Category Archives: Lust

Unseasonable Conditions: Prompting Shakespeare

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Unseasonable Conditions

Prompting Shakespeare #2

“Now is the Winter of our discontent,” Gloucester began but was interrupted in the harshest of ways.

As he cleaned the soggy tomato remains off of his face, he heard from the side of the groundling’s pit where the fetid fruit was tossed from, these chilling words: “It ain’t Winter, you daft foot-licker. We are in Spring, ain’t we?”

From the other side, another tomato was flung, but it missed its mark by a toadstool. Mumbles of agreement, noddings of heads, and a robust “Here! Here!” egged the tosser’s taunting on.

“We had our Winter. Not too harsh, no, not like the good old days.” More mumbled agreements met that statement. “Used to be piles and piles of the shite, big enough to toss a body under and scurry away. Bodies popping up all over the place come Spring. Not, um, like I would know anything about that.”

Another groundling piped up: “When we used to have us a real Spring, not this sodden mess we ‘ave been soaked with. The muck we trudge through on a normal day is bad enough without all this rain!”

A chorus of agreement sounded out. At the tail end of rabble’s babble, a lone voice could be heard from the back of the pit, close to the stalls. “Verily! Verily!” He was beaten to unconsciousness with a flurry of sausages on sticks.

Gloucester, aghast, was being nudged to go, make a good show of it.

He cleared his voice loud enough to draw attention back to the stage. The jumping up and down helped. The audience guffawed loudly, except for the few who were enjoying the sausage whipping they maintained on the “Verily” clotpole.

Taking his royal stance, https://www.shakespeareswords.com/Public/About.aspx once again tried to get his soliloquies started. He got as far as “Now is the…” before a shower of rotten tomatoes spread around, and on, him.

Breaking character, he stomped to the near edge of the raised platform. Tossing his arms up, he yelled: “Now, wait, you bloody wankers!”

Near quiet settled over the crowd. Before Gloucester continued, he eyed one snaggled-toothed crone by the stage. She was brandishing a reasonably large summer squash. Glaring at her, the squash slowly sank out of site.

“Cease and desist this vexing behavior. This is a play. We are merely the vehicles to voice the words of a true master of playwrights. The history we represent is our shared histories. This…”

“Is boring, is what it is,” yelled the first tomato flinger. A cheer went up from the crowds, both groundlings and those in the stalls. A tawdry red-haired wench was now at his side, snuggling up close, drawn by the attention this one was receiving from the crowd.

“Enough! Enough! If you lot would stop with the insults. And the rotten fruit hurling,” Gloucester noticed that the summer squash had reappeared. “And other propulsive objects, then the entire point of our play would show itself. We don’t always need sword fights and constant mayhem.”

The second pipper-upper bellowed out: “But we like them. Why we come. A little blood action on stage boils me own blood!”

Cheers rang out even more raucously around the domeless arena. The PU wound up with a devastating kiss, delivered by the pre-mentioned red-headed wench, who had wound her way towards him upon hearing “boiling blood.” They left in an abrupt hurry.

As they made their way, those left in the pit began a growing war chant: “Fight! Fight! Fight!” It grew in intensity. All the actors knew the stage was lost. Gloucester was last, dragging his feet. He picked up his pace as the summer squash rolled by.

Turning once more in the desperate hope of changing their minds, Gloucester could only fixate on the malicious grin from the hag in the front. He bolted offstage. A hideous cackle followed him.

The stage manager looked at him askance, then hurried off. It was a lonely walk back to the dressing closet. Gloucester didn’t notice, nor care, that the bear and its baiter passed him by. The boisterous cheers let him know; the battle was lost. The stage was theirs.

Shedding the bits and pieces of his costume, and character, sighing heavily with the removal of each piece, William was falling into a dark place. The remaining looked at each other, finally pushing Young Tim on.

“Master Shakespeare, they were just a bunch of ruffians. Huge uneducated ones at that, not hearing the poetry of your words before them.”

“But, the histories…”

Old Tim sauntered over.

“Willie,” he said, slapping his leader on the back. “This is good for the Royals. This bunch? They want fun and depravity. Come, let’s get out of here and put some beer into you.”

Half-heartedly, the company of players left to get malt-wormed.

**********************************************

Author’s Note:

Another prompt from a different writers group was the word “Unseasoned.” Make of it what you will and write. So, ten of us went to task. The above was my take. Stumped, the line from Richard III flitted through my noggin, and here we are.

For those who don’t know, Shakespeare did more than write his plays. He hit the stage with his troupes, as well as taking on several other roles. From what I’ve read, his level of performance was rated from “better stick to writing” to “he gave a good showing.” Make of that what you will for Will.

Click on the link for more facts on The Globe Theater, the groundlings, the stalls, and more.

A site I just found, and now love, is SHAKESPEARE’S WORDS, created in 2018 by David and Ben Crystal. If you are not familiar with some of the words in my tale, this site is an excellent place to find their meanings and much more.

One last thing: Shakespeare’s plays are BEST when you see a heartfelt performance. Reading them, as well, is vital for scholarly pursuits, other educational sharing, and all involved in putting on a production.

Remember: the play’s the thing.

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Unraveling: #AtoZ Blog Challenge

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A Car In The Woods: Chapter Seventeen

2019 AtoZ Blog Challenge

New? This is a serialized work. Please start on A: A Car In The Woods

AtoZ2019U  UNRAVELING

1963

Eddie drove the T-Bird down the southwest corridor. He had his orders and knew what to do. Eddie passed the car graveyard, 19 rusting hulks that were experimented on and failed. They had success with #20-the Chevy Thunderbird that Eddie was riding in. TB was the shorthand all of the Taken used.

Rolling onto a platform covered in artificial grass and, in this case, artificial ice was step one. Eddie put TB into neutral and nodded his head. The nod was the only signal needed by the unseen operator. The Chevy started to rise the 250 feet to the surface. Step two; check.

Activity was spotted in area 12. The capture of new subject material, human or animal, was imperative. Eddie knew why but didn’t care. His last procedure amped up his aggressiveness; the one before cemented his obedience. It was necessary. Eddie was too integral to terminate, even though he slaughtered two of the newer Taken. Gary was Eddie’s focus. They were just in his way. The room was gassed. Eddie awoke again on a slab. When released from his cell, Gary was nowhere to be found.

Eddie was completely in compliance.

The actual ground cover slid silently open, allowing the platform to take its place. The whir of the locking system was quieter than snow falling. Eddie put TB on Automatic, something new they cooked up below. He flipped a switch, activating pheromone dispersal around the and inside the Chevy. The dial next to it was already set to five: the number of scents that would attract most wild animals. Some humans. Eddie got out, left the door open, and moved into the woods.

TB sat idling.  The car radio clicked on, a dial search ran, and a Country station twanged out of the sole speaker. Eddie stopped moving, wanting to turn around, go back and shut it off. Shaking his head, he continued ghosting away, barking a short laugh. TB knew enough to turn off her radio once she sensed prey in the area.

Eddie went roving.

~~~~~    ~~~~~    ~~~~~

1968

Everyone was gone. Patricia and Will were on their honeymoon, driving further upstate. Will had never been to the Falls; Patricia had, but she didn’t say so. He was excited, charming, and loving. She patted his knee and moved her right hand to rest on his thigh. Will tried to move her hand back to the steering wheel, but it was back only seconds later. The third time he let it lay. He watched Pat while she stared at the road. She noticed, leaning slightly towards him, eyes still facing forward. Will leaned in, planting a few soft kisses on her cheek.

Later, when Will was the one driving, he got the kisses. Pat was unsuccessful in removing his hand from her thigh even once.

Debra and Tim made sure the house was spick-and-span before they took off. Tim was desperate, bugging his sister over and over, to leave and go search for their father and Schatzi. Debra would just say “Not yet” and continued to clean and nudging him when he slacked off. The garbage was bagged and placed in the bins in the garage.

“Now, Deb. C’mon. Before it gets too dark.”

She looked at her brother. What she saw bothered her a bit. Tim had the same manic look, the same rushing when he spoke, the twitch by his left eye that had finally gone away: this was the Tim of seven years ago. Debra was hoping all of that was gone from his life.

Seeing all that resurface is what drove her to keep agreeing to go with him into the woods. She wanted to keep her baby brother safe as he deserved. Debra wanted to believe her Dad and dog were out there. Wanting did not always mix with the reality of things.

They both donned thick wool coats, even though it was still warm out. Enough of their blood had been shed by the prickly bramble that was everywhere they looked. Tim found old work gloves for Debra. He put on his new black leather ones. Two flashlights, one non-rusted canteen filled to the brim with water, a pair of binoculars, and, unknown to his sister at the time, their father’s old handgun. Tim had kept it oiled and clean all this time. He knew how to shoot. When his mom and sis were out, Tim practiced far from where anyone could hear him.

They set out.

Two hours, give or take, before the sunset and the darkness enveloped the woods.

~~~~~    ~~~~~    ~~~~~

1963

Eddie found the Impala station wagon in the ravine. He checked: they were all alive. The need for new subjects was eating at him. Which one? All three? Eddie saw Schatzi in the back. It was too much. The need to bring someone back fought with who was before him. The inner conflict raged inside of his mind. He backed up out of the ravine, not taking his eyes off of Pat in the front.

He went stiff and numb as he waged a brutal battle against his conditioning. The realization of being controlled was the start. A thin crack in the wall they had built inside his mind, but still, it was a crack.

Hiding just close enough, Eddie’s augmented hearing heard their conversation. Hearing it meant it was transmitted to the lab. Eddie didn’t care. His heart did, though. His internal clicking began. Eddie ran further into the woods, his attention wavering until he got the unit to settle down. He stayed, hidden, becoming as still as the bark he leaned against, still able to see the car.

Pat climbed out of the pit, dusting the snow off of her. She found the tracks of the car’s journey and began to follow them. No kids. Advancing, he found them fooling around, Debra ordering Timmy around. Normal. The decision to follow Pat felt like the right thing to do.

He turned and began following her footsteps. He stepped in her indentations, walking only on the balls of his feet. A patch of ice demanded that Eddie had to look for where she went next. As he skated over the icy ground, he realized that he was holding something. He looked down.

His combat knife was in his hand. He had no awareness of drawing it out. He attempted to put it back in its sheath. Eddie fought with himself. Sweat began leaking down into his eyes. He stopped, focused, and finally, he heard the snap that bound the knife in.

The crack inside his head widened as Eddie continued after Pat.

~~~~~    ~~~~~    ~~~~~

Present Day

Nothing was as it should be.

Everything twisted upon itself.

Everything waited for things to straighten out.

Not everything did.

There was a car in the woods.

 

 

 

O, Woeful Lament: #AtoZ Blog Challenge

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A Car In The Woods: Chapter Twelve

2019 AtoZ Blog Challenge

New? This is a serialized work. Please start on A: A Car In The Woods

AtoZ2019O O, WOEFUL LAMENT

1962

 

“Weeks. Just three weeks,” murmured Sheriff John Miner into his lunch, a greasy Bacon Cheeseburger with mustard, mayo, and ketchup. Just what he wanted. Just what the doctor told him, repeatedly, to stay away from. He lied to himself that not ordering fries evened things out.

“What’s that, John?” Patricia was behind the counter, back turned to him, preparing to make a fresh pot of coffee.

“Nothing, Pat. Nothing at all.” He bit into the burger, the juice dribbling across the long hairs of his mustache and into his need-to-be trimmed beard. He chewed twice and swallowed, watching Pat bending over to get a clean pot from underneath. “I might be old, but I have eyes,” he’d say every time one of his deputies, or his drinking cronies, caught him eyeing someone other than Mrs. John Miner.

When Eddie disappeared, he made an effort not to leer. It was only respectful, seeing how he did like Eddie, for the most part. He gave himself permission to enjoy himself again after about four months. Just happened that was about the same time that Pat came back to the luncheonette, picking up her shifts again.

Munching away, in between slurps of his cup of Joe, which Pat filled every time the cup was at the halfway point, he thought about his retirement. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough. Full pension, money saved up; he was leaving this godforsaken place and heading south to warmer climates. He was counting the days.

He grunted, the coffee burning his tongue on contact. “Yeah, outta here. Snow, ice, and all these damn eerie disappearances.” Sheriff John never really sussed out if he was more bothered by the missing or the fact it was putting a dent on his record. Not being very self-aware kept things, like a clean conscious, at bay.

Finished, he tried to pay, but Sam, the cook/owner, waved him away. As usual. They went through this every day. Patricia wanted to refuse the tip, but she needed the money. Sheriff John knew it and always left her a dollar anyways. Putting on his hat as he got outside, he huffed as he saw his deputy, Will Kane, outside waiting for him.

“Sheriff,” Will touching the brim of his hat.

“Will, what now?”

He knew what it was. The Sheriff was trying to push it away, but it kept coming up. He was afraid this would bite him in the ass at least one more time before he was done. He looked Will in the eye, once again assessing the deputy. Did he make the right choice in grooming the kid to take over? It wasn’t the first time he thought that. Each time he did, the Sheriff calculated how much longer he had, and each time he had the same answer: it wouldn’t be his problem once he was gone.

“Complaints about the sounds from the woods, same as the last two weeks. We had to split up today because of the different areas reporting in.”

“Same sound?”

Will nodded. He didn’t want to add that he thought he had heard that disturbing clicking sound as well, just the other day. He drew his gun from his nightstand, threw on a coat, and checked the area. Nothing. Will didn’t know what to think anymore. The reports coming in were getting under his skin.

Plus, the fact, that over the last year there were five more “incidents.” It unnerved the whole area. Already some families had left. More might follow.

“OK, Will. You know the drill. Lord knows at this point how many times we’ve done this search-and-discover Jack, but we have to. Since last night was that bad, I’ll pull in some favors with the State boys. If I can.”

“Seven,” Will thought, slightly gritting his teeth. Seven half-assed attempts. He knew the Sheriff was both biding his time and putting on a show to appease. Less than a month, and he was already planning to run things differently.

Will had no way of knowing that Sheriff John had the exact same thoughts about his predecessor just before the old man retired.

Both men got into their respective Ford Fairlane cruisers and headed back to the Sheriff’s office to plan the night’s forays.

~~~~~    ~~~~~    ~~~~~

Three nights later, and they had nothing. The State Troopers gave up on the second night, returning to their speed traps and truck stops. The Sheriff had bolstered his staff with deputized volunteers who he insisted must travel with one of the normal deputies only as a backup. They petered out until the only two volunteers left were the idiots who discovered the Thunderbird in the first place: Todd and Barry.

Todd rode with the Sheriff on the first night out; Barry on the second. The third night, he rode alone. The two talked, and talked, and talked throughout their rides. It was all one piece of BS after another, the stories no longer even coming close to their statements from ’59. He wound up dropping them both off on their respective ride-along at any tavern on their route. The buzzing in his head stayed with him well after he returned home and opened up his Scotch.

The Sheriff and Will went out separately on the fourth night. The calls had died down to next to nothing by then. Will thought one more night might catch the noisemakers or shake them enough to move on out of the area. Sheriff John didn’t care anymore. The days were counting down, and cruising in his car at night, alone, sounded just fine with him.

By 2:30 a.m., Will was calling it a night. The Sheriff agreed. His body sagged into the seat. Tilting his head back onto the headrest, he rolled down the window a touch, the cold air hitting his face. He began humming to himself, which morphed easily into singing “Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit! Kill the wabbit” and then laughing. He loved that cartoon.

He was about to go into another piece he heard through Loony Tunes. Headlights approaching, coming up fast. He moved his cruiser to the right, skirting the ridge of the side rut. The car blew past him, honking once when they were level.

Swearing, Sheriff John hit the Cherries and Berries, U Turned, and sped after the car, sirens blaring. “Damit,” he yelled. “That damned Thunderbird. I’ve had enough,” reverberated through the cabin. The T Bird increased speed. The Fairlane did as well. The turns were sharp, the road dark, but Sheriff John white-knuckled it and floored the gas pedal. It wasn’t until the T Bird’s brake lights lit before it went off-road that the Sheriff took his right hand off the wheel, picked up the two-way and called in for backup.

He knew exactly where he was being led. He cursed at the car and whoever was inside it non-stop. Until the Fairlane stopped, right passenger tire going flat after hitting something sticking out of the dirt road.

Sheriff John left the headlights on, put the car in park, and got out. His right hand went to his sidearm, drawing it out slowly, clicking off the safety. Staying behind the open door, his gaze traveled along the empty grassy field in front of him. It took a second for that eyeballed information to reach his thinking process.

Empty. Tallgrass, dark outlines of trees off in the near distance, but nothing else. He started to call out but didn’t; movie logic never made much sense to him. If the headlights were throwing their vision off, why give them a voice to focus on? He waited. The lack of bird or animal noise caused his forehead to perspire. It wasn’t natural.

The Sheriff made his decision: he needed to find that damned car and whoever drove it. He reached in and turned off the engine, leaving the headlights on Brights. Forgetting his hat on the passenger side was unlike him, but he had closed his door already and didn’t want any more large movements that might take him down.

Three steps away from his Ford and the clicking sound started. This one loud and deep, not at all like the majority of the callers described it. This was thunderous. Four more steps away and the ground buckled under him sending him sprawling. His gun spiraled out of his control. Rolling over, he looked back at his Fairlane. Something huge was on top of the car, its right arm smashing through the front window while the left was digging deeply into the driver’s door.

The thing jumped up, landing on top and crushed the roof. The rest of the window glass shattered. The other tires burst as the car was jumped on again and again. The Sheriff began to inch away, a reverse crawling motion that was jerky at best.

His escape was inconvenienced by two factors: while he was looking at the shape destroy his car, a less volatile clicking nose what now behind him; and his head was stopped by a foot being placed on his head, pushing it into the cold soil.

Sheriff John peed himself while his arms and legs were similarly restrained. He started to address them, question them, abase himself, but the backhanded slap cracked his head around so he was eating grass. The foot holding his head down had been removed before the slap. It found its way back.

A figure crouched down, facing him. The Sheriff could taste the blood running out of his face; he tried to spit it in the other’s face, but it barely cleared his lips. A hand came around his cheeks and squeezed, the pressure strong. The two made eye contact, and the Sheriff could only let out a gasp.

“Hey, Sheriff John. Long time, eh?” The voice was grave. It had a vibration to it, changing the pitch and tone as he spoke. He, because the Sheriff knew who this was. Quick glances around and he caught some familiar faces. It wasn’t much of a leap of intelligence, even for the Sheriff, to realize he was being held down by some of the missing.

“Hey, hey. Look at me. Yeah, it’s me. Gary. Remember me? Remember all the hassles we received from you? HEY!” He slapped the Sheriff again; the clicking sounds made its rounds, only stopping when he focused on the young man.

He started choking on the blood that was pooling and spit that onto the ground. It hurt to talk, but he had to make sense of what was happening.

“Maynard?”

Gary growled. “Man, you too. Any idea how much I hated being called that? This much,” as a hard object hit the Sheriff between the eyes. When he was finally able to open his eyes, he saw that the little bastard was brandishing a pretty large knife in his hands, flipping it back and forth.

Gary stood as the others picked the Sheriff up and held him, their claws digging into his extremities.

“There are other things I hate, Sheriff. A lot of that hate is directed your way. Yeah, yeah, you were doing your job, we were delinquents and all of that. But, it all added up. It was other things. We thought we knew you, knew to stay out of your way. But, I got to watch you on some of your night excursions. Things. You know? Things.” He swept his arms around. “Not to all of us.”

One of the others hauled back and punched the Sheriff in the stomach. He noticed it was a woman once he could straighten up. A damn strong woman.

“One of your unasked questions I’ll give you a freebie to: me and the others were taken, but it was as recruits. Recruits. Tested. Poked. Punctured. Changed.

But not you. We were. Not you. Definitely not you.”

Gary gestured, and they all manhandled the Sheriff back towards his car. Well, what was left of it. The hulking mass was on top of the pile of pieces. Its head picked up, and the huge clicking noise it made was followed by the stench of its breath.

Before the Sheriff could say anything, beg, curse, or even draw in another breath, Gary thrust the heavy duty combat knife into the Sheriff’s back. He gave it a twist as he pulled it out. The woman who punched the Sheriff in the gut kicked and sent Sheriff John flying towards the car.

There were no screams as they faded back into the woods. Clicking sounds filled up the void.

 

Present Day

Some had slight regrets for that evening’s outcome.

Mainly that Sheriff John Miner was already dead by the time Zeno got its meal.

The thrashing seemed to mellow Zeno’s clicking.

Not that night.

There was a car in the woods.   

 

 

 

Juno Plummeting: #AtoZ Blog Challenge

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A Car In The Woods: Chapter Eight

2019 AtoZ Blog Challenge

AtoZ2019J Juno Plummeting

1967

Samantha woke with a coughing fit. Slow and sluggish, she was having trouble focusing. She was in pain. The pain grew as her attentiveness sharpened. There was a horrible taste in her mouth. Working her jaw amplified an abrasive texture against her face; something hard and gritty pressing into it. She coughed again, hawking out something moist. The pain in her nose hit her, hard. She was having problems trying to breathe. Samantha opened her eyes slowly, shutting them instantly. A blurry, swirling mass of color hurt her head. The pain was intense.

Samantha attempted to get up. An inner scream cut through her held back by firmly clenched teeth. Her hands were pressed against each other, pulled tightly behind her back. They wouldn’t budge. Her legs were in the same condition. Samantha forced herself to keep trying. Her body arched up, the struggle of forcing her extremities at the same time seized her. “Tied up. I’m tied up,” she finally realized. Slowly, so slowly, Samantha eased off the tension and further pain she was causing. The realization momentarily broke her.

Panic was starting to circulate.

A feeling of hopelessness began to slink through her. It wormed its way through, nibbling at Samantha’s essence. Life’s myriad of moments cascaded, flipping scenes too fast to catch and hold them. Birthday parties, heartaches, driving, being driven, dancing, vacations, school, more school, even more school.  Her first kiss. Mom and Dad. Grandma. Vanessa. Mom and Dad. MOM AND DAD!

She remembered. The car. Her parents were in the car. The crash. It all happened so fast. Someone is running towards her. The pain. Someone…Lisa. Lisa, running towards her. Her arm raised, fist hurtling forward. Awakening.

Thinking of Lisa brought her to her sessions, then her studies. Years of studying, training. What she needed to do flowed through her now. Distress tolerance skills. She grabbed onto the one that always helped her. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Counting breaths in, then out. Repeat. The repetition focused her. The focus calmed her.

Fear started working away at it.

A hard bump sent her up and down, the quickness too sudden. Her face hit the flooring, pain shooting through her nose all the way up through her skull. The groan she let out was met with a nasty little giggle.

“About time, Dr. Sam. Thought you’d never wake up. Hoped so, too. Really hoped.”

“Lisa?” The name was croaked out; followed by a series of coughs, each one an escalation of pain.

Silence. A Lisa silence; drawn out, taking her time in answering, or not, in all of their sessions.

“Yeah. Me.” In case you was wondering, we’re driving. Not sorry about that bump in the road. Anyways, we’re almost there.”

It took a moment to process. “Where is ‘There,’ Lisa?”

Silence, again.

“Lisa, please, talk to me. We’ve always found a way to talk things through.”

A barked laugh. Samantha hoped it would be followed by something more.

Silence.

A different tactic. “Lisa. Can you help me understand something?” She waited for a moment. “I have been going over our last enc…session. Can you tell me why my leaving affected you so?”

The horn on the car took a staccato beating. When it stopped, Lisa still said nothing.

“Lisa. My decision to move was nothing against you at all. Not one bit. You said I was trying to throw you away as others have. I wasn’t. I’m not. I wouldn’t leave until I had the right person to take over for me.” Nothing. “Lisa…”

“Stop saying my name,” Lisa growled. “Shut up already. Just shut up.”

The vehicle they were in drove on. Uncomfortable on so many levels, Samantha wanted to get up off the car floor. Asking for help did not seem like an option that would get her anywhere. She began rocking from side to side, finally forcing enough to roll her onto her side. Her back met a hard surface. It wasn’t comfortable, but at the moment the pain that lanced through kept her there.

Looking around, she saw why she had the space to move. She wasn’t in the back of a car. They were in the cabin of a VW Microbus. She knew what it was. Vanessa bought a used one in San Francisco, sending her over a dozen Polaroids, inside and out, with circles and arrows punctuated with exclamation points. Lisa didn’t own a VW. She drove a beat-up Dodge Dart; a hand me down of a hand me down.

“Soon. Soon,” Lisa quietly said.

Samantha was pretty sure Lisa wasn’t talking to her.

~~~

A quick right turn onto an even bumpier path. Lisa was doing a lot of weaving now; the jerky movements were sending small waves of pain through Samantha.  With some straining, Samantha could see a bit out of the windows at the top of the van. Trees. Lots and lots of trees.

The VW stopped, idling in place, then moved on at a crawling pace. The weaving continued, but not as ferociously. A “Yes!” was followed by the Microbus being turned off, brake set, and the opening and closing of the driver’s door. Samantha could barely see the top of Lisa’s head through the windshield. She was standing still, both hands behind her head, fingers knotted together. Samantha imagined that Lisa had her eyes closed, muttering a prayer, or a condemnation, to whatever brought them to these woods.

Looking around the cabin, hoping to find something that could help her, she wasn’t prepared for the wall she was leaning on to slide open. Samantha tumbled out onto the ground. She missed hitting her head on a pointy rock by inches. Her breath was knocked out of her for a moment. She looked around once she settled, and then up.

Lisa was standing over her, staring down. The meeting of their eyes was not a pleasant experience for Samantha. All of Lisa’s anger tells were on full show: the flexing in and out of her fingers; the clicking noise she made with her teeth; the angle she held her head, just off to the left; and her eyes, bulging more than she had ever seen before. Danger dangled off of Lisa. Danger and hatred.

Lisa bent over and lifted Samantha, grabbing her upper arms and pushing her backward, leaving her upright leaning against the VW. Taking two steps back, Lisa squatted down, facing Samantha. But, her eyes were moving all around, resting on one location, then another. Lisa was looking for something, and Samantha had no idea what it was. Fear shot up when Lisa locked eyes on her.

“Y’know, you haven’t asked once about your mom and dad. What does that say about you, Dr. Sam?” Lisa sat. “Mind elsewhere? Anyways, as I was putting you in the VW, I saw them both moving in their car, trying to get out, to get to you. I could tell by the blood on their faces they were hurting. Yet, they still tried to reach their darling.” She leaned in close. “And you can’t even ask about them.”

Sitting back up, Lisa continued: “Dr. Sam, you think you know everything. You’re a bit distant, did ya know that? A bit?” She snarled out another laugh. “You’re with me in the room when we meet, but not all the way. Something was occupying you. I felt you pulling away, and as it took you further and further, it made me angrier and angrier. Until you went the whole distance. You’re leaving. I don’t care about any other kooks you ‘take session’ with. You were leaving ME! People leave me all the time. Use me. Toss me aside. Drink makes some of it fuzz away; fucking and fighting take the rest. And then, you.”

Samantha was reeling. Lisa of the three-word sentences, the constant silences: this wasn’t what she expected. Not one bit. She was this wrong?

“Still got nothing? Let me fill you in on a couple of things. The gossip chain went around about how strong I was, getting the upper hand on the Sheriff and his men. Then slipping so fast out of their reach, and staying that way. I heard; practically no one knew me too well. Shades, a hat covering my hair, different clothing; they paid no attention to someone nursing a coffee or a beer.

Have you wondered, Dr. Sam? Miss Ph.D.? How could I do those things? Well, time I filled you in on some truths.”

Samantha stayed silent, listening.

“Not everything you ‘know’ about me is completely true. Yeah, I had one shitty young life. Won’t even call it a childhood. Nothing childlike about it. All that family stuff? True. But my juvie records? Even unsealed they weren’t telling the whole story.

See, my doings pissed off the wrong people. I screwed, then knocked some teeth out, of the wrong guy. I’m in a jail cell, fall asleep, and the next thing I know, I’m waking in a different cell. All glass walls and empty of anything ‘cept me. Empty of my clothes, too. Everything is dark outside of this cage. I screamed, pounded on the glass. Nothing. Not for a long while.

Then the testing began.”

~~~~~

Present Day

It wasn’t pretty, the testing.

It went on too long and way too far.

Lisa wasn’t the only test subject.

Lab 4 was brutal.

There was a car in the woods.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note:

Hey.

I wasn’t planning to extend this one more day, but…taa daa…this story goes one more day. A story amidst the larger story theme.  Some, and only some, threads start getting pulled together. Some. Not all. Ramifications still need to ensue. Things still need to be discovered. Others may have to kick the bucket. We still have two weeks to go before all is laid out before you.

Shhh. It’s ok. Here’s a nice cup of tea and a plate of cookies.

Tomorrow is another day.

 

 

 

 

 

Cravings: #AtoZ Blog Challenge

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A Car In The Woods; Chapter Two

2019 AtoZ Blog Challenge

AtoZ2019C         CRAVINGS

 

1960

It was a nice day for a drive.

Doris was still giddy, breaking in her new Ford Falcon. It was a far cry from the family sedan that her father, grudgingly, had allowed her to occasionally drive while she was living at home. He always acquiesced.   She went away for college, their ties fraying further. After graduating Doris dove into working with a local theater company. It didn’t pay much, but that really wasn’t an issue for her.

Her grandmother, Beverly, left her a nice trust fund that partially kicked in at 21, fully at 25. Her father ruthlessly oversaw the trust.  The allotted monthly allowance allowed Doris her own small apartment, with enough left for food and other incidentals. But not for what she desired. She wanted her own car. To move around freely, not needing a favor from anyone. He initially refused. Doris was fed up; it took some brutal persuasion with her father to change that. A ruthless haggling session soon followed. Her father swore he was done with her.

Doris didn’t care. She owned a car!

The day she set out was cloud free, the sun’s rays beaming brightly along the countryside she was passing through. Her scarf kept her long brunette hair in place, letting the wind whip through open windows. Doris had no firm destination in mind beyond “go north.” The new interstate road was an easy choice; it wandered up and around, passing through towns both large and small. Close to three hours into her expedition, Doris saw a sign for a town she had never heard of. The road to it veered off to the left from the interstate.

Doris pulled over to the side of the road, the Falcon purring as it idled. “Go adventuring, or stay on the interstate” she murmured to herself. Looking at the car’s dashboard, Doris noticed that she’d need gas sooner than she had thought. Her stomach’s grumbling sealed the deal. Checking for traffic, Doris put her left arm out to signal she’d be making a left back onto the road. The arm stayed that way as Doris made a left onto Outlook Road.

Twenty-odd minutes later, Doris nosed the Falcon into a spot in front of the Outlook Diner. She had already filled the Falcon’s tank at the station on the edge of the town. Putting the car into Park, Doris pulled up the emergency brake and turned off the engine. The pings of the engine cooling down sounded at her back as she entered the diner.

The waitress behind the counter pointed to the overhead letter board menu and told her to sit anywhere she’d like; she’d be over to take her order in a jiffy. A couple of booths were available, as well as some of the counter seats. Doris walked to the back corner booth, sitting, so she had a view of the entire Diner. The waitress soon glided over with a steaming pot of coffee, reciting the day’s soup and special.

It wasn’t a hard choice for Doris. First, she declined the coffee. Then she ordered her usual.

“I’ll have a grilled cheese with tomato, please. Oh, and a Chocolate Malted.”

The waitress wrote it down, nodded, and melted away behind the counter.

Doris arranged, then rearranged, the silverware that had already been set. She was reading the placemat, every now and then glancing around, taking notice of the various people, their clothing, and catching bits of conversations around her. The food and drink shortly arrived. Doris took a long sip of her malted, closed her eyes slightly as the taste hit her tongue, and she let out a very satisfied “Ah!”

A laugh came from the counter area near her. Doris looked over, and her cheeks went pink. She had noticed him on one of her glances: young, around her age, she guessed; cute, by what she saw of his profile; clean white shirt and JEANS; but it was his hair that held her at first. She didn’t know anyone who still wore a Ducktail unless it was in the movies or on TV.

It didn’t matter. She felt it looked good on him.

Doris started to turn away, cheeks blooming red at that point when he walked over.

“Hey, sorry, wasn’t tryin’ to embarrass you. Just thought your ‘Ah’ and the look on your face was really cute.” Once he realized Doris wasn’t going to speak, he added: “Mind if I join you? I’m Al, by the way.”

Al stuck out his hand. Doris lightly returned his strong grasp and nodded for him to sit. Doris fidgeted a little, finally telling him her name. Questions followed, back and forth, the where and whys, a conversation blooming about all the sorts of things that revolved around two young people attracted to the other.

Doris never touched her grilled cheese with tomato. The malted was drained dry. Al had dared her to steal something from the table; they had progressed that far. She complied.

Offering to play tour guide, Al showed her all of the two places that were of any interest in Outlook. “But,” he said with a wink, “there’s this area…”

Nestled in a grove of trees way off the road, the car engine was cold, but the interior of the Falcon was anything but as the sun started to let the evening sky approach. The talking and laughing slowly turned to light kisses, gentle hugs, the stroking of hair. Al didn’t want his DT messed with, which only made Doris go in for the attack.

Which led to deeper kissing, some fondling on her part, then his. Doris’s heart was pumping fast. It matched the level she felt during her last altercation with her father. Her hands were moving along his arms, behind his neck, traveling down his back. She bit his lip. Tongues met.

Then Al, whose right hand had been on her breast, moved down to her leg and slowly caressed her skin, from knee to thigh, to…

Doris pushed Al away, hard enough that the window handle and armrest were crushing his side and ribs.  She yelled “DADDY NO!” while he yelped in pain as he was being pushed into the side of the door. Panting, the two of them eyed each other. Al tried to slide closer to her, only to receive the same treatment. A string of uncomplimentary words left his mouth.

Doris hauled back and broke his nose.

He was on her in a flash, slapping her hands away, slapping her face. Doris’s dress tore as she tried to again push him away, exposing just a glimpse of the swell of her left breast. Her head thumped against the car door, leaving her prone on the bench seat. Al tugged her down further. Doris’s skirt rode up her thighs. They struggled against the other.

Al knocked her left hand away. Doris had been trying to scratch him, again. Her hand landed on her pocketbook. She reached in, fumbled around, not knowing what…then, she remembered.

He dared her.

Doris grabbed the diner’s knife and fork, moving them so that the pointy ends were turned towards Al, and as her panties were pulled off, she struck.

Again. And again.

And again.

The seats were slippery enough, making it easy for Doris to pull Al out of the car. She left him on the ground, backed up the Falcon, and wobbly drove the car forward.

Except, it was full dark, and she didn’t have the presence of mind to turn on the headlights.  Cutting through the trees at 45 mph, the Falcon met a large Basswood head on.

The car was dead when she came to. Grabbing her bag, she staggered out of the Falcon, blood from a head cut running down to meet Al’s blood on her dress. She was just moving, moving, moving…

Until the silence of the woods gave way to a bone-numbing clicking sound.

 

Present Day

The next night, two teenagers were heading to Make Out Point.  They did what they went to do, started to drive off when the headlights caught the wreck of the Falcon. They both looked: no one was there, but there was blood inside. A lot of it.

The Sheriff and his deputies found nothing, again. Asking around, the waitress told them about the pretty girl and Al. She never mentioned that the silverware was missing from the table.

Sheriff John had had it. Nine people missing, presumed dead, in the last year and a half.

He was going to take early retirement after the weekend.

He never made it.

There was a car in the woods.

 

 

A CAR IN THE WOODS: #AtoZchallenge

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Prologue

AtoZ2019A A CAR IN THE WOODS

1959

An abandoned car is found in the woods. No road leading in, the dense gathering of trees surrounding it close together. Sunlight barely broke through the thick cover of leaves. The grass was stunted, starving for the light. Prickly brambles grew everywhere.

Nothing the size of that car should have been in there.

Discovered by hunters, Todd Wilson and Barry Carter, who were where they should not have been. Following an 8 point Buck led them on a long, winding chase. The Buck kept his life that day, racing off onto Government land. Todd and Barry knew enough to let it go.

Needing to catch their breaths, both pissed their quarry bounded off, beer was a given answer.  Neither spoke as they chugged; they stared off in the direction of their lost prize.  Todd was on his second beer while Barry was hitting his third. They nodded to each other, tossed the drained cans over their shoulders, and started their way back.

But something shiny caught them both in the eyes. The daylight had moved along just enough. Nothing should have reflected with the intensity that hit them square on. But, something did. Barry nodded and took off in the direction of the glare. Todd followed.

Following the intense gleam, they passed, and ignored, a rusted “Keep Out/ Government Property” sign that hung crookedly on one of the trees. Moving through was becoming tougher, the trees squeezing together. Todd murmured that is like a tree fort. Barry told him to shut it.

The prickly brambles in between the trunks caught at their clothing, drawing enough droplets of blood and curses from the hunters.  They reached the clearing in the middle of all the towering wood. Both stopped, stared, and while Barry’s jaw dropped, Todd whistled. They both loved cars.

They loved this car especially. It came up in every conversation they had about cars. Their visits to the dealer wore out their welcome. Eleven times, with no hint of purchasing any car.

But, here. Their dream car was right before them. Not a soul around; not one they could see, anyway.

A Cherry Red Thunderbird two-door convertible! It was the model they drooled over: it had a 430ci Lincoln Interceptor J-code engine, power steering, power brakes, power windows, power seat and a new power top. It had Kelsey Hayes wire rims, front to back chrome accents, and it was smear and dirt free. What made it a little off was the convertible top: stuck, half up, half down. Barry began a low round of giggles. Todd gave him the look, but laughed himself when Barry told him that it looked like it didn’t know if it was coming or going.

Nothing was found to identify the owner.  No VIN numbers, license plate, papers in the car. No stickers on the inside of the car doors, and nothing under the hood. Todd knew that the last of these beauties were produced in August of that year. It was too pristine to be any older. He thought it be something if this was the very last one made.

The inside was spotless, until Todd and Barry ran their dusty, greasy hands all over while they searched. They marred the doors, dashboard, red vinyl seats with white inserts, and even the shiny body. No matter what, the trunk wouldn’t open. Another thing that spoiled the perfection of this vehicle. .

The realization that the forest had been dead quiet didn’t hit them until a series of clicking sounds came from behind them. First one side, then another. The clicking grew in volume and then stopped. They saw nothing. No movement of any kind. There was hardly any wind to blow the leaves high above, no animals loping through, and no bugs buzzing. Quiet surrounded the duo as their nerves started to wither. The sun started its descent. That was enough. Barry and Todd made a hasty retreat.

They made it back to their truck, and sped home. Todd’s wife, Daphne, listened as they went into the whole story, the Buck a ten pointer, the extra miles they chased it, and the Ford, the Thunderbird that had assaulted Daphne’s ears way too many times. Her arms were crossed and her right foot was tapping away. She thought they just drank the day away. The boys insisted. Insisted very loudly and with enough conviction that Daphne had enough. Best way to get some peace and quiet would be to put this in the hands of the Sheriff.

She settled back with a cold one in her hand. She closed her eyes as she heard the Sheriff’s Fairlane start and drive off.

Sheriff John Miner was close to retirement. Close enough that he really didn’t care if there was a car or not.  If he hadn’t gone against his instincts he might have lived long enough to hand in his badge and retire someplace warm. In the long run, he didn’t make it.

The search for the car was a bust. The Sheriff fumed as he dropped the two dopes outside the local bar.

Todd and Barry, meanwhile, made their story profitable, earning free drinks at the Barn House Bar from folks who wanted to know all the details.  As the telling went on, the story…grew. It wormed its way to nearby towns by weeks end, speculations growing along the way. Wherever Todd and Barry went drinking, they set more wheels spinning.

The searching was intense. Many said they found the trees and the clearing, but no TBird. Reports were passed around: the car was glimpsed in Jeffery Hallow. No; it shone brightly at the opening of the large bear cave on Decry Hill. One group said it was by a stream, others in different parts of the forest. Never any proof; it started to slide out of their minds with each disappointment. People stopped looking for the car.

Until a group of four High School students went looking, and they did not come home.

Present Day

There was a car in the woods.

Charred. Rusted. Busted.

Picked clean. Shell just a remainder.

No road. No reason. Just there.

Not always in the same place, but there.

No one knew anything, the how or the why.

Tales grew around it.

Some said haunted. Some said the Devil parked it there. Maybe a UFO, with all the disappearances. Or not. No one was really sure. Most didn’t want to know.

I knew.

There was a car in the woods.

 

********************************************************************

Author’s Note:

Welcome to the 2019 AtoZ Blog Challenge. This is my sixth year participating, going back to 2011, the year I started Tale Spinning.

My theme this year is A Car In The Woods. First installment is above. Not every post will be this long. Length will vary. I just needed the “prologue” to set the tone.

Each time I’ve participated has been very different, from Mystery to Horror, from an Apartment Building’s residents to Road Sign drabbles. I just let the creative juices flow.

A Car In The Woods, as stands right now, will be a serialized tale with some interludes. Kind of like last year’s The Abysmal Dollhouse, but, hopefully, a bit tighter. That’s my goal. We’ll see where it goes.

Comments/Feedback is always appreciated. Check out other blogs who are taking this April’s challenge by clicking on The Master List. You’ll find a variety of blogs that you might enjoy.

TOMORROW, #AtoZ…A Car In The Woods

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A CAR IN THE WOODS

Imagine this…

A writer of blogs, caught in the web of his own making. Unaware of the passing of time.

April 1st didn’t loom.

It pounced, claws sharpened and out, eviscerating the calm he thought he had.

This was a writer with ideas, semi-plans, an insidious inner laugh that sometimes made its way to the surface.

What happens when said writer, so caught up in the travails of his daily life, his existence teetering on the edge of the basest of sanity and the fathomless abyss of madness and despair, is faced with producing 26 tales designed to strike deep in the souls of his readers?

Tune in April 1st, for he is about to enter…

63334-atoz2019tenthann

do do do do, do do do

 

AtoZ Blogging Challenge: Theme Reveal

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#AtoZChallenge 2019 Tenth Anniversary badge

AtoZ Blogging Challenge: Theme Reveal

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

Starting Monday, April 1, 2019, the AtoZ Blog Challenge begins again.

This will be my sixth time that I am throwing my creative hat into the challenge. I have mainly produced serialized stories that work as short chapters. They have been of various successes, judging by the commentary and friendships I have developed through the challenge.

I am working on taking last year’s story line (The Abysmal Dollhouse) and re-working it into a novel. I’ve been working on it since May/June of last year. That’s why there haven’t been any TAD stories here since the end of April.

So, surprise.

I still love The Case Files of Inspector Khazarian Rovas (April 2016) and The Apartment Building: Swan Rise series (April 2012). I hope to return to both of those one day and take them  to the next step, as well as The Kitsune-Mochi Saga (not an AtoZ story).

AND NOW, THE 2019 THEME REVEAL

A CAR IN THE WOODS



1959. An abandoned car is found in the woods, not near any road, surrounded by trees that left little room for a car to wind up where this one did.

It was discovered by hunters Todd Wilson and Barry Carter. They were following an 8 point Buck for a long winding chase. The Buck kept his life that day. Todd and Barry stopped in their tracks when the sun, which could barely peek through the dense foliage, glinted off something shiny where nothing shiny should have been.

The car they found was in near pristine condition. A cherry red Thunderbird convertible with a 430ci Lincoln Interceptor J-code engine, power steering, power brakes, power windows, a power seat and a new power top.

Nothing was found to identify the owner or even how it got there. Retracing their tracks, they made it back to their truck, eventually, as they got lost once or twice,  and high tailed it to the sheriff’s office.

Inquiries were made. Nothing came of it. It was a puzzle to Sheriff John Miner for the rest of his life, which wasn’t as long lived as he had hoped it would be.

Todd and Barry, meanwhile, made their find profitable, earning free drinks at the Barn House Bar from folks who wanted to know all the details.  As the tellings went on, the story…grew. And it spread to nearby towns, especially one where Todd and Barry went drinking.

People searched for the car. They traveled the forest, thought they saw it, but didn’t. It was the talk of the county. The searching went on for a short while.

Until a group of four High School students did not come home. Neither did a couple of people from the first search party. Then a few more in the second group, looking for both the kids and the two adults who were nowhere to be found.

Then, the stories began.


I hope you return for the 26 parts of A Car In The Woods. Comments are always welcome.

If you are interested in joining the AtoZ Blog Challenge, you still have time to sign up. Just click HERE and you will be directed to their home page with all the info you will need. Good luck if you do. It’s a lot of fun. Either way, I hope you come back and see where the Car takes us, as well as visiting other blogs that have joined in the fun.

“Greetings To You, Whoever You Are” : #FridayFictioneers

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jhc-asylum

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Greetings To You, Whoever You Are

[*The following BabbelFish translation: EstProcul; Dwarf Planet; Temperat System]

Hover Hold set. Primary observation mode enacted.”

“There’s something not seen every day.”

“What is, Supreme Commander?”

“These. Jumping on each other, rolling, making noises, [untranslatable].”

“Disgusting, Supreme Commander.”

“Quite.”

“Supreme. That one moved. It has inserted a tube in the other.”

“Feeding?”

“So it appears, Supreme. Data lacking. Wait; they’re [untranslatable] again.”

“My OralArms [best translation] writhe. This gives a feeling of [untranslatable] and [untranslatable].”

“Home, Supreme?”

“Yes. No. Wait. What the [untranslatable]? Jaunt now. Jaunt!”

“Jaunting, Supreme. Passing Heliopause…now.”

“Deviants. ‘Greetings to you, whoever you are’ my [untranslatable]. Ha!”

*************************************************************
Author’s Note:

OK: I saw the thing outside the window, and this is where my mind went: alien spacecraft. BTW, they are undocumented, so shhhhh.

The title is one of the greetings on the Golden Disc inside Discovery, launched 1977. Where it all winds up, no one knows.

It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to join in:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.

T.P. : #FridayFictioneers

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from-renee-heath

PHOTO PROMPT © Renee Heath

T.P.

Tsohanoai, Tklehanoai, and Coyote sat, admiring their work.

“Told ‘ya.” Coyote grinned.

“Yes. You did. Right as day.”

“Or night.” Tklehanoai countered.

“Hmmph,” Tsohanoai grunted.

“When I’m right, I’m right. And…”

“You’re always right,” they answered, shaking heads, in unison.

“S’what happens with both feet on the ground.”

“Or paws,” Tsohanoai beamed.

“Four, actually,” Tklehanoai twinkled.

They all chuckled.

Coyote stood, affixed his Stetson, ears perking up.

“Is that…?” they asked, in harmony.

“Yup. White-Buffalo-Woman. Date night. See ya.”

 “Who knew 4-ply was even a thing?”

“Worked better than 2-ply.”

The Tipi was strong, as long as it wasn’t squeezed.

*************************************************************
Author’s Note:

It’s #Friday Fictioneers prompt time, as always created and hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields on her blog, Addicted To Purple.

The rules are simple if you’d like to join in:

    1. Use the photo on Addicted to Purple as your prompt (goes up on Wednesday).
    2. Write a 100 word story, complete with beginning, middle, and end.
    3. Make every word count.
    4. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor of the photo credit.
  1. Add the InLinkz button (below) so your readers can find the dozens of other bloggers who have taken up this challenge.