9Chews

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  9CHEWS

  © Copyright 2016 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2016

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

  THESE ARE WORKS OF FICTION

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  9CHEWS

  Table of Contents

  FOOD ALLERGY by Daniel J. Kirk

  DECAFFEINATED by Daniel Brock

  PARTNERS by Daniel J. Kirk

  HARVEST OF THE CHRIST by D. A. D'Amico

  A MEAL MUST BE PREPARED by Sara Green

  AN ACQUIRED TASTE by Ken Goldman

  RESPECT FOR THE DEAD by Lee Clark Zumpe

  HUNGRY by Luke Walker

  DEADBOY LIVES by Sara Green

  .

  FOOD ALLERGY by Daniel J. Kirk

  It was a stupid looking house. It stood on level ground, but was cocked at an angle not quite parallel to the street. The bricks were of varying shades of burnt pink, gray, and even tan. In some places the bricks matched too well, as if a wrecking ball had knocked out a section and the handyman who repaired the wall didn’t bother using the same shade of bricks that surrounded it. The right shutters were missing on all but one of the six front windows. On the second floor there was one window with the right shutter—but it was missing the one on the left. These absent shutters had not been blown off in a storm. They stood against the side of the house, tall grass at their bottoms implying they had sat there at least for the present summer if not longer. The rest of the grass had been cut rather recently, but there was no additional care taken to the landscaping. The gravel driveway had streaks of grass here and there and no one had trimmed around the mailbox post.

  Despite this apparent dilapidation, the house was a sturdy and occupied.

  “This is where we’re eating tonight?” little Gray asked his mother, Wendy. She didn’t respond. Her eyes were dubious as she pulled into the driveway and parked the car. She tried to double check the house number with the piece of paper she wrote her direction on, but there was no number next to the front door—nor had there been one on the mailbox. Only the resident’s name was on the mailbox and that was good enough confirmation. After all, Wendy didn’t think there was an abundance of people with the moniker, Abelflesh.

  “Mom, I asked you a question.”

  “Yes,” she said. “This is where your dinner is.”

  “Really?”

  “Damn it, Gray. What do you want?”

  “You said it was a restaurant.”

  “I said we had to go out to eat.”

  “Well how do you know I won’t be allergic to what they are making?”

  “Because I spoke with him. He understands your dietary restrictions,” Wendy said. She unbuckled her seat belt and picked up the brown paper bag. She did all of this too quickly. Her vision blurred and she braced herself on the steering wheel.

  “Are you alright mom?”

  “Fine. Come on. You need to eat.”

  “Mom. I’m not hungry.”

  “I could…” Wendy didn’t tell her son that she had turned up the radio on their drive to drown out the sound of his rumbling stomach. She knew he was used to feeling hungry. The nine year old boy was a stick figure. His neck could barely support the weight of his head and every time he moved Wendy was scared his little arms would snap like a twig. She grinded her teeth as he flung open his car door and slid out. There was no sound when he hit the ground, not until he shuffled his feet and opened Wendy’s door.

  She wrenched herself out of the car, her weight almost knocking her poor son over. She was never going to fit back into the jeans she wore in high school, let along the ones she wore a year ago. All the food she had bought, she had to eat. She couldn’t let it go to waste just because Gray couldn’t eat it.

  And now, she thought, that extra weight would come in handy.

  Mr. Abelflesh stood at the front door. He was older than he had sounded on the phone, lean from age. He had no hair on his head. Not even eyebrows, which made it all that much harder to maintain eye contact. But he extended his hand and shook with a mechanical warmth, as if he’d perfected the handshake, but forgot what it meant.

  “Was traffic bad?” he asked.

  Gray stared at him, and so Mr. Abelflesh returned the look down his nose.

  “No.”

  “No trouble finding the place?”

  “Uh, no,” Wendy said.

  “Splendid. I’ll take that.” Mr. Abelflesh took the brown bag from Wendy’s hand. “You kept it at room temperature as asked.”

  Wendy nodded. Though she put it on ice when she initially got it, it had plenty of time to warm up on their drive, she thought.

  “Splendid. It cooks evenly at room temperature. I assume he doesn’t prefer his meat rare?” Mr. Abelflesh cocked an absent eyebrow.

  Wendy shook her head. She wanted the meat cooked all the way through. She didn’t know what Gray wanted, but she knew what he couldn’t have, and the fear of germs furthered her resolve.

  “Splendid. Come inside, the table is set, I wasn’t sure if there was a Mister, so I set out an extra plate. It is no matter though.”

  “Just him,” Wendy said.

  “Huh?”

  “Just my son is eating,” Wendy said.

  “Oh.” Mr. Abelflesh appeared offended and then curious. “Well, I have made string beans, though I wasn’t sure if the young boy would be able to eat them or not.”

  “No. He’s allergic to them.”

  “I’m allergic to everything,” Gray said.

  “Not for much longer, young…”

  “Gray, his name is Gray,” Wendy said.

  Inside the house was aged by its brown and orange décor. The sofas in the living room had a smell to them that was not truly offensive, but certainly not God’s intended odor. There was a rug beneath their feet that was just as old and worn and likely had its own smell upon closer inspection. The rest of the house was slightly musty if from anything the lack of central air conditioning, which Wendy diagnosed after seeing window units in just about every room they passed through until they reached the kitchen. And then there was a ceiling fan overhead.

  Mr. Abelflesh offered Wendy and Gray the choice of the sets around the table. Then he smiled and asked, “What would you all like to drink? I have water, distilled and purified, wine, sweet tea, and I can drive out and get soda pop if the boy prefers.

  “If you could boil the water and then chill it in the refrigerator, just to be sure,” Wendy said. “I don’t mean to be a bother but…”

  “I understand. Believe me. Gray is not the first child who I have helped. It is no bother at all.”

  “Thank you,” Wendy said.

  Mr. Abelflesh gave a smile and then took the brown bag with him into the kitchen.

  Wendy sat with Gray as the kitchen came to life with clanging pans and utensils. She cringed as she heard the brown paper bag tear. It was almost simultaneous that she felt a pain in her side. She gently placed her hand against her ribs. It felt damp. She rejected any further notion and placed her
hand on the table, beside the neatly laid out napkin and silverware.

  “I’m sleepy,” Gray said.

  “That’s because you need to eat.”

  “I told you, I’m not hungry. I’m just tired.” Gray was always tired from the lack of nutrition. The doctors had prescribed vitamins but then they found out he was allergic to some of those as well.

  “It won’t be long,” Mr. Abelflesh called from the kitchen. “The key is thinly sliced and a hot, hot pan.”

  The pan sizzled on cue. Sizzled like applause.

  Gray’s stomach rumbled, knowing what the young boy did not—it could be—would be—satiated.

  “I sense some hesitation on your part,” Mr. Abelflesh said. “That’s to be expected. But you have to imagine it’s like eating chicken or steak. Why, I had an aversion to pigs and cows. Absolutely disgusted by them. They’re so dirty. But I delighted in beef and pork. But the more I lived on the farm the more I couldn’t bring myself to put that meat in my mouth. I just knew it was within those disgusting beasts that rolled in the mud, sat in their own cowpies.”

  The pain seared in Wendy’s side. She groaned.

  Mr. Abelflesh came around the corner, wearing an apron and holding a spatula. “What was that?” He asked.

  “I never thought much about that. The pigs in the mud.” Wendy winced.

  “People are the same way,” he said. “Once you get over what you know of people, why they’re quite tasty in their own right, and we are quite selective. We prefer those who practice good hygiene. And for your boy, just remember he fed off you in the womb. Then mother’s milk and all.”

  Wendy tumbled off her chair. She clutched her side and her moan shook from her lips.

  “Mom!”

  “Stand back boy, give her room.”

  Mr. Abelflesh knelt beside her. He saw the blood staining her hands through her blouse.

  “You didn’t cut too deep, did you?”

  “I cut where you told me to cut…”

  Mr. Abelflesh tore her blouse open. A pad of gauze went with the shirt. The medical tape had failed and the large wound stood out like a snake on a pillow.”

  “Oh my dear. You cut too high. You cut an artery. You’ve surely been bleeding out. You will need medical attention.” Mr. Abelflesh’s assessment ran cold as he realized Wendy’s flesh had never been this pale before.

  “You told me there would be a lot of blood.”

  “Not this much.”

  Wendy whimpered. Her eyes had clamped down from the pain, but she wanted to open them one last time. She wanted to tell Gray it was all going to be okay.

  But it wasn’t.

  Gray missed the moment. Perhaps, he blinked so fast he hadn’t felt it. But in that moment, his mother became a lifeless lump. There was a difference between the living and the dead. The same difference between a night and day.

  Gray cried. He looked to Abelflesh, he looked to an adult to do something. But there was nothing that could be done. Wendy, his mother, was dead.

  “Such an amateur stitch job,” Abelflesh said. He looked at the boy and pursed his lips until he looked like a duck trying to smile. “Well, there’s plenty left we could cut up and freeze for later. I don’t suppose you brought a toothbrush. It looks like you will be staying with me for a while. At least until we get some meat on your bones.”

  THE END.

  DECAFFEINATED by Daniel Brock

  Carmen shrieked when she heard the explosion. In her mind it sounded like a tank firing its long gun, popping off a round as big as her whole upper body. Kyla screamed as well but managed to veer the car safely to the curb. The girls got out and groaned when they saw both front tires were shredded to pieces.

  "What the Hell!" Carmen yelled. She had already grabbed her cellphone but it was beeping before she could ever dial. No reception.

  "What now?" Kyla asked, busy snapping pictures for her social media pages.

  "Can you change a tire?"

  Kyla answered with a look. Her raised eyebrows and scrunched mouth said, "Do I look like I can change a tire?"

  "Me neither," Carmen said. She looked around what seemed like a nice suburban neighborhood. It was California though, there were 60 year olds that looked 25 and drug dealers that looked like comic book nerds. Regardless, they needed help. "There's a car in that driveway."

  "So?"

  "So let's go ask for help, tonto."

  Kyla made a face, “Fine. I hope they have Wi-Fi, I was right in the middle of a tweet."

  Carmen led the way up the long driveway. It was a big house with a nice car and fresh cut lawn. Maybe the owner could change their tires. Or maybe his gardener.

  They reached the door and Carmen grabbed hold of the intricate knocker. It exploded on the door almost as loud as the tires.

  A moment later, the door whipped open. A bearded man with long brown hair and a huge smile opened the door. Carmen took one look at him and could tell he was wired on something. Cocaine probably.

  "Can I hope you ladies??" the wired man asked, speaking 90 miles an hour.

  "Uh, yeah, our tires are flat. Can you help us?"

  "Of course! Come in, come in." He backed away and the two girls were drawn in by his enthusiasm. His body seemed to be moving constantly, even at a molecular level. The girls stepped over the mat and the door closed, wondering what could possibly have the man so hyper.

  They're host returned, smiling and friendly, then suddenly froze as if he’d been powered down. He looked at them curiously, then as quick as ever said, "You girls drink coffee?"

  They looked at each other, on the verge of both laughing and freaking out. Kyla spoke first, "Sure."

  "Johnny!" the man cried, before Kyla finished the word. "Fresh pots!" Somewhere within the house, a voice spoke so low that the girls barely heard. Without missing a step, their host yelled, "Company, Johnny!"

  "Ah a fresh pot, then. And one for you too sir?" the voice asked.

  The host drooped his shoulders, rolled his eyes, and looked up with an overly dramatic sigh. "Pots...sss" he hissed the s sound for emphasis. "Sorry, he's hard of hearing. Please have a seat."

  He sat down and the girls followed suit. The moment they were seated, the man grabbed a pair of drumsticks and started playing on his thighs. The sticks moved so fast it looked as if there were three in each hand. "Where you girls from?" he asked, his voice in rhythm with the beat.

  "Here," Kyla said, absently.

  "Well duh, but I mean historically?"

  "What?"

  "You know, genealogically. Ancestrally. Culturally?" His eyes were as big as his smile.

  "Oh," Kyla said. She was still trying to get reception but her eyes were drawn to the strange man. "Atlanta. Family mostly from Jamaica, I think."

  "Ohh, Hotlanta. They have good coffee. And you?" he asked Carmen.

  "Dallas. But my parents came over from Colombia."

  The man stopped drumming on a dime, frozen once more with one stick still in the air. "Shut up!"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Colombia! Oh my god they make the best coffee. It’s just…” he struggled momentarily then moved on without finishing the thought. “I'm from Seattle myself. Shocker right?" He started drumming again, then suddenly looked up, annoyed. "Johnny?!"

  A mumble from the back.

  Carmen looked around the room while the man started drumming on the sofa as well as his legs. The room was like a gallery, filled to the brim with what Carmen thought of as "guy toys." There were guitars, a real drum kit to match the drumsticks, a piano, a ping-pong table, racquetball racquets, basketballs, and all kinds records on the wall. "Are you in a band?" she asked.

  "Was. Retired," the man said. Wherever Johnny was, he needed to stay there. He clearly didn't need any more coffee.

  "What do you do now?" Kyla asked, feigning interest just to keep up with Carmen.

  "Make coffee. Is your hair real?"

  Kyla looked up from her phone for the first time. "Excuse me?"


  "Your hair. Is it real or a weave or something? Hard to tell." His eyes were so large his lids might not fit over them anymore. Not that he had blinked since the girls arrived.

  "It's a sew in," Kyla said. Carmen grinned. This was a strange day.

  "Sew in? That easy to get out?"

  "Not really."

  "Didn't sound like it. Oh well," he stood, looking off into the distance and practically bouncing on his toes. "We can shave it."

  "Excuse me?" she repeated. But the man wasn't listening. His smile had grown to epic proportions and he waved his hands frantically at something in the other room.

  Meanwhile, a bolt clicked sharply behind them. Carmen turned to see another man standing by the door, a gun at his waist and a machete in his hands. She stood and backed away, holding onto Kyla.

  "Uggghhhh, finally!" The host said as a third man, presumably Johnny, came into the room, carrying two steaming pots of coffee. Johnny sat one on the table in front of the girls and gave the other to the host. There were no cups on the table.

  The host took his pot of coffee, steam rising into his face, and turned the whole thing up. It was empty in about 45 seconds. "Whoo! Goddam, that's good stuff Johnny."

  "What's going on?" Carmen asked, finally finding her voice.

  "Hmm? Oh yeah, coffee!" The man said, even faster than before. He seemed to realize that he'd left a part of his story out somewhere, so he clarified. "I make coffee. Blends better than any you've ever tasted. One of a kind, like you lovely ladies." He pointed at the pot on the table, "That's my Atlanta brew," then held up the empty pot and tapped it with his finger, "This was the last of my Colombian."

  Carmen's eyes widened. If he was saying what she thought he was saying...

  The man behind them with the machete took a step closer. Johnny pulled out a knife of his own, a large kitchen cleaver. The host, still holding the empty pot, his eyes swimming in caffeine, smiled wider than ever.

  "Fresh Pots!"

  THE END.

  PARTNERS by Daniel J. Kirk