Milk and Cookies

Ah, the innocence of youth.  I remember when I was just a carefree child.  I honestly can say I will never forget it.

I remember being around six years old and playing with my friend, Billy Marsh, who was eight—the coolest, oldest kid in our neighborhood.  It was December, and almost Christmas.  Billy was telling me about Santa Claus.

To put some context on this, there had been a rash of home invasions in the area, and my parents had been telling me to watch out for prowlers.

Billy, being the wiser of the kids around, knew how gullible we younger kids could be.  He told me that Santa was the ones breaking into houses and that he was trying to get take away kids to go be helpers at his workshop at the North Pole.

Now, that would have sounded like a pretty sweet gig to me, had it not been for the fact that Billy told me I would never get to see my mommy or daddy ever again.  All the toys in the world weren’t worth missing my mother’s kisses or the cool stuff my father would sometimes bring home from his late-night job as a worker at a chocolate factory.

It was the afternoon before Christmas when I thought of my plan to make sure Santa didn’t kidnap me.  Mom let me bake some cookies for Santa, and I added my own special ingredient.  Father set out these green pellets for the mice that came into our garage.  He told me the mice were being bad, and that the pellets would make them leave us alone.  My six year old brain took this notion and ran with it.

I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he found me crying about how I told mommy those cookies were for Santa, but she ate them anyway.

All About Allie

“But mom!” Sammie whined as her mother nudged her away from the bathroom door.  “She’s been in there for over an hour!  It’s always about Allie!  Her birthday parties, Christmas, even last month on vacation!  It’s never all about me!  Me!”

Sammie’s mother just shook her head, ignoring her youngest daughter’s overly selfish remarks.  “Honey, your sister has a big date tonight, so of course it’s all about her.  How about we have games night here, just you, me, and your dad?  You can even pick.”

Sammie pouted her way to her room and closed the door with a muffled thud.  She twisted the lock violently, for an audible metallic click in order to signify her indignation.  Sammie grinned once in solitude.  She had been waiting for her mother to confront her so she could storm off in atypical fashion.  Now, she knew, her mother would leave her alone for the night.  This, of course, was part of her moderately thought out plan.

Now alone, Sammie quickly changed into her nicest dress and casually slipped out the window.  The man Allie was meeting hadn’t met her in person—only online had they chatted—so she figured she could pass herself off as Allie, as she was only three years younger than her sister of 21.

Since her sister, being the blowhard Sammie mentally made her out to be, just could not get enough of telling her parents where she was going, and when, Sammie knew right were to go, and even managed to add something to Allie’s makeup to stall her: cocoa power.  Since Allie was mildly allergic to it, Sammie figured that the hives her sister was about to get would mimic acne enough that the self-centered freak-out would buy her the time needed to arrive at the date location.

Sammie’s plan, much to her delight, worked as far as she could tell.  She arrived at the parking lot of the local mall right at 9 PM.  She was confused, though, as the only car in the lot of the since-closed mall had a man leaning against it, one who was much older than Allie had claimed she was meeting.  The faint embers of his cigarette barely illuminated his tanned face.

She approached him, and called out, “Ex…excuse me, sir?  I’m looking for Michael and was wondering if you’ve seen someone who was waiting for a lady named Allie.”

“Then tonight’s my lucky night.  I’m Michael,” said the man.  He took a long drag and flicked the cigarette to the ground, its embers danced as if they were trying to escape their fate.

Just then, another man came from behind the car.  He snapped a length of rope taunt and grinned, his paler skin better visible in the night.

“Wait, I think I should tell you,” she whimpered, taking steps backward as the two men moved to overtake her.  “I’m not Allie.  My name is Sammie!  I’m just her sister!”

The tanned man grabbed her by the throat and quickly and firmly placed his large hands across her mouth.  They were scarred with what appeared to be dozens of bite marks.

 “Allie, Sammie, it don’t matter none.  All that matters is tonight, it’s gonna’ be all about you, sweetheart.”

Sweet Scent

The entire neighborhood loves my pear trees.  It’s almost winter, and the sickly sweet scent of decaying fruit fills the air.  At first, they told me I should be cleaning up the rotten fruit, but after I pointed out that all the local hornets were too busy feasting in my yard to be stinging their children, they quickly warmed up to the notion.

That, well, and the massive influx of all manner of butterflies that flocked to my yard to join the hornets in their smorgasbord.

It’s a shame that most of the fruit rots on the tree, but such is life.  I don’t much care for the fruit.  I give what I can away.  Each year I get at least one new tree.

It’s days like today that I can really sit outside and savor the—pardon my pun—fruits of my labor.  There’s a cool, autumn breeze blowing the fragrance all over.  I must say that the smell of rotting pears oh so very well masks the scent of other rotting.

Loneliness Comes First

“Where are you, demon?  Show yourself!  It’s midnight, or are you admitting I’m smarter?” shouted a man, standing at the crossroads on the outskirts of his town.

“That’s a whole lot of hollering you’re doing young man,” said a creature that stepped out from the lunar shadows cast by a nearby tree.  The man couldn’t make out much about it other than its piercing red eyes and two curved horns.  “It’s hard to believe anyone would count you as smart with as much of a fool as you’re making yourself out to be.”

“Don’t underestimate me demon.  I summoned you here because I want to prove I can outsmart the Devil himself,” said the man with a broad grin.

“Oh, He knows.  That’s why He sent me to deal with you.  He accepts your challenge.  I am here to grant you three wishes, mortal.”  The demon drew close enough to the man that he could see its face, which was a ruddy red in the moonlight.  It smiled in an odd, upside-down manner.  It looked almost as if it were frowning out of pleasure.

“When you wish for the third one, after one year I will kill you and take your soul back to hell where you will be tormented for all eternity,” spoke the demon, his voice like two warm chunks of coal smacking together.

“Well, that sounds fair.  I agree, and—being smarter than you—know what my first wish will be.”

“You sure you wouldn’t like some time?”

“No, and quit trying to weasel your way out, demon.  My first wish?  I want to be immortal.”  The demon’s expression abruptly changed to a scowl.  “Can’t be killed no matter what.”

“You are a clever one,” the demon said, snapping its fingers.  “You’ll live forever now, but I still will torment you for all eternity on your third wish.”

The man patted himself down, as though he though that something had been added to his body in some way or another.  “Well, hellspawn, I am also smarter than that.  As long as I don’t make a third wish, you’re just out of luck.  It’s going to be no fun living forever with nothing to do.  I wish I was insanely rich and famous.  I’ve never gotten enough attention and it’s high time I got the attention I deserve!”

The demon snarled and snapped its fingers.  “Tomorrow, you will awake rich beyond your wildest dreams in a fabulous mansion.”

The man clapped in joy.  “Goodbye and good riddance,” said the man as he walked back toward town.

***

The next morning, true to the demon’s word, the man awoke to find himself in an exquisite mansion, filled with money and made out of gold.  Outside, he could hear a crowd of people chanting his name and begging him to come outside.  “Carl!  Carl!  Carl!” they chanted.

“I would hate to disappoint my adoring fans,” Carl said as he made a grand exit from his house and out onto his lawn.  There before him were thousands of people, all holding knives, guns, and other sorts of weaponry.

“What the hell is going on?” he shouted as the crowd rushed him and began to stab, shoot, and otherwise maim him.

“We want your money!” several shouted.  “You told us whoever kills you gets all your money!  We’re tired of waiting!”

“Stop!” choked Carl as his multiple wounds closed up and were promptly reopened anew.  “Stop I don’t remember saying that.”

“Money!  All of it!  Kill him!” the mob chanted as they continued to attack him.

“Stop!”

“MONEY!”

Carl managed to break away from the pack and barricaded himself inside his mansion.  The angry crowd pounded on his doors.  If the mansion had windows, they would have been the first to go.

“What the hell did I get myself into?” muttered Carl as he tried to hold his doors shut.  He was in intense pain.  “I wish everyone was just gone. I can’t handle these crazy people.”

Carl would have missed what he had just said had it not been for the sound of fingers snapping.  Everything was quiet.

“No!  I didn’t!  No!  This isn’t at the crossroads, it doesn’t count!” shouted Carl as he looked around, trying to find the demon.

“Now, now.  All’s fair in love, war, and deals with The Devil.  One year, human.”

“Show yourself!  How can you take me to hell?  I’m still immortal.  You can’t kill me or drag me there alive.  I still win you idiot!  I’m going to live forever.”

“Yes, and you just wished away the entire population of this planet..”

“So?” shouted Carl as loud as he could, hoping in some weird way that being louder would reveal the demon.  “I sill won’t die.  I win, you lost!”

“Apparently, Mr. Lingam, you don’t understand the concept.”

“What concept?”

“Hell on Earth.”

Seeing Red Lights

Simon was a man cursed with the most mundane of things, but it became the bane of his existence.  Every traffic light he encountered turned red.  It didn’t matter what color it was before, it would almost instantly turn yellow as soon as he approached.

Since getting his license at age 16, the red lights made him late for everything.  From dates to his grandmother’s funeral to being late for classes and jobs, he had been running late for most his life.  It wasn’t just when he drove either.  Anywhere he went, from walking to taking mass transit to being driven places, the red lights slowed him down constantly.

One day, his wife, fed up with his constant tardiness gave him an ultimatum.  He could either stop being lazy—as she saw it—and make it to his son’s game, or she would leave him.  He had been fired many times for being late, and had missed so many dates and so many of his son’s baseball games that she was fed up with him.

Simon sat impatiently at a red light, knowing the one a block away would be red as well.  He had left early, but the red lights always backed up traffic.  He gripped the steering wheel tightly.  He thought about doing something he never had before: running the light.

He knew the light took forever to change, and he didn’t see any police cars.  He loved his wife, and really didn’t want to lose her.  He looked around one last time to check for any police and boldly made his move.

He was promptly broadsided.

Identity

I grabbed my bat.  If it was my face they wanted, I was going to make them work for it.

I carefully rounded the corner and saw that one of those creatures had climbed onto the wall.  I wasn’t going to let them steal my face.

I shouted loudly as I jumped out, hoping to catch it by surprise.  I didn’t give it a chance to attack.  I just swung over and over, smashing it to bits.  I gloated for a moment over the corpse of my slain enemy, before remembering something.  I ground its body into the ground as it tried feebly to steal my face

I turned around, the bathroom door was open.  I could see its blank face staring at me above the sink.  It was trying to steal my face.

Noisy Island

I can't take the voices in my head.  I can hear all the campers, chattering away loudly in the mess hall.

This entire island echoes with the loud hum of activity.

I know they're all in my head.  This island is secluded and secret.  It was their treat to bring the summer camp to here.  So much noise.  I never knew kids would be so loud.

They can't be real voices.  Only I know where the island is, where I live.  If people knew where it was, I would have been found by now.

Why is this island still filled with their loud, screaming voices?  It's supposed to be filled with silence.

I thought I killed them all.

Reverend Chad

Reverend Chad jerked awake; the sound of his cell phone ringing had snapped him back to reality.

“Another soul needin’ to be saved,” he muttered as he checked the number in a vain attempt to see if it was another repeat caller.

“Unknown number, eh?” he said, rubbing his eyes and answering the call.  “Thank you for calling Reverend Chad’s Pra-.”

“Are you a Holy Man?” a man on the other end asked.  His tone was strict, with a slight hint of enjoyment.

“I beg your pardon?” Chad stammered, no longer sure he was awake.

“You heard me.  Are.  You.  A Holy Man?” the man stated in a demanding tone.

“Yessir, I am.  How may I help you this fine morning?”

“I want you to say a prayer.”

“A prayer?  What’s your name young man?  Who would you like for me to say this prayer for?  Your mother, your father?  I can see troubled times.”  The reverend reached for a pad of paper.

“Not for me.  For you.  Your family.  The whole world.”

“That’s very kind of you.  I will keep you and the whole world in my prayers today.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, sir.  What?”

“Not me.  Just, well, just the whole world.  They’re going to need it.  The apocalypse is coming, and you are the one, prophet—as you claim to be—to warn everyone.”

With that, the man hung up.  The reverend scratched his head in confusion.

“Who was it honey?” his wife asked, rolling over and placing her hand on his shoulder.

“A man, asking for me to pray,” he responded, flopping back onto his pillow.

“Isn’t that why you set up that prayer hotline?” she asked, rubbing his arm.

“Yeah, I guess I’m just tired.  It’s nothing.  Let’s get some rest.  We’ve got a big sermon tomorrow,” said Chad as he curled back up in bed.

***

Weeks passed, and the odd phone call was wearing on his mind.  He kept thinking that he had to tell someone, so he finally told his wife.

She laughed at him.

“I don’t know what kind of cuckoos you have on your line, but we both agreed when we started this thing that you wouldn’t let anything anyone said get to you,” she said, shaking her head.  “Now get ready, the storm’s headed this way.”

For the past week, bad weather had been ravaging the northern hemisphere.  Hurricanes, tornados, droughts, and floods.

Chad stepped outside, to check on his chickens.  As soon as he left his door, the tornado sirens went off.  Through the chaos of flapping chickens and thunderclaps, he was able to make out a huge tornado churning off in the distance, and headed his way.

His wife came out, screaming at him to get to the tornado shelter.

But he couldn’t hear here.

All the noise that was around him consumed her voice, and spat it out as nothing toward him.  The only sounds left were the swirling winds, slapping rain, loud sirens and houses being destroyed.

Chad could hear less than that, even.

He, a man who felt he had been disobedient to what the messenger had wanted him to do, could only hear the sounds of the tornado sirens.

To him, they sounded a lot like trumpets.

Muse Abuse

John turns away from his computer.  The characters in the story he is writing desperately want to be saved from the incoming meteor, but John doesn't like neat, happy endings.  When he comes back from the bathroom, he fully intends to finish wiping out the planet, which had been pock-marked by several smaller meteorites, the harbingers of this new, massive chunk of incoming rock.

Unbeknownst to him, the citizens of his fantasy world had a better idea.  John was writing about an advanced race, light-years from Earth.  He didn't know it, but the idea for his story was coming to him from them via their technology.  Whatever he wrote happened to them.

Dismayed that the one person from Earth they tried to get to help them let their planet become scarred and left in ruin, and was about to let their planet be destroyed, the moved to their "Plan B," which was to build a machine to teleport the meteor to a different location in space.  Before, they had no location in mind that would not possibly result in the loss of a valuable society.

As John returned to his computer to finish writing the story of how a planet he dreamed up one day was destroyed by a meteor, the citizens prepared their device.

They could still see what he was writing, and in all the gory details in which he described their people dying.

Fed up, they took over this process.  John gleefully typed on, by then blissfully unaware of what he was writing.

In his mind, he was writing about some far away planet, about to be totally annihilated by a massive meteor.

To the people of the advanced planet, what he was writing couldn't be any more true.

That's Final

You’re moving out and that’s final!

I couldn’t believe that, just like that, our marriage was over.  I mean, we didn’t get along anymore, but I didn’t know she had the papers drafted in advance.

I did love her, at first.  She just had a superiority complex that manifested after a year.

All things considered, though, I counted my blessings a few weeks after I got the boot.  Her house caught on fire, burned everything inside it.  My poor ex-wife included.

“I’m sorry,” I told her mother at the funeral.  She told me not to feel bad.  I don’t apologize unless I mean it, though.