Not For Kids

By Todd Brabander

The world can be a frightening place, especially for children. At a circus, a forest, a book store, or a cemetery—forgotten, unlit corners hide terrible secrets and ghastly dangers, waiting for someone to stumble across them.
This collection of eight short stories is Todd Brabander's most disturbing and twisted collection yet. It is definitely not for kids.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Todd Brabander
• Release date: Nov 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301154579

Todd Brabander

Todd Brabander is an author, musician, and artist from Portland OR. His projects range in style from comedy, to absurdist, to horror, and usually have a Pacific Northwest flavor. His work aims to capture a twisted and often humorous view of the normal world. He has been in several music groups, had his writing published online, and has publicly displayed visual art. He is a big fan of the Oxford comma.

Book preview

Not For Kids

A Collection

BY TODD BRABANDER

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Todd Brabander

www.toddbrabander.com

License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Table Of Contents

Acknowledgements

Judged

Booth

The Resurrectionist

Not For Kids

The Shared Minute

Paint

Murder Baby

D.L.S.T.

Dr. So & So’s Circus of 1000 Mushrooms

About The Author

Acknowledgements

~ ~ ~

I want to thank my buddy Kaebel Hashitani for always being there to help me navigate the stormy seas of art and life. Thanks to Dawn Manske for being a great cheerleader. Thank you Kristina King your continued help, inspiration, and encouragement.

Judged

~~~

Come on out!

They could hear the Calhoun brothers laughing from the bed of their big, red pickup truck. The sound of that old Ford twisted the stomach of every middle-school kid in Gresham. You were in trouble, if on your way to school you crossed paths with those bullies. Last year they stole a bike from a sixth-grader. One boy got tossed in a pond. They stripped another kid down to his underwear in the middle of winter and threw his clothes on the roof of the Dairy Queen. And each year they’d become a little more violent. Last year a kid got his finger broken, and an eighth-grader got a tooth knocked out. This year Brody Jensen spent the whole last semester in the hospital. The school principal once said it was only a matter of time until those Calhoun boys killed someone.

If on your way to school or while out playing you heard that terrible, rumbling engine it was best to run or hide. The school counselor once said that there was something wrong with those kids. Their dad was in jail for killing a man in a bar fight, and their mom was oblivious. Spineless. She would say her babies were good boys, but the kids all knew if those Calhoun brothers caught you there would be no mercy. It was only when the school bell rang that you knew that Joe and Jesse Calhoun were safely locked away inside the high school.

Today was July 11th—summer vacation. There would be no relief. No school bell. No cage to hold the monsters. The Calhoun brothers had nowhere to be, and the kids knew once the brothers found you they wouldn’t stop.

C’mon, dorks! the older boys taunted.

A loud pop broke the still forest air. It was a gunshot.

They had a gun. The two brothers passed a .22 rifle back and forth. After a quick pumped they fired another shot off into the woods.

Danny, Jenny, Christie, and Paul were motionless among the weeds and ferns. They hugged the ground under a row of massive rhododendron bushes. Through the foliage the eighth-graders could see the Ford pickup creep past them on the dirt road—gravel cracking and popping under tires as it crawled by. Paul held Christie’s hand.

Come on out! Scott Melman yelled from the driver’s seat. He was almost as wicked as Joe and Jesse Calhoun. Scott had been suspended for fighting on so many occasions that the school held him back a year—much to the dismay of everyone.

Another shot rang out.

The middle-schoolers kept their heads down in the wet, sticky leaves. They prayed that someone might drive by and save them, but until then they remained hidden, hoping that a stray bullet didn’t find them.

They’re going to kill us!

We need to get to the old train tracks.

Where?

They’re at the bottom of this hill behind us.

Where’d they get a gun?

What if they drive around and catch us?

They can’t follow if we get across the creek.

Do you know how to get there?

Yeah. I do.

The Calhoun brothers killed a dog once. It was never proven, but everyone knew. Joe and Jesse weren’t murderers; they were too stupid to be murderers. The brothers were reckless, and cruel, and that made them even more frightening. The whimpering and crying just made them laugh, and it was only when a dog is hanging by its neck from a tetherball pole, tongue swollen and eyes bulging that the laughter stopped, and then they realized that they had gone too far, and that they were in trouble.

The pickup accelerated loudly. The children each thought for a moment that they had been granted a reprieve, but the bullies were only turning it around. The Calhoun brothers laughed as the truck lurched and sprayed gravel into the bushes.

This was the chance the middle-schoolers needed. They scrambled down the hill. The roar of the old Ford above masked the sound of their escape. At the bottom of the hill they were met by an old logging-road and the barely-audible sound of the creek flowing further below them.

Just one of you stand up, the Calhoun brothers called out. We’ll let the others go!

They fired off another shot and cackled.

The eighth-graders had put some distance between themselves and the truck, but they weren’t in the clear yet. If the Calhoun brothers realized that the gravel road connected to the logging road below then there would be no escape. The middle-schoolers feared that they would be shot—or worse.

Danny, Christie, Jenny, and Paul ran down the dirt logging-road, and turned down a narrow, forgotten trail toward the sound of the creek. Just ahead of them was a footbridge. It spanned the narrow chasm that the creek had carved through the forest. The bridge came into view, and at the opposite end of the footbridge was something unexpected. Something foul.

More teeth than a mouth rightfully should have—that was what ran through Danny’s head the moment he saw it. Jenny gasped and put her hand to her face.

It was a small man—three feet tall, two feet wide—nearly blocking the opposite end of the old, wooden footbridge. Its head was disproportionately large for its body. Blue, pruney skin hung loosely from its squatty frame. Its arms and legs were unusually short. And those teeth.

What is that?

I don’t know, but we got to get out of here.

Where? There’s no other way.

What is it?

I don’t think it’s real.

It can’t be real!

The quartet flinched and muttered obscenities as the little, pale man raised its hands.

Two wide-planks set side-by-side comprised the floor of the bridge. A railing of weather-beaten 2x4’s ran its length. It was twenty feet long. Despite its age it looked solid and well built. In either direction it was the only passage over the narrow canyon that split the forest floor. The most striking feature, although faded, was that one half? of the bridge was painted black, and the other was painted white.

Should we go back?

Are you kidding me? No, we’re not going back!

They watched the little man whose skin was flushed and puffy like he’d been drowned. He looked bloated as though he had spent days and days in the water on the canyon fifty-feet below. They watched him lower his baby-hands to his side. His belly distended and round, almost as large as his head with the rows of blocky teeth showing in a permanent grin or grimace. Black, unblinking eyes.

Do you wish to pass? he said in a small voice.

The four kids were horrified and astonished by the grotesque voice that squeaked from it.

Do you wish to pass? it said again.

Yes, was all the four of them could muster.

If you wish to pass you must choose your path. Choose your path here as you would in life. Choose and you will be judged. The little man moved his hands from side-to-side, palms facing upwards, illustrating the white and black sides of the bridge.

What does that mean? Are you going to let us pass?

Choose your path here as you would in life. Choose and you will be judged, he repeated.

But, there are some guys trying to shoot us!

Are you going to let us pass?

The little man said nothing.

Who are you? Who is going to judge us?

The little man looked to the sky and back at the children, Choose your path.

They had little choice. The Calhoun brothers and their gun were still at the top of the hill, but they’d soon follow. Danny stepped forward, and with an exasperated sigh he started across the bridge, staying on the side of the bridge that had been painted black.

You have chosen the dark path, the little man said.

What? What do you... Danny groaned, clenching his fists and teeth.

He says that the dark path is a selfish and wicked path, the blue man said. You have chosen poorly.

The boy looked back at his friends. Thick veins in his face visible as though he had been holding his breath for hours. His arms wildly jerked and bent backward, his ribcage flexed, and his fingers rolled back on themselves. Danny’s mouth gasped while tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. He dropped to his knees, and in a flash he collapsed down to the size of a soup can. It was as though he had