Immediately he felt a gamut of emotions, guilt being not the least of them, poor Elspeth. He did not know when passion had given way to disappointment and years of indifference.
He held his breath as she made several abortive attempts to force her pudgy feet into her slippers, hoping she would make her way to bed tonight without passing comment. His heart sank when she shuffled across the room and paused in front of his bookshelf.
“Oh, Cubby, put down that silly book, take mamma to bed, it’s been so long.”
“Elspeth?”
An icicle of dread played xylophone on Cuthbert’s spine. She had not spoken to him like that in years. He looked up to see her pressing her ample backside against his beloved book collection, making the shelves creak in protest. Her nightgown splayed open divulging a voluminous topography of cellulite craters intersected by stretchmark highways.
Fuelled by alcohol and desperation Elspeth began to bump and grind her body against the bookshelf making it sway alarmingly.
“Stop that this instant,” said Cuthbert leaping to his feet. His fists balled in petulant indignation.
Elspeth leered in her husband’s direction, her expression darkened. Grabbing a book from the shelf, she opened it, tore out a page and stuffed it into her mouth. She chewed noisily, her eyes daring Cuthbert to react.
Howling in rage Cuthbert ran at his wife, but she was ready for him. She lifted a heavy volume above her head and hurled it at him. The book hit him squarely on the forehead stopping him dead. His knees buckled and he tumbled to the floor.
“Stay down here with your books then, you useless worm. Tomorrow I will find a real man who can satisfy me.” Screeched Elspeth at the top her voice, she made a grab for the bookshelf pulling it over, sending an avalanche of books spilling across the carpet. Satisfied, she turned on her heel and staggered out of the room.
Cuthbert groaned as he tentatively fingered the throbbing gash in his forehead, he tried to push a loose flap of skin back into place but the overwhelming pain made him feel dizzy. His hand came away slick with his own blood. A knotted vein pulsed in his temple; the smell of citrus fruit assailed is nostrils. For the first time in years, he felt strong emotions welling up inside him. Writers make their characters suffer all manner of terrible indignations while readers like Cuthbert absorb that pain vicariously day to day. Now though, Cuthbert felt the spotlight was on him. He was the main character in his own story. He surveyed the wreckage of his bookshelf and wondered why he could smell lemons. He winced as a pounding filled his head. His skull had become a bell and a mighty hammer beat within it.
“Oranges and Lemons,” he whispered as he struggled to his feet. He stumbled out of the house, heading for the garage.
There carefully wrapped in a hessian sack Cuthbert found what he was looking for.
Brand new, with a hickory handle, designed for optimum cleaving results, according to the blurb and with impact protection sleeve. That’s a bonus thought Cuthbert, admiring the axe.
Two sticks and an apple,
Say the bells of Whitechapel.
He giggled as he fumbled for the light switch and quietly closed the garage door behind him.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs Cuthbert listened for sounds, he grinned when he heard snoring coming from upstairs.
“It’s time to go up the wooden hill and on to Bedfordshire,” he mumbled placing a foot upon the stair.
Old Father Baldpate,
Say the slow bells of Aldgate.
He had to hold his breath half way up, to stifle a sudden urge to giggle, the axe felt slippery in his hand.
Elspeth lay face down, sprawled upon the double bed,
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
Cuthbert hefted the axe in both hands; slowly he raised it above his head.
“Cuthbert, What are you doing?”
“Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head.”
Cuthbert realised he had spoken aloud as Elspeth began to convulse with laughter, her body jiggling like a jelly on a plate.
“What the hell are you babbling about Cuthbert, are you trying to seduce me?”
“Oh no dear, I’m just taking out the rubbish before bedtime. Goodnight dear.”
The axe fell, slicing cleanly through the back of her knee; it also bit deep into the mattress below, snagging the springs. Cuthbert tugged at the handle, an eerie lowing sound like a cow in labour filled the room. Elspeth had begun to thrash about trying to turn herself over. Oily squirts of blood pumped from her severed limb.
She turned with amazing speed snatching at Cuthbert’s arm,
“Whad tha thuck...?” She said.
Panicking now, Cuthbert turned to see his wife’s open mouth, bubbles of blood burst on her lips; she had bitten off her own tongue.
He jerked free of her clutches, freeing the axe in the same motion. With a strangled cry of desperation, he swung the axe, hearing a satisfying ‘chunk’ sound as it sliced through Elspeth’s neck and embedded itself in the headboard. Her eyes seemed to stare at him with incredulity for just a moment before her severed head rolled forward onto her chest.
Cuthbert chortled as he picked up Elspeth’s head in his hand and looked into his her vacant eyes.
“You know I do believe you're losing weight Elspeth. I am so proud of you. Would you like me to read you a bedtime story tonight?”
Day 7: A STRANGER COMES TO TOWN – Christopher Grant
Red dust, for as far as the eye can see. When the sun sets on it, it looks like spilled blood. Appropriate, I think.
I've been here for two weeks. The first day was next to useless. The stab wounds had been taken care of professionally, well-cleaned, stitched up and wrapped or bandaged. Leg would heal properly given time. Didn't have time.
But it's always been this way, hasn't it?
One night, fictional worlds exploded out into reality.
Or was it the other way around?
Killed my old man.
Did what?
Took a gun and shot him dead.
That's how all of this started.
In the distance, two riders are approaching. One rides a pale horse. Coming out of the setting sun, they look like Death and Pestilence. As they reach me, I see that they are Death and Pestilence.
"The future's uncertain and the end is always near," Death says to me and continues riding past me.
"You should cover your mouth when you cough," Pestilence says and rides on after his friend.
I kick my horse in the sides and we move towards the setting sun.
A half mile on, I find a red horse sprawled out, its rider full of buckshot, his dead eyes open and staring at the heavens. He is missing an arm. The horse once had fire in its eyes. Now there is only cold gray. It looks up at me and tries to snort. I pull my shotgun and grant it mercy.
Another half mile and a black emaciated horse has succumbed at last to its hunger. It is eating the bony leg of its master, who is trying in vain to ward it off.
"Help," he says. Half of his face is a bloody mess, the wound's origin lost in the blood.
I give him all the help he needs, blasting the horse, then him.
Around the bend, there's a cave and I decide to set camp there for the night.
I dream various dreams during the night.
In one there is a woman. Red hair. She grabs me up in her arms and suddenly, we're airborne. She is naked and I notice that I am, too. Suddenly, we are making love in a room somewhere in the future. There are men and women all around us, watching us. I am close to orgasm when she dissolves into water and becomes nothing more than a puddle on the sheets of the bed.
In another dream, I am shaving in a mirror when I notice that I have two reflections. The first of these is my face, normal, clean-shaven and more modern than now. The second is my face but not normal. I am baring my teeth and growling. I have become something else. I can't st
op myself from doing whatever it is I'm going to do next. I charge at the mirror. It shatters.
I wake up, breathing heavily. I can't seem to control my heart. I feel heavy, tired. Finally, I calm myself and fall back to sleep. The rest of the night is uneventful. The dream, however, stays with me all throughout the next day.
Two days later, I ride into a bustling boomtown, past a saloon and a hotel. The railroad has just gone in on the outskirts and tourism must be the town's major source of income, though, for the life of me, I cannot figure out what this town has to offer that any other town doesn't.
Down the street, I see a brothel, with the demimonde hawking their virtues, mostly their breasts, at the passing cowboys, as well as proper gentlemen with wives that are buttoned all the way to their necks. The proper gentlemen most definitely have hard-ons and are attempting their best to walk with them and pay sly attention to the source of their torment. Whether that torment comes from their wives or the whores, flip a coin.
And there she is. The red-haired woman from my dream. Same nose, same eyes, same mouth.
She's dressed differently, though. Dressed differently for this time. Most women don't look like she does. A hat like mine, a duster, a pair of leather gloves. She wears trousers like a man, wears a white shirt under a vest under the duster. She walks the boardwalk, getting catcalls from the men, getting middle fingers from the whores. "Dyke!" one shouts in her direction.
She walks past me, pauses and turns back to face me.
"Martians speak in clipped, short sentences when they speak at all," she says before she continues on her way, going into a gun shop.
I hitch my horse down the street and enter a saloon. The men inside are traders, buffalo hunters, gamblers, gunslingers, killers, officers of the law, miners, bounty hunters and men out of work spending their last dime.
I head for the bar and place my foot on the rail.
"Whiskey," I say and the man behind the bar pours a shot. I down it. I feel every eye in the place on me. "Again." I down it and slap a fifty cent piece on the bar.
I go back out the double wing door and walk in the direction of the gun shop.
The red-haired woman is just coming out when I reach the shop.
"How bad?" she says.
"Bad," I say.
***
She fucks like a woman is supposed to fuck. She doesn't just lay there, she gives as good as she gets and, when she comes, she doesn't bite her lip and keep quiet. She shouts that she's coming and she comes like she's on fire.
Afterwards, she kisses me and rolls out of bed. I watch her naked ass sway as she goes to the basin, pours some water into it and takes a rag and wipes her cunt clean.
She comes back to bed with a bottle of something dark and takes a swig before offering the bottle to me. I taste her on the bottle and drink.
"Why are we here?" she asks me, laying down next to me, putting her head on my chest.
"What do you mean?" I seriously don't know what she means.
"Here, now, instead of where we should be," she says.
"Where should we be?" I ask.
"Not here," she says. She grabs hold of my cock. I'm not limp but I'm getting there. I don't want to get there. I want her to work her magic again and get me hard again and let me fuck her again.
"Where then?" I ask.
"Do you remember the flash?" she asks me. "Before we were here."
I nod and drink more of the liquid in the bottle. It is fruity and good.
"I was on the street," she says. "I was about to get in a car and then...I was riding a horse, naked. I came into this town at night and broke into a general store to get some clothes. I don't know how to live here."
"I killed my old man," I say. "This is how it all began."
She sits up and looks at me. Her face is hard now.
"You did this?"
"I think so," I say.
She lays back down, her head against my chest, her hand on my cock.
We are silent for a long time.
***
The sun wakes me. The sound of gunshots make me realize that she's gone.
I go to the window and outside, in the street, I see her. Her body is in the dirt. She is looking up at the heavens.
I throw on my pants and rush down the stairs.
Her shoulders is shot to shit.
She's gritting her teeth.
Somewhere else, this would be easy to fix.
Here, I'm not sure. If the bullet is bouncing around in her shoulder, it might tear the shoulder apart. If it's lower, she might be drawing her last breath.
She might lose the arm completely.
She's whispering something to me.
"I want to go home," she says.
And then she's gone.
***
I'm in a room with a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling over a white table. Across the table, a man in a white lab coat sits and observes me. I simply stare at him.
A heartbeat and then he produces a pen and writes something on the chart in front of him.
"So what is it you wish to talk about?" he says.
"Going home," I say.
"I'm not sure that that's possible," he says. "Progress needs to be shown."
"Progress," I say.
"Progress," he says.
I've been here for an indeterminate amount of time. I can remember her red hair, her smell, the way her skin felt, her last words to me. After that, I have no idea what happened.
And then...here.
I am a prisoner. I know this because I am allowed one hour out of my cage and I see all other prisoners. Some of them mill about in the yard. Others, like me, are regulated to a hallway or, at best, a commons room.
There is a black guy named Heath. Not sure if it is his last name or his first. He plays chess. Ten minutes earlier, he took a bishop and stabbed it into another prisoner's windpipe. The guards watched it happen, removed the body and left Heath to continue to play.
I sit down across from Heath. Ten moves and I defeat him. Heath bows his head to me in acknowledgement and then tries the bishop trick with me. I'm too quick for him, reach out and grab his forearm, snap it in two, take the bishop out of his hand and toss it across the room. My hand works so much better than a chess piece. To his throat, fingers around his windpipe.
"You're one of them or you're working for them," I say. "I'm on to you."
The guards step in and swing truncheons into the back of my knees and I let Heath go. He should get his boo-boo looked at as soon as possible. I might have hit an artery.
"Progress," I say as they take me back to my cage.
***
I dream three dreams that night.
One:
I'm in a long hallway. Down at the end of the hallway is a blackness that slowly creeps towards me. I turn and face the other end of the hallway. A light is speeding towards me. Somehow, the blackness makes it to me before the speeding light. As they collide, I am thrown from the hallway.
Two:
Red dust. Blood red when the sun hits it. I am back in the West. There are four riders approaching me. One rides a pale horse.
Death, Pestilence, Famine and...the red-haired woman.
Death says, "This is the end."
Pestilence tells me to wipe my nose.
Famine simply pokes my ribs.
The red-haired woman asks me if I would follow her into hell.
I say, "Yes."
"Then follow me," she says. She rides ahead of me but she is too fast and I lose track of her.
Three:
I am in a bar. South Something. There is a nude dancer at the center of the room. Her tits are obviously fake. She shakes and shimmies down the pole.
A cop is sitting next to me and asks me if I want to buy some cocaine. I know he's a cop and tell him to fuck himself. He leaves the club.
Ten minutes earlier, a man named Heath served me a whiskey. I downed it. "Again." I downed it.
I walk outside and there she i
s. The red-haired woman. She wears a silver skirt and a red shirt tight against her body. She looks at me as she passes, heading for the gun shop down the street.
I start to walk in the opposite direction and then head back toward the gun shop.
When I wake up, I'm standing in front of the gun shop.
She comes out of the gun shop, a revolver in her hand.
"How bad does this make me look?" she asks me.
"Bad," I say.
***
"Where was I?" she asks me, her head on my chest, her hand on my cock.
"I don't know," I say.
"Where were you?" she asks.
"I don't know."
"What are we going to do about that?" she asks.
"I don't know."
We are silent for a long time.
***
When the sun wakes me in the morning, she is gone.
I pull on pants and rush to the street.
She is sitting on the stoop, smoking a cigarette.
She holds the gun in her right hand.
"If I shoot this," she says, "I shoot it to kill."
She looks at the gun, takes another drag on the cigarette.
"Will you follow me into hell?" she asks me, her blue eyes looking up at me.
"I will," I say.
"Then follow me," she says and starts walking down the street.
I follow her.
Day 8: Extinguished – Laurita Miller
He stood silhouetted in the red glow, the smoke from his cigarette mimicking the dark plumes rising from the house. I stopped beside him and stood near the fence, watched flames flicker and climb with increasing hostility. His expression was completely blank. He may have been just another passer-by drawn by the acrid smell and morbid curiosity.
Several minutes passed before he spoke, his eyes never straying from the flames that now flicked through holes in the roof.
“Lived here for twenty-three years,” he muttered.
I could tell that the old farm house and been pretty once, before neglect set in. Even through the black soot and flames the peeling paint and broken railings were noticeable.
“Twenty-three years is a long time,” I said.
He grunted. “Too long.”