Justyn Withers is a full-time student learning the art of writing stories while drawing in his spare time. While he does not have a website yet, you can follow him on Twitter @SebbieMayCry where he posts his artwork. You can also find him on Linkedin. Hitchhiker “Where ya headed, young man?” the old man asks with a gentle smile on his face, although somewhat hidden by his large grey beard, as he leans out the window to talk. He wears a red plaid shirt with blue overalls on, covered in dried dirt the same color as his boots. He has his old pickups window rolled down as he talks to a young man. The younger gentleman is wearing a dirty black suit, with his long black hair in a mess and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
“I need to get to L.A.,” the young man speaks with no hesitation. He sets the duffle bag in the back of the pickup truck, before moving to the passenger door. The old man moves what looks to be log books and notebooks to the middle seat as the young man gets in. The inside of the pickup is surprisingly clean for being so old, with its seats looking almost brand new. “You keep good care of your truck, don’t you,” the young man says as he buckles his seat. “Why of course. I might be a farmer but that doesn’t mean I can’t be presentable to folks,” the old man says, ending with a hearty chuckle. “So, what’s waitin for you in L.A., mister?” the old man asks as he pulls back onto the road and begins driving south. “You can call me Jack. I’m heading to a funeral,” Jack says as he stares straight ahead “My sister passed away.” “Well now. I’m sorry to hear that, Jack. I shoulda guessed from the all black suit,” the old man says before adding something that surprises Jack. “So, what’s with the guns in the bag?” Jack looks back at the old man surprised. He stares for a second before letting out a sigh. “That easy to tell?” “If you really wanted to hide em, ya shoulda wrapped them in a blanket,” the old man says. “Now why don’t ya tell me why you’re really going to L.A., Jack,” the old man says, keeping his eyes on the road. “Why? So, you can report me to the police?” Jack says, his body tensing up in defense. “Now when did I ever say that?” Jack stares at the old man again before loosening up. “Revenge,” Jack says, his eyes looking to the moon as it shines brightly upon the pickup. “My sister was murdered by a gang.” “Ah now that is quite the reason,” the old man says, his eyes still fixed on the road. “And what will you do after you kill this gang?” “Huh?” Jack says, surprised at the old man’s lack of reaction. “Get arrested? What good will that do ya? What if you die?” the old man rattles off reason after reason, each one drilling into Jack. Jack sits there, stunned for a minute. After moment, he collects himself and asks “What are you trying to say? Not to get revenge for my sister?” “Of course not. What I’m saying is do ya really wanna throw away your life so easily? Wouldn’t your sister want you to live? What about the rest of your family? You’re just gonna die and there will be another funeral for your family and friends to attend,” The old man says as the car starts slowing down. Jack sits there, contemplating his plans. “Now, I won’t tell ya what to do, but I would be happy if you took my words to heart and thought about all this,” the old man says as the car comes to a complete stop. “This is your stop.” The lights of L.A. shines brightly as the pickup sits there. Jack opens the passenger door and steps out of the truck. He grabs his bag out of the back and circles around to the driver side door. The old man hands Jack a business card. “Give me a call when you’ve made your decision, alright? Now have a goodnight Jack. Stay safe,” the old man says, with that same smile from when he first picked up Jack on his face. The old man rolls up his window and drives off, leaving Jack under a streetlight. Jack stands there, his back straightens up as he comes to a new resolve and walks off into the light of L.A.
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Harrison Jackson is a Masters student in Philosophy at the New School for Social Research. He is originally from Oak Creek, Wisconsin, and currently resides in New York City. He enjoys writing existential poetry, weird/Lovecraftian fiction, and traveling whenever possible. “Saturday”I woke up to the sound of the phone ringing. With a heavy sigh, I got up. I walked over to the phone, but it stopped ringing before I could pick it up. I was annoyed. I had hoped to sleep in later. After all, it is one of my few true days off. Today was all Peter’s day. It felt good for someone to take the load off.
I can’t help but worry about Peter though. He is young and impulsive; even overzealous at times. Nope. I’ve got to stop thinking like that. Today is my day off. I’ve got to relax. I got dressed, and sat down for a while with my favorite book. I’ve literally read it thousands of times, but I just can’t get enough of it. It speaks to me in so many ways. As I was reading, the phone rang again. I figured I ought to answer it. With another sigh, I gently closed the book and walked over to it. But right as I picked it up, it stopped ringing again. I hope it wasn’t John. He’s always been paranoid. Keeps on saying that his older brother is in “mortal danger.” Hopefully he’ll get over it all. Maybe it was Simon who called. I don’t know much about the fellow, but I figure I should get to know him better. I’ll have to remember to see him. I took a good look at the clock. It was an antique work. I got it from my grandfather, Matthew, who got it from his father Gabriel. It was made during the Revolution if memory serves me right. Someday it’ll pass to my grandson, and then his grandson. I’ve got to remember to give it to my son soon. I realized I was getting distracted, and I snapped myself back to reality. It was already eleven thirty. I realized I was hungry. I straightened my collar, put on my coat, and headed on outside. I strode confidently into effulgent sunlight, which cascaded upon the beautiful streets of Phillipsburg magnificently. Not a cloud was in sight to tarnish the piercing deep blue of the sky. How often I wondered what lay beyond that veil, and if mankind would ever reach it. I slipped my notebook and fountain pen out of my pocket, and hastily jotted down my cognitions. My musings completed, I took a deep breath, allowing the fresh autumn air to fill my lungs. I exhaled, and felt a wondrous sense of bliss. Today was superb in every way. I had a strong desire to satiate my appetite, so I began my peregrination through town. I had no particular place in mind. I only needed to find just the right delicacy to gratify my hunger and slake my thirst. I rounded the corner to discover a frightful commotion up ahead. A crowd had gathered around something, like ants around a decaying piece of fruit. A policeman did his best to stop the unruly mob, about as effectively as an umbrella stopping a tempest. As I neared the scene, I quickly surmised what had happened. It appeared that a car swerved off the road and collided into some poor soul. Upon some quick inquiries with the medical examiner, I discovered that the driver was a chauffeur. The man struck by the automobile was a local fisherman, who was most unfortunately pronounced dead on arrival. Once the horde knew that, they all swept to the telephones to spread the news as quickly as possible. It is simply fascinating to see how some rumors spread faster than plagues. I hastily placed that in my notebook alongside my earlier idea. Once I knew what I needed to satisfy my curiosity, I proceeded past the crowd, continuing my quest for a meal. I dislike mobs. One person sees a group, and feels a compulsory urge to join. It is pure animalistic behavior; a “safety in numbers” mentality that holds no place in civilized society. Especially the way they linger. It is just an accident. Accidents happen. I understand curiosity, but loitering for such a long period of time is unnecessary and hopelessly inefficient. I inscribed that thought into my notebook as well. Today was a fantastically productive day, in the sense of things to ponder later. After jaunting around town for few more minutes, I made my selection. It was a small family owned business, which produce quality food. I assumed that Bartholomew was a surname, although I suppose it could be a given name. I then entered the luncheonette. The moment I sat down, a kindly youngster named James was right there with me. Apparently he was the waiter. I ordered some fish and potatoes, and just water to drink. Before he left, I asked him for today’s newspaper. He quickly brought the earliest issue of the Phillipsburg Gazette. I took a quick look at the headlines, and saw another murder in this fine town. It was a shame that that kind of person lived in such a nice place. Somewhere in the restaurant I heard a phone ring. Strangely enough, nobody answered; it just rang for a minute or so before stopping. I kept on reading, but didn’t find anything else of note. As I was waiting for my meal to arrive, I noticed a nice young gentleman sitting in the table in front of me. Always glad to start some good conversation, I politely asked him who he was. Well, it turns out that his name was Matthias, and he had just moved in to Phillipsburg today. He was trying to figure out how to town worked and where the good eateries were and the like. I was, of course, as helpful as I could be. We were having quite a good talk when James came back with some wafers. I was happy to split them with Matthias. We kept on talking. We briefly talked about the news of the day, but we soon changed to a more interesting topic. It’s nice that some good people are moving in. I couldn’t resist offering to have him over for dinner tonight. Although my poor wife, bless her soul, died a few years back, I still remember how to make one of her delicious casseroles. He tried to politely decline, but I would hear none of it. New folks in town always had to have dinner with me. It was a kind of tradition I suppose. Finally he came around, and said he’d be over at eight. I guess I can pretty persuasive. James came with my meal. This place sure does make some good potatoes. The fish was a little cold, but I didn’t mind. Once I finished my meal, I called the waiter for the check. James did just fine, and I was sure to give him a generous tip. He was a nice lad, and would one day grow into a fine gentleman. My check paid, I got up, straightened my collar, and left the place. I exited the building, and hastily caught my hat before it was blown away by an unexpected gale. The weather clearly had taken a turn for the worse. The once crystal clear firmament, replaced by dark, swirling clouds, loomed oppressively overhead, seeming ominous and foreboding. The wind, before but a light breeze had become a torrent, blowing newspapers and other loose items around haphazardly. It is amazing how quickly climate can change. I of course placed that into my notebook. I decided to return to my humble abode on the other end of town. The weather dampened my euphoric disposition, replacing it with melancholy. Curious how deeply the weather can affects one’s mood. I carefully placed that idea in my notebook, despite my qualms about the risk of losing my most valued possession to Boreas. The other townsfolk hastily rushed about like cockroaches fleeing light in their desperate attempts to tie things down or take shelter indoors. I continued my steady amble, indifferent to the conditions as long as my precious notebook was secure. It contained everything I would and will ever require in life. I passed a friendly shepherd named Andrew on my way home. He was working pretty hard to keep his sheep from spooking. I took a right turn into an alley. I rounded the corner into an alley, made dark and depressing by the poor weather. Nonetheless, it made a useful shortcut. I was surprised to find someone else in front of me. Concerned, I reached into my breast pocket. I heard footsteps. I turned around to see who it was. I recognized the man. I tipped my hat, saying, “Evening Father,” as I drew my revolver. Nonchalantly, I raised it and aimed it directly at his chest. I was terrified. I thought I was being robbed. But then I recognized the man. The gun felt natural in my hand, and my gloved finger fit perfectly into the guard. The trigger eased back effortlessly to my gentle touch. The gun roared. I felt a sharp pain, and I fell backward. As the man lay on the street, a crimson lake inexorably flowed from his wound. He coughed, and blood flew from his lips, staining his collar with the ruby liquid, creating a stark contrast to the clean ivory. I tried to utter a final prayer, but all that came out was gurgling blood. Soon his contorted visage relaxed, replaced by a tranquil look, as if he were merely asleep. I replaced the weapon to its place in my jacket, and, my task completed, resumed my final stroll through Phillipsburg. Carlos Perona is a twenty-eight year old Spaniard living in Maastricht (NE). He works in public administration and policy-related fields, has a Bachelor and Master's in International Relations, and a second Master's in Organizational Behaviour. To date he has also published a poem on the Society of Classical Poets website (exploring the myth of princess Europa), and has uploaded a few narrative pieces online (including: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7IsSu518-w). Enkidu |
Ray Yanek writes--mostly prose, a little poetry, sometimes just words and phrases so he can enjoy the smell of the ink. He is an MFA candidate at Lindenwood University and has published in Flash Fiction Online and in anthologies such 100 Doors to Madness and 100 Worlds. He records his observations and hauntings at www.rayyanek.wordpress.com. He is also a husband, a father of two, and the cupbearer for various domestic animals. |
The Thin Place
Well too bad, he thought, adjusting the skin of wine on his lap. He loved reclining in that stump, his arms thrown over the sides, relaxing, drinking a little, and watching the storms swirl on the far horizon just as they did then. He loved gazing across the pine valley below and knowing he was the only man in those parts.
The valley, legends claimed, belonged to wandering spirits and forlorn ghosts, to sprites and fairy-folk, but Jesse never bought into that nonsense. At night, asleep in his house he would occasionally hear a knock or a bang or what some simpleton from the distant village might consider a footstep. But not Jesse. He knew it was just a knock or a bang, so he would merely snort at the disturbance, fart, roll over, and go back to bed.
But the buzzing sound--that was new.
Maybe it wasn’t an insect, he thought. But it probably was.
He smacked at his ear and the noise ceased mid-buzz.
Then all fell quiet, save the breeze and the distant rumble of thunder.
For a moment his mind flashed back to his old village with its thatched cottages. He recalled the clack of shutters closing over windows, the warmth from hearth fires, and the aroma of freshly baking bread and of women in flour dusted smocks.
He thought a little more, then drank deeply from the wineskin. He wiped his mouth with this forearm when he was finished.
He set the skin down just a moment before something--a rock? A chunk of wood?--cracked him upside the head and knocked him sideways out of the stump.
“How do you like it, asshole?” something whispered in his ear.
* * *
Jesse remained seated in the dirt, legs outstretched, arms straight down between his legs, head bowed, the ends of his mustache swaying in the breeze.
It wasn’t so much the hurled insult but rather the way in which he had ended up flat on his ass that bothered him. Something solid--a log, a wash board, a boat oar--had smacked him upside the head. In his past life, before his move to the wilderness, the sides of his head had met many a wash board and boat oar. As a result, sparks would flash in his eyes, he would drool a bit, and his thoughts would feel three-sizes too big for his head. But this was different.
He did drool a bit, sure, but he saw no lights and his head felt fine. It was as if he just thought he felt something almost bust his skull.
With his chin to his chest, he turned his head and found his wine skin lying in the dust. He snatched it, opened it, and sniffed at the spigot.
It smelled okay.
He took a gulp, actually what would have counted as two gulps. That third gulp however, couldn’t rightly be counted as a drink at all.
It tasted okay.
He put the skin back in his lap. Maybe it had been all in his mind.
“Or maybe it was a fairy.”
“Doubtful,” he answered.
“Why is that?”
“Because fairies don’t exist,” he said.
“You sure?”
He thought about it for a second. “Yep.”
“What about a ghost?”
He felt a little pull across his chest. “Not likely.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Then who are you talking to?”
“That’s a damn fine point,” he said before realizing just how damn fine of a point it was.
Suddenly bothered, startled and scared shitless, he yelped and hopped to his feet. The wine skin flew through the air and tumbled over the cliff. Jesse spun in quick circles, fists up, searching for the origin of that voice.
He saw no one. Nothing, save tall grass at the edge of the cliff that swayed in the breeze.
He stopped spinning and cursed the loss of his wineskin. He rubbed his hand down his long mustache and started to think.
More thunder rumbled in the distance and Jesse had an idea.
* * *
The rain fell softly as he came upon the house. He liked to call it a ‘lodge’ more specifically and he had cut and planed the logs that made up the walls himself. He had hauled the stone for the hearth down from the mountain and he had done it alone.
He looked at the dust on his boots.
“I’m getting wet here,” he heard in his ear, the voice soft and small like before.
The rain had indeed begun to fall harder. Droplets pinged off the hard ground and dripped from the tips of his mustache.
“So can we go in now?”
He regarded the heavy wooden door. “Not yet,” he said finally. “I like the feel of the rain.”
He heard a diminutive snort. “You must also like a wracking cough and sludge-like mucus.”
Jesse frowned.
“Why do I feel like there’s another reason you don’t want to go inside?” the voice said.
Jesse didn’t answer.
* * *
Jesse peed near the side bushes and did a little more thinking while the rain dotted his shoulders. When he finished, he shook, adjusted his britches, and closed his eyes until another boom of thunder sounded. Then he headed back towards the inevitable.
“Maybe now we can go inside?”
Doubt flickered across Jesse’s eyes, but he banished it, reached for the handle, and eased the door open.
The scent of the herbs he had hanging, waiting to season his next meal, welcomed him. So too did the aroma of his books and the faint scent of wine. The fire he left in the hearth had burnt to embers. He would need to add wood. He would also need to light the candles placed strategically around the room so the shadows fell just right.
“It’s nice,” he heard in his ear.
“I made it as nice as I could,” he answered.
A snort broke the silence. Although quite similar, uncannily similar in fact Jesse thought, to the snort he heard earlier, this one came not from the voice, but from his old dog Sauvi, who lay sleeping and snoring on his belly, his legs splayed like a spatch-cocked chicken in front of the fire.
“Vicious,” the voice said.
Jesse barely heard. His attention was locked on the two, high backed chairs, covered with furs, also in front of the fireplace.
“Oh,” the voice whispered.
The heat returned to Jesse’s cheeks.
“So,” the voice said. “You didn’t want to come in from
the rain because of the dog.”
He nodded and looked down at a splash of mud on his boot. He should have taken them off.
“Wow, okay,” the voice said. “I’m kind of flattered.”
For awhile, they listened to the patter of the rain, the breath of the dog, and the creak of a ceiling beam.
“I have to be honest,” the voice said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m not really sure what I am.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s like one minute I wasn’t here and the next I was.”
Jesse wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“So your dog,” the voice whispered. “Your dog will know if I’m a fairy, or a ghost, or just a figment, right? Dog’s have heightened senses. They can detect other-worldly sorts of things. If he barks, I’m real. If he doesn’t...”
Jesse lowered his head. He really wished he wouldn’t have lost his wineskin. It had been dear to him, almost as dear to him as one or two other things in his life.
“You know,” the voice said. “The sound of the rain really is nice.”
“It always is.”
“But we should probably wake the dog, huh? Get this over
with?”
Jesse stared into the embers shimmering in the hearth. “Not yet,” he said. “He’s old. Let him sleep.”
For a moment, silence.
“Okay,” the voice said finally.
They said no more. Jesse lifted his feet carefully and, despite the mud crusted onto his heel, tiptoed to his chair. He sat in front of the dying fire, his dog, still snoring, at his feet.
Jesse sat and rested for a bit and listened to the patter of the rain and to the distant rumble of thunder.
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