Start at Day 1
That night he was in and then they d r a g g e d him into the .
“Stop it, stop kept pushing and pushing tight confined couldn’t breathe
pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded and
the key the door the key the door
and then he woke up.
He couldn’t remember what he’d dreamt, except that he was all alone in a tight space and he couldn’t breathe. He remembered trying to move, but he was completely encased inside of a space so small that he couldn’t bend his knees. And he remembered two tall, dark figures dragging him in there and locking the door.
In the morning he had a horrible ache in the pit of his spine and on the balls of his knees. Though he’d just woken up, he felt exhausted. For a long time just laid in bed not thinking of much of anything at all. Then the alarm on his cell phone went off and he forced himself out of bed.
Continue reading The Locked Door – Day 2
The Locked Door is a five-part work-in-progress that I intend to upload bit by bit over the next few weeks. This is not a final draft.
THE LOCKED DOOR
Down the decayed wooden steps, in the deep dark of the basement there was an old wooden door. It was carved out of thick oak planks withered into rotted tatters through years of deterioration and decay. A faded coat of fire brick red paint had slipped and left colourless streaks and scratches in its place. It was split with crooked tremors and black holes torn by termites and vermin. The smell of rot emanated out of every inch of it.
On the edge of the door there was a round iron handle that had corroded to a dead red shade of rust. And there below it was an old brass keyhole no wider than a man’s thumb.
Continue reading The Locked Door – Day 1
You know Lori-Anne, right? Malcolm’s wife, the blonde bimbo who looked forty last week and thirty this week but still tells people she doesn’t use Botox? There’s a laugh if I ever had one. She could do Carnegie Hall with jokes like that.
You would not believe what she put me through!
So, the other day, I was just running a few errands, you know, picked up some KD for the kids and stopped by David Newman’s to get my hair fixed – are you going to David now? He’s good, isn’t he? I’m supposed to stop, what with keeping on a budget and all, but I just can’t feel good if I don’t look good, you know what I mean? As far as Brian knows I got it cut by one of those Barber College kids, so keep that one between you and me, but I mean, God, I wouldn’t even be able to step outside if I let one of those kids butcher my hair.
Continue reading Not That I Even Care
The lights in the white house were still out when he came back. The driveway was still empty and there wasn’t a single sound coming from inside.
He went up the path to the front door, a black duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. The door was stained oak and it had a small decorative stained glass window at the top, but it used a simple pin and tumble lock. He slid the tension wrench in and when he twisted it to the left there was a little give. He slid the pick in and raked it slowly along the pins. He worked each one carefully until they were all in place and when he turned the tension wrench all the way the door came open.
Continue reading Just Things
Great-Grandma’s Hands was my first published work of fiction. It can be viewed at Every Day Fiction here:
For Jacob, the greatest mystery about visiting Great-Grandma was her hands. In her face Great-Grandma portrayed the illusion of a tired, feeble old woman, but her hands betrayed her terrible power. They were tense blue claws riddled with hard bumps; just a thin layer of flesh barely repressing the skeleton coiled in thick blue veins underneath. Her throat bulged out like a frog’s, her hair jutted out in fierce patches of white tufts checkered upon her head. Her skin seemed stretched and dropped, like it had once been worn by a much larger thing, since discarded. But above all, it was the hands, the hard blue claws at her side, that gave her away.
Continue reading Great-Grandma’s Hands