VERA copyright2011 m.s.

 

In the ruins outside the city of Hammersmith, were columns made of marble, where many people placed their prayers, dreams, desires, and wishes. Through those crumbling columns led to darkness that housed a crypt. In that crypt, those dreams, desires, wishes, and prayers, were heard, and sometimes fulfilled, at a price.

Ferguson moved to Hammersmith to attend the University there. He enrolled in all the necessary art classes, but had little interest in learning anything they taught. He was only there to appease his Father and use the family's money to become a successful painter.

Ferguson always painted at night, between two and six in the morning. The rest of his time was spent throwing elaborate parties for people who would never become his friends. Something of a class division, as it was explained by his friend Alex, who was always at the cottage Ferguson rented, though he didn't live there. Alex was anywhere he could get a free meal and enough liquor to satisfy his disease.

Alex always had Vera by his side.. Vera became Ferguson's obsession. She was striking. The first time he saw her from across the room, walking side by side with Alex, her long dark hair fell and moved in rhythm with her hips, her long legs seemed to carry her across the room as if she were floating, Ferguson found the person he not only wanted to love----but own.

Vera was Art incarnate.

It was also at this very same party that Ferguson learned of people from the town had went to the old Constantine mausoleum to ask for what was not intended, or out of their reach.

Alex would laugh. “Pathetic, if you ask me. In my opinion, if you want something,” His eyes drifted to Vera. “You should just take it.”

Exactly what Ferguson wanted to hear.

“So,” He poured himself another drink, slightly slurring his words. “If one appears at the mausoleum after midnight and asks for whatever---in the morning----they shall have it. All that is required of one is to wait for the Constantine matriarch to manifest and you give her a kiss. The odd thing is, many of these people, I've been told, keep a scarf or something wrapped around their face. Some kiss!”

“Have you ever tried it, Alex?” Ferguson steadied his eyes on Alex.

“Of course not! I'm not a commoner like these village idiots living in Hammersmith. I don't believe in spirits either!”

“You don't have a scarf either,” Some one said.

Vera whispered in his ear, he pushed her away.

“I think we should take the party to the mausoleum.”

“Ahh...I don't think so, Ferguson.” Alex was the first to protest. Vera had nothing to say, as usual. As a matter of fact, Ferguson was in belief that Alex didn't allow her to speak.

Ferguson turned to Vera. “What do you think?”

She didn't answer him, but kept her eyes on his, the gray-blue drew Ferguson in and would not let him go for several minutes until Alex spoke, breaking the spell.

“She goes where ever I go,” He said with a bit of forcefulness in his voice.”She goes and does as I please.”

Ferguson was smirking. Alex stood and was now inches from his face. Ferguson put his hands up. “As you say, Alex, my friend.”

“Just don't forget it,” He snarled. Then took Vera by the arm and dragged her to the front door and threw her outside as soon as he opened it. He looked back at Ferguson, who was still smirking. He wagged a finger, but somehow forgot to vocal the warning. He exited, slammed the door so hard the windows in the cottage rattled. After that incident, people began to filter out of the party one by one. Soon it was just Ferguson and a bottle of jack. He stared at the rough drawing on canvas of Vera he began a few days ago. He hurled the bottle at the picture, knocking the canvas to the floor, following the bottle, that burst into a thousand little shards on the wood floor.

“I will get what I want!”

He threw himself upon his bed and covered his head with pillows and screamed.

Ferguson awoke in the morning his painting of Vera was back on the easel and completed. He was astonished. When had this happened? In my sleep?

He touched the painting with his fingers, noticed he'd added some background. The mausoleum.

“I don't understand.....” He said. There was a rapping at his door, sounded like bongos. Without thinking of dressing, Ferguson ran to the front door, fully exposed. He opened the door to find Alex and Vera standing there. Vera turned her head, then hid her face in Alex's jacket. Alex laughed.

“I think you should dress, old boy. You'll give the old women next door a scare,” Alex pushed Ferguson aside and Vera followed, still averting her eyes. Alex sat in a chair, Vera on the sofa. Ferguson left for the bathroom and reentered wearing pajama and an old tee shirt.

“I see you finished it,” Alex pointed at the painting. “You did well capturing those eyes.” He smiled at Vera, she blushed.

Ferguson ran his hand through his hair. “I, uh, don't remember painting it.”

Alex shrugged. “Sure. You were drunk.”

Ferguson nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“We all were, old boy.”

“So what are you here for. I seem to remember you left here mad.”

“Yes. I was. I'm sorry about that. Jealousy and alcohol doesn't mix well.”

“You, Alex, shouldn't have either. Drink too much, think too much.”

“I agree.”

“ Your not going to loose Vera, unless you wise up.”

“Point taken.”

Ferguson looked at Vera. There was silence. “Don't you have anything to say?”

She just batted her eyes. “Don't say much do you?” Still, she said nothing, just batted her eyes at him. “What do you two want?”

Alex smiled slightly. “I'm going out of town.”

“So.” Ferguson went to the bar, fixed him a glass of vodka, then poured Alex some rum. He motioned for Alex to take it. “Let me guess, Vera doesn't drink or eat.”

“Oh, your wrong. She does both.” Alex drank down the rum in one gulp. He sat the glass down on the bar gently. “Look, I'll be gone for a few days. I'd like for you to take care of her.”

“I don't know. I'm kind of busy.”

“For the sake of our friendship.....”

“No,” Ferguson sighed.

“I know, old boy, you're ass-hurt about last night. I'm really sorry.” Alex patted Ferguson's arm. “Please do this for me.”

“She can't take care of herself?”

“Vera...get's lonely.”

Ferguson burst into laughter. “All right. I'll do it.”

“Great! Take her to Bridges. She love's that restaurant.”

“A steak place? Not an expensive cafe or....”

“Just take good care of her.” Alex went to the front door, opened it.

“Your leaving now?” There was panic in Ferguson's voice.

“You'll be all right.” He was gone.

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments. Ferguson sat on the sofa beside her. She stood and moved over to the chair. Ferguson nodded.

“That was fun. Now what do we do?”

Ferguson came to. He'd been lying on the floor of the restaurant, blood all over his shirt, his hands stinging with horrible. He sat up, touched his pounding head. Vera was kneeling beside him as was the manager of the place. He saw tables turned over, chairs tossed aside, several people staring at him with fear. A man was laying in a pool of blood, his face battered. He wasn't dead, but barely conscious.

“What happened?” Ferguson tried to stand, feeling dizzy he held onto Vera.

“You don't remember? You had words with that guy.....passed out.......then jumped up and wailed on him......passed out again.....you got anger problems----I don't want you in here again....”

Ferguson moved quickly. He took Vera by the hand and they trotted out of the restaurant. The manager called out to him, told him to stay, the cops were on their way. Ferguson was already in his Fiat powering through side streets. He drove out on the Interstate, then back on a dirt road. He didn't know why, but something told him to do it. He ended up at the Mausoleum.

The air was thin out there. The moonlight became as bright as if it were day.

He and Vera walked through several graves hidden behind a mist. She led the way. With each step she seemed to blend with the mist. As they stopped at the mausoleum, Vera disappeared. Shocked, Ferguson reached out for her, felt the air. He clasped his hand over his mouth. He felt a presence. In an instance a woman in a white shroud appeared. It covered most of her face and extended into a frock of some sort draped over her body.

“Speak it,” He heard a voice inside his head. “What you wish, what you desire.....”

Ferguson opened his mouth, but no words were spoken. She heard them inside her head. The woman bowled her head. Without even walking, his body was pulled forward. He was face to face with apparition.

She reached out, touched his trembling face. The woman leaned in, her lips parted. Then expanded. Her tongue slithered outward like a snake and a separate set of large teeth protruded and caught Ferguson by the lips and bit. He tried scream, it only came out as loud whine.

He awoke. He was in his bed. Naked. Beside him was Vera, she too naked. The morning sunlight murdered his vision, but was kind enough to give it back. His face hurt immensely. He stood, heard someone in the living room. He stumbled there, knocking the painting of Vera off the easel. He saw Alex sitting on the sofa, having a drink.

Alex turned, chuckled. “You look a wreck, old boy.” He drank down the last of whatever liquid and sat the glass in the coffee table. “Oh, well. I'm here to gather my sister.”

Confusion contorted Ferguson's face.

“Oh, you didn't know? Silly of me not have said. Thought you knew we were Constantine's.”

Vera appeared, fully dressed. She took Alex's hand and out the door they went. Ferguson tried to speak, nothing came. His jaw was in considerable pain. He placed a hand over his mouth. He ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror.

His face was misshaped, his mouth and right side of his jaw had been eaten away.

WHAT'S IN THE BOTTLE copyright2011 m.s.

They saw him coming up main street kicking up dirt behind him, doing a sort of power walk. Leonard was the first to notice the man in the checkerboard sports jacket, ball cap, and tennis shoes with holes in the sides. He was coming up fast past the barber shop and the school house, when Bob noticed something around his neck, swinging back and forth with every step the stranger took. Sol pointed out that the man must had been on the road a long time.

“See the dust flying off of him,” Sol said.

“Pitiful sight,” Bob shook his head, rocked a little more in his rocking chair as he whittling on a stick he'd been working on for a week.

Leonard laughed. “He could be one of your cousins, Sol.” Bob joined in, his laughter more like a squeak.

They were the eyes, ears, and mouths of the town called Leering. . Always gathering at Sol's store at two pm til six, sit on the front porch and spin stories and gossip about the town's residents. All three had lived in the small town all their lives, all three never once set foot outside the state of Virginia.

Bob ran the garage, was a grease monkey from the age of twelve. Leonard called himself a farmer, but never really grew anything, made his money doing odd jobs around town and once in awhile did maintenance on the school house or football field.

“Look at that idgit go,” Bob shook his head.

“Where in the hell did he come from? “ Leonard posed the question to the others.

The three of them exchanged looks, shrugged their shoulders.

The stranger came closer, stumbling as one foot tangled with the other. He fell to the dusty street in front of the store. The three of them jumped up, ran to the stranger's rescue.

“Whoa....buddy,” Leonard put a hand on the man's torn jacket, lift him up by the shreds.

Bob helped by pulling on the bottle, which was attached to a gold chain. The bottle fell from the chain with ease, hit the pavement. The bottle bounced, rolled to Sol's feet. He bent down, scooped it up. Sol made a face. In between that time, Bob and Leonard were in a heated exchange about clumsiness.

“Weird,” Sol said, turning the silver bottle around and around in his hands. “This thing is warm...feels like a beating heart....”

Bob and Leonard left the stranger in the middle of the street to see what Sol was talking about.

The stranger laid down, turned his face skyward, and gave out a long sigh, promptly ceased to exist. Bob and Leonard rushed over to the stranger.

“He's dead.....” Bob gave Leonard a confused look.

“What the hell?” Leonard shook his head, a long whining whistle came from his lips. “I never in my life.....Sol, this man is dead.....Sol?”

Sol was still intrigued by the silver bottle. He held it up in the sunlight. He read an inscription that had been engraved in old English lettering.

“Who so ever holds this bottle, once owned by COMTE SAINT-GERMAIN, will live as long as he is the curator and defender.....la vie éternelle.”

Bob and Leonard looked at each other. “What did he say?” Leonard made a face.

“You okay, Sol?” Bob rushed to his old friends side, Leonard trailed him. Bob took Sol by the elbow. “Let's get you out of this heat, old boy.” They pushed him forward a few steps.

“What about the dead guy?” Leonard looked.

“Go tell Bill about him,” Bob yelled out.

Leonard stood paralyzed for the moment by confusion, then as if it just came to him, he ran across the street to the jailhouse.

Later that evening, after Bill, the town sheriff, took care of the stranger and all of their statements, Leonard, Bob, and Sol gathered at Sol's store. They sat out on the porch, watched the sun set. It was Leonard and bob doing the talking mostly. Sol was on the other side with the empty beer kegs, mumbling to himself. In an instant, Sol let out a blood curdling scream. Bob and Leonard jumped from their seats. They held onto each other.

Sol's face was frozen in agony.

His mind was taken back in time. A stone hammer pounded nails into a hand that was now bound to one side of a wooden cross. A flash came and the imagery changed. The cross had been driven into the ground hours ago. The glaring sun cast a shadow on the man's body as clouds darkened the sky above. Below, on the ground, a woman holding a silver bottle caught blood dripping from the cross.

Then Sol snapped out of it.

“La vie éternelle,” Sol said.

Bob and Leonard were bewildered. When they finally noticed they were holding each other tightly, embarrassment came over them. They pushed each other away.

Sol got up and left.

They watched him scuffle down the street toward his house, kicking up dust behind him.

“What in the world......” Bob scratched his head.

“I think Sol is sick, Bob.” Leonard sighed.

“What's Jane going to think of Sol and his bottle?”

Leonard looked at Bob, cleared his throat. “I have a bigger question for you.”

“What's that, Leonard?”

“What's in the bottle?”

Bob and Leonard were at Sol's store. Bob tried the front door, exasperated. “It's still locked.”

“Ain't seen him in two days. I'm worried, Bob.”

“Me too, Leonard. Me too.”

“Hey!” Leonard screamed, pointed to a man shoveling his feet through the street, cars dodging him. “It's Sol!”

Leonard started off the front porch of the store, Bob grabbed hold of his shirt, pulled him back.

“We gotta get him!” Leonard cried out, shook off Bob's grip.

Bob shook his head. “Let him go,” He said. “He obviously has something important to do.”

RED HOT WOODPECKERcopyright 2011 m.s.

I needed a fix and I needed it bad.

It had been two days and I was ready to drill a hole in somebody's head. Been shooting' speed the past six months and the highs are getting' lower each time. A drag. A real long drag. Once upon a time this red hot woodpecker could get anything he wanted by blowin' his horn and ruffling his red-headed cowl was as as easy as 1,2,3. The lil' chicks dug me, in spite of my beak and God-awful laugh. At one time, baby, I was king cock here in Universal city and my Bebop was the boppiest bop you could bop to. I was it, baby.

Until speed crashed this roadster.

Now it's hard for a woodpecker to live in the city. I blow my sax almost every night in Lantz Ritz club, owned by a real gone cat named Desota. A real horror show beast with a penchant for small animal dissection, especially birds with a red and blue suit of feathers.

Before I went on to do a set, I saw that Walrus in the audience, sitting at a table too small for him. He'd been coming to the club every night this week. Always in the same gray suit and polka-dot tie. Always sitting there, holding a hat box close to him, sippin' on a beer or two. I leaned over to my drummer, asked him who the Walrus was. My drummer took a long drag from his cig, “That guy? That's Wally. He knows Desota.”

Sure enough, after Suzie, the one armed stripper was through with her show, Desota came and talked to him. I saw Desota put a hand on the hat box. The Walrus moved the hat box closer to him, shook his head.

I knew what was in the hat box. I've run a few numbers for Desota. It has bread in it. A payoff for protection, more than likely. Suddenly a devil of an idea hit brain central. I bet I could pay off what I owe Desota, get a fresh hit, make the highs high again.

Get out of Universal city.

So I played my set. Blew my horn, wailed, screeched, stammered, sputtered, sang like a twelve year old boy with no nuts-----the audience just stared back at me. I turned to my bass player, shrugged. Somebody screamed at me, “Stop steppin' on Coltrane's shoes, ya bum!”

We went into our vibe, playin' the pop charts crap....audience mellowed out..seemed to dig it.

I was glad the shit was over. I needed a hit bad, I felt like I hadn't slept in a hundred years, and my drummer started callin' me Bela—or Lugosi---cause the dark circles under my eyes.

I waited at the bar, drinking tonic water cause that Panda bear bar tending bastard wouldn't cut me some slack on my tab. At about twelve thirty, the Walrus left his table, waddled to the bathroom, that hat box under short stubby flaps. I waited five minutes, followed as inconspicuous as possible. I passed by Desota's table. He was busy with Suzie using her good hand on him under the table.

When I got to bathroom, I could see under the stall that he was sittin' on the toilet. He was talkin' to himself in Italian. Weird. He was doing his voice and a woman's voice, but I couldn't understand what he was sayin'. Now I knew from first hand experience that Desota never put locks on the stalls. He sure was a cheap bastard.

I watched him finish his business, pulled up his pants. I burst into the stall. His back was to me. The Walrus screamed. I pecked his head several times, keepin' him from turning round to see me. Then I pushed his huge head into the toilet---my god what a big head that joker had. I smashed his head twice on the seat. First time, I broke one of his tusks. The second time, I busted his left eye. The third time, his head dunked into the smelly, black water. I held him in it for awhile, even flushing a couple times. I could hear him gurgling, cursing in Italian, when I let him up momentarily.

I flushed one more time, and he didn't get move. He didn't even make a mousey sound.

But he had a death grip on that hat box.

So I pecked at his flipper a few times, then it was free.

I know, I know. It's bad luck to leave a dead man face down in a toilet. But what are you gonna do. I made way for the exit of the club as fast as I could, protecting the hat box under a wing. I flew down the dark alley until I saw my building. I landed in the park. Got myself together. I walked the rest of the way, steppin' over Tricks and their Johns, winos having a knife fight. I snuck through the lobby, hopin' the old lady wouldn't hound me for bread.

Finally, three floors up. I safe in my nest. I sat at the kitchen table, took a swig of bourbon. I stared at the hat box. I toasted it. “Here's to you, baby. You're gonna get me back on track and outta this stinkin' city.”

I unraveled the pink ribbon that bound the top to the box. Tossed it aside and began to laugh, but shut myself up. I lift the top and threw it aside. I reached in, felt something completely mad diff from flat green paper. It was cold, fleshy. Then I felt something like string----no.

It felt like hair.

I saw head inside the hat box. A woman with large blue eyes, mouth open wide open and tangled blonde hair. She was staring up at me. Asking me why. Or was she yelling at me. no. She was screaming for help.

I sat back in my chair, took another swig of bourbon. I began to laugh uncontrollably. A loud maniacal laugh. So loud the neighbors were poundin' on my walls and screamin' at me.

It's all I could do, was laugh. It's just too funny.

THE AUCTION copyright2011 m.s.

Thompson showed up late, sporting his dark blue tie that Joan had bought him. In the fourteen years of marriage, she always bought him a tie for his birthday and a dark blue tie for that matter. He stopped at the door of auction room, fiddled with the tie.

“I'm not even sure this tie goes with light pink shirt,” He said and sighed.

From the door he could hear the auctioneer's booming voice, asking for asking for another bid. No takers. Then the gavel banged and he announced that Smith had won the bid.

Thompson made a noise from his throat. “I hope that bastard isn't here,” Thompson ran a hand up and down his face.

He was tired.

If he wasn't out chasing a soul to take to the Otherside, then he was at auctions all over the world buying souls for the agency. Everyone thinks it's only one spirit in a robe and holding a scythe that's Death. Actually there is several agencies out collecting. And there's two things every agent of death hates: one, is for a soul recently deceased to run or go missing. Two: for another agent to steal a soul from underneath an agent.

The last thing is what Floyd Smith was famous for. He hated him, even though they both had worked for Axel agency as partners until Smith started his own agency.

Thompson opened the door to the auction room with an audience of twenty or so agents laughing, clapping, some thumbing their nose, and the auctioneer announcing his presence.

Thompson waved at the other agents, smiled big as if he were a celebrity. He looked around, Smith wasn't there.

“How nice of you to join us, Mr. Thompson. Your seat has only been empty for three hours.” The auctioneer said through the microphone.

“Oh, come on, Gimble,” Thompson yelled out. “I only bid on the best souls.”

Thompson found his seat beside a nervous Calvin, his partner.

“Thank God your here, Stevo,” Calvin was wearing that horrible chex-mix suit, the squares of red and white always made Thompson feel nauseous. “You heard what Ford said on Monday. If we don't snag a good soul he can sell, we're out of a job.”

“You worry too much, Calvin,” Thompson pushed his glasses off the tip of his nose, brushed back a strand on his balding head. “We'll get one. By the way, if you loose this job, you can go back to being a gym coach. Oh, but your wife still thinks you do that, eh?”

“What do you tell your wife, Stevo?” Calvin said in mocking voice.

Thompson turned to auctioneer, tried to pay closer attention to the event. “None of you’re fucking business, is what I tell her.” Thompson smiled to himself.

“Just don't let Smith outbid you,” Calvin whispered.

“He's not here.” Thompson saw the picture of a Senator placed on an easel.

The agent next to them whispered to them,”Smith was here. He was called away for something urgent.”

“Oh, great, what luck, eh Stevo?” Calvin placed his huge hand on Thompson shoulder. Thompson jerked away. The man was a giant, played three years as a center for the Bronco's before blowing out a knee. Now he was an agent of death for the Axel agency, and not a very good one. He and Thompson has had too many lost souls. They slip away and haunt someone or some building, or even an object. Once a deadline to exit the souls to the Otherside is missed they are gone for eternity.

For the Senator, Thompson bid 450, it jumped to 500 credits. Thompson raised his hand. 600 credits. Burke from Denholm agency bid 1,000 credits. Thompson screamed, “1, 500!”

Calvin jabbed Thompson in the ribs with an elbow. Thompson gave him a look, daggers in his eyes. “The agency only gave us 1800 credits!”

“Back off,” Thompson growled.. “I know what I'm doing.”

Thompson heard the bidding close at 2500 credits. His jaw dropped to the floor. “What---what happened?” He cried out.

“The bid closed on you while you were talking,” One of the agents said.

“Which one of you bastards----” Thompson stood, his face beat red with anger.

“It was Smith,” Someone said. “By phone.”

Thompson kicked his chair, cursed under his breath. Thompson placed a hand over his worried face. He was done for. He would surely loose his job, or worse. Be RETIRED.

“This young lady was recently deceased,” The auctioneer said. “As a matter of fact, this last acquirement only died twenty minutes ago.”

Thompson sat in his chair, barely looked up. He crossed his arms, shook his head. They removed the Senator's picture from the easel, and replaced it with a beautiful dark haired woman smiling as if there were no cares in the world.

“This is Jenna Smith. Died from a car accident,” the auctioneer said.

Thompson eyes lit up. He moved his lips to say the woman's name. “That's Smith's wife...” He whispered to Calvin.

Calvin stopped picking his nose and looked up. “Don't do it,” Calvin whispered back. “Please don't bid on her, Stevo.”

“He can't bid on the soul of a loved one, Calvin. If he does, he could be Retired. Those are the rules.”

“Let one of these other jerks do this. For God's sake, Steve. Smith used to be a friend.”

Thompson wrinkled his nose. “Screw him,” he said and topped out the bid.

“Twenty-five thousand!”

The auction room went silent.

“That was all the credits we were allotted for the year...Steve...” Calvin buried his head in his hands.

“If,” Thompson pulled out the company credit card and slammed it on the auction treasurer's desk. “I'm going out, Calvin, I wanna go out with style.”

“But, if you loose this soul, you'll be RETIRED.” Calvin shook his head. “And I will, too.”

“No,” Thompson watched the treasurer swipe his card. “You are no longer my partner. I'll get the paperwork drawn up after I do this.” The treasurer handed Thompson the credit card. With the other hand he signed for the sale. “You wont be RETIRED.” Thompson tried to smile, but it turned into a smirk.

This was Thompson's justice.

He was sick of the business. Taking souls across, into the light or the darkness, it wears on a person's mind. Sometime you even dream about it. He hated Smith so much, he was willing to be RETIRED. Who were they kidding. The committee doesn't RETIRE you, they incinerate you and your soul becomes one those whispering voices in the winds during a storm. Lousy way to go. Well, if he made up something, showed what a jerk Smith was, how many souls he'd stolen from him, they would understand how letting the man's wife become a lost soul was a just cause for revenge. They might let him go and wait for him to die, then his soul would become a whispering voice.

That would never happen.

The auction had given him info on where Smith's wife may be. He tried the hospital. No dice. He tried the school where she had taught first grade. No spirit wandering the school's halls. The last place was a summer home on a Maine beach.

Thompson arrived just in time for sundown. The sun illuminated the overcast sky----bright reds and oranges in a wild pink and blue beyond the horizon. He saw a woman standing at the edge of the pier, quietly watching the waves dance across the elegant river.

She was nearly transparent in her sundress. Her dark hair whipped around her face courtesy of the rolling wind.

“Jenna,” Thompson called out to the woman.

She turned quickly. There was a crease between her eyes to show her confusion. She looked at Thompson as if she only heard a voice and saw no one. Then she smiled slightly after recognizing a person belonged to the voice.

“Oh,” Jenna said. “Your here take me.”

“More or less,” Thompson nodded.

Jenna laughed. “Men are always so vague,” She looked at him. “I was hoping I could get a chance to say goodbye to Floyd.”

“Did you love your husband?” Thompson approached her cautiously. If ran to her, she might jump into the river. But maybe he wanted her to. He couldn't make up his mind.

“Yes,” She said without hesitation.

If Thompson let her go, she would haunt Smith until he died.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Thompson put his hand out.

Jenna bit her lip, reached out for Thompson.

From a distance, a voice called out for her. She pulled back her hand. Thompson turned, saw it was Smith running up the pier.

“Jenna! No! Don't take his hand!” He was coming up fast, waving his hands.

“Please Jenna! I'll taker her across Thompson, you bastard!”

Jenna stepped backwards. All she saw was a blur of a body coming towards her and a muffled voice screaming at her. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. Fear ran across her face. Jenna turned toward the waves crashing against the pier.

“Stay back,Smith! What are you doing! You know you'll scare her away---”

No sooner had Thompson caught Smith by the arms, Jenna was gone.

The current had taken her, enveloped her in it's white underbelly.

Smith and Thompson stood, both at a loss for words. Smith burst into tears.

Thompson, closed his eyes, let go of Smith.

Thompson walked away.

THE SICKNESS copyright2011 m.s.

The rains came and outside my window the steam overtook the world.

As the steam disperses, I can see the dead out on the street staring with their hungry eyes. In my chair, the water rises covering my boots. My Mother waifs through the water from to room dusting the burnt furniture.

I wait for the inevitable.

It's a happy home. Three naked women lay on my bed having my babies, the umbilical cord keeping them together as sisters. They grit their teeth, foaming at the mouth, rabid in their love.

In the dining room a man in a black tuxedo play piano rolls on a Steinway. His monkey performs voodoo on the Priest giving me my last rites. The Priest found a match finally, but the candle will not light.

So I lift my shirt, black throbbing sores whisper to me their hopes and dreams. The dead have finally entered my house, crawling through the flooded floors to feed from my sores, the sickness controlling their small minds while everyone bear witness to the coming dawn.

IN THROUGH THE OUTDOOR copyright 2011 m.s.

Mick Ronson was sitting at the bar In through the outdoor having a Tom Collins, holding a small piece of paper in his hands. Bull rolled his eyes, kept wiping the beer mugs with a damp towel. Ronson smiled at Bull as the paper caught fire.

It was what Mick Ronson was good at.

All he has to do is think about an object and it catches fire. A beautiful blue-red flame with tinges of yellow enveloping the object.

Ronson loved it so. He wasn't just an firebug. He thought of himself as an artist. From the time he was nine years old and he thought of how he'd like to burn that mean old Mrs. Avery's house down for telling on him stealing gum from the store, to the time he caught Mr. Donner's pants on fire in history class in the tenth grade, Ronson knew he was special.

Think= fire.

In his hands the paper caught fire without the aid of a match or lighter.

Bull poured Ronson another Tom Collins.

“Oh by the way, Mick, this is Cora. If you got a twenty she'll make your world move.”

Ronson looked up and a tall, blonde in a green sequence dress, was standing in front of him. Ronson smiled a toothy grin.

“Bull's just mad cause he can't make as much money as me. Not enough sickly old men that like bald ugly queens like old Bull.”

Bull growled. “If you weren't my sister,” He showed Cora his fist. Then he went off to tend bar for three drunk sailors that just entered, falling over each other.

“You really Bull's sister?” Ronson placed the flaming paper in an ashtray.

“Afraid so, came from same mother.”

Ronson stared at Cora, chewing on an ice cube. She sat the stool beside him, not so much lady-like, but enough to get Ronson's eyes moving toward the open flaps of her dress.

“So what do you want?” He said.

“Conversation,” Cora leaned in with a cigarette and lit it by the burning paper in the ashtray.

“You could have that with those sailors over there.”

Cora sighed. “Not my type. Never had a good situation with military guys.”

“That put's a kink in your kind of business, don't it?”

“What does?”

“Being picky.”

“That was a neat trick,” Cora said with a giggle.

“What trick was that?” Mick raised an eyebrow.

She pointed at the ashtray.

“Oh, that,” He had a toothy grin on his face. “That's a trade secret.” He chewed on an ice cube.

The sailors were hootin and hollarin' at each other as they took shots for quarters.

“Why aren't you talking to them?” Mick threw a thumb toward them.

“Not my type. I like guy's in white suits.” I said.

“You do do you?” His eyes grew wild. “If you only knew me......”

“I would like to,” I placed my hand on his leg.

“What were you burning?” Cora picked through the ashes, took piece that hadn't burned.

It read:

Dear Mick, I can't see you anymore. Peter has found out.....

The rest had turned into soot, then the paper ends.

Cora nodded. “Oh,” She carefully placed the paper back in the ashtray. “I see. I hate it when that happens.”

At that moment the bar door slammed open. Everyone stopped to see who it was.

Peter Barnes stood in the doorway, looking every bit intense, and intending to do harm. He wasn't a big man as much as he had those crazy eyes that drilled a hole through you. He was there with two men much bigger than he, and faces only a mother could love. His suit was so red that Bulls in Mexico were looking for him.

“This, boys, is the kind of place where you're served drinks that burns a hole in your stomach,” Barnes said. The two men behind him chuckled. “Bull, baby. How are you?”

Bull became very nervous, the beer glasses shook in his hands. “Mr. Barnes.... I'm not late on my payments am I?” Bull let out a whimper as Barnes and his men ambled to the bar.

“Bull, sweetheart, don't be nervous,” Barnes patted Bull on the hand several times. The drunk sailors were staring, their mouths left gaping. Barnes snarled at them. “You bums beat it!” He barked at them. They exchanged bug-eyed looks and scattered out the door.

Barnes was now standing directly behind Ronson, staring a hole in the back of his head. Ronson didn't flinch. He kept drinking his tom Collins, chewing on an ice cube. Cora began to breathe uneasy. She stood, Barnes put his hand on her shoulder.

“No reason to leave, honey,” He said. “Finish your drink with Mr. Ronson. I'm only gonna talk to him, me and the boys.” Like good soldiers, his bodyguards stepped forward to put an exclamation mark on his statement.

Ronson turned to Barnes, gave him a huge smile, pushed his panama jack up on his forehead. “What's shakin', bub?”

Barnes leaned in, whispered, or maybe it was growl, no one was really sure.

“You fucker,” Barnes laughed. “You promised to do a job. You were paid. And you didn't fucking come through. Then YOU got the nerve to fuck Violet?”

“Language, Barnes. There's a lady present.” The smile on Ronson disappeared.

One of Barnes men placed a hand on Ronson's shoulder. His hand burst into flames. The six foot-seven inch man full of muscle and a large belly, ran screaming to the bathroom. The other bodyguard pulled his .38 from his holster and placed the barrel between Ronson's eyes. The man's head, which was a square box of meat, was now engulfed in a blue-red flame. His ear-piercing scream could be heard as he ran out the bar's exit and into the street.

Ronson took another sip from his glass. Everyone was flabbergasted. Cora was motionless. “Oh, God, oh,God,” She said over and over under her breath. Bull kept batting his eyes,but he knew what Ronson was capable of. This though, was the worst he'd ever seen.

Barnes backed away from the bar slowly. “What-what are you? Some kinda genetic freak?”

He backed into something soft by the exit. He screamed, turned. It was Violet. Dyed red hair, bad makeup, but still had the body of a stripper from years past. She threw her arms around Barnes, kissed him wildly. “I thought it was too late! I meant to warn you, baby. You don't know what he is....” She pulled away, still holding Barnes hand. “You're a monster!” She pointed at Ronson.

Ronson sniggered.

“Look what he did to Snake and Terror.” Barnes walked out with Violet, as if he was being led by his Mother.

“I know, honey. I'm sorry I cheated on you with that THING.” Violet said.

“Hey, Barnes!” Ronson yelled after him, not once turning to see if he stopped. Barnes poked his head back in the door. “I'll be visiting you in the morning. Talk business.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Barnes said nervously. “Sure thing, Mick.”

Barnes disappeared. But one of his bodyguards showed up, with his shirt wrapped around a deformed lump of flesh attached to his wrist. He stopped, looked at everyone. He ran for exit as fast as his feet could take him.

There was a long silence, save for Bull wiping Beer glasses. Cora couldn't move. But her eyes would shift toward Ronson once in awhile.

“Whew!” Ronson said, removed his panama jack to reveal two small red knobs protruding from his head. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Boy, it's hot in here.”

Cora began to panic again.”Oh, God, oh, God,” she said.

Bull dropped a beer glass. The sound of it shattering echoed in the bar. He nearly fell over on the liquor wall.

Ronson stood, threw some money down. “Well,” he put his panama jack back on his head, fixed the brim. “I have to get going. Got an appointment.”

“Hey Mick,” Bull swallowed dryly. “Um..if you don't mind me asking. What was the job.....you know...what you had to burn?”

Ronson smiled a toothy grin. He pointed at the floor. “Here,” He started for the exit. “In through the outdoor.”

A NAME copyright2011 m.s.

Dana Grossman of 52 Fork Rd., raised a crooked finger to the phone book and touched a name with her long, jagged black fingernail. She smiled, her crooked teeth extended over her discolored bottom lip.

“Peterson, Alva......32 Lorre street......” Mrs. Grossman paused, sniffed the putrid air that circulated in her dim apartment. Very little sun crept in through the molded blinds. From the far wall of her kitchen to her desk, where she always sat, were old dusty books piled nearly to the ceiling. “I think Mr. Peterson should have very bad bowel movements for next year and a half.”  She underlined the name with a marker, then copied it in her notepad.

She stood, her bones creaking with every movement and carried herself slowly to her black cauldron that sat upon her kitchen counter. The hump on her back moved up and down under her black tattered dress. She looked inside her cauldron and grunted. She reached inside her cupboard and took a tiny gray mouse from it's trap. It squirmed in her gnarly hands until she sliced open it's throat with a long, skinny razor blade.

The blood from the mouse dribbled in the cauldron into a white murky liquid, causing a slight flash and smoke rose and fell as she spoke in very bad Latin.

“Ah …....” She said to herself. “That should take care of him.” She slowly walked back to her desk to pick out another name.

The doorbell rang.

Mrs. Grossman cursed under her breath. “It better not be those horrible Calladi children,” Her heavy black boots pounded the floorboards hard, still not reaching the door any faster. “I'll cook and eat every one of their fat little bodies and pick my teeth with their bones.”

She looked through the peephole. She saw a tall dark haired woman dressed in a business suit, her hair pulled tightly back and very white clear skin. It was her daughter Clarissa.

The door opened quickly. A hand grabbed Clarissa and pulled her inside the apartment. She winced as she whirled inside, knocking a few books over, loosing a high heel in the process.

“Get in!” Mrs. Grossman screamed in a hoarse voice.

“Mother!” Clarissa cried out. “What are you doing?!”

Mrs. Grossman was looking through the peephole, mumbling to herself.

“Mother!” Clarissa found her left heel and sat in a chair filled with musty books. She carefully placed her foot in and stamped against the floorboards.

“Oh. Hello, Clarissa. I don't want those horrible children near my door.”

“God, are you still terrorizing those poor innocent children,” Clarissa crossed her legs. “You could get into terrible trouble.”

“Those are not good, kindly children who help the elderly across the road,” Mrs. Grossman ran her black fingernails through her stringy white hair. “I'm telling you, Clarissa. Those are little demon-spawns.”

“Then they should be right at home with you,” Clarissa picked up a book entitled FERRAH'S DAEMONOLOGY: HOW TO ENTICE AND ENSLAVE THE MODERN DEMON. “Still dabbling in the a-cult there, Mother?”

“Occult!” Mrs. Grossman snapped. “And yes....and yes it's just as real as that accounting job you have.”

“Hey, I didn't say giving people curses wasn't. And I like my job. It took me a long time to be head accountant.”

Mrs. Grossman took a few steps past her daughter. “You meant it was silly. Would like some tea?”

“Well, it is that. Wait....do you still keep mice in your cupboard?” Clarissa raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I do!” Mrs. Grossman dragged her boots across the floorboards, causing an unpleasant sound inside Clarissa's already aching head.

“No thank you, Mother.” She made a face at the thought of mice and different bugs crawling over her Mother's food in the kitchen.

“I'm having some anyway. What brings you here today, Clarissa?” Mrs. Grossman called from the kitchen. “It's not Saturday. You never visit on a weekday.”

Clarissa shrugged. “I've come to bring your glasses,” She took out a pair of silver coke-bottle frames from her purse.

Mrs. Grossman returned to the living room knocking over a stack of books. In her hands was a cup of black, murky tea as thick as mud. “There's nothing wrong with my eyes,” She sulked. Her upper lip curled up. “My eyes----”

“Are terrible,Mother, and you know it. Last month Dr. Sheridan told you your eyesight was one of the reasons for your fall. That's why I bought you these.” Clarissa stood and bounced toward her Mother's desk, placed them on the phone book. Clarissa's face fell. “Oh no!” She quickly turned to Mrs. Grossman. “You're using Aunt Della's phone book again, are you?”

“Look, Clarissa, don't give me any speeches.” Mrs. Grossman looked troubled, more wrinkles crossed her brow.

“Mother.....I found you hovering in a dark corner without your clothes on last year blubbering about that book trying to kill you. I thought I burned it.”

“You can't destroy it,” Mrs. Grossman giggled, slightly off a note.

“I know, I know,” Clarissa threw her arms up. “Once you use the book, you have too keep doing it's bidding.”

“I guess I never should have taken it at her wake thirty-five years ago.....but I was so eaten up with getting revenge on your Father. He ruined us. Took all the money he made with the Syrup company. Left us for that woman--”

“Yes, Mother. It happened. And we made it out okay. You raised me perfectly. With the exception of mistrust of men......Mother?” Clarissa lowered her perfectly drawn eyebrows, puzzled.

“Yes?” Mrs. Grossman barely took herself from the thoughts of yesteryear.

“You copied this name from the phone book?” Clarissa picked a yellow notepad. She showed it to her Mother.

“Yeah, so what?”

“The name you wrote down is not Alva Peterson....but Alan Pratterson of 42 Shore street. God, Mother! Use the damn glasses if your gonna do this stupid curse thing!” Clarissa slammed the notepad back on the desk and picked up her purse.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Grossman whined.

“I'm late getting back work. I only came on my lunch.” She rushed to the door, opened it.

“I love you, Clarissa,” Mrs. Grossman said.

“I know you do, Mother,” Clarissa turned to her, thought a moment, smiled. “I love you, too. I'll try to come over Saturday.”

Mrs. Grossman smiled back, her rotting teeth were like barbwire on fence posts. “Be careful out there, darling.”

“Bye, Mother.” Clarissa closed the door, and she was gone.

Mrs. Grossman had to quickly get her mind back on her work. She went to her desk, sat down. She picked up her glasses, mulled over what Clarissa had said. She threw them in her trash can. “Nothing wrong with my eyes,” She scoffed.

She took a crooked finger and flipped through several pages of the phone book. She heard a voice moan. “All right, all right,” She said to the phone book. “A name is coming up..........Daniele Gestling.....25 Fredrick’s Rd........hmm...let's stop her heart.”

She checked off the name by underlining it with black marker. Then copied it on her notepad.

She went to cauldron on her kitchen counter. From her cupboard, Mrs. Grossman removed a jar of crushed wasps and poured half them into the white , murky liquid. The cauldron sizzled, then bubbled up.

Mrs. Grossman dropped the jar of crushed wasps. It shattered into a thousand pieces under her feet. She clutched her chest with her gnarly and stopped breathing just as she fell to the tiled floor of her kitchen.

In the phone book, a name underlined with black marker, was Dana Grossman of 52 Fork Rd.