TheDarkEagle.com

Author’s Note: Hello my friends, today’s tale takes place after the stunning events depicted in The Astonishing Adventures of Captain Juan, which is set to relaunch very soon.  It was also inspired by a [fiction] Friday prompt from writeanything.  which challenged writers to “Use a McGuffin”  And now onto the the story!

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Devon watched as the fat man struggled to climb the steep stairs.  It seemed he had chosen the meeting location well and would certainly have the obese man at a disadvantage.   He idly scratched his stubbly head as he waited for the man to make his ascent and wondered what it was that compelled him to have shaved himself bald.

“Couldn’t you… have picked… somewhere… with air conditioning… and… no stairs?” said the enormous man as he heaved the locked, metal case onto the table between them.

Fat man tried to wipe the sweat from his brow.  Devon could see the man’s sleeve was already soaked through.

“Sorry, but I needed to know how far you were willing to go to bring me that sword.”

“’Pose you wanna… see it.”  The overweight antiquities dealer reached his pudgy fingers into his breast pocket and retrieved the key to the case.

Devon licked his lips in anticipation as the hasps sprang up and the case was flipped open.  The fat man looked up from the case and slowly turned it toward Devon.

“A most… amazing sword, this,” said the fat man taking a casual step back.  “You… do know the story of how it was found?”

Devon shook his head.  He had been hired to procure the sword for a rich collector.  His job was merely to authenticate the sword, pay for it if necessary and abscond with it if possible.  He took a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and examined the sword in the case.  It didn’t take long for Devon to see the blade was forged from Toledo steel.  The cup over the hilt was intricately detailed, yet he could see faint traces of feathering on the edges indicating the design was hand hammered and not machine stamped.  Finally, the grip; delicate brass cord wrapped around wood.  His trained eye could tell the cord could almost be considered bronze, an indication of how the Spanish used to make their brass.  The pommel was rather plain for such a well made and obviously expensive sword; a simple filigree with an ornate letter “J”.  There was little doubt this sword was authentic and in this condition, exceedingly rare.

“Your… consensus?”

“It’s too well preserved, yet there is overwhelming proof that this sword is from the 1600’s”

“So you haven’t heard the stories then?”

“No, I prefer to work unattached to the objects I’m to validate.  Professional detachment from the items keeps me honest.  A trait, I’m sure you can understand.”

“Quite.”  The fat man, no longer winded from his climb, continued to sweat profusely in the midday sun.  “But aren’t you the least bit curious, from an academic stand point of course, how a relic so old, could look so new?”

“You have me there sir.”

The fat man smiled and nodded knowingly.

“I first happened upon the rumor of this sword ten years ago whist procuring a rather… unique early American pistol.  The owner of said pistol had asked me if I knew of a sword recently discovered in the bowels of an old sailing vessel found on the coast of Spain.  Of course, as you can imagine, I was most interested in learning more about a sword that would interest this, particular, client.  Turns out that the ship in question was almost completely disintegrated, rotten through and through, save the captain’s quarters which were, and I assure you I do not embellish, miraculously undamaged.  Not a smidgen of decay in the whole cabin.  And there in the center of the room at his desk sat, who I can only assume was the captain of this un-named vessel.  Now, if that weren’t enough, this is where the story gets interesting.  While the cabin and the ship had been discovered several weeks prior to my arrival, not a single person had been able to set foot in the room.  Everyone who tried was immediately overcome with some unknown illness; brought almost to the point of death.   Yet something told me I would not be affected by such afflictions were I to try and enter the room.  I was proved correct, of course; else you and I would not be here now.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Devon.

“Oh, I know it’s a fantastical story, but I promise every word is true.  I stepped into the room, a portal in time, perfectly preserved.  The captain had the sword clutched in his hand which was resting across his mighty desk.  And as I gently pried the mummified fingers loose everything but this sword turned to dust.   Crumbled around me like a house of cards.  I made off with the sword in the ensuing chaos.  It wasn’t my intent when I began my archeological investigation of the room, but once the sword was in my hand I knew I had to flee.”

“So if this sword is what you say it is, a magically preserved relic of some unknown Spanish captain, why are you selling it to my employer?  Wouldn’t you want to keep such a thing for yourself?”

“Oh, I want to keep it, no doubt, no doubt about that, m’boy.  But I can’t, you see.  The same force that drove me to take it now drives me to part with it.”

“And you think my employer-”

“No.  I think the sword belongs to you.  Don’t ask me how I know because I’m sure I have no answer.”

Devon wondered how the rotund man had managed to turn the tables so easily.  He placed a trembling hand upon the sword and freed it from the case.  The perfect balance felt natural in his untrained hand.  He took a couple practice swings then sniffed several times confused by a sudden change of odor.

“Do you smell that?”  He asked the fat man.  “Do you smell the sea?”

The following story contains strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

I bought a knife yesterday.

Callie, my neighbor next door, came home late again. 2:18 in the morning. I know because her crying woke me up and I checked the clock before falling back to sleep.

Callie’s a whore.

Her pimp wakes us up four hours later.

“Get your ass up, bitch,” we hear him scream through the thin cement wall.

Callie doesn’t answer, but I hear her moving around in her apartment. Not a wise move. “Samson don’t like to be kept waitin.”

Fucking Samson. Wears Armani, drives an Escalade. Christ, his fucking shoes cost more’n I make a year. Dick-head. He pounds the door again, harder this time. The whole building can hear him, but we bury our collective heads under our pillows and hum. He’ll be gone soon and we can forget about Callie till tomorrow morning when Samson comes back. Except I can’t bury my head under my pillow.

There’s a knife there.

“How you hook up with that guy?” I asked her once when we both happened to be in the basement laundry.

She answered by pulling her stripper outfits from the dryer and running upstairs.

He’s beatin on the door non stop today. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM

He slaps her hard. I hear her moan and say she’s sorry. Can she have the morning off? She’s tired. I hear her yelp. Probably has her by her hair again. My head hurts. Could be lack of sleep. Could be because I’m pressing my head against the knife. I didn’t realize I had moved it out from under the pillow and put it on top.

“Why don’t you leave that guy?” I asked her once when we happened to both be down by the mailboxes. Her’s was empty. She smelt like sweat. Jasmine and sweat. I bet she was pretty once. She turned to leave and wouldn’t look at me.

“I can help you.” I said.

She paused for a moment before continuing up the stairs.

“You can’t,” she said with her back to me and her head lowered. “I can’t.”

She’s home again but not alone. Her screams wake me, that and the rhythmic pounding of her bed hitting the wall. It’s over in less then two minutes. It’s 1:49am.

My eyes snap open to the sound of Dick-head beating on Callie’s door. “Wake the hell up bitch.” He keeps pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding.

Just once I wish he’d knock on my door instead. My hand hurts. I’m holding the knife white-knuckled.

“Leave her alone asshole! People are trying to sleep!” The pounding on Callie’s door stops.

He’s beatin on my door now.

What are you gonna do about it Mr. Tough Guy.

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Author’s note: This story was written from a prompt provided by one of my favorite sites, WriteAnything. I hope you enjoyed this story. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of it.

An iron taste filled Jack’s mouth as he drove white-knuckled past the Lunar gate.

“Don’t look. Don’t look.” he repeated to himself as he neared the entrance to the fun-park. As a child Jack had been forced to drive past the hideous gate every day on his way to school. He swore it was evil; felt it in his bones. He had never witnessed strange happenings, nor had he ever heard bizarre tales concerning the accursed gate. It was more a feeling. Not of dread, but something more. A strange foreboding that made every hair on his body tingle.

Now in this late forties Jack found himself back in his godforsaken hometown. He would have done anything to avoid driving past the gate again but the funeral procession’s route was out of his control.

“Father,” said his young son fidgeting with his tie. “Can we go there for my birthday tomorrow?”

“What? Show some respect, Samuel. It’s your Great Aunt’s funeral.”

His wife placed a calming hand on his knee. “Easy Jack,” she said in her too-happy mother’s voice. “He’s too young to understand. Besides, he hardly knew the woman. It’s not his fault the funeral is today. Aunt Bertha wouldn’t want it to ruin his birthday.

They didn’t know about his fear of the gate and what lay within. And why would they? How could he tell his wife and son he was afraid of a happy moon face. Afraid of an entrance to a fun-park, of all things.

“You, you’re right Catherine. I was… It’s just…”

“I understand, funerals aren’t easy Jack. I’ll call the park this afternoon to set up the party.”

She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder. Jack bit down hard again and focused on the taste of his blood as it oozed around his teeth. Samuel spun around in his seat to get one last glimpse of the park. The funeral procession slowly slunk toward the cemetery.

“Oh, they have a water slide! This is going to be the best party ever. Thanks Dad!”

That night Jack tossed and turned unable to fall asleep. Children’s laughter faded in and out of his subconscious. Jack got up and went downstairs for a drink. He needed to settle his nerves and get some sleep if he were to stand any chance at all of walking into the Lunar Gate. Aunt Bertha had been a warm, friendly woman stuck in her ways. She refused to update or change a thing about her home. The once expensive furniture, now old and uncomfortable yet not quite antique made the home feel as if it were stuck in the forties.

“Kind of like me.” Jack mused as he made his way to the wet bar. He turned up a sherry glass and poured a generous amount. He picked up the glass and inhaled it’s wonderful aroma. Aunt Bertha cleared her throat. Jack spun around. The room was empty.

“I must be going crazy.” he said then sipped his drink. “It’s just a stupid park for kids. Thousands of people have walked through that damn gate. What’s my problem.” He finished his glass and poured another.

Aunt Bertha cleared her throat. Jack spun around. And dropped his glass.

“Jaaaack.”

“Aunt Bertha? But you’re dead. We buried you today.”

“You mussssn’t enter the park, Jaaaack.”

Jack shot bolt upright in bed waking his wife in the process.

“Jack? What is it? Are you alright?”

Jack shook the sleep from his head. It was a dream. His irrational fear getting the better of him in his sleep. “I’m fine, sorry dear. Bad dream, that’s all. Go back to sleep.” His wife patted his arm then rolled over. Her breathing deepened almost immediately. Jack went downstairs for a sherry.

The next morning Jack stood outside the Lunar Gate with is family. This was the closest he had ever been. Strangely he felt nothing. There was no sense of evil emanating from it. It was simply brightly painted fiberglass in the shape of the man on the moon. Jack grasped his son’s hand, opened the door for his wife and together they stepped into the park. No one died. None of his hairs stood up. Nothing but happy children’s laughter. Jack and his family made their way to the water slide. Catherine had told their relatives the water slide was where the party would be taking place. Jack relished the excitement and wonder on his son’s face. He proudly made a note to himself.

This conquering of personal fears is an important lesson I will have to teach Samuel someday.

“Dad, come with me on the slide,” said Samuel then raced off to get in line.

Jack took off his shirt, removed his shoes and kissed Catherine on the cheek before running after Samuel. They were able to move directly to the head of the line. Birthday privileges they were sure to take advantage of many times today.

“I’m scared,” said Samuel.

Jack knelt down and placed his hands on Samuel’s shoulders. “Son, I understand, believe me. But in life you have to face your fears. I’ll go first and you’ll see there is nothing to fear.”

Samuel gave a weak smile and nodded. Jack patted his son’s head and stepped to the top of the slide. He sat down, and pushed off. Almost immediately he knew something was wrong. The water was flowing too fast. The jets of water forced Jack to spin head first. Faster and faster he plummeted. At this speed he was likely to snap his neck on impact with the pool. He wrapped his arms around his head to support his neck just as he made contact with the pool.

Jack stood as quickly as he could and gasped for air. Women screamed and fathers covered their children’s eyes. A voice from deep in the crowd shouted “Cover yourself, you pervert!” It didn’t make sense.

How does personal injury make me a pervert. And why on earth is it so cold? And who’s swim trunks are those?

His cheeks blushed at his sudden realization that the floating trunks were his. Jack did his best to cover himself with his pruned fingers. Aunt Bertha cleared her throat.

Author’s note: This story was written as a dare from my good friend Jodi Cleghorn. She took a great picture of a moon-faced gate and dared me to write about it. Hope you like it Jodi. And I hope the rest of you liked it as well.