BleedingA meth-addict’s moment in time (Copyright 2010)

Bleeding

By

Chris Bauer

His eyes settled on the image in the mirror.

He grimaced, and studied the reflection. The oozing bloody lines were on his face, not the mirror. They were deep, claw marks ripping through his cheek. He imagined he could poke his tongue through them.

At the edge of memory he remembered a woman’s voice and the smell of laundry detergent.

He needed another hit.

There still had to be plenty of meth in the baggie, and there was always the crud at the bottom of the pipe.

A woman’s voice ripped into his mind. Shrill. Screaming. “Jason’s dope smoking friends.”

Jason owed him. That’s where he got the stuff. A memory tried to push its way in. He squeezed his eyes shut, killing it.

He needed another hit.

Betty sprawled over the couch, bare feet, frayed shorts, dirty bra with a broken strap. She was skinny, ugly, and had the pipe.

She spoke, her voicing cutting like razor blades.

He snatched the meth pipe. The hot glass burned his fingers as he mentally measured how much was left.

Squawking, whining words from Betty. Something about killing. She crossed her ankles, crossed her arms, and smiled.

He inhaled the smoldering crystals, filling his lungs. The rush yanked him into its whirlpool, and he surrendered with a grin.

The ProphetHerod solved his problem by beheading John the Baptist, or so he believed. (Copyright 2010)

The Prophet

By

Chris Bauer

Melnuk, Chief Steward to Herod, Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, lounged in the cool darkness of the palace garden. Flowers perfumed the air, and the greenery brought calm to the rigors of his duties. Melnuk sipped from a goblet of pilfered wine, relishing the pause between his official duties and those he genuinely enjoyed as Master of Spies. In Judea, messiahs sprouted like weeds—and he efficiently ripped them out by the roots. All was right with his world.

“Herod’s with Yohannon again.” The Chief Guard was as much a soldier in his tunic as when wrapped in leather and iron. Less admirable was his failure to show proper deference.

Melnuk waved him along like an errant dog. “Go ahead. I am following.”

The air grew cooler with each step down the dungeon stairs. Melnuk carried a flickering oil lamp with did little to overcome the darkness. He led the way on tip-toe, grimacing at the scrape of the Chief Guard’s sandals. At the faint sound of voices, he set the lamp in a niche, and hands brushing the wall, felt his way along. A shaft of yellow torch light exposed the bottom stairs, and there he halted. Melnuk peered around the corner.

Herod wore a simple gown. Seated on a rough stool, he leaned forward like an eager student. On the other side of the bars crouched Yohannon the Prophet from the River Jordan, grimy haired and ragged beard, as unkempt as his covering of camel skin. A handful of his disciples—Melnuk had all their names—huddled asleep against the wall.

Yohannon spoke in a teacher’s voice, unlike his wild ranting when he had an audience. His face was near the bars, a hand’s breadth from the Tetrarch. “Does bedding your daughter bring you true peace? Is stealing your brother’s wife the way of God’s Law? “

Herod sat back. “There are political considerations.”

Yohannon shook his head, tangled hair whipping back and forth. “You hear the

The When of Gadgets

After his stroke, Great Grandpa’s mind filled with plans and drawings of devices that don’t exist. He built some of them, and may do it again. (Copyright 2010)

The When of Gadgets

By

Chris Bauer

The scent of wood smoke and bar-b-cue lingered as summer evening cooled the day. Great Grandpa gazed up into the black velvet sky and its dense littering of stars. They shined like diamond stick-pins on black velvet, and he felt he could reach up and touch them.

Michael, the five-year-old grandson of the son he didn’t get along with, shared the porch swing.

“I’m going to build a rocket ship,” said Great Grandpa.

After his stroke, Great Grandpa’s mind filled with plans and drawings, all done on onion-skin paper in fine pencil with hand-printed explanations. Fifty years ago he had designed rocket engines that way, with slide rule and T-square and the bible-thick engineer’s handbook.

The images gave him a sense of purpose again. He was project manager, chief engineer, draftsman, machinist, and assembly crew, with no idea of where it would end.

“Can I fly the rocket ship sometime?” asked Michael.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Great Grandpa. “But tell you what. Let’s go look at some of my gadgets.”

He had built a second garage attached to the first, complete with heating/air conditioning, and a double wide overhead door. He wondered why the large door had been important at the time, but now that he was building the rocket ship, he understood.

Great Grandpa punched in the code-Ruth’s birthday, God how he missed her-and the door rumbled upward. The lights flickered, hummed, and filled the room with mock sunlight.

He often disappeared for days, and perhaps he met H. P. Lovecraft. (Copyright 2010)

Usher’s RavenBy

Chris Bauer

Under the leaden sky, the coach passed barren fields and skeleton trees clawing at us from the edge of the road. Winter had consumed life, leaving cold to pierce clothing and flesh alike.

The coach rattled to a halt. I pulled aside the curtain to behold the house of Van Usher, it’s stone the color of the somber sky, and remarkable only it that it had remained unchanged for a century.

I gathered my cloak about me, and pushed open the coach door with my bag. Snowflakes stung in the winter wind, layering the ground with icy dust. The sun was a faint, distant orb, bereft of warmth.Before me stood a stone arch, and a paved lane leading to the house. Atop the arch perched The Raven, its obsidian eyes glinting.

“Prophet!” I cursed. “Thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil!”

It cocked its head in defiance, and took to flight in a flutter of darkness.

“Aye, they be a bad omen,” said the coachman. His voice was muffled by the collar of his long blanket-coat pushed up to his ears. He leaned from his seat, and passed down a food basket covered with a homespun cloth. “You’d do me a service, sir.”

“For the Van Ushers?”

He nodded. “And, if ye’d do me a second kindness, sir?” The coachman pointed to another, empty, at the postern of the gate.

I handed up the empty basket, tinkling with coin.

He looked to the house, his forehead furrowed. The building stood lifeless, its windows dark, no trace of smoke from the chimneys. “Ye be acquainted with the Ushers, then?”

“Of late, I received an invitation.”

He turned from his study of the house. “Believe ye in God?”

“I believe in Powers far above Man.”