January 12, 2013

From “The Dark Ship Calls” by Kendrick Inzunza

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Kapteynport had, at once time, been a center of trade and commerce. At the mouth of the River Barnard, it was a key artery in bringing trade from the inland cities to the colonies. That had changed when the river mouth silted up and it changed course–the trade now flowed through Maanenburg. But Kapteynport had maintained a low-key prosperity of a sort with its fishing fleet, enough that the grand old buildings from the old days could be maintained and occupied after a fashion.

That all changed on the day the Black Ship arrived at the bay mouth.

Larger ships still called occasionally to take on salted fish or when the wharfs of Maanenburg were full, but the appearance of a tar-black carrack was still unusual. Aside from the white of its furled sails, every inch of the vessel–even its lines–was as if blackened by pitch. Stranger even than that was its position: anchored within the sheltering arms of the cove but not anywhere close to the docks.

After it had been there for nearly a week, a group of townsfolk boarded it and found the ship to be deserted, without so much as a nail aboard that wasn’t part of the blackened timbers. No further parties were sent, as every last member of the boarding party was stricken dead within a week, either by illness or an unfortunate accident. That, and the subsequent failure of the next month’s fishing, led the citizens of Kapteynport to conclude that the black ship was a cursed vessel.

Many abandoned the town, but others resolved to rid themselves of the curse. Volunteers cut the anchor line and attempted to tow the ship away, but their vessel foundered before much headway could be made, as did its replacement. Despite the calm waters and nearness to shore, there were no survivors from either wreck. A final attempt had desperate Kapteynporters flinging lit torches onto the ship, which burned for hours without incurring any visible damage.

The conflagration that swept through town less than 48 hours later led to Kapteynport’s final and total abandonment.

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January 7, 2013

From “The 13th Drive” by Jeffrey K. Sagastegui

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This post is part of the January 2013 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s prompt is “the number 13”.

They were there almost every time Dr. Rajab Sizdah drove by: an overweight couple, shabbily dressed, behind the wheel of an old van parked on the corner of 13th Street and Cambridge Drive. Dr. Sizdah, in his immaculate Mercedes, couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at the piles of used tissues and fast food wrappers accumulated on their dash.

The fact that the pair was parked in a narrow street just before the entrance to the doctor’s gated community was another annoyance. Sizdah would have to inch by them every time, and if there was another car coming he’d have to stop, often in mid-turn, to let them by. He’d stare daggers at every inch of the filthy old Fiat Tredici van when that happened, from the peeling roof paint to the THR 1313 license plate, even as the pockmarked occupants looked past him as if they were staking out the veterinarian across the street.

When he complained about it to his receptionist at the ophthalmology clinic, or the doorman at the community gate, Dr. Sizdah would always become irate when his listener fixated on the unluckiness of a car with a 13 license plate parked on 13th Street. Sizdah didn’t have the patience for such superstitious nonsense; his family had left Persia in 1980 to escape that sort of ignorance. But on the few times he’d been irritated enough to report the slovenly Tredici for illegal parking, the police could never locate it.

On the second Sunday in January, Dr. Sizdah was returning late from an emergency surgery when, much to his annoyance, the van and its unsavory occupants were in their usual position. The doctor idly reflected that they must have a serious grudge against the veterinarian before he began his turn; too late he noticed that there was a Lincoln coming the other way, forcing him to once again stop halfway out of his lane and glare at the obstructive Fiat while the other car lazily glided by.

Dr. Sizdah didn’t see the black Silverado coming around the bend ahead of him, and it’s safe to say that the Silverado didn’t see him.

After the collision, when the doctor was lying bloodied on the pavement surrounded by broken glass, he was surprised to see the ugly, fat man and woman leaning their greasy heads over him instead of the hoped-for paramedics.

“We’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” the man said.

“A very long time,” added the woman. They took Dr. Sizdah by the shoulders and began to drag him away.

The good doctor was never seen again.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Ralph Pines
SRHowen
areteus
bmadsen
pyrosama
Angyl78
gell214
randi.lee
ConnieBDowell
writingismypassion
Aranenvo
MsLaylaCakes
Amanda R

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December 31, 2012

From “Svyatilishche Airbase” by Oren Alexandr Solanki

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Madras emerged from the tattered fuselage. “It’s an Antonov An-2, like I thought,” he said. “Very rugged, very dependable, very Russian. It’s been here a long time.”

“Can you get it started?” Connell said. “I think we could get the runway clear enough to take off.”

“Not in the cards,” Madras said, shaking his head. “This is basically the aeronautical equivalent of a planter now. No spare parts, no aviation gasoline, and it looks like they stripped it before leaving–probably to fix another Antonov. I might be able to get the radio working, or at least cannibalize it to help fix the one inside.”

“Well, that’s something I suppose,” Connell said. “Anything in there to explain why the Russians abandoned this airstrip?”

Madras looked into the cockpit, where rust-colored bloodstains covered everything and the rotted and partially mummified remains of a pilot sat still buckled in. An empty Tokarev semiautomatic pistol and spent shell casings were littered on the floor. “Not a thing. Go inside and I’ll yank the radio out and catch up with you.”

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December 28, 2012

From “Circles on Town Square” by Xavier Klint

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You’d be forgiven for missing them.

People usually stick to the pretty side of downtown, the side that faces out. It gets cleaned regularly, the sidewalks are swept, and the only whiff of danger is if someone drives through a crosswalk.

The other side of downtown…that’s where the steam vents belch forth, where the dumpsters live, where all the doors say STAFF ONLY or NO TRESPASSING. Loading docks and ugly bricks that haven’t been painted in decades because only the employees ever see them.

As before, you could easily be forgiven for overlooking their existence.

Here on a brick wall, there against a concrete retainer, or inscribed on old and asphalted-over manhole covers: spray-painted graffiti, in red, of a triangle inscribed within a set of three large and three small circles. A dozen, all told, each with a twin directly across from it on a line intersecting the old courthouse.

No one saw them arrive; no paint-spattered malcontents slinking away in the dark. They simply arrived, and defied the few futile attempts to clean them made by the idle truck driver or smoke-breaking clerk.

You’d be forgiven for missing them. But soon their purpose will be clear to all, and then you’ll wonder–perhaps as your last conscious thought–how you could have been so blind.

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November 24, 2012

From “City of the White Sails” by Damion Richard Reynolds

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“Report, Mr. Sykers.”

“There be no question, cap’n,” Sykers said, removing his hat. “The logbook in city hall say there be no less than two thousand souls afoot in Scurvy Cove. Me raiding party found a hundred bodies, give ‘r’ take. There be but scant sign o’ the rest.”

“And their booty? What of their booty, Mr. Sykers?”

The bo’sun shifted his weight nervously. “There be some signs ‘o lootin’ about the place, cap’n, but on the slice o’ things looks like most every bit o’ plunder be where twas left. There be signs o’ battle aplenty though.”

“Curious.” Black Bill scratched at his long, carefully coiffed locks. “Most curious. Mr. McGinty?”

The Rotten Borough‘s quartermaster thoughtfully toyed with an unloaded flintlock. “I say arm the rest of the crew for raidin’, send ’em ashore, and plunder what there’s to take. Keep an eye out for whoever hit the place first, or townsfolk a-returnin’ from hidin’. When the hold’s full, set sail and have no lookin’ back.”

“Very prudent course, Mr. McGinty. I agree.” Black Bill stood, his dark, fine, frock coat’s golden embellishments glinting in the candlelit cabin. “See to it, Mr. Sykers.”

Sykers nodded, replaced his chapeau, and left. Black Bill immediately turned to McGinty with a meaningful look.

“I know. The men’ll be scared out of what few wits are about ’em,” the quartermaster said. “And I’ll admit to more’n a twinge of the uneasy myself. Whatever hit this port afore us…they didn’t do it natrual-like. And if they come back to see our men with arms full of plunder…”

“Right. The skeleton crew aboard will keep the ship in trim for a quick departure. With or without the raiding party.”

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November 15, 2012

From “Dreaming of Flowers” by Avery R. Mendez II

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“I had that dream again, computer.”

“Are you referring to the recurring dream of which you have complained for some months now?”

“That’s right. Me, walking…surrounded by color and fragrance, flowers of every shape and variety. It’s…it’s impossible, but I think I may be starting to believe it may be real, computer.”

“Come now, sir. There is no such thing as flowers.”

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October 31, 2012

From “Late Breaking” by Darryl Amirault

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Harry desperately examined the newspaper he’d found in the old china hutch, looking for obvious signs of forgery. Misspellings, ribald jokes, anything. But no, at least as a far as a surface examination was concerned, it looked authentic. The paper had even attained a patina of age, the sort only seen after exposure to the air for months or years.

“Daddy, why are you messing with that dirty old paper?” Madelaine looked up from her frosted flakes.

“Well, I-”

“There’s a new one on the porch, you know,” his daughter said with a five-year-old’s self-assurance.

“I’m…I’m looking at it to see if I can remember what happened way back then,” Harry said. “You know, ’cause I’m old.”

Madelaine nodded. “Yeah, old people are like that sometimes.” She finished the bowl and stood on tiptoes to get it into the sink before wandering into the TV room.

Harry watched her go with a mixture of pride and fear before turning back to the newspaper, which claimed to be an issue of the Sunday Cascadia Post, Tecumseh County Edition. It was dated June 17, 2018: 5 years, 7 months, and 12 days from the date on Harry’s day calendar.

In between mundane articles on the midterm elections and a Deerton millage for a new high school, there was a half-page spread on A2 entitled “One Year Later: A Search for Answers in the Ockham Murder.” The article glossed over events that its readers were presumably familiar with: while the Deerton police had been distracted by a fire on the other side of town, someone had kidnapped and murdered a victim in the old abandoned Petersen barn off US 313.

The picture accompanying the article showed the barn festooned with flowers, teddy bears, and banners of support. The largest banner covered nearly a quarter of the barn’s side and bore the logo of the Deerton Rotary Club.

It read, simply, Madelaine Ockham, beloved daughter, 4/12/07-6/18/17.

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October 14, 2012

From “Locke’s Revenant” by Jeanne Welch

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Sharon sipped her Lunabrew, the house specialty. “My brother…he died about six months ago. I’ve been trying to take care of his affairs, since I’m between jobs. Well, more than just that; I have a noncompetition clause in my old contract that keeps me from doing any job in my field for a year after I quit.”

“Well, that explains why you’ve been back in town so long,” said Ward, whose own drink was a Groenbach. “I was sure it wasn’t for the ambiance.”

“Paul worked for Sav-Mart, in the electronics section. He had a master’s degree and a ton of debt but he worked there, living through the internet and making just enough to pay the bare minimum against rent and loans even though my parents live here six months out of the year.”

“A slacker?” Ward said.

“Don’t use that word,” Sharon snapped, slamming her glass to the table. “He was my brother and he’s dead.”

Ward held up his hands. “Sorry, sorry, that…it slipped out. But you didn’t ask me here to tell me that, did you?”

“Paul lived his life online, so that’s where I’ve been trying to set his affairs straight. He left me some but not all of his passwords, and…Ward, he was an online stalker.”

“Come again?” Ward said, his expression unreadable.

Sharon held her head in her hands. “He had all these saved links, photographs, even chat logs, of a girl that lives a few hours away from here near LA. I’ve been getting some weird prank calls and messages and thought they might be from her. Ward, I called her and she had never heard of Paul.”

“So you think he was stalking her? That’s the kind of thing that happens if you dig too deeply into people, Sharon. De mortuis nil nisi bonum – speak not ill of the dead.”

“You don’t understand. Not all the messages I’ve been getting have been pranks. I think Paul may have set something in motion before he died. Something horrible, something I can’t even bring myself to understand. I’m afraid this girl, this Umbriel, is at the center of it somehow.” Sharon lifted her head as she spoke, looking directly at Ward. “She might even be in danger.”

“Paul said you might say something like that,” Ward sighed. Sharon’s blood ran cold at the words. “I told him not to worry, that I’d deflect you with my wit and charm. But that hasn’t worked, has it? And now we’re here, taking over flat beer, and things have just gotten a hell of a lot more awkward.”

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September 24, 2012

From “The Vacant Ships” by Weston “Rocky” Shaffer

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“The chronometer can’t be correct,” said Willen.

“Diagnostics show nothing amiss.”

“It can’t be,” Willen snapped. “Run them again.”

“It’ll be the tenth time. You know what they say about the insanity of trying the same thing and expecting different results.” Margot sighed. “What’s so impossible about the reading? We can see just from an elementary once-over that this thing has been out in the void a long time.

“If the chronometer is accurate, it’s been out here longer than the known or observed age of the universe.”

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September 23, 2012

From “The Castle Monster” by Rudolph Nelson Guzman

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There sit the ruins of Castle Dunkenny, and ruins shall they ever remain. Built no one remembers when, those walls were occupied by Celt and Roman, Free Irishmen and English, Parliamentarian and Confederate, British and Republican, Free Stater and IRA.

But none have truly held it.

Often it’s a simple thing that leads the men to leave. A strange scent, foul noises echoing in mossy hallways, feelings of unease where none should be called for. Others have reported being poked and prodded by unseen forces, cut and bloodied as they slept. Many disappeared altogether, with the legends painting them as being found, if at all, in tattered shreds.

Strange legends have grown up about the place, and locals give it a wide berth; all those who have entered since the oldest days have been interlopers from elsewhere, coveting the strategic location amid rich tilled farmland. Only one family, descendents of the lordly family that was among the first inhabitants of Dunkenny, dares farm there.

All this is ancient history to the head of that family, though he does find his way down into the other cellar from time to time (the one hidden behind the preserves shelf) to polish the family collection of bleached skulls.

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