My Peculiar Family

by Les Rosenthal

  "Time ye had a taste o' yer own."

  The boy rammed the flower jar to Victor's chin, splashing the liquid into his eyes, nose, and mouth. It burned terribly, and then the initial sting faded to pleasant sensation. His clenched muscles relaxed, the pain of his back vanished, and he found he wanted more.

  "Give it here!" Victor spat. "Give it to me!"

  The lad passed over the jars and sat back, beaming, while Victor drank.

  "The boy did well..." one of the corpses said.

  "He deserves his reward..."

  "It is agreed..."

  "Permission is given..."

  No sooner were the words said than the boy drove his knife into his own neck. He yanked it out gruffly, gouts of blood spilling down his chest. The boy fell backward, spitting, gurgling, coughing, smiling. And then he was still.

  Victor knew he should be terrified. He knew he should be crawling, dragging himself away. Yet the jar in his hand was all that mattered. He gripped it in a trembling hand and shoved his nose in, savoring the sweetness of decay, of entropy. Victor up ended the jar, slugging down the last drops. The flower fell against his face, thickly veined petals caressing his cheek.

  Next, he gripped the jar of berries and plucked out two. He held them in a hand, stared at their simple perfection as if they were pearls around the neck of a loved one. He popped them into his mouth and chewed the exquisite flavor, the pits unbreakable between his teeth. Muscles in his neck opened, his tongue arched, and he swallowed.

  "Let us begin..." the gray ones said.

  They fell upon him, tearing away bloodied shirt and trousers, then skin, then sinew, and muscle, his ears and eye lids, pulled his guts like ropes. Victor screamed at the joy of it, the pure ecstasy so far beyond pain he could scarcely conceive it. He screamed and screamed and screamed himself awake.

  The man blinked hard, smacked his dry mouth, and found himself slumped over a pile of his dirty laundry. Clammy moisture at his waist, along with a tell-tale odor, told him that he had urinated into his clothes.

  He reached to his back where he felt the knife go in. There was no wound, no hole in his shirt. He still had all of his ears, eyes, and skin. Jars of preserved flora lined the shelves around his workshop. There was no break in. He smiled with spotted teeth and scratched absently at an itch on his thigh.

  His mind burned from the dream and he raced to record the experience before it faded.

  A powerful narcotic, he noted in his book, combined with extended psychedelic effect. Dream state indistinguishable from real life. Compelling, transformative visions...shocking, yet transcendent... An exploration impossible to replicate by sea or land. I feel I am on the precipice and from here I will either fall to my death or soar to unknown heights...

  The Herbalist looked over his workbench, dismayed to find he left previous experiments unfinished. On a boilerplate, in uncovered glass dishes, sat tiny berry pits. The tough shells were cracked open.

  Such sloppiness is unacceptable, he thought. Then he looked over his scrawled entries in the open notebook.

  The seeds germinate in the warmth and acidity of the gut. Once the seedpod splits, the sprouts release chemicals, which calm the stomach and halt the digestive process. Bacterial and fungal actions are inhibited. The new plant can then root in the protection of the gut and draw nutrient. As the roots spread, they spread the chemical throughout the body, preserving it as a food source, and repelling scavengers. Insects may attack areas of soft tissue until the roots spread this chemical throughout the body. Upon pupation, however, the mature adults have no interest in feeding or in procreation. They merely loiter with the body until they expire.

  Victor looked at the dissected bodies of his mice and guinea pigs in their stainless steel trays. All of them had lost their fur and their skin was velvety black. Short, pale stalks grew from their open mouths.

  I know where this will lead me. Until now, I have distilled essences of the saprophyte flower and berries, which have induced mind expanding effects. No matter that the visions have become terrifyingly real, I know this is, at best, a low-grade experience and will yield no further insights. It is as if I am standing before a veil, beyond which is a great and lasting revelation. There are glimpses of it, there are suggestions of it. To truly grasp it I must take an undiluted dose.

  I am certain that ingestion of the saprophyte berry and seedpod will kill me, yet that no longer concerns me. I no longer care about the petty things man has made. I feel no affinity for the commerce and technology that built the enormous towers of this city. My narrow mind has been wedged open, and though the journey may be painful, I must see it through.

  In the end, it is knowledge that I seek.

  Victor closed his notebook. He took the jar of white berries and shook two into his open hand. The small orbs rolled in his palm, innocent, inviting. He ate them both.

  Henry discovered the body. The funeral followed soon after. Victor's parents grieved heavily for their only child. To their deathbeds, they cursed the old man who lured their son into the trade. Inventory was auctioned off, the storefront leased to another business, and people told one another about the tragedy of Victor the Herbalist.

  For Victor, there was no tragedy. He found exactly what he sought. Though he was never be able to share his final revelation, he did not die unhappy. His connection with Nature, with all the splendid living things he adored, finished exactly as he knew it should. And after his tomb was sealed in Tuckahoe Marble, the most beautiful and aromatic of all flowers blossomed just for him.

  Just Words

  The story of:

  Gideon, the Writer

  David Schechter

  For years Gideon was one of the most prolific writers. He had money, women, even influence amongst his peers. With novel after novel his popularity grew and with it grew his fortune.

  Now he sat alone wallowing in his own stench, a candle the only source of light in the room, violently flickering as the wind seeped through the gaps in the window of the small and desolate apartment he now called home. He held his head in his hands. Occasionally opening his eyes to peer through his fingers, only to find that there were still no words on the page in front of him.

  Exiled by his family for his debauchery, exiled by his peers by a false claim of plagiarism. Of course he fought the claims and proved his innocence, but learned the hard way, innocent before proven guilty only applies in eyes of the law. In the court of public opinion he was guilty, if not for plagiarism then for being a drunken arse that didn't deserve what he had. People threatened to boycott his next book but they never got the chance. The next book never came. The inspiration to write had passed, the will to live gone.

  He was content with his own company for a time, breaking up the monotony with the occasional whore. The bottle had been Gideon’s only sanctuary during these times. Now it was his grave. He sobered up enough to realize the cesspool his life had become. He searched in his mind for some poetic line of literary genius to describe his situation. Oh how the mighty have fallen came to mind, but it was too cliché, even for these times. He thought and thought but it never came. He had lost his touch. Only now, after losing it all, did he realize he had once achieved everything he ever wanted.

  Bah! He sneered at this thought. He hated irony, hated storybook ideas and the lessons of history. Long had he spent telling those stories of lessons learned and repeating the mistakes of old. More so, he hated that he had somehow ignored the lessons he had preached in his own fiction. Now he was more like one of the ill-fated characters in his horror novels then Caesar or Hercules, the conquerors and heroes that had inspired him as a child.

  He still had money left, he could just move away from the city and waste away on the beach day after day, but this thought didn't make Gideon happy. In fact, it made him angrier then the idea of not being able to write. He had no love or passion to draw inspiration from anymore. All he had was a bottle and enough spite to get him drunk on his own anger for eternity. His a
partment was in shambles. He could have afforded better but he had sold most of his belongings the weeks prior when he had woken from what felt like a ten year bender. He had been sober for nearly three weeks and gotten rid of nearly everything from his former life with the exception of an old rusty typewriter, on which he wrote on for the first few years of his illustrious career.

  Gideon had never been nostalgic but the typewriter had a whimsical charm to it, as if the words he wrote on that typewriter were better, somehow more magical and intriguing then the words he wrote elsewhere; a silly notion, especially for a grump like Gideon. Yet, this one typewriter had always stood out in his mind as if it was a part of him, as if it helped him create the success he had enjoyed early in his career. Now it was rusted and worthless, just like Gideon himself. Somewhere in what was left of his heart Gideon new if he was to truly start over, he would need it to succeed.

  The idea was simple; he would begin anew with nothing but this typewriter and write his way back to the top, just as he had so many years ago. Three weeks had gone by and Gideon had nothing to show for his newfound lifestyle. Intent and focused, he cleaned and polished the machine day by day. The work gave him purpose that he had not felt in years. After days of work typewriter became functional again, and Gideon hoped he was too.

  So Gideon sat, his head down, his eyes closed as the empty pages taunted him, the bottle desperately whispering in his ear. His rage manifested as he threw an empty glass at the dreary stained wall. Watching the shards fall to the floor Gideon came to a realization. He was wrong.

  Gideon believed his lack of passion and love had led to the decline in his inspiration to write. Breaking the glass was the exact kind of emotion he needed. His anger and frustration were passions of their own. His burning hate, the most twisted kind of love. If he could somehow capture his spite, his anger, he would be able to write one last story; how the people he trusted ruined his life and the horrible things he wished upon them.

  He started to write. One word followed the other. Line after line, page after page. He stopped after five pages ripped the document from the typewriter and destroyed it. It wasn't right. He wasn't capturing what he wanted to say, his true hate, his frustration. It wasn’t there. Gideon took a moment to reflect on this. Then he decided it would be best to start at the beginning.

  Paradigm Publishing, this is where it all began, and eventually where it ended. Good Riddance I say. At first they were a collection of charming and motivated individuals with open minds. When I came to them as a young writer trying to get my first novel published they treated me like family. My first submission was a novel that was close to my heart called “The Lone Star Kid”. It was about the last cowboy in a post-apocalyptic future. It was fairly standard stuff.

  Although they didn't accept my submission they still brought me in and gave me the tools I needed to grow as a writer. A year later they published my second attempt, a novel titled “From the Deep”, my own take on the Loch Ness Monster with some modern horror elements. Both written on the same typewriter I’m using now. It’s truly the only thing that never disappointed me.

  From there we took off. The publishing company continued to grow and with it so did my popularity. More and more writers began to come and before long we were some sort of unstoppable force taking the literary world by storm. We didn’t see eye to eye on all my works but my relationship with the company allowed me to get my way most of the time and when I didn't, I figured it was all fair. They had given me a chance after all, when no one else would. As we all know good things do end and eventually the company got too big for me. It became more about money and image and less about the quality of the stories that we were producing. So I decided to take my work elsewhere. We left on peaceful terms, they understood my position. Our goals were no longer aligned.

  My first story at the new publisher was a rewrite of “The Lone Star Kid”. I figured with my increased experience it was time to touch up my first story which contained, to this day, my favorite characters I had ever created. At the same time Johnny Davis, a chief rival of mine in the science fiction realm, came out with his own novel. It was nearly identical to mine with the exception of details such as names and places. At first I thought it was a mistake, how could a company I had such a close relationship with betray me like that? I knew I had left some work there, and that it was in my file but for them to give it to another writer after I left? They couldn’t, we were family. The problem was I didn't understand what I thought the term “family” meant and what the people at Paradigm thought it meant was just a little bit different. So like any good family they accused me of plagiarism, when in fact it was I who should have been accusing them. People I trusted and called my friends stabbed me in the back. If I could go back, if I could change one thing, I would want to show them the same love they gave me. After all we are family and leaving your family alone, bankrupt and ashamed is the best way to say how much you care. My blood boils to this day when I think about it. Perhaps one day I will get to show them the same love they showed me. Wouldn’t that be delightful?

  Gideon leaned back in his chair. It was rough but it got the point across. He knew if he decided to edit it later he could make it smoother and perhaps more intelligent. Maybe less ranting, but what was the point of that if he was to capture his raw hate? He decided one was enough for this evening; he would address those issues in the morning.

  Gideon woke to find an empty bottle next to the typewriter and his letter to the publisher still in it. As he did everyone morning, Gideon put a pot of coffee on and proceeded to open his front door to find the paper at his feet. He did a double take as he dropped the paper on the kitchen table. The headline read, “Long time Sci Fi Publisher Paradigm Closes”. Grabbing his cup of coffee he sat down and began reading the article with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. Paradigm filed for bankruptcy after a series of lawsuits, his included, had put them in a tight spot. The writers they had on board weren't producing work fast enough and it wasn't selling.

  Gideon’s smile stretched from ear to ear. Poetic justice? Joy washed over him as his smile stretched from ear to ear. Gideon feared that if he dwelled on this for too long he might become nostalgic towards Paradigm or even sympathetic. So with a spring in his step he went about his usually shenanigans, content with the fact that an enemy of his had fallen.

  As night fell Gideon returned from a day of drinking. Normally he would pour himself a nightcap and pass out but the typewriter called to him. He could feel its pull even at the bar earlier in the evening. Writing the previous night had opened up the floodgates. Everything that he loved about writing began to creep back into his heart. He knew what to write, despite having a wonderful day of doing nothing Gideon found it easy to draw on his hate and his spite. This time he focused them on Johnny Davis, the man who took credit for his masterpiece, “The Lone Star Kid.”

  Oh Johnny, I loved your first book. I even loved your second and third books. Your writing was a source of motivation not just because you were a rival but because I thought you told a good story. Joke’s on me though, I guess those probably weren't your own stories either. I’m embarrassed that I once said “I’d like to work on a project with that guy” after reading your second novel. Shows what I know. I’m a hack, a fraud. Washed up, with nothing left in the tank. That’s what they said about me when they accused me. You’re probably a nice guy who meant well, I’m sure. It’s not like you meant to steal a piece of my heart, of my soul. I know, I know, that sounds dramatic, but how would you feel if you spent your whole life trying to tell one awesome story that you yourself as a child would love, only to find out that someone else found a copy of that story and published it as their own. You might say “Aw, shucks. Oh well, at least it was a nice guy who got to write it!” because that’s what nice thieves such as yourself say while you reaped the benefits and watched me rot. Me, I’m a little different. I would want to make whoever stole that story pay in blood. I think that’s understandable.
Fortunately for you Johnny I will do no such thing. Besides if I was going to do that I would have done it a long time ago. No, now I know there are things that are worse than death. I hope when I’m gone they will teach young writers about the scoundrel you really are; that the students burn what’s left of your books. That every essence of you and your work is regarded for what it really is. Dog feces. Then when you lose everything you ever loved, everyone you ever cared about, after you feel the pain I have gone through to go through and felt it a thousand times over you will probably end it yourself. Fitting end for a coward and a thief. If I’m lucky enough I’ll still be around to bask in your failure.

  Pausing, his fingers hovering over the typewriter as if he expected to write more. He hated Johnny but to wish for him to off himself was a little too far. Gideon was also drunk and it was late which made his brutal confession satisfactory for now. He could soften it up in the morning, its not like he had anything better to do anyway. So Gideon headed to bed without a care in the world and for the first time in ages, with a smile.

  The next morning Gideon awoke to a hang over the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since his youth. The sun was already piercing through the windows. It must have been close to noon. Gideon meandered around his apartment for nearly an hour in his less then sober state. When he couldn’t find any more alcohol he decide he had no choice but to dress himself and brave the day.

  The sun was bright as he walked down the crowded streets with haste. Normally Gideon hated the fuss and commotion that occurred on a Saturday. People didn't have to work so they were out and about, and if there was one thing Gideon hated, it was people. Today was different; despite his atrocious hangover there was a tugging in the back of his mind. Something that pulled him forward with purpose. Purpose he had not felt in a long time. And for the second day in a row, that sense of purpose put an extra spring in his step. Maybe it was sun that was making him smile this beautiful afternoon, more likely the booze still in his system, or maybe, just maybe, his harmless confessions of hate had led to something more positive then he intended. A doctor once told him that emotional expression was good for the soul. In any case, this Saturday had the makings of one to remember.