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Posts tagged “E.C. McMullen Jr.

SUMMONING LOVE

normanlindseySUMMONING LOVE
by E.C. McMullen Jr.
Copyright 2016

Water and, of all things, feathers gently fountained from Flutestuf’s pentagram. He slowly shook his head in puzzlement.
‘Well, it’s not like I’m summoning a demon, after all,’ he thought. Those like himself, who practised the Magik Arts, gave a rather simple banner to whatever lay beyond the veil of reality. There was this world and on the other side was the Otherworld.

Flutestuf was part of a small cabal of Mystics who suspected that the Otherworld in truth consisted of many worlds. He’d prepared himself accordingly. Unliked by even the natural beings of his own kind, Flutestuf was determined not only to be loved by another, but to love another.

He would experience the dreams and nightmares of poets.

Witches and Wizards shunned love and lovers, called it a lie, a myth for the weak. Maybe Flutestuf was weak.

He looked to the large mirror he’d set against the wall. It was the best mirror he could find. Framed in lavish gold it revealed every hairy hoary detail of Flutestuf’s wicked face. If the poets told the truth, one day he would stand before that mirror with his one true love and at last, not only see love’s reflection in her face, but see what love revealed in his own.

By the Gods he was sick of his face!

It was time for a change and he wanted, needed to believe that love would cure him of his own repulsion. He needed to be loved. He Needed to Love!

There was the slightest of splash behind him and he turned to see the feathers blanketing the water’s surface, parting. Fingers rose followed by… Flutestuf felt himself involuntarily gasp – just a little – the rising fingers were followed by the loveliest hand he’d ever seen.

Then the loveliest arm he’d ever seen!

Another arm! A back and shoulders rose up without a head, but where the head should be mist swirled around, creating for the creature from an Otherworld, a head and body that could live in this world.

Flutestuf was giddy, his patience tormented. If he was sitting in a chair he’d be on the edge of it. As it was, he crouched down upon his hooves, gazing in wonderment as the rest of the fogbound body rose from the water, draped in the feathers that refitted themselves into the slightest of clothes.

The vapor moved away from him, but no, fog formed flesh into a lovely young woman reclining nude before him. Well, not entirely nude with the feathered clothes, but such accoutrements only accented her delightful nakedness.

His Satyr soul wanted to bray out loud in delight. Flutestuf repressed his goat instinct to savage her innocence. He’d had that before, often, his entire life. He was beyond bored with the disappointed orgasm-aftermath of following his loins over his heart.

Her face formed. Her nose, lips (he felt that he’d cry if he dared kiss them), and eyes. By the Gods her eyes! They gazed at him, in him, surely into the deepest part of where even he feared to look.

He felt his heart beating, punching, bullying his other parts within to get out of its way. This is what the poets said, wasn’t it? When the heart does this, it’s love?

But what was happening to his own body, even while this lovely being formed before him? His Satyr nature joined in celebration with his heart. Flutestuf’s rod was rapidly enlarging, emerging from its sheath, storming out of his hair. He closed his legs over it while it was still possible, before it swung up erect, hard and demanding, as if a sword ready to duel.

Painful. He fell to his knees as if in supplication to the beauty before him, but it was really to adjust his engorging member, already straining at its moors.

Resist! He had to resist his bestial nature. He knew all there was to know about mere rutting. He wanted love!

His heart wanted love. His body wanted rut. They worked together to conspire against his mind, so desperate to contain them.

Yet there was his distinctly male gaze.

Flutestuf gazed at those eyes which gazed so warmly, acceptingly, lovingly back at him. Was even his own Mother’s love ever so complete?

Flutestuf gazed at this beautiful creature’s breasts, loving eyes of their own that saw everything and nothing. Oh yes. Surely that was their poetry. He would write poems to his love’s eyes and breasts.

He gazed at her fully formed legs and between them. Her gender was still forming there. Oh please let it not be a penis again.

This was not Flutestuf’s first attempt, and the last time he’d summoned a young Succubus, both nymph and satyr in one form.

He named it Scha and they’d enjoyably dallied for a time, but eventually Flutestuf realized he didn’t actually love Scha. For all of Scha’s youthful femininity, it still emitted a mild yet distinct male spoor.

So one day he looked at himself in the mirror and saw – no love. No amorous stranger cast its expression upon his features. He only saw his face: His foul, unloving face.

His time with Scha was a lie, but it wasn’t Scha’s lie. It was his own.

He’d allowed the beauty and pleasure of Scha to distract him from his heart’s true pursuit and it eventually disgusted him. He sent the broken-hearted Scha back to the Otherworld, wherever that was. Frightened and crying as it sank back into the pentagram, Scha affirmed and reaffirmed its love for Flutestuf: pleaded for mercy even during the act of its transition out of this world.

None of Scha’s entreaties touched Flutestuf, whose heart slept through the wringing emotion while his mind pondered on the mechanics of what he witnessed.

Nobody really knew the nature of transition between the worlds of a summoning. What did these beings do on their own worlds? What daily lives were they torn from when summoned by the Magik Arts to this world? They seemed to have no memory of the other place. Surely they weren’t merely lined up like dolls sitting upon a cosmic shelf, waiting to be brought by the act of a summons.

When Scha left his final scream upon this world, Flutestuf only shrugged and turned away, entirely lost within his own thoughts. ‘For that matter, what place are we summoned from when we are naturally born into this world?’

When his friends heard what he’d done with Scha they were circumspect yet decidedly disapproving. No one openly expressed outrage or offense, of course. No practitioner of Magiks ever does to a sibling of the Arts. The experts may, sure. The Sorcerers and Sorceress may direct their powers at will and for that reason alone are best left to their own devices. But among those who were not the actual source of magik but must coax it into being – the practioners: Witches, Wizards, and Mystics like himself – declaring scandal against another member of the Arts was a perilous indulgence.

“One must have a care when dealing with maledictions.”
– Cugel the Clever

Flutestuf eventually realized he’d lost their company. Not that practitioners were ever fraught with festive bonhomie in the best of times, but his cabal had no time for Flutestuf anymore. The change was clearly chilled.

Flutestuf missed the periodic sharing of new discoveries, but oh well, they too were a distraction from his goals and anyway, practice makes perfect.

No remorse existed within Flutestuf. After all, a bee, to be a bee, must seek out flowers, not other bees. Flutestuf wanted a flower so complete that he’d never return to the hive.  All the better now that the hive no longer wanted him.

The vapor between her legs parted, breaking Flutestuf from his reverie.

Yes! A lovely vaginal cleft! A mons and vulva swelled beautifully around it, sprouting soft down. He looked up to her face. The fog of summoning seemed to be having a difficult time with her hair. It must be creating quite a mane up there, but he no longer worried that the horns of a male would appear.

She smiled at him. Had any living creature ever offered him the kindness of such a smile before?

A worm of thought slithered into his mind. ‘Am I worthy of such wonder?’

Flutestuf brushed the thought aside, ‘No I’m not, and if not I will be. I will make myself worthy of love.’

Already kneeling, Flutestuf bent forward, practically on hands and knees before the awe inspiring goddess appearing before him. He wanted her to have a name and he wanted her to already know it.

‘Please, my goddess,’ he thought. ‘Only divulge this one secret from where you came. Share with me this one part of your past, of a life lived that makes you whole and real and I’ll never inquire for more.’

Instead she slightly pursed her lips, reached out with that loveliest of lovely hands, and stroked his furry cheek.

Flutestuf, disappointed in the maleness of the still forming Scha, never allowed the creature to touch him until long after the completion of summoning. Scha had to goad and seduce him into relenting to its embrace.

Not so with this female creature who wholly defined acceptance and love. At her touch, tears welled up in Flutestuf’s eyes.

A slight blemish appeared on her tummy. A small insignificant mole. Flutestuf pulled himself away from scrutinizing it. No matter. He didn’t summon perfection and who was he to ask for it?

As her hand pulled away he reached for it, grasped it, and brought it to his lips. He gazed longingly, achingly into her eyes as he kissed the back of that loveliest of lovely.

Her eyelids darkened as flesh wrinkled around them. The innocence faded, revealing jaded knowledge. These were an experienced harlot’s eyes, though they clearly loved him no less.

Any human man, real man, would desire such love even more. To be chosen by an experienced lover, well versed in the consequences of  choice, was so much more preferable than the childish choosings of an inexperienced waif.

Flutestuf was satyr not human, so not a real man. His kind did not, could not, appreciate any but nymphs and human virgins.

What was happening to her?

By the Gods it was the magiks!

He touched her before summoning was complete and the still working spell was changing her to suit him. But that didn’t suit Flutestuf at all.

He didn’t want a female version of himself. He wasn’t aspiring to be himself! Flutestuf knew that he was a worthless, miserable grotesque of a creature, rightly shunned by others and even his own kind. His former Cabal, made of various creatures both living and undead, found their past acceptance of him based on a shared common passion for the Magiks.

He pulled back as the fog around her head evaporated, leaving coarse hair like his own. The hair between her legs also grew coarse and long, like his own, and goat hairs sprouted all over her body.

Flutestuf fell back from the change in horror and his hand fell upon the sacrificial knife he used to cast this blood spell.

“Damn it!” he cried out. ‘Everything is going wrong! Again!’

Her knowing, experienced harlot’s eyes saw his terror, knew his thoughts, yet because she still loved him, she reached out to calm his fears. Flutestuf would have none of it. He threw himself forward, half into the circle, and angrily slashed her.

With his naturally inhuman strength and the madness of his bestial urges, he hacked her beautiful flesh from muscle, muscle from sinew, sinew from bone. He hacked deep into her bone, again and again through the heady spray of hot blood and her harrowing screams. Her screams of loss and betrayal cried out, until her brief, tragic life was no more.

There. Her beauty was also no more. Her love was a thing of the ever expanding past. Whoever she was and wherever she was from, she could remain a cypher to him.

“It was lust, not love,” he lied to himself.

He knew he was lying and he hated himself for it. No, hate wasn’t a strong enough word.

He despised himself.

Nearly exhausted from it all, Flutestuf left the bloody circle and wobbled over to the mirror.

He collapsed before it, stared at his mocking ugly self.

“You,” he accused it. He stabbed his knife deep into his thigh. Then he pulled it back out and repeatedly stabbed his legs with every word.

“You! You! You! You! You!”

The pain was nearly overpowering but the exsanguination wouldn’t last. Healing spells are one of the  first things a knowledgeable practitioner casts upon themselves.

“You’re ugly!” he cried to the mirror. “And hateful! Filthy! Cold and remorseless! You aren’t worth love!”

Flutestuf threw the knife away and broke down sobbing at his own wretchedness.

“Nobody has ever loved you,” he murmured. His mumble became a shout, “And nobody ever will! Never until you change!”

He grabbed the mirror’s frame with both hands. “Change you disgusting thing! Why won’t you change?”

Flutestuf sobbed in despair and searched for where the knife clattered off to. He set the mirror back, went for the knife, returned to the mirror, and stabbed himself through the heart.

Almost instantly he collapsed from the blood pressure drop.

When he awoke, he looked around himself, then wrenched the knife from his chest, where his heart had healed around the wound, and collapsed again, as before.

When he came to a second time, he dejectedly stood, tired self-loathing evident in his every move.

Tearfully, Flutestuf pressed his solemn head against the mirror, his horns clacking against the surface.

“Why was I born me?” he sobbed. “And why? Why must I stay me?”

He moved back and stared deeply at his reflection.

“You,” he said pointing at the mirror. “You are not worth tolerating or accepting.”

He tapped the mirror with the point of his claw. “You must be a better person. You must. You must be what you want to be.”

He backed away, turned his hand and tapped himself. “I must work to see in the mirror what I wish others to see in me. I must. I will.”

He breathed a deep sigh that would have been melodramatic to most humans, except Flutestuf was sincere.

“But when?” he asked himself.

Flutestuf shambled off to his room to sleep. So much work and nothing to show for it. So much left to be done. He counted on his precious mirror to one day reveal a real him that he could be proud of: a him that he and the world could respect. How long before he’d see that in the mirror?

Never outside of his self-indulgence.

Flutestuf was forever doomed to a long, loveless, brutally miserable life. For a mirror, like all reflections, only shows us the reverse of what everyone else sees.

END

Copyright 2016 by E.C. McMullen Jr.
Art by Norman Lindsay.


wb2016Increase your worth by buying my book,
WILLOW BLUE.
It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Want more? Buy

PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
It’s a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Crave still more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.


ALONE AMONG THE MISORS

IMPERIA

Artwork: Imperia by Lucian Stanculescu

ALONE AMONG THE MISORS
Copyright 2014 by E.C. McMullen Jr.

Among the Misors, the (translated) Death Sphere, was not a true sphere at all, but a 6th Dimensional hole in 3D space. As such, it punctured our universe from all sides equally, our reality distorting just above a whisper, outside the circle of its unknown physics.

The Wandering Zoroas of the Misors traveled their world, holding the Death Sphere aloft above their multi-fingered heads. Alone among their own in this biologically odd configuration, even the Zoroas could not tell you why they were genetically built this way. It wasn’t hereditary, it wasn’t a disease. All Misors had the genetic information in their twisted ladder. For still unknown reasons, some Misors were born with the genetic information switched to “On”.

One was simply born a Zoroas with the fully formed tell-tale head-hand. When one came of age – and that age was not fixed – a multi-dimensional Death Sphere would materialize, perched upon the hand that grew from the top of their head.

From that moment on, the Zoroas would surrender all their possessions to the Sodalites of Siblings, don their robes, take up their staff, and wander their world, seeking the one Misor among the many who uniquely belonged to this single sphere.

Their wanderings were not entirely random, as the Zoroas claimed that the Death Sphere in some way “Pulled” them to their target. That Misor could be in the same city, kingdom, or on the other side of the world or – in this time of space faring – out somewhere among the colonies.

It was the nearly irresistible compulsion of the Pulling that all Zoroas followed.

Time and distance were immaterial.

It didn’t matter the journey. All communities of significant size had at least one Zoroaster where the Sodalites of Siblings could find shelter and food. Barring catastrophe, no Zoroas could die so long as they held the Death Sphere. In as much as the Death Sphere also held onto them – it was impossible to rid themselves of it.

It was called a Death Sphere because it was instant death to the single Misor who “belonged” to it. The hole “recognized” only its one specific Misor from among the billions, and would suddenly turn upon its “axis” point, drawing in both the intended as well as the Zoroas who held it aloft, then vanish from our space.

So the purpose of the Zoroas were two-fold, as they were suicidal assassins. In every manner of perception, it was absolutely their life’s calling.

Not all Misors died this way. But as a matter of culture, just as many were happy to die on their own, as were those who looked forward with eager trepidation, to the coming of their own Death Sphere. As it is with the randomness of life, no Misor was given the choice of dying – or not – by Death Sphere; just as no Misor was given the choice of being born into the unwritten covenant of the Zoroas.

Occasionally a Misor intended for shared death died prematurely. The Pulling would call the Zoroas to their remains, then pull no more. These Zoroas became Elders. There was a grim inevitability to living as a Zoroas, though there was a worse sadness of culturally misplaced shame in becoming an Elder. Yet a deeper respect, truly one without covetous desire, was given to an Elder, who would spend the rest of their life holding a Death Sphere that pulled for no one.

“Death is an experience best shared.”
– old Zoroas saying

So it was on a most particular night of a most particular day, in a colony many solar systems removed from Misorn, that a Tithing named Fanfa – a Misor caretaker of the Zoroas whose own skull fingers failed to fully form and so, never received a Death Sphere – opened the doors to a young Sibling dressed in the manner of Zoroas from the Homeworld.

The Tithing matched the gaze of the young Zoroas, but respectfully looked no further. As with all Sodalites of Siblings from Elders to Tithings, Fanfa averted her gaze so as not to look directly at his Death Sphere. It was there in the periphery above her direct field of vision, and the whispering distortion of our reality around its edge was easily heard.

“Welcome weary Sibling,” Fanfa said, bowing as she intoned the traditional greeting. “All you require is here.”

The Homeworld Sibling moved his staff toward her and back, in the typical Zoroas way of quiet gratitude, yet he stayed by the door.

New to the job of being a Tithing, Fanfa wondered if there was some part of the minor ceremony she’d forgot.

“Forgive me if I have failed you,” Fanfa said bowing again, her stumpy head-hand’s webbed fingers opened wide. “I am only a recruit.”

The recruit’s awkward apology drew the attention of the other Zoroas seated in the room. Everyone stopped their drinking, eating, talking, to see what ailed their latest Sibling.

“I am Tatal and the fault is mine,” he said. “As I am also new and not accustomed to the ways of wandering.”

S’Orcea, an older Zoroas who only came of age when her Death Sphere appeared late in life, had acquired experience and maturity long before she began her travels. She approached the two young people at the door to ease the discomfort of her Siblings.

“In this Zoroaster,” S’Orcea said. “like all Zoroasters, no Sodal Sibling is ever a stranger. You are welcome to eat and rest here until your Pulling calls you away.”

The abrupt chest heaving was apparent beneath Tatal’s voluminous robe. Startled, S’Orcea looked to the man’s eyes and was surprised to see the young Zoroas was grieving.

“Please forgive me, my Siblings,” Tatal said. “But the Pulling… the Pulling has drawn me here.”

To S’Orcea and Fanfa’s utter surprise, Tatal’s Death Sphere began noisily turning.

Suddenly afraid, for a Tithing is not a true Zoroas, Fanfa looked for help to S’Orcea, only to hear and see that the elder Zoroas’s Death Sphere was also expanding, turning, the reality of our universe crackling across it.  The stricken S’Orcea needed no mirror to know, she could hear it.

What was the meaning of this? In all recorded history, no Zoroas had ever come for another.

Fighting her fear, Fanfa found herself backing away from S’Orcea and Tatal. She looked to the other travelers for help. But there would be no help from any of them on this most particular night. All of them could see that every Sibling in the room held aloft a spinning Death Sphere, growing and angrily tearing our universe apart.

END

Story ALONE AMONG THE MISORS Copyright 2014 by E.C. McMullen Jr.
The Art Inspires the Story
Artwork: IMPERIA  Artist: Lucian Stanculescu


wb2016Why tear yourself up? Buy my book
WILLOW BLUE.
It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Want more? Buy

PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
It’s a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Crave still more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.


The Second Shortest Horror Story

THE SECOND SHORTEST HORROR STORY: A Mashup

KNOCK (The Shortest Story) –

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room.

There was a knock on the door.
― Frederic Brown

It was the last woman on Earth.

The last man and woman on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.

It was the last boy and girl on Earth.

The last man, woman, boy, and girl on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.

The kids taught the monkey to knock.
– E.C. McMullen Jr.


wb2016Don’t be the last person to buy my book,
WILLOW BLUE.
It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Want more? Buy

PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
It’s a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Crave still more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.


AND THEN…

AImageAND THEN…
Copyright 2014
by E.C. McMullen Jr.

In deep woods far from civilization, all praise, offerings and beseeching was done.

The brief spells and long chants of incantations were over.

Now all that was left for the Coven of Three was the waiting.

Patiently they looked down upon the Enchanted Circle of Spirit Twine on the forest floor. Patiently they waited as arms outstretched, they Squared the Air above The Circle with their living flesh, in accord with the Written Word.

Little itches but none were scratched.

Insects, wafting through the air and mistaking the living for inanimate things, landed on their skin, their faces. The Coven of Three ignored them.

This final three still standing, winnowed after eight years from a far larger coven, waited for the sign, the something, from this, their greatest most informed most prepared for work of Magiks. They would not be found wanting. This was their ultimate It.

Clouds came and went and vanished from sight, while the Coven of Three gazed down upon the Enchanted Circle of Spirit Twine and waited for the mystical antiphon to their song of enchantments.

The Eastern star that rose to greet their great work, now settled in the West.

WITCH 3: “Aaand… Nothing happened.”
WITCH 2: “Nothing ever happens.”
WITCH 1: “No. Something happened. We just lack the senses to feel it yet.”
WITCH 3: “Then how can you say anything happened?”
WITCH 1: “Because I sens-! Eh, I felt- …ah.”
WITCH 2: “Yeah, right. This is bullshit. It has always been bullshit. And everyone knew it before we did.”
WITCH 1 (desperation): “No! I sensed and felt it!”
WITCH 3: “You just said you couldn’t.”
WITCH 1: “I said you couldn’t!”
Witch 2: “You said ‘We couldn’t’.”
WITCH 1: “I was referring to you, not myself!”
WITCH 3: “Then why’d you say ‘We’?”
WITCH 1: “I … I meant the ‘Royal’ We!”
Witch 2: “Which includes you.”
WITCH 1: “No it doesn’t! You don’t know anything!”
WITCH 2 (walking away): “I know I’m done with this crap. Huh, I’m such a fool.”
WITCH 1: “You can’t break the magic circle! You can’t walk away!”
WITCH 3 (walking away): “Me too. I’m done with the stupid and you’re a delusional idiot.”
WITCH 1: “You’re both breaking the circle! That’s bad luck!”
WITCH 2 (distant): “Shut up.”
WITCH 1: “You’ll be visited by storms!”
Witch 3 (gives over the shoulder finger flip)
Witch 1: “BY DEMON STORMS!!!”

Witches 2 and 3 disappear over the hill crest.

In approaching despair, Witch 1 waits, listening for their return. She hears their motors start and putter away.

Witch 1 glares at the Enchanted Circle of Spirit Twine on the ground, laying there like a very long piece of rope she spent many nights weaving and chanting over: It looks very much like the discarded dirty laundry and worthless rags that went into its creation.

From the pit of her stomach, the bottom of her heart, the seed of her soul, she screams in a rage of deepest frustration.

WITCH 1: “AAAAAUGHHH! WHY DIDN’T YOU FUCKING DO ANYTHING?!?”
Spirit Twine: ” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Shut up.

END

Story by E.C. McMullen Jr.

Art: Unknown. Artist Unknown. If you can prove you are the artist, please contact me and I’ll credit you.


pb300Don’t wait and make a fool of yourself! Buy my book
PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
It’s a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Want more? Buy WILLOW BLUE. It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Crave even more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.


THEY TOUCHED THE EYE OF GOD

Filippo Borghi

Art by Filippo Borghi

THEY TOUCHED THE EYE OF GOD
Copyright 2014
by E.C. McMullen Jr.

The Farmer, Passle, didn’t know what else to do. All the sky was overcast, so it was possible that somewhere, up there, the Great Eye of Fas the Beloved cast Its benevolent gaze down upon the world.

But the fact was that right over there, about a quarter mile away and pressed up against the nearly concave hillock, rested an enormous eye gazing down upon the ground.

The eye was huge. Bigger than his barn. Bigger than four of his barns!

Passle looked at the grass beneath his feet. The early morning fog had lifted, but the dew was still everywhere.

What was he to do?

He had to tell someone! Tell them of the great eye! But there was only one great eye in the world and if this wasn’t The Great Eye of Fas, what or whose eye was it?

What would happen to the world if the great eye over there,  seemingly dead as a doll’s eye, lightly buffeted against the hillock as if by unseen breeze, was THE Great Eye of Fas?

What would happen to the world if this was another eye?

What would happen to him? What would his neighbors say of him? What would the world say of him?

And yet the eye was too large to ignore. Other people were sure to see it from the road. Passerby. Best to get in front of this news than be trampled by it. So with that in mind, Passle turned back toward his house to make some calls.

Bevva stood there on the porch. Passle hadn’t heard her come out, but there she stood, silent as stone, staring without understanding at the great eye that touched the ground.

He approached his wife.

“Bevva?”

“What is this, Passle?” Her voice a hundred miles away. “What is – what does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Passle spoke gently. A fear crept upon him that his Bevva’s mind was gathering clouds, soon to be a storm.

“It’s like a dead thing,” Bevva whispered. “Like a fish floating upside down.”

“I’m going to call someone,” Passle said.

“Who?” Bevva asked, never turning her sight from the great eye on the ground.

Passle stopped himself. He had meant to call Pastor Klienz. But was that a good idea? The world must know, but he had to think about his family’s protection from the masses. What would the masses do?

Who would he call?

By that afternoon the cloudy sky had cleared and, for the first time in recorded history, the great eye of Fas was nowhere to be seen.

In the sky.

A mob of people as far as the eye could see, were lined up along the wood fence that bordered Passle and Bevva’s land. Their murmuring could be heard all the way to the house.

Passle and Bevva went upstairs to get a better look at them all. From the attic window, they could see that the line of people stretched for miles, their cars shiny, clustered, and abandoned on either side of the great mass. Passle grabbed his binoculars to look and, sure enough, beyond them on either side, the government and military were attempting to move through the blockage of machine and people with flashing lights and probably threats.

The day was sunny and beautiful. Birds sang, insects lazily flew about their business, and his animals were peaceful and content. But for Passle, Bev, and the gathered mob, The Great Eye of Fas was not benevolently gazing down upon them. And a giant eye – like the Eye of Fas – rested in the meadow beside a hillock.

There was a change in tempo for the mob along the fence and Passle moved to the other attic window to see what they saw.

A manned balloon, it’s great bellows flapping in the sunlight, moved toward the distant hillock. It positioned itself a bit of a distance from the great eye and, navigating the winds, began slowly turning wary, wide circles high above it. As if mindful that the great eye would suddenly spring off of the ground and zoom back to its rightful place.

The balloon appeared to be having some trouble maneuvering. The mob noticed, their murmuring turning to agitated shouts. Suddenly they began scrambling over the fence, running toward the great eye.

Late afternoon and the mob that stood in a great wide half moon around the eye waited. It was blasphemy to say that this seemingly dead thing was the Great Eye of Fas the Beloved, but everyone thought it.

What were they going to do if this was the Great Eye of Fas? Who would watch over them now? Who would see the evil and injustice in the world and mark it in memory for that one day when all would be raised from the living and the dead … and judged?

How could anyone be safe without Fas watching over all?

Pastor Klienz was there and he had his own fears. The Great Eye of Fas was not in the sky, and this giant eye sat on the ground. Even a child could make the connection. He had to take charge.

Pastor Klienz stepped forward out of the massive circle of people. Then careful not to turn his back upon the great eye even as he turned his face toward the mob, he cried out,

“This is a sign from The Great Eye of Fas our Beloved!”

His words broke the suspense and a multi-thousand throat sigh went out from the congregation. This was a Voice of Fas speaking to them. The ordained Voices of Fas could utter no blasphemy. Fears would be allayed. Now all would be made right.

Klienz winged it as he went, building a scaffold from memorized scripture.

“Rejoice for this great day!” Klienz shouted, loud enough to be heard by all gathered.

Now that he was speaking like this, reworking the foundation of canon, the pieces seemed to come together and refit in his mind.

“Blessed are the helpless, for they shall have the hands of their siblings!  Blessed are those who help the helpless, for their deeds shall be witnessed and transgressions forgiven!”

To Klienz, it was all starting to make sense. The words flowed and he felt himself believing as well. Still, he turned his face from the crowd and made a quick scan of the sky one more time, before he dared speak again.

“I tell you my siblings, that this is truly none other before us than the Great Eye of Fas the Beloved, Who Watches Over us All!”

At this, the revelation of every frightened thought in the minds of the gathered thousands, a tremendous gasp went up from the mob. At this moment of belief and blasphemy, they could become anything.

Clergy from other, larger splinters of churches, looked down from the balloon gondola. Upon hearing the voice of Pastor Klienz, controlling the mob’s confusion, the many ministers demanded a landing. If anyone was going to lead the masses, it would be them, not some local rube.

Then the ministers began bickering among themselves.

“Sacrilege! We should call down from our megaphones and deny the words of this Pastor!”

“No, the mob are listening to him. We should land first, approach the Pastor as colleagues, acquire his leadership, then turn the mob against him.”

Arrogant in their corrupt ambitions, they said all of this within earshot of the most devout among them: The Balloon Captain.

Within the cruelty of this world, so soon after the death of his wife and child, the only thing that kept the Captain’s soul together was his faith in the generous mercy and righteous justice of the Great Fas.

His fretful eyes more focused on the Great Eye below than his own instruments, the troubled Balloon Captain’s great faith was already upended from both the absence of Fas in the sky and a giant eye on the ground. Now as the clergy fought to turn this world crushing event to their gain, his crisis of faith was further shredded by their scurrilous arguments.

What then was this horrible day? Is this the death of God?

For the Most Righteous Ministers argued like mad criminals, concocting schemes, scams, lies, and crimes: Caring nothing for the never-prophesied Horror of an absent sky.

In a heart-breaking snap, everything the Balloon Captain ever knew or believed crashed all around him. His soul ached from the furious betrayal within the gondola and the insanity outside. What was there left of life if the Great Fas wasn’t watching over them all?

The silent Balloon Captain made his choice and steered away from the hillocks, toward the steep sharp edges of the Tower Mountains.

Meanwhile, Pastor Klienz testified before the masses.

“The Great Eye of Fas has come down among us to know our mercy and generosity of spirit! Fas has made Itself helpless before us, so that it may witness our strength. Come and be blessed by the help we offer It!”

Cautiously, faces skewed with questions, the mob moved forward.

“Come my dearly beloved siblings! Bring your hands forth! Do not be left behind! Happy are those who the Great Fas will witness! Release the generosity of our spirits! Accept Its offer of blessings seen!”

They all moved toward the giant eye, many weeping,  and their compassion welled tears in the eyes of Klienz.

This was truth coming from his lips! It had to be! He was but a vessel for the will and the unheard voice of the Great Fas!

Reaching out in their masses they touched the eye of God.

Hearts beating rapidly with an overwhelming joy none of them had ever experienced, they gingerly, carefully, moved beneath the Great Eye. It seemed to weigh almost nothing. It wasn’t billowy like a balloon. It was definitely solid, but under their thousands of hands, it was also light.

Pastor Klienz stood apart, crying openly as the Great Eye slowly lifted.

“Now!” he cried. “Launch!”

With the sound of a powerful “Whaugh!” the crowd moaned a chorus of exertion, giving their lift everything they could to send the Great Eye of Fas back to Its rightful place high above.

The Great Eye floated up, up, but did so slowly. Slower. Slower still, then came to a stop. It hovered over them, looking down at them even as they looked up at It.

It wasn’t the reaction Klienz expected and he suspected others felt the same. In a lower voice he intoned.

“My beloved siblings. If you ever wondered if your good deeds went unnoticed, let there be no doubt but that the Great Fas sees them now.”

The Great Eye began to move again. Somewhere in the distance echoed an explosive burst and the screams of dying clergy, but all beneath the eye paid no attention.

God was watching. And moving.

The giant eye floated over their heads as bits of debris it picked up from sitting on the ground, fell back. It wasn’t rising, and it approached the upward curve of the hillock until it softly bumped against the land once more.

Pastor Klienz found this worrisome, but he stayed on point with the sermon.

“Our great task is not over, my siblings. Helping the less fortunate is never easy, and the path to righteousness is difficult.”

He paused before saying, “So hold nothing back I Beg of you! Exert yourselves completely! Surrender all your strength! All your energy! Launch the Great Eye of Fas!”

Once again they assembled beneath It, fighting against gravity upon the steep slope of the curving hillock.

“Now!” Klienz commanded. “Launch!”

The mob pushed with a mighty “Augh!” as muscle screamed between flesh and bone. Once again the great eye floated upwards. Once again It slowly came to a stop. Not descending, but not rising.

As a group, they all cautiously lowered their arms, but they couldn’t take their attention from it. As one they all watched the eye that watched them.

Evening came and the stars glittered in the night. The long hours of suspenseful waiting were exhausting. No one had ate or drank. The military came and infiltrated but, to a soldier, they all were hushed and humbled by the unimagined, unknown, and unknowable: the seeming silent helplessness of God.

The great eye looked down upon them, at everyone and no one.

Hushed, every man, woman, and child, were left staggering and weak. Yet with every drop of energy left, all still bristled on the edge of the moment. Directly beneath the eye: closer to God than ever before, no one would dare be seen or found wanting. The attention of the Great Fas was never nearer, more acute. As one they were each ready to throw up their arms yet again, palms out, fingers spread. The long hours of night passed as they waited: thirsty, hungry, bloated with waste. Yet after all of this time, they held their horrified breath.

The Great Fas seemed to be floating okay this time. Not as high as It should be, and that was a concern. But the big questions right now were: Would It finally stay up there? Would It ascend to its proper place? And what would it mean…?

Oh Great Eye!

What would it mean if It did not?

END

Story by E.C. McMullen Jr.

Art: I See You. Artist: Filippo Borghi.


pb300Don’t be found wanting! Buy my book,
PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
It’s a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Want more? Buy WILLOW BLUE. It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Crave even more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.


BUG BAND

Andreas Paul WeberBUG BAND
by E.C. McMullen Jr.
Copyright 2013

At the last minute, their drummer, Tzt, needed a lift. He loaned his bike to his brother and bro never returned it.

Tzt lived so far away, but they needed him. They needed their drummer! So away they went, griping all the way.

Of course they didn’t like it. The concert was that evening and in the opposite direction. Worse, they pedaled their bikes twice as fast to make time.

Damn this last minute madness!

Tzt was supposed to have his own transportation, and doubling up on a bike plus the drumset would make it harder on the others. They would have to take it in turns so they weren’t worn out by the time they reached their gig.

Then when the band finally reached his place, Tzt said his drums were in his Mom’s garage and they had to go all the way there first. And his Mom wasn’t back along the way they came, she lived further out in the opposite direction from the gig.

Well that was the last damn straw. The band left Tzt behind. His cries of, “Wait! Guys! Aw c’mon, guys!” faded in the distance as did his history with them.

Screw it! They would just do without a drummer tonight. Now they were in a rush and running late because of that asshole, and they couldn’t afford to blow this gig.

END

Story by E.C. McMullen Jr.

Art: Insect Musical Band on Bicycles, by Andreas Paul Weber.


pb300Don’t wait until the last minute! Buy my book
PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
It’s a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Want more? Buy WILLOW BLUE. It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Crave even more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.


DECISIONS

FrankCPape

Art by Frank C. Papé

DECISIONS
by E.C. McMullen Jr.
Copyright 2014

Cole was of two minds, which wasn’t surprising.

The Dream Cole crouched upon his human body, his own chest. His clawed feet pressing into, but not breaking the skin, of his other form: The Sleeping Cole.

As the Sleeping Cole of flesh lay unconscious near death, the Dream Cole of spirit, stayed perched and pondering.

If Dream Cole dissolved back inside of himself, the Sleeping Cole of flesh  would lose the great, leathery wings again – same as always – and wake up. The Awake Cole would be alive in a wingless, flightless world: Nothing more than a face among the many faces. A life among the many lives.

Who knows when he would enjoy such a dream again? Dreams of flight were rare, and so precious. Cole had never known such precious freedom outside of dreams.

Yet if Dream Cole stayed out of himself much longer, the withering cord between his dreaming self and his traveler, real self, would fray and unwind. Once that started, there was no mending it.

He had to return, otherwise: No friends. No family. No Love or Lover. No Laughter. No daylight.

His children. What would he do or be without his children? How could he never be Daddy again? All that he deeply treasured would be lost forever and he would have to nourish himself, as a parasite, upon the living.

Yet. Yet!

This aerial creature of flight was also a coveted thing. To exist within dream! Even nightmare! Was… well it was Glorious!

There was no other word for it. Glorious!

His wings!

– Here Cole spread them out, both for his adoring gaze as for the sheer tactile feel of it –

His magnificent wings, as adept as fingers, were nearly their own entity, his closest secret friend.

So it was on this stage alone, where Dream Cole found himself. Everything outside of the stage was Death. But upon the stage was the dividing curtain. On one side of that curtain, Life. On the other, Undead. Dream Cole’s divided spirit was torn between powerful desires and never was his indecision greater.

Suddenly a slight breath of a whisper. Faint hissing carrying the massive gravitas of a collapsing star.

Dream Cole’s head jerked to the side even as he knew; even as his soul froze; even as he looked toward his fragile cord.

With threads whipping and snapping away wild as angry snakes, the strands uncoiled.

END

Story by E.C. McMullen Jr.

Art: The Evil One Perches on the Body of a Victim Whom He Has Succeeded in Ensnaring, by Frank C. Papé.


pb300Choose to buy my book before its too late!
PERPETUAL BULLET: A Science Fiction Collection.
Is a veritable trove of previously published Science Fiction Horror Thriller tales – plus bonus stories
Featuring: Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem!
Now on sale for $9.00 in Trade Paperback and in eBook for $1.99 and available for your Android Tablet, iPad, Kindle, Nook, and every other “E”!
Find it at (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, !ndigo, iTunes, KoboBooks, Smashwords, WHSmith, and more).
Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free!

Want more? Buy WILLOW BLUE. It’s my second collection of critically acclaimed Supernatural and Drama Thriller short stories with all of the Weird Sex, True Love, Monsters and Mayhem, you’ve come to expect (or should by now). Available in paperback for $8.00 or in Kindle for only $1.99. Buy the paperback at Amazon and the Kindle eBook is free! The tales will last you longer than latte!

Crave even more?

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

Also available from Crystal Lake Publishing, the film making guidebook, HORROR 201: The Silver Scream. Reap the rewards of movie making experience from the likes of Myself, as well as  John Carpenter, Tom Holland, Jeffrey Reddick, George A. Romero, Keith Arem, Richard Gray, also the late  Ray Bradbury, Wes Craven, plus many more. $19.99 in Print or $3.99 in eBook.