Twisted

By Michael R Stark

Murder follows three people in the stories inside. The first is a hit man who can't believe what he's asked to do. In the second, a farmer picks up a girl on a lonely road and gets more than he bargained for. In the last, a mother goes hunting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R Stark
• Release date: Oct 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458066008

Michael R Stark

Trying to figure out when I started writing is like trying to decide when I started walking. The stories have always been there, rummaging around in my mind. Some went on paper. Most didn’t. I wrote my first novel when I was 22. Thankfully, I left it to the dustbin of history where it shall always remain.Imagine the grin, yes, it was that bad.As for influences on my latest story, The Island, that one has been up there banging away in my head for a long time. Parts of it were told at bedtime. Though honestly, those who heard the parts wouldn't recognize them in the story. By the time we get to the second book in this series, they will find some recognizable moments. They'll also probably be upset that the adventure turned into something of a horror story.Ahh, well, most of them are old enough now to read it for what it is.I grew up in North Carolina, which is why part of the story is set there. I’ve been to exotic parts of the world, many countries, and most states. None of them I know as well as the one I called home for most of my life. It makes it easy to write about it, and the people in it.I hope you enjoy the stories.MS

Book preview

Twisted

by

Michael Stark

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY: Michael Stark on Smashwords

Twisted

Copyright © 2010 by Michael Stark

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Author’s Note

Whether they be twisted tales or tales with twists, I’ll let you decide. Three stories follow, each inspired by a rather normal event believe it or not. The first came from a couple I knew who were involved in a particularly nasty divorce. Divorces are often nasty. That simple fact didn’t create this story in my mind. It was listening to them talk that conjured the image of Jack.

The second comes from a stretch of river road I used to drive often. It is an empty and convoluted two-lane test of brakes and tires that runs for miles and miles through the mountains of North Carolina. There is indeed a river off to the right, and indeed a fish house or two along the way. The road evolved from a route used by cattle and hog drovers a century or two ago. It meanders with the river. You can find all sorts of things along side this bit of spiraling asphalt. Cast off bits of society litter the shoulders, and sometimes, bits of humanity. Occasionally, there are hitchhikers.

The last one comes from doing nothing more than observing traffic, and wondering, what if….

I hope you enjoy, even if you find them all, a little twisted.

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Jack

I waited in the shadows, my back pressed against the rough bark of a tall oak. It loomed over the edge of the narrow, two-lane street in front of me like a massive and natural umbrella. Thick limbs radiated out above, reaching out across the road like long fingers groping at the night. Fog swirled thick and heavy in the flickering light of the lone streetlight, nudged along here and there by a breath of wind from the nearby river. I watched the mist billow in the weak cone of light etched out of the darkness, felt the cold kiss of it graze my cheek, and burrowed deeper in my jacket.

Somewhere far away, a lifetime away it seemed, a church bell tolled, the sound muffled and rolling in the mist. I counted along, keeping time with the long, wavering notes with my fingers until my hands were full and I had to start over.

Eleven o'clock The words echoed in the stillness, surprisingly loud in the dense quiet. I cursed beneath my breath and leaned forward to look down the row of houses on the opposite side of the street. No lights flickered on. No windows opened. Relief washed through me in a cold wave that left my scalp pricking.

My nerves were shot, my muscles tense and vibrating like wires stretched tight and under load. They always were before a kill. No matter how many times it happened or how routine it became, I still felt a trembling sense of anticipation, a gut level knowledge that violence of my own making was imminent, purposeful, and sure. I lit a cigarette, cupping it tight against my chest, and closing my eyes to ward off the sudden flash of light. It was stupid to risk exposure in order to satisfy such a simple urge. But I desperately needed the surge of nicotine, needed to feel that raw, harsh rasp of smoke sear its way into my lungs and burn away the knot of tension in my stomach. I pulled deep, held it, and then opened my eyes. When I finally exhaled, my breath sent a gray plume pouring out into the darkness.

Cold night air whipped the smoke away and sent it swirling into the fog. For a moment there were two shades of gray drifting across the road, the smoke bluer, drier, and bitter with the taste of fire slid alongside the damper, flatter gray of the fog. A few feet away, where a soft, diffused glow from the nearby streetlight swept across glistening black asphalt, they finally merged and became one with the gray canvass upon which they were painted.

I shivered and pulled my jacket close about me, sinking deep in a futile effort to wring some warmth from the damp cloth.

Community streets usually breathed with life. Dogs barked. The murmur of voices floated from open windows and from passing cars. Occasional spears of light would lance out into the darkness as people came and went. This one lay still and