Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Mooned

“So, let me get this straight. You were attacked by an animal-like creature during a hunting trip, you say? Your bullets didn’t stop the thing, but when you clubbed it with the silver-trimmed stock of your rifle, that killed the beast, and it transformed into the dead body of your guide, right? Now, you usually go hunting away from the city when the moon is full, like it is tonight? I suppose that means you’re a werewolf, right?”

The clouds parted enough for a slash of moonlight to shine on a furry, toothsome face which snarled, “You might say that.”

Bitten

“Let me tell you about my trip to Eastern Europe. I went hiking on a break from college. While camping in the ruins of an old castle, just before dawn, I heard a twig snap. I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of the shadows. 

“‘You are a stranger, here?’ she asked. I told her I was traveling to see the world and find adventure.

“She said, ‘Let me give you a kiss for luck, to send you on your way.’ That was a century ago.”

“So, you’re a vampire?”

Two fangs glinted.

“You might say that.”  

Landed

The werewolf and the vampire faced off in the clearing, each confident of victory, feinting, teasing the other into making the first move. The two rushed together, powerful blurs of motion. Claws and fangs slashed, bodies bent, feet dug into the soft earth. Bellows and screeches frightened birds into flight. Rumbling echoes turned to grinding shudders that shook the trees. 

The combatants broke apart, discovering they were mired waist-deep and sinking steadily. Anger turned to panic as they struggled against the gripping ooze.

When the earth was still, the birds returned.

You can’t fight Mother Nature?

You might say that.

The Last House. Part 1

Max Thompson was excited, more excited than he’d ever been in his nine years of life. Today was Halloween, and his parents decided he was old enough to go trick-or-treating with his small group of friends without their supervision. Truth be told, his mother was worried sick about him wandering freely, but his father assured her that he would not leave their specific block of the neighborhood. Max always remembered how his father winked at him right after he calmed her down.

Time dragged on that fateful October 31st. Max sat in class watching each minute pass on the clock. One minute closer to collecting a horde of candy, and yet still several minutes away from the chiming bell that told every excited child that they were free. The moment came. The bell rang out like a call to freedom, and the kids zoomed out of the room leaving a shocked, but amused, teacher.

Max lived close enough to the school that he did not need to worry about taking a bus. This was a race. He had to get home fast. He had to get his costume on as quickly as possible. He had to be one the first kids to start collecting candy or he’d be left in the dust by the rest of the town. He stretched his little legs as far as he could, trying to run faster than his nine year old body would allow. His excitement could not be contained, and he was determined to overcome any obstacle in his way.

The front door of Max’s house swung open as the excited child bolted inside. His mother must have noticed the still opened door, as she shouted, “Close the door, Max.”

Max stopped running; there was a disgruntled look on his face. But I’m so close. He froze up, hoping to avoid any further detection.

“Did you hear me, Mister? I know you’re excited, but that’s no excuse to act like you were raised by wolves.”

He glanced back and replied, “Not wolves, mommy. Werewolves.” He let out a wolf-life howl that, thanks to his prepubescent vocal chords, sounded more akin to a Chihuahua than a threatening wolf.

His mom let out a laugh as she walked into the entrance hall, and looked at him. “Well, werewolves are people part of the time, so they have to close the door too. Right?”

Max sighed, “Yeah.” His mother won this argument, but when that tends to be the case when a fourth grade kid tries to contend with the will of their parents. He turned around and walked back over to the door, slowly closing it.

“Thank you. Now then, can I have a hug before you get ready,” she asked with her arms open and a smile on her face.

Mom, this is the most important day of my life. Why are you doing this to me? He walked up and gave her a hug, all while rolling his eyes and making faces behind her back.

“Thank you, now go run along,” she said, watching her child fly through the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom. She let an amused sigh when she heard the bedroom door slam shut.

Max the Vampire stepped out of his house around five-thirty with a smile on his face, and an adrenaline filled lust for adventure. A cool breeze blew by on that October night in his sleepy Camden neighborhood. He scanned the horizon, carefully searching for his friends, whose costumes he did not yet know.  His mother was nervously watching out the window, fearing her son would be kidnapped, killed, or abducted by aliens. No ridiculous notion was off the table as far as she was concerned. Max tried not to look back, knowing his mother’s face would make him feel guilty for not wanting her there with him.

As he looked out for his group up friends, he saw his dad’s station wagon pulling into the driveway. He winced as his dad’s engine belts whined and squealed. “You all set kiddo,” his father asked as he got out of the car.

“Yeah, just waiting for Ben and Tommy to get here,” he said barely passing a glance in his father’s direction. He had to keep a close lookout for his posse of trick-or-treaters.

“Hey, I thought vampires had to avoid sunlight,” his dad said walking from the car to the front door.

“I’m a special vampire, daddy,” he proudly stated.

“Oh, is that right? What about garlic? Can you have garlic?”

“Garlic’s gross,” he said, squishing his face to show his absolute revulsion.

“It is, huh? Well, do you like pizza? Spaghetti?”

“Duh,” he replied, still scanning the horizon.

His dad made a face. He knew his son was excited for his first solo adventure, but didn’t appreciate the child’s tone. Rather than scolding his son, he decided it would be better to embarrass him instead. He leaned in and whispered, “Those have garlic in them, champ.”

Max let out a small gasp, as though the world had come crashing down on his head. Both parents had schooled the self-proclaimed monster expert. His father laughed as he stepped back. “How’s your mom handling this,” he asked.

“Oh, you know. She’s crapping her pants in there,” Max replied.

“Hey,” Max’s father scolded, “I told you not to use that language.” Tommy and Ben introduced Max into the exciting world of profanity, or at least what passed for profanity in the fourth grade, and while he generally avoided using it at home, he slipped up every now and then.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“That’s better. And don’t worry about your mom, I’ll take care of her,” he said with the same wink he gave him the last time his father defended him from the worries of his mother.

“That’s why you’re the best, daddy!”

“You’re damn right,” he said, opening the door.

“Hey,” Max felt victimized.

“What? You get to say those things when you get to be a hundred and fifty years old like me,” Max’s father laughed.

Good thing vampires live forever. Max finally saw his friends walking up. Ben, the shortest of the three boys was dressed as a generic super hero complete with a yellow shield adorned with two letters: S and B. Tommy was dressed as a slasher villain. Although Max deeply loved his parents, he wished they were a little more open minded to the world of pop culture. Tommy’s parents let him watch pretty much anything he wanted. Max’s parents still wouldn’t let him watch PG-13 movies.

“’Sup butthead,” Super Ben said as he and Tommy walked up.

“Looks who’s talking crap face,” replied Max, feeling rebellious after using that word again.

“It’s about time your parents didn’t come with us,” Tommy joked with a smug tone.

Ben pulled a crudely drawn crayon map from his pocket. Max saw the houses with their unique labels: candy, fruit, nothing. “This is the map we used last year. These are the candy houses,” he said pointing to a row on his map. “These two give out full sized candy bars, so we gotta go there.”

Max and Tommy nodded with excitement. “These jerks give out fruit. Mostly stupid raisins. We’ll avoid them, or we’ll get hit by the eggs.” In this neighborhood, giving out fruit was equal to committing war crimes, and the children would not let these adults live it down. Max and his friends committed themselves to remaining civil on this most sacred of holidays, but others in the town were not so forgiving. There would be satisfaction, one way or another.

“What about that house,” Max said as he pointed to a house on the corner. “You didn’t put anything on that house.” Max knew the house well. It sat right on the corner of Cambridge Road and Chapel Drive. It was a rundown house, and he never saw anyone walk in or out of it when he went through the neighborhood. Half the town’s kids said it was haunted, but don’t they always say that?

“Nobody lives there. Becky said she knocked on the door all night last year, and no one even came out. We don’t go there,” Tommy stated. That explanation was good enough for Max, who was ready to move on from planning, and go straight into acquiring his candy.

As the children wrapped up their planning session, Max’s mother walked out of the house, and looked down at him. She asked, “Can I get another hug before you go?”

He didn’t think anything could get worse after this.

Laughable Acts of Futility by S. Kearing

My girlfriend, Candace, is packing her bag for a ski weekend with her theater friends. 

There’s one girl in particular who I hope won’t be joining the slope-bound gaggle: Sheila Banks. I’d much prefer that Sheila stay behind. As I visualize her—doe-eyed and petite, with fine, wispy hair that she always wears pulled up from her deliciously slender neck—I begin to strain against my jeans. 

I put a couch pillow on my lap and ask, “So, who’s going with you?”

“The usual… Donna, Jeanette, Tammy…”

“Chrissy the Crabby Choreographer?”

She chuckles. “Nope.”

“Stephanie the Stinky Stagehand?” 

“I never knew you were actually listening when I spoke about my theater friends.” Candace stuffs a folded sweater into her bag. “And, no, Stephanie’s not coming.”

“Sheila the…?”

“Bane of my existence? No, thank god.”

I laugh and snap my newspaper. Behind it, I am smiling.

***

You wouldn’t believe how hard it’s been to catch Sheila in a place where she and I are completely alone. But on Sunday, she makes the grave mistake of leaving the teahouse through the back door. Wearing headphones. After dark. 

The headphones turn out to be an ace in my hole, since I can’t help but make noise as I approach her, the hard-packed snow creaking treacherously beneath my boots. I have Sheila pinned up against the brick wall between two dumpsters before she even knows what hit her. Dainty little thing that she is, her attempts to push me, kick my legs, and unfurl my fingers from their stronghold on her windpipe, are all laughable acts of futility. 

Getting rid of the body isn’t hard. I took a job as a custodian in a thermal treatment center for the sole purpose of accessing the incinerator after hours. As Sheila Banks transforms into a pile of ash and shards, I almost cry, for my mental picture of her delectable fragility is being replaced by one of gray, powdery finitude.

The next few days, I wait. I wait with the sweetest anticipation.

***

On Wednesday, Candace bustles into our house, excitement crackling all around her. 

“Guess. What.”

“What?” I ask, folding my newspaper and laying it down on the end table.

“I’m gonna be on stage Friday night. I am an understudy no more.”

“Oh? What about Sheila?”

“Get this: She’s been missing. For, like, three days.”

I take great pride in my ability to arrange my facial features into the contours of concern at will. “Missing? Jesus, I hope she’s okay.”

My girlfriend crosses her arms defiantly. “Everyone’s so worried about her. But I’m not. She was fickle and unreliable and she probably just ran off with that dirtbag boyfriend of hers.”

“You’re right,” I say. I get out of my armchair and pull Candace to me. “Let’s not worry about her. You deserve the lead in this play, and you’re gonna be great.”

Her body relaxes inside of my deliberate words and reassuring embrace.

“My name will be on the marquee,” she whispers happily.

“Yes, it will.” I drop a kiss on the crown of her head. “You’ll be a star.”

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Reclamation

The witch gazed into the looking glass. Wrinkles, veins, and burst capillaries.

She looked down at the supple skin—white as milk.

The knife passed over the surface, and seconds later, blood seeped from the trail, as if appearing de novo. 

Her soiled, moth-eaten tome detailed the map carving required to summon her Dark Prince.

Parchment of flesh. Ink of blood. 

Crimson rivulets dribbled over unblemished skin before dripping onto the dusty floor below. 

Screams echoed about the chamber.

“Hush,” the crone cooed.

Like the alabaster skin, the screams weren’t the witch’s, but after the ritual, she’d be beautiful again.

A Broken Home

The house stood vacant and lonely. Sordid rumors drove away buyers, and the once beautiful home fell into decline. 

Ruminations of revenge filled the house. Full of angry spirits it could scare or kill. But unsolved slayings bring attention. The city could raze the abandoned “Murder House.”

Paint cracked. 

Teens spray-painted and smashed windows (even the stained glass).

Pipes leaked.

Addicts left needles and waste where Persian rugs once lay. 

Shingles fell like autumn leaves.

Every day, the house regretted coercing the former owner into murdering his family and creating the current dilemma.

One bad moment can ruin a home.

Youth is Wasted

Reincarnation isn’t what I thought. My new body feels different. It’s been decades since I was last twenty-one. 

I’m the product of work started in sea slugs and finished in humans—the first clone with replicated memories (soul?) as well as DNA. 

What now? The doctor said my ninety-year-old self died weeks ago. Wish we met, but what would I do? Hold his (my?) gnarled hand? 

Should I visit my kids? Grandkids? They’re older than me!

No. I’ll run, laugh, and make love like I haven’t in years. 

I just pray I can forget what awaits me at the end.

Deferment

She screamed as the pickup whooshed past her, the wing mirror clipping her arm.

“Got you.” She fell back into the arms of the man who’d grabbed her. He helped her stand.

“Thanks.” She rubbed her arm: It hurt and was certain to have a huge bruise, but it didn’t feel broken. She flexed her elbow; sore, but it moved okay.

“I’m Sarah,” she said, turning to look at the man. “You saved my life.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

The man was tall and slim and wore a black suit; if he was a businessman, he was from Wall Street, not this small burg. With sunglasses hiding his eyes, he looked like a film star or a stylish Mafiosi. She felt an unexpected tingle as he continued to rest a hand on her arm; as if afraid she might stagger back into the road.

“Can I get you a drink?” He released her.

“Uh, well, I need to leave town.”

“There isn’t another bus for two hours,” he told her.

“How did…?”

“How else would you leave town?” His lips twitched as if he were about to smile, but his face remained expressionless. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

He slipped his hand into the small of her back and she let him guide her towards the coffee shop. If she were with him, she’d probably be safer than trying to hide somewhere on her own till the bus was ready to go.

A bell jangled as they entered the shop and the half-dozen customers looked around at them, then looked away, uninterested.

“Two Americanos, please,” the man in black called, tossing some dollar bills onto the counter as they went past, leading her to a private booth.

A waitress brought their drinks over.

“How about a game to pass the time?” He took a packet of cards from the pocket of his jacket and began to shuffle the deck.

“You’re weird,” she said, then nodded. “Might as well pass the time.”

He dealt the cards. “Poker.”

“You’re not suggesting a game of strip poker?” Sarah asked. Why was she acting like this? She shouldn’t feel flirty, not now, but she did.

The man shook his head just a little.

“I’m not your type?”

“If I were looking for a lover, you would be exactly my type, Sarah.” His lips twitched again.

She felt herself blush a little. It almost felt as if life were worth living.

They started to play. She sipped at her coffee.

Suddenly, the man dropped his cards and half-turned his head. “We have to go.”

“What?” She looked around the wall of the booth, trying to see what was wrong.

“Come on.” He was already standing beside her as he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. As he led Sarah to the door that led to the washrooms, she heard the jangle of the bell and looked back: Two men had entered the coffee shop; she recognised them as Albie’s.

“This way.” The man in black led her into the ladies’ washroom and gave her a boost to the window. She managed to get it open and slithered through it. “Run for it.”

Sarah pelted off down the alley. When she glanced back, her saviour was just behind her.

She burst out of the alleyway and, once again, felt the man’s firm grip on her arms as he pulled her back before the cab struck her.

She threw her arms around him. “That’s twice you’ve saved me! Three times, if you count the coffee shop.”

She kissed his cheek. He almost twitched a smile.

“I know where we can go until the bus is ready,” he said, gently prising her off him.

They went via alleys and backstreets until they reached a scrap yard. Faded police tape flapped limply from a gatepost.

“In here.” He pushed a fence board back so she could slip inside.

“This place was in the news. Those three teens who were dealing crystal meth were murdered here. Albie had them killed.” She shuddered: The news report hadn’t mentioned her brother-in-law by name. She supposed the police knew he was behind the killings, but he was always careful to avoid incriminating himself. Just as nobody would ever prove he’d had Wayne killed.

“That’s right.”

“Why come here?” she asked as they headed for the shack that served as an office.

“I’m familiar with it and nobody will come here.”

Sarah shivered. Was he one of Albie’s thugs? Was this all just a ploy to kill her without witnesses?

As if he’d read her mind, the man said, “I know your brother-in-law well. Don’t worry, I mean you no harm, Sarah.”

“O-kay.”

They settled down on old wooden chairs either side of a rickety old table.

Sarah sighed. “I have to get out of here, start a new life. Not that I’ve any idea how: I’ve got money for my bus ticket and that’s about it. And, with…” She trailed off, then added: “I don’t know how I’ll manage.”

“You need cash.”

“And, how.”

He took a wad of bills from his pocket and laid them on the table. “There’s fifty-thousand there in twenty dollar bills.”

“I can’t take that!” she gasped, wondering what he expected her to do to earn it.

The man gave a shrug. “We never finished our game.”

He took out another pack of cards and began to shuffle the deck.

“I thought you left those behind: How many packs do you carry?”

His lips twitched and he said, “Shall we play?”

“Why not? There’s still over an hour to kill.”

“Tell you what, I’ll wager this.” He tapped the money.

“What against? I’ve got nothing.”

“How about you bet your life?”

“What?” Her earlier fears resurfaced.

“Without it, you can’t start a new life. How long till Albie’s goons catch up with you if you’re running on air? If you lose…” He left the outcome to her imagination. “But, if you win, you get this fifty grand to start over.”

“Sure, why not?” If he was going to kill her, he was going to do it regardless. If he was just joking or the offer was real, then why not?

He dealt the cards and they began to play. The cards were very much in her favour.

He folded.

“You win,” he said, sliding the wad of bills across the table to her.

“Really? No fooling?”

“Really. No fooling, Sarah. It’s yours.”

She took the money and slipped it into her handbag.

“Right, let’s get you both on that bus.”

They followed the back ways and he didn’t leave her side till she boarded the bus.

Sarah settled herself in an aisle seat near the back, hoping not to be spotted as the bus drove out of town. As it began to pull away, she leaned around her neighbour and got one last look at the man who’d saved her life. He watched the bus depart, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses.

Her thoughts returned to his last words to her at the scrap yard: How had he known she was pregnant? Not even Wayne had known, before… She’d have to ask him: Somehow, she just knew she’d see him again.

#

The man in black slipped away, unseen. People only saw him if he wanted them to.

He felt no regret at throwing the game in order to let her live: It was merely a deferment. He would see Sarah again, one day, regardless, and her unborn son held so much potential. Everyone died, eventually, of course, but how they died was reflected in the… sustenance they provided, and Sarah’s son would offer them up in exquisite suffering.

His lips twitched the hint of a smile. He could almost taste them. Better, even, than those Albie gave him.

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

I. Trump loved watching the sumo wrestlers during his trip to Japan. The fighting made him feel  comfortable. When Trump stood to give the participants a trophy, he looked inside and saw a roach wearing harem pants and pointed shoes. The insectoid genie told Trump that the trophy was her home. She asked him to make a wish. “I want to be a sumo wrestler,” said Trump. Wrestling attire appeared on his corpulent body. When the wrestlers bumped against him he bumped back. The feminist genie made sure that Trump spent the rest of his life imprisoned in the wrestling ring.

II. While taking an early morning stroll on the White House lawn, a staffer stubbed her toe on a small circular object emblazoned with the word “HILLARY.” The sparrow-sized emissary from the planet Hillary exited her tiny spaceship. When the staffer brandished a handgun, rays emanated from the Hillaryian’s eyes; the gun disappeared.  Despite the alien’s power, the staffer knew that she could not risk having Trump see a ship named “Hillary.” So she covered the ship with her scarf. The alien carried out her mission to extradite Trump to a Hillaryian jail where mini-me Hillarys placed him in solitary confinement.

III. No one was surprised to learn that Robert Mueller was a robot. When Robert De Niro offered to replace Mueller via reprising his Saturday Night Live impersonation, House Judiciary Committee chair Jerrold Nadler invited him to read Mueller Report findings on television. The riveted audience watched robot Robert appear, interrupt De Niro, and declare that according to “The Three Laws of Robotics,” he could not harm Americans. He explained that, although Attorney General William Barr had programmed him not to indict Trump, he was able to override the program. Then robot Robert stated that Trump should go directly to jail.