In Short Fiction Read online

crossbow and offering a hand to Mark.

  “I think we have more in common now than we know,” Juliet said.

  His Father’s Car

  Paul’s father once had an old, black, muscle car. He lovingly took it out and waxed it in the driveway every Saturday, taking his time so that Mark Kremple across the street was forced to stare at dad’s beauty of a car. His father rarely drove it, opting for the family station wagon whenever a trip into town was warranted. Paul could remember the shine of the black hood, the perfectly circular headlights stacked on either side of the grill, the tobacco smell of the leather interior. He knew the feel of the inside of the trunk, from when his father took his annual trip to the country to sit in the trunk and look at the stars all night. Paul knew the exact place where his dad had dropped a cigarette on one of these outings, leaving a small, circular burn in the fabric of the trunk.

  Paul knew all of this, and yet still had no idea why he woke up locked inside the very trunk he had such fond memories of. His back was to the opening of the trunk; he knew this because he could feel the cold metal against his skin. His nose was stuffed into the scratchy lining, his cheek rubbing the rough edges of the cigarette burn. Paul’s hands were bound behind his back and he could feel his shoulders protesting at the strain. He was aware of a dull, throbbing pain on the crown of his head. His hair was sticking together where the wound had bled into his hair.

  The trunk was completely silent save for the sound of Paul’s labored breathing as he struggled against his bonds. He stopped moving and closed his eyes, attempting to listen for any clues as to where he was. In the silence he could make out the buzz of a streetlight, a familiar sound. It was a sound he was met with when he returned home from work every single night. It was the same streetlight positioned outside of his house.

  “Okay, good, so I know where I am. Now I just need to figure out why,” Paul thought to himself. Paul began to rock back and forth in the trunk, hoping to somehow force the trunk open. Without warning, a heavy blow was dealt to the trunk from the outside, accompanied by a man’s yell.

  “Stop making so much damn noise!” the man said, punctuating his sentence with another heavy hit to the car. Paul continued to rock back and forth, picking up momentum as he rocked. Now that he knew there was somebody outside, Paul knew that he needed to bait him into opening the trunk.

  “Come on, stupid. Open the trunk,” Paul said to himself.

  Exactly as planned, the trunk opened and light from the streetlamp outside poured in. Paul squinted against the light, making out the silhouette of a man. A pair of huge, hairy hands reached into the trunk; Paul jutted his neck out and grabbed hold of the man’s fleshy hand with his teeth. The man screamed and wrenched back his hand, distracted just long enough for Paul to wriggle out of the trunk and on to his feet. The man was still hunched over nursing his hand, which had left a trail of blood from the trunk to where he now stood under the streetlight.

  The man whipped around, face obscured the by the bright, overhead light. He lurched towards Paul, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him closer. He wound his fist back and landed a harsh blow to Paul’s face. Paul crumpled to the ground, his vision going black as he went unconscious.

  Paul awoke to soft light spilling in from his own bedroom curtains. He stretched his arms and legs, noting the tenderness in his muscles. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and gingerly placed his feet on the cold wood of his floors. He limped through his house to the kitchen, opening the back door to retrieve the daily paper. He picked up the bundle of newspaper and read the headline, which proclaimed, “MAN IN STOLEN CAR KIDNAPS TWELVE, STILL AT LARGE”.

  Paul shook his head and turned back to his kitchen, prepared to call the police to report what had happened to him the night before. As he entered his house, he saw his neighbor collecting his newspaper one house over. Paul waved and smiled; the neighbor lifted his arm to wave back, displaying a red, irritated bite mark on the top of his hand.

  The Pilgrimage

  “This is the third day of rain, Fergan. What do you plan to do?”

  “Father, the rains have blown in stronger than any other year. I don’t know what we are to do other than wait out the torrents.”

  The great Grundlen sat across from his son, separated by a massive, wooden table. The thick logs that make their modest home creak and whine in protest of the heavy winds and rain. Fergan strokes his jaw, lost in thought. His skin is tanned and weathered, the true mark of his life of hard work and toil.

  Without warning, a great crack rang out. The ground trembled and shook, knocking over the pair’s heavy tankards of ale. Grundlen and Fergan pushed their way out of their small cabin; the people of Ylthe flooded the common area, men clutching on to frightened women and children. Great boulders rained from the sky, crushing houses under their massive weight and sending villagers fleeing for cover.

  The rain still pouring down in great waves, Fergan stared into the darkness. He stared in the direction of the crack, the huge mountain neighboring Ylthe. In the darkness Fergan noticed a curious sight: the great head and shoulders of a man-shaped thing looming over Ylthe. Fergan yelled out, calling to Ylthe’s strongest warriors. They corralled the women and children to just outside of the small village’s limits before returning to the base of the mountain.

  “Men! Take heed! There is a beast lurking in the shadows!” Fergan screamed at his warriors. They grunted in acknowledgement and formed a pack, creeping every closer to the base of the massive mountain. Another massive, earth-shaking crack rang out, this time closer than the last. Trees surrounding the mountain came crashing down, trees large enough that the villagers themselves never dared try to harvest for fear of injury.

  “Fergan! There!” One man screamed. A behemoth column made of rock slammed down just shy of the men. It bent at a strange angle, almost the shape of a man kneeling. A great shape, larger than any boulder the men had ever seen, appeared in the darkness. As it got ever closer, Fergan could make out ears, a neck, shoulders, all of the features of a man only made of rock. Set within its face were deep, black caverns, a set of eyes in the face of a gargantuan rock-man.

  Fergan gasped, stumbling away from the massive creature. He and the men retreated, falling over each other in a scramble to escape the huge thing. The rock creature seemed to heave a sigh before stretching out its massive arms and digging them into the Earth on either side of the tiny village. With a great heave, the creature picked up all of Ylthe in its impossibly strong arms. A chorus of screams rang out as the townspeople were sent to the ground with the impact.

  The mountain man rested the town on its great shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He stood, sending the shocked villagers high above the clouds. He began to walk, stepping through miles of forest with each step. Each step set the village rocking gently, gentler than a boat on a calm sea.

  The following morning, the villagers gathered in the common area. Grundlen stood upon the speaking platform. He puffed his chest out and took a great breath before launching into an angry speech.

  “People of Ylthe! The Gods have seen fit to take away the tranquility of life at the mountain’s base, leaving in its place hell on Earth. I say that we reject this judgment! I say that we attack this monstrous beast! We must slay it now, while it walks. What say you, Ylthe?”

  The townspeople shifted nervously. The tense moment was punctuated by the laughter of children as they dared each other to peek over the edge of the town. Grundlen became increasingly more frustrated, his face reddening. He stepped down from the speaking platform and strolled to the edge of the town where the children played. Resting his hand upon a child’s head, he spoke as he stared at the ground.

  “Never would I have wanted to live at the mercy of something from my nightmares, and yet, here I am. This great rock creature is no friend. He is our enemy. If I am the only one who realizes this, though, I feel that my place is not here, on the back of this beast.”

  Witho
ut warning, Grundlen pushed the child forward and relaxed his body, tumbling over the side of the village. Fergan cried out and ran to the edge, staring as his father’s body disappeared in the clouds. The townspeople screamed and cried for their leader. Fergan, cheeks tear-stained, turned towards the Ylthens.

  “My people. I will take the place of my father. I will do what I can to decipher the mystery behind this great, rock-man. We must stand united, in this most troubling time.”

  The rock creature wandered for days, never stopping or slowing to rest. The rain subsided as they wandered ever closer to the golden horizon. The air became sweet and warm, as though summer was ushered in sooner. The clouds below were fluffy and tranquil. Birds of all different species and color flocked around Ylthe on its mile-high mount. Despite the peaceful setting, Fergan spent his days in his cabin, troubled by his need to get his people to safety.

  On the morning of the eighth day of walking, the great rock-man began to slow. His stride became shorter. The change of pace rocked Fergan from his fitful sleep. He wandered out of his cabin and stared at the horizon. In the distance he could see the figures of dozens of other rock creatures, each a different size and shape than the last. They were all