebediah, Jeb to his long lost friends and crewmates, had been lost to the ravages of the whiskey bottle, withering in body, mind, and soul. Jeb had been the sole survivor of his ship, remnants of which later washed up on many beaches, the lumber strangely rotted and darkened. He had been pulled from the murky waters by a fishing vessel, babbling unintelligibly and lost in a waking nightmare that only the soothing burn of a bottle of whiskey seemed able to quiet.
He had tried to tell them what happened, had tried to warn them all. However, they just shook their heads sadly at him, an old sailor who had apparently sailed a few seas too many. He babbled to anyone he thought, hoped, might listen. Jeb had become a common sight in the sailor’s watering holes, sitting in a darkened corner, withered and marinated in a brine of stale whiskey, muttering unintelligibly to himself and occasionally entertaining the other drunken sailors with his inebriated ramblings of ghostly ships and monsters of the seas. He had tried stopping people in the streets to warn them, but invariably they wrinkled their noses with a look of distaste and hurried on their way, trying to avoid the pathetic drunken old man stumbling about in a cloud of delirium and fetid odor.
A low moan drifted across the surface of the waves, sorrowful and lost, rolling up the narrow strip of sandy beach.
Jeb woke with a start and stumbled out of his makeshift shelter, staggering to the water’s edge. His rheumy eyes stared out, empty and haunted, at the expanse of water.
Tonight the Illopogas returned for him.
Tomorrow an empty husk of a man would be found on the beach, lost forever within the tormented depths of his mind, a victim of a ghostly apparition.
Published:
Feb 15/09 online at Patchworkhttp://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
by L. V. Gaudet
(C) February 2009
The waves licked wetly at the dock, muted and dull. The pale moon tried to illuminate the world below with little success. Dark clouds looming on the horizon drifted in, the first tattered fingers splaying across the moon like skeletal limbs. Wind drifted across the sandy edge of the water where the tide lapped the sand like a thirsty beast, drawing up specters of dancing sandy ghosts cavorting across the narrow ribbon of beach. Beyond the reach of the sandy ground tall dry grass whisked and danced stiffly, whispering secrets as the slender stalks rubbed together.
The incessant buzzing and chirping of insects stopped suddenly as a new duller tone joined the symphony of the waves licking against each other, the dock, and the water’s edge. It was a duller sound, of water gently lapping at rotting waterlogged wood.
Somewhere a dog whined, cowering and shivering with fear.
In the houses the people slept, unaware.
The dull shadow of an ancient ship silently crossed the surface of the waves, followed by the blackened rotting timber of its bulk. Tattered shreds of what had once been sails hung limply from the masts, discolored and rotting. Cracked and pealed, the weatherworn paint of the ship’s name was barely readable, “Illopogas”. The very air around the derelict ship seemed to darken and grow heavier, stiller, as it slipped silently through the water toward land.
A homeless old man sleeping in his makeshift shelter at the edge of the beach groaned woefully in his sleep, his face twisting into a grimace of fear. He was an old salt of the sea, having spent his years from a teen until he grew too old and feeble to tow a line working on various ships. He had seen many seas, many places, and many strange things. Only once had he laid eyes upon the ill-fated ancient lost ship that forever sailed the seas empty of crew and cargo except for ghosts and memories, the ghostly Illopogas. Unfortunately, he lived to tell the tale.
Of course, none believed him. Since that fateful day Jebediah, Jeb to his long lost friends and crewmates, had been lost to the ravages of the whiskey bottle, withering in body, mind, and soul. Jeb had been the sole survivor of his ship, remnants of which later washed up on many beaches, the lumber strangely rotted and darkened. He had been pulled from the murky waters by a fishing vessel, babbling unintelligibly and lost in a waking nightmare that only the soothing burn of a bottle of whiskey seemed able to quiet.
He had tried to tell them what happened, had tried to warn them all. However, they just shook their heads sadly at him, an old sailor who had apparently sailed a few seas too many. He babbled to anyone he thought, hoped, might listen. Jeb had become a common sight in the sailor’s watering holes, sitting in a darkened corner, withered and marinated in a brine of stale whiskey, muttering unintelligibly to himself and occasionally entertaining the other drunken sailors with his inebriated ramblings of ghostly ships and monsters of the seas. He had tried stopping people in the streets to warn them, but invariably they wrinkled their noses with a look of distaste and hurried on their way, trying to avoid the pathetic drunken old man stumbling about in a cloud of delirium and fetid odor.
A low moan drifted across the surface of the waves, sorrowful and lost, rolling up the narrow strip of sandy beach.
Jeb woke with a start and stumbled out of his makeshift shelter, staggering to the water’s edge. His rheumy eyes stared out, empty and haunted, at the expanse of water.
Tonight the Illopogas returned for him.
Tomorrow an empty husk of a man would be found on the beach, lost forever within the tormented depths of his mind, a victim of a ghostly apparition.
Published:
Feb 15/09 online at Patchworkhttp://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
A Short Burst of Writing - Knock on Ginger (Flash Fiction)
Knock On Ginger
By L. V. Gaudet
© January 2009
The doorbell chimed, its ring bouncing merrily off the walls.
The old woman pulled herself from her chair with difficulty, pulling her walker to her to use for support. In the slow shuffle-walk of the infirm, she carefully placed the walker ahead then shuffled three little steps. Thump shuffle shuffle shuffle, pause. Thump shuffle shuffle shuffle, pause.
When the old woman at last pulled the door open with shaky arthritis knobbed fingers and looked outside, no one was there. She looked up and down the street in confusion, rheumy eyes squinting to see.
From behind a bush around the corner of the old woman’s little house came the sound of giggles and snickers of children.
Her eyes blazed with anger and her face turned red. Feebly, the old woman raised one gnarled hand, trying unsuccessfully to make it into a fist to shake. She shook it anyway, the loose skin of her arm flapping below the bicep.
“You kids leave me alone,” the old woman yelled in her croaky old crone’s voice, spittle flying with the anger of her words. “Leave off my bell!” She shambled backwards with some difficulty and slammed the door closed, muttering and shaking her head angrily as she did so.
Great guffaws of laughter burst from the bush and kids rolled out from behind it, holding their stomachs as they rolled, so hard were they laughing. One, two, three, four kids; three boys and one girl.
One boy got to his feet, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
“That was great,” he exclaimed.
“Did you see her face Billy?” another boy grinned eagerly as he joined the first boy. Billy just nodded enthusiastically.
The girl, Samantha, Sam for short, joined the boys with a sheepish grin on her face. She did not feel right about doing this to the old woman, but that old woman always yelled at the kids when they played in front of her house. Besides, it was fun!
The third boy, Justin, finally stopped rolling on the ground and joined the other kids.
“Billy, Evan, Sam… that was great!” he exclaimed. “Did you see? I swear she was gonna have a stroke, the old lady looked so mad!” He looked at the other kids, eyes blazing with excitement.”
They all stood around grinning at each other.
“So, who’re we going to knock-on-ginger next?” Justin asked.
Just then, Sam’s mom came walking down the sidewalk towards them. The kids all froze, staring at each other nervously. Had she heard? Did she see what game they had been playing? They were all in trouble now, they thought.
“Hi, kids,” Sam’s mom said as she paused on her way past the kids. She looked at them, then at the old lady’s house, then back to the kids with a strange knowing smile hovering on her lips.
“Kind of weird, isn’t it kids,” she said, looking at each child in turn.
The four kids just blinked at her, fidgeting with nervousness.
“Yes,” Sam’s mom said, answering their unasked question, “old Mrs. Wierdar has been part of this neighborhood forever.” She looked at the house with a strange look, almost as though a vague sense of unease filled her. “The house seems so… empty… since they took her away.”
“Um, took her away,” the kids asked in unison, staring at Sam’s mom with very strange looks on their faces.
“Yes,” Sam’s mom said, “didn’t you know? She was taken away yesterday. Her home care worker found her…” She swallowed, a little uncertain now if she should be telling the kids this story. “They think she might have been dead for two days before her home care worker found her … possibly a stroke.” She reddened, embarrassed by the looks on the kids faces. “Um, I have to go now,” and she hurried off down the street.
The four kids just stared at each other, their faces white and eyes filled with fear.
Published:
Jan 20/09 online at MicroHorror http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/category/author/l-v-gaudet/
Feb 23/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
By L. V. Gaudet
© January 2009
The doorbell chimed, its ring bouncing merrily off the walls.
The old woman pulled herself from her chair with difficulty, pulling her walker to her to use for support. In the slow shuffle-walk of the infirm, she carefully placed the walker ahead then shuffled three little steps. Thump shuffle shuffle shuffle, pause. Thump shuffle shuffle shuffle, pause.
When the old woman at last pulled the door open with shaky arthritis knobbed fingers and looked outside, no one was there. She looked up and down the street in confusion, rheumy eyes squinting to see.
From behind a bush around the corner of the old woman’s little house came the sound of giggles and snickers of children.
Her eyes blazed with anger and her face turned red. Feebly, the old woman raised one gnarled hand, trying unsuccessfully to make it into a fist to shake. She shook it anyway, the loose skin of her arm flapping below the bicep.
“You kids leave me alone,” the old woman yelled in her croaky old crone’s voice, spittle flying with the anger of her words. “Leave off my bell!” She shambled backwards with some difficulty and slammed the door closed, muttering and shaking her head angrily as she did so.
Great guffaws of laughter burst from the bush and kids rolled out from behind it, holding their stomachs as they rolled, so hard were they laughing. One, two, three, four kids; three boys and one girl.
One boy got to his feet, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
“That was great,” he exclaimed.
“Did you see her face Billy?” another boy grinned eagerly as he joined the first boy. Billy just nodded enthusiastically.
The girl, Samantha, Sam for short, joined the boys with a sheepish grin on her face. She did not feel right about doing this to the old woman, but that old woman always yelled at the kids when they played in front of her house. Besides, it was fun!
The third boy, Justin, finally stopped rolling on the ground and joined the other kids.
“Billy, Evan, Sam… that was great!” he exclaimed. “Did you see? I swear she was gonna have a stroke, the old lady looked so mad!” He looked at the other kids, eyes blazing with excitement.”
They all stood around grinning at each other.
“So, who’re we going to knock-on-ginger next?” Justin asked.
Just then, Sam’s mom came walking down the sidewalk towards them. The kids all froze, staring at each other nervously. Had she heard? Did she see what game they had been playing? They were all in trouble now, they thought.
“Hi, kids,” Sam’s mom said as she paused on her way past the kids. She looked at them, then at the old lady’s house, then back to the kids with a strange knowing smile hovering on her lips.
“Kind of weird, isn’t it kids,” she said, looking at each child in turn.
The four kids just blinked at her, fidgeting with nervousness.
“Yes,” Sam’s mom said, answering their unasked question, “old Mrs. Wierdar has been part of this neighborhood forever.” She looked at the house with a strange look, almost as though a vague sense of unease filled her. “The house seems so… empty… since they took her away.”
“Um, took her away,” the kids asked in unison, staring at Sam’s mom with very strange looks on their faces.
“Yes,” Sam’s mom said, “didn’t you know? She was taken away yesterday. Her home care worker found her…” She swallowed, a little uncertain now if she should be telling the kids this story. “They think she might have been dead for two days before her home care worker found her … possibly a stroke.” She reddened, embarrassed by the looks on the kids faces. “Um, I have to go now,” and she hurried off down the street.
The four kids just stared at each other, their faces white and eyes filled with fear.
Published:
Jan 20/09 online at MicroHorror http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/category/author/l-v-gaudet/
Feb 23/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A Short Burst of Writing - Ghost Ship (Flash Fiction)
Ghost Ship (The Illopogas)
by L. V. Gaudet
(C) January 2009
A pall hung over the moon, misty clouds stringing across the sky like the tattered remnants of a ghostly sail. The endless sound of the ocean forever in motion whispered ceaselessly like the incomprehensible roar of a far away stadium crowd. Pale light from the moon reflected weakly off the constant gently rolling water, illuminating the upward motion while casting faint shadows on the downward movements of the water’s ceaselessly flowing surface.
A sound moaned softly somewhere in the darkness. It was the creak and groan of ancient lumber flexing and bending with the pressure of the waves pressing upon it, trying to bend the wood to its will. With it came the soft lapping of the waves licking against the slowly rotting timber, carrying it on an endless voyage across the sea.
Within the dark confines of the ancient ship’s hull, the air hung heavy and stale. Dead. Throughout the empty cargo hold was the rotten wood remnants of long ago stalls and pens for the transporting of livestock. The spaces between these broken lumber remnants were filled to capacity with tightly packed rows and rows of shelves from ceiling to floor. Littered among these shelves were shackles. Some were red-brown with the rust of ages, some seemed black as a new cast iron pan and freshly oiled. Many lay within the ranges in between. There were shackles on the shelves and lying discarded on the floor like dead metal vipers. Still more hung down from the low ceiling, swinging casually with the gentle rolling of the ship on the sea, swinging silently except for the occasional light ching when two touched briefly in their never-ending dance. A thick gritty and greasy dust clung to everything.
“Is the cargo secured?” a voice called out. The captain was feeling nervous about the dark clouds looming on the horizon.
“All secure,” called back the first mate.
“Secure the masts,” the captain called out, “bring in the sails.”
The sounds of men scurrying about the deck, voices indefinable and vague, echoed down to the hull below.
On the vacant deck above, the pale light of the moon caressed across the ship from bow to stern. The sails hung limply, tattered and shredded, stained and rotting. The planks of the deck lay clean and dry, repeatedly washed by the waves as though by invisible deck hands. Endless days under the sun had left the timber bleached.
The moans and groans of ill and discontented souls oozed up from the bowels of the ship with the creaking and groaning of the timber, the only sound other than the waves and shifting of what remained of the rotting tack that touched the deserted deck. Sometimes a terrible scream would be carried on the wind, fleeing the terrors locked within the weeping timber of the ship’s hull.
This is the Illopogas, a cargo ship that was once used for transporting many different types of cargos over the years, the last of which was livestock that was not of the four-legged variety. Stories of the Illopogas migrate like some of the denizens of the waves, travelling from port to port, whispered in the darkened corners of inns and pubs by sailors who have drunk too much. Even in the telling of these tales, these drunken louts eye the room suspiciously through narrow slitted eyes, making protective gestures behind their backs, wary of jinxing themselves and bringing the Illopogas across their path when next they sail.
Few sailors have crossed paths with the legendary ghost ship, The Illopogas, and lived to tell the tale. None has been able to hold on to their shredded sanity. Some say that the ship is haunted by vengeful ghosts, others that the ship itself seeks revenge.
There is something about ghost ships, forever sailing the seas manned by an invisible crew, which strikes fear into the hearts of men. None as much as the Illopogas.
Beware the ghost ship.
Beware the Illopogas.
Published:
Jan 19/09 online at MicroHorror http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/category/author/l-v-gaudet/
Feb 23/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
by L. V. Gaudet
(C) January 2009
A pall hung over the moon, misty clouds stringing across the sky like the tattered remnants of a ghostly sail. The endless sound of the ocean forever in motion whispered ceaselessly like the incomprehensible roar of a far away stadium crowd. Pale light from the moon reflected weakly off the constant gently rolling water, illuminating the upward motion while casting faint shadows on the downward movements of the water’s ceaselessly flowing surface.
A sound moaned softly somewhere in the darkness. It was the creak and groan of ancient lumber flexing and bending with the pressure of the waves pressing upon it, trying to bend the wood to its will. With it came the soft lapping of the waves licking against the slowly rotting timber, carrying it on an endless voyage across the sea.
Within the dark confines of the ancient ship’s hull, the air hung heavy and stale. Dead. Throughout the empty cargo hold was the rotten wood remnants of long ago stalls and pens for the transporting of livestock. The spaces between these broken lumber remnants were filled to capacity with tightly packed rows and rows of shelves from ceiling to floor. Littered among these shelves were shackles. Some were red-brown with the rust of ages, some seemed black as a new cast iron pan and freshly oiled. Many lay within the ranges in between. There were shackles on the shelves and lying discarded on the floor like dead metal vipers. Still more hung down from the low ceiling, swinging casually with the gentle rolling of the ship on the sea, swinging silently except for the occasional light ching when two touched briefly in their never-ending dance. A thick gritty and greasy dust clung to everything.
“Is the cargo secured?” a voice called out. The captain was feeling nervous about the dark clouds looming on the horizon.
“All secure,” called back the first mate.
“Secure the masts,” the captain called out, “bring in the sails.”
The sounds of men scurrying about the deck, voices indefinable and vague, echoed down to the hull below.
On the vacant deck above, the pale light of the moon caressed across the ship from bow to stern. The sails hung limply, tattered and shredded, stained and rotting. The planks of the deck lay clean and dry, repeatedly washed by the waves as though by invisible deck hands. Endless days under the sun had left the timber bleached.
The moans and groans of ill and discontented souls oozed up from the bowels of the ship with the creaking and groaning of the timber, the only sound other than the waves and shifting of what remained of the rotting tack that touched the deserted deck. Sometimes a terrible scream would be carried on the wind, fleeing the terrors locked within the weeping timber of the ship’s hull.
This is the Illopogas, a cargo ship that was once used for transporting many different types of cargos over the years, the last of which was livestock that was not of the four-legged variety. Stories of the Illopogas migrate like some of the denizens of the waves, travelling from port to port, whispered in the darkened corners of inns and pubs by sailors who have drunk too much. Even in the telling of these tales, these drunken louts eye the room suspiciously through narrow slitted eyes, making protective gestures behind their backs, wary of jinxing themselves and bringing the Illopogas across their path when next they sail.
Few sailors have crossed paths with the legendary ghost ship, The Illopogas, and lived to tell the tale. None has been able to hold on to their shredded sanity. Some say that the ship is haunted by vengeful ghosts, others that the ship itself seeks revenge.
There is something about ghost ships, forever sailing the seas manned by an invisible crew, which strikes fear into the hearts of men. None as much as the Illopogas.
Beware the ghost ship.
Beware the Illopogas.
Published:
Jan 19/09 online at MicroHorror http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/category/author/l-v-gaudet/
Feb 23/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
A Short Burst of Writing - Creature (Flash Fiction)
Creature (Flash Fiction)
by L. V. Gaudet
(C) December 2008
The naked figure crouched low to the ground as though trying to hide in the short stubble of the freshly harvested wheat field. Her hot steamy breath wafted out in a white mist between lightly parted lips as she exhaled gently into the chill fall air. The crisp coolness of the night enveloped her body in a silky blanket of frigid darkness. Alone in the center of the field, she raised up from her crouched position on the ground to her full height. Pale face reaching for the sky, she watched as the moon danced out from behind a bank of slowly roiling clouds to bathe her in its eerie white glow. A cold breeze tickled across her bare back, making her shiver, catching her long flowing ebony hair and teasing it up into the air like the swirling skirts of a dancing lady.
From a far distance her form was breathtaking, surreal beauty as you would expect it to appear in a nymph or a fairy that you just discovered, real and in the flesh. Glimpses of pale flesh through a cloak of thick shiny black hair that trailed all the way down to her knees teased with a promise of what this creature might look like up close; an exquisite being that had just walked flesh and blood out of the mists of myths and legends. If, however, someone had been present to witness this creature from a distance far enough to leave details to the imagination only.
Up close her appearance was different. Very different.
All alone in the field not so much as a field mouse dared to invade on her solitude. Even the crickets would not have made a sound had they not been already slumbering from the cold.
Turning slowly like a broken carousel, wobbling slightly, face to the sky, she raised her arms like elegant featherless wings as she turned. Barely moving, she turned slowly, silently, ethereally. Turning and turning in one spot, ever so slowly quickening her pace. Faster and faster she turned, spinning like a slowly winding up top. Faster and faster she turned, trampling the wheat stubble beneath her feet to a flattened nest. Faster and faster she turned, dizzily, spinning wildly; face reaching for the sky, staring down the moon and the stars. Faster and faster she turned, a wild shrill cry erupting from her throat, getting louder, higher, as she turned faster. It was a bone chilling, spine tingling shriek of someone who has just lost everything that ever had any meaning to them. All at once, devastatingly; all loves, hates, needs, wants and thoughts; the high wailing howl of death.
Silence and stillness crashed into the field at once when she suddenly stopped still, silent. Her dark eyes blazed with such intensity they should have glowed in the silvery light of the moon. Violence filled that heated glare. All the rage, hatred, fear, and loathing a world could hold filled those all too human eyes at once. Breathing heavy, her breath rushed out to meet the cold night air; a cloud of mist roiling out like the dust from a battle field as hot moist breath clashed with the freezing air.
Her face twisted into a demonic grin of hatred, a death’s mask. She dropped to sit on her haunches, unable to stand any longer. She was not accustomed to being able to raise herself to more than a low crouch due to the limiting confines of the cages she was cruelly kept in.
On hands and feet like a four legged animal, she fled. Racing from the field with a surprising grace and agility similar to a long legged lanky wolf, her hideousness bathed in the moon’s glow. The long flowing hair was not a wondrous mane of human hair, but a scraggly pelt of longish dirty fur covering much of her body as well as her head. Bald patches gave her the appearance similar to an animal with mange. She was a creature that walked on two legs with a human-like body and very human eyes, with the face of a creature spawned from a cesspool of genes not of this world. Lesions, welts, and deformities twisted her body and features into a Frankensteinian creation. Hideous. Evil. Terrifying.
Frightened, she cowered in the little crawl space under the stairs of the house on the edge of the woods. The darkness of the night was a small comfort to her. She had already discovered that her senses were keener than most of the creatures she has encountered so far.
She raised her head alertly at the sudden sizzling sound in the distance. An acrid smell she couldn’t identify that made her nose tickle drifted to her on a breeze. What could this be? What are those two-legs gathered in a large herd across the open space up to? Was it dangerous for her? They didn’t act like they knew she was here, but her experienced had taught her these creatures could not be trusted.
There was a popping sound on the ground on the other side of the open space. Something leapt into the sky with a shrill whine.
Curiosity took over where fear climaxed. She cocked her head, listening, scenting, and watching.
Suddenly the sky exploded with an earth shattering crackling boom, and a flash of bright colorful lights.
She cowered lower to the ground, screaming in terror, eyes wide. Her nostrils flared with the pungent smell, her night vision was shattered by the bright blinding light. Blinded by the colored spots that danced before her eyes, she struck out with a hiss at a foe that wasn’t there.
Another pop and hiss. The sky roared with another boom as more lights erupted in the sky, the ground beneath her trembled with its shock.
She screamed again, trembling violently.
Hairy four-legs from all sides began barking and howling.
She recognized that they too were crying their fear.
***********************
Published online at:
Flashes in the Dark January 14/09
http://flashesinthedark.com/2009/01/14/creature-by-l-v-gaudet/
The Patchwork Project
http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudetuntitled.html
by L. V. Gaudet
(C) December 2008
The naked figure crouched low to the ground as though trying to hide in the short stubble of the freshly harvested wheat field. Her hot steamy breath wafted out in a white mist between lightly parted lips as she exhaled gently into the chill fall air. The crisp coolness of the night enveloped her body in a silky blanket of frigid darkness. Alone in the center of the field, she raised up from her crouched position on the ground to her full height. Pale face reaching for the sky, she watched as the moon danced out from behind a bank of slowly roiling clouds to bathe her in its eerie white glow. A cold breeze tickled across her bare back, making her shiver, catching her long flowing ebony hair and teasing it up into the air like the swirling skirts of a dancing lady.
From a far distance her form was breathtaking, surreal beauty as you would expect it to appear in a nymph or a fairy that you just discovered, real and in the flesh. Glimpses of pale flesh through a cloak of thick shiny black hair that trailed all the way down to her knees teased with a promise of what this creature might look like up close; an exquisite being that had just walked flesh and blood out of the mists of myths and legends. If, however, someone had been present to witness this creature from a distance far enough to leave details to the imagination only.
Up close her appearance was different. Very different.
All alone in the field not so much as a field mouse dared to invade on her solitude. Even the crickets would not have made a sound had they not been already slumbering from the cold.
Turning slowly like a broken carousel, wobbling slightly, face to the sky, she raised her arms like elegant featherless wings as she turned. Barely moving, she turned slowly, silently, ethereally. Turning and turning in one spot, ever so slowly quickening her pace. Faster and faster she turned, spinning like a slowly winding up top. Faster and faster she turned, trampling the wheat stubble beneath her feet to a flattened nest. Faster and faster she turned, dizzily, spinning wildly; face reaching for the sky, staring down the moon and the stars. Faster and faster she turned, a wild shrill cry erupting from her throat, getting louder, higher, as she turned faster. It was a bone chilling, spine tingling shriek of someone who has just lost everything that ever had any meaning to them. All at once, devastatingly; all loves, hates, needs, wants and thoughts; the high wailing howl of death.
Silence and stillness crashed into the field at once when she suddenly stopped still, silent. Her dark eyes blazed with such intensity they should have glowed in the silvery light of the moon. Violence filled that heated glare. All the rage, hatred, fear, and loathing a world could hold filled those all too human eyes at once. Breathing heavy, her breath rushed out to meet the cold night air; a cloud of mist roiling out like the dust from a battle field as hot moist breath clashed with the freezing air.
Her face twisted into a demonic grin of hatred, a death’s mask. She dropped to sit on her haunches, unable to stand any longer. She was not accustomed to being able to raise herself to more than a low crouch due to the limiting confines of the cages she was cruelly kept in.
On hands and feet like a four legged animal, she fled. Racing from the field with a surprising grace and agility similar to a long legged lanky wolf, her hideousness bathed in the moon’s glow. The long flowing hair was not a wondrous mane of human hair, but a scraggly pelt of longish dirty fur covering much of her body as well as her head. Bald patches gave her the appearance similar to an animal with mange. She was a creature that walked on two legs with a human-like body and very human eyes, with the face of a creature spawned from a cesspool of genes not of this world. Lesions, welts, and deformities twisted her body and features into a Frankensteinian creation. Hideous. Evil. Terrifying.
Frightened, she cowered in the little crawl space under the stairs of the house on the edge of the woods. The darkness of the night was a small comfort to her. She had already discovered that her senses were keener than most of the creatures she has encountered so far.
She raised her head alertly at the sudden sizzling sound in the distance. An acrid smell she couldn’t identify that made her nose tickle drifted to her on a breeze. What could this be? What are those two-legs gathered in a large herd across the open space up to? Was it dangerous for her? They didn’t act like they knew she was here, but her experienced had taught her these creatures could not be trusted.
There was a popping sound on the ground on the other side of the open space. Something leapt into the sky with a shrill whine.
Curiosity took over where fear climaxed. She cocked her head, listening, scenting, and watching.
Suddenly the sky exploded with an earth shattering crackling boom, and a flash of bright colorful lights.
She cowered lower to the ground, screaming in terror, eyes wide. Her nostrils flared with the pungent smell, her night vision was shattered by the bright blinding light. Blinded by the colored spots that danced before her eyes, she struck out with a hiss at a foe that wasn’t there.
Another pop and hiss. The sky roared with another boom as more lights erupted in the sky, the ground beneath her trembled with its shock.
She screamed again, trembling violently.
Hairy four-legs from all sides began barking and howling.
She recognized that they too were crying their fear.
***********************
Published online at:
Flashes in the Dark January 14/09
http://flashesinthedark.com/2009/01/14/creature-by-l-v-gaudet/
The Patchwork Project
http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudetuntitled.html
Monday, January 5, 2009
A Short Burst of Writing - Blood (Flash Fiction)
Blood
By L. V. Gaudet
© January 2009
He dipped a finger into the pool of blood. It was a casual gesture, dabbing at it lazily like paint in a paint cup. Careful not to drip the crimson wetness from his fingertip, he brought it to the canvas. Gently and with great care, he spread the blood about the canvas, creating a brightly splashed picture.
He didn’t know who’s blood it was, nor even if it were human, animal, or something else. Where the blood came from did not matter. It was the magic, the life that once throbbed through the veins of something living and feeling; that is what mattered. The odor of the blood filled his nostrils. It was a little sharp, kind of salty. If he tasted it, he knew it would taste salty, red, and a little bit like smelted iron. It smelled good, fresh. It had to be fresh or the magic would have faded away.
The canvas he painted always changed. Sometimes it was large, an entire field of battle. Sometimes it was smaller, a group of marauders falling upon a caravan, or an attack in the dark dirty recesses of a city’s worst areas. Sometimes it was tiny, the sweet breath of an infant drifting through tiny pouty lips.
The canvas he worked today with such care was the rocky crags of a mountain. As he painted, the canvas vibrated with a dull rumble as of a thousand distant hooves stampeding. This was no stampede, however; at least, not one of living creatures rushing across the ground in a frenzy of fear. A few pebbles clattered across the rocky terrain, kicking up tiny puffs of dust as they went.
The group travelling low on the side of the mountain paused, looking around with startled eyes. They felt the faint vibration of the ground, their ears barely picking up the distant rumble. A child stared curiously at a small rock that rolled and clattered past.
With a deliberate and practiced hand, he painted the mountainside, coloring bright red trails down the rock face. The rumbling grew louder, the ground shaking with increasing fury. The pebbles and rocks already lightly clattering down the mountainside were chased by larger rocks, boulders, and clouds of billowing un-breathable dust.
The small group, related families forced to relocate, began to scramble in a frightened panic. They grabbed at children, dropping some belongings, keeping only that which was essential for survival. They ran this way and that, growing confused with fear, running for their lives. One woman tripped and fell, her infant clutched protectively in her arms, scraping her arm and leg on one side on the sharp rocks. A little stunned, she lay there breathing hard, staring at her husband who had been hurriedly picking through their meager belongings, discarding anything they could not eat.
He gently dabbed a spot of red upon the head of the man.
Looking almost bewildered, the man stared at his fallen wife, pleading with his eyes for her to hurry to her feet and run. A boulder flew by them as if hurled from the mountain by a giant invisible hand, flying past between the two with unstoppable momentum. After it had passed by, the man’s headless body stood there, wavering slightly, his head now a small red smear being painted down the mountain by the rolling boulder.
So intent were the terrified people on fleeing the rockslide that most of them did not even notice the dark and terrible winged creature that swooped down silently from the sky, its tattered cloak flapping like the rotting sheet wrapped about a corpse. The creature seemed somehow indistinct, as though only a shadow of it could touch this world.
The man’s wife watched in horror, a terrible scream tearing from her throat as she watched the monster swoop down and grab her husband’s headless shoulder with the long fingers of one taloned hand. It turned its faceless head towards her as it reached down with the other hand into the new orifice that used to be his neck, and tore away the shadowy shade of the man writhing and fighting to remain sheltered inside the dead body. The creature’s blood red eyes remained motionless and locked on her as it stole her husband’s soul. With incredible speed, it lifted off, swooping away into the sky with its still struggling cargo. The man tried to scream as he fought the powerful monster that spirited him away, but could not. He was but a shadow, without form or a body. On the ground his body still stood there, wavering slightly, then slumped slowly to the ground, its heartbeat slowing, slower, stuttering to a stop. Perhaps half a minute had passed.
He continued to paint his canvas of rock and lives. Very few would survive.
The mountain shook violently, those who missed being crushed by the falling rocks found themselves gasping and choking on air that had been replaced by dust, unable to breathe, suffocating.
The black creature swooped down from the sky again and again, stealing souls from the broken bodies as their life ebbed away. Always it moved swiftly and silently, with deadly precision.
When the violent shaking of the ground stopped at last, the rumbling faded away into the past, and the dust began to clear on the soft breath of the air, the aftermath became apparent. An ugly gash scraped down the mountainside, a trail of broken debris showing the path the rockslide had taken. Red smears of blood marred the scene, a gruesome testimony to the death and destruction, matching exactly the red smears of blood he lovingly painted on his canvas.
A child wailed. A woman’s hand poked feebly from the ground, waving weakly, smeared with blood and dust.
He had a name once. It has been so long since he has heard the name uttered that he could no longer remember it. Most called him by another name. Death.
His dark cloaked shoulders shook, the rotting fabric shreds moving as though its tattered remains were made of delicate gauze. He wept for the newly collected souls.
Published:
Jan 23/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
Jan 30/09 online at Flashes in the Dark http://flashesinthedark.com/category/l-v-gaudet/
By L. V. Gaudet
© January 2009
He dipped a finger into the pool of blood. It was a casual gesture, dabbing at it lazily like paint in a paint cup. Careful not to drip the crimson wetness from his fingertip, he brought it to the canvas. Gently and with great care, he spread the blood about the canvas, creating a brightly splashed picture.
He didn’t know who’s blood it was, nor even if it were human, animal, or something else. Where the blood came from did not matter. It was the magic, the life that once throbbed through the veins of something living and feeling; that is what mattered. The odor of the blood filled his nostrils. It was a little sharp, kind of salty. If he tasted it, he knew it would taste salty, red, and a little bit like smelted iron. It smelled good, fresh. It had to be fresh or the magic would have faded away.
The canvas he painted always changed. Sometimes it was large, an entire field of battle. Sometimes it was smaller, a group of marauders falling upon a caravan, or an attack in the dark dirty recesses of a city’s worst areas. Sometimes it was tiny, the sweet breath of an infant drifting through tiny pouty lips.
The canvas he worked today with such care was the rocky crags of a mountain. As he painted, the canvas vibrated with a dull rumble as of a thousand distant hooves stampeding. This was no stampede, however; at least, not one of living creatures rushing across the ground in a frenzy of fear. A few pebbles clattered across the rocky terrain, kicking up tiny puffs of dust as they went.
The group travelling low on the side of the mountain paused, looking around with startled eyes. They felt the faint vibration of the ground, their ears barely picking up the distant rumble. A child stared curiously at a small rock that rolled and clattered past.
With a deliberate and practiced hand, he painted the mountainside, coloring bright red trails down the rock face. The rumbling grew louder, the ground shaking with increasing fury. The pebbles and rocks already lightly clattering down the mountainside were chased by larger rocks, boulders, and clouds of billowing un-breathable dust.
The small group, related families forced to relocate, began to scramble in a frightened panic. They grabbed at children, dropping some belongings, keeping only that which was essential for survival. They ran this way and that, growing confused with fear, running for their lives. One woman tripped and fell, her infant clutched protectively in her arms, scraping her arm and leg on one side on the sharp rocks. A little stunned, she lay there breathing hard, staring at her husband who had been hurriedly picking through their meager belongings, discarding anything they could not eat.
He gently dabbed a spot of red upon the head of the man.
Looking almost bewildered, the man stared at his fallen wife, pleading with his eyes for her to hurry to her feet and run. A boulder flew by them as if hurled from the mountain by a giant invisible hand, flying past between the two with unstoppable momentum. After it had passed by, the man’s headless body stood there, wavering slightly, his head now a small red smear being painted down the mountain by the rolling boulder.
So intent were the terrified people on fleeing the rockslide that most of them did not even notice the dark and terrible winged creature that swooped down silently from the sky, its tattered cloak flapping like the rotting sheet wrapped about a corpse. The creature seemed somehow indistinct, as though only a shadow of it could touch this world.
The man’s wife watched in horror, a terrible scream tearing from her throat as she watched the monster swoop down and grab her husband’s headless shoulder with the long fingers of one taloned hand. It turned its faceless head towards her as it reached down with the other hand into the new orifice that used to be his neck, and tore away the shadowy shade of the man writhing and fighting to remain sheltered inside the dead body. The creature’s blood red eyes remained motionless and locked on her as it stole her husband’s soul. With incredible speed, it lifted off, swooping away into the sky with its still struggling cargo. The man tried to scream as he fought the powerful monster that spirited him away, but could not. He was but a shadow, without form or a body. On the ground his body still stood there, wavering slightly, then slumped slowly to the ground, its heartbeat slowing, slower, stuttering to a stop. Perhaps half a minute had passed.
He continued to paint his canvas of rock and lives. Very few would survive.
The mountain shook violently, those who missed being crushed by the falling rocks found themselves gasping and choking on air that had been replaced by dust, unable to breathe, suffocating.
The black creature swooped down from the sky again and again, stealing souls from the broken bodies as their life ebbed away. Always it moved swiftly and silently, with deadly precision.
When the violent shaking of the ground stopped at last, the rumbling faded away into the past, and the dust began to clear on the soft breath of the air, the aftermath became apparent. An ugly gash scraped down the mountainside, a trail of broken debris showing the path the rockslide had taken. Red smears of blood marred the scene, a gruesome testimony to the death and destruction, matching exactly the red smears of blood he lovingly painted on his canvas.
A child wailed. A woman’s hand poked feebly from the ground, waving weakly, smeared with blood and dust.
He had a name once. It has been so long since he has heard the name uttered that he could no longer remember it. Most called him by another name. Death.
His dark cloaked shoulders shook, the rotting fabric shreds moving as though its tattered remains were made of delicate gauze. He wept for the newly collected souls.
Published:
Jan 23/09 online at Patchwork http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
Jan 30/09 online at Flashes in the Dark http://flashesinthedark.com/category/l-v-gaudet/
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A Short Burst of Writing - Behind a White Curtain (Flash Fiction)
Behind a White Curtain
By L. V. Gaudet
© December 2008
It was quite bright and tranquil the day it begun, snow lazily falling and blanketing the world in a soft downy blanket of fluff, drawing a white curtain over all the ugliness of the world.
However, there was a dark storm brewing somewhere, deep within the breast of one soul. For some reason he came out only with the falling snow, his catalyst, harbinger of unpleasant memories and dark urges. Otherwise, he hid away in his quaint little home, safe, a victim of agoraphobia, living life unseen.
To everyone else it was a day as any other day, Saturday, and only days before Christmas. The muffled scrape of shovels clearing driveways and sidewalks did not so much echo in the air as it seemed to be carried on the wings of the very snowflakes themselves as they slowly drifted down. Other sounds hung in the air too; distant sleds bounding across the fields, the sudden grinding of a snow blower rattling like a lumbering abominable chain saw, and the shlish and scream of children tobogganing down a hill somewhere. Somewhere a dog barked.
To one man it was a very different day. He paced restlessly, pulling at his hair, rearranging his safe little nest in agitation. It was coming, the memories, and the urge, unstoppable. Today he would leave his quaint little house.
One boy played alone, trying to build a fort in the white downy fluff. He kicked at the fluff in exasperation, unable to make it stick together to form walls. When next his mother looked out the window, the boy would be gone.
The man who took the boy was not a large man. He was skinny and balding and had an air of impotence cum invisibility. This was the sort of man most people did not even notice, forever overlooked and ignored. Even his name was nondescript, ‘Ted’. Then again, psychoses do not care about size, looks, or names.
Ted’s slash of a mouth was frozen in a wide grin, eyes sparkling maniacally. A giggle bubbled up like the bright red blood of the boy. Red oozed warmly down, creating a gentle uprising mist as it soaked down into the pristine white snow.
A scream bounced from snowflake to snowflake. It did not sound right. It was not the fun filled happy shriek of a tobogganing child. It was shrill and desperate, torn violently from the throat, frantic and terrible. No one noticed the scream, so lost were they all in their own activities, in their own private little lives of their own little worlds within this winter wonderland.
The dogs heard it. All around the little town, dogs barked and howled.
It would snow again. Soon. And so, too, would Ted come again out to play.
#
The air tasted crisp on his tongue, so intense was the cold. It bit at his fingers and toes within their protected confines. His nose stung and his lungs burned with each inhalation of chill air. Wincing, he rubbed his hands together, blowing into his cupped fingers, trying to warm them.
The cool light of the moon seemed colder, more distant, shining with an ethereal pale light wrapped in ghostly light circles as its light refracted off the invisible frozen air crystals hanging suspended in the atmosphere enveloping the earth. The stars, their light much dimmer, tried feebly to point their little beacon lights to the ground below, like a distant warning.
Ted looked up at the sky, the clouds rolling in, drawing a shroud across the sky, shutting off the moon’s pale light. The snow had started to fall again. Barely at first, scattered tiny flakes drifted down, growing bigger and thicker, multiplying in number, and turning into a dreamy soft down gently touching every surface. With the snow came the memories. He winced as the memories crashed through his head like a multi car pileup, unstoppable, uncontrollable, a shrieking dance of mental chaos. Next came the urge, insistent, insatiable, and unstoppable. He had to fix it.
This time there was no scream bouncing off the gently falling snow, just a wet sort of gurgle, low and quiet, and the pristine white virgin snow slowly turning bright red beneath the pale night light of the moon. This time even the dogs did not notice and the people mostly slept, safe in their own little lives and oblivious to the other little lives all around. All except one man who did not sleep, but now slumbered forever.
#
The dog came first. It stopped, snuffling deeper, nose digging down, snorting into the snow. Ted’s heart raced, eyes dilating, and nostrils flaring as he watched the dog. The dog had found ‘the spot’. He was about to act when the dog startled with a yip, turned tail and ran away, its trail following like a shadow. The snow in the hole dug by the dog’s questing nose was stained crimson. Like a soft sigh, snow continued to fall. He followed the dog; he had to fix it.
#
People moved about, safely cocooned in their private little lives, each doing their own thing and oblivious to the lives around.
The woman walked with some difficulty through the snow along the edge of the trees where the snow was less deep. Every now and then she cupped her hands to each side of her mouth and called. She was looking for the family dog that had escaped off the rope tethering the animal safely in the yard. She came across the tracks in the snow, thought for a moment and decided to follow the track into the woods.
He watched as the woman found what was left of the dog. He could almost hear her heart pounding faster, feel the constriction of her chest, and see through her eyes widened in horror. The snow continued to fall in a lazy downy rain.
He pounced on the woman. Soon a crimson stain slowly began to spread across the pristine snow.
It was not about killing; he just had to fix it.
Published:
Jan 7/09 online at Flashes in the Dark http://flashesinthedark.com/category/l-v-gaudet/
Jan 23/09 online at Patchwork Project http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
By L. V. Gaudet
© December 2008
It was quite bright and tranquil the day it begun, snow lazily falling and blanketing the world in a soft downy blanket of fluff, drawing a white curtain over all the ugliness of the world.
However, there was a dark storm brewing somewhere, deep within the breast of one soul. For some reason he came out only with the falling snow, his catalyst, harbinger of unpleasant memories and dark urges. Otherwise, he hid away in his quaint little home, safe, a victim of agoraphobia, living life unseen.
To everyone else it was a day as any other day, Saturday, and only days before Christmas. The muffled scrape of shovels clearing driveways and sidewalks did not so much echo in the air as it seemed to be carried on the wings of the very snowflakes themselves as they slowly drifted down. Other sounds hung in the air too; distant sleds bounding across the fields, the sudden grinding of a snow blower rattling like a lumbering abominable chain saw, and the shlish and scream of children tobogganing down a hill somewhere. Somewhere a dog barked.
To one man it was a very different day. He paced restlessly, pulling at his hair, rearranging his safe little nest in agitation. It was coming, the memories, and the urge, unstoppable. Today he would leave his quaint little house.
One boy played alone, trying to build a fort in the white downy fluff. He kicked at the fluff in exasperation, unable to make it stick together to form walls. When next his mother looked out the window, the boy would be gone.
The man who took the boy was not a large man. He was skinny and balding and had an air of impotence cum invisibility. This was the sort of man most people did not even notice, forever overlooked and ignored. Even his name was nondescript, ‘Ted’. Then again, psychoses do not care about size, looks, or names.
Ted’s slash of a mouth was frozen in a wide grin, eyes sparkling maniacally. A giggle bubbled up like the bright red blood of the boy. Red oozed warmly down, creating a gentle uprising mist as it soaked down into the pristine white snow.
A scream bounced from snowflake to snowflake. It did not sound right. It was not the fun filled happy shriek of a tobogganing child. It was shrill and desperate, torn violently from the throat, frantic and terrible. No one noticed the scream, so lost were they all in their own activities, in their own private little lives of their own little worlds within this winter wonderland.
The dogs heard it. All around the little town, dogs barked and howled.
It would snow again. Soon. And so, too, would Ted come again out to play.
#
The air tasted crisp on his tongue, so intense was the cold. It bit at his fingers and toes within their protected confines. His nose stung and his lungs burned with each inhalation of chill air. Wincing, he rubbed his hands together, blowing into his cupped fingers, trying to warm them.
The cool light of the moon seemed colder, more distant, shining with an ethereal pale light wrapped in ghostly light circles as its light refracted off the invisible frozen air crystals hanging suspended in the atmosphere enveloping the earth. The stars, their light much dimmer, tried feebly to point their little beacon lights to the ground below, like a distant warning.
Ted looked up at the sky, the clouds rolling in, drawing a shroud across the sky, shutting off the moon’s pale light. The snow had started to fall again. Barely at first, scattered tiny flakes drifted down, growing bigger and thicker, multiplying in number, and turning into a dreamy soft down gently touching every surface. With the snow came the memories. He winced as the memories crashed through his head like a multi car pileup, unstoppable, uncontrollable, a shrieking dance of mental chaos. Next came the urge, insistent, insatiable, and unstoppable. He had to fix it.
This time there was no scream bouncing off the gently falling snow, just a wet sort of gurgle, low and quiet, and the pristine white virgin snow slowly turning bright red beneath the pale night light of the moon. This time even the dogs did not notice and the people mostly slept, safe in their own little lives and oblivious to the other little lives all around. All except one man who did not sleep, but now slumbered forever.
#
The dog came first. It stopped, snuffling deeper, nose digging down, snorting into the snow. Ted’s heart raced, eyes dilating, and nostrils flaring as he watched the dog. The dog had found ‘the spot’. He was about to act when the dog startled with a yip, turned tail and ran away, its trail following like a shadow. The snow in the hole dug by the dog’s questing nose was stained crimson. Like a soft sigh, snow continued to fall. He followed the dog; he had to fix it.
#
People moved about, safely cocooned in their private little lives, each doing their own thing and oblivious to the lives around.
The woman walked with some difficulty through the snow along the edge of the trees where the snow was less deep. Every now and then she cupped her hands to each side of her mouth and called. She was looking for the family dog that had escaped off the rope tethering the animal safely in the yard. She came across the tracks in the snow, thought for a moment and decided to follow the track into the woods.
He watched as the woman found what was left of the dog. He could almost hear her heart pounding faster, feel the constriction of her chest, and see through her eyes widened in horror. The snow continued to fall in a lazy downy rain.
He pounced on the woman. Soon a crimson stain slowly began to spread across the pristine snow.
It was not about killing; he just had to fix it.
Published:
Jan 7/09 online at Flashes in the Dark http://flashesinthedark.com/category/l-v-gaudet/
Jan 23/09 online at Patchwork Project http://www.patchworkproject.com/lvgaudet.html
A Short Burst of Writing - Snow (Flash Fiction)
Snow
By L. V. Gaudet
© December 2008
It was a dark and stormy night.
No, actually it wasn’t. That is just so cliché.
It was neither dark, nor stormy. In fact, it was quite bright and tranquil with the snow lazily falling and blanketing the world in a soft downy blanket.
However, there was a dark storm brewing somewhere, deep within the breast of one fateful soul who will have a rather fate-less affect on those around. Not so much in a way of lacking chance and destiny, but rather in a way of that destiny being one that is lacking in fortune and future. It would be a fate resulting in no fate, no future, and ending in a finality of fatality.
To everyone else it was a day as any other day. It was the weekend, Saturday to be precise; and only days before Christmas. The muffled scrape of shovels clearing driveways and sidewalks didn’t so much echo in the air as it seemed to be carried on the wings of the very snowflakes themselves as they drifted down, billions of flakes carrying the sound on the faint draught of air that could not even be called a breeze.
The distant soprano rumble of sleds bounding across the fields could be felt more than it could be heard. The sudden grinding of a snow blower starting rattled off the snowflakes like a lumbering abominable chain saw. The shlish and scream of children tobogganing down a hill somewhere cut through the downy muffled hush brought on the world by the gentle snowflakes. Somewhere a dog barked.
A scream bounced from snowflake to snowflake. It didn’t sound right. It wasn’t the fun filled happy shriek of a tobogganing child. It was shrill and desperate, torn violently from the throat, frantic and terrible.
The scream didn’t register though, so lost was everyone in their own activities, in their own private little bubbles of their own little worlds within this winter wonderland, separate from all the other little bubbles, bouncing about each other without really touching.
At least, it didn’t register on the consciousness of any people living within their own little private bubble lives. Most people live in their own little bubble, most but not all. And dogs, dogs don’t live in bubbles; they are tuned in to the world around them. It’s hardwired into their makeup.
The dogs heard it. All around the little town dogs barked and howled.
It could be some time before one of these little private bubble worlds bounced and touched the little bubble world the scream was torn from, before someone learns the terrible truth behind the scream that everyone heard, yet no one noticed.
Perhaps the next snow fall.
The air tasted crisp, so intense was the cold, biting at fingers and toes within their protected confines, making noses sting and lungs burn with each inhalation of chill air. It was too cold even for Jack Frost to be out performing his public service of decorating window panes with his intricate artwork.
The cool light of the moon seemed colder, more distant, shining with an ethereal pale light wrapped in ghostly light circles as its light refracted off the invisible frozen air crystals hanging suspended in the atmosphere enveloping the earth. The stars, their light much dimmer, tried feebly to point their little beacon lights to the ground below, like a distant warning.
The clouds rolled in, shrouding the ground below, hiding it from the moon’s view, shutting off its pale light. The snow started to fall. Barely at first, scattered tiny flakes drifted down, growing bigger and thicker, multiplying in number, and turning into a dreamy soft down gently touching every surface.
This time there was no scream bouncing off the gently falling snow, just a wet sort of gurgle, low and quiet, and the pristine white virgin snow slowly turning bright red. This time even the dogs didn’t notice and the people mostly slept, safe in their own little lives and oblivious to the other little lives all around.
A stray dog snuffled about in the snow. It wasn’t a homeless or abandoned dog, just one that had escaped the rope tethering it in the yard. The dog walked as if on a mission, purposeful, intent, tail and body tense, sniffing and snuffling at the snow as it went. Deep tracks followed the dog through the thick blanket of snow. The dog stopped, snuffling deeper, nose digging down, snorting. The dog startled with a yip, turned tail and ran away, its trail following like a shadow. The snow in the hole dug by the dog’s questing nose was stained crimson. Like a soft sigh, snow began to fall.
People moved about, safely cocooned in their private little bubble lives, each doing their own thing and oblivious to the lives around.
Without a sound one of these little bubbles popped. The woman walked with some difficulty through the snow along the edge of the trees where the snow was less deep. She looked about her keenly, every now and then cupping her hands to each side of her mouth and calling. She was looking for the family dog that had escaped off the rope tethering the animal safely in the yard. At last she came across a track leading away from the trees and across the field. Just beyond it lay another track, less defined as though made by less careful movements. This track led into the trees. She thought for a moment and decided to follow the next track into the woods.
She didn’t get far before she found the dog. Well, what was left of the dog anyway. Her heart thudded hard and fast in her chest, her breath caught as her chest constricted, eyes widening in horror.
Something slammed into the woman, knocking her sideways a few feet and down into the white downy snow. A crimson stain slowly began to spread across the pristine snow.
By L. V. Gaudet
© December 2008
It was a dark and stormy night.
No, actually it wasn’t. That is just so cliché.
It was neither dark, nor stormy. In fact, it was quite bright and tranquil with the snow lazily falling and blanketing the world in a soft downy blanket.
However, there was a dark storm brewing somewhere, deep within the breast of one fateful soul who will have a rather fate-less affect on those around. Not so much in a way of lacking chance and destiny, but rather in a way of that destiny being one that is lacking in fortune and future. It would be a fate resulting in no fate, no future, and ending in a finality of fatality.
To everyone else it was a day as any other day. It was the weekend, Saturday to be precise; and only days before Christmas. The muffled scrape of shovels clearing driveways and sidewalks didn’t so much echo in the air as it seemed to be carried on the wings of the very snowflakes themselves as they drifted down, billions of flakes carrying the sound on the faint draught of air that could not even be called a breeze.
The distant soprano rumble of sleds bounding across the fields could be felt more than it could be heard. The sudden grinding of a snow blower starting rattled off the snowflakes like a lumbering abominable chain saw. The shlish and scream of children tobogganing down a hill somewhere cut through the downy muffled hush brought on the world by the gentle snowflakes. Somewhere a dog barked.
A scream bounced from snowflake to snowflake. It didn’t sound right. It wasn’t the fun filled happy shriek of a tobogganing child. It was shrill and desperate, torn violently from the throat, frantic and terrible.
The scream didn’t register though, so lost was everyone in their own activities, in their own private little bubbles of their own little worlds within this winter wonderland, separate from all the other little bubbles, bouncing about each other without really touching.
At least, it didn’t register on the consciousness of any people living within their own little private bubble lives. Most people live in their own little bubble, most but not all. And dogs, dogs don’t live in bubbles; they are tuned in to the world around them. It’s hardwired into their makeup.
The dogs heard it. All around the little town dogs barked and howled.
It could be some time before one of these little private bubble worlds bounced and touched the little bubble world the scream was torn from, before someone learns the terrible truth behind the scream that everyone heard, yet no one noticed.
Perhaps the next snow fall.
The air tasted crisp, so intense was the cold, biting at fingers and toes within their protected confines, making noses sting and lungs burn with each inhalation of chill air. It was too cold even for Jack Frost to be out performing his public service of decorating window panes with his intricate artwork.
The cool light of the moon seemed colder, more distant, shining with an ethereal pale light wrapped in ghostly light circles as its light refracted off the invisible frozen air crystals hanging suspended in the atmosphere enveloping the earth. The stars, their light much dimmer, tried feebly to point their little beacon lights to the ground below, like a distant warning.
The clouds rolled in, shrouding the ground below, hiding it from the moon’s view, shutting off its pale light. The snow started to fall. Barely at first, scattered tiny flakes drifted down, growing bigger and thicker, multiplying in number, and turning into a dreamy soft down gently touching every surface.
This time there was no scream bouncing off the gently falling snow, just a wet sort of gurgle, low and quiet, and the pristine white virgin snow slowly turning bright red. This time even the dogs didn’t notice and the people mostly slept, safe in their own little lives and oblivious to the other little lives all around.
A stray dog snuffled about in the snow. It wasn’t a homeless or abandoned dog, just one that had escaped the rope tethering it in the yard. The dog walked as if on a mission, purposeful, intent, tail and body tense, sniffing and snuffling at the snow as it went. Deep tracks followed the dog through the thick blanket of snow. The dog stopped, snuffling deeper, nose digging down, snorting. The dog startled with a yip, turned tail and ran away, its trail following like a shadow. The snow in the hole dug by the dog’s questing nose was stained crimson. Like a soft sigh, snow began to fall.
People moved about, safely cocooned in their private little bubble lives, each doing their own thing and oblivious to the lives around.
Without a sound one of these little bubbles popped. The woman walked with some difficulty through the snow along the edge of the trees where the snow was less deep. She looked about her keenly, every now and then cupping her hands to each side of her mouth and calling. She was looking for the family dog that had escaped off the rope tethering the animal safely in the yard. At last she came across a track leading away from the trees and across the field. Just beyond it lay another track, less defined as though made by less careful movements. This track led into the trees. She thought for a moment and decided to follow the next track into the woods.
She didn’t get far before she found the dog. Well, what was left of the dog anyway. Her heart thudded hard and fast in her chest, her breath caught as her chest constricted, eyes widening in horror.
Something slammed into the woman, knocking her sideways a few feet and down into the white downy snow. A crimson stain slowly began to spread across the pristine snow.
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