by Various
Bernard ran his hand over the dead girl's body and then touched each Angele' on the cheek, leaving a streak of red. "This flesh and blood is for you. Eat and drink this sacrifice and share your power with us."
***
Daria slid into bed and snuggled close to Marcus. She smelled of musk, of oak and incense. Her kisses were spicy and warm. He drifted to sleep and in dreams Daria led him down winding stairs, deep into the bowels of the church. The Angele' beckoned to them and led them into a crypt where the dead sat on marble stones and sang to them as they passed by. Green serpents emerged from the inky blackness and flapped multicolored wings. And blood rained down upon Talbot's Bay.
"I love you Daria," he whispered the next morning.
"I've missed you," she purred.
"After all these years nothing's changed. The rituals continue and my feelings for you are just as strong. I didn't realize until now-"
Her face glowed. "Marcus, today is special. Our anniversary. Valentine's Day."
"Twenty years, imagine."
"I want to make it work this time. Maybe once we learn the secrets Bernie has to share-maybe we can find a cottage by the ocean, live together." She bit her lip. "I've always believed we were meant to be together."
"Me too. I couldn't stop thinking about you. Couldn't stop lov-"
She put her finger to his lips. "I could stay here all day, my love. But I've got work to do. Can I meet you later?"
"Yeah, what time?"
"Around five," she said grabbing her robe and heading towards the bathroom. "Go back to sleep. I'll meet you in the bar about five thirty. We'll talk more about our future and my special kiss awaits you later."
"You'll always be my Valentine." There was dread in those nostalgic words.
He drifted back to sleep and dreamed of Daria. Blood trickled from her neck and from her chest. She sat cross-legged before a painter who dipped her brush into the wounds and splattered canvas with the deep crimson.
The painter smiled and said softly, "I'm Rebecca Farrell, painter of Bernard's nightmares."
Daria's scream and the blood-so much blood-were his only memories when he awakened at one in the afternoon. The rain hadn't let up. He showered, had coffee in the deli down the street and then spent a few hours wandering through the hotel and gazing at the Farrell paintings.
More of her work adorned the library; shape-shifters on canvas-cougars, tigers and lions-emerging from the golden gates of Talazia and more watercolors of The Angele'. Over the mantel was a huge pastel painting of a black panther. Marcus thought about the times he'd seen Bernard transform into a glorious black wildcat. Once again he wondered if it had really happened-if all of their journeys were simply drug-induced hallucinations. However, his recent experience with The Angele' quickly dismissed those doubts.
The lounge was quiet. A male bartender checked bottles behind the bar and an elderly woman sat in a corner booth, drinking a martini. Marcus ordered a beer and thought about the bodies he'd left back in Florida. He knew the police would try to track him down. He knew people on the other side of the law were searching for him as well. They'd never find him here, not in a small New England beach town where unconventional people such as artists, practitioners of the occult and a writer or two resided. Besides Bernie would protect him. His magic was indeed strong.
"Drinking again, Marcus?" Daria sat beside him. Bernard remained standing. Once again Marcus felt jealousy well inside him. He'd been looking forward to meeting Daria here alone. Why was she with Bernard? What had they been doing together?
"We've got something wonderful planned for you." Daria was breathless. Her eyes sparkled with happiness. "We've been working on it all afternoon."
Bernard smiled slowly at her and then turned his gaze to Marcus. "Tonight we'll give The Angele' the ultimate sacrifice and with that we'll be able to acquire riches, pleasures and magic beyond our wildest dreams."
Daria pecked Marcus on the cheek. "We've got to run. Meet us at the church at midnight."
Bernard took her hand and they walked off together. Marcus wanted to follow. Later he'd wished he had, but instead he sulked and indulged in one too many drinks.
Just before midnight he began his journey to the chapel. He made his way through the tangled vines, pulling up his coat collar as icy rain struck his skin. He heard a soft growling. When he pulled back the branches of a fallen apple tree a black panther stood before him. Its yellow eyes glowed. Its tongue dripped with saliva.
"Bernard?"
The cat shook its magnificent head, turned and then looked back as if to make sure Marcus was following. And he did follow.
The Angele' were circled around a gnarled and withered tree at the entrance to the chapel. They broke the circle when the panther approached.
Marcus screamed.
Daria's body hung from the tree. He looked into the panther's eyes and the scene of her death played out within them. They'd tricked her, making her believe that one of the women from the lounge would be tonight's sacrifice. She'd worked all day, preparing the candles, the flowers and helping The Angele' prepare the death tree.
They drugged her with sweet wine, then they tied the noose around her neck. Before she was hung her face had been removed, stripped away by the sharp teeth of The Angele'. Now white bone shimmered in the moonlight. Blood trickled on the ground.
The panther closed its eyes and slowly began to change shape, seeming to melt and ripple beneath the moonlight. Within minutes Bernard stood before him. "I loved her too, Marcus, and that's why her blood is the ultimate sacrifice."
A girl with coal-black eyes sunk her teeth into Daria's neck, then peered at Marcus as blood trickled from her lips. "A Valentine's kiss," she said and her laughter echoed through the woods with a nightmarish shriek as another Angele' bit into Daria's chest.
"No," he screamed as the fairies devoured his one and only love.
SANDY DE LUCA
is a poet, writer of fiction and a painter. Her poetry book BURIAL PLOT IN SAGITTARIUS was nominated for the Bram Stoker award in 2000. She recently completed a short novel called SETTLING IN NAZARETH. She has several other novels in progress. She is also editor/owner of DECEMBER GIRL PRESS. On weekends you either can find her exhibiting her paintings in SOHO in New York City or visiting old graveyards in Rhode Island.
FOURTH OF JULY HORROR TALE
The Fourth of July marks the day of independence for the original thirteen colonies of the United States from the rule of the United Kingdom. While a long ago editor of Harper's Magazine lamented that the celebration has lost it's vigor, "flown away in villainous saltpeter, exploded in firecrackers, and whizzed to the empyrean in skyrockets," it still ranks among the most prominent of holidays in the United States.
The fact is that the Fourth of July once competed with Christmas as favorite among families and children around the country. This is because of the unbridled fervor with which communities celebrated. Towering bonfires would be lit the night before, and the day would start early with preparations of food and military gear. The town would gather at church, and after the pastor spoke orators would take turns regaling their neighbors with tales from the battlefield (or their fathers' tales, or later still their grandfathers' tales). Songs, games, picnics, military marches, and defacing Benedict Arnold effigies took up the remainder of the day. The evening saw even more jubilation with fireworks displays (more common after a fireworks industry was established in 1817). These intense, day long spectacles petered out after the 1850's.
Independence is celebrated on July 4 because it was on this day in 1776 that the Second Continental Congress adopted a final draft of the Declaration of Independence. Although it wasn't declared a Federal holiday until 1941, the populace marked the day beginning July 4, 1777. On that day the city of Philadelphia used bonfires, bells, and fireworks, thus beginning the tradition still carried out today. The 1777 celebration was so raucous that two hundred soldiers were dispatched to keep some measure of peace-also reminiscent
of present day revelry. However, there are certain regions prone to celebrate in their own way. Lititz, Pennsylvania, lights thousands of candles, while Seward, Alaska, holds a six-mile race to the summit of Mount Marathon. In 1901 on Pike's Peak, Colorado a massive quantity of explosives were set off, creating a plume of flame five hundred feet wide and hundreds of feet in height. The blast was visible everywhere in a two-hundred-mile radius.
The Fourth of July started a domino effect around the world, and today many other nations also celebrate the dates of their liberation from foreign rule.
-John Edward Lawson
Chicken
By Elizabeth R. Peake
Let's get something understood right now before I go any further. Oscar hated chickens. Not that any chicken did him any harm or he was allergic to them. He hated chickens simply because they lay eggs. Well, that and because he worked at an egg-breaking plant.
Oscar worked at EggBreakers a dozen years or so before the accident. He'd help unload the big trucks filled with hundreds of crates carrying thousands of eggs. He'd carry around a mop and bucket to clean up the never-ending eggs that hit the concrete floor every day. But the job he hated the most, the one he got stuck with every time it happened, was cleaning the mess a broken valve would make when it sprayed him and the surrounding area with slimy, snot-looking eggs. Thousands of them would transfer from one vat to another during various stages of storage. Oscar would turn the valves to start the transfer of the eggs from one vat to another and that's when the valves would stick or break. Either way, them eggs would shoot out in all directions. Not only did Oscar have to clean up the work area, he had to clean up his clothes and work boots as best as he could, and would still stink like eggs gone bad until his shift was over.
Sometimes, Oscar's old truck wouldn't start because of the snow and cold. He'd have to walk home from work and that egg would freeze on his clothes and boots. He wasn't a man of money so he had only one pair, and each night he washed them as best he could and placed them on the heater vents to dry. That hot egg smell would fill his apartment with a stench like no other. Stink would last for days and Oscar would cuss and holler like doing so would make the smell go away. The other guys at work would tease him into an anger-filled rage. And each time the guys would "accidentally" bump into Oscar and send him slipping and sliding on his ass through the gooey mess, his anger towards chickens would climb like a fever.
And because of that rage, it should not surprise you that Oscar took every opportunity to do things to chickens - bad things.
I remember one summer day when Oscar proved to me just how much he hated chickens. We were out and about looking for lawn mower parts when Oscar's piece of shit truck blew a tire. The damn thing couldn't blow while we were in town, no sir. That bald bastard waited until we were ten miles out and halfway home when it popped.
"Son of a bitch!" Oscar yelled. The steering wheel got the butt end of the "bitch" emphasis with a good right fist.
He hit the brakes with both feet and the swirling dirt cloud stuck to our already sweat-stained bodies. Gawd Almighty, that pissed him off even more. He didn't say anything but I've known Oscar long enough to know that when his eyes bugged and his teeth clenched, it's best not to be the one he's pissed at.
"Got a spare?" I asked.
"Yeah, I got one. Now ask me if its got air in it?" he said. Yeah, buggy eyes and spittle flying outta his mouth when he spoke was a clear sign Oscar was well on his way to another fit of hate-filled anger.
We got out of the truck and looked into the rust painted truck bed in which we found the dusty doughnut. If it had air inside, we were as good as home. Oscar grabbed the tire by its rim and hoisted it high in the air before bouncing it on the dirt road to check for air quantity.
"Well shit, its got air," Oscar said as he rolled it behind the pickup to the rear passenger's side flat. I grabbed the equally rusted jack and tire iron and began lifting the back of the truck when I saw the chicken. It strutted across the dirt road and into the nearby field.
"Did you see that fucking chicken? Did you see the nerve of it walking so close to me?" Oscar said. He removed the lug nuts one by one, all the while watching the chicken in the field. If the truth were told, he couldn't see the chicken, just its head as it jerked forward and back with each step. The wild grass in the field hid most of the chicken's body and neck.
"Yeah, I see it," I said. Sweat and dirt streaked down my face and neck and I never felt so in need of a shower in all my life. I walked behind Oscar to the passenger door and opened it. Inside the truck, I grabbed a handful of McDonald's paper napkins off the dashboard and wiped the dirty sweat from my body as best as I could. "I wish we had some water to throw over my head. Damn, it's hot," I said to Oscar, only he didn't answer me. I glanced over my left shoulder but Oscar wasn't fixing the flat. It didn't take me two seconds to realize he was in the field trying to get at that chicken. I told you, Oscar fucking hated chickens.
"Come here you little bitch," he said. Oscar had removed his shirt and was waving it at the chicken like a bullfighter antagonizing the bull. The chicken continued to slowly strut around the field, but if it was smart enough to see the look on Oscar's face and his bulging eyes, that chicken would have tried to fly to the next county.
"Hey, come on. It's fucking hot out here and you're messing with a stupid chicken." He either didn't hear me, or he was ignoring me. Either way, I was getting a little angry as he continued his bullfighter stance and angry curses at the white bird. "Oscar! Get your ass over here and quit fucking around with that damn chicken!"
Well, I guess my yelling scared the bird and the stupid thing ran right into Oscar's path. Within a few seconds, Oscar had his left hand around the chickens' neck and the other holding both feet. He began walking towards me and I couldn't help but laugh at the sight of his eyes and the chicken's. Both sets were wide and unblinking. But if I could single out one memory of that day, it would be the moment I realized that catching that chicken excited Oscar. His hard-on could be seen as he walked out of the grassy field. Dirt-mixed sweat slid into his eyes and the stinging went unnoticed. Oscar was having too much fun.
"Geez, Oscar. Either kill and eat the thing or let it go," I said.
"Killing and eating this bitch will be my pleasure," he said. "Grab my cooler outta the back of the truck, will ya'?"
I began walking towards the truck but I never got the chance to get the cooler. I was a few feet away from it when I heard Oscar yell.
"You little whoremonger! I'll fucking kill you!"
I ran towards Oscar but stopped the second I realized what had happened. The chicken had crapped all over his hand and arm. Some folks might say I am responsible for what happened next but most will know that my laughing at Oscar and his shit-coated arm would not have caused any normal man to do what Oscar did.
"You think that's funny, huh? You think this fucker shitting all over me is funny, huh?" His face changed to different shades of bluish red with every word he spoke.
"Oh, come on Oscar. You're damn straight it's funny!" I said. And yes, I was still laughing.
"I'll show you something funny, ass-wipe. I'll show you something really funny." Oscar let go of the chicken's feet but held the neck with a white-knuckled fist.
It was then that I knew the devil walked the earth disguised as a man.
Before my eyes could accept what was happening, it was over. Oscar, a man I had known for most of my adult years, a man I spent most of my days with, had shoved his prick into that chicken's ass and shot his load. My laughter stopped as quick as a hand flies off a hot stove. I stood there, unable to speak or walk. My rubbery legs barely kept me standing.
Oscar tossed the dead chicken into the field. "Now, that was funny," he said.
"No, man. That was sick," I mumbled.
He walked up to me and put his face as close to mine as possible without touching it. "Yeah? If you ever tell anyone, you'll find out how sick I can be," he said.
Oscar an
d I had a little understanding on that hot, summer day. There are just some things a man keeps to himself, and this was one of them.
The months passed and summer came around again. Oscar and I had spent little time together since the chicken incident. I made many excuses and told a shitload of lies to keep us separated, but the annual Fourth of July picnic the town held would put Oscar and I together again. Each year, it was held at one of the local farms and as luck would have it, this one was held at Ferguson's chicken farm. Pete Ferguson wasn't a big-time chicken farmer but he owned a hundred or two. Most were kept in the chicken house but a few walked around the farm and all around the picnic area. The kids chased the chickens and Pete yelled at his son to round them up, but his voice went unheard. Pete's boy hated the farm life and preferred to sit around and write poetry or some shit. Word around town has it Pete was ashamed of his son because of his lack of family interest. The town knew better. Pete was ashamed because his boy was more like a girl. Petey Junior was fond of his feminine side.
I chatted with the picnic folks and ate until I thought I would puke. I avoided Oscar as best I could but a man can only chat with the blue-haired church ladies for so long and eat only so much potato salad before he walks off to be alone. It was on that walk when I found Oscar trying to catch a stray chicken.
"Oscar, what the hell are you doing?" I asked.
Startled, he looked around to see who was speaking and then smiled when he saw me. "Hey, old buddy. Guess what I got?" He opened his hand and in it was a string of firecrackers. It looked like a dozen or so, all nicely tied together.
"What the hell do you plan on doing with those?" Deep down inside, I knew the answer. I guess I asked the question because I wanted Oscar to come right out and say it.
"What do you think I'm gonna do with a bunch of firecrackers on the Fourth of July? I'm gonna light them up!" Oscar turned his focus back to the chicken that unknowingly strutted too close to him.
