All Hallow's Read - a short horror story for your enjoyment

 

It's All Hallow's Read (aka Halloween...with scary books).  So, as I have done intermittently these past several years, here's a piece of horror flash fiction I had published in issue #2 of Firewords Quarterly, a literary magazine out of the United Kingdom.  

Enjoy, and a have a spooky Halloween.

-chris

I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE

By C. M. Beckett

I need to get outta here.  Winter ain’t even here an’ it’s already too effin’ cold even with the friggin’ global warming.

Sorry, but I won’t curse in front of my Ma, don’t matter how old I get.  A mom takes care o’ you, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.  You gotta appreciate that and show some respect. 

Of course, things changed with the Little Big One.  We could feel it all the way over here.  Some folks didn’t believe me.  Little tremors, like a shiver runnin’ through your boots.  And then when it hit the news sites.  Nobody knew what to do.  Sittin’ at home watchin’ crazies freakin’ out, killin’ their neighbors, drownin’ their kids.  What the heck?! 

We did what we do best up here – hunker down and cut ourselves off from everything else.  It wasn’t too hard, livin’ on a farm an’ all.  Generations before us had done all right with it, and with the government goin’ ta hell (sorry, Mom) it seemed the best thing to do.  Most people never knew what to make of us up here anyway – ninety percent woods and nothin’ much ta do ‘cept drink and terrorize. 

At first, things were good.  We didn’t need for much, just had ta be smart, use what we found and not waste nothin’.  Things’d be back to normal soon enough and then we’d get back to headin’ down to the mall and such. 

That was a pipe dream.

Goin’ on twenty years now since it all went to crap, and still no end in sight.  Most o’ the woods is gone now.  At least around here.  When the oil prices spiked durin’ the War, poachers swept in like huge vultures, layin’ waste to practically the whole state.  Now we got no resources ta speak of.  No forests.  No topsoil.  No birds, no animals.  Nothin’ worth a damn.  Not here anyway.

So I need to move.  No way to survive another winter here.

Tonight’s my last night.  I managed to gather a few saplings for one last meal before I hit the road.  They’re still raw an’ smoke more than burn, so I didn’t even bother with a pan, just threw it on the fire.  I like the skin blackened anyway, gives it more flavor.

Should be done soon.  It was hard the first time, with Gramps.  Everybody squeamish, not wantin’ to partake an’ all.  My sister – she was always a bitch (sorry, Ma) – got up and walked outside.  Wouldn’t eat nothin’ and upset my Ma no end. 

It’s how Gramps woulda wanted it.  He’d lived a good life and died o’ natural causes.  He would'na wanted us to waste away too just because o’ some old-school civilities.  The rules had changed and we did what we had to do to live.

My sister was next o’ course, but that wasn’t for quite a few months.  I dug right in that night.  She’d fallen and hurt herself somethin’ fierce.  Not much we could do.  No doctors left, and little in the way o’ supplies.  We did what we could.  Made her comfortable.  Said some words over her from the Good Book.  But it wasn’t long before she was gone too. 

That was last winter, which was pretty tough on all of us.  Not many made it to summer.  We all knew what was comin’ but didn’t talk much about it.  How could we?  We had to look each other in the eye every day. 

Now I’m it.  The last one.  I put that off as long as I could.  It was too hard.  I mean, she’s my Ma.  She brought me into this shitfuck (sorry, Ma) world.  But in the end, she understood which one of us had a better chance o’ makin’ it. 

And she knew that a mom takes care o’ ya, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.

All Hallow's Read - a short horror story for your enjoyment

It's All Hallow's Read (aka Halloween...with scary books).  So here's a piece of flash fiction I had published in issue #2 of Firewords Quarterly, a literary magazine out of the United Kingdom.  

Enjoy, and a have a spooky Halloween.

-chris

I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE

By C. M. Beckett

I need to get outta here.  Winter ain’t even here an’ it’s already too effin’ cold even with the friggin’ global warming.

Sorry, but I won’t curse in front of my Ma, don’t matter how old I get.  A mom takes care o’ you, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.  You gotta appreciate that and show some respect. 

Of course, things changed with the Little Big One.  We could feel it all the way over here.  Some folks didn’t believe me.  Little tremors, like a shiver runnin’ through your boots.  And then when it hit the news sites.  Nobody knew what to do.  Sittin’ at home watchin’ crazies freakin’ out, killin’ their neighbors, drownin’ their kids.  What the heck?! 

We did what we do best up here – hunker down and cut ourselves off from everything else.  It wasn’t too hard, livin’ on a farm an’ all.  Generations before us had done all right with it, and with the government goin’ ta hell (sorry, Mom) it seemed the best thing to do.  Most people never knew what to make of us up here anyway – ninety percent woods and nothin’ much ta do ‘cept drink and terrorize. 

At first, things were good.  We didn’t need for much, just had ta be smart, use what we found and not waste nothin’.  Things’d be back to normal soon enough and then we’d get back to headin’ down to the mall and such. 

That was a pipe dream.

Goin’ on twenty years now since it all went to crap, and still no end in sight.  Most o’ the woods is gone now.  At least around here.  When the oil prices spiked durin’ the War, poachers swept in like huge vultures, layin’ waste to practically the whole state.  Now we got no resources ta speak of.  No forests.  No topsoil.  No birds, no animals.  Nothin’ worth a damn.  Not here anyway.

So I need to move.  No way to survive another winter here.

Tonight’s my last night.  I managed to gather a few saplings for one last meal before I hit the road.  They’re still raw an’ smoke more than burn, so I didn’t even bother with a pan, just threw it on the fire.  I like the skin blackened anyway, gives it more flavor.

Should be done soon.  It was hard the first time, with Gramps.  Everybody squeamish, not wantin’ to partake an’ all.  My sister – she was always a bitch (sorry, Ma) – got up and walked outside.  Wouldn’t eat nothin’ and upset my Ma no end. 

It’s how Gramps woulda wanted it.  He’d lived a good life and died o’ natural causes.  He would'na wanted us to waste away too just because o’ some old-school civilities.  The rules had changed and we did what we had to do to live.

My sister was next o’ course, but that wasn’t for quite a few months.  I dug right in that night.  She’d fallen and hurt herself somethin’ fierce.  Not much we could do.  No doctors left, and little in the way o’ supplies.  We did what we could.  Made her comfortable.  Said some words over her from the Good Book.  But it wasn’t long before she was gone too. 

That was last winter, which was pretty tough on all of us.  Not many made it to summer.  We all knew what was comin’ but didn’t talk much about it.  How could we?  We had to look each other in the eye every day. 

Now I’m it.  The last one.  I put that off as long as I could.  It was too hard.  I mean, she’s my Ma.  She brought me into this shitfuck (sorry, Ma) world.  But in the end, she understood which one of us had a better chance o’ makin’ it. 

And she knew that a mom takes care o’ ya, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.

All Hallow's Read - a short horror story for your enjoyment

It's All Hallow's Read (aka Halloween...with scary books).  So here's a piece of flash fiction I had published in issue #2 of Firewords Quarterly, a literary magazine out of the United Kingdom.  

Enjoy, and a have a spooky Halloween.

-chris

I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE

By C. M. Beckett

I need to get outta here.  Winter ain’t even here an’ it’s already too effin’ cold even with the friggin’ global warming.

Sorry, but I won’t curse in front of my Ma, don’t matter how old I get.  A mom takes care o’ you, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.  You gotta appreciate that and show some respect. 

Of course, things changed with the Little Big One.  We could feel it all the way over here.  Some folks didn’t believe me.  Little tremors, like a shiver runnin’ through your boots.  And then when it hit the news sites.  Nobody knew what to do.  Sittin’ at home watchin’ crazies freakin’ out, killin’ their neighbors, drownin’ their kids.  What the heck?! 

We did what we do best up here – hunker down and cut ourselves off from everything else.  It wasn’t too hard, livin’ on a farm an’ all.  Generations before us had done all right with it, and with the government goin’ ta hell (sorry, Mom) it seemed the best thing to do.  Most people never knew what to make of us up here anyway – ninety percent woods and nothin’ much ta do ‘cept drink and terrorize. 

At first, things were good.  We didn’t need for much, just had ta be smart, use what we found and not waste nothin’.  Things’d be back to normal soon enough and then we’d get back to headin’ down to the mall and such. 

That was a pipe dream.

Goin’ on twenty years now since it all went to crap, and still no end in sight.  Most o’ the woods is gone now.  At least around here.  When the oil prices spiked durin’ the War, poachers swept in like huge vultures, layin’ waste to practically the whole state.  Now we got no resources ta speak of.  No forests.  No topsoil.  No birds, no animals.  Nothin’ worth a damn.  Not here anyway.

So I need to move.  No way to survive another winter here.

Tonight’s my last night.  I managed to gather a few saplings for one last meal before I hit the road.  They’re still raw an’ smoke more than burn, so I didn’t even bother with a pan, just threw it on the fire.  I like the skin blackened anyway, gives it more flavor.

Should be done soon.  It was hard the first time, with Gramps.  Everybody squeamish, not wantin’ to partake an’ all.  My sister – she was always a bitch (sorry, Ma) – got up and walked outside.  Wouldn’t eat nothin’ and upset my Ma no end. 

It’s how Gramps woulda wanted it.  He’d lived a good life and died o’ natural causes.  He would'na wanted us to waste away too just because o’ some old-school civilities.  The rules had changed and we did what we had to do to live.

My sister was next o’ course, but that wasn’t for quite a few months.  I dug right in that night.  She’d fallen and hurt herself somethin’ fierce.  Not much we could do.  No doctors left, and little in the way o’ supplies.  We did what we could.  Made her comfortable.  Said some words over her from the Good Book.  But it wasn’t long before she was gone too. 

That was last winter, which was pretty tough on all of us.  Not many made it to summer.  We all knew what was comin’ but didn’t talk much about it.  How could we?  We had to look each other in the eye every day. 

Now I’m it.  The last one.  I put that off as long as I could.  It was too hard.  I mean, she’s my Ma.  She brought me into this shitfuck (sorry, Ma) world.  But in the end, she understood which one of us had a better chance o’ makin’ it. 

And she knew that a mom takes care o’ ya, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.

All Hallow's Read - a short horror story for your enjoyment

It's All Hallow's Read (aka Halloween...with scary books).  So here's a piece of flash fiction I had published in issue #2 of Firewords Quarterly, a literary magazine out of the United Kingdom.  

Enjoy, and a have a spooky Halloween.

-chris

I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE

By C. M. Beckett

I need to get outta here.  Winter ain’t even here an’ it’s already too effin’ cold even with the friggin’ global warming.

Sorry, but I won’t curse in front of my Ma, don’t matter how old I get.  A mom takes care o’ you, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.  You gotta appreciate that and show some respect. 

Of course, things changed with the Little Big One.  We could feel it all the way over here.  Some folks didn’t believe me.  Little tremors, like a shiver runnin’ through your boots.  And then when it hit the news sites.  Nobody knew what to do.  Sittin’ at home watchin’ crazies freakin’ out, killin’ their neighbors, drownin’ their kids.  What the heck?! 

We did what we do best up here – hunker down and cut ourselves off from everything else.  It wasn’t too hard, livin’ on a farm an’ all.  Generations before us had done all right with it, and with the government goin’ ta hell (sorry, Mom) it seemed the best thing to do.  Most people never knew what to make of us up here anyway – ninety percent woods and nothin’ much ta do ‘cept drink and terrorize. 

At first, things were good.  We didn’t need for much, just had ta be smart, use what we found and not waste nothin’.  Things’d be back to normal soon enough and then we’d get back to headin’ down to the mall and such. 

That was a pipe dream.

Goin’ on twenty years now since it all went to crap, and still no end in sight.  Most o’ the woods is gone now.  At least around here.  When the oil prices spiked durin’ the War, poachers swept in like huge vultures, layin’ waste to practically the whole state.  Now we got no resources ta speak of.  No forests.  No topsoil.  No birds, no animals.  Nothin’ worth a damn.  Not here anyway.

So I need to move.  No way to survive another winter here.

Tonight’s my last night.  I managed to gather a few saplings for one last meal before I hit the road.  They’re still raw an’ smoke more than burn, so I didn’t even bother with a pan, just threw it on the fire.  I like the skin blackened anyway, gives it more flavor.

Should be done soon.  It was hard the first time, with Gramps.  Everybody squeamish, not wantin’ to partake an’ all.  My sister – she was always a bitch (sorry, Ma) – got up and walked outside.  Wouldn’t eat nothin’ and upset my Ma no end. 

It’s how Gramps woulda wanted it.  He’d lived a good life and died o’ natural causes.  He would'na wanted us to waste away too just because o’ some old-school civilities.  The rules had changed and we did what we had to do to live.

My sister was next o’ course, but that wasn’t for quite a few months.  I dug right in that night.  She’d fallen and hurt herself somethin’ fierce.  Not much we could do.  No doctors left, and little in the way o’ supplies.  We did what we could.  Made her comfortable.  Said some words over her from the Good Book.  But it wasn’t long before she was gone too. 

That was last winter, which was pretty tough on all of us.  Not many made it to summer.  We all knew what was comin’ but didn’t talk much about it.  How could we?  We had to look each other in the eye every day. 

Now I’m it.  The last one.  I put that off as long as I could.  It was too hard.  I mean, she’s my Ma.  She brought me into this shitfuck (sorry, Ma) world.  But in the end, she understood which one of us had a better chance o’ makin’ it. 

And she knew that a mom takes care o’ ya, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.

Looking Back – A Decade Since Warrior27 #1

By 2005, four years had passed since a handful of friends and I had first discussed self-publishing our comic anthology, with nothing to show for it.  We all harbored ideas of one day being (magically) discovered as the brilliant creators we knew ourselves to be.  That road is more difficult to hoe when you don’t do the work.  We wrote some scripts and got some pages penciled, but we did not create enough content to fill a proper book, and, even more to the point of why we never published anything, we left all the production stuff to a single person rather than taking on that responsibility as well.  So, in January of 2005, Dan and I decided to finally do something about it and published the first issue of Warrior27.  [see here, here, and here for more on that].  2005 also saw my first published work outside of Warrior27.  That was the year I started to take my writing seriously – emphasis on “started.” 

That first issue, and our first time exhibiting at a convention, was a bust.  But Dan and I learned from the experience and moved forward.  With a bit more lead time, we were more successful in finding artists for the next issue (a few who agreed to work on the inaugural book fell off the face of the earth…or just didn’t return our emails).  Having not found our audience at Wizard World Chicago, we wrapped the new book with a thematic spine across all the stories and decided to exhibit at SPX in 2006, a crowd more in tune with what we were doing with Warrior27.  That second time exhibiting was a great experience.  (might’ve helped that our writing had improved, as well)

Two years later, taking Steven Grant’s advice to write within genres or mediums outside those one aspires to, both Dan and I began writing for the Pulse, a pop culture website where Heidi MacDonald had written.  I wrote the weekly column, “For Your Consideration,” at the Pulse, spotlighting online and small press comics and creators.  Dan wrote, “Am I Alone In This?” encompassing his personal reading journey through comics.  As Grant stated in his own column for CBR, if one wishes to be a writer, one needs to write and take the opportunity for publication wherever it may come, because any and all writing can only help you improve your craft and evaluating one’s writing upon publication affords one a different, and often better, perspective on its success, or lack thereof. 

Dan and I published two more issues of Warrior27, in 2008 and 2009, with ITMOD co-founder, Matt Constantine, joining us, along with some more great artists.  Dan and I also started finding some publishing success outside our own venture.  He got a short story published by Arcana, in their second Dark Horrors anthology, and I started writing some short fiction for a couple of burst culture sites – 50 Years From Now and Elephant Words.  In my mind, I was going to take the Harrison Ford route – just keep plugging away at this creative endeavor until, through atrophy, those others who started at the same time I did will have fallen away like leaves, deciding it was too much effort for too little reward. 

After we published a 254-page of Warrior27, which included all the best stories and articles from those four issues, along with extras like the interview I did with Joe Quesada in 2001, Dan embarked on a year-long blog adventure, My Year In Crime.  For the entirety of 2010 and half of 2011, Dan posted every day on his crime blog.  It was a great exercise and it garnered him a bit of attention, as he landed short interviews with authors Duane Swierczynski and Victor Gischler.  Achievement unlocked.

Not being a fool – and hewing closely to the paraphrased adage to steal the best ideas – I started my own year-long blog project in 2012, Reading Watchmen.  For years, I’d been thinking about writing my own page-by-page analysis of this seminal work by Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons. With the template Dan provided, I finally went all in.  Each month was dedicated to a single chapter of the comic, opening with a quick thematic overview of the issue at hand, followed by examinations of the cover and then the page-by-page annotations – a page a day, every day, with the issue’s full annotations at the end of the month.  It was a big project, with daily deadlines, but incredibly fulfilling.  In the end, I wrote a bit over 87,000 words on Watchmen and did not miss a deadline. 

At this point, the writing continues, for both Dan and myself.  I’ve met with some success, having short stories published – comics and prose, alike – every year since 2010, with two more scheduled, hopefully, for publication this year.  Right now, Dan is hip-deep in his non-fiction novel, while I have begun the second half of a novel that’s been sitting in the back of my brain ever since I taught on Matinicus Island, twenty-four miles out in the Atlantic.  We’re not done yet – Dan and I are too damn pig-headed – and with the tenth anniversary of that first issue of Warrior27 coming up this August, we’re thinking of publishing something new.  I don’t know what it will be – and I can’t even say, for certain, that it will get done – but it’s exciting to think we’ve come this far. 

Here’s to the next ten years.

-chris

All Hallow's Read - a short horror story for your enjoyment

It's All Hallow's Read (aka Halloween...with scary books).  So here's a piece of flash fiction I had published in the most recent issue (#2) of Firewords Quarterly, a literary magazine out of the United Kingdom.  Also, here's a link to the PDF of the actual two-page spread for my piece in Firewords - I love the art direction for it, and I think you'll agree, it's pretty great.

Enjoy, and a have a spooky Halloween.
-chris

I GOTTA GET OUTTA HERE

By C. M. Beckett

I need to get outta here.  Winter ain’t even here an’ it’s already too effin’ cold even with the friggin’ global warming.

Sorry, but I won’t curse in front of my Ma, don’t matter how old I get.  A mom takes care o’ you, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.  You gotta appreciate that and show some respect. 

Of course, things changed with the Little Big One.  We could feel it all the way over here.  Some folks didn’t believe me.  Little tremors, like a shiver runnin’ through your boots.  And then when it hit the news sites.  Nobody knew what to do.  Sittin’ at home watchin’ crazies freakin’ out, killin’ their neighbors, drownin’ their kids.  What the heck?! 

We did what we do best up here – hunker down and cut ourselves off from everything else.  It wasn’t too hard, livin’ on a farm an’ all.  Generations before us had done all right with it, and with the government goin’ ta hell (sorry, Mom) it seemed the best thing to do.  Most people never knew what to make of us up here anyway – ninety percent woods and nothin’ much ta do ‘cept drink and terrorize. 

At first, things were good.  We didn’t need for much, just had ta be smart, use what we found and not waste nothin’.  Things’d be back to normal soon enough and then we’d get back to headin’ down to the mall and such. 

That was a pipe dream.

Goin’ on twenty years now since it all went to crap, and still no end in sight.  Most o’ the woods is gone now.  At least around here.  When the oil prices spiked durin’ the War, poachers swept in like huge vultures, layin’ waste to practically the whole state.  Now we got no resources ta speak of.  No forests.  No topsoil.  No birds, no animals.  Nothin’ worth a damn.  Not here anyway.

So I need to move.  No way to survive another winter here.

Tonight’s my last night.  I managed to gather a few saplings for one last meal before I hit the road.  They’re still raw an’ smoke more than burn, so I didn’t even bother with a pan, just threw it on the fire.  I like the skin blackened anyway, gives it more flavor.

Should be done soon.  It was hard the first time, with Gramps.  Everybody squeamish, not wantin’ to partake an’ all.  My sister – she was always a bitch (sorry, Ma) – got up and walked outside.  Wouldn’t eat nothin’ and upset my Ma no end. 

It’s how Gramps woulda wanted it.  He’d lived a good life and died o’ natural causes.  He would'na wanted us to waste away too just because o’ some old-school civilities.  The rules had changed and we did what we had to do to live.

My sister was next o’ course, but that wasn’t for quite a few months.  I dug right in that night.  She’d fallen and hurt herself somethin’ fierce.  Not much we could do.  No doctors left, and little in the way o’ supplies.  We did what we could.  Made her comfortable.  Said some words over her from the Good Book.  But it wasn’t long before she was gone too. 

That was last winter, which was pretty tough on all of us.  Not many made it to summer.  We all knew what was comin’ but didn’t talk much about it.  How could we?  We had to look each other in the eye every day. 

Now I’m it.  The last one.  I put that off as long as I could.  It was too hard.  I mean, she’s my Ma.  She brought me into this shitfuck (sorry, Ma) world.  But in the end, she understood which one of us had a better chance o’ makin’ it. 

And she knew that a mom takes care o’ ya, provides for ya, keeps food on your plate.

Elephant Words week #7

More flash fiction inspired by the images at Elephant Words. The site is still going strong, nearly three years after Nick Papaconstantinou created it. If you like interesting writing but don't have much time, you should definitely head on over there and check it out. It's fun.

Sand In My Toes

By Chris Beckett

I remember the day you left. I was so angry. Mom tried to talk to me, but I wouldn’t have any of that. Like any kid, I preferred to be miserable alone, but needed to make enough of a scene so that everybody knew I was unhappy – the center of attention without acknowledging it. Of course, Dad just sat in front of the television watching the game, which was typical. I’m not sure how I could have expected anything more from him?

It was hard; I was only seven. How was I supposed to understand? For so long, I resented you for abandoning me like that. I’m sorry.

I come out here whenever I’m home now. Running my fingers across the smooth stones, I stretch back through scattered memories, searching for one I recognize, for a stone we might have skipped across the river that used to run through here.

The state dammed it up quite a few years back, sent all the water toward the farms on the other side of the next town. Maybe you heard. But I don’t know.

Not a day goes by I don’t think of you, wonder what you’re doing, imagine what we could be doing together if you were still around. It’s foolish, I know, but it’s what I do. I can dream, can’t I?

On some level, I think I’ve finally come to terms with the whole thing. I needed years of therapy, which I only agreed to once my first marriage went to hell. But that’s another story, and one I’m not ready to discuss.

Shit, what a life.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t comprehend the realities in my head. You were the older brother. You were the one that could swim. I wasn’t strong enough, and I even had trouble with a life jacket, always felt like I was sinking despite its buoyancy. But none of that mattered. In my heart, I couldn’t reconcile the fact that I hadn’t saved you.

To be honest, when you first started flailing I thought you were pulling my leg, trying to scare me. That wouldn’t have been beyond you. I sat there in the sand watching you splash around, expecting you to stop suddenly and swim back over to shore. But when the splashing stopped, I couldn’t see you. I had no idea what to do, I swear. I wanted to rush in and save you, wanted to swim out to where the water rippled softly, but I was scared. I couldn’t move.

So I sat there, pulling my knees up to my chest, worrying my toes into the sand. (I still have trouble with grit between my toes.)

There are some mornings I wake up, and for a moment I forget and call out your name. It’s a reflex, probably just a specter of my dreams, but for that split second my heart skips and I wonder what we might do today.

But then I remember and pull myself back under the covers.

ELEPHANT WORDS, week 4

Here's the short piece I created for the 4th week of Elephant Words, the flash fiction website created by Nick Papaconstantinou where six creators conceive a new piece of short fiction each week based on a new image. The catch is that, on a rotating schedule, the writers need to have a new piece of fiction up every day of the week, so someone has only 24 hours to write their story while others have six days. It's pretty fun and a great challenge. You should definitely check it out. And before the story, here's the image from which it was inspired:



The Lost
by Chris Beckett

Six children had gone missing in less than two weeks, all of them lost near Big Lake outside of Rumford. A sign warned against going in the lake, birthing its fair share of urban legends through the years, but it had apparently done no good.

The disappearances prompted the Bangor Daily to send a photog to Rumford, but the myths surrounding the lake relegated the assignment to one farther down the pecking order. That was where Darren Fletcher came in. He understood his laughable “role” at the paper, but was determined to make the most of this opportunity. After scouting the area in the daylight, Darren had returned near midnight thinking he could find it again easily.

“Aw, shit.” Mud oozed over his left foot, sucking his Teva into the soft earth. At least the moisture assured him he was close. Darren released his foot with a loud squoosh and took halting steps forward.

A scream from behind made him stop suddenly. He peered into the darkness for the source of the sound, but the clouds kept what little illumination available at bay.

“Eeehh.” A spider’s web stretched across his face. He clutched at his face, wiping harshly down each cheek. It took a couple of swipes before the tingle of gossamer threads retreated.

Once he’d finished clawing through his hair, a faint sound came to his ears. Isolated notes made it difficult to place, but it felt familiar somehow. Darren turned slowly to the left, following the faint notes. Zeroing in on the music, Darren caught a glimmer of light through the silhouetted trees.

Checking that his camera was still on his hip, Darren moved forward with more resolve. Walking quickly, he slashed wildly at the branches surrounding him. The lilting tones were clearer now, but he could still not place them. Pushing through the underbrush, Darren refocused on the light ahead. His heart raced.

“uh–” A sharp hiss of breath as a line of thorns raked across his calf. He thought they might have drawn blood but had no time to check.

Approaching the odd luminescence, Darren was now able to make out the local geography. The music was louder but still inscrutable.

“Shit.” Something buzzed Darren’s ear. A bat, maybe an owl, didn’t matter, he was sure his heart seized for a second. Leaves rustled up high as it alighted on a branch. Darren wiped his brow and took a deep breath. He held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. Release the balloon.

Darren moved more deliberately now – curious, anxious, his stomach clenching as he felt an urge to relieve himself. Pushing that down, he reached for a branch crossing his face and nudged it aside.

•••

“SURPRISE!!”

The light was blinding. He blinked furiously, willing his pupils to adjust. Finally, he looked up. His jaw dropped.

The lake was solid, but not frozen. Tiny waves rippled against the embankment. A group of children sat at picnic tables on the middle of the water. They were eating ice cream and playing “go fish.” Darren recognized four of the kids that had gone missing. The other two were turned away from him, but Darren knew they were numbers five and six.

They paid Darren no mind and were not those who greeted him. Behind the children, next to a brightly painted ice cream truck (the memorable jingle now audible) stood a group of animated teddy bears. They were apparently expecting Darren, beaming at him, as if anticipating some great feat of magic or dexterity.

Waving merrily, they motioned for Darren to join them.

He was at a loss. He looked down at his camera. Returned his gaze to the scene before him. Considered the most feasible reaction to such a situation. Disregarded that option. And then took one tentative step out onto the lake.

It held.

A smile came to his face as he took another step onto the water. Then a third and a fourth. Picking up his pace, Darren reached down with one hand and pulled out all the spare change he was carrying.


THE END

ELEPHANT WORDS, second week

So,

A number of posts back - prior to the series "note from the editor" - I wrote about this cool place on the internet, Elephant Words, created and curated by Nicolas Papaconstantinou. The idea, to have six writers create short stories - in whatever form they choose - one a day from Monday to Saturday all inspired by the image uploaded that previous Sunday.

It's a cool idea, and I auditioned after seeing a post at Warren Ellis's now-defunct ENGINE. I didn't make the initial cut, but decided to continue offering my interpretations of the week's images in the open forum. That first week after auditions, Nick was wise to "replay" the offerings of those chosen to fill out the roster for the Elephant's initial six-week run. That meant the same image as the week before:




I decided to create a completely different story - where my audition had been a contemporary one set in Africa, this would be a futuristic tale in a fascistic, dystopian America (though the milieu may not be clearly defined). What I came up with is below:

A Journey Into Night
By Chris Beckett


Delilah walked down the street pulling her wire cart behind. It had been a good day. She’d discovered a decent amount of refuse she could put to use – a length of rope, some discarded sheet metal that was only beginning to rust, and a number of other pieces she might be able to sell at the market. But best of all, she had found an ancient figurine of Ganesh. It was a beautiful ivory with hardly a blemish on it.

She could remember her grandmother having just such an ornament, which had been passed down to her by her own grandmother. It had been lost in the upheaval that came years ago. Nobody in the lower classes had survived unscathed, and much history was lost in that time. Delilah could hardly accept her good fortune.

“Hey.” The tall man in his pressed uniform grabbed Delilah’s shoulder as he spoke to her.

“You do realize the sun is setting,” he said.

Delilah did not like the man’s tone and against her better judgement allowed her disdain to roll through her reply. “I do have eyes, and I can see that it is time for me to get home. I do not believe the bell has chimed, so if you will allow me, I would appreciate it if you did not delay me any further.”

“I could run you in for insubordination,” said the officer.

“Yes you could, but all I want to do is get home, and I would rather not cause you any inconvenience that my arresting paperwork would engender.”

She thought of leaving it there, but could see the officer’s arm was still tense on the butt of his pistol so she added, “And I apologize for being curt. I have had a long day and am quite fatigued.”

The officer leveled his gaze at a point between her eyes, and she felt as if he wasn’t even looking at her. There was a long pause before he dropped his hand from his firearm and straightened up to his full height.

“I’ll let you go this time. But I would advise against being a smartmouth, especially to an officer of the law. Next time, I’ll run you in.”

“Thank you,” said Delilah and walked off cursing under her breath.

Yes, it was a good thing to have found that figure of Ganesh.

•••


Two of Gotham’s thought police – Janyx and Aramid – dropped from their suspensor-chairs and raced for the corridor, scooping up their helmets from the table as they went. Aramid linked into the net and pulled up the warrant on the holoscreen inside his visor.

Tag #: 0421598764-pw

Name:__n/a_____________________________________________________________
Address (line #1): __n/a___________________________________________________
Address (line #2): __n/a__________________________________________________
City: __n/a_____________ ___State: __n/a_________ Zip: ___ n/a _______________
Phone #: __ n/a_________________ SSN#: __ n/a_____________________________
D.O.B. __ n/a________________ Gender: __ n/a______________________________

Criminal History:
n/a



WARRANT: JP-4278934-AA

Date: 22.06.57 Time: 23:07:17
Judge: Rt. Hon. Azim Akberali

Penal Code Offense Details
1138 Idolatry Unlawful worship of the deity Ganesh (Hindu; elephant-headed god; Ganesh is worshipped as the lord of beginnings and as the lord of obstacles; Ganesh is honored with affection at the start of any journey)
0812 Unauthorized expedition Subject is preparing to make an unspecified journey. Subject has no visa, has filled out no travel application, and has received no authorization for said excursion from the proper officials.

It didn’t make sense. “Jan, did you pull up the warrant?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no ID?”

“It’ll be there when we hit the door.”

“But-“

“It’ll be there! Now shut up and move.

“And make sure you go dark on the other side of the port, no vocalizing.” Aramid was unsure if it was anger or anxiety in his partner’s voice. Regardless, he shut up and kept moving.

Turning into the third room on the left, the two officers grabbed pistols from the wall and stepped over to the port-door, a bio-tech composite that was more a curtain of light than a proper door. Stepping into the waves of green light, the bio-energy read the two men’s DNA and darkness fell over them.

A moment later the two men were standing in the middle of a street on the other side of town. It was past curfew and the street was empty. They both started turning in circles, working to pinpoint the target. It was difficult. Something was interfering with their scans.

Aramid tapped the comm on the side of his helmet twice and brought the holoscreen back up. He started scrolling down through the thousands of red flags for the past twenty-four hours, filtering them for geography and threat level.

Two seconds later Aramid was left with only confusion. No flagged entries relating to this sector, no hint of illicit travel plans, nothing even tangential. How could somebody expect to exit the city without leaving a data trail?

Got it! Janyx’s thought was startling, interrupting Aramid’s reverie and snapping him back to reality. Two doors down. On the corner. Single female. Hurry up, I already pulled the security code.

Aramid fell in behind Janyx, his mind racing.

“Jan, don’t you think this a bit odd What are you talking about It’s just that she’s made no plans and Who cares How can she have time to make plans But don’t you think she would have to prepare for something like this Nobody makes a trip without getting things in order Will you stop whining and just do your job”

Their thoughts raced back and forth, twisting around one another, threatening to drown out either one’s arguments. As they ascended the front steps, Janyx – the senior of the two – cut off any more conversation, “Fall in and quit complaining or head back to the barn! Your choice, but make it quick.”

Aramid closed off his verbal center. To himself, he scolded his actions. More like a rookie than anything. He should have been running black the whole time.

Janyx punched in the keycode and palmed the identipad that slid up from the console. A silent hiss and the front door opened for the officers. Nudging it back with one hand Janyx led the way in, Aramid close on his heels.

All was dark except for a sliver of light leaking beneath a door at the end of the hall. Janyx turned and looked at Aramid who nodded assent. They both pulled their guns from their belts and stepped cautiously along the carpeted floor.

Reaching the end of the hallway the two men scanned for any hostile thoughts, but nothing registered. In fact, Aramid was surprised at how calm the thoughts emanating from the room actually were. It made little sense to him. He thought of mentioning it to Jan but reconsidered quickly.

Janyx palmed the door and allowed it to slide into the wall. The dim light washed over them as their lenses polarized automatically. The strong smell of incense assaulted their noses; a thread of smoke weaved its way toward the ceiling in front of the woman, whose back was to them. Before her was a small ivory bust of a weird elephant, which doubled as the incense burner. She looked up from where she was praying and met Aramid’s eyes in the long mirror covering the wall before her.

Aramid shuddered imperceptibly at her gaze.

Pursuant to Warrant number JP-4278934-AA, you will cease illegal worship this instant! Janyx’s thought spiked into the woman’s brain, slicing into her cerebral cortex with a severity that often left offenders with little resistance. But the woman flinched only once and then returned to her prayers.

Janyx raised his gun. He held it there for a second and then looked to his right, catching Aramid’s gaze. Aramid blinked once and then raised his own gun. The law was clear on this count. No worship of any deity other than the State would be tolerated.

Janyx warned her one more time. The thought-spike was so intense that it even made Aramid flinch a bit. The woman slumped over the short table in front of her, knocking the incense off its burner. But again, she recovered quickly and set about lighting another length of the incense.

Before she could get it properly lit, the two men fired their weapons, vaporizing her on the spot. And that was it.

The charred floor would be cleaned up later that day by drones and the house would no doubt be occupied come evening. There were enough applications for citizenship from those on the Fringe that it would be easy to fill the vacancy.

Janyx and Aramid turned on their heels and walked back outside where a transport was awaiting them.

•••

After finishing the paperwork, Janyx and Aramid returned to the common room to wind down.

“Jan?” Aramid’s thought was filled with emotion He couldn’t remain quiet any longer.

“I do not want to hear it! You have some doubts about tonight. Drop ‘em. Once you head down that road, there’s no turning back.”

“And if I have to be the one to stop you, I’ll do it.”

“But –”

“No. Leave it, or I’ll be the one reporting you.” Janyx turned back to the vid and immersed himself in the drama on the screen.

Aramid slumped into his chair and tried to do the same, but he couldn’t get it out of his head no matter how he tried. She’d looked right at him, right into his eyes.

And she smiled. Why had she smiled?


Any comments or criticisms would be greatly appreciated. Feel free to lambaste me, but let me know what didn't work for you. The only way I can get better is to see these stories through different eyes.

Thanks and take care,
chris

Latest serialization installment goes live

This one has been up for a couple of weeks now, and I must admit to being a bit lax in updating here.  Part 10 of my speculative fiction serialization "In Search Of" has went live over at the burst culture blog 50YFN.  

If you've never checked this site out and you're a  fan of science fiction that is focused on character and thoughtful writing, go on over.  Monk Eastman, who started the whole thing, has really got a great place.  Recently, there've been fewer updates from writers, but hopefully if we can get the word out, more people will add their voice to this corner of the web. 

The thought behind the site is that people don't have a great deal of time to give over to some of the more relaxing hobbies they might like, and so all of the pieces going up at 50YFN (short for 50 Years From Now) are 1000 words or less to give readers a good chunk of story that can be digested in a short amount of time.  Of course, I've stretched that with my continuing story "In Search Of" and it's been one of the most enjoyable experiences of my short writing career (sideline?).  All the stories take place in an America fifty years from now and many of the offerings are greatly entertaining.  I would recommend you check it out.

But I've rambled enough and need to get to work shortly.  My latest piece can be found here.  And if you liked that, check out the links to the first nine parts in the sidebar.  and let me know what you think.   Feedback is always appreciated.

Thanks,

chris