A Few Philip Harris Stories

Philip Harris writes, blogs, and gives free books away at his website, Solitary Mindset. I enjoyed the three short stories available for free and his prequel novella to Serial Killer Z is definitely something different.

Here are super quick reactions to the three short stories I've read:

Bottled Lightning - Good short science fiction story - a first contact tale.

Curfew - Another short science fiction story, but this one is more military based. Ends as a horror tale.

Saviour - Not as good as two other short stories above but still intriguing. Harris is a very good story teller.

As to Serial Killer Z: Infection, the blurb says this series is Dexter meets the Walking Dead. Since I've not seen either nor do I want to, this zombie thrasher serial killer gore fest isn't for me.

Now I have to say, it's well written but it's pretty darn gruesome. I think this intro novella is still free, as a prequel to the author's new series. So if this is your thing, you might like it.

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Review of Something Wicked This Way Comes

Something Wicked This Way Comes
by Ray Bradbury

Confession. I don't have a review exactly since I didn't read the book exactly. I listened to an audio adaptation, which I think was Bradbury's own dramatization of his novel. It was a pretty good production, but I think it was a different experience than reading the story.

Here's the blurb from the publisher: A carnival rolls in sometime after the midnight hour on a chill Midwestern October eve, ushering in Halloween a week before its time. A calliope's shrill siren song beckons to all with a seductive promise of dreams and youth regained. In this season of dying, Cooger & Dark's Pandemonium Shadow Show has come to Green Town, Illinois, to destroy every life touched by its strange and sinister mystery. And two inquisitive boys standing precariously on the brink of adulthood will soon discover the secret of the satanic raree-show's smoke, mazes, and mirrors, as they learn all too well the heavy cost of wishes - and the stuff of nightmare.

That does capture the essence, but it's really not that scary of an adventure. More of a coming-of-age story set within the weird and horrific world of life, death, and what's in between. Overall, 3 1/2 stars (or 4 since it's a classic). What I didn't know was that this novel is the second of four in the Green Town series. Interesting! Book one is Dandelion Wine, imagine that! 

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New Mash Up - Zombies Meet War of the Worlds

Catching the latest "mash-up" trend (you've heard of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, right?), author Eric S. Brown takes fans of horror on another literary thrill ride, mashing together zombies and H.G. Wells' classic into The War of the Worlds Plus Blood, Guts, and Zombies (from Coscom Entertainment).

Although I haven't read it myself (and I'm not that into the subgenre, my only zombie stories are benign humor pieces at Bewildering Stories, lol - read "The Hunt Hunt" and "Scary Moments"), it's actually gotten quite a bit of buzz. Here are some links:

+ Ian Randal Strock's review at SFScope
+ Interview at Horror Fiction Review
+ Interview at Fear and Trembling
+ Interview at Associated Content

Eric is also the author of a number of other zombie-related works including, Season of Rot and World War of the Dead. If this is your thing, check him out! Just make sure you haven't eaten recently.

Dust Country

by Daniel W. Powell

James Diamond kept it pegged at a steady seventy miles an hour. The dusty Charger devoured the shimmering asphalt, and Diamond, a cigarette cradled in the nook between his index and middle finger, stared at the road with the dreamy complacency that is the hallmark of rural driving. One thought played over and over in his mind, and surprisingly it wasn’t that of freedom, although it can be said that freedom does occasion this particular notion. The concept was so palpable it seemed to stand on the horizon, like that great white sign in Hollywood or one of those Megabucks billboards. The notion was simple: possibility.

He’d stopped to gas up and grab a sandwich and a Yoo-hoo at a rickety service station and convenience store in New Princeton. There had been mirrors in the corners of the grocery, the kind that discouraged kids from filling their pockets with Laffy Taffy and Rolos. He’d caught a glimpse of himself as he made his way to the refrigerated cold case along the back wall of the grocery. He stopped and considered his reflection, and yes, he thought, something most certainly had changed. Here now stood a man with possibility. He was aged by labor and the rigors of an eight-year bid, but also muscled and still fundamentally youthful. His dark, shoulder-length hair had been trimmed upon release, and he’d maintained his square jaw line. The same dark eyes that had earned him respect in Salem and the adoration of women like Sandy shone back at him in the dusty mirrors. He studied himself, trying first one side and then the next in profile, until the codger behind the desk began to eyeball him, and then he grabbed a tuna sandwich and a drink and paid for his purchases. He paid cash, and not cigarettes or skin magazines, and exited the grocery into the scalding brilliance of an August afternoon in Southeastern Oregon.

James Diamond had been released early for good behavior. While he hadn’t necessarily turned to God as a means of salvation, he had found the urge to be a better man. He’d learned to control the vices that had contributed to his incarceration, but he’d also, and more importantly, learned to take responsibility for his actions. In his glory days, he’d drunk too much far too many times. The last time he had wrapped his bike around an alder tree and killed his fiancé, Sandy. He was sentenced to eight years in the Oregon State Penitentiary. His mother had passed while he was in prison and his brother was overseas in the service “killing rag-heads,” as he liked to mention in the letter he sent every year around the holidays. He’d never known his old man, and he refused to use his father’s absence as a crutch.

He had stitched blue jeans forty hours a week in the prison shop, and early on he’d had his mother sell his motorcycle and what she could of his tools. He mingled the proceeds with his earnings and paid a paltry sum of restitution to Sandy’s folks. He helped teach other inmates to read and he stayed away from the rotgut hooch that circulated in the halls of the enormous prison. At night he thought of Sandy, and dreamed of a life in the desert, away from the rains of Portland.

Upon release he’d caught the Greyhound back home, to the old neighborhood in Sellwood, and retrieved the Charger from his brother’s place. He left without talking to anyone from his past, without so much as poking his head into Deluxe Billiards, where they’d be playing pool and chasing Hood River whiskey with Pabst Blue Ribbon.


He’d driven through a night and a morning and into the middle of an afternoon, and he was tired and anxious to arrive in Arizona. Possibility. And so, it was with some anxiety and a pang of reluctance that he found himself slowing the Charger and pulling over to the soft gravel that lay on the shoulder of Highway 78. The man who stood there, thin and disheveled, a cardboard suitcase at his feet, smiled gratefully and shuffled over to the passenger window.

“A lift?” James Diamond said through the open window. It wasn’t really a question, of course.

“How far you going, mister?” the man replied. His face was crusted with dirt, although Diamond thought it odd the man didn’t appear to be sweating. The sun was sweltering, and he’d had to change his shirt outside of Bend, back around noon.

“Going down the road a spell. Next town up is Burns Junction, maybe 30 miles or so.”

“Thirty miles?” the man said, and he paused to consider it. He rolled his eyes up, squinting, as though figuring a times table, and James Diamond saw a thick, yellowish tear ooze over the rim of reddened eyelash. “Thirty miles ought to be just fine, sir! Burns Junction? That’ll be just fine!”

The man picked up his suitcase and made to open the door, and then reconsidered. “Do you want me to put my, ahhhhh, my,” the man said, looking for all the world like one of those kids at the ESPN spelling bee.

“Your suitcase?” Diamond said, this time with some levity. The old guy was harmless. It seemed that he might even be lost out here.

“Yes, yes. My suitcase. Shall I put it in the back?”

“That’s fine. Hop in, though. We need to get some air on us.”

The man opened the back door, slid his luggage next to the duffle that contained the pair of outfits in which James Diamond hoped to earn employment in Arizona, and then plopped down in the front seat. He couldn’t have weighed more than 140 pounds, Diamond thought.

“Hot day, mister. Thanks for the ride. Not too many cars coming through here,” he said. His voice was pained and wheezy.

“You’re right. Country’s wide open,” Diamond replied, sneaking a sideways glance at his passenger as the Charger again surged forward. “Where’re the people? No farmers, no cars, no busses. Nothing.”

“Oh, you won’t find much out this way anymore, young man,” he said, eyes straight ahead.

“Call me James. I’m driving through from Portland. You got a name?”

The man considered the question. Again, he looked like a confused child adrift in a department store, waiting at the help desk for his mother to return from women’s shoes. James Diamond spared the man another glance and caught his breath. For an instant, it seemed, there had been some kind of…well, rippling, or movement at the skin around the man’s mouth, as though something had been caught just beneath the skin there. As quick as it had appeared, it moved up the side of the man’s face and behind his ear and then was gone beneath his dusty hat.

“Richard,” he said, the words almost a whisper. “My name’s Richard.”

James Diamond didn’t stare. In fact something inside him told him to keep his eyes on the road, to take care that he didn’t slip and mention the thing he thought he’d seen. And that was probably just it. The thermometer at the grocery in New Princeton had it at almost 100 degrees. It was hot enough to fry bacon on the highway and his passenger’s passenger had no doubt been only a simple byproduct of the heat.

“Good to meet you, Richard. Mind if we listen to the radio?”

This time the man turned to look at him. He was gaunt and the skin around his eyes and mouth was dark and there seemed about him an air of decay.

“Can you get something? Can you get something on your radio out here?” he said, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“Don’t see why not,” Diamond replied, and switched on the radio. The country station he’d had on until just before New Princeton was static. He dialed up and down the band, switched to AM and did the same, and then, finding only white noise, switched it back off.

“That’s the damnedest thing,” he said. “I was getting perfection reception all the way up until New Princeton. You’re not bad luck there, are you Richard?” he said, trying to put a little humor into it.

“There’s just nothing here,” the man replied quietly. “See these lakes?” He swept a hand over the dash, indicating the sand drifts and scrub brush that fanned out below either side of the elevated highway. “Dry lakes. Duck Creek and Turnbull. Used to be fish in em’ the size of your arm. But since it happened…nothing. There’s not even any birds around here anymore.” He craned his neck and looked to the sky, a blanket of soft blue, and no clouds in sight.

Diamond pulled his map out of the glove box. He slowed the Charger as he poured over the lower right corner of Oregon. The old man was right. On either side of them, although there had been no signs to indicate it, there had once been a lake. Probably Duck Creek, judging by the expanse of cracked, hollow earth.

“What happened? This map doesn’t show them as dry,” he said.

“They were consumed,” the old man said. “Since they came here, everything’s been consumed.”

Diamond considered his words. He looked at the road and the heat that danced and shimmered over it. He studied the great dried up lake and swatted at an insect that crawled on his calf. He sweated in silence for about a mile, and then decided to come out and ask his question.

“Who do you mean ‘they,’ Richard?”

The old man turned, and for the first time he seemed animated. He even seemed to smile a bit before he answered. “Three years ago or so, a local fella was out target-shooting. His name was Farley McCray and he liked his Jim Beam, which is probably why no one took him seriously. Anyways, he’s out shooting cans and whatnot—the guy lived out on the south shore of Turnbull—when he says the sky opened up and a ball of fire tore over the lakes and landed over there,” he pointed a gnarled index finger back over Diamond’s left shoulder, “at the base of Saddle Butte. Farley says it knocked him down, it came by so fast. Anyway, Farley calls it in to the State Police, but no one ever finds anything. They look for a few days and then dismiss it. Farley goes on and on about this thing he sees, and pretty soon, after drinking every night at the bars in Arock, no one believes his story.”

“What’s this guy saying to people?” Diamond interrupted.

“See that’s the thing. Farley starts talking about his livestock coming up missing. A cow here, a couple of chickens there. Then his dog disappears. Pretty soon his well is nigh drained and he can’t put his finger on it. Farley takes some time and wanders up in the hills, out and around Saddle Butte, checking to see if his animals run off or, just maybe, something was up there. Taking them away.” The man took a break in his story. He slid in his seat and hitched up his trousers, and he seemed to be gaining strength as his story progressed.

“Did he find something?”

“He did, or at least he claimed to. Said he came upon his dog up there on the Butte, this great big old German Shepard named Butter, so named because as a pup the sucker would lick butter straight out of the palm of your hand if you had some handy. Well, Farley comes back into town saying his dog was different, that his dog didn’t seem right, and that he’d had to put it down where he found it, up there on the Butte. But the thing, see, is that it was Farley that was different after going into those woods. He didn’t drink at the bars in Arock anymore—hell, he didn’t drink period, which some would say is an improvement, but it was certainly out of character. He seemed distant, strange, and then he quit coming around altogether. It got around to the Sheriff, and when John Cobb went out to check on him, Farley was dead. Cobb later let it slip, over drinks in New Princeton, that Farley had looked—used up.”

“Used up?” Diamond said. He was getting the impression his passenger had told this story numerous times. The words, the mannerisms, the delivery—they all seemed rehearsed.

“Those are the words Cobb used. He said old Farley was dry as a corn tortilla, like something had just sucked him up from the outside in.”

They got past the edge of the dead lake in silence.

“What does that have to do with the birds? What does that have to do with the lakes?” Diamond asked, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“That’s the strangest part. Things have been dying out here in the last couple of years. Things are getting, to turn Cobb’s own words, used up out here. In one of the last conversations Farley had before he passed on, he had told Milton Crane, one of his closest drinking buddies, that he thought something had come from the sky on that day. That whatever had landed up there on Saddle Butte was now using up the resources of the area. That whatever it was could make animals go,” he screwed up his face, searching for the word, “off. And that if it could turn a dog like Butter against him, think of how it could turn one man against another. He said he thought that whatever it was up there, whatever had crashed down that afternoon on the Butte, was hungry, and that a man should be careful about who he talks close with.”

The pair covered a mile or two in silence.

“You believe him?” Diamond asked quietly. “You think that crash led to this wasteland, to those dried up lakes?”

“Well sir, what do you think?” the man said. He leaned across the seat and fixed the driver with a stare.

“Well, Richard, I don’t go in for that type of thing. You see, I’ve seen what one person can do to another. Hell, the fact is that I’m responsible for the death of another person. I’ve seen men abuse each other, in both jail and out here in the world. I think it’s a neat story, but you don’t have to blame human misery on space aliens. If you want to see a person get used up, as your friend the Sheriff liked to say, you only need to turn on the evening news.”

“That’s it then?” the man said. He seemed disappointed. “You don’t see how there’s things in the world we simply don’t understand? How there’s stuff that might just be getting started, and that maybe this is the place where it all begins?”

“Interesting story. That’s my stance, Richard.”

“Stop the car,” the man said quietly.

“What?”

“Stop the car,” he repeated, this time more firmly.

“Richard, come on. Don’t get offended. I just have a hard time believing that space aliens dropped out of the sky and…”

“Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Can you stop the car?”

“Richard, what are you trying to prove? If you want me to let you out, I will, but there’s no need to…”

“Try it. Try it now. Just brake the car gently and pull it over.”

James Diamond studied his passenger. The man was quite serious. He pushed down on the brake pedal. The Charger chugged along at a neat seventy miles per hour.

“What the...?”

“You can’t, can you? You can’t because now I’m connected to you. I’m tapped into you now, James. At least below the neck. You’re strong, to be sure. I’m surprised you can still move your head.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t move my foot! What have you done to me?” Richard screamed. Only his screams gave away his frustrations. His body remained calm and nonchalant, both hands loosely on the wheel.

“Here’s how it works. I’ve been in this…this Richard for too long,” he said with obvious distaste. “I thought I might die out there on that road, you see. Fortunately you came along, and I was able to attach.”

He reached across the seat and pulled up Diamond’s pants leg. There, embedded in a knot of pink flesh at mid-calf, was a glistening protuberance. It ran along the floor of the charger and up into the pants leg of the rumpled hitch hiker. A cloudy fluid the color and consistency of the waxen tear he’d seen earlier moved slowly through the translucent tube.

“I’ve had a fix on you for the last few minutes, and it’s just like I said, you are a strong one. I’ll enjoy my stay with you James, and I have to be honest, you’ve been a tremendous sport about all of this.”

James Diamond opened his mouth as if to speak. No words came.

“Ah, ah, ah. Save our energy, James. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. There’s a whole world of possibility out there, just waiting on us.”

The Charger devoured the pavement, stopping only once, for just a moment outside of Burns Junction, as the driver shuffled the exhausted corpse of an alfalfa farmer named Richard into a roadside culvert.

© 2008 by Daniel W. Powell
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Daniel W. Powell teaches English composition at a small college in Northeast Florida and enjoys writing and reading speculative fiction. He's an avid outdoorsman, long distance runner and zombie aficionado. Daniel shares a small house with his wife and cat near Florida's Intracoastal Waterway. He blogs about speculative storytelling at The Byproduct; and you can also read about his horror novel, Wendigo, at www.DanielWPowell.com.

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I Am My Brother's Keeper

I Am My Brother's Keeper
by Steve Doyle

I never learned the origin of his fear. Most people are afraid of death; my brother feared life. Eternal life. He harbored an unshakable conviction that he was doomed to roam the earth for eternity. My brother thought he was a vampire.

The first time he spoke to me about it was at our grandfather's wake. Jimmy pulled me aside and whispered that he didn't think grandpapa was really dead.

“Are you mad?” I asked. “Of course he's dead. What do you think?”

“What if he rises again?” Jimmy asked with all seriousness. I would have thought him joking had it not been for the fear evident in his wide eyes. He actually entertained the notion that grandpapa might sit up at any moment.

“If he rises again,” I remarked, “I'll personally run out to get him a sandwich as I'm sure he'll be quite famished.” Jimmy walked away from me, apparently unappreciative of my dark humor.

Shortly after the funeral his nightmares began. Jimmy would awaken in a frenzy, always mumbling something about walking in the night and craving blood. I knew such foolishness found fields of fertility in the imaginations of young boys, but still, I would sit with him and stroke his blond hair until he fell asleep again.

One day he came to me with a solemn countenance and asked me to make him a vow. He wanted me to see to it that upon his death he be bound hand and foot and that a stake be driven through his heart.

“What the devil are you talking about?” I asked.

“Just swear to me!” he pleaded, blue eyes begging for my fealty.

Partly to humor him but mostly because I never expected him to predecease me, I gave in to his morbid wishes.

A sad day it was when we laid him in his little coffin. Of course, I never told our parents about the promise I'd made and had no intention of keeping. Drive a stake through his heart, indeed!

Jimmy was placed next to grandpapa in the family vault in the basement of our house. Sometimes of an evening I hear him scraping, but I dare not open the crypt to let him out. I dare not!

© 2007 Steve Doyle
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Steve Doyle, of Marlborough, MA is an active member of The Herscher Project, an online group of artists and writers from all over the globe, and The Lost Genre Guild, writers dedicated to promoting Christian Speculative Fiction. His work has appeared in Wayfarer's Journal and an anthology, Light at the Edge of Darkness, available from The Writers' Cafe Press. He is currently working on his first novel. Visit his website at www.doylebooks.com.

Misunderstood

Misunderstood
By Rick McQuiston

Chet felt a terrible headache coming on. The pressure started in his temples and progressed to his eye sockets. A dull, throbbing ache that would persist despite any remedies he would try. He knew it was hunger; it had been days since he’d last eaten and even then it had only been scraps he had salvaged from a trashcan.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked Calvin who sat opposite him with a half eaten rat splayed on his lap. He had managed to catch it as it had darted towards a small hole in a nearby wall.

“No, you can have it,” Calvin replied. “Still can’t get used to stuff like that.” He tossed the bloody rodent to Chet. It landed with a plop and laid there, a motionless meal.

Chet greedily stuffed the remains into his mouth. Not his first choice but better than the alternative.

“How long you been in here?” he asked Calvin as he pushed his oily blonde hair out of his face.

Calvin looked up. “’Bout a week,” he said while eyeing Chet closely, noticing the blood from the rat drip onto his tattered shirt. “How many do you think are out there now?” he asked while watching Chet’s throat surge with each mouthful.

“Gotta be a couple dozen by now. They know we’re in here. Some of them followed me…must’ve told others by now.” His eyes, sullen and empty, looked down at the floor. He always had trouble looking people in the face.

Calvin mumbled in a defeated voice, “Guess so. Probably be over pretty soon.”

The rat had made his hunger subside but Chet knew it wouldn’t last. It never did. The hunger always returned—usually worse than before. Always demanding to be satisfied. Insatiable. He knew his new friend would be hungry again soon as well.

“It’s difficult, but I can still remember before this nightmare happened,” Chet said. Calvin looked up, his face reflecting interest for the first time in days. “I remember going to church…quite a few times actually. Did a lot of praying.” Again he looked at the floor. “Look where it got me. I feel as if God abandoned me.”

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence. Both of them reacted slowly to the noise as if expecting it. They looked at each other with empty eyes.

“I knew they’d find us,” Calvin whispered. “Sometimes I wonder who the real monsters are.” Calvin stood up. His knees cracked loudly as they straightened but he didn’t notice. Looking towards the door, which now sported several blades coming through it, he cursed at their impending killers. “Leave us the hell alone!” he shouted.

Chet stood up as well. “Another thing I do remember from church,” he said quietly, “was to forgive your enemies.”

Calvin snickered. “No! They want to kill us. It’s not our fault what happened to us. People want to destroy what they can’t understand!”

Chet nodded his head slightly. “That’s true, but we must be bigger than that. We must be strong.”

The doorknob was hit with a vicious blow and fell to the floor in pieces. What was left of the door was violently pushed aside as dozens of dirty men wielding knives and axes vied with each other to get through the doorway. They approached Chet and Calvin rapidly and yet carefully, eyeing the pair with hatred and rage.

Chet moved in front of Calvin, whose insatiable appetite had returned and had begun its ugly transformation. He tried to reason with them, explaining that they only acted out of hunger but the men heard nothing but grunts and moans.

One of them lunged at Chet and narrowly missed his head with a hammer. He crashed to the floor, cursing. Calvin fell on him, quickly tearing open the back of his head and stuffing the man’s brains into his mouth. The hunger had overtaken him and he was powerless to stop it, or perhaps he just did not care anymore. Regardless of the reason, it resulted in the men jumping on Chet and Calvin and hacking them to pieces.

A flood of memories came into Chet’s mind just before he died. The woman he had loved, the church where he had prayed, his career. And his mother and father—he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye before he…he… He felt truly sorry it had come to this.

“Go and tell Sammy we got two more of ‘em,” the gaunt leader said to the bald, sweaty man behind him. “Tell him they got Lander.”

Two more men sauntered up to the leader. Each was heavily armed with various knives and pistols and wore long, battle-worn expressions.

“Sir, think we’re making a dent?” one of them asked.

“No, not really…not yet anyways,” the leader responded with a blank look.

Disappointment flashed across the men’s faces, but they expected answers like that. They’d heard many of them since the nightmare began almost a year before. The effect seemed to diminish each time.

“Damn zombies,” one of the men scowled. “Those brain eating monsters make me sick.” He spit on the corpses and left the room clutching his rifle.

The leader looked down at the crumpled bodies. The thought that they were once men with families and jobs made him even more sick with remorse. But those feelings quickly vanished when he remembered his mission…to take out all the zombies he could before they overran the country. He had seen too many good men succumb to the disease and he vowed he would do whatever he could to stop it.

He fingered the dangling chain that hung around his neck. It held a small gold locket with a picture of a little boy with blue eyes and bright blonde hair…his little boy who’d grown into a man—with a woman who loved him, and a career ahead of him— killed by a zombie months earlier. He clenched it tightly as he fought the urge to cry.

“I wonder who these men were,” he mumbled to himself, looking down at the bodies.

“Sir?”

Taking a deep breath, he paused.

“Nothing. All right let’s go.”

The men slung their weapons back and left the room.

© 2003 Rick McQuiston
This story originally appeared at Barbaric Yawp in 2003. Reprinted with permission.

Rick McQuiston is a father of two who manages a condo project and shopping center by day and churns out spine-tingling tales by night. He’s had over 100 pieces published along with a collection of his short stories titled, "Many Midnights." Rick just finished his second anthology, "Chills by Candlelight." Both books can be purchased from his Storefont at Lulu.com. Rick is also an annual guest author at a Junior High School in Michigan.

Natural Balance

Natural Balance
by Gerry Sonnenschein

The fast-moving water formed a whirlpool as it reached the bathtub drain. An orange ladybug swam furiously to avoid being sucked into the vortex. Reaching the water's edge, it began to climb up the porcelain wall to safety. Its success was cut short as I flicked it back into the swirling eddy with a snap of my finger.

"What are you doing, Leslie?" Marie asked suspiciously. Marie was a fellow graduate student who rented an old one-story house with me.

"Trying to wash a pest down the drain," I said.

Marie moved closer to see. "Leslie! How could you? That's a ladybug!" She slid her hand under the beetle and gently lifted it.

I groaned and turned off the water. "Don't blame me when it bites you."

"Ladybugs don't bite." As Marie rested her hand flat on the bathroom counter, the beetle crawled off and slipped through a crack in the caulking around the sink.

"These aren't your grandmother's sweet red ladybugs," I insisted. "Haven't you heard? Asian ladybug beetles have invaded our country. Harmonia axyridis. They're multiplying rapidly since they have no natural predators here."

"Since when are you a ladybug expert?"

"Since last night. I was taking a break from my paper and researched them on the Internet. I knew there was something odd about these bugs."

Marie shook her head, making her dark ponytail sway. She considered herself the bug expert for three all-too-familiar reasons. First, her graduate field was biochemistry, which meant her knowledge of anything biological had to be superior to that of a lowly medieval studies type like me. Second, she had this bizarre compassion for insects. Marie was the kind of person who, after a rainstorm, would pick worms up off the sidewalk and put them on the grass to make sure they didn't get squished.

The third and most important explanation for Marie's attitude was that she came from a family with a weird tradition of ladybug mania. Her French-born grandmother had been certain that ladybugs brought good luck and had filled her house with ladybug kitsch. In honor of her grandmother's obsession, Marie had painted a wooden sign for her. The words "La Coccinelle" (French for "the ladybug") were printed across the board in black italic letters and on each side of the title, there was a picture of a black-spotted red ladybug. When her grandmother passed away, Marie inherited the sign and hung it on her bedroom door.

"Okay, I admit these orange ones are not traditional domestic red ladybugs," Marie said as she wiped perspiration from her face. Our low-rent house lacked A/C and it was miserably hot. "But they won't hurt you. They're only seeking shelter from the cold."

"Yeah, it's really cold, right," I said sarcastically. I knew what she meant, but I didn't feel like being agreeable. It was October and there had already been one hard freeze. At that time, the bugs had taken refuge or died. Now the weather had zigzagged back to record heat and insects had reappeared, especially ladybugs. Those little nuisances had returned with a vengeance and were bent on driving me crazy. A cold front was due later today and I couldn't wait for it to be freezing cold again.

"I still say you don't know much about ladybugs," she huffed.

"Actually, you'd be surprised how much I learned. I even discovered that these annoying insects have a connection to my specialty. In the Middle Ages, the ladybug beetles ate aphids and other pests that could damage crops such as grapevines. Since they protected the plants and, best of all, saved the wine, they were rewarded with the holy name 'Our Lady'. Of course, those were well-mannered red ladybugs. These orange Asian ones are another story. They can ruin wine, give off smelly orange goo and cause allergic reactions in sensitive people. Plus, they do bite, even if you don't think so. Worst of all, their population is exploding. Before you know it, they'll take over the world."

Marie rolled her eyes. "You're definitely crankier than usual. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"No, but I got my paper done. I produced a magnificent treatise on the use of weapon imagery in fourteenth century English literature."

"Great, I'm so impressed. Are you still going to the party at Kay's place this evening? You're supposed to bring a dip to go with the chips."

"Yeah, I'm cutting my early classes so I can crash for a couple of hours. Don't worry, I've already bought the dip. I'll get it to Kay's, provided these stupid bugs don't find it first. Maybe I should cut a few up and add them to the dip. It would be perfect if I had one of those medieval swords to slice them with...."

"That's not funny." Marie stared at me intently. Her pupils dilated, making her blue-gray eyes appear black. "You mustn't hurt those beetles. They'll move elsewhere soon. If they're really bothering you that much, I'll capture them and transfer them to a safe spot outside."

"I can help with that," I said with a sly grin.

"No! You can't! Don't touch them, got it?"

Marie stomped out of the bathroom. Relieved to be alone, I regarded my bleak reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under my bloodshot eyes and the frizzy brown disaster that was my hair reminded me that it was hard being a grad student. Of course, Marie thought that only science grad students had a tough time, with their brainy courses and long hours in the lab. She had no concept of how challenging medieval studies could be. I had to be expert in a wide range of subjects and master both ancient and modern languages. The only advantage, if I could call it that, was that I had more control over my schedule and could often work from home. Of course, the ability to concentrate at home had been hampered by the orange invasion.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I found Marie in the kitchen getting ready to go.

"I'm sorry if I sounded too excited," Marie said. "But you know how I feel about ladybugs."

I shrugged. I was too tired to complain anymore. "No problem. Just try to remember you're not the only one capable of spouting scientific trivia."

"You're not the only one who knows about the Middle Ages. You should ask me about my family history some time," Marie said earnestly.

The idea of learning more about Marie's family and her take on medieval times appalled me but I tried not to show it. "Sure, some other time. All I know right now is that I'm exhausted and I cannot coexist with these bugs."

"It'll resolve itself," Marie said. "Natural balance is always restored." She glanced at her watch. "I've got to get to a biochem lab. Hey, don't forget about the storm. I've closed my window, but you need to close the rest before you leave. And leave the ladybugs alone!"

"I'll be good. Promise." I sighed, resigned.

Marie smiled. "Thanks. See you at the party."

Once Marie was gone, I went to bed. Despite my exhaustion, it wasn't easy falling asleep. The hot, humid air was oppressive. I tossed and turned, my clammy legs sticking to the sheets and my arms thrashing at the lumpy pillow. Sounds of traffic formed white noise in the background, punctuated by an irregular tapping. A glance at the window made me groan - ladybugs were bumping against the screen. I buried my head in the pillow. My mind floated between conscious thoughts and pieces of dreams.

I found myself rereading my report. The title had become "Insect Imagery in Fourteenth Century English Literature". No, this was all wrong, I thought, it was supposed to be "Weapon Imagery". I scrutinized the paper and found an illustration of an orange beetle wielding a miniature sword. "You stupid bug. You cannot beat me! I am much stronger than you," I proclaimed as I ripped the picture to shreds.

The ringing phone woke me from my nightmare. Sweaty and not entirely alert, I stumbled out of bed to answer it. Along the way, I checked a clock. It was mid-afternoon but darker than normal.

"Hello," I said as I grabbed the receiver.

"Hi, Leslie," Marie said. "Wow, you're still home! I'm glad I caught you. Did you know there's a severe weather warning for our area?"

"So?"

"This is serious. In addition to a thunderstorm warning, there's a tornado watch. You should stay put until the front passes."

"We never get tornadoes at this time of year."

"Tornadoes can happen at any time if the conditions are right."

"If you say so," I responded. There was no point in arguing. Marie always had to be right. I glanced out the window. Dark, ominous clouds filled the sky, but it wasn't raining yet. "Look, I've got to get this report turned in. Don't worry. I'll beat the storm and be on campus soon."

"Remember the windows! All but my room."

"Okay, enough already. You sound like my mother. Bye."

I hung up and took a quick shower. Refreshed, I dressed and gathered items to go into my backpack, including the party dip and my report. I decided to review the report one last time before leaving. After all, it was important to avoid careless mistakes.

The thunderstorm had arrived. Blasts of thunder rumbled through the walls while I sat at the desk and checked my manuscript. It no longer sounded quite as brilliant as it had at five a.m. Oh well, my professor cared more about looks than content, and my report looked good.

Good, that is, up until page eight. I found a ladybug had wedged itself between pages nine and ten and two more were crawling down page twelve. As I brushed them off, they left streams of orange goo on the pages.

Frustrated, I shook the report and in the process creased it. Now there was no other choice. I needed to print out a fresh copy. Unfortunately, I had apparently neglected to save that final version completed in the early morning hours.

My fury reached the stage where my cheeks were flushed and my head was pounding. I took a deep breath and held it while deciding what to do. Exhaling slowly, I knew. It was time to strike back. I pulled the canister vacuum cleaner out of the closet, attached the long plastic wand to the hose and went from room to room, searching for ladybugs. One after another, they popped into the wand as I exposed them to the unrelenting suction.

While I worked, I was consumed by the question: what did the bugs experience as the mighty power caught them? I wondered if they suffocated immediately or if they were pulled apart first? Whatever the answer, I hoped their experience was excruciating.

Finally, only one room remained that I hadn't checked: Marie's room. I hesitated before entering. Our bedrooms were off-limits to each other, barring an extreme situation. Not to mention the fact that the two ladybugs on her "La Coccinelle" sign were staring at me with an amazing intensity, considering they were only drawings. Well, too bad, I decided. If Marie was harboring those miserable creatures, then this constituted an emergency and required immediate action.

While I expected to see some bugs, I was shocked by what I found in her room. There were ladybugs everywhere, too many to count. They crawled in formation along the edges where the walls met the ceiling. Masses of them hovered near the window, along its wood frame, between the glass pane and the screen and on the curtains. High concentrations also congregated around closet doors, near light fixtures and behind furniture.

In addition to the huge quantity, there was an impressive variety. Most were orange but a few were red. There were spotless bugs, those with a smaller number of spots and some with enough markings that the black specks blurred together into one big smudge. I marveled at the sights as I vacuumed them up. I opened the window briefly to make sure that I got all the bugs futilely clinging to the screen. Not even the less despised red ladybugs were spared from my ruthless assault.

Even though my rampage didn't answer the question about the bugs' journey into the vacuum and it certainly didn't fix my damaged report, it did elevate my mood enough that I was ready to move on. I set the vacuum cleaner back in the closet, placed the crumpled, stained report in my backpack, put on a rain poncho and headed out into the storm. It was a forty-five minute walk to the campus, but it could be shortened to thirty minutes by cutting through the forest and the soccer field. Head down and eyes narrowed, I ran through the driving rain.

Normally the thick canopy of trees offered some protection, but not this time. The leaves were saturated from the heavy downpour and water cascaded over me. A crescendo of thunder dogged my footsteps.

I was relieved to reach the end of the woods and the beginning of the soccer field. Between the torrential rain and darkness, I couldn't see the far end of the field, but knew I would reach it if I continued in a straight line. I ran through huge puddles and across spongy grass.

The roar of the thunder took on a different tone, more like the sound of an approaching freight train. I recalled what Marie had said, but thought no, it couldn't be, it couldn't happen at this time of year. I sprinted as fast as I could.

Leaves, twigs and other small debris pelted me. As the wind rapidly strengthened, I found it difficult to breathe and was knocked to the ground. Pressed against the grass, I was shocked to see an orange ladybug, just millimeters away from my nose. Its shell parted, exposing its wings, and it edged toward me. Afraid it would hit my face, I flinched. Instead, it closed its shell and scurried down into a muddy divot, protected from the rain and wind.

Suddenly, I was caught by an overpowering force and yanked into the air. I finally had the answer to my question - what it felt like to be in the vortex - right before everything went black.

© 2007 Gerry Sonnenschein
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Gerry Sonnenschein is an aspiring science fiction writer. She won AlienSkin Magazine's Good Science Fiction Writing Contest in December 2006 and had both the winning story and a second flash fiction published online in AlienSkin. Gerry’s haiku’s have also been featured in USA Today. For more of her stories, visit here.

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Dirty Jobs

Dirty Jobs
by Merrie Destefano

The door opened. Inside a pale light glowed. Red. A womblike enclosure.

“Come in,” a voice beckoned.

He hesitated. Not sure how he got here. A slight confusion settled in his mind, his last actions wiped clean.

Shadows flickered in the doorway, tall, thin, spindly creatures.

“Come along, now.” Impatient, the tone deepened an octave.

He crossed the threshold, limbs stiff and heavy, movements lethargic. It felt like he was moving through mud. Someone, or something, sat at a desk, tapping a pen on a piece of parchment. Waiting.

“Sit.”

He sat. Didn’t want to look the thing in the face-its eyes seemed to glow, its breath came out in sulfurous puffs.

“Name?” It held the pen poised, ready to write.

“You know my name. I mean, I thought—didn’t someone else already ask me all these questions?”

“Name?” It lifted its head. Yellow eyes stared, unblinking.

“David.”

“Full name.”

“David Berg.”

It wrote, dark ink on leathery parchment. Then it opened a book, started flipping through pages. “Mmmmm. Yes. Here you are.” It ran a bony finger over the page, nodded its head.

David looked around. The burgundy walls throbbed, flesh-like. They seemed to be constricting, shrinking, breathing. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here—”

The creature didn’t lift its head. It continued to read.

“—there’s obviously some sort of mistake—”

It held up a hand to silence him, and kept reading. Turned the page, read some more.

Someone screamed outside, back in the corridor. David turned in his chair. He saw a body being dragged off into shadowy gloom. A temporary chill flooded the room, then vanished.

The beast leaned back in its chair, crossed its arms, finished with what it was reading. “That’s quite a dossier, Berg. Didn’t realize you were on our side.”

“I’m not on your side. I’m not on anybody’s side.”

“Yes. That thing with the children, the way you threw religion into the mix, we love that sort of thing here.”

“And where am I exactly?”

“This?” The creature stretched out its arms, pride in its voice. “This is the place of beginnings. This is the womb, the birth canal. Soon you will be born into your new home.”

“I’d rather go back to my old home. I’d like to leave—”

“Yes.”

Invisible hands gripped David then, held him in place. A narrow hole opened in the floor, a flesh and blood tunnel that led someplace dark. A foul stench bled into the room. The invisible hands were touching him now.

“No. Stop!”

He was being pulled into the tunnel and the hands continued to touch him, everywhere. Invisible fingers were probing his mouth, his eyes, his ears, every part of his body. When he struggled, they grabbed even harder. He couldn’t breathe.

“No, make them stop,” he pleaded. “Please, make them stop. Oh my god!”

“But Mr. Berg, we couldn’t possibly stop,” the creature grinned. “You see, this is your god.”

David Berg perched on the lip of the opening now, a fleshy tunnel that led forever downward. He screamed, but no one heard. The hands were inside his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs. He tumbled over the edge and with a horrid wet sucking noise, he slid out of sight.

The creature sighed. Closed its eyes for a rapt moment. Then tapped its pen on the desk, lifted its head and looked toward the hallway.

“Next.”

© 2007 by Merrie Destefano
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

The editor of Victorian Homes magazine, founding editor of Cottages & Bungalows magazine, and contributing editor of Romantic Homes magazine, Merrie Destefano lives in Southern California with her husband, a Siamese cat, two German shepherds, and the occasional wandering possum. She loves to watch old Star Trek episodes and classic science fiction, and her newly launched website, Alien Dream, focuses on the craft of writing and the love of speculative fiction.

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