The Couch

By Ken Chandler

Copyright © 2010

Many years of thieving gave Felix Gorden ease and confidence in his craft. He approached the old house with an emotion bordering on alacrity. He’d reached the 80-year old woman’s country mansion on foot. His plan was to get in and out without waking her, then make his escape through the woods that paralleled her property. Before this night was over he’d be rich beyond his dreams, and he relished the idea of easy wealth. He found a white patio bench, hefted it to his chest and walked the 12 feet to the wall just below the window. He set it down in the flower garden and stepped up onto it so that the pane of the window was level with his chest. A small crowbar lifted the window enough to get strong gloved fingers under it. He pushed and the sash slid easily upward until it connected with the frame with a soft clunk. No alarms went off, no dogs barked, the way was clear. He heaved himself up into the open window, sat on the wide sill, tucked in his legs and spun into the room in one fluid motion. Nimbly he stepped onto bare hardwood flooring without a sound.

A quick glance around the room revealed a fire blazing cheerfully in a large red brick fireplace on the left hand side of the room. An oversized couch sat directly in front of it casting the majority of the room into a deep shadow. As far as he could tell there was no other furniture in the large room. Something about that couch seemed out of place. Perhaps it was the lack of other furnishings which troubled him. He mentally shrugged, deciding to keep his mind on the job at hand, not an old woman's decorating fancies. 

In an adjoining room he heard music softly playing and recognized the piece from his childhood. ‘Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 (2nd Movement)’ by the composer, Johann Sebastian Bach. It was a favorite of his mothers. He shook himself out of his thoughts with sudden awareness that the old woman might be awake after all. No, it was more likely that it was her ritual to fall asleep to music playing on the stereo by the bed. Felix mentally shrugged. Even if she were awake he could easily overpower her. 

He silently crept into the room. As he stood at the left end of the couch he could make out in the flickering light of the fire that the plush seat was covered in a course shag. He started to reach out to touch the curious covering but instead he froze. He 

quietly backed toward the window and as he did so he shifted his weight onto his left foot and grimaced as a board groaned loudly. 

A slight movement seized the corner of his eye, and he turned in time to see the couch heave then rest. An accompanying grunt and an exhalation paralyzed Felix. Four heavy appendages as thick as tree trunks extended from the object in front of the fire, went ridged then fell with heavy thuds. In that moment he knew that what he thought was a couch was instead a colossal pet. 

Felix felt the beast’s eyes bore into him, and heard a sound of shuffling, grunting and claws scraping against wood. In that moment senseless terror gripped him and Felix sprinted at the window but rebounded off of it with a thunderous bang. Dim moonlight shone on his stunned expression as he reached out and unsteadily touched the cool glass. A moment later he felt a blast of warm moist air on the back of his neck, and watched as the window instantly misted, the outside world instantly shut out. 

He leaned heavily against the window pane as resignation clenched him in a grip as cold and as fathomless as the deep of the ocean. He now wished he had taken his mother’s advice seriously, “Settle down, start a family,” she’d said. He knew that second chances were not forthcoming. He considered how different his life could have been, but too late. Music penetrated the darkness, and he recognized that the song had changed. He fell to his knees and wept as he recognized ‘Funeral March’, by Chopin. 

New Topic: Untapped Talent

The main character discovers a talent or power he/she wasn’t previously aware of.

And if you're feeling ambitious, how do they respond to this newfound ability? How do they put it to use?

Have fun with it.

Happy Independence Day Everyone!

Darkness No Longer

By Ken Chandler

Copyright © 2010

I could hear that the figure was very close. I turned, groping in the darkness to find a wall, a couch, anything that might tell me where in the room I was. Thump. A heavy footfall connected with wooden floorboards just behind me, then another. Nearer. My heart hammered in my chest. A bead of sweat stung my eye. I blinked hard. I reached out into the darkness. Thump. Thump. Thump. The smell of damp and foul rotting things assailed my senses. It was so close. Reaching for me. 

The scream in my head jarred me awake. I was wet. My bed was soaked. The smell of damp and rotten things lingered all around me. I lay there for a long moment thinking. I heard the caw of a crow in the distance, and felt water lapping at my cheek. I realized I was dying, and this swamp was my bed. A luminous hand reached down and took mine, and I was in darkness no longer. 

FEAR ITSELF

Ken Chandler

Copyright © 2009

A large cloaked figure loomed ominously in my doorway, a deep rattling breath rumbled in its chest. I could sense its gaze piercing the black of the room, scrutinizing me.
I gathered my courage, and remembered something my father had told me. I said, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.”
A low guttural laugh echoed through the room, followed again by that hideous rattle. In a voice that sounded like dried leaves being dragged across sand it said, “How right you are. He’s in the next room, I’ll get him.”

Moose Tracks

Through the glare of the setting sun I glimpsed a 1,000 pound moose as it meandered onto the road in front of me. Amidst a tempest of glass shards raining through the cab I watched as the hood of my foreign import folded like a novice gambler in a high-stakes poker game. 

Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2010

Limerick Attempt #2

Phew!

I think there’s a thing un'er my bed,

It’s blue and it’s black and it's red;

But a voice from down there,

Says with a confident air,

“I regret that it’s all in your head.”


Phew!
Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2009

Limerick Attempt #1

Back to School

A werewolf, a witch and a ghoul,

Decided they’d go back to school;

When met at the door with a blade,

A pitchfork, a torch, and a spade,

They decided they’d rather play pool.

Back to School: A Limerick

By Ken Chandler

Copyright © 2009

Ghost Story (w/corrections)

By Ken Chandler

Copyright © 2009

October 4, 2009

The path before me was barely visible under an overcast moon. Approaching the black iron gate I slowed to a stop, and shone my light on the letters that spelled out, Carlsbad County Cemetery.

A voice to my left made me snap around, “It’s haunted you know.”

In the beam of my flashlight stood a pale girl about my age. Straight brunette hair hung to just past her shoulders. She winced holding up a hand to block the beam. “Excuse me?”

I lowered the beam so it was aimed at her feet. “I know it’s haunted, or that’s what the locals say. That’s why I’m here. Legend says that a ghost always makes an appearance around midnight every night; ”

“Uh-huh,” she said, then added, “I’m Rachel,” as she turned and stepped through the large gate. “You coming? You don’t want to miss all the action, do you?” she said looking at me over her shoulder.

I followed her past a series of large pale gravestones. A sliver of silvery moon peaked out from behind a thick veil of dark cloud cover. She stepped into a shadow, and I lost sight of her. As I stood looking around for a sign of her, she called, “Over here.”

I saw her dimly waving me over from the shadow under a large tree. Somehow she’d located a marble bench and was waiting impatiently for me. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw that she was patting the seat next to her.

“Turn off your flashlight for a bit. Maybe the ghost will rear it’s ghastly head if the light is off.” She’d said ghastly with a little too much relish.

“K.” I said, pressing the switch watching all traces of light vanish in a moment. Gradually my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“Do you think we’ll see one?” She asked as I looked out over the cemetery. I looked out into the cemetery grounds and slowly glanced back and forth over numerous pale grey stones and into the surrounding woods. I thought that the moon must have come out from behind the clouds because everything seemed to be lighter, the shadows deeper. From my vantage, under a canopy of leaves, I couldn’t tell. “I dunno, maybe.”

“You’re a skeptic.” she said, amusement played at the edges of her voice.

“Not a skeptic, necessarily,” I said. “I prefer ‘realist’. If I can see or touch something, then I know it. If I can’t see it, well...”

“That’s baloney,” Rachel sneered, “You can see the moon, but how do you know it’s real? What if it’s just an illusion, or some technological miracle? Sometimes we need to trust that a thing is real, even if we can’t see it, touch it, smell it, hear it, or taste it.”

I snorted, leaning forward under the curtain of leaves, looking at the moon which was now full.

“It’s right there!” I said pointing.

Rachel didn’t move out of the shadows to look, but gave me a look that said, You’re not getting it.

“Men have been on the moon,” I thrust an open palm toward it, “Astronauts have stepped on it, put a flag on it, drove on it,” I said.

“...or so they claim...,” she looked up and away from me, her lips pursed in protest. “You’re trusting that they’re telling the truth. Believing that what they told you is true.”

“But...” I started. She held up a hand, stopping me short.

“Have you been to the moon, I mean, you personally, have you been there recently?” Rachel was now looking at me with interest. After a pause, she said, “No? Then you’re trusting that what they’ve written in the history books is accurate.”

I didn’t answer right away, I was thinking, but Rachel took my silence to be defiance, and added, “It’s okay to trust,” she said with less passion, but no less conviction, in her voice, “And it’s also okay to experience a thing in order to believe it. Seeing can improve our knowledge, but we ought to believe without seeing from time to time, that builds trust.”

“I can’t argue that. Though...” and this time I held up a hand, silencing her, “I still prefer the hands-on approach. Experiencing a thing is the best, most practical way of getting the facts.”

“Okay,” Rachel said, smiling slightly, “we agree.” She stuck out a hand, and I took it. Instantly her hand shot back out of mine. It was my turn to smile.

Rachel’s eyes scanned me, first in disbelief, then methodically.

“My parents will never believe me, when I tell them I’ve met...you.”

“Then it goes back to what you said about trust. They’ve never seen me, but will they believe, second hand?”

“You make a good point,” she said, standing and moving into the moonlight. The light seemed to glisten on her pale skin. She tilted her head far back, as if basking in it’s glow. “...and you didn’t tell me you were the ghost everyone in town is talking about.” She glanced sideways at me, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back again, facing the moon.

“I was enjoying your company, and our conversation. Why spoil the moment?”

Rachel blindly made a check mark in the air, “That’s two for you. I’m glad you didn’t spoil it,” She smiled sincerely, then her expression turned melancholy. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” she said.

“Go?” I asked.

“Yup, I’ve got to run. And I’m sorry for not telling you the whole truth about me. Though I’m not sure you would have believed me anyway.” She smiled a Cheshire cat smile, rows of canine sharp teeth shone in the light of the full moon. “G’night Ghost,” she said, and this time I heard a hint of a growl in the back of her throat. She sprang forward running with incredible grace and speed. In a moment she was on all fours, and sprinted into the darkness. By the time she reached the edge of the woods, mere moments, her human form was gone, and in it’s place, a large majestic wolf.

For a long moment I watched the spot at the edge of the woods where moments before she’d disappeared. All evening something had been nagging at the back of my mind. At that moment, as I stared out into the darkness it dawned on me; when we’d first met, in spite of the night being overcast, she wasn’t carrying a flashlight. I chuckled as in the distance I heard the bay of a werewolf.

“There goes the neighborhood,” I mused affectionately.

The Fool & His Wife

Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2009

The Fool & His Wife

A foolish man married a lazy woman and they lived in a drafty shack near a deep woods. Driven from their home by robbers they took to the road with only the shirts on their backs as the only protection from the growing cold. They had become accustomed to hunger, but soon their hunger became extreme and they mustered the strength to go in search of something to fill their empty and aching stomaches. Not accustomed to exercise the woman sat down below a tree to rest and get shelter from the cold. She noticed a rotting apple on the ground beside her, and being too lazy to check herself, asked her husband if there was more fruit borne on the tree. He stared at the trunk of the tree with intensity for some time and after a time, returned that there was none to be seen on the tree.
“Husband, you fool. Look into the branches, you’ll find the fruit in the tops of the trees.”

Looking into the branches of the tree a wondrous smile crossed his face and he reported that there was an abundance of food, enough for them both. When he made no move to gather the fruit his wife demanded that he get the fruit so she could eat. By and by the man climbed into the tree and plucked every last apple and brought them down to her. When he tried to take one to eat, the lazy woman declared that the food was hers and hers alone, and that he should get food for himself elsewhere.

For a few moments he longingly watched his wife eat the succulent apples before turning into the growing darkness in search of food for himself. The lazy woman polished off the apples and quickly fell into a deep slumber. The next morning the woman waited and waited for her husbands return, and she waited and waited. She occasionally mustered up the strength to yell his name and demand that he come to her at once, but he never came back. Before long, her hunger overcame her, and she rose shakily to her feet. She traveled about 200 yards before her legs ached and she found another tree under which to rest her weary feet. A day and a night passed, and still, her husband eluded her. Her cries of fiery indignation carried through the woods, then desperate for her husbands return, then faint with hunger her cries died out all together. A hunter found her dead, and she was properly buried without ceremony. She and her husband were not missed, nor mourned.

Bed

“Isn’t it time you were in bed young man?”
“But…” Ricky stammered, “I’ve still got homework that I haven’t finished,” He glanced around the room, taking mental notes. “There is a half-eaten Twinkie on my shelf, and my clothes are all over the place. I really should take care of those things before heading off to bed.”
“A half-eaten Twinkie? That’s your excuse for not going to bed? That is one of the most ridiculous, bogus, and far-fetched excuses for not going to bed that I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard some whoppers from your brothers and sisters. Besides, it’s been there for a week already and you haven’t made a move toward finishing it off, so no go on the Twinkie excuse.”
Ricky sighed, “But you can’t deny that having unfinished homework is a very good excuse for not going to bed. Mrs. McGillicutty will be furious if I walk into her class with only the first seventeen problems out of thirty finished.”
“It’s not a valid excuse after you spent the entire afternoon playing on your computer, visiting your friends, and generally avoiding doing anything responsible, at all cost. What you should have considered is that if you put it off too long, of course your homework wouldn’t get done before it was time to go to bed. You had plenty of time to get it done this afternoon, so no, I don’t think it is a good excuse.”
“Okay, so what about the clothes lying on the floor, draped over the back of the chair, in the window, and all over the place. I’m sure that’s not sanitary.”
“A fact that you should have considered while throwing it about the room hairy-carey! Look mister, you are all out of excuses, now go to bed! Close your eyes, or there will be dire consequences!”
“Oh, I did think of one other excuse for not going to bed!” Ricky chimed.
“And what might that possibly be?”
“That as soon as I start snoring, you’ll wrap some slimy tentacle, or a rotting claw around my neck, and drag me down into the abyss, and YOU'LL EAT ME!”
The voice from under the bed sounded indignant. “My tentacles are not slimy, and I resent the accusation.”

BED
Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2009

TOPIC: A Winter Tale

New topic:
Please write a short tale that takes place in the Winter time.
-- Ken

The Seed: A Halloween Tale

I've made a few minor changes. Hope it works.


The Seed

Every day of Summer Vacation Marc and Dale had walked past Old Lady Croswell’s run-down house and every day she followed them with her “evil eye”, as Dale called it. Marc once had the audacity to wave timidly and say, “Hello Ms. Croswell,” only to see her jerk forward in her rocking chair, as if to jump up and chase after them. He was only slightly comforted when she sat down again, but was uneasy when he saw that she was still leaning forward, eying them critically, her hands clenched the arms of the rocker, her elbows hovered above the arm rests. She looked like a panther, prepared to spring at them if they so much as smiled in her direction. When they reached the end of the block they laughed at the old woman, though she scared Marc more than he liked to admit.

That night Dale arrived at Marc’s front door with a sleeping bag, snacks and comics under his arm. Marc had arranged with their parents to have Dale spend the night camping in Marc’s backyard. As the moon rose high in the sky, they snuck, armed with flashlights, a spade, and a rope, over to Ms. Croswell’s yard and stole a seed from her ‘prize-winning’ garden. It wasn’t until they got back to Marc’s house that they inspected it for the first time.
“Now I know she’s a witch.” Dale said, a look of repulsion on his face.
Marc grimaced. The seed was nearly the size of a walnut, and was a sickly green color with yellowish spots that looked like speckled viper’s eyes. Five knobby bumps stuck out at weird angles, and Marc swore that it throbbed, very slightly, as he held it.
Dale suggested they bury it, “to hide the evidence”. Marc chose a back corner of the yard below a gnarly sycamore tree as the spot. He could see the spot from his bedroom window. He knew he’d be able to keep an eye on it from his bedroom, and see if it grew.

After several days of watching they noticed that a single root-like protrusion stuck up from the ground. It looked dead and gray, instead of green and alive. Marc said it looked creepy, Dale agreed. But dead or not, it continued to get bigger, or at least thicker with thin wiry gray twigs sticking from it. Then the strangest thing of all happened; the ground below it began to bulge. Within days the bulge was nearly the size of a small man, and Marc swore that it was throbbing, ever so slightly, as if it were breathing.

Both boys noticed something odd about Ms. Croswell too. Ever since they’d stolen the seed; instead of glowering at them as they went past, she watched them with a strange satisfied expression on her face, as if she knew something they didn’t know. They crossed the street whenever they had to pass her house. They could have sworn that they heard her cackle carried on the breeze after they’d passed.

The night seemed to be becoming chillier, or maybe it was Marc’s conscience pricking him about the theft. It didn’t seem to bother Dale, but he told Marc that he wasn’t sleeping well lately. It was as if he was being watched at night while he was sleeping. Marc had had the same feeling; he shuddered as he reflected on the previous night.

As Marc climbed into bed he heard a tap, so faint, he hardly heard it at all in the still of the darkened room. Was it a mouse scurrying on the rug? Then again, so quiet, the sound barely audible. What was it? There, at the window? Then tap, tap tap, louder this time. Then Bang! Bang! The glass of his window shuddered under the blows. Marc snapped toward the window. A hideous creature its gray almost human face grimaced at him through the darkness. It was covered head to toe with short and long twigs and moss. It banged several more times, then long crooked fingers, wickedly sharp, scratched at the base of the window, trying to get under the window pane, to lift it; to get in, to get him.

Marc darted for the door, and stifled a scream as he banged his shin on the corner of his bed frame. He leapt up, and hobbled through the house trying vainly to locate his parents. At each window he passed the monster was already there, scratching and banging at the window, watching him, and madly attempting to get in. He ran into the living room where his mother and father sat looking stunned, a book in each of their laps. He spat out the whole story, even the details of the theft of Old Lady Croswell’s repulsive seed and the thing that had grown from it. Several attempts, by each of them, to see anything in the yard, bore no evidence of a ‘monster’, and they sat on the couch together.

His parents didn’t believe that Ms. Croswell was a witch, or that her seed had come to life; they did recommend a solution to Marc’s ‘agitation’. They told him that in the morning he could dig up the plant and take it back to Ms. Croswell, and apologize. In spite of his protests his parents insisted that both he and Dale would do exactly that.

Marc didn’t see the plant at the window anymore that night, but thought he heard the sound of branches scratch at the side of the house. Around 2 a.m. Marc finally fell asleep, but rested badly. His dreams shadowed by gnarly trees that tried to get through his window.

At 6 a.m. Marc called Dale. They discussed the night’s events with nearly the same tale to tell. Dale too had seen the thing in the window and confessed all to his parents. Within 20 minutes Dale was out in the yard with Marc looking at the mound and the dead looking stem. By all appearances, the creature wasn’t able to come out of the ground during daylight hours, but hibernated during the daylight hours. Hoping that their theory was accurate, they devised a plan. Reluctantly, Marc tied a rope securely to the topmost part of the plant, and at Marc’s signal, Dale pulled with all his strength on the rope. There was a loud crack and eight inches of the plant broke away, dangling from the length of rope. An unearthly muffled groan rumbled up from the mound. Marc dropped the rope he’d intended to tie the thing up with, and both boys screamed and scrambled backward simultaneously. The mound of earth moved just below the grass, as if something were crawling around beneath a rug. It raced toward the fence and burrowed below it in the direction of Ms. Croswell’s place.

It was nearly 7:30 before the boys got the nerve to start off in the direction of Ms. Croswell’s, and not without some encouragement from Marc’s dad. A broken fragment of branch from the creatures back dangled from between Marc’s index finger and thumb, dripping greenish ooze. As he approached Ms. Croswell’s front porch they noticed that Ms. Croswell herself was bent over a mound of grass in her yard, speaking softly and running her hands over it in long smooth strokes. She looked up at the boys, who froze mid-step; her steely gaze met their terrified ones. She stood up, which for all of her four feet, nine inches, might as well have been ten. As she strode ponderously over to the base of the stairs, she gave them a contemptuous glare. The boys took an involuntary step backward. Her gaze moved to the oozing limb in Marc’s hand. “I believe that belongs to me.”
“Yes,” Marc stammered, and extended the plant out to her. Ms. Croswell snatched the branch out of his grasp, and Marc pulled his hand back. Dale twitched.
“We’re sorry.” The boys said together. Then without another word, the boys ran all the way back to Marc’s house before pausing to catch their breath.

Dale was the first to see the package on the steps of Marc’s porch, he pointed at it wordlessly. It was small and wrapped in glistening purple paper, a black silk ribbon tied neatly into a perfect bow on top of it. A folded piece of parchment paper was tucked neatly under the ribbon.
Marc picked up the note and unfolded it, reading it aloud as Dale read over his shoulder. “A reward for your integrity. Use them wisely.” It was unsigned. Marc tugged at the ribbon and the lid slid off easily without unwrapping it. Inside the tiny box, resting in a bed of dark purple silk, were two almond-sized cream-colored seeds.


The Seed
by Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008

TOPIC: A Halloween Tale

In honor of "All Hallows Eve" coming, I propose that we all write a story for Halloween.
It can be:
• A scary Halloween tale
• A Ghost Story
• An Urban Myth
• Or a Mystery

Happy Halloween everyone!
(For inspiration, here's Monster Mash and Vincent Price's sinister laughter.)

The links are Rated PG, harmless Halloween fun.

Elements: Part I

Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008
http://golemchronicles.blogspot.com
golemhunter@hotmail.com


Elements (Part 1 of 2)
By Ken Chandler


A hulking broad shouldered man, his hands calloused with years of toil, strode with measured and lengthy strides along the massive causeway of stone. A young dark-skinned girl scurried at his side, her bare feet padding the wet stone beneath her. Long ringlets of tawny hair bounced lightly as she jogged along. Twenty feet ahead of them expansive boulders broke through the great frothing waters; twenty feet behind, they again sank slowly beneath the waves.

The man smiled easily, his brown eyes wrinkling at their corners as he told the girl tale after tale of his life and adventures. She occasioned a glance at him to show that she was listening, but said nothing. Several hours ago, the man had seen the first peaks of the shallow mountains that adorned the highest points of the island, now he could see the lush green of the jungle, its craggy cliffs. When they were within 100 yards of the white of its beaches the man and the girl noticed that the skies began to darken, and the wind to pick up noticeably. As they walked down the cool stone incline to the beach he placed a strong hand on the girl’s head. Turning her eyes toward him, she acknowledged his gesture and reached up to place a small cool hand on his. He smiled down at her reassuringly and looking back at her took several long strides inland. He stopped and glanced around the island, then started toward the cliffs a knowing grin played about his lips. Seeing that he was putting some distance between them, the girl hopped over the hot sands of the beach following the deep impressions of the man’s boots in the sand.

After he’d gone several hundred yards up the beach, large boulders jutted upward and tiered in layers like giant steps toward the peaks overhead. Off to his left he could hear a roaring waterfall crashing into a crystal blue pond. He stopped and cupped his hands around his mouth. The girl had perched on a shallow stone outcropping, lowered her head, winced, and cupped her ears with both hands. The singular word, “BROTHER!” sounded like a cannon shot. It echoed off distant canyon walls. Numerous birds took flight over the canopy of trees to the southwest, cawing and squawking in their surprise and annoyance.

The girl glanced around warily, her ears perked for a response. When no reply came she looked to the large man and shrugged mutely. The man threw his head back and laughed lustily, his hands on his hips. His large barrel chest and wide shoulders heaving as he guffawed. When he was through, he turned to the girl and said warmly, “Did you think your uncle would simply amble up the beach with his arm outstretched, rejoicing to see his own flesh and blood?” The warmth in his smile faded, and was replaced with an expression of grief, “the murdering coward.”
“Murderer,” A voice came from above, it sounded contemplative,” Yes, I suppose that is apt, but a coward? Surely you know me better than that.” The tall thin man, though equal in height to the large man so firmly planted on the ground, was about one quarter his girth. His tailor made suit with vertical stripes exaggerated his already too thin frame. He stood in the air, 15 feet above the ground, suspended airborne as the wind howled around him, tossing his golden short-cropped hair, and causing his coat and trouser legs to whip about him playfully. He had the air of a banker who’d just stepped out into a windstorm. The grin the large man had worn before, spread back over his pleasant face. “Eddy! What’s this I’ve heard you’ve been doing with yourself? By hooking up with gangsters, and then killing them all in a bid to gain control of the Cartels? I knew you didn’t play nice, but that’s taking things too far.”
A sneer crossed Eddy’s face. “Don’t act so self-righteous, Henge. You’d have done the same thing in my position.”
Henge, blanched, he looked at the bronze girl, whose face was set, and she nodded No! He turned back to his brother. “You know I wouldn’t.” He swelled with indignation. “I’ve always honored life over all else.”
“Except mine.” His sneer changed to malice. “You did come here to kill me, didn’t you brother?”
“That decision,” Henge seemed to deflate slightly, “was made for me, not by me.”
“By the Council then, I suppose,” he muttered something that Henge took to be ‘arrogant pinheads…’
“You had as much to do with that conclusion as anybody, Eddy.” Henge spoke loudly and boldly. “When you decided to use your talents to slaughter all those men and women, you decided your fate, and the outcome.”
“Ah yes, now let me think,” he fingered his mouth while looking heavenward, as if giving his full attention to the thought, “the decree to live among men, and to use our power to aid them.”
“And never to do them harm. Except under the most unusual circumstances.” Henge finished.
Eddy waved a hand, as if swatting at a fly, “Phah! They were all criminals. Everyone in that room would have killed me without blinking,” He raised his index finger high into the air, his expression a leering smile, “if they thought they could have walked away with the contents of my wallet. They were the vilest of sinners, they deserved to die.”
“That wasn’t your choice to make.” Henge’s voice thundered. “And now that you’ve made that choice,” his voice broke into a sob. “I have to do the thing that I knew would invariably be mine…” he broke off, unable to complete the thought.
“Take heart brother,” Eddy smiled coldly, “if I have my way, you’ll be dead, and I’ll have spared you any guilt you may feel at my death.” At these words the wind became violent, simultaneously he pulled several darts out of his pocket and aimed them at Henge. As quick at thought the darts flew toward Henge’s heart. A moment before they struck, a wall of stone shot up into the space between them and their target. They sunk deep into the stone with a loud metallic thud. A cascade of pebbles trickled down the face of the stone where the darts had struck, as if they were blood from a wound.
“Ah! That delightful talent of yours for manipulating stone.” He stroked his chin with a dagger-like fingernail. “It won’t save you… in the end.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” Henge said soberly. Stepping forward as the wall of stone melted back into the beach, he reached out and broke off two watermelon-sized chunks. With deft movements he hurled first one stone, than the other. The first missed its target as Eddy launched himself backward and vertically into the air, the second he dodged at the last possible second, but which was so close that it tore the jacket away, a horrible shredding sound rent the air. Henge smiled when he saw Eddy floating in the air 25 feet ahead of him. All that was left of the suit were its two sleeves.
“That suit jacket…” Eddy said, loathing in every syllable “was hand tailored by Gregorri Favrotini,” he tore away one of the sleeves and hurled it to the ground. “That suit jacket cost me $10,800. It was a one of a kind. Irreplaceable!” He tore away the other sleeve and hurled it to the ground to join its companion. With hands outstretched at his sides, each finger forming a claw, Eddy channeled all his power into a tsunami wind that tore into Henge who at first stood leaning into the tempest; within moments however he found his foothold insufficient as he slid and he slid backward a few feet, then felt it give way altogether. He was launched airborne at incredible speed. He braced for the inevitable impact. It came all to soon. He was slammed into the cliff wall, where he slid eight feet to the base. His legs buckled, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees gasping and attempting to regain his breath.

Eddy's satisfied smirk hardened into malice and rage as he channeled his energy into the loose boulders and stones that lined the base of the cliff. The dazed Hendge, only just managing to stand, by bracing himself against the cliff wall let out a scream of terror, it was snuffed out by a dozen man-sized boulders. The tempest hurled several tons more debris onto the fallen hero. The winds subsided to a whisper, and then all was still.

Elements: Part II

Elements (Part 2 of 2)
by Ken Chandler


Exhausted from his effort, Eddy stumbled forward, laughing and panting alternately. As he neared the mound where his brother lay buried, he heard a scraping of stone against stone. Eddy stopped laughing. Boulders shifted, rose and fell, making way for the haggard and broken form of Henge. With one last groan he rose unsteadily to his feet, swayed drunkenly, and fell headlong down the face of the boulder field and laying face down on the beach. His breathing was now a mere whisper, and his body rose and fell only slightly.

Eddy's own breath came in ragged wheezes as he walked toward the broken man before him. “You are not much longer for this world, brother.”
A breeze grew into a gale, but died suddenly as Henge’s young companion darted between the two men. The girls jaw was set and she held her arms out wide to prevent Eddy from approaching.
“I'd almost forgotten... you must be the daughter,” Eddy said, glancing at the prone figure over her shoulder, “I got news of you, though I’d heard you’d died with your mother in delivery. Cruel fate. A mute then? Too bad really, I won’t have the pleasure of hearing you scream like your father.”
A gale force wind tore into her but she withstood the blow, even having the nerve to step toward Eddy. He increased the velocity of the wind, and she took another step forward.
Eddy, terror in his eyes redoubled his effort, now sending tons of beach sand into the girl who disappeared into the storm.

After a time, Eddy collapsed, utterly spent, onto his hands and knees. The winds died and the sands rained down onto the beach. Eddy’s eyes widened, and a gurgling choke rose in this throat as the alien figure before him took one last step forward. All the girl’s features, most of her torso, and any refining details had been worn away to reveal that she was merely a construct of stone, now polished to a glassy sheen by the storm. Manipulator of stone. Eddy though silently, the idea dawning on him too late.

In the core of her chest was a faint glowing light. Her glassy faceless head looked down at the orb whose light reflected off the smooth surface. Fingerless hands plucked the glowing orb out and extended it toward Eddy who arched back in fear. A scream started, but was drowned in the rush of light and wind that burst from his chest and was absorbed into the crystal sphere. Within moments the light faded until it was merely a pleasant pulse in the core of the orb.

The fingerless hands replaced the orb into the hole in her chest, and looked down at the lifeless man before her. A shadow fell over the stone girl and large hands rested on either of her worn away shoulders.
Henge sighed, “Never before have twins been so vastly different as we, dear brother.” Henge raised a hand and the ground dropped away under the prone figure that was his brother. Sand filled the open grave in a rush, and then was still. Another wave of his hand was met with a vast, and ornately carved, cool gray grave marker rising from the, which was inscribed with the words:

Maelstrom "Eddy" Ophemus: Wind Rider
Rest in Peace Dear Brother

The behemoth man strode away toward the ocean again, his shoulders slumped slightly, and his smile gone entirely. As he neared the beach, a great stone causeway divided the crashing waves and extended down into the sands of the beach at his feet. He had ascended the height of the causeway when he stopped suddenly and turned toward the unmoving polished stone figure. A hint of a smile crept back onto his face, and his brown eyes twinkled.
The figure stooped and gathered up large handfuls of sand. She splashed the sand onto her face, which was instantly that of the young girl who’d accompanied him to his trip to the island. She trotted up the beach to his side. He knelt down and looked into her amber eyes, and gently cupped her cool cheek in his powerful hand.
“My dear sweet child,” Henge's voice was repentant, “in my grief I’d almost forgotten. And who would I tell all my stories to, if not for you?”
She smiled, seemed to consider his words, shrugged, and pointed at herself.
Henge laughed out loud.
“Did I ever tell you about my daughter? She would be exactly your age if she had lived. She had the most beautiful hazel eye, exactly like yours, in fact.”
Looking up into his face, she took his large warm hand in her cool grip, and together they started off over the causeway, toward home.

Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008
http://golemchronicles.blogspot.com
golemhunter@hotmail.com

TABLOID: Bigfoot vs. Aliens!

BIGFOOT VS. ALIENS! HAIRY HERO DEFENDS HOME TURF AGAINST SPACE INVADERS!
Real 'fiction' story by Ken Chandler


“Ben Stoopin and I were out north of Shepherd’s Pines, just there near the shores of Lake Hoopincoff,” reported amateur hunter, Woody Stumps. “We was on a fishin’ expedition, and we’d brung along our dogs, Curly-- that was Ben’s, and my two, Moe and Larry; just in case there was any wild game to be had. We was just settling in for the night, so we could get up real early and catch us some salmon, when the dogs just went crazy. They was yowlin’ and barkin’ like there was no tomorrow. And when the bright lights came down out from the treetops, we thought, ‘Sure enough, the end IS nigh!’, but, sure enough, we was wrong.”

What it was that Woody Stumps and Ben Stoopin saw, according to their detailed report, was a flying saucer. After it landed, not far from their campsight, eight little green men with large black eyes, and extraordinarily large heads came out of the craft and shot Moe, Larry, and Curly, with a freeze ray. Then they turned their guns on the men.

“It was like I was awake, but I couldn’t move nothin, ‘cept my eyes,” Ben reported. “I was all rigid, as if somebody strapped me to a board”

Two human-sized floating trays were brought down out of the saucer and the two helpless hunters were placed on them. But before the aliens could return to the ship with their cargo, the aliens stopped and looked around with strange expressions on their faces.

“Then we heard it too,” Woody said, “They must’a had real good hearin’ cause they heard him comin’ way before us.”
“The woods explodes, and out popped ole Sasquatch himself.” Ben said. “An’ he was real mad too. Not sure what about though, ‘lest he was mad about the aliens abducting his kin. We do smell a lot alike, and all. And we’re both pretty hairy, cept, Woody wears a size 15 shoe, so that might’a been it.”

“Bigfoot, he made short work of ‘em.” Woody said, gesticulating wildly. “He was tossin’ ‘em around the woods like they was rag dolls. Even bit a few of ‘em when they tried to grab him. After only about a minute or two, half of ‘em were unconscious, and the others were hobblin’ back to their ship.”

Still unable to move, the two men looked on in wonder as the hairy goliath picked them up, one under each arm and walked into the woods where it deposited them near a tree.

“We was sure glad when he dumped us by that tree,” Woody said. “I thought we stunk bad, but he was riper than a fresh cow turd in August. If I could’a moved at all, I’da pinched my nose closed tight, and held my breath ‘till I passed out.”

The Bigfoot monster then walked back toward the site of the botched abduction. What the men heard next sent shivers down their spine.

“First there was this terrible roar, sorta like a lion or a bear, only more human,” Ben said. “Then there was more crashing and high pitched chattering, like what came from the aliens before, during the fighting.”

“Then there was this whirring sound, and it disappeared into the sky,“ Woody said, pointing skyward. “And the lights disappeared too. The way we figure it, the Aliens scooped up their injured and dead, and took off to greener pastures.”
“And good riddance!” added Ben.

It wasn’t long before the effects of the freeze ray wore off and Woody Stumps and Ben Stoopin were able to reclaim their dogs, pack up their gear and head for home. They never saw the monster again, but the events of that night will live forever in their memories.
“Bigfoot is a true-blue Patriot!” Woody said, “He saved our lives!”


DISCLAIMER:
Based on real events that may, or may not, have been conceived by the sleep-deprived mind of Ken Chandler. All animals, Bigfoots, and/or aliens; real or imagined; were not injured in the creation of this preposterous story.

Headline taken from the Weekly World News
Website: http://citynewsstand.com/TopTen.htm

Scene

‘Grotesque’ Character Scene
Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008


The chisel bit into the stone with a grating sound, the craftsman ignored it, focusing his eye, his mind and his sinew on the curve of the stone he was following. He blew away dust and bits of granite, then sat back from his work and eyed the effect of the cut he’d just made. He leaned forward and smoothed a rough spot with his thumb, the blue-gray of his skin a stark contrast against the warm ochre of the stone before him. He smiled at his handiwork. Visions of his mother strolled leisurely across his mind as he gazed at the stone figure before him. The curve of her chin, the softness in her eyes, her cockeyed smile that she always wore when she was being mischievous; all this was beginning to emerge from the hardened stone. He’d chosen this particular stone for the warm tones of color that ran through it. He’d walked the 8 miles to the granite quarry Master Pan had told him about. Once there, he’d hand selected the 10 ton block after throwing away a dozen pieces master sculptors would have fought over. He’d meticulously cut it away from the wall, and carried it on his back to the workshop; only stopping after five miles to eat and nap before continuing up the winding path to the mountainside fortress which was his home.

He leaned in close, only inches from the granite block, bits of stone fell away as the chisel again scored the stone, piercing the surface as if it were clay under his touch. Grains of mineral rained onto the stone floor of the workshop as Grotesque followed the curve of a cluster of sculpted hairs. He worked alone, which he’d come to expect, and prefer; the other students ears were much more sensitive to the scraping sounds metal on stone. Grotesque found that he preferred the solitude while he worked. This was where he found peace, in stone, in working with his hands and his mind. Outside in the Northeastern Court he could hear several of the other students sparring with staffs. The clack clack of wood hitting wood reverberated through the complex. He longed to be out there, exercising his muscles, which ached from being dormant too long. Sculpting honed his control, but he needed to push the limits of his strength, push it until he felt exhausted with fatigue. It had been such a long since he’d simply cut loose and pushed his body until it cried out in relief at having gone as far as it could go.

He put down his sculpting tools, stood his full 6’-5”, and stretched. He ran strong fingers through his course black hair and walked out into the courtyard. The moment he reached the edge of the court, all sparring stopped and he was greeted with respectful bows from all of his colleagues. He bowed respectfully to them, and said, “Please, continue.” They walked to their respective spots, and continued their practice, gracefully dodging, leaping , and somersaulting. All the while their 2 meter long staffs slashing the air at and around their partners. One of the young men approached Grotesque with two staves in hand. “You should practice too,” he said, extending a staff to Grotesque and smiling. “You’ll grow flabby spending so much time sculpting.” He poked Grotesque gently in the stomach with the staff.
Grotesque smiled back, “I can’t take the risk, I might kill you by accident Jo-Jah, but you know that already.”
“Are you threatening me?” Jo-Jah said in a mock-serious voice. He spun and crouched into a fighting stance, both staffs ready to strike. “Now I must defend my honor by cutting you into a million pieces and throwing you to the Gulls.”
“Don’t be an idiot Jo-Jah,” Ko-Lim, a taller boy, said through his laughter, “Grotesque would take you apart with both hands and feet tied behind his back.”
“That is, if we could find chains strong enough to keep him bound.” Sam chuckled.
The other boys laughed.
Grotesque smiled appreciatively.
Jo-Jah, still smiling himself, said, “You asked for it.” then adopting a serious expression, sprang into the air, several feet above the ground bringing both staves down on Grotesque one after the other so quickly that he almost didn’t have time to throw up his arm to protect himself. The two staves made cracking sounds as they came in contact with his steely forearm. Grotesque showed no signs of injury. Instead his expression turned stern.
The boys who had moments before been standing close by, scattered, some into nearby trees, others behind a sturdy-looking column or statue.

“Jo-Jah, no!” Grotesque scolded, “You know why I can’t!” He watched Jo-Jah move swiftly into a position on his left, and turned reluctantly to keep him in sight.
“Enough excuses scoundrel,” Jo-Jah said, “Fight for your honor!” he swung a single staff around and struck him across the back of his thigh, then vaulted to the right using the second staff. He struck again, this time hitting Grotesque across the middle of his back. Then he retreated, circling Grotesque from a distance, one staff horizontal to the ground, an extension of his outstretched arm, the other staff behind his back and pointing skyward. “Now do you see that you cannot win, Grotesque-San?”

Grotesque had grown accustomed to Jo-Jah’s sense of humor, and his fighting style, and though he had never fought with him hand to hand, he had watched him spar with others. Jo-Jah was cocky, and quick, but not quick enough.
He’d leaped into the air again, but Grotesque, who was much faster and stronger, launched himself forward and with an arm outstretched swept Jo-Jah’s legs from under him, Jo-Jah’s upper body spun toward the ground, head first. Grotesque grabbed the tunic of the young fighter stopping his fall an inch above the ground. He held him there a moment before slapping him soundly to the stone floor, winding him slightly.
Grotesque leaned in close to his ear, and said, “I didn’t want to hurt you, Jo-Jah,” before walking away toward the baths.

Theme: Kitchen Utensil/Drama

Flight of the Gryphon
Ken Chandler Copyright © 2008

The man, dressed in rags and shoeless, stumbled. A weary calloused hand shot out to the cool stone wall, which bore his weight, he paused briefly before walking on.
“I am Simon Barrister. I live at 1421 Belden Lane with my wife, Jo Barrister, and our dog, Mo.” the man recited hoarsely. Lack of use and dehydration made speaking difficult. As Simon paced, he held in his hand a wooden cup. He thumbed the outline of a roughly carved gryphon, which had been cut into the wooden surface. When he reached the wall opposite, he turned and continued his relentless march.

Four days ago, Simon had come to the grim realization that his ability to reason clearly was beginning to slip, and he’d begun to doubt what was real in his 8’ by 10’ world. It was then that he’d begun the practice of reminding himself of little things like his name, and the world outside, telling himself stories of his family, his job, what trees looked like, the feel of grass beneath his feet. These things all became to him a tentative harbor, a safe place, where he could anchor his mind. It was a tedious exercise, and at times he dreaded doing it, but he realized it was his one hope of getting out of this hell with his sanity in tact.

Escape. This singular thought seemed a mockery. “No!” The word sounded like a bark. He gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. “I can’t lose hope. I mustn’t!” He sat down, pulling one of his few possessions, a grey woolen blanket, over his shoulders. He was weary with hunger and fatigue and his mind wandered. I will be free of this place, someday. He thought. Maybe soon. He hoped. Then he amended… and perhaps not for many more years. The hope of escape could not, must not, diminish. More than food and water, he longed for freedom. If that singular dream died in him, then they had truly won. But who were they, his captors? The mystery of why he was here was the most haunting and perplexing of all the hardships he had borne, it was not knowing the reason for this captivity, in this cell, without explanation, that plagued his mind most dreadfully. It was not knowing that caused him to cry out in anger and frustration, or to fall upon the blanket, and weep like a lost child.

A creak of hinges far down the corridor echoed into his prison. And for a moment he sat silent on the wooden plank, which was his bed. What would the guard bring him this time, a rancid piece of meat, or a knife in his gut? Death… he considered. Would death be another form of escape? And would it be better than this? Would he prefer death to seeing his beloved Jo again? He staunched the thought. In that moment he resolved to live, if only long enough to tell his Jo how much he loved her. On this point he would be unyielding.

His thoughts shifted to the day of his arrival. In those first days, he'd almost longed for death rather than the abuses he'd been forced to endure. The last thing he could recall was entering his hotel room, number 221, a hand with a handkerchief clapped over his nose and mouth, then an overwhelming smell that bit into his nostrils, then blackness. When he woke, he was being dragged between two strong men. After they'd thrown his limp body into the cell, both gave him a welcome home present; never in his waking memory had he been beaten with such ferocity. When he at last fell unconscious, under the rhythmic thrum of kicks and punches, it was blissfully embraced. Waking was never less desirable, and he prayed for unconsciousness to fall back over him, it didn’t. In the days following, water was brought, as he ruefully discovered, waking with a shock, soaked and cold; the sound of laughter echoed in the hall as the guard bolted and locked the cell door. Simon realized that he could suck some of the water from his clothes and blanket, though the taste left something to be desired. For hours afterward he was forced to sit naked and shivering as his clothes dried. For food he was brought a slice of stale bread, and a cold watery soup made with a single withered carrot or a hunk of lettuce, browned and limp. At first he resisted eating these, but after a time he ate them anxiously, his stomach growling at him for sustenance.

After an indeterminable time a new guard started serving him. The quality of the food became more tolerable, and the water was served in a wooden cup. A gryphon was roughly etched into the cups side. The wooden soup-spoon, likewise, had a gryphon carved into its handle. When he noticed these carvings, he smiled, and thought longingly of his wife who knew of his love of Gryphons. Fantastic creatures of ancient lore, with the heads and wings of eagles, and the bodies of lions, they were both powerful and majestic. Adorned with razor sharp claws and a beak of iron, these mythical beasts instilled hope and a will to survive into the hearts of men. On his 26th birthday Jo had purchased several skillfully crafted gryphon sculptures, which sat proudly on shelves in his den. He often sat thinking, or pacing the confines of his cell, imagining that a real gryphon would crush the walls of his dungeon and fly with him to freedom. Impossible, He thought silently, laughing within himself. Gryphons don’t exist.

The sound of footsteps nearing the door of his prison roused him from his reflections. The lock lifted, a chain rattled and fell to the floor. A large gruff looking man looked to the left and to the right of the hall before he backed into the room. Simon recognized him as the guard who’d brought him the gryphon carved mug and spoon. The guards cloak billowed slightly as he turned and made a shushing sound as he put a finger to his lips. He approached Simon and conjured a polished red apple from his robe and handed it to Simon. “Eat this,” he said. Simon grabbed it, intent on eating it in four bites, but he hesitated. He looked up into the bearded man’s face and scrutinized it for malice, or an expression that might reveal some hidden intent.
The man looked perplexed than with a dawning expression said, “It’s not poisoned. Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”
Satisfied, Simon shoved the apple into his mouth taking a large bite that crunched and dripped juice down his chin. He groaned rapturously.

The bearded man darted to the door and peered into the torch lit hallway again. When he returned, he pulled a shoulder bag in front of him and began pulling a shirt, pants, leather moccasin-like shoes and a cloak out of it and placed them on the board next to Simon. “Put these on, I've drugged the guards, and we've only got a small window of time to work in, so the time is now. We’re getting out of here.”
Simon stopped eating, swallowed hard, and looked up at the man again, his full attention on the stranger. Tears formed in the corners of Simon’s eyes. He tried to ask how it was possible, but the words couldn’t work their way past the well of emotion.
“I’m a bounty hunter. Your wife hired me to find you and bring you home.” He extended a strong calloused hand to Simon, who shook it. For the first time the bearded man smiled broadly. “My name is Bryson McKitrick, but you can call me Gryphon.”

'Wish'

Ken Chandler
Copyright © 2008
A Boy and his Dog

'Wish'
This story is dedicated to Mary Alice Williamson (who inspired it).

A cool breeze played over the grassy knoll where I sat watching my dog, Charlie, barking and darting through the tall grass below. A dozen Pheasant exploded into the air, Charlie leaped after them snapping at their tail feathers. Another lap around the grassy field produced another two-dozen frenzied pheasant flying for dog free pastures. I smiled, knowing that if Charlie ever caught one of them he wouldn’t know what to do with it. Then, except for the distant sound of pheasant flying away, all was quiet. I looked around for where Charlie had been playing and only saw tall grass bowing in waves across the length of the field. I stood and looked around to see if I could find see him, but couldn’t. “Charlie!” I shouted. “Charlie! C’mere boy. C’mon!” I made several loud kissing noises, a sound he would recognize as a call to return to me. Nothing.
“Charlie!” I called again straining to see any flash of black, brown or white from his coat. Still nothing caught my eye. Then a growl, barely audible over the shushing of grass, then I saw a flash of Charlie’s fur in the sea of green.

I sprinted down the hill to the spot where I’d seen him, but when I got to the spot he was no longer there. I stopped and listened, hoping my ears would catch… there! I darted to my right to see another flash of black and white against green, then he was gone again. A whimper to my left made me turn violently to see Charlie roll into view with something brown and dark red clinging to him. Charlie rolled several times, jaws snapped, he rolled again, but the thing wouldn’t let go. I jumped down beside Charlie and snatched at the thing, but Charlie twisted violently and I missed. “Hold still Charlie!” I scolded, “I’m trying to help.” I made another grab for the thing but only got a handful of Charlie’s course fur. He yelped, but I didn’t let go. With my free hand I lashed out again, and this time my hand connected with the thing. The moment I got a hold on it, it let go of Charlie and dangled limply in my hand.

For the first time I got a look at the thing, repulsed I almost let go. Fear that it might jump on Charlie’s back again, or grab my leg, forced me to hold it more tightly. The lumpy brown thing didn’t resist, but looked at me with angry tiny green eyes over its too long nose. It was nearly bald, and had a wide frowning mouth. Its arms, each, nearly as long as its entire body, were lean and strong looking. At the end of each of his leathery arms was a thin hand covered with a dozen short thin gnarly fingers. That explained how he was able to hold onto Charlie while he was thrashing around like he did. It had a round body that was covered with a maroon vest, buttoned in the front, none of the buttons matched. It also wore a pair of alternating brown and green striped pants that were roughly sewn together with heavy thread. His legs were short and thick. It appeared that he only had three toes, a thick dirty nail extended from the end of each of his toes. He stood roughly 9 inches tall, but was amazingly light for his size.

“Wha’dyus want?” It said, it’s voice was low and rumbled from deep within its body.
“What?” I said, nearly dropping it again in my astonishment.
“Same thing every time…,” It muttered something else that I didn’t catch. When it spoke again, it sounded angry. It gestured as it spoke. “Yous get one wishes,” It shot a single finger into the air. “whatever it is yous wants within reason. So c’mon, gits it over with.” He folded his arms across his chest and scowled venomously at me.
“Uh…,” I started.
“One wish!” it bellowed.
“Can I put you down, and you won’t run away, or jump on my dog again?” I asked.
“Is that your wish,” he asked abruptly, his expression unchanged.
“Er… no! No, I just wanted to know if…”
“No!” it snapped.
“Huh?”
He rocked his head back and forth, exaggerating his words. “No, I won’t runs away. Though abouts your dog...” His voice trailed off as he looked hungrily at Charlie, who whimpered and shuffled backwards into the deep grass. In a few moments all I could see was his nose and two dark eyes peering low through the grass.
“You can’t do anything to Charlie.” I was scared of this creepy little thing, but I didn’t like the way he was eyeing my dog.
As if I’d given him a command that he must obey he shrugged, and muttered something indistinct again.
“Okay?” I asked again, giving him a serious look.
“Okays,” He mumbled.
Slowly, I lowered him to the ground, and reluctantly released my grip. To my great relief he didn’t move. He just stood with his shoulders hunched, looking grumpy, and glared at me with those penetrating green eyes, his hands still folded across his chest.
“So, what was this about a wish? You said something about a wish,” I said.
“One wishes, mind. You only gets one,” He jabbed the finger into the air in front of him again.
“One wish?” I questioned. “That’s not fair. One wish.” I sighed.
“I don’t makes the rules,” He growled. “And makes it quickly, I ‘aven’t gots all days.”
“Yeah, okay,” I waved a hand toward him, shutting him up. “One wish,” I thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ve got it! I want you to make my dog talk, in English," I emphasized, "so I can understand him.”
“Nopes.” He said quickly.
“What? No!” I said, outraged. “Why not?”
“I don’t makes the rules, nows do I? There are powerful forces at works here, and they demands that there will be no talking animalses.”
“But…” I started.
“No butses.” He cut me off. “Thems the ruleses.”
“Yeah. Well then just forget it!” I said turning my back on the creature and stalked away.
“But yous gotta makes a wishes!” he said. “I am duty bound to gives you the wishes of your hearts.”
"Probably wouldn't work anyway!" I shouted over my shoulder still walking. Charlie trotted up beside me, his body slung low, his tail tucked between his legs, and not making a sound. On the long walk home I noticed that Charlie kept looking back behind us than trotting ahead, slowing just enough to let me catch up. And every now and then I could hear a grumbling voice muttering something that I couldn’t make out.

That was twenty years ago. And every so often I get the impression that I’m being followed, or that I’m not alone in an empty room. And on windy nights as a lie awake, I can sometimes hear a low voice carried over the breeze that I think is saying, “No talking animalses.”