Published
3 years agoon
By
Shane M.
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/
Published
21 hours agoon
June 4, 2023
(There – I finally said it! Second time’s the charm. Can we move along now?)
So I think Barbarella is losing it. Like she’s been sneaking healing potions. We never did manage to get to an alchemist before she downed one of those unmarked flasks we got off the goblins when we took their lair. Yeah, we all know they’re healing potions but I can’t help but think the goblins weren’t getting their goods legit. I mean, they are goblins, ‘nuff said. And I’ve heard some of the black market varieties have other weird properties too, so I fear maybe she’s gotten a bad one or something.
Anyway, she’s been acting strange, spending a lot of time by herself. And not working out, like usual, but rather rifling through the treasure trove. Not that she’s at all sneaky about it. I mean c’mon, it is Barbarella after all. She’s kind of the polar opposite of discreet. She’s always been more of a don’t-tread-on-me and mess-with-my-buddies-mess-with-my-war-axe kind of a girl.
It’s making Squidge suspicious. Yeah I know, Squidge is a bit edgy anyway, but they’re acting even more so now. They seem to have an even tighter grip on whatever things they’ve stashed away all up in that cloak of holding or whatever it is that they never take off and that makes it hard to remember much of anything about them. Hell, I don’t even know what gender they are, not that it matters anyway. I don’t concern myself with what Squidge is or isn’t up to so I don’t really care; generally the best is to assume the worst and move on. Nosing around in Squidge’s business is like begging for a stab wound to the back in your sleep, if you know what I mean. But they’ve been acting even more paranoid than normal, so I think they’ve noticed that something is off too.
You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve even had to down a healing potion; I tend to stay in the far back and let the other two hack n slash, it’s safer that way. And health elixirs aren’t my cup-of-probiotic-smoothie-protein-tea (it’s all too snake oil salesman fad craze diet antioxidant stuff for me). I’m more of a freewhellin fireball flingin kind of spell-slinger. The healing arts magics are a bit too… mushy gushy lovey dovey for me.
We aren’t a goody-two-shoes fixer-upper team, more of a nice-fill-in-the-blank-I-think-I’ll-take-it kind of ensemble. You know the type. #thuglifeforever. But times like this do make me wish we had a paladin or a cleric or even a druid to tag along. Where do you find the moral high grounders when you need them anyway? Sure, I guess I could go to a church or something, but some of the lesser evil critters I’ve wagered pacts and bargains with may not take too kindly to that. And the nature nice guys are all save-the-treants which generally doesn’t mesh with the whole fireball jive.
I guess Squidge could ask someone, but they only really talk to The Guild and just in that you-don’t-stab-my-back-I-don’t-stab-yours kind of sense, so we don’t have anyone to consult with on these kinds of things. It’s certainly not worth seeking out a 100 gp pearl for a wizened old wizard to snort for further clarity, even if the relative scarcity and exchange rate has made them significantly smaller and easier to haul around at this juncture, assuming you can find them at all. I swear, if the alchemists didn’t need to get high to get anything done it’d be a whole lot easier for everyone. And don’t even get me started on the Oracle, that nympho dominatrix bitch. Suffice to say I will NOT be going back there anytime soon, for ANY reason.
So here we are. Maybe whatever it is’ll pass on its own. But I noticed a couple more of those goblin healing potions have gone missing. We all know they don’t work if you aren’t hurt. And I swear I saw Barbarella take her own axe to the shin before she downed one when she thought I wasn’t looking during my nightly séance with the campfire flames. My cohorts don’t realize I can actually do more than it seems from my ritual state. The demonspawn that grant me my powers aren’t always all-engrossing, especially if I’m channeling things I’ve done a bajillion times already and not trying to harness something new. Frankly sometimes it’s best to tune the spirits out since they pontificate at length for no reason, but I suppose I’m not one to talk.
I keep coming back to this thought though. Why would Barbarella hurt herself just to chug a stupid goblin potion anyway? Usually those dares go the other way. Goblin potions taste like bad grog two days following a dwarven ale upchuck hangover, and that’s if you’re lucky. Often they’re worse. And they’re not even that good as far as healing elixirs, mending maybe a minor flesh wound at best. They’re crappy, no getting around it, and a last resort at best. Why would she deliberately go out of her way to drink that shit?
You know, there’s a whole stash of the things left, and I am a bit down on health myself. Maybe I should try one to see what the allure is. Perhaps the camaraderie and shared experience could help me get Barbarella to sober up and leave the toxic sludge alone. Or at the very least, maybe I’ll understand what she sees in them. Perhaps they’re new and improved, but I seriously doubt it seeing as how they’re still just ill-obtained swag we got off some low-level goblins. You know, no one ever really gives goblins anything worth having unless they’re trying to exploit them in some way, and even then it’s really not worth it, seeing as how the goblins don’t have anything anybody wants to barter…
I swear those potions were in this satchel here; we had like over 100 of the things. Oh, here’s one, way down in the bottom of the bag having fallen under some of the other crap we looted that wasn’t worth much of anything. Wow I really had to dig deep to fish that out, and it’s only been about a week since the goblins’ lair… In the light looks like the same ol’ ordinary purple black pink tinged sludge we normally find, a tad more sparkle factor but not enough to care. Now why are Barbarella and Squidge both looking at me like I’m holding the golden goose egg of everlasting mana and fingering their weapons?
If you enjoyed this RPG story by Jennifer Weigel, perhaps you will want to see some art from previous campaigns or read the Twilight saga, both on Haunted MTL here.
Check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s writing here at Jennifer Weigel Words.
This is the kickoff to a new series exploring nature that is kind of horrifying, at least in ways. Our first subject is Vampires Among Us. There are lots of animals named for vampires, sometimes due to folklore and sometimes for their appearance (like the Vampire Squid), but most of these animals don’t have blood sucking tendencies.
There are legit vampire leaf-nosed bats in Central and South America that drink blood. They feed on mammals and are often shown to feed on livestock. They’d be kinda cute if they weren’t so creepy. There are also vampiric birds: some finches in the Galapagos have developed the taste for blood of other birds, mainly seabirds that flock to the islands to raise their young.
And then you get into leeches and lampreys and other denizens of the water that are known to attach themselves to larger creatures and drink their blood. Leeches were even believed to have medicinal value (and still are in certain circumstances). And there are also numerous plants that are known to be parasitic and feed on other plants, wrapping their roots or vines around others to steal nutrients.
Now I’m going to drift off into the realm where this becomes truly horrific. Spiders. Now, spiders aren’t vampires per se, seeing as how they actually kill their prey – they don’t just feed off of it while it remains living and wanders about its business. But because of their structure, they cannot eat solid foods, so they have to inject their prey with enzymes to liquefy it so they can slurp it out like a protein shake. That’s sort of vampirism on steroids if you ask me, just the kind that no one is coming back from.
But let’s get back on topic. Now let’s consider mites and ticks and fleas and mosquitoes and the like. Some drink blood for their survival; others do so as part of their reproductive cycle (like mosquitoes which otherwise eat fruit and nectar but need the extra protein from blood to grow their eggs).
Ticks need to feed on blood once at every stage of their life cycle and can pick up diseases along the way (like Lyme Disease) but don’t always do so. Different ticks are more likely to come in contact with different things and often humans are not their preferred meal but they are opportunistic and will feed on whatever is available when necessary. Symptoms of illness from tick bites may take years to develop and can have really weird side effects (like the allergy associated with Lone Star Ticks which makes a person unable to consume mammalian flesh).
Anyway, here are some brief glimpses of vampirism in nature. Thank you for joining us for Nightmarish Nature and may you avoid getting bitten by any true vampires among us… And I still think spiders take first place in the creepy eating category here, even if they aren’t technically vampiric.
Published
2 weeks agoon
May 21, 2023
This story came to me in a sort of roundabout way from a rather unusual source. So I thought I’d share it with you, dear readership, and see if you can make heads or tails of it. – Jennifer Weigel
The site, beneath the sweeping limbs of the Live Oak, Spanish Moss swaying gently in the breeze, was a perfect match to the crude map he had bought off that soothsayer Deuteronomy.
The earth moved easily, as if it had been excavated previously. He dug in with greater fervor with each swipe. The sandy soil gave way to reveal something hard. He scooped and smoothed the remaining detritus from the surface as he uncovered a box.
No markings; no ornamentation; no writing. Just a plain cardboard crate, brittle from having been buried for so long but still sturdy. He hoisted it from its burrow.
“Ha HO!” he shouted to the passing breeze, rousing a small cloud of birds that erupted from a nearby thicket. They captured his attention for a moment, but he quickly refocused and returned to his task.
Any self-respecting ruffian like himself could pick a lock in seconds. And he did so with panache, as was his way. He pried the lid open and licked his lips.
Inside was the legendary Kernel of Eternal Life, a small sparrow’s heart, still beating.
Artwork description: Myself as Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty wearing black bell sleeve shirt and black vinyl skirt with strapping leather belt over leopard print shirt and tights, with strapping leather boots, pirate head wrap and leopard cat ears.
Image text reads: Purr! Avast ye mateys, Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty invites ye to check out her booty stash and dig ye up a dungbie prize. Seek ye some buried treasure! Just grab ye a plastic litter scoop and dig… dig… dig… to ye heart’s content.
I created this image for a promotional poster for a performance piece in a charity art show in which I, as Dread Pirate Queen Miss Kitty, hawked a carnival sideshow style sidewalk installation. For a mere $5 donation to the animal shelter the show supported, gallery goers could dig around in a kiddie pool full of litter to find a prize: a cheap plastic trinket from the dollar store. I had some takers, including one kid who seemed to really enjoy the digging and whose parents were all in, saying “You know, you can totally do that at home too.”
For more cat antics, we invite you to read C-2747’s logbook here on Haunted MTL. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.