Days of Madness 4 Read online

Days of Madness 4

  Copyright 2014 Chris Allinotte

  License Notes

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Arrow Appears Ahead of the Hunter – Angel Zapata

  The Other Side of Lucy Lou – Erin Cole

  Honey Trapp – Absolutely*Kate

  Perfectly Indifferent – Benjamin Sobieck

  Lifting the Veil – Park Cooper and Barb Lien

  The Talking Hand – William Davoll

  Five Hundred and Twenty-Six Sugar Pills – Mav Skye

  The Embalmer – R.S. Bohn

  Feet – Chris Allinotte

  Cupboard Full of Knives – Richard Godwin

  About the Authors

  Days

  of

  Madness

  4

  Hidden Horrors

  Welcome (Back) to the Asylum

  This year marks the fourth in the Days of Madness and, without hyperbole, this is the best edition yet.

  In over ten years as a writer and editor, I have, in the course of submitting to and visiting ezines, blogs, and print anthologies, met many of the authors collected in this year’s edition. Each year I meet new writers, of course, and it’s wonderful to be exposed to new voices.

  This year, however, the way things aligned, there were very few people involved that I didn’t already know. The short, fierce story “Lifting the Veil” introduced me to Park Cooper and Barb Lien. With this story, this couple simultaneously tackled ancient myth, human fear, and one of the more tragic civil rights developments of recent days. Heady stuff for just 750 words. I was also thrilled to see a new story from Absolutely*Kate in the mix. I’ve known (and known of) Kate for a few years, but only seen a few of her stories. Honey Trapp was one of the stories this year that gave me the surprise I’m always looking for in the Days of Madness. Each year, there is a prompt, and the fun of these anthologies is seeing what the various authors come up with. This year, more than any year, the “Hidden Horrors” theme seemed to resonate and I got the most diverse group of stories yet. It’s why I keep doing this event.

  A new twist this year came in the form of an email at submission time by artist and illustrator Niall Parkinson, offering his talents. I accepted with thanks, and the result was that each of the stories herein received their own beautifully rendered drawing. I can’t thank Niall enough for all his efforts on behalf of these terrific authors.

  And the rest of the authors? Richard, Erin, Angel, Rebecca, Ben, William, Mav? I’ve known most of these folks and admired their work for many years – enough to say with total confidence that if you’re reading this book, you are in for a hell of a treat.

  The Arrow Appears Ahead of the Hunter

  Angel Zapata

  “I’m just not interested.” Freddy shrugged. “I don’t like thinking of myself as a predator.”

  “You like steak and fried chicken.” Trevor creased his face. “Don’t ya?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t wanna hafta catch and kill my own food.”

  “Uh-huh. So it’s okay to eat dead animals as long as someone else does the actual killing.” Trevor pretended to slit his own throat. “Hypocrite.”

  “Whatever.” Freddy flipped him off. “You gonna pass that Camel this way or what?”

  They were behind the shed in Freddy’s backyard. It’s where they’d sneak cigarettes after school. The unfiltered smokes were stored inside a rusted tool box. The sixteen year-olds had known each other throughout high school.

  Above them, the sky was wiper fluid blue. Another few weeks and it would be too hot to venture outside. Soon Xbox joysticks would replace cancer sticks. Trevor handed his buddy the tail-end of their mutual ciggie. Freddy took one last drag and then stomped it out.

  “You sure you don’t wanna go deer hunting with me and my Uncle Craig?” Trevor upended a black milk crate and straddled it. “It’ll be fun.”

  “No thanks, man.” Freddy plopped down beside him on the grass, knees drawn to his chest. “Besides, my mom needs help around the house.”

  Freddy’s mother had relocated after the death of her husband. She and her son moved two towns east and bought the house next door to Trevor. Serendipitously, both teens had lost their fathers at an early age, and neither one of their mothers had remarried, so they had quickly bonded. The young men shared a certain air of maturity uncommon to most adolescents in their age bracket.

  “Oh well.” Trevor said. “Suit yourself.”

  For a minute, neither boy spoke. Trevor busied himself with a scab on his left forearm. Freddy watched a squirrel scuttle behind a sweet gum tree.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” Trevor chewed on his thumbnail, “but a few years ago, my brother, Chris, killed someone.”

  “What? When? In Afghanistan?”

  “Naw. I mean, yeah he was in the army, but… after that.”

  “For real? What happened?”

  “The way he tells it, it was really late and he was driving home in his pick-up truck near Route 56. He was—” Trevor picked his nose— “drunk.”

  “Damn. So he hit somebody?”

  “He said it was this skinny black dude wearing all black clothes; said there was no way anyone would’ve seen him crossing the road.”

  Freddy’s jaw clenched. No way…

  “Anyway,” Trevor said, “next thing he knows… boom! Dude does a Superman over the front hood.”

  Freddy whistled under his breath. “Shit. What did Chris tell the cops?”

  “Cops?” Trevor was perplexed. “He didn’t talk to no cops.”

  “Hey, brainless.” Freddy backhanded Trevor’s leg. “The cops do hafta investigate crimes.”

  “Like I said, Chris was drunk. He wasn’t going to jail for no nig—” he bit down on his tongue. “Black guy. Sorry.”

  Freddy frowned, stared at his own dark skin. He had little time to be disappointed in his friend before the light bulb in his brain illuminated. “He didn’t stop, did he?”

  “Nope. Chris read the paper and watched the news for a week straight and nothing was ever said about the guy. He was probably homeless.” Trevor winked. “That’s why Chris sold his truck. He got a sweet ride for it too, so it’s not the worst thing that could’ve happened. Of course, you never heard any of this. Right, bro?”

  “Yeah.” Freddy’s stomach felt queasy. “Right.”

  “Cool.” Trevor sprang up, stretched and yawned. “I guess I better be heading home. Uncle Craig’s picking me up at three in the morning and I still got chores to do.” He jabbed at Freddie’s shoulder. “We’re going bow hunting. I’m gonna kill a buck with only one arrow this time.”

  “Great.” Freddy rose from the ground, unenthused. “Yo, Trev. Hold up.”

  “What?”

  “It’s gonna sound weird, but do you ever wonder if… if animals… commit suicide?”

  Trevor snickered. “Now if that ain’t the stupidest question I’ve ever heard.”

  “I’m serious. You ever think a fox might step into a trap on purpose? Could be he’s just tired of the same old shit— chasing field mice and pigeons— decides enough is enough. He can’t help it. Or maybe the buck you’re hunting knows you’re hiding behind the trees and thinks, I’ve lived long enough like this, and then steps out into the open and waits for the bullet.”

  “Where do you come up with this crazy shit?”

  “Don’t know.” Freddy forced a laugh. “Just forget it.”

  “No worries there, man. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Trevor stuck out his fist. “Tomorrow night.”

  They knuckle bumped.

  “Yeah, tomorrow.” Freddy followed Trevor with his
eyes until his friend was out of sight.

  After a few minutes, Freddy withdrew his wallet from his back pocket and retrieved a yellow piece of paper. A month earlier, he’d needed his social security card for a job application. His mother told him to get it out of the fireproof box she kept in her bedroom closet. She must’ve forgotten the letter was there. When Freddy realized what it was, he was shocked and knew he’d have to hold on to it.

  He carefully unfolded his father’s suicide letter.

  I can’t take it anymore, it read. I’m like a fox, one foot caught in the trap. Doc Costa says my so-called paranoid schizophrenia can be treated with more meds. But he can’t spot the hunters all around me. He can’t hear them whisper. I’ve lived long enough like this. I’d rather be road kill.

  The car Freddy’s father stepped in front of never stopped.

  “I miss you, pop,” Freddy said.

  He looked at his cell phone screen. It was late. Shadows had flexed into arrows and shot across the lawn. He was inexplicably afraid.

  His eyes shifted from the woods to his house, then to the shed and back around, over and over again.

  There were just so many places for a hunter to hide.

  The Other Side of Lucy-Lou

  Erin Cole

  The Maplewood Orphanage roosted at the end of the road like a hungry cat in possession of a fresh kill. Dark windows blocked a view of its shady interior and reflected only the peachy-blushed faces of Mr. and Mrs. Miller and the tall, lifeless forms of pyramid cypress lining the drive.

  Mr. and Mrs. Miller had come for a child, unable to have their own. The brochure said it was effortless, discreet, and the right thing to do. After a brief questionnaire and a walk through, Mrs. Miller spotted the one, Lucy-Lou. She sat in a colorful corner playing with two dolls, tea set for three.

  “She’s perfect, Allen,” Mrs. Miller whispered into her husband’s ear.

  Mr. Miller didn’t know what to think, about any of it really. He was here moreover to cease Mrs. Miller’s incessant pleading above all else.

  Joan Gale, the orphanage director, chimed in. “But what about Suzy?” She pointed to a little blonde girl dancing with some others. “She’s outgoing, healthy, and has already passed her benchmarks for kindergarten.”

  Mrs. Miller glanced alternately between Suzy and Lucy-Lou. “I don’t know. There’s just something special about Lucy.”

  “It’s Lucy-Lou,” Joan corrected her. “She doesn’t like being called Lucy.”

  “That’s understandable. My name is MaryBeth. I’m not Mary or Beth. I’m MaryBeth.”

  Joan tipped her head. “I must be up front. Lucy-Lou is double the cost of Suzy.”

  “Why’s that?” Mr. Miller asked.

  “Lucy-Lou is a special child,” Joan said, thumbing the corners of her folders.

  “Oh, I knew it,” Mrs. Miller declared.

  Joan bit at her bottom lip. “If you plan on adopting Lucy-Lou, legally, I have to inform you . . . she has a second face at the back of her head.” Mr. and Mrs. Miller’s jaws dropped simultaneously. “Doctors have confirmed that it’s not a conjoined twin, just a mutation in gene expression. Because of this, she’ll cost more in routine care, tutoring, and medical expenses.”

  “Well that certainly changes things,” Mr. Miller said.

  Mrs. Miller looked over at what she thought had been the perfect child, couldn’t believe how normal Lucy-Lou appeared. Maybe she was. “Oh, Allen, look at her. She seems perfectly fine. If we don’t adopt her, perhaps no one will. Wouldn’t that be awful?”

  Mr. Miller studied Lucy-Lou behind the mirrored glass of the observation room. She did look like any other normal child. “Has she had any issues since her stay here?”

  “Issues?” Joan repeated. “You mean like health or mental?”

  Mr. Miller nodded.“No, no, of course not,” Joan said. “Lucy-Lou is a loving little girl.” When she wants to be.

  “All right, then,” Mr. Miller said.

  Mrs. Miller beamed with joy.

  “Great,”Joan said. “I’ll bring her in, and we’ll formally introduce you to your new daughter.”