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keep literature alive
and easily
accessible. That is
why on-line
magazines are so
important. Try to
subscribe to at
least one om-line
magazine to keep
them it alive.
Without them, the
beginning writer
will have no venue
for his/her work.
On-line magazines
are not bound by
the crass
commercial values
of the big
magazines and
allow for a valuable
source of outre and
heretofore taboo
subjects.
Thank you
JE Gurley
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| A Gnawing Problem By J.E. Gurley Now appearing in Lost Souls magazine. Throughout my childhood, night called to me like a dark Siren, using words only I could hear. The unknown darkness from which most fled, I embraced as a long lost brother. Because of my predilection, my childhood was one of solitude, but never empty. I had no friends but I did have companions: Frail fairy creatures from the dark woods, worrisome imps from the deep, rocky recesses and grottoes, and specters that haunted the graveyards of my nocturnal walks. They spoke to me of strange things far beyond the shallow veil that separates our world from that of the so-called non-living. I say non-living but do not mean dead. There are stages of life about which we poor inhabitants in our pitiful, pale shadow of a world know nothing. We think we live, we die and our soul passes on to greater glory. We learn this in our religious schools with minor variations on theme and character. If people understood how small a part the soul plays in our daily existence, they would abandon their hollow churches; let them fall down from lack of use. They would hunt down the priests and murder them in revenge for the lies and torment they have caused. The soul is a spark, an essence that separates us from the animals but that is all. It is not a piece of the Divine, a fiber optic cable connecting us to God. It is not a sign of freewill. It is merely a boundary that we dare not cross. Yet, many have crossed it. I am one. It was on a cold, sleepless night when I was but twelve. The call was upon me. The night was black, unyielding, filled with strange sounds and melodies. My friends implored me from the woods, tempting me with more tales of bizarre worlds and times long past. What I had thought of as a bond between fellow creatures, they had considered an initiation. If I had an inkling of what that initiation consisted of, I would have fled immediately, never to venture into the dark again. But I did not. Instead, I thought nothing out of the ordinary when they accompanied me to a spot deep in the woods to which I had never ventured. Looking back, I dare say men had never ventured there, nor would such a place show on any map. It was a place beyond the limits of the imagination, a rent in the veil of dreams. Men have forever set boundaries against such places, piles or circles of stone designed to compel obeisance. Such boundaries lurk with the powers of the universe. They swell with the hunger of those compelled. The air was ripe with expectation and yearning. In the center of the woods, we came upon a well, lined in large, black stones grown slick with moss. The stones had been carved crudely, almost as if chiseled by sharp teeth rather than chisel and mallet. They reminded me of blocks of cheese nibbled by a rat. The pale moon was directly overhead and by leaning over, I could tell that the well was very deep indeed. From certain sulfurous odors wafting upwards from the deep chasm, I suspected its roots were those of the world itself. More ominous than the well were the multitude of claw marks on its lip, as if some enormous creature had used the slick stones for purchase as it climbed out. With flute, fife and drum, the creatures of the night set up a cacophonous racket that bit deep into the marrow of my bones. The music was primitive, written before melody or harmonies were born. Voices, unseen and nonhuman, joined in until the music reached a tumultuous end. As the last, horrible notes faded away, there came a sound more terrifying, more sinister than any I had heretofore witnessed. It seemed as if the bowels of the earth had let loose in ecstatic flatulence, roaring upward from the dark chasm; then came the scratching. The creatures of the night woods backed slowly away from the well, but I, human and curious by nature, crept closer to be first witness to the horror that was near emerging from the terrible orifice. Preceded by the appalling odor of decayed and rotted meat and the horrible, penetrating sound of skeletal fingernails on chalkboard, the nose of the creature appeared above the lip of the well, long whiskers glistening with dried blood and a foul ichor bristling on each side. As more of the creature became visible, I saw it to be a rat-like creature with large, sharp claws suitable for burrowing deep beneath the earth. Its red, evil eyes fixed upon me as it emitted a squeak of thunderous proportions. Its teeth, as half as long as my arm and smeared with putrid flesh and long clotted blood, spoke of its necrotic appetite. It was an eater of the dead, burrower of ancient graveyards and battlefields. I glanced around and saw that I was now alone, my companions having hidden in the surrounding wood. Unseen eyes watched to see what tale would unfold. Soft, inhuman chattering revealed a fascination for and a fear of the creature. The creature sniffed me and shuffled around the hole, unease visible in its movements. It looked ready to abandon the clearing and bolt back down the well at any moment. I marveled that I, a mere human, might frighten it. Used to its solitary ways, it had never before met a live human and instinct whispered to it to flee. Emboldened by its fear, I walked forward and reached out my hand. Like a young pup, the burrower sniffed my hand carefully; then licked it. As if paying obeisance to my command, it lay down at my feet. My companion creatures slowly reentered the clearing, my rights to manhood complete. I had passed their test and now was one of them, a member of the society of night creatures. One walked up to me bearing a small, cloth wrapped bundle, a human baby. It made no sound and its eyes were open and staring blankly. I knew what I had to do. Lifting the baby over my head, I flung it down the well. From deep below, I heard more chattering and squeaking sounds, the young of the Eater of the Dead. I reached down and patted the head of my furry new companion. I was now complete, less human than creature of the night. I had crossed the boundary none dare cross. “Come,” I told it. “It’s time you tasted fresh flesh.” Around me, my companions chattered their approval. Together, we strolled through the night toward the town, its sleepy innocent lights blazing like distant stars, frightfully unaware of the horror creeping toward them on rat-like feet. The End |
Here's another short story for your enjoyment.
Soaring
By J E Gurley
Horatio limped down the packed earth path to the big, colorful
circus tent, a bag of popcorn in one hand, his cane in the other. He
inhaled the carnival odors that drifted in the air like stagnant
swamp vapors – elephant dung, roasting hotdogs, rotten meat from
the lion cages, the cloying aroma of funnel cakes, perspirations
from the performers and visitors, and savored them like old friends.
Memories. They came flooding back like echoes of the past.
He tossed a piece of popcorn to a monkey sitting on a man’s
shoulder. The monkey grabbed the popcorn, tipped its red hat and
chattered to him.
“Filthy beast,” he muttered, laughing. “Hope you choke on it.”
He glanced at the performers’ trailers, wondering which one was
hers. Then he spotted the carved wooden unicorn above the door
of one small caravan and smiled.
She was here. After all these years, he would see her again.
As he walked through the drawn back tent flaps, the noise struck
him like thunderclap. The brass instruments shrieked their
displeasure at the confined space and the bass drum roared its
protest. The elephants trumpeted their angry denial of captivity and
added to the cacophony.
Horatio smiled. Nothing had changed. A circus was as constant as
the moon in the sky or the earth itself, immutable, inviolable.
He took a seat on the bench closest to the ring, the rough planking
evoking memories of other nights, other shows. Only a dozen or so
spectators dotted the tent for the matinee performance. A
diminutive clown walked by in shoes ten sizes too large, tripping
and rolling every few steps.
“Hi, Short Stuff,” he called out to the dwarf.
The clown stopped and eyed him warily. “I got your short stuff right
here pal,” he retorted, pointing to his crotch. He put his hands on
his hips; then walked off, continuing his routine.
In the center ring, the only ring in the small tent, a man with three
small dogs was sending them through a series of unimpressive
hoops and tunnels to the complete disinterest of the audience.
Sensing the lack of enthusiasm, the old ringmaster called a quick
halt to the lackluster performance.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he called out, his voice weak
with age. “I introduce to the world’s most beautiful ballerina, Lady
Tabitha.”
The orchestra blew a short fanfare and she rode in on the back of a
white horse with a silver headdress of long, white feathers. He saw
her face and his heart pounded to the beat of the horse’s hooves.
She had not changed in the ten years he had been gone. She stood
atop the broad back of the horse as if part of its flesh, her lithe body
danced and twirled to the strains of a Mozart piece he did not
recognize, something she had added to her repertoire.
She danced as he had first seen her on the stage in Moscow all
those years ago, with a precision and joy few others could match.
He listened to the applause and sounds of surprise as Lady
Tabitha did a pirouette from the horse’s back as it leaped through a
hoop and landed safely again upon it’s rump.
She dipped low, one leg high in the air, toes pointed heavenward.
Then she spun and reversed her stance. For her final turn around
the ring, she fell to her knees and blew kisses to the audience.
Then she saw him.
He saw her eyes go wide. She slipped and almost fell from the
horse. As she rode from the ring, she was still looking back at him.
The expression on her face was one of fear.
Horatio joined the small crowd as it filed out of the tent. As he knew
she would be, she was waiting at the entrance.
“Why now?” she asked.
“That’s all you have to say after ten years?” he asked.
“We thought you were dead,” she cried. He watched her eyes
dance around but never leveling on the cane at his side.
“Dead? Yes, in a way I was. At least, my soul died that day.”
“In all this time you never once tried to contact me.”
He sighed. “What could I say? Stay on the ground with me. You
were destined to fly like the wind. It was better I was dead.”
“Yet, here you are,” she said.
“Yes, here I am,” he repeated.
There was silence, silence as cold and impenetrable as the years
that had sprung up between them, taunting them.
Finally, she said, “Do you claim me, then?”
He shook his head slowly and closed his eyes. She could never
understand. “Any claim I might have had on you died with me.”
“But you are alive,” she protested.
His laugh was bitter, born of pain and misery. It spoke of years of
anguish and hopelessness, nights of torment and self-pity. “Alive?
Yes, I breathe. Blood flows through my veins, but my soul has fled
this pitiful shell.” He waved his hands down his body. “All you see
here is a mirage, a vision of what has come to foretell what will be.”
“What will be?” she asked quietly. A single tear ran down her
cheek. He longed to reach out and touch it but could not.
“Ah, you wish me to read the future! For that, I will need entrails.
Fetch a sharp knife and bring it to me. I will use my entrails for this
soothesay. Why waste a goat or a lamb? There is no reason to
shed innocent blood.”
She turned her head.
“My bitterness distresses you?” he asked.
She sobbed. “You are different, colder.”
He laughed. “Colder? Hell is not a place of flames as you might
think. It is a place of ice and dead dreams, frozen in time like a
mosquito in a shiny bit of amber. I cannot dance on a high wire
now, if that is what you mean. I no longer soar above the crowds
and breathe in their accolades as they waft gently upwards born on
the notes of the orchestra.”
She lifted her head and faced him. Her eyes, wide, soft hazel and
rimmed with tears, focused on his. Her voice, when she spoke,
matched his bitterness. “I came to you each day and sat by your
side yet you turned from me. You would not speak to me. You
ignored me. I died slowly each day with you.” She paused. “I would
have stayed but you drove me away, blaming me for your fall.
Blaming us all.”
Her words drove an icy spike into his heart. With no warmth there
to melt it, it began to fester. “I told you I loved you. I told you I
wanted to marry you,” he yelled, grabbing her by her shoulders
and shaking her. “You … you laughed at me!”
She struggled, pulling from his grip. He saw two livid marks on her
delicate shoulders, images of his hands. They slowly faded as he
watched, unlike the scars he had left in her heart, the ones she had
left in his.
“I laughed because you wanted me to leave the circus with you.
You knew I could never do that. I knew you could never leave, even
if you imagined you could. The circus is in our blood, the
greasepaint as much a part of our skin as our true flesh. We are a
façade. We are all glorious facades for the spectators – masks that
set us apart from the ordinary and make us spectacular, bright
memories they will cherish all their lives.
“They will recall us in their later years and bring their children, their
grandchildren, to watch us perform our magic. We will change, but
beneath the masks, the facades, they will not know.
“We are immortal!”
He watched her aura brighten as she spoke. Felt the truth in her
words. Felt the pain that came with them. She had been right. He
had left the circus and it was that which had broken him, not the
fall, not her rejection. He had become bitter, cynical and a cripple,
not because he could no longer soar, but because he no longer
wore the mask.
“I should not have come,” he said wearily and turned to leave. Her
hand, soft and delicate, reached out to stop him.
“You are home,” she said. “Stay.”
“I cannot,” he protested.
“You cannot leave,” she insisted. “It is in your blood. You can feel it
tugging at you even now, can’t you?”
He could. He raised his cane, shook it at her. “I’m a cripple!” he
yelled, not at her but at the circus tent.
She smiled. Others had gathered around her, familiar faces and
strangers alike. “We welcome you back, Horatio. You are one of us.”
“But … but what can I do, sell cotton candy and popcorn? I am a
thing of the ground.”
A voice spoke up. A second chorused it. “Ringmaster! Ours is old.”
Still other voices took up the chant. “Yes! Ringmaster! Ringmaster!”
He looked at her, his face a question.
“Yes,” she answered, laughing.
His heart melted. He fell to his knees sobbing away the years of
bitterness. He had come home and familiar arms surrounded him,
lifting him to the stars. He was soaring once again.
Soaring
By J E Gurley
Horatio limped down the packed earth path to the big, colorful
circus tent, a bag of popcorn in one hand, his cane in the other. He
inhaled the carnival odors that drifted in the air like stagnant
swamp vapors – elephant dung, roasting hotdogs, rotten meat from
the lion cages, the cloying aroma of funnel cakes, perspirations
from the performers and visitors, and savored them like old friends.
Memories. They came flooding back like echoes of the past.
He tossed a piece of popcorn to a monkey sitting on a man’s
shoulder. The monkey grabbed the popcorn, tipped its red hat and
chattered to him.
“Filthy beast,” he muttered, laughing. “Hope you choke on it.”
He glanced at the performers’ trailers, wondering which one was
hers. Then he spotted the carved wooden unicorn above the door
of one small caravan and smiled.
She was here. After all these years, he would see her again.
As he walked through the drawn back tent flaps, the noise struck
him like thunderclap. The brass instruments shrieked their
displeasure at the confined space and the bass drum roared its
protest. The elephants trumpeted their angry denial of captivity and
added to the cacophony.
Horatio smiled. Nothing had changed. A circus was as constant as
the moon in the sky or the earth itself, immutable, inviolable.
He took a seat on the bench closest to the ring, the rough planking
evoking memories of other nights, other shows. Only a dozen or so
spectators dotted the tent for the matinee performance. A
diminutive clown walked by in shoes ten sizes too large, tripping
and rolling every few steps.
“Hi, Short Stuff,” he called out to the dwarf.
The clown stopped and eyed him warily. “I got your short stuff right
here pal,” he retorted, pointing to his crotch. He put his hands on
his hips; then walked off, continuing his routine.
In the center ring, the only ring in the small tent, a man with three
small dogs was sending them through a series of unimpressive
hoops and tunnels to the complete disinterest of the audience.
Sensing the lack of enthusiasm, the old ringmaster called a quick
halt to the lackluster performance.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” he called out, his voice weak
with age. “I introduce to the world’s most beautiful ballerina, Lady
Tabitha.”
The orchestra blew a short fanfare and she rode in on the back of a
white horse with a silver headdress of long, white feathers. He saw
her face and his heart pounded to the beat of the horse’s hooves.
She had not changed in the ten years he had been gone. She stood
atop the broad back of the horse as if part of its flesh, her lithe body
danced and twirled to the strains of a Mozart piece he did not
recognize, something she had added to her repertoire.
She danced as he had first seen her on the stage in Moscow all
those years ago, with a precision and joy few others could match.
He listened to the applause and sounds of surprise as Lady
Tabitha did a pirouette from the horse’s back as it leaped through a
hoop and landed safely again upon it’s rump.
She dipped low, one leg high in the air, toes pointed heavenward.
Then she spun and reversed her stance. For her final turn around
the ring, she fell to her knees and blew kisses to the audience.
Then she saw him.
He saw her eyes go wide. She slipped and almost fell from the
horse. As she rode from the ring, she was still looking back at him.
The expression on her face was one of fear.
Horatio joined the small crowd as it filed out of the tent. As he knew
she would be, she was waiting at the entrance.
“Why now?” she asked.
“That’s all you have to say after ten years?” he asked.
“We thought you were dead,” she cried. He watched her eyes
dance around but never leveling on the cane at his side.
“Dead? Yes, in a way I was. At least, my soul died that day.”
“In all this time you never once tried to contact me.”
He sighed. “What could I say? Stay on the ground with me. You
were destined to fly like the wind. It was better I was dead.”
“Yet, here you are,” she said.
“Yes, here I am,” he repeated.
There was silence, silence as cold and impenetrable as the years
that had sprung up between them, taunting them.
Finally, she said, “Do you claim me, then?”
He shook his head slowly and closed his eyes. She could never
understand. “Any claim I might have had on you died with me.”
“But you are alive,” she protested.
His laugh was bitter, born of pain and misery. It spoke of years of
anguish and hopelessness, nights of torment and self-pity. “Alive?
Yes, I breathe. Blood flows through my veins, but my soul has fled
this pitiful shell.” He waved his hands down his body. “All you see
here is a mirage, a vision of what has come to foretell what will be.”
“What will be?” she asked quietly. A single tear ran down her
cheek. He longed to reach out and touch it but could not.
“Ah, you wish me to read the future! For that, I will need entrails.
Fetch a sharp knife and bring it to me. I will use my entrails for this
soothesay. Why waste a goat or a lamb? There is no reason to
shed innocent blood.”
She turned her head.
“My bitterness distresses you?” he asked.
She sobbed. “You are different, colder.”
He laughed. “Colder? Hell is not a place of flames as you might
think. It is a place of ice and dead dreams, frozen in time like a
mosquito in a shiny bit of amber. I cannot dance on a high wire
now, if that is what you mean. I no longer soar above the crowds
and breathe in their accolades as they waft gently upwards born on
the notes of the orchestra.”
She lifted her head and faced him. Her eyes, wide, soft hazel and
rimmed with tears, focused on his. Her voice, when she spoke,
matched his bitterness. “I came to you each day and sat by your
side yet you turned from me. You would not speak to me. You
ignored me. I died slowly each day with you.” She paused. “I would
have stayed but you drove me away, blaming me for your fall.
Blaming us all.”
Her words drove an icy spike into his heart. With no warmth there
to melt it, it began to fester. “I told you I loved you. I told you I
wanted to marry you,” he yelled, grabbing her by her shoulders
and shaking her. “You … you laughed at me!”
She struggled, pulling from his grip. He saw two livid marks on her
delicate shoulders, images of his hands. They slowly faded as he
watched, unlike the scars he had left in her heart, the ones she had
left in his.
“I laughed because you wanted me to leave the circus with you.
You knew I could never do that. I knew you could never leave, even
if you imagined you could. The circus is in our blood, the
greasepaint as much a part of our skin as our true flesh. We are a
façade. We are all glorious facades for the spectators – masks that
set us apart from the ordinary and make us spectacular, bright
memories they will cherish all their lives.
“They will recall us in their later years and bring their children, their
grandchildren, to watch us perform our magic. We will change, but
beneath the masks, the facades, they will not know.
“We are immortal!”
He watched her aura brighten as she spoke. Felt the truth in her
words. Felt the pain that came with them. She had been right. He
had left the circus and it was that which had broken him, not the
fall, not her rejection. He had become bitter, cynical and a cripple,
not because he could no longer soar, but because he no longer
wore the mask.
“I should not have come,” he said wearily and turned to leave. Her
hand, soft and delicate, reached out to stop him.
“You are home,” she said. “Stay.”
“I cannot,” he protested.
“You cannot leave,” she insisted. “It is in your blood. You can feel it
tugging at you even now, can’t you?”
He could. He raised his cane, shook it at her. “I’m a cripple!” he
yelled, not at her but at the circus tent.
She smiled. Others had gathered around her, familiar faces and
strangers alike. “We welcome you back, Horatio. You are one of us.”
“But … but what can I do, sell cotton candy and popcorn? I am a
thing of the ground.”
A voice spoke up. A second chorused it. “Ringmaster! Ours is old.”
Still other voices took up the chant. “Yes! Ringmaster! Ringmaster!”
He looked at her, his face a question.
“Yes,” she answered, laughing.
His heart melted. He fell to his knees sobbing away the years of
bitterness. He had come home and familiar arms surrounded him,
lifting him to the stars. He was soaring once again.
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