That’s when my neighbor stopped in—the woman with the cat? She was really down. Seems her beagle died last night. Poor, poor Wilbur. Her cat had killed it. Ate all but the bones.
Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com
[If, after reading all episodes of Zombie Apocalypse in DARK, DARKER, & DARKEST, you would like to submit your episode, contact the author through BadgerValley.com. An edition of 40 episodes is being prepared. Half will be by James A. Brakken. The balance will be chosen on basis of originality, creativity, and quality from stories submitted by new authors. A nominal submission fee will apply. Those authors chosen to have episodes included in the upcoming book will receive a stipend for their work and/or a commission on book sales. Stories must be original, may not contain profanities or explicit sexual scenes, and must be between 500 and 1500 words. Choose a new city, not already mentioned in the first six episodes and write your best. Good luck!]
# # #
Three Dragons
The First Dragon
Having never before killed a dragon, I was, to say the least, unprepared for what happened when I found myself seeking not one, but three. It was not my idea. The King of Fairland by the Sea had decreed he would give the hand of his daughter in marriage, to the first subject delivering to him severed dragon heads, the grisly proof of the three beasts’ demise. His Majesty’s daughter, mind you, was an only child. Thus, with said marriage, would come the entire kingdom one day—a fine kingdom made all the better by ridding it of these three troublesome creatures. Seven others had tried but failed to slay the trio of malevolent, revolting monsters. All seven of these brave men were now missing—dead, I supposed. I entered the cave, my sword at the ready.
“Who dares trespass?” came a gravelly voice through the musty dark.
“Only a friend of the slain to gather their remains for burial, Sir Dragon,” I replied.
“Come closer then and I will show you the way to what’s left of your comrades.”
As I stepped into the darkness toward the raspy voice, I caught the whiff of the beast’s hot, vile breath and my heart pounded. With a sudden, violent flapping of its leathery wings, the dragon leapt at me. I instinctively thrust my sword high, more in defense than offense, and was astonished when the giant creature impaled itself on my outstretched weapon. Bright orange blood gushed from its pierced throat. The dragon’s razor-sharp teeth missed my face by mere inches as it fell dead at my feet. I soon severed head from neck, wiped the orange, viscous fluid from my sword, and lashed the grisly proof of my first slain dragon to my belt. One dead, two more to conquer, I advanced into the cold, dark, musty cave.
Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com
# # #
A Bedtime Story
“There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Rest your eyes,” my granny said.
“Nothing lurking there for you.
Don’t be scared, my dearest.
Your fear is based on make believe.
Now leave such thoughts behind.
Find kinder dreams like fields of sheep.
There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Sleep, my child. Sleep.”
She doused the candle, closed the door,
And soon I heard beneath the floor,
A muffled voice. No choice had I
But to peek below.
I had to know what, from the black,
Might attack and leave me dead.
Still, I heard my granny’s words,
“There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Sleep, my child. Sleep.”
Somewhere there, below my room,
Gloomy bones lay in the soil
And ragged tissues rotted.
Not an inkling did I have
Who or what or when.
Again it came, that rasping moan.
Granny was wrong when she said,
“There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Sleep, my child. Sleep.”
Weeping now, from fear and dread,
The trap door I swung open wide
And spied below, by candlelight,
A corpse there in the dirt.
He grinned at me, or so it seemed,
By the flick’ring light.
Was this a dream? My granny’d said,
“There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Sleep, my child. Sleep.”
Its bony hand then snatched me down.
The trap door slammed behind,
Binding me within its arms.
A prison most obscene,
I tried to scream and stop this dream.
But only Granny heard my cry.
It seems she lied each time she said,
“There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Sleep, my child. Sleep.”
Now, as you lay you down to sleep
And pray the Lord your soul to keep,
And wonder if your soul He’ll take,
If you should die, before you wake,
Think of me below.
And know that if you lift the door,
Nevermore will it be said,
“There’s nothing underneath the bed.
Sleep, my child. Sleep.”
Now, sleep, my child. Sleep.
Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com
The Count
Dare not from his dark heart remove that stake.
Dare not grant him life, for mercy sake.
Swear to all that you will find a way
To keep him in his tomb till judgment day.
Dare not increase for all this deadly bane.
Dare not upon this land release such pain.
Make now a pledge to let the demon stay
Deep within his tomb till judgment day.
Dare not let him succeed in his dark deed.
Dare not allow him to proceed, I plead.
Make now an oath that you will e’er obey
To keep him in his tomb till judgment day.
Dare not grant him life, for mercy sake.
Dare not from his dark heart remove that stake.
Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com
# # #
Dark Visions
(Excerpt from THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON
Copyright 2012 James A. Brakken, BadgerValley.com)
We know what we have left behind. The great mystery lies beyond the next bend.
Each stroke of the Indian Chief’s paddle was strong and steady. His canoe glided silently along the shore, leaving only a gentle wake. He headed westward along Lake Superior’s southern shore, not knowing where his journey would end—a journey that began with a dark, dark vision.
September, 1831. Weeks before, he was in the best graces of Major Lewis Wilson Quimby, commander of the United States Army post at Sault Ste. Marie on the eastern end of Lake Superior. An Ojibwe scout in his younger days, the chief contracted with the United States government to explore and map the many islands in Lake St. Claire and the forests far to the north. The Ojibwe surveyor and the Major quickly formed a friendship based on mutual trust and respect. He was one of a select few who shared the Major’s dinner table. His association with the Quimby family brought him excellent reading and speaking skills. He thoroughly studied most of the books in the Major’s home library. He’d also gained social skills exceeding those of most others on the post.
The chief came to the Sault a solitary traveler. Years earlier, when he lived near the shores of Lake Owasco in the State of New York, he fought bravely alongside the Americans against the British in the war of 1812. Like his father, he was chosen by his people to be their leader, the ogimaa, the chief.
But smallpox, that dreadful gift from the white man, claimed too many of his people, including
his wife and sons, and brought too many tears. The chief needed to journey from this place. His travels took him far from his first home, far from the pain. Keeping memories of his loved ones close to his heart, he moved farther and farther from his former home to Sault Ste. Marie and the friendship of Major Quimby and his family.
The chief was tall, strong, had sparkling eyes, a warm smile, and a warmer heart that led to frequent invitations to share the elders’ tobacco. Seeking to learn and to share his knowledge with those he visited, he became known as a trader of wisdom. Each journey, village, and person increased the chief’s insight as he traveled from Hudson Bay to Gitchee Gumi, the big lake the whites called “Superior.”
The chief was a man of vision, understanding the differences between the Indian’s life and the white man’s way. He also understood that more and more white men would come to the northern waters just as his people, following another vision many years earlier, traveled beyond Gitchee Gumi. His ancestors sought a new home and a new life. They discovered both in the land called Ouisconsin, a place with many lakes and rivers filled with menoomin, the good grain that grows in water and gives life. The whites called it wild rice.
One evening, after sharing dinner with the Major and his family, the chief’s life suddenly changed. Following an enjoyable meal of smoked pork, buttered squash, and flat bread with molasses, he retired to his lodge. Hours later, he had the dream. Perhaps a nightmare, perhaps a vision, he knew Wenebojo, the Anishinabe spirit, presented it to him.
The chief dreamt of a fire. Edora, the daughter he adored, perished in the flames. He was wrongly blamed, put in chains, and sentenced to be hanged.
The chief escaped, in this nightmare, fleeing into the forest, the Major and his soldiers close behind. A life or death clash ended with the chief looking down on his friend, a knife sunk deep in the Major’s chest.
Wenebojo then woke the chief, who now lay in a cold sweat, his heart pounding in the dark. As in many dreams, he saw no reason, no rhyme. Making no sense of it, he drifted back into his troubled sleep. Wenebojo brought him a second vision—two shining stars in a sparkling sky, the chief there with them. Wenebojo whispered, “Thirteen days you must travel westward along the southern shores of Gitchee Gumi. Only there will you find your peace—only there.”
The chief rose from his uneasy sleep, knowing what he must do. Well before dawn, with no one else about, he gathered his few belongings, took them down to his canoe, and silently paddled west. He would seek out the two stars. There would be no fire at the post. The vision had been broken. The horrible events foretold now dissolved, vanishing like northern lights chased by the early morning sun. The chief would never again see the Quimby family or the land he came to think of as his home.
Each silent stroke of the chief’s paddle left small whirlpools of cold, Gitchee Gumi water spinning behind. As his canoe glided swiftly along the shore, two eagles watched from the top of a tall white pine. “Is that you, Wenebojo?” he asked the eagles. An otter followed him, diving and surfacing, again and again, curious about this rare sight of man and canoe. “You, Otter,” he whispered. “You follow me and watch me. Surely, you are Wenebojo in disguise.”
A doe and two fawns watched him from the shore, motionless. “You don’t fool me, Wenebojo. You are keeping your eyes on me, waiting to play your tricks.”
Stroke after stroke, the chief moved away from Sault Ste. Marie and closer to his new life, new home, and many new friends, each with stories of their own.
The mystery of what lie ahead began to unfold. Across the land of the northern lakes, the Treasure of Namakagon would soon become legend.
(Author’s note: Chief Namakagon was a real person and, although THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON is fiction, it is based closely on the history of 19th century life in northwestern Wisconsin. The story told in this chapter is based on Chief Namakagon’s interview with a Chicago newspaper reporter in 1882.)
# # #
Drink your milk
An invisible troll named O’Toole
Sits back in your fridge on a stool.
You won’t know what’s up
Till you tip up your cup
And find on the bottom, troll drool.
# # #
The Cabby
There he lingered
In the rain,
Hunched from pain, deep within.
Pain from sin. Pain from dread.
“Not my choice,” he said.
There she lay
In rain so cold.
It washed her blood ’cross cobblestone
And from the dress her mother’d sewn
Only days before.
“’Twas not my’ choice!”
No one heard.
“Not my will to kill again.
Not my desire, nor my wish.”
Words all lost within the mist.
His knife as keen
As any found
In Chicago’s crumbling shanty town
Now lay before him on the ground,
Near the corpse so still.
He shouted out,
“Not my will!”
Still the fog absorbed each word.
Still the night concealed him there,
Waiting for another fare.
Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com
# # #
The Bones of Ole Johnson
Far up the old Wisconsin
Lie the bones of Ole Johnson.
His ghost it swims the river night and day.
Ole’s looking for a tool
That he dropped in a deep pool.
When the log jam he was fightin’ did give way.
The dynamite they used
Was not correctly fused
And blew the pine high above the bay.
As for Ole Johnson’s crew,
Across the logs they flew!
But Ole lost his footing on the way.
His men their god did thank
When they made the river bank.
But Ole dropped his Peavey in the drink.
He dove into the pool,
This timber-drivin’ fool,
Before he even had the time to think.
Up Ole came for air
But only logs were there,
A-turnin’ in the churning icy foam.
Far from the river’s shore,
He cursed the logs and swore
That he’d bring that Peavey back or ne’er come home.
Pine floating overhead,
Ole swam the river bed,
He hoped to bring his precious Peavey back.
And, above the river’s noise,
Shout, “Found it!” to his boys.
The mark of any worthy lumberjack.
His men all stood and stared
Their concern for Ole shared,
Watching all the thrashing, bashing pine.
While below, Ole did swim,
The chance now growing slim
That they’d see poor Ole Johnson down the line.
A thousand pounds each log did weigh,
Or even more, I would say.
Half-a-million floatin’ to the mill.
Ole Johnson down below,
A-countin’ as they go,
And the ghost of Ole Johnson counts them still.
Now, if you take a float
In a kayak, tube, or boat,
On a Wisconsin crick or creek or river, too,
And you feel a sudden bump
Or you hear a muffled thump,
Know that the ghost of Ole Johnson counted you.
And if a Peavey you should see
Below a river flowing free,
Know that Ole left it on the river bed.
Leave it there for Heaven’s sake,
Or Ole’s place you’ll surely take,
Just a-countin’ boats a-floatin’ over head.
Far up the old Wisconsin, r />
Lie the bones of Ole Johnson,
A-countin’ all the boats as they go through.
If you feel a sudden bump
Or hear a muffled thump,
Know that the ghost of Ole Johnson counted you.
Now my tale of Ole Johnson is all through.
Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com
# # #
Earwigs
Earwigs cause unbearable pain.
Their gnawing can drive you insane.
Now, don’t hoot or holler,
But the one on your collar
Is headed straight for your brain.
# # #
Another Mess for Ma to Clean Up
“I’ll be damned if I’m gonna tell you where that money is!”
He shoved the barrel of the forty-five into my ribs. “Listen, Frank. You get me that cash or I swear I’ll kill you right here, right now! I got nothin’ to lose.”
“All right. All right. I’ll take you to it, dirtball. I don’t keep it here. To risky.”
We had worked together on a job or two. About three months earlier, he shot a cop and disappeared. I thought he was dead. Would have better all the way around. He was one of those social misfits that prey on anyone weaker than him. A liar, a cheat, a thief. A real hemorrhoid on the anus of life, his girl used to say. That was after she left him. Yeah, the world would have been better off with him dead, all right. No such luck.
Ten minutes later we were three miles east of the city, headed for Eddie McDougal’s Riverside Motel and Bar. I flipped Eddie’s mother a silver dollar and told her I needed to check into my usual room. Usual, I say, because I used it often. It was at the far end—the seventh in this seven room motel. And it was the only room that had a view of both the highway and the alley. I had used it often. Every trip from Chicago, in fact. Even though home brew or moonshine was made by nearly every farm in northwestern Wisconsin, it was still illegal to run booze to the speaks, resorts, and taverns. That’s what I did. I was a bootlegger.