Instafrights: Short horror stories for the busy gentle(wo)man by John Loc

We don't often have long, uninterrupted stretches of time in which we can sink into a novel, so the aptly titled Instafrights: Short horror stories for the busy gentle(wo)man by John Loc is just right for those of you who want those little snippets of disquiet.

I'm not going to go into great depth with every story, otherwise I'll be here all day, but I enjoyed reading two or three of the stories at a time, then coming back later when I had a moment. Loc's writing style is engaging, with a subtle dark twist of humour that made me giggle every so often. He excels in subverting the everyday, walking that fine line between being deliberately mysterious and paying out just enough information to give a story its sting right at the end. Some tales are just a few paragraphs, but he has a few longer pieces of flash fiction near the end. Instafrights, as the name suggests, is a fun selection of little dark dabs of fiction.

Siren Song - a Para Kindred #flash

This is instalment that's part of the Immanion Press blog hop, a short piece that's a prequel to my story, The River Flows, which appears in the Para Kindred anthology. See the Immanion Press Facebook page for more details. Also, I'll post my secret question below, so if you visit the Facebook page, you'll see details about a prize to be won (valid for June 2014).

SIREN SONG

I followed Zenith south. It seemed the best thing to do after we barely survived the bomb blast in Rotterdam that took so many of our friends.

“Europe’s gone for shit,” he told me. “We must make like rats.”

Zenith was nothing like a rat. Tall and whiplash thin, he had skin like burnt sugar and large, expressive eyes – brown, like a doe’s – but there was nothing soft about his nature.

The voyage was beyond awful, and we scuttled about the ship’s hold, eluding capture. Zenith turned it into something of a game. All I wanted was to feel sold ground beneath my feet again, and to put distance between ourselves and the humans, whose stink contaminated the vessel.

Perhaps it was the combination of seasickness and what bad food we stole, but my dreams were troubled. A siren voice tugged at the edges of my awareness, and gave me no rest, so that I tossed and muttered when I was sleeping. Calling me south.

When I told Zenith about this, and that I feared that our quest was ill starred, and that perhaps we should disembark before we made port at the Cape of Storms, he only laughed at me.

“I should call you Ulysses and tie you to the mast,” he said.

“Who’s Ulysses?” I asked, puzzled.

“Never you mind,” he told me.

The cargo ship docked in the early hours of the morning, and all I could make out of the city was the dark bulk of a flat-topped mountain with a scattering of lights like lost stars at its feet.

We slipped between the dockworkers unloading crates and had one bad moment when four off-duty workers tailed us as we departed from the quay.

“Hey, pretty boys with the long hair. Are you girlies?”

“Moffies!” another brayed.

Zenith kept his arm around me as we hurried from these rough men.

“I don’t see how this place is better,” I muttered.

“Hush now.” He kissed my cheek. “You’ll see. There are no others here who call themselves Wraeththu. Things will be better.”

Zenith found us lodgings in the garret above a tavern that did double duty as a whorehouse. At night, when he was working in a nearby bar, I lay awake listening to the shrieks of laughter, murmurs of lovemaking, and, occasionally, stifled sobs.

I meant to find work, but the teeming streets frightened me. Besides, the few times I did explore on my own made Zenith anxious. He filled my head with awful tales of outside.

I confined myself to our room, and lost myself in silent contemplation. My only visitors were the pigeons with their beady yellow eyes and metallic-sheened plumage. I never tired of watching them strut and preen, and I flew with them when they stretched their wings and glided between the sullen buildings.

“Be patient,” Zenith told me. “I am saving money so we can rent rooms in a better part of town.”

“How much do you have now?” I asked, suspicious of how long it was taking him to find enough for a deposit.

“All I ask is that you trust me.”

Aruna was my sanctuary, when I allowed myself the abandon of our inner landscapes of starburst passions, and vortexes of power that dragged me into constellations of euphoria. I spread my wings wide and soared to the sun, Zenith my shadow, twined with my soul and consuming me with his hungry flames.

Afterward we’d cling to each other, and my entire existence contracted to the contours of his lips and the small scar on his left brow.

“What are you humming?” he asked me.

I hadn’t even known I had a song until I stopped.

“It makes me sad,” Zenith said.

“Why?”

He wouldn’t say. Instead he brought his mouth down on mine and his breath tasted of sunshine and autumn leaves.

Five weeks in that miserable garret and every time I asked Zenith how much longer, he told me to be patient. All the while the song at the boundary of my dreams grew more insistent. One night I woke with my legs hanging over the edge of the sill. The cobbles gleamed wetly beneath the light of the moon, suspended above. Vertigo almost tilted me over and I pulled back inside, my heart racing.

The melody shivered at the limits of my perception, more felt than heard, and when I pulled down the sash window, a stranger’s face was briefly superimposed over my own – gibbous like the moon.

Zenith slept, lost in whatever dreams had snared him in their silken skeins. A sly smile quirked his lips, and I watched him a while, washed out by the light of a single candle. An impulse led me to his bag, where he kept his money. I had to see it for myself.

There was no promised roll of notes. What I did find was a handful of copper and a few silvers, as well as stubs from a place called Table Bay Taverna. The ink smudged off on my fingers, but I could still make out the words: Bright Fella, Startling Arrow, Grey Mane…

Without turning on the light, I sat there while that single candle guttered, and I traced the words and spoke them under my breath as though they were invocations. I pressed the stubs to my nose and inhaled…

Men sweating crowded around a small flickering screen wreathed in cigarette smoke beer stains on the floor tiny horses running down the straight tickets clutched in oil-stained hands anticipation elation disappointment

I didn’t need to ask Zenith where the money had gone. This time, when the siren song only I could hear bloomed in my soul, I added my voice to its threnody.

Zenith did not wake, even when I shut the door behind me. Nor did he race after me. I became a shadow, headed to the north and this new continent’s arid interior, and for once, I felt no fear.

* * * *

Super secret question: What birds grace Taym's windowsill? 

The Party – a Jay and Rowan #flash story

“This is a very bad idea,” I told Rowan as we plodded up Andrews Road. The Hill from Hell I liked to call it. My calf muscles were screaming.

There was enough moonlight for me to see Rowan’s grimace. “This party means a lot to me,” he said.

“I don’t care,” I said. “And I don’t see why you’re invited to parties all of a sudden.”

My friend was the class geek, the one who was the butt end of all the pranks and teasing whenever I wasn’t there to look out for him.

“Angela invited me,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Knowing Rowan, he had made all of this up. Angela Fourie was the most popular girl in our grade. Everyone except for me seemed to be obsessed with her. Okay, she was kinda cute, but she wasn’t my kinda cute.

“She sent me a Facebook invite.”

“Does your mother know you’re on Facebook?”

“Shut up.”

“The only thing that’s saving you is that Oryxis and your mom believing you’re sleeping over at my house,” I said. “If they hear that we sneaked out ...”

“You sound like Oryxis now, blah, blah-blah-blah.” Rowan made little talking hand movements. “We’re just going for a little while.”

I growled at him but bit my tongue. Besides, I needed my breath for the last stretch of road before we got to the security gate. If Rowan’s claim that he had an invite (of course I hadn’t received one) wasn’t all a pile of dog poo, then we’d be allowed in past those hallowed gates to Tierboskloof. If not ... Well, we could go back to my place and play console games or something.

I waited next to Rowan while he sweet-talked the security guard at the gate. My mom had brought me here a few years ago when she was visiting a friend, and then they hadn’t had all the security.

I allowed myself to relax a little. Rowan would be safe enough.

As his Guardian, I had to look out for him, just like Oryxis made sure nothing happened to Persia, Rowan’s mum. They were royalty in exile, from the magical kingdom of Sunthyst, and how I had gotten myself tangled in their lives was definitely another story for another time. (That’s if you wanted to cue The Neverending Story.)

But Angela confirmed that we were on the guest list, the security guard buzzed us through, and we followed the avenue up until we reached our destination. We could hardly miss it. The music was pounding doef-doef. Yay, my favourite. Not. I was already cringing and wishing I’d brought my earplugs by the time Rowan rang the doorbell. Squeals of laughter sounded from the other side.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked him.

“Sorry?” he said, cupping his ear to me.

Whether he genuinely couldn’t hear me or if he was just joking, I decided to ignore him. My night had been ruined, in any case. I could only ride it out until the bitter end.

Fay opened the door and blinked at us with heavily made-up eyes, and my heart did a little jig.

Okay, Fay was my kinda cute. My mouth went dry but that was okay, Rowan did all the talking and got us inside.

Oh. My. God. Fay.

Things were looking up. Definitely. Just about everyone from our class was here, and then some. I didn’t recognise some of the older skate punk guys who were hanging out on the balcony smoking cigarettes and trying to look cool.

“Now what, wise guy?” I asked Rowan.

He shrugged and pointed to the kitchen. Drinks, I suppose. Angela’s parents were loaded, so they could afford to let their daughter throw big house parties. Not an adult in sight ...

Loads of fun, but things could also go horribly wrong if we weren’t careful.

Rowan, of course, was completely oblivious to all the dynamics around him – all the more reason for me to look out for him.

Everyone was helping themselves to fruit punch in the kitchen, and I made Rowan dilute his with more orange juice before we headed out to the balcony. From the smell of things there was already way too much vodka in the punch.

It was like we had some anti-cool device strapped to us. The kids sort of shuffled out of our way so that we clearly stood on our own – outcasts. We might as well have that tattooed on our foreheads.

“Happy now?” I scowled at my friend.

Rowan sipped at his drink and tried not to grimace. He obviously wasn’t used to hard tack, for all the times he bragged about sneaking beers from Oryxis’s stock. The stuff tasted pretty vile, so I took small sips. I didn’t want to get drunk. Not here.

Just as I feared we’d be standing around with nothing to do the entire night, I heard it in a brief lull between dance tracks: one of the most beautiful sounds in the world – a softly played classical guitar. The mystery musician was sitting on another patio to our right, screened by a thick stand of wild banana.

The next track started up and I grabbed Rowan’s sleeve. “C’mon, we’re not going to stand about like a pair of lost farts in a perfume factory.”

I didn’t give Rowan a chance to argue and all but dragged him with me down a small flight of steps into the garden then around the vegetation to where a girl was sitting cross-legged on a pile of cushions. It was Fay, and she had a nylon-string guitar clasped to her chest.

“Hey,” she said.

“You’re not going to get heard over the music.” I gestured behind us.

“It’s fine. It’s still better than being out there with all the posers.”

Rowan made to go into the room behind Fay.

“It wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” she told him.

He froze. “Why?”

“Angela’s in there with Tom.”

Rowan tried and failed to hide his disappointment. I hid my smile behind my hand.

“Yeah, I know. Sucks. She asked me to keep chips out front.”

“That’s just twisted,” I said.

Fay gave a little shrug and played a trill of notes. “It beats getting hassled by boys out there.

Mike’s been trying to make me do shooters.” She stuck out her tongue.

“Mike’s an idiot,” I told her and sat down next to her. “Whose guitar is that?”

“Angela’s brother’s. He’s gone overseas. I always play it when I visit.”

“You’re anti-social.” I smiled at her.

“So are you.”

Well, that was one way of chatting up a girl.

As it turned out, Fay and I shared a bunch of similar favourite bands and we took turns showing each other different songs on the guitar. I hadn’t even known to speak to her at school, but thanks to the party, we were good. Fay and Jay – it had a nice ring to it. We had a laugh about that. I guess that’s why I didn’t notice that Rowan had wandered off. The first we heard of any drama was when the music got turned off and there was shouting.

“Where’s your friend?” Fay asked me.

I swore, and my “Spidey” senses as I called it were tingling – I knew on a gut-deep level that whoever was responsible for the disturbance, it was Rowan. He was in trouble.

“Crap, crap, crap!” I muttered under my breath as I rushed through the bedroom behind us and into the house. Fay and I had been so busy talking music we hadn’t even noticed when Angela and Tom had finished whatever it was that they’d been doing. Not that I cared.

My main concern now was saving Rowan from getting beaten up. That kid couldn’t hit a fly if his life depended on it, and it wasn’t difficult imagining a dozen scenarios varying in degree of horror – Rowan with a black eye; Rowan with his front tooth knocked out; Rowan with a broken hand ...

All these scenes ended the same way: Jay having to “please explain” to Persia, who could possibly literally fry me with whatever weird magic she kept up her sleeve. If she knew we were even here ...

There was a circle of kids out front in the driveway, and for a moment I thought the boy sprawled on the ground was Rowan. But it wasn’t.

Mike lay there, moaning. Big-ass bully Mike, who was at least a head taller and twice as large as Rowan. I couldn’t help but gape, as surprised as Rowan, who stood there over him rubbing at the knuckles of his right hand.

“Angela’s dating Tom, you douche,” Rowan spat. “When she says she’s not interested in seeing you anymore, she means it.”

Some of Mike’s friends, eyed up Rowan and were muttering among each other, and it was at that moment that I figured it would be a good idea if we went back to my place to play console games. Less chance of Rowan causing any trouble.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” I told Fay.

She gave me a knowing smile and melted back into the house, clearly uninterested in what was going on out here. Well, there went my chances of having something with a girl tonight. Plus she’d been sending out all the right signals.

I sighed and ploughed through the crowd and grabbed Rowan by the elbow. “C’mon, mate, we gotta chuck.”

He glared at me but didn’t bitch, thank goodness.

I cast one look behind me, but Mike’s friends were too busy helping him up off the ground.

Then I groused at Rowan, “What did you go and do that for?”

Rowan’s grin was devilish. “That was payback.”

“Dude, seriously, what would you have done if his friends had piled into you? You were outnumbered.”

“You’re here now.”

“Dude.” I shook my head. Had he honestly thought I’d haul his ass out of the fire? No. He was right. I would. Even if I got hurt.

Running footsteps from behind had us spin around. I tensed then relaxed. It was only Angela coming up the driveway.

She was breathless and grabbed both of Rowan’s hands in her own. “Thank you! I can’t believe Mike was such an idiot.”

Then she kissed him. Full on the lips.

Before either of us could respond, Angela dashed down the driveway again, leaving us reeling.
“What was that?” I asked in disbelief – Rowan, getting lucky with the girls?

Rowan just smiled and touched his fingers to his mouth. “I don’t know, but her lips tasted like cherries.”

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Jess Harris, Author and New Publisher #guest

Today I hand over my blog to an old writing buddy of mine, Jess Harris. But he explains everything below, so I'll shurrup now...

Nerine and I have been friends since 2007, when we started critiquing each other’s work on critters.org (a very rewarding experience for me.) She published one of my early stories on “Toad’s Corner,” which was my first international publication. I have long been fascinated with her artistic vision, and am delighted to watch her career develop. So, right up front I want to say thank you, Nerine, for giving me a few lines of your blog today to talk about something very dear to me.

For some, thirteen is a lucky number, but lucky or not, 2013 will be a transitional year for me. I was profoundly saddened when SNIPLITS closed. Not only did SNIPLITS provide me with my first pro sale, it was a wonderful place for new writers to have their work listed alongside established and celebrated professionals. Many SNIPLITS stories went on to win major awards, and some excellent authors got their start there. SNIPLITS’ tragic closing was the goad I needed to do something I’d been thinking about for some time: start a new publication for the express purpose of giving voice and exposure to under-appreciated writers.

To that end, I am opening Mustang’s Monster Corral (MMC) to original fiction. Duotrope has just listed us as a new paying market, and by this time next year, we expect to be a qualifying market for both Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) and Horror Writers of America (HWA.)

Initially, we are paying one cent (US) per word, but according to our business plan, we expect to increase to pro rates (5 cents per word) in about six months. We are publishing flash-length stories (1 000 words or less) almost exclusively, and will probably stay with that model for some time. MMC’s fiction theme is the antagonist. Good monsters go a long way toward making good stories. (All you fans of Nerine’s work surely appreciate the importance of a good monster!) We talk about other things as well, but “monsters” (broadly defined) interest us the most.

Personally, I love the flash-length story, which happens to be the fastest growing format in fiction. I expect this is due in part to the microscopic attention span of the average television-saturated persons of our age, but it is also because a reader with a smart phone or tablet can fit in a flash story anytime, anywhere. For me, the attraction comes from my admiration for writers who can be simultaneously succinct and poignant. There is the famous if somewhat apocryphal account of Hemmingway winning a bet by writing a story in under 10 words - “Classified: Baby Goods: For sale, baby shoes, never worn.” Whether or not he really wrote that particular example, it is a fine reminder of how few words we truly need to offer a tale. Writing with extreme economy is its own skill. I also think short-shorts are a great fit for an anthology. Like many people, I like to read before I turn out the light. I can read flash fiction for two minutes or twenty without ever leaving a story unfinished. I intend to end each year by publishing an anthology of MMC’s 52 weekly stories, perhaps with a few more thrown in for good measure.

My vision is to see MMC putting the names of at least 52 writers a year into the hands of readers. I am also terribly excited about the prospect of helping writers get into organizations like SFWA and HWA, which can be an important milestone in starting a professional writing career.

I do not harbor any illusion that this will be a money-making venture for me, but there is a great difference between “money-making” and “profitable.” MMC is truly a labor of love: my love for short fiction (especially dark fiction) and my deep affection for all those who put dreams to paper. Upon the labors of such as these are built the foundations of civilizations, and make those civilizations worthy of survival. Writers and dreamers have also been the downfall of many tyrants. Indeed, the profits of a venture such as this are immeasurable, in every sense of the word.

If you, dear reader of this blog, have a short-short story with an intriguing monster (no matter how you define the word) please stop by Mustang’s Monster Corral at monstercorral.com and click on “SUBMIT TO MONSTER CORRAL.” I look forward to hearing from you.

Thanks again, Nerine, for propping up my soap-box for a moment.

* * * *

BIO: 
In addition to corralling monsters, Jess Harris is a published author of short stories, with two novels nearing completion. He sometimes suffers from SOS (Shiny Object Syndrome.) He is a reasonably well travelled military officer, and is insatiably interested in nearly everything, past, present and future.