Thomas McIlarth and the Guest

This one was written pretty quickly on Christmas Eve in one sitting but it took quite a bit of reworking. I'd like to thank Amy for helping point out it's initial flaws. Hope someone enjoys.

Thomas McIlarth and the Guest

     He had grown used to it by now. Very little of his daily routine seemed to bother him anymore. It was just another normal day just like the rest. He would wake in the morning and rip open the drapes, he had grown accustomed to the bath of warmth that the sun would provide, and start each day fresh, untainted by it's predecessor. He would let the sun soak him right to his cold old bones, and plan his day accordingly.

     One by one he would descend to the first floor on stairs almost as old as he was. They would creek and cry beneath his weight. He was not a large man, quite the opposite really. His wife begged him to fix the stairs, fearing injury or worse. When he reached the bottom of the flight he headed towards the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He would then retreat for a quick brush of his teeth and hair and, as if scheduled, he would return just in time to hear the beginning of the incessant whistling of the kettle.

It never failed to amaze him how the bitter sting of the tea could be transformed into a sweet elixir with just a few drops of milk and a dash or two of sugar. He would sip his tea slowly, enjoying each mouthful more than the last. Then, as it always happened, the bird feeder would catch his eye. He quite liked to listen to their cheerful tunes and they always managed to transfix him with their bright yellows and deep cardinal reds.

     Each day at precisely the same time he would finish his tea and he would hear the stairs creek and hiss again. She would join him at the table, her cup of tea already fixed for her ahead of time and together they would listen to the birds sing their tiny hearts out.

     “Quite a night last night, wouldn't you say?”

     He gave a short little chuckle, “yes quite a night indeed. One for the books if I may be so bold as to say.”

     “I think we could top ourselves tonight, what do you think?” her eyes were twinkling in the sunlight.

     “I think,” he paused “we shall certainly try.”

     He took one last lazy sip of tea from the very bottom of the mug, the bit that is always so much sweeter than the rest, and made for a shower and shave. He then dressed and headed towards the door, kissing his wife on the way out, and properly began his day.

     The streets were flooded with people. Saturdays were his favorite. His business was one of the few that truly boomed on the weekends. The snow had melted the day before and had reformed into ice during the night. He loved the sound of the horses' hooves crushing the ice and landing forcefully on the cobble stones buried beneath. He came close to falling several times during his walk, each time having to stop to readjust his cap. He often wished that he had something similar to the horseshoes to stop him from slipping and sliding about.

     He managed to reach his job in one piece. He stomped off his boots on the sidewalk and entered the building. The bar was dimly lit and stank heavily of cigar smoke. He didn't mind it and neither did the others; it helped to cover up the stench of the vomit and piss collected in the corners. Any man with a brain would walk into the establishment and upon sight and smell turn sharply on their heels to exit. These men (and women) however had replaced what was left of their brain with something the man loved more then anything else, addiction. It was his favorite feature of theirs. It helped keep his wallet fat and his belly plump.

     He continued on inward, tip toeing through the filth. He arrived at his office door, removed the drunk asleep at the base of it and entered. Once inside he immediately opened every window that the room had to offer. The cold air rushed in and exchanged itself for the foul smells that had once held its place. He bided his time for the rest of the afternoon with paper work left over from the previous evening. When he finished the mundane task he gave a quick glance at his watch, it read eleven nineteen. He stood and headed for the bar room. He assumed the same tip toe position as before and headed towards the exit. He was just about to shutter out into the cold night air when, in the corner of his eye, he saw her. She was a very pretty girl, quite striking. She couldn't be a day over nineteen. He gave a wary smile and approached her.

     “Excuse me ma'am, might I ask if everything is to your liking, are you enjoying yourself?” he asked in his smoothest voice.

     “Who the hell are you?” the lady blurted out finishing her sentence with a nice full gutted burp. It took him quite by surprise. For young as she was she was most certainly drunk. Off her rocker drunk, two sheets the the wind drunk, who am I,where am I drunk. This realization caused the smile upon his face to grow even wider, only his ears were able to contain it now.

     “Why,” he gestured to the name upon the door, “I am the owner of this fine establishment,” he continued gesturing to the filth about them while pride flooded his heart.

     “Quite a shit hole you've here mister, but the cheapest pint in town, I'll give ya that!” she raised her glass in a mock toast.“Thank you, I suppose,” he replied slightly confused if it were a compliment or an insult. He didn't care either way.

     “You're welcome. Now, let me get on with it,” she tossed back half her pint in three loud gulps.

     “Actually, I was wondering if you might be so kind as to accompany me on my walk home. It can get a bit lonely, and it's always safer to travel in numbers at this time of night.”

     “Look,” she said looking up at him for the first time, “I ain't no hooker ok? She might be able to help you out over there though.” She pointed to a woman who had less teeth than fingers who was preceding to tug at the bartenders tie.

     “Oye!” he shouted towards the bartender, “Back to work ya hear!”

     “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

     He turned back to the woman and carried on with their conversation.

     “I think you may have my intentions wrong my dear. I wish for pleasant company tonight. Nothing more, nothing less.” He was ready to break from the routine if just for tonight. Tonight he just wanted a friend.

     “I'll tell you what,” she said trying her hardest to not to slur her words, “d'yer have a couch?”

     “Yes.”

     “Guarantee that the couch is mine, and mine alone,” she stressed, “ and I'll do my best to walk along side ya.”

     “I think that could work out. Besides,” he added, “ my wife doesn't like to share the bed.” He gave a deep laugh while the woman's face turned a deep shade of crimson.

     They reached his home a short while later. He unlocked the door and let her in. “Now,” he began, “my wife is asleep upstairs, she is a light sleeper so I must ask you to be quiet. The couch is over there, I can offer you a throw and pillow if you'd like.”

     “No thanks. I'm fine.” She fell onto the couch and before he could ask her if she was sure she was out, deep asleep. He looked upon her and gave a quiet chuckle. He entered the adjoining room, the kitchen, and began to finish the dishes made the evening before. He was on the last dish when he heard her talking. “No, please don't.” The woman on the couch was talking in her sleep. He found this quite irritating. He approached her and gave her a gentle shake. She awoke. “Where-Where am I?” she asked. They could never remember, this was the beauty of blacking out.

     “You walked me back here earlier this evening, now,” he insisted, “please keep your voice down, my wife might wake if we are too loud and neither of us want that.”

     “Your wife? We um, we didn't do anything did we? Not if you have a wife right?”

     “No, we didn't do a thing.”

     He reached for the blanket to cover her once more and in doing so placed the knife he was holding onto the arm of the couch. The woman’s eyes grew wide with terror and ran back and forth from the knife to the man's face. It took him a moment to notice her panic and for the reasoning behind it

“Oh dear, I must have given you quite a scare hu?” her face became twisted with confusion, “I was in the kitchen when you began to speak in your sleep. I must have been washing this when I heard.”

Her face loosened up a bit, “oh thank God!”

     “No fear dear. Now rest. Sleep and relax your mind.” He tucked her in and walked back to the sink to finish the last of the dishes. He gave another wheezy laugh at the thought of the exchange that had just happened. “As if I could harm such a youngling,” he thought, “I couldn't bear the screaming.”

He walked from the kitchen to the top of the stairs and then into the bedroom. He lit a fire in the hearth and, upon feeling its warmth, crawled into bed beside his wife. Try as he might though he was not as stealthy as he thought and his movements woke her. She turned on her side to face him.

     “Have we done it? Have we topped ourselves?” she asked groggily.

     “Not tonight dear.”

     “What's the matter, did you not find anyone?”

     “No dear I found someone, but I'm afraid she is a little too young.”

     “Rubbish!” barked his wife, “ when we were wed you promised in sickness and in health, 'til death do we part. Don't you remember?”

     “Of course I do dear but...”

     “There is not but, don't you love me? Don't you want me to get better?”

     “It's all I've wanted for years honey.”

     “Then go downstairs and do as you must!”

     He gave a sigh and crawled back out from under the covers, “as you wish dear. I pray that this may be the last,” he headed towards the stairs.

     She was sound asleep. No talking, not this time. Her breath was slow and steady. He entered the kitchen and grabbed the knife he had cleaned not an hour earlier. He liked it better this way, when they were asleep. It was easier on his heart, easier on his mind. The breath left them slowly, peacefully when they were asleep. He had only taken one for his wife who was awake at the time. The rate at which the life drained from them startled him. It still upset him to think about it. He crept up to her quietly, fearful of waking her. He slowly straddled her on the couch and raised the knife . At the same moment she tried to turn to her side. When her body could not move her mind panicked. She awoke and upon seeing him, knife held high, gave a scream.

     It startled him greatly. He let go of his weapon and it watched as it fell to the floor beside the couch. The woman tried to sit up and in doing so threw the nervous man to the ground. The adrenaline kicked in as she rose to her feet. The man gave a quick uncoordinated lunge for the knife, she replied with a decisive accurate kick to his gut.While he was busy ejecting what he had consumed throughout the day she obtained the knife and strutted over to him.

     He was on all fours when she reached him, he adjusted himself to his knees and began to plead, “Please! You don't understand, my wife she...” She didn't let him finish his thought. She let the knife slide into his belly just above his belt line. She was surprised by how warm the mans blood was. She had done what was needed, she had no remorse. She left the house and spilled out onto the street, blood on her hands and clothes. She ran until her legs burned like she had never felt before. She followed the glow of the street lamps until she reached the police quarters.

     The officer on guard was frightened at the sight of her and drew his weapon on the woman. She did her best to explain before collapsing. The adrenaline had left her body, her brain had taken in all it could handle for one evening.

     The police arrived at the man's home as quickly as they could. They found him lying in a pool of his own blood. He was unconscious but not dead, not quite. They carried him to the closest doctor they could find. There he stayed in the state of a coma for the better part of a month.

     She came to the next morning in the jailhouse house and was greeted by the police captain. He bore news that she could not quite comprehend. They had found the man, he was identified as Thomas McIlarth. He was in fact the owner of McIlarth's, the local bar. That part of her story matched up. Most of her story matched up with what was known about Thomas. But one fact had the police believing her mad. Thomas McIlarth had no wife, or rather his wife had died four years back when she fell down the stairs in their home. Her leg had broken but it was the loss of blood that became the main concern. She had lost too much. She was in dire need of a blood transfusion but by the time they could find anyone it was too late.

     Thomas did what he could to save her but in the end she died. According to the townspeople he never looked at another woman the same way again. He never loved again, in fact he never stopped loving his wife. The entire town was surprised with how well he had taken her loss; they were never seen apart for the duration of their marriage. He told them that it was the little things that helped him through the toughest of times. He even, as proudly stated by himself, always made sure that he set a place for her at the table for morning tea, full cup and all. He had loved with his all.

     The woman was seen unfit for the punishment of death for the stabbing she had committed. She was instead sentence to the padded room. There they used her body to try and further their understandings of the health of the human mind. She died a guinea pig, poked and prodded. The man eventually returned home to live out the rest of his days. Half a decade later he passed and joined his wife. It wasn't until then that they found the blood from the other woman gathered in old dust covered glass milk jugs.

     Unknown to the rest of the town he indeed was the mad one. The loss of his wife wiped his mind blank. He had refused to believe that she was gone. He started seeing her a few months after her death. That was when she started begging him for the blood that would have saved her life. She asked and she received. He hunted for her and did so graciously.They found ten milk jugs labeled with the names of those inside and countless others left blank.

     This When the doctors performed the autopsy they removed the top of his skull;what they saw was in no medical text they had ever read. His brain was spattered here and there with large black patches, it was as if someone had spilled ink onto it, and the walnut like wrinkles of the brain had vanished. His brain was completely smooth, no bumps no groves, like a pebble left in a stream. The findings were published but lost to history, the condition was never seen again and all material regarding it was considered outdated and incorrect. No one would ever know that the world's maddest man had come and gone, only to be forgotten.  

Relativity

      

Relativity

     Thomas Enderflow was wearing his tuxedo, the one he only wore for very special occasions. This year was different than the rest, he wasn't alone. He had asked her on a date and she had said yes. Maggie Burton was a perfectly friendly, middle aged woman, nothing special or unique about her. She and Thomas had worked in the same building for years before they met officially. He would walk by her office whenever the opportunity would present itself. Sometimes it would add a minute or two to his walk, on the lucky days it would serve as a shortcut.

     He admired her, from afar, risking only the daily glance into her office. Each day he passed her head would be buried in work. Day in and day out he would pray for her to look up, for their eyes to meet. In all the years he had performed the ritual he could never quite recall exactly what color her eyes were.

The bright blue caught him off guard. For the first time in four and a half years she had looked up and, in that brief moment, their glances met. That was the first day that he had brought her tea. This, slowly, became the new ritual. He liked it better simply because it was one that they could both partake in. Now instead of nervously dashing by her office everyday he was walking in.

     Month after month passed and his feelings for her, he believed, were finally being requited. He made the first move and asked if she would be willing to attend the annual office Christmas party with him, she said yes. They attended the party together the following week. Aside from the newly formed office rumors all went well and a second date was planed. This time they would ring in the new year together. This would be Thomas' first new years spent with another since he was a teen.

     The day arrived and Thomas found himself opening the passenger side door for her and they were on their way. There were countless people gathered inside the tiny house, how it managed to hold that many they were not sure. They had to resort to shouting just to be heard. When their ears had had enough they escaped to the back deck. It was there that Thomas admitted his nerves and anxiousness to her, she replied with a sweet soft kiss. The conversation carried on.

The night began to slip by and Maggie and Thomas, now in a drunken stupor, began to confide in one another the things they could not admit while sober. She had come from a broken home and with it came the abuse that had led her to want a better life. Thomas told her of his white picket childhood and of his resentment for his workaholic father. They smiled and clasped hands. The conversation began to take a brighter tone and they spoke of their hopes and dreams.

     “You know,” said Thomas, “ sometimes I wish I could go back and try to fix it all, don't you?”

     “No,” replied maggie, “What's done is done. We have to live with what is dealt.”

     Upon the last of the words leaving her lips the people inside erupted into a deafening cheer. Thomas glanced at his watch, then back up to Maggie, “happy new year.” They kissed again.

     This was the last of the night that Thomas could remember. He had awoken early the next morning, cooked breakfast and spent the afternoon nursing his hangover. Nothing seemed strange until he returned to work. On his way in the door he had run into his boss.

     “Make sure that report is on my desk by noon,” the short well dressed bald man said angrily. The words caught Thomas off guard, he could have sworn that he had handed in the report before leaving the office for the holidays. Had he forgotten? No, he couldn't have, right?

     The day continued to pass and noon began to grow nearer. Before leaving for lunch Thomas made a pit stop to his bosses office. He knocked and was instructed by a cold voice to enter.

     “Um, Sir,” he began.

     “Oh, it's you, I assume that you are dropping off the report?”

     “About that Sir,” Thomas' voice cracked as he carried on, “I-I could have sworn that I dropped if off last Tuesday.”

     The man looked up from behind his large oak desk, his eyes narrow.

     “Do you take me for an Idiot Mr. Enderflow?”

     “I um, I don't understand Sir.”

     “Listen,” the man said sharply, “I don't have time for your little jokes. Your report was expected now, but tis' the season so, you now have until the end of the day. If I do not have it by then I'm afraid I will have to ask you to work on Christmas,”he looked down to his work, “and I'm sure neither of us would want that, now would we?”

     “Christmas Sir? But Christmas...”

     “I know,” the short man interrupted, “but I have no choice, now, I will see you later this afternoon. Good day.” He gestured towards the door cuing for Thomas to leave.

     “But Sir.”

     “Mr. Enderflow, I do not have time for this.”

     “I know Sir but I think you have your dates mixed up. Christmas was last week Sir, not this week.”

     “I believe this has gone on long enough, it's as simple as this. No report, no job. Now get out.”

     “But Sir...”

     “I said leave!”

     Thomas, fearing for his job, promptly turned around and left for lunch. He went to his favorite corner cafe and found, to his surprise, that they were still serving the holiday menu. He ordered his lunch and tried to clear his mind for the twenty minutes he had remaining. He paid for his bill, tipped, and headed back to his office.

     After an exhausting morning of not so exciting book keeping he sat down to return some emails. He started from the oldest and worked his way forward to the newest. He had finally caught up when. As if on cue, his computer gave two loud beeps signaling a brand new email. It was from Ted in accounting. The email explained how all overtime was to be dispersed at the end of the fiscal year. Thomas didn't particularly care. He was salary pay so overtime did not exist for him. The last part of the message however caught his eye. It read “ and to all of my friends and fellow workers happy holidays and stay safe. Ho Ho Ho!

     Thomas' head began to thump quite painfully, right beneath his temples. The office joke was beginning to wear thin. He did his part and played along signing his emails with “happy holidays” and even going so far as to re-right some holiday cards for his co-workers cubby holes. The rest of the day passed slowly but inevitably. It wasn't until the next day that he began to become scared. The daily paper was dated for the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas Eve. It settled slowly that his past few days had been stranger than he had realized, time was moving backwards now, just as he had wished.

Backwards time, as he was now discovering, did not flow as smoothly as that of regular time. It was sporadic at best. It would jump from time to time and place to place. Sometimes he would not remember that he was a part of it, some memories and moments played put just as the had the first time .          Other moments, mostly life changing ones, were different. They were more real; or rather he was more real within them. He could control his thoughts and actions, change the outcomes. None of it mattered however. If an event had now ended as he originally wished he could enjoy if for a moment or two before, knowingly or unknowingly, he was pushed back to an earlier date. It became an endless ruthless cycle.

     Days lasted years and years lasted days. He had lost so many things, he had lost maggie and the memory of her, he lost his job, his house, he was losing it all. His hair however seemed to be doing quite the opposite of the rest of his possessions. His once tired and weathered hands were now clean, and his skin stretched over them like a freshly made drum. He was growing younger, and, at the same time he was losing his life, everything that he had been, everything that he had become. He was growing younger yet he was dying all the same. His first beer, his first smoke, his first fuck they all came and went just as before, but this time they left him none the wiser.

     His teens were almost skipped entirely, save for his first day of high school, the first of many that would end with a bloody nose and empty pockets. And then, or rather again, he was a child. Listening to his mother hum his favorite lullaby as he gently drifted off to sleep.

     Time had taken him back as far as it could, or so it seemed. He could not, like the rest of us, remember his own birth, but now if you were to ask he could tell you all you wanted to know. Right up until the point that the darkness took him in once again and he became one with his mother. Anything before that can not be explained, not in a way that any adult could believe. The way your mother's body can sustain you and still be strong enough to sustain herself. This can not be explained, just as the feeling of conception cannot. The feeling of everything you are, every single cell being torn apart, the feeling of returning to your mother and your father, and the feeling of the nothingness that follows.   

Are You?

Dreams can be a funny thing, they can take you to wonderful places and some really odd ones as well.

Are You?

The places between dreams and reality.

It is always there, and it comes when you least expect it.

The haunting sting of the real mixed with the fog of your mind.

It hurts the worst.

I'm never sure what I am seeing, what I will wake to?

I saw you didn't I?

I Heard your voice and felt your touch.

Are you dead yet?

I think not for, 

I saw your foot twitch.

Are you gone yet?

No, I think not,

I saw you toss and turn.

Have you left yet?

I'm not convinced so,

I heard you give a cough

Are you dead yet?

I try to think not.

But you are.

A Christmas Visit

A Christmas Visit

      It had been nearly forty years since that Christmas, forty long years. She now had a daughter of her own, grown and ready to leave home for the first time. This would be their last Christmas together as a family. Mother, father and daughter. They gathered around the table for one last time.

     The snow was falling gently outside. The fireplace was doing a fine job of stifling the outside cold. After they had finished their meal they stood and went to sit beside the hearth.

“I'm going to miss this,” her mother said to her.

“Oh stop it Mom. It's not like I'm leaving forever, I'll come and visit. Promise.”

“I know you'll always visit but it will never be the same. Once you move away from home it changes. No matter how much you fight it, it's never the same.”

“Well, it won't change for me,” protested the daughter.

“I want you to have something,” said her mother grabbing at the necklace around her neck. 

     It was a simple silver chain, but what hung from it was absolutely magnificent. The crystal suspended from the chain looked as old as time itself but it still managed to hold onto an otherworldly beauty. It seemed to mirror the fire itself.

“But you've had that since I can remember, you've never taken it off.” said the daughter gesturing for the mother to place it back on.

“It's time to pass it on,” said her mother in a serious tone.

“Mom, really, you don't have to.”

“Your grandmother gave it to me when I was your age, it's your turn. It's time I told you.”

“Told me?”

“I was only seven when it happened,” her mother was staring into the fire pit, “I was only a child.

December, 14^th 1955

     Christmas was only a week away, the town was buzzing with excitement. The mall was packed with procrastinating last minute shoppers. The little girl was following closely behind her parents who, as always, were arguing.

“Mommy,” the little girl squealed, “when is Santa coming?”

     The man glared at his wife as she answered their daughter's question. He was not one for allowing his child to believe in the idea of a Santa Clause, if it were up to him he would have told her that he was a lie as soon as she was old enough to comprehend the idea.

“Soon sweetie,” answered the mother.

The man looked at his wife and muttered so his daughter could not hear, “this year is the last of this nonsense so enjoy.”

“Oh stop,” she said while elbowing him gently in the ribs.

     They continued on shopping until the mall had closed for the evening and they were forced to quit. The mother was a festive wreck, the father a miserable humbug. The week passed as the snow began to fall harder and harder. Christmas Eve was upon them. Their daughter ran about frantically in her pajamas.

“Are you sure that Santa got my letter?” she asked nervously.

“I'm positive,” her mother responded.

“Daddy, when will Santa get here?”

He answered from behind the daily paper, “ask your mother.”

“Mommy?” the little girl asked while tugging at her mothers dress.

“Santa will only come when we are all asleep honey, you know that by now.”

“Am I going to sleep in your room with you and Daddy again this year?” the little girl could hardly contain her excitement.

“Of course!” exclaimed the mother, “it's a Christmas tradition, now run along and your father and I will be in shortly!”

     She scampered up the stairs to the bedroom as fast as she could. She was jumping on the bed when she saw her parents enter. They calmed their daughter and tucked her tightly under the sheets. The mother rose and grabbed a copy of “It's a Wonderful Life” and popped it into the player. She joined her daughter on the bed while the father sat on his desk char beside the bed, a miserable expression running across his face.

     Once the movie was fished the mother stood up once again and placed the movie into it's case, where it would wait until next year.

“Well,” started the father, “the bed is looking a little cramped this year. I think I'll go sleep on the couch.”

“But Daddy you have to stay,” pleaded his daughter.

“I will see you first thing in the morning, I promise,” and with that he smiled at them and exited the room.

“Your father is just very tired that's all. He has been working very hard lately,” said the mother trying to justify her husbands actions. She was lying to herself just as much as she was to her child.

“Now,” she said cheerfully, “we had better get to sleep so that Santa can visit.” She forced a smile and rejoined her daughter under the covers. She pulled her daughter tightly to her chest and watched as she drifted off to sleep.

“Please,” she whispered to her daughter, “never grow up.”

     The father plopped down onto the couch, kicked off his fur slippers and began to watch the last of the flames die down. His eyes were, as always, caught by the translucent antique crystal that hung above the hearth. It had been given to him by his mother, long since passed. He had always admired how it seemed to capture the flames and bounced them back to him so beautifully. He reclined back a bit further and shut his eyes. He let the popping and crackling of the dying embers lull him to sleep.

     The house was completely quiet, or so it seemed. A bump in the night had awoken the father from his slumber. He arose from the couch and walked into the kitchen to retrieve a glass a water. He stumbled back into the living room, placed his glass atop the fireplace, and collapsed onto the couch. He was drifting back off to sleep when the noise came again, a bit more distinct this time. He opened his eyes again. What he saw this time made him positive that he must in fact be dreaming, but he wasn't.

     Two red eyes were glaring at him from inside the fire pit. The once dying flames were now dancing as brightly as ever. He sat up and stared into the fire. Then he heard the voice.

“You're not dreaming,” it bellowed in a low rumble.

“What?”

     Something began to emerge from the flames, it was not human of that he was sure. He could not quite decide what it was. It half walked and half crawled toward him, slithering it's long forked tongue about. It had what appeared to be tattoos covering its entire being, but upon further inspection were long jagged cuts penetrating deeply into it's flesh.

“I do not walk of this Earth,” it began, “I am of another time, another dimension.”

The beast stared into the father's eyes, “what are you?” asked the father.

“ I am Lamia, daughter of Poseidon and devourer of souls.”

“Wh-Why are you here?”

“To Feast.”

     The father's face was instantly stricken with fear, but not from the beast. From atop the stairs he could hear the bedroom door begin to creek open.

“Daddy?” his little girl called down the steps, “who are you talking to?”

The father knew he had to think, and quick, if he was going to save his daughter and wife.

“Don't come down here honey,” he called back up, “Daddy is talking with Santa,” it was the only thing he could think to say.

“Mommy!” the little girl enthusiastically exclaimed, “Santa is here!”

She had awoken her mother from a very deep sleep, “what?” she asked groggily.

“Santa's here!” echoed the little girl, “he's really here, Daddy is talking to him right now! He said I can't go down though,” she added with a pout.

Upon hearing the commotion upstairs Lamia smiled wide, “it seems as though the feast shall come to me.”

The footsteps started down the steps.

“Honey I thought I told you to stay upstairs!” He was relieved however to see that it was not his daughter, but his heart still sank at the sight of his wife.

“Dear, I'm being told that Santa is-” she froze.

The mother and father made eye contact briefly before their daughter interrupted again.

“Mommy is it really Santa?”

Her eyes shifted from the father to the beast. Lamia smiled and bared her razor like teeth again.

“Yes, Santa is here but you can't come out, not if you want him to leave you your presents.”

“But Mommy!”

“I said stay in the bedroom!” barked her mother.

“You are only prolonging the inevitable,” Lamia snarled.

“What are you, why are you here?” croaked the mother.

“I've come to feed.”

     The mother began to turn a pale shade of white. The father stood from the couch and approached his wife. He was not sure what was going to happen next but he knew that he had to be between the beast and his wife. The beast let out a low maniacal laugh at the pair of them.

“I am not here for your tainted flesh, I am here for the innocence that is lurking in your bedroom.”

“Our child?” the mother almost fainted at the thought.

“Indeed,” cackled Lamia.

“You can't have her!” her mother shouted; she was a frantic wreck now, any attempt by the father to console her was utterly useless.

“I can do as I please, nothing can stop me, especially not you foolish humans.”

“Everything can be stopped,” said the father angrily.

“No, not everything,” Lamia replied.

     The beast started for the stairs, heading for the child. Instinctively the father gave her a strong push to the chest. The beast was only forced a few feet back. The father's hands had been badly burnt by the demon flesh and began to bleed heavily.

“You dare touch me!”

The father walked towards the hearth and picked up a pointed metal poker.

“You're damn right!”

“You fool!” Lamia shouted, she lunged towards the father.

     Her red eyes were now filled with flames, the fires of hell itself. She raised a mighty claw and tore four large gashes into the father's arm. He had never felt such pain, not ever, but he did not let go of his weapon. In one large angry thrust he forced the poker into Lamia's throat. She began to shriek as the blood began to flow from her neck. She collapsed to her knees and then to the floor where she lay choking.

     “Stay away from my family!” roared the father as he repeatedly extracted and inserted the poker into the beast's neck. He had not noticed how many times he had repeated the action until Lamia's head lay motionless beside her body.

“Mommy, Daddy, what is Santa saying?” the daughter called down the stairs.

The mother answered, “H- he's just leaving, now get back to bed or he will come back and take your gifts with him.”

They heard the door slam shut.

     “What are we going to do, how will we clean this up before she sees? How will we explain this to her?

     As the last of the words exited her mouth the remains began to glow a bright fiery orange. The two watched in amazement as the carcase began to disappear. It was turning from solid flesh into what could only be described as light. The red orange glow began to circle like a mouse chasing it's own tail, faster and faster until it was only a demon colored blur. They began to think that it could spin no faster when suddenly, it burst into flames.

     The flames lasted only a second, maybe two, before it turned into a deep amber smoke. The smoke began to move on it's own, for there was no breeze in the house to be felt. It began to make it's way towards the flames. It hovered in front of them for a moment, then in one quick instant it gusted itself up towards the crystal sitting atop the fireplace. Slowly, inch by inch, the smoke began to make it's way into the crystal. What was once a beautiful clear stone was now a haunting sun burst shade. The beast was no more.  

A Letter From the End of the World

A Letter From the End of the World

November 28^th, 1949

     I understand now, I accept. I will try to spend my time wisely. I will die with my wife, and she with me. That is what we have always wanted, to die together. One could not bear the loss of the other. The television and radio have both stopped broadcasting. The last we heard the time frame was set for next week. When that time has passed the bomb will drop.

     When we first heard the news we were sure it was a hoax. When the reports told us otherwise we began to feel helpless, we cried. I remember the last time I felt this helpless. It was the day my mother died. I'm glad she isn't here to see this. In an odd way it's nice to have one less person to worry about.

We were warned last month that this could very well happen, that there was a real chance. We were told to gather with our loved ones. We are half a country away from ours. It is just my wife and I now. We have no way to reach our families. Public transportation has shut down and the riots have made it impossible to safely go outside. We are trapped, like mice.

     Seven days. That is all they gave us to process what will happen. They said that it is the East Coast that is targeted. The West Coast should only receive minimal radiation effects. God bless them, I hope in time they can rebuild what is left of us, once the radiation levels are safe; only a few hundred years. The mid west will have it the worst of all. The blast won't kill them but the radiation will. Many will die long painful deaths. We will have it lucky compared to them. Boston will be a hole, it'll only take a second or two. We will die quick deaths.

December, 2^nd

     I came to terms about everything this morning. I can either die afraid or I can die at peace with myself. You should not fear what is inevitable. When the phones went down I was upset that we had not had an opportunity to call our families; we never said goodbye. Now I understand that it is better this way, our last conversations were joyful.

     I'm writing this for myself. I know this will never survive the furnace of the heat, no more than I will.I wish that there were someway to preserve it, to save it for future generations. I'd like them to know. It's a shame. Each culture has it's own cautionary tales, this is right that is wrong sort of thing. I wish we had listened more closely to them, taken them to heart. We could have done so much with what this world gave us, instead we chose to kill each other.

December 5^th

     It's going to happen today. They said it should be right around dinner time. I hope I can have one last meal with my wife, maybe we will eat early. She is so scared. It's hard to tell her that it's going to be ok, because it won't.

     I've spent the day reflecting on my short time here. There is so much that I've done but I wish that I had done more. I wish that I had seen more of the world; maybe if I had I would better understand all of this. Maybe this world would make more sense.

     I'm beginning to doze off, I have't slept in days. Each time I sleep I expect not to wake up. I don't want to sleep, I will have plenty of time to rest in a few hours. The last few nights I have just been lying there, staring at my wife while she sleeps. I think she is pretending to sleep, she think's it helps me, puts me at ease. 

     I try to shut my eyes but my nerves won't allow it. I can't handle the darkness, not yet.

I remember how happy I was when I graduated. I was thrilled that I wouldn't have to write anything else. This will be the last thing I ever write. This will be the last record of my existence and it will be destroyed. No one will ever see this, I'm beginning to feel that it was pointless to do this.

I'm going to have dinner with my wife.

A Word on the Dead

I'm not sure if this is a poem or not, but I am certain that it is in fact something.

A Word on the Dead

The dead can haunt you,

and yes it is fun for them.

They can hold a grudge,

and they won't let you forget it.

They can let you know that they are there,

but they won't.

They can say hello if they wish, but they often don't.

They will, when required, comfort you,

and when not required they will provoke you.

They can walk with you, talk with you and teach you.

They can remind you to remember them,

and when it is necessary they will let you forget.

They will laugh with you,

they will cry with you.

But they will never leave you, never forget you.

Even if you have to forget them for a while.