Flash Fiction: The Call of the Bremen Town Musicians

Another one of Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenges, this one is Fairy Tales, Remixed. I chose The Bremen Town Musicians as my fairy tale, which I picked because it might have given me a chance to write something whimsical and different, and I rolled 17...Lovecraftian.
Okay, whimsical? Not so much. I actually had two ideas for this rewrite, and I might do the other one later, but I'll have to see if I finish all the things I need to work on over the weekend first.

In at 630 words I give you...

The Call of the Bremen Town Musicians

It had only been moments since they'd fled their cabin, but the sounds from which they'd run would not be easily forgotten. It had been more than sounds, though. Screeches, braying and howls so loud that the window by the wood-burning stove broke. Glass shards sprayed across the room, followed through by the wind, and a creature that none of them had stayed long enough to get a look at.

Light still flickered through the dingy windows and shadows played upon the sackcloth curtains. The group of bandits watched their cabin from a distance. But didn't talk about what they had seen because they couldn't. They couldn't reveal those secrets that they were still unsure of for fear their sanity would be called into question. But they couldn't let the others know what they hadn't seen—all the while assuming that at least one of them had seen it. They'd at least heard it. And it was still in there.

The bandits' leader wasn't willing to call the whole thing a loss at this point. So they stayed at the treeline. Moonlight drifting between the clouds brightened the clearing just enough, but the warm orange glow of lamplight intermixed with shadows remained in the cabin. Time passed at a length they could not measure, but the end of that length was marked by the extinguishing of lanterns.

The newest member of the group stood up first. Elbert. New enough to be both bold and foolish, and looking to impress his new family. He held back a while longer, and then crept toward the darkened building. After pulling a long knife from its sheath, he moved soundlessly across the field. He placed his hand on the door, which was open just a crack already, and nudged it inward.

Silence. Darkness. Something glowed on the table. Perhaps a withered wick. Elbert set the blade down so he could strike a match. As he held the flame near the wick, he saw fur instead, and then it moved.

It leapt at him, tearing at his face with its talons. When he fell backwards, the screeching started all around him. He covered his ears, and headed for the back door. A loud howl startled him, and he tripped as teeth set into his leg seemingly from the floor itself. He flung the door open, falling outside just to be struck in the hip by something he could not see in the darkness. The force hit him, reversing his momentum. He grabbed the door frame. Whatever unseen thing he'd encountered outside the door, it was trying to push him inside the cabin where he knew he'd certainly be torn apart by all the teeth and claws rising from the darkness.

As Elbert staggered a few steps from the doorway something screamed down at him from the rooftop. The screeching, crowing and howling peaked. Different shaped shadows circled around him. Darker than the night's natural darkness. They twisted as a group, disorienting him as they closed in. He saw his opening, moonlight and stars showing between the frenzied figures, and escaped.

Elbert had barely made it away, and dragged himself back to the treeline. His condition gave each bandit pause. The leader issued her decision. They would move on from this cursed cabin.

Upon further investigation they found all manner of tracks in the muddy trail leading through the woods. Obvious paws, scratch marks and the heavy imprints of cloven hooves moving in close formation. Each of the bandits agreed that they'd made the right decision. They might have lost their their supplies and hideout, but at least they had their lives for now. They'd rather face the kinds of animals they knew might be lurking in the woods, than confront that unknown creature in their cabin.

Settled in the new house, missed a Poe birthday post

The title basically sums it up. I'm at the house in Pennsylvania and it's quite nice. We have the dining room set up to serve the purposes of a dining room, library and bar. It's almost perfect, but we need a better table. I plan on posting some pictures soon.

Yesterday was Edgar Allan Poe's 204th birthday and I didn't post about it because I am infinitely naughty. I did spend the time working on writing a Horror story and drinking gin. I was too sleepy to bust into the absinthe, but that may well happen tonight.

Poem: Pussy

Here's one of my poems just in case you were missing out on some crazy cat lady/black widow action.


Pussy

I will have twenty cats and just as many lovers that I’ll keep lined up on a wall,
Not the cats, they don’t stand at attention as urns with ashes do, and pictures in frames
They always found others, but never quite moved on
a bit of them would rather be with me
if only dust in a jar to occasionally stumble over
with marabou trim, pedicure, and a leopard print dressing gown
oh, it’s not that obvious, is it?
No, lust is something more than planning,
they learned; that they like being helpless
tasteless is a flavor all it’s own and can be anything
strawberry, vanilla, handcuffs, secretary,
naughty nurses them back to health,
they find a vitality in the taboo, that I expose and conceal
like a dagger, blood-reddened lips, each kiss a bit of them inside me
falls away with a fluid wrist motion,
nothing is missing, but I’ve taken them
all the pieces are here, waiting in the doorway
I smile at the chance opening before me
As the mailman slides another letter into the brass box

Flash Fiction: Deaf on the Right

Needed time to recharge, so that's why I've been rather scarce online recently.
I participated in Columbus Creative Cooperative's Flash Fiction Smackdown on March 1st. Didn't win, but that's okay because the final round involved writing another story in 15 minutes based on a prompt, and then presenting that story. Scary, yes?

So, here is what I read that night--

Deaf on the Right

By J. Lannan

Spending summer at home was boring. But I kept seeing this guy. Hiding in bushes. Standing behind garages. So, like I said I was bored. That afternoon I snuck up and snapped him in the back of the head with the stupid rubberband on his Halloween mask. I hadn't been expecting that falsetto scream. I took off down the street even though I wasn't scared. Why was he even wearing that when it was ninety degrees out? And he had to be way too old to be creeping like that.  I felt justified. He ambled after me groaning like a constipated walrus.

"Really?" I could walk backwards and he wouldn't even catch up. So, that's what I did. "Are you seriously such a spazz that you're following me? Look at how you're dressed. Who do think you are the next member of Slipknot?"

I stopped on the sidewalk. He lurched forward with his hands aimed at my neck, but he didn't know that I played soccer. I corner kicked him in the junk and ran for a friend's house.

Now, no one had seen any of them for about a week, but maybe they went on vacation. Without telling anyone. The door was unlocked. Inside, the place smelled like road kill. Like big roadkill.

You know, in these situations most people try to rationalize that the creepy guy who showed up a week ago and the house that smells like week-old death were somehow not connected. I wasn't one of those people. 

I knew they had guns. The downstairs cabinet was locked. I knew about the loaded pistol in the nightstand. But that was upstairs, and there are rules against that.

Serving as a reminder of the rules I encountered Colleen laid out on the stairs with a knife wound to the chest. "You never run up the stairs." I yelled at her, but that was pointless.

So the gun wasn't in the nightstand, it was on the bed by Colleen's dead dad. The psycho was faster. He gripped my throat. But I had the gun. Put it up near the side of my head. Pointed back. Heard him breathing. Pulled the trigger.

And that's why I'm kind of deaf in one ear. 

Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde and the Victorian Class Perception Extravaganza

I lied...there is no extravaganza here, but there is an essay on Victorian class perception as viewed through Literature so just try to enjoy it. Last year I took a class that covered Victorian Gothic novels and this is one of my essays from that class. Disregard page numbers and acquire a copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde online if you are interested. I don't remember the edition that the following page numbers are from.
Also, I've been reading On Writing Horror: A Handbook by the Horror Writer's Association and this has made me think about taking old horror-inducing scenarios and reinventing them. Horror is basically a building of anxieties and the Victorian middle class had a lot of anxiety about defining itself into a position in proper society. Basically through defining the classes by strict stratification Victorians felt that they could look at someone and judge their character, mental health, and sexual proclivities upon sight. Before the emergence of the middle class the main concern in England was nobility vs not nobility, but since that new middle class didn't have pedigrees they inscribed identity in the human body and outward expression itself to know who properly belonged to the middle class.
You'd be naive to think that these snap judgments don't exist in the real world on such a scale in this progressive year...or maybe you just aren't strange-looking enough to have experienced it first-hand. I'm of the belief that the Victorian era wrapped its bony white-gloved hands firmly around society and has refused to let go since its inception.





see more Historic LOL Or maybe that was tentacles that it wrapped around society... Anyway, there are a lot of attempts to get people to stop judging others by how they look. In fact you should check out the movie Tucker and Dale vs Evil to see this concept, along with a lot of slasher movie staples, really twisted about.

Onward to the academic paper:

"Class Portrayal and Societal Anxiety in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"
by J.Lannan

In Late Victorian Gothic novels interest was given to the theme of degeneration of society and character. This theme played out in a variety of ways, but in “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” the theme was most curiously portrayed through an upper class anxiety directed towards the lower classes. This anxiety comes to a point in the chapter entitled, “The Carew Murder Case,” where Mr. Edward Hyde carries out a vicious unprovoked attack on Sir Danvers Carew. Hyde’s disregard for what is proper behavior, unprovoked violence and the ways in which Hyde is described when compared to other characters are all representative of Victorian society’s distrust and fear of the lower class, along with a general discomfort in the loss of order and proper behavior in society.
The maid who viewed the attack from her window described Mr. Carew and Hyde in different styles. While describing Carew she focused on him as “. . .an aged beautiful gentleman with white hair. . .” (59). This attention to detail in Carew’s style and mannerisms indicates that the maid paid more attention to him because he appeared to be of some status. Hyde is often described as small, and less noticeable, but when they do notice him they generally dislike him. The maid relays to the police officer that the attacker is ‘Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking. . .’ (61)
Hyde challenged the ideals of Victorian society with his general bad manners and poor disposition, even before he turned to unrestrained violence. Upon Hyde’s exchange in the street before the attack he is rude, impatient and angry. The maid described Carew’s manners as “innocent an old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content.”(60) Earlier in this passage it is implied that Carew made a request of Hyde, possibly asking for directions, and Hyde reacted in a fit of anger and unrestrained rage. Hyde is described as an animal at times, and is often depicted as ape-like in behavior, for example, “with ape-like fury. he was trampling his victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows. . .”(60)
The violence of Hyde towards Carew is an attack on the upper class and upon the constructs of society. The murder is especially horrifying in its unprovoked nature and in the irrationality of the act. It was a violent act brought on by rage and nothing more. The crime was not a robbery, which at least would offer some explanation, but everything of value was left on Carew’s body; “A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim. . . .”(61) This crime was also not about revenge of any sort, which could provide some sort of rationale for the bludgeoning.
Crime itself is representative of a less civilized society, and these were precisely the dregs that Victorian properness attempted to hide. This murder scene is a representation of an interaction of a lower class character with an upper class character where the lower class person is in a non-servile position. The maids and butlers of the story are all providing a service to their employers, while Hyde is his own man. Dr. Jekyll has provided Hyde, and himself as he is Hyde, with money and opportunity to roam unrestrained by polite society. Dr. Jekyll cannot indulge in rude, violent or self-gratifying behaviors as himself, so becoming Hyde allows him to explore these urges that challenge society and every construct that he would typically be held to because he was a member of the upper class. Hyde has a lot of freedom and unrestrained emotional energy and this freedom from society and proper behavior translated into violence and disregard for the world.
Hyde is free from the restraints of polite society and is not represented in a servile position except for when he runs errands for his alter ego, Dr. Jekyll. The representation of Hyde as a lower class man who is not restricted by proper behavior and not serving the upper class can create a certain anxiety in the wealthy characters because they do not have control over him. Hyde’s rudeness and violence show a general disregard for everything that upper class Victorians held dear in the constructed society and bonds of properness that the society enforced. The lower class did not care as much for these mannerisms and were not as compelled to hold to the etiquette of upper society.

Trick or Treat

I missed posting on Halloween, but then again I've barely seen my computer in a couple days due to sewing and being at the theater. Yesterday was more sewing than expected followed by a nice dinner and cheap rum in the evening because I was annoyed at not attending any Halloween-related events other than Trick or Treat night. Halloween has become so commercialized, lazy and clean ("Modern Vampire" wigs, really?). Old fashioned costumes were just weird though...


see more Historic LOL

On Trick or Treat night last week (yeah, our city has a thing for the Thursday before Halloween) I dressed up like a vampire. That costume was comprised of clothing I would normally wear (purple shirt, black pants, black velvet jacket), but I just added my molded fangs. I hadn't worn those too often and had to figure out what words I could say without a fang lisp. Anyway, when I handed out candy some kids would catch a glimpse of the fangs, and I could watch the thought process as they tried to decide if I was in costume or not. I really enjoy the subtle distortion of reality where things are not exactly right, but they're not completely wrong either... they're just a curiosity.
At the house next door one of the guys was wearing a weird mask that I didn't get a good look at. He also had chains around his neck and was acting generally like a hell hound. As people approached he would snarl and spring towards them. In between jumping and barking at people he'd hide out at the side of their house. The act made a couple kids cry--which usually means that you're doing a good job. Good show.
Apparently on the next street over there were cardboard tombstones set up and one said "Metallica d. 1989." A picture of that display made the local newspaper's webpage. We were pretty lazy about decorating our house this year, but maybe next year will be better.

Anyway NaNoWriMo starts today, and I have press night for "The Ash Girl" tonight.

Look...spooky things are everywhere, but this map is seriously lacking.

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Dream: Love Hangover Nightmare

I just started researching the history of male circumcision, and discovered the only real instances of non-Jewish males being circumcised started in the Victorian Era... oh, and it went along with preventing masturbation. I will soon have more to add to my discussion of Victorian Self-Love.
As I was reading and deciding what to post I managed to start up a dripping nosebleed, which is funny if you've watched anime.

One of my friends showed me the following video the other day and that evening I promptly had a nightmare involving gay icon Zeb Atlas.


His arms look like they belong on one of those oddly-proportioned 10-inch X-Men action figures. And maybe that scares me because the arms broke off of those figures really easily--or maybe Magneto just wasn't well-suited for gladiator battles or being thrown down the stairs.


see more Memebase After Dark

So, anyway a guy who looked much like the man with action figure arms who cannot be saved by autotune showed up in my odd dream. I was taking some business-related class in a school surrounded by winding brick-paved roads, nice houses and massive amounts of cemeteries-- I should've known I was in trouble with all the cemeteries around. At this business event there I was--dressed in black--the bodybuilder and a lot of frumpy-looking business women in pastel suits who had creepy too-nice smiles. The guy was wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a bowtie that mostly made me think he was trying to be Clark Kent, or Captain Hero, or just ridiculous. For some reason I did not find him to be a complete freak (some bodybuilders creep me out with their muscle bulginess--which is funny because long ago I worked with several bodybuilders), and mostly felt sorry for him because I figured he would go the way of the actions figures as my dreams are kind of rough on people and most of my action figures ended up with makeshift electrical tape casts holding their arms onto their bodies. I wasn't a very conventional doctor to my action figures...


see more Lol Celebs

So, back in the odd dream--after the class meeting was over I decided I would walk home--which was apparently several hours of walking. So, I walked the winding medieval roads through the suburbs which led to beautiful green hills that reminded me of pictures of Ireland. Then I arrived at a cemetery. It was the biggest cemetery I have ever dreamed up. It was all stone--no grass at all-- and it led up to a towering castle-like crypt. Conveniently, I was told that it was the "Vampire Castle" by the pale, skinny, nerdy guys who were dressed in blue jeans and black t-shirts, but wore giant gothy capes over their ensembles. I'm not talking about "Hey, mom look at the sweet cape I got at the Ren Faire" style, but more along the lines of the Death Eaters from Harry Potter--complete with ethereal energy following them around as well. Oh, or maybe they were like ringwraiths from LOTR without dead kings underneath their capes.
My first thought was This is such a stupid dream.
The "vampires" were trying to avoid the sun, but continued to walk in a circle around a obelisk in the middle of the broken crypt. I reveled in how pointless this was, and then the muscle guy showed up. The vampire kids hissed like cats and ran away. Muscle guy carried me out of the crypt and was certain he had just saved my life from the circle-walking dorks. I started to think that he looked rather sexy... Once that thought sunk in I worried about where this dream was going.
Okay, we're going to stop this train right before it gets to idiotic town...I'm just going to wake up now.
And I did.

Short Story: Be Quiet

Today is my friend's birthday and I guess I wanted to give them nightmares. Or maybe not. I don't think this is too creepy of a story.
I wrote it from a randomly generated prompt...this one actually "A graveyard is the location, hatred is the theme. A coat is an object that plays a part in the story."

"Be Quiet"
J. Lannan

Hate isn’t something that I usually deal with, but here it is right around that corner of the mausoleum. It’s not something I can easily understand as to why I happen to offend someone else by just being me. That’s their hang-up, so why am I supposed to pay for their discomfort?
Behind me is a grey marble wall. The smooth stone chills my sweat between it and my skin with my t-shirt caught in between the two. I breathe slowly and hope that somehow time will stop. That I’ll no longer be obvious to my pursuers. That they’ll just give up.
In. Did they even see me come in here? Out. How can I leave? In. I can’t possibly be making any noise. Out. Did they hear that?
I heard it. A shuffle of leaves and a bitten-off scream. An impact. Two impacts. It was nearly unison.
It is dark in the cemetery. Twilight has passed and the sun has set. I cannot tell if they are afraid, but did they care that I was scared? I relax against the wall and run a finger over the seam between the blocks. The noise still creeps away as a shuffle and I feel a bit more protected. Perhaps the two tripped. My brain pours over what I should do, what I could say, and that debate as to whether I am a bigger person. Or not.
The commotion has increased to thrashing. Wouldn’t it be funny if they tripped into an open grave? My head swam with the images of their pleading faces upturned and begging. I could give them a hand. Knowing my luck they’d probably pull me down with them. Or I could throw dirt at them and then skip all the way home. “See you at school, you miserable wretches.” I imagine myself the victor of their stupidity.

I came in here because it is like a maze. A maze that I know well. At least, I thought I knew it well enough. There were always additions, and mourners and grave blankets or flowers that changed with the seasons. Some forgotten graves with decorations from Christmases long past. A stray wooden rabbit. Dear little infants with stone lambs sleeping upon the top edges of their monuments. Couples that would one day meet again in the earth. The lonely stones of long-dead spouses who had reserved a plot for their husband or wife to rest beside them, but the spouse moved on and never joined them. Oh, the stories that a grave could tell.
This grave told a story as well.
After deciding to offer assistance I step out from behind the mausoleum and see an open grave. Of course I prepare to gloat, but there is a distinct lack of motion from the two who lay in the bottom of the neat fracture in the dirt. Faces that upturn at broken twisted angles. The school uniform-clad bodies look somewhere between clinging to each other and cowering away from something unseen. Under the lamppost the shadows play upon their faces exhibiting silent frozen screams and open eyes.
“Hey,” I call to them, but know it is pointless. I am even colder than before and the nightfall has absolutely nothing to do with it. “Hey!”
My shoulder is caught in a grip. An embrace as I twist to fight it. It tightens around me, but cannot hold. I fall back onto the ground to find a filthy-looking man standing over me. His jeans are caked in mud and the shirt under his stained brown coat may have been white at some point in time.
“The cemetery closes at dusk.” His smile did little to put me at ease, but there was something about his eyes that did help.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I’m a gravedigger. The uh... politically correct term is probably something like caretaker, but there’s not much to take care of. I just dig the holes.”
I nod, but don’t move further than that.
“You can go now. Go home.” His voice sought to move me anywhere.
“What about them?” I point to the open slice and immediately feel as though I should just get up and leave without another word.
“What about them?”
“They’re... dead?”
“Really...” He sighs and looks over the situation before turning back to me. “I guess there’s just one thing to do about that.”
Call the police. Call their parents. Get a news reporter out here. A camera crew. Paranormal investigators. I keep cycling through my thoughts.
“Help me burry ‘em.”
I glance at the filthy man and my eyes advertise my fear like a neon sign right across my face.
“Now, kid, I deal with bodies all the time. It’s not like they’re going to come back and do anything to you.” He tosses a shovel at the ground before me. “Now, the real thing you got to worry about is when they start talkin’.”
“Talking?” I use the shovel to steady myself as I stand up.
“Yep. When anything starts talkin’ you gotta’ bash ‘em in the head with the shovel ‘til they get quiet again.”
“How do we make sure they don’t talk?”
He starts to shovel dirt to fill the hole. “Talkin’ makes more talkin’. So, I keep quiet an’ you keep quiet, and they not likely to start anything. As soon as we’re talkin’ about them though...” He nods again.
“So, if anything talks?” I whisper.
He raises an eyebrow at my question after his next couple shovels of dirt and I get the idea. We silently fill in the grave. He looks over our work and takes off his coat. Placing the dusty coat on my shoulders he gives me a slight squeeze and bows his head slightly before sending me off into the night. The coat should protect me from the night air, but instead it hangs on me as though shepherding my silence.
I don’t turn back. I don’t speak. Days pass before I do, but I never speak of them. They are not worth my words.