by Create50
Upstairs, a five-foot single bed is discovered; empty but warm.
Four strides to reach the top of the staircase.
Three bounds to the bottom.
Two feet from the kitchen.
One small breath. Held.
Hands
By Phil Town
Make no mistake: I do love my husband, despite everything. I’ve loved him ever since I met him at a college party 26 years ago. The first thing that attracted me to him were his hands. I’ve always liked an elegant hand, and his were – and are – especially so, with their long, slender fingers, neatly trimmed nails, just the right amount of hair, and skin that tans to a golden brown in summer.
At the party, he was smoking, holding the cigarette lightly between those beautiful fingers; that’s when I first saw him and fell in love. Often physical attraction is trumped by an unappealing personality, but this wasn’t the case with Eric. I made some awkward opening gambit to get speaking to him and he turned out to be as charming and elegant a person as his hands first suggested. Apparently I impressed him too, because by the following weekend we were going out. We’ve remained a couple to this very day.
Those hands. In our first conversation I discovered the thing that made them not just beautiful but perfect: he was studying music, his instrument the piano. Later on (but not that evening – Eric was too much of a gentleman for that) he would take me to his flat and play for me, letting me watch those objects of my desire skip, slide and flutter across the keyboard, caressing the keys like I wanted them to caress my body. Afterwards, they would.
It was an idyllic time. We stopped partying to be alone with each other as much as possible, but it was a sensible passion; we both buckled down, studying hard. Our parents were putting us through university and we were responsible enough to appreciate that. We wanted to live up to their expectations, and ours. So we graduated – Eric with flying colours – and set about organising our post-university lives.
Eric is a gifted musician, while I, let’s say, am merely a competent writer. If we wanted a comfortable future, we’d be depending on him, and so it turned out. He won an important competition, getting work almost immediately with orchestras up and down the country, who knew talent when they saw it.
His success meant touring; needs must, and he was going to be the breadwinner, at least for the time being. So for spells we lived apart; I stayed at home, plugging away at my writing – persistent, dogged, uninspired. For company I had my best friend Nicky, who I’d known from university. She’s a lawyer and doing quite well for herself. Sometimes we’d go out on our own, sometimes with her brother, Jonathan, when he was in town; he’s a pilot. Occasionally we’d find ourselves alone momentarily, Jonathan and I, and it was clear that he was interested in me.
But the feeling wasn’t reciprocated – I was still very much in love with Eric, and drank my fill of him on his returns. It’s only recently, however, that I came to realise the passion was waning a little each time – from his side, that is.
Music is Eric’s first love, always has been. He once told me that if he couldn’t play the piano for any reason, he wouldn’t feel complete and would go mad. I could understand that sentiment. He was my music, I told him, and I wouldn’t feel complete and would go mad if I couldn’t have him. But as I say, I understood that music held centre stage for him, and I didn’t mind as long as I was first violin. It turned out, though, that I wasn’t.
You know those Hollywood films where the wife is going through her husband’s clothes before washing them and finds an incriminating receipt, or business card, or book of matches? I always thought those situations were a little contrived, but one afternoon I was the wife going through my husband’s clothes and finding some incriminating evidence, in this case a short note scribbled on a piece of hotel stationery: Thank you, Ric – ‘IT’ was divine. See you next w/e. C x
I don’t know what made me angriest: the use of ‘Ric’ (my pet name for him); the coyness of the ‘IT’; the certainty that this wasn’t their last tryst, and probably wasn’t their first; or the kiss at the end. Or maybe it was all of those things and the awful realisation that the idyll was suddenly over. Whatever, I was absolutely incandescent and threw all of his dirty clothes into the outside bin before retreating upstairs and collapsing on the bed, distraught and broken.
Eric wasn’t touring at the time but luckily he was at practice (or so I’d assumed, though now I wasn’t so sure). Anyway, it meant I had time to compose myself, wash the tear stains from my face and retrieve the clothes from the bin before he got home. It also meant I had time to digest the bombshell and begin to work on a strategy to handle this new reality.
While I busied myself around the house – cooking, tidying, trying unsuccessfully to get down to some writing – I mulled over how to confirm that it wasn’t all a dreadful mistake, perhaps a joke, or a misunderstanding. I didn't want to confront Eric directly with my discovery for fear of the humiliation and the damage it could do to us if I was wrong, so I knew I’d have to be clever.
Another question was who the ‘C’ might be. There were several Cs involved with the orchestra he was with at the moment, but I narrowed it down to two probables: Caroline, an oboist, young and very attractive; or Claire, one of the directors, older, sophisticated and very assured. I’d met them at a party during the current string of performances, and I figured it could be either. It took half a bottle of Chardonnay, but I came up with a simple plan that might give me the answer.
The next day, Eric couldn’t find some sheet music that he needed for the morning rehearsal. I told him that he must have left it at the concert hall, and although he didn’t believe he would be so forgetful, I’d planted a seed of doubt in his mind and he fell for it. Once he’d left for the city, I took the next train there myself, the sheet music in my bag. I’d appear at the concert hall on the pretence of having found it under a cushion on the sofa, and of wanting to make sure he got it.
It was a long shot that I would find him with one of the Cs, but it was a long shot that paid off. In the hall, the orchestra was tuning up, and there was Caroline in the first row of the woodwind section, chatting to a colleague. Eric was nowhere to be seen so I came out of the hall and went upstairs to the offices. I paused outside a door marked ‘Administration’; there was laughter coming from inside, and one of the people was Eric – I’d know his laugh anywhere.
I moved a little down the corridor and found a shadow from which I could watch the door. A few minutes later, Eric came out and hurried away towards the hall, tidying his tousled hair with those beautiful fingers. I gritted my teeth and lingered, wanting confirmation but at the same time dreading it. When Claire came out, she was rearranging her dress and giggling to herself. I stayed in the shadows for a good while, trying to come to terms with it all and making serious inroads into a pack of tissues. I finally composed myself and slipped out of the concert hall without being seen.
As soon as I got home I phoned Nicky; I needed a shoulder to cry on, and I needed to get drunk. I was disappointed when she turned up at the pub with Jonathan in tow; Nicky can be a little insensitive at times and hadn’t caught on to my misery. I wasn’t able to unload on Nicky, not with Jonathan there, but after some time and a few vodkas, I began to grow calmer. The conversation got round to Jonathan’s work, and very interesting it was. Loosened by the alcohol, he told us of all the women he had in the various cities he flew to – from airline staff, to waitresses, to hotel chamber-maids – in mainly Middle-Eastern countries. They were paid quite badly, he said, and were always keen for a little extra money. I could tell that Nicky was a little shocked, and I must admit that I was, too.
At one point, Nicky excused herself and I was left alone with Jonathan. As always happened, he tried to come on to me, and this time I think he was a little surprised when I let him. His hand was on my inner thigh and moving upwards when Nicky returned; she didn’t see it, and we didn’t tell her. When we parted for the night, I made it clear
to Jonathan, without Nicky hearing, that I wanted to see him the next day, and he seemed more than keen.
I was quite impressed with myself, to tell you the truth; perhaps I should have gone in for acting instead of writing. The fact is that as Jonathan was speaking about his work, a plan was beginning to hatch in my inebriated mind. All it needed was for me to seduce him, and from his attitude towards me, as well as what he’d been saying about his apparently insatiable appetite for sex, this wouldn’t prove too difficult, I thought.
In the light of the following day, I found that my plan actually made sense and that the sober me wasn’t recoiling from it. I waited for Eric to go off to practice and then phoned Jonathan. We met at a cheapish hotel in town. I followed through with the act but I must say that I enjoyed it. Afterwards, as I lay next to him, our bodies still glowing, I intimated that what I’d just given him – and I’d been very good, even if I say so myself – was nothing compared to what he could expect in the future.
Then I brought our conversation back round to his work, and to the women he had in the various cities, and to the Russian chamber-maids he’d bragged about the day before. I told him what I wanted him to get one of the maids to do. To my surprise, he agreed immediately, when I’d half expected to have to persuade him with some more of me.
I tried to keep things at home as normal as possible, and I think I was successful in concealing my knowledge of Eric’s cheating. In the days running up to his next tour, I showered him with love and affection, and made a special point of enjoying his hands and fingers. And then he was gone and I phoned Jonathan to set things in motion. I was alone in the house, musing over events, wondering if I’d gone too far with my plan. But the die was cast.
Eric and I Skyped on the first two evenings and I told him how much I missed him, biting my tongue because I knew that Claire would be out there with the orchestra. Yesterday I got a desperate phone call from him: he’s in prison. They’re accusing him of stealing a Rolex watch from another guest at his hotel. Apparently the watch was reported missing, there was an anonymous tip-off, and it was found in his room. Sobbing over the phone, he protested his innocence, but he certainly didn’t need to convince me of that.
He told me that the Consulate officials had been to see him; they would be doing everything they could to have him freed, but he must understand they couldn’t promise anything. I’m not sure if they’ll manage it or not, but either way, the mere prospect of the punishment will be enough for Eric, I think, as it is for me: under Sharia law, the authorities there can be horribly tough on crimes like theft.
The Stink Monster
By Fredrick Ochami
Alcohol, Sam decided, was something he would never touch again. Each step he made towards his room threatened to topple him, with only the wall keeping him on his feet.
Good thing his mother wasn’t home; she always went to work at night, though he didn’t believe her lies about working the night shift at a power plant. Not with the makeup he once saw her stash into her purse. But this wasn’t the time to think of that. For now, all he wanted was to get in his bed. That last tequila had seriously messed him up, making him puke all over someone – he’d forgotten who. The worst thing was, he had school tomorrow.
His room was just within reach. Sam advanced a step. Almost there, he thought. He reached out to the door, turned the knob. Halfway done, he thought. He breathed in deeply, but it turned into a yawn. Sam stepped into the room and shut the door.
His eyes had already adjusted to the dark, but he welcomed the moonlight filtering through the open window just the same. He saw the mess he had promised to clean up tonight – jumbles of clothes strewn all over, misplaced video games, and a half-eaten sandwich which might or might not have something crawling in it. He’d clean those tomorrow.
Now, if only the room would stop spinning.
Sam felt intestinal gas work its way up his throat, and he let it out with a belch that would astound even his closest and most perverted friends. Immediately after, his stomach rumbled and he felt something else work its way up his throat. His room didn’t have a toilet. Damn! He wasn’t going to reach the toilet in his current condition. He swivelled his head, looking for a container that would hold his vomit.
There! Sam saw his empty bowl, alongside the half-eaten sandwich.
He took one step towards it, and with no regard whatsoever, out came the puke. Watery brown vomit garnished with bits of pizza sprayed all over his shirt, jeans and onto the carpet. Sam’s stomach clenched as it evicted all the unwanted alcohol that was filling it for no good reason, though the pizza was a sad casualty. For a moment that lasted an eternity, his entire existence was that uncontrollable spasm of vomiting.
The torrent finally stopped. Sam realized he was on all fours, hands smeared in puke. Then the smell hit him. Christ, what had he been drinking? He wiped the puke from his mouth with his forearm. A revolting cocktail of mucus and vomit was oozing down his nostrils. He blew his nose into the carpet.
Sam looked at the mess he had made. Mum’s going to kill me, he thought. This place is supposed to be spotless.
He heaved himself up. It felt like a bodybuilder was sitting on his back. With monumental effort, he got to his feet. Then a wave of dizziness engulfed him. He shut his eyes, and a moment later, felt a dull pain to his temple. He had fallen.
Screw it, Sam thought, and he gave in to the stupor, closing his eyes.
In the darkness and filth of the town’s sewer, a creature stirred. It sensed something… appetizing: an aroma. Distant, but inviting. The creature got up, inhaling deeply. Time to find that sweet scent before it disappeared.
Sam woke up with a groan. His head was still swimming, his throat and mouth were parched, and his stomach was a typhoon.
He almost didn’t hear the lapping sound just beyond his feet. It was fast and urgent, like a starved dog licking a bowl of water. Was it a dog? No, that was ludicrous. A rat? He didn’t think they were that loud, but the way he was feeling, he could be mistaken.
Then the smell hit him. It was like a skunk had squirted its stink onto a dead cat and a man had shit on the cat. Sam gagged.
Covering his mouth – even the smell of dried puke was welcome compared to that unholy stink – he opened his eyes. It was still night. Leaning heavily on his other forearm, he sat up. Sam looked at the cause of the sound and stink, and froze.
There was a… thing… licking his puke. It was shaped like a German Shepherd, but that’s as far as similarities went. It had a number of furrows along its back, each one shaped like a nostril and leading to its own hole within the flesh. It had no fur, and the skin was diseased, covered with bruises and open wounds; countless maggots were hanging onto its stomach – lots of them were dropping – where a piece of intestine was sticking out.
And the head… it was full of ridges, each lined with thin, elongated tongues that systematically licked the vomit from the ground. No mouth, no nose, not even a jaw. Tongues lay where its ears should be. The only thing resembling a facial feature was a single eye on its forehead; but it was gazing aimlessly upwards and was plagued with cysts.
The creature lifted its head, focusing its diseased eye on Sam, its tongues wriggling through the air like gargantuan worms burrowing in earth. For a long moment, they gazed at each other.
Then the creature stepped towards him. It made another step. Another. Its stink grew stronger the closer it got.
Now its tongues were within reach of Sam’s face. He wanted to move, but his limbs were frozen. And the stink easily filtered through his hand, making bile rise up his throat.
The creature studied him. Then it licked his vomit-encrusted hand with a dozen of its tongues. The tingling, slimy sensation revolted Sam more than anything he had ever felt in his life. He wanted to get away; to be as far from this monstrosity as possible. His stomach reacted to the revulsion he felt, and the next moment, he was vomiting, splashing greenish-yellow puke all over the creature.
The crea
ture didn’t seem to mind. If anything, its tongues quickly set to licking whatever vomit they could reach before it oozed to the floor.
Sam had had enough. If he spent any more time next to this… this thing… he would lose his mind. He lifted himself up, and stumbled to the door, head still swimming. Hand on the knob, he pulled open the door.
At that moment, the creature pounced on him. They landed outside the room, the creature’s full weight on Sam’s back and neck. It was heavy; Sam’s breath was crushed out of his lungs as he was pinned down.
Too heavy! He tried to wriggle away, but the creature’s paws dug deeper into his body, keeping him in place.
The pressure was intolerable. His spinal cord cracked and his neck snapped with a loud pop. The creature’s tongues licked his ears. Sam couldn’t feel his arms or legs. But he didn’t have time to register the significance of that. His breathing was becoming increasingly laborious by the second. His vision blurred.
Please don’t let me die, he thought. Please, God…
That was his last thought.
The creature didn’t seem to notice that the teenager was dying. It was savouring his scent; it had been a long time since the creature tasted anything as good as this human. Such a long time.
The human soon stopped breathing, and the creature recognized his death. That was too bad. It had hoped to get more scents out of him. Oh, well. Time to feast.
Its tongues pierced his eardrums, eyes, neck and skull.
He was delicious.
The Nasties
By Troll Dahl
Dorothy Winstanley was the kind of woman who hated dirt and loved to clean. Inside, bleach, sprays and polishes were her best friends. Outside, bug sprays, weed killer and insecticide were her arms.
Her cottage on the edge of the small town of Red Hill was just like those idyllic picture postcards. A white washed stone building with red pan tiles. She lived at the end of Cherry Tree Lane although there wasn’t a cherry tree to be had in the lane.