by Lorn, Edward
FAIRY LIGHTS
Edward Lorn
First Edition
Fairy Lights © 2017 by Edward Lorn
All Rights Reserved.
A DarkFuse Release
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Author’s Note
Palomar Observatory is real, as is the Hale Telescope. They can be toured upon visiting Palomar Mountain State Park, which is located in San Diego County, California. However, I have taken many liberties with the location, its history, and the surrounding area. I hope you forgive any changes I have made for the sake of the story. Thank you.
Part One: Moss
1
“What’s that?”
“It’s a trail.”
“No shit. Where does it lead?”
“I don’t know. Never been down it.”
“Wanna go?”
“Sure.”
2
Monica waded in the natural pool, the sun warm on her shoulders. The waterfall peppered her back with droplets. Mercurial rainbows carried on shimmering mist sparkled all around her. Surely this was heaven.
She was naked and more than a little drunk. Her husband Ralph had his head underwater, pressed between her thighs. She thought that, just maybe, Ralph was part mermaid. Or merman. He’d been lapping at her for a good ten minutes and had not come up for air. She could have been exaggerating a wee bit. Perhaps time slowed down when one was having multiple orgasms brought on by an experienced tongue.
Ralph pushed off her thighs and surfaced. Disappointment flooded her. Why did it have to end?
Ralph swiped water from his eyes and lips. He took a deep breath, arched his back, and clasped his hands together. He raised them over his head and stretched. Monica trailed lacquered nails—deep purple, Ralph’s favorite color on her—down his tanned chest. He was gorgeous—a bronze god. At forty-two, her man had maintained his sex appeal, had actually gotten sexier throughout the years. He worked out in their home gym three days a week and ran every morning. He could fuck like a stallion and make love as if he were an artist and her body a blank canvas to be filled. He could be sensitive. He could be rough. And he always seemed to know which version she wanted. Which version she needed. She was a lucky lady.
Ralph ran a steady hand over his shaved dome. The hair up there would be pitch black if he ever chose to grow it out. He even shaved his pubic hair, something she neither minded nor requested. It did make his package seem that much bigger, but that was truly the male equivalent of a pushup bra. Didn’t really matter what it looked like. What mattered was the reality of it. A small dick was small no matter the amount of bush allowed to grow around it, just like a pair of tiny tits were tiny no matter how aggressively they were shoved up and together. Of course, Ralph needn’t worry about making his penis seem bigger. The fucking thing was already huge. She was a very lucky lady, indeed.
Now she reached down between Ralph’s legs and squeezed.
“Your mouth’s nice and all, but throw a girl a fuck, why don’t you.”
He grabbed her about the waist and tugged her to him. Her small breasts smashed flat against his muscular chest. He ravaged her neck. Sucked and kissed and licked. She felt surely she would come again without a bit of stimulation between her legs. Immaculate orgasm—isn’t that what the tantric crowd called it? She closed her eyes and stroked his cock, rubbed its rigid tip against her clit. Ground it in. There would be nothing immaculate about this orgasm.
She came like a busted water main.
She buried her face in the cavity of Ralph’s collarbone and continued to make circular motions with his penis against her throbbing clitoris. Ralph nibbled her ear. She squeaked softly with pleasure.
Oh, yes, this was heaven.
Her eyes fluttered up and open, rolled back in her head. She gazed into a clear blue sky. A blue so clean and devoid of clouds that it hurt her eyes. She had to look away.
Someone was standing at the edge of the pool.
Monica stopped kicking her feet and began to sink. Ralph took up the cause, keeping them afloat.
Water ran through her vision making it seem as if her eyes were melting in her skull. She pushed away from Ralph, who was hesitant to let her go, and cut to the left.
Whoever this person was, they were still there. Ralph had left an Igloo cooler at the shore. The figure in the white shirt and no pants was rummaging around inside.
A thief. Just wonderful.
“Hey!” she yelled and her voice cracked at the end, sounded like an anxious teenager’s. “Hey! Leave that alone.”
“What the—” Now Ralph was looking toward shore. But not for long. He took off in that direction, all straight-armed strokes and pumping legs. Monica thought her man looked the part of an Olympian swimmer going for the gold.
Get ’em, babe, Monica mused. She was unaware of the rictus grin that split her face in a ragged slash.
The slender figure stood again. They were probably fifty feet away, but she thought the person was well under five feet tall, had the posture and loose limbs of a child. There was something in their right hand. Monica immediately recognized the red-white-and-blue aluminum.
A can of Pabst’s Blue Ribbon. Ralph’s favorite beer.
The figure—Monica still wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl—kicked one leg up, twisted at the waist, and drew the hand with the can in it behind their head. Monica didn’t watch much sports, but she was well enough acquainted with baseball due to Ralph’s obsession with the sport that she thought she knew exactly what was about to happen. The stranger was winding up for a pitch. Ralph seemed to be their target.
Monica screamed something inarticulate as the figure whipped its arm forward lightning quick. The beer can was a blur as it tumbled end over end toward Ralph’s swimming form.
There was a loud thunk. Ralph instantly stopped swimming, as if someone had pressed STOP on a remote control pausing a televised swim meet. He disappeared under the water for a brief moment before bobbing back to the top. He was face down.
Likely out cold.
Likely drowning.
Monica dove underwater and shot toward her husband. She was only thinking of him, her own safety be damned. This might even be what the figure on the shore wanted.
Monica surfaced in an explosion of arms and water.
The figure had dropped into a catcher’s stance, was digging inside the cooler for another can. All the while, they kept their eyes on Monica. Their free hand went to their crotch, began to stroke something.
They was a He. A He with a dick so big that it made Ralph’s look infinitesimal. That Monica thought this person was actually a boy, a child, made what he was doing even more perverse to her. That she had the need to watch made her feel dirty. She figured this was the closest she’d ever come to feeling like a pedophile.
She shook Ralph’s floating body. No response. She rolled him over.
Something splashed into the water and punched her left breast.
Clutching her injured chest, she yelled, “I don’t know what you want, but I’ll give you anything!” she hollered. “Just…just please…can I check on—”
The boy rose. His semi-erect penis swung between his legs, spitting urine like a pipe with air in the line. Piss so yellow she could see the stream from where she waded fifty feet away. It arced out, splashed down where the water met the shore.
He wound up once more. His hand shot forwa
rd. Released.
“No!” Monica screamed as she allowed herself to drop below the surface. Her scream turned to bubbles. The last of her air escaped in glimmering globules that burst inches from her face. Her chest instantly began to burn. Her lungs twitched, ached, wanted to draw breath. She wouldn’t be able to hold out long.
Had the can hit her? She couldn’t tell. The only pain she felt was in her oxygen-deprived lungs.
Goddamn, her chest hurt.
Black orbs bounced around in her vision like obsidian tennis balls. No. Not her vision. Behind her eyes. When had she closed her eyes? Was she already dead?
In her panic, she took a breath. Or tried to. Her mouth and throat filled with water. She resurfaced, choking and gagging and vomiting water.
The boy was good. Had fate chosen a different path for him, he might have been a ballplayer.
The can flew.
It was over. Like Ralph before her, Monica was dead before she dropped back below the surface.
3
Four hundred miles away from where Monica died, Anthony Turk jabbed his finger into a fridge magnet, the one that read “It’s Prescott. Rhymes with Biscuit” while he sipped at his can of Barq’s Root Beer. The magnet was another one of Mom’s souvenirs, this one from her time visiting Aunt Barbara and Uncle Pete in Flagstaff, Arizona. A palm tree with a glowing yellow sun sinking into pretty pink water adorned the magnet next to the Prescott keepsake. Written across the bottom, the palm tree growing out of the leftmost vertical line of the H, was HAWAII. Below these magnets was one in the shape of a steer with red eyes and smoke billowing from its nose—Fort Worth, Texas. To the left of Texas was a rainbow with the word PRIDE written in black letters, which curved along the shape of the rainbow—Eugene, Oregon. A marijuana leaf with the caption: NOW LEGAL!—Sidewinder, Colorado.
Tony wondered where the new one was going to go, the one they were likely to bring back from Pauma Valley, California, where they’d be spending the next four days and five nights. Technically, they’d be camping up on Palomar Mountain, but Tony withheld hope that a tornado would make landfall (tornados, did that, he was sure—made landfall, that was) and rush up the mountainside to thoroughly fuck up Mom’s latest attempt to try and sway Tony’s favor away from Dad and toward her. (The war between his divorced parental units for his attention and adoration was all really quite sad.) Anyway, the tornado. He hoped this land-falling twister would wind its way onto The Weather Channel’s Doppler-doo-dad so Mom would get scared and drive down the mountain to stay at an honest-to-God hotel. One with running water, and soft-core porn he could order with the MasterCard he’d pilfered from Dad’s sock drawer. Those televisions had swipey-things, right? He hoped that was how it worked. Seeing that Mom never stayed at hotels during their vacations, Tony honestly didn’t have a clue. Fifteen years old and he’d never known the pleasure that was a continental breakfast. Oh, what a world…what a world…
He only knew about the soft-core porn because of his buddy Bobby, who, luckily enough, would be joining them this trip. Bobby’s attendance had been Tony’s one request when he’d finally given in to the idea of Mom’s newest adventure. If she was going to make him stay out in the middle of nowhere, somewhere that didn’t even have Wi-Fi in the Year of Our Lord 2016, he was certainly going to bring along a pal, someone with whom he could be miserable. Bobby had informed Tony that one of the best parts about vacationing was the stroke material available on the secret menus the hotel kept behind a pay wall. $9.95 would give him unlimited access to an evening’s worth of Whack-a-Mole.
Slowly, Tony pulled his can of Barq’s from his lips. A thought occurred to him.
How the holy squid cock was he supposed to get his pump on with Bobby in the same room?
Curses! Foiled again!
“How’s that beer of the root treating you, Hun?” Mom asked as she walked into the kitchen. She shrugged a heavy-looking backpack off one shoulder and dropped it onto one of the straight-back chairs surrounding their dining table. She had pulled her auburn hair back in a ponytail and decided against makeup. One less thing to clean off once they were delivered unto nature’s bosom. Or whatever.
“All sugar and no nutrients makes Tony Turk a happy boy.”
“Good deal. You heard from Bobs yet?” Bobs was the asinine nickname Mom had created for Bobby, as if his two-syllable name was far too much for her single-syllable brain.
“Bobs has not been heard from. He’ll be here though. Say, do the televisions in hotels have, you know, card swipers?”
“Huh?” She gave him a look that debated whether or not his IQ was even double digits. “Why do you ask?”
Why do you ask? That was such a mother question. Like “Where have you been?” and “Did you wash your hands?”
“Someone told me they did, but I said they didn’t.” Tony slapped on what he hoped was a believable grin.
“Well you win the bet. Whoever said that is stupid.”
Tony’s smile faltered. “Yeah. I know, right.”
“Tell your village idiot that hotels take your credit card information for such things. And— Oh…I get it.”
“Huh?” Tony attempted to sound as innocent as possible. He thought he did a commendable enough job, considering who he was up against. But Mom had age and experience on her side. Her bullshit meter was one of the best he’d come across.
“You’re hoping I’ll get a hotel this time, for whatever reason. And once we’ve checked in, you plan on using your father’s credit card to order pornography. Am I warm?”
There was good and then there was scary. Mom was officially scary.
Tony tried to suppress a frown but was unsuccessful.
“Anthony Tyrone Turk,” she shook her head, “would you really beat it with your mother in the same room. Damn boys, I swear.”
“Ew! No!” He shrieked, voice cracking. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Then again, he didn’t know what was worse: having it cross his mind and him not caring, or never having thought of it in the first place. Either way…Ew!
“Whatever. I know you masturbate. I do your laundry.”
“Wha—Yuck! Jesus, Mom, I’m not talking about this.”
She shrugged. “It’s natural is all I’m say—”
“Please stop. No. Just no. So much no.”
She laughed softly and Tony realized she’d been fucking with him. Evil witch.
“Call Bobs and see where he is, Sir Jack-Off of Sockland.” She giggled as she left the kitchen.
He could have died. Legitimate heart failure was a possibility. But the worst part of the whole conversation was, now he was wondering if she’d ever caught him polishing his pud and hadn’t said anything about it. Oh, the horror.
4
Ralph had not died after being hit in the head with the beer can. Ralph was dead now, though. That much was certain. Monica’s arms and legs dangled from the sides of the wheelbarrow, as did Ralph’s. The corpses were stacked, Monica on top. Blood the consistency of cold pudding had pooled in the bottom of the barrow, was an inch thick and stank of oysters. Head wounds are notorious for bleeding profusely.
The boy shambled behind the barrow, his fists barely gripping the handles, his bare feet carving runnels through fallen leaves and other forest-floor detritus. He was so tired, but had a good ten miles of travel ahead of him. He’d been going since shortly before one o’clock the day prior. He hadn’t eaten since then, and the last thing he’d had to drink was one of the couples’ beers. The Pabst had tasted awful. The boy didn’t have a clue how people drank that poison. Still he’d been thirsty, and the pool was off limits; its waters unclean.
His stomach growled. Four days had passed since Moss had last eaten. He hoped that, when he arrived, the Handy would share yesterday’s catch.
In a different life, the boy’s name had been Moss. There was supposed to be a name before that one, but too much time had passed. He’d barely passed his toddling years the last time someone had called him by his before-n
ame. Even now, he didn’t think of himself as Moss. He thought of himself as Provider. As Slave. Both were true. He minded neither.
The barrow’s single wheel hit an outcropping of rock. The bowl listed heavily to the right. Monica rolled out. Moss grumbled as he straightened the wheelbarrow and went to retrieve his catch.
Morning sunlight came through the canopy of trees overhead and polka-dotted Monica’s corpse with black-and-yellow spots. The naked woman’s flesh was purple where the blood had settled in her back. Her tiny breasts—nothing more than swollen nipples, really—were a mottled yellow-pink. A color Moss instantly associated with death. Some turned blue. Most turned the color of sunsets.
Moss grabbed Monica around her icy wrist and dragged her back to the barrow. He dropped her hand and went back to the handles. Tilted them upward. Ralph slid forward slightly, his head canted severely to the right—Ralph’s shoulder whispering secrets into Ralph’s ear. The dead man gazed at Moss with glassy eyes. A fly lit upon the iris. Buzzed. Rubbed its forelegs together. Zipped away.
“No,” Moss said, waving at the already long gone fly. It was one of the few words he knew, one of the few words he understood the meaning of. After all, it had been screamed at him over and over throughout his short existence.
Moss balanced the wheelbarrow on its side and walked back around to the front. He stepped on the lip of the barrow and dipped down, snatched up Monica’s ankle. Holding the barrow still with his foot, he pivoted and began tugging Monica back on top of Ralph. When she was half in, the wheelbarrow slid backward and tilted to the right, threatened to spill Ralph into the leafy floor of the woods. Moss grunted in frustration. He straightened the wheelbarrow and went back to work. It took him three tries to get Monica’s corpse seated properly in the barrow once more, and then he was off.