Mental Shrillness Page 5
I googled AIN and found one NOVL had setup a Facebook page for former AMAZNs and NOVLs. The last comment was January 2011 and had encouraged others who fondly remember AIN to comment. I did. If any fellow AINites happen to be reading this and we've lost touch please use the social media (ugh, hate that name) contacts at the end of this book and let's reconnect. Would love to read what you've been up to these past 15 or so years.
Enough setup, your tea is getting cold, let's get to the tales, the stories. It's your very, very, very last chance to bail to the beginning if you skipped reading the stories first. A good way to end up in the Mental Shrillness ward, you know.
"Memorial Day Descent" - Mental Shrillness: memories. Though I've never served in the military I have tremendous respect for the many brave men and women who do. They have a job far more difficult than anything I've ever done. There are too many soldiers who came back from 'Nam with bad memories, with horrible visions that have forever scarred their minds. This story won first place in the AIN Short Stories writing contest: "Falling" originally posted at AIN in May 1997.
"Pains in the Glass" - Mental Shrillness: betrayal. There is something about the way glass cuts flesh that creeps me out. Glass is so smooth when you run your fingers across it but the minute it shatters it divides into multiple menacing weapons ready to pierce, slash and cut. How many materials like glass betray our senses this way? Originally featured in the debut issue of FRIGHTNET Online Magazine in September 1997 and reposted at AIN under the topic "Betrayal." Sadly, FRIGHTNET and so many other horror webzines are no longer around.
"Dead Warmed Over" - Mental Shrillness: love. I'm fascinated by the power of love. It's no wonder so many stories, regardless of genre, have a romantic element to them. What would a guy do that really loved his wife and felt her dead flesh growing colder and colder? First place contest winner for subject "Lovers." Originally posted at AIN in May 1997 and in the STUMP webzine in January 1998. A google search as of this writing reveals that STUMP has gone the way of FRIGHTNET.
"Falling the Bobbitt Way" - Mental Shrillness: devotion. For those reading who are married I'm sure you remember your marriage vows; the promises to keep them through sickness and health. Tracy goes beyond extreme in her devotion to her sacred marriage vow with John but then someone with mental shrillness always does. Being male I shouldn't need to explain why this story disturbs me. This male cringe-worthy story only appeared very briefly at AIN and was quickly TOS'd (Terms of Service violation) on May 27, 1997 for being "too sexually explicit." It is the only story that I wrote and posted at AIN that was ever removed in this manner. I didn't remember the language being as sexually explicit as it reads today. That's what 14 years of perspective will do. So why include this story? I wanted to have something in this collection—something rare in my AIN posting history—which my AIN writing friends likely hadn't read. It didn't take the AMAZNs long to rip this story down.
"Dueling Eyes" - Mental Shrillness: voices. The eyes, among our most mysterious physical feature as human beings, are the focus of several stories I've written over the years. Glass eyes in particular haunt me. I used to work with a guy who had this glass eye that never moved and while I tried not to be rude and stare I always felt like his glass eye was staring at me. While my co-worker's glass eye never talked to me, I could see how people who had one might think it talked to them. I think if my eye was ever put out I'd opt for a patch over a glass eye. Originally posted to AIN on March 3, 1998. Among the last of the stories I ever posted at AIN and forms the inspiration along with "The Illusion" for the Mental Shrillness cover art.
"The Illusion" - Mental Shrillness: death. What trumps the fear of dying? If Harry Houdini couldn't figure out how to come back what chance do non-magicians have? The truth is magicians and illusionists are just bending, not breaking, reality. I have several fears in this story: disfigured creatures, masks, loss of identity and carnival barkers. Oh, carnivals! Is there any other place that's so much fun and yet can be scary at the same time? For some time I'd wanted to post something longer than the 250-1,000 word short stories limit at AIN. Before writing any of the stories here, I'd already completed seven novels, so was yearning to get back to telling longer tales. Because of the word limit, I had to post The Illusion in parts. Eight parts I believe as it's a little over 7,000 words which kind of broke up the story in ways I didn't like. Since it was longer than the maximum number of words it made the entry ineligible for winning any award or the mystical Amazing Instant Points (which I never used, d'oh!). A few years later I reposted this story on my "Scared To Death" website which, well, has been scared out of existence, gone like FRIGHTNET and STUMP. The formatting for "The Illusion" at my website wasn't very good even though it wasn't posted in serialized format. When I became more skilled at editing HTML I never went back and gave this story the proper format treatment. Time has given me yet another opportunity to merge the literary gates and format this to how it was originally conceived and you're encouraged to tell me how it worked out.
Six bullets spent from the chamber, six stories comprising this curious collection.
I hope you enjoyed this brief tour inside the Mental Shrillness ward. I had a lot of fun getting these tales out of my mind and revisiting them during the process of compiling and formatting. Think of our time together like coming over in the evening for a few cups of tea while outside a strong wind whips violently through the black. Relax, it's warm inside. With good fortune, time, and perhaps a little favorable prodding we can do this dark dance again with some more twisted tales to get you through the night or take you away from those mentally challenging days.
Horrifically Yours,
Todd Russell
March 27, 2011
The Clock Called Fate
Kyle Ekelton drove along the soulless highway against the scythe of time.
He could almost see the tall Medusian woman at the counter, her razory gaze shaving his hope to ribbons. He reached shakily for the windshield wiper switch and instead flipped on a local rock station. Hardly the music to sooth his nerves, he switched to country, then to soft rock, blues, jazz, and finally, again, silence. The black road. Him.
Benny died this way, he thought, they got him on the road...the road...just like me...
Kyle removed the pack of cigarettes from the glove box and whisked away a cold bead of sweat. He had purchased them after his brother had died. No, Benny, you weren't killed. Nobody could pin it on them.
They knew how to leave no clues.
He ripped the cellophane away and thought of Benny's final phone call, "Kyle, don't let them take you without a last—" Benny had been cut as short as his life. Twenty-one years old and the bastards had stolen everything but Kyle's memories.
WITHOUT A LAST—?
Wish? They'd always given men about to die a cigarette in the old days. Today they gave you a smile and a priest and flipped the switch. Kyle popped the cigarette in his mouth, fumbled for the lighter glowing red, and started puffing. The horror caught in his throat when he saw the haunting digital eyes on his wrist.
He jammed the accelerator.
Running late. Kyle's whole life was a plethora of terse, vertigo-inducing snapshots. Late to the wedding. To the divorce. The baby's birth. Benny's funeral. My own death.
Tommy Guiles, known for his feverish attention to details, had been four short minutes late with the package, but a policy remained a policy. The doctors said it was something sudden and shocking that sucked the blood from the chambers of Tommy's heart.
A mistake was more than a mistake.
"I was right," Kyle murmured aloud, his eyes focused on the speedometer. He hit the steering wheel furiously. The fear inside him ached for the mountains, somewhere away from them. Somewhere he had hope, a break, a chance—something they never had given anyone else. Running away would only prolong the torture.
Ahead he saw the neon sign. Inside she waited for him.
He checked the digital eyes. Eleven fifty-nine. One minute.
Sixty seconds...fifty-five....
He shut the door and raced inside, his tongue hanging at its side.
The sound of a keyboard chattering echoed as Kyle raced down the hall. The thought now was for him, not Benny or Tommy or his estranged wife or son. Time and he waging war. The final seconds. Thirty-five ... thirty ... twenty-five...
An old lady in a black dress sat in front of the keyboard. She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses on her wax-like face and smiled.
Ten...five...
The wax started to melt on her face.
Medusa.
The flesh shifted on her face. Above her head the clock ticked midnight.
"You're late, Mr. Ekelton."
Her laughter penetrated his skull. He reached for the envelope in his jacket pocket as the jolt gripped his chest. He gasped and collapsed to the floor.
"Mr. Levito! Come quick!" The woman screamed.
A tall man in a suit quickly entered the room and immediately felt Kyle for a pulse.
"He's ... dead."
Levito took the envelope from Kyle's cooling grip and counted the cash. "Well, it's all here, anyway. Have the boys take care of his body. Another messenger gone."
The woman raised her hands to her face. "He came rushing in, breathing like death warmed over. I guess he didn't realize..."
They both looked up at the clock above them.
"Yes, we forgot to turn that back, didn't we?" Mr. Levito chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn daylight savings."
$$$ Knowledge and Power $$$
Albert Dodds was the premier security guard, hawking the bank of monitors like a wolf with dripping fangs analyzing its prey.
"And what about that one?" The rookie, Keen, said, crunching a Dorito.
"The guy with the cane and the empty stare? He's about to deposit a whole lot of money. Yep. Watch how he moves over to the teller window like he is a decrepit—yep! Now he turns and heads over to the new accounts. He's dumping at least fifty grand into a CD."
"How about the little lady?"
"Dark hair, blue eyes with the quick gait?" Albert said, chuckling. "Showing all that cleavage, she must be here under the guise of opening a new account."
"Amazing! She's sitting down at that young buck's desk in new accounts."
"Quit hogging all the Doritos, rook." Albert stuffed a sausagy fingered hand in the bag and loaded a snapping wad into his hole.
"What about the guy in the green?"
"Baldy with the wide eyes and scowl? Yep, rocking back and forth on one leg like he needs the john real bad. Yep, he's here to complain about the bounced checks he just wrote and the eighteen dollar service charge for each one. Manager will have to throw him out."
Five minutes later, the manager escorted the disgruntled man to the door.
"How do you know so much about these people?" Keen asked.
"You watch them nine to five Monday thru Friday and they begin to look the same. Sure, there expressions change, but you can always tell what they're here for."
"Who's that there?"
"Guy in the blue sweater, trench coat, passionless eyes?"
"Him, yeah, what's he here for?"
"That's my dad, rook. He has an account here."
"Really? He looks a little ... serious."
"Mom and he just went through a divorce. Married twenty years."
"Bum deal, how's he taking it?"
"Dad? Sheesh, he's a tough guy. Rook, he wouldn't crack if the world was coming down. In fact there's even more turmoil. We found out my sister was getting married. To a woman."
"A lesbian? Wow..."
"Dad just laughed it off. He said there was nothing wrong with liking the same sex. Now me? Well . . . . Now give me those damn Doritos, rook!"
"You know what I think?" The rookie said.
"What's that?"
"That anybody can crack. That anybody you think you know could turn faces on you."
"Not me. Not Albert Dodds. I know them."
"Really?"
"Really."
"You ate all the Doritos, fatso."
"Who are you calling fat—" Albert turned and saw the gun cocked at his temple.
"Now look at the girl at the new accounts," Keen said. "See her spray the mace in the hunk's eyes. Yes, fat man, she will take care of the alarm system. How about the old codger with all the cash? Looks like his cane has a blade on it and he's taking care of all the cameras except one for us. And the pissed off customer just walked back in the front door. And look here? An AK-47. Cuts through flesh like a laser. He's got that rentacop by the doorway busy."
"Please don't s—shoot," Albert said, beads of sweat rolling down his temple.
"Shoot you? Nah. I'm the 'rook' bank robber, fats, unless you give me a reason to upgrade my title. Now look what we see now? Must admit that you eating all those Doritos really pissed me off, though. Wait a minute? Isn't that your 'tough' dad? What's that gun doing in his hand? Could he be part of this? Oh no, he just shot the teller, and there goes her brains all over the carpet. Guess he found a way to crack."
Politically Correct
"Mr. President, Mr. President, Mr. President?"
The President pointed to the tall, studiously-dressed man in the crowd.
"In the sixties, is it true you were an avid hemp user and if so, what effect does this have on your leniency or lack thereof in the country's drug policy?"
"I didn't engage in the use of marijuana, or any other substance, in the sixties. In fact I am disturbed by these persistent allegations. And even if I had smoked marijuana back then, or used mouthwash four times a day, or been a candy addict, none of those things would ever have affected my decisions regarding past, current, or future drug policy. Evelyn Jones, USA Today?"
"Yes, thank you, Mr. President. You publicly speak out against abortion and how it affects the lives and safety of mothers across America. Can you elaborate on why you feel it is never appropriate, or under what circumstances it would be?"
The President took a deep breath. "I always find the media's undying attempts at cornering me entertaining, and you know I have answered this question before. 'Never' is a strong word that should carefully be used in a position such as mine. I can't say it would never be appropriate, but I can say that I personally would never do it."
The room laughed and more hands shot up. The President picked one.
"About the threat of chemical weapons, Mr. President? You have consistently assured the American people that these weapons pose little to no threat. The same was said of nuclear weapons under previous administrations. What can you say to diminish the rising fears in the American public? And specifically, what are you doing to ensure the future is brighter regarding dramatic terrorist threats such as these?"
"There will always be weapons of mass destruction. For me to stand here and claim otherwise would be terribly inaccurate. Your question about what we're doing is better answered by the Secretary of Defense than I, and should be addressed in his press conference. However I will confirm, again, that there is absolutely zero threat to the American people today and that our current defense weaponry is light years ahead of that which was demonstrated in Desert Storm. Therefore any concerns about our ability to counter any terrorist attacks should be discarded. Last question, please?"
"Mr. President, these allegations that you have a mistress inside the White House...?"
"False. Totally. You know how devoted I am to the First Lady. Have a great day ladies and gentlemen."
The President walked into the back room, followed by several secret service agents. Inside the next room was the Secretary of Defense. The guards left the two men alone.
"The media has its usual prejudices," The President said, sighing.
"About the situation in Florida?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. What is the breakage?"
"It appears we'll lose half the state."
"My god. Can't we shoot them down?"
The Secretary shook his head sole
mnly.
The red phone rang. The President picked it up and listened. "What? Not pregnant—no!" The President set the phone on his quickly-rising chest. "Donna, she's—oh my—what will I do, Mr. Secretary?"
"Abortion?"
The President nodded and gave the instruction. The Secretary reached inside his uniform and removed a plastic baggy.
"Your turn to roll one," the Secretary said, grinning.
Suddenly the President's recent speech resonated in his head. No, the abortion would not be good for public opinion. Not at all. He picked up the phone again and changed the instruction. "Send my good secretary Donna to Disneyworld instead."
Father Knows Winners Best
Ricky and Jake, twin brothers, battled for Dad's attention until graduation night at Peadman's Cliff when they decided to settle it.
The crowd had gathered from school, alcohol carelessly involved, the torches flaming against the ebony chill. Wendy Simmons stood between the two beater cars, raised a makeshift checkered flag, her sweet fragrance kissing the air.
Jake raised a thumb to his brother. Ricky showed him his middle finger instead.
The checkered flag dropped and they both slammed on their respective accelerators. Dirt and gravel spit from tires and the crowd raged, pumping the torches.
Jake stared at his brother and saw Dad. Jake was the son who never won at anything. Dad loved winners and Ricky fulfilled those desires better and more often than he. Ricky won his first fight when the bully, Billy Watkins, wanted his lunch money. Jake got beat up by Billy three times before finally returning the favor.