Friday, October 27, 2023

Happy Halloween from 1986

 Last week I was cleaning out some old files and I came across this short story I wrote for Halloween back in 1986. I was four years out of high school and just beginning my writing journey. I wasn't very good back then and there are those who will argue that I haven't gotten any better. I thought it might be fun to share the story here, knowing that it was written by a young man just beginning to learn his craft. 



 

CARVED

by

Bill Wilbur

 

            Stephen Vale drove through the quiet streets of his hometown of Middleboro, Massachusetts looking for a pumpkin. Where once there had been Halloween decorations every October, now there were bare, dark yards which seemed to hide the town’s demons even better.

Seven months ago, just ninety days after the ball dropped in Time’s Square 200 miles away in New York, the idiot conservatives in Washington DC had declared that Celebrating Halloween was now against the law. As if the country didn’t have bigger problems, trick or treating was now a federal offense. No more candy, no more jack-o-lanterns and most definitely no more roaming the streets in costume.

Some folks called them ‘Candy Cops’, but that was a little too cutesy for Stephen, he referred to them as ‘Pumpkin Police; not much better perhaps, but easier to spit out with some attitude. He was an old man now, and had no short supply of attitude. He’d worked hard his whole life, got married, had a beautiful daughter, paid his taxes fairly and on time, buried his wife five years ago only three days before their grandkids were born.

His family had always gone all out for Halloween every year, and though some of those had been bad years, their spooky decorations had always been a high point, something that pulled them all together as a family when they began to drift. It was tradition, and no damned law was going to take that away from him.

Though his grandkids had been trick-or-treating in the past, they’d been too young to fully grasp the holiday. But they were five years old this year and they were beginning to understand the holiday better. It pissed him off.

Stephen had lived a simple life, never paying much attention to politicians and their idiocy. Middleboro was a small town and the people there kept mostly to themselves. Big politics didn’t affect them much one way or the other, so like every year before, he’d decorated his house and yard with ghosts and witches and all manner of spooky creatures. They hadn’t lasted a day.

When Joe ‘Dog’ Canberry pulled up in front of his home with three deputies behind him, Stephen thought maybe it was some sort of joke.

“Hey Joe, What do ya know?” Stephen came down his porch steps from where he’d been hanging fake spider webs. He stuck out his hand but the sheriff didn’t shake it.

“What are you doing here, Steve?” The sheriff asked. He stood there rigid amongst the zombies and ghouls with his hands planted firmly on his hips.

Stephen dropped his hand. “What do you mean?”
            Sheriff Canberry gestured with his hands all around the yard. “You can’t be doing all this.”

“Oh come on, Joe. Nobody cares.”

“Somebody cared enough to report you to the national website.”

“What?” Stephen asked. “Who? I’ve gone fishing with damn near everyone in this town, you included. We’re all friends here.”

“We got to confiscate all of it.”

“Joe…”

            The sheriff stepped in close. “Listen to me now. I got an early morning call from the Feds. They instructed me to come here and arrest you, I’m not gonna do that, but the decorations have to come with me. I have to put em in a pile out back of the station and set fire to them. They want me to send them a video of it being done, Stephen.”

            “That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?” Stephen asked.

            “What’s extreme is, if I don’t send them that video by five o’clock today, They’ll be at your door tomorrow morning to take you into custody. You’ll do ten years in a federal lock-up just so they can make an example out of you, and you’re too old for that.”

            So Stephen watched while his fishing buddies, men who he called friends, tore down all of his decorations and carted them all off in the back of their squad cars. All around him neighbors came out of their houses to look and Stephen wondered which of them had contacted the Feds.

 

            He circled the town for what felt like the twentieth time, enough so that he had driven all of its streets. Pulling onto Maine Street, he crept forward at a slow pace. There were no cars out this night before Halloween. Could he still call it that, or was that outlawed as well?

            He stopped at the intersection of Maine and Ash streets and sat idling for a beat. A left would take him past the hospital toward home, and a right would take him out of town and to the turnpike. He pondered for a long minute and the pull of the turnpike was almost overwhelming when a strange, crooked man called to him from the mouth of an alley Stephen didn’t remember ever seeing before. Not once in his seventy-six years of living just around the corner.

            The little man gestured with his hand and Stephen rolled down the window of his truck.

            “You the law?” The man’s voice sounded like he had glass shards in his mouth.

            “Am I the law?” Stephen asked.

            “Yeah you. Did I stutter? C’mere for a minute.”
            “What do you want? I don’t have any money.”

            “Don’t want no money.” The man cackled. “Need your help is all.”

            Stephen pulled to the curb and turned off his truck. He debated for only a second before he climbed out and crossed the street.

            “What?”

            The little man grinned to show blackened and stained teeth. “You lookin’ for a pumpkin?”

            “Even if I was, I’m out of luck. There probably isn’t a pumpkin for a hundred miles, and if there was, nobody would dare sell it to me.”

            The old man cackled a broken glass cackle. “You’re right. No one would dare sell you a pumpkin for fear you’d carve it into a jack-o-lantern. We’ve all heard what happened at your house.” The man grinned. “I’ve got a pumpkin and I’ll give it to ya.”

            The fine hairs on Stephen’s neck stood up. “Why would you do that? What’s the catch?”

            “Ain’t no catch!” the man screeched. “Well, mayhap there is after all, mayhap there is, but not much of a one. You want to see it or don’t ya?”

            Stephen wondered if he was being watched, or if maybe he’d fallen asleep at the wheel of his truck and this was some bizarre dream. He felt himself nodding at the crooked little man.

            “Follow me and keep up.” The man scurried toward the mouth of the alley that shouldn’t be there, and Stephen followed in a daze.

            As the shadows thickened, closing in around them, Stephen thought he saw strange shapes in the darkness. At one point he was sure a giant tentacle rose at least fifty feet into the air before sinking back into the shadows. A low, constant moan, like wind through a canyon, rebounded off the walls of the alley and built upon itself the deeper they walked.

            Finally, the man stopped and pointed. Sitting next to a dumpster against one wall, was the biggest pumpkin Stephen had ever seen. Stephen knelt down for a better look and something inside the dumpster thumped hard on the inner wall.

            “How much?” Stephen asked.

            “Told ya,” The troll man said. “I don’t want no money. You can have it for free.”

            Something inside the dumpster slammed against the inner wall again hard enough to move it a few inches.

            Stephen stood transfixed, staring at the pumpkin. “And the catch?”

            The little man stepped forward and rested a hand on the dumpster. “All you have to do is promise not to carve it. Draw a face on it with a crayon if you want, that’s safe enough, but don’t carve it.”

            “I won’t promise that,” Stephen said. “It’s the only reason I’d want the damn thing.”

            The troll man put a protective hand on the pumpkin. Was he still a man or had he become something else?

            “Then I can’t let you have it. Good day, sir.” The troll thing turned to leave.

            “Wait!” Stephen said. “What’s wrong with it? Why can’t I carve it?”

            “You can’t carve it because it’s evil. It’s the Devil’s pumpkin stolen from the gardens of hell. Cutting into it would open a portal and you wouldn’t survive it.”

            “That’s crazy,” Stephen said. “You’re insane.”

            The troll creature hissed, more creature than man now. “Think what you want about me, but if you want it, you have to promise.”

            “Okay, okay, I promise. I’ll use paint to decorate it.”

            The troll produced an ancient paper scroll and slowly unrolled it. Pulling a pen from somewhere he held it up to Stephen. “Sign this transfer of ownership.”

            Stephen took the pen and bent to sign, both of them knowing that he would break his promise.

            The troll spirited away the scroll as soon as Stephen lifted the pen from the paper. “I don’t care how you get it out of here, but do it quickly.”

            “Let me back my truck in right now.”

            When Stephen backed up to the pumpkin the crooked troll man was gone, and as he lifted the gourd into his truck, something large stirred within the dumpster.

 

            With the turnpike no longer beckoning him, Stephen drove straight home and pulled his truck into the garage, away from the prying eyes of his neighbors. Struggling with every step, he carried the pumpkin in though the kitchen and hoisted it up onto his dining room table. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he reached for his phone to call his daughter.

            “Hi dad,” Carrie said when she picked up.

            “Are you bringing the twins over tomorrow night?” Stephen asked.

            “I don’t know, dad. Tomorrow is a school night and, I mean, what’s the point now that they can’t trick or treat.”

            “Look, I know Halloween is against the law now, but I’ve got a pumpkin here bigger than my head. It’s just waiting to be turned into a Jack-o-Lantern. Bring the kids over and we’ll all carve it together inside the house.”

            Carrie paused. “That’s really sweet of you, dad. But I can’t bring the kids. Have you been watching the news? They’re executing people. I’m sorry but I don’t want my kids learning to be criminals, and I don’t want them dead either.”

            “What do you mean dead?”

            “It was on the news. They executed a family up in New Hampshire.”

            “Nobody’ll know. They won’t find out. Nobody will ever find out.” Stephen pleaded.

            “Everybody would, can’t you see that?” Carrie said. “When they go to school the day after and tell all their friends about the pumpkin they carved at Grandpa’s house. Agents will be at your house by noon, and my kids will be taken from me.”

            “They won’t tell anyone. We’ll tell them not to. What do you say?”

            “Dad, they’re only five. They’d be too excited. They’ll tell everyone, they won’t be able to keep it in. I’m sorry, but we won’t be over tomorrow.” There was a click when she hung up.

“Dammit!” Stephen screamed and threw the phone across the room. She wouldn’t bring them. After all he’d gone through to get the damn pumpkin in the first place.

            Sitting heavy onto one of his dining room chairs he put his head in his hands. “I’ll do it myself he whispered, and he couldn’t be entirely sure, but he thought the pumpkin whispered back.

            As the evening wore on, his unease began to grow. The pumpkin whispered nonstop but Stephen couldn’t make out the words. Try as he might, he couldn’t bear to have the pumpkin out of his sight for more than a few seconds at a time. After dinner, he carried the pumpkin into the den so he could keep an eye on it while he watched TV. When he couldn’t stay awake any longer, he placed it beneath a floor lamp in the corner of his bedroom, but for most of the night sleep eluded him and he opened his eyes constantly to make sure the pumpkin hadn’t moved closer to the bed somehow.

            The next morning, Stephen did his best to try and ignore the pumpkin but around noon his nerves were cranked up to a fever pitch. Rummaging around in the far back corner of his kitchen cabinets produced a nearly full bottle of vodka. He hadn’t touched a drop in years, not since his doctor had instructed him to lay off. He unscrewed the cap as if he expected a snake to jump out at him but when none did, he raised the bottle to his mouth and felt the old familiar burn run down his throat.

            By the time he’d emptied half the bottle, he had gotten himself back under some semblance of control. He spread some old newspaper on the table and struggled to get the pumpkin in place. “That creepy little guy was crazy.” He studied the pumpkin from all sides until he decided on the perfect spot. “The Devil’s pumpkin from the gardens of hell. HA!”

            From the kitchen he retrieved the largest knife he owned, a twelve inch carving knife, and went back to the table. Holding the knife out to the pumpkin he said, “This knife is big enough to take care of everything, including evil spirits.”  He took another drink. “You ain’t nothing but a big orange balloon an I’m gonna pop ya!”

He took another swig from the nearly empty bottle and closed his eyes as he swallowed. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the feeling only alcohol would bring. Opening his eyes he raised the knife above his head and focused on a spot near the pumpkin stem.

“Here it comes,” Stephen said. “Are you ready?” He closed his eyes and brought the knife down. It sank in all the way to the hilt. Stephen gripped the handle tight, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he opened his eyes and let go of the knife which jutted from the top of the pumpkin like a lone cactus on an orange desert.

“I knew it! I knew that man was crazy. Look at you, I stuck a knife in you and you sat there and took it. Nothing happened. Come on…come get me.” He sat completely still for a beat. “I knew you weren’t no Devil Pumpkin. I wasn’t scared to stick ya.”

Something thumped at his front door hard enough to shake the window beside it and the pumpkin began to whisper.

“Who’s there?” Stephen yelped and whirled toward the door. “I ain’t scared.”

And the whispers asked, ‘Then why are you talking to a pumpkin?’

That voice had been right next to his ear. He looked all around the empty room but no one was there. “Must be the booze,” he said as he turned back to the pumpkin. Picking up the knife from the table, he raised it above his head. ‘I already did this,’ he thought as he brought the knife down. ‘How did the knife get back on the table?’ His mind screamed but it was too late.

The orange of the pumpkin turned black. A loud hissing noise came from the cut and a scalding steam poured out around the blade. Stephen began to scream as the mist engulfed first his hand, and then his wrist. When it reached his shoulder the mist expanded to cover his entire body. His screams changed in pitch as the pain intensified and as he screamed, the mist crawled up into his mouth and down his throat. His screams turned to a low, choking gurgling sound and then stopped altogether. His eyes went wide

Stephen reached out toward the pumpkin, which stayed mockingly out of reach. With his other hand he clawed at his throat, ripping the flesh and leaving bloody trails as they raked downward. One fingernail caught his carotid artery and as blood pumped from his ruined throat, he collapsed to the floor. As he fell, and before darkness claimed him, he thought he heard a broken glass cackle.

 

“Excuse me, Sheriff?”

Joe Canberry turned from the group of men he was chatting with. “Yeah?”

“My name’s Johnson. Homicide,” He flashed his badge. “I understand you were first on scene.”

Joe spat on the ground between his feet. “Damndest thing I ever seen. Did you get a look at his face?”

Johnson from homicide nodded. “I saw the body before they loaded it into the ambulance.”

“He don’t need an ambulance, he needs a hearse,” Canberry said.

“Can you show me where you found the body?”

Sheriff Canberry led the way inside and stopped at the dining room. “He was on the floor there near the table in that pool of blood. The knife we believe to be the murder weapon was leaning against that pumpkin there on the table. We’re holding it for evidence. Looks like he was gonna carve that pumpkin when somebody decided to carve him up instead.”

Johnson stared at the scene for a moment. “Can I see the knife?”

“Sure.” Canberry stepped to the door. “BOBBY!” He yelled. “Bring in that knife for a minute.”

After a few seconds, Bobby, obviously a rookie, came into the room carrying the knife in an evidence bag.

“This is my boot, Bobby. I’m his training officer. He’s having a helluva a first week.”

Bobby held out the evidence bag. “Here you go, Sheriff. Keep it as long as you want, it gives me the creeps. I mean, did you see his face?” The young man’s voice rose an octave.

“That’ll be all, Bobby.” Canberry said.

“Jesus! They carved him up like a Jack-O-Lantern!” Bobby cried. “His eyes and nose were triangles! And his jagged mouth…and his teeth, they were gone, just gone. We haven’t found them anywhere.” Bobby doubled over and stumbled out the door to be sick.

“Here you go.” Johnson held the knife out to Canberry.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Canberry said. “He’s young and this is his first week.”

They stood there and looked out the door where Bobby had gone. “Think he’ll be back for week two?” Johnson asked.

“Would you?”

They remained side by side for a moment longer and then Canberry said, “If you don’t need ma anymore, I’ve got a report to file.” He headed for the door.

“Send me a copy?”

Canberry turned back to him. “You got it.”

“He never even cut into it, did he?” Johnson asked.

“Into what?” The sheriff asked.

‘The pumpkin.”

Canberry looked past him to the pumpkin on the table, it was the brightest orange he’d ever seen. “Nope, never touched it, why?”

“I think I’ll take it home. My wife makes a helluva a pumpkin pie.”

 

END

           

 

           

 

 


 

Tuesday, May 16, 2023

Outlaw Tales Submissions Sought

 

I am planning a series of anthologies about old west outlaws. These will not officially be associated with any organization. It is an idea I had and it is a collection that I would read. I invite all writers to submit stories they feel would fit.

Seeking submissions of traditional western short stories about Billy the Kid. Billy remains one of the most polarizing figures of the American west. Was he a Robin Hood or a killer. Perhaps he was something in between.  


Stories should be no longer than 5000 words.

Deadline for submission is August 1, 2023

Stories must be in standard story format: 1" margins...double spaced...indented chapters...etc.

Bill Wilbur will choose the final stories to be included in the anthology. upcoming anthologies will feature Butch Cassidy, Sundance, Doc Holliday, etc

Payment is two contributor's copy and a 30% author discount on extra copies

Submissions should be in the form of an email attachment as a .doc file.

Editor will not significantly change your work, with the exception of punctuation.

Submit only your best work. Correct grammar and spelling is appreciated. All genres considered.  You may or may not receive feedback. If the story isn't ready, don't send it.

Late submissions will not be accepted.

Acceptance/ rejection notification will be emailed.

Questions should be sent to: gnubill@yahoo.com

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

NYC Midnight 2016 Round One - Heat 20

So for this year's NYCMidnight contest, I had one week to create a short story based on the criteria they gave me. I was in heat 20 in round one.

I had THRILLER/A FLOOD/A TEENAGER IN LOVE

Here is what I came up with, I would love any feedback you would care to share, be it good or bad!



PAPER HEARTS
BY
BILL WILBUR

 
Frankie Monroe lay on her bed cutting paper hearts out of red construction paper and listening to Love Nation, her new favorite group. Their song, ‘The Beauty of You’ was on repeat. It was the most beautiful song she’d ever heard, and described perfectly her feelings for Jake.  At sixteen she knew how childish it all was but didn’t care, she was in love. On each paper heart she’d written Jake Logan’s name in some form.

Frankie and Jake forever.

FM + JL.

Frankie loves Jake.

And on one, the one that she kept hidden, she had written Frankie Logan, as if they were already married. He’d been her childhood crush and now he was something more. They’d been neighbors their entire lives, and they had always been friends, but after the accident, Jake had been so sweet and gentle and kind they became something more.

The car that had stolen her ability to walk had been driven by a man named Ernie Blatt. She had been out jogging down a country road usually devoid of traffic early on a Sunday morning. Blatt had been texting when his car crossed the lanes. Police found cocaine residue in the car, but Blatt tested negative. She’d lay in a coma for thirteen months and awoke to find Jake sitting in a chair. Her back was broken and though an operation might help, it was very expensive for the small chance it offered. Her parents just didn’t have the money. Ernie Blatt suffered a suspended license and a fine.

She’d cried for months, and Jake was there through all of it. Slowly she accepted that her life would be different. When she returned to school she became ‘Wheelchair Girl’. Most of her friends avoided her and when they saw each other in the halls it was awkward and strained, as if she was suddenly a different person instead of a broken version of the same girl they all knew. Her true friends found their way back and she made new friends. Slowly her life pieced itself back together – forever changed but in many ways better.

She joined the swim team as a way to build upper body strength. It had been Jake’s idea. He was captain, and every day at the pool he lifted her from the chair and carried her into the water. Frankie loved swimming. It freed her from the confines of her chair and made her feel normal for a while.

The song ended and, after a pause, started up again:

            My heart feels

            Brand new

            And my eyes can’t contain

            The beauty of you

 

Jake had sung it in the car yesterday, and though he hadn’t exactly sung it to her, he had definitely sung it for her. Picking up her phone, she checked it again. Rereading his text from this morning still caused butterflies in her stomach. ‘I want to see you. I have something to tell you.’

            Frankie hugged her pillow. They hadn’t said it yet; those three big words. She wondered if he would say I love you first, or if she would blurt it out in her excitement. She sung the rest of the song at the top of her lungs. It wasn’t until the song ended, in that momentary silence before it repeated, that she heard the siren.

An advance warning system, the siren blared from outside. Frankie threw off her headphones. She became suddenly aware of a thunderous roar coming from outside. Looking out the window she saw a wall of muddy water as tall as a grown man tearing through town like Godzilla through Tokyo.  The flood lifted a Volkswagen Bug and flipped it in the air. The bug landed on top of a cinder block wall before it teetered and fell into the yard. 

As she watched, the tall oak in Mrs. Cubberson’s yard, which had stood as long as she remembered, was ripped from the ground, and as it fell, it hit the corner of the house’s roof shattering it. For a few seconds, the tree lay wedged between the ground and the house as water rushed over and around it, but the current was too strong and sent the massive tree like a spear down the street.  

Frankie pulled herself to the edge of the bed and into her chair.  She had to get upstairs. Pushing herself toward the door, she twisted the knob just as the water slammed into the house, a solid wall four feet high. The windows on that side shattered and several shards cut her skin. Water churned into the room.

Pushing her wheelchair was impossible as the water slammed into her, nearly knocking her over. The whole house shuddered. Frankie’s heart raced. She had to make it to the stairs, had to get to higher ground. Her parents were both in the city and Jake was at swim practice. Whatever she needed to do to survive, she would have to do alone.

Her bed’s pillows floated past as the water rose to her chest, shoving and pulling at her. Pushing out of the chair, she let herself be lifted by the cold roiling water. The water’s current was angry and formed an artificial riptide that tried to suck her below the surface. As she started to swim a paper heart sailed across her vision. She jabbed at the water with powerful strokes and dragging her useless legs behind her, she reached the stairs just as Mrs. Cubberson’s oak tree slammed through the front door and wedged itself there.

The influx of water hit Frankie with such force she lost her grip. Her head dipped below the surface. She began to panic. Her mouth filled with the foul-smelling water and she gagged and coughed. She found the newel post and pulled herself against the current. The water was rising too fast, but it worked to her advantage and she allowed it to lift her toward the top of the stairs as she guided herself up the railing. She reached the landing on the second floor and pulled herself across the hall. The house creaked and groaned under the water’s onslaught and Frankie wondered if it would hold.

The water lapped at the landing of the second floor but for the moment did not breach it. The carpet soaked up the flood’s edge but so far she was safe. Frankie pulled herself to the hallway closet and muscled out the folded wheelchair inside. Pulling herself into it, she rolled into her parent’s bedroom. She tried the phone, but it was dead. Her own cell phone was under water downstairs.

Rolling to the window, she pushed it open and her breath caught in her throat. The entire town was underwater. Only the roofs of the houses were visible. The leading edge of the water had passed them, but the flood still carried all sorts of debris in its current. Frankie saw toys and mailboxes and plant life of every kind.  There were larger things as well. Tires and screen doors, and what looked like part of someone’s deck all careened and crashed their way down the street. The gas station sign from the corner tumbled lazily in the water, still advertising gas at $2.45 a gallon.

 Amidst all of it, navigating through all the junk, Jake was swimming toward her, pulling at the water with the long, powerful strokes that had earned him the spot of captain on their swim team. A rope was looped over his head and shoulders and trailed out behind him. At the end of it was a dark square package roughly the size of a toaster and wrapped tightly with plastic. He was swimming with the current but dug his hands into the water, pulling desperately toward her. Frankie’s heart swelled. She loved him and her heart filled with that certainty.

When he had closed half the distance, Jake stopped to give his arms a break. Bobbing in the water, letting the current pull him slowly, his eyes found her in the window and he smiled, waving.

The man in the boat came around the corner of the street. Frankie began to think that everything would be ok. Rescue efforts had obviously begun. The man wore a rain slicker, and when he spotted Jake, he turned the boat directly for him. Jake’s expression changed and he spun around with just enough time to dive below the surface before the boat plowed into him.

Resurfacing, Jake began swimming frantically toward Frankie’s house as the boat circled in a wide arc.

“Jake!” Frankie screamed. “Look out!”

As fast as he was, Jake was no match for the outboard motor. The boat bore down on him and he dove again, but the man in the slicker killed the engine, leaned over and grabbed the rope around Jake’s shoulder, pulling the package in beside him.  As the boat’s momentum carried them forward, Jake reappeared trying to slip out of the loop around his shoulders, but the stranger yanked the rope tight, pinning Jake to the side of the vessel. Swinging out a leg, the boat man kicked Jake in the temple.

Frankie saw Jake’s head snap back and screamed. Boat Man drew back and kicked again and Jake’s body went limp. Pulling a knife from beneath his slicker, the man in the boat leaned down and cut the rope.

“Leave him alone!” Frankie screamed.

The man in the slicker looked up and Frankie recognized him instantly. It was Ernie Blatt.

Jake leapt from the water grabbing him by the shirt. Letting the weight of his own body do most of the work, Jake pulled the man overboard, capsizing the small boat. He shimmied out from the rope tied around him as Blatt gripped him around the neck. The package floated away in the current.

As Jake tried to fight, kicking his strong legs to break Blatt’s hold on him, Blatt jammed the blade deep into his back. Screaming, Jake spun around to fight but Blatt swung the knife’s handle into Jake’s temple twice, knocking him out cold. The man let go and Jake’s body floated away face down, leaving a cloud of blood behind him.

“JAKE!” Frankie screamed, sobbing.

Blatt considered Frankie for a long second and a spark of recognition flooded through him. Looking around, he saw the package as it floated toward the doorway of the girl’s house. It caught for a moment on the doorjamb and then floated inside.  After a moment’s hesitation, he started swimming after it.

Frankie backed her wheelchair away from the window. She needed to find a way to protect herself. She needed a weapon. Blatt had killed Jake and now he was coming for her. She pulled all the drawers from her father’s nightstand and dresser but the best she could find was a pair of toenail clippers.

“Girly.” Ernie Blatt’s voice came from downstairs. “I’m comin’ ta see you.”

Frankie rifled through her mom’s things and then through the closet. Nothing. From downstairs she heard Blatt sloshing through the water, and then the creak of the bannister on the stairwell. She pushed her way through the ankle high water into the bathroom. Her father’s razor sat near the sink but would offer about as much help as her mom’s curling iron and toothbrush. She looked at the small window but there was no way she could get through it.

“Where are you, Girly?”

Frankie grabbed the shower curtain and pulled it down. The aluminum curtain rod crashed down on top of her and she quickly slipped the rings off. Dropping the rod on the floor, she backed over the end three times with her chair, flattening it. Rotating it a quarter of a turn she ran over it again.

A shadow filled the bathroom door. “Hello, Girly.” Blatt stood there holding the small package to his chest. “I remember you.”

“GET OUT!” Frankie screamed. “HELP! Somebody help me!”

Blatt sloshed in. “Ain’t nobody gonna hear you, Girly. You looked out that window. Ain’t nobody around to help you. They’re all dead or treadin’ water.”

Frankie sobbed. “You killed Jake!”

“Yeah, well Loverboy took what didn’t belong to him.”  He patted the plastic-wrapped package.

“Get away from me!” Frankie screamed. She lunged out of the chair to the floor. She needed him off balance. It was her only chance.

Blatt set the package down on the toilet lid and moved closer to her. “That accident ruined my life,” he said. He lunged and his hands gripped Frankie’s throat.

Gasping for air, Frankie lifted the shower curtain rod and jammed it into Blatt’s side. She put all of her strength into it, and although she had aimed for his chest, she felt the satisfying give as the point of her spear pierced his skin.

Blatt grunted with the impact and let go of her throat with one hand to grab the rod.

Frankie tried to squirm free but his hand was still like a vice on her throat. She pushed with all she had, but Blatt slowly pulled the rod out. He let out a long gasp and a short chuckle escaped him. “Not today, Girly.”

A scream rose up behind Blatt as Jake slammed into him from behind, forcing Blatt down onto the spear, which slid through smoothly, piercing the liver and exiting out the back. 

Blatt screamed and stumbled backward swinging out at Jake. He grabbed at the spear, which now had blood gushing out around it, but could not pull it free. “Damn cripple.” He stumbled backward through the bathroom doorway and landed on the hallway floor, leaning against the wall. He coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth.

Jake leaned down to Frankie. “Are you ok?” He was dripping wet and blood soaked his shirt. There was a cut on his left temple and he winced as the blood leaked into his eye.

Through her tears, Frankie said. “You look terrible.” And she began sobbing.

Jake lowered himself down next to her and held her until she stopped crying.

Frankie looked up at him. “What happened?”

Jake pointed to the package on the toilet seat. “I stole that from Blatt. It’s drug money. I found out he’s been selling to the kids at school for years. I thought maybe it would be enough to pay for your surgery. Maybe we can dance together at the senior prom, unless they put me in jail. We’ll have to tell someone when we get out of here and deal with the consequences.” He reached over and plucked something from her shoulder. It was red and in the shape of a heart.

Frankie’s tears started again. She took some time to process everything, and then she smiled. “I love you!” There it was, she’d blurted it out before he could say it.

Jake kissed her. “I love you too.”

 

 

 

END

 

 

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Call for Submissions: Carnival Anthology




I am planning another anthology. This will not officially be associated with any organization. It is an idea I had for an anthology and it is a collection that I would read. I invite all writers to submit stories they feel would fit.

Prompt: There is a carnival that appears overnight in a field somewhere in the Midwest. You know the kind...there is something off about it...something wrong. It wasn't there yesterday. Your character(s) visit the carnival, and encounter the mysterious Celestial Raven whose role at the carnival is unclear...she may be a mystic...she may be the owner or manager...she may be evil or good...and she may very well be the soul of the carnival itself. Your Character(s) must experience something odd or strange or unexplainable...light or dark.... 

Stories should be no longer than 3500 words.

Deadline for submission is July 31st 2016

Stories must follow the writing prompt.

Stories must be in standard story format: 1" margins...double spaced...indented chapters...etc.

Bill Wilbur will choose the final stories to be included in the anthology.

Payment is one contributor's copy

Submissions should be in the form of an email attachment as a .doc file.

Editor will not significantly change your work, with the exception of punctuation.

Submit only your best work. Correct grammar and spelling is appreciated. All genres considered.  You may or may not receive feedback. If the story isn't ready, don't send it.

Late submissions will not be accepted.

Acceptance/ rejection notification will be emailed.

Questions should be sent to: gnubill@yahoo.com

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Five Strange Things You Don't Know About Me

I can't gargle. Nope. I can't. Every single time in my life that I've tried I came close to drowning myself. I get the concept of gargling, I really do. Water in the mouth, tilt the head back, bounce the water at the edge of the throat, start gagging uncontrollably, spit water out and hock up a lung for the next half hour. I always end up there. Sputtering, coughing, gasping in convulsions. People around me try to perform CPR and the Heimlich maneuver. It would be funny if I wasn't drowning over here. 

Take one look at me and you can pretty much see that I am not athletic. I am in no shape to exercise. But there are a few things I can do fairly well in that world. In High School I was on the basketball team. I was a decent player, but never a star. I only had one shot, but it was a beauty. Deep down in the corner, in three point territory at the side of the basket, I had a sweet jump shot that went in more than not.  I can dive pretty well. As a kid I was a fearless swimmer, and soon took to diving. jackknife, swan, high dive. I can even flip off a diving board. My form and technique are pretty good. 
I can serve overhand in volleyball accurately. I learned that way, I've never done it underhand. I'm not a bad player either.

I'm not ticklish, never have been. Back of the arms, knees, feet...nothing. I don't get it. I mean, I'm a pretty happy guy, I like to laugh. Maybe I don't need to be ticklish because I laugh too much as it is. Who knows?
Along those same lines, until I met Evelyn, I had never experienced Goosebumps, Goose Pimples, Goose flesh, or any other waterfowl type sensation. About a month into our courtship, during an emotional, deeply felt embrace, my skin erupted with an amazing rush of sensitivity. Problem is they didn't look anything like geese.

I was struck by lightning. I was eighteen or nineteen, driving my 1980 Mustang hatchback. That baby was light blue metallic, four cylinders, and could go from zero to sixty in just under four days. A nasty storm was pounding down, visibility was murky and flashes sporadically turned night into day. After white-knuckling my way home for over an hour, I was finally a half block from my house. I was just starting to relax when lightning struck the hood of my car and the intensity of all that electricity engulfed my car in a fireball of blinding light. Thankfully I wasn't touching metal and as quickly as it came, the lightning was gone. I pulled into my driveway, ran in and breathlessly told my mom who didn't believe me. Parents. Sheesh.

I saw a UFO once. My sister and I were flying without our parents back home from vacation. I must have been nine or ten. I was scared to death of flying when I was a kid. I would get pale and talk non-stop to mask my nervousness. But my big sis was with me and she promised to keep me busy the whole way. Twenty minutes into our late-night flight she was sound asleep. Head back, mouth open kinda sleeping. I did my best not to lose it. I read the on-board magazine...twice. I looked around our cabin a lot. I stared out the little window into the inky darkness. Suddenly a light appeared, some distance away but very bright. It stayed alongside for a bit, then shot forward out of sight ahead of us. After several seconds, it returned for about a minute before slowly drifting straight up and out of my view from the window. I shook my sister awake and explained what I saw. She turned away from me, pulled the window shade down, and went back to sleep. 

Friday, October 16, 2015

Dahlia and Other Stories

Dahlia and Other Stories


I thought I would give you an idea of what you can find within the pages of my new book,Dahlia and Other Stories.  There are a total of fifteen stories, including the first story I ever wrote as well as the shortest story I have ever written.  Here is a brief synopsis of the stories.

Dahlia
An ex-hooker is hired by the oldest woman in the world to commit murder in the nursing home.

Placebo
A psychiatrist must lock himself into a panic room with a patient who thinks he will spontaeously combust without his medication.  Is it getting warm in here?

War Paint
A short vampire story where the hunters dress like clowns to hide their identities

Sandtrappings
A horror story set at a golf course, where three friends find themselves in a classic battle of good vs. evil

Cherry Bomb Slushee
A woman revisits the sight where she murdered her boyfriend years before only to find him waiting.

Man or Mouse
Mickey kills Minnie

Feel the Burn
When a man thinks the billboard ouside his window is speaking to him, he gets one chance at revenge against a childhood bully

I Am Not God
A haunted ATM may be one man's salvation, or perhaps his ruination

Shoe Envy
Cinderella covets a certain pair of ruby slippers but Dorothy wont give them up without a fight

Penny
How much luck can a single penny hold, and at what cost to the person who finds it?

Anniversary
A tense moment inside a convenience store becomes a moment of quiet triumph for a lost woman.

Stammer of the Gods
A band of misfit vikings search for the elusive golden butterfly

When Magic Dies
Where does magic goes when it dies and what happens to the boy who is burdened with the answer?

Dust Bunnies
I was challenged to write a story in 100 words.  This is the result

Hands Off
This is the first story I ever wrote that I shared with others.  I was fourteen.