Consequences

Consequences

Life is like mixing drinks. Adding things together make a whole new thing. A lifetime’s worth of unrequited love mixed with a gallon of faith and trust is a stable compound; stir in a large dash of untraceable money and, sure as shit, it turns into betrayal, with just a whiff of avarice for good measure.

The frost rimed window distorts my view of the street, like looking through a snowman’s kaleidoscope. If I stand in just the right spot though, there is a clear patch, just big enough to see trouble coming. And it is coming tonight, just like it always does.

In the halo of the solitary working street light, I can see her waiting. Cool and beautiful as ever, she wears her designer labels like armour from the cold that she never seems to feel. As she flicks her lighter, the flame illuminates a face more perfectly painted than any Michelangelo ever captured. A face I know as well as my own. I had thought that I knew the person behind it too, but, hell; one out of two ain’t bad.

It goes to show, you can’t be sure about much in his world, but one thing I was sure about was cocked and loaded in my coat pocket.

The thing about the cold is, it carries sound - messages for the brain to turn into pictures. You can create a whole movie in your head from just the evidence of your ears – if you know the back story.

The slam of a car door – no, two doors. A big car, heavy doors.

Footsteps across the cobblestoned street, slow and steady.

The screech of a reluctant gate hinge.

Bam. Bam. Bam. A tired, communal door shivers under the weight of the blows.

The buzz and click of the entry system. Someone decides to let a problem in - to save their door – and in the hope that it isn’t their problem.

Count the treads of four feet on threadbare carpet. Thirteen steps to my floor. Unlucky for some.

Wait.

Another thirteen steps, but only one pair of feet.

A crash of a door, a scream, a slap, and silence for a heartbeat.

The floor boards creak above me. I follow them across the ceiling, the light fitment trembles briefly and then settles as the steps move to the back.

The back!

I snatch the precious carpetbag and rush to the rear of the flat to cover the old, now disused communal staircase, a relic of the building’s grander days.

Stamp. Stamp. Stamp.

As the echo fades from the flat above, two doors are kicked in.

One above me, one behind.

I fumble for my forgotten 38, but the hammer snags in the lining of my coat.

A sharp metallic tap tap tap bounces down the stairs.

BANG!

Blinded by the flash, I stagger back, stunned and deafened.

A blunt, brutal, blow buffets my ears and I go down like a house of cards in the Chinook, bouncing once of the wall and once off the floor.

Face down, one eye examines the worn, dirty boards closer that I ever wanted to.

A harsh metallic taste invades my mouth, dripping down my face and pooling dark on the floor, some running away through ages old cracks, into the flat below.

A pair of red stilettos glides into my field of vision and a perfectly manicured hand reaches down daintily for the fallen bag using a slip of white lace handkerchief, to protect from the grubby handles I assume, not from the filthy lucre inside.

As the shoes spin away to leave me to my fate, my 38 shouts from my pocket.

I see one of the perfectly formed feet disappear in a cloud of red mist.

She falls in front of me, face scrunched up and screaming. Not so pretty now, eh?

There you go, Honey, betrayal and revenge, the perfect cocktail.

I call it Consequences.

 660  words

This story was the winner in Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster 3.11 flash fiction contest, and was inspired by this week's song 'Don't Worry Baby' by Los Lobos.
Judge Ruth Long said:-
 Each one of the stories was filled with tension and angst but the devil was in the details. Nick Johns' story was slick, polished, and filled with fresh crisp details that stuck in my head like good song lyrics. In short, it’has a great noir feel that left me wanting more –  much more!

Into The Woods

They must come soon.

Crouching in the shadows I peer into the gloom.

The moon dark night smothers my sight. Nothing is visible, but patterns still emerge as my brain stubbornly struggles to makes shapes from the sheltering woodland. The wind rustles the trees and a man sized shape looms in the distance before vanishing with the next random movement of the branches. Even the shadows writhe, shifting shapes, greater darkness vying with lesser to make phantom apparitions manifest before me.

I squeeze my eyes tight shut, seeking the refuge of total darkness, but even that eludes me as I watch the shadows continue their sinuous dance on the backs of my eyelids before slowly, imperceptibly, developing impossible colours that swirl before me like oil on water.

They must come soon. I know they are hunting me.

I force myself to focus on my other senses. The rustling leaves whisper secrets to each other. Sharp, sibilant secrets of the cruel, cold, silent hours, half-heard tales of horrors undreamt of under the sun’s happy domain. They call to me, sirens of desolation, urging me to shout, to drive away their murmured roar. Instead I release another slow, measured breath, so faint that I barely hear it.

The musky loam scent of years-old leaf litter, mixed with faint pine scents of the needles beneath me, tickle my nostrils. Those same needles prick me through my heavy woollen sweater with every slight movement I make.

Damp, rising from my shallow scrape hole wicks through to my shirt, clasping my skin in a lukewarm embrace. The loss of heat from my core, slowly stolen by the unyielding ground, brings a shiver, causing twigs to crackle beneath me in protest.

But colder still is my sole companion. It has adapted better than I, swiftly settling to ambient temperature. A whiff of light oil drifts from it and steals into the night, scouting for other unnatural aromas. The night terrors and sounds of the dark wood hold no sway over its angular perfection. No hooting owl distracts it from its singular purpose. It waits, patiently as I cannot, for them to come.

A pale glow flickers between the distant boughs, jumping and dancing. And another. And another.

A line of battery powered fireflies in the darkness.

Slowly, cautiously they quarter the ground, seeking sign of my spoor.

My breath comes sharper now. My heart pounds and blood whooshes in my ears.

They are here.

I reach out to clasp my unsleeping companion one last time, enfolding it in the comforting, familiar embrace of long practice. I nuzzle my cheek against its cold flank and steady my breathing.

I work the bolt with infinite soundless care, and wait for them to come into my crosshairs.

 455 words

@nickjohns999

This story was written for Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster . This week's prompt is Dark Road by Sarah Jarosz 
It received an Honourable Mention from judge Laura James, who said:- 
I’m also giving a wee Honourable Mention to Nick Johns, very clever writing – I didn’t truly get it till the last line.

By The Light of the Silvery Moon

  

Damn Grandma, calling for help tonight of all nights.

Well, when I got there she didn’t need help; gobbets of flesh stuck wetly to every surface and blood spattered across the shiny oak floorboards – it was gross. And where the hell was Grandpa?

I was thinking about calling the Feds, when I hear noises. Snuffling, shuffling – a growl that echoes deep in my gut, like a speaker with the bass set too high. The only good thing was that it was outside.

I shoot the door bolts so hard the frame shakes.

I look around the room for something useful. Old ladies’ trinkets fill every inch of the room. You couldn’t ever put a cup down without knocking something over.

I grab the heavy brass candlestick Grandma always whined was so hard to clean and take a practice swing. I couldn’t hit a fading fastball worth shit, but I reckoned a head, being a bigger, slower target, would be easier. And I had way more incentive not to miss.

The door shakes like it’s been rammed by a monster truck, then the scratching starts. Scratching? That’s like calling Katrina a thunderstorm. It sounded like someone was trying to cut through with an industrial band sander.

My mouth’s so dry a six pack won’t wet it. My hands shake like... well like Grandma’s, I go to the window, flatten myself against the wall like in all the best cop shows and twitch the curtain. A dog is trying to scratch and bite through the door.

Damn, calling that thing a dog was like calling King Kong a gorilla, accurate maybe, but way too lame and giving no clue to the sheer size of it.

The full moon clears the clouds and moonbeams light me up. I get that dizzy, sick feeling like always. The pale light paints the dumpsters and wrecked cars with a shimmering silver frosting. Not a neighbourhood where screaming attracts much attention. Cops it is.

Dropping the candlestick I pull out my cell phone. Three tries to get shaking fingers to locate 911 then, just as the ringtone starts, the phone buzzes and shuts down.

No battery.

Shit.

The growl becomes a weird howl, pitch rising with the hairs on the back of my neck and arms. I let the drapes fall, shutting out the silver light.

Get your shit together, girl.

I scoot for the kitchen, slipping on the slick, pooled blood darkening the floor. I peer inside, checking, before making a dash for it.

A hand grabs my wrist and yanks me back into the living room.

I sprawl across the floor, coming face to face with a strange woman’s head, staring at me from under the couch. The neck has been sliced clean through.

I sense movement behind me. I roll to one side as a blued steel blade chops into the floorboards where my head just was. I scramble away, scrabbling towards the window, stretching out for the candlestick. My ankle is grabbed, pulling me back towards the centre of the room. The hand releases me. I flop like a beached fish, rolling on my back.

A wild eyed man looms over me, samurai sword raised for another strike.

The window crashes in, covering me in shards of glass. The great grey wolf knocks the man to the ground. Yellow teeth lock around the man’s neck and, with a great shake and sickening rip, pulls clear, showering me with fresh, warm blood. The sword clatters to the floor.

The wolf faces me. I feel his hot breath and see scarlet drool matting his fur.

He growls, pale cloudy eyes fix on me. He sniffs the air, panting, long pink tongue flapping from his mouth.

He steps back, rears up, and shakes and shakes, until Grandpa stands in front of me, still breathing heavily, mouth red.

His warm, hairy hand pulls me upright.

“Grandma shouldn’t’ call you tonight. I’ve told you before to beware the full moon. Our kind attract crazies. Now, if your mother had married someone of the old blood, you could’ve looked after yourself. Come on, Girl, help me clear up before your Grandma finishes hunting; I’m starving!”

 695 words

@nickjohns999

This story was written for Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster contest and was loosely inspired by this week's track 'The Hungry Wolf' by Los Angeles punk band X  
It was awarded second place in the contest. Judge Ruth Long said:-
" Such a fun and suspenseful read – kept me guessing and worried all the way through! So fun to think about grandparents – were or otherwise – running amok!"

Crossroads

Her eyes flashed in the darkness.

There was huge energy in the place tonight.

I felt her watching me, judging me, driving me on. But with the energy came a sullen and dangerous undercurrent. Spilled drinks might mean spilled blood and a clumsy push might be met with a glassed face. But God, I felt on fire!

By the final set of the evening, the walls ran with sweat and the people surged like a rowdy, restless storm tide against the stage. I stepped up a pace or two, towards the front, oblivious to hands grasping at my ankles. I sang with new ferocity, feeding on their emotion. My harp licks were sharp and breathless, prodding and driving the crowd ever higher as my voice soared across the songs.

Davie moved in close and prodded me with his bass, eyes searching for what had got into me. I short armed him back and he slid on the beer slick floor, almost losing the beat along with his footing.

In the pause before the final number I basked in the warm swell of raucous noise.

Instead of the familiar strains of my only minor radio hit, I stamped and clapped a quick, high tempo intro and launched into an edgy, rock version of an old folk song that I hadn’t done on stage for years, beckoning the band to follow me.

As they fell in with the frantic, unfamiliar rhythm, I saw her drift to the front, right below me, staring up at me. The footlights’ glare framed her glowing eyes and wild grin in a red henna halo, writhing snakes biting at her face as she bounced and swung her head to the beat, one hand on the air. I goaded the crowd now, conducting them in repeated, ever louder chants of the chorus, before finally dropping my hand to end the song like flicking a master switch. The sudden silence stunned them and they stopped for a second before erupting in a final, frenzied, feral roar.

I jumped the footlights, grabbed her hand and fished her from the swirling maelstrom, hauling her up, weightless, to stand triumphant beside me. She grabbed me by the neck, wrenching me around to face her and I felt her tongue probing for the roots of my songs. Tiny mirrored images of me danced, reflected in her jade green eyes, and I clung to her, like a drowning sailor to a spar. I reeled back when flashing lights from lack of air dappled my vision. Still clutching my hand, she dragged me urgently from the stage and toward the street.

The clammy heat of the gig steamed from our clothes and hair as we ran, headlong, towards the sodium oases scattered among the buildings by the few, still working street lights.

She pulled me on, hair flicking at my face as I tried to match her wanton energy. At last she stopped near the shadowed doorway of a boarded up brownstone and I doubled over as the midnight chill stole my breath away, and my ears rang with the unamplified silence.

A china white finger under my chin forced my head up and I stood with it, still gasping, marvelling at her pale, shining composure.

“Did you feel it?” she asked. “Did you feel the power?”

“Yeah, it was a good gig, sure...”

“Good? It was your best – ever...” She stepped back, regarding me, her face a porcelain mask. “...and you can have that, and more. You can have great.”

Another backward step into the doorway left only her beckoning hand in the light. She hooked a finger in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. I peered for her in the gloom.

Her voice slipped sinuously into my ears and tugged at my soul.

“Do you want it? You know what you need to do. Come and get it...”

I paused, but then, my treacherous foot moved towards her.

Her eyes flashed in the darkness.

And she laughed.

 

662 words

@nickjohns999

This story was written for Jeff Tsuruoka's Mid-Week Blues Buster Flash Fiction Challenge and was loosely inspired by this week's song 'Sally MacLennane' by The Pogues