“Burst” by Gordon Blitz
The flat Santa Fe skyline painted our drive from Albuquerque. The volcanic red pressed against the dark highway as we stare beyond the naked road. The windblown tumbleweeds give a spooky aura to the scenery. The natural moon light illuminates our trip. Mozart’s 41st Jupiter radiates through our car rental. An easy hour commute will take us to our Santa Fe two hundred year- old adobe second home. It’s time to sell the Acequia Madre Street dwelling. After twenty years of being landlords the Santa Fe rental market has dried up. The competition from larger second homes of celebrities is wreaking havoc.
Five years have zipped by since we visited New Mexico. Rossini’s “La Cenerentola “at the Santa Fe opera provided an excuse to enrapture us. The partially covered Opera House welcomes the astrological planets and stars to enhance the brain cells gulping the music.
The St. Francis hotel accommodated an old-world charm. Liz, the hotel manager had been a permanent fixture for thirty years. She greeted us with “The honeymoon suite.” A private twinkle joke for us. The lowest priced room had no view. The concise space peppered with an antique furniture symbolized our romance. A compact ritualistic relationship. The centerpiece of the room was a print of Georgia O’Keefe’s “Jimson Weed” that stirred us to physical contact.
Our first meal took us to Café Pasqual less than a block from the St. Francis. Outside the restaurant, a line of locals and tourists is ensconced from opening to close. The Tex-mex egg dishes abundantly fill each plate warning the patrons that they can easily fast for the next eight hours.
The spiritual drive awakens a scratchy talk.
“I’m thinking about why we stopped visiting Santa Fe?” I ask Eric.
“The air fare became outrageous. There were so many other states and countries that I wanted to take off my bucket list.”
“We had some of the best sex. It’s become so rote recently.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” he pouts.
“Eric, come on. It’s been months.”
His eyes droop with “I just haven’t been in the mood. It takes so much out of me.”
“If you weren’t working ten-hour days.”
His frown prepared me for, “You are so rigid. No variety. How am I supposed to get excited? And you never shave on the weekend. Your stubble feels like sandpaper on my face.”
“But you won’t talk. What do you want to do?”
I nudge toward Eric. His right hand leaves the steering wheel and crawls towards me. The bristling hairs on my knuckles tingle. The silence vibrates through the Chevy Bolt car rental. Mozart’s symphony glides to a finale.
A month has passed since the last tenant returned their keys and departed. Larry and Harold were superior tenants. The carefree couple cared for the home like it was a prized possession. They cultivated charm. For the last ten years there wasn’t peep out of the lovebirds about plumbing issues, appliances, rain intrusions or any of the typical complaints that renters love to shower on their landlord.
Larry and Harold honored us with a home cooked dinner on our last visit. They were closet interior decorators. Each fabric, painting, rug, and fixture was an authentic antique. They could combine the antique delicacies with modern chic Indian pieces. It all worked. The meal was their joint effort. As their lightning limbs worked in unison to create stuffed chicken lathered with sauce, we were struck by their dance. I could hear a melody in the preparation. My cooking was always a solo effort. I knew Eric would make a simple recipe complicated. Their relationship was entering twenty years, falling short of our twenty-five. Their giggling coupled with stares without a blink, gave my jealousy genes a workout.
“Eric, before you go to the house can we walk around downtown. I’m stiff from the drive. I love the farolitos. Those little bags of candles and sand lit each night by hand. It’s the closet I get to appreciating Christmas. The nippy cold December weather gives me frostbite nightmares. Fifteen degrees is difficult for my thin bones to adjust to. The hush tones of the red bags distract me from the icy temperature.”
“Wow. You used to hate coming here. Now it’s a spiritual experience. Sure, we can make the detour.”
The stretch out of the car stirs my blood. The chill hits my nostrils as I suck in a deep breath. The sky is bombarded with twinkling stars. A canopy protecting us. I wish Eric would grab my hand. A trace of the last time we consummated. Days have turned to elongated months of staleness. A flash memory creates a vision. The afternoon in London six months ago. The downpour brought us back from the portrait gallery to the cradle of high tea in the West End Hotel lobby. With scones, cucumber sandwiches, and steam infused black tea we listened to a Vivaldi concerto. The white down comforter was thrown off the bed when we entered our tiny room. The ravishing culminated in a nap. I kept repeating “I could die and not have any regrets.”
The meditation stops as Eric struggles to find the key to the condo. Finally, when we enter the abandoned living room the ghosts of Larry and Harold’s warm textured earthy furniture haunts us. The emptiness made us gasp. In the bathroom I tried to wash my hands.
“Eric, there’s no hot water.” I shouted.
“I wonder if the water heater was shut off.” Eric explains.
I follow him into the kitchen area. He opens up one of the cabinets and begins inspecting the water heater. It looks dead to me.
“Gordon, we need a match to relight the heater. Look around in the drawers.”
“Found something. Here try these.”
Eric tries the matches but there is no spark.
“These are dried out. Damn. I wonder if any of the neighbors are around to help.”
It’s part of a four-condo complex. I check another drawer and smile at the elongated fire place matches. The unopened box gives me hope they’ll work.
The sizzling sound of flame means we are on our way to hot water. A hot shower would be a magical dream to warm my bones. I go back to the bathroom to check the water.
As I turn the faucet, I hear a loud noise. An explosion of sound bombards my ears. The rumbling under my feet is earthquake terrifying. What is going on? A propulsive gurgling rumbles against the faucet. In a flash water bursts through the floor. I am standing in rushing water. The flash flood quickly works its way up my shins to my knees and I am swimming in frigid water.
“Help Help” I scream. Can Eric hear me with all this noise? What is going on? I try to wade through the water to find safety. As I move to the hall the walls around me start to seep water. Is the adobe is melting? I start coughing. The water is saturating my pants. The ocean of water is filling up with some sort of plaster seeping out of the walls. Where is Eric? I’m having trouble breathing. I’m afraid to take a deep breath. Who knows what is in the soot?
I hear Eric’s faint voice, “Gordon, where are you? I’m stuck in the kitchen. The doorway collapsed. I’m trapped.”
Oh no. How are we going to get out of this? A few moments of calmness after hearing his sweet voice are starting to dissipate. Another gigantic explosion. Oh God what is that sizzling sound. Is that an electrical spark? My god did the water expose an electrical wire. Am I going to be electrocuted? I’m way beyond a panic mode.
“I’m going to die What should I do? Help.” I shout a scream.
“The pipes must have burst. I need to shut off the water. I just don’t remember where the shut off valve is. Damn it.” Eric yells.
“I think I see a live wire. Shit what am I supposed to do? Do you have your cell phone Eric? Can’t we call someone?” I cry out.
“No, I left it in the car. Just stay calm. Don’t move and don’t touch the wire. Just give me a minute to figure this out.”
“I’m starting to feel numb in my feet. I’m in icy water. I can’t stop shivering.” I shriek.
“I just thought of something. Aren’t you near the back door? Can’t you escape that way?”
“There’s so much cloudy dust I can hardly see anything. And it’s hard to move in this water. I can’t believe your neighbors haven’t heard the racketing blasts.” I try to roar back.
I blindly move away from the loose wire into the hallway. I can’t remember where the back door. We haven’t been to Santa Fe for years. Not with the perfect tenants who never complained. There was never a need to visit.
A bright light illuminates the room. I start to squint. Is this a mirage or is there a rescue team?
The savior voice hollers, “Hold on guys. We’re trying to pry open the door and get you out.”
“Can you shut off the electricity? This wire is sparking. I’m scared.” I tearfully cry out.
I hear a combination of voices talking, “We’re looking for the water shut off. Better check the fuse box and take care of that. Stay away from the wire and then don’t move. We’ll get to you soon enough.”
I’ve never had a real panic attack. Now I know what that feels like. If my knees would stop clattering maybe I could breathe for a moment. I can’t even feel my feet anymore. The tingling went away and I’m left in a paralyzed state. Come on rescue team. Hurry up. I don’t even hear Eric anymore. What’s happened to him. Is he o.k.? Shit I’ve just been thinking about myself. Damn.
The backdoor opens and Eric glides in with another man. They put their arms around my shoulder and help me walk. I drag my feet through squishy water covering the remains of the wood floor. Their touch erases my frostbitten nerves. I’d like to dunk myself in a hot as hell jacuzzi and spend an hour in a sauna. I never want to feel cold again. When I embrace Eric, I evacuate this nightmare. I refuse to stop kissing. I’m never going to reframe from the loving tears. The rescue liberation storms through me. I’m released.
Gordon has published work in Wingless Dreamer (2020), Two Hawks Quarterly (2020), The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, Issue #22 of Really Systems (2019), Fall 2019 Vitamin ZZZ, Free Verse Revolutions May 2020, Emeritus Chronicles (2020), and Senior Stories WEHO (2019). In March 2020, Gordon signed a contract with Running Wild Press to have his novella Shipped Out published. He’s a standup comic that has performed at The Ruby, TAO and The Blackbox Theater at the GLBT Village in Hollywood. His stories recorded at AKBAR in Hollywood are available on the Queer Slam podcast called “Just Gordon.” https://podcasts.apple.com/…/episode-21-just-…/id1446511726…
Check out his blog URL https://culturecritique.blog/
What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.