Skulls

a short story
by Astor W. Heinemann

(Inspired by The Misfits)
I want to go out tonight. I need it. Them bones are drying up and papa needs new blood, more blood, fresh blood. I sit on my bed fresh awaken from a tight slumber where I dreamed about them. I look up and stare at my wall, my trophies all limp and lifeless looking at me from beyond their demise as their savior, the one and only who stripped them out from the pain of being alive, they thank me and I thank them for the pleasure they have brought me, but now I must add more lives and I think of how much easier it would be if I could breathe new life into them, have them do my dirty work for me, command "Go thou south of here, carry out my will and spill not a single drop, bring them here, young, fresh, clean, bring them forth to my feet still alive so I may do with them as I please, as I did with you. These are your new brothers and sisters and in no time will join your hordes for the hunt". But the dead cannot come back to life and so I grab a piece of bone, suck on the delicious marrow and I dress up.

The image in the mirror looks back at me, this frame that holds the real me inside. It looks like a regular person, but it's just a flesh disguise given to me at birth. A demon I am inside of this suit, no one will ever know just by looking at me. I am them, on the outside, I am their son, their neighbor, their co-worker, their regular Joe. But I am not Joe, I am not John Smith. Inside I am Beelzebub, the incarnation of the Dark Night of the Soul, swimming in a sea of spiritual dryness, I am the perfect Dark Triad. I am he, them, the Legions of all that scares little children alone at night. I shall give them a reason to.

From a distance I watch them, I crave for them, they don't know it, they don't see me, they don't feel my eye balls rolling all over their bodies, tasting them from afar, wanting to suck out the life liquid from them, make them a part of me. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, who shall die tonight and leave me wanting more? You are the one, with the big eyes, wide hips and narrow waist. I can smell you from here, the scent stronger as you near the bush I hide behind. I look around me, no other soul in sight. The handkerchief is ready, moistened and prepared as you pass by and I quietly creep up behind you, never knowing what hit you.

Back at my place I lay her on my workbench and lay out the tools beside her. I take a moment to look her over, naked and cold. In an instant you will be no more than a mere decoration piece on my wall. She is beautiful. Her hair is shoulder length, curly, her lips are meaty and her nipples big and hard. She has a birthmark on the right side of her waist and I kiss it, lick it, suck on it. She is delicious. I softly run the tips of my fingers all over her sensitive spots and I feel a slight shiver from her body. She is about to wake up. Behold, here I come.

On top of her I suck on her neck, her jugular vein is tense and hard and she moans tightening up her eyes. My lips move to her shoulders and I have the first taste of her, biting a piece of flesh from her shoulders. She moans louder and opens her eyes, looks into mine as I pull away with blood trickling down from my thick lips. I feel her legs spread up around me. The night is hot and unusually quiet, I can feel her body warm up and her breathing getting heavier, but she doesn't struggle, doesn't try to scream, there is no panic, no terror, not even the slightest acknowledgement of her imminent expiry. This is not right. I want to make her beg, plead, cry for her life, but she does not and so I grab my favorite knife from it's sheath and I sink it slowly into her heart. She whispers "thank you" before taking her last breath. There, little girl, I gave you what you wanted, after all, I am the devil.

This is still my most prized possession. The sweetest of them all. I gave her what she craved for, she gave me what I craved for, we were meant for each other. She hangs still, arranged at the center with all the others around her. This is who I am, a soul collector, blood aggressor, consumer of flesh, manic oppressor.

Ende.

TRUE.Mom

a true story
by Astor W. Heinemann

Back home when I was young we always had help around the house. They cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, watched my brother and me while mom was working. We had I don't know how many maids, more than I can remember, but a few of them always stand out. There was stinky, who always seemed to be drunk, horny, who kept telling us stories about guys she let into her bedroom when the family was asleep, the tall, dark, skinny old lady that had a permanent smile on her face, she was my favorite of them all. There was something comforting about leaving home and coming back to a friendly granny smile and she always kept the food warm for us. She was a good cook and my clothing has never looked as sharp or smelled as good as it did back then.

But the one that I have permanently engraved in my fragile, sensitive little mind was this fat, light skinned woman. She had a very unnerving expressionless face that always creeped the hell out of us, well, me, I don't think my brother paid enough attention to notice. She smelled weird too, not like stinky, who always had a different combination of sweat, cheap soap and booze, no, this one smelled as you imagine death smells like. Her head was big and round, it seemed that she was balding, she had no neck, as if her head just sprouted from her shoulders one day, thick, flabby arms and her thighs were so wide and thick that when she walked she had to rotate her whole waist from side to side just to make one leg go ahead from the other.

She never spoke unless spoken to and her responses were always brief, but somewhat vague. I don't think I saw her smile once and the food she made was terrible. I saw her clean the house constantly, but it always felt dirty regardless of how much she broomed and swept and dusted the place.

One Sunday morning I got up, it must have been around nine or nine thirty. I went to the dining room and sat down for my breakfast. While I awaited my food reading a magazine, mom came out and was fiddling about the kitchen doing who knows what. That's when it happened. I heard the most horrific statement I could imagine. "I had a girl last night". I kept staring at the pages, trying to shake off what I had heard, wishing, pleading for it to be my wild imagination playing tricks on me. I heard my mom drop a pot and ask "what are you talking about?" The woman reiterated that she had given birth to a baby girl the night before. Apparently she had been pregnant the whole time and none of us could tell, she didn't bother to let anyone know either.

By now my breakfast had been served, but I hadn't started eating yet. I stared at these two women discussing the birth details in mortified disbelief. I heard the woman explain how she had used the metal cap from a soda pop bottle to cut her umbilical cord and disposed of the "extra stuff" in the toilet. At that point I looked at my food and wondered if my scrambled eggs with tomato sauce and vegetables had been spiced with her placenta, you know, the "extra stuff". I mean, how could she have flushed that down the toilet? Wouldn't it back up and make a huge mess? How could she not make a single sound during labor on her own? And where was this small creature she spoke of?

My mom moved back a few steps and started asking if she was insane, how could she not let anyone know, she could have died, the baby could have died, yada-yada-yada. She called a friend to take this woman and her baby to the hospital, meanwhile I'm just staring at my eggs.

The woman was fired, given three months pay in advance. My mom always had a mother Theresa complex and actually intended to hire her back a few months later. After a lot of kicking and screaming I finally convinced her not to, but for some reason the woman showed up at my mom's house every few months on unexpectedly creepy Sunday afternoons. I found out why, I caught her stealing money from my mom's purse. When she saw me that last time staring back at her, she slowly put the money back, no change on her facial expression, went outside, picked up her baby and left. Silent. She never came back.

To this day I can't have scrambled eggs with tomato sauce and vegetables without thinking of that placenta. It may have been my morbid curiosity or just the fact that I was so hungry, but I ended up devouring those eggs that morning. It was the only meal she had ever prepared that actually tasted good.

Ende.

Foe

a short story

by Astor W. Heinemann

Staring at the wall from about two feet away, the old tiled wall, grout not scrubbed in a long while. Small one and a half inch square tiles, thousands of them, mostly white but sprinkled with many black and navy blue ones. I always stare blankly at them, my vision blurred, and let the patterns make up familiar outlines, my imagination running amuck with wild memories from a past I had not yet lived. 

Urinating was always a waste of time, I felt. A necessary deed cast upon us by our maker with no room for rebuttal. Not the same with cutting our hair and fingernails, which have been engraved into our beings by hundreds of years of social evolution, but  general human biological maintenance, inner grooming, or as I like to call them all, time killers. I was not yet half way done when I felt this painful taser shock on the left side of my head. I turned to see and he was there, staring at me, stupid grin on his face, empty eyes like someone who has just woken up, is high or not one hundred percent at wit. It scared the living shit out of me. I tried to cut off the piss, somehow walk away from there, but as every man knows, once you start you can’t stop. It seemed like hours before I was done, still those disgusting eyes fixed on me. My face felt warm, hotter by the second, burning as if a million BTUs of the sun’s heat were getting closer and closer. I dared not look again for fear of having that hideous expression carved into my memory forever, haunting me for the rest of my existence or even beyond.

When I was done I quickly went to the sink to wash my hands and again he approached me, crowding the sink beside me. I didn’t even want to look up at the mirror, at my own reflection, lest I would suddenly see him, his face, behind me. Scrubbing my hands quick, nervously, I shook off the excess water, got a paper towel and before I could toss it in the trash can, he spoke. A slightly idiotic, mentally challenged way to speak, he had. Deep, too, same as the look on his face, as echoes from endless catacombs. He said something about needing some help. Later, I said, In the afternoon. I’m too busy now and need to keep focused. He said 0k moving his face around in circles like he was saying yes and no at the same time. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could, still nervous. Thinking he could sniff my scent in the empty space I had moved about while escaping, like a demonic hound tracking its prey, I feared to look behind me and just kept going, and going fast.

The mural was not half way done yet. Restoring these old things is a delicate, time consuming job, you have to be meticulous and keep the original work as intact as possible. This is why they hired me, I’m the best at what I do, a perfectionist. I keep my staff on their toes and they do their best possible work, just for fear of my reaction if they don’t. This was a big job, it was going to help solve a lot of financial problems and the only reason why I caved in to the property owners’ request to allow their one and only son, Bubba Kirkland, to chime in and help in whatever way he could. I had never met the fellow, but said yes because of the money. The old eighteenth century mansion had a mural about ten feet by twenty feet in one of the main halls, this was our work area. I made my office one of the nearby smaller rooms where I was able to quietly analyze the high resolution digital pictures of the mural to assess our progress. I kept some scotch and a small mattress there, although I had grown accustomed to seldom sleeping.

I did my best to keep Bubba as far away from our work as possible, but in one of their visits, the old folks told me he complained he wasn’t being allowed to work and that I should give him something to do. He’s not bad at all, once he gets the hang of it. You may find him a useful hand. Of course, I should have cancelled the contract right there. This went against all my work ethics and was sure to turn out a smudge in my otherwise flawless career. If word got out, I would have been thought of as soft, maybe as loosing my edge. But the financial difficulties kept me from making good judgements and I said sure, I’ll find something for him. It was then that I noticed he was standing by the door, just barely peeking in, listening, again with that face, that expression. It drove me mad, it gave me the creeps, nightmares, made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, sent chills down my spine. He just stood there, not moving a single muscle, not even blinking, holding on to the left side of the door frame, I could see his dirty hands, dry blackened mud under his fingernails. What was going through his mind? This is why I could never be at ease in his presence. I am, in general, a very good judge of character, like a sixth sense to read people, their intentions, their morals, the greatest poker player that ever lived. But with this person, if it could be called a person, I couldn’t see a thing. It was like staring at a blank piece of paper, absolutely nothing there.

After the old folks were finally gone I just wanted to get working and get any distractions out of the way as quick as possible. So I took the young fellow aside and asked Ezra to come along as well. Ezra, you’re working on the oak tree and the children playing around it, right? He nodded inquiring why I asked. Why don’t you take Bubba here and have him help you. Show him the basics and make sure he stays away from anything that can be easily damaged. He looked at the young man, with suspicion, scanned him from head to toe and gestured with his head for him to come along. I was already regretting the decision, but if anything even remotely apart from catastrophic could be pulled out of this situation, Ezra was the best man to do it, he had been with me for fifteen years and the only person in my team I fully trusted. As always, I went to breathe down the necks of the rest of my staff, pointing out mistakes and generally making them feel worthless.

After a few hours of my own hands on work on the murals I retired to my office to try and relax my nerves with a drink and some music. I thought about the mural. A gigantic english oak tree on one end, several children dressed in colonial era clothing played cheerfully under it’s shade on the left side The center was mostly grass and a beautifully landscaped garden, sun setting away on the horizon, far away a horse carriage came or went through a winding road that led to the main house on the right side of the mural. A servant of some sort bringing refreshments for the children, obviously included to hint summertime bliss, while the adults had their tea on a smaller but more pompous garden directly in front and to the left of the house, which made them closer to the observer in the painting’s perspective. It was obvious that the colors were vivid when it was young, like most of us are vivid and full of life in our youth, and I always thought of my murals as living beings, just deteriorated, abraded, worn down with time, that old enemy of everything, but which most of us covet so fiercely. A cosmic joke of us wanting, needing, begging for more of it even though we know as much as we get of it is as much as we’ll be closer to deterioration, old age and certainly death. It made me feel very empowered indeed, god-like almost, to be able to bring new life to these beings. Bring their birth about once more, giving them more time. I was a fountain of youth to my murals.

I was very fond of this particular one. I had lived in Paris after college, studying the arts in several galleries, working as curators’ helper. I learned from some of the best there were. This particular mural was painted by an artist who had also painted one of the first restorations I was allowed to do on my own. I felt the nostalgia and saw all the beauty in it that I had seen before, when I first fell in love with this line of work. Then, suddenly, as my glass slowly became empty I began to realize what a big mistake it was to allow Bubba to work on this job. I began to panic. What could he have already done to it? Even my trust in Ezra was being questioned. Was Bubba conning him into giving him more access than he should have?

My head was spinning, I grabbed my hair with both my hands and rested my elbows on my knees. I tried to calm myself down, but I could not allow this to go any further. I sprang off my chair, knocking down some things off my desk and ran out to the main hall where the staff was working, all focused on their particular little three feet by two areas of the mural at a time. I moved my head about, whipping, panning, eyes moving around nervously, my hair flowing all over as I did so, getting on my face, making it more difficult to find what I was looking for. Ezra was nowhere to be seen! And Bubba? Where was he? I could only see the backs of the workers and had a terrible time picking out Bubba from everybody else. Running amuck like mad, scared, frustrated, turning around every male working there, but none was him. I finally called out his name, yelled it. There he was, at the other end of the mural. Looking at me with that retarded face of his. His slight mustache, his big ears, it all made him seem mad, evil, insane! Gigantic eyeballs covered half way by his eyelids, big crater-pored nose, smiling with all his teeth out, but with his jaw hanging open, a little bit of spit on one end of his mouth, it all made me feel like I was looking at some kind of devil dog, sent here hell spawn by Beelzebub himself to make my life miserable until it was my time to spiral down into the fiery infernos of the underworld! 

I walked slowly towards him, the way one does when approaching a rabid beast and you don’t want to make any sudden movements for fear it might jump on you and chew away a piece of your neck. What are you doing? I asked, with a calm, condescending voice. He stared at me for what appeared like hours before he started babbling some seemingly random sentences that were somehow supposed to be related to my question, but it was all senseless. Listen, put the brushes down, let Ezra take care of this, let’s go into my office and talk for a while. He just made that head wobbling gesture again. I didn’t want him walking behind me, so I put my hand forward, palm up, in the direction of the room I had taken up as office, and got out of the way so he would go in front of me. Anticipating any possible aggression, I was tense as I walked behind him, fearing a back blow thrown at me at any moment. The walk, which was only a couple of dozen feet, seemed like miles through a sizzling desert road in the middle of the day, a firewalker, him walking like an obscene primate. 

Leaving the door open I walked past him and asked him to sit down in the only chair I had in he room. I remained standing, pacing calmly trying not to look directly into his eyes, while plotting how to get rid of him once and for all, my mind spinning clockwork with no possible way out. He followed my every move with the precision of a modern military device tracking a target. My usual bluntness was deterred by fear, my passive aggressor was weighing on me, psychologically, and this was certainly not 0k. He dared me to do anything with his look and general demeanor. An attitude of and there’s nothing you can do about it filled the room. 

0k, this is how it’s going to be: you are not to touch the mural under any circumstance, you are not allowed to touch any of the tools or materials we brought in, you will not interact with the staff while they’re at work and you will certainly stay out of our way and let us do our job, is that understood? It was as if time had stopped, his face remained frigid as if nothing had been said, no reaction of any kind and I just remained there, frozen, with my left hand on my waist and my right hand index finger pointing up after I had used it like a baton conducting my great speech. After what felt like an eternity he gyrated his head and walked out slowly, pulling away from me and towards the door backwards, no change on his expression not even a hint of discontent or anger at what he had just been told. I didn’t know how to react, but it certainly didn’t make my unease go away, if anything all I could think after he was gone was what have I done?

A few days went by mostly without incident, Bubba was nowhere to be seen, I didn’t bother to ask anyone if they had seen him, and I let my guard down and became reassured that this could possibly be finished up without any major glitches. I was in a much better mood for days! I had done it, I had gotten rid of the hideous face and did not need to worry about it any longer.

Maybe a week later the job was done, we were all very happy and especially I for not having major problems. The staff celebrated and we took pictures but before long I felt I had enough social interaction for the occasion and retired to my room while they all celebrated. I finally felt at peace, had a couple more drinks and laid on my mattress to think. Think of the job, the money and inevitably about Bubba, where was he? Why did he just disappear in such a docile way? Maybe I had misread the poor folk and he was really just a nice guy, perhaps a devilish face cursed him, but he was not the Devil incarnate as I had thought him to be. I think I felt a little bad for him, but I was just mostly glad he was out of our way to finish this mural. I gave the old folks a call to tell them the good news and they were very glad, they said they couldn’t wait to see the result and would be over the next day after noon with my payment. I hung up the phone and felt a sense of closure, I couldn’t wait to go back home and rest for a while.

The next day the old folks arrived, we heard the front door and I went over to give them a warm welcome. We were still asleep when they arrived, there had been much celebration until late hours of the night and I had re-joined the party after my talk with them. Most of the team was still drunk and the ones who were up were hungover. I gestured them to come in and excused myself to go and wash up.

I hear a scream, a wail of anger and discontent, a male scream. I didn’t even bother to dry my face up, couldn’t reach for the towel, panic wouldn’t let me, all kinds of things went through my head as I raced down the stairs, almost gliding through the steps, my feet barely touching every other one. At the bottom of the stair case I make a swift left using the end of the handrail, decorated with some wooden hand carved figure, as a pivoting anchor. My shoes are slipping and sliding on the floor as I strain for traction in order to make it there as fast as humanly possible. There, where the scream is coming from. As I get closer it turns into cursing, flaming, I can almost see and feel the fire this angry dragon is breathing out, burning me, consuming my very soul as I shake in my bones fearing the worst possible scene is to be found.

And it was the worst possible scene I found. There was no scene, no mural. The whole wall was covered by several blood red coats of enamel paint. Thick and dry, the smell of the solvent still filling the room, which at the time I woke up I had faintly noticed but convinced myself it was the smell of alcohol from the night before. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, even look at the old man, the other site was too horrendous to be true, all I could do was stare in disbelief, convince myself I would wake up from this nightmare any second now. The possibility and implications of this being true were too great. Months of work, my reputation, the money, I would loose everything, I would never work again. A sticky paint roller on the floor a few feet away from the mural, some mostly empty cans of paint, hardware store paint, they were not in the house before, we keep these things away from our work area just for fear of a freak accident. But it was obvious this was no accident, this was a premeditated attack on me, personally.

I couldn’t even face the old man, I just stared at the mural, what used to be the mural, now just a gory wall that looked like an elephant had exploded on it, then turned back and walked away while the old man yelled and screamed something about me not working ever again and making sure I was doomed into cleaning urinals for the rest of my life. As I went into my room to pick up my things, the staff stood in a military line up way as much in disbelief as I was. I told them to pack up the tools and leave. I sat alone in my room, door closed, wanting to drink, but not being able to, all the booze was used in celebration last night. Celebration, I felt like I was celebrating my own demise. I was frustrated, defeated. Dead.

I had nothing left but to leave this place. The frightening idea of what I would become weighed heavily on my soul. I walked to the garage with my head down. A big garage, it had been a stable in the old days but the owners had converted it into a gigantic home for their unique classic car collection, none of which were here yet, it was just my little roadster at the other end of the structure. As I approached my car something called my attention and I looked up. I should have kept looking down. It was it, The Devil, Bubba Kirkland. His eyes fixed on my, his stomps firm and slow echoing through the empty building. The hell hounds had been sent to give me my final blow so my blood would drain down into hell. I kept walking, slowly, hoping he would pass by me, but it was useless, I knew he was there for me, I was the only one left in the building. I was dead.

As I get closer he reaches into his pocket. I am scared out of my mind, I have to protect myself from this demon! I quickly look down into my pack and pull out my .45, my hand much faster than my eyes, the gun is up, safety is off, a shot is fired, even before my eyes look up. All I see is a spark, so bright it lights up the whole place, so loud my hearing goes out for a second, then a deep loud ringing takes over my ears. I manage to focus, he lies on the ground. I come closer, slowly, blood streaming like a red creek from under him. He quivers, shakes, barely breathing, more like gushing, gargling. His hand manages to go reach mine as I kneel to inspect him. He hands me something, a piece of paper, all wrinkled and crumpled. I use my hands to flatten it, it’s a check made out to me for the full amount of the work. The gargling sounds something like I’m sorry before it fades away. The trembling stops, the noises stop. It’s all gone now.

Ende.

TRUE.Mary Jane

a true story

by Astor W. Heinemann

Ricky was a mean guy. I remember hearing stories, before I actually met him, of how he had punched his mother in the face during an argument and was sent to live with an aunt on his father's side. His parents had been divorced long before the incident. His aunt lived around my neighborhood. People called him 'negroid', a very non-PC nickname, but he liked it and actually urged people to call him that. It's how he introduced himself. I met him at a friend's party and he was drunk as hell, I think we all were.

My friends and I were into the metal scene, which in that neighborhood kind of overlapped with the hardcore punks. Me in particular, I liked all kinds of music, so I shared a lot between the two groups. This was the main reason why Ricky and I became friends. Trading records, hanging out, talking about bands, going to concerts, all that crap.

He was hanging out with this girl called Shelby. She was kind of dirty and very much a tom boy, so none of us liked her, but somehow The Negroid and her hit it off as soon as they met. A few months later she became pregnant and Ricky didn't work, his parents didn't give him any money and they had both decided an abortion was the best solution.

Short for money he started stealing from all of us and selling our stuff among the group. It was not uncommon for you to go missing a record, a shirt, or some kind of scene related merchandise and see one of your friends a few days later bragging about his new acquisition. We all knew it was him, but none of us ever said or did anything because we knew the troubles he was in. I guess it was our way of helping him.

One day he showed up at my place and we were hanging out in my room, me keeping a specially observant eye on him to make sure I didn't go missing any of my tapes or records. He brought with him a tape of a band called The Accused. A bit of a crossover sound, very hardcore punk. I loved them immediately, so he sold it to me. I was learning how to play the bass and there was a solo bass tune in there, which was very unusual for this kind of music. I asked him where he got it and if he could get more of it. Eager to please, or get more money, actually, he told me he got it from a new rich friend and that I should come with him to his place to check out anything I might be interested in, he could swipe it and let me have it for cheap, and I agreed.

This new guy none of us knew. He was the son of the ambassador to Grenada, a big black dude. Very happy and easy going, the kind of guy you would imagine being the life of the party and getting all kinds of girls in spite of looking not so good, he still had a kind of magnetism that attracted people to be around him. The place where they lived was big and well protected. I thought it was reckless of Ricky to go stealing from this guy, but what did I care, really? I just wanted those records that were impossible to find and this guy had.

Hanging out at their pool while the guy was splashing over a couple of cute blonds The Negroid said he was hot and we'd go into his air conditioned room to listen to some music, Grenada-boy didn't mind, go ahead, he said. He had stacks and stacks of tapes and records, most of it punk, some of which I really liked. In any case, we listened to a lot of them and picked out a couple, which Ricky stuffed in his back pack before we went back out to the pool just to say good-bye.

We were all really nice kids, considering the stereo type you think of when you imagine metal and punk kids. We drank lots of beer, but we didn't do drugs or hard liquor. Later we found out a few of the other punk kids were also hanging out with Grenada-boy, not for his records, not for his magnetic personality, but because he could get pot and had no trouble sharing just to have someone to get high with. Negroid got involved in that and suddenly we rarely saw him. He was always hanging out and going out everywhere with this guy.

A few months later we heard Ricky was in jail. First thing that occurred to me was that he got caught stealing and the cops were called, but found out he actually took the fall for Grenada-boy. They were at this club that got raided and Grenada-boy was pissing his pants scared shitless because he was packing quite a stuffed bag of the product. Ricky said to give it to him and he'd get rid of it. Now, knowing Ricky I'm sure his actual intentions were to disappear before the cops got to him and run with the pot, but they got to him before he could run away. I'm sure he could have and may have attempted to say it wasn't his, but what difference did it really make? He had it with him, he's going down.

He was in jail for five years. By the time I got to see him again it had been probably seven or eight years after he was initially arrested. I bumped into him at this popular bakery in town with a beautiful German girl. We said our warm hellos and went our separate ways. I was a straight citizen by then, still loving the music, but not wearing the clothes or sporting long hair anymore. Ricky looked like he was a beach bum now. I meant to ask about the incident, but thought it might be best to keep it in the past, a grand mystery between the old neighborhood kids, now grown up and tricked into being productive citizens of society. It's kind of ridiculous considering songs like "I don't need society" by the Dirty Rotten Imbeciles were among our group's favorites.

When I mentioned this to some of my other friends they said he was living off tourists around beach hotels. I guess I wouldn't have expected any less from the old Negroid.

Ende.

Waiting

a short story
by Astor W. Heinemann

Waking up to the sound of hysterical banging on the door was not her idea of a good morning and combined with that the memories from the previous night that crowded her head as soon as she opened her eyes, even before she could focus them around the room or even know what was going on, conspired to complete what promised to be a horrendous day. She rubbed her eyes and sat up at the edge of the bed resting her elbows on her knees. The wrinkled white bed sheet was damp with what she initially feared was vomit or blood but turned out to be sweat. More banging on the front door and some muffled calls from a male voice.

"Go away, I don't ever want to see you again" she yelled back at the door. The banging continued and the man said "Open up, dammit. Open up right this second". "Just go, leave me alone!". She laid back on the bed and covered herself with the sheets as if hiding under there would make it all disappear, but the man persisted, now with a slowly softening tone. "Please, darling, open the door, I want to see you, I want to talk to you", and she peeked at the door with just one eye. She could already feel the hardened coating that was applied to her heart overnight crack and slowly crumble to dust. It always happened and she knew she was powerless over his sweet talk and apologetic rhetoric.

Trying to force herself against what her heart truly wanted, she attempted to hold back the impulse to run to the door, even a small spasm of movement and a flutter of the bed sheets as her body wanted to get up, she stayed in bed. "It's not gonna work this time, just leave", she said, but even as the words left her mouth she knew she was lying to the man and to herself. "Please, baby, just let me see you, I'm sorry", and that was that.

She got up and on the way to the door looked at her naked body in the mirror, dried blood around her lips and down her neck, went back to cover herself with the damp bed sheet. She hesitated and as if it had a mind of its own, her hand sprang up and unlocked the door.

The man said he'd been waiting all night outside her door, waiting for her to get some rest so she'd have a cool head to discuss the problems. But she was still very angry, if by now at least willing to see him. The woman coldly walked back to bed, without looking at the man, and sat down looking away at a blank wall. "You promised this wouldn't happen again, how can I ever trust you?", "I didn't mean to, I just couldn't control myself, I love you too much".

As she turned her head to look at him, images of the previous night, how the little spherical fish bowl flew by her hitting that stranger that was trying to pick her up at the bar, how it smashed his face, water all over, sharp cracked glass exploding in all directions and how that little piece went to her lower lip like a bullet. The stranger hit the floor unconscious, the man grabbed her arm violently and they both ran away into the night. They were long gone by the time the EMTs and the law arrived.

Looking into his eyes, she could see the man's pain at the thought of losing her. He hung his head down in shame and he curled up on the floor at her feet begging for forgiveness. "This crazy love made me do it, why can't all those people just leave us alone!" She tried to look away, but she started crying as she knew his heart was hers and hers was his. She stroke his hair and pulled his head up to her lap, "what am I gonna do with you, Tom?" He spread his arms around her waist and held on tight.

Ende.

TRUE.Cave

a true story

by Astor W. Heinemann

They were always talking about the spring cave and if you hadn't been there you were a sissy. I already had a reputation as a sissy in the neighborhood after some boys were waiting to fight me and I took the long route from school to avoid them. They made sure that since I didn't get the beating they had planned for me, at least everyone would know I was scared, so I wasn't worried too much about not having been there and my poor reputation, but the idea of that cave and the way they talked about it made it very appealing to me.

I can't remember exactly how old I was, maybe around fifteen or so. My best friend was Saul and he had also never been to the spring cave. He was older than all of us by about three years, but he looked younger and his spirit was always glowing with positive attitude. They called him the elf because he was very short. He could do the weirdest things physically, like climb the end of a protruding wall using nothing more than his knees and elbows, jump incredibly high, leap off one story roofs and land on his feet. He was a cool guy and everyone liked him.

One day Saul told me we should go check out the spring cave. I was game. We'd heard it was pitch black after a couple of dozen feet inside but we didn't have any money for flashlights or anything like that. We improvised torches. We each got a few old t-shirts, we'd find something to wrap them on once we were there, it was around a heavily wooded area.

The cave itself was at the bottom of a big national park, some old dictator liked to take long walks in the afternoon and designated about ten miles by two miles of park. Our neighborhoods were between the big rock wall that elevated the park about thirty feet and if you kept walking away from the wall you got to the ocean. That area that separated the steep wall and the neighborhoods had been recently developed into a new road. It hadn't yet opened to the public and was freshly asphalted, so we always had a great time riding our skateboards there in the hot afternoons throughout the year.

We walked the mile and a half to the cave, climbed down some rocks about ten feet, walked through dirt, dead leaves, twigs, rocks and finally got to the entrance.

"Saul, I don't think this is it" I said.

"Of course it is, the guys said it was right below the ten mile mark". The ten mile sign for the new road was right above us closer to the road.

"But it's just a tiny hole in the ground!" And it was. Right where the steep rocks we climbed down from met the flat ground, there was a huge flat rock with a lot of hardened dirt and smaller rocks on top and a slight opening below that couldn't have been more than a foot high and about six wide. "I ain't going in there" I concluded.

"Come on, man, it can't be that bad!" But it was that bad, worse. He ripped a sleeve off one of his old shirts, tied it to a rock, flooded it with his father's lighter fluid then lit it up and threw it into the opening. We could see a little bit how the cave's entrance went down for a few feet then opened up a bit further in. I said "alright, shit, let's just go in" and just as I started looking for a stick for my torch my little brother and a couple other kids showed up. They had followed us here. "What the hell are you doing here, Nicky?" I asked him, but all I got was a mischievous grin from him and laughter from the other kids. So we went in.

To go inside you had to lay on your back and let yourself slide on the dirt. Saul had a huge head and nose and he had to put his head to the side so the tip of his nose wouldn't be scraped on the rocks at the top of the entrance. When inside and while we still had some light coming in we lit up our torches and trekked on. It was an incredible sight. As we kept going in the cave opened up to an incredible ballroom like opening, maybe 30 feet tall. The ground was wet and to keep our shoes from getting muddy we walked on top of whatever rocks protruded dryly from it. The irregular shapes of the walls and ceiling made it look almost gothic and tons of huge rocks served as obstacles as if an ancient ruler had put them there to deter intruders. Saul started saying how we could find dead bodies or a crazy cannibal living down there, the kids were scared and I said "stop that!" for my little brother's sake, but of course it only added to my chicken rep. We saw some old discarded torches and flashlights.

Then we were there, by the edge of the underground spring. A huge lake like formation full of crystal clear water about six or seven feet deep and you could see all the way to the bottom as if the water was just a giant magnifying glass. Saul immediately propped his torch up against some rocks and started taking his clothes off. I put a hand inside the water and it almost felt like I was touching something magical, we had found the eternal fountain of youth and it was now all ours. The kid's followed Saul's lead and I warned little Nicky to be careful, I was still hesitating.

Saul jumped right in doing a bomb dive. He didn't even bother to check the depth before going in but felt it was fine to trust the stories we had heard. The other kids were more careful just walking in from the shallower edges. I took my shoes off and dipped my feet in while they were splashing and playing games in the water. Then Saul came over with both hands together into a ball shape under the water and spread them open before me. Against the light I could see a small shrimp whose body was completely translucent. I could even see the life line on Saul's hand through it. It was short. I couldn't not take part of this, so I took off my clothes and walked in. I felt like I was bathing in a royal heavenly pool.

When one of the kids went out of the water to reload his torch and said it was the last rag we started coming out and dressing up. Going out of that tiny opening was a lot more of a challenge.

Later that week we went back with some of the other kids our age. We were a hit, they had all talked about it, turns out most of them were lying and had not been there. Saul and I were hero explorers discovering new frontiers previously unknown to our peers. It was on our third trip there when one of the kids stole money from his dad's wallet and we bought some flashlights, waterproof. Extra batteries, too.

That time we were in there for maybe an hour, you could feel the air getting more difficult to breathe even with just a couple of torches in there. Saul noticed the spring went further in than we had gone before, but this time we had flashlights and we could go in a longer way without worrying about loosing the light from the torches at the edge of the water on the other end. There were three other kids with us, two of them older than all of us. There was a long stretch that went much deeper than the rest of the water and as you went along the cave's opening closed down to only a few feet. I was scared.

Saul helped me swim through the deep stretch while I held on to the flashlight above water. We made it through the narrow opening in the water and the most amazing thing was before us. The cave opened up once again into what seemed to be a huge mound of mud. The bigger kids excitedly started climbing it while Saul and I hesitated for a second, looked at each other, shrugged and started on our way up, perhaps 15 feet to the top of the mountain of mud. Up there, the guys were triumphantly started hi-fiving each other as if congratulating themselves for being part of a new discovery. Curiously I pointed the flashlight up to the ceiling to try and figure out if the wet tingling I felt falling on my shoulders was water still filtering through the rocks and into the spring. It was a little warm, but I figured it was probably because the summer was so hot. I was wrong.

As soon as the light hit the ceiling the most horrific shrieking sounds, like a million pings being slaughtered, filled the cave. Our screams started mixing in. Hundreds, maybe thousands of bats flew scared towards out and out the new cave's tiny opening. One of the guys said "watch your hair! they go for your hair!" and they started crawling back down the mound. I stayed behind, not to light the way for them, not because I was brave, but because I was so scared and startled that I couldn't move. I didn't say that, of course, and they thought me brave. "This guy's insane, Saul!" and Saul smiled proudly at me from below. I put my ass to the mud and slid down toward the water.

When we came out of it where the torches were one of them started laughing and said I had crapped my pants. Indeed a disgusting brown thing had stained my pants, but it wasn't my droppings. I said "guys, do you have any idea how all that mud got there?" They didn't have a clue, but only Saul had that surprising expression on his face like he had just figured it out. "That's right buddy, we just took a bat shit shower!". "oooh, aaaarrrgggh, noooo!" they yelled as we all dipped ourselves back in the water and rubbed and scraped our bodies to try and clean them as best we could.

It was shortly after that when Saul had the great idea of climbing onto one of the walls and back flipping into the water. The biggest kid applauded and swam towards the same spot to try it himself. As he latched his hand onto the wall and pulled himself up a huge chuck of it broke off and fell into the water missing him by about a foot. The huge splash caused waves and ripples that moved us all a few feet in the water, one of the torches was extinguished from the water that spattered all over. We stood there for a moment, just looking at the huge hole in the wall where the big rock had just been ripped off.

Slowly and silently we walked out of the water and started putting our clothes on. I can only presume the other kids were thinking the same. I hadn't told my mother where I was, nobody knew, it was a secret place. How easily we could have all been trapped in there forever without any hope of rescue or what a horrible accident one of us could have ended up in. It would be the last time any of us would bathe in the glory of the underground spring.

About fifteen years later I went back. The cave had been converted into a tourist attraction, with stair cases, pathways and abundant electric lighting helping you experience the unbelievable beauty of the spring. They had even installed lights underwater all the way into the water where the cave shrinks and opens up again into a mountain of guano. The hole where the big kid ripped a piece of the wall was still there and my spine shivered with the memory of that moment.

Ende.

Feed The Pigs

a dream by
Astor W. Heinemann

They say dreams only last a fraction of our sleep time, a few seconds or minutes at most. Imagine what it would be like if we could dream for the whole length of our time with the sandman, it would appear to last longer than our awake time, overtaking our lives and becoming reality trading places with our conscious time.

Last night I had a dream. I don't have any idea how long it lasted in real life time, but it felt about an hour. I was standing upon a great vast field of dry tall yellow grass. The wind was blowing to my left and the grass hairs swayed in that direction, toward the sun as if chasing it. There was nothing else around. The wind was strong. I could feel the warmth of the sun against the left side of my face while the other side felt cold. There was a distinct separation from the washed out white glow coming from my left to the deep dark blue skies to my right. I am convinced that if you could see my face at that moment you would have noticed my eyes, the left pupil would have been a small dot and the right a huge black circle as they individually adjusted to the available light on each side. It's almost as if I was in between worlds.

I stood there for a while, warm and cold at the same time, until a steady pulse of muted thuds called my attention. Initially I thought it might have been the wind playing tricks against my ear drums, but firmly the thumping got stronger. I looked at the ground and I could see some of the dirt particles jump around to the rhythm of the thuds all around my shoes. It grew from a low pitched vibration to an audible stomp and swoosh against the grass.

Equal parts fright and curiosity filled my soul as I turned around and saw two giant legs and shoes approaching me, I looked up and there was a huge figure standing before me. It was myself. A mammoth me stopped a couple dozen feet away looking down at a little me. I didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say, all that was left was to stand there looking up in disbelief with my jaw dropped almost supported by my chest.

The gigantic me smiled for a second but before I could return the gesture his hands started moving towards his crotch and he proceeded to unzip his pants. I was frozen. In a second he had whipped out his penis and began to urinate on me, only it wasn't the waterfall like drowning flow I was expecting, but rather a thin and limp flow of liquid went directly into my mouth. Initially I shut my eyes and mouth and violently shook my head in despair, but to my surprise the flavor was pleasant. I can only describe the taste as apple juice with a hint of citrus. By the looks of it alone you could not tell if it was one thing or the other as they both look just about the same. Even a little foaming on the ground as it spilled over. I drank it, couldn't stop drinking, and I fell to my knees with my face up for a while, then I let my head drop and the apple urine washed my hair and flowed through my back inside my shirt. It was refreshing, cool, not warm as would be expected. There it was, big me pissing into and unto little me, nursing me with his citric apple piss and I liked it.

After a long time the flow started diminishing and droplets started falling before it stopped altogether. I looked up and saw big me zipping up, rub his hands clean on his pants and then he made a fist and stuck out the index finger on his right hand. He bent down and tapped the top of my head with paternal affirmation as if saying "you did alright kid, you did alright." He turned around and walked away but by the time his stomps were no longer audible I was dry, my clothes were dry, the ground was dry and the sun had gone down out of sight. There was no moon, no stars up in the sky.

Ende.

Dentifrice

a short story by
Astor W. Heinemann

It was happening again. The same feeling of weakening knees, the awareness that control was being lost, reason and logic were now out the window, a tangible innervation that was all too familiar.  The stomach was like a flushing toilet and the world all around was spinning uncontrollably. Chance? Destiny? Choice? It was apparently a combination of all those things and more, a culmination of events that would inevitably lead down the same path as before. There is no use trying to find a distraction for nothing else was important anymore.

Train wheels clanking against the rails to the rhythm of the speed. Trees and towns flew by the window in a blur of green and gray as the colors of everything were mixed against the static blue and orange sky behind. Faceless people looking down at their newspapers, magazines and smart phones minding their own private world. You there, with the ginger mustache and green suit, what are you thinking about? Are you on a business trip? Going back home? Visiting relatives or a lover? Are you comfortable? Expensive shoes and fancy fabric on his clothes, Italian leather briefcase by his side. Money. He's on a business trip. Old lady behind him cross-stitching kiddie patterns, going to meet a newborn baby. Sexy blond with the cleavage, miniskirt and cowgirl boots, could be anything, perhaps she is running away from her past? Audition for a record deal? getting a job at a strip club? What's with the constant lipstick touch up?

All these people here, all going places or coming from places, nothing in common with each other and most don't even acknowledge the person sitting right by them. If the train crashes all of a sudden a mystical bond would unite everyone becoming more than brothers and sisters, they become everyone else' savior, but nobody really thinks about stuff like that except maybe that nervous looking middle eastern guy. Of course, he could always be claustrophobic or about to trigger plastic explosives strapped under his clothes.

This ride is bumpier than usual and these seats are rigid and uncomfortable. She looked over again, it's still there. Something has to be done. Does anybody read the overhead advertising? Don't text while walking, great hotel deals, enjoy a nice dinner, the fastest wireless network. That light must be about to go out, it hurts the eyes looking at it flashing irregularly but the vague images outside are somehow worse. Why is it so warm in here? It's not that crowded and it's cold outside. Moving to the other seat might make it go away. These cushions should be cleaner, but maybe they don't ever clean them, the unsanitary bastards, perhaps a quick vacuum during maintenance? A vacuum doesn't get rid of the germs. It must be cleaner over there, but probably not. Where's that hand sanitizer? The toilet must be filthy, it's better to hold it in.

A guy once said that if a girl looks over again within three seconds of the first glance then she's interested. Looks like she is, according to that theory. But don't. It will be bad, very bad. For who? Many miles have been traveled yet there's still quite a few hours to go and nothing to do. A short friendly conversation can't hurt and it will make the time go by faster. It's so boring in here. Dentifrice is a funny word, a dazzling dark dentifrice deliciously demonstrated at the dentist does defer dozens of dental diseases if done decently. It's going to be dreadful. Her teeth are dauntingly delightful. Don't.

It's the smile, they always have mesmerizing smiles. Hypnotic. Smells nice up close, suddenly the cacophonous stench of the rest of the train is dissipated. A charming accent, Tennessee maybe? Nashville she says. A little bit of lace shows from underneath the bright blue shirt and black cardigan as she bends down to scratch her left ankle. Nice ankles, she has one of her shoes off. It would be a good idea to go away before things get out of hand. She smiles again as she comes back up and then turns to look out the window, her long brown her was held up almost hiding that red and green tulips tattoo where her shoulder meets the neckline. That is one nice neck. That smile, she must use a pretty darn decent dentifrice, the kind that leaves that filmy coat and awful taste in your mouth is not so good.

She walks slowly ahead, still looking back, towards the luggage cart. It appears that guy was right about the second look. She has a sexy walk, perhaps slightly augmented by the impending encounter ahead. Her hand is extended back, it's soft and warm. There's that smile again. Almost all passengers have gotten off the train as it nears the last station. A short stomach grumble. This is going to be bad.

There's a warm trickling feeling as drops of blood fall sliding down to the small puddles formed on the floor, they can be seen in slow motion as they splash and make almost imperceptible ripples. Her fleshy thighs are tastier than could have ever been foretold, a true feast, tender and juicy, she must have worked out regularly. Dentifrice that makes your teeth strong is the best kind, useful for moments like this. Ripping out pieces of meat easily, making chewing effortless is better because all senses can be focused on savoring the taste. Her wrist watch marks two forty five in the morning, the station should be near. A vibrating sound comes from her phone, a text message asking if she is almost there.

The toilet doesn't smell as expected, it's still bad, but at least it's clean. It's all those chemicals they use in there. A fresh supply of paper towels is always a welcome find. The breaking wheels squeak and wail loudly like a mournful mother in the night as the train is coming to a stop. There is sure to be a commotion as they open up the luggage cart, it's better to be out of here by then.

They shouldn't smile at strangers, it can get bad, really bad.

Ende.