Paul’s Short Story

Here’s my attempt at a short story – hope it’s not too scary!

A Devilish Death
By
Paul Rafferty

Copyright 2014

Creaking his way along the dusty floorboards, Charlie, trembling with fear gasped as
the axe fell downward just a few feet from his piercing gaze. Embedded upon the
bloodied edge was none other than Gus Langer, the town’s leading neurologist. His
usual pink head and rosy cheeks no longer recognisable as they now resembled a river
of crimson wine.
The skull itself was virtually severed into two equal parts. His lower
torso had been stripped bare of flesh as if ravaged by a swarm of tropical piranhas on
a day trip to Florida’s east coast.

The body crashing to the floor created even more lung filling dust, causing Charlie to
have an uncontrollable coughing fit and finally retching violently, vomited upon the
lifeless naked corpse.
It was at that moment that he heard it, ‘the voice’, a loud
grumbling sound not unlike the announcer at Paddington train station, but this was no
passenger terminus – this was the ‘big house’ of Trots Gray.

“Who are you?” Cried Charlie, picking up the discarded weapon in a vain attempt to
protect himself.

Fortune is said to favour the brave, only on this occasion Charlie was clearly out of
his depth. The blackened spike appeared just once, unlike the grey foggy images ever
present in the ‘big house’.
Charlie felt a shiver down his spine as the “whoosh” of the crimson implement fell in the centre of the of the blonde-haired woman’s decapitated fragile frame.

A single drop of sweat splashed from Charlie’s forehead, landing amidst the cobwebs
and wooden strips which supported the leather-strapped slippers protecting the hairy
exterior of his milky white flesh.
Charlie struggled to control his emotions, his face
reddened by the constant belching and throwing up at the sight of human entrails, the
lump in his throat almost choking him as he screamed aloud.

“‘Who the hell are you?”

SILENCE

Charlie’s limbs became stiff and rigid as a feeling of great pain slowly began to take
hold over his nervous system. All that he could remember was the buzzing of
electricity and the tingling sensation that numbed his entire being. Looking upward
came the sight that Charlie had always feared – the room slowly filling with rabid
bats!

Again Charlie cried!

“Oh my God… Dracula, it’s you!”

The ghostly image emerged swiftly along the filth strewn flooring making its way
towards the pathetic shape of Charles Conroy. With an assumption of anger, Charlie
acted like lightening and quickly grabbed the spike, spinning around as he did so, only
to discover that the white fanged demon had vanished.

“Where are you!” Demanded Charlie.

Turning around, Charlie glanced across the room to where the rumbling sound was
now evident along with the acrid aromatic odour of burning human flesh. A six foot
priest wearing long black robes began laughing aloud:

“Ha, ha, ha. Now it’s your turn!”

“Get away from me or I swear I’ll kill you!” Ranted Conroy.

“Oh not again!” Came the devil’s response.

At that moment a bat swooped down low and tore a small piece of bloodied skin from
Charlie’s left ear.

“Arrgh! Get away! Get away!

The sound of pain echoed the chamber in which Charlie
had now found himself.

Charlie flung the rusty weapon at the low flying vulture as it slowly began to take the
form of a female vampire. Her hair short and fair, rather than the stereotypical long
and dark of fabled legend.
The pure white naked temptress invited Conroy to her side by offering her hand, her silky robe having already been discarded to the scurrying rats that plagued the ground beneath her. A mesmerised Charles ventured closer and closer – then it happened…

The officer speaking in a low voice questioned his colleague.

“Do you think he did it himself?”

“Well, Dr Langer did perform the operation on his girlfriend.” Answered the fellow
officer.

“She died, didn’t she?”

“Maybe Langer killed her because of the affair.”

“What do you mean?” Questioned the guard.

“Well, if she was going to tell Charlie, then the neurologist would have been exposed
to the truth.”

“What is the truth?” Enquired the jailer.

“Who knows, who knows?”

The sound of the 09:27 from Paddington entered the mind of Charles Conroy. He
began bellowing times and destinations again and again like a depraved lunatic.

“9:27 to Trots Gray has just left Paddinglon. All devils leave the big house now!”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“10:15 to Florida come and get me!”
“I am not the one!” “’5:32 to Margate – ten minutes late.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Get away from me!” Charlie’s rarnblings becoming louder and louder with every foaming chant.

The guard placed the leather strap tightly around Conroy’s right arm and then the left.
Charlie’s head jerked sharply back with a resonating crunch that seemed to reflect
from wall to wall. His neck suffered a clean break as the first wave of three 10,000
volts entered his huge mass of blood and bone.

Charlie Conroy was executed at 06:00 on Sunday morning.

The guard smiled … revealing two large white fangs.

End

What Time is it?

Tick tock, tick tock, – the clock is ticking…

Mary J Melange

Weekly Writing Challenge: Report on one event/gathering/happening from your week in Gonzo journalism style. 

old_clock_by_ami46

It’s an overcast, gray January day, with patches of icy rain stuck to the pavement of the parking lot. A steady and focused walk is required so that I don’t break a neck bone before getting to the metallic blue Hyundai that awaits in the garage. This is Saturday, the day I most often pay a visit to 94 year old mom, who lives 24 miles to the south.

Arriving at the one-story, two-building assisted living facility, I grab mother’s alcohol in the brown paper bag and saunter into the small, squarish vestibule. Kristy pushes the four numbers on the keypad of the security door that will allow my entrance, then pushes open the once locked door. Kristy smiles and says “Hi! How are you?” “Well, I’m good,” is the reply, “Does mom have any mail?”…

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10 of the Greatest Essays on Writing Ever Written

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8TkQvdJVbc.

Copy and paste the above link for an insight into Stephen King’s writings.

words

Flavorwire

If there’s one topic that writers can be counted on to tackle at least once in their working lives, it’s writing itself. A good thing too, especially for all those aspiring writers out there looking for a little bit of guidance. For some winter inspiration and honing of your craft, here you’ll find ten great essays on writing, from the classic to the contemporary, from the specific to the all-encompassing. Note: there are many, many, many great essays on writing. Bias has been extended here to personal favorites and those available to read online. Also of note but not included: full books on the subject like Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, Stephen King’s On Writing, and Ron Carlson’s Ron Carlson Writes a Story, or, in a somewhat different sense, David Shields’ Reality Hunger, for those looking for a longer commitment. Read on, and add your own…

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A Different Kind of Call

EMU's Debuts

I got a voice mail from my mom a few weeks ago—just 10 seconds long, saying “Call me when you get this.”

My heart plummeted. For a year, I’ve been getting messages like these, and they almost always mean that my mom is back in the hospital. Or, at the very least, that she took a trip to the ER and was sent home once she’d stabilized. It’s the kind of information you don’t really want to leave—or receive—in a voice mail.

But over these past couple of months, things really looked like they were taking a turn for the better. Mom had not needed any emergency hospital trips for weeks. She’d slowly weaned herself off of supplemental oxygen, and her once-enormous trach tube had been swapped for a smaller size. She was getting out and about town, and was even talking about starting to drive again. A year after…

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