Thanksgiving

It was a Thursday in late November when the Turkeys rose up to slay their human oppressors...

Excerpt from The Night Places

This is from Chapter 2 of the novel I am currently writing/editing entitled "The Night Places" which is based on (actually a continuation of) a short-story I wrote a while ago.

I wake up on the floor at 5:30 and turn on the TV to make sure there’s no Godzilla attack going on. There isn’t, there’s just lots of coverage of the last one. I finally get to see the thing falling. I didn’t think it was so light out when that happened. The thing fell so hard, I’m surprised more buildings didn’t fall when it hit the ground.

Siri is still asleep on the bed. I think I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I put on my shoes quietly, tiptoe to the door, and undo the latch. It sounds like a hammer in the quiet room, even with the TV on. I start to twist the doorknob, and then here the actual sound of a hammer. I turn around.

Siri is pointing a gun at me. It’s a small semi-automatic pistol, and I swear to God, the entire thing is pink. She is pointing a pink gun at me.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” she says back, still pointing the gun at me, “Are you leaving?”

“No, just going to the bathroom,” I say. The hotel room doesn’t have a bathroom. Just a men’s room and a ladies’ room at the end of the hall.

“Oh,” she says, lowering the gun, “okay.”

I walk out of the room and head directly down the stairs. I walk out the front door and hear a “twang” sound above me. I look up, and the flagpole coming off the building is vibrating. Then I hear a thump in front of me. I look forward. Siri is crouching, ninja style, with a samurai sword out, on top of a car parked in front of the hotel. There’s a hipster guy with a leashed dog on the sidewalk, staring at her.

“Um,” I say after a beat, “hi Siri.”

“Go back into the hotel,” she says.

I look back up at the flagpole. It’s still vibrating. I see the open third story window that… Siri… jumped… out of? This is getting ridiculous.

I look back at Siri, see the glint of the streetlight on the katana, see the passive look on her face. The way I see it now, I can do what she says, deal with this acid-trip of a situation, or I can walk away, and risk being A) decapitated by a teenage girl or B) killed by a pink gun. I never really wondered what Alice felt like falling down the rabbit hole, but it had to be pretty similar to this. I make my decision.

“You got it,” I say, giving her thumbs up. I turn back around, and head into the hotel.

Ron-Man

A truly beautiful work of art by my brother Jack, age 14:

The Goddamned Chosen One

“You know,” Zoe shouts to me as she wipes the dragon’s blood off her sword, “Somehow I thought being the Chosen One would suck less after we saved the world.”

“I’m a little busy here!” I shout back as I dodge another one of the little bastard’s fireballs. I notch another arrow and let it fly. The dragon screeches and falls, landing in a big cloud of dust and sand a little ways away.

“What were you saying?” I say, panting, as Zoe walks up.

“I said,” she says, “that I thought after we saved the world from the demon army, being the Chosen One would cease to suck ass.”

“That’s what you get for thinking,” I say, “that’s my job. Your job is saving the world from… you know, whatever it needs saving from on any given day.”

She punches my shoulder.

“Come on,” she says, “let’s go find the horses. I bet they wandered back into town.”

An hour later we stroll back into Oasis, the little town that looks just like you’d expect an old west town to look like. I pull out my iPhone.

“Two o’clock,” I say, “still no reception. Any idea how we’re going to get back to our dimension?”

Before she can answer, Sheriff Cutler calls to us from down the road.

“Yeah,” Zoe shouts back as he approaches, “we killed the damn dragons. Did our horses come back here?”

“Haven’t seen ‘em,” he says, cigarette dangling from his lip, “Thank you so much. Our town woulda been doomed without y’all steppin’ in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Zoe.

“You know,” I say to Zoe, “people around here are probably pretty grateful. Think we could parlay that into some free beers?”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” she says, smiling, and we head toward the tavern.

Two hours later we’re drunk and having a grand ol’ time with some of the town’s rowdier citizens. Zoe is dancing with some big cowboy and I’m introducing some of the citizens to a game we called “asshole” back in my dimension. Then everything is ruined by a huge crashing sound from outside.

I look at Zoe.

“Oh Goddamnit,” she yells.

Then a guy runs into the tavern shouting.

“Come quick!” he yells, “some kinda flying boat just crashed into the post office!”

I look over at Zoe, who rolls her eyes.

“Got your sword?” I call to her.

“Yeah,” she sighs, picking it up, “let’s go check it out.”

"It Won't Save Them"

His eyes narrowed in hatred as he looked down at his own name carved into the lonely tombstone. He was  a bit surprised they'd given him the courtesy of a marked grave. "It won't save any of them," he promised himself as he departed, ready to take his revenge.

"The Far End of the Curve"

The Far End of the Curve

                Doctor Christopher Harvey sighed as he knocked on the door.

                "Mr. Hickenlooper, are you ready?" he called. There was no answer.

                "Mr. Hickenlooper," he called a bit louder, "it's time for our session, may I come in?"

                He heard a sound from the other side of the door, and decided that it was as close to an invitation to enter as he would get. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. Inside a man wearing white pants and a white t-shirt sat on a bed with white sheets in a room with white walls. There was a wooden desk with a wooden chair in the room, both painted white, and on the desk was a stack of composition notebooks and a pair of fountain pens. The man was sitting, just staring at the wall. His face wore an expression of terrible  sadness, and a familiar aching of empathy for the man filled Dr. Harvey’s chest.

"The Death Statue"

The Death Statue

Let’s get this straight right off the bat: I am not in Special Ops or Clandestine Ops or Black Ops… not really in ops at all. I’m a detective. I don’t have awesome ass-kicking skills and I've never shot anyone. I am good at figuring things out. It’s usually a simple job. Someone suspects this guy or that girl is involved in some kind of scam or anti-whatever group which might one day put a bomb in a school or mosque or meat factory. There are all sorts of crazies these days. So I go and stakeout the guy, follow him, find out who his friends are. Then I write a report. That is how I spend about half my time. Writing reports. What I do isn’t usually dangerous, but I do have a gun. Yes, it’s a Walther PPK. Yes, I carry it because that’s what Bond carried. No, I don’t think I’m James Bond. I couldn’t buy an Aston Martin with 5 years salary, and as for sex with hot ladies on the job? In my fucking dreams. Literally.