“It’s a thyroid problem” was her response to the weight gain. She had never even gone to a doctor.
If I said anything about going to the gym or weight loss, I was being an insensitive prick that didn't see her "inner beauty". Divorce had crept into my mind on several occasions but the thought of giving her half my stuff terrified me more than seeing her naked. The worst part was, she still wanted to have sex. I faked impotence to avoid telling her the truth of the matter. I was ONLY impotent with HER.
The only thing I had left that gave me any joy in life was my Yankees. Now those are a group of winners! Alphas the likes of Derek Jeter, who date supermodels and sexy actresses while at the same time building a timeless legacy that will never be forgotten. Real men like Joe DiMaggio got it on with beauties like Marilyn Monroe, and I was sitting there in the bleachers with blubber butt.
The cameraman aimed his sights on us and I shook my head in panic, unable to form any other words except “No, no, no, no”. The camera's light went red and the 103 ft. HD television in center field displayed me sitting next to my land whale. They say the camera adds 10 pounds, but even if it added a hundred to her tubby frame she was so fat you probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I could hear the crowd groan when she wiped the ketchup and mustard off her face. My wife smiled and laughed, pointing at the television. She puckered up for a kiss and I froze. There were 50, 291 people at the stadium, and they were all laughing at me.
My stomach lurched and I felt vomit begin to rise into my throat. I tried to swallow but my throat was tense. A cold chill ran through my body and I struggled to breathe. I was having a panic attack. Tears formed in my eyes and I trembled in the chair, feeling like the smallest man on Earth. I needed to get out of there. I stood up from the bleachers and stared out into center field where DiMaggio used to play. Maybe if I were like Joe, I could have dated a Marilyn Monroe too. She was a real beauty – just like my wife used to be. I know I still had a chance; I only needed the opportunity to show them what I could do on the diamond.
There was no time to use the stairs. I knew the fastest way to center field. I charged down the aisle and jumped over the railing of the short porch in right field. The air is rushed all around me and for the first time since I got married I felt weightless. I saw the end in sight and closed my eyes imaging that I was experiencing what it felt like to be a homerun ball.
The stadium went silent. There was a loud thump.
The Taxi Driver
Nthato Morakabi
Hey there stranger! How are you? I am fantastic, thanks. Welcome to my humble establishment. Please, sit. What would you like to have tonight? Beer to cool down, whiskey to warm up…coffee? Sure thing. Are you taking it easy tonight, haha!? Not that I would know right? Well, why don’t you make yourself comfortable a while, the kettle is almost done boiling. Oh speaking of boiling, do you see that man in the corner by the window, sitting alone there with his bowl of lettuce and sipping hard liquor this cold eve? Yes, well, he is in one pitiful situation and it’s boiling right under his feet. Not literally, of course! I saw you looking to see if he was actually steaming! Ha! Anyway, that man is…oh the kettle is boiling, let me get it quick. And don’t stare at him; he might just turn on you! No, I’m serious!
So how many sugars are you having? None…Uh huh and milk? No? Ha ha, drinking coffee as you should I see – must’ve had one heck of a day, huh? I think I’ll have a cuppa myself; running this fine establishment is not so easy and I take these kinds of liberties when I can – proprietors prerogative.
Oh, you want to know more about him, yes? I did leave you hanging, didn’t I; an itch is never sated until it is scratched, yes? Well, I apologize. I get distracted so easily these days. The gentleman in the corner, he goes by the name of Jabulani – which means happiness, contradictory when you think of how depressing his days have been. He is a taxi driver. Oh, not one those Maxi-Taxi drivers or anything like that. No, he drives your regular Toyota Hi-Ace combi that squeezes 14 people into the vehicle; four-four bazali four-four!
So what kind of trouble is he in? Well, have you heard of the Mtetwa Taxi association? No? I’m not surprised. Not many people know of the associations within our midst in control of these reckless drivers about us. All taxi drivers fall under some association or other, each of these controls an area, a route, and various other aspects contributing to the taxi industry. Taxi drivers must ensure that the head of the association gets his income. If the driver fails to deliver the amount expected or if he travels on a route that belongs to a rival association well… bad things tend to happen to him. A taxicab mafia right here in South Africa? Haha – I only wish it were a joke.
The Mtetwa’s association, or rather the Mtetwa household, have been known for…dealing with their drivers in a particular way. One word really: Sangoma. Yes, a Witch doctor. All superstition you say? I would have agreed with you had you said that two weeks ago but…I myself am shaken just thinking about it…I’ve seen something that has me quaking in my boots – and that doesn’t happen often.
It happened about a week or so ago. I was locking up the tavern; it must have been one in the morning or around that time. One of my regulars, Phineas, was stumbling off down the road – how that guy manages to get home when he is that drunk I don’t know. Anyway, I see Jabulani hissing into his taxi, shouting something or the other, but I can’t tell what or to whom; the taxi door is open and all I can see is his head from the window, but even that is hidden by the glare from a streetlamp. I’m walking in the direction of his taxi because he normally gives me a ride home if it’s late at night – you know how dangerous Joburg can get. So I approach him and he doesn’t see me coming until I call his name. He jumped, hey…almost a meter high! Okay, maybe not that high, but he was in the air for a while, let me tell you, a long while. But that’s not what frightened me, and it sure wasn’t the deep guttural sound that crawled out of his throat in his shock, nope. It wasn’t his sickeningly thick tongue that had escaped his lips either… it was – uh, he is looking at us, let me go see what he wants.
Did you know a Sangoma must go through rituals during their…initiation? The elders hide a goat somewhere around the community and the Sangoma must use the abilities granted to them by the ancestors to find the creature – during this time the Sangoma is said to be possessed by their spirits. Was the taxi driver possessed? No man don’t be ridiculous, he wasn’t possessed. No. It was worse. Do you see that bowl of lettuce I took to him? Yes, it seems he has a strong desire for leafy things. Don’t look at me like that, okay! I saw the man! That night, in his taxi? He was feverishly hacking away at the thick leather skin that had crept up his arm, covered in what can only be described as fur! He pulled his jacket down when he noticed me of course, but that glimpse I saw couldn’t have been anything else…and the same fur had been on the floor where he’d been standing.
Would you like something else to drink? Irish coffee? Good man…or is my story requiring a bit more oomph to believe? Well, I’ll make myself a cup too. Might as well. While I get the drinks ready, why don’t you walk past him? Just head to the bathrooms and walk right past him – greet him even. Look when he turns around to face you. See if his nostrils aren’t a little too flared, his eyes a little too big…his ears a little too bent. Glance at his hands and tell me they aren’t a little too stout, too rounded. Listen to his voice, tell me its not exceedingly deep – ask him what is casting that silver-grey light onto the table…is it the mooooon? You go, I’ll make us the coffee…go!
So did you see? I told you! But that isn’t the worst part of it all. The worst part, and the one thing that really sickens me is the fact that the youngest of the Mtetwa’s – Sfiso is his name, or something like that – yeah him. He owns a butchery. And you know we had that scandal recently about beef not being beef? Well, I was thinking about it this morning, actually, when I saw Jabulani over there, hiding beneath his dark leather cap and jacket, his hands hidden within the pockets. I wondered…bu
t no that would be sick wouldn’t it, agh just the thought makes my stomach lurch. But you know many of the Mtetwa taxi drivers disappeared during the times of those scandals…and here we are, seeing Jabulani, in the flesh…changing…doesn’t it make you wonder, just where Sfiso Mtetwa gets his meat from…
Into The Woods
Elizabeth Archer
“Bailey, Bailey come!” Dara shouted.
As usual, she had let him off the leash as they walked along the path. Running with purpose, he followed his nose into the woods, sniffing some scent only he perceived. It was their favorite time of the evening for walks together – nearing sunset, the sky a beautiful golden red. She paused and called again. Still the dog did not come, nor could Dara hear his rustling in the leaves. It was not like him to run away from her.
“Bailey, come on boy!” she called.
The last remaining bits of daylight were fading and with it, the evening’s shadows began to swallow the forest, but Bailey was still missing. She continued to call him, but for some reason, Dara felt the hair at the nape of her neck begin to rise. Her pace quickened as she turned back towards her cabin fearing something terrible had happened to her canine companion. She wanted desperately to run into the woods and look for him, but night was beginning to fall and a fear began to take hold that she was no longer alone.
Dara continued calling her dog as she hurriedly made her way home. Feeling despondent, she began to cry, cursing her cowardice for not going into the woods to look for Bailey, knowing that he wouldn’t think twice about looking for her if their roles were reversed. She decided that she would call Bill as soon as she got home and ask for his help in searching. As she rounded a corner in the path, her cabin came into view. Her feelings of relief abruptly came to a halt when she saw that the lamp she always left burning by the window was somehow inexplicably off. Upon further inspection, she noticed a furry mound at the bottom of the front step. Sickened, she ran towards it but stifled a sob when she heard the sweet thump, thump, thump of Bailey’s tail against the wooden deck. Dropping to the ground, she wrapped her arms around her dearest friend. With a sharp intake of breath, she discovered that his muzzle was wet and sticky with blood. Dara lightly ran her finger along a deep cut on his back that oozed in excess, soaking Bailey’s fur. It would require a Vet’s attention, she discerned.
“Bailey, what happened!?” She asked.
As Dara continued to search for more injuries, Bailey began to emit a deep guttural growl; his eyes looked behind her and off into the woods. She turned to look, but could see nothing as darkness had already engulfed the wooded path. Feeling even more alone and vulnerable, she sensed the need to move quickly in order to help Bailey right himself.
As she coaxed Bailey up the steps and into the house, he started to whine, refusing to follow. Behind her, she heard a soft sound coming from what should have been an empty cabin, further feeding her growing fear. For the second time Bailey began to growl. Fueled by her pooch’s warning, she jumped off the porch and with herculean strength, heaved Bailey over her shoulder and ran to her car, parked just a few feet away. After awkwardly placing Bailey in the passenger seat, she slammed the door behind her, hit the locks, and rammed the key into the ignition. Without looking back, she gunned the motor peeling out of the driveway as fast as she could, leaving her cabin in the dust of the unpaved road. The moonless night made the drive eerie and full of shadows. In her haste, she never saw the menacing, bloodied stranger now standing on her porch, slowly passing a rope from hand to hand, quietly watching her departure and waiting for her return.
Iron Gates
J.L. Rach
I often stare along the wrought iron bars that run around the property. It calms the mind to walk their length, wondering how long they have stood here, who crafted them, and through what have they endured. Their weathered appearance whispers to me of the ages these sentinels have stood guard here, unmoved for centuries as the world sped by around them.
Their construction must have taken many years, for each bar appears to have been hand tooled and crafted, at least to my uneducated eye. I ponder if the craftsman who spent decades of his life completing the painstaking task of forming and shaping each individual bar ever could have guessed at what the ultimate purpose would be for these iron monstrosities. Was this his life's work, or just another project to feed his family? Was this fence intended to protect those within, or keep those without safe?
Sometimes I fear that I spend too much time walking along without seeing anyone on the other side of this metal barrier. What mysteries beyond am I hoping to see revealed? What shapes through the fog am I waiting to become corporeal? With a gentle shrug of my shoulders, I decide that is enough thought for this evening’s walking trip. Slowly I pass back among the headstones, my features once again fading into the ether until tomorrow night allows me another thoughtful walk along the cemetery fence…
The Journal of Katia Ashcroft
Ryan Winters
11/21/2012
Tony showed up this morning. He's working a murder case and said he needs my help. I swear to God, this fucking city. Apparently a group of amateur ghost hunters were found diced up into pieces in the basement of St. John's and he needs an occult expert to make sense of the found footage. Despite having a hangover bigger than the bottle that caused it I agreed to look over the tape. Happy birthday to me.
The video opened with four teenagers setting up equipment. God, I hate teenagers. I have to admit though, it was entertaining listening to their bullshit theories about ghosts and the spirit realm. These morons had no idea what was waiting for them in the abandoned Psychiatric Ward of St. John's Hospital.
It's a local urban legend that the spirits of the former mentally ill patients roam those deserted halls. And that's what they were after. Just a glimpse of the world beyond or a sliver of proof that there’s more to this miserable existence that we call life.
The investigation was proving fruitless at first – just few temperature drops that could be explained by drafts blowing throughout the vacant building. An EMP spike or two that was most likely the result of wiring from the 60's, and of course, the random noises they were quick to classify as EVPs.
They made their way through the building; room-by-room, yelling out stupid questions like "Are there any spirits that would like to talk to us?" As if an apparition's going to appear and go "Uh, yeah. Hey guys, I'm Steve. What's up?"
I wanted to fast forward, but couldn't risk missing anything. The devil truly is in the details, after all. Another hour in and they finally started to head towards the basement.
See, the basement is where Doctor Clark Rayner was said to have been brutally murdered by a group of patients in 1987, but an extreme lack of evidence caused the case to go cold. Less than a year later the facility shut down. Rumor is the good doctor was performing some pretty horrific experiments on some of the patients. Can you guess how they found his body?... Diced up into pieces. At this point some things are starting to add up. My guess is old Clarky was involved with some kind of demonic cult.
This is where the video gets interesting (I almost got up to make some popcorn). As they opened the door of the stairwell leading to the subfloor our young adventures saw their first honest to God apparition. A single shadow figure blocking their path. Their reaction was priceless. The two girls let out an ear splitting scream and the guy holding the microphone jumped back so fast he knocked over the cameraman. They staggered back quickly and slammed the door while confirming what they had seen with each other.
Now, sure, shadow figures can be frightening. That is, unless you know what you're looking at. Most people see leering black forms and they think they're in the presence of some kind of malevolent spirit or demon, but that's not the case. No, shadow figures are nothing but human souls trapped in the world of the living. Human souls that have been judged and sentenced to purgatory. They're relatively harmless.
After a few minutes, the team composed themselves and decid
ed to open the door again. Another choir of screams erupted as the entity dashed past them. Even if they knew half as much about spirits as they thought they did, they might have realized that it wasn't trying to frighten them; it was running from something.
The kid playing ringleader decided to put on his big boy pants and convinced the others that they had to venture onwards, "in the name of science". Camera shaking, they descended the stairs.
When they made it to the bottom, even I was startled when the demon materialized on screen. Freeze frame showed me what I feared the most, a full-fledged soldier of Hell, wearing entrails like clothing, appearing in completely corporeal form. I deal with demons on a regular basis, but I've never seen one totally cross over to the physical plane. I had always thought that the magic to summon such a thing was lost centuries ago.
The rest was about what I expected. Like the final scene in a horror flick, the camera dropped to the ground while tortured screams rang out so loud they nearly blew my TV’s speakers. Mercifully, the video finally stopped, leaving me shaking in a cold sweat.
Dark Tales: 13 New Authors, One Twisted Anthology Page 5