Twisted Tales From a Skewed Mind E-Book

Mari Collier

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Compelling collection of short stories from Mari Collier, author of Earthbound.

The third definition of skewed is to look obliquely. That somehow describes my mind as I may see things a bit differently than the rest of the population. To me there is always something more, perhaps something hidden or shaded by another dimension.

You’ll meet a boy who doesn’t grow old, a witch that wants to be normal, an Iowa farm woman battling frogs, a vampire that chooses to live in a sunny desert, ghosts, and vampires.

Leseprobe

Twisted Tales From a Skewed Mind

Star Lady Tales Book 4

Mari Collier

Copyright (C) 2016 Mari Collier

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Victoria Cooper Art

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

The Boy Who Refused to Grow Old

The Bullocks have always been a contentious, strong minded lot. In 1534, Margaret Bullock went to the stake rather than become a Protestant. In 1554 under Bloody Mary's reign, Thomas Bullock went to the flames rather than become Catholic. Their attitudes began to shrink the family lines, and during the religious wars against King Charles in 1641 and 1647, the Colonies became extremely appealing to the remaining Bullocks.

“We are sailing to Massachusetts where religion is practiced in purity,” their patriarch Silas Bullock announced. And so the family sailed to Massachusetts.

Six years later the patriarch's righteous contentious ways so angered the good people of Massachusetts they packed him and his family off to Rhode Island to join the other dissenters. It was without the fanfare of a Roger Williams or an Anne Hutchinson as the Bullocks weren't interested in converting others. It was their ability for adamant statements while disputing theology with their betters that became their undoing.

Rhode Island proved to be a refuge until the Revolutionary War when the Bullocks split the entire clan over whether they were Tories or true, freedom, independence minded Americans. After the war, the greater portion of them moved westward, and began to flirt with spiritualism in one manner or another.

A little more than a century after the Revolutionary War, Trevor Bullock sat in the lecture hall, the smell of wet and drying woolens fading as his mind became enthralled with Madame Blavatsky and her Theosophical Society. His wife, Madeline, kept fidgeting and looking at the doorway. Why couldn't she understand the concept of the universal brotherhood of humanity? Madeline, of course, was not a true Bullock, but a cousin twice removed.

“I told you so,” said Madeline when Madame Blavantsky went to Europe, and Colonel Olcott left the western shores for India. “They can't reconcile their concept of universal brotherhood with reality. You'd be far better off joining the Temperance movement to make man fit for being brothers.”

Since Trevor enjoyed his cigar and brandy after dinner, he ignored her. Divorce was not a simple procedure in 1889. Madeline, being a “good” wife continued to have his children: ten of them to replenish the Bullock line. Most became staunch Methodists or Baptist, except for Trevor as he increasingly relied on brandy. Perhaps it was the ten children that drove him to drink.

Their religious fervor gradually faded into secularism, but they continually upheld their family tradition by being in the forefront of the latest cause whether it was voting rights for women, building bomb shelters, or protesting the war in Vietnam. In our age the youngest became enthralled with the desire for perpetual youth.

Matthew Aaron Bullock was six-years-old when his great-aunt Matilda passed away at the age of ninety. Matthew was devastated for Aunt Matilda lived next door and always provided him with cookies and a safe haven from whatever catastrophe intruded upon his small world.

“Why did she hafta die?”

“Because she wanted to rest,” fudged his mother as she did not believe in heaven or hell.

“Couldn't she rest in bed?”

“Sometimes people need more rest,” was the vague answer.

“Daddy, Mommy won't tell me why Aunt Matilda died.”

The, “Because it was her time,” assurance of his father left Matthew confused about the concept of time. Aunt Matilda's ancient dog, Lightning, so named in his younger days, became Matthew's constant companion while he watched television.

“It's the least we can do for Aunt Matilda,” said his mother over his father's objection to a dog in the house, and all returned to normal for almost a year until Lightning expired.

“Why did he die, Mommy? He was my friend.”

“Well, he wanted to be with Aunt Matilda.”

“Where are they? I can go see them.”

“No, dear, they're both gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Matthew, we all die when we grow old.”

“Everybody? Will you and Daddy die too?”

“Oh, dear, Matthew, I didn't mean to frighten you. That will be a long, long time yet. Not until we're as old as Aunt Matilda was.”

“Will I die too?”

“Matthew, you're too young for this. Go play outside.”

“No!” Matthew stamped his foot. “I want to know. Will I grow old too?”

“Everybody grows old, Matthew. That's life. Really, it's just part of living.”

“No, I won't. I won't!” The stubborn, red Bullock flush spread over Matthew's face.

The years passed, and true to his word Matthew did not grow older. This caused a certain amount of medical tests, probes, counseling series, and worry for Matthew's parents. Matthew remained oblivious to his parent's pleas. He was quite happy with toys, whether they were organic, plastic, or mechanical. Schooling became a very real quandary. Since he did not physically mature, neither did his emotions or intellect. He remained forever in first or second grade (depending upon the school system in whatever town they lived) as he was unable to grasp the more complex concepts of social interaction or higher mathematics. His parents were left with the choice of moving every two or three years or keeping him at home. Their latest refuge was the high desert where people are more forgiving of human quirks.

“What will happen to you when we grow too old to take care of you?” wailed his mother.

Matthew smiled happily. “I can live with Benny, and we can play all day long.” Benny was his current next door neighbor.

“Benny will grow into an adult and move to a more lucrative job market,” snapped his mother. “He won't have time to play.”

Matthew shrugged and ran outside hollering for his friend. “Hey, Benny, want to play?”

“Yeah, look what I have!” Benny showed Matthew a handheld game where adorable looking little monsters were busy dispatching each other at the commands of their trainers by employing fire, electric bolts, rocks dropping out of the sky, water, and strange spells that froze the opponent while the rival happily dispatched them.

“If you get one too, we can trade our fighters by holding our games close together. See.” Benny showed Matthew an infra-red port. Neither child comprehended the meaning; they simply believed that the game would function as promised.

For some reason Matthew's parents purchased the electronic devise and game for Matthew. He spent hours of enraptured game play, building his monsters to their highest levels, looking for the hidden, more powerful monsters in the game, and completely forgetting time or time of day until his mother would rudely pull the game away.

“I said it's time for dinner, Matthew. Didn't you hear me?”

“Mom, don't turn it off. I've got to save it or I'll lose all my new fighters.”

“Next time you'll pay attention to me!”

Long wails of protests would greet her ears and finally, she would relent and allow him to save his game.

One day she became so exasperated, she actually enforced a command after putting up the game. “From now on, you cannot play unless we give our permission.”

Matthew, of course, stubbornly spent all his time thinking of new ways to play the game. Once the game was in his hands, he would run and hide to play happily for hours.

His parents were incensed every time Matthew talked about his game until they noticed that Matthew had outgrown his shoes, his slacks, and his shirts. His mother (not being a Bullock) started to praise him.

“Why, Matthew, you are really growing!”

Before she could say more, her husband interrupted. “No, my dear, you are wrong. He's still the same. Everything today is of such poor quality that the material shrunk.” He hustled her out of the room.

“We have to chuck all of his clothing. Then we'll go to the store tomorrow while Matthew is in school and buy new clothes. We'll get everything in duplicates of larger and larger sizes. Shoes wearing out are nothing new. He'll never suspect if we don't mention anything about his growing.”

His prognostication proved to be true. Matthew didn't realize how his parents misled him even when he entered college where he enrolled in biology and chemical engineering with the goal of finding the gene to eternal youth. You'll find him on television soon. He'll be lecturing on maintaining perpetual youth.

Surreal Sunrise

Eric stumbled upon the cabin by accident. He'd been searching for the perfect, secluded spot to stargaze. The night sky was devoid of clouds and the unpolluted air did not create a haze. Instead of gazing upward, he was looking slightly downward, his thin mouth open, his lean body too stunned to move while the full, white-yellow moon cast its silver light over the mostly barren, sand covered landscape; mostly barren, except for the empty shell of a long-ago deserted cabin. Stark, black shadows fell to the northwest, creating a double image of a timbered box with a slanted roof waiting for its inhabitants to return and restore the missing white, siding planks. He stood still as the cabin called to him, whispered his name, and drew him ever closer.

He had to examine this embodiment of broken dreams and defiant courage. Two empty window frames flanked the black pocket of a missing door that provided access to the debris strewn interior. It shouted, “Look, look, I'm still here. Once I provided warmth and comfort, but now I am empty of all that is meaningful.” It was a structure determined to remain, defying the sun, the blasting sand storms, and torrential desert rains until its rightful owner reappeared. It proudly flaunted the intact two by four timbers and the roof framing firmly in place.

Eric knew the cabin was waiting for him. It's a shell like me. Everything that once made it pulse with life is gone. All it needs is someone inside to give it life again.

Quickly he ran his slender fingers through his brown hair; a gesture since a long ago childhood. Would it be safe to sleep out here? Would he need a guard? He knew so little about Wonder Valley other than the deserted, lightless streets provided a magnificent view of the stars. He would need to go online to discover who owned this particular five acres or even if they were alive. Perhaps he could find someone willing to work by day and respond to him by night, but first he needed nourishment.

It was impossible to knock all of the sand off his tennis shoes when he climbed into his SUV and sand sprinkled the floor. The vehicle responded at the touch of his key and he headed towards the small town of Twentynine Palms, California and one of the many empty parking places.

He locked his vehicle and skirted the back alleys. Surely someone would appear from the numerous bars. Eric knew better than to select someone too drunk. The alcohol effect could transfer to his system. It was nearly dawn when he saw a middle-aged, non-descript dumpy woman walking toward him. She was checking the dumpsters behind the smaller eateries. Her backpack was bulging and she set a canvas bag stuffed with her life's possessions beside the dumpster.

He ran the distance separating them and clapped his hand over her mouth and drew her back under the darkened overhang. He bent his head and sank his enlarged eyeteeth into her neck to draw her life into his. When she slumped, a whitened mass into his arms, he slipped one of her arms over his left shoulder and supported her dead weight into a position for the morning sun to dispose of her body. She was like the cabin: an empty shell. Unlike the cabin she would dissipate with the rising sun. All that would remain were her empty clothes and backpack. No one would make any serious inquiries. She had given him life for another few days and he could devote his waking hours to acquiring his cabin. Later he could think about finding an assistant. Clearly, he would need one if he remained here. He drove to the RV Park for his day of sleep.

The moon rose heavy and full again, beckoning him to return to his cabin. Would it hold the same beauty and fascination this time? Eric had to know. It was well after midnight when he left his computer and headed for his SUV. The RV Park was quiet and few lights were on. No one cared if he went or stayed.

The desert air was soft, almost like the whisper of velvet upon his skin. It was one of the elements that continued to draw him to this corner of the world. His RV made it possible to hide away during the day and emerge at the earlier darkened hours. Late fall, winter, and early spring were his long nights. The earlier setting and later rising sun gave him an opportunity to examine the stars unhidden by the lights of the fear-the-darkness living.

Eric thought he had driven to the correct position, but the desert was empty. He turned off the motor, secured the SUV, and walked to the top of the dune to survey the surrounding desert. One look and he dropped behind the dune.

His cabin was just to the right, but someone had parked a pickup truck with a camper there and a fire was burning inside his cabin. Were they insane? Didn't they realize the fragile beauty of that timbered symbol of a man's dreams? Eric raised his head over the dune and saw two skinny men sitting in front of the cabin. He would need to approach them and extinguish the fire. A derelict car with a dented side set to the side of the cabin. He sniffed the air. A strange odor floated out over this section of the desert, but the smell of the two mortals was all he recognized. Should he drive around or walk the distance? The two men looked like they were holding cans of something, probably beer, and both were smoking. Two drunks, Eric decided. They would be easy enough for him to overpower.

Quietly he walked down the dune and approached the cabin from the backside. Both men faced the cabin, watching that container. Eric could see through the broken boards that they had improvised a stove by placing a metal plate over the fire. Both were staring intently at it, not even touching their cans.

Eric ran to the front of his cabin. One man pulled a revolver to aim at him when he threw himself through the air, pulling the man down and sinking his fangs into his neck, the warm, blood gushing out filling his being, intensifying his feelings.

“The crank,” yelled the second man. “It ain't done. I'll get him.”

Eric looked up at the second man coming at him with one of the broken timbers. With a snarl he rose to his knees and pulled the man down to feast at his neck. He continued drinking until both were dead. He emptied all the beer cans on the fire and stirred it to make sure it was out. Then he picked up the pot with rags made from their shirts, and staggered outside. What was wrong with him? There had been too much alcohol in their blood, but there was something else, something he'd merely sampled once before that had heightened his senses.

He sat the pot down and ran his fingers through his hair. The fumes coming up from the pot seemed to increase the fuzziness in his head and he looked up at the sky. It was enthralling. Little, dazzling points of lights danced in unison and a wispy cloud was trying to catch them in an embrace.

Eric sank down. I need to rest just a moment and his eyes closed.

Slowly consciousness returned and he looked down at the sand and then upward. Strange, he had never noticed that before. The entire eastern horizon had become a work of abstract art. Dark blue pin-points of skylights began changing into grey. Rose-red was forming at the bottom of the gray. The rose gradually turned to the color of red blood: red blood pushing upward, straining to get out. He decided a few seconds more before trying to stand could not hurt. He had never seen anything so seductive. Soft, voluptuous clouds gradually becoming softening reds, then corals before breaking into a blinding eruption of intense gold against a soft blue sky shielding a landscape of distant purple mountains. He staggered toward the cabin, his eyes widening at the sight of purple mountains turning rose-pink under the spreading sunlight. He paused, hating to end this beauty. He never knew the morning could bring forth such emotion. It was a sight worth dying for. Suddenly, the burning sensation started. He turned towards the doorway and its darkened interior. Darkness, he needed darkness. He tried to sprint and fell face down, his hand reaching out for something, anything to pull himself inward.

The wind ruffled the empty clothing and sent it sailing into the desert. The piles of ash like residue were soon lifted and flung into the air. A dog carried off one of the shoes. At night a coyote came by and snuffed at the finger bones inside the darkened cabin; a stark, empty cabin waiting in the darkness for the return of someone who never came.