Twisted’s Evil Little Sister

by Create50

  “Everybody look out!” Cutter yelled, “the Jewboy might shoot ya! Just take a look at my dog”

  “Shut up, Cutter” said Clem. “Go ahead, Morrie, take your shot.”

  Morrie cut dead centre on the target.

  Clem patted him on the back, and told Cutter to fuck himself and his fuckin g dog too.

  “Maybe this Jewboy’s not a jinx after all!” said Clem. It was meant as a compliment and a show of friendship. It was a definite step up from “the Jew boy ruined it” and Morrie was touched. He felt hopeful and proud. What Morrie didn’t know was that his success was purely accidental. The game was fixed and the rifles had altered sites, making true aim impossible. The trick gun had corrected Morrie’s atrocious aim. But he never found that out.

  And so the redeemed Morrie and the boys had a great time until it started to get dark, which was when the Freak Show was to start. They’d smartly bought their tickets first thing, because everyone wanted to see the angel on the first night.

  The oddities that would usually be amazing were just delays and distractions this year. Nothing impressed the crowd. They barely applauded for the usual cast. Not for the bearded lady, not for the Siamese twins Tic and Tac, nor for Monkeywrench the Strong Man. The people wanted what they’d come for. They got restless, and booed the Squid Boy (with two extra baby-arms protruding from his shoulders) off the stage.

  Finally Captain Jack bellowed into the microphone “Now for the act you’ve all been waiting for… From the Kingdom of God Almighty, the Alpha and Omega, I present… THE ANGEL!”

  Two carnies rolled the angel onto the stage. He looked human, had an old, wise face and a tight, muscular body. He wore a white loincloth. The carnies turned the cage around to reveal the feathered wings. The Angel spread them and rose weightlessly to the top of the cage.

  Next he began his mind reading act which impressed the people, then came the healing, which drove them into a frenzy. Each begged to be next to pay, have their questions answered, their ailments healed.

  Captain Jack continued his barking, focusing on the holiness of this experience: “An Angel! He’s seen the hereafter. He’s evidence to the greatness of God and the glory of His kingdom. He needs for you to give! Show your faith. Money means nothing to him, but the act of giving will impress him! This Angel is not like you. He has no worldly needs! He’s not born from the womb of a mortal woman, but created directly by the hands of God!”

  Morrie raised his hand to volunteer. Captain Jack’s system of audience plants was pretty sound. He figured they could handle a question from a twelve year old and still pull off the act. It was just the right time to call on someone who couldn’t possibly be a plant to keep the doubters convinced.

  He asked Morrie if he had a question for the Angel. Morrie said he did.

  “Well, go ahead,” said Captain Jack.

  “If you weren’t born like the rest of us,” Morrie said, “How come you have a belly button?”

  The crowd saw the look in Captain Jack’s eyes, and the angel stammered: “Uhm, well, you see….”

  Half the crowd immediately realized neither had an answer, that they had been conned. They began to throw things at Captain Jack. Heavy things. Sharp things. Also some popcorn. An equal amount of the crowd were yelling at Morrie for his blasphemy and throwing things at him. The crowd argued.

  “Don’t blame the Jewboy; this guy’s a crook!”

  “NO! It’s the Jewboy! This is what them people do!!! They don’t even believe in Christmas!!!”

  That’s when the BB gun Morrie was still holding went off and struck the angel in the right eye. The angel yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

  There was a riot. Chairs were thrown. Fires were lit. Morrie left his prizes behind and ran all 20 miles home.

  The next day, the carnival was gone.

  The townspeople who hadn’t been there were very upset because they had wanted to see for themselves. The news from the other towns had been pretty convincing, and of course, they hadn’t seen it proven fake with their own eyes.

  So they chose to believe.

  And if anyone was going to try to bust up faith in one of God’s angels, it would have to be a Jewboy. Who knew what those people even believed in anyway?

  School started up again, and instead of the usual talk about how great and amazing the carnival had been, the talk was all about how it had left so early. The carnival was a constant, an immutable fact of their 12-year-old lives. And now it was gone.

  And for the rest of that school year Cutter would start all his stories by saying: “Yep, the carnival left early this year and it might not ever come back. I saw it with my own eyes. The Jewboy ruined it for everyone.”

  Clear Air Turbulence

  By David Young

  After a two-hour delay, Flight 124 from Chicago to Dublin had finally departed, now carrying aloft 220 passengers and crew. An amateur football team. An extended family attending a reunion. A venture capitalist checking on his investment. It was only an hour into the journey, but just a handful of cabin lights remained on, including the one over the man in seat 19H. Light turbulence jostled the cabin, waking the American man in 19K.

  “CAT,” said 19H, smiling.

  “Huh?” the American asked without opening his eyes.

  “C-A-T. Clear air turbulence, a natural phenomenon,” 19H explained, his European accent becoming more apparent. He calmly checked his watch.

  The American was in no mood to talk. A visitation weekend in Evanston with his kids while the Ex looked over his shoulder had earned him all the sleep he wanted. He longed to fly home to Houston, but business called. He turned his head toward the window, hoping his new friend would take the hint.

  “Usually the cold front will try to move under the warm air, causing disturbances without creating clouds. There’s no visual clue for the pilots, so the turbulence is in ‘clear air.’”

  Not one to take a hint, a thought that dragged the American out of unconsciousness. Damn. He turned his head back toward the man and opened his eyes, taking a look at him for the first time. They hadn’t spoken before on this flight. Why do you want to ruin a perfect friendship with conversation? 19H wore an out-of-style grey rumpled suit, tattered at the cuffs, and an ancient-looking watch. He was old, with eyes that seemed older.

  “So, meteorologist?” An annoyed woman from row 18 turned and looked at the American. They exchanged perfunctory smiles before she turned back around.

  “Me? Oh no,” said 19H. “Frequent flyer.”

  “Pilot?” The question stopped an elderly stewardess in a crisp uniform in her tracks.

  “What’s that?” she barked and looked at him with equal amounts of aggravation and suspicion. Her grip on 19H’s seat was very close to his head.

  “I just…” the American said while helplessly pointing to 19H. She looked down and then continued on.

  The cabin bounced again, this time harder. More passengers woke up and the American found that he had involuntarily grabbed the armrests.

  19H smiled. “Not a cloud in the sky. Clear Air Turbulence.”

  The American loosened his grip. Something still didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t work out what. His ears popped so he hit his call button, summoning back the annoyed stewardess.

  “Yes?” she said as she reached over and turned off his call button. She didn’t seem to mind leaning over the man in 19H.

  “Could you be a dear and get me a water?” the American asked with a drawl. He smiled just a little too much, showing how disingenuous his use of “dear” had been.

  “Let’s live a little and get scotches to go with the waters. My treat,” 19H said.

  “You heard the man. Two scotch and waters it is.”

  This caused the woman in row 18 to look back. She exchanged a glance with the stewardess. The woman looked at the American again before turning around.

  “I don’t think we’re her favourite passengers,” the American said.

  “The stewardess? No,
it’s fear,” said 19H. “She is mad because she is afraid, also a natural phenomenon.”

  “Afraid of what?” Now the American was totally awake and hit by a dull wave of dread. What was it? The Airbus A330-200 that had appeared huge when he boarded was now seeming much smaller. Suffocating, even. Before he could piece it together the woman from row 18 turned around again.

  “Look, we were two hours on that damn runway and I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow. Can you please keep it down?” 19H smiled at the comment.

  “Don’t blame me,” said the American, offering open palms toward 19H.

  “You’re insane!” The woman scowled as she turned back around and placed a pillow over her head.

  “Every day the stewardess flies inside a metal tube seven miles in the sky, and her job is to make us forget this by bringing us drinks.” 19H’s accent seemed stronger with these words.

  “South African?” the American asked.

  “Close. No, I am from Amsterdam. Haven’t been there for many years, but can’t shake the accent. I think the American ear has trouble between the two,” 19H said with a smile while looking at his watch.

  “Somewhere to be?”

  “Not for a few minutes,” 19H replied.

  The American involuntarily smiled, showing off expensive, white teeth that complemented his expensive Savile Row suit and Salvatore Ferragamo Oxfords. He had worked hard to have the finer things, and it was killing him to slum it out of first class on this long trip. He was only flying coach because he had to make a last-minute flight to fight a court order by his Ex for more money. He longed for the day he’d get to throw dirt on her grave. Hell, he’d be happy just to throw dirt on her, dead or alive.

  “Perhaps you’re better suited taking the train. Usually on-time and less clear air turbulence.”

  “True,” said 19H, “but I’ve tried everything. Ships, trains, buses, airplanes… if they’ve invented it, I’ve travelled on it. But planes are the quickest, even though they still feel like an eternity. I’m just cursed to take flights forever. It’s my job.”

  “To fly so much, you don’t look like you enjoy it at all. Why don’t you just change jobs? Or skip a flight?”

  19H stopped smiling and sighed. “I have tried. I have overslept. I have hidden. But I keep ending up on the flights. I suppose I’ll keep flying until I die.”

  The American had no idea what 19H meant, but then a thought entered his head and he laughed inappropriately.

  “What is funny?”

  “You’re from…” The American started but then lost his nerve. “Sooooo, where do you think our drinks are?”

  “I imagine the stewardess has other things to concern her now.” 19H looked at his watch.

  “Terrorist? I’ll kick his ass,” the American offered, flexing his biceps. His bravado was a function of fear and fatigue rather than courage.

  “You look very strong,” 19H said, taking the American’s vanity bait.

  “Feel that.”

  19H reached over and squeezed the bicep. He nodded.

  “Egg whites and curls. Every day. Necessary now that I’ve re-entered the dating world.” The plane buffeted again. A couple of passengers screamed.

  “See-Fit,” 19H said.

  “Damn right, see fit.” the American flexed again.

  “No, See-Fit,” 19H repeated. “C-F-I-T. Controlled Flight Into Terrain.”

  The American realized his new friend was the kind of guy who always had to have a bigger story. You stubbed a toe; he broke his leg. You went to France; he went to the moon. You talked about turbulence; he talked about a plane crash.

  “The plane is fine. The captain has both hands on the stick. But for some reason, the plane is flown full speed into the ground. Or the water. Or a bridge. Or…”

  “A mountain?” the American suggested.

  “Yes! Exactly!” This was the first time 19H truly seemed to enjoy their conversation. “Usually pilot error, but it can be weather as well.”

  Who the hell is this guy? the American thought. I bet he’s a hit at parties. Just then the stewardess walked by.

  “Hey!” the American shouted. “Are our drinks coming?”

  She leaned over 19H again, filling his face with her bosom. “Why don’t you ask your friend?” She hurried off. 19H had been right. There was a look of fear masked behind her anger.

  “Eastern Flight 401, 1972. Crew distracted by landing gear light, didn’t realize autopilot was off. Flew into a swamp. American Airlines 965, 1995. Captain forgot air brakes were on, crashed into the mountain. Pan Am 151, 1951. Local beacon frequency was…”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I have a very good memory.”

  “I take it you’re not the best flyer,” the American offered.

  “No. In fact, maybe the worst.” 19H checked his watch. “Sixty seconds.”

  “What?”

  The plane lurched as the nose pointed down. Everyone was wide awake now. The stewardess fell backwards onto the aisle, and tripped the other attendants as they lost their balance. Many passengers screamed. And then it hit the American what had been wrong. The plane had been losing altitude the past four minutes. It had been gradual, with the nose up, but it had been steady.

  “Fifty.”

  But now the descent was violent. The cabin belched out the oxygen masks from the ceiling, creating more screams punctuated with desperate prayers.

  “Forty.”

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God, this isn’t happening!” screamed the woman in row 18.

  “I’m afraid it is,” 19H said to the American. “In a stall, the pilot will point the nose down to gain speed to give the plane lift. Seems counterintuitive, but that’s the way mechanized flight works. Now the question is whether he has waited too long. Thirty.”

  The American instantly thought about his children. “You already know he has, don’t you?” he yelled.

  “I told you, I’m cursed, and there’s only one way out of this. But you already know there is, don’t you?” he replied. The American looked into 19H’s eyes and saw everything. Amid the screaming and grinding gravitational forces, he saw the ships, trains, buses and planes, and how they all met with the same fatal end. “Can you do what the others couldn’t? Twenty.”

  Could that really be the answer? the American thought to himself. While he was by no means a pacifist, he wasn’t a murderer. A few deer, an elk, but those had involved a nice beer buzz. And he was far from drunk at the moment, the adrenaline coursing through his body making every cell aware of what needed to be done. The sound of the chaos around him drowned out by a single chant in his head: Do it!

  No! I can’t! he thought, He looked at 19H, whose face had now become a snarl, making the American recoil. Do it! Do it! The thought filled his head again, but this time it wasn’t a disembodied voice. The words were being said by his children. Do it! Do it! Do it! DO IT!

  “TEN… NINE…EIGHT…” 19H yelled to be heard above the screaming of the doomed.

  The American grabbed 19H’s head. He tensed his arms and saw the weary traveller’s last look of hope that pleaded for his centuries-long journey to an end.

  “SEVEN… SIX… FIVE… FOUR…” 19H yelled as a tear fell from his eye.

  The sound of the engines whined higher as the impending ground grew closer.

  “THREE… TWO…”

  The snap of 19H’s neck was loud enough to be heard above the cabin din, and all at once, everything went white for the American.

  Two hours after its departure from Montreal, Air Canada Flight 1870 shook from cockpit to tail. A well-known actress in first class stirred, taking the sun shade off her eyes. She noticed for the first time a man with white teeth and expensive shoes staring at her from across the aisle.

  “Hey, aren’t you…” he asked with a drawl. The actress’s closed-eye nod kept him from finishing.

  “Damn, that’s a shame,” he said.

  Not sure of what he had just said to her, she smil
ed patronizingly and turned away, hoping the big-toothed man would leave her alone. The plane shook again, more violently this time. The actress’ heart raced as she turned back toward him.

  “Hey, Honey, you ever heard of ‘clear air turbulence’?” he asked, smiling.

  Muntjac

  By Toby Norways

  It was an unfamiliar smell – new and exciting. A smell both abstract and easy to define. It emanated from his shirt, his hair, his fingers – from the crotch of his suit trousers. It was the smell of guilt, and he loved it.

  Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ floated on warm aircon and the driver mimed in tuneless euphoria, immune to the extreme cold and the hostile bite of nature beyond the tinted glass. His smooth hands caressed the leather wheel of the Range Rover, guiding its four-by-four power around the contours of the countryside, over diamond-frosted tarmac, snaking under high hedgerows and a canopy of stars.

  It was late. Very late. He contemplated calling home – home with its comforts and responsibilities, but his wife would be sleeping by now. Better not to wake her. Excuses were prepared if she woke, but a careful entry and ascent to the bedroom on soft socked feet should render an explanation unnecessary. A warm shower would consign the night to the plughole.

  The impact came suddenly. Just a split second of recognition. A dark blur in his peripheral vision. Time enough to blink and wince. Time enough for nails to grip leather. Time for knuckles to whiten. A sudden wave of cold nausea flooded his body. His legs stiffened. His right foot stamped. Involuntary and instinctive, but too late. Two sickening jolts as front wheels, then back, rose and fell, rose and fell, then screeched a black rubber trail to a standstill.

  It all happened in an instant, leaving him slumped over the wheel, staring with wild dilated eyes, to an indefinable point where the powerful white headlights faded and were engulfed by the blackness of the woods.

  It took a long while, and a very deep breath, before he could raise his eyes to the rearview mirror. A surreal red glow illuminated the tarmac, until his right leg finally softened, and his right foot rose from the floor. Then behind him, all was darkness again.