Funeral Food - Part 2 by A. Hudson

Last Friday, you were able to read Part 1 of Funeral Food to find Annabelle attending a funeral of someone she doesn't even like......if you missed it, keep scrolling down and you will find it below this one.

Here's the rest of the story.

Biting his lower lip, he regains his poise. He apologizes for his “hay fever” and continues:

“…the perils of spring. And like Mildred, whose life was only beginning to bloom…”

Annabelle clouds out the canned, memorized sermon. All she can think of is the waiting pirogues, hopefully some paska; she loves that sweet egg bread. A feast awaits twenty-one steps down the right hallway. Her stomach rumbles at the nearness, a low growl. A young man, pointy beard and skinny face, sitting several spaces away from her frowns at her. She waves away his concern with a silk-gloved hand. A sheen on the fingertips, a few missing sparkles about the wrist, the gloves are old.

She’ll wait until almost everyone is out, the last ten or so. The sympathy lineup will be long and most likely there will be those that can’t wait to eat. Annabelle intends to eat and leave as soon as she can, but she’ll have to mingle with mostly overweight people who are the first at the table. She’ll stand out like a poodle in a dog sled.  If she dawdles, the crowd at the door will bunch up. She decides to wait, then befriend one of the two older ladies she can see in the row to her left. Their identical grey buns suggest sisters. The bent posture indicates they are close to her age.

Possible scenarios of conversation occupy her mind until her musing is interrupted when the crowd rises. Annabelle stands, arranges her hat while strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D descend from overhead speakers. The sound of people moving, the slight whispers mean the end. Reception room next.  Two staff wheeling a brass-railed, linen-draped, urn-bearing trolley lead the family towards the wide doors that have been opened by other staff. The only one she recognizes is the older man pushing the cart. While waiting for the end of the procession she ponders how they can keep such a somber face when the ashes of their attention are encased in a hand-carved wooden dog. 

Shrugging her wee shoulders, noticing the crowd is turned away from her, she sticks her tongue out at the urn as it passes the last seats and blows a soft blat. The boy directly in front of her hears the odd disturbance and turns to her with a grin.  He probably thinks the old gal farted. Dad - pointy chin and aged skinny face - tugs at the lad’s jacket to follow the crowd.  In the congestion the few that are happy to bump into each other, possibly only at funerals, offer polite, low laughter. The tail end of the mourners clutters the hallway, then breaks up. The Grey Buns are alone. Likely from one of the seniors' homes that Ripkoph owns, Annabelle thinks, possibly managed by Matilda once. Annabelle catches up to them eleven steps from the door.

“Such a sad thing isn’t it. I knew Mathilda…”

Fifteen minutes later they’re in the archway leading to the family. Three men, seven women, all in black. They’re bussed and hugged. They’re busy shaking hands. A commotion near the photo display causes the flow to stall. The lady closest to the easel, which is covered with photos of Mildred and Frou Frou, is being helped into a chair. Likely the mother. Her low moan silences the crowd. The lineup gathers closer to see what is happening.  A stout younger version of Mildred moves from the receiving line and comforts the woman. One of the older men in the family steps in to greet the visitors. The buzz resumes.

Annabelle ignores the Bun named Joan who is telling them about her gout and wishes they would hurry. She eyes the tables of food to her left, and her shrunken stomach gurgles, demanding attention. She smells the paprika. She sees a rotund gentleman spooning a gob of sour cream onto something on his plate. Coffee and tea urns stand directly across, the sweets are on a table to the left. Ten or twelve people are filling their paper plates. Seeing that the family are all occupied, she darts for the nearest eatables. She reaches to pick up a plate at the head of the table when a hand the size of a baseball mitt cups her frail shoulder.  The voice is deep, respectfully low, almost a whisper:

“The sisters would like to talk to you, madam.”

With hand paused near the stack, she feels a moment of fright, of panic. Where did he come from? Should she run? If she was wearing her black dress she would, but this damn grey one is much too tight. Gripping her small clutch in both hands to stop them from shaking, she turns her head to stare at the largest white shirt she has ever seen. The knot of the somber burgundy tie is at eye level. The man’s girth shades her from the line-up, no one sees her blush. Holding her hat, she raises her head to stare at the messenger. It’s a big head, forget the neck. Pudgy features round out an unexceptional face, except the eyes.  Hazel, green dominant. Nothing mean in there. Annabelle feels such relief she faints.

 

*

Opening her eyes several minutes later, she is staring up at three blurry figures. Something wet and cold is on her forehead. She is lying on what smells like old leather, feels stiff like a couch. A heavy lace-and-tasseled throw covers her lower body.  Her vision focuses the same time the soundtrack in her head clears...

“… Oh, the poor dear, is she okay?”

“…maybe we should call 911?”

“…no, look, she’s alright, she just fainted, heart and lungs are fine, you checked them Suzie?  Here, let’s get her sitting up.”

The sisters materialize. Laurie-Ann has one hand under Annabelle’s shoulder, the other under her arm. Suzie shifts Annabelle's legs to the floor keeping the cover intact. Cynthia reaches over to lift Annabelle's other arm. Together, they prop Annabelle up. Her delicate body gently quakes. Two cushions appear at her side, a gentle hand arranges her retro hat, drops the burgundy clutch on her lap and rubs her upper arm.  Laurie-Ann bends to look in her eyes.

“Relax, Annabelle, we mean you no harm.” Annabelle drops her gaze. Her voice is weak voice.

“How... how do you know my name?”

Suzie tows an overstuffed office chair to the couch and sits down. Cynthia and Laurie-Ann join her, one on each side of Annabelle.  Annabelle looks up at each one. They look so much alike it’s uncanny. Laurie-Ann says:

“We know a little about you, Annabelle.  It appears you know a lot of people who pass away.  Quite a bit more than normal. We’re seeing a pattern.”

On her left, Cynthia touches Annabelle’s knee and says:

“It’s always at the end of the month.”

Suzie leans forward and says:

“It’s easy to see that you are hungry.”

Annabelle begins to sob. Holding her face in her gloved hands, she hangs her head.  Sobs turn to snivels as the sisters remain silent, waiting for Annabelle to regain her composure.  Laurie-Ann hands her several Kleenex from the box on the end table. She dabs at her eyes and with head still bowed, she says:

“Wilbur…that was my husband’s name…was an adorable, sweet, sweet man, but he was a gambler, always chasing the big one. We never saved any money but he made sure our bills were always paid, put food on the table, paid our rent but would spend the extra on the horses. He would win enough to keep the temptation strong. He was too proud to have me work so I never had a pension and with only my old age security and a small widow’s allowance, I just can’t make ends meet…”

Annabelle pauses.  The sisters coo and pat her on the knee all talking at once.

“There, there dear…”

“So sad…”

“It’s a shame…”

Laurie-Ann stands abruptly, and Annabelle feels nervous seeing the creased forehead of the oldest sister. She cringes when Laurie-Anne says:

“This has got to stop.”

Pointing at her younger sister, she says:

“Cynthia, you know what to do.  Suzie, go get Tony.”

Annabelle is alone on the couch, Kleenex bunched in her hands. Watching the flurry of activity, she worries that they may be calling the police even though they seem concerned. She is thinking of how she might escape when all three sisters are back, accompanied by the huge man that brought her to the office.  Laurie-Ann says:

‘C’mon, Annabelle, you’re going with Tony here.”

Shaking lightly, Annabelle resigns herself to her fate and stands weakly in front of the sisters and watches the one named Cynthia hand a piece of paper to the man they call Tony. Laurie-Ann steps closer to Annabelle:

“Tony knows what to do because we already discussed this with him. If my information is correct, the pension checks come around the 26^th of each month. You go with him, Annabelle. He’s going to take you home. But first he’s going to cash the check Cynthia gave him and you two can go grocery shopping. He’ll do this on the 22^nd of each month until you no longer need it.”

Annabelle’s eyes go wide in astonishment at this announcement. She’s not sure what to say. This act of kindness causes water to pool on her lower eyelids. She tries not to blink; she’s tired of shedding tears and feeling sorry for herself. Trying to find the right words, she shakes her head.

“No…no I couldn’t do that. It’s not right and you don’t have to look after an old lady that can’t take care of herself.”

Certain that she would accept their gift, the sisters are at a loss for words, even Laurie-Ann who seldom remains quiet.  Tony on the other hand makes a suggestion.

“I thought you ladies were looking for a greeter for Monday and Tuesday mornings now that Hazel has moved to Ontario?”

The sister’s look at the big man and they are all smiling. They look in question to Annabelle.

Head high, chin out, pride back in place, Annabelle appears to think a moment, but not long.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

Thanks for dropping by The Scribbler. If you enjoyed this short story, there are more available in SHORTS Vol. 1, 2 & 3 available at amazon.com (Or see the right sidebar, or check on Novels above for more details.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next week on the Scribbler you will be able to meet Author Jason Hamilton of Dieppe, New Brunswick

 

 

Feel free to leave a comment below, would love to hear from you!

Funeral Food - Part 1 - an amusing short story by Allan Hudson

I love short stories. Hope you do too.

 

 

 

Sometimes people go hungry. There could be many reasons. This old gal just can't make ends meet.

 

Funeral Food 

Annabelle Ross is as thin as a liar’s promise. She was 73 yesterday. No one made her a cake. No one called her. The only child of an only child, no children, a widow for eight years, she is the last one left. She hasn’t eaten since Thursday, two days ago. Her old age security check only comes on Monday and there is nothing in her cupboards. She once went to a food bank, and once was enough.  There have been no funerals to attend. At least until today.

Her stomach rumbles when she imagines the platters of triangular sandwiches, wedges of enchantment. The bread is soft and fresh, the fillings moist and delicious, sometimes lobster salad if the deceased was affluent. Enormous trays of sweets will be evenly spaced about the tables.  Mouthwatering chocolate and certainly the brown squares with the miniature marshmallows.  The visions cause dizziness and she grasps the table edge while her stomach grumbles. For a moment she rests her tiny head on the creased newspaper spread out on the table. It’s open to the obituaries, yesterday’s edition.

Strands of hair fall from behind her ears where the thin white tresses are normally tucked. The ends that fall to her neck retain a touch of their girlish curl. Time and need have not dulled her eyes the way they have paled her delicate skin. Age spots appear along her brow. Her narrow face however is blessed with kind features. There is no despair in her temperament. Annabelle is not a quitter. Sitting up she looks around her box-like bachelorette, wondering what she might wear. First she has to decide which of the three funerals she will attend. If she’s lucky, she might make it a double header. 

Of the eleven death notices, there are only three possibilities. The photos of the departed slated for burial today are circled in dark pencil. Two men and a woman. The lady is quite plump. Teeth and gums are spread in a grin that depicts pain. There is a rude moustache penciled onto her upper lip. Annabelle had a run-in with the woman six years ago when the lady, Mildred Malarenko, was manager at the Ripkoph Senior's Complex. Annabelle's ceiling leaked every time it rained and she’d complained for over two months. She finally told Mildred that she would not pay her rent until the leak was fixed.   She was given an eviction notice and two weeks to move. Annabelle reminded Mildred of the marijuana fumes that came from her closed office doors some evenings. The notice was changed to two months and a van provided for the move.

The red numerals of the digital clock on the cupboard of the kitchenette show 06:44. Rays of an early sun yellow the top pane of her small window. She is happy there is no rain. Glancing back at the obits she deems this one a B+ on her listing system. It’s scheduled for 10 a.m. and she has lots of time, The Sisters Funeral Parlour is only three quarters of a mile, the newer staff are not familiar with her yet and best of all, the Ukrainians love to overfeed everybody. The negatives? Annabelle’s deep dislike for the dead woman, and one of the sisters might be working. Laurie-Ann, the oldest, gave her a hard time two months ago and asked her to leave. She thinks Suzie, the light-haired one, knows but doesn’t say anything. Cynthia, the one that smiles a lot, packed her a baggie once and gave it to her when she escorted her out. The sisters rarely work weekends, so it should be safe.

The man at the bottom of the second column has a heavily penciled circle looped around his heavily metaled face. He has one name, Booger. There are enough piercings on nose, ears, eyebrows, lips and she’s guessing nipples, crotch and navel that The River Styx Point of Departure & Crematorium probably used a magnet to lift him into his casket. She hated going there. There is always loud music. Their billboards are all over the city suggesting your final moments “should not be somber but a celebration”.  At present they are offering a free barbeque with each cremation. The upside is that most of the patrons pay her little attention. The staff are usually high or too busy to bother with an old lady. The food though. Oh the food.  The RSPD&C cater to crowds that usually have the munchies. Lots of chocolate, never any veggies, humongous bowls of potato chips, small lakes of salsa and tangy dips, stacks of Ritz crackers, Mr. Freezees, cakes, cookies… She’d go today mainly for her dessert. It’s at eleven and not too far from Sisters. Another B+.

Third column, second from the top, has only one circle softly framing the tender face of Aldous Von Gluck, also 73, four daughters, seven great-granddaughters and one great-great-grandson, Aldous Von Gluck-Galloway. The elderly German has a high forehead and wide face. A toothy smile hides the eyes. The face is contorted in happiness as he looks up at the photographer. In his arms is an infant no more than a week or two old. One can only assume it is his namesake. Annabel wishes she had known him.  She can see how much he loves the child and she wonders what that must be like. Brushing a loose strand from her cheek, she tucks it behind her ear while she checks the details.

Young’s Funeral Parlor is older than she is and in much better condition. It’s located downtown behind the post office. Annabelle lives in the east end, three point four miles away, she’d have to take a bus. Pushing herself away from the table, she rises gingerly, wrinkling her nose. The wet garbage is starting to ripen, the fish she had on Thursday, her last meal.  She hates to take it out, the small green bag is only half full.   It smells even worse as she approaches the kitchenette. The odor comes from under the sink. Yuck!

While she removes the bag from the white plastic basket -- a yard sale treasure plastered with NHL stickers -- she notices the tomato sauce stain on the hem of her black wool skirt. She can’t do a wash until her check comes. She’ll have to wear the gray dress, even though it’s too tight at the waist. Setting the green bag, half full of tea bags, by the door, she wraps her housecoat tighter, arms cradled across her chest.  She glances at the clock again. 07: 22.

Time for a tea. She’ll get ready after. She needs to time her arrival to the beginning of the service, when it is the fullest and she goes unnoticed. She rises and lifts the beleaguered kettle to fill its whistle with tap water. While doing so she wonders which scarf might be appropriate today.

 

*

Annabelle is too early. Thirty feet from the sidewalk there are two men off to the side of the entrance smoking, a last-minute fix. “Damn,” she mutters while ducking behind a glistening SUV in the funeral parlor’s parking lot. The back windows are tinted and hide her completely. Catching her image in the mirrored surface, she sees her hat's askew. A burgundy pill box, something a Kennedy might wear. Tipped forward too much; she made her bun in the back a bit high. She deems it “rakish” if low on her forehead, not suitable for an elderly lady, my goodness.  Intending to re-pin it, she is distracted by the two men moving to the main door. She rushes forward as well. The door is large, made of aged oak and thick beveled glass, too heavy for her but it closes slowly and she slips inside.

She catches up to the larger man. He’s slower than his mate by 25 or 30 kilos. She closes in behind him, squinting her nose at the smell of cigarette. She keeps to his right, hopes no one will see her, the offices are on the opposite side.  They’re in the main lobby.  Wide doors face them left and right. The first man opens one, enters. A faint aroma of petals stirs when Annabelle and the rotund man follow close behind.  She remains in big man’s shadow to the end of the last pew where she spies an empty spot.  Glancing discreetly towards the back, she doesn’t recognize the part-time staff. She shuffles into the padded seat. A young boy steps closer to a microphone near the piano.

The opening chords of “Ave Maria” waft from the front right corner. The notes are as polished as the gleaming sides of the Yamaha upright.  Beulah Bogdonovitch, the weekend pianist, is far better than that cranky old Mr. Dodge, thinks Annabelle. His version of Elton John’s Candle in the Wind is very good though. Behind the pulpit on the left, the pastor’s glossy pate and bright blue sports coat catch her eye, she deems him the worst dresser of the lot. He'll have half the congregation in tears five minutes into his benediction. She doesn’t recognize anyone else.

Annabelle forgets her hunger as the lad up front silences everyone with his rendition of Gounod’s “Hail Mary.” Anabelle closes her eyes; it's her favorite funeral song. The melody lingers long after the boy stops singing. The murmur of approval morphs into the hushed voice of Pastor Delahunt, a voice which rises when he points out the virtues of the deceased while gesturing open palmed towards the urn shaped like a poodle.

He hesitates. Withdrawing the white square from his breast pocket, he clamps it to his mouth. He twists away from the row “reserved for family” and bends from his waist as if to cough. The crowd sits straighter.  Not many seconds of silence pass before the hushed shuffle begins.  To Annabelle it looks like the man is trying not to laugh. What she or the crowd can’t see is that he really wants to cry. The attorney for the estate of Ms. Malarenko settled financial matters yesterday. Frou-Frou inherits everything, the house and cottage as well. The family is next in line.  Even the pastor is in on a wager of how long the dog will live.

Biting his lower lip, he regains his poise. He apologizes for his “hay fever” and continues:

“…the perils of spring. And like Mildred, whose life was only beginning to bloom…”


To be continued............. read the rest of the story HERE.

Thank you for visiting the Scribbler. Feel free to leave a comment below.

Guest Author Louise Boulter. Forgotten.

A very successful book launch on February 25th brings us a new novel by Louise Boulter, who is our special guest this week. This is her second visit  and we are happy to have her back. Her book - Forgotten - "is a candid version of one man's journey through the world of homelessness."

 

 

 

 

We've asked Louise to tell us what inspired her to write this story.

I started writing the book "Forgotten" in the summer of 2015 ... yes about 6 months ago.  It was a labor of love. My friend Tom had been diagnosed with cancer. He shared a dream he had had which follows:

"A man awakens from a coma and does not know who he is or where he is from. So he makes his way across Canada in search for his identity. Along the way, he becomes homeless and his views on homeless change."

One should always be careful what one tells a writer. It could end up in a book.  I did, however, tell my friend I could write a short story about his 'dream'. What started as a short story morphed into a book I decided to call "Forgotten". 

Coincidentally, if you believe in coincidences, a few weeks before, I had started volunteering for The Humanity Project. The soup kitchens and the food banks were closed for holidays at the same time and food was scarce for the homeless in Moncton. The weather was also very hot and there was no water to be found, not free water that is. Well, there was a water fountain in Centennial Park, in the dog run. Water for the dogs was available. Water for the homeless was not.  The Humanity Project, a group made up totally of volunteers, decided to pick up the slack because of the closure due to their holidays at the same time. So they set up tables at Lyle's Garage on St. George Street and volunteers brought baked dishes for supper every night. Others bought and brought paper plates, forks, spoons, etc. Bottled water was a huge need. What I saw was  they did not just feed the homeless, they also passed no judgement. No ID was requested, no having to prove you needed a meal was needed. You accepted each person for who they were and asked no questions. You soon learned that a smile and acceptance was as important as the food served.

While writing my friend's story, it took on a life of its own. Perhaps because of my new knowledge on the needs of people who were homeless or the working poor I was meeting. But more than that, it was by talking to the many volunteers who, without any government funding, without any financial gain, with their goal only to show kindness and acceptance to others that this organization touched my heart and touched my fingers as I sat at my computer writing my 'short story' which became my first novel.

Time was important. My friend Tom was getting worse. I did not know how long he had. Writing page after page became a routine and an outlet for all my feelings. I let the characters tell their story, I let the main character, T, discover who he truly was. His identity became secondary to discovering his true self.

When I finished my book, I knew there was a message to be shared. I know most people understand homelessness and most people care. But I wanted to do a little bit more. I knew this was somehow NOT my book. It was T's book, T's message. I decided the reason I had written it was beyond my own comprehension. It might even do some good. I decided to publish it and some of the profits would go to The Humanity Project.

With the help of my friend and later Editor, Lee D. Thompson, the book was published. The front cover is of a print given to me free by Serge Martin, photographer from Moncton. The back cover is a photo given to me by Charlie Burrell, Founder of The Humanity Project. It is of a tent which was used by a man in his 70s. Charlie knew him well.  The Humanity Project helped this man get on social assistance, helped him find affordable housing and since January when The Humanity Project was given permission to use the old Moncton Curling Club Building on Lutz Street, he now does the cleaning. The best thing, however, is hearing this man in his 70s say: "I now have a life."

THP's winter headquarters, located on Lutz Street may become homeless again. That is, unless the City of Moncton allows The Humanity Project to continue to use the old Moncton Curling Association. At this point, from what I know, they would need approx. $400,000 to buy the building outright. 

The Humanity Project also holds regular AA meetings in this building. They have hairdressers who volunteer their services to shampoo and cut hair and give shaves for those who want one. There is a room for free clothing. There is a room for children to play and learn while their parent( s ) are upstairs socializing (there is a lot of laughter in that building).

All of the above is why all proceeds from the sale of the book "Forgotten" will be given to them. This makes my heart smile.

The book "Forgotten" can be purchased by going to the U.S. site:  www.lulu.com - or if you live in Moncton and can pick up the book, may contact me at lobou@nb.sympatico.ca. The cost is $18 if ordered through me (no shipping cost)..

To close, I will share one of my favorite passages from the book. There are no coincidences and this passage now holds a very special meaning for me since my book launch on February 25th. But that is for another time, another place.

 

(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)

Another man tells me, “Name’s Ron. Ronald Bedford. Served in Afghanistan.” 

This takes me by surprise. “You’re a Vet are you? And homeless? How long you been homeless?” 

“Roughly about five years. I guess it was my fault. I have a problem you know. Post Traumatic Stress something or other. Eh, I just don’t know how to cope with it. But the

DVA’s trying to help me but, like, every time I feel like I’m getting some help, I get paranoid. And I just take off.” 

“Take off? What do you mean, Ron?” 

“You know, I leave. You can only be in the program for so long, you know. I try to stay in the program but I’m scared to death of reality cause I don’t know how to cope with it. Sometimes I’d rather try to commit suicide than I would to stay alive. To tell you the honest truth, I hit myself, about a year ago, in the head with a brick. But it didn’t work.” 

“Has anyone tried to help you?” 

“Sure they tried to help me. You know, give me stuff for nightmares and for this and that and the other, but it just doesn’t help me any.” 

“You’re still haunted by Afghanistan.” 

“If you only knew brother. If you only knew.” He pauses and looks at me. “Have you ever killed anybody?” 

“No,” I can barely get the word out of my mouth. 

“I have. Face to face. See this?” He pulls up one of his pant legs. “I got a hole in my leg. From a shrapnel wound. But they don’t care anymore.” 

“I care Ron.” 

“Yeah. I think there’s people in this world that really care. Like you, like these people here at the shelter. They care.” 

“How long were you in Afghanistan?” 

“One year. One long year. But I’m not crazy. And I’m not suicidal.” 

I look at the tears that are welling up in his eyes. How can one not feel sorry for him? All I can say is, “It had to be tough. Especially having to kill people.” 

“Well, I was trained to do that.” 

“They must have a hard time to train people to do that cause it’s not in people’s nature. It’s not.” 

Ron just says “Well, how come they don’t untrain you?” and walks away. 

Good question. Very good question.

Thank you Louise for sharing your story.
If you missed Louise's previous visit, please go here to read her short story Date Night.



Next week you can read Allan Hudson's amusing short story - Funeral Food.

Thank you readers for visiting the Scribbler. Please leave a comment below, would love to hear from you.

Guest Author Paul White. Crimes & Violence

Paul White lives in the county of Yorkshire, England with his wife, an ancient cat and five fish. An accomplished author who has graciously shared an excerpt from his latest novel, Tales of Crime & Violence, Volume 3. Paul's links are listed below.

 

 

Tales of Crime & Violence

The three book collector editions

This remarkable three volume collection encompasses numerous and varied stories of acts and deeds of crime and violence. Paul White has once again woven his masterly spell of intrigue into each stories plot. Secrecy, scheming, plotting and conspiracy live hand-in-hand with outrageous and shocking violence, viciousness and brutality.

All three volumes of Tales of Crime & Violence are packed with carnage and bloodshed and mayhem, while an ominous sense of sinister, physiological apprehension lingers in the dark shadows.

Tales of Crime & Violence contains graphic acts of violence, profanities and sexual reference. It is not recommended for reading for those under adult age.

 

 

 

Tales of Crime & Violence is available in a paperback collection of three volumes, or on Kindle as a complete ‘box-set’.

 

 

EXCERPT.

   ……….The Sheriff stopped, as did the two deputies in the following cruisers. Together we walked to the car. I handed one of the deputies the keys. You could feel the heat reflecting from the steel of the bodywork.

   It was one hell of a hot day.

When the deputy opened the driver’s door a blast of superheated air escaped. It was so extreme it forced us to take a step backwards and twist our heads away from its intensity. But it was the smell which was most overpowering. I saw, but did not comprehend the glance between the law men. However, I knew that my day was going to get worse when they handcuffed me.

My day certainly became a living nightmare when they opened the trunk. Bobby lay inside. His throat had been sliced from ear to ear and his eyes gouged out. The heat had caused his body to swell and the blood to cook.

I only recognised him by his jeans and boots.

After that it was all a bit of a blur. I was bundled into the sheriff’s car and we raced the few miles to the motel. It looked as deserted as when I left a few hours ago.

From room fourteen all the way to room twenty the doors were open. They were the doors I kicked open during my frantic search for the others.

I explained this to the Officers.

The thing that interested the Sherriff was the sign hanging from the doorknob of room thirteen.

I had not noticed that sign in my earlier panicky state. It said ‘Do not disturb’. What was interesting the lawmen most was the smudged bloody handprint on that sign.

The Deputies drew their guns and crashed the door.

It flew open. The intense odour of putrid dead flesh flooded my nostrils.

Inside the room, laid out across the bed were Kathy and Taylor. They were tethered to the bedstead with strands of rusting wire cable, spread-eagled and naked. Their stomachs had been slit open and their entrails extended across the floor.

Those black flies and an army of brown rats were busily feasting on their remains………

 

BUY LINKS.

UK Paperback

 http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=tales+of+Crime+%26+Violence

US paperback

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Tales+of+Crime+%26+Violence

Kindle (worldwide).

http://authl.it/B019VNDE5E

 

 

Thank you Paul for participating on the Scribbler.

 

Discover more about Paul White here

 

 

Please visit again next week for an  4Q Interview with Drake Alexander, ex-Canadian Commando, hero of Dark Side of a Promise.

 

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