That
Day by Johan Thole
That day, in her room, I
found my mother dead. She was sitting in her chair, with a pen in her hand and
a letter on her desk. She had a terrible, horrified expression on her face. Until
today I don’t know what caused her death. But it must have been ghastly!
I can tell you what happened.
At least, more or less. It started with a pen. The pen that uncle Charles left
me. He spent most of his life in India, and I suppose that’s where he bought
this pen. It was a really stunning Parker, with silver snakes twisted round the
barrel and the cap. The eyes were some kind of gems. They had a fire-like shine,
and they almost seemed to live.
I think he never used it.
Still in the box, it looked brand new. I had held it in my hand several times,
but never filled it. The time never seemed right, so I saved it for that special
moment.
I worked at Smiths &
Jacobs, and walked home from the bus station every single day, usually taking
the same route. There is an antique shop down the road, and I often peeked inside
through the window. Always the same furniture and regular old stuff. But one day,
I saw a bottle in the shop window. Not just a bottle, an intriguing ink bottle.
It was a very dark green glass, with an attractive sculptured surface. The brand
name was the most unusual part: VENOM INK. Bright green letters in an old script.
Of course! This was the proper ink for my pen! So I went into the shop, and asked
the owner if this ink was good for fountain pens. He told me that he used another
bottle himself. The colour was a dark green, and it flowed perfectly from his
pen. And his old Swan was a bit picky, so if it worked in that one, it would work
in any pen. We discussed a bit about the price, but finally I left the shop with
my new ink.
That evening I carefully
took uncle Charles’ pen from its box. I opened the bottle, took the dropper
and gradually filled the pen. I picked some papers and started drawing circles
and swirls. It took some time, but when the ink reached the nib, it put an exceptionally
beautiful dark green line on the paper. I loved this ink! It was funny, but the
pen seemed to love it too. The silver felt warm and lively, as if the snakes were,
how should I say this, excited!
I decided to sit down for
a letter to Christine, my dear friend. I felt a bit guilty about having neglected
her for quite some time. But not for long! With this pen, it seemed like the letters
flowed automatically on the paper, without any thinking of my part. It was a heavenly
feeling, almost hypnotizing.
Far too late I noticed
that creeping sensation on my hand and wrist. I looked down, and was horrified
to see the snakes slithering round my arm! I wanted to scream and to shake them
off, but at the same time I felt a sharp sting. Instantly everything turned dark
around me.
Her pen was a plain black
Parker. No decorations, and actually far too dull for my mother’s taste.
I cannot recall that she ever used it before. I have put it in a drawer of my
desk, held it in my hands sometimes, but I never used it. However, today the strangest
thing happened! When I opened the drawer, I discovered that two beautiful silver
snakes were wrapped around my pen. I don’t know what happened, and it scares
me quite a bit. At the same time I believe that this pen is far too beautiful
to be left unused.
There must still be an
old bottle of ink somewhere in my mother’s room. Old ink in an old pen,
that idea seems most fitting!
Possible, but not
very probable by Nicola Mallik
It was a calm and placid
evening, which made a change from the dark and stormy hours that had preceded
it. An eerie stillness hung in the air as if the storm had sapped all energy from
the environment. As usual, at precisely 5:35, Jacob stepped from the air-conditioned
sterility of his office into the muggy humidity of an Australian spring. He was
momentarily glad the storm had already passed, meaning he wouldn’t get drenched
on his walk home, but that appreciation disappeared as the first beads of sweat
trickled down his back. Despite the regular discomfort, Jacob made it a habit
to always walk home, enjoying the opportunity to be at one with nature. Or, at
least, that was the image he would have liked to present had he not lived in the
middle of suburbia. In fact, short of the meticulously planned country gardens,
the closest thing to wilderness in this neighbourhood was the overgrown, weed-infested
cemetery he used as a shortcut. Not that it was much of a shortcut, as Jacob would
always pause and ponder over one grave or another, but it was pseudo-wilderness
at least.
Today he sought out the
oldest grave he could find, wondering for a moment whether he may discover a convict.
The first government farm was nearby – he remembered that from countless
school excursions – so it was possible. Possible, but not probable. That
seemed to be the motto of Jacob’s life. Chances of him ever earning a promotion?
Possible, but not probable. Chances of him setting down and starting a family?
Possible, but not probable. Chances of anything exciting ever happening in his
mediocre life? Yep, possible, but not probable. And so it did not surprise Jacob
that the oldest grave he found bore the date 1928. He was only 100 years off his
target, things could be worse. The epitaph simply read “Grace Kinney, 1892
– 1928, Loving wife of Angus.” Or, at least, he assumed it read ‘loving
wife.’ Years of accumulated mud and grime had collected at the bottom of
the headstone obscuring its wording. Tentatively, Jacob squatted down and began
to scrape away the muck.
“Get out of it!”
A voice suddenly boomed, the surprise causing Jacob to start and fall.
“Blimey, where’d
you come from?” Jacob muttered as he squinted up at the figure that now
loomed over him. The late afternoon sun was blinding and prevented Jacob from
seeing this man’s true form.
“I was just trying
to read the inscription,” Jacob continued.
“Looks like someone vandalised it to read ‘unloved’…”
He trailed off, unnerved by the expectant silence that now descended.
The stranger merely glared, crossing his arms accusatorily.
“Yeah, anyway, I was just leaving, I guess.” Jacob muttered, wondering
what sort of propriety the stranger had over this graveyard.
“You do that. And next time, don’t touch my mother.” The stranger
threatened.
“Your mum?” Asked Jacob, his sudden interest outweighing any caution
the threat may otherwise have produced.
“Funny, it doesn’t mention anything about any kids, just this Angus
fellow. He your father, then?” Jacob asked, realising the stupidity of his
question only after he had uttered it.
“No. He never wanted children. Too busy with his job.” The bitterness
was practically dripping from the stranger’s words now.
“Never wanted me, never wanted her. Bastard.” The stranger spat out
the last word as if it were an assassin’s bullet.
Great, though Jacob, I’ve stumbled into an unfinished domestic…
“He was the death of her.”
Somehow, Jacob knew the stranger wasn’t speaking figuratively. The realisation
sent a chill down his spine, even though his shirt was still clammy with sweat.
“You remind me of him. Before he rotted in prison, that is.”
Even better, an unfinished
domestic complete with psychopathic offspring…Jacob noticed it had suddenly
gotten dark and he wondered how long he had been in the cemetery. It dawned on
him that not only was he standing in the middle of a graveyard in the dark being
threatened by someone who was obviously a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but
he was doing so on Halloween. Boy, I really have a gift for planning these things.
As Jacob started to edge away, the figure started up again.
“Stabbed her, didn’t you?” The stranger murmured, moving closer
to Jacob.
Oh boy.
“Stabbed her once. But once wasn’t enough, so you kept stabbing. Again,
and again, and again.” By the time the stranger had growled out the last
‘again’ he had also managed to pin Jacob against a head stone.
Oh yes, this definitely improves things, Jacob thought dejectedly. Chances of
me surviving this? Possible, but not... Jacob’s train of thought was abruptly
broken by the unwelcome sensation of something cold and metallic being pressed
hard against his chest.
“Stabbed her. Just like this,” the stranger continued, applying more
pressure to Jacob’s chest.
Great. Stuck between a grave and a psycho with a fountain pen centimetres from
puncturing my aorta. This wasn’t in any of those life plans Jacob had ever
made. Wait a second, a fountain pen? No one uses fountain pens any more! I’m
about to become the only person in living memory whose death was caused by the
misuse of a fountain pen. What are the chances of that? Apparently, for Jacob,
it was not just possible but probable.
The nib punctured Jacob’s skin and proceeded on its messy journey towards
his heart.
“Ever wanted a tattoo, dad? Want me to give you one? Maybe you want ‘Grace
forever’ written across your heart?”
This is ridiculous, Jacob thought, I’m moments from death and being engaged
in a meaningless conversation about body art. Jacob desperately thrust his hands
into his pockets, hoping to find something – anything – with which
he could fight back. Eventually he grasped his mobile phone. Great… Chances
of bludgeoning someone to death with a Nokia? Possible, but definitely not probable.
All the while the fountain pen was steadily disappearing into his chest. That
clip looks like it may inflict more pain than the pen itself…
Jacob had, by now, passed the stages of desperation and plunged headlong into
abject hysteria. Where’s that damn phone gone??
Finally, Jacob’s fingers closed around a slim, cylindrical object. Nothing
like fighting fire with fire, he thought, plunging the Bic stick into his assailant
with all his might.
Not expecting any retaliation, the stranger stumbled backwards clutching at his
stomach. Before, that is he regained his composure and calmly withdrew the offending
implement.
Oh, boy. Here we go again.
“You think you can stop me? With a lowly… a lowly… Bic stick…”
But his voice had lost its edge of malice and was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
The stranger’s knuckles tightened around the Bic, or at least they surely
would have were his pallor not already an opaque grey.
“A ball point…” He croaked, “I have been defiled!”
And, with a sudden satisfying puff, he disappeared.
Well, that worked remarkably well. Wonder if I could patent those things as self
defence items as well as never-fail writing instruments, thought Jacob as he gritted
his teeth and pulled the immaculate Mandarin yellow Duofold from between his ribs.
Despite the mistreatment it had just been subject to, the nib was still in perfect
condition.
“Hmpfh. Indestructible,” Jacob grunted as he dropped the pen and crunched
it underfoot.
True story, happened to
a friend of a friend of mine.
The Keeper in the
Dark by Stuart Williams (after JRRT)
In the deep, dark places beneath the feet of mountains, things may be found which
do not wish to be found, and places there are that echo silently on, and on, and
on into the spider-haunted darkness of a billion years of time. Places where the
sun has never shone, where warmth never penetrates, where the slow drip, drip,
drip of water into pallid pools is the only sound, and yet, and yet...
"Me presciouses, presciouses, come to me, come, come, so smooth, so smooth,
ahhh, so smooth..." The sibilant whisper carried through the dank, dark caves,
its soft, almost silent echos caressing the ears of those who were hidden, yet
did not understand. Those who would understand were yet to come, were still far
away, and had no knowledge of this fearful place. Yet they would come. It was
written.
Those hidden eyes, if they could see, would have spied a tiny glint, a flicker,
of gold and silver, silver and gold, on blackest black, a black so dark that,
even in this darkest of places, if one could see, it would seem as if there was
a hole torn in the darkness itself, blacker than any black, darker than any dark.
And yet...
A tiny scraping sound, an almost silent click, and there it was again, that tiny
spark, and then, almost a flickering flame, as for a moment a phosphorescent creature
rose up, disturbed by the noise, slithered, rose up from the pool, felt about
for food, and, in the dim, blue light of its being, a tiny spearhead of chased
silver and gold appeared, just for a moment, then was extinguished with a click
and a brutal hand coming down, bringing that sharp point down, down, and that
light of life was extinguished forever with a soft sound that was heard no more.
"Ohh, me presciouses, me prescious, me precious resin, mine, mine, no-one
will have you, none, not even He, no, not He, not He." And if blinded eyes
could have seen in that dark, dank place, they might have spied, gripped tightly
in a clawed, misshapen hand, a fat, black cylinder circled round and round with
three rings, silver and gold, gold and silver, its bright, hard point now red
with blood, and seen the empty, haunted glint in the eyes of a poor lost soul.
Other eyes there were, enow, that saw, but they were not in that place. Eyes cold
and dark, yet full of fire, aye, they saw, saw what was engraved upon that pen,
for such it was that He had made: "Three Rings to bring them all, Three Rings
to find them. Three Rings to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them."
And beneath the great white mountain with its snow-covered peak and its roots
in darkness, the black pen waited patiently, for it knew that its true owner would
come, and then, what was written would be rewritten, and the story would be complete.
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