Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Empty
by Aaron Polson
They schemed in Jack’s small two man tent one clear and chilly night in late September. Jack, as owner of the tent, held the flashlight as they studied the small hand-scribbled map—the map that his friend created through a blend of his own imagination and the layout of windows on the exterior. Max, the map maker, still burdened with too much baby fat on his preteen frame, pinched the center of his small wire-framed glasses.
“I don’t know, Jack,” he said, his voice high and clear, farther from puberty than Jack’s own occasional squeak.
“C’mon Max. We haven’t seen anybody around there in months—not since the old coot had a heart-attack. Aren’t you the least bit curious what’s in that place?” Jack brought the flashlight underneath his chin, casting grotesque shadows around his eyes, mouth, and nose. “Or are you frightened?” he asked, mocking Max with a ghoulish moan.
Max studied him, unwilling to yield to Jack’s ridicule. “No, I’m not scared. It’s just, well—this is breaking and entering we’re talking about.”
“What did you think we were going to do when I had you draw up those maps? What is it your buddy Ellis always says about that place?” Just then, something struck the canvas wall of the tent with a dull thump. “What the hell was that?”
Max pinched his glasses and said, “I dunno, but it was probably attracted by the light. Did you know there are living things, mostly insects and single-celled organisms that move only…”
“Stuff the science lesson, okay.” Jack clicked off the light and sat in silence and darkness for a few moments. He knew Max pouted without looking at his face. They’d been friends and neighbors since kindergarten, and Max always turned red and puffed his cheeks when he felt slighted or abused. Now in the sixth grade, Jack felt too old to be playing straight man to Max’s tantrums, but Jack needed an ally to search that house—to bolster his courage if nothing else, and both boys lived in the neighborhood.
Jack snapped the flashlight back to life. “Okay, so what do they call this thing—whatever you’re talking about.”
“They call it taxis—positive phototaxis when the bugs or whatever move toward the light—they can’t even help it—no voluntary control. I guess even creepy-crawlies like the light.” Max smiled, self-satisfied at his display of knowledge and ready to carry on with arrangements. Small insects gathered outside the tent, attracted by the light within.
__________
Later, after agreeing to sneak out of their respective houses at ten on Friday and meet in the tent, Jack and Max went their separate ways. Jack merely scrambled out of the tent and to his back door only twenty yards away. Before he slipped into his house, he looked across his next-door neighbor’s backyard and toward the black mass that was the abandoned house. In the daylight, the place just looked sad—peeling paint, loose, graying boards, even one window with a small crack where he had thrown a rock on a dare two weeks ago. Jack designed this adventure to cure his fear of the dark, a private shame no one but his mother knew as he always hid the nightlight in his dresser before friends were invited.
Besides, old houses always had rumors surrounding them, and if even one of the stories circulating at school rang true, they might find something very interesting inside. The old man had been anything from a gypsy to a retired mob enforcer to the kids at school, and no one had touched the place after his death. Jack smiled a little before slipping inside.
__________
On Friday night, air swirled fallen leaves about them as they crawled from Jack’s tent. After a brief review of the plan, the boys set off through darkened backyards, just enough of the child left in both of them to find thrill in each passing car—someone who might uncover their plot, but just enough adult to vaguely recognize the crime that they were about to commit. Jack carried a few simple tools, a screwdriver, pliers, and his old Swiss Army knife; Max held the map, and a flashlight smuggled in the cargo pocket of his pants. They had agreed to leave the flashlights behind for fear that any lights in the place might give them away, but Jack wasn’t the only boy who harbored a secretive fear of the dark. The night was clear, and the light from the stars and almost full moon would easily shine though the windows of the house, providing just enough light to see.
They approached the house through the shadows, and Jack quietly gestured toward the back door and then pointed at himself. Max nodded and kneeled in the cold grass. Jack crept to the back door, rattled the handle and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. He slipped back to the side where Max waited and shook his head.
Both boys then stalked toward the front of the house. Jack waited for a set of headlights to sway down Ninth Street, past the front of the house before he darted out, wrapped the front knob in his hand, turned, and pushed. He reeled with surprise when the door gave, opening into the dark dusty interior of the house, releasing an odor of dirt, moldy wood, and a faint hint of garbage that sat too long in the sun. His heart stopped momentarily, or it felt as though it had, because the inside of that place looked much darker than he had painted in his imagination. A new set of headlights in the distance forced him to shut the door quickly and scramble around the side where Max waited.
“The door is unlocked,” he panted.
“What?”
“Unlocked, I got a peek inside. Really dark.”
Max felt for the light in his pocket, harboring his own private fear of lightless places. “You want to stop?”
Jack’s breath returned, and he said, “No. Not unless you do.”
A moment passed. “No, I’m ready.”
They waited for another clear moment, and one after the other hurried to the door and pushed their way inside, struggling against the subtle stench, passing a threshold into the maw of the house. Both stood with wide eyes, waiting for pupils to dilate and help them see anything. Slowly, bit by bit, each could make out snatches of wood flooring, old wallpaper with split and peeling seams, and the black rectangle doorways leading to other rooms. The house held more than enough opaque shadows, thick ink poured into corners, along walls and the floor where the faint sliver glow from the windows couldn’t touch.
“Empty?” asked Max, pinching his glasses.
“Empty,” said Jack, his voice collapsing on the floor.
The boys stood just inside the entryway, stairs leading up into darkness on their right, a large empty room on the left with a two connecting doorways. The house was small, and they knew the adventure would be over before either felt it had begun. Their faces held twin expressions of hollow disappointment; they’d arrived for the circus only to find muddy elephant tracks and litter swirling in an empty field.
“Look, maybe we should just leave,” Max said.
The empty house strangely bolstered Jack’s courage as though he had expected to find the old man sitting in the middle of the room, waiting for him. He stood next to Max and slowly swept the room in his vision. “No…I think I’m going to look around.” Jack moved toward one of the doorways in the back of the main room. “Kitchen?”
“Yeah, I think so—the other room leads to the back door.”
Jack padded softly across the open floor, peering quickly into the open room on the left, and then stepped into the kitchen. Max followed, nervously fingering the outside of his pocket in which he carried the contraband flashlight. He watched from the doorway to the kitchen as Jack moved across the chipped linoleum, a bright blue white expanse in the dim moonlight. Then a sound, something faint like the blowing of leaves in the yard, stirred around them, almost as if from the walls—or below the floor.
“Jack…did you hear…”
“Just the leaves, no sweat.” Jack opened and slammed shut each cabinet door in the kitchen, finding nothing, not even a half-empty bottle of dish soap under the sink, a broken mug above the counter, or a few small cockroaches that scurried away when discovered. He moved to a door at the far end of the kitchen, opened it and gazed into the blackness below. The basement—Jack’s stomach twisted, caught by a cold fist—too dark down there. He really heard the noise now, a small scrabbling sound like tiny feet on the concrete floor below along with whispers that walked on the back of his neck. No, he would not go in the basement—he slammed the door shut and the noise seemed to stop. Jack paused, listening, and then pushed his way past the plump boy and into the main room.
“Hey,” Max protested.
“Your stupid friend—Ellis—he’s full of shit. There isn’t anything in this stupid house.” His anxious frustration found a target in his friend. Jack’s fear had dissipated with each empty cabinet, only to balloon again when he opened the door to the black basement.
“I’m not the only one—you believed him too.” Max stood at the threshold to the kitchen wearing a chubby frown, the last vestige of childhood tantrum and protest.
“Yeah, well, I think he’s full of shit now.” Jack strode to the stairs, just inside the doorway. “Let’s check up here,” he said, taking two steps at a time, mocking courage but really seeking distance from that tiny noise, trying not to lose face in front of Max.
At the top of the stairs a small landing led to two small bedrooms and a bath. Jack fought involuntary shivers—shivers not born of the chilly night air, as he stepped into the bathroom. With not even a small window to spread starlight, the bathroom sat in near complete gloom. Jack stood just inside, felt the fear crawl from his stomach like something small with tiny scratching feet, and stepped away. His eyes caught the black shadows in the bathtub, multiplied by his own shadow blocking a bit of light from the hallway, and those shadows seemed to move slightly as he stepped away.
“Anything?” Max pinched his glasses as he stood on the landing behind Jack.
Jack jumped slightly, and replied with forced coolness, “no, just an empty bathroom.”
The floor creaked, protesting the trespass as the two boys crept into both rooms on the second floor of the house. They found nothing in either, save for a few dirty rags in the larger room. Well-positioned windows pulled in ample moonlight, chasing away all but the most stubborn shadows. Jack could see his own house out one of the windows, just over the roof of his neighbor’s single story. He thought of his bed, the warm quilt his grandmother had made, and how tired and foolish he’d been to think this house held anything but dark and vacant space. He thought of the nightlight, too, and how this venture into the empty house did anything but cure his fear of the dark. Then he heard it again. A small, scratching, almost clawing sound, seemingly echoing from the walls around them. Jack looked at Max.
“The leaves, remember—you said the leaves.” Max said.
Jack swallowed his fear, continuing his faux courage, but just feeling tired, cold, and scared. “Look, let’s get out. There isn’t a damn thing here. This old guy wasn’t a bank robber, or a killer, or whatever-else-crap Ellis tried to feed us.” The sound stopped as Jack spoke and now he hurried to fill the empty space. “I should have never listened to you,” he said, moving toward the stairs.
“Screw you Jack, I’m tired of you bossing me around.” Max pushed past his friend, making the stairs first and rushing down. Jack, stunned for a moment, followed after Max. As he rounded the bottom of the stairs he saw Max standing in the kitchen doorway.
“You didn’t check one place, Jack. Or were you scared?” Max vanished into the kitchen.
Jack closed his eyes, imagined Max in the dark cellar, and eventually followed into the kitchen. Upon entering the kitchen, he immediately saw the open door leading to the basement. A small light glowed from the doorway, seemed to bounce, and then grew still again. Other than the light click of the flashlight striking concrete, there was no sound.
Just Max playing a trick, Jack thought, this place is empty—nothing here to worry about. He wavered a moment before sighing and plunging through the basement door. His feet nearly slipped after the first few steps, but his sure hands caught the rail. Jack surveyed the room, catching sight of the discarded flashlight. Other than the light, the basement was empty—just a wide expanse of concrete. Not even a single spider web dotted the visible corners of the room.
Jack took a few cautious steps from the bottom step. “Max?” he called. “C’mon, buddy. Joke’s over, okay?” The cold crunch of his sneakers on the grey floor answered him but nothing else. He bent over and picked up the flashlight, its dull yellow beam the only shield between Jack and total darkness.
“Really…come out, okay?” Jack poked the weak beam in all four corners of the room, forcing the shadows to retreat. After he had rounded the room once, the sound, the dry rustling scratch of dead leaves, swelled around him, echoing from each wall. The stale smell rose again, ebbing from the dark corners, squeezing from the oily darkness outside of the flashlight beam. Jack glanced at the light; it had grown dim and flickered a few times. “Max,” Jack whimpered, his voice nearly dying in his throat.
The flashlight sputtered out. Jack tapped it with the palm of his free hand. It gave one last lance of tepid light, and disappeared. He held his breath for a moment, alone in the dark basement of an abandoned house. The flashlight fell to the ground with a hollow clatter as the emptiness—the black nothingness devoured its second boy of the evening.
(orginally appeared in Candlelight #1, Fall 2008)
They schemed in Jack’s small two man tent one clear and chilly night in late September. Jack, as owner of the tent, held the flashlight as they studied the small hand-scribbled map—the map that his friend created through a blend of his own imagination and the layout of windows on the exterior. Max, the map maker, still burdened with too much baby fat on his preteen frame, pinched the center of his small wire-framed glasses.
“I don’t know, Jack,” he said, his voice high and clear, farther from puberty than Jack’s own occasional squeak.
“C’mon Max. We haven’t seen anybody around there in months—not since the old coot had a heart-attack. Aren’t you the least bit curious what’s in that place?” Jack brought the flashlight underneath his chin, casting grotesque shadows around his eyes, mouth, and nose. “Or are you frightened?” he asked, mocking Max with a ghoulish moan.
Max studied him, unwilling to yield to Jack’s ridicule. “No, I’m not scared. It’s just, well—this is breaking and entering we’re talking about.”
“What did you think we were going to do when I had you draw up those maps? What is it your buddy Ellis always says about that place?” Just then, something struck the canvas wall of the tent with a dull thump. “What the hell was that?”
Max pinched his glasses and said, “I dunno, but it was probably attracted by the light. Did you know there are living things, mostly insects and single-celled organisms that move only…”
“Stuff the science lesson, okay.” Jack clicked off the light and sat in silence and darkness for a few moments. He knew Max pouted without looking at his face. They’d been friends and neighbors since kindergarten, and Max always turned red and puffed his cheeks when he felt slighted or abused. Now in the sixth grade, Jack felt too old to be playing straight man to Max’s tantrums, but Jack needed an ally to search that house—to bolster his courage if nothing else, and both boys lived in the neighborhood.
Jack snapped the flashlight back to life. “Okay, so what do they call this thing—whatever you’re talking about.”
“They call it taxis—positive phototaxis when the bugs or whatever move toward the light—they can’t even help it—no voluntary control. I guess even creepy-crawlies like the light.” Max smiled, self-satisfied at his display of knowledge and ready to carry on with arrangements. Small insects gathered outside the tent, attracted by the light within.
Later, after agreeing to sneak out of their respective houses at ten on Friday and meet in the tent, Jack and Max went their separate ways. Jack merely scrambled out of the tent and to his back door only twenty yards away. Before he slipped into his house, he looked across his next-door neighbor’s backyard and toward the black mass that was the abandoned house. In the daylight, the place just looked sad—peeling paint, loose, graying boards, even one window with a small crack where he had thrown a rock on a dare two weeks ago. Jack designed this adventure to cure his fear of the dark, a private shame no one but his mother knew as he always hid the nightlight in his dresser before friends were invited.
Besides, old houses always had rumors surrounding them, and if even one of the stories circulating at school rang true, they might find something very interesting inside. The old man had been anything from a gypsy to a retired mob enforcer to the kids at school, and no one had touched the place after his death. Jack smiled a little before slipping inside.
On Friday night, air swirled fallen leaves about them as they crawled from Jack’s tent. After a brief review of the plan, the boys set off through darkened backyards, just enough of the child left in both of them to find thrill in each passing car—someone who might uncover their plot, but just enough adult to vaguely recognize the crime that they were about to commit. Jack carried a few simple tools, a screwdriver, pliers, and his old Swiss Army knife; Max held the map, and a flashlight smuggled in the cargo pocket of his pants. They had agreed to leave the flashlights behind for fear that any lights in the place might give them away, but Jack wasn’t the only boy who harbored a secretive fear of the dark. The night was clear, and the light from the stars and almost full moon would easily shine though the windows of the house, providing just enough light to see.
They approached the house through the shadows, and Jack quietly gestured toward the back door and then pointed at himself. Max nodded and kneeled in the cold grass. Jack crept to the back door, rattled the handle and pushed, but the door wouldn’t budge. He slipped back to the side where Max waited and shook his head.
Both boys then stalked toward the front of the house. Jack waited for a set of headlights to sway down Ninth Street, past the front of the house before he darted out, wrapped the front knob in his hand, turned, and pushed. He reeled with surprise when the door gave, opening into the dark dusty interior of the house, releasing an odor of dirt, moldy wood, and a faint hint of garbage that sat too long in the sun. His heart stopped momentarily, or it felt as though it had, because the inside of that place looked much darker than he had painted in his imagination. A new set of headlights in the distance forced him to shut the door quickly and scramble around the side where Max waited.
“The door is unlocked,” he panted.
“What?”
“Unlocked, I got a peek inside. Really dark.”
Max felt for the light in his pocket, harboring his own private fear of lightless places. “You want to stop?”
Jack’s breath returned, and he said, “No. Not unless you do.”
A moment passed. “No, I’m ready.”
They waited for another clear moment, and one after the other hurried to the door and pushed their way inside, struggling against the subtle stench, passing a threshold into the maw of the house. Both stood with wide eyes, waiting for pupils to dilate and help them see anything. Slowly, bit by bit, each could make out snatches of wood flooring, old wallpaper with split and peeling seams, and the black rectangle doorways leading to other rooms. The house held more than enough opaque shadows, thick ink poured into corners, along walls and the floor where the faint sliver glow from the windows couldn’t touch.
“Empty?” asked Max, pinching his glasses.
“Empty,” said Jack, his voice collapsing on the floor.
The boys stood just inside the entryway, stairs leading up into darkness on their right, a large empty room on the left with a two connecting doorways. The house was small, and they knew the adventure would be over before either felt it had begun. Their faces held twin expressions of hollow disappointment; they’d arrived for the circus only to find muddy elephant tracks and litter swirling in an empty field.
“Look, maybe we should just leave,” Max said.
The empty house strangely bolstered Jack’s courage as though he had expected to find the old man sitting in the middle of the room, waiting for him. He stood next to Max and slowly swept the room in his vision. “No…I think I’m going to look around.” Jack moved toward one of the doorways in the back of the main room. “Kitchen?”
“Yeah, I think so—the other room leads to the back door.”
Jack padded softly across the open floor, peering quickly into the open room on the left, and then stepped into the kitchen. Max followed, nervously fingering the outside of his pocket in which he carried the contraband flashlight. He watched from the doorway to the kitchen as Jack moved across the chipped linoleum, a bright blue white expanse in the dim moonlight. Then a sound, something faint like the blowing of leaves in the yard, stirred around them, almost as if from the walls—or below the floor.
“Jack…did you hear…”
“Just the leaves, no sweat.” Jack opened and slammed shut each cabinet door in the kitchen, finding nothing, not even a half-empty bottle of dish soap under the sink, a broken mug above the counter, or a few small cockroaches that scurried away when discovered. He moved to a door at the far end of the kitchen, opened it and gazed into the blackness below. The basement—Jack’s stomach twisted, caught by a cold fist—too dark down there. He really heard the noise now, a small scrabbling sound like tiny feet on the concrete floor below along with whispers that walked on the back of his neck. No, he would not go in the basement—he slammed the door shut and the noise seemed to stop. Jack paused, listening, and then pushed his way past the plump boy and into the main room.
“Hey,” Max protested.
“Your stupid friend—Ellis—he’s full of shit. There isn’t anything in this stupid house.” His anxious frustration found a target in his friend. Jack’s fear had dissipated with each empty cabinet, only to balloon again when he opened the door to the black basement.
“I’m not the only one—you believed him too.” Max stood at the threshold to the kitchen wearing a chubby frown, the last vestige of childhood tantrum and protest.
“Yeah, well, I think he’s full of shit now.” Jack strode to the stairs, just inside the doorway. “Let’s check up here,” he said, taking two steps at a time, mocking courage but really seeking distance from that tiny noise, trying not to lose face in front of Max.
At the top of the stairs a small landing led to two small bedrooms and a bath. Jack fought involuntary shivers—shivers not born of the chilly night air, as he stepped into the bathroom. With not even a small window to spread starlight, the bathroom sat in near complete gloom. Jack stood just inside, felt the fear crawl from his stomach like something small with tiny scratching feet, and stepped away. His eyes caught the black shadows in the bathtub, multiplied by his own shadow blocking a bit of light from the hallway, and those shadows seemed to move slightly as he stepped away.
“Anything?” Max pinched his glasses as he stood on the landing behind Jack.
Jack jumped slightly, and replied with forced coolness, “no, just an empty bathroom.”
The floor creaked, protesting the trespass as the two boys crept into both rooms on the second floor of the house. They found nothing in either, save for a few dirty rags in the larger room. Well-positioned windows pulled in ample moonlight, chasing away all but the most stubborn shadows. Jack could see his own house out one of the windows, just over the roof of his neighbor’s single story. He thought of his bed, the warm quilt his grandmother had made, and how tired and foolish he’d been to think this house held anything but dark and vacant space. He thought of the nightlight, too, and how this venture into the empty house did anything but cure his fear of the dark. Then he heard it again. A small, scratching, almost clawing sound, seemingly echoing from the walls around them. Jack looked at Max.
“The leaves, remember—you said the leaves.” Max said.
Jack swallowed his fear, continuing his faux courage, but just feeling tired, cold, and scared. “Look, let’s get out. There isn’t a damn thing here. This old guy wasn’t a bank robber, or a killer, or whatever-else-crap Ellis tried to feed us.” The sound stopped as Jack spoke and now he hurried to fill the empty space. “I should have never listened to you,” he said, moving toward the stairs.
“Screw you Jack, I’m tired of you bossing me around.” Max pushed past his friend, making the stairs first and rushing down. Jack, stunned for a moment, followed after Max. As he rounded the bottom of the stairs he saw Max standing in the kitchen doorway.
“You didn’t check one place, Jack. Or were you scared?” Max vanished into the kitchen.
Jack closed his eyes, imagined Max in the dark cellar, and eventually followed into the kitchen. Upon entering the kitchen, he immediately saw the open door leading to the basement. A small light glowed from the doorway, seemed to bounce, and then grew still again. Other than the light click of the flashlight striking concrete, there was no sound.
Just Max playing a trick, Jack thought, this place is empty—nothing here to worry about. He wavered a moment before sighing and plunging through the basement door. His feet nearly slipped after the first few steps, but his sure hands caught the rail. Jack surveyed the room, catching sight of the discarded flashlight. Other than the light, the basement was empty—just a wide expanse of concrete. Not even a single spider web dotted the visible corners of the room.
Jack took a few cautious steps from the bottom step. “Max?” he called. “C’mon, buddy. Joke’s over, okay?” The cold crunch of his sneakers on the grey floor answered him but nothing else. He bent over and picked up the flashlight, its dull yellow beam the only shield between Jack and total darkness.
“Really…come out, okay?” Jack poked the weak beam in all four corners of the room, forcing the shadows to retreat. After he had rounded the room once, the sound, the dry rustling scratch of dead leaves, swelled around him, echoing from each wall. The stale smell rose again, ebbing from the dark corners, squeezing from the oily darkness outside of the flashlight beam. Jack glanced at the light; it had grown dim and flickered a few times. “Max,” Jack whimpered, his voice nearly dying in his throat.
The flashlight sputtered out. Jack tapped it with the palm of his free hand. It gave one last lance of tepid light, and disappeared. He held his breath for a moment, alone in the dark basement of an abandoned house. The flashlight fell to the ground with a hollow clatter as the emptiness—the black nothingness devoured its second boy of the evening.
(orginally appeared in Candlelight #1, Fall 2008)
A Most Unfortunate Gaffe
by Aaron Polson
“Whatever they bring, you eat it.”
Nick Renner swelled in the chest, and glared at Ambassador Jaffe. “Hell, I’ll eat just about anything to land this deal. We need the oil rights, and these guys need the legitimacy.”
The ambassador, a thin, pale man with a black brushstroke of hair, leaned closer to Renner and whispered again, “Some of the cuisine is just a little, different. But you can’t afford to offend Sinaga—the “chief”, got it?”
Renner nodded with a wink.
They sat at the end of a long table of rich, dark wood. Cushions surrounded the table on all sides; the highest ranking of Guntur Sinaga’s advisors sat on these pillows dressed in traditional clothing. All wore head scarves or turbans, sashes of rank, and most had at least a pistol resting in a leather holster at their side. A small mouse of a man wearing no sidearm slipped onto the cushion next to Renner.
“Hello, senator is it? How was your arrival?” the man asked.
Renner glanced at Jaffe. “Fine. Roads are a bit, rough. Could probably use some TLC.”
“Senator Nicholas Renner, allow me to introduce Pramana Kitishe. He’s our contact for Sinaga’s organization.”
“Please to meet you, Mr. Renner.” The small man bowed his head in slow reverence. “Would you mind, what is TLC?”
“Tender-loving-care, looks like—”
“—what the senator is saying, Pramana,” Jaffe interrupted, “is that he thinks Uncle Sam might be able to offer some assistance in the way of infrastructure improvements. Roads, bridges, hospitals, schools. Yes?”
Pramana’s lips curled into a little wiry smile. “Ah, yes. The Americans are ever so helpful with their…what is it?” He touched one thin finger to his lips. “Deep pockets.”
__________
Servants clad in brown hovered like mute bees, ferrying loaded plates to the table and then empty plates away with no sound. Guntur Sinaga sat at one end of the table, laughing and talking heartily, but watching Renner with one eye the entire time—at least Renner felt as though he was stuck and wriggling on Sinaga’s pin-hole gaze.
Once the servants floated the last of the dishes from the room, Sinaga motioned for quiet around the table. Pramana stood from his pillow next to Senator Renner, and dutifully floated to his leader’s side. Sinaga was a lined man, his face set with deep, black cracks and rimmed with a hoary beard. When he smiled, his teeth showed in three distinct colorings: a dead brown, stained yellow, and bright gold. He carried the look of someone who had seen much in his life. He motioned Pramana to his side, and the little man obliged.
Pramana nodded and turned to Renner. “Sinaga would like to know what the distinguished gentleman thinks of the dinner thus far?”
At this point, Renner pushed back from the table and pulled at his waist. “Delicious. I must complement the cooks,” he said, adding, “and his Excellency for the hospitality.” Renner nodded toward Sinaga.
Pramana smiled broadly, “Yes, wonderful. You should know that desert will be even more special. A true…delicacy.”
Renner leaned toward the small man. “When can we discuss—”
“Ah,” Pramana interrupted, “we will have plenty of time. For now, simply enjoy.”
Before the senator from Missouri could respond, the servants returned with covered silver platters. They moved in concert, filing in from the palace kitchens and taking positions around the guest at the table. Each servant slipped his right hand around the handle on his platter’s cover, and they snapped these off with a quick and uniform motion.
On each platter, a collection of five large tobacco-hued roaches lay drizzled with a translucent red sauce in the middle of a bed of green leaves. Renner flinched slightly, but returned to a certain stoicism when Jaffe nudged him under the table.
“I’m not eating a god-damn bug,” Renner whispered.
Jaffe flushed white. “Please, Nick. This is important.”
“I’m not eating that shit.” Renner spoke louder this time.
Without calling attention to himself, Pramana slipped from Sinaga’s side to the space next to both men. “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”
Renner’s face deepened a few shades of red. “Thanks for the offer and all, but I think I’ll pass on…um, dessert.”
“Sir, this is a fine…delicacy. Our intention is not to offend.” Pramana took a slight bow after speaking.
Jaffe leaned closer to the large man and whispered, “C’mon Nick.”
Pramana looked at Sinaga, and then back at Renner. “Sir?”
Sinaga’s voice sounded, this time in plain, but clear English. “Do you not eat…how is it…decay in your country?”
“He intends the word, mushrooms,” Pramana said.
Renner turned to Jaffe. The ambassador nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Well, yes. Where I’m from—well, when I was a boy we’d hunt for Morel’s, these big mushrooms that would spring up overnight. We’d fill a bag, bring them home, fry them in butter…” His eyes shimmered with the memory.
Sinaga, still unsmiling, said, “In my country, one would not eat the decay—mushrooms. It seems we have some differences in cuisine.” He nodded then, like a slight bow—an acknowledgement of his guests, but not necessarily an act of respect.
Pramana watched the old leader for a moment, the room hovering in dense silence. Finally he rose, looked at the Americans, and said, “Simply a cultural misunderstanding. Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire for the evening.”
__________
Jaffe paced the floor in Senator Renner’s room, a spacious stone cavern lined with beautiful tapestries. Renner now without his jacket and with his tie hanging loose about his neck, sat on the king-sized bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Both men exchanged a number of nervous looks before one broke the quiet.
“Look Bill, what did you want me to do? Suck down some prehistoric-sized cockroach just to please a two-bit tribal chief—”
Jaffe stopped in mid-pace, turned to face Renner, and shook his head. “Yes, actually. I thought that was exactly what you planned to do. Remember—‘I’ll eat just about anything’?”
Renner’s fat fingers pushed through his grey hair. “Hell, that was before the kook’s brought me a bug to eat. A god-damn bug. Besides, we smoothed it over, everything will be fine. God these people are like parasites on this country.”
“I hope everything will be fine. Nick, parasites or not, these guys have the power. Whatever you do, make sure not to offend him again. We need—” A sharp knock on the door interrupted Jaffe’s words.
Renner quickly held up one hand and mumbled, “Scout’s honor” before turning to the door.
Pramana entered followed by a servant carrying a silver platter. “Mr. Renner, our esteemed leader would like to make amends, so to speak.” He snapped at the servant who promptly brought the platter forward. “I hope you find this a little more to your liking.”
Renner and Jaffe exchanged a quick glance. The servant held a tray with small strips of a grey substance that looked like worms doused in a sauce similar to the one from the roaches earlier that evening.
“The senator would be happy to try this.” Jaffe nodded at Renner. Pramana remained at the door. “Nick?” Jaffe prodded.
The big man pushed off the bed and approached the tray. He pinched a strip of grey between two fingers, held it for a moment, and slipped it into his mouth. His ruddy face had faded to a faint pink, but the hint of a smile shaded his mouth as his usual color returned. “Delicious, what is it?”
“Sir, our esteemed leader wants you to feel at home. This is our version of the…how did you say…Morel.”
“Well, my compliments. Thank you.
Pramana bowed, snapping once more to the servant who left the tray on a small table before leaving. Pramana then looked at both men, and said, “I will let our esteemed leader know you are ready to discuss negotiations in the morning,” before slipping out after the servant.
__________
Renner woke with a subtle dizziness in the quiet darkness of the confiscated palace. He lurched into a sitting position, and his head swelled and throbbed with the motion. Thoughts tried to form in his brain, but his skull seemed stuffed with foam—light yet dense. Groping for the side of the bed, Renner squirmed onto the floor.
“Bill…” he muttered, calling for Jaffe, “Bill…I…uh!” Renner struck the side of his head with the heel of his hand, trying to knock loose the growing pain. He managed to rest for a minute, doubled over on the floor with his naked feet and hands pressed onto the stone. Usually the cold on his toes would fire a shiver through his body, but Renner began to sweat, convulsing with sharp kicks in his stomach.
He crawled on hands and knees, helpless like a child, toward the heavy wooden door of his room. His fingers caught the edge of the dark wood and crawled up toward the metal latch, but his body convulsed again, and Renner dropped to the stone tile. After the waves of cramps passed, Renner struggled to his knees, pushed up the latch and pulled the heavy door, dragging it as his body flopped backward.
With the door just open, Renner wrenched through the gap, staggered into the hallway, and stumbled toward Jaffe’s room. His mouth tried to form words, but the sounds slowed to muted mumbles in his throat. Renner raised the chapped knuckles of his right hand to rap on the ambassador’s door, but another spasm seized his body. He collapsed in a crooked pile on the plush corridor rug.
The big senator from Missouri was finished with pain now. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the growing fungus began to break through any open orifice in the large man’s skull. His eyeballs began to push from their sockets—two wide orbs like golf balls thrust from their homes by a yellow-grey foam. The dingy fungus also crept through the man’s sinus cavities and through his nostrils, ears, and mouth like little fingers punching and stretching from any space they could find to grow up and out. Slowly, over the course of the next few hours, the parasitic fungus devoured most of what made Nicholas Renner—his brain, organs, everything.
__________
In the morning, Ambassador William Jaffe opened his bedroom door and gasped. Senator Nick Renner’s body, now nothing more than a vessel for the parasitic infestation, lay in a motionless heap on the hallway carpet. The fungus that began its work in the night now stretched toward the walls and ceiling in long, graceful ribbons of grey. To Jaffe, the whole scene was unreal—just a strange sculpture mocking the Missouri senator with alien adeptness. Jaffe found himself transfixed, locked in some repulsed curiosity, staring at the bizarre corpse.
“Ah, Mr. Jaffe,” Pramana called as he walked with deliberate but casual pace from the far end of the hall. “Oh, yes. The senator.” Pramana shook his head as he closed the last few feet to where Jaffe stood in front of the abomination.
“Good lord…” Jaffe whispered.
“A most unfortunate accident.”
Stunned, Jaffe eyed the small man. “Accident?”
“I’m afraid so. Our local mushrooms can be ever-so-dangerous when no prepared properly. Poor Mr. Renner must have fallen victim to an underdone bit of mushroom—I believe you would call this one Cordyceps—one with intact spores. They will, unfortunately, grow quite quickly to a mature fungus, devouring the host from the inside out.” Pramana shook his head slightly as he looked at the body and then Jaffe. “This, Mr. Jaffe, is why we rarely eat the mushrooms of our country.” His mouth grew into a smile that made Jaffe’s skin quiver. “I will report this, make arrangements and all apologies,” he said as he turned to leave. “Oh, and Mr. Jaffe, our esteemed leader says he is ready to discuss matters. Should I tell him the senator is unwell?”
(originally appeared in Morpheus Tales #1, Summer 2008)
“Whatever they bring, you eat it.”
Nick Renner swelled in the chest, and glared at Ambassador Jaffe. “Hell, I’ll eat just about anything to land this deal. We need the oil rights, and these guys need the legitimacy.”
The ambassador, a thin, pale man with a black brushstroke of hair, leaned closer to Renner and whispered again, “Some of the cuisine is just a little, different. But you can’t afford to offend Sinaga—the “chief”, got it?”
Renner nodded with a wink.
They sat at the end of a long table of rich, dark wood. Cushions surrounded the table on all sides; the highest ranking of Guntur Sinaga’s advisors sat on these pillows dressed in traditional clothing. All wore head scarves or turbans, sashes of rank, and most had at least a pistol resting in a leather holster at their side. A small mouse of a man wearing no sidearm slipped onto the cushion next to Renner.
“Hello, senator is it? How was your arrival?” the man asked.
Renner glanced at Jaffe. “Fine. Roads are a bit, rough. Could probably use some TLC.”
“Senator Nicholas Renner, allow me to introduce Pramana Kitishe. He’s our contact for Sinaga’s organization.”
“Please to meet you, Mr. Renner.” The small man bowed his head in slow reverence. “Would you mind, what is TLC?”
“Tender-loving-care, looks like—”
“—what the senator is saying, Pramana,” Jaffe interrupted, “is that he thinks Uncle Sam might be able to offer some assistance in the way of infrastructure improvements. Roads, bridges, hospitals, schools. Yes?”
Pramana’s lips curled into a little wiry smile. “Ah, yes. The Americans are ever so helpful with their…what is it?” He touched one thin finger to his lips. “Deep pockets.”
Servants clad in brown hovered like mute bees, ferrying loaded plates to the table and then empty plates away with no sound. Guntur Sinaga sat at one end of the table, laughing and talking heartily, but watching Renner with one eye the entire time—at least Renner felt as though he was stuck and wriggling on Sinaga’s pin-hole gaze.
Once the servants floated the last of the dishes from the room, Sinaga motioned for quiet around the table. Pramana stood from his pillow next to Senator Renner, and dutifully floated to his leader’s side. Sinaga was a lined man, his face set with deep, black cracks and rimmed with a hoary beard. When he smiled, his teeth showed in three distinct colorings: a dead brown, stained yellow, and bright gold. He carried the look of someone who had seen much in his life. He motioned Pramana to his side, and the little man obliged.
Pramana nodded and turned to Renner. “Sinaga would like to know what the distinguished gentleman thinks of the dinner thus far?”
At this point, Renner pushed back from the table and pulled at his waist. “Delicious. I must complement the cooks,” he said, adding, “and his Excellency for the hospitality.” Renner nodded toward Sinaga.
Pramana smiled broadly, “Yes, wonderful. You should know that desert will be even more special. A true…delicacy.”
Renner leaned toward the small man. “When can we discuss—”
“Ah,” Pramana interrupted, “we will have plenty of time. For now, simply enjoy.”
Before the senator from Missouri could respond, the servants returned with covered silver platters. They moved in concert, filing in from the palace kitchens and taking positions around the guest at the table. Each servant slipped his right hand around the handle on his platter’s cover, and they snapped these off with a quick and uniform motion.
On each platter, a collection of five large tobacco-hued roaches lay drizzled with a translucent red sauce in the middle of a bed of green leaves. Renner flinched slightly, but returned to a certain stoicism when Jaffe nudged him under the table.
“I’m not eating a god-damn bug,” Renner whispered.
Jaffe flushed white. “Please, Nick. This is important.”
“I’m not eating that shit.” Renner spoke louder this time.
Without calling attention to himself, Pramana slipped from Sinaga’s side to the space next to both men. “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”
Renner’s face deepened a few shades of red. “Thanks for the offer and all, but I think I’ll pass on…um, dessert.”
“Sir, this is a fine…delicacy. Our intention is not to offend.” Pramana took a slight bow after speaking.
Jaffe leaned closer to the large man and whispered, “C’mon Nick.”
Pramana looked at Sinaga, and then back at Renner. “Sir?”
Sinaga’s voice sounded, this time in plain, but clear English. “Do you not eat…how is it…decay in your country?”
“He intends the word, mushrooms,” Pramana said.
Renner turned to Jaffe. The ambassador nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Well, yes. Where I’m from—well, when I was a boy we’d hunt for Morel’s, these big mushrooms that would spring up overnight. We’d fill a bag, bring them home, fry them in butter…” His eyes shimmered with the memory.
Sinaga, still unsmiling, said, “In my country, one would not eat the decay—mushrooms. It seems we have some differences in cuisine.” He nodded then, like a slight bow—an acknowledgement of his guests, but not necessarily an act of respect.
Pramana watched the old leader for a moment, the room hovering in dense silence. Finally he rose, looked at the Americans, and said, “Simply a cultural misunderstanding. Gentlemen, perhaps we should retire for the evening.”
Jaffe paced the floor in Senator Renner’s room, a spacious stone cavern lined with beautiful tapestries. Renner now without his jacket and with his tie hanging loose about his neck, sat on the king-sized bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Both men exchanged a number of nervous looks before one broke the quiet.
“Look Bill, what did you want me to do? Suck down some prehistoric-sized cockroach just to please a two-bit tribal chief—”
Jaffe stopped in mid-pace, turned to face Renner, and shook his head. “Yes, actually. I thought that was exactly what you planned to do. Remember—‘I’ll eat just about anything’?”
Renner’s fat fingers pushed through his grey hair. “Hell, that was before the kook’s brought me a bug to eat. A god-damn bug. Besides, we smoothed it over, everything will be fine. God these people are like parasites on this country.”
“I hope everything will be fine. Nick, parasites or not, these guys have the power. Whatever you do, make sure not to offend him again. We need—” A sharp knock on the door interrupted Jaffe’s words.
Renner quickly held up one hand and mumbled, “Scout’s honor” before turning to the door.
Pramana entered followed by a servant carrying a silver platter. “Mr. Renner, our esteemed leader would like to make amends, so to speak.” He snapped at the servant who promptly brought the platter forward. “I hope you find this a little more to your liking.”
Renner and Jaffe exchanged a quick glance. The servant held a tray with small strips of a grey substance that looked like worms doused in a sauce similar to the one from the roaches earlier that evening.
“The senator would be happy to try this.” Jaffe nodded at Renner. Pramana remained at the door. “Nick?” Jaffe prodded.
The big man pushed off the bed and approached the tray. He pinched a strip of grey between two fingers, held it for a moment, and slipped it into his mouth. His ruddy face had faded to a faint pink, but the hint of a smile shaded his mouth as his usual color returned. “Delicious, what is it?”
“Sir, our esteemed leader wants you to feel at home. This is our version of the…how did you say…Morel.”
“Well, my compliments. Thank you.
Pramana bowed, snapping once more to the servant who left the tray on a small table before leaving. Pramana then looked at both men, and said, “I will let our esteemed leader know you are ready to discuss negotiations in the morning,” before slipping out after the servant.
Renner woke with a subtle dizziness in the quiet darkness of the confiscated palace. He lurched into a sitting position, and his head swelled and throbbed with the motion. Thoughts tried to form in his brain, but his skull seemed stuffed with foam—light yet dense. Groping for the side of the bed, Renner squirmed onto the floor.
“Bill…” he muttered, calling for Jaffe, “Bill…I…uh!” Renner struck the side of his head with the heel of his hand, trying to knock loose the growing pain. He managed to rest for a minute, doubled over on the floor with his naked feet and hands pressed onto the stone. Usually the cold on his toes would fire a shiver through his body, but Renner began to sweat, convulsing with sharp kicks in his stomach.
He crawled on hands and knees, helpless like a child, toward the heavy wooden door of his room. His fingers caught the edge of the dark wood and crawled up toward the metal latch, but his body convulsed again, and Renner dropped to the stone tile. After the waves of cramps passed, Renner struggled to his knees, pushed up the latch and pulled the heavy door, dragging it as his body flopped backward.
With the door just open, Renner wrenched through the gap, staggered into the hallway, and stumbled toward Jaffe’s room. His mouth tried to form words, but the sounds slowed to muted mumbles in his throat. Renner raised the chapped knuckles of his right hand to rap on the ambassador’s door, but another spasm seized his body. He collapsed in a crooked pile on the plush corridor rug.
The big senator from Missouri was finished with pain now. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the growing fungus began to break through any open orifice in the large man’s skull. His eyeballs began to push from their sockets—two wide orbs like golf balls thrust from their homes by a yellow-grey foam. The dingy fungus also crept through the man’s sinus cavities and through his nostrils, ears, and mouth like little fingers punching and stretching from any space they could find to grow up and out. Slowly, over the course of the next few hours, the parasitic fungus devoured most of what made Nicholas Renner—his brain, organs, everything.
In the morning, Ambassador William Jaffe opened his bedroom door and gasped. Senator Nick Renner’s body, now nothing more than a vessel for the parasitic infestation, lay in a motionless heap on the hallway carpet. The fungus that began its work in the night now stretched toward the walls and ceiling in long, graceful ribbons of grey. To Jaffe, the whole scene was unreal—just a strange sculpture mocking the Missouri senator with alien adeptness. Jaffe found himself transfixed, locked in some repulsed curiosity, staring at the bizarre corpse.
“Ah, Mr. Jaffe,” Pramana called as he walked with deliberate but casual pace from the far end of the hall. “Oh, yes. The senator.” Pramana shook his head as he closed the last few feet to where Jaffe stood in front of the abomination.
“Good lord…” Jaffe whispered.
“A most unfortunate accident.”
Stunned, Jaffe eyed the small man. “Accident?”
“I’m afraid so. Our local mushrooms can be ever-so-dangerous when no prepared properly. Poor Mr. Renner must have fallen victim to an underdone bit of mushroom—I believe you would call this one Cordyceps—one with intact spores. They will, unfortunately, grow quite quickly to a mature fungus, devouring the host from the inside out.” Pramana shook his head slightly as he looked at the body and then Jaffe. “This, Mr. Jaffe, is why we rarely eat the mushrooms of our country.” His mouth grew into a smile that made Jaffe’s skin quiver. “I will report this, make arrangements and all apologies,” he said as he turned to leave. “Oh, and Mr. Jaffe, our esteemed leader says he is ready to discuss matters. Should I tell him the senator is unwell?”
(originally appeared in Morpheus Tales #1, Summer 2008)
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