Short Stories & Such

Short Stories & Such is a tantalizing anthology of short stories, flash fiction and poetry.

​Perpetual Darkness

(His Side of the Story)

The night was dark .... That’s how all of her stories began. As if the night was ever anything but. A more creative approach might have been a different start or at least a more beseeching entrance to the narrative. And why must it always be night? Why must it always be dark? Suppose she stretched the infinite boundaries of the night and found it lit with glistening stars. No, not glimmering or shimmering – these stars would be glistening like morning dew... like drops against a sunny window... like a single bead of sweat against a million glossy pores... opening and erupting, or even a rainbow tinged tear. Anything other than the night was dark.

That phrase is really testing my tolerance. I want to interrupt her, to offer a little creative criticism, but I’m not a writer. Writers have to have characters living within their thoughts – my characters are all dead.

Sometimes I attempt to force her imagination, by sheer will I implore her to expand her thoughts – for instance, the tale could begin with a breaking sunrise... with tepid yellows pressing through the grays of dawn before giving way to streams of blue. Instead of the crickets and tree frogs one might conjure noisily filling the darkness, consider the illusive bunting calling in the distance, the bright male cardinal singing, as he preens his downy coat... or a doves coo.

Her fingers caress the key pads, pausing at the letter k. She softly, without pressing moves her index finger forward, backward then side to side. I can tell by her expression she doesn't know where this story is going but I don't dare disrupt her.

If she would trim her fingernails, I believe she would be able to type slightly faster and more comfortably.

What word is she searching for? The night was dark... K... Kevin? Kathy? Katmandu?

I take a swig from the two-liter bottle and decide to stroll but I catch myself pacing, striding back and forth along the lattice fence of her tiny courtyard. Strolling implies leisure and I don't feel leisurely. I’m annoyed. Her writing is causing me stress, it is not stimulating, it is stressful and I really don't need any more stress in my life right now. Watching her sit there staring at that bloody laptop for hours on end and all she can come up with is the night was dark? K..! I am too irritated now so the last pacing lap against the fence I decide to keep walking. I need a smoke anyway. The night was dark...gees-sh!

The night is still dark but with my optic eyewear, I can see everything.  It's not in high definition color but I’m working on that. There is a certain appreciation for seeing things in black and white, basic truths lost in color can sometimes be seen in shades of gray. This pair is much better than the last; I have managed to tweak the design until they look nearly like regular prescription eyeglasses. The thick amber tinted shades gouge at the bridge of my nose. That’s a minor flaw, I tell myself as I steam the lens with nicotine breath and polish them against my undershirt.

I can see the fields I work by day and lean myself against an oak, light another full flavor Marlboro and watch four coyotes as they slink up on a calf that was born this morning. It has no idea its short life is coming to an end in the next few minutes. It won’t take long. It may seem like an eternity in the throes of violence but it is only moments – sometimes seconds.

The battalion communicate without a sound - two of them running between the cow and her newborn while the other two latch onto the squalling baby and drag it a hundred yards before gnawing at its throat to shush the little racket maker. The mother will bellow for the next twelve hours, but it won't do her any good. Mr. Carson will go out at sunup, follow the cry of the mourning bovine, examine the telltale droppings and ask me to kill the mangy coyote that dared to cross his property. I'll pretend to spend half of the day looking for the pack, though I know exactly where their den is because I see them entering there now, each one with a chunk of bloody veal in their mouth, the alpha carrying the right front shoulder still attached to the neck and head.

Mr. Carson is a good man, the kind of man that worked hard all of his life. The kind that works to own the land until the land owns them. He walks stooped over because it hurts too bad to stand up straight. He's been bowing down for so long it's become a way of life. I try to help him as much as I can. As a matter of fact tomorrow I am going to bring him all four of them coyote sonsofbitches that just ate his calf and hang their carcasses on the corner posts.

The last cigarette eased my nerves and I don't feel so agitated with her anymore. I actually feel a little ashamed for my childish behavior so now I stroll, moseying happily back to my place beneath the cedar tree outside the glow of the guard light. The folks around here call them security lights, some call them guard lights but trust me you are not secure and they make poor guards.

She has turned the music up. It’s my favorite song of hers.  I can almost believe the song was written for her. I wish I had written it but I’m not a songwriter either. I have the words memorized though. Before moving here I had never heard of Texas country – if I had I’m sure I wouldn’t have liked it. I don’t know this Josh Abbot fellow, the man singing to her now yet I feel jealous so I sing his lyrics to her and entertain the belief that she’ll pick me over him.

As the music fades I dance over and settle in my spot beneath the scruffy evergreen and get another swallow of lemon lime soda. I can see she's made progress. She's also closed the window, which isn't surprising considering the temperature has dropped eighteen degrees since I arrived this evening.

I trade the glasses for a standard pair of binoculars that I keep with me at all times. Some things are better understood when viewed in full color.

With the cold rubber pressed against my eyes I can see now where she was going with the letter K. Killing didn't come easy...  No, it never does.

If she would move slightly to the right, I could see the rest of the sentence. She refuses to budge so I focus instead on the curls against the nape of her neck. She doesn't put a lot of effort into managing her hair. It's usually twirled and clipped to the top of her head with nappy little ringlets springing from her hairline. I prefer her hair down, with the sun-bleached strands tussled about her shoulders looking slightly windblown. She is beautiful anyway. I look forward to the warmer weather when she will open the bathroom window again for fresh air and the scents of cocoa-butter and papaya shampoo will drift to my perch beneath the cedar tree. The thought of it arouses me.

I watched her once through a hole that had been bored below the window. The lazy plumber failed to patch it when he replaced the pipes last winter and charged her two and half times what he would have charged a man. She bathes in darkness, the small lavatory lit by a single candle that smells of lime and avocado. It doesn’t do much to compliment the other tropical scents and I almost find it offensive. I have since plugged the hole to protect her privacy.

She is on page two now so we celebrate. She turns up a cup of lukewarm coffee and I lift my soda to a toast. Setting the cup down she apparently misjudged the distance and the ceramic container hits the floor. No harm done, it was empty and landed on plush carpet. She picks it up, plants it solidly on the desk and stretches. 

Don't stretch. I hear myself whispering. It's the dreaded stretch that means she's through for the night and I’m not ready to see her go. After she has turned off the laptop, I ease closer, despite the boundaries I have set. I know I’m asking for trouble but something stronger than me drives me toward the unlocked window.  It would be so easy-

That damn barking dog. Those are the first words that cross my mind when the sun peeks into my bungalow. Truth is that dog kept me in check. I barely finish the first cup of black coffee and Mr. Carson is tapping at my door. I remind myself to act surprised when he tells me the bad news.

Good morning Mr. Carson. Come on in I’ve got a fresh pot on the burner. I say to the distraught rancher, motioning him in. He obliges, takes his dirty straw hat into his scarred, knobby hands and sorrowfully, shaking his head he begins to tell me what he found first rattle out of the box this morning.

Damned mangy monsters devoured that poor calf and left his momma heart broke. His face tightens as he speaks, "Her bawlin' is what got my attention `fore daybreak. I’m gonna bait the rest of them bastards but I'd sure like to see one strung up on the