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| March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. http://horrorworld.org/msgboards/viewtopic.php?f=58&t=7721 |
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| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 3:58 pm ] |
| Post subject: | March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Blue Ballad of Murder The sounds coming from the next room were either intense sex, or someone was being torn apart with a machete. The sweet aroma of marijuana drifted in through the open window, while more moans pounded away in Shaun Connor’s tired ear. He needed sleep; more importantly, he needed sleep necessary to get the new job he was down here for, away from a wife that loved him. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp; it flickered, like it was about to burn out any second. He grabbed the phone and dialed for the girl at the desk. “Yes?” Shaun could smell the reek of cheap whiskey seeping out through the foul breath on the other end. “I’m in room six. The couple, or whoever is in the room next to mine, are making enough noise to keep people up a mile away,” Shaun said. He should have come on stronger, but decided to play it cool. The drunk female voice answered, “Yeah … uh … wait a second …” Papers were heard being shuffled around, and twice Shaun swore he could actually hear her stopping for a couple slugs from a bottle of booze. “Hello? Hello!” She came back just as he was getting ready to let loose with some uncouth language describing what her level of intelligence might be. “Yeah, there’s no couple in the room next to yours. In fact, there’s no one in the room next to you. So, if you want to continue to call and waste my time, I’ll be happy to refund your money and tell you to fuck off.” The line went dead, and Shaun was left staring at the phone. As if to shake him from his confusion, more loud thuds and horny cries began to rattle the wall again. There would be no sleep tonight. And if he took his money and left, there might not be another place to get a room for miles of driving in the dead of night. “Screw this shit,” he mumbled. And then, a moment of clarity engulfed him: Maybe it was just some kids busted into the room for some fun; it would certainly explain the smell of pot. And what demented killer stops to smoke a big fat one right in the middle of eviscerating you? More banging. Shaun got out of bed and placed his right ear against the cold, chipped wall to see if he could hear anything. There was a muffled voice, crying, and it was definitely female. Another crash so loud it scared the shit out of him, sending him falling backwards to the floor. He lunged for the phone, dialed the desk again, and didn’t even wait for the mean bitch to get one word in. As soon as he heard it pick up he started in on her: “Listen to me! There’s a woman hurt, next to me. Do what you have to do, but call the fucking cops. Now!” He actually heard her sigh. “Sir, there is no one in the room next to you. Would you like me to actually come over there and show you myself?” He crept on his knees back to the wall, pressing his ear back to hear. Silence. “Look-” He was ready to start on her again, but the voice came back. Like a faint note of music, distant, beckoning him on a subconscious level. He placed his hand over the phone and pressed the entire left side of his head against the wall. “Sir? Hello, Sir!” He’d forgotten the ruthless bitch on the other end. “You’ve been a great help. Thanks, “ he said coldly, then hung up and stared at the wall with mounting beads of sweat beginning to trickle down his face. He listened again. Nothing. “Shit.” She was dead. And while he was standing here like some scared shit-for-brains, the killer was probably whistling down the road by now. He decided to at least go next door and see what he could-as carefully as he could. Wind began to beat at the door and rattle it like it was made of cheap cardboard. Shaun thought it probably was, then threw his jacket and shoes on. Outside it felt more like a frigid midnight in late January, than early November. He tugged his collar up for warmth, and peered down the row of doors. He noticed that the frost covered parking lot was empty; it was packed full of cars when he pulled in. He looked over at the office where he checked in, now looking torn apart, cold and desolate, like no one had been there for so many years-it gave you the feeling that something terrible happened here. Shaun came to the room, he held his head to the closed door and heard nothing but the sound of the wind moaning through the veins of the structure. No weeping rape victim, or drooling serial killer to be found. The faint sound of a tenor saxophone crying its way through some bluesy ballad, began to float out of the dilapidated cabin where he checked in. The delicate glow of a small candle flickered against one of its broken windows. He froze. “That sound … “ Shaun snapped his head back, as if he were in the throes of an overpowering orgasm, clenched his fists, and in his mind saw what happened in the room next to his: A man, with long hair in a ponytail-his face an unrecognizable smear-on the bed with a redheaded buxom woman who was also faceless, banging her from behind, then pulling out a long serrated hunting knife from behind the pillow as he released inside of her … the slashing painted the walls with medium-sized globs of dark crimson that oozed down the flower pattern wallpaper, filling the room with the unmistakable smell of fresh blood … On the wall over the bed, a message smeared in excrement: THERE ARE NO PEOPLE HERE, SHAUN- YOU DIED HERE AND WE KEPT YOU. Shaun fell forward, grabbed onto the doorknob of the slaughter room to keep himself from falling on his face. He steadied himself, and though it made his lungs ache, he took in deep breaths of the icy air. A few seconds later he stood, steady enough to face forward while the haunting croon of the tenor sax still moaned and wailed into the black night, calling to him, trying to remind him of something bad. Shaun reached in his back pocket, took out his wallet and pulled out his wedding picture. He ran his thumb over his wife’s face, and that gorgeous red hair that was the first thing he noticed about her. The sax crooned louder, pleased that he was beginning to remember, but still calling to him like a lost child, wandering through a crowd trying to find its father. Shaun dropped the wedding picture, turned around for a split second to watch as a frozen gust of wind carried it away, spiraling it into another dimension possibly more strange than even this one. He reached behind his neck and unconsciously stroked his ponytail. The dark silhouette of a tall, skinny man, almost skeletal, emerged out of the shadows by the door to the office. He was still blowing death air into the sax, still mangling Shaun’s mind with those gaunt, funeral-like notes. Shaun walked towards him, and the smooth blue ballad of murder wheezed on. The End. |
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| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 4:00 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Runt The runt watched from his perch as the two teens hid in the bushes a few feet from his tree. He sat about ten feet off the ground, but was well hidden by the leaves. He could hear them try to control their breathing, gasping from exertion as well as fear. He smiled as he heard his tribe go rushing by, searching for the teens, as well as those that had been with them. His tribe did this often, hunting down people who came too close to their living area, usually for food, once in a while for breeding, but only rarely for sport. They had come across several teens out camping, scoffing at the legends of the forest as they did so. The legends had turned real, and the teens nightmare had begun. Two males and a female had been taken in the initial attack, some of the tribe dragging them back to the others to prepare the feast. The other teens had fled, and the tribe's best hunters had gone in pursuit. The runt was not among them. He longed to be, but at just over four feet tall, he was at least a full foot shorter than the others. He didn't fit in well with the tribe, being that short. His arms were too long for his body, his legs too short. When the others fed, he usually got scraps, like fingers and toes, never the good parts. He never got to partake with the women the tribe kept alive. But the runt was smart. Smarter than the others. He watched them hunt, watched how the prey fled, what their tendencies were, where they went. He learned and learned well. Which is how he found himself in the tree watching the two teens below him. He knew they tired easier than his tribe, knew they needed hiding places, found those spaces and waited. The runt smiled, saliva dripping from his lower lip as he gripped his weapon, a thirty inch long, two inch round branch. He waited for the right time to attack. ********************************* Carl and Mandy had finally gotten their breathing under control. Their clothes were torn and they each bled from scratches gotten from running through the brush. Mandy had almost screamed when the creatures ran past them, but Carl clamped a hand over her mouth and held it in. "What are those things?" Mandy whispered when the coast appeared to be clear. "They look like some sort of monkey-man things. I don't know really. I guess the stories about this forest are true," Carl answered. "Did you see what happened to the others?" "No. When they attacked I took off. I heard screaming but I don't know who it was." She paused. "What do we do now?" Carl held up a finger as he cocked an ear. "I thought I heard something hit the ground, like it fell from one of these trees." "I think they're gone. Let's go." "Okay." The two crawled out of the brush, only to come face to face with one of the creatures. ************************************** The runt had dropped out of the tree and waited for his prey to leave cover. He smiled as they did, and noticed the shock on their faces. The man held up his hand, palm out, towards the runt. The man looked back at the woman and said something. The runt took his opportunity and leapt up, biting down hard on three of the man's fingers. His strong teeth bit clear through bone, and the fingers stayed in his mouth. The man looked at his hand, dumbfounded. The woman ran, screaming. The runt swung his branch into the man's stomach, doubling him over. He swung again, catching the man in the throat. The runt heard a crunching noise and the man gasped for air. The man fell to the ground. The runt knew it would take the man several minutes to die. He'd be well on his way back to the others before that happened, and his kill would still be fresh enough to enjoy. He gripped the man by an ankle and began dragging his wheezing prey towards home. Blood from the man's fingers dripped down his chin as he grinned, thinking that this time he might get the good pieces from his kill. The runt felt himself growing hard at the thought of the others letting him have a turn with one of the women. Things were indeed looking up for the runt. |
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| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 4:02 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Neti-Pot Tony looked at the strange genie lamp his wife Eva had bought for him. At least it looked like a genie’s lamp. Maybe if he rubbed it Robin Williams would pop out and grant his wish for relief from his allergies. The summer had been particularly punishing for his allergies and his nose sometimes felt like it was packed with cotton. His eyes constantly itched and the thought of a good nights sleep remained just that: a thought. The idea of the Neti-Pot struck him as somewhat ridiculous but at this point he was ready to cut off his nose for some nasal relief. Plus, his wife always complained he never used the things she brought home to “improve” his life. The Ped-Egg and nose hair trimmer sat unused in his bathroom while his heels got scalier and his nose hairs got longer. A few hours later Tony was poised over the sink of his bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw a face that looked much older than his 47 years. The lack of sleep had placed little half-moons under his bloodshot eyes and his nose was red and inflamed like the nose of a department store Santa with rum and coke on his breath. He had read the instructions carefully and the Pot was filled with warm water and a dash of salt. He tilted his head forward and to the side and gently inserted the tip of the spout into his right nostril. He resisted the urge to stand up and relaxed his body and let the warm saline water run its course. He smiled to himself as the water (and mucous, and even a couple hairs) started to pour out of his other nostril like a polluted river. His smile turned to laughter. His nose felt better already. The warm water felt like salve on a bad poison ivy rash. He held the spout to his nose until the water ran out and he stood up and looked at the mirror. Incredibly, his nose was no longer inflamed. In fact, his eyes looked a lot better as well. He breathed deeply and for the first time in a long time his olfactory senses started chugging away. His bathroom had never smelled so good to him. That night as Tony slept he dreamt that the Neti-Pot was actually a genie’s lamp. But instead of Robin Williams, Barbara Eden popped out of the spout like a stripper in a birthday cake. He was 12 years old again and Barbara Eden has been the woman of his adolescent fantasies. But instead of twinkling her nose she flashed her teeth in a grin frozen with rictus. They were tiny and sharp with green, mottled flesh hanging from the gumline like rabid, frothing bats. She reached for Tony and he staggered backwards as the reek of poisonous breath washed over him like a devil’s baptism. Her teeth clamped down on his nose but instead of screaming he smiled. He had wished for this. The next few weeks Tony used his Neti-Pot religiously, when he woke up, lunchtime in the office bathroom and before going to bed. He no longer had to eat in the sterile office cafeteria; he could go to the park, sit under a tree with his lunch and a Tom Piccirilli book and enjoy the warm sunshine on his face. He knew it was his imagination playing tricks on him but he felt younger, even looked younger. A couple of co-workers had asked him about his weight loss secret. He even noticed one of the ladies in the IT department checking him out. When he caught her eyes she didn’t turn away but instead gave him a warm smile. He had no intention of cheating on his wife but it felt good to be noticed by another woman. He had begun to carry the Neti-Pot in his pocket when he went out and occasionally he would reach down and rub it with his hand. He liked to feel the warm flesh-like body of the Neti-Pot caress his fingers. He ignored the curious stares of co-workers; he had no interest in showing people his Neti-Pot. He was sure someone would try to steal it. Someone like that asshole Chad in human resources. Chad had called him into his office a couple months ago and asked him to write a letter justifying his job in order to save it from the next round of layoffs. Tony had worked diligently on his letter and was preparing it for submission. Submission was the perfect word he now thought. He would never submit to this company, to Chad. He would be damned if he let a two-bit, pimple faced, just out of community college, company man like Chad lord over him. He had been at this job for 26 years. He had earned the right to ignore the Chad’s of the office. In his pocket the Neti-Pot glowed brightly, pulsing up and down like the body of a sleeping snake. A couple of weeks later Tony noticed the Neti-Pot wasn’t working as well. His nose was getting stuffy again, less mucous was coming out with the warm saline water, and his nose was getting red and tender again. He tried upping the salt content and it seemed to help for a while but he kept upping the salt content until it began to burn his nose. In frustration he hurled the Neti-Pot against the wall of his bathroom. It fell to floor where the tip of the spout stared back him like an accusing eye. Tony quickly picked it up and checked it for damage. He brought it to his eye level, caressed it and whispered to it, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. Please forgive me.” The next day at work Tony was in the office bathroom cleaning out his nose before he headed out to lunch when Chad walked in. “Hey Tony!” he said cheerfully. His teeth were white and gleaming. Like the teeth of a predator Tony thought. Behind that smile was someone who would do anything to take his Neti-Pot away. “What you got there? Is that one of those nasal cleaning pots I keep hearing about?” Chad asked him. Chad approached to get a better look and suddenly the Neti-Pot felt hot in Tony’s hand. “It’s called a Neti-Pot,” he screamed as he grabbed Chad by the front of his shirt and threw him into a bathroom stall. He took the spout of the pot and jammed it up Chad’s nose. Chad screamed but a knee to the balls shut him up and his eyes rolled up in his head. Tony knew he didn’t have a lot of time before someone came into the bathroom so he shoved the spout further and further into Chad’s nose. The bottom of Chad’s nose began to tear away from the skin as Tony pushed harder. He noticed the Neti-Pot glowing in his hand and he almost dropped it as it began to throb, matching the speed of his racing pulse. Chad’s nose was now almost completely off his face and in shock he seemed to have passed out. Still, Tony pushed the Neti-pot further up the nasal passage until it reached the spongy exterior of the brain and pushed through, hitting the top of his skull. Chad’s body shuddered once and then stood still. “Read instructions before first use Chaddy boy,” Tony said as he closed the stall door. Checking himself in the mirror he cleaned himself up as well as he could and raced out of the office into the light of day. His allergies began acting up. Taking the bloody Neti-pot out of his pocket he looked at it. “Why are you not helping me anymore? What did I do to you?” Tony pleaded as people moved out of the way of the strange man talking to a bloody genie lamp. “Stronger, something stronger.” He muttered to himself as he staggered back to his car. That afternoon, his wife came home early from work. She heard water running in the bathroom. Tony must be home early as well, she thought. She knocked on the bathroom door and opened it when he didn’t answer. She screamed. Tony was lying against the bathtub. Next to him was a bottle of bleach. His nose had been replaced by a black cavernous hole with bubbles of snot and blood running down to his mouth which was raised in a leering smile revealing teeth stained pink with blood. In his hand was the Neti-pot. Hearing her screams and distant sirens a neighbor raced into the house and into the bathroom. He gasped as he saw Tony’s body on the floor. “Is that one of those nose cleaner things?” he whispered in horror, his hand over his mouth. He almost shrieked as Tony's eyes moved towards him. Two red orbs in a face still like a statue. “It’s called a Neti Pot,” Tony said. |
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| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 4:06 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Little Man Suddenly, Melanie was conscious. Strangely, her first thought was wondering if someone had hit the “on” switch in her brain commanding her synapses to fire up. The problem was, who, or whatever it was that jolted her awake, had forgotten to turn on another switch, the one for the lights. Blinking furiously, Melanie tried to wink away the darkness, but the results were poor at best, all she could do was distinguish the contrasting shades of black making up the shadows in her line of sight. It was disorienting, and she had trouble figuring out if she was lying down or sitting up. Thinking a change of direction might put things into perspective, Melanie moved her head to the left. At least she attempted to, but nothing happened. Confused, she tried to move it in the other direction. Once again, nothing happened. Worry crept into thoughts so she began to experiment. She rolled her eyes, puffed her cheeks in and out, snorted out her nose, and then ran her tongue over her teeth. Everything seemed to be in working order so she breathed a small sigh of relief. But it was short lived. Her worry turned to panic when she tired to move her arms. Not only wouldn’t her arms respond to her thoughts, neither would her legs. Like an on coming truck, fear slammed into her hard when she realized that she couldn’t feel anything below her neck. Was she paralyzed? Maybe blind too? One thing for certain, she wasn’t deaf, she could plainly hear her own loud sobbing escaping from her lips. “Melanie? Is that you?” “Yes, yes, it’s me! Please help me! I can’t move!” “Melanie, it’s me Rob, I can’t move either, but I can hear you, you sound like you’re just above me somewhere, can you see anything?’ “No, it’s dark; I can’t see anything at all. You sound like you’re close though, right below me. What happened? Where are we? “I…I don’t know. The last thing I remember is being with you down by the lake.” Memories rushed into Melanie’s head. She and Rob were lying on a blanket and going at it pretty heavily, he already had her shirt unbuttoned and her bra unclasped. She remembered his hands being warm and gentle, her nipples responding quickly. She recalled closing her eyes after he lowered his lips to her breasts and began sucking, but then... She recalled hearing a noise, a shuffling of feet behind Rob. Opening her eyes at the sound she saw him, a little man wearing a ski mask , both of his hands holding something high above him. She pulled away from Rob, trying to disengage her breast from his mouth, but his lips just followed along with her. More images flashed in her mind; the little mans hands coming down and plunging something into Robs neck; Rob going limp and falling away from her; her breasts jostling back and forth as she tried to crawl away from him; then, the attackers other hand coming down quickly to her own neck. “I remember what happened Rob!” “…what…what happened to us?” “Some man, a little guy, he attacked us! He stuck us with a needle and that’s the last I remember!” “Fuck! Maybe that’s why we can’t move, he stuck us with something that paralyzed us.” “Rob, do you think he buried us alive and I’m on top of you?” “I don’t think so. I can feel my face, there’s nothing on or around it.” “Then where the hell are we?” Before Rob could answer, Melanie screamed in pain. Her eyes burned as a bright light exploded in front of her. Slamming her eyes shut, she reflectively tried to turn to the side, but her head still refused to move. And though she hadn’t seen the source of the light, she had an idea as to what it might be as the sounds of squeaky hinges filled her ears. After a few moments, she opened her eyes cautiously taking care to acclimate herself to the light. Focusing, Melanie saw that she was in a room, mostly empty, with the exception of a bed; it’s headboard up tight against the wall in front of her. And then she saw the figure of a little man in a doorway with one hand on a light switch, and the body of a girl draped over his shoulder. The girl appeared to be struggling, but not all that hard. Melanie wondered if he had drugged her as he did them. Without a word, the man turned off the light and with only the illumination from the open door, Melanie watched as he tossed the girl onto the bed. Then he began removing the girls clothing and tossing them onto the floor. When he was finished, he shook off his own clothes and then mounted the girl. “Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” It was Rob’s voice shouting somewhere below her. The little man ignored Rob and began to pump harder into the girl, who continued to lightly struggle. “Hey asshole, I said leave her the fuck alone! Is that the only way you can have sex with a girl? By drugging her? Is that the only way you can be a big man?” The man stopped in mid thrust and turned to stare in Melanie and Rob’s direction. He rolled off of the girl, bent down on the floor and picked something up, and then walked toward them. Melanie heard Rob begin to speak again, but before he could get a full word out, his voice was muffled. Then she heard a gagging sound and Rob was quiet. “Enjoy the flavor Rob”, the little man spoke, “that’s the only way you’re ever going to taste pussy again.” Melanie shouted, “What have you done to Rob? And leave that poor girl alone!” The man walked back toward the door and flipped the light switch. Melanie’s eyes burned again, but not as badly as before. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she gazed at the man and gasped. “Dr. Snyder?” Standing before her was their college biology teacher. “Yes Melanie, it’s me.” “But…but why?” “I’ve been working on an experiment for the past 10 years, and I think I’ve finally found the right combinations of chemicals to make it a success.” “I…I don’t understand what that has to do with Rob and I.” “Let me show you Melanie.” Dr. Snyder walked behind Melanie’s line of vision for a moment and returned with something large in his hands. “I want you to look into this Melanie and tell me what you see.” Dr. Snyder then held up the object in his hands. Melanie was confused. She was looking at a picture of her face. No, not a picture, but a reflection. He was holding a mirror up to her. “I still don’t understand,” she replied nervously. Dr. Snyder started to step away from her. When he had only moved back a few feet, Melanie screamed once more. In the mirror, Melanie saw a bookcase. On the top shelf of the bookcase was her head. Just her head. As Dr. Snyder took a few more steps backward, Rob’s head came into view on a shelf below her, a pair of panties stuffed into his mouth. Dr. Snyder laughed, “After all those years of research…well… lets just say my resurrection dreams have been realized Melanie. And if you’re wondering where the rest of your bodies are, well, since I had no use for Rob’s, I dismembered it and buried it in the woods. As for yours…” Melanie’s mind began to lock up, her thoughts draining away. She embraced the oncoming void and Dr. Snyder’s voice faded as he continued speaking. “…I admit to always having a crush on you Melanie, I wanted you since the moment I first saw you in my class, but I knew I couldn’t have you. At least, as you were. Look, that’s you on the bed Melanie, just laying there waiting with your legs spread open. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish what I started. Oh, by the way, are you using any birth control? “ |
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| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 4:22 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
“THE FIX” The middle-aged woman sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug in one hand, a blue Bic pen in the other. The weekly rag she picked up at the corner newsstand stared back at her from the table. The back page always had ads for unusual services, some legit, but most of them scams. Escort services mostly, some fortune tellers, and a few people who could speak to the dead. She marked out the ads she found to be useless to her, and circled ones she might need. One in particular caught her attention. KEN LEUNG PROFESSIONAL MEDIUM “Do you need to speak to a dead loved one? Do you need closure? Is a restless spirit causing discomfort in your home? Call (816) 555-7629; I will personally visit your home and speak to the deceased party, and in turn help you find peace of mind.” “Perfect,” the woman said, picking up the phone to dial Ken. ****** Ken Leung pulled up in front of the split-story home, glancing at his notes to make sure he was at the right address. It was his last appointment of the day. Just another loser willing to give me money for nothing, he thought. He got out of the car, putting on his “professional” face as he made his way up the driveway to the front door. After a couple knocks, the door opened halfway to reveal an older, but still very attractive woman inside. Jackpot. “Mrs. Laymon?” he asked. “I’m Ken Leung. I believe you called me earlier?” “Yes, yes, please come in. I’ve been expecting you.” Ken followed the woman into the house, taking time to steal glances at her curvaceous figure, especially the nice, rounded rump. Cougar city right here, boys. Here kitty kitty. “Smells good,” he said. “Why thank you. I’m making enchiladas for supper.” I’d like to eat your enchiladas, Ken thought. Or a nice fish taco, perhaps? He barely managed to hold back a giggle. “You said the deceased was your, son, ma’am?” “Yes,” she answered. “My boy Richard. He was nineteen when he had a sudden heart attack. The doctors have no idea why. I was down here in the kitchen when I heard a terrible thud. I raced upstairs and found him lying on the floor. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was already dead.” “I’m so sorry,” Ken said. “Where was his room?” “Upstairs, first door on the right. Although he died in the guest room, straight across the hall. Sometimes I can think I feel him in both places.” “I understand,” Ken said. “I’ll be sure to evaluate both rooms.” He headed upstairs, leaving the delicious aroma from the kitchen behind him. At the top, he opened the first door on his right and stepped into a room that was as spotless as a showroom floor model. The bed was perfectly made, complete with three decorative pillows. Light blue drapes hung from the window above the bed. A computer desk sat in the corner along the far wall, and next to it, a long, waist-high dresser. The wall nearest to Ken was full of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Some contained books, horror novels from the look of them, although Stephen King was the only name Ken recognized. The other shelves were full of DVD’s, everything from horror to romantic comedies. Basically, nothing to help him make up a story to tell Mrs. Laymon. No little clues he could pretend had some hidden significance. A complete snooze-fest. Might as well try the other room. As he crossed the hallway, he looked down the stairs to see if he could sneak a glance at Mrs. Laymon’s cleavage. No such luck. Opening the door to the room Richard had died in, he immediately noticed it was considerably darker than the previous room. He guided his hand across the wall to find a light switch, and finding none, moved to the center of the room where he thought he saw a ceiling fan. Hopefully it would be the kind with a light bulb attached. He swung his arm around above him, finally finding a chain to turn on the light. As he did, the bedroom door slammed shut, startling him, causing him to trip and fall on the bed. His motion jerked the light on, simultaneously snapping the chain off. Pushing himself up, he noticed the reddish brown stains covering both the bed and the carpet. There were even a few dried splotches on the wall. Blood. But whose? Mrs. Laymon said Richard died of a heart attack. He ran back to the door, twisting the door handle back and forth. The knob wouldn’t budge. “Mrs. Laymon!” he screamed, banging on the door. No answer. A chill crept up his spine, an icy caress slithering up his back. He spun back toward the room. He couldn’t see anything, but the chill remained. He was about to turn and bang on the door again when fire erupted from his chest. Looking down, he saw five small slash marks through his shirt, and blood running in rivulets to his stomach. On the far wall, something began writing, using his own blood for ink. YOU ARE A SCAM “Who are you?” Ken screamed. “What the hell do you want?” The only response was more pain running up his back. He could feel the blood flowing to his rump. YOU TRIED TO CHEAT MY MOTHER For the first time ever, Ken realized he really was in contact with a ghost. And a vengeful one, at that. Before he could come up with a response, the chill he felt earlier turned into an ice pick drilling through his core. He felt the cold surging through him, exploding out his lower back. He looked down to see a perfect four-inch hole punched through his mid-section. No longer able to move, Ken stood frozen in shock, his eyes glazed at the wall as a final sentence appeared in front of him. YOU WON’T CHEAT ANYONE AGAIN ****** When Mrs. Laymon heard the door creak open, she stood up from her plate of enchiladas and went upstairs. The guest room was a mess, again, but that was okay. Richard always did the dirty work, so it was only fair that she cleaned up his mess. “Another phony, I see. No surprise there. I get so sick of these bastards who prey on the misery of others,” she said. Her son didn’t respond. “Well, I’ll get to it after dinner.” She made her way back to the kitchen. As she resumed eating her enchiladas, she grabbed the weekly rag and turned to the back page again. Only one more ad had been circled. MILES STROM PROFESSIONAL MEDIUM “Do you need to speak to a deceased relative? Friend? Is a ghost causing discomfort for you and your family? Call (816) 555-3961; I will contact the spirit and help you find peace.” “Perfect,” the woman said, picking up the phone to dial Miles. |
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| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 4:58 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Did I miss anyone? Do I have all stories posted that were submitted? |
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| Author: | horrordude [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 6:33 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Mine's up there, Laurel. Much thanks to The Laymon Lady.  I always think these stories get better each month. Okay, I'll say Thad wrote Runt, and I wonder who the hell could have written The Netipot? I'll say Craig penned The Little Man. I'll comment more on each one a bit later. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 7:46 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | TMLCrow [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 7:51 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | Laurel in Ely [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 7:54 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
I agree HD. With each round the stories get better and better. Where the heck did I leave my Neti Pot? 
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 8:36 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Mon Mar 15, 2010 8:36 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 1:21 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
I just read all the stories, but since it's after midnight here, I think I'll hold off on commenting just yet. I'll let them settle in a bit, look over them again tomorrow, and post my thoughts. But The Neti-Pot had me trying not to wake up Kellie and Emma with my laughing.
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| Author: | horrordude [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 2:07 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 8:48 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
I'll start the comments: The Neti Pot. I found the story to be well written and amusing. I'm not sure if Laymon would have written about Neti Pot's though. It is never explained why the character decided to go nuts and shove his Neti Pot up Chad's nose and then mutilate him, and it doesn't ring true. People named "Tony", and those who use Neti Pots are some of the most kindest, thoughtful, humanitarians around, they would never just go insane like that. Unless of course they are made fun of. Then the pressure starts to get to them. They they just might react. And when they react, its always in a bad way. And woe to them who wind up making light of people who are kind, thoughtful, do nice things for people, use Neti Pots, and are named Tony, because they will wind up DYING!!!!!!!! AND THE DEATH WILL BE SLOW AND UGLY!!!!!!!! THEY WILL RUE THE DAY THEY EVER MADE FUCKING FUN OF SOMEONE WHO IS FUCKING KIND, FUCKING THOUGHTFUL, HELPS OUT OTHER FUCKING PEOPLE, USES A FUCKING NETI POT, AND IS NAMED TONY!!!!!! Well, anyway, I thought the narrative flowed nicely and the story, while totally implausible, did have some amusing moments. I think if the author had done some more research, and maybe even used the Neti Pot once in a while to understand its beneficial and healthful properties, the ending of the story would have been more believable. Maybe the author could have had butterflies surround Tony while he is cleansing his nose of those nasty allergies. Or even having his beautiful wife Eva giving him oral gratification while he practices his good hygiene while thier best friend Uma assists in other ways. Yes, something like that would have been much more preferable than the unrealistic ending in this story. So..ugh...good job, considering. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 9:00 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 9:22 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Fix While I enjoyed this story, I thought it was a little on the light side. I did see echo's of Laymon in the story (only one rump?) and enjoyed the mother being on the sexy side instead of being an old frump. I also thought the dialog flowed well, and I did think the story was well written. Part of the problem with this one I think was that it didn't have the space it needed to develop the characters more. A good effort was made to make the ghost hunter seem like a cad, but I didn't hate him enough to enjoy the ending. Again, its only my opinion, but more interaction between the hot mom and the ghost hunter would have fleshed this one out more and raised my level of dread higher. Like I mentioned above, a good story, but a little on the light side. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 9:43 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Fix This one had me laughing out loud a few times. I thought the horny fake psychic was pretty funny. I really like the idea of the story: a mother bringing home victims for her ghost son. Nothing to really criticize about it. A good, entertaining piece of flash fiction. Can't ask for anything more than that really. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 9:46 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Blue Ballard Of Murder I really like the premise of this one, but of all the stories, I had the hardest time finding a Laymon connection in this one. I really enjoyed the tone of this story for some reason. Usually I like to be involved in the story, but in this one, I kinda felt like I was merely an observer watching it unfold, but I didn't mind it at all, a tribute to the narrative. I did have a few issues with it though. It was fairly evident that Shaun had killed his wife early on and that he was going through some sort of guilt/ghostly experience. But if he was a ghost, how was the interaction with the desk clerk possible, unless she was a ghost too? If she was, it didn't come across that way, and if she wasn't, how did she know he was checked into a room and have a conversation with him? And I find it surprising that he didn't realize what was up when he saw the pony tailed guy in the room with the knife. Even without a face, the ponytail and the buxom redheaded woman would have been enough I think for him to make the connection. Unless I read it wrong. I think in this one, there was too much detail pushed into the story. For instance, the note on the wall was written in excrement. Where did that come from? And he threw his head back as if having an orgasm? How does that fit into the story, it took me right out of it. And why was the clerk a ruthless bitch? She was just trying to tell him there was nobody in the room next to him. On the positive side, I love the whole idea of the blues musician playing at the end. And I did like the premise of his being locked inside of a hotel room, where I guess he had died. It would have been interesting to know why he decided to kill his wife in a hotel room instead of his house. Was he insane? What caused him to kill her like he did? Lots of questions come into the readers head while going over this one, and I liked that. Once again, I did enjoy the atmospheric tone in this story quite a lot. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 9:50 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Blue Ballad of Murder. I love stories that are a bit mysterious, a bit elliptical. But not too much that the story is confusing. This story treaded that fine line nicely. I am pretty sure what happened but there are still some unanswered questions. Perfect. The only thing I wish for this story is more poetic prose. I think the writer was aiming for that; especially using music as a metaphor. It would have really made this story something very special. It's still very very good though and it seems like the writer really put forth an effort to do something different. I think Tony has some good points regarding some inconsistencies but I can usually forgive a story inconsistencies when it's taking place in a different reality than ours where the normal rules don't necesssarily apply. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 10:01 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Runt I thought this and The Little Man were the most Laymon like of all the stories. I believe its because both of these stories were borrowed from acutal Laymon plot lines. Runt was an enjoyable, quick read. I also thought it was well written and handled the narrative well by dividing the story into a straight narrative balanced with a section with Laymon's signature dialog. It also managed to include Laymon's use of odd, or atypical characters that are usually the bad guys in his stories while giving us access to his thought process. Good job on this one for following the guidelines so well. (opps...edit: fixed an error) |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 10:03 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 10:07 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 10:10 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
I thought I was having a bout of short story fatigue while writing this story but after reading all the stories I am excited again about our little writing club. I wish we could get some other people to contribute. It would be nice to read a story with a female's perspective. *cough*Laurel*cough*Hellolost*cough |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 10:18 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Little Man A really good Laymon tribute in my opinion. I laughed at the "resurrection dreams" line and the line at the very end cocnerning birth control. This one also had some questions that weren't answered, but in rereading, its easy to see how they would have been addressed. I wondered why Melanie couldn't see why the body the little man carried in didn't have a head, but then rereading it I saw that the body was draped over his shoulder so its possible she couldn't have seen that. I also wondered about the amount of light coming in from the door, if it would have been enough to see as much or as little as she did. And the biggest question of all was, if she and Rob were just heads, would they still be able to talk? But again, its a horror story and you do have to make some leaps of faith. I thought the author did well in replicating Laymon's dialog style and use of a seemingly ordinary guy who was the madman. I enjoyed the story and I have to admit, the narrative was very visual and it made me wince or laugh occasionally. All in all, I thought it was a good story and did well in mimicking Laymon's style of writing. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 10:35 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Final thoughts: I thought that this round had overall the best written, and most diverse stories (despite the common Laymon theme). I think the writing has gotten better and the stories more entertaining with this round. Styles are more distinct this time, I don't see any repeats from past stories, and I have no idea who wrote what. And despite any criticism I gave above, I really enjoyed every story, enough to read them for pleasure a third and fourth time. One of things I've learned from my writing group is that any criticism, no matter if you agree with it or think its horse shit, is somewhat constructive. It may not want you to change something you wrote, but you wind up keeping it in the back of your mind the next time you write a story. If one person had a problem with something you wrote, then you can bet someone else will also. And while you can't please everybody, you also can't explain to everybody what you meant. Anticipating any possible criticism when I write a story possibly saves me some reworking time later on. I am the only real horror fan in my writing group, so when I do write a story for them, I try to think of how to get it accross without them asking me a hundred questions about it after they read it. Sorry about the above rant, I still feel a bit guilty about some of my comments on the stories. Well, like I said, everyone did really well this time around. I'm very proud to be included in the group of writers that submitted these stories. Tt |
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 12:54 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
I read these all for pleasure last night, then went back and looked at them more closely this morning. All of them were good, and unique from one another. I was glad to see everyone take their own path, instead of seeing the same plot over and over with different names. When I first saw the topic, I was worried about that. I should've known our group was better than that.  Okay, time for some thoughts............. The Blue Ballad of Murder While this story didn't really remind me of Laymon, I thought the atmosphere was excellent, making it one of my favorites. Tony mentioned some good things that could be fixed - how did Shaun not know who was in the room? Why was the clerk so mean and how could they communicate? - but when simply reading this the first time through for pleasure, I didn't notice those things as much. Going back through it critically, yes, but not from the initial reading. I would've liked to have seen more from the sax player, though. He seems to be the driving force behind these events, but we get nothing from him but a very brief cameo. I also have trouble with the writing in excrement. While that does sound like something Laymon might do, it was jarring to me, as though the author thought they needed something gross to toss in, which I don't think it did. The atmosphere worked really well without it. Again, though, one of my favorites. Runt The most simplistic of the stories, but not necessarily a bad thing. It reminded me of "The Woods are Dark", one of my favorite Laymon novels. This one felt most like a Laymon story to me. Teenagers making poor decisions, a mutant killer in the woods. The plot was straightforward and right to the action, which was done nicely. Still, I would have enjoyed to see more of a set-up to the climax of the story. While I don't know the word count, this story definitely seemed shorter than the rest, and I think a bit more build-up would have improved the overall effect of the story. The Neti-Pot I have no idea what to make of this one. First off, aside from the silliness of the plot, the writing is really good. The author knows what they're doing, builds up the scene by letting the reader get to know Tony. We can see the tension slowly rise until it boils over to the bloody finale. Of all the stories, this may be the best one structure-wise. But I have no idea how it relates to Laymon, nor am I sure of its purpose. It's a very amusing story, but seems a bit out of place for this exercise. The Little Man Easily the grossest of the stories, this one had Laymon's fingerprints all over it. I haven't read Resurrection Dreams, but I assume this played off of that? The talking heads was weird, but I can overlook that. I thought maybe they should have their spinal chords as well, ala The Jigsaw Man. This was my other favorite story, complete again with a young couple, a perverted killer, and a good dose of the grotesque. Well done. My only problem is the last line concerning birth control. For some reason, I didn't find it funny or even right for the character. Maybe it's just me - Tony liked it, and maybe others did too. I just thought it was a bit too much oddball humor. The Fix This one seemed to diverge from a Laymon-style plot to simply using the Laymons as characters, which is okay. Tales of revenge seem to be a bit overdone these days, but using a mother and her ghost-son to get back at false mediums humored me. If only the author had used John Edward in one of the ads. The interaction between Mrs. Laymon and the perverted Ken was good, but I think there needed to be a bit more fleshing out of the action. Once Ken was in the room, the plot seemed a bit more rushed than it should've been. We barely see (well I guess we don't "see" him) Richard's ghost before the killing is over. More details here might have given the story a greater feeling of dread. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 1:16 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Runt I guess the it's the most Laymonesque and it's technically pretty solid but I just felt it was too short (750 words I think). It wasn't enough to draw me into the world, or get me interested in the characters or the plot. Definitely a scene in a larger story. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 1:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
The Little Man I liked this one. No problems with talking heads. Kind of reminded me of Re-Animator. I put this in a category with The Fix in that it was a a entertaining piece of flash fiction. No trying to change the world or anything; just letting the reader forget about life for a couple minutes and enjoy a good story. I completely agree with Craig about the last joke about birth control. I didn't find it funny and it seemed out of place. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Mar 16, 2010 1:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: March Short Stories, Ala Laymon. |
Good observations Craig. And maybe I am the only one who liked that last line in The Little Man, but I see your point on how it disrupts the flow of this story at the end by adding a bit of humor amidst the horror. But when I read it, I just thought that it was pure Laymon, sarcastic and gross, and how he likes to put a bit of black humor in his stories. And like you, I really would have loved to see more of the jazz man in The Blue Ballard Of Murder. |
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