He Came At Her With An Axe

Occasionally I write a short story. This is one of them. 

He Came At Her With An Axe

Michigan, 1989

He came at her with an axe, so she shot him dead.

That was an hour ago. Now she sat on the kitchen floor, as far away from his body as she could position herself, and watched his corpse and wondered what to do next. The panic had subsided, the trembling had ceased. Now she was becoming methodical.

The gun had immediately been dropped in the empty sink. It had been the first time she had fired the damn thing. It had been loud – so damn loud – but there hadn't been as much blood as she's thought. Lot of spray on the walls, yes, but nothing that couldn't be wiped away. She'd clean soon, although she now realised that she should have done it straight away because blood was tough to shift when it dried. 'Coca-Cola works', Mom had told her once, but she didn't drink Coke. It tasted like robot piss.

She'd been quick to mop up what had pooled around his body. Fistfuls of kitchen paper towels, thick and glistening with red, were clumped together in a bucket by his body. A blood-stained pair of Marigolds hung over the tap. He'd stopped leaking now. She'd have to bleach the floor later and she hated the smell of bleach.

Could she go to the police? Would they believe her? Perhaps. Most of it would be truth. It had been self-defence. It had. She had invited him round. He'd had the axe hidden in the coat folded over his arm, and the bastard had only revealed it when the latch had clicked behind him and he was in the living room and being offered a drink. All that was true. Yes. Yeah she could tell them that. The living room would corroborate that. Now that the door had been hacked off its hinges she could see straight through to the splintered coffee table, and the stuffing and springs popping out of the couch. He'd swung wildly to scare her at first, reciting the Lord's Prayer as he smashed into the china hutch and the TV and the stereo. Fucking weirdo. The Lord's Prayer? She could tell the cops that too. Religious nutjob. She'd emphasise nutjob – 'Nut. Job' - and then be sure to point to the crucifix tangled round his neck. The first time she'd seen it was when she'd been clearing him up.

The gun. No. The gun. She couldn't account for the gun. They would charge her for possession and she'd be taken in. There'd be photos and statements and CCTV. No, she couldn't do that. She couldn't go to prison. She'd only bought the damn thing for this kind of home invasion shit that Patsy had told her about. She never thought she'd have to use it. Why would Patsy have one? No one would invade fucking Patsy and her cats. Now she could see the shell casing lying just under the refrigerator. Oh thanks, Patsy. 

No, she couldn't go the cops. There was a bucket of his soaked-up blood lying next to him and that wouldn't look good. She'd have to move him.

Shit.

He was a tall guy and he looked heavy, and he would leak while she dragged him. More bleach. Where could she put him? The spare room? No. But...the chest freezer in the basement was big enough for him. She might have to snap some parts of him, but yeah...yeah he would fit. She had a good hammer. He'd break up easy. She'd bag all the food and put it in the garbage and then she'd wrap him in trash bags and drag him downstairs and break him up. She'd throw the gun under him too. She wished she'd never listened to Patsy. Fucking Patsy.

Jeez, but he looked heavy. She didn't know why she'd said yes to him in the first place. She wouldn't want that lurching up and down on her. But he'd been so charming, with his 'watching you for months, been dying to introduce myself' shit. Bastard. She should've read the signs. Mom had taught her how to spot the predators, but this flash prick with his coffee and his beard and his mountaineering stories and his hidden crucifix...he'd slipped under her sights. Well, fuck him and his 'art in Heaven' and his fucking carabiners. His axe was still under his hand. It looked like the kind of thing you stabbed at mountains. She'd use that to fit him in the freezer, better than a hammer, and then toss it in with him. Mountain fucker.

Now here was a list of things to do and she was happy. She realised how hungry she was. The dinner she had made for the two of them had burned and congealed in its pan on the stove. It smelled terrible and it still didn't cover up the smell of the blood. Hunger pulled at her stomach. Hunger like she had resisted for years now. She had been so good for so many years, but now that rich metallic stink was in her nostrils and she could feel her heart beating faster and faster...

She crawled forward and pulled the bucket of blood and kitchen paper close. She sat back and pushed her hand in – it all still felt so surprisingly soft and warm - and pulled out a hunk. It glistened in the kitchen lights. She held it there in her hands, feeling the wet and weight of it. Then slowly, gently, she pushed her lips against it and began to suck out the red. And when that wasn't enough she stuffed the kitchen towels in her mouth and ate them, blood and paper running down her throat as a pink mash. The endorphin rush hit her and she felt her fangs break through. Saliva dribbled down her chin. Her upper lip curved over her sharp new teeth in pleasure. She'd missed this. Oh sweet relief! She had been so good for so long and she had missed this. Fuck, it tasted good. It had been years and it tasted so fucking good. Her hands plunged into the bucket.

When she reached the bottom of the bucket her eyes lifted to his body. The blood had begun to crust on her lips. Her tongue flicked over it. Then she began to lick her hands clean. She'd drink the rest of him tomorrow, all of him. She would use that axe and snap him open and drink him down to his bones. She would drink him until his arteries popped, and when he was skin and marrow she would pack him in the freezer and she wouldn't feel guilty about it. No. She wouldn't feel guilty. Well, it was in self-defence. After all, he came at her with an axe.  

And now for a very short story about Tortilla nothing much else

Once in a blue moon I put a very short story I have written on here, more to pad out what has become an occasional blog than anything else. It started with this one, The Clockwork Heart. This one is about tortilla, often known as 'Spanish Omelette' over here, and is for my good friend Chris. 

'Tortilla'

Cross-legged on the warm terracotta, Pablo and his father sat in the doorway of their home and ate the tortilla they had cooked together. Somewhere behind them, beyond the single wicker armchair and the table and the radio that crackled with sport from the city, the frying pan sputtered and cooled.

It was a simple meal and they ate with their hands. The thick wedges of tortilla were still hot. The bread was fresh and the olives bitter and salty. Pablo had already devoured the single slice of ham his father had cut for him. Both of them drank Rioja from glass tumblers, the young boy's being topped up with a good amount of water. The bottle and jug stood beside his father's empty work boots.

The short garden in front of them was parched yellow. Both father and son spat their olive stones into it, making silent competition of who could make furthest. The orange tree near the front gate had turned crooked and brittle two summers ago. An axe lay next to it in the scrub. Despite his talk Pablo's father had yet to chop it down. Pablo was sure it would make fruit again next summer. He spat an olive stone in its direction.

The sun was falling toward the horizon and everything was golden and shadow. The air was warm on their faces and sweet and dusty with a full day's work. In the valley below them a tractor moved along the dirt road between the vineyards green and golden. An occasional breeze wafted the smell of the vines and the soil up the hill and into the garden. The orange tree did not stir.

On the radio a cheer rose and dissolved into static. Pablo looked back into the empty house. The shutters were closed and it was cool and gloomy. His father topped up both their glasses with the Rioja.

'Miguel says this year will be a good harvest. We will have to work hard and work long hours. But this is a good reward.'

'The tortilla is good too,' Pablo said.

'The best tortilla is simple. It is onion and potato and egg. The widow Diaz puts peppers in hers but she is wrong,' Pablo's father picked up a triangle of the thick tortilla. Strong white teeth broke it. He caught a chunk of potato that fell toward his lap and popped it in his mouth.

Pablo watched his father and ate. His mouth was dry. He gulped at the wine and wiped his lips with his forearm as he had learned to imitate from his father.

'Your grandmother never put peppers in hers,' his father continued. 'My father and I liked that. People must always make things so complicated now. No respect for simple things. No appreciation.' He took a bite of tortilla and then wiped his fingers on his overalls. 'It is the simple things which are the best. Sun. Wine. Tortilla. These are the things people enjoy coming home to.'

He took a chunk of the bread and mopped up the oil from the tortilla on his plate. Pablo did as he did.

'Senor Alvaro says widow Diaz makes the best tortilla in the village.'

'Alvaro drinks too much. He thinks it is endearing,' Pablo's father chewed as he spoke. His mouth was thick with bread and oil. 'He'll eat anywhere he can. He hardly notices what he is eating. He is like a dog.'

'I think he was eating with Senorita Pilar last night. He woke me up with his singing.'

'Yes. Drunk. Fat and drunk. Your teacher should know better than to feed him.'

'He was not always drunk, was he papa? Senor Alvaro used to drink orange juice. I saw 

him.'

There was another cheer from the radio. This time Pablo did not look around.

'Eat,' his father said. With one of his great brown hands he placed another piece of the tortilla on his son's plate. 'And drink the wine, it is good. You are a growing boy. Grow up strong.'

'Like you father?'

Pablo's father spat an olive stone onto the prickly yellow grass and took a sip of his wine. He washed it around his mouth and swallowed. All the time he was gazing out at the vineyards on the hillsides and the tractor crawling away between the shadows. The sun was touching the highest undulations of the horizon now. Everything below the burning sky was dark and green. Hot and mysterious. High on the hill, father and son sat in the last of that day's light and witnessed the night creeping up behind them. Suddenly Pablo felt very far away from his father and it scared him.

'It is very good papa,' he announced in between bites. 'Much better than the widow's.'

The frying pan had cooled. The radio continued to play. The air was still warm. Pablo's father took another long draught on the Rioja. A little of it dripped from his bottom lip. He wiped it away with his forearm and looked down at the slices of onion and potato and egg. The light was fading fast around them now. His father's head remained bowed.

'I am sure your mother will come home. Soon she will', his father said. 'When we were first married she made the best tortilla.'

With thanks to Winston Churchill...

The Black Dog


In a little village three miles north of yesterday, there lived a farmer who was plagued by a menacing black dog. Each night the black dog would come without reason and attack the farmer’s property. It killed everything that was caught in its way and sought out anything that wasn’t just so it could kill it. Some nights it only killed one animal. Other nights it killed so many that the winter dirt was turned soft and red. Of the animals on the farm it would leave nothing but blood, and even some of that had clearly been drunk.

The farmer, too scared to face the beast, hid in his bed every night and held pillows over his ears so that he would not have to suffer the noises. He closed his eyes so tight that his face hurt, but he would do anything to avoid seeing the black dog again, for he had seen it once before. It had terrified him. The black dog was a creature of hellish size. Its teeth were the size of steak knives. Its eyes were as black as anvils. Its paws hit the ground like hammers and every breath it took had the sound and aroma of hot ashes being thrown to the soil.

And so night after night the black dog ran through the farm, its teeth gnashing until they were painted with gore and the only sounds were those of terror. But the farmer, with the pillows forced against his ears, heard only the pounding of his heart.

Soon hearing of the animal’s deaths, the other villagers came to the farmer’s house one at a time to offer their help.
“I can stand guard for you sir,” said the policeman. “And if you give me one of your shotguns I can use that too, should the thing appear.”
“No, no. No thank you constable,” said the farmer, half hiding behind his door. “I can manage fine by myself.”
And he had ushered the policeman away with a wave of his hand.

That night the black dog returned from nowhere and killed. The farmer lay in his bed with his pillows over his ears and heard nothing. And in the morning another villager came to offer their help.
“I can help sir,” said the butcher, “My boy and I will stand guard with our butchery knives and should that beast come near we’ll slice it open and have it for sausages!”
“No. No I don’t want you to,” said the farmer, his eyes poking around the door, “I can manage fine by myself.”
And he shut the door on the butcher without another word.

That night the black dog returned from nowhere and killed. The farmer lay in his bed with his pillows over his ears and heard nothing. Once again, early the next day, another villager walked up to the farm to promise assistance.
“I’m strongly built sir,” said the blacksmith, “and I’ve several tools that I reckon would make the creature think twice about coming back should he be struck by them.”
“No! No, go away!” shouted the farmer from behind his door. “I can manage fine by myself!”
And the barely ajar door was slammed shut.

That night the black dog returned from nowhere and killed. The farmer lay in his bed with his pillows over his ears and heard nothing. At eleven o’ clock another villager knocked at the door, ready to help the farmer.
This time the door did not open.
“Who is it?” shouted the farmer through the letterbox.
“It’s me, Farmer Morris from the other side of the village. I hear you’ve been having some trouble with a black dog?”
“Yes, but I don’t need any help! I can manage by myself!”
“Well sir,” said Farmer Morris, “it’s just that I once had a little trouble with the same beast. Wasn’t until a mate of mine helped me that I finally chased it away. Maybe I could offer you some help? Always better to have someone who understand these things helping you.”
“NO!” shouted the farmer. “You think I’m an idiot? I can manage by myself! Now go away!”
“Very well, but let me know if you change your mind. I have knowledge of these things sir.”
And Farmer Morris left.

That night Famer Morris sat in the village pub with the constable and the butcher and the blacksmith. A warm fire crackled behind them as they drank.
“He wouldn’t accept my help either,” Farmer Morris said, “Poor devil, facing it alone...” And he took a long draught of ale.
“Poor fool more like,” said the butcher, and the constable and blacksmith agreed with him.
“Chasing us away like that! It’s lunacy. High-minded lunacy!” said the blacksmith before dousing his grumbling in his pint.
“And he’ll only keep on losing his animals if he doesn’t put a stop to it. He’ll lose everything!” said the constable. “And then you can bet he’ll be begging for our help!”
“Maybe if we all go up to the farm together he’ll change his mind,” Farmer Morris said.
Over another round of drinks they agreed that they would all try one more time to help the farmer. After all, they said, he could not hide behind his door forever.

The next morning the constable, the butcher, the blacksmith and Farmer Morris walked up to farm. It was quiet.
They found the farmer’s door was wide open. There were deep scratches in the wood.
“Hello?” the constable shouted as he led the group inside. “Are you there?”
The inside of the house was dark and silent. And it was a mess. The furniture had been broken or scattered, doors hung off their hinges. The few pictures and ornaments the farmer had were all smashed. Chaos had been frozen in time for the men to view.
“Good God...” they heard the constable cry and rushed upstairs to the bedroom.
They found the policeman staring at the bed. His face was as white as milk.

The farmer was gone. His bedding was soaked in blood. The pitter-patter of it running onto the floor was the only sound in the entire house. It was minutes before one of the four men cleared their throat and took a step forward.
“The black dog?” asked the butcher.
“Certainly. I’ve seen similar before,” Farmer Morris said. “He should have let us...well...no point in saying what should have been...”
In the corner of the room rested his shotgun. The blacksmith picked it up. It was cold and loaded. No shells had been fired.
“Why didn’t he defend himself?” he muttered as he examined the weapon. “He would have had plenty of time to grab his gun while that thing was gallivanting around downstairs.”

There was a brief pause as everyone stared around the room, searching for a reason. But not one could be found.
“I don’t know,” said the constable, “He must have heard it coming surely. He’d have had to have had the pillows over his ears not to.”

'The Clockwork Heart'

A short story for Valentine's Day...






There was once a man who loved a woman very much. This is all you need to know about him. His name and his age and the place he lived and whether or not he liked boiled beetroot and vodka or reading the newspaper are all irrelevant. All you need to know is that he loved a woman with all his heart.

Except the woman did not love him. She knew him, and she knew that he did not like boiled beeetroot or vodka, and that he did like reading the newspaper, but she did not know he loved her. And even if she had, she would not love him in return. All the knowledge in the world could not make her love him.

But sadly the man only learned this on the only day he abandoned his newspaper and asked her to be his wife.

"No," she said. "I will not marry you. I love another. I love his eyes and the way he shaves and I love every step he takes towards me. You are not him. You never could be."

The man could not bear this. He cried tears without end. There was a pain in his head and his chest. His love of food and words left him like steam from a hot bowl. There was heat in his heart, but it was not the kind that comes with a summer's day or which fills you at the first sight of a beautiful woman. It was a dry, indiscriminate heat. And it was his twin. It woke with him, choked back boiled beetroot with him. It did not read the newspaper just as he no longer did. And when he eventually returned to his bed it sat on his heart and made every beat agony.

"Oh why must I live with this pain! My heart aches so! I wish I had the strength to rip it from my body and toss it into the frozen river!" the man cried night after night. No one except the stray dogs heard him, but they were too busy wolfing down the uneaten beetroot.

Then one day a clock-maker heard the man's cries and ventured to his door.

"I can help you sir," the clock-maker said. "You wish to remove the pain that dwells in your heart?"

"Yes, yes!" said the man, "it is too much for me to bear. I would gladly be rid of it even if it should mean dragging my heart with it!"

"This can be done sir," the clock-maker said. "I can take your heart and replace it with clockwork. Then you will be free from the pain of which you speak. For whilst flesh may hold memory and pain, how can wood and tightly-wound metal?"

"Why, they can feel no more pain than a lamp post!" the man said. "Please kind stranger, take my pain! Give me no more tears to shed!"

"Gladly," the clock-maker said, "but first let me tell you this: if a lamp post can no more feel pain than a clockwork heart, then nor can it feel love."

"Of course! What of it? Please, take away my pain sir before I am forced to rid myself of it by my own hands!"

"Very well," said the clock-maker.

And he was true to his word. The clock-maker took away the man's heart and replaced it with cold clockwork. For the first time in a long while the man felt free of the heat that was forged from the loss of the woman he had loved. He no longer felt any heat in his chest. It was cold. Cold as the river he had wished to toss his heart into.

"Ha! I pity all those people who must suffer as I did. Walking around with so much pain, why do it? It is much easier to be rid of it."

The man read his newspaper again. He ate steak every day, sometimes with boiled beetroot, which he no longer seemed to mind. He even developed a taste for vodka. He felt no pain or heat or loss. He felt nothing. The memory of the woman he had loved was still there, but it no longer made him cry. She was as distant to him as the stray dogs. He watched them forage and die in the streets and then went back to eating his steak and reading his newspaper and drinking his vodka. Occasionally he would see a pair of young lovers walk hand in hand and he would throw open his window and shout down at them, sometimes with a moutful of steak. "Ha! Beware you two! You will only break each other's hearts. One of you will become bored or find another love or die and then it will all end in tears! Best to be rid of your heart my friends. No pain to suffer. No more tears to shed!"

This was how he lived. Every day. For two hundred years. His body wore thin, his organs dried up and his blood turned to dust but still his clockwork heart ticked with unending regularity. Nothing made it tick faster or slower and nothing made it skip a tock.

At last, after two hundred years and one day, when the last howl had ceased and the streets were quiet, the man looked at the date on the newspaper and for the first time realised how old he was. He looked around his cold room at the graveyard of newspapers. Rising from his chair he clicked across the floorboards. His bone hands began to pluck papers from their piles and through marble eyes he looked at the headlines. War, famine, plague; the cruel acts of Men and Gods, the wheel of birth and death. He had read it all before but only as black and white.

"Oh what a cruel life I have led!" he moaned and scratched at his ribs. "I have lived so long and yet felt nothing! No pain or loss or love or joy! I have only sat and read and not even the words have moved me!"

Had he been able to remember the feeling of heat in his chest he would have expected it to appear now. But it did not, just as it hadn't for two hundred years. There was only clockwork.

He looked outside his window and saw an old couple tottering along, leaning on one another for support as they traversed the icy street.

"Hey! You two!" he shouted, his voice hoarse, "You are married?"

"For forty-eight years," the old man returned.

"But how? Have you not known loss and pain? Has love not scarred your heart?"

"But of course."

"Then how is it you are married? How have you found love?"

"It is simple," the old man said, "neither of us abandoned our hearts!"

And the old couple laughed mockingly at the clockwork man.

The man staggered back from the window and rattled into his chair. He looked around the room, empty but for the newspapers and a few spent vodka bottles. Only the dependable click of metal kept him company. He tried to cry but only dust fell from his eyes and into the palms of his hands. He stared at it. His clockwork heart continued to move.

"No more tears to shed..." he murmured.

No more tears to shed. No one to shed them for. And with nothing else to do, the man who had once - and only once - loved a woman, wiped the pointless dust from his eyes, and did the only thing he could do. He leaned back in his chair with his glass of vodka and continued to read his newspaper. And that is all you need to know about him, because for the rest of his singular existence that is all he ever did. And he did it like clockwork.