Charlie stood near the plum tree singing the spell.
‘Are you singing to the tree, Mr Slayer?’ Mary shouted out the door after hearing him.
‘Yes, ma’am. It’s part of the tradition. Know it seems mighty odd, but trust me, all will be well again,’ Charlie replied, hoping that she wouldn’t come out and realise that her daughter was frozen on the spot.
The girl and the dog were visible in the garden but their souls were traveling within a time tunnel. He hoped that if he took them back to the event before the change of their bodies, then when they came back, they might be the right way around.
He sprinkled in a little mischief so that Max would become the family dog, albeit a poodle.
At last the spell was over and the frozen bodies moved. Fingers crossed that all was well.
‘Are you having dinner with us, Amanda?’ Mary shouted again through the door, as she was setting the table. ‘Make sure you feed Maximus first; that dog might only be a poodle but he eats like a wolf.’
Amanda smiled at Mr Slayer. Maximus, the little black male poodle, barked — well, yapped at him. He clicked his fingers and promptly disappeared, along with any memories Amanda might have.
Maximus could keep his memories, seeing as how he couldn’t tell anyone in doggy language. Anyway, someone had to keep an eye on that plum tree. All’s well that ends well.
Softspoken in person, lethal with a pen, Daniel Fogg wrote stories that grabbed readers and shocked them. If the reader wasn’t shocked, Dan wasn’t happy. Some writers have the gift of letting loose in their writing, telling a story, but having a backstory that captivates as well. Dan had that gift. People tend to either love his writing or hate it, and Dan was okay with that.
Daniel began his writing career at a very young age with a mystery novel that he himself described as “incredibly bad.” Then he moved to the fantasy genre and created worlds and civilizations from nothing, and tasted the power a pen can wield.
For years he worked on a fantasy novel, occasionally writing a short story or two. At the age of sixteen he dropped out of high school, plagued by unexplained attacks of anxiety. Two years later he enrolled in college, and there he discovered the screenplay.
He was eventually accepted to New York University’s dramatic writing program, a program that accepts only fifty students a year. His output over just a few years’ time was prodigious: screenplays, television pilots, several spec scripts, and one full-length stageplay, in addition to founding a company called Agony Productions with five other screenwriters, serving as Artistic Director.
Before Daniel could truly fulfill the tremendous potential he showed, his life was cut short by an automobile accident at the age of 21.
Despite this, thanks to his editor, Deborah Carney, his work continues to live. Nature’s Call is a finely wrought screenplay that will keep you wondering until the very end.
NATURE’S CALL
Daniel Fogg
The drip, drip, drip of a faucet; orange juice splashing in a glass. Rain pounding against a window, against the pavement, against the porch. A wooden frame filled with glass, a window pane without a wall, water running down it from battery-powered jets. INT. FRANKLIN FOYER — NIGHT — an intruder is hiding, caught by a father who got up in the night for a drink of juice, hiding next to a bookcase and staring at a window pane without a wall. INT. FRANKLIN KITCHEN — NIGHT — that man is drinking orange juice. His wife comes in. The intruder is spotted, and both are attacked.
Cut to INT. JARED’S BEDROOM — NIGHT — Jared Franklin’s friend, Dustin, has to take a leak.
You can’t ignore nature’s call. It’ll eat away at you until you eventually give in. But — INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY — NIGHT — Dustin will wish he could. He’ll hear a noise, a sound of footsteps, and someone running out a door. He’ll hear a car alarm and screeching tires, the sounds of an intruder fleeing. And he’ll be frozen at the top of a staircase, wondering what he should do, how he should act, why someone left in such a hurry. And then a squeal of rubber and shriek of metal, down at the end of the street, and Dustin will be knocked out of his paralysis and slowly start to make his way downstairs.
INT. FRANKLIN FOYER — NIGHT — there are footprints on the wood; footprints made of blood. Dustin Severn is twelve years old. It’s four in the morning. He’s dressed in the clothes he sleeps in — jogging pants, a t-shirt. Someone in the house is hurt, and he’s the only one there to help. The foyer is empty, save for the footprints. The living room is empty and dark. The kitchen looms in front of him, its sliding pocket door half-closed, light filtering out from within. He steps up to it, and slides the door open.
INT. FRANKLIN KITCHEN — NIGHT. Blood. Lots of it. On the floor, a pool of it, snaking its way toward him, snaking its way toward his foot. A foot that’s bare, naked, exposed. A husband and wife lay on the floor, bleeding; the husband unconscious, the wife half so. There’s a broken picture frame with shards of glass stuck inside and around it. There’s blood on the frame, on the wood; blood from where it hit Mr. Franklin’s head.
Dustin doesn’t comprehend at first; he can’t. These are not things children should have to see. But as the blood snakes toward him across the white linoleum, engulfing the pattern of blue diamonds in its path, it hits him. He backs away. He doubles over but doesn’t vomit. Because now is not the time to vomit. Now is the time to act.
A husband and wife lay on the floor, bleeding; the husband unconscious, the wife half so. These are the parents of his friend Jared, who’s sleeping peacefully upstairs, and they’re bleeding; they’re dying. And Dustin can help them. He swallows his fear and goes to the dying man’s side.
First things first; he has to stop the bleeding. You always stop the bleeding. Pressure on the wound, try to stop the bleeding, try to stop the bleeding so people won’t die. Mr. Franklin is bleeding from the head; Dustin pulls off his shirt and presses it against the wound firmly. A circle of blood starts to seep through, growing outward, but Dustin does his best to ignore it. His hands are moving up and down, up and down, up and down ever so slightly in time with Mr. Franklin’s breathing. It’s almost calming, to know he’s breathing, to feel the movement of his head. And then Mrs. Franklin moans.
He looks at her, at her battered face. The intruder must have hit her in the face with the picture frame, and it shattered, cutting her and making her bleed. And then he sees her stomach. It’s bleeding heavily as it moves up and down, and protruding from it, a large shard of glass that the intruder must have grabbed and stabbed her with to put her down.
These are not things children should have to see. These are not decisions children should have to make. He looks around; at Mr. Franklin, at the frame. At the blood pooling across the floor, at the table, at the refrigerator, at a counter untouched by blood. At a phone which beckons him, begging him to call for help. At Mrs. Franklin, moaning and bleeding from the stomach. At a roll of paper towels next to the phone. These are not decisions children should have to make. But he’s seen movies, he’s watched television; Dustin knows how things like this work. And nobody dies while someone is trying to help them.
He gets the paper towels and unrolls a long strip, presses them against Mrs. Franklin’s stomach. They soak through quickly; much too quickly. He unrolls more and presses them on top of the first. It works better. He gets Mrs. Franklin to hold them by herself and goes back to Mr. Franklin’s side.
This is really a two-person job. He can’t call for 911, he won’t call 911, because they’d make him stay on the line and he wouldn’t be able to help. Here he could help, he could do what he could, and nobody dies while someone is trying to help them. But it really is a two-person job, and Jared is sleeping upstairs.
These are not things children should have to see. These are not decisions children should have to make. And nobody dies while someone is trying to help them. No, he has to do this himself; he can’t let Jared see his fallen parents. He takes comfort in the up and down, up and down, up and down movement of
his hands pressed against Mr. Franklin’s head… and then he hears sirens in the distance.
His eyes go wide. They’re coming to help. He didn’t even call and they’re coming to help! He knew it. He knew it! Nobody dies while someone is trying to help them. And then the sirens pass by, off to the car accident down the street. The intruder, in his stolen car. The sirens go off to help the intruder as his victims lay dying in a kitchen, their own blood pooling around them.
And then he hears footsteps coming down the stairs. Jared, coming down the stairs. And he panics. These are not things children should have to see. These are not decisions children should have to make. He looks at Mrs. Franklin. Mr. Franklin. Nobody dies while someone is trying to help them. The footsteps stop. Dustin looks at the shattered picture frame, at the blood, at the door standing open. At his friend in the foyer at the foot of the stairs, staring at footprints made of blood.
Dustin breathes and heads into the foyer, closing the door behind him.
INT. FRANKLIN FOYER — NIGHT. Jared turns and sees his friend. Dustin’s face is tired and pained. His hands are covered in blood. Jared freaks out and runs for the kitchen, but Dustin stops him and tries to calm him down; tells him his parents are hurt. Tells him they may be dying. Tells him to go to the sirens down the street and tell them to come back and help. Jared leaves. Dustin goes back into the kitchen.
INT. FRANKLIN FOYER — NIGHT — Dustin goes back to Mr. Franklin’s side. He presses his shirt against a bloodied head. He looks at Mrs. Franklin. She seems to be breathing less steadily. He grits his teeth, and notices that his hands aren’t moving.
He looks at Mr. Franklin’s chest. It’s not moving either. He’s stopped breathing completely. These are not things children should have to see. But nobody dies when someone is trying to help them.
Dustin breathes and tries not to cry. Health class: CPR, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Not breathing, has pulse? Call EMS. He checks for a pulse. Bites his lip. Breathes deeply. Closes his mouth around Mr. Franklin’s, exhales — and feels the air against his cheek.
Pinch the nose — you have to pinch the nose. He does. Tries again. Mr. Franklin’s chest rises and falls. Dustin smiles. Breathes into him again, and again, and again and again and again. He starts to get dizzy; no air for himself. Count, count! He has to count. 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… breathe. 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… breathe! Better. He gets into a rhythm, and then he hears a little splash.
He closes his eyes, looks up slowly. Mrs. Franklin’s hand splashed limply into the blood. Dustin whines. Looks at her chest. Nothing. She’s not breathing either. He looks out toward the door, toward the sirens, toward the help that hasn’t come. These are not decisions children should have to make. Nobody dies while someone is trying to help them. But to help them both he’ll have to get into the blood.
Slowly he steps over Mr. Franklin’s head. Closes his eyes as he steps in the blood. Kneels in the blood. A tear falls and splashes gruesomely in the blood. He bends down and pinches Mrs. Franklin’s nose. Breathes. Turns to Mr. Franklin. Breathes. Turns to Mrs. Franklin. Breathes. Turns to Mr. Franklin. Breathes. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth breathing for three. Not enough air, not enough strength, cramps forming in his knees and thighs. Squatting and turning, back and forth, back and forth, breathing for three. Light headed, tired, weak. Back and forth, breathing for three, but doing it, doing it, doing what he has to do. Because nobody dies while someone is trying to help them.
And then a door, so far in the distance. And feet against wood, echoing toward him. And men in the room, in blue uniforms, with red boxes. And Jared… Where’s Jared? Don’t let him see. These are not things children should have to see. Dustin gets to his feet and mumbles that they’re not breathing. Gets to the foyer, to Jared, to his friend. Tells him that everything will be fine.
Because nobody dies while someone is trying to help them.
Carla Sarett is a Ph.D. who has worked in academia, film, TV and market research — and in 2010, added fiction writing to the mix. To date, her short fiction has been published in over 25 magazines, including Crack the Spine, The Medulla Review, Loch Raven Review and The Linnet's Wing. A memoir of her grandfather appears in Blue Lyra. Carla's short story collections include “Nine Romantic Stories” and “Crazy Lovebirds: Five Super-Short Stories.” She is at work on a comic novella based on the character introduced in "Career Girl" (published in the romantic comedy anthology, Love Hurts!) and "Skinny Girl" (published in Red Fez.)
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
Carla Sarett
“It’s gorgeous,” said Eloise Blackstone, sliding her hand up the banister. “And the skylight’s fantastic.”
“The light’s wonderful,” Kay Ford agreed, not wanting to seem over-eager. “I’ll miss being alone in the mornings, but c’est la vie, and it’s just temporary.”
How temporary was a matter of debate; two mortgage payments in arrears, out of work for months now with no prospects, or any that Kay wanted to consider. There had been a stint at the local Ann Taylor, but even that, which at the time had seemed a letdown, an unforeseen humiliation — even that was gone. And her savings, which had seemed adequate, had evaporated in mortgage payments and endless rounds of home improvements.
Eloise stood in the master bedroom. “I guess this is yours,” she said, not convinced.
“Ah, yes, and this will be yours,” Kay said, nervously pointing to a room down the hall — not as large, and not with the bathroom and closets attached.
“They’re both nice,” Eloise said. “Let’s go downstairs, and talk details.”
At the word details, Kay skipped down the stairs. She could keep her house; she could keep her furniture and her life. Besides — and this was no minor point — young Eloise Blackstone, with her designer suit and her short chic haircut, was decorative. Kay’s friends might consider Eloise’s presence to be social rather than what it was. And Eloise appeared quiet and well-behaved — she would not soil rugs or put fingerprints on the polished tables. She might even help with the cleaning, although that seemed less likely given her youth and carefully-groomed manicure.
Eloise took out her checkbook and laid it between them. “First things first — I have my own furniture, so we need to figure that out.”
“Of course, no problem,” said Kay. Eloise seemed too young to own much of value.
“The stuff in the bedroom… we could put it in your basement, maybe? What were you planning? It’s not my style, and I’d like at least my own room to reflect my personal style. I mean, a lot of this is… well, it’s not me,” Eloise said as though her perceptions were shared by the two women.
“I can hire a handyman, and maybe by this weekend, even, it will be, um, in the basement — but, you know, I do use the basement as an office, just as an FYI. I do work.” Kay laughed raucously when she said the word “work,” since Eloise must sense, at this point, how flimsy the word was.
Her laughter appeared to float above Eloise. “I have other things as well, and that’s a bit of a problem with all your stuff. I mean, I’m paying half…”
Kay struggled to find words. “Well, it’s not really half, since I pay taxes and insurance and everything else.”
“Well, we’ll figure it out,” agreed Eloise pleasantly. She wrote a check, not glancing at her register — so she probably had thousands and thousands in her checking account alone, not even dipping into savings. “Two months in advance, that’s right, no?”
Two months equaled one mortgage payment. She saw that Eloise had also included the first month as well, so it was really three. Now, all she had to figure out was how to get the rest. She had exhausted all possible sources — her sister, her friends, even her not-so-close friends, not including the bank.
“So, I’ll expect you this weekend?” asked Kay. “I can get a handyman here by tomorrow.”
Eloise jumped in. “I’ll get someone today. You don’t have pay for it, when it’s my stuff that we’re moving in, and he can take care of y
ours while he’s at it, and why waste money?”
An hour later, a crew arrived — first, Kay’s furniture was dumped unceremoniously into her office/basement, and then Eloise’s antiques moved in.
Afterwards, the men asked, “What about the rest?”
Eloise shrugged, “The basement. That’s okay, isn’t it?” She smiled at Kay helplessly.
Kay said, “Fine, but I use that as an office.”
“You know I need an assistant — you might be the right person, if you’re amenable, I mean, it’s not full time.”
“Well, if it’s not full time,” agreed Kay. “And it’s only temporary.”
“Yes, just for a while, I could pay, oh, maybe let’s say, ten hours at twenty-five, say, two fifty a week, so a thousand a month? But you wouldn’t have to count hours.”
A thousand a month, plus Eloise’s other half — Kay was home free, or almost. “It’s a deal,” Kay said. “I’m very well organized.”
“Oh, I can see that,” said Eloise Blackstone. “I could see that right away.”
That evening, Kay prepared dinner. “I bought extra for you,” she said to Eloise. “There aren’t any restaurants close by, and I thought you’d like a nice dinner.”
A week went by. Kay and Eloise ate dinner together, and began having breakfast together as well.
“Let me know what the food’s costing — I’ll pay for all of it, since you’re doing the cooking,” Eloise said, not even mentioning the cleaning since it was now assumed that Kay did all of that as part of her personal assistant duties. “And could you pick up my dry cleaning?”
“Sure,” said Kay cheerfully, knowing the mortgage and the food bills were taken care of.
The next week, Eloise came home for dinner with a man. He was about Eloise’s age, thirty-something, clean-cut and dressed corporate-style.
“Nice,” he said, admiring the house.
13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series) Page 8