F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Short Stories

A Conversation With Hell

by

Don't Answer It. (Image by Holger.Ellgaard [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Don’t Answer It. (Image by Holger.Ellgaard [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
This story appears to be the first (or among the first) story I’d written as an adult and began recording, as I got full time into writing as a business. As an ongoing intent. From my earliest records, it appears I’d written this in May or June of 1987. I was 26 years old. It is my first writing entry into my writing log, which I’ve kept ever since. On May 6, 1987, I sent a letter to the Library of Congress for copyright forms. On June 1, 1987, I’d sent this story out to Writer’s Gazette, TheMind’s Eye, 2AM Magazine, Pleiades Magazine, and SCIFANT (I don’t know if this is the “SCIFANT” from all those years ago, but there’s the link).

My very first entry into my writing log, however, is the following:

Contacted Dr. Clifford Bennett about publishing “Hope,” “Conversation,” “Love”. He died May 4, 1987 (82 years old).

You can see there were other stories I was working on.

Dr. Bennett was in the publishing/writing world, and I no longer remember how I discovered him (maybe it was a referral from some critique group I was in at the time). For some reason, I also remember Dr. Bennett performing hypnosis, and we’d worked a couple times with some hypnosis sessions. Anyway, I’d met with him a couple times, then I remember he was “hard to get hold of,” and soon afterward I’d learned that he’d died. His obituary is posted after this story. Dr. Bennett was my first contact with “the publishing industry” and the first “professional” to help me with my writing. I wish I remembered more about him.

Anyway, this story harkens back to my straight horror writing days. It’s not one of my best, but it’s short and sweet. It needed some clean-up.

Inspiration? Aside from today’s telemarketers, we’ve all gotten wrong numbers. In today’s world there’s the “butt dialing” phenomenon. But back when I wrote this, in 1987, we just had plain old wrong numbers.

This story had been published in SCIFANT #8, May 5, 1988.

 

A Conversation With Hell

© F. P. Dorchak, 1987

Ring!

Ring!

“Hello? Hello!”

It was the same thing. The same thing for the past month. Will Garret had made a brief jaunt back to his house to pick up some papers he had forgotten. No sooner had he stepped into the hallway, when the phone rang.

A crackling sound over the phone with no answer.

Who was it? Was there a problem with the phone?

He’d already had it checked.

A bad line?

Nope, had that checked too.

A prankster?

Definite possibility.

Whatever it was, it had gotten annoying a long time ago. These calls came at all hours of the day, none of them consistent in time. Some would come at two in the afternoon, while others would come at three in the morning.

He hung up; no use prolonging the agony.

Will stepped back from the phone and watched it. Then to his surprise (and then again, maybe not), it rang again. He let it ring a few more times, he couldn’t not answer it.

He just had to know who wa—

“Hello?”

“Hello,” came the smooth as silk reply. It was a masculine voice.

“Who is this?” Will asked, more than a little irritated.

“Uh…Fred Tarpenton…of Tarpenton Buick,” came the reply.

“Oh—I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge…I’ve been getting these crank calls, and—”

“Not to worry, apology accepted.”

A promotional call from a car dealer. Not interested, but figured he might as well listen for a while, considering the way he’d answered the phone.

After hanging up the phone, he went back to work. A corporate executive is a busy guy.

At his office, Will slaved over extensive paperwork on the merging of a new client. His huge oak desk was filled with reams of paper, a coffee cup was buried underneath the piles, somewhere. His phone rang and he absentmindedly fumbled for it.

“Yes,” he said, his reply neutral, distracted.

Over the receiver came that familiar crackling sound.

He shot up from his desk, hurtling the phone across his office. He moved behind his chair and gripped it in tightly.

It had been bad enough that he had been getting these calls for the past three and a half weeks…but they’d been confined to his home. This is the first time he had ever gotten one at work.

“Miriam!”

He was already on his way into reception, where his administrator worked. “Miriam, did you just forward me a call?”

“No, Mr. Garret, why?”

Will forced himself to calm down, no use letting his charges think he’s losing his grip on reality.

“Oh, nothing…nothing.” He turned and returned to his office. He told Miriam to hold all calls.

Back in his office he sat back down. This was getting out of hand. He looked to the mess over by the wall. Guess hadn’t really needed to have Miriam hold his calls. Have to get a new phone now.

It was nearing nine o’clock as he entered his driveway. It had been a tough but profitable day. He exited his car and entered the house. He’d just opened the front door, when the phone rang. Will slowly closed the door behind him and cautiously approached the ringing instrument.

It continued to ring as he put his briefcase down. Reached for the receiver.

“Hello?”

Crackle.

“Who is this?”

Crackle.

“What do you want from me? Money? I’ll give you anything you want, just—”

Crackle.

Crackle.

“Fuck.” Will slammed the receiver down and reached for the wall jack, unplugged the phone and the other two he owned. If nothing else, he was determined to get some sleep tonight.

The next day was bright and sunny and Garret awoke in an excellent mood. There had been no phone calls to wake him. He ate a well prepared breakfast, read the paper and began to leave for work.

He felt as though he could take on the world!

Standing in the doorway, he thought it better to reconnect at least one phone, and backtracked in, reconnecting the living room extension. As soon as the contacts connected, the instrument rang.

“Answer this, buddy!” he said, and flipped off the phone.

The phone continued ringing.

It was a busy day, as usual. Business calls, meetings, paperwork and more paperwork. It was 4:05 p.m. and he thought it best to leave a little early today. He began clearing off his desk—

Ring!

Ring! Ring!

“Oh come on, Miriam, where the hell are you?”

After several rings, he grabbed the phone.

“Yes?”

Crackle.

FOOOOOOOSH!

A bright yellow-orange bolt of flame shot out of the receiver, searing straight through Garret’s skull. Not stopping there the flame wrapped itself several times around his head, burning flesh dripping like wax from his charring skull.

Will did get a chance to utter a shriek, but that was about all.

He dropped the receiver as he tried to stand up, his hands going up to his incinerated head. Tiny flames sputtered around what had been his nose and left ear.

Miriam burst in just in time to see him sink back down into the plush executive’s chair. The dying flames and smoke continued to issue from the blackened remains of what had been his head. The carnage was total.

Miriam stood, frozen, at the entrance unable to move.

Garret’s body from the neck down was untouched. It twitched a few times then lay still, arms hanging to their sides, his head cocked to one side and smoldering. A few feet from Will’s body on the floor lay the still flaming receiver. Several defiant flames still licked at the handset. Had Miriam her sanity, she would have heard the faint echoes of a demonic chuckle.

Out in reception, a phone rang….

 

Dr. Clifford Bennett Obituary, 1987
Dr. Clifford Bennett Obituary, 1987

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

The Chain Letter

by

Pass it Foreword! It Work! (Image by F. P. Dorchak, © 2015)
Pass it Foreword! It Work! (Image by F. P. Dorchak, © 2015)

Back before e-mail and the Internet, there were these things called “chain letters.” Actual letters that randomly circulated to the “unlucky” for immediate global dissemination and unheralded good luck upon the recipient. I received the exact chain letter in this story, and—except for the rest of this story—did exactly what Tyler Stevens did in the beginning of the story: dissected it for shits-and-grins. I had time on my hands back then.

Had these things started out as gags or bullying tactics?

Who knows.

I don’t believe in them. Chucked it or shredded it all those many years ago.

But then again…I am still waiting for my publishing career to take off….

I’m also changing up my short story links to my Short Story page. It’s much easier to manage all the links than putting them all down at the bottom of each post, which I have to constantly update and approve—individually—each time I post a story.

This story has never been published. Or copied. Or propagated. Or….

 

The Chain Letter

© F. P. Dorchak, 1994

 

“This paper has been sent to you for good luck. The original copy is in New England: It has been around the world nine times. The luck has now been sent to you, providing you act on it. You will receive good luck within four days of recieving this letter provided you sent it back out. THIS IS NO JOKE. You will receive it in the mail.

“Send copies to people you know. Don’t send money, as Fatehas no price. Do not keep this letter. It must leave your hands within 96 hours. An R.A.F. officer received $70,000.00. Jim Teller recieved $40,000.00 and lost it because he broke the chain. While in the Phillipines, George Weh lost his wife six days after recieving the letter. He failed to circulate the letter, however, before her death she won $50,000.00 in a lottery. The money was transferred to him four days after he decided to mail out this letter.

“Send 20 copies of htis letter and see what happens in four days. The chain comes from Venezuela and was written by Samir de Tressoint, a missionary from South America. Since the copy must have a tour of hte world, you must maske 20 copies and send them out or suffer possibly dire consequences. This is true, even if you are not superstitious.

“Beware: Cervantes Diego received the chain in 1943. He asked his secretary to make 20 copies and send them out. A few days later he won a lottery of two million dollars. Arian Dardamaix, an office employee, received the letter and forgot it had to leave his hands within 96 hours. He lost his job. Later, after finding the letter again, he mailed out 20 copies. A few days later he got a better job. Darian Fairfax received the letter and not believing threw it away. Nine days later he died. Be fair warned!

“Don’t ignore this!

“IT WORK!”

 

“What the hell is this?” Tyler Stevens asked himself, turning over the letter. The quality of the lettering was poor, no doubt because of repeated copying, and there were stains on its tri-folded and crinkled paper.

“Shit, this guy can’t even spell ‘receive.’ And what’s with this have-good-luck-or-die business?”

Tyler had just returned home from a game of tennis with his girlfriend, Dyanne Foster, and he was tired, sweaty, and hungry. He was in no mood for stupid human tricks. On his way to the hot, comforting, spray of a shower, he cast aside the letter.

The chain letter quietly smoldered under the table.

 

Tyler sat in front of his television, spaced out to some documentary that droned on about middle America and the construction industry. Getting up, he went over to where he last remembered tossing the letter, found it, and picked it up. It seemed somewhat more wrinkled than he recalled.

Fucking chain letters.

He wondered how much time he had before death or dismemberment.

Four days. 96 hours.

He took the letter back with him to the couch and Reread it. Several things immediately stood out.

First, beyond the obvious imperfections in English and punctuation (and he was no expert), why would somebody who claimed to be a missionary send out a threatening letter? Good luck!—but disregard this and you die! Just what kind of missionary would this person be? And wouldn’t de Tressoint himself (or whoever possessed the original letter) himself die? The letter did say not to retain it, so who could be in possession of an original?

And next, how does this person know that the letter made one let alone nine trips around the world? If its sole purpose was to make that trip—which it had apparently already had—then why was it necessary to continue?

And just what did the original look like? Assuming that the letter actually brought about money and employment, it had to exist prior to the deeds themselves. So, this being the case, the incidents cited had to be added after the fact—which meant that the letter had to have been tampered with.

Provided, of course, all of this was for real. Which it wasn’t.

So who did the tampering?

And who the hell were Jim Elliot, George Weh, Arian Dardamaix, and Darren Fairfax, anyway? Made-up names, no doubt. And how do we know that their specific “luck” was directly attributable to this particular piece of paper and not something else? How do we also know that some prim and proper English Royal Air Force Officer would even remotely admit to such a humiliating act as this? Officers, let alone British officers were bastions of strength and logic—not prone to silly superstitions and patronizing threats.

Tyler set the letter aside and went into the kitchen. He grabbed a wine cooler from the refrigerator, returned to the couch, and continued to pick apart the letter.

It was really no big deal that a husband inherited money from a deceased wife. Sure, it was a bummer his wife kicked after winning all that money, but wasn’t something like that a legal given? And how do we know that the woman who kicked wasn’t already well on her way to begin with?

Same with the others who’d died.

And the man who asked his secretary to make copies for him—how many businessmen (like those British officers) do you know who’d admit to being superstitious even if they were? Citing names didn’t lend any more credibility to a piece of fraud then the paper it was written on.

But back to the “original.”

What might it look like?

Tyler fumbled through a coffee-table drawer and came up with a number-three pencil. He hated being threatened, which was exactly what this letter was doing. He began lining out everything that couldn’t possibly have been in an original, and corrected any misspellings. The end result turned out something like this:

 

“This paper has been sent to you for good luck! The original copy is in New England. The luck has now been sent to you, providing you act on it. You will receive good luck within four days of receiving this letter provided you send it back out. THIS IS NO JOKE. You will receive it in the mail.

“Send copies to people you know. Don’t send money, as Fate has no price. Do not keep this letter. It must leave your hands within 96 hours.

“Send out 20 copies of this letter and see what happens in four days. The chain comes from Venezuela. Since the copy must have a tour of the world, you must make 20 copies and send them out. This is true, even if you are not superstitious. Be fair warned!

“Don’t ignore this!

“IT WORKS!“

 

Aside from the suffering “…possibly dire consequences,” and “Be fair warned,” which didn’t fit the overall tone of the letter, there was no mention of death or destruction—just that it had to leave the hands of the recipient and make a tour of the world if good luck was to be had.

Now that sounded more like something a missionary might send.

Next question: who would add to the letter (okay, so this one wasn’t all that difficult—any Tom, Dick, or Harriet who felt so inclined over the years)? But who could possibly even know what had happened to these people, and (more importantly) what had happened as a direct result of this letter?

Not possible. It was all fiction.

Tyler looked for the envelope, a torn and crumpled ball in the brown Albertson’s shopping bag he used as a trash receptacle. Who would have sent this to him? Of course there was no return address…and his address (which was a qualified correct with its missing apartment number and typoed street address) wasn’t even centered on the envelope. Instead, it sat skewed high and to the envelope’s left of center. His last name was typed first. The zip code was correct only after a wrong digit had been over-typed. This couldn’t have been anyone who knew him. On a hunch he went to the phone book. Sure enough, the address used was the one listed in the white pages, which had no mention of his apartment number, or zip code.

Clearly a class act.

There was just no way that certain things could possibly have been known in this letter. It was either that the letter—the original—was real and subsequently altered, thereby making the one he had no longer valid, or that it was written up as-is and sent out—definitely a hoax. Or—

There were other means involved.

Supernatural means.

“Bullshit.”

Tyler again trashed it.

 

The remainder of the week continued uneventfully and Tyler all but forgot about his chain letter—except for the rare moment or two when he found himself inexplicably making twenty copies of a magazine article…or the phone bill. Or buying that box of Mead 100 (twenty-times-five), white, 4 1/8 by 9 1/2-inch envelopes.

After finishing a later than usual work-out session at the gym, Tyler came home and showered. Afterward he soon fell into a deep sleep and slept soundly until three in the morning, when an uneasiness invaded his dreams. It was as if he dreamed of nothing but blackness…a deep, evil blackness that never ended. He tossed about in bed, unable to awaken…unable to break the dream’s hold.

The dream-darkness expanded within him like icicles of terror were actually invading his body. He dreamed of a beautiful woman who came to him from afar…a woman who seductively pressed herself against him…taunted and seduced him. They entwined…consummated. The scent of their lovemaking cloying, rich. The woman lay beside him, face down. He couldn’t look to her without becoming again instantly, painfully aroused. Slowly, he reached out to her. She rolled over to his touch…

“Come fuck me again,” she hissed.

The woman’s once-beautiful face was now misshapen and hideous. Punctuated with open sores and something running just beneath the surface of her odious, discolored skin. Her eyes were black and pupil-less and ran freely with a discolored puss. She cackled at Tyler, and he vomited. A wicked tongue shot out of the hag’s black, distorted mouth-that-looked-more-like-a-gash and licked up the vomit. Tyler tried to run…to break the hag’s dominance, but the hag’s tongue split apart and wrapped around his face, his torso, and down around his

 

Tyler shot up in bed and screamed, frantically running his hands all over his body.

A river of sweat ran off him.

He fell over in bed—then uttered another shriek as he fell onto the side of the bed where the hag was and whipped his body over to the other side of the bed.

His screams slowly died in his throat as he buried his face into the bedsheets and clawed them from their tucks and folds….

Opening his eyes he stared into the red glow of his alarm clock.

Three-ten, no, -eleven.

Stop. Regroup.

Closed his eyes, still clawing at the bedsheets

The room smelled differently….

A nightmare.

Sweating, he slowed his breathing to a more normal rate and rolled back over. Cast a quick look to where the hag had ben—in his dream.

Empty. That side of the bed was empty…no vomit, no pus, no….

He reached down to himself. He uttered a sound of disgust. Wet dream, alright.

His stomach revolted.

He rolled over onto his side…and came face to face with the puss-leaking, diseased face from his nightmare. She lay in bed beside him, tongue flicking in and out of her knotted gash-of-a-mouth.

“Come fuck with me,” she croaked.

Her noxious and grating words blasted through Tyler like a pair of cranked, thousand-watt speakers.

Tyler squealed like a stuck pig and exploded out of bed, blankets and sheets still wrapped around him. He tripped over himself and the attached sheets and smashed over one of his dressers’ lamps as he vacated the room in one gigantic bound. In the darkness he ran into a wall and

come fuck with me I love a good fuck

laid himself out—

come fuck with me I love a good fuck

—but just as he was blacking out, Tyler saw the hag descend upon and straddle his….

come fuck with me I love a good fuck….

 

Tyler awoke groggily and leaned up against the bedroom doorjamb. Felt the painful bump and dried blood on his forehead. The bathroom lights were still on, but were now paled against the early morning sunlight. His mouth felt like an empty tree trunk with moss growing inside it and his neck was as stiff as a two-by-four. He slowly picked himself up and twisted the kinks out of his body. Looked to the blankets tangled in his legs.

How had he gotten here?

Tyler looked back to his bedroom. One of his lamps missing.

He shuffled out from the tangled sheets and returned to the bedroom. Found the lamp scattered about the carpet like a murder victim, its bulb smashed and lampshade torn.

His bed was deserted.

All his sheets were in a pile that lead into the hallway, where he had awoken. He threw himself down on the bed.

What the hell’d happened?

Clammy and shaking, Tyler didn’t feel at all well. Pushing himself up off the bed, his hand narrowly missed a dried, discolored stain on the sheets.

And there was just a hint of pungency to the air….

Nothing a good shower couldn’t fix.

 

After buying new, 60-watt light bulbs and a lampshade, Tyler hurriedly rushed home to clean up and meet Dyanne for their one p.m. tennis date. Showers were great, but when the hot water ran out it was time to get moving. It wasn’t that Tyler had a shower fetish, but there did seem to be nothing a warm shower couldn’t remedy and that’s what he loved about them.

Changing quickly, he made it out to the courts. Dyanne stood by the fence, waiting impatiently.

“What took you so long?” she asked, her words laced more than a little with annoyed attitude. Her racket swung casually from her two-fingered, I’m-not-at-all-happy-with-you-right-now grip. “These courts are severely booked—”

“I’m sorry, honey, but I had a rough night—”

“Oh?” she said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

Oh, that accusatory eyebrow.

“No-no-no, that’s not what I meant—I mean, I did have a rough night—but not from—look, I had a nightmare and ended up sleeping on the hallway floor, okay? Had to replace a broken lamp.”

Dyanne’s I’m-pissed look took on a softer look. “Excuse me?”

“The funny thing is, I can’t remember a damned thing about it, just that it scared the crap out of me.”

Embarrassed, Dyanne lowered her voice and uncrossed her arms.

“I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I just had to pick up some new light bulbs and a new shade. I broke a lamp.”

“God, what happened? Can’t you remember any of it?” She moved in closer, brushing away some of Tyler’s bangs.

“Nope. Just that something literally scared the piss out of me. But, it was just a dream—now, let’s play some tennis!”

 

Dyanne and Tyler were deep into their second match, the score 30-40. Dyanne served the ball. Fault. Her next serve made it, but drew Tyler to the far end of the court. He barely snagged the shot before his own return forced Dyanne up to the net. Her return forced Tyler back to the rear and caused him to miss. Deuce.

Dyanne retrieved the ball and again served, spiking this one just inside the white rectangle. It whizzed past Tyler, who missed the most perfect serve he’d ever see.

“Ha, lover, my game! Oww….”

Dyanne was so cute in her pink shorts as she pirouetted about the court.

“Nother game, hon-ey?”

“Sure, but this time I win!”

Tyler set up and served. Dyanne picked it up easily enough and her return sent Tyler scurrying back across court. She was giving him a good workout, but his quick backhand sliced it to a sharp left. Dyanne rushed to meet it…and missed it by a hair.

The next scene suddenly slowed down.

Like a person unsure of what it was he was witnessing, Tyler watched as Dyanne performed a neatly executed forward spin from the momentum of her missed swing…her racket slowing left her hands and flew into the chain-link fence. She spun around for a second turn, moving backwards and towards the chain-link fence that enclosed the courts…her hands going up before her face.

She smiled just as she clenched the galvanized, crisscrossed wires of the fence.

Something’s wrong here, Tyler sensed, terrible wrong….

He couldn’t have known that a section of the fence’s wire had raised itself into tiny little barbs just where Dyanne’s hands were now planting themselves…but that’s exactly what happened.

As Dyanne made contact, she screamed…

And life returned to normal play.

Tyler sprinted across the court to Dyanne, who was now cupping her hands into her chest. Tyler leapt over the net and quickly came to her, her a tight grimace of pain.

“What’s the matter—what’s the matter—are you all right? Dyanne?”

Tyler crouched down on the court. She was in a heap, leaning back against the fence. “Dyanne—let me see!”

Tyler pulled her hands away from her chest and saw the blood that remained on her shirt and exposed skin of her upper chest. Lots of it.

Taking her bloody hand into his, Tyler felt his stomach

(come fuck with me I love a good fuck)

knot.

Her hand was torn to pieces.

Most of the flesh on the underside of her palm and fingers had been brutally torn away.

“Oh my…God. We’ve got to get you to a doctor!”

The other players on the court had now all stopped their games and looked on. Some turned away in disgust.

“Someone, please,” Tyler pleaded, “call an ambulance—please!” One man broke free from his daze and ran off in search of the payphone.

Tyler looked up to the fence where Dyanne’s hand had landed only seconds before and found it stood as nonchalant as ever—and there were indeed raised barbs on it. There were also droplets of blood…and what looked exactly like bits of Dyanne’s skin clinging to those barbs.

Come fuck with me—I love a good fuck….

 

Tyler took Dyanne home to her apartment and stayed with her. She looked so vulnerable…so helpless…and reminded him of a puppy, named Sheena, he’d once had as a kid. Sheena had been running loose one day, as did most dogs out in the country, when she finally met the front-end bumper of a ’67 Ford truck. She’d managed to limp off to the roadside, but could go no further and collapsed in the tall grasses, her left rear leg broken. The driver, a farmer from down the road, felt terrible and took her to the local vet, footing her bill. Sheena was back on her feet in no time, her rear leg bandaged in white and her tail wagging, but whenever it rained the family had to wrap her leg in plastic bags until she healed. Needless to say, she never ran free again.

So there rested Dyanne, her right hand bandaged white and lying on her chest, which rose and fell to her (finally) relaxed breathing. They had watched television all night and it was quite clear that Dyanne had plans that evening that totally involved a quiet night’s rest. As she fell asleep on her couch, Tyler picked her up and carried her into her bedroom. He gently lay her down in bed, took off her bathrobe, and eased her beneath the crisp bedsheets. Once she was properly situated, Tyler also disrobed and slid in beside her. He loved the feel of her warm skin against his and wrapped his arms around her. He fell asleep thinking about how much he loved her and hoped she’d be okay.

 

The alarm clock had gone off several minutes before either had noticed it, but Dyanne was the first to stir. She slammed it off with her bandaged hand and winced from the impact. She turned to Tyler, who still lay with his arms around her. Very mindful of her injury, Dyanne repositioned herself and kissed Tyler on the forehead.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead.”

Tyler stirred, eyes still closed. Dyanne gave him another kiss, then nudged him slightly.

“C’mon, honey, time to get up. I’ve got to get to work.”

This time Tyler responded with a soft smile.

“Hi.”

“Hello, morning breath.” She smiled back. “What do you want to eat?”

Tyler said nothing, but instead rolled in closer to her.

“Fine, be that way, I’m taking a shower.”

Dyanne climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, starting the shower.

“Don’t let that bandage get wet,” Tyler shouted from the other room. “Wrap it in a

(Sheena)

bag or something—”

“Don’t worry, I heard the doctor too!” Dyanne said. Poking her head back into the bedroom, she added, “But thanks for caring.”

“Any…time.”

Dyanne felt silly doing it, but she got out a used Oroweat bread bag from the kitchen and wrapped it around her bandage. Using a large rubber band saved from many paper deliveries she secured it and returned to the shower. She tested the water before entering by inserting her good hand. By this time Tyler was ready for movement and slowly crawled out of bed. He took in the sounds of running water and Dyanne’s periodic splashing sounds from the shower.

Smiled. Got out of bed.

“May I join you?” Tyler asked, entering the shower stall.

“Anytime, stranger.”

“May I soap that gorgeous body of yours?”

“It depends on what else you have in mind.”

“Watch the hand—”

“Riiight,” she said, and came in closer.

 

Come fuck with me, I love a good fuck.

 

As the next few days progressed, Tyler found himself accumulating scars and bruises of all kinds…just little ones here and there, and in themselves they wouldn’t have been any big deal—except that Tyler collected them for no apparent reason. He’d wake up with a new one (or two) each morning. Dyanne, of course, also detected them and Tyler explained them away as one of those periods in life when you seemed to be the world’s klutziest person and there was nothing you could do about it.

But everywhere he turned things went wrong.

Checks bounced…a twenty-hour bug found a home…and yesterday he scraped the side of a car as he parallel parked—and he prided himself on how good a parallel-parker he was.

Tyler and Dyanne went for a walk after a late lunch at la Petite Conchon. Early evening rapidly approached and traffic was a bit on the heavy side as people headed home for an early weekend.

“Thanks for lunch, hon,” Tyler said.

“It was the least I could do after all you seemed to be going through this week. I wanted to do something special. Maybe it’ll break the

(twenty copies)

(raised barbs)

“spell, or whatever.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. Let’s cross here,” Tyler said, checking traffic. “I’ve got to get going. There’s something I need to do.”

“Okay,” Dyanne said, smiling, “but first, this—” She pulled Tyler into her arms and planted him with a deep, lengthy kiss. “I love you!”

Tyler held her with a penetrating look.

“And I love you—more than anything else in the world—now, come on!”

Grabbing her good hand, Tyler led her out into the street, a section of the traffic now clear, but as Dyanne followed, her pocketbook bumped against her side and out fell her checkbook. Halfway across the road.

“Wait!”

“Wait what? We’re in the middle of traffic!” Tyler came to a halt three-quarters of the way across the street.

“I dropped something!” Dyanne broke his grip and went back for her checkbook.

Tyler searched the road for what Dyanne had dropped.

Everything slowed down….and came the whispers…

…come fuck with me, I love a good fuck…

…come fuck with me, I love a good fuck…

…comefuckwithmeIloveagoodfuckcomefuckwithmecomefuck—

Tyler turned to see a large, black car moving towards them. He opened his mouth to scream—but nothing came out.

Dyanne bent down to pick up the book

(come fuck with me I love a good fuck)

and looked up to him, a smile across her face as she triumphantly waved the errant checkbook at him.

Come fuck with me I love a good fuck!

He saw her look around for traffic.

comefuckwithmeagoodfuckIlove

Saw her spot the car.

a good fuck a really good fuck

Saw her arms go up.

I love it I love it

Her hips connected first.

The sound of her bones breaking against the metal reverberated hollowly in a universe gone lag.

A good fuck I love

Tyler saw her head and face unite with the windshield in a spurt of gore and glass…her teeth and gums gnashed horribly together.

One of Dyanne’s hands flopped off to one side of the car as she molded to the hood.

And that was not all Tyler had seen.

He saw the face of the driver…the face of the hag from his nightmare.

The lightbulb.

The stained bedsheets.

The nightmare.

Dyanne’s body rolled off the vehicle and landed with a thump. Bumped about once or twice more before coming to a rest.

For what seemed an eternity, her head lolled limply from side to side.

The car continued on in its course.

Tyler was unable to move. Forced to watch. He realized what kind of car had hit her.

A hearse.

 

Tyler was still shaking when he got home. He’d spent the rest of the day and half the night at the police station and related matters and could barely hold himself up. He was sick to his stomach.

But he had found the paper.

Did what had to be done.

Was spent…had no more will. Collapsed to the living-room floor, tears streaking his face. He lay still. Thought about George Weh’s wife and Darian Fairfax. About twenty-times-five and four-and-one-eighth-by-nine-and-one-half-inch envelopes.

Felt an unexpected urge for a shower.

(wash the sins)

Needed to.

Sobbing, he looked to the bathroom.

The light was on.

He didn’t remember turning it on…but that didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered. He’d lost Dyanne. Lost everything.

He dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom. Kicked off his shoes and removed his clothes.

Found the shower running.

Nice and

(it didn’t matter)

hot.

Steam filled the bathroom.

It just didn’t

(nothing did)

matter.

Naked and trembling, Tyler stepped into the shower and felt the warmth penetrate his skin. He collapsed into the bottom of the tub.

Whispers came from the spray.

(nothing mattered)

Did you have a good fuck?

“Fuck you!” Tyler yelled.

Did you have a good fuck? I did.

“Fuck you,” he sobbed and closed his eyes. The whispers chuckled.

The hag’s face formed in the mist above.

I had a great fuck, Tyler, now it’s your turn.

On ran the whispers. The face disappeared.

Tyler lay in the bottom of the tub, adrift in his misery. He ignored the fact that the shower had grown hotter (it didn’t matter); spikier (nothing mattered)….

It just didn’t matter one goddamned bit.

Tyler tried to right himself when he noticed that the water had become downright painful. Not hot painful, but spiked painful. He looked down to his body and saw the red.

Was it something in the water?

Felt disjointed. Resigned. He collapsed back inside the tub and let the warmth flow over him.

Through him.

Around him.

His last thoughts were of Dyanne.

Tiny daggers…no larger than short pins…screamed down from the thundering shower head and tore and ripped and penetrated into his body.

Ripped through his nerves and burst open his organs.

Razored blades that clattered down along the plastic surface towards the drain like iron filings to a magnet.

It wasn’t long before his heart had ruptured into an explosion of red that filled the tub and spattered the walls.

Tyler floated….

The water rained down upon him…washing away the filth….

The sins.

Tyler’s body lay empty.

It just didn’t matter anymore.

It never did.

 

At a rickety and battered table sat an ancient, diseased woman. Her hair was greasy and gray and her veins filled with bile and hate. Her life reeked of a different kind of cancer not of cigarettes or cells.

But she liked writing letters. Got real good at it, in fact.

Having no friends, she wrote them to no one in particular. She just wrote—not that many would willingly read what it was she had to say. She didn’t much like people, and that was okay, because people, it turned out, didn’t much care for her. She didn’t have a name, didn’t need one. People used names for identity. To be proud. She had no need of either.

She just wrote.

But this time she received a letter.

One that found its way to her doorstep.

She had no mailbox.

She found the letter while on the way to the woods with an eviscerated cat. She liked gutting cats, they were fun. Dogs were too big. She liked cats.

Collecting the letter in her rickety hands, which had no return address, she sat down at her table and inspected it.

Who would write her?

How did it get here? No matter, maybe she could return the favor.

She opened the splotched and unevenly sealed envelope and removed the contents. Unfolded the paper. She read the few, hastily scrawled words beneath the poorly typewritten paragraphs first. It was then that her yellowed orbs screamed wide. She heaved the letter away, which smoldered and disintegrated before it hit the floor.

Tried to outdistance what was to come.

The old lady tumbled furniture as she fled.

Heard noises in pursuit.

Ran into the living room. A wide, spacious living room. She used to be rich once. Had a big house.

The whispers grew, filled the building.

Words that became audible and loud.

You know what they whispered.

 

Pass it on. IT WORKS!

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

Kirschner Cover Art: "Clowns," by F. P. Dorchak

by

"Clowns," © F. P. Dorchak and Lon Kirschner, 2016.
“Clowns,” © F. P. Dorchak and Lon Kirschner, 2016.

Okay. Yes. I know…shameless, shameless self-promotion!

But I’ve wanted to talk about this cover since I first laid eyes on it…or it had laid eyes on me….

As I’d previously mentioned, I’d been (and still am) messing around with short stories, and had come across this one and decided to published it as its own stand-alone story. So, I turned to Lon Kirschner, who’d done a couple of my other covers. As always, Lon turned out a fantastic cover! It even reminded me of The Grievers, the cover he’d done for Marc Schuster, back in 2012 (and also involving clowns, by the way).

So, of course I want to talk about it!

When I first opened the file and looked at it, the very first thing I saw was the clown’s face…and I thought, ewwww…how frigging creepy! But…why is it starting at me through a slit?…a narrow opening…a…waaait a minuuute—

BOOM!

It hit me, just like that—the clown was staring at me from the blade of a knife!

I bust out laughing.

How frigging perfect!

I was walking around the house with my tablet looking at this thing and laughing my ass off. I just couldn’t take my eyes off it! What a perfect cover for my short-short story! The creepy clown face, the purple from its little clown-doll outfit, the kitchen knife, the script of the title—including the red “S”—all on a black background, which to me symbolizes the night/unknown! It was such a clean, subtle, no-nonsense creepy (have I mentioned this?!) cover!

I mean, our clown…the silly little dresser-top doll…the subtle way it’s peering out at us from the shiny knife blade is just like how I believe these little bastards are peering out at us from our dresser tops! Oh-so slyly…are they…or are they just staring ahead with their lifeless, beady little eyes?

Of course they’re staring at us!

This is what Lon had to say about creating my “Clowns” cover—which, by the way, was the first time he’d ever created a cover for a short story—I think you’ll really get a kick out of this:

“It did creep me out. I don’t really mind real clowns (although they are a little odd) but clown dolls are what I really find creepy. I also find some other types of dolls creepy but that might be just me. When we were kids we had a set of Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that my Aunt sent from her travels in Europe. They sat on the old radiator that was in the bedroom I shared with my sister when we were very young. I would wake up some times in the middle of the night and I would see them staring at me. Like your story. I still think they moved.

“The other issue with this cover was I knew you had high expectations for this and I felt a little under pressure to produce something that hinted at the story but didn’t give it all away.

“I wanted it very, very simple but have that disturbing feeling. I went back and forth with the alternate “S” in ‘Clowns.’ At first I thought it was a bit cliché, but then I thought it was a good way to bring in that murderous element without being overly gruesome and it did offset that typical circus lettering.

“My own clown issues and creating a successful piece all combined to create something a little difficult to work on, but in reality, once I got going it all fell into place rather quickly.

“I always start with some sort of rough idea. I knew I didn’t want to see the whole clown face and I knew I needed a knife, I just wasn’t exactly sure how they would all meld together.

“This is how I have always worked. Some people sketch it all out exactly but that never worked for me. I do make little sketches on Post-it notes to sort some things out, but that is usually as far as I go. I find the fun in moving things around and making my adjustments on the fly. I think I moved the image of the knife over at one point about a sixteenth of an inch. Then I was satisfied!”

I love this line: “I still think they moved“!

I also like how Lon didn’t want to “give it all away,” which I could see might be a little difficult to do in a quick short short story of less than 800 (713) words! But, he did it, I’m proud of him and his result, and I am still beside myself over the cover!

So…I hope you’ll excuse me for analyzing one of my own, but I’ve been wanting to talk about it since I got it. With my next Kirschner Cover Art post, I’ll go back to talking about other author covers….

But…for now…sleep with one eye open!

Do you know where your knives are?

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

Lon Kirschner may be contacted at:

Phone: 518/392-3823

E-mail: info@kirschnercaroff.com

Book Cover Site: http://www.lonkirschner.com/

Related Articles:

 

Snow Paper

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The Woods Hold Secrets. (Image by By Estormiz, own work [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Woods Hold Secrets. (Image by By Estormiz, own work [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Family tragedies, knives, deserted, wintry forests, wolves, and, well, the stuff of fantasy.

This is yet another story I don’t  remember writing, and was written in the early years (1989), but as I stumbled upon it, it just captured my fancy as such an odd little story. A cool one, so I moved it up in the line-up…especially since we just had a blizzard dumped on us (March 23rd), two days later, another eight inches. And this week? A couple more days of fast moving snow squalls. It’s still snowing outside my window….

This story has never been published.

 

Snow Paper

© F. P. Dorchak, 1989

“No! Don’t do it! Please, don’t—”

The shrill screams pierced through the frigid, moonlit night, originating behind the closed doors of a mountain cabin. Behind tattered, backlit curtains forms moved…jerked…flickering images engaged in a heated argument. Yelling. Pleading. Crying.

Outside, smoke from the chimney mixed with blowing snow.

“Daddy no!”

A gunshot.

Another.

Out from the door dove a dark form.

The shadow was far from maturity…short in height and small in frame…and it plunged directly into the several-foot-deep accumulation of snow. Behind the small-framed shadow—her—the door was left open.

“No! No-no-no-no-no!”

Shelain collapsed face-first into the snow.

“Mommy! Why? Daddy—why?”

But her cries only fell upon the hushed ears of a snow-packed forest.

Blood on her clothes.

Shelain lie face down in the snow, arms covering her head, and sobbed….

She looked up. Into the woods before her.

She didn’t need moonlight to see. She knew what was out there. Snow. And trees. Lots of both and little respite from either.

Shelain had grown up in this forest. She had always been a fast learner. In better times her parents had remarked at how good she’d been in finding her way back home while out hunting. That she could survive in the snow if she had to (she’d built her first igloo at the age of five), and that making fires and snaring food was now quite commonplace to her. Her parents knew she could survive, and so did Shelain. She was a tough little girl, and now she would be put through her right of passage.

Shelain didn’t understood what had happened between her father and mother, only that it had happened…and that was all that mattered just now. But she also knew she couldn’t live here anymore. This had been a home, now it was a tomb—and the living didn’t live in tombs.

She did not want to go back in there.

The woods were her only option. Yes, she would go there. She would go to the woods and find a new place. But before that was to happen, she needed things. And that meant…

Going back inside.

And she did not want to do that.

As soon as she got back up to her feet, she felt her head pound, like the outsides had moved too fast for the insides, and her insides were ready to explode…her heart….

Shelain stood. Wiped snow off herself, and turned.

Entered the cabin.

On the floor were—

She moved around them.

She was unable to take her eyes off what now lay on the floor.

But her father’s woods training and her mother’s practicality took over and she immediately set upon collecting what she needed. She grabbed food and clothes. Water wouldn’t be too much of a problem this time of the year, but she took a flask or two anyway. Putting on as many pieces of outer wear as she deemed practical and useful, she slung the pack over her back and

The floor still mocked her. She couldn’t ignore them.

Stooping, Shelain went to her father…unable to look directly at him. She searched around him before she found what she was looking for. Removing it, she put it into her jacket.

His hunting knife. Now it was hers.

Shelain went to her mother.

She was also unable to look directly at her. She went to her hand. Shelain removed the wedding band. Like gutting a trout or cleaning a rabbit, her emotions suddenly seemed turned off.

That was enough.

Pocketing the band she strode out the door, not bothering to close it.

She felt the crunch of the snow beneath her feet, and headed around to the side of the cabin, adjusting her pack. She pulled her snowshoes out from their snowy groves alongside the building and put them on. She’d gotten these two birthdays ago. She was very adept in them, even able to run in them, dodging in and around trees….

“It’s going to be a cold winter,” she said to no one. She stood back up and looked off into the moonlit night.

Off she trekked, into the dark tree line of the forest.

 

Shelain felt as if she was living one of those fairy tales her parents had so often read to her as a child.

But she was a child no longer.

As prepared as she was, she had forgotten two very important things. One was that she might not be as energetic about things after the shock and the jolt had worn off. Two, she had completely forgotten that she had not yet eaten that night.

She figured she’d been walking for several hours (this she did by the movement of the stars), and though she was young and strong, she needed food and rest, and now was as good a time as any to stop. Unloading her pack, she collapsed against a giant snow-covered fir, careful as to not knock any of the snow capping off. She might end up needing the tree as shelter and would need the snow for insulation.

Fishing through her pack’s contents, she removed a small salted slab of venison, immediately digging into it.

She watched the stars.

Then heard the noise.

Noises.

Only moving her eyes, she surveyed the dark…through the trees and back from the direction she’d come.

She’d been followed.

How stupid of her! She knew better!

The moon lit her trail, but that wasn’t all it had lit up. It also lit up a second trail which had veered off on its own into the woods mere paces away. It didn’t take an expert to know that she was being followed.

Wolves.

Shelain slowly placed the remainder of her venison on the snow.

She sat. Listened.

There came the low, throaty rumblings again….it was all around her.

She positioned her pack firmly in front of her; held it with both hands.

All her training had not prepared her for this. She was alone now, no father to get her out of this one. No mother.

Solo.

The rustling came closer, the growls no longer muted.

Shelain saw the wolves emerge from the darkness. She could actually see their eyes.

Four of them.

Slowly coming to a stand, Shelain kicked the chunk of venison toward the advancing pack. That tiny morsel wasn’t going to satisfy anything. She stayed close to the tree. Shelain felt her mind beginning to go limp…lose its focus.

Fear was taking over. She’d felt this once before.

The wolves closed in…formed a semi-circle….

They pounced!

Three went for the venison…but the fourth charged her.

Pack forced firmly out before her, Shelain managed to deflect the wolf off to the side, but it quickly got back up and resumed its attack. Shelain was only vaguely aware that the other wolves were fighting over the venison—but, how long would that last?

The attacking wolf again leapt at her.

For several minutes they faced off with each other. There was no stopping this beast…and soon the other three would also be upon her.

She was alone, snowshoes strapped to her feet, and mentally and physically exhausted.

There was nowhere to go. No one to turn to for help.

This was it.

What would her father do?

Her hand fell to her side.

Yes. The knife.

She unsheathed the gleaming blade.

The wolf lunged.

She missed the first time, but connected on the immediate back swing.

She was soon lost in the frenzy of teeth, claws, and blade when she felt the knife plunge deeply, she felt something hot spray her face, and her attacker suddenly fell on top of her.

She was bleeding.

Three more! There are three more!

“No!” she screamed. “Oh, Father, why did you do it? Mother, I miss you!”

She so desperately wanted things to go back to the way they had been…to the way they’d been before….

Why couldn’t we turn back time when bad things happened to us?

She’d been mauled pretty good by the dead wolf and her grip on her knife was no longer sure, but her survival instincts again kicked in. Shelain was again on her feet. As she saw the three wolves approaching her, she grabbed her pack and dumped it out in an arc before her. More venison and fruit and bread sprayed out before her…and she ran.

She’d never had to run on snowshoes to save her life before.

All she could do was what she was doing.

Run.

 

She dropped heavily to her knees in knees deep snow, heart beating up and into her throat. She was tired, wet, had lost much blood, and was about to lose much more if she didn’t change her situation…

But she no longer cared.

She’d been foolish to believe she could make it on her own, no matter how smart she thought she was. There was nothing to make it to. Nowhere to go. She’d lost her family, lost everything. And the wolves

(where were they?)

would be on her in—

Her hand hit something.

Dragging her knife through the snow to the object, she poked it through to the surface. It unraveled just enough for her to see it.

It was cylindrical and

Made of paper?

A…calendar?

A paper calendar…and there were days marked off.

Well, great, at least she would know what day she died.

The calendar was dated last year…but not all the days were marked off. What a stupid thing to find in the snow…out in the middle of nowhere…a pack of hungry wolves chasing after you—

And why hadn’t the wolves caught up with her?

But…a calendar….

Her curiosity got the better of her, and with bloodied and freezing hands, she began unrolling it.

The year on the calendar shifted before her eyes.

One moment it read 1830…the next 1700…but always it showed past years, nothing current. And the marked-off dates remained the same. The calendar unrolled, she tried to turn the pages, to see other months, but she couldn’t…none of the pages would yield. She couldn’t unstick the pages. As she looked at the crossed-out dates (what day was it?) she noticed how some of the crossed-out dates looked more messed up than the others. Smeared. In fact the very last crossed-out date was really smeared and blurry and anything but neatly crossed out.

She heard the rustling.

They would nearly be upon her!

Good, let them come…put an end to her misery….

Shelain traced her bloody knife tip along the weeks and stopped at the next open day after the really smeared and soiled and blurry crossed-out

(yesterday…)

date. Wouldn’t it be nice, she thought, if she could go back and change things…make what daddy did never happen. Turn back time? Wouldn’t it be—

 

The wolves broke through the snow-covered trees and leaped upon their prey…but only ended up landing upon one and other, instead. Confused, they shook the snow from their lean bodies, sniffing around the indentations in the snow before them.

There were blood stains…her scent…but no meat.

All that was before them was a snow crater of someone who used to be there.

The wolves dug, but never found Shelain. They did find, however, a useless pile of paper in the snow. They sniffed at it—it was not a good smell—and hurriedly left the area, one less member to their number….

Deep in the woods of the north rested a small log cabin. The smell of hardwoods permeated the air as the smoke mixed with falling snow. Inside the soft glow of the fire’s light filled windows, and there resided a small family of three. It was a meager birthday, but it would turn out to be the best birthday Shelain would ever have….

 

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Am I Having Too Much Fun?

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Since November 2015, I’ve been going over all the short stories I’ve written (and have an accounting of). I’ve been posting them on my blog site, and currently have auto-posts every Friday out until August 19, 2016. And I still have a handful left that I think are “blog worthy.” Some are definitely blog worthy, but are too long (so I won’t post those, since I already have enough on my site that are already pushing the limits for “comfortable” blog reading; they’ll be in the short story collection I’m putting together, however). But I’ve been having so much fun doing this that I no longer have (or make) the time to post other non-short story-related posts!

So, I thought, I’d make some time!

My stories run the gamut…from my current “paranormal/metaphysical fiction” M.O., to fantasy, to back into the deep dark past of straight-on, unflinching horror-fiction writing. And one or two of them are downright vile. And one of these non-horror stories is so damned powerful to me that I can’t help but get emotional every time (and I mean every time…) I read it…but it’s too close to real life, and people and situations in it are too identifiable, so I can’t release it…but also have to admit that of the 21 pages, only four of them had been written in 1997 (and those four pages still got me emotional!); I’d written the other 17 a couple weeks ago…the story still that fresh in my mind of what I’d wanted to do. I feel it’s arguably the best short story I’ve ever written. I’ve written other shorts that are never going to see the light (or dark) of day for various reasons. In any event, they all show where my head was at and what I’d done. They all helped shaped me into the writer that I am today. And I think that’s cool.

I’m also glad that not everything I’ve ever written has been published!

And the “forgetting more than I ever knew” part? Yeah, I don’t remember having written a lot of these…but there it is, my header info with my contact information at the time, and dates. Yup, that’s me—

But a different me.

I can comfortably say that I am no longer the person who wrote those stories…yet that person is definitely still a part of me. And we’re both enjoying this! I think we’re both amused with the other. Fascinated. Well, I know I am!

So, if some of these stories piss you off, get you excited, make you think…than I have truly done my job. My big goal now…is to try to get you to cry….

In doing this I’ve really seen how much my writing has changed. It’s like when Steven Spielberg said that had he written Close Encounters of the Third Kind “now” he would not have written the Roy Neary character to go off with the aliens, because he did not have children when he wrote it. I’m finding that my huge interest in things like UFOs and aliens and monsters and the like is waning for more stories about the Human Condition. As gnarly and explicit as Voice is, that is one of my favorite stories because it speaks so much to aspects of the Human Condition. I mean, I’ve tried to do this with all my work to one degree or the other, but in Voice it’s so visceral. I think The Uninvited is also another “visceral” read. I’ve thought about this a lot over the years, but my migration away from straight horror (which can also be said to “speaking to the Human Condition”) was also largely motivated by this same feeling. I didn’t always admit it, but I have and always wanted to make people emote…to cry, rage, or just plan feel something other than the horror-related emotions of fear and, well, horror (not that there’s anything wrong with that…). I’ve always wanted to be that “literary writer” where I could dig a little deeper with words and emotional and conditional explorations while still telling a compelling story.

In short (pardon the pun), I’m finding I’ve grown more concerned with people rather than machinery, monstrous attacks, and conspiracies.

But, that doesn’t mean I won’t still write the occasional horror story…if the story grabs me enough! And nearly all of my work will have elements of the paranormal, the metaphysical, the supernatural. I just like writing about that kind of stuff.

And on this site, yes, I am cleaning them up some, but I am intentionally trying to keep them in as close a “form” as when I wrote them. When I compile the better ones into my book-form collection, I will be going over them with as fine-toothed a comb as possible…yet will keep them in the era in which they were created, i.e., I won’t update for cell phones and other currencies and the like. If written in the 1980s, the story itself will not be updated to 2017.

So.

I hope you don’t mind that I’m putting all this stuff out there! I know they’re not for everybody, but I think there’s something for everyone. These stories show the various shades of my ability (or lack thereof to any critics out there who feel Indies just aren’t good enough for traditional platforms…)…and the expansiveness of what I chose to write about. If this is what I am…there are certainly others out there just like me…or I’m just like them…

Because as different as we all are…we’re also very much the same.

And, damn it, I’m just having fun!

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Garden of the Gods

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Is One Ever Truly Alone? Arches National Park, Utah, © 2009, F. P. Dorchak
Is One Ever Truly Alone? Arches National Park, Utah, © 2009, F. P. Dorchak

This story was started back in 1994. Apparently, I never finished it. And it stopped right where you started wanting some answers!

And, once again, I never remember having written this piece.

It’s thinkey and weird…and rather metaphysical…but I like where it ended up. I had to create the last half page or so of the story. That, in itself, I also found “metaphysical.” I mean, Future Me has come to help out Past Me (I wrote this post the same time I’d written up the guest post in that link) in finishing this story! I find this quite fascinating on a synchronistic and a writing level….

There is a Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and (of course) all kinds of hiking in Colorado and Utah (myself or a family member took the above photo in Arches National Park outside of Moab, Utah; we we’ve been to Moab a couple of times mountain biking and sightseeing over the years). I’m sure Garden of the Gods inspired me to write this…at least its title…but I’m not sure I’d yet been to Moab when I’d first written this in 1994. Anyway, I think it’s a cool story and actually reminds me of another story I’d read long ago…but can no longer pinpoint. The elements of this story seem very familiar to me on “another level” that I can’t quite explain….

The last time we’d been to Moab mountain biking…I’d actually gotten lost on a trail. It wasn’t for very long, but it was not a good feeling—I’d never in my life been lost before or since. It was later in the day, and my wife and I were coming up on the end of the trail we’d been on (I believe it was Gemini Bridges…), and just up ahead was a short loopback that would have returned us back on the same trail in. My wife wanted to stop; said I should just go on up ahead and finish the trail. So I figured…stay on the trail up a short ways…follow the loop around the recessed destination—just five minutes. But as I looped back around, I found there were no signs. The trail was marked going in…but not so much going out…and I took a wrong “branch” of the “Y.”

Just five minutes.

Famous last words.

I even had a map. It was next-to-useless (it wasn’t a USGS topo map—I’ll never to do that again). The map did not match up with the terrain nor trail. So I biked around for

(just five minutes…)

about a half hour or so, before I was able to backtrack (and it was getting late in the day)…I had finally passed another biker who’d directed me back on the proper path.

Talk about your flying expletives.

And to make things worse?

My wife had gotten a flat tire…and I hadn’t been there for her.

Of course she’d wondered where the hell I’d been, can’t blame her there…but another had come by and helped her. I’d later passed the guy, who’d told me he’d helped her. I thanked him and told him what’d happened.

Just five minutes….

Yeah.

Anyway, I believe all this happened after having written the story…but, curiously, in my mind…it all feels linked….

This story has never been published.

 

Garden of the Gods

© 1994 F. P. Dorchak

The old man lay still. Near delusional. Had been that way since….

Eyes closed and still…heart…barely…beating…body…useless, withered.

Legs broken.

He lay in the dark in a place desiccated from a dryness that sucked every last vestige of moisture from the air. His body. Even sound seemed decayed…hollow. The surrounding rock weighed heavily…the crevasse crushing…there barely enough room even for his deteriorated form.

How long ago had it been since he’d crawled in here?

Too long…no interest…remembering…mind…wandering….

The old man lay between life and death…his consciousness not firmly rooted in either. Yet his mind worked…carefully…slowly…trying to recall a singular event. Trying…desperately…to recall the time…when he’d unwittingly stumbled into

Another place?

Another

(a place of gods)

dimension?

…lonely…mysterious….

Never to be found again.

 

It had happened lifetimes ago when his body had still been strong and able.

His resolve granite.

Age hadn’t mattered then…he’d been young.

He’d been in the great southwest, lost during a hike into the rock and heat of the desert. Sunburned and thirsty, he’d foundered through a hidden ravine and come out the other side into a wonderland of white-and-red vertical rock. The sun was setting and cast monstrous shadows across their faces. Yucca and other scrub dotted the terrain; trees unknown to him reach up from the earth like ancient, arthritic fingers scraping at the sky.

He’d collapsed to the ground. Checked his water supply. Enough to wet his lips and that was it. Reluctantly, he sipped the last drops, was ready to toss the canteen away in anger at his own stupidity in getting lost when he’d heard it.

A rustling, grinding sound.

Holding onto the canteen, he got up. Searched the rock. The grinding stopped, replaced by a softer, gentler trickling…

Water.

The hiker got up and rushed across the scree, slipping more than once.

Water.

Food he could do without for now, but water he’d die without. He already felt himself growing ever more lethargic, stiff. Near nauseous—

Water.

The sound drew him unerringly to it source. Water he’d hoped was real and not the delusion of a dying mind. He’d scurried about a small outcropping of rock and came upon the

Cool, crisp, flowing water!

Out from the very pores of a red rock itself.

He’d dove at it…sucking it directly from the rock face…cupping his hands he splashed the precious fluid to his parched lips.

It’d initially hurt parting his lips so much, cracking open dried skin, but he brought the water up and swallowed greedily. A huge knot of the frigid fluid got caught midway down his throat and he coughed it out, grimacing in more pain. For something so life-giving and necessary, it was sure running him through the ringer….

 

It was now darker from the setting sun, and he’d finished cleaning his clothes and washing himself. Felt more like he should…hydrated, rested. Filled his canteen before going to sleep for the night.

He looked about him.

It was still warm, but not so unbearable as midday. He’d considered continuing…were it not for the weariness of his body. He didn’t think he could get very far in his present condition and deemed a night’s sleep more important.

After all, did he not now have all the water he would ever need?

Did he not now have shelter to weather the merciless sun?

The only thing he lacked…was food.

At one time all he needed was water, but now his stomach growled.

Collecting sticks for a fire, he pondered his next step…when a large hare jumped out before him. It sat on a rock not ten feet away.

The hiker carefully crouched and placed his sticks down before him…stared at the meaty beast. It stared back, motionless except for its twitching nose. The hiker searched the dirt around him for a stone.

Water.

Now food.

He pitched the rock at the animal.

It hit the rabbit square in its head, propelling it over the side of the rock it had sat upon. The man got up, withdrawing his knife from its sheath. On the other side of rock he found it. One leg twitched but momentarily.

He fell upon it.

 

He’d stuffed the steaming pieces of cooked rabbit into his pack and looked out his cave. Early morning should have looked bright, but the day appeared dull, overcast. The heat of the day seemed subdued. Collecting the rest of his things, he’d thrown on his pack and given himself a once-over, checking his gear. Satisfied, he left the cave for the expected heat of the day…

But what he’d found sent shivers up his spine.

Instead of overcast skies and heat, he found it was still night…a full moon overhead.

He looked to his watch…but it was smashed.

Had he lost his mind?

Had he slept into the next night?

All these thoughts flooded him…but the end result was that he couldn’t possibly stay here forever…

Could he?

Some kind of Fate had brought him here and here he must deal with it…at least until he could make his way back to the world he knew.

The facts were that it was cool, dark, and he had food and water—his canteens and pack full with both. He needed to return home.

Resolved to restart his homeward sojourn, he left the security of his cave for the uncertainty of the dark.

He climbed down the boulders and loose rock, down to the water that still flowed mightily from the very pores of the red rock. He looked back and up to his deserted shelter—somewhat surprised that he could no longer

(go back)

find it.

Could he find it again…actually climb back up there just for paranoia’s sake?

But he’d already slept in it. Eaten there. Of course it was there.

Somewhere.

Knock it off, he told himself. Of course it’s still there. It has to be—

Like the water. That came out from the rock.

He shot a glance towards the miniature geyser.

Yes. Still there. Stuck a hand into it.

Cold.

You’ve just been out in the desert too long, that’s all.

He dropped his hand and turned away.

But in which direction should I go?

He looked from where he’d come…to where he was headed. There was plenty of light from the moon, but there was no—

Path.

He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Moments ago he’d have sworn there was no path, but now…as if it had rolled itself out just for him…

(this is insane!)

It was there.

The hiker took two steps onto it as if testing it for solidity. Plenty solid. Plenty real. Plenty there.

There was an actual clearing of stone and brush—as if stone and brush had actually parted just for him—the earth packed down as if having been traveled before.

By whom? By what?

The hiker stepped onto the path.

Images of an old man filled his head. A man in pain…damaged.

A shudder ran through him. Made him dizzy.

This was not just…not just any old man—

Him?

A future him?

The old man lay still…eyes closed…heart…barely…beating…body useless…broken beyond repair. He lay in the dark in a place that looked remarkably

Like this one.

How long had he been there?

An accident…a horrendous fall. Crawled out of the ruthless, mid-day sun with broken legs into a tiny rock fissure.

Where no one would ever find him.

How long had he lain there?

Too long…alone…never to be found—

Yet the younger him had found him.

And the younger him desperately tried to recall how he’d gotten here…where he was now…had unwittingly stumbled into

Another dimension?

A place of gods?

Never to be found again?

No.

He was strong…capable. Fed and watered. He would make his way out.

And if he truly was tied to this man…this old man…if that old man really was him…he would take him with him.

Together they would both leave.

The young hiker couldn’t tell if it was all in his mind…or like the water, cave, and rabbit…but he looked down and saw a rough-hewn field stretcher…with a leather strap.

He wasted no time.

In his mind’s eye he carefully picked up the old him…and gently positioned him upon the stretcher. He grabbed the leather strap at the end of wooden handles and looped it up and over—around—his shoulders, lifting one end of the stretcher. Shifting his pack and gear…he stepped out onto the path.

Never once did he look back.

The rocks smiled.

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