Theorkrane the Great

Theorkrane the Great
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 811

Theorkrane surveyed the dim light bar, taking stock of the patrons and keeping an eye out for any trouble that might come his way. Being a ranger, who often found himself on the wrong side of the corrupt and vindictive Baron Kintrec, he was a master of disguise. While he hated having to come into town, it was a necessary burden to meet Sharlic the Druid, who often had small jobs for Theorkrane to do.

A small fight erupted like an explosion of human volcano, townsfolk and men at arms flew outward from a large table in the centre of the room. At the core of this eruption was Grun, a six foot ten, muscle bound barbarian from the South. Grun liked drinking games, but did not having to pay for his ale whether he won the games or not. The Inn’s two half-breed orc bouncers cracked their knuckles and leapt into action, reaching Grun’s table in seconds with their large studded clubs at the ready.
“Good old Grun,” an old man in a tattered and faded emerald cloak said to Theorkrane softly.

“You can always count on him for a distraction.” Theorkrane replied to his old friend.

Sharlic sat down at the thick oak table across from Theorkrane, shuffling along the hard bench until he sat in the shadows.

“Glad you could make it, Theorkrane. I have some troubling news from the woods east of Goldor. My cousin has sent word that the Baron is after your blood.”

“He is always after my blood, what’s new?”

“Yes, but this time he is torching the villages, farmer’s cottages and anywhere else where it is known you have been recently. He is spreading the word that you have the plague and he is looking after the peasant’s interest.”

“A likely story.”

“Ah, but this time he is paying in gold pieces for the damage he has done.”

“Paying! Baron Kintrec?”

“Yes, my friend. He knows that torturing and destroying property will not bring you out into the open. But, to tell all that you have the plague and to keep away from you, then pay the peasants will bring you out for the Baron to deal with. Everyone will be afraid to get close to you. Too afraid of catching the red plague themselves.”

“Then you know what we must do, Kintrec?”

“I believe I know your plan already.”

“Then let’s…”

The doors to the Inn crashed inwards in a rain of splinters and dirt. One of the orc bouncers from outside flew through the air and landed on a table where ten dwarves were playing a game of bones. Coins, knucklebones and ale flew, covering the dwarves in their drinks and starting the tavern fight in all its glory. If there was one thing that was worse than expecting, Grun to pay for his ale it was spiling a dwarf’s drink.

Most of the tavern did not notice four of the Baron’s elite knights enter shortly after the orc flew in with their help. Those that did quickly made their way out of the Inn as quickly as they could. Although the four burly knights were outnumbered twenty to one, their training in the eastern arts of fighting made them formidable opponents that one did not cross paths with if one could help it. Quickly, the knights glided through the sea of drunken patrons, knocking down any that had the misfortune of falling in their path with a swift and single blow from their polished silver gauntlet.

Theorkrane saw the Baron’s knights immediately, but did not attempt to run or hide, though his skills as a ranger would easily allow him to do so in the shadows and commotion of the Inn. He remained seated and drank the rest of his ale as though there was no danger from either the tavern fight or the Baron’s knights.

“Theorkrane Londale.” The tallest of the knights said. “You are to immediately follow us to the castle of Baron Kintrec.”

Theorkrane looked across the table at his friend, who was now sitting further in the shadows than Theorkrane thought possible.

“Are you not afraid of catching the Red Plague from me?” Theorkrane said.

“News has already spread of your miraculous healing by the clerics of St. Kintrec the Great’s cathedral.”

“Here is your payment, old man.” The shortest knight said, tossing a bag of coins on the table in front of Sharlic.

“Sorry old friend,” Sharlic said softly as he leaned into the light. “The Baron was going to burn the forests if I did not help him. You understand don’t you, that as a druid the very essence of life is the forests and its creatures. To sacrifice them for one man would have been blasphemous.”

The knights took Theorkrane away as he shook his head in disbelief.

Garsein

Garsein
By Scott Wilson
Word Count:320

“Are you frightened, my old friend?” asked the Red Knight.

Across the battlefield, the enemy gathered formed battalions of heavily armored and armed knights. The army was as vast as the eye could see and moving amongst them was the Pale Skeleton King in his gold armor. The sky dark green and blue and the wind came from the north with ice on its breath and the faint smell of the enemy forces.

Garsein turned his eyes from the enemy to the Red Knight whose eyes flicked from the army to the warrior’s scarred face, wary of being caught starring at the knotted ribbon of pink flesh marring his features.

Garsein smiled, amused. “What is there to fear?”

The Red Knight’s eyes widened. “What is there to fear? We are outnumbered and entrapped. I fear pain and death.”

“But you cannot know for certain that you will die, none of us are granted the Sight. Besides death is but a moment, it passes.”

“Then you believe in reincarnation,” said the Red Knight. “I do not.”

“It matters not what we believe in – if there is an afterlife then when we die we will awaken somewhere else. If there is nothing we won’t be aware of it to care either way. I for one would rather die in my faith and be a fool than to die a fool with no faith, my friend.”

The Red Knight held his two-handed bastard sword high, twisting and turning it to catch the light.

“What about pain?” he asked. “Are you not afraid of that?”

“There will be pain for many,” conceded Garsein. “But not for me or my closest and well seasoned companions.”

“So there is nothing to fear?” said the Red Knight.

Garsein slowly nodded in agreement.

The Red Knight considered his words.

“I think you’re wrong,” said the Red Knight. Garsein shrugged.

The Red Knight continued. “I think they should be afraid of you.”

The Wizard

The Wizard
By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 411

On a misty morning with heavy grey clouds in the sky, the small hamlet of Oberon was silent. The famers had no yet risen and most of the animals were still asleep in the large, open fields of rolling green grass. Without warning, the wizard walks by in his funny purple robes with tinkling bells dangling from his belt. He cast his shadow upon the flowers and plants as he walked on by. Everything touched by his long, grey shadow withered and died in a shrivelled pile of rotting and putrid dust.

The animals rose from their peaceful sleep with howls and screeches, unsettled by the unwanted presence of this killer of demons. While his sole purpose was to rid the world of demons and unearthly monsters, the mere presence of the Wizard was an abomination of nature. He never spoke to anyone and nobody knew where he came from of what his name was. The Wizard, that was all he was known as.

Tobin Jarkan, the town baker was the first to rise. He saw the Wizard walking down the main street. The Wizard turned slowly, and Tobin saw the luminous green eyes glaring out of the deep hood covering the Wizard’s head. The Wizard turned his head back and just kept walking. Slowly, the other members of the tight little community awoke, some seeing the purple robes of the Wizard in the distance as he continued on his path over the knoll on the outskirts of the hamlet.

The sun rose over the knoll as if it too, was fleeing from the presence of the Wizard, trying hard to leap high into the sky. The clouds began to dissipate and the azure sky painted itself across the horizon. It appeared to be a bright and fine day for the farmers to harvest their crops of barley and wheat.

Only those who saw the Wizard felt uneasy and slightly troubled in a way that they could not put their finger on. The rest of the hamlet felt a bright, spritely, and cheerful disposition, wanting to hug their loved ones and neighbours. For unknown reasons, these villagers felt fit, healthy, and finer than they had in years.

For years to come, Tobin and the four other villagers told the tale of the Wizard over an ale or twenty at the Smokey Dragon Inn. While they seemed to age prematurely, the rest of the villagers did not seem to age a day.

The Chimney

Chimney
By Scott Wilson
Word Count:2,203

“Bob, the fire’s starting to go out!” Ruth yelled at her husband, who was asleep on the Jason recliner in front of the fireplace.

“Struth,” Bob yelled, leaping to his feet and rushing to the fireplace.

Growling and screeching howled at Bob from the chimney as he pilled kindling and torn up shreds of newspaper on the glowing embers. He could see the horrific, long clawed shadow reach down towards his arm. Bob pulled the can of lighter fluid, squeezed a dose on the embers, and stumbled back as the flames shot up the chimney like a fireball. The screeching tore the stillness of the night in two like a switchblade carving through flimsy satin material.

“Are you alright, honey?”

“I’m okay, Ruth.”

“That was too close for my liking, Bob. What happened?”

“I... I must have dozed off. I’m sorry honey.”

“It’s okay, Bob. It is wearing me down to. It’s been almost a week now and I am getting tired as well.”

Bob looked at the cellar door at the top of the broken staircase and sighed. There must be some way of getting out of here, he thought to himself.

“How much food do we have left?”

Ruth went to the small cupboard and rummaged through the cans and bottles and made a calculation in her head, turned to her husband and frowned.

“’Bout a week and a half, maybe two.”

“I’m going to try and get to the door again, Ruth.”

“You be careful, last time you almost broke your leg.”
Bob walked to the broken staircase. The stairs had come down when the cyclone went over the house, trapping them in their cellar for a week. White Ants must have eaten away at the steps and most of the handrails for them to come crashing down with a loud thud when the cyclone shook the house like a child’s toy. Bob tried using the handrail on the left side to make his way up to the stairs the morning after the and fell down half way up, taking the left hand rail and most of the stairs with him.

“I’ve got an idea, Ruthie.”

Bob grabbed hold of the remaining handrail and gave it a good shake. It appeared to be solid and did not give any under his grip.

“Come over here babe, it will hold you. You are half my weight and this rail feels pretty sturdy.”
Ruth walked over to the stairs hesitantly, fearful of falling down as if Bob had done but coming off worse that with a severely sprained ankle.

“I’ll walk under you as you climb. Don’t worry about falling, Ruthie. I’ll catch you if anything happens.”

Ruth put her hands on the rail and her foot on the groove where the second step had been. The rail did not shake under her weight, but Ruth was shaking so much that it felt like the rail would collapse before she managed to take a single step. She took a deep breath then began to slowly edge her way up the single beam, using the broken stairs and grooves to edge her way up to freedom.

“That’s it Ruthie. Nice and steady and you’ll be right.”

Ruth shuffled her way up the handrail slowly, taking care to not learn to far forward or backwards and put any unnecessary stress on the structure. Bob kept a vigilant eye on the solid pine handrail, hoping that it would support his wife’s weight until she reached the door. Ruth reached the cellar door and grabbed the handle with her right hand, keeping balance with her weaker, left hand. She wondered why humans had to be either left or right handed, why couldn’t people learn how to use both hands equally so this sort of thing wasn’t a problem. Not that she expected shimmying up the remains of a collapsed staircase was that common of a task humans would have to perform on a regular basis?
“I’ve almost got it, hon.”
“Just take your time. We have been here for a week, no rush. Take your time, Ruthie.”
Ruth turned the handle and the door opened towards the inside of the house. She carefully stepped into the doorway and used the door to steady herself on the way into the house.
“I made it, Bob.” Ruth called back down to her husband.
“Okay, Ruthie. See if the phone works and call Jim from the SES for help.”
“I’ll be back soon.”
Ruth went into the house and out of Bob’s sight. Bob went back to the fireplace and threw another broken stair on the roaring flames. He knocked on the stone mantle and smiled. Bob had no idea what the hell was in the chimney, but he was going to get his shotgun as soon as he was back upstairs in the house and make sure that the creature didn’t cause them, or anyone else problems.
“Bob, the phone isn….” Ruth’s voice was suddenly cut off midsentence by the unmistakable howl and screeching of the creature from the chimney.
“Ruth!”
Bob ran to the handrail and began to edge his way up quickly. His sprained ankle threatened to give out on him with every step he took. The knocking and screaming became louder as he neared the open doorway. He slipped and his sprained ankle gave way beneath him as he scrambled to steady himself. Bob grabbed at the handrail and it creaked and groaned heavily under his movement. He could feel the aged pine give way and he crashed down to the cold, hard concrete floor of the cellar. The last thing Bob remembered was Ruth’s blood soaked hand against the cellar door and her face with a horrified look pleading to him for help.
Bob came around a few hours later with a throbbing pain in his forehead and a burning ache shooting up his left leg. He tried to stand and almost passed out from the pain just below his left knee. A bone protruded from his trouser leg, jutting out a few inches and oozing blood like a leaking tap.
“Ruthie!” he yelled.
There was no answer.
Bob look up at the cellar door. It was closed, covered with bloody handprints from the struggle his wife and long, jagged claw marks from the beast that attacked her. To Bob, they looked like some kind of giant feline had used the old pine door as a scratching post.
“Ruth,” he yelled again.
There was still no reply from upstairs in the house.
The sound of scratching inside the chimney caused Bob to turn his attention from cellar door back to the fireplace. Bob had not bee awake for a few hours and the large fire had dwindled slowly to only a pile of glowing red embers, with very little in the way of flames to keep the beast at bay.
Bob tried to rush to the fireplace, but his broken leg severely hindered him from moving quickly. He saw the long muscular arm ending in a four-fingered claw with five-inch talons reaching down from the opening of the fireplace. Bob grabbed a piece of broken stair as he stumbled to his knees and tossed it at the fireplace, splashing the embers into the air like hundreds of miniature fireworks. One of the larger embers landed on the clawed arm, setting the thick black wiry hair alight. The creature screeched and scurried back up the chimney, howling angrily as it climbed.
Bob fought off the dizziness swirling around his eyes like a child’s mobile. He knew if he passed out from the pain, the fire would go out, and the creature would finally make it all the way down the chimney and into the cellar.
“I’ll get the bastard for you Ruthie.”
Bob crawled over to the fireplace and stoked it full of kindling, wood and some old rags. Slowly, the fire grew like and angry creature, rising until the flames leapt angrily at the base of the chimney.
Bob pulled his leg out straight and tore the material of his trousers to see the full extent of the damage to his broken leg. He felt the acrid taste of bile rise up in his throat and choked back vomit and nausea from the pain. Pushing through the barrier of pain, Bob made a splint from pieces of the broken staircase and the cleanest rags his could find tucked into the old chest of draws. On top of the set of draws were a few bottles of spirits and a selection of wine. He drank a large swig of whiskey to settle his nerves and dull the pain.
“Right, that’s it.” Bob said as he stood up. “This means war then.”
Over the years, Bob and Ruth had cleared out most of the unwanted clutter from the cellar, keeping only those items that had sentimental value of things, such as the kid’s pushbikes, that may be of some use to the grandkids. There was very little that Bob could use to make a ladder to climb out of the cellar. The door was seven feet from the floor of the cellar and Bob was only five foot six tall. He had not been able to climb out before spraining his ankle and there was nothing sturdy to move under the doorway to hop on and gain a better hold to get the door open. The white ants must have eaten the chest of draws as well; it creaked and wobbles on its four legs when Bob had tried to slide it over to the staircase.
“Bugger, bugger, bugger.” Bob said. “There must be something I can use as a weapon or ladder.”
Bob rummaged around the plastic boxes and crates scattered around the cellar, nothing useful was to be found anywhere. He could hear the creature scratching at the cellar door now. It must have worked out how to get there now that Ruth had managed to get out and lead it back to the door. That meant that the creature was not that smart, it had not tried getting into the cellar over the week other than through the chimney.
The scratching stopped.
Bob found an old skipping rope in one of the crates then another one. He tied the two jump ropes together and made a lasso at one end. It was about ten feet long, enough to catch the door hand with a good shot. The only problem was that the door opened in towards the house and not towards the cellar. Even if Bob did manage to secure the lasso around the door handle, there was no way he could open the door from down in the cellar.
“Bugger it,” he thought, then tossed the lasso at the door handle.
After a dozen throws, the lasso finally caught on and Bob pulled it tight to secure it before it slipped off. He tested the jump rope and it felt secure. Bob did not know if either the jump rope or the door handle would support his weight as he climbed up it. Looking at the fireplace to make sure that it was well and truly roaring, he began slowly, and painfully climbing up the skipping rope, using his arms and good leg. The broken leg dangled uselessly and throbbed with each jerk as he inched his way closer to the cellar door. By the time he reached the remaining section of broken handrail and stair, he was exhausted and glad to have something a fraction more stable to rest on. He swung his good leg onto the pine frame, still holding on tightly to the skipping rope for fear of the stairs collapsing for a third time. Bob took a quick rest, and then pulled himself up to the door, using the foothold that his wife had earlier that day.
“Here goes nothing,” he said to himself as he opened the door slowly.
In the darkness of the ground floor of the house, Bob could see nothing, apart from a trail of blood glistening on the floorboards from the light from the fireplace below. He opened the door further, cautious of exposing himself to the creature if it were lurking out of his sight, hidden in the shadows somewhere.
Bob headed for the broom cupboard at the end of the hall, the cupboard he stored his shotgun and shells in. When he reached it, he was surprised to find that the trail of blood ended at the thick oak door. He pulled hard on the handle, jerking it open against his broken leg.
“Aargh,” he cried loudly.
He did not see the shotgun aimed waist height, nor feel the blast that tore a hole in his stomach. Falling forward, Bob vaguely recognised the badly scratched and mutilated face of Ruth when he landed on top of her in the closet, taking his last breath as she exhaled hers.
“Bobby,” she slurred out of the side of her mouth not shredded by the creature that attacked her earlier.
Ruth did not notice the glowing red or pointed yellow mouth full of teeth as they came slowly closer to the cupboard. Her remaining eye welled up with tears, knowing she had just killed her husband with his own shotgun. The salty blood from her husband’s injury tricked off her face into her eyes, blinding her for a second until she wiped it away with the sleeve of her torn blouse.
She did not see the beast as it leapt from the hallway into the closet with Ruth, trapped under her husband’s frail old body. She did feel it is hot and rancid breathe as it tore into her wrinkled old neck and tore at it wildly.

HOORAY: Black Bullets

My Short Western Fiction Black Bullets has been accepted for the November issue of Static Movement

http://www.staticmovement.com/

HOORAY: Bushranger Blues

My story, Bushranger Blues, has been accepted by Shine
http://www.theshinejournal.com/ for publication in the Dec edition.

HOORAY: My Legacy

My flash fiction - My Legacy has been accepted by Micro Horror

http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/about-faq/

HOORAY: The Lift

My 100 word drabble, The Lift, has been accepted by Flashshot for
publishing.

http://www.gwthomas.org/flashshotindex.htm

Caught Somewhere In Time

Caught Somewhere In Time
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 1729

“Bugger!” Doctor Lector yelled as he flickered out of the University’s Library, reappearing in the same location six days in the future. It was the tenth time it had happened this week.
Lector made his way to the car park, hoping his BMW would still be there; he parked it a week ago. Well it would be a week if he did not keep skipping through time randomly, now it was almost a month. He tried to get back to his laboratory at CSIRO where he finished his time travel device last week. At first Lector thought the device did not work, he did not travel in time during the final experiment. When he arrived home later that evening, his wife was hysterical, wanting to know where he had been for the past day. That was when he realised the device had worked, only not as expected. It was pushing him through time, at a rapidly growing rate each jump.

A moment before each jump, Lector felt a migraine coming on rapidly and caught the acrid aroma of sour orange in the back of his throat and nostrils. He caught a glimpse of himself during one jump in a bathroom mirror. It was as though he became out of focus, flickering like a television losing its reception until he popped out of sight. While it was only a split second for him, it was a period of days in real time.

Just before he came back into focus fully, he was able to see his surroundings intermittently, which was lucky. Someone was standing in the same position as him two jumps back and he moved to the side before materialising inside of him. It gave him an excruciating pain down his spine moving this way, as though he moved part of his body one second and the remaining part the next. He assumed it was still a damn sight less painful than reappearing inside of someone else though.

Lector arrived at the car park. A Suzuki Swift was now parked where his beemer should, or was when he parked it whenever it was he thought he parked it. He raised his hand to hit the bonnet of the trespassing vehicle, swearing when he felt a migraine coming on again. An instant later, Lector flickered out of focus. The Suzuki was replaced by a multi coloured Combi Van, with hippie stickers covering the entire back window.

Two young female students walked by.

“Excuse me ladies, what is the date?”

The girls looked at each other, then the taller of the two said, “Tenth of October, buddy.”
Lector made a quick calculation and swore slightly louder than he would have liked. The students walked away at an uncomfortably quicker pace in response. Lector did not notice this, as he was more concerned about the week he had just moved into the future with the last jump.
He took his mobile phone out of his jacket’s pocket and rang home. His wife would be hysterical with worry by now. The answering machine clicked on after five rings and he heard his own voice on the recorded message.

“Honey, it’s me. Pick up if you are home.”

There was no response.

“Please Trish, I love you.”

The machine cut out. Lector hung up and put his phone away. He wanted to try again but thought better of it. For Trish this would be happening over a much greater timeframe than for him. He knew that she had trouble believing him when he explained what was happening to him. Lector could not even begin to imagine what his wife thought was going on, with her husband not coming home for days at a time. Now it was a full week in real time since he had last spoken to her and nine days since he had seen her in person.
Lector decided to walk to his lab, no use catching a bus or taxi in case he moved forward in time again. He might end up further away from his building, and the time travel device, than he already was. Half way to the CSIRO, Lector realised that he had not eaten in a few days, but was not the slightest bit hungry anyway. A thousand other thoughts popped into his head at that moment regarding other implications involved with skipping days of his normal routine; eating, sleeping, bathing and so forth. He wondered what the long-term effects of this fractured form of time travel would have on his health. He wondered...

The smell of oranges rose in his nostrils again and his head ached.
Lector felt himself falling. His vision returned and he found himself at the bottom of a cold, hard asphalt ditch in the dead of night. There did not appear to be any streetlights shinning above the deep hole he found himself in a moment ago. Lector stood up stiffly and pulled himself out of the six-foot deep ditch. Abandoned cars, motorbikes and busses lined the streets like a bundled of carelessly discarded children’s toys. An eerie silence filled the dark, moonless night, sending a cold shiver along Lector’s skin.

“Hello!” he yelled. “Is anyone there?”

There was no reply. He squinted to look around the city street for any sign of movement and was deeply concerned when he could see none. Lector could see nothing that indicated what the date, or year this time period was and he began to wonder if it was even Earth at all. He began to walk along the eerily and desolate street, feeling extreme trepidation and anxiety rise up from the pit of his gut. After walking for ten minutes without any signs of life around, Lector came to the end of the street. It took a minute for him to realise that the street should not end this suddenly, or in a wall of impenetrable darkness.

“What the hell’s going on now?”

Lector moved closer to the darkness, cautious of what might lay beyond in this unnatural and deeply disturbing veil of black that bordered the end of the street and seemed to cut into the buildings as if they had been erased out. There was no sound coming from within the darkness, nor could Lector see into the thick, black tar like environment. The world appeared to stop two feet from Lector’s nose.

Sharp, stabbing pain ran down behind Lector’s eyes and the strong acrid aroma of freshly squeezed oranges arose in his nostrils. He felt himself falling forward, headlong into the end of the world.

Lector opened his eyes, squinting with the sudden change of light from pitch-blackness to the bright midday sun. There were people carrying on their daily business and the street was busy with peak hour traffic. Lector had to steady himself so he did not trip and fall into the woman walking in front of him on the sidewalk. He was surprised when she did not seem to notice him and kept walking straight towards him.

“Watch out…” he began to say but stopped when he passed right through her rather than bumping into her.

The woman stopped, looked behind but did not appear to see Lector crouching with his hands over his face. Lector opened his mouth to speak to the woman again, but she had already turned and started walking away from him.

Lector straightened up and turned around to walk towards his lab again. Another pedestrian walked right through him, this time it was a large middle-aged businessman. He did not stop or seem to be affected by another person passing through his huge, sweaty body. As the pedestrian traffic increased, so to did the amount of scurrying business people walking into Lector. He passed through each one like a ghost, with only half of the men and women appearing to feel his presence.

Lector did not pick up any thoughts or feelings of those whom he passed through, which disappointed him somewhat. It felt like walking through a heavy set of plastic curtains, similar to those on cold room doors in supermarkets. The drag slowed his pace down as he continued on his way to his lab, with renewed passion to get to his time travel device to reverse this side effect and return to a normal life.

“Jim,” Lector said to his assistant upon entering his lab. His assistant stoped for a moment and Lector thought he had heard him. Jim felt his coat pocket then proceeded to work on the time travel device without further recognition of Lector’s presence. Jim had the time travel device in pieces on the lab’s main workbench, each component neatly placed in a logical sequence to its correct place in the machine. Lector moved to the bench and tried to pick up the main casing of the device. His hand passed through it and through the workbench until Lector stopped himself before he toppled over through the bench.

“Bugger.” He said to himself.

Lector looked at the digital desk calendar and was disheartened to see that it was now two months since his first jump into the future. One week of his time was eight times that in the rest of the world. He wondered how Trish was, what she was thinking about his disappearance. How could he let her know where he was now? He appeared to be outside of time itself, so there was no chance of using the phone to call her. Reaching into his pocket for his mobile to try, Lector briefly felt the tell tale migraine come on rapidly before fading out of the present again.
When he reappeared in the lab, it was reorganised into a different layout to how it should be. Lector was appalled at the poorly thought out bench and equipment arrangement and could tell that it was no longer his lab. He looked around the lab for a calendar to tell him how far into the future he had travelled this time.

“Two years!” He yelled.

He wondered how Trish was coping. They never had the chance to say goodbye, he never had the opportunity to tell her what was happening. He never got to tell her he loved her one more time. Now it was too late to everything; he was caught somewhere in time.

Christmas Crackers

Christmas Crackers

By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 93

"I used to like Christmas when I was younger, right up until the unfortunate incident we now call The Christmas Cracker." Juliet said to her best friend Mary.

"What happened?"

"Well, it all started like a typical festive season. The entire extended family made it up to Mum and Dad's for the weekend. It was the first time the Christmas holidays fell on a Thursday and Friday in years."

"Yeh, I know what you mean. It is so hard getting annual leave at my work over Christmas. Everyone in my office put in for leave twelve months ago and the bitch of a boss only got around to approving them the first week of December. No one could plan anything."

"It used to be us parents got first choice for school holidays, like
Christmas and Easter. Not anymore. I don't know why single people or
couples without kids would want to have holidays when the kids are
out of school anyway."

"Bastards like my boss are so selfish and self absorbed they don't
even realise it is important for parents to spend these special
occasions at home with their kids."

"Well, that's why it was such a big thing. All of us up at the oldie's place for Christmas. Now, I wish we didn't all make it that year. The kids are petrified of Christmas these days."

"That's horrible."

"It was. I'll never forget the screaming, the blood, and smell of burning hair and flesh."

Juliet took a tissue out of her bra and dabbed the corner of her eyes, careful not to smudge the mascara. She sniffled, stuffed the tissue back in little cocoon, and regained her composure.

"Dad was so happy we could all make it. He was quietly dying of lung cancer and knew he probably wouldn't see his children together again, unless it was through a drug-induced stupor from a hospital bed. He was right about that, but for the wrong reason."

Mary put her arm around her best friend, seeing the tears well up in her eyes again.

"You don't have to tell me about it if you don't feel up to it yet."

"No, I want to talk about it. You have been my best friend since high school and I haven't told you exactly what happened yet. It's been six years now."

Mary rubbed Juliet's arm reassuringly, then brushed her long black hair from her face. Juliet forced a smile and patted Mary's hand softly.

"We sat down at the table in the garage to say grace and have our traditional seafood lunch. Always had to set up three fold-up picnic tables in the garage to fit everyone in, what with five couples and twelve children. The seating arrangement was the same whenever we got together like this. Mum and Dad at the end of the first table, closest to the door to the house. My older brothers, Ron and Charles, sat on opposite sides with their wives. Bec, my younger sister, and I sat at the next table with our husbands, and the children all sat together at the last table. Thank goodness for that at least. None of the children were close enough to feel the heat
from the explosion, or to be hit with any of Ron's face when it blew up."

"Struth, Juliet. What happened? Were you sitting next to him?"

"No, I was next to Charles, across the table from Ron. It was the Christmas crackers. The one on the table in front of Ron had Dad's name on it. Dad would have held it out and both Mum and he would have died from the explosion."

"Both of them? But didn't only your brother Ron die?"

"Yes, but his wife lost her right hand and eye when the Christmas cracker went off. If it was Mum and Dad pulling it, the shock from the injuries would have killed both of them, the paramedics said. As it was, Ron caught the full force of the explosion in his face and chest. He got the larger part of the cracker when he pulled on it with his wife Marge. The cracker flung back right into Ron’s face."

"How did it do so much damage? They only have a tiny bit of gunpowder in them to make a small popping noise. It shouldn't have exploded like it did?”

Juliet pulled the tear-moistened tissue out of her bra again to dry her eyes.

"The police said it looked like it was loaded with gun powder and buckshot. Like a huge shotgun shell or something."

"Why would someone do that to a Christmas Cracker?"

"Ron did it. He was the oldest son and was supposed to get the biggest share of the inheritance out of us kids; He had a huge debt to pay off with some dodgy loan shark who was going to kill him if he didn't pay up by New Year's Day. The kids must have moved the crackers around before diner when they were helping Mum set the table. Ron ended up with the one he booby trapped for Dad. It would have remained a mystery if Ron's wife didn't tell the cops everything when she was doped up on morphine."

"What a bastard, how could you do that to your own father?"

"I know. In front of twelve children and on the most precious holiday for young children. Bastard killed himself and the mystery of Father Christmas at the same time."

Noise Pollution is a Matter of Opinion

Noise Pollution is a Matter of Opinion
By Scott Wilson
Word Count:878

Heavy, deep pulsing bass shook Cecil’s walls as if they had gripped his single-story brick house and rattled it relentlessly. He had no peace or quiet since moving in this house two months back. On either side of him were couples with too much time, no children or responsibilities and too much of a taste for booze. What was it about grog that made people so deaf, Cecil often thought to himself on these cruel and noisy nights. The later it got, the more these bastards drank and the louder they got.

Last time he called the police, they took four hours to send a patrol car out, by which time they party had stopped and he had been asleep for two hours. Bloody cops woke him up, phoning him and asking if he still needed a squad car to come out. Cecil gave the cops a piece of his mind that night and could not get back to sleep again.

It was almost as if these neighbours took it in turns at having loud parties, or do’s every second day then again on Friday and Saturday night. If it wasn’t the four islanders living to the right having a rowdy party, it was the kiwi couple on the left sitting outside on the patio with their Maori work mates, sinking a few brews, smoking excessively and watching some form of sport on satellite TV.

Poor old Cecil had sold his two-story house in the outer suburbs, downsizing to this one story brick house after his wife, Marge died. He regretted it every day since. It might have been lonely in that old Queenslander, but at least the neighbourhood was peaceful. Well, he thought to himself, enough is enough.

Both houses on either side were going hard at it tonight, and Cecil had cracked. As a younger man, Cecil owned his own electrical contracting firm and was in high demand. He knew electrics like the back of his hand and could rewire anything he picked up in a few minutes.
Cecil pulled on a pair of black tracksuit pants, a black skivvy and picked up a small canvas backpack. He quietly opened the security door at the side of the house and made his way to the front gate. Within ten minutes, Cecil was safely back in his lounge room, sitting comfortably on his tattered, Jason Recliner in front of the twenty-year-old wood-cased television set.
He picked up his cup of tea and an Arrowroot biscuit from the side table, finished his supper, and then picked up a large, black remote control. He was about to press the play button, when he stopped abruptly. Cecil put the remote control back down, went to the workbench in the garage and came back wearing his heavy-duty earmuffs.

The thumping sound of the stereo pumped into his ears through the earmuffs, almost as loud as if the music was in the next room rather than the neighbour’s house.

“You want to party, you bastards?” Cecil said softly to himself, picking up the remote control again. “Let’s do it.”

Cecil pressed the large green button at the top of the remote control, labelled “Play.” Through the thickly padded earmuff, Cecil heard the high-pitched whining from either side of his house. It sounded like a bomb siren winding up slowly then howling like a bitch on heat pining for company. The lights flickered on and off in every house in the small cul-de-sac, then the sound of light bulbs and windows shattering pierced the night sharply. The power to the whole street, and suburb went out, silencing the night with a heavy veil of darkness. Screams, then moans shortly filled the void, taking place of the pulsating music. Cecil lit the candle on his coffee table and carefully placed the remote control back in its usual location beside the VCR remote control.
The neighbours on either side of Cecil were still, quietened by the millions of shards of broken windows and light bulbs. Two of the noisy islanders had been decapitated by the glass chandelier when it exploded, falling directly on top of them as they played poker in the lounge room. The other two in the room were bleeding from most of their body and face from a barrage of glass shrapnel, showering the entire house from what looked like a sparkling crystal sprinkler system going off when the lights went out.

The kiwis on the other side of Cecil faired almost as badly. They had recently glassed in the patio to keep the mosquitoes away at night. When the power surge kicked their windows out of the frames, there was little protection for any of them. If the large Maori man had not been very drunk and thought it a good idea to follow his friend’s wife inside to make a pass at her, then all four of the New Zealanders would have been shredded like desiccated coconut.

Cecil took his earmuffs off and was glad that the loud music and laughter had stopped now. Cecil picked up his paperback novel and sighed. He just wished that the screaming would subside so he could read his book in peace.

The Lift

The Lift

By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 100

The lift looked like that found in any other modern high-rise, with low lighting and mirror panelled walls. Red numbers flickered and changed with each level passed on the way to the passenger’s final destination. Not that anyone ever reached the destination they expected. Once you hoped in and pressed any of the shiny, silver buttons, you were on your way to your worst nightmare.

The lift was haunted. Each passenger experienced a vivid and devilish nightmare pulled from the passenger’s subconscious. The spirit let the janitor live, only if he disposed of the corpses after each ride.

My Legacy

My Legacy

By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 294

One thousand that was an unlucky number for me. I had a long and prosperous career as an IVF specialist, with a 100% success rate. Well, of course it would be entirely successful if they were your own children you were growing, harvesting, in a female host. I know, they were my patients and I had a duty of care to provide the best quality service I could, and in a way, I did. I mean, look at the quality of the sperm they received. I am good looking, smart and successful, what more could a mother want in a child. If the partners of these poor women weren’t capable of delivering the goods by themselves, then they didn’t deserve to be a father.

I have an address book with all of my children’s details in it; name, date of birth, sex, address and any other detail that the happy parents willing gave me. Most of my children have received a letter from me now, some have written back and a few have even come to visit me. Boy, they are good-looking kids. My youngest is a two-month-old girl and the oldest is a twenty-one year old boy. I would have liked to attend his twenty-first birthday party, but that was last week and there was no way I could have made it, unfortunately.

I don’t feel any resentment to the nurse who found me tossing off into the specimen jar. Luckily, I was able to complete the procedure and reach the thousand mark before she was able to report it and the police arrested me.

Anyway, I will be out in time to see my children and grandchildren grow up. Have to love the Australian legal system.

Son of a Gun

Son of a Gun

By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 600

“Holy was a preacher; he rode on his rig of steel in the rising sun every morning, except for Sunday. Sundays he reserved for his own special brand of worship for any left in whatever town he came to convert to the true faith. This was no grim reaper, just a man with a smile who took a pride in a job well done. Some said he rode into town in a blood red sunrise. Or that he turned the sunrise red with blood if people didn’t take kindly to his preaching.” Benny said to his son, Marty.

Benny survived the last massacre at Opal Creek by hiding his son under the church hall. They heard screams and moan for days after hiding, but were too afraid to leave to help. If Holy found them, he would be string them up as heathens and leave them for the crows.

“No one knows the true origin of Holy; his legend began in the early twenty-first century. If that were the case, then he would be at least two hundred years old now, and that’s only if he started preaching when he was in his forties.”

“Is he human?” Marty asked quietly. Although it had been two weeks since they crawled out of their hiding place, Marty was still too scared to talk above a whisper.

“Mutant most likely, son.”

“Why does he do it, Dad?”

“Just a god given Holy Roller. In a god forsaken land.”Holy was heard to say when asked this question. He said that he didn't choose this killing ground. He didn't want this scrap of land. You've got to scorch the earth, and make the rivers run dry. Until we learn to hate sin like him. Kill for killin'. Live to die. You've gotta be a hero, for one last time. To prove through your destruction. That killing is a great way of life.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“The radiation poisoning probably sent him mad. He has inhuman strength and constitution, from what we saw ourselves.”

Benny shifted on his seat and put his arm around his nine-year-old boy.

“Since the fall of civilization, Holy was one of the few who maintained a firm belief in the Bible. “He's preaching conversion as you lie down and die” some said when the topic of the riding preacher was raised around a campfire of at a dusty old bar. People never said that if Holy was in town. He had a way of hearing everything, and demanding a pound of flesh in payment for any such idle chitchat.”

“I heard him say, “There's a wooden cross somewhere. Where they'll bury you down deep. You lie to your people, You lie to yourself. Your in love with death babe. You've got no shame.” Dad, what did he mean?”

“I don’t know son. Not much of what we heard or saw made any sense.”

“I heard the preacher laugh and then the preacher cried. He loaded bullets as he smiled. Most of the congregation sat and wondered, “Would they live or would they die?” The women and children were crying. Why didn’t the men save them dad?”

“He shot the law men down first thing on riding into town from what I heard. They did not stand a chance. Anyone else that tried was slowly tortured to death. Even though he was just one man, no amount of men rushing him could overcome his brute strength. He seemed to reload his six shooters before anyone got close to him, no matter how many rushed him.”

“I miss Mummy. Why did he kill her? We were always Christians?” Marty sobbed.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Wrong Place, Wrong Time
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 214

K32A clicked and whirled his external limbs and lights in a mad panic as he floated aimlessly in deep space. As the lower deck waste management robot, K32A was not equipped with flight capacity; there was no reason why he should be outside the ship at any time. The small cylindrical metal arms waved slowly in the zero gravity of the cold and lonely vacuum of space. This effort made no difference to the direction K32A floated and there was no logical reason for the small robot to continue doing so, but continue he did.

In the distance, Spectre 42 slowly moved away into the distance, leaving a trail of garbage floating aimlessly around K32A.

“Help, me.” K32A cried out, knowing that nobody would be able to hear.

In a state of humane distress and anxiety, the four-foot tall bipedal robot tried its communication circuit to no avail. The reception was long out of range of the internal ship’s channel.

“I was still cleaning the debris from the crash landing. The doors shouldn’t have been opened.”

K32A assessed its power supply and was saddened to see that things did not look promising. There would be enough battery power to remain functional for six years at minimal power, with superfluous functions shut down.

“Help me!”

The Thing That Should Not Be

The Thing That Should Not Be

By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 454

On the cool, white sands of the Krandrenkal Beach, the hybrid children of the beast sit patiently. The Messenger of Fear is in sight, zigzagging across the motionless, orange water without leaving a ripple or any sign of breaking the surface. This does not bother the chaos crawling creatures of the dark light: they have prayed for Father, summoned him to save them from the fearless wretch.

The children know that he watches over them, lurking beneath the sea, carefully guarding his precious family from the alien intruders. These aliens know the Great Old One, as the Hunter of the Shadows. They believe he is immortal and in madness. He destroyed their ship when they landed on this alien planet a few months back, back when there was a full crew of six hundred. Now there are but seven survivors, with very little provisions or weapons.

Before the single alien reaches the shore, the Hunter of the Shadows erupts from the still, orange waters and engulfs her, dragging her back down into the cloudy depths of the strangely void sea. She finds that she can breathe under the water. The Great Old One is breathing for her through a fleshy appendage, tightly wrapped around her neck. Sinking down, the alien grows accustomed to the bleary vision and sees a majestic, glowing gold city on the sea floor. She feels at peace, not at all afraid of drowning or the creature holding her in its toothless, mouth firmly eating her alive.

Time has no meaning under the strange alien sea, yet she thinks it took hours to reach the city. A thick yellow membrane that they seep through to enter surrounds the city. Inside, she felt warm air brush her face dry in a soft caress.

She finds her fellow crew aimlessly wandering the streets, their faces blank and uncaring of their surrounding. The Great Old One speaks to her.

“You dwell in the fallen city of Crawling Chaos now. In time, you will accept your fate and hear the summons of the underground cult. The twisted sound from the very buildings will become a sweet sound to your ears. Out from ruins, living death will embrace you and eternal life will no longer be a stranger.”

The Great Old One releases her from his tender embrace and she feels a chill run down her exoskeleton. She feels a thick slime drizzle down her neck, slowly covering her scaled body. Looking down, she sees her torso and legs are now smooth and amber in colour.

“Come, join your companions. You will have eons to serve me. There will be no death to drain you of your insanity. Come; join the Thing That Should Not Be.”

HOORAY: Black Bullets

My short story, Black Bullets, has been accepted for publishing in November's issue of Static Movement.

Dead Letter Office

Dead Letter Office
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 1079

Artie and Wes kicked the corrugated iron door of the old, abandoned warehouse in. Inside, sitting on rusty office chairs were three other members of the White Brisbane Skinhead gang. The two lean and muscular men sitting down, Rusty and Dazza, both leapt to their feet at the sound. Each one produced a butterfly knife, ready to cut whoever was invading their regular haunt.

“You tosser,” Dazza yelled.

“Screw you. Look what we’ve got.”

Artie and Wes tipped out the large mailbag of letters onto the concrete floor, covering a decent sized area with large envelopes, small envelopes, parcels, and cartons.

“How’d you score that?” Rusty asked as he bent down and picked up a handful of mail.

“Knocked over the mail box outside Post Office Square, didn’t we?”

“Sure did, Artie.”

“Piece of cake. Ran into it with the Holden Ute we nicked and picked up the bag. Idiots must make the bags so tough that they stay together if the mailbox is damaged.”

The fifth member of the group was a sixteen-year-old girl, Sharon Caulfield, or Shazza, as everyone called her. She ran away from home when she was fourteen and became a heavy cocaine user by the time she was fifteen. Shazza was too stoned out of her head to hear anything that was going on. She sat rocking on her broken office chair with her mouth partially opened.

“What do you reckon Shazza?” Artie said, running his fingers through her hair roughly. “Do you think there might be some coke in one of these parcels?”

Shazza kept on rocking on her chair, not acknowledging the remark at all.

The four skinheads began tearing open the letters roughly.

“Carefully,” Shazza mumbled.

“What?” Rusty said.

“Open them carefully. You will rip anything good inside if you tear at them like a pack of wolves.”

“Hey, hey, hey guys. Stoner’s right. Don’t want to tear any cheques in half.”

All four dropped to the ground and began slowly opening the letters, one at a time. They read each letter for any juicy piece of gossip that could be read aloud for the enjoyment, or amusement of the other gang members. Only a couple of parcels had anything of any great value that they could hock off for cash at the Cash Converters. A dozen or so credit cards were found as was one hundred and sixty dollars inside a couple of birthday cards.

“Hey, listen to this you guys.” Dazza said. “I was kept prisoner as a slave by a sick, perverted old school teacher for three days. I died at his hand, chained to a piss stinking bed in a dark cellar. If you don’t pass this letter on to my parents, you will die in twenty-four hours.”

“That’s one sick bit of hate mail. Who was it addressed to?” Rusty said.

Dazza rummaged through the pile of open envelopes and picked up the crumpled one he thought the letter came from.

“There’s no address on it?”

“Who sends a letter like that without putting an address on it? I mean, who would open it?”

“Someone like us.” Shazza said.

“Like what?”

“Yeh, like what Shazza?”

“Someone who shouldn’t be opening up other people’s letters.”

“Whatever.” Wes said.

“Yeh, and how are you supposed to pass the letter on to someone’s parents if the letter aid addressed to anyone or from anyone?” Dazza said.

“It’s just a load of crap, Dazza.” Wes said.

“Yeh, probably just some kids messing around.” Artie agreed.

“Give it here,” Wes said.

Dazza handed the yellow, foolscap legal pad letter to Wes. Wes pulled his lighter out of his denim vest pocket and flicked it alight beneath the letter. The flame flickered, spat, and went out. He lit it again. Bright yellow flames enveloped the bottom corner of the letter, spreading around the sides and up the front.

“It’s not burning.” Dazza said.

“It won’t burn,” Shazza said, “but we will.”

“Shut up.” Wes said.

“Yeh, bring us all down, why dontcha Shazza.” Artie said.

Dazza kicked the pile of envelopes; they scattered and flew through the air. Rusty kicked the pile and headed towards the door. “I’m out of here.”

“Me too.” Dazza said. “This ain’t fun any more. Bullshit freaky letters. I’m going to the pub to spend some of this cash.”

“You want to get a brew to Wes?” Artie asked.

Artie, Wes and Dazza left the abandoned factory and headed to their local, “The Caxton”. Rusty stayed with Shazza, partly because he thought she looked upset, and partly because he was the only member of the gang that had not already shagged her. It was not that he did not want to, but more that he still had some form of decency in his personality and would not take advantage of her like the rest of the guys.

“You okay, Shazza?”

Shazza still looked stoned off her face, but slowly turned towards Rusty and managed a slight smile.

“You’re not that bad Rusty. But it’s too late now; you shouldn’t have hooked up with the others.”

Rusty lit a Winnie blue and scratched his head in confusion. He had no idea what Shazza was on about. Maybe she was too off her face to know what she was even saying.

“You want me to walk you back to your place?”

“No, I’m not going anywhere?”

Rusty shook his head, fumbled around in his jeans pocket and was pissed of to find only ten bucks worth of change. It was Tuesday and his Dole money would not be in his bank account until Friday. He thought he might try to scab a couple of ales off the rest of the gang, they did just score over a hundred bucks from the letters.

“See you later, Shazza.”

Rusty started to walk towards the bent and warped steel door of the factory, dragging his feet as he walked. He did not hear the creaking and groaning metal of the roof until it was almost on top of him. It crashed heavily into his bald skull, tearing away flesh and bone from half his face. Rusty saw the cold, hard steel pass through Shazza as she sat rocking on the dirty old office chair smashing the chair to pieces. With his last breath, Rusty heard Shazza say something:

“I thought you would have noticed when that bastard took me last week, Rusty.”

THE END

Hooray

My bushranger story, Matthew O'Reilly, has been accepted by A Long Short Story for publishing http://www.alongstoryshort.net/

Bounty Blues

Bounty Blues

By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 732

“Whiskey, thanks.” Paul Black grunted at the barmaid.


He turned to face the crowded saloon, surveying every dirty, dust covered cowboy and local critically. Paul knew what to look for in a bounty hunter and was sure he spotted two playing blackjack at a crowded table. One of the bounty hunters wore a tan jacket to hide his pistols, red shirt buttoned up to the neck and denim jeans. The other wore all gunmetal gray, boots, trousers, and shirt, he had no jacket on and his two laser pistols hung low.


The barmaid placed a dirty glass on the counter and filled it with watered down whiskey, of the cheap and nasty kind. Paul gave her the evil eye, and she shrugged her shoulders back. Saloon’s like this were a dime a dozen and nothing would change that. A man on the run had to make do with this kind of service without making a fuss. Less he wants to end up with an even bigger bullseye on his back. Nothing like making ordinary folk remember you more than ticking them off or being just down right disagreeable for no reason.


Paul took the glass and drank it in one fast swallow. It tasted more of the dirty and grim in the glass than of the whiskey. He tossed a credit on the counter and moved towards the piano near the small stage. From this position, he would be able to keep an eye on everyone in the saloon, and get a pretty good close up of the women dancing in their corsets and suspenders.


“I ain’t no cheat!” yelled one of the scruffy old men at the card table.


He knocked his chair back as he staggered to his feet in a drunken stupor. Paul watched the two bounty hunters closely; they looked like the kind of low life that would laser down an old man for no big reason. They looked like the kind of varmints that would get a laugh out of gunning down a drunken old man for fun too.


Paul moved quickly and was at the card table before the two bounty hunters had a chance to draw their laser pistols.


“You need to go home and sleep off your mood, ol’ timer.”


“Mind your business, stranger.” The bounty hunter in the tan jacket said to Paul.


“I make it my business when any ol’ timer is about to be gunned down over a card game.”


Paul did not like the attention he was getting from the crowded saloon now, but he knew it was a chance to get these bounty hunters off his tail for good.


The other bounty hunter was on his feet with his hands at his sides, ready to draw.


“Why don’t you sit back down, partner?”


“I will, once we finish our conversation with this cheatin’ dog.”


“I ain’ no cheat.” The crusty old poker player said, reaching for the laser at his side. With his drunken vision, he grabbed at the pistol he thought was real and was surprised when his hand passed through it.


Lasers blazed.


The bounty hunter in grey took two shots in the chest from Paul’s colt laser pistol before firing off a single shot. It passed by the old man, clipping him on the right leg before thudding harmlessly into the bar. Paul gunned down the second bounty hunter as he leapt to his feet before he got a shot off. Paul’s shot hit him in the forehead before he even had a chance to draw his pistol. It thudded to the floor, unfired a second after the owner crashed down.


“You alright, ol’ timer?”


“Dirty, stinkin’ bastard. I ain’ no cheat, mister.”


“It’s alright. They won’t be giving any a hard time now.”


Paul picked up the loose notes on the card table where the bounty hunters had been. He counted out six hundred credits for himself; the amount they would have received for bringing Paul in for a crime he did not commit, and gave the rest to the old man.


Time to move on he thought to himself. He slowly walked from the saloon, hoped on his hover cycle, and rode out of town. Without these two on his tail, he knew he had a good two weeks head start on the others tracking him.