Twisted Tales

by Edward Grey

  When I approached a large alleyway that led between two large brick buildings, the smell became even more potent. I stopped for a moment and breathed heavily. It was probably the most wonderful flavor of beef I’d ever smelled. It was so unequivocally delicious.

  I turned down the dark alley, nearly tripping on a trashcan. I was so hungry that I began to grunt and didn’t even realize I was doing it until I heard it echo off the nearby wall. It had been only five hours since I’d last eaten.

  Why so hungry?

  The food was within reach, so close now I could taste it. I even inhaled deeply several times just to get a little flavor on my tongue. That’s when I noticed the climate was no longer freezing cold. I felt a little warm and what was even stranger is that the frigid air didn’t burn my lungs.

  Hypothermia?

  No, I would be falling asleep. I was far too awake to be losing consciousness.

  Soon, I came to a door, and behind that door was the intense aroma and subsequent meat I longed to consume. I fell against the door and tried to knock. My arm and hand must’ve gone numb because I was banging rather than simply knocking. I tried to call out for help but nothing more than a chuff and grunt escaped my mouth.

  Harder.Harder.

  I banged the door while I scratched at the wood with my other hand.

  Bang, Bang.

  I slammed my body against it. Eventually, the door gave way, and I fell into the house.

  Inside there was a small family. The father was holding a large axe, and behind him coward his wife and daughter. The small girl seemed afraid, as if I was some kind of monster. I reached for them with the hopes of letting them know I needed so much help. My cry was nothing short of terrifying however, but I guess it didn’t matter, I found food.

  As I used the frame of the doorway to lift myself, the father ran towards me and used the handle of the axe to knock me back. Fortunately, he tripped, and landed on top of me—

  —oh, he smelled so good. It was so fresh.

  I grabbed hold of the man and tried to take a bite. He was quick and much stronger than me so he was able to tear himself free of my grip.

  Food, hungry—

  The man backed up and said something, but I didn’t understand him. It didn’t matter though, my mother always said…

  …said something about food and pets—wait, no, playing with pets? Ugh, I don’t know, just eat damn it!

  I turned my body over and began to crawl towards the man. I thought about getting up, but it was easier to just get to him as soon as possible, I was so damn hungry. When I reached him, he raised the axe and was about to strike me with it, but instead he slipped on the ice and missed.

  Oh my, dinner at last! He no longer had his weapon, and he was unconscious. Probably hit his head.

  Don’t care, food, food, food.

  I crawled on top of him and tore his blue shirt open.

  His skin looked so succulent, so good. It smelled so damn good.

  As I was about to bite into my fresh meal, everything started to feel a little fuzzy. I shook my head, it felt like I’d just taken a few shots of alcohol and was feeling the after affects.

  Then, the sky began to lighten. I looked up, confused for I hadn’t seen light in so long. I’m not sure how long it’d been, but it felt like forever.

  I rolled off the man and stared into the sky. In the background a little girl cried and a woman told her to stay back. Soon, she crept close to her husband and tried to wake him. I continued to watch as the sky turned from black to blue.

  I couldn’t tell how long it was, but the moon soon moved away from the sun and it bathed me in its warmth. Confusion turned to coherent thoughts, which soon help me sit up from the frigid ice I’d been laying on.

  I looked around and the man was still out cold, and the woman’s eyes looked at me with horror, surprise, and shock. I looked at my hands, and remembered very little of what happened. At some point I’d been bitten, and I immediately tore off my jacket and rolled up my sleeve. The bite was there, sure, but it was no longer red, irritated, or infected. It was just a wound.

  I couldn’t say for sure what happened to our world that day, but the ice soon melted and electricity returned. Those that were full zombie had died and never walked again. People—like me—who didn’t have the chance to change completely lived to see another day, though those memories would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Those fifteen days remained a mystery in our history, and even though news broadcasts and scientists and everyone else were trying to sift through it all, I was just glad I was back to normal, albeit haunted by the deep understanding of the darker side of humanity and the true complexity of the universe. [Back to Contents]

  Afterword:

  A Note to the Reader

  I started writing some time ago, and as a matter of fact, in relation to when this book was published, it’s been roughly sixteen years. Each year had different levels of dedication, some intense and others not so much. However, every moment was ripe with passion.

  Most of the stories I’d written were ones that I would love to revisit too, but unfortunately I lost most of them. I did my best to keep them safe, and I did a pretty good job. I kept them in a silver, metal encrusted briefcase that was attached to my wrist by handcuff. The last thing I remember before losing them was a man wearing a clown costume holding a sock filled with tennis balls who has an affinity for calling himself Homey after clobbering you with the make-shift weapon. If you happen to see him, do not engage, but certainly call the police. Perhaps he still has those old stories hidden in a sock drawer back in his circus trailer.

  I mentioned that my writing was always ripe with passion, and I firmly stand by my statement. Without passion, I might have become troubled with negative thoughts that would inevitably lead me to inexorably spend my days and nights worrying if anyone was going to read my books. However, while I was writing for free on my own time, I found that passion is the success that I wanted the most. This was wisdom I learned from one of my favorite authors Dean Koontz.

  This book is the creation of that passion, and was also the most important part of getting over the things naysayers had to squawk about concerning short fiction. In fact, I read so many articles that chastised short story writing that I would be lying if I said I didn’t at some point believe writing short fiction was a waste of my time. However, shorts—aside from garments worn on hot summer days—are reminders that fiction is fiction no matter the size. A well designed character that drives a plot is the best part of any fiction, and if that happens to be in a 400,000-word novel or an 8,000-word short, it is still a work worth writing and reading.

  So, I put this collection together because I love short fiction. Many of these are rewrites of old stories or ideas that I had floating around in my head. For those of you that feel like I cage my thoughts without dutiful care, I assure you that they are free-range. There is plenty of space up there that allows them to walk, dance, spread their arms, and still have enough room left over for a polka contest. Please refrain from calling the National Association for the Rights of Free-Range Thoughts on me.

  Although I said that I had lost most of my old fiction, I did remember a couple of them. “Righteous Killer” is based on an old story I wrote in fifth-grade called “The Dead” wherein a group of teenagers are mad at their parents and run away to a dark forest only to meet a worse fate than being sent to their bedroom without dinner. The original was appealing in its own way, but I had an idea—unshackled and fed only organic foods—about Kevin’s character. He was so unequivocally interesting that I had to write his story, and as I did so, elements from “The Dead” surfaced. Eventually the two came together to weave a wonderful yet terrifying story.

  “Rage” was the product of reading the newspaper and too often finding an article about someone getting away with something because of a technicality. The father’s character was a blast to write and his dissimilarity to Vince was even more interesting that it terri
fied me to know people could be this way to each other. However, I’m surprised by their level of malevolence whether it is for good or bad intentions.

  Some of the stories here-in are pretty dark, and so I had to add some contrast to balance them out. “A Dark Secret”, “Dr. Zombie”, and “City of Demons” were the three I felt could keep things a little comic, although they are a little dark as well.

  Anyway, one of the things besides passion that kept me writing was the support of close friends and family. This support group—the AA counselors for neurotic authors—gave me the ambition to do what I love to do and let nothing stand in my way. They were there to hear my stories, listen during the moments when I felt I would pull out my hair (and sometimes did when I actually had hair), and all the moments between. These are the people that helped me through it all, especially those that I mention in my dedications.

  For this book, I have a sub-dedication to someone that read nearly all of these stories and even some that were not included. Cassi had excellent feedback whenever I needed it, encouragement where I was lacking ambition, and never once complained when I considered setting my paper on fire or wiring explosives to my word-processor. I can never thank her enough for her inalienable dedication, and therefore she deserves to be mentioned. I dream that everyone gets the chance to have someone like that in their lives.

  I hope you have as much fun reading this collection as I had writing it. As for you naysayers that write me with your hogwash about how short stories will be the end of civilization or that the mental consumption of such art is the reason mad-cow disease exists, then I will be sure to place the letter in a special binder that will one day be sent to a good friend of mine who knows Voodoo and let him handle business accordingly. [Back to Contents]

  Shadows of the Mind

  Chapter One

  From her bedroom—even though she shut the door—Grace could hear her parents’ muffled voices as they relentlessly argued. This was a typical evening at the Albright home.

  They generally kept their words to themselves throughout the day, probably to keep Grace out of their fights. During dinner, they would all sit in silence, and talk to each other only when they needed gravy, butter, or some other condiment. Even then, it wasn’t civil. Grace could hear the frustration in their voices, and felt the electric tension building between them.

  After dinner, Grace usually walked to her room, and once she was halfway up the stairs, they would start on each other like ravenous dogs barking incessantly through a chain-link fence.

  She never wanted to go to her room because she knew they would never fight in front of her. She even tried to stay with them several times, but they would inevitably tell her to go to her room to get ready for bed. She didn’t want them to be angry with her, so she went to her room regardless of how she felt about it. Eventually, she just made a habit to retire when dinner concluded.

  As the voices grew more blood thirsty, Grace wished she had a radio or a television in her room. It would make the nights easier to drown out their words and perhaps easier to ignore what was actually happening on the first floor. Instead, she relied on the few books she’d collected over the last couple of years and the imaginary worlds within them.

  She moved from her door and picked a book from her shelf. She didn’t look to see which it was because she only cared that it might help her to escape. Like most nights however, the story probably wouldn’t detract her, and would likely serve as nothing more than a placebo.

  Grace turned toward the middle of the room and stopped when she glanced at her brother’s empty bed. Sitting upon the tussled comforter was a small plush elephant and a heroic action figure. The pillow was still lying on the floor, and Justin’s clothes remained rumpled at the foot of the bed. His treasure chest, as he liked to call it, stood open near his bedside lamp, revealing several other toys that seemed to glisten in the lamp’s golden light.

  She remembered the days they spent together sitting on the floor and playing with those toys. They were a boy’s toys, sure, but she didn’t mind. Every time he laughed or smiled it made every moment she spent with him worth it.

  Tears wetted her eyes, and she looked away. The night was already bristling with emotion because of her parents, and now thoughts of her brother were causing her more pain than she could handle.

  As she walked towards her bed, she kept most of her weight on her left leg. Not long ago, she suffered major damage to her right resulting in a permanent brace and several pins to keep it stable. Though it was sometimes a burden, she’d learned to live with it. She liked that it made her unique, and she only wished that people would see it as such.

  Grace knew people to be dark hearted, especially kids her own age. They would inevitably view her uniqueness as a disability, most of the time as a deformity. She wasn’t sure how she would handle it when the time came to confront these people, but she hoped that her inalienable determination would keep her strong through it.

  Her parents had told her several times to use her crutches, but she refused every time. She knew she was different now, and would be for the rest of her life. However, she wanted to walk among people with as much normality as possible. Sure, walking without aid was sometimes painful, but it was something with which she was willing to cope. She didn’t want anything in her life hindered.

  As she set her book upon her bed, the room flooded with a flash of light. She looked through her window and watched a tree dance in the intermittent wind. A moment later, thin thunder crashed adding natural music to the tree’s sway.

  Though the evening was laden with emotion that might have otherwise torn her away from happiness, just the thought that rain was on its way made her smile. She loved to go outside to dance, play, and let the soft drops tickle her skin as they fell from the sky.

  She gracefully walked to her window and peered at the sky. Sure enough, there were thick clouds hanging from the heavens ready to cast their cleansing water to the land.

  While she studied the magnificent storm, a loud crash arose from the first floor. It sounded similar to the time her mother dropped a pan while making breakfast, but this time it was harder and seemed deliberate. It was almost as if it was thrown against the wall in anger and finally clattered to its resting place upon the floor.

  She held her breath and waited for something else to happen. Her heart choked in her chest because she knew this to be first time anything violent happened during their arguments. Her concern with this new development made her fear that they would become physically violent one day. They’d lost so much, and she didn’t want them to lose each other.

  When the argument persisted without any more audible violence from baking hardware, she turned back to the window. Instantly, five or six successive flashes of light brightened the night’s sky as if her parents’ argument had evoked a change in nature and that the sky now sought to release fury rather than magical wonder.

  She began to count the seconds until the roll of thunder reached her home, and as it did, the power of the boom startled her. The house quaked, and small knickknacks on her shelf shuttered as if they were gripped by a terrible unrelenting fear.

  When the crescendo of the world’s dark symphony ended, she eased the latch open and slipped the window up. She was surprised the cold air only leaked through the window for only moments ago the trees were moving. At some point, the wind had stopped and the night had become eerily silent.

  She looked at the neighboring house and wondered if they could hear any of the words exchanged between her parents. Mister Randal was the art teacher at her school, and his wife was the nurse. Even though she knew they understood their plight over the loss of her brother, she was still embarrassed with the possibility they could hear everything.

  Grace only felt this way to the one neighbor because she took his class last semester and was surely going to see the nurse at least once because of her leg. As for everyone else, she didn’t care if they heard. Over the years, she’d seen her friends�
� parents argue, sometime more enthusiastically than hers, and it was a common tradition with which she’d grown insensitive. She assumed many people had, but whenever she saw the Randal’s, they were sweet as can be to each other.

  Even though the peaceful appearance of the night made it seem as if the rain wouldn’t fall, a soft shower began, and then within seconds it erupted into a raging downpour.

  She studied the water out of pure delight, but soon grew weary of it. Through her study of precipitation in class, she learned that rain was nothing more than a result of a delicate and natural reaction between the sun and the Earth’s bodies of water. The problem was that the water she saw falling from the sky was not clear. It was as blue as the darkest part of the ocean.

  What was also stranger than that was the rain smelled nothing like she remembered. The scent was fresh, sure, but it was also similar to the subtle aroma of melon fruit.

  As she watched the water dye the concrete and surround brushes blue, she wished her father were with her. She loved to ask questions, and her father used to love to answer them. Now she sat befuddled, because she wasn’t sure if this was a rare but normal rain and she had no one to talk to about it.

  While pondering the new and interesting change in the weather, she heard the back door slam shut.

  The tree outside her window was so large that it covered her view of the back door and most of the yard. She saw a figure move away from the house and disappear behind the tree. She thought it might be her father, but she couldn’t tell. Still, her father liked to leave the house after an intense argument to cool off.

  She turned and listened, and she no longer heard the angered voices from downstairs. In fact aside from the rain, the house was so silent that she could hear the soft ticking of the analog clock on her wall.

  Grace carefully walked to her door and opened it. The rest of the house was equally quiet, but she thought she heard someone softly crying too. It was probably her mother. Even though the woman was strong in her accusations and defense, she broke down after each one of their verbal battles.