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October 2007 A Little Something For The Rest Of Us by Bob Church
But there were no sounds of any living thing. Quickly, the distance between barn and house was covered, the graceful lope of nearly silent feet effortlessly bounding in the darkness. Through the diaphanous curtains, the ten-o’clock news provided the only light, the faint glow illuminating only the dancing shadows of movement on the wall as the WIBW weatherman pointed at the cold front currently stalled over eastern Kansas. This will be easy... no alarms, no dogs or livestock of any sort… not even chickens. Silently, the entity removed the screen and raised the window. Once inside, it took quick, deep breaths; nostrils flaring in an attempt to pick up any available human scent. Slowly, it scanned the dark bedroom for any signs of life. A bleak hint of light peaked through a crack in the bedroom door, nearly indistinguishable yet in the shadows it stood out as brightly as a beacon shining into the fog from a lighthouse perched atop a New England crag. If anyone were in this house, they would be down the hall, in the kitchen. A huge hand noiselessly moved the door open enough for entry into the vestibule. Ten stealthy steps later, the smell of flesh emanated from a larger room… this would be the kitchen. Hearing no other movement, the creature lowered itself into a crawling position and followed its nose to the pile of bodies lying against the large, upright white box. There was no movement, but a quick jolt with his foot showed no rigor… fresh meat. No longer sensing danger, the young creature of the night dug its sharp teeth into the bare midriff of one victim, savoring the warm, sweet blood as it filled his mouth. Greedily, it ripped again and again into the bounty, the nutrition suddenly intoxicating it with the raw excitement of excess unknown except with human flesh; like fine wine, once tasted, it was never to be forgotten and ever to be desired. After total evisceration, the creature lifted its head high into the darkness, bloody fangs bared to emit one shrill, prolonged and ecstatic moan. No sooner had the sounds left the creature's throat than they were muted by a savage growl, followed by a blow sending it to the floor. So immediate and overwhelming was the sudden attack, he didn’t feel the teeth that pierced his flesh and ripped out his throat. Standing over his suddenly increased pile of cadavers, the larger werewolf looked down at his now-deceased protégé. “I told you, Harold… no snacking on the Halloween goodies until you get home; your mother and I need to check it first, there could be wolfbane. I trust you’ve learned your lesson.” Bob Church © (Revised 5/24/03) Bob Church is a 59-year-old writer/engineer living in Moberly, Missouri with his wife, Louise, and their poodle, Carla. After thirty years spent raising a family, he has reached the point in his life that allows time to pursue his real love, writing. While Bob has not, until recently, actively sought print publication, his work has appeared in numerous on-line publications. He is a writer of both short and long fiction with a slightly different je ne sais quoi. His characters and stories have been described as ‘quirky’, ‘off-beat’, and ‘far-out’, truly exhibiting a few degrees of separation from contemporary mainstream society. Bob says, however, there is method in his madness. He tries to ask the question, Who is more interesting, your banker or the twenty little people dressed in clown suits who jump out of the car at the circus? His writing is a composite drawn from a life spent searching for common threads of humanity that exist in all of us. From killing fields in Vietnam to oilfields in Wyoming's Overthrust Zone to cornfields in Nebraska, Bob has examined the human condition through the bloodshot eyes of a man with no axe to grind. He hopes you will look at his characters and recognize a little part of yourself. |
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Harvest
formations graced the field abutting the meadow, cornucopia designs
of taciturn assemblage stood free midst chaff and stalks, prepared
for upcoming festivities. The chill of the late autumn evening
bred crystals of ice where earlier in the day, a light shower
kissed the soil… a mist, really, but enough to announce
to anyone within earshot, that footsteps crunched across the
pasture and foul breath expelled rapidly cooling vapor from nostrils
already flaring with anticipation. Warily, two blazing eyes peered
out of the darkness towards the light of the house. Why hadn’t
the dog howled? Surely there would be at least one… no farmer
would leave his yard and property untended. ...
