Waxy

I only moved into the town a few months ago, and before long took to frequenting Harry's, the bar just around the corner from my house.

The place was friendly and laid back, and I spent many a Saturday evening propped against the bar chin wagging with whomever I happened to be standing next to.

One night I called in to Harry's, and settled myself at the bar with my usual bottle of Bud.

I glanced down the bar, and the only other customer was a guy named Waxy. Although I had never actually spoken to Waxy I knew his name through hearing the locals talk to him. “Hiya Waxy.” they would say, and always got the same reply. “How's it goin' wit' you?” That was always Waxy's response, no matter how anyone greeted him the reply was always the same “How's it goin' wit' you?”

“Good evening.” I ventured.

Waxy turned to look at me, smiled. “How's it goin' wit' you?” Came the amiable reply.

“I'm good.” I said. “Can I buy you a beer?”

That was the start of a strong friendship, me and Waxy got to be real close over the following months.

A few weeks ago me and Waxy were chewing the fat at Harry's bar, curiosity getting the better of me I had asked him about his name. I thought maybe his surname was Wax, or Waxon, or something similar.

“Hell no, my name is Bill Thornton, everyone calls me Waxy because of what I do.”

“You mean your job? Do you work with wax, or keep bees or something?”

Waxy found this extremely amusing, and it was some minutes before he could talk around his laughter.

“No, I'm unemployed right now, I used to work in the chilled food warehouse, but the jumped up dick of a manager started getting on my wick and so I popped him one, he fired me right off. They call me Waxy because of that thing that I do.”

“Thing?” I asked him, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

“Yeah, that thing. You got a lighter on you, I'll show ya.”

I reached into my pocket for my Zippo, and passed it to Waxy. My mind refused to believe what my eyes witnessed next.

Waxy flicked the Zippo into life, then held his forefinger over the flame. After a few moments his finger began to drip. I continued watching in open mouthed amazement as the drops pooled on the bar and began to solidify. Waxy flicked the lighter shut, then scooped up the semi solid goo from the counter and moulded it back onto his finger again.

“That is absolutely amazing.” I stuttered.

“Well, truth is, it's kinda stood in my way, all my life all I ever wanted to be was a firefighter, bummer eh? Anyway, I gotta dash, I got a date with a hot lady, so catch ya later my friend.”

Waxy regularly left early to meet some hot lady or other, he never said who, and I never asked.

Waxy never showed up at the bar again after that evening. No-one saw him or heard from him. Despite police enquiries and searches he was never seen again, it seemed he had just melted into obscurity. Waxy was the best friend I had in the town, and I prayed that he was okay, wherever he was. It was just possible that he had skipped town ahead of some vengeful husband of one of his 'Hot ladies'.

Yesterday as I was walking home from work I passed a garage and garden sale at the late widow Clarkson's house, sad about her, she died suddenly of a heart attack, only in her forties too. I called in to see if there was anything that would help brighten up my rather spartan home.

I knew the widow's son Frank, a pleasant, hard-working young man that always seemed to struggle to make ends meet, and I thought it would be a neighbourly thing to do putting a few dollars his way.

As I browsed the clutter of pictures, furniture and assorted bric-a-brac I came across a huge lump of wax, it looked like some kind of weird sculpture, there was definitely a face in there, fingertips and elbows poking out at odd angles.

Suddenly the face twitched, the mouth moved slightly. “How's it goin' wit' you?” came the familiar voice, accompanied by a slight wink of one misshapen eye.

I nearly fainted. “Waxy? Is that you in there?” I whispered. “Jeez you look a mess, I gotta get you home.”

Acting as nonchalantly as possible I carried Waxy over to where Frank stood near the fence.

“How much would you like for this?” I asked him.

Frank glanced at the sculpture. “Whatever you think it's worth.” He replied, smiling broadly.

I pulled fifty dollars from my wallet, offered it to Frank.

“That's about forty nine more'n I expected.” Said Frank, looking a bit unsure of himself. I insisted that fifty dollars was a bargain for such a work of art, and he reluctantly accepted the money. He found me a large cardboard box to put my purchase into, I bade him goodbye and set about the task of carrying my friend back to the house.

Once home I pulled Waxy from the cardboard box and placed him on the kitchen table.

“I got a blowtorch in my toolbox.” I said to him. “With a bit of work, and a lot of luck I'll see if I can get you somewhere near back to your old shape. What the hell happened to you?”

Waxy chuckled. “Well, ya know all those hot ladies I kept making dates with? Last time I saw you I was going to meet the widow Clarkson, she was one hell of a hot lady I can tell you, truth is, she was just a little TOO hot for me to handle.”



©2014 Stephen. J. Green.

Infectious laughter

He was the first.

He just couldn't stop laughing.

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

He laughed until he died of mirth, and the laughter echoed around the room, bounced off the walls, ricocheted off the window, then flew out through the gap under the door.

The laughter hit a passing cleaner, who then laughed all the way to the bus stop, and all through the ride to her job at the airport, infecting everyone she passed along the way.

Soon, the whole world would be laughing... and dying.


©2014 Stephen. J. Green.

From the stars

He hung.

From the stars.

Eventually he fell.

All the way.

Completely, utterly in love.

She fell too.

From the dark.

They melded.

They would have many babies.


©2014 Stephen. J. Green.

Percentage of life

He rarely dropped below ninety five percent, and was rather alarmed to find that he was under eighty percent and still decreasing.

“Cerebra, run a systems check, there appears to be a malfunction in the life support system, or maybe a fault in the monitoring circuits.”

“All systems functioning at optimum, no faults or malfunctions to report.”

“Cerebra, I am at less than eighty percent, something has to be wrong.”

“Negative, all systems functioning at optimum.”

He squirmed slightly in the confines of the pod, the small movement giving a little more comfort.

All around him the ship hummed and thrummed as it streaked its way through the star system.

“Cerebra, how do you account for the drop in life force?”

“The passage of time is having a melancholy effect on your thought processes, resulting in a lowering of psychological and physical resistance.”

This was a cause for concern, if he dropped below fifty percent he would lapse into deterioration and gradually drain away into non-being.

“Cerebra, do you have any suggestions on how to halt the drain?”

“You need to have less wake time, you need to return to sleep, to recharge.”

His digits flickered over the keypad built into the arm rest, programming in for eighty light years of dreamless hypersleep.

Minute motors came to life, liquids ran through tubes, the catheter twitched slightly as it fed the corrupted juice into his bloodstream.

Sleep came, and with it came dreams.

He dreamt of home, and family. He dreamt of the seven suns and the blue landscape.

With the dreams came sadness, a longing for what he had, for what he would never regain.

As the dreams stretched through the years so his sadness deepened.

His life force trickled down to fifty percent, then below, and continued falling.


©2014 Stephen. J. Green.

Harringbow

Harringbow came with his band
And laid waste to the demon's land
Put to the blade his kith and kin
Burnt and slaughtered all within
Then eastwards travelled on his way
Happy with his deeds that day
The demon returned from darkest doings
Saw his home in flames and ruins
Then set off in a fitful rage
Harringbow's band to engage
Whomever he did chance upon
When asked for answers, they had none
He ripped them screaming limb from limb
For secrets that they kept from him
Someone must tell, someone must know
The whereabouts of Harringbow
And forward on, he searched still more
He tore his way, with tooth and claw
The whole night long, through man and beast
'Til sunrise came upon the east
Then looking back to whence he'd came
Saw none still standing, shrugged the blame
For all the slick grass in the field
Oiled by those who didn't yield
He turned his back, continued on
Ever eastwards, sparing none
'Til all around the world he'd been
And nought but slaughter had he seen
No sight in any when or where
Of Harringbow, not hide nor hair
From the west returning to his land
Full circle, searching for the band
A second time he trod the path
Created by his awesome wrath
And still a third time, and a fourth
And then he turned his fury north
He cleft his way from pole to pole
And of mankind he took his toll
But Harringbow, unto this day
Has never crossed upon his way.


©2014 Stephen. J. Green.

In Finkle woods

Daniel had heard the story of the Finkle woods monster many times, the tales of horror and disappearances, mutilations and partly eaten victims. All codswallop as far as he was concerned. Oh, the monster existed alright, he was absolutely sure of that, just as sure as he was of the gold and diamonds that were hidden in the woods, the riches that were protected from treasure-seekers by the horrific tales.

Daniel had done his research, had read all the books and documents concerning the Finkle woods monster, the truth was there for anyone who could interpret the words. He had nothing to fear from it, the creature relied on the folk tales and superstitions to protect itself and its hidden hoard.

For several days now Daniel had been combing the woods, digging at likely spots, at tree bases and rock formations, and eventually his perseverance paid off.

There was a loud metallic CLANK as his spade glanced off something just beneath the soil surface. A few minutes more earth clearing, and Daniel pulled out a large steel chest, which he prised open to reveal a fortune in gold coins, diamonds and jewellery.

“You must put that back, it belongs to me.”

The gravelly voice had come from behind Daniel.

Daniel rose and turned to face the speaker, a rather frail looking, wrinkly old man wearing an ankle length grey robe. He almost laughed out loud when he saw the pathetic figure that was the Finkle woods monster. “Or what?” He said.

“Or I will just have to eat you.” Said the man, a trickle of drool dripped from one corner of his mouth.

”You won't eat me.” Said Daniel. “I've read my stuff, that's just bluff and bluster, you couldn't possibly eat me.”

“What makes you think that?” Came the reply. Daniel thought it must be his imagination playing tricks, because the old man didn't look quite so wrinkled now, or quite so old, or frail, he looked slightly taller too, and heavier set.

“I know for a fact that you're either a vegetarian or a vegan, and so you couldn't possibly eat me.” Said Daniel. As he spoke the man seemed to grow even taller and heavier looking. A yellow glint tinged his eyes, his teeth seemed longer and sharper, his mouth drooled faster.

“A vegetarian or vegan? What on earth gave you that idea?”

Daniel stared at the man, starting to feel a little unsure of himself now, his confidence draining from him at around the same rate that the man was growing.

“It... It said in the book of lore that you wouldn't eat anything that has a face.” Stuttered Daniel. By now the creature loomed over him, emanating a stench of pure malevolence, its mouth a grinning cavern of needles.

“Yes, the book states the truth, but I fail to see how that knowledge alleviates your predicament.” Snarled the creature as it produced an extremely vicious-looking curved knife from the depths of its robe.

“Well... I have a face...” Spluttered Daniel.

The creature grabbed Daniel by the neck with one of its massive clawed hands, and lifted him several feet into the air.

“Not for much longer you won't.”

Daniel screamed and screamed and screamed as the sharp blade sank deeply into his forehead and began slicing its way down towards his chin.


©2014 Stephen. J. Green.

Crappy New Year

Well, there was no way he was going to make that new years eve party, was there? It would probably be almost over by now, and he had been so looking forward to it too.

Barney Wilson splashed his way through the ankle deep liquid to a pile of semi-solid sludge, he sat down and pondered his next move.

He wasn't in any immediate danger, the creature's stomach acid wasn't strong enough to eat through his suit, at least not for months, and he was hoping to be out of here just a smidgen before that happened.

He glanced around, his helmet light picking out the glistening contours of the organic chamber. High above his head was the opening of the slimy tube he had slid down after being swallowed, no chance of reaching that, and probably no way past the oesophagus even if he could.

His light illuminated another fleshy opening, just out of reach on the curve of the stomach wall.

Several minutes later and Wilson had managed to cobble together a crude ramp by piling various coloured lumps of half-digested vegetation, decomposing animal carcases, bits of bones, hooves, and god only knew what else. He scrambled up the slithery slope and pulled his way head first into the slippery tube.

Wilson squidged and squelched his way along the tunnel, through many twists and turns, his helmet light barely piercing the gloom as he part swam, part crawled through the semi-liquid contents, all the while accompanied by the gurgling sounds of intestinal music.

Suddenly the tunnel lurched violently, several times. Wilson was slung about this way and that, the panic welled up in him causing his own bowels to void.

“Great! At least before I couldn't smell what I was swimming through.” He thought to himself. “If there's one thing worse than a fart in a spacesuit...”

Wilson fought back the urge to vomit, and began crawling forward again.

The tunnel contracted and relaxed increasingly rapidly, and Wilson felt himself starting to move forward. Faster and faster he was carried along, gaining momentum all the while.

The light was almost blinding as he was ejected out into the daylight, from several metres up he flew downwards like a bullet towards an enormous pile of brown coloured dung, the lights went out again as he landed head first, projected up to his thighs into the soft mess. Small tremors shuddered through his legs as more of the squelchy stuff splatted onto his calves and the soles of his boots, burying his body completely.

Eventually Wilson managed to claw his way out of the filth, cleared his visor, and looked around him.

His ship was still there, and in the distance the lumbering form of the leviaslurp as it headed towards the tree line, and it's natural habitat. What the hell had the gormless animal been doing out here on the plain in the first place?

In Wilson's experience bad things usually came in threes. When a meteor storm had headed his way he had been forced to make an emergency landing on this ball, taking some damage in the process. He had climbed out of his ship to assess the damage only to be swallowed by a toothless, hairless, brainless, six hundred ton herbivore that was too stupid to tell the difference between meat and plant, and the third baddie, having his spacesuit covered in shit, both outside and inside. It could only go uphill from here.

Unfortunately for Wilson, fate decided that the swallowing and the crapping were both part of the same baddie, number two. With a roar of engines, a myriad of flashing orange lights, and a swirling of dust, baddie number three landed in the form of a brightly painted, red and yellow towship, her side emblazoned with the words...

I.T.C. - INTERGALACTIC TOW Co – YOUR PRIDE AND JOY IS OURS

Wilson walked over to greet the rather large, booted and suited guy who climbed out of the towship.

“Boy, am I glad to see you...” He began.

“Save your breath mister, and don't come any closer either.” Said the ITC guy, wrinkling his nose as he took in Wilson's disgusting suit decorations.

“Look mate, I need a little help here...” Spluttered Wilson.

“Can't you read?” Said the ITC man, and he pointed his finger at a barely visible speck in the distance.

Wilson switched on his visor zoom scope, about three hundred yards away, sticking out of the scrubby landscape was a signpost. Wilson fine tuned the focus and the blurred sign became readable.

“TOW ZONE – DO NOT PARK HERE AT ANY TIME – EVER”

“Yeah but...” Began Wilson.

The guy just slammed a ticket into Wilson's gloved palm. “Look mate, I'm just doing my job, okay? Seven hundred credits for the vehicle seizure, plus eighty credits per day storage, the sooner you pay up the sooner you get your vehicle back, and the less it costs.”

The ITC man coupled up the grapple beams then began climbing back into his towship.

Just before he slammed the hatch shut the ITC man hesitated, then said “Oh, and err... Happy new year.”

Wilson watched as the towship fired its thrusters, then headed skywards in a graceful arc taking his own vehicle along with it. There was a bluish flash as the driver punched into FTL drive, and both ships disappeared from view.

Wilson sat down on a nearby rock, and wondered what the chances were of flagging down a cruising Stellarcab in this neighbourhood.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Happy new year everyone, and best wishes for you all for 2014

Steve.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Christmas box

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

I picked up the tiny box from under the tree and held it out to her. “Happy Christmas darling.”

My wife took the box from me, and I watched nervously as she tore off the wrapping paper and flipped the lid open. She squealed with delight when she saw the diamond earrings.

“Oh, thank you darling, thank you so much, they are just beautiful.”

She gave me a kiss and a great big hug, I felt so pleased, when I had bought the earrings I was unsure about the choice but her reaction told me that the present was just perfect.

I glanced at the base of the tree, and to my dismay saw that there was no other parcel there, nothing. Oh well, I had absolutely everything I needed anyway, my problem wasn't a shortage of possessions, more a shortage of where to put them all, but it would still have been nice to have received a little something.

“I shan't be a minute darling.” She said as she left the room, I heard the connecting door to the garage open, then shortly after close again. A few moments later my wife staggered through the door with a rather large, gift-wrapped box, all sparkling and glinty with red and gold paper.

“Happy Christmas darling.” She said, as she placed the box on the floor in the centre of the room.

I eagerly tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a very sturdy, plain white box, a cube of almost three feet per side. I took the lid off the box and lifted out the contents, an identical, but very slightly smaller box, and inside that one another, then another.

Before long the floor was covered in dozens of identical boxes, all just a tiny bit different in size from each other, and at last I had the final box in my hand, a tiny thing the size of an ice cube, and it was empty.

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, surely she was playing some kind of cruel joke on me?

“There's nothing in here.” I said to her, trying hard but failing to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“That's just the point,” she said, smiling broadly, “for Christmas I got you the one thing you really, really need.”

“What?” I asked her, not seeing the point at all.

She waved her hand, the gesture taking in all of the empty boxes covering the floor.

“Storage.” She answered.

©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Happy Christmas everyone, I hope you all have a really fantastic and enjoyable festive season.
My very best wishes. Steve.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Sleep disorder

He had come to me seeking help for a sleep disorder, the chap did look rather haggard and worn out, and I told him I would try my best to help. I did explain to him that hypnotherapy was not always successful, and that not everyone succumbed to the deep relaxation techniques used, and needed, to achieve satisfactory results. He said he still wished to give it a try, and so we discussed my fees, and made the first appointment for the following Tuesday.

Many sleep disorders originate in guilts and anxieties stemming from childhood fears, and that would be where I hoped to start my analysis.

He turned out to be one of those classic patients, sometimes it can take months or even years to take a patient to the levels he managed to reach in just three sessions.

Under deep relaxation he spoke openly and freely about his happy childhood, about his wonderful relationship with his parents and siblings. He spoke in great detail about his privileged teenage years and early adulthood, about his university days, and the ensuing successful career and the financial benefits it had brought him.

And he spoke freely about the other stuff.

About the abductions, the rapes, the torturings, the murders and dismemberments.

Even when deeply under, he had actually laughed out loud when he recounted the futile efforts of the authorities to apprehend him. Seventeen cases, male and female, and the police were still no nearer to finding him.

What I had heard here was inadmissible as evidence, and I would not break the doctor-patient confidence even if it were. I could do nothing to bring back any of his victims, nor relieve the sufferings of their families. For what I was about to do I would be going to prison, probably for the rest of my life, but I was willing to trade my liberty for the lives of the victims yet to come.

Quietly and gently I spoke to him.

“Today you will reach a level of relaxation far, far deeper than on any other occasion, do you understand me?”

“Yes.” He whispered. His eyes remained closed, his breathing deep and regular.

“All you can hear is my voice, soothing and gentle...

You will continue to breathe slowly and easily...

Breathe in... and out...

Breathe in... and out...

all the while going deeper... and deeper... and deeper...

I am going to count backwards from five, and as I do you will feel your whole mind and body drifting down, down, down, to a place far deeper than ever before.

Five... starting to drift deeper now...

Four... relaxing more and more...

Three... hearing my voice, soothing and relaxing...

Two... deeper and deeper now...

One... almost there...

And zero... totally relaxed now, completely at ease and calm.

Hearing my voice, absorbing and following the suggestions I make.

And slowly, breathe in... and out...

And in... and out...

And in... and out...

And in... and in... and in... and in... and in...”

There was a loud splat as his lungs exploded, blowing his chest and ribcage to smithereens. Globs of blood, skin, tissue, and fragments of bone peppered the walls, furniture, and myself.

I removed my spectacles and wiped them clean with my handkerchief, walked across the room, picked up the phone and dialled the police.

“Hello? My name is Doctor Pearson, and I would like to report a murder.”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Moving on

She slammed the door shut as she left, she wasn't coming back.

The tears trickled down his cheeks, dripped from his chin, joining the shards and fragments that littered the floor.

He brought the dustpan and brush from the kitchen, knelt down, and began to clear up the remains of seven years.

Slowly and deliberately he scooped into the dustpan the pieces of broken promises, shattered dreams, smashed hopes, and a fractured heart.

With each stoke of the brush fresh tear drops landed, then lengthened and tapered as the bristles caught them, like tiny salt water comets against a polished pine sky.

He returned to the kitchen and emptied the dustpan into the trash.

He slammed the trash can lid shut, mimicking her action with the door. Wiped his eyes dry.

Time to move on.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.