Gluttony

The mouse crept out of its little hole. It followed the wall towards where it knew there would be food. But before it got there, it found an oddity: some sort of object with cheese on it. The mouse became delightful in this new find. It crawled onto the contraption and attempted to take the cheese, springing the trap, and sealing its death.

The Promise

By Ashleigh ZiDillon

It was supposed to be their big day. High school sweethearts, finally tying the knot. It was an outdoor wedding, under a beautiful arch. They were surrounded by not only beautiful flowers, but also many of their friends. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon. The scene could not have been more perfect.

That is, until the accident.

Now she lay under the wooden arch, blood dripping onto her dress. She hears screams in the background. Faint at first, but slowly rising in volume. She turns her head, even though it causes her great pain, searching for her mate. Her love. Her partner.

It was difficult to see anything. Smoke, dust, and blood mist clouded the air. She could make out her friends, her family, lying in puddles of their own blood. In the blood of the ones around them. A couple of people with minor injuries were checking on others. A few had been covered with their own jackets or wraps. Whether it was a sign of respect, or trying to hide the horror, she was not sure.

Dave, the Best Man, appeared above her. He had a nasty looking head wound, but it did not seem to faze him. She could hear him talking but didn’t understand a word of what he was saying. She slowly sat up. Her torso screamed in pain. She believed she broke a few ribs. Dave tried to get her to lie back down, but her stubbornness prevailed. Seeing that she was going to do it with or without his help, he gave her a hand.

She tried to stand but her ankle refused to hold her up. Dave helped her to her feet and she leaned on him to keep herself up.

“Where is he?” she asked him. “Where is Cam?”

“I’m sorry,” he started to say, “but..”

“Where is he?!” she screamed at him.

Dave closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Come on.” He started leading her around the destroyed arch. She could now see a giant hole in the ground right behind where their officiant, Jessie, had been standing. There had been some sort of explosion. A kamikaze she bet. One that had sneaked through their safety perimeter.

“You shouldn’t see this.” Dave stopped in front of Cam laying face down in the dirt. She started to crouch down, but Dave held her up. “No. Don’t.”

“I have to see him.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I have to!” She pulled herself away, tumbling to the ground next to her would-be husband.

His hair was matted to the side of his head. his jacket was still slightly smoldering with embers. She touched his shoulder and gently shook him. “Cam?” she whispered. “Cam, please get up.”

“Kira…” Dave trailed off.

“Cam! Please!” She shook him harder. “Get up! Get up! Get up!”

She gripped his shoulder and forced him over onto his back. She recoiled and screamed. His face, his beautiful face, was gone. Half of it blown away from the blast, the other burned to nothing. His tux was in tatters. A mix of blood, bone, dirt, and Italian leather. His left arm, gone. His insides spilling onto the ground.

She felt bile rising in her throat. She attempted to scatter away, but could not with her injured ankle. She started coughing up blood, her stomach trying to empty itself. Dave rushed to her side, pulling her away and turning her onto her side. He was worried about the amount of blood pouring out from within her.

Her coughing stopped and she breathed heavily, trying to slow her heart rate. She thought for sure it would beat right out of her chest. She closed her eyes and lay on her back.

Dave sat beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am so, so sorry.”

Kira didn’t respond. She didn’t even move. “Kira?” He gently shook her. “Kira!” He checked her pulse but had difficulties finding one. She didn’t seem to be breathing either.

“I need some help!” he shouted and started doing chest compressions. “She stopped breathing,” he told Rylan as he came rushing over.

Rylan checked her vitals and started doing chest compressions himself. Dave wasn’t sure how long he tried, but eventually Rylan sat back. “It’s too late.”

“What?”

“She’s gone man.”

Dave shook his head. “No. No way. She can’t be. She was talking to me just a minute ago.”

“What happened?”

“She started coughing up blood. A lot of it.”

Rylan tore at a hole that was already in Kira’s dress. Her abdomen was bloated and a sickly purple color. “She had internal injuries. She bled out. These ribs are clearly shattered. She never would have made it.”

Dave looked around at all the chaos going on near them. “Others need help. You should go.”

“Are you alright?” Dave just shot Rylan a look. Rylan nodded. “Yeah. Me either.” He got up and went to be of service to others.

Dave could hear the sirens in the background, finally making their approach. Again Dave looked around him at the destruction of what was meant to be a beautiful day, a happy day, the perfect day. Instead it turned into their worst nightmare.

Paramedics arrived at his side and guided him out of the way. He knew there would be no saving her and he couldn’t watch them try. He walked over to the arch and covered Cam up with his jacket. Staring into the crater left by the kamikaze, Dave did not weep. Nor would he. He would not allow a moment or mourning or despair to occupy one more second of his life. Not until every one of those kamikaze assholes met a painful end,

He would get his revenge, or die trying.

He owed them that.

Wrath

He didn’t want to be another gunned-down black kid, so he did what the officer said. He turned around and slowly lifted his empty hands to the air. But he didn’t know that, to the officer, regardless of complacency or lack thereof, there was only one way this would end.

Sloth

He could hear a man yelling in the apartment above him once again – it was the third time that week. There were some crashes, loud noises, and he could barely hear a woman crying. He turned up the volume on the radio, and did his best to ignore them.

Envy

She could taste her dinner again as it came back up. She could hear it splash into the toilet. She spat and once again shoved her fingers to the back of her throat. I will be beautiful! she thought.

Greed

It was the plant’s last day; tomorrow it was shutting down. The company wasn’t out of business, just moving operations overseas.

While plant workers worried about how they would feed their families, the CEO dreamed of a new yacht.

Lust

They sat in the den together, sitting on opposite couches with a coffee table between them, facing each other.

He couldn’t keep the rage and bitterness from entering his voice, “You said that you would love me and only me for the rest of your life. What else have you lied about?”

She met his eyes and smiled, calmly saying, “Everything.”

Danse Macabre: Break Time

Samael sat in the office’s break lounge trying to relax and enjoy a cup of coffee, but the flickering of the fluorescent light in the ceiling made it difficult. He had half a mind to reach into the corner and pick up his scythe, and use it to break the light, but he knew that management frowned on that sort of thing – he didn’t want to deal with another infraction.

He heard a grumbling voice doing a lot of cursing in the other room, and it was getting nearer – Charon. Samael liked Charon, and considered him a friend, but the guy was rather abrasive.

Charon entered the room and threw a small sack down on the table, across from Samael. “Damn fucking cheapskate shits!” he said before going to the fridge and poking his head in.

“Hi, Charon,” Samael said. “How’s your day going?”

Charon claimed a brown paper bag that had the words CHARON’S FUCKING LUNCH. DON’T YOU DICKHEADS TOUCH IT!!!, and then flopped down in the seat across from Samael. “I curse whoever the asshole was that started the trend of giving the dead pennies! Pennies!? You wouldn’t tip your waitress with pennies, would you? FUCK NO! And she’s only bringing you food – while I’m ferrying you to the next life! Which one seems more important to you!? I mean, SHIT! It’s not like you even need your money anymore!”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” Samael said, even though his friend had neglected to ask.

Charon let out a sigh to settle himself after his rant. “I’m sorry, Sam. It just pisses me off.” He opened up his bag and pulled out a cup of strawberry yogurt.

“At least you get tips,” Samael said. “None of the rest of us gets any.”

“What are you complaining about?” Charon demanded. “You get to play games with everyone you collect. You get paid to have fun!”

“It used to be fun. But now everyone just wants to play Modern Warfare. I’ve gotten too good at it. I always win. Where’s the fun there?”

“Bah!” said Charon as he continued to eat his yogurt.

“What are you going to do with all of your tips, anyway?” Samael asked.

“A speed boat.”

“WHAT?”

“It’s called a Blade Runner. Super fast and super cool.”

“You want to carry souls across Styx with a speed boat?!”

“Of course,” Charon replied. “I get tired of rowing.”

Samael was silent for a moment before asking, “And management is okay with this?”

Charon shrugged. “What’ll they care? As long as the job gets done, they shouldn’t be complaining.”

Samael shook his skull inside his cowl in disbelief. He looked up at the clock ticking on the wall. “I gotta head back to it,” he said while standing. He went to the sink and rinsed out his mug. “Will I still see you at the pub tonight?”

Charon nodded. “With fucking bells on. Have a good one, Sam.”

“You too, Charon.”

’76 Gibson Byrdland

I exited my attorney’s office with a heavy heart. My divorce had just been finalized and I wasn’t quite up to heading back to my recently acquired studio apartment, so I just allowed myself to wander the downtown streets, no particular destination in mind. I keep my gaze down as people walk past me, to and fro, in the spring’s afternoon sun. Though I don’t listen to their conversations, I hear them, and they seem happy.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.

I eventually check my watch and discover that I had been wandering aimlessly for more than an hour. I decided to head to my favorite watering hole for a drink – The Wayfarer.

I entered the bar; surprised to see it so populated that early in the evening. I quickly realized why – Open Mic Night.

There was a young kid who looked like he could still have been in high school on the stage. He was playing a rendition of “A Horse with No Name” on a ukulele – it wasn’t half bad, yet neither half good.

I found an empty table in a dark, secluded corner and made my way for it. After sitting, a waitress came by and I ordered a porter from her. I thanked her when she arrived with the drink, and took a long sip. Dark and thick – delicious.

I brooded in my corner as the night went on, listening to wannabe musician after wannabe musician. I kept ordering drinks, all dark ales, but never enough to get drunk; just enough to keep the buzz going – the buzz that was helping me keep my mind off of things.

The early evening turned into twilight, which quickly made way for night. I was finishing what I decided would be my last drink – an oatmeal stout – when a young-man, maybe in his mid-twenties, got on the stage. He had some sort of hollow-bodied electric guitar; it looked old and worn. He plugged in and started playing.

The opening chord was strong. He held it for a while before playing the next one. He then played the next one, then the next. He kept that progression and added a slow rhythm to it. After a few bars, he brought in a melody. He wasn’t playing with a pick, but using his fingers, plucking the strings independently from each other.

I couldn’t tell you why, but it all seemed sad and lonely; like he was in mourning of a lost love, or playing for a specific person in the audience that he hoped would be there, but knew that they wouldn’t be.

The song continued on without any lyrics – it didn’t need them. Everything that the listener needed, everything that was important, was just the guitar.

The music crescendoed slowly, taking measures and measures to swell before it reached its zenith, then just as slowly, came back down again. It reminded me much of an incoming and outgoing tide, or the passing of seasons in a year.

I felt something within me stirring, something that I thought to be dead, something that had passed in consequence from my divorce. My heartbeat felt like it was changing its pace to match that of the song’s tempo. I was more than just listening to the song – I was experiencing it.

I felt a connection emerge from me to the guitarist; or much more likely, the connection came from him to me. He was baring his life, his pain, his soul to me, and unexpectedly, I received it. I was no longer alone in my dark corner; I was with this man – he in my life, and I in his.

All too soon, the song finished. The musician unplugged his guitar and got off the stage.

I sat for a few minutes in still silence, shocked and awed by what I had just had the pleasure to experience.

I went to the bar and paid my tab. I asked the bar tender who the musician was – she didn’t know, had never seen him before. I asked her where he was – she said that he left as soon as he got off the stage. I thanked her and I too, left. I looked around on the street but could find no sign of that guitar player anywhere.

Ever since that night, I had gone back to every Open Mic Night, but that guitar player never returned.

I had never before fallen in love with a man, nor have I since. It had nothing to do with his looks or his genitalia. It was his soul that I loved – that I cherished.

I eventually found love again, this time to a woman. We got married and are very happy together. But I still think of that musician every day. And I pray to whatever force that is out there, that his song is now a happier one.

Absurdity in Real Life: Pilot

Seth left the library late that night.  He was supposed to be home hours ago, but once again, he lost track of time.  It was already an hour past sundown and the neighborhood he lived in wasn’t exactly safe.  He past drug dealers, gangbangers, vixens of the night, and the homeless; thinking uninteresting thoughts, hoping to go unnoticed.

He was a ginger kid, small-ish for his age.  He had few friends at school and many bullies.  For the most part he attempted to avoid them and stay out of their way.  Every once in a while though, there was a swirly here, wedgie there, signs that say “KICK ME” everywhere. He was amazed that their levels of maturity did not increase once they got into high school; not surprised that it didn’t change once they became juniors; but studying is where he kept his focus, he had no time for them.  And it’s his studies and his absent mindedness that had put him in his situation.

Dad’s gonna be mad, he thought.

He noticed a hooker across the street looking at him and he quickly averted his eyes back to the sidewalk.  From his peripherals he noticed her move and cross the street toward him.  Oh dear… He picked up his pace.  She rushed and caught up to him and said “Hey baby, what’s the hurry?”

“Uh, no thank you!”  He kept his eyes to the ground but noticed that she was wearing black stilettos and fishnet stockings.

“Oh, come on baby, you haven’t even heard me out yet.”  She smelled like urine. “Wouldn’t you like to have some fun with Victoria tonight?”

“No thanks.  I don’t like fun.  But I like going home, which is what I’m doing now. So if you’ll please excuse me,” he said nervously.

She grabbed his arm and forced him to stop.  “Come now, honey.  It won’t take long.  We could just head into an alley, get behind a dumpster, and I could work you off.  It won’t take but a minute.”

He met her eyes now.  They were sunken into pale flesh and the irises were dilated.  Instead of the stereotypical too-much-makeup whore, she wore absolutely none. Her greasy, black hair fell to her shoulders.  He could tell that just saying “no” would not work, so he thought of a possible deterrence.  “Oh please, you don’t want anything from me, I have herpes.”

“Oh, that’s okay honey.  So do I.”  It didn’t work.

Oh God!  “Please, just leave me alone.  I don’t want anyone’s company.”

She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled down a section of her top, exposing her breast, and made him touch her.  “Come now darlin’, I have a lot that I could offer you.” She really didn’t.

“GAH!”  He was able to struggle out of her grip and started hurrying away.  “No! Please just leave me alone,” he shouted back to her.

“Fine!  Go, you fucking queer!  I hope you choke on a fucking sausage!”

Note to self:  amputate hand when you get home.  He kept up his brisk pace when he heard footsteps behind him.  He quickly turned his head and saw a tall, dark figure catching up to him.  Oh no!  That must be Victoria’s pimp!  Seth started to run and the figure gave chase.  Seth reached the end of the sidewalk, rounded the corner, and ran into someone.

“Please, sir, you have to help me! I’m being chased by-” but he turned and there was no one behind him.  The man that he ran into suddenly grabbed Seth’s neck and started to choke him.

The man’s dark and ominous voice said, “Don’t worry, young man.  It’ll all be over soon.”

Seth was unable to breathe.  He was panicking and started to flail his arms about, trying desperately to get free.  I’m going to die!  He was beginning to lose consciousness, everything was going dim.  He had one last thought of his parents, and then there was darkness…