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Our Darling Swamp Monster, Part 2

One day, on his way home from collecting willow bark and reeds, Girardi Kurst made a discovery in a steaming pocket of sludge. It looked at first like a shapeless bag of withered grey leather, but there was a creature inside that loose hide, one with spines and claws and large, wondering eyes. It was a monster but it was also a baby, and he was in a fix whether to leave it or kill it outright. In the end, he brought it home.

Our Darling Swamp Monster, Part 2

The village of Farensfen was gripped with fear as a unknown monster from the Forbidden Swamp slaughtered animals and people and destroyed property. No one had seen it in full light, but there were plenty of stories of its hideous appearance. Every household in the district had suffered loss from it, except for one: that of old Gerardi and Melanee Kurst. Naturally, suspicion had fallen on them, especially on Melanee, since Girardi had been away on a long trip when the attacks had started.

Gerardi could not sleep. There were murmurings in the village that his wife was a witch, who had summoned the monster. He worried about her safety, but he also worried about the safety of Khip, the monster that they had raised and then released back into the swamp when they could no longer afford to keep him.

Khip still loves us, he thought. He has to or he would have attacked us as well. Gerardi did not know if he could somehow convince Khip to go away and leave the area. Sleep refused to come and so finally, he got up and went out into the misty swamp night, a lantern in one hand and a cudgel in the other.

The swamp was full of the sounds of nocturnal life and the shifting, lurid lights of swamp gas and luminous plants. It was another world from its sleepy daylight existence. Now, even the darkness itself seemed alive.

There was a sudden splash and Girardi turned to see white teeth snapping at him in the glow of the lantern. He dodged aside and brought the cudgel down on the head of a huge caiman, stunning it. He killed it with another blow and then continued along the path.

Girardi had been born without fear. Melanee sometimes expressed her amazement that he was still alive, but even she admitted that it was a useful attribute when you lived on the border of the Forbidden Swamp.

He was walking without a plan, but unconsciously, he made his way to the place where he had found Khip’s egg the year before. He reached the clearing and found a trampled area under a large willow. It was full of bones and gore and was swarming with flies and small scavengers. A twig snapped behind him and he turned to see Khip standing at the edge of the clearing, watching him with purple eyes that glowed in the lantern light.

He had almost doubled in size in the months since Girardi had seen him last. He stood on two legs and his back bristled with new spines. His long, knobby hands held half a cow between blood-stained claws.

“Khip, it’s good to see you,” Girardi said and meant it. He wanted to rub his belly and chase him around like he’d done when Khip was a baby, but this was not the time. He was an adult now.

Khip gave a low grunt and set the dismembered cow on the ground. He stepped closer and then, with a tentative gesture, put a hand on the ground in front of Girardi and sat down. Girardi sat as well.

“Khip, this is all my fault,” he said. “I just wanted to feed you, but it seems I did too much. You have to stop killing animals, and especially people. I love you, but you have to go on, to another area. There are wild areas where you can live and hunt in peace. I’m afraid for you. Men will eventually come and they will hunt you.”

Khip looked steadily at him. Girardi had always believed he could understand him and had always spoken as such. Then the monster stood up with a bound and set off through the foliage. Gerardi followed him.

They walked for ten minutes before they left the trail and Khip started up the rocky hill that stood in the middle of the swamp. Halfway up, he reached a hole in the ground, and looking back once at Girardi, disappeared into it. Girardi followed him in without hesitating.

The hole went down steeply into the earth and was slick with mud and tangled with roots. Khip had evidently been here before; he moved quickly downwards, but the walls and roots showed the violence that past trips had inflicted.

The tunnel began to fill with a fetid odor much stronger than the normal swamp smell. It was a stench of decay and something much sweeter and more deadly, it seemed to Girardi. Several hundred feet down, it ended in a large room lit dimly with luminous mushrooms. At one end crouched a monstrosity unlike anything outside of a fevered nightmare. It was in form similar to Khip, although bloated and expanded so that it could not move. For the first time in his life, Girardi had an idea of fear, although even now it was more of a distant realization that a gruesome death was close by.

A voice came from the nightmarish creature. “You have aided my son and for this I thank you. But now, you must die.”

(to be continued)


Our Darling Swamp Monster

Every now and then, my friend Sharmishtha posts the beginning of a story for others to complete, if they wish. I do them sometimes and this is one of them. I have taken the main idea, but changed it slightly. Here is her original prompt:

Late at night they could hear his roar, at a distance. They still remember when that little bundle of fur landed in their life, mother killed by a poacher, two cubs left to perish. It was their sheer luck that a woodcutter found them. How they struggled to keep him warm and alive, the second one perished hours after being rescued.

How hard it was for them to decide that they will have to let him go. The sleepless nights they passed after his release. Now… they miss him but are happy for him.

Now, here’s my story:

 

Our Darling Swamp Monster

They didn’t call it the Forbidden Swamp for nothing, although the worst that Gerardi had ever found there were will-o-the-wisps and exploding swamp gas. But then one day, on his way home from collecting willow bark and reeds, he made a discovery in a steaming pocket of sludge. It looked at first like a shapeless bag of withered grey leather, but there was a creature inside that loose hide, one with spines and claws and large, wondering eyes. It was a monster but it was also a baby, and he was in a fix whether to leave it or kill it outright. In the end, he brought it home.

His wife Melanee was taken with it right away and they name it Khip, which meant “special” in their language. They kept it in a box by the fire, until the heat burned it. Then they kept it in the barn for the next year until it started killing the goats. It had lived on pulped poisonroot, but now it would only eat raw meat and soon, they could not afford to keep it. So, Gerardi sorrowfully took Khip out into the swamp and let it go.

*         *         *

“I wonder if he’s hungry,” Melanee said. It had been a month since Khip had gone.

“Stop asking that,” Gerardi said. “He can take care of himself out there. You shouldn’t worry about him.”

“I know, but I miss him,” she said.

“I miss him too. Let me go out and take care of the animals. I’ll be back soon.” He went out and fed the goats and other animals. Then, he retrieved the half a goat he had saved from when he had killed it a week ago. He carried it out to the edge of the swamp and placed it where he had put food every week since he had let Khip go. The meat always disappeared and he recognized Khip’s distinctive tracks in the soft dirt.

He knew it could not continue like this forever. Just to get him settled, he thought, but that is what he had said for the first week and he was still bringing food out to the edge of the swamp. Just a little more.

Soon he realized he had to stop. He did not have enough goats to sacrifice one every two weeks and if he continued, he would soon not have enough to expand the herd. So, one dark night he snuck up to his neighbor’s house and stole a goat. His neighbor had ten times more goats than Gerardi did. After this, he went and stole a goat every two weeks from his neighbor and then listened sympathetically as the man complained bitterly about goat thieves and wild animals.

Once a year, Gerardi made a trip to the capital to trade his medicinal herbs and other swamp products for things they needed. It was a long trip, almost two weeks each way and so just before he left, Gerardi stole two goats from his neighbor. One he killed and left in the usual spot, while the other, he killed and left a trail of blood leading back towards his neighbors house. He left the other dead goat nearby. This way, he thought, Khip could go get his own goats if for some reason Gerardi was late and missed bringing him his food.

The trip was a success and Gerardi returned with many beautiful and necessary things. However, he found the area in an uproar when he returned. “There is a monster lurking in the swamp,” people said. “All sorts of animals have gone missing.”

Gerardi hurried home and was relieved to find everything in order and his wife healthy. Still, not everything was fine.

“It has been terrible, the last few weeks,” Melanee said, holding his hand. “It has to be Khip doing all this, but still I’m afraid for him. Also, people have noticed that we are untouched, even though we live on the edge of the swamp. They are becoming suspicious.”

The next day, Gerardi went into the village, where he heard more news of the attacks. “It was mostly animals at first,” they said, “but now, a couple of people have gone missing too and old Ramses’ barn was ripped to bits. It’s the work of a monster.”

Most people were glad to see Gerardi back, but not everyone. He got some strange looks and questions about his wife and if they had lost any property. He lied and said they had, but still, it was clear that some people suspected Melanee of somehow being behind everything. He was leaving the market when he heard the word witch rise out of a conversation behind him. It was a terrifying word.

(to be concluded soon)


Lust by Number – Friday Fictioneers

copyright Dawn Q. Landau

copyright Dawn Q. Landau

Lust by Number

One lonely shack by the shore of an unremembering sea.

Two lovers locked in the frantic embrace of the desperate.

Three days immersed in the depths of sin and escape.

Four men in a skiff, gold band gleaming on the leader.

Five minutes of pain, screams and shots.

Four men recede back over the horizon.

Three days of silence before a fisherman comes to spend a hard-earned weekend, soon spoiled.

Two desperate lovers carried away under sheets, leaving behind the life they pledged each other.

One shack, festooned with yellow tape, sitting lonely by the shore of an unremembering sea.

 


My Smoking Gun is Trying to Quit

I admit it, I’ve been in a weird mood. Maybe not more than usual, but more consistently. For those of you who like my saner stories, they’ll be coming, but this isn’t one of them.

My Smoking Gun is Trying to Quit

The police asked me about the smoking gun in my hand.

I said it had been smoking since before I met it, but it was trying to quit.

They asked about my red hands.

I said I’d been doing a craft project with disadvantaged youth.

They asked about the head in my freezer.

I said I was running a highly specific cryogenics experiment.

They wished me luck with my experiment and left.

Just as well. If they’d left the freezer door open any longer, it would have ruined everything. Now, I have to go wash the paint off my hands and go pick up some nicotine patches for my gun.


Life in the Sun – Sunday Photo Fiction

Thanks to my friend at A Dragon Year for the inadvertent inspiration for this story.

Life in the Sun

It took a while to figure out that the mermaid wasn’t hostile. It took even longer to figure out it wasn’t a maid, it was a mer-dude. Then it took forever to find out what he wanted when he swam up the Thames and stared intently at Parliament. Mer-people could apparently understand English, but were not able to speak.

The press conference was conducted with a type of sign language, made more complicated by the merman’s webbed hands.

“Why are you here?” they asked.

“I am here because I have lived in British waters for my whole life but where has my representation been? You tax us by taking our fish but what do we get out of it? Give representation to the undersea inhabitants of the realm or there will be revolution!”

A year later, the mer-man, Sirenio, was elected the first MP from newly-created constituency of the Solent.

The next day, the Sun’s headline screamed: NEWLY ELECTED MERMAN MP CAUGHT EMBEZZLING SAND DOLLARS!


My Son Eats Cars

car wreck

I came home from work to see a piece of metal sticking out from below the rhododendrons and my heart sank. I pulled it out and saw that it was a muffler, partially chewed. I’d had a long day at work and this was not what I wanted to deal with at the moment. But that’s what being a father is all about.

I found Lawrence in his room, lying on his bed. His eyes were red from crying and I felt so bad for him in that moment and so powerless. He’d been doing so well, I’d been so proud of him. I wasn’t mad, I just wanted to make everything better for him.

“Hey there,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

He covered his face with his pillow, ashamed. “Dad, I did it again. I’m so sorry. I ate another car.”

“I know,” I said. “I saw the muffler. Come on, sit up.” He finally did and I gave him a hug, although inwardly I recoiled at the smell of motor oil on his breath. “What kind was it?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just curious.”

“It was Corolla,” he said finally, looking at the floor. “I was walking from the mall when I saw it there and, I don’t know, there was something about the look of the headlights that looked so inviting. The next thing I knew, I was chewing on the bumper. I should have given up then, but I knew I couldn’t hide the teeth marks and I was so ashamed and embarrassed, I just gave up and ate the whole thing.”

I gave him another hug. “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this phase. At least you’re off transport trucks, right? And you haven’t eaten a car in months. You’re doing really well.”

He looked up at me and my heart ached at the pain and confusion I saw in his eyes. “It’s just so hard,” he said. “I try, I really do.”

“I know,” I said. “Do you think it would help to get a couple old bicycles, or maybe a motorcycle now and then . . . ?” He looked down and shrugged.

I wanted to say more to comfort him but inwardly, I was dreading the upcoming battle: finding the owner, dealing with insurance companies, trying to explain the whole humiliating situation to unsympathetic insurance agents and police officers. Trying to make it all go away as quickly as possible and protect my boy as much as I could.

He was getting better, it was true, but for the first time, it occurred to me that maybe this was not a phase Lawrence would ever get through. Maybe he would struggle with eating cars his whole life. It was a scary thought, but I knew more than anything that I would love him, no matter what.

“Look,” I said slowly. “Your mother and I talked about this. I wasn’t sure about it before, but maybe I could talk to a scrap yard owner and see if you can go in there sometimes, if you get hungry. They’d be old cars, but it would be better than eating cars out of the parking lot while their owners are in shopping.”

Lawrence looked up and smiled. “You mean it? You’re not mad?”

“Well, this hasn’t been easy on any of us, but I love you and I’ll do what I can for you.”

My son eats cars. It’s not what I signed up for when I became a parent, but you don’t get to choose the challenges that come your way. Like everything else in life, we’ll take this one step at a time, together.


Bruno Knew – Friday Fictioneers

Happy New Year everyone! A Friday Fictioneers story is a good way to start the new year. I don’t like to put much significance on the first story of the year, especially since this one is rather dark. Hopefully it won’t be a portent of the upcoming year. Also, there is a bit of swearing in it, just so you’re warned. I don’t usually put swearing in my stories, but it seemed this one needed some. You can judge for yourself after you read it.

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Bruno Knew

“Grant! The dog’s gone crazy! Stupid dog, too lazy even to get up to eat, today he’s barking his head off. Shut up, Bruno! Shut up! You wanna go out? Fine. Look at him go. Ho— Ho . . . ly . . . shit! Grant! Gra-ant! Come see this. Bruno just climbed the tree! Oh shit, Grant, the floor’s moving! There’s earthworms coming through the linoleum. Ahh! They’re in my feet, in my feet! I can’t move. Dear God, help! Grant, where are you? Where are you? These ain’t earthworms!”

Outside, Bruno’s frenzied barking failed to keep the probing tendrils at bay. He climbed higher.

 


The Importance of Legends – Sunday Photo Fiction

copyright Al Forbes

copyright Al Forbes

The Importance of Legends

It was a badly-kept secret among intellectuals that the vaults under the British Museum held a portal to another world. It was a jade gate that had been stolen from China in 1840. When its secret was discovered in 1848, a stream of explorers and archaeologists had entered it, never to reappear. Eventually, the gate was locked up.

Until 2012 . . .

Cameras clicked and flashed as Dr. Forbes stood in front of the jade gate.

“I discovered the map in our archives,” he said. “The corner was torn off, but I managed to decipher the ancient Chinese to see that it is a map of the land beyond. It shows where the dangers are, as well as a magnificent treasure, across this plain and beyond these mountains.” He pointed to a reproduction of the three-foot square map. “I will now enter the gate with my team. We plan to be gone a week.”

The next day, a janitor was cleaning up the archive room and found a scrap of paper under a desk. It said 一寸是一万里*, not even English. He threw it away.

*(1 inch = 3600 miles)

 


Playing Chicken on Christmas

Christmas chicken

How does this happen every year? I’m standing on a suburban street with the Christmas stars burning overhead as my parents hurtle towards each other in their cars, going 88 miles per hour as if they want to go back in time and fix the whole big mess they’ve gotten themselves into. And I’m standing between them, like I’m the Hulk or something, hoping they’ll come to their senses and not kill me and each other.

Where to begin? Part of it is the eggnog. Mom makes it virgin but then Dad adds a nip of brandy to it; Grandma Helen splashes in some bourbon and Uncle Murray ends up dumping in some vodka, ‘cuz he’s got no sense. And then of course, you get the years when the dog or the baby drool in it, but you can’t blame them because Uncle Bert keeps putting the bowl on the floor. Anyway, it ends up one potent, disgusting mix, but we all drink it anyway ‘cuz it’s tradition.

Then there’s the board game tournament. I don’t know who came up with this particular tradition (that apparently God Himself couldn’t set aside for one measly year) but they were no friend of our family, it seems. Monopoly, Scrabble and Spades are the staples but sometimes they throw in a kid version too for the littler ones. By this time, all the adults have had a couple glasses of eggnog or a few slices of my cousin Jewel’s rum cake, which is more rum than cake. We argue for fifteen minutes about house rules, and keep arguing as we play. Uncle Murray always cheats, Aunt Pat always yells at him for it, and Mom yells at everyone to be civil. Dad keeps quiet but as the stress mounts, I can see his hands twitching for the smoke he hasn’t had in six years.

By the time the games are over, it’s about 8pm on Christmas Day and everyone is just about sick of each other. That would be a great time to call it quits or watch a movie or something, but tradition is the rule of law in our house, and what comes next is Christmas carols. You’d think this would calm everyone down but nope. Mom wants to only sing religious songs and Jewel wants to sing Rudolph. No one else cares, but soon we’re all shouting at each other to calm down.

Mom blows up when she’s stressed but not Dad. He’s like a sponge and I can see it all working on him, twitching him up good. I swear this is the only day of the year he regrets quitting smoking. I see him working up and every year, I try to think how to stop what’s coming and every year, I just can’t.

The next tradition is dancing, although it never lasts long. The problem is that after all the stress, my mom really wants my dad to dance with her and calm her down. Stress makes her lonely. Dad’s the opposite and although he’s a good dancer, stress makes him want to go away and be alone. She yells at him for ruining the holiday, accuses him of not liking her, stuff like that, and I wonder if I’m the only one who sees what’s going to happen—maybe they all can too, but no one can stop it either.

At a certain point, my dad snaps, just starts yelling. He storms outside and gets in his car. Mom bursts into tears, then gets real angry and follows him.

And here’s the part no one really understands, at least I don’t. Dad takes off in one direction, Mom in the other. They go up to the stoplights at each end of our road, then turn around, like they’ve reconsidered and are going to make up. But they come at each other and just floor it, like all the stress of the day is going into the gas pedal.

Every year, I consider letting them just have at it. They would swerve at the last minute. They wouldn’t crash into each other. Except there’s that tiny spark of fear in me that this year, the stress and eggnog will be too much and they just won’t and I’ll be an orphan. So I run out in the road, pleading for them to stop.

Sometimes they stop in plenty of time. Sometimes they swerve, lose control and hit a snowbank. Mom got a slight concussion one year, but that’s been the worst of it.

So now I’m watching the headlights of Mom’s Sonata and Dad’s RAV4 bearing down on me but I don’t see my loving parents behind the wheel; I see all the stress of trying to make everything perfect and keep every tradition to the letter all come down on me and I hope it won’t kill me this year. But then I hear the screech of brakes and both cars come to a stop. A little closer than I’d like, but still in the safe zone. They get out, Mom crying and even Dad looking a bit misty-eyed. We all hug and everyone apologizes and we all go inside.

Playing chicken on Christmas is a tradition in our family, even if it’s not one people talk about. It’s one I’d kind of like to change, but maybe it’s got its place as a safety valve for the stress. And as long as it doesn’t kill anyone, I guess that’s okay.


Enlightening the Son – Friday Fictioneers

Merry Christmas from the Green-Walled Tower! I hope you all had a great day yesterday. By the way, if you’re interested, go read my post about the time I was a real-life ghost. It just got Freshly Pressed, which was a great Christmas present for me.

Enlightening the Son

Searchlights combed the sky like Zen rakes, cutting graceful swaths across the obsidian dome of night.

“Get my son back this instant!” the president said, emotions colliding in his trembling voice.

“We can find him, sir,” the chief of staff said, “but while he has the artifact, we’re helpless. He flies faster than our jets and is virtually invincible.”

*         *         *

“What’s the spin?” the PR director asked later. “Is this good or bad?”

“We’ll find out soon,” the chief of staff said. “If we can make him a superhero, the next election’s in the bag. If not, start updating your resume.”


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