Broken Heart

Plaque gathers in veins
Blood thickens slowly
His chest fills with pains
Bacon left him lowly

Atria spasm
Ventricles shatter
From chest to chasm
Life leaves the matter

His family mourns
For the one they lost
While morticians warn
Of exorbitant cost

They give all that they own
For the sake of his soul
But all this is unknown
To the man in his hole

Too Old For This Shit

Albright was a small town, and news travels fast in small towns. So, when Charlie Gilchrist, the town's 72-year-old mayor, was found dead in his home half-way through his fifth term, there was one word on everybody's lips: "murder." But who could have done it? What kind of sick bastard would shoot an old man? Detective Wilson didn't know, but he was certain of one thing: he was too old for this shit.

Wilson had been working the case for days, but still had no leads. No hair. No fingerprints. No sign of a struggle. Nothing. Just two clean shots to the back with a 9 mm. – whoever did it was a pro, but what was a pro doing in Albright? Wilson leaned back in his chair and massaged his graying temples. There just wasn't any reason for it. Everyone knew Charlie, everyone liked Charlie. Even the city council was mostly made up of his old friends. Wilson just couldn't get it to make sense, and when things didn't make sense, there was only one thing to do: drink.

Detectives Wilson and Grady sat in their favorite bar, McCullough's, and drank. Drank and talked. "So who do you think shot the old coot?" Grady asked, before downing a shot of whisky.

"I don't know," Wilson admitted throwing back his own glass, "but whoever did it was real cold blooded. I just don't get it. Who could do something like that?"

"Dunno. Not everybody cared for the man, you know."

"What do you mean? He's been great to this town."

"No, we've been great to this town," Grady said, slamming down his third shot and showing no signs of slowing, "My dad was great to this town. Built up that hardware store from nothin'. Nothin'! All good ol' Chuck Gilchrist ever did was bring in one chain store after the next."

"He brought jobs."

"Yeah, and he took jobs. Besides, jobs ain't the fucking alpha and omega. There's somethin' called civic pride, ya know? What about all the local stores that got muscled out? Huh? My dad died penniless thanks to those fuckers!" Grady's lip trembled as he drank yet another shot of whisky.

"Hey, easy there," Wilson said taking on a consoling tone, "don't go yellin' at me."

"You're right, man. Sorry. It's just… you know how emotional I get when I think about my dad."

"It's all right. I didn't mean to bring it up. I just wish I had some leads, ya know? How hard could it be to find someone in this town with a nine and a motive?"

The two sat there drinking in silence for the next twenty minutes until finally Wilson rose, muttered, "I'm too old for this shit," and left.

The next morning, Wilson came to a decision. His muscles tightened with nervous energy as he drove to the station. Adrenaline flooded his brain as he walked through the door, he wanted to get this over with -- just rush straight into the chief's office and lay it on him, but he needed to be sure. He needed to know he wasn't making a huge mistake. "Grady," Wilson yelled in the direction of Grady's desk, "we need to talk"

"What is it?" Grady asked as they entered the deserted break room. Something like fear flickered across his features.

Wilson sighed and grabbed a doughnut from the table, "Grady, we're friends, right?"

"Y-yeah," Grady stuttered.

"So there's something I wanna ask you, and it's very important that you tell me the truth, OK?"

Grady nodded slowly.

"Grady, do you think I should retire?"

"What?"

"I keep sayin' I'm too old for this shit, and you know I have grandchildren on the way, and Greta has always wanted to travel. It just seems like the right time, ya know?"

"B-but what about your case?" Grady stammered.

"That's why I'm talking to you, would you mind taking it on? I'm gettin' nowhere, so it's not like you could do worse."

"I-I guess I could do that," Grady said with a weary sigh.

Wilson gave a wide smile and hugged his friend, "great, because I'm thinking of resigning today. I'm not getting any younger, and I need time to start campaigning."

"Campaigning?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna run for mayor."

Schrodinger's Taco Shop

It was a cold January evening when Jakob and Tim finally found a parking space. The two were quiet as Tim squeezed his red 2003 Corolla into the space between two SUVs. Jakob uncurled his lanky frame from the small car and stretched while Tim squeezed out of his door and made sure he didn’t scratched the behemoth next to him.

"It's a bit of a walk from here, but I couldn't find a closer spot. Sorry." Tim said as he ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair.

"You should be sorry," Jakob said pointing behind him, "you left your lights on."

"I wha- oh, oops," Tim said before running back to his car.

"Don't worry about it," Jakob said when he got back, "if I had a car, I'm sure I'd forget the lights constantly. I can't even find my wallet most mornings."

"You don't always keep it in the same place?"

"Usually I forget to take it out of my pocket… So where are we going this time?" Jakob asked, wandering off topic.

"Mexican," Tim said as the walked down the busy street.

"Eww, not Mexican," Jakob said making a face, "didn't you see the thing on Channel 10 about the taco shop with all the rats and roaches and stuff?"

"This place isn't like that."

"You sure?" Jakob asked as he dodged a skateboarder.

"Yes," Tim said as they turned the corner, "There, it's the blue restaurant across the street."

"Well, it is better lit than the one on the news," Jakob admitted.

"Exactly," Tim said as they jaywalked to it.

"Is it going to be spicy?" Jakob asked, "I don't like it when it's spicy."

"'Course it will, it's Mexican, but you can ask them to make it mild if you're a total wuss," Tim said as he walked up to the counter.

Jakob tried to appeal his newfound wuss status, but was interrupted by the young woman behed the counter asking for their orders.

"Quiero dos Enchiladas del Diabla, no avocado y un tamarindo," Tim ordered in passable Spanish.

"That'll be $4.95," the woman said.

Tim paid and got out of the way, while Jakob ordered the least menacing looking item on the menu: a bean and cheese burrito with nothing on it, and a can of coke.

"You said it wrong," Jakob said as they waited for their food to arrive.

"Said what wrong?"

"Your order. It should have been ‘sin aguacate,’ not ‘no avocado.’ Plus you said del instead of de la"

"Wait, they don't say ‘avocado’ in Spanish?" Tim asked.

"I'm pretty sure it's aguacate"

"Huh. All these years…"

"What's wrong with avocados, anyway?" Jakob interrupted.

"I'm allergic."

"Oh, that's no good," Jakob said as the food arrived.

"Yeah, it sucks."

"I love avocados."

"I thought you didn't like Mexican?"

"When did I say that?" Jakob said through a mouthful of beans.

"Just now."

"Did not. Hey, this burrito is pretty good. How're your enchiladas?"

Tim chewed thoughtfully and sighed, "too spicy."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Tim said before taking a big gulp of his tamarindo.

"But you were all making fun of me when I said that I didn't like spicy foods."

"Well, I didn't expect it to be this spicy,” Tim said, doing his best to seem indignant.

"Oh please, you were showing off," Jakob said between bites of burrito.

"What?"

"Come on. Ordering in Spanish. Getting the spiciest thing on the menu. You were trying to impress me."

"I – that's ridiculous!" Tim was picking absent-mindedly at his enchiladas, not quite making eye contact.

"Yeah, you just say that."

"OK, I will."

[Optional Ending 1] As the two talked, argument turned to discussion, discussion turned to banter and by the time they left the restaurant, they were happily talking about their favorite 80's era cartoons. They both agreed that Transformers was better than GI Joe, even though they were too young to remember either show very well. Tim still had some of the toys. They walked back to Tim's car, agreed that the restaurant had been pretty good, and they returned to their respective houses. The end.

[Optional Ending 2] Tim discovered that his Enchiladas had avocado in them. His throat swelled shut while Jakob called an ambulance and prayed. [Optional Ending 2A] The paramedics arrived in the nick of time and Tim was able to recover from his near-death experience with only a mild headache. The end. [Optional Ending 2B] The paramedics arrived late and Tim died of suffocation. Jakob cried all through the funeral. The end.

[Optional Ending 3] As the two talked, argument turned to discussion, discussion turned to banter, and banter turned to flirtation. Eventually, Tim took Jakob home. [Optional Ending 3A] Jakob told Tim he was sorry, but they just didn't "click" and they never went on another date. Tim was left wondering if it had been something he said. The end. [Optional Ending 3B] Jakob kissed Tim good night and they made plans to go on another date soon. The end. [Optional Ending 3C] Jakob invited Tim up to his room and the two had sex. [Optional Ending 3C, Subsection 1] The two woke up in the morning together and made plans for another date. The end. [Optional Ending 3C, Subsection 2] Jakob woke alone and never saw Tim again. Two weeks later, Jakob was told by his doctor that he had contracted Chlamydia. The end.

[Optional Ending 4] The gas line below the restaurant ruptured due to poor maintenance. Both diners died instantly in the ensuing explosion. The end.

[Optional Ending 5] Jakob and Tim got into a heated argument over whether Transformers was better than GI Joe. [Optional Ending 5A] They both decided that the argument had been stupid and finished their meal in peace. The end. [Optional Ending 5B] The two eventually came to blows. It was the bloodiest fight that restaurant had that week. [Optional Ending 5B, Subsection 1] Eventually the cook ran out of the kitchen brandishing a greasy spatula and threw them out. Jakob didn't have a car, so he had to take the bus home. [Optional Ending 5B, Subsection 2] The fight was so bloody that people were afraid to intervene. By the time the cops arrived, Tim had a broken jaw and was missing two teeth. Jakob got off lucky with only a black eye, but he still had to take the bus home. The end.

[Optional Ending 6] Jakob got food poisoning from a rat dropping in his burrito and the restaurant was shut down by health inspectors. Tim and Jakob were both too traumatized to ever touch Mexican food again. The end.

Possessed

Malcolm’s claymore hungered for world domination, Malcolm was sure of it. Malcolm didn’t, mind you (it was Malcolm’s policy not to hunger for anything besides food, and then only when he was hungry), but the sword definitely did. Malcolm could tell be the way it gleamed, by the way it seemed lighter during battle, by the way it never seemed to rust or lose its edge (not that that kept Malcolm from sharpening it daily).

He’d tried to explain all this to Wee Bobby, but the old goat just gave him a funny look and told him he’d taken one too many knocks to the head. This was, of course, true, but it didn’t stop Malcolm from insisting that the damn thing was possessed. Furthermore, Malcolm insisted, that demon sword was going to drive him mad if he didn’t get rid of it. Of course, Fast Willy made a crack about how they probably wouldn’t notice -- which really wasn’t all that funny, but the way Fast Willy said it had half the bar spilling their beers. This got Malcolm all kinds of mad though and he actually got out his claymore. At this point, the others all agreed that perhaps he should get rid of the sword after all.

So, after a few more drinks, Malcolm, Fast Willy, Wee Bobby, and a big man that everyone called Ferret (although no one, not even Ferret, could remember why) headed out on the moors to give the sword a proper burial. It was agreed that they should bury the sword at a crossroads, seeing as how that was what you did with evil swords (at least according to Wee Bobby), but none of them thought to bring a shovel, and since it was still early march, the frozen ground was too hard to dig in anyway, so Ferret suggested that instead they should throw it in the pond next to the crossroads, and everyone enthusiastically agreed that this was close enough.

Malcolm was sad to see his sword go, but they assured him that there were other, less evil swords out there. Then Wee Bobby suggested that Malcolm show any new swords to him so that that he could make sure they weren’t cursed, and everyone else enthusiastically agreed. After that, they all headed back to the bar, except for Ferret who stuck around long enough to fish the sword out of the pond (and damn near froze his fingers off in the process). He eventually sold it for a pretty penny (of course, when Fast Willy found out, he made him give him half).

Malcolm spent the next few days looking for a replacement sword, but was disheartened to learn that every sharp metal object in the county was apparently under a terrible curse. Malcolm started getting suspicious eventually, so Wee Bobby called his friend who was a priest in a neighboring town and had him personally bestow upon Malcolm the greatest weapon the land had ever known, the mighty (wooden) Spoon of St Andrew.

From then on, Malcolm always referred to himself as Malcolm, Lord of the Spoon. Everyone else just called him Malcolm the Mad.

Little Blue Dot

I followed the big blue arrow for days until finally I arrived at the squiggly black line of the front. What I saw there shocked me to the very core. Our little blue dots were outnumbered by their little red dots almost two to one and casualty figures were skyrocketing. The force depletion was terrible.

My unit was assigned the task of leading the way for a smaller blue arrow to cut across the enemy’s flank. After our little blue dot had gone deep into enemy territory, other little blue dots would follow our little blue arrow and drive a wedge between the little red dots on the left part of the squiggly line and the little red dots on the right part of the squiggly line. The plan was crazy and we all knew it, but our orders were clear and we had no choice but to follow them. Besides we reasoned, young fools that we were, it was better to lose our unit in one glorious dash against the enemy flank than to sit lamely at the squiggly line while attrition whittled us to nothing.

The plan was doomed almost from the start. As we made our approach, the little red dots started shifting position and we didn’t know why. Then I saw the little black boxes and my heart sank to my shoes. Fortifications! Damn, how had we missed that? It didn’t matter now. With one piece of bad intel, our job had gone from difficult to damn near impossible, but we couldn’t turn back. Not when there were half a dozen little blue dots behind us that needed the path clear. Not when there were so many red dots just waiting to rain down upon us in our flight. No, we had to press on. We had take the little black boxes from the vicious red dots. There was no other choice.

I’ll never forget the nauseating mix of fear and courage I felt as I rushed toward the little black boxes. The little blue arrow at my back didn’t feel so little now. Now, it was the biggest thing in the world. Nothing mattered more, and the little red dots hiding behind their little black boxes looked so tiny in comparison. My eyes did not notice the horrible attrition all around me. My ears ignored the screeches and booms of the force multipliers crashing down upon us. My nose paid no heed to the heady scents brought on by rising casualties and shrinking morale. I saw only the sights of glory. I heard only the sounds of victory. I smelled only the smells of peace. Only later, in my dreams, in my nightmares, would I remember what came next.

I remember seeing a little red arrow rising in the distance. I remember thinking how much larger it was than my puny blue arrow. Then I saw where it was coming from. They had come from the blue side of the squiggly black line. Our front had fallen. The long line of blue dots had been crushed. Then I was fleeing. Our disorderly retreat quickly turned into a route, and there was nothing I could do but watch in horror as little blue dots disappeared around me. I don’t know how my little blue dot made it out of there, and sometimes I wish we hadn’t because, after that day, none of us felt much like being a little blue dot anymore.

Mars Bears

Jerry had a game he liked to play. A game where he went to places he’d never been and did things he’d never done. Today he was in a cabin in the woods on Mars. Sure some people said Mars didn’t have any woods, but Jerry assured himself that they were wrong and the fact that he was here proved that.

So off Jerry and his little brother Zack walked. Their noble mission of exploration saw them climbing Martian pines, skipping over Martian creeks searching for Martian frogs, and ripping the legs off Martian bugs. By the time Mission Commander Mom called them back for their evening rations, their special Exploration Suits had been stained dozens of interesting colors and Mission Commander Mom ordered them to change. It was for their own safety, of course. Everyone knew a damaged suit could be the death of you on Mars.

The game stopped being quite as fun at dinner when Zack told the Mission Commander he was worried about bears. “Oh sweetie,” Commander Mom reassured, “you don’t have to worry about that. There aren’t any bears here.”

“Yeah,” Jerry agreed, “everyone knows there’s no bears on Mars.”

That night though, Zack was still worried and while Mission Commander Mom slept in another room, he was up talking about Mars Bears. “I bet they have really big ones around here, like, bigger than a grizzly – an’ that’s why no one’s seen ‘em ‘cus they eat everyone before they can run.”

“There’s no such thing as Mars bears!” Jerry said a little too loudly, “now shut up and go to sleep.” Zack protested, but after a while he did shut up and did fall asleep. Jerry, on the other hand, was wide awake. He was worried about Mars Bears.

What if they were all around? What if they were bigger than a truck? What if they were just waiting to get him? He couldn’t take it! He had too many questions, and even though he knew there was no such thing as Mars Bears, he barely slept at all.

The next morning, Jerry stumbled over to the breakfast table and nearly collapsed in his oatmeal. When his mother asked him what was wrong, he told her Zack had had him up all night worrying about Mars bears.

“Oh honey,” Mom said, “I know you like to pretend we’re exploring this lush forest, but the fact of the matter is Mars is still mostly desert and there’s nothing living here that wasn’t brought here from earth, and why would we bring bears? Besides, if there were bears on Mars, what would they eat?” she gestured at the barren landscape on the other side of the thick shatterproof window, “the rocks? The sand? Bears need a lot of food you know.”

After that, Jerry felt better and he and Zack went back to climbing rocks, hopping over patches of sand, and picking at whatever bits of trash were to be found outside the domes.

Thanksgiving

I lie in the bushes that hid the old rusty bear trap which grabbed my leg and bound me by chain to an old oak tree. The mechanism is damaged, the trap won’t release. There is no escape. I was only looking for a place to pee.

I am a rugged man. My knife is sharp. I will be fine.

I am fifteen feet from an unmarked trail in the Appalachians, on a cold Wednesday in November. I walked on that trail for two hours and saw no one. Three hours of lying here haven’t changed anything. So much for getting some time to myself.

I am a strong man. My knife is sharp. I should be fine.

Red light filters through the trees, the night birds begin to sing, and there is still no one. My only means of calling for help is my voice, and all that does is scare the birds away. I brought nothing else. I wanted to escape from the outside world, not bring it with me.

I am a clever man. My knife is sharp. There is still hope.

Night is here now. The day birds have gone to sleep, the night birds have relaxed their songs, and an owl vomited a pellet on my lap. I used to like birds. There is no hope of rescue until tomorrow, and it is slim then. I have taken out my sturdy old Swiss Army Knife and gone to work. It is not hard, but it will take time.

I am a brave man. My knife is sharp. I can do this.

An orange dawn is coming toward me through the trees and calls echo from the birds that my anguished shouts have kept away. I did not sleep last night, and I will not sleep now. There is work to be done.

I am a desperate man. My knife is sharp. I must do this.

The shortening shadows tell me it is almost noon. My seventy dollar watch with its compass, leather wrist strap, and phases of the moon sits safely on my dresser, at home, where I may never go again. A thought occurs to me. I drink the last of my water and eat the last of my jerky. It is Thursday now. Happy Thanksgiving.

I am a pained man. My knife is sharp. What else can I do?

The shadows are lengthening again, the wind is picking up, and my work is nearly finished. My leg hurts worse than when I was first caught. It throbs through me, sometimes sharp and fiery, sometimes dull and cold, sucking my will to go on.

I am a desperate man. My knife is sharp. I must go on.

My work is finished. I pull my knife, dull and worn and worthless, from the gash it tore in the rusty bear trap. With all my strength, I rip the bear trap apart and free my leg. My leg is cut and mangled. It will need stitches, maybe surgery, but I can walk on it, for now.

I am a free man. A stick is my crutch. I’m going home.

Awakening

Atop a glacier, half a mile above a glassy fjord, small figures began to chant. Their red robes were meant for clandestine meetings in hidden basements and ancient crypts and did nothing to fight the chill of a night in the arctic. They shivered constantly. If they felt the cold, they did not comment on it. They were servants of the Old One, the last remnants of a cult that had spilled blood on the pages of history for twelve millennia, and tonight they had bigger things on their minds than hypothermia.

The incense had been lit, the runes had been inscribed, and the bones had been cast. The stars were right, the planets were aligned, and the new moon was in the proper quadrant. After seven thousand years, the prophecy had been fulfilled and these cultists, these lucky few, would be the first to perish in the wake of The Destroyer.

The chanting began slowly -- an "ohm" here, a "th`rk" there. The pace quickened as more cultists joined in, and the strange, guttural cadences of the Old Tongue began to emerge. The words were terrible and discordant. They seared the cultists' ears and scoured their throats. Beneath the cultists, the ice of the glacier took on a faint red glow, and the dark waters of the fjord seemed to reflect far more than just the stars.

Sensing that the time was right, the High Priest began to unfasten the corroded copper locks on the Cask of the Ancients. The cask had not been opened for six thousand years, and no one living knew what awaited the High Priest. One legend said it contained the blood of ten thousand maidens. Another, more obstinate, group of lore keepers insisted it was ten thousand marmots. The truth was lost to time. Brazenly, and without apparent fear, the High Priest threw back the heavy clay lid of the cask, and gasped at the stench that assaulted him. Sixty centuries in a Sumerian jar had given the original contents (whatever they were) a reek suggestive of an infinite number of dead skunks covered in an infinite amount of sewage. The real reason the High Priest had insisted on bringing five crates of incense became apparent. It was not enough.

Inside the cask, the substance that had once (probably) been virgin's blood had taken on the texture of suspiciously chunky chocolate pudding. The High Priest motioned to the Ritual Master, a troublesome little man with troublesome little ideas, and the Ritual Master nodded and reached into the cask. The nervous man pulled out a finger full of the mysterious ichor (which now definitely did not resemble chocolate pudding), and stared at it meekly. The Ritual Master gave the High Priest one last pleading look, but was rebuffed with a shake of the head. Gingerly, the poor man lifted his finger to his mouth, tasted the substance, winced, and died instantly. There was a brief wavering in the chanting, and one of the younger disciples actually gasped. The High Priest just shrugged.

The corpse still twitched as a pair of acolytes dragged it into the Ritual Dodecagram. The High Priest ignored it and walked to the edge of the glacier. The old maniac was so excited he was practically skipping. As the chanting continued, the High Priest raised his hands in the air dramatically, and stared down into the glassy fjord. Careful to keep the giddiness he felt from entering his voice, the High Priest began to shout loudly in the Old Tongue. Awaken, Great Sleeper. The Time of Prophecy is at hand! Awaken, World Ender. We have brought you a gift of blood, ancient and fresh! Awaken, That Which Blocks The Way With Its Unspeakable Appendages. The Unmaking has begun! The chanters now joined in, their voices echoing off of snow-capped peaks. Awaken. Awaken! Awaken!

Below, the fjord had started to boil. It shook and rippled violently, as if it had been struck by an invisible hurricane, as if a hundred depth charges had burst beneath its placid surface, as if an unspeakable horror of unlimited size and impossible dimensions had suddenly started rising to the surface. A loud, piercing rumble rose from the fjord and screamed its way through the minds of all assembled. Within the circle of chanters, a couple of acolytes began to wish they had taken up a different hobby, like knitting. The High Priest sensed the tension in the air and ordered them to hold firm while The Sleeper was Awakening.

Within the fjord, the frantic motion of the water began to calm, and a dark shadow came into focus. The High Priest could make out the silhouettes of tentacles, mandibles, and thousands of other body parts that did not have names, but conjured unpleasant images. One of the shadows detached itself, and a single eye jutted out of the water atop a mile-long stalk. The disturbingly-human eye was bloodshot and blinked rapidly. Its pupil expanded and contracted blearily as it focused on the cultists. A cluster of tentacles rose and began to rub the eye as if it were in pain. The cultists gasped. A loud grumbling noise emerged from the fjord, and the tentacles pulled back to reveal what was unmistakably a lobster claw the size of a house. The Old One raised its claw and, before they had time to react, brought it smashing down on the assembled cultists. The chanting stopped violently. The eye stalk and claw then pulled back into the water with a loud "plop" and The Sleeper returned to its rest.

Above the fjord, the High Priest clung to side of the glacier, while two of the surviving acolytes lifted him up. Nearby, another acolyte was already pointing to where the claw had struck. A large sheet of glacial ice had sloughed off with the blow, and the source of the strange red glow revealed itself to be a huge gleaming glyph written in the Old Tongue. The High Priest, upon rising to his feet, looked down at the glyph in horror, and immediately ordered his followers not to look upon it, but he was too late. One acolyte, quicker than most, had already made the translation. He wore a look of confusion as he spoke the word aloud, "SNOOZE?"

First Post!

Hi, my name is David Gastil. I'm an amateur fiction writer and this blog is basically just a place for me to put the stuff I write so that if people want to read my stories, I can just send them a link to this blog instead of having to send them a bunch of files. Plus if I'd had this a year ago, I wouldn't have lost one of my favorite stories in a hardware crash. Ah well. Anyway, I'm going to be posting my more "finished" stories from the last couple years right away and after that there will most likely be a long lull after that while I get around to writing more stuff.

If you are a friend or acquaintance of mine, welcome to my blog and I hope you enjoy what I have written. I've shown various stories to various people but this is likely the first time you'll read most of these. Enjoy.

If you are a person I don't know who found this blog at random or followed a link here, I should tell you that while none of these stories have currently been published, I would like to pursue publishing for some of these stories in the future. If you would like to post any of my work please include a link to my blog rather than just blindly crossposting it as I would like to retain some control over my intellectual property.

All these works are copyrighted and I reserve all rights to their reuse and republishing. Do not plagiarize any of these stories or distribute them for profit. Thank you.

-- Dave