Author: fictionphrog

The Tale of Lunt

fictionphrog

By: Jesse Leisch

 

“Come, children come. It is time for a tale,” the story teller said. He was and old crippled looking man. He wore old tattered robes with a big pointed hat, and carried a walking stick with what looked like a giant pearl on top of it. He had a great long beard that was as white as the snow, which seemed to reach his waist whenever he stood a certain way. His skin was wrinkly like he had spent too much time in the water, but his eyes were a bright green still filled with life. The only thing on him that looked of any value was a golden ring with a stone the same color as his eyes. The old story teller was a well-known man who traveled from village to village, telling wild tales of all kinds taking place in exotic lands filled with unique people.

The children quickly started to gather around, as well as some adults who happened to be in the tavern having a drink. The old storyteller was next to the fire place, sitting in an old mahogany rocking chair. He had been staying at this particular tavern for a few days now telling tales for free lodging. “Now what tale would you all like to hear today?” said the storyteller. Almost all at once the children started yelling out suggestions hoping theirs would be the one that got picked. It all turned very quickly into indistinct yelling, and the storyteller had to quiet them down. “Ha-ha, hush now children. My old ears can’t keep up,” he said. He then took a moment to survey the crowd when his eyes fell upon a little girl, maybe 12 years of age. She had dark brown curly hair that fell just past her shoulders, and her dark skin tone made her unique purple eyes stand out all that much more. Her name was Isabell, and she had a reputation for being quite intelligent, far beyond her years. “Ah Isabell, you’ve been so silent back there, like a mouse, please tell me what tale you would like to hear today?” said the storyteller.

Isabell took a moment to contemplate a tale would be a good one. She started tapping the bottom of her chin with her index finger, a habit she’d picked up whenever she was lost deep in thought. After what seemed a time, she looked up, “I would like to hear the tale of Lunt” she said. Many of the other children started murmuring and whispering amongst themselves.
“Oh I’ve never heard that one before,” another girl in the audience said.

“I don’t know, sounds kind of boring,” a boy sitting next to Isabell said to no one in particular. The old storyteller just leaned back in his chair stroking his beard.

“Ah the tale of Lunt, a fine story indeed,” the storyteller said while he continued to stroke his beard. “Very well, the tale of Lunt shall be the tale of the day,” he said while pulling out a pipe and lighting it with a match. He took a few puffs and began.

Lunt was a red-haired man who loved nothing more than to steal famous valuables. Whether they were heirlooms in distant families, or they were jewels belonging to a duke. In fact the more difficult the valuable was to get, the more likely it was that Lunt would try to steal it. He once stole a simple comb from the leader of a group of bandits, just because a drunk man at a tavern said he didn’t have the skills to do it.

“What is the value in that?” a boy said interrupting.

“Well, Lunt enjoyed proving people wrong, and he wanted to be known as the greatest thief ever as well,” the old storyteller said. Now over time, Lunt’s ambition to be the greatest thief started to affect him, he found that his red hair was a very distinguishable trait and soon enough his infamy grew too much. He started to get recognized by people in the villages; now as a thief, this is the worst thing that could happen to you.

“But I thought he liked it when it was really hard to steal something,” a little blonde haired girl said while raising her hand.

“He does indeed,” the storyteller said. In fact Lunt loved that he started to get recognized. It meant that he was on his way to becoming the world’s greatest thief. He also knew however, that he needed to perform a theft so great that even years after he was gone people would still remember him.

Now it just so happened, that Lunt had been hearing rumors that a great king would be in his area. This was to celebrate the wedding of his daughter to one of the Duke’s sons. Lunt had never stolen from a king before, nor had he ever heard of anyone else successfully stealing from a king.

“Is he going to steal his crown?” another one of the kids said.

“Yes,” the storyteller said with a big smile on his face. But not just any crown, this particular one is the greatest one that’s ever been created. It was solid gold, and lined with jewels all around it. All the money in the kingdom would not have amounted to its value. However with Lunt’s reputation getting so big, he knew the guards would be on the lookout for thieves. He couldn’t run the risk of being recognized before he could get close to it. It just so happened though that this particular king had a great interest in magic. He had his very own wizard that traveled with him everywhere he went. Though a great king would not just have any wizard, oh no, he had the great Nero traveling with him. Now Nero was a man who took great pride in his abilities. He was a world renowned enchanter who gained all of his fame from creating great artifacts with immense power. One such artifact was a ring that could alter ones appearance.

This sparked Lunt’s curiosity, for there would be nothing better for a great thief who gets recognized, than to be able to alter their appearance. All Lunt had to do was get the ring from Nero before anyone recognized him. He quickly set out with a plan in mind, and when he reached the castle the king was staying at, he put his plan into action.

First, he went around back to the kitchens and disguised himself as a cook, making sure to put a hat on to cover up his distinguishable red hair. He then went about regular chef’s duties biding his time until Nero asked for food to be delivered to his quarters. This was the perfect chance for Lunt to check out the castle. He needed to figure out where the king’s quarters were, as well as where all the guards were posted, and of course figure out an escape plan if things didn’t go his way. Now after walking through the castle and getting lost a few times, Lunt finally found the kings quarters. To his dismay however, there were two colossal sized guards standing on either side of the door leading to the king’s room. Lunt did not want to get in to a fight with them by any means.

After passing the king’s quarters and going down a few more hallways, Lunt finally arrived at the wizard Nero’s room. He stood outside the door for a moments to collect himself. He knew that he needed that ring, but was unsure of where it might be or what it might look like.

”Wait so you’re telling me, he doesn’t even know what the ring looks like?” said one of the boys in the front with a look of shock on his face.

“Indeed I am,” the storyteller said simply while leaning back in his rocking chair and taking a good long puff of his pipe before continuing. Lunt took a deep breath and knocked on the door, he waited a few moments, then a few more. No answer, so he knocked again, this time a bit louder. Deep down he was hoping Nero had been called away or fallen asleep in the time Lunt was surveying the castle. This would give Lunt the perfect opportunity to search Nero’s quarters for the ring. Lunt decided he would try one more time before breaking into the room. Just as Lunt went to knock, the door swung open, and there both men stood staring at each other. Nero was a bit taller than Lunt and had a big black beard that seemed dark as the night sky. He also wore simple robes that were a dark blue.

Nero was the first to break the silence, “Ah Lunt, I wandered when you would show up,” he had said with a slight smirk on his face.

“What? You must have me confused with someone else, I am but a simple cook,” Lunt said while awkwardly gesturing with his head to the food he was holding in his hands.

“No, I’m not. Please come in we have much to discuss,” Nero said while turning around and heading back in to his room. For a second Lunt just stood there stupefied, not knowing if it was a trap or not. “Are you coming or not,” Nero said from inside his room. Lunt reluctantly entered closing the door behind him. “Be sure to lock that door, don’t want anyone eavesdropping on our conversation,” Nero said sounding even more distant than before.

“So how did you know it was me?” Lunt said while taking the chef’s hat off his head.

“Because we have met before,” Nero said while coming around the corner. But he no longer looked like he had when he answered his door; he looked like a completely different person. A more familiar person but very different. His beard was gone, he had shrunken down about three inches or so, and had a huge belly now. It took Lunt a moment to figure out why this man looked so familiar, then it dawned on him. He was the same drunken man from the tavern that had dared Lunt to steal the comb from the bandit leader.

“You’re,” he paused, “from that tavern,” Lunt said, still awkwardly holding the plate of food.

“Yes I am, and you can put the food down over there on the table,” Nero said gesturing towards the dining room table while he removed the appearance shifting ring from his finger. As soon as the ring was off Nero transformed back to his old self.
“But why?” Lunt said while putting the plate down on the table and walking back over to Nero.

“Because I had heard rumors of a great red haired thief that could steal anything no matter how impossible it may be. So I sought you out and tested you,” Nero said very calmly.

“Ok, but why did you test me?” Lunt said curiously

“I need to steal something that I myself cannot get, even with all of the trinkets at my disposal.” Nero said gesturing to a trunk at the base of his bed behind him.

“Oh, and what might that be?” Lunt said cocking his head back and squinting his eyes.

“I need you to steal my magical staff back from the king. He has taken it from me and knows I will not leave his company without it.”

“And just what is in it for me?” Lunt said taking a step towards Nero.

“Two things,” Nero said holding up his first two fingers “One, I will let you keep my appearance changing ring,” holding up the very ring as he said it.

“And two?” Lunt said taking another step towards Nero.

“Two, I will tell the tale of Lunt in every village and city that I visit after I leave here,” Nero said extending his hand out that held the ring. Lunt took another step towards Nero, held out his hand for the ring, and with a big smile across his face said, “You have a deal, where is your staff?”

“Wait so you’re Nero the wizard!” a boy in the audience said.

“There was a time I went by that name, but now I simply prefer to just be called storyteller,” he said rocking back and forth in his chair. Just before the old man could get back to his tale more people came into the tavern. They were the parents of all the children, the hour had grown late and it was time for them all to head home. Many of them protested saying they wanted to hear the rest of the tale, but the parents were not hearing any of it. The storyteller quickly chimed in and told all the children that they could come back tomorrow, and he would pick up where he’d left off. After a few more moments the whole tavern was clear except for the storyteller and Isabell.

“Is there something I can help you with Isabell?” the storyteller said still rocking in his chair, puffing his pipe. Isabell walked toward him until she was standing directly in front of him.

“You’re not Nero, you’re Lunt,” Isabell said.

“Oh, and what makes you say that?” the storyteller said.

“Because the world’s greatest thief would have stolen the crown, the staff, and the ring,” she said staring the old storyteller directly in the eyes.

“You’re a very clever girl Isabell,” Lunt said lifting his pointed hat to reveal a golden crown lined with jewels.

A Really Killer Ad

fictionphrog

By: Breanna Glover-VanRensselaer

 

He washed the red smears off his hands, then sat down at his computer and began to type. Things with his last roommate just hadn’t worked out.
He wrote:

Room for rent, $600, at 1200 Serial Lane, Salt Lake City, Utah. Includes:
A furnished bedroom, with a queen-sized bed. Don’t flip over the mattress.
A garage full of power tools. Not available at night.
An updated kitchen. Don’t eat the meat in the freezer.
A huge back yard. Sorry, the grass is dug up.
A shed on the property. You may hear some noise coming from it at night, but just ignore it.

You can use my car sometimes, if you need to, but only during the day. I drive a white Volkswagen Beetle.

You can have guests over, because I have many visitors. They’re always gone by morning.
He heard a whimper behind him. He got up from the desk, dealt with it, and then it was quiet in the house again. He returned back to his ad. What else to include to really hook someone? He decided to write a bit about himself.

I’m a single, white male with dark brown hair, no facial hair, and light blue eyes. I’m quiet and charismatic. I go by Ted, and I prefer a female roommate. Girls are just so much easier to handle. But I promise you I won’t try to hit on you. I’m sure you’re not my type.

Behind him, the television was playing the local news. The anchor was reporting about a young college student named Beth who had gone missing a few days prior while walking home from the bar. On the screen, her distraught parents pleaded that if anybody had any info, to let the police department know. Ted smiled. He decided to lay out some specifications for his new roommate. He couldn’t live with just anyone, after all.

My ideal roommate would be in her twenties or thirties. She would be quiet and clean. If you’re new to town and moved here all on your own, that’s great.

There. Perfect. He was sure the replies would start pouring in. He just had to clean up his latest mess first. He hoped it wouldn’t stain the floor. No one would like that.
A week later, there was a soft knock on his front door. He opened it to see a girl in her early twenties, wearing a backpack and carrying a duffle bag. A run down car was parked in his driveway. She looked timid. He liked timid.

She had been the second person to respond to his ad. The first had been a man in his early forties, and that just wouldn’t do at all. She had paid him her deposit, which he promptly spent on a new blow torch.

That night, he offered to make her dinner. A welcome present, he told her. If she noticed that the chicken alfredo tasted a little off, she didn’t mention it. When her eyes began to look a bit glassy, he said to her, “Would you like a tour of the house? Let me show you my garage.”

He couldn’t wait to test out his new blow torch.

 

Biography:

I am a 20 year old Public Health student who enjoys reading and writing in my spare time. I like dystopian novels, fantasy stories, dark comedy, and anything that has to do with magic.

The Ultimate Ultimatum

fictionphrog

By Brandon Henry

On an ordinary day, Bickford would have been already deep into the bowels of the Clearwell mine. He has now worked in that bloody mine for over fifteen years. Like most families in England, times were tough. Bick only makes five quids a day, barely making ends meet. The Great War has been ravaging Europe for years now. Workers of all types were required to work longer hours in support of the war efforts. Before the war had broken out, Bick had met his wife whom was studying at Oxford University. A beautiful, fair skinned woman, who had fancied Bick since they met at a local tavern while she was on holiday. They wed six months later, and started a family together claiming home to the suburbs of Gloucester.

Bickford would work until the wee hours of the night, eat dinner with Dorothy and his two beautiful children Alice and Peter. He was a picture perfect father, always there to tuck the children into bed with a good story. All of that had changed. The war had forced Bick to practically live in the mines. Some workers have gone on unofficial strikes, claiming they could not afford to feed their families. Which was another reason Bick was forced to pick up more work hours. This inconvenience had placed a lot of strain on Dorothy and Bickford’s marriage. He was only home long enough to shower and sleep never seeing his children awake. He was also never drafted, the doctors told Bick he had early stages of “The Black Lung.” He wasn’t opposed to joining, he actually liked the idea of throwing a spanner in the works on those Jerry’s.

Several hours after Dorothy had readied the children for bed, Bick stumbled in the door after a grueling thirteen hour shift, black as the night sky; he headed straight to the washroom to have a shower. Quietly Dorothy says “Bick, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what Dorothy?” Bick said.

“We never see you, your children, they don’t ever get to see you. They need their father, and I need my husband. You need to leave that mine, it will kill you too, just like your father!”
Bick replied, “How do you plan to live? I cannot just stop work, I have to make money! How would we bloody live then?”
As the tensions rose, Bick stormed upstairs, wondering how she could be such a selfish twat. He thought what can I do? After all he has grown rather zonked of the mine. He finished washing up, and proceeded downstairs to confront Dorothy. As he walked down the staircase, he could here Dorothy whimpering over the creaks and groans of his footsteps on the old wooden floor boards.

Dorothy continued to argue with Bick, telling him to find another job. She stressed that her and the children needed Bick. She gave him an ultimatum, change jobs to be with the family, or they – her and the children – must leave for her parents in London.

“That stonking mine Bick, it has nicked you from us!” Dorothy said.

“Have you gone barmy? If I leave the mine, where will I make money? I Love you Dorothy, but I can’t just sit on me arse!” Bick said.

“What if we leave? We can pack up and go across the pond, at least until the war is over.”

“Yeah Dorothy, that would be cheap as chips! Sod off! You’re mad!
The arguing continued until the early hours of the morning. Bick had finally fallen asleep on the couch, while Dorothy had claimed their bedroom.

Bick had been woken up by the sounds of planes flying overhead accompanied by thunderous booms in the distance, one after another. It sent shockwaves that shook the entire house, it resembled the shocks while in the mine. The sunlight had pierced through the raggedy curtains, shinning onto Bick’s face. He realized he was late for work. The sound of the planes and booming was all too familiar. He sprung up off the couch and ran to gather his things for work. As he rushed out the door onto the front porch, he could see plumes of black smoke, the blackest of black he has ever seen. Blacker than the soot that caked his entire body after a hard day’s work. Overhead were Nazi bombers. Not knowing if there would be more attacks, Bick drove to the mine. As he reached them, he could see police officers and Tommy’s blocking off all roads leading to the area.

“Blimey!” Bick said, He had finally realized that they had bombed the mine. The Germans have occasionally bombed areas which aided the war with coal and iron. Bick decided to stay, and see if there was anything he could do. Perhaps now, Bick won’t have to argue the toss about the ultimatum Dorothy laid down.

Meanwhile, Dorothy had risen and started her day while listening to the BBC on her wireless. There were lots of dishes to be done and other choirs around the house. She also figured she needed to pack later to be off to London by dinner time. She thought it was obvious what Bick had decided to do. “How could he choose that mine over his family,” she thought? On the broadcast, Tord Lidell was talking about some bombings that had happened in Britain today. “…And in Gloucester, the Clearwell mine, which is a major supplier of our naval ships, had been destroyed just after 7:00 am this morning. Casualties are unknown at this time, it doesn’t seem likely any inside have survived.” The plate Dorothy had been washing crashed to the floor, shattering at the same time her heart did. “Bick…” she thought, “Bick was to be at work,” she did not see his truck outside. Panic had set in, knowing her husband is buried alive. Her stomach began to knot, she felt weak and nauseous knowing the last thing said to one another was not “I love you,” but was her threatening to leave him.

After the police had shooed Bick away as if he was a curious child in a restricted area, he headed for home. The thought of him missing work brought all kinds of emotions to him. He felt overwhelmed with a flood of guilt, sadness, and even joy. He kept thinking of his friends, crushed below the surface. He thought of how Dorothy last night yelled and pushed him to leave the mine. He reached the front entry and frantically shoved the door in, almost removing it from the rusted hinges that supported it. There, he saw Dorothy and the children weeping huddled together on the couch, as if striving to stay alive out in the blistering cold of winter. As if seeing a ghost, they hesitated. For a brief second, time seemed to be at a standstill. Dorothy lunged off the couch and embraced Bick, the children followed frantically. “I thought you were dead!” Dorothy cried, “I’m sorry Bick, I Love you!”

“I love you too Dorothy, I am sorry I haven’t been here for you and the children.” Bick replied with a broken voice. Overwhelmed with emotions they all began to cry, and for a moment, forgot about the tragedy at the mine. Without any other words spoken, they knew they were a family again.

Bickford had been so furious with Dorothy this morning over last night’s event. He now knew that if that argument never had happened, he would have been in the mine. It would have become his final resting place, a tomb. One in which would not suitable for any man. His marriage had been endangered, but without that threat, he would never even had a chance to decide about the stipulation which was thrown at him.

The following day, Bickford had given it a lot of thought, perhaps going to America was the best choice. They packed their things and sold the house, and left for America. Since that dreadful day, their affection for one another had flourished, it grew greater than when they first fell in love. Bickford started working for General Motors, assembling tanks. As for Alice and Peter, they couldn’t be happier to have their father back. No longer would Bick live in a world of utter darkness such as that mine. Even with the war continuing, he at least had his family and they were safe in America. A job can always be replaced, but a family cannot be.

Stains

fictionphrog

By Megan Finsel

“It won’t come out,” she said, and I could hear panic in her voice.

“Just scrub harder.”

From the sound of the splashing liquid hitting the tile, I could imagine she was slapping it against the side of the tub.

“What do I do if it’s permanent?”

I rolled my eyes. “You wear it just like everyone else does.”

“But what will they think of me?”

Humans, you’re so insecure; you always let the opinions of others define you. “No one will notice unless they truly know you,” I said, “and then they won’t care.”

She was crying; I could hear her sobs from under the bathroom door. I sighed. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Not that bad?” The door swung open and she stood there, bearing before her the shimmering piece of herself. I could recognize her soul even though it had a very red, very obvious, stain in the middle.

“It’s still there!” Her voice quivered. “I ran out of good deeds to wash it with.” Behind her, I saw the bathroom was a mess; iridescent bubbles floated on the floor. “What do I do?”

I shook my head. “This is a part of life. We make mistakes, and souls stain. Sometimes we can wash them out, sometimes we can’t. Go iron it, it’ll be fine.”

The Ghost in the Bedroom

fictionphrog

By Megan Finsel

She was screaming again. I could hear her even though the door muffled the sound. I tried not to listen as she shrieked and hollered about muddy work boots and nonsense. I didn’t envy her husband; the poor old man took the worst of it.

A slice of light fell in a golden sheen between the curtains, making a wedge on the floor. I watched as the dust drifted lazily, not a care in the world. I wish I were dust, I thought. Pounding footsteps came up the stairs. When the bedroom door blew open, I jumped from my seat. She swept in with the strength of a tempest, carrying a whirlwind of noise. Nothing about this woman was silent.

“…and that cat!” she screamed. “You’re always letting it inside the house! Told you, I’m allergic!” She blew past me without even looking.

“Would you shut up?” I asked. She was rushing about, yanking papers off the desk, pushing books onto the floor. A can hit the floorboards, scattering pencils at my feet. I looked at them, longing to pick one up again, to hold it in my hands and write with it. I miss creating things.

“If you can leave the house a mess, then so can I!” she declared, yanking the quilt off the mattress.

I wish they had never moved in, I thought, the other tenants had been so nice and quiet.
“Please, shut up.” I said, but she didn’t even look at me. I missed the days when people could hear me. Not that they listened, but it was better than being invisible. Now, nothing I could do would get anyone’s attention.

“And your underwear!” She held up a pair of red boxers and shook them at the doorway. “You’re always leaving them about. Would it kill you to pick them up once in a while?” She went to the closet and began pulling out clothes. “You’re always telling me to tidy up, how ridiculous!”

“Shut up!” I shouted. She spun around and looked at me, past me, through me. Her eyes couldn’t focus on where my face was; they stared out the window and into the woods. See me! I thought. I’m right here. I’ve always been right here. Why don’t you ever see me? She whirled away and proceeded to yank boxes from the top of the closet.

“Shut up!” I screamed, louder than she had ever been. The walls shook, the floor shook; the entire house quivered with the force of my voice. She stopped and stared at me as if she could actually see me this time. Her eyes met mine and steadily grew larger and larger.

“Can you see me?” I asked. I was both scared of, and desperate for, the answer.

“G…” she whispered, and as she stared at me, she progressively grew paler. “Gh…!”
“Can you hear me?”

Her response was a scream, the shrillest scream I had ever heard from her. She flung herself at the doorway, tripping over the quilt that snared her feet. I ran towards her, but she crawled into the hallway. I was stopped at the door, unable to go any farther; unable to follow her downstairs, outside, or anywhere. I looked about my prison and moaned. If I weren’t already dead…

Downstairs I could hear her yelling at her husband again, telling him about me, the ghost in the bedroom. The stories were all true, this house was really haunted, and they had to move. I sat myself down at the window again and wondered who would move in next, as the dust continued swirling in motes.

Disjointed Reaction to a Scream

fictionphrog

By Brandie Hyde

Hearing the shrill shriek caused her muscles to freeze mid-stride with only forward momentum providing the little extra nudge thus forcing the otherwise stop-motion foot to at last drop from its state of momentary suspended animation.

Her eyes slam closed as if to keep the recalled detail specifics from escaping the swirling centrifuge at work in her skull. Had the person who uttered the sound been a woman? A man?

A manly girl? Or a girly man? Not that sex, gender, or identity mattered per se, but it is a factor in terms of deducing a superior approach. Had it originated from a forward or a back alley? From the left or from the right? Was there any other clue to be gleaned from that split second? An informed decision is key.

Her eyes reopen following the near instantaneous blink which felt so much longer while the snap analyzation was conducted. Alone she ran against the sea of others who, in choosing to ignore the potential danger, had quickly spun on their heels 180 degrees opting to mind their own business.

Others flee as she passes in favor of pursuing the origin point most likely, and she readies herself to take on whatever scene she may encounter and simultaneously observant enough to testify to details in court.

The oddity of her otherwise gun loving nation, she didn’t see the necessity for them and thus didn’t have one nor cared to.

A problem with guns? They’re too easy, too disconnected, and she feared they may take her to a place she doesn’t care to go. There’s no such thing as unarmed as people have been killing one another from the beginning, so she didn’t need a manufactured tool developed specifically for that singular purpose.

A person who needs to be packing heat to defend themselves and are incapable of doing so by any other means were wussies… guns are for pus—-.

Rounding the corner and witnessing the act in progress she closes in… 3… 2… 1… showtime.

Bio: My name is Brandie and as a resident of the North Port / East Venice area, I’m what they call a “displaced homemaker” who in light of her situation decided it was time to crank out a few degrees at long last in hopes of landing a position making a Living wage. I’ve learned well enough by now that making any sort of “plans” is an utterly pointless and futile exercise, at least so far as I’m concerned anyway. That’s not to say it’s for lack of trying mind you… things just rarely go ‘as planned’. To counter this, I typically have a contingency, or two for that matter, at the ready. I was never a Girl Scout, but as a general rule I prefer to be prepared as opposed to the alternative.

Thirteen axes minus one

fictionphrog

By Lexxa

Blood is pouring from my fingers again and I have no clue as to why. Maybe it has something to do with my cell phone being cracked. Glass pieces are everywhere and I am lucky enough to crush every piece in between my fingers somehow. At least that’s what I think, even though I cannot find any glass on my actual hands. As I am washing off the blood I peak out of my kitchen window. Crazy old lady Jane’s garage is open inside I can see a total of 13 axes hanging from the tool box. Why would such an old lady need that many axes? It’s not like she’s planning to chop down any trees anytime soon. Her husband was murdered three years ago. I was the one to find him laying in a pile of blood and guts. I thought for sure I would be scarred for life, but I wasn’t. They never did find the murderer, even after six more killings. Still, I was not scared. I went to grab a towel to dry my hands and a thought came rushing through my head. Axes. Each victim was killed with an ax. Maybe old lady jane is hiding something. Something big. What if she is the murderer afterall. I must figure this out. I spent the whole day planning how I would get inside of crazy Jane’s home and how I would find clues and fast and get out. It’s now 9:02 pm and I patiently waited for the clock to strike 9:04 pm which is the exact time the lights in her house go off and she goes to bed. 9:03.. I left the house dressed in black, I hope she does not see me or attack because I don’t have any weapons to defend myself. I am now at her house outside of her window I peek in and stare for 15 minutes so I knew she was asleep. She was laying there so lifeless in her pink nightgown. I went to window number two and stared for another 15 minutes. I sprinted to the next window and to my surprise it was unlocked. I quietly rolled it up and snuck inside. The house is so old ladyish. Floral wallpaper, floral furniture, floral everywhere and it smells like old people. Figures. I go to the garage and notice that there are only 12 axes now when earlier that day there was 13. Was she planning on another murder? I search high and low and find no other clues but where oh where did that other ax go to? What is crazy Jane hiding? I go into her room and see her lying there so hopeless, so innocent. “AHHHHHH!” pitiful jane screams with all her might, I run out of her house drenched in blood and sweat. I look at my right hand and there is an ax in it, a bloody murder weapon. I must have taken it from the garage for self defense when she attacked me and forgot all about it. I fall asleep and when I wake up I there are cops everywhere and the garage is wide open. I look closely and count. Twelve axes hanging on the tool box. A smile rises on my face.

Candelabra

fictionphrog

By Megan Finsel

I spend three weeks in the dining room staring at it on the shelf before I find the courage to touch it. When my hand doesn’t pass through, when my fingertips connect with the cold, rough metal, I could cry.

Touch is a funny thing, when you think about it. How when you are alive, you use it to interact with the world. A touch on a shoulder equals familiarity, while a hug offers comfort. Textures tell you what is pleasant, and what is not, while temperatures warn you of danger. Then, when you are dead, touch is what you feel starved of the most.

When I lift it, it’s heavier than I remember from my past life. I stroke the metal; run my fingertips over the rust and peeling paint. I touch it to my lips to feel the chill. I sit and hold it for hours at a time. I try to carry it with me, but the doors quickly thwart my efforts. I cannot open them, and it cannot pass through. So I stay here in the dining room because when I hold it I feel alive again. It reminds me of my humanity.

Sometimes, I imagine I can still see traces of blood on it. Isn’t it funny that the weapon used to kill me is now the only object I can interact with? Yeah, it’s hilarious.

You Did

fictionphrog

By Lydia

We told you not to light the match, but you did it anyway. You were so drunk you couldn’t understand yourself. We tried to stop you. You said you wanted to do it. So you did it.
We hid from the fire department when they arrived at the Celery Fields, ten minutes after the fire started. We can still smell the putrid stench of burnt hair and seared skin. We can hear the homeless mans’ screams echo in our minds. We can still close our eyes and remember him waking up from his sleep, already engulfed in gasoline fueled fire. The flames licked vertically along the edges of the roof as the entire gazebo was engulfed. The 30 year old picnic bench turned to ashes. You were laughing, holding the matches. We couldn’t believe our eyes when you dowsed everything in gasoline, including him. As quickly as the fire started, it ended.

You were too drunk to remember, but we remember. We remember you threating us, if we told anyone what we saw; you would do the same to us. Finally, you passed out. Sarah’s brothers loaded you in the bed of her Ford Pickup. No one wanted to take you home after what you did. So they dumped you behind the closest McDonalds. When we saw you next, you were drinking again. Jimmy thought about knifing you for what you did, but we told him to wait. We realized if we kept giving you Whiskey, you would pass out fast and then we could leave. It wasn’t unusual to see someone passed out drunk at a place like Ackerman Park.
Three months go by and a few of us are riding our four wheelers on top of the Celery Field Hill. You hear about it, and ride yours up to ours. Jimmy dares you to take the Trail all the way to the dead end. You were already drunk, at least 12 bottles in. You wanted to put money on it. Jimmy bet a hundred. When you disappeared down the hill, we all bet on your life not your money.

You didn’t know that there was barbed wire fence at the dead end. You found out quick, after you couldn’t stop in time. The barb wire made a perfect line across your neck, almost all the way through. Your intoxicated blood was squirting out of your severed trachea, covering your white tee shirt. We have that memory etched into our brains too.

We all won the bet we placed on you. We bet you saw the homeless man appear before you, as you hit the wire. The Gates of Hell opening for you as you drive through; severed head and all. But you said you wanted to do it, so you did it.
We knew if we told, you would still find a way to kill us, so we didn’t. We would rather not think about it, but weeks after we couldn’t help but notice the vultures circling, where we knew you were. We would all sit on top of the Celery Fields hill and talk about you, watching the vultures.

We knew you had a rough life. Your parents were going to put missing posters out for you, but they didn’t. Your dad is abusive and your mom loves pain pills. We knew you were taking pain pills. We knew your mom practically fed them to you. Your dad would take you out back and beat you until you couldn’t fight back. Sometimes he would give you a shovel and make you dig a hole big enough to be your grave. Your hands would bleed, and you would wonder if today was the day your dad would come out and put you in your grave. That was when you were fourteen.

You were really fucked up by twenty one, selling beer to minors. You went away for years. When we saw you, you had changed from PTSD. Then you came to us, wanting attention. Said you needed friends, someone to care. We thought there was hope for you. Then you turned to the bottle again, twist top and child proof. Then you burned that man alive. We will be the only ones who know you for what you are, a murderer. Who is now in the stomachs of vultures.

The Third Law

fictionphrog

By Beatrice

(1)MASKING (n). The act of covering up one’s own natural appearance.

(2)Beatrice Jolie is an intelligent, attractive 26-year-old woman. She is studying to be a nurse during the day, and working nights at a nursing home. Beatrice doesn’t find it hard to stay awake all night; the patients are elderly and sleep fitfully, so there is often someone getting up who needs her help. They all – the men and the women – tell her how beautiful she is, and often.

(3)Beatrice Jolie leaves each night shift feeling she will never be able to wash the smell of death out of her hair, her skin.

(4)EARLY MORNING AT BEATRICE’S APARTMENT IN CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. BEATRICE IS GETTING READY FOR CLASS.
With careful strokes Beatrice applies primer, foundation, and concealer to her face. She no longer has to think about what she’s doing; it is a part of her day, putting on this other face. She swipes liner, mascara, fills in her eyebrows, layers color onto her lids. Chooses a larger brush for the contouring that will create bones where none exist. False lashes are the final step, and her work is complete: identity in place. She checks the mirror to be sure. Good.

(5)Lambert’s third law states that the luminous intensity of LIGHT decreases exponentially with distance as it travels through an absorbing MEDIUM.

(6)Beatrice gets to class just on time and sits in her usual seat, not too close to the front (where she could draw the professor’s attention) but not too far in the back (where she would feel invisible). She feels the eyes of the other students as she stacks her notebook and textbook onto the desk, feels in her bag for a pen. Beatrice is prepared for this. All young people look at each other, searching for flaws. She is safe, thanks to her careful routine in front of the mirror. The professor starts the lecture.

(7) The professor has wispy, flyaway hair. He hasn’t shaved in days. He is highly respected in the field; they even bragged about him on the university website.

(8) Masks keep their own timetables. By the time Beatrice finishes classes, gets home, eats, starts her homework, it is time to change into scrubs and rush to work. All night in the dimly lit nursing station she will answer calls,
change soiled linens and try to read her textbook, hunched over the metal desk. As usual, several patients smile up at her as she approaches their beds that night and say, “Hello, beautiful.” It makes no sense to Beatrice – her carefully applied makeup has long ago been wiped off with a towelette; leaving only mascara residue ringing her tired eyes.

(9)Her mask expires every night here; these people have never seen her any way BUT unmasked.

(10) No one in Beatrice’s classes have ever called her beautiful. If anyone does talk to her, it’s mostly about assignments or this or that professor or where to go for a parking pass.

(11)According to Lambert’s third law, the luminosity of Beatrice’s natural beauty was decreased with every smudge, every brush, every finger full of Revlon and Mac that she placed on her face. The makeup became the MEDIUM which absorbed all the light, so no one ever saw her true intensity.

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