Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  “We’re all dead,” said the Wolf. “Life is but a pretty part-time delusion.”

  She shot him then, shot Death six times in the chest. She kept pulling the trigger until the chamber was empty. But as you know, dear reader, you can’t kill a voracious black wolf, especially if his name is Oblivion. He absorbed the hits in elegant slow motion, and the six silver bullets became part of him; strengthening him. The pickpocketed pistol cartwheeled to the floor. The girl spun away from the advancing animal and sprinted down the white corridor, flitting like that dead leaf we had seen just minutes before.

  Little Red Riding Hood found her grandmother’s room. “Grandmother!”

  The sick woman looked up, startled. Her eyes were pearls. She was just a fog of breath and bones; blood cells limped in her defeated veins.

  The girl took her grandmother’s hand; it was a cage of cartilage. “I’ve come to save you.”

  “It’s too late for such nonsense,” said the grandmother, like she used to say when the girl was a child and begged for one more game or bedtime story to put in her basket.

  “It’s not too late,” said the girl. “You’re still alive. You can fight the Wolf.”

  “You don’t understand,” said the sick woman. “I desire Oblivion. I’ve had enough living. I don’t want to fight.”

  “I will fight for you,” the girl said.

  "You should mind your own pile of books," said the old woman with paper skin pierced with glinting silver and invisible tubes. "This story has never been about you."

  The Wolf is at the door. He lopes over and jumps up onto her grandmother’s hospital bed, curling up with her. She sighs and embraces him.

  “I’m not ready,” said the girl. “I don’t want to lose you to Oblivion.”

  “You are not losing me, child,” the woman said with her last breath. “I will always be in your basket.”

  5

  The Lucky Sickness

  Note from the author:

  This story is based in the ‘When Tomorrow Calls' world; it's an excerpt I adapted from the book ‘The Sigma Surrogate'.

  Joni clutches her stomach and hurries towards the Cloisters residence. She tries to swallow the bitter-bright lava climbing up her throat, but she’s not going to make it in time.

  Flickers of colour perforate her desperation: grass, petals, stones. The smell of moonflowers and compost. Above her, a cloud that looks like a centaur stretches across the sky. She races past the wrought iron gazebo with its fragrant ivory blooms trailing up the sides. Her smart sneakers crunch over the fine cream gravel of the chip stone path, spraying the small pebbles behind her. No doubt the groundswoman will mutter about it later, but Joni doesn't have time to care. Her shoes register her sudden speed and poor traction and ping a warning to her earbuttons, which she ignores.

  A nut-brown rabbit with shining eyes and nervous whiskers hops across her path, and Joni almost stumbles. She knows she shouldn't be running—too much chance of falling, especially given her curse of eternal clumsiness. Running is Not Allowed here. Falling is Especially Not Allowed.

  An unexpected flash of pink at the bottom of a bush catches her eye, but she can't stop to look. With her eyes off the path in front of her for that split-second, she trips, and her whole body pitches forward.

  No no no no. Her body reels in slow motion. Instinct forces her hands out in front of her, and her ivory dress and palms are shredded by the tiny stones as she skids forward on them, saving the rest of her body from the impact.

  The sound of the sliding gravel and her shocked breathing is loud in her ears. When she comes to a stop, she stands, places her bleeding hands on her stomach, and gives in to the terrible lurch of the Lucky Sickness.

  Her stomach flips and skunky saliva gushes into her mouth. It’s too late. She knows by now that when the spit streams like this—a warm sour pool in her mouth—there’s no point in running any further. The best thing to do is to stop and grab a paper vombag—which she has, of course, forgotten to bring. Failing that, a bucket or a bin would do. Once, even Mother Blake’s favourite yellow coffee mug, the memory of which still shames her, even though she had scrubbed it clean afterwards with bleach and a silver sponge until her hands were raw. She still blushes madly when she sees Blake drink from the thing, thinks she should steal it and smash it instead of being tormented by it every day.

  Ridiculous. A smile almost reaches her lips. Haunted by a coffee mug.

  Then any thought of laughing disappears as her stomach clenches and the vomit jets out of her mouth like an oilrig's lucky day. Joni leans over the perfectly manicured privet hedge and sprays the ground with her gastric juice. Not that there's much in her stomach: water, mostly, and some ginger air wafers that Solonne, the Surrogate Matriarx, had made her eat this morning, promising the fragrant root would help with nausea. Joni didn't want to eat them, couldn't bear the thought of anything passing her lips, but no one argues with Solonne, especially not in the communal dining room when everyone is watching. Joni had stood at her table like a recalcitrant toddler, chewing the peppery crackers, while the Matriarx nodded at her to keep going. The other SurroSisters had smiled encouragingly, despite their envy of her condition.

  Fortunately, the small discs dissolve quickly—even in a dry mouth—and afterwards, Joni had been granted a walk in the SurroCloister grounds. Fresh air, and gentle exercise: that was the idea, anyway. Joni vomits again, and this time the acid stings her nose, too. Doubled over, she opens her eyes: Her white gown is scratched and stained by her fall, and the grubbiness is overlaid with fresh crimson blood-handprints, like something out of a horror film. She forces her body up again and takes a deep breath. Her hands are burning as if she'd slid over hot coals.

  Why had no one told her this would be so difficult?

  “It will be fun, they said.” Joni wipes her mouth and her nose on the back of her hand, muttering away to herself. “It’ll be an adventure. You’ll be saving the future! It’s the most respected job in the country!”

  She picks up her copper ‘SS’ pin that had fallen onto the emerald grass and pins it back over her heart with trembling fingers. She swallows the next heave, and this time it stays down. The worst is over, for now.

  It’s all kind of true, and the perks are awesome, but when you feel this sick for this long, well, no amount of money or respect can really make you feel human. Her body is swollen, her brain is fluff, her mouth is a devil’s ashtray.

  Gingerly, Joni makes her way back towards the gazebo. She can use the rainwater fountain there to flush away the bitterness and rinse her grazed skin; then she'll head to the matron for some antiseptic plasters and a scolding. The idea of the cool, clean water pushes her reluctant limbs forward. Her smart sneakers ping green: They are happy with her pace now.

  We are definitely living in the future when your shoes double as your nanny.

  She sees the flash of pink on the ground again, and this time, she stops to look at it.

  Oh!

  It looks like her fortune is finally turning. At the foot of the hedge, cushioned by a clump of sweet Mexican daisies, is a giant easter egg, most likely left over from the Spring Hunt on Sunday. Easter is always a big deal here. Not the scary Christian version, obviously, but the original Pagan Ēastre, celebrating new life and the rite of the northern hemisphere’s spring. Even the perennially cross Mother Blake had gotten into the spirit, wearing a crown of chamomile blossoms and diving for choxolate eggs, which had made all the sisters giggle.

  The hollow candy egg is the size of an ostrich's and is made of the palest pink sugar sand, with vintage vanilla lace detail. The scent of imitation strawberry ice cream is subtle but takes her back in time to when she was a small child: a yapping black poodle, a chintz couch. Sitting on her mother's lap while she knitted blanket squares for the local orphanage. That's when orphanages still existed. Most of Joni's school friends wouldn't even know the word, now. She inhales the comforting scent deep into her lungs. Why is the sense of smell so n
ostalgic?

  Joni holds the delicate egg in her burning, bleeding hands like a hard-won prize. A precious gift from the universe to signal that everything is going to be okay. The Lucky Sickness will pass, she’ll be able to complete her job and move back home. Her life will be—relatively—normal again.

  Besides, what is normal, nowadays? 2021 is the year of the blight, despite what the UN wants you to believe. Relentless drought; intractable corporate corruption; the Superbug; the Suicide Contagion. And, of course, the reason she's living in this strange gated community: a devastating infertility crisis. When her over-protective parents told her she'd be safest living here in the Cloister instead of at home, she had railed against them, accused them of abandoning her. But when she glimpses the news headlines on Mother Blake's Tile or hears the hard-whisper bedtime gossip of the other girls, she knows her parents were right to offer her to the SurroTribe as a recruit.

  Even if she had an appetite, Joni decides that the Easter egg is much too pretty to eat. Inspecting its delicate icing, she notices that the egg has a seam: The top and bottom can twist open. There’ll be a surprise gift inside. She’s torn between seeking the water she’s craving and opening the shell. Before she reaches a decision, she swivels the egg, and as it opens she sees a couple of wires attached to something that looks like a battery and some silicone clay, and then there is a loud explosion, and the hot force of it hits Joni in the chest and jaw, and knocks her flat on her back. Joni’s last thought, as she lies on the grass, ears chiming, is how very young she is, how short her life has been … and that Solonne will not be very happy. So much for luck.

  Drought, crime, suicide, and an Easter egg.

  Of all things to be killed by.

  She watches the cloud centaur pull back his arrow, and then her vision fades to a blip.

  6

  The Baron

  This story was originally written as a play and optioned by the national broadcaster, the SABC.

  Welcome to the lesser-known country of The Kingdom of Moldavia, known for its overgrown jungles, giant pineapples, venomous bronze-fanged adders, and the finest butterfly silk in the world. It’s home to tigers so ferocious and so vain that the only way to survive an attack is to dangle your pocket mirror in front of their trembling fish-gut whiskers. It’s a place where firebugs will put on a pyrotechnic show for you and, while you are watching, the satin-smooth hands of vervet monkeys will swipe your wallet. There are mountains of silver here, and gold, and diamonds fall like rain (if you stand in the right place at the right time).

  There is also blood. Old, black blood that has leaked into the soil for centuries, fertilising the land with the life it has recycled. There is thick brown blood that coats the pebbled roads, sticky enough to provide the traction needed for progress. And there is violet blood. New, gushing violet blood that is pumped by love and lust and excitement through the peoples’ veins by their purple piston hearts.

  I’m glad you could join us. This story—as all good stories are—is about ADVENTURE. I’ll be your guide, your translator, your—

  Two armed men scuffle in the castle hall. There is pushing and punching, gasping and groaning. Weapons are drawn: a scimitar and a loaded pistol.

  King Zam presses the scimitar into The Baron’s throat. “I’ve got you by the balls, now, you scoundrel!”

  “Well, technically, you have me by the throat,” whispers the Baron. “My balls are located in another place entirely.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I say. “I’m not quite finished the introduction yet—”

  “I am the Baron of Balaclavia! I need no introduction.”

  “And I am the King!”

  I watch them wrestle. “Yes, yes,” I say, “but the story doesn’t start here! We need to go back. Sixteen years into the past.”

  “Sixteen years!” exclaims the Baron. “In that case, Your Royal Highness, could you do me the kindness of lowering your emerald-studded scimitar from my adam’s apple?”

  “It’s a reasonable request. I’ll do so, but only if you remove your ivory-handled pistol from my belly.”

  They glare at each other one last time, then lower their respective weapons.

  “Shall we have a drink, while we wait?” asks King Zam. “Sixteen years is an awfully long time.”

  That would be smashing,” says the Baron. “Much obliged.”

  The king claps his hands for service, and a mousy servant arrives.

  “Putin! Bring us some warm brandy. The one from Xonofi. Use the snow-crystal snifters. Have you heard of it, Baron?”

  Putin hurries over to the drinks trolley and begins to prepare their drinks.

  “Of course,” says the Baron. “It’s arguably the best brandy in the world! Made from baby ruby grapes found only on the highest hills in the forests of Lanau, fermented in hundred-year-old oak barrels and seasoned with the happy tears of the vegan Veranova virgins.”

  King Zam looks impressed. “That’s the one.”

  Putin hands them a glass each, and they clink snifters and wish each other excellent health and happiness.

  Sixteen years prior, in an abode far less handsome than this particular castle with its alabaster turrets and snake-skin ceilings, a woman was lying with her legs open on a straw-mattress bed. She was screaming blue murder—

  “You can do it, Sharoni, you can do it,” said the midwife with baseball mitts for hands. “Let’s have one more push. Give it all you’ve got.”

  Sharoni strained and screamed as she used all the strength in her body to push.

  I daresay that you would be screaming too if you were giving birth to a baby as buxom as the Baron.

  “His head is out!” shouted the midwife. “One more push, love.”

  The baby made his appearance and gave a lusty yell.

  “It’s a boy!” announced the midwife.

  “He’s beautiful,” said Sharoni. “Isn’t he beautiful? He has his father’s handsome chin!”

  The midwife nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful baby.”

  That’s what the midwife told every new mother—even when Mrs. Borgione up the hill gave birth to a sprog who looked more like an orang-utan than a daughter. The midwife weighed the baby and mutters to herself.

  "What is it?" asked Sharoni, lifting herself onto her elbows to see.

  “He’s a record-breaker, by the looks of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He weighs 68 pebblestone!” She wrapped the infant in a soft muslin receiving blanket that had seen a dozen babes before him. The midwife had boiled it in sweet streamwater with dandelion flowers and let it dry in the shade. “He’s a big boy, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is,” Sharoni cooed as the midwife handed her baby over. “He’s destined for big things.”

  And so The Baron was born. Of course, he wasn’t always called The Baron. He named himself that after he taught himself to read using a moth-eaten encyclopaedia and some sticks of charcoal he found in the backyard. Once he knew how to read, he combed the village and devoured any book he could get his hands on, but one book, in particular, captured his imagination like a grizzly in a bear trap. Look at him now, sitting before the fire crackling in the hearth of his village home, his head buried in the well-thumbed pages.

  “You’re not reading that Baron book AGAIN, are you, darling?”

  “I am,” announced the boy. “I read it every day. I think I’ve read it a thousand times already and I’ll read it a thousand times more.”

  “I don’t know how you find the time! With all your golden-mongoose hunting and salt-river swimming and rescuing fallen chicks from under their tree nests.”

  “I’m starting archery tomorrow. Mr. Beeswax said he'd teach me."

  “Well, just be careful, please.”

  “You always say that.”

  “And you’d do well to remember it.”

  Indeed, with his fearless spirit, The Baron often got himself into sticky situations. Wh
en he was five years old, he started a fire in the neighbour’s barn. The village men rushed to put the fire out, and pulled on his sooty ears for causing a ruckus—

  “I was just trying to melt some raven feathers—” he said.

  “Melt some raven feathers?” exclaimed one of the villagers. “Have you gone mad?”

  The owner of the barn began to take off his belt, but his company stopped him. “I almost lost four seasons of straw! In these hard times! You deserve a good whipping, boy!”

  “Go easy on the lad,” said the blacksmith.

  “He’s a mischief maker!” yelled the neighbour. “He needs sorting out!”

  “He needs a father figure!”

  “Someone to tan his hide, you mean?”

  “A good thrashing will fix him!” shouted the neighbour, his cheeks as red as ripe nectarines. “My father would have belted me all the way to Jupiter!”

  “He ‘fixed’ you, did he? And look how you turned out!”

  The villagers laughed—a little too loudly.

  “Besides,” said the blacksmith. “He burnt his little paws trying to put the thing out. It’s punishment enough for the poor mite.”

  “I thought,” said the young Baron, “if I could melt some feathers together, then the thing I’d have made would be able to fly.”

  The men laugh again, but this time there is affection in it. One of the villagers tousled the boy’s hair.

  “You’re a dreamer, alright. You’ve got little firecrackers in your brain. You’ll become someone, that’s for sure. He’ll become someone, mark my words.”

  A year later, the Baron traipsed into the wild jungle with nothing but his favourite book, a handkerchief filled with almond biscuits and his folding hunting knife, and didn’t return for six nights. He left a note for his mother, telling her not to worry, but as all mothers know, it’s impossible to do, especially if you are the mother of a 6-year-old intrepid adventurer. As all mothers know, having a child is like having your heart skipping outside your body, raw and vulnerable to the thundering elements. Sharoni slept outside the house every night he was gone and saw his face in the stars. It was the only way she could know that he was still alive and adventuring, and not inside the belly of a tiger. On the seventh day, he returned: taller; thinner; much, much dirtier; and with an animal attached to his shoulder. He ran towards Sharoni and hugged her legs. She smacked him upside the head, then hugged him harder than she had ever before.