Showing posts with label Joshua Scribner. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joshua Scribner. Show all posts
Trapped
By Joshua Scribner
Thumping shook his world, over and over. Terrance awoke. The loud music vibrated the wall shared with his neighbors. A voice also penetrated that barrier, but not the lyrics, a monolog separate from the music, indecipherable. Terrance got out of bed, slipped on his pants.
Heather stirred under the covers. “Where are you going?”
Terrance took a deep breath. “I’m going next door, where I’ll calmly ask him to lower the volume.”
He walked into the hallway.
“Terrance! Just calm down!”
“I am calm. I’m not going to beat up the neighbor kid.”
Why did she need to overreact? Yes, he had an anger problem. But the therapy had worked. He could control himself.
The memory of Doctor Frayder’s words echoed. “Your mind is like a trap. That’s why you get so angry. You can’t let things go.”
But he could let things go now. He wasn’t the least bit angry.
Heather screamed, “Terrance!”
Ignoring her, he left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He moved to the neighbor’s door, took another deep breath, felt loose muscles and a tranquil mind. He didn’t know how Doctor Frayder worked his magic. The old man had explained that Terrance wouldn’t actually sense the process of change.
“We won’t be able to attack anger like yours directly. Instead, I’ll slip messages to you indirectly. You won’t hear them with your conscious mind, but your subconscious will soak them up.”
Doctor Frayder never charged him a cent. “Our therapy will be an experiment of sorts, so there will be no fee.”
Terrance knocked. A second later, the volume of the voice and the music diminished to near silence. The sound of feet shuffling came from the other side, then the door opened.
The neighbor often left her teenage son home alone on weekend nights. He stood a few inches taller than Terrance, but skinny, with bushy hair. He usually wore the smart-aleck expression of a punk, but now looked horrified, holding his hands out in front of him. “Dude! I’m sorry! Calm down!”
Terrance felt no anger, just mild frustration, trying to act with tact and dignity, but no one giving him a shot. “It’s fine. I just want you to keep it down. My wife and I are trying to sleep.”
The kid stared hard toward the center of Terrance’s body. “Anything you say.”
Suddenly, Terrance’s apartment door shot open, and Heather stepped into the hall. “Terrance, you don’t want to do this. Just calm down.”
“I’m calm. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Look,” said the neighbor kid. “It wasn’t my idea. Some old dude paid me to play both CDs really loud at 2AM. If you want, I’ll give you the money.”
Terrance turned back to the kid, who still stared toward the center of Terrance’s body. “I don’t want any money. I just—”
“Terrance, please,” interrupted Heather. “Just give me the gun.”
Terrance shook his head. “What are you talking about? I don’t . . .”
He saw it in his left hand, his pistol, a weapon that he had never pointed at anyone, even in one of his fits of anger. How had it gotten there? Why was he pointing it at the kid’s stomach?
He’d give it to Heather. At least, that was the plan. His left hand had its own plan, though, and squeezed the trigger. The kid hunched over. Terrance’s left hand raised and shot the kid again, this time in the face.
Heather screamed. So did Terrance. His left hand aimed and shot Heather in the face. She went backward and flipped over the banister.
For a little while, Terrance could only question reality. Was this a dream? Was he still in his apartment, in bed?
His feet were next to develop their own will. They moved into his neighbor’s apartment, stepping over the dead kid in the doorway, then went to the living room, where a portable CD player sat next to a home sound system. The portable device played a heavy metal tune, which apparently had no lyrics. The sound system emanated a man’s voice, stating the same message, repetitively. “Kill someone, kill anyone who witnesses it, destroy the two CDs you hear right now, and kill yourself.”
He recognized the voice. It belonged to Dr. Frayder.
Terrance took both CDs into the kitchen, placed them directly on the coils of the stove, and set the heat to high.
He had known his mind was a trap before he met with the shrink, having never been able to let things go. He had not known it a trap for subconscious things too, just as he’d not known Dr. Frayder was a mad scientist. He stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
By Joshua Scribner
Thumping shook his world, over and over. Terrance awoke. The loud music vibrated the wall shared with his neighbors. A voice also penetrated that barrier, but not the lyrics, a monolog separate from the music, indecipherable. Terrance got out of bed, slipped on his pants.
Heather stirred under the covers. “Where are you going?”
Terrance took a deep breath. “I’m going next door, where I’ll calmly ask him to lower the volume.”
He walked into the hallway.
“Terrance! Just calm down!”
“I am calm. I’m not going to beat up the neighbor kid.”
Why did she need to overreact? Yes, he had an anger problem. But the therapy had worked. He could control himself.
The memory of Doctor Frayder’s words echoed. “Your mind is like a trap. That’s why you get so angry. You can’t let things go.”
But he could let things go now. He wasn’t the least bit angry.
Heather screamed, “Terrance!”
Ignoring her, he left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He moved to the neighbor’s door, took another deep breath, felt loose muscles and a tranquil mind. He didn’t know how Doctor Frayder worked his magic. The old man had explained that Terrance wouldn’t actually sense the process of change.
“We won’t be able to attack anger like yours directly. Instead, I’ll slip messages to you indirectly. You won’t hear them with your conscious mind, but your subconscious will soak them up.”
Doctor Frayder never charged him a cent. “Our therapy will be an experiment of sorts, so there will be no fee.”
Terrance knocked. A second later, the volume of the voice and the music diminished to near silence. The sound of feet shuffling came from the other side, then the door opened.
The neighbor often left her teenage son home alone on weekend nights. He stood a few inches taller than Terrance, but skinny, with bushy hair. He usually wore the smart-aleck expression of a punk, but now looked horrified, holding his hands out in front of him. “Dude! I’m sorry! Calm down!”
Terrance felt no anger, just mild frustration, trying to act with tact and dignity, but no one giving him a shot. “It’s fine. I just want you to keep it down. My wife and I are trying to sleep.”
The kid stared hard toward the center of Terrance’s body. “Anything you say.”
Suddenly, Terrance’s apartment door shot open, and Heather stepped into the hall. “Terrance, you don’t want to do this. Just calm down.”
“I’m calm. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Look,” said the neighbor kid. “It wasn’t my idea. Some old dude paid me to play both CDs really loud at 2AM. If you want, I’ll give you the money.”
Terrance turned back to the kid, who still stared toward the center of Terrance’s body. “I don’t want any money. I just—”
“Terrance, please,” interrupted Heather. “Just give me the gun.”
Terrance shook his head. “What are you talking about? I don’t . . .”
He saw it in his left hand, his pistol, a weapon that he had never pointed at anyone, even in one of his fits of anger. How had it gotten there? Why was he pointing it at the kid’s stomach?
He’d give it to Heather. At least, that was the plan. His left hand had its own plan, though, and squeezed the trigger. The kid hunched over. Terrance’s left hand raised and shot the kid again, this time in the face.
Heather screamed. So did Terrance. His left hand aimed and shot Heather in the face. She went backward and flipped over the banister.
For a little while, Terrance could only question reality. Was this a dream? Was he still in his apartment, in bed?
His feet were next to develop their own will. They moved into his neighbor’s apartment, stepping over the dead kid in the doorway, then went to the living room, where a portable CD player sat next to a home sound system. The portable device played a heavy metal tune, which apparently had no lyrics. The sound system emanated a man’s voice, stating the same message, repetitively. “Kill someone, kill anyone who witnesses it, destroy the two CDs you hear right now, and kill yourself.”
He recognized the voice. It belonged to Dr. Frayder.
Terrance took both CDs into the kitchen, placed them directly on the coils of the stove, and set the heat to high.
He had known his mind was a trap before he met with the shrink, having never been able to let things go. He had not known it a trap for subconscious things too, just as he’d not known Dr. Frayder was a mad scientist. He stuck the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
Lucid
By Joshua Scribner
“Come back, Goliath,” Ross said, but the German shepherd continued up the rocky side of the gully and was gone.
A growl reverberated, and he turned to see the Red Wolf creeping up on him. Ross lifted his gun and aimed, but it wouldn’t fire. Red Wolf was about twenty feet away, his mouth open, revealing his grimy fangs.
Ross knew he couldn’t make it up the side of the gully. He could make it into the river, though. The wolf probably wouldn’t follow him there.
Ross turned to make his move and then saw something at the surface of the river. It cut back into itself, repetitively, so as not to be taken by the current. Long Fish was shaped like a gar with teeth that rivaled Red Wolf’s fangs and a stinger on his tail.
Ross would stay on land. He backed away from Red Wolf, holding the gun barrel in front of him like a spear. This defensive posture was effective for the time being. Red Wolf didn’t completely close the distance. Long Fish flanked them.
A hiss startled Ross. He glanced over his shoulder at Fat Snake, whose green body was coiled in layers that came six feet off the ground.
Ross turned, so that Red Wolf was on one side, Fat Snake on the other and Long Fish in front of him. Stalemate was the best he could hope for. He hoped Long Fish would grow tired of fighting the current and leave before Red Wolf realized the gun couldn’t really hurt him or Fat Snake just got tired of waiting to make his move. Maybe Goliath would come back, but Ross doubted it. The dog was a great fighter but not much on hunting. He had probably made it home by now.
Fat Snake started uncoiling, bringing his head, which was big enough to swallow a basketball, his way. Red Wolf wasn’t advancing but holding his ground enough that Ross was trapped.
The sky started flashing like a strobe light. After a couple of seconds, logic started setting in.
There was a reason he had names for all these creatures. He’d been killed by each, many times, because each had been in his repetitive nightmares for years.
“This is a dream,” he said. He turned to Red Wolf. “And you can’t hurt me.” He rushed over and smacked the wolf upside the head. It whined and backed off. “Neither can you,” he said, as he turned to Fat Snake. He then jumped and kicked his head so hard it went flying back over his body.
He turned to the river, and saw Long Fish had gotten the message and split.
The flashing stopped. They had said it would. It was suppose to alert you that you were dreaming and then stop so as not to disturb the dream further.
They had told him he could be magic in his dream.
He spun a tight circle, a trick they’d taught him to stay asleep, amongst other things.
“I want a new scene,” he said and spun again. The river was now the ocean and the bank was now a beach.
Fat Snake was a little man holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Red Wolf was another little man holding a tray with a red cut of prime rib and shrimp cocktail. Long Fish was coming out of the water, but was now a gorgeous woman with lascivious eyes in a slight bikini. He wanted to sample the wine and sample the food but decided to sample the woman first. He did. Her kiss was soft and warm. When he pulled away she said, “Spin again, so you’ll be here longer.”
He did, several times, and then felt a firm grip on this paradise.
He was looking into her eyes, getting ready to kiss her again, when he heard Red Wolf growl. He turned on time to see the wolf spring. He put out an arm and that’s what Red Wolf took. He was jerked to the ground. Red Wolf released but not before Fat Snake began wrapping around him.
He had heard them talk on occasion, so he recognized Long Fish’s voice. “I’ve summoned him. He should be here soon.”
“That last set of spins probably bought us enough time,” said Red Wolf.
Fat Snake had only the lower half of his body, so Ross had no problem talking. “But you’re all in my dream. You’re part of my mind. You have to do what I say.”
“Not exactly,” said Fat Snake. “You tortured a cat many years ago. That cat belonged to a witch, and she hexed your nightmares. We’re actually demons sent to torture you.”
“We torture other people, too,” said Red Wolf. “But we’ve been having some trouble with this new dream therapy.”
“He’s here,” said Long Fish.
Ross was hoisted up. A flying cobra came from the sky.
“The resistance is working,” said the cobra. Then it bit him.
#
Ross was relieved to feel himself waking from the weirdest of all nightmares.
“The participant is awake,” someone nearby said, and then there was the sound of feet moving toward him.
“Mr. Lotian. I’m going to remove the flash goggles now.”
He felt the goggles being taken from his head.
“Mr. Lotian. Go ahead and open your eyes.”
Ross didn’t really need to be told that. He’d already tried.
“Are you sure he’s awake?”
“He’s registering awake by the waves.”
“Mr. Lotian?”
He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t move anything at all.
“Oh no! I hope this isn’t what I think it is. We thought the first case was a fluke, but there might be something about the goggles that causes chronic paralysis. We may have to stop the therapy.”
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
By Joshua Scribner
“Come back, Goliath,” Ross said, but the German shepherd continued up the rocky side of the gully and was gone.
A growl reverberated, and he turned to see the Red Wolf creeping up on him. Ross lifted his gun and aimed, but it wouldn’t fire. Red Wolf was about twenty feet away, his mouth open, revealing his grimy fangs.
Ross knew he couldn’t make it up the side of the gully. He could make it into the river, though. The wolf probably wouldn’t follow him there.
Ross turned to make his move and then saw something at the surface of the river. It cut back into itself, repetitively, so as not to be taken by the current. Long Fish was shaped like a gar with teeth that rivaled Red Wolf’s fangs and a stinger on his tail.
Ross would stay on land. He backed away from Red Wolf, holding the gun barrel in front of him like a spear. This defensive posture was effective for the time being. Red Wolf didn’t completely close the distance. Long Fish flanked them.
A hiss startled Ross. He glanced over his shoulder at Fat Snake, whose green body was coiled in layers that came six feet off the ground.
Ross turned, so that Red Wolf was on one side, Fat Snake on the other and Long Fish in front of him. Stalemate was the best he could hope for. He hoped Long Fish would grow tired of fighting the current and leave before Red Wolf realized the gun couldn’t really hurt him or Fat Snake just got tired of waiting to make his move. Maybe Goliath would come back, but Ross doubted it. The dog was a great fighter but not much on hunting. He had probably made it home by now.
Fat Snake started uncoiling, bringing his head, which was big enough to swallow a basketball, his way. Red Wolf wasn’t advancing but holding his ground enough that Ross was trapped.
The sky started flashing like a strobe light. After a couple of seconds, logic started setting in.
There was a reason he had names for all these creatures. He’d been killed by each, many times, because each had been in his repetitive nightmares for years.
“This is a dream,” he said. He turned to Red Wolf. “And you can’t hurt me.” He rushed over and smacked the wolf upside the head. It whined and backed off. “Neither can you,” he said, as he turned to Fat Snake. He then jumped and kicked his head so hard it went flying back over his body.
He turned to the river, and saw Long Fish had gotten the message and split.
The flashing stopped. They had said it would. It was suppose to alert you that you were dreaming and then stop so as not to disturb the dream further.
They had told him he could be magic in his dream.
He spun a tight circle, a trick they’d taught him to stay asleep, amongst other things.
“I want a new scene,” he said and spun again. The river was now the ocean and the bank was now a beach.
Fat Snake was a little man holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Red Wolf was another little man holding a tray with a red cut of prime rib and shrimp cocktail. Long Fish was coming out of the water, but was now a gorgeous woman with lascivious eyes in a slight bikini. He wanted to sample the wine and sample the food but decided to sample the woman first. He did. Her kiss was soft and warm. When he pulled away she said, “Spin again, so you’ll be here longer.”
He did, several times, and then felt a firm grip on this paradise.
He was looking into her eyes, getting ready to kiss her again, when he heard Red Wolf growl. He turned on time to see the wolf spring. He put out an arm and that’s what Red Wolf took. He was jerked to the ground. Red Wolf released but not before Fat Snake began wrapping around him.
He had heard them talk on occasion, so he recognized Long Fish’s voice. “I’ve summoned him. He should be here soon.”
“That last set of spins probably bought us enough time,” said Red Wolf.
Fat Snake had only the lower half of his body, so Ross had no problem talking. “But you’re all in my dream. You’re part of my mind. You have to do what I say.”
“Not exactly,” said Fat Snake. “You tortured a cat many years ago. That cat belonged to a witch, and she hexed your nightmares. We’re actually demons sent to torture you.”
“We torture other people, too,” said Red Wolf. “But we’ve been having some trouble with this new dream therapy.”
“He’s here,” said Long Fish.
Ross was hoisted up. A flying cobra came from the sky.
“The resistance is working,” said the cobra. Then it bit him.
#
Ross was relieved to feel himself waking from the weirdest of all nightmares.
“The participant is awake,” someone nearby said, and then there was the sound of feet moving toward him.
“Mr. Lotian. I’m going to remove the flash goggles now.”
He felt the goggles being taken from his head.
“Mr. Lotian. Go ahead and open your eyes.”
Ross didn’t really need to be told that. He’d already tried.
“Are you sure he’s awake?”
“He’s registering awake by the waves.”
“Mr. Lotian?”
He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t move anything at all.
“Oh no! I hope this isn’t what I think it is. We thought the first case was a fluke, but there might be something about the goggles that causes chronic paralysis. We may have to stop the therapy.”
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
