Two Free Short Stories
The Blog
He sat at his desk staring down at its mahogany surface. He rested his elbows on the desk, holding up his head with his hands on either side of his head. The room was dark, despite the window nearby; a storm was coming and the clouds made the day seem more like twilight. The curtain of an open window began to flutter as the wind began to blow harder, sign of the storm nearing. The only man-made illumination the man allowed himself was a candle, and its flame began to dart to and fro, as if it were dancing with the curtain to the music of the storm's wind.The man jolted upward, nearly slapping his hands down on the desk, as a deep voice bellowed in his room. Then the scent of the candle was overridden by the smell of summer rain, and the man realized the sound had been thunder, not a voice. The curtain no longer danced, but spasmed towards the ceiling; the candle's flame seemed disconcerted by the end of the dance; it disappeared, leaving but a small line of smoke quickly blown away by the wind. The darkness startled the man more than the first raindrops beginning to come through his window. As if to see what all the commotion was about, like a man trying to hear the details of a muffled argument, he went to the window. Not to close it, but to observe.The storm cloud obscured the direct sunlight, casting a large shadow over the expanse of the field surrounding the man's house. But there were still patches of blue in the sky above and an occasional shaft of sunlight striking distinctly through the dark, towering storm cloud, so much so that the sunshaft seemed not made of light but of pale, solid gold. The man looked at these patches of blue and these shafts of gold and felt, at first, a hint of hope; then the hope turned into a memory of something once hopeful; then the memory turned into sad regret. The man closed his eyes, then snapped them open when he realized he was cowardly trying to stop tears. Getting sentimental, he told himself. He looked stoically upward. All traces of blue and gold were gone.He knew that this was the moment, that this storm was for him. He bothered not to close the window before leaving the room. Nor did he bother with donning a hat, a rain coat, or even shoes. He involuntarily snatched up an umbrella resting near the front door, then laughed to himself and snapped it in half over his knee. He flung open the front door and exited his home, leaving it flapping in the wind behind him. He walked towards to where he could still see, through the thinner, lower clouds, the towering height of the center of the thunderstorm. The wind slapped at his face, forced him to maintain balance, disheveled his hair and his clothes, and the rain began to pour. Just not anywhere near his person.He tried walking faster, towards the pouring rain, but it never got closer. He stopped, waiting for it to come--nothing. He looked to his sides, swung himself around and looked back towards his house. The grass, the bushes, the trees, the roof of his house which he could barely see, all were drenched by a battering rain. However, within a circle a few dozen yards wide, with the man at the center, no rain existed. He understood quickly, and he joked with himself in an awkward attempt to calm his nerves: I killed my umbrella and now its ghost is haunting me. The joke didn't help, because he knew a spirit was actually behind this all. Resolvedly, he walked forward, only his bare feet getting wet in the middle of the violent downpour.After a few minutes, he stood in darkness under the center of the storm. He could see nothing but rain all around him. Looking up, a pure darkness sat in the middle of dark-gray clouds. Lightning struck throughout the clouds, but one spot in the clouds directly above him never illuminated, never changed to gray or white as the other patches did. It stayed as dark as abysinnian crystal. He now knew this was the spot.He reared back his head and screamed at the darkness: "I'm ready!"The rain all around him froze in mid-air. Several lightning strikes throught the clouds stuck in place, ceasing their jittery sprawl through the air without disappearing. The black spot at the heart of the storm flashed white, a shaft of blinding light shot down towards the man, and, instantly, before the man could think to himself, "wait," he was evaporated, leaving only a circle of charred grass in his place.The beam of light vanished along with the black hole in the storm. Rain quickly washed away the charred grass and the storm proceeded on a normal trajectory with little damage reported by the news the next day. When, a month later, the mailman finally took action over the overflowing mailbox of the little house in the field, the house's owner was reported missing. Police found nothing indicating what had happened, no signs of foul play--or so they thought.Logically, the police didn't place much importance on a broken umbrella near the house's entrance. But it may be up for debate how logical it was for the police to disregard an altar they found in the man's bedroom closet. It was a pentagram of dark stone sat atop a stool covered with red silk. At the base of the pentagram sat a shallow, bronze pan containing several burned and indistinguishable items. Out of the two detectives investigating the scene, only one seemed to pay any mind to the altar. He used a pencil to push around the blackened bits until a mostly burned piece of paper fluttered down from the red stool and to the floor."Look at that," said the detective, part to himself, part to his partner."Oh, leave it. Everyone knew he was a loon."The curious detective picked up the paper and could make out only a few words."It says, 'I am tired of my weakness, my Lord. I wish for--' Dammit, I can't read the rest. He wished for-- he wished for--"The curious detective felt intense frustration, then looked at his partner's sardonically pitying eyes. They both started laughing."That stuff freaks you out, doesn't it?" his partner asked, laughing as the two men walked out of the bedroom. "Well, I'm sure whatever it was, he got his wish."And, unintentionally, the detective was right. The writing on the parchment had once read: "I am tired of my weakness, my Lord. I wish for power. Unstoppable power. Power like a mighty storm. Praise be to thee."
Standing in front of the jail cell’s iron bars, I notice an ache in my hand. The fluorescent light from above illuminates the whitening of my fingers as my blood flow slows. I loosen my hand, not knowing how or when it got around one of the bars. Redness comes into the fingers and a tingling sensation is the only thing I can feel and the only thing in my mind. Somehow, it’s a relief.The tingling stops and I drop my hand to my side. I stare down at the gray linoleum floor. I now feel nothing but a throbbing pressure in my head that amounts to a demand to remember. The underbelly of my mind demands that I remember. To remember why I’m in this jail for murderers. To remember my own murders. To remember the injection that’s soon to come.I lean my head against the bars hoping the cool pressure of the metal will counteract the warm pressure growing in my skull. It doesn’t work. I close my eyes and see my victims as if they are with me again. But I don’t see their deaths, not this time.I see a dangerous young man without much of a future. I see his dark, malicious eyes and his mouth stuck in a sneer. I see the tattoos on his neck and back and chest, all signifying his various gang affiliations and criminal exploits. I know the damage he has done, would have continued to do, but this knowledge doesn’t assuage my guilt.I see an older man, a drunk and an abuser, a man ridiculed by everyone he knew except his drinking buddies at some run down bar off of some rarely traveled highway. I see his yellowed, cracked skin, his rotting teeth, his beady eyes. I can almost smell the stench of him. Yet none of these facts help me.I see several of my victims of this type. A drug addict, an armed robber, a rapist. The pressure in my head worsens. I grab the bars again, this time on purpose and with two hands. I push my head harder against the bars. I tell myself that these people had deserved it, but different memories take their place, memories of my victims whose lives hadn’t been lost well before they met me.I see a young housewife, once beautiful and in good health, now with a face prematurely aged and sunken from the death of her two children. I see a self-righteous preacher, his head held high, his faith never buckling under the weight of what had happened to his congregation. I see a young girl with a successful future ahead of her. Then I see that future destroyed because of one night’s mistake. I see a man with no expression, blue eyes cold as ice, who had not done anything wrong at all—and who accepted his fate with emotionless dignity. This last is the worst memory of all. Those cold, blue eyes have haunted me in my dreams every night.And they stare at me now, in my mind. With my head pressed against the bars and with both of my hands going numb, I long for those stoic eyes to disappear, I long for all of the eyes, all of the memories of death, to never enter my mind again.Then, as if to grant my wish, the gate opens to the jail. It’s time. I let go of the bars and lift my head, but I can’t bring myself to look at the man who enters.“It’s time, Alex.”I don’t reply or turn to the voice. I hear his steps slowly approaching me, clacking and echoing like a clock the size of the jail. I try to ready myself, stiffening my posture in an attempt to gather some strength.“Are you ready?”In silence I stare through the same bars I’ve been staring through for the past hour. The empty cell before me seem more haunting now that my memories have been replaced by the voice of another person.“I understand how you feel, sir,” says the voice. “But you don’t have to do this to yourself.”“I’m coming,” I reply.“Sir, I know you feel responsible, I know you think it’s wrong, but it’s the decision of the jury, of the judge, of the State. It’s not your—”I turn to my young assistant. He suddenly looks down, avoiding my eyes.“Drop it, Ben,” I say. “You and I both know that if I were bad at this, most of them would be alive. The man today would stay alive.”“But, Alex, sir,” his eyes look up slightly, almost ashamedly. “You’re the District Attorney. It’s your job to convict the guilty.”I wave him off and motion towards the door. I have no interest in this debate anymore. I’ll accept the consequences of my job yet again. I’ll go to this next execution, this time the execution of a man with ice cold eyes. I’ll see his life snuffed out just as I had seen lives snuffed out before him.Except, this time, I’ll have no way to deny my responsibility.This one time, my victim is an innocent man.