Showing posts with label Jim Harrington. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jim Harrington. Show all posts
Next in Line
by Jim Harrington
Gerald noticed the smell first. He rounded the corner and saw a woman with three chins sitting on the top step leading to the apartment building entrance. Sweat spotted her yellow dress. An overmatched, oriental fan struggled to cool her face.
"Hot, ain't it," she said, not looking at him.
"Worst ever," he replied.
She laughed. "How would you know? You're barely out of diapers."
Twenty-seven, he said to himself, not that it's any of your business.
"What's that terrible smell?" Gerald asked.
"What smell?"
"You don't smell anything?"
She stuck her nose in the air and inhaled. "Oh, that smell." She pointed to the stairs leading to the ground floor apartment.
Keeping his eyes on the woman, Gerald walked over to the railing, glanced down, and saw the contorted body.
"Is she. . .?"
"Dead?" the woman said. "Oh, yea. A doornail, for sure."
Gerald stepped back and put the back of his hand over his nose.
"Did you call the cops?"
"Not yet." The woman continued to fan herself.
"Are you going to?"
"Thought you might want to."
"Why's that?"
"Cops go easier on someone who admits to a crime."
Gerald's mouth fell open, and he gagged.
"I didn't kill anybody." He looked over the railing. "I don't even know that woman?"
"Can't see her face. How do you know you don't know her?"
"I...I just know."
"According to the note in her purse, you do." The woman swatted a bug from her face.
"What the hell are you talking about. I've never seen her before."
"Maybe she was a lot younger, and you forgot."
Gerald stood silent.
"Maybe," the woman continued, "you like to molest girls. Maybe it was too much for her to handle, even after five years, and she jumped off the roof of the building."
Gerald tilted his eyes toward the top of the building, then back to the body.
"Then it was suicide. The cops can't blame me."
"Could be, but there's still the note."
Gerald turned to run.
"Won't do you no good. I'll find you again."
Gerald took a step.
"Not a good idea, Gerald. You don't want to piss me off any more than I am."
"You're crazy."
"And evil." She turned and looked him in the face for the first time, her eyes red. "And not even the Devil likes men who do things to girls without their permission."
Gerald ran.
The woman nodded. Three men stepped out of an alley and grabbed Gerald.
"It's time for you to go, Gerald," the woman said. "And to a place worse than Hell."
She nodded again. The men dragged Gerald into the alley. The woman nodded a third time, and the girl climbed the steps, mouthed a 'thank you,' and scurried away.
An hour later Gerald's screams died, as did he.
The woman hoisted herself from the steps and headed south on Lilith Street. She was late for her appointment with Father Raymond.
- - -
Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For blog (http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre (http://apollos-lyre.tripod.com/index.html).
by Jim Harrington
Gerald noticed the smell first. He rounded the corner and saw a woman with three chins sitting on the top step leading to the apartment building entrance. Sweat spotted her yellow dress. An overmatched, oriental fan struggled to cool her face.
"Hot, ain't it," she said, not looking at him.
"Worst ever," he replied.
She laughed. "How would you know? You're barely out of diapers."
Twenty-seven, he said to himself, not that it's any of your business.
"What's that terrible smell?" Gerald asked.
"What smell?"
"You don't smell anything?"
She stuck her nose in the air and inhaled. "Oh, that smell." She pointed to the stairs leading to the ground floor apartment.
Keeping his eyes on the woman, Gerald walked over to the railing, glanced down, and saw the contorted body.
"Is she. . .?"
"Dead?" the woman said. "Oh, yea. A doornail, for sure."
Gerald stepped back and put the back of his hand over his nose.
"Did you call the cops?"
"Not yet." The woman continued to fan herself.
"Are you going to?"
"Thought you might want to."
"Why's that?"
"Cops go easier on someone who admits to a crime."
Gerald's mouth fell open, and he gagged.
"I didn't kill anybody." He looked over the railing. "I don't even know that woman?"
"Can't see her face. How do you know you don't know her?"
"I...I just know."
"According to the note in her purse, you do." The woman swatted a bug from her face.
"What the hell are you talking about. I've never seen her before."
"Maybe she was a lot younger, and you forgot."
Gerald stood silent.
"Maybe," the woman continued, "you like to molest girls. Maybe it was too much for her to handle, even after five years, and she jumped off the roof of the building."
Gerald tilted his eyes toward the top of the building, then back to the body.
"Then it was suicide. The cops can't blame me."
"Could be, but there's still the note."
Gerald turned to run.
"Won't do you no good. I'll find you again."
Gerald took a step.
"Not a good idea, Gerald. You don't want to piss me off any more than I am."
"You're crazy."
"And evil." She turned and looked him in the face for the first time, her eyes red. "And not even the Devil likes men who do things to girls without their permission."
Gerald ran.
The woman nodded. Three men stepped out of an alley and grabbed Gerald.
"It's time for you to go, Gerald," the woman said. "And to a place worse than Hell."
She nodded again. The men dragged Gerald into the alley. The woman nodded a third time, and the girl climbed the steps, mouthed a 'thank you,' and scurried away.
An hour later Gerald's screams died, as did he.
The woman hoisted herself from the steps and headed south on Lilith Street. She was late for her appointment with Father Raymond.
- - -
Jim discovered flash fiction in 2007, and he’s read, written, studied, and agonized over the form since. His Six Questions For blog (http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” In his spare time, he serves as the flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre (http://apollos-lyre.tripod.com/index.html).
The Return Trip
By Jim Harrington
Brad hooked a carabiner into the bolt in the granite wall. He planted his feet against the stone and leaned back in the harness. His left hand held the rope. He rolled his shoulders forward and back. The climb had been more strenuous today, the anger fermenting in his gut the probable cause, he assumed. Regardless, he felt the same rush he always did when he looked down the eight hundred feet to the base of the mountain and inhaled the pollutant-free air.
His climbing partner, Erik, wasn’t with him today. They hadn’t spoken since Erik had been promoted to a corporate sales manager position and transferred to the headquarters in Chicago. Brad had wanted the job and didn’t know Erik was under consideration. He wondered what else Erik had neglected to tell him. September hadn’t been a good month for Brad. Besides losing the promotion, his father had passed away; and on the night he planned to propose, Jessica told him her true calling was to be a nun. He didn’t know which one of the three he hated more.
He pulled himself back into position and prepared to continue when he heard the voices. He looked up, down, left, right, and saw no one. Yet the voices continued. Shouts for help? He paused. Silence.
He placed his foot on an outcropping; and when he put his weight on it, he heard a moan, as if he’d kicked someone in the stomach. He shook his head, wondering if the altitude was getting to him, and continued his climb. After a few more steps, he heard another moan.
“Who’s there?”
He listened, looked, but no answer came.
“Come on. This isn’t a joke.”
The voices began again, their chant louder. They were cries for help. He was certain of it, but from where. As he restarted his climb, the rock moved and shook him from his perch. He repelled away from the wall and watched a vertical seam open in front of him. He swung back to the rock and bounced off once more. The crack widened. He returned to the cliff face and felt a suction on his chest, pulling him into the opening. He propped a foot on either side of the hole, leaned back, and twisted his torso in an attempt to free himself from the eerie force. It was no use. The grip was too strong.
Brad screamed for help as the mountain enveloped him. Whatever held him lowered Brad to the floor of the cave, and the pressure on his chest eased. He saw the fissure closing and raced to escape, but it was too late. He turned and noticed the figures of other climbers—some asleep, in fetal positions—nested among the layered rock. A few waved to him and called his name.
It was warm and damp inside, like his impression of a womb. A solitary figure stood at the back of the cave. It was a woman, a woman he knew well, his mother, or maybe everyone’s mother. It was then he realized the voices from earlier weren’t crying for help. They were saying “Welcome home.”
- - -
Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two cats. His stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Camroc Press Review, Every Day Fiction, The Houston Literary Review, Long Story Short, MicroHorror, Flashshot and others. He currently serves as a flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre. You can read more of his stories at www.jimharringtononline.net.
By Jim Harrington
Brad hooked a carabiner into the bolt in the granite wall. He planted his feet against the stone and leaned back in the harness. His left hand held the rope. He rolled his shoulders forward and back. The climb had been more strenuous today, the anger fermenting in his gut the probable cause, he assumed. Regardless, he felt the same rush he always did when he looked down the eight hundred feet to the base of the mountain and inhaled the pollutant-free air.
His climbing partner, Erik, wasn’t with him today. They hadn’t spoken since Erik had been promoted to a corporate sales manager position and transferred to the headquarters in Chicago. Brad had wanted the job and didn’t know Erik was under consideration. He wondered what else Erik had neglected to tell him. September hadn’t been a good month for Brad. Besides losing the promotion, his father had passed away; and on the night he planned to propose, Jessica told him her true calling was to be a nun. He didn’t know which one of the three he hated more.
He pulled himself back into position and prepared to continue when he heard the voices. He looked up, down, left, right, and saw no one. Yet the voices continued. Shouts for help? He paused. Silence.
He placed his foot on an outcropping; and when he put his weight on it, he heard a moan, as if he’d kicked someone in the stomach. He shook his head, wondering if the altitude was getting to him, and continued his climb. After a few more steps, he heard another moan.
“Who’s there?”
He listened, looked, but no answer came.
“Come on. This isn’t a joke.”
The voices began again, their chant louder. They were cries for help. He was certain of it, but from where. As he restarted his climb, the rock moved and shook him from his perch. He repelled away from the wall and watched a vertical seam open in front of him. He swung back to the rock and bounced off once more. The crack widened. He returned to the cliff face and felt a suction on his chest, pulling him into the opening. He propped a foot on either side of the hole, leaned back, and twisted his torso in an attempt to free himself from the eerie force. It was no use. The grip was too strong.
Brad screamed for help as the mountain enveloped him. Whatever held him lowered Brad to the floor of the cave, and the pressure on his chest eased. He saw the fissure closing and raced to escape, but it was too late. He turned and noticed the figures of other climbers—some asleep, in fetal positions—nested among the layered rock. A few waved to him and called his name.
It was warm and damp inside, like his impression of a womb. A solitary figure stood at the back of the cave. It was a woman, a woman he knew well, his mother, or maybe everyone’s mother. It was then he realized the voices from earlier weren’t crying for help. They were saying “Welcome home.”
- - -
Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two cats. His stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Camroc Press Review, Every Day Fiction, The Houston Literary Review, Long Story Short, MicroHorror, Flashshot and others. He currently serves as a flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre. You can read more of his stories at www.jimharringtononline.net.
