Distant Sorrows (4)

Across the street from the Harisson Property was a small house. It was cramped and wooden, painted with a faint white coat. The foliage surrounding it was unattractive, and the broken windows were an addition to its ghastliness. But the house's occupants were opposite to its repulsive exterior. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Sweeterly. The were eccentric fold, who baked unceasingly. The Beater continuously complained about the sweet smell of chocolate brownies being baked, and secretly she hoped she wouldn't be caught by them abusing Abraham. 

One night during mid February a dreadful event occurred. Abraham slept strangely peaceful that night, the winter brought cold to his closet, which was a rare enjoyment for him. The sound of sires woke him up suddenly, and he was unable to fall back asleep. He stirred a bit, and then sat up. More sirens approached, and Abraham started to wonder, "What if the house is on fire?" He tried opening the door, but he already knew it was locked. All he had to do was wait. Abraham waited a while, and soon fell asleep. He woke up hours later, to find a newspaper sitting next to him. It was opened up to the obituaries section, "Mr. and Mrs. Sweeterly, murdered last night in a small Arkansas neighborhood," it read.  Abraham shivered, he grabbed the newspaper and tossed it to the corner, he heard it fall heavily, and then he looked at it curiously. He picked it up once more, to find a blood soaked dagger hidden within one of the pages. 

-Eric

Distant Sorrows (3)

Everyone glared at the bundle of joy. "What a cute little baby you have there, Mrs.. Mrs.." Come to think of it do not remember your name." "Susie Ann" the woman quickly replied with a weak voice. The baby was fingering the cloth his mother laid on. It wasn't of any fine material, but there was something warm about it. Something familiar. "That baby certainly likes that pillow case." The woman giggled lightly. Suddenly, the baby had his eyes on his mother. He grabbed her finger and jammed it in his mouth. "That baby really likes your fingers, oh and Ma'm what have you decided to name the child?" The woman looked at the infant, deep in thought, and finally said, "Abraham, Abraham ------" The woman then died with her sons name lingering on her lips.

"WAKE UP YOU FUCKEN IDIOT!" screamed the Beater. Abraham moaned and he slowly rose from the cold floor. "NOW!" The Beater was having one of her days, Abraham thought. Then he whispered, "Come to think of it everyday is a bad for her." He chuckled to himself, and then walked downstairs. "Make me breakfast, and if you dare burn it, well that won't be the only thing burnt. Abraham started to prepare her breakfast, and thought to himself, here we go another day of hell.

-Eric

Matias (5)

The brilliant morning sun woke Matias seconds before he was shaken.

“Get up asshole. I can’t have you here when she comes and you know it.” Aaron had never been the most tactful of Matias’ acquaintances.

Matias rolled himself off the couch, falling to the floor with a thud and looking up at his shaggy haired assailant. Matias picked himself up of the floor and pulled his t-shirt down so it covered the tops of his jeans. Ruffling his hair he stumbled across the cluttered floor. Kipple, thought Matias. He was a big Philip K. Dick fan.

“Shouldn’t you clean up if your so worried about impressions.” Said Matias, kicking out unwashed underwear from his feet.

“Ah she don’t care about that shit, she’s into my personality.” Aaron said with an air of pride. He scratched his haphazard stubble and pointed to the door.

Matias sighed and grabbed the door handle. Before he left he turned and said. “Shave, too.”

“Fuck you man at least I have an apartment.”

Matias started heading down the spiraled stairs, passing a blonde in high heels on her way up. She seemed oddly disturbed by the furnishings, or lack thereof, of the building. Matias chuckled to himself. Personality huh.

Matias (4)

The air brakes hissed and Matias’ body jerked forward until his arm came to rest on the seat in front of him. He had never been a fan of buses. As passengers shuffled off, unfurling umbrellas to shield themselves against the endless downpour, Matias wondered where he was headed. Where was he now. Maybe he should leave Boston for good. Julie wanted him gone as much as he was inclined to stay. That had been the real reason he hung around, that and his lack of an automobile.

Next to Matias sat an unwashed man in a tattered suit, with the kind of grin that one sees in asylum inmates. Matias had done his best to sit out of the way of this man, but his efforts were in vain. At every turn, every stop, the man would fall over this way and that, as if he had no balance or no care. He was always smiling. His eyes weren’t smiling though. They were pleading. Matias saw the pleading, and simply shuffled to the left. He had no time for pleading.

-David

Distant Sorrows (2)

Frannie Flicker was born a Londoner and proud. The gloomy weather and the plain colored architecture really fit her personality. As a child Frannie never had much time for friends, instead she wrote in her diary about how she was going to bring misery to the world, or at the time, the second grade.

Frannie's mother was an emergency nurse in a nearby hospital and was often found shamelessly flirting with the doctors. Fannie's father was in advertising, and while he wasn't screwing the secretary, he was found playing solitaire in his office. Frannie was not oblivious of her parent's unfaithfulness toward each other, but even if she had cared there was little she could do. Instead she focused most of her energies elsewhere, doing everything in her existence to stay away from her reckless parents.

At 16 she met Devlin. Devlin was diabolic 18 year, and like most his age he was always eager to get laid. Devlin's parents died in a car accident. The orphaned Devlin was left with an enormous amount of money. After two weeks of dating they ran off to Edinburgh to have more tasteful lifestyles. They bought a 3 acre property, and constructed a massive medieval castle. There they lived, until Frannie 'accidentally' threw Devlin off the second story balcony and killed him. Devlin left all his money to Frannie, and she then moved back to the city. Frannie was bored, unemployed, and filthy rich. She wasn't interested in expensive jewelry, and the fashionable fine clothing wasn't of her taste. Sick of London Frannie sought to get away from the gloomy city and unfavorable memories. So, with sufficient funds at hand she did just that and bought a house in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Abraham's mother was a prostitute who accidentally got pregnant to a wealthy New Yorker. Abraham's mother took a vow of silence in fear her baby would be taken from her, the New Yorker left in the dark about his bastard son. So she decided to move to Little Rock, where Abraham was born.

On a warm spring morning, in a little cottage Abraham came into the world. A local gardener came into the cottage and helped deliver the baby. Pneumonia soon took hold of Abraham's mother and she passed away three days after his birth. Having no records and no family, he was sent to an orphanage.

Eight years later, Frannie came by looking for a servant. She dressed in fine clothing, fixing up to create a mask-like impression of kindness and care for the orphanage workers. She kindly approached each child, until she pointed greedily at Abraham. "You!" she screamed. Abraham was then adopted and began his life as the slave of the Beater.

The first few years of child labor were the worst for Abraham. His legs were covered with black and blues from beatings, and his arms were swollen and throbbing because of the endless cleaning needed to be done. The Beater often leaned over Abraham while he cleaned, scanning him with her large dark eyes, looking for an imperfection in Abrahams cleaning. Sometimes after cleaning the floors, she would spit on the marble, and say, "You missed a spot." And Abraham would have to repeat the cleansing process. After two years of living with the Beater, she decided to hire a cook. An English cook. Their was nothing special about English cooking, fish and chips…scones, toast and beans… but Frannie insisted on hiring a native from her own country.

-Eric

Matias (3)

Dejan liked his guitar. Ibanez AX120, only ever played with .012 gauge strings, only on Orange amps and only with one pedal. The pedal was special, even more special than his guitar and his amp. A wah-wah, built from scratch by his brother in that room right over there. The room lay untouched since then, except for the soldering iron. That had been moved. Broken circuitry called and honoring the dead wasn’t going to bring the power back.

Dejan strummed lightly, enjoying the smooth sound as he worked his fingers across the worn fretboard. He found solace in his guitar, and he closed his eyes and let the sound impress its emotion on him. He rocked himself gently, back and forth to the rhythm of the chords and trills. I need to leave, thought Dejan. I can go…where can I go? California? Texas? Pheonix? His options seemed few. But it was fact, he had remained in this apartment too long. Memory was weighing him down. He could go out and start a band, be famous. Get laid. Sell his records and the circuit boards, get a car and drive to California. He could do it. He really could. Tell that bitch to fuck off, he wasn’t going to pay the rent anymore. What would she do, I’ll be in fucking California. Dejan smiled lazily, hanging on the note, stretching it out and bending it slowly. A bit of vibrato, and it’s done. He threw the guitar on the couch and turned on the tv as the strings hummed idly.

“…3000 dollars cash back. Act now, save… and for all the many tasks that require our attention, I believe tonight one calls on us to focus, to unite, and to…attempt on Prince Charles in Sydney, how does this affect…” Dejan flipped it to the channel that wasn’t supposed to be there. Whilst staring idly at the grainy off-colored footage of writhing bodies he decided. He was going to do something. He was going to California.

-David

Distant Sorrows (1)

The little cramped closet on the third floor of the Harrison Property was Abraham's only comfort. In this closet, he kept what was most dear to him: his fathers old journal, his mothers antique flashlight, and a pillow case. Comfort was rare at the Harrison Property. In between beatings, Abraham would sit on the pillow case in his closet bedroom and with a quill and cheap ink he would write about the atrocities of the Harrison Property. The binding of the journal was slowly falling apart, and the once beautiful leather, was quickly aging. The Harrison Property was a piece of work. The few neighbors that lived by, rarely glanced at the house, and it was often called a haunted mansion. The exterior of the house wasn't anything peculiar, it was just another large mansion on, Crackety Lane. But the few who had been inside knew that the rickety floors, the undusted furniture, and the darkness of the house made it creepy. Usually at midnight Abraham would often leave the closet sized bedroom of his, and wander aimlessly around the house. Tiptoeing carefully, Abraham made sure that his caretaker would not hear him. The caretaker probably made the house even more frightening. She is known to few as the Beater, and to those who don't know her, she remains mysterious. Her real name is Frannie Flicker. Frannie Flicker is a murderer


-Eric

Matias (2)

Matias flicked the butt into the street and turned away from the clerk. Holding out his hand in the rain, he watched as the drops splashed and sparkled in the dusty light of the bare bulb reaching out from the side of the building. He proceeded to rub his hands together, as if washing them, before turning and resting himself against the wall. The clerk shifted his weight and lit himself another cigarette. Neither Matias nor the clerk talked, nor did they exchange glances of any kind. The clerk understood the need for silence, and he let himself drift into reverie.

After serving his country in the war to end all wars, he came home a hero amongst his family, yet not his fiancé, who died of fever only months before. She had been deathly afraid of doctors, and the isolation of the small hamlet of farms led her to die slowly in bed, all before her 20^th year. William Hubert, Bill, had never encountered death, having arrived in Europe merely days after V-E day. So, he was a hero in the eyes of his family, but he doubted this status as he watched casket after flag covered casket arrive in the towns around. Eventually, he saved up enough money to head out to the city, Chicago. He would work in a pizzeria, he had always loved cooking.

Now, 48 years later, over a thousand miles away from home, Bill ran the small convenience store in West Roxbury. Not exactly a dream job, but then again, not many reach their aspirations. Just look at this guy thought Bill, has the look of someone down on his luck.

Matias stirred, shook his head vigorously, and look over at the clerk, thanked him and walked out through the dark alley in the direction of the street, rain drenching him instantly. Bill sighed, put out the cigarette on the red brick and went back to his counter.

-David

Matias (1)

The buzzer rang. It rang again. And again. All upon unhearing ears as the rain poured down in droves and the disheveled man stood, drenched. He pressed the button again and heard the faint sound of the buzz from the other side of the door, but no answer. He cursed faintly before turning back to head out into the street. A familiar click stopped him, and he turned to face the dark doorway with a equally familiar face within.

“Why are you here?” She asked.

“Rains cold and you took my car.” He said stoically as he continued to be battered by the ferocious downpour.

When she didn’t motion to come in he asked.

“I don’t think so, you’d get everything wet.”

He stared at her with listless eyes.

“Don’t look at me shack up at a motel or something. I can’t have you crashing here every fucking night.”

“I haven’t been here in a month.”

“Time sure flies.” She slammed the door in his face.

He stood there for another minute before turning and looking up at the skies, pleading the clouds to break their assault. They didn’t. He headed back down the street, eventually wandering into a small store. He blinked as even the dim lights blinded him. The clerk behind the counter stared at him, and was on the point of speech when the lights all went out. “Damnit,” Shouted the clerk as he tripped over the various boxes piled around the stores counter.

“Hell of a storm.” Said the man in what he thought was the clerk’s direction.

“Sure is, sure is.” The clerk mumbled from the corner of the room, barely audible over the roar of rain outside.

The two stood still for what seemed like an eternity, until finally the lights flickered and the man got a good look at the stout elderly shopkeeper, shuffling his way back to the counter.

“What’s your name son. And do you want anything or were you just escaping the storm.”

The man stood still. The rain hadn’t let down, but somehow the electric service had managed to pull through for them.

“Got any Newports,” the man rested his elbows on the counter. The clerk reached around and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the front of the counter. He tallied it up and and handed the pack over. The man reached into his back pocket and brought out his lighter and was about to light up when the clerk interrupted him.

“You can’t smoke in here, state law.”

“So what am I supposed to do, go outside.”

“You could come out back with me, got an awning.” The clerk grabbed a pack from the counter and showed the man through a creaky door into the shops back office, then past a large pile of boxes into the wet air. The sound was tremendous, but the man wasted no time, and soon he had a roll of tobacco and various chemicals held between his lips. The old man talked with his cigarette still in his mouth like and army sergeant’s cigar. “Looks like me might be spending some time together, what is your name afterall?”

“Matias”

“Bill,” The clerk extended his hand, “Well met.”

-David

Penny Dreadfuls

Penny Dreadfuls were a sort of episodic, 19th century pulp fiction ( they were printed on pulp paper after all ) Although they would probably seem pretty tame to todays standards they were aimed at the working adolescents and featured adventure, sexual thrill, and VAMPIRES... which is awesome...

Me and probably some friends like to write short stories ... or long stories... and i had the idea to realease them weekly in blog form...somewhat like the Penny Dreadfuls(except their free... you can throw away a penny when you read a post if you want)...

yeah... basically...