Gods & Monsters: Rollo's Short Fiction, #1

By Gord Rollo

Since storytellers first put pen to paper, religious dogma and spiritual beliefs have always played key roles in the various genres of dark fiction. Humanity's obsession with mortality and what might or might not happen after our inevitable deaths has long been tantalizing fodder for authors and dreamers alike.

REGARDLESS OF OUR FAITH, EVERYONE FEARS DEATH...

Now collected together for the first time ever, acclaimed horror and fantasy author Gord Rollo shares his own dark visions about the cruel gods and vicious monsters that wander his imagination and keep him awake at night. Grab your bible, your crucifix, your holy water, and whatever else makes you feel comforted and safe - you just might need them. Within this volume, you'll find stories of shattered faith, drowned hopes, haunted spirits, fallen angels, and the paralyzing fear of the unknown abyss that awaits us all after we've taken our final breath...

Special content: This collection includes Story Notes on each individual story from the author as well as an Introduction.

Gods & Monsters features the following short stories:

-- Divine Intervention
-- Chamber of the Gods (Co-written with Brett Savory)
-- Chopper's Hands
-- Love; In Pieces
-- Breath of an Angel/Touch of the Devil (Co-written with Gene O'Neill)
-- The Last Straw
-- Moving Pictures
-- The Face of an Unlikely God

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashbury Creek Media
• Release date: Nov 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540167156

Gord Rollo

Gord Rollo was born in St. Andrews, Scotland, but now lives in Ontario, Canada. His short stories and novella-length work have appeared in many professional publications throughout the genre and his novels include: The Jigsaw Man, Crimson, Strange Magic, Valley Of The Scarecrow, The Translators, Only The Thunder Knows, and The Crucifixion Experiments.. His work has been translated into several languages and his titles are currently being adapted for audiobooks. Besides novels, Gord edited the acclaimed evolutionary horror anthology, Unnatural Selection: A Collection of Darwinian Nightmares. He also co-edited Dreaming of Angels, a horror/fantasy anthology created to increase awareness of Down’s syndrome and raise money for research.

Book preview

Gods & Monsters

Rollo's Short Fiction, Volume 1

Gord Rollo

Published by Ashbury Creek Media, 2016.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Introduction

Divine Intervention

Story Notes

Chamber of the Gods

Story Notes

Chopper's Hands

Story Notes

Love; In Pieces

Story Notes

Breath of an Angel / Touch of the Devil

Story Notes

The Last Straw

Story Notes

Moving Pictures

Story Notes

The Face of an Unlikely God

Story Notes

Also by Gord Rollo

The Jigsaw Man

Strange Magic

Valley of the Scarecrow

The Translators

Crowley’s Window

The Dark Side of Heaven

Peeler

Gods & Monsters Vol. 1

Time & Space Vol. 2

Copyright © 2016 by Gord Rollo

Chamber of the Gods © Gord Rollo and Brett Savory

Breath of an Angel / Touch of the Devil © Gord Rollo and Gene O’Neill

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

Published by Ashbury Creek Media

Ontario, Canada

Book & Cover Design by Adam Geen

www.adamgeen.com

INTRODUCTION

My good friend and long time writing mentor, Gene O’Neill is always telling me that when you write about something that’s been on your mind you’ll finally start to realize how you truly feel about that particular topic. I suppose that might be why so much of my fiction — long and short — tends to have a religious angle to it. It’s a topic that fascinates me and terrifies me at the same time. To be honest, I wasn’t even aware that I was writing so many stories and books that were religious based until it was shown to me by several of my loyal readers. Once it was pointed out I was a bit shocked, but not really all that surprised. It was what Gene was telling me all along; religion was a topic that I needed to explore and by writing all these stories it was a way for my muse to help me try and sort out my thoughts and feelings.

To start with, for the record I don’t really consider myself a religious man but I’d definitely go as far as to say I’m a spiritual person with an extremely open mind. I look around the world and see Christianity, Hinduism, Muslimism, Paganism, and probably a half dozen other-isms that billions of intelligent people across the planet place their faith in. It’s not my place to tell anyone what or who they should believe and I actually lean in the opposite direction in the belief that maybe nobody has it 100% correct. Without anything to go by other than my gut feelings, I think the truth may lie scattered across the modern religions, where many faiths have bits and pieces of what eventually will prove correct. It’s just my theory but hey, it’s as good as any. I have no problem with anyone’s faith and firmly accept that you can believe any damn thing you want as long as you aren’t hurting anyone else by doing it.

That right there is my biggest problem with all the organized religions — they’re all so convinced their particular doctrines and deities are the only real and true ones out there, and then they laugh at or worse, condemn others who might think something different from they do. To me it’s insane all the suffering and death out there that takes place in the name of religion. It’s always been that way and unfortunately I think it will get a lot worse before it ever gets better.

Anyway, enough of the sermon. When it comes to religion and faith I’m a layman in every sense of the word. The point is that although I’m not qualified to lecture on God, or Allah, or Buddha, I can certainly think about all those dudes and use my fiction as a way to explore my own personal thoughts about spirituality; which is exactly what I’ve done. Gods & Monsters is the peek behind the curtain of my mind, my inward exploration of faith, hope, and the big mystery that we’ll all face on the day of our deaths. Being a horror writer, my mind tends to get a tad dark at times so these stories aren’t necessarily the happiest of tales but they are honest efforts by me to look at things that have been rattling around in my head for a while now. Within this volume you’ll find stories of shattered faith, drowned hopes, haunted souls, fallen angels, hellish lovers and the paralyzing fear of the dark unknown abyss that awaits us all after our eyes close for the last time and we’ve taken our final breath.

Did I solve any of the questions I have about religion and my own personal beliefs? Hmmm…not really; but for me spirituality is a journey rather than a destination and I can honestly say that these stories have helped me at least get on the bus and start looking for answers. They might not be the same answers you or your family is looking for but hey, that’s okay too. Everyone has their own journey to take.

Here’s hoping you enjoy the start of mine…

Gord Rollo

Great White North

October, 2012

DIVINE INTERVENTION

Reverend Robert Morris reluctantly places the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s between his knees, requiring the use of both shaky hands to steer his vehicle around the bend onto Harbinger Road. The moment the corner is successfully navigated and the blue Pontiac Sunbird is heading in a relatively straight line again, the bottle is back in his sweaty grasp, the famous amber-colored poison again burning down his throat.

It’s 9:57 a.m. Sunday morning, and the forty-seven year old inebriated minister has been drinking and driving through the quiet streets of Billington, Pennsylvania, for a little over an hour now. Being a fairly small community, population around 20,000 people, he’s mapped the entire town two or three times already, but this is his first venture onto Harbinger. It isn’t until he’s good and sloshed that the reverend has finally found the courage necessary to drive down this particular road. He takes another deep swig of the sour mash whisky, steeling his nerves for what he’s about to do.

Harbinger Road runs North to South; cutting through Billington’s richer neighborhoods before making a big swerving left curve around the public park, where it eventually connects with Main Street. At the end of the straight-away, just before the start of the tight curve, two massive, two-hundred year old Oak trees stand side by side, a gateway between them marking the entrance to the park. In local folklore, the twin Oaks have been dubbed the Suicide Sisters, because so many of Billington’s emotionally distraught over the years have chosen this very spot to carry out their ghastly deeds — nearly sixty documented cases so far. From self-inflicted hangings that dated back over two hundred years, to the teenage girl just last month so distraught over her boyfriend’s infidelity with her best friend that she chose the Oak trees as the place to carve her eternal love into the trunk before downing a whole bottle of her mother’s antidepressant pills and never waking up again.

Reverend Morris is intent on becoming a member of this inauspicious club today.

His plan — not terribly original, yet undeniably effective — is to gun the small sporty car’s engine for all it is worth, rocket up and over the curb at the start of the tight bend, and kiss one of those big ugly sisters right smack on the lips.

Glancing at the digital clock on the dash just as it clicks over to 10:01 a.m., it dawns on the reverend that he’s late for church for the first time in the fourteen years he’s been a minister here in Billington. An image fills his head, a vision of what is probably taking place across town at C. W. Allen Presbyterian Church right about now. There will be about eighty devout worshippers standing on the front lawn, looking puzzled as to why the two large wooden entrance doors to the church are still locked up tight, what with the morning assembly supposedly about to commence.

At least Robert will be spared the humiliation of actually having to face any of his congregation; of somehow trying to explain his reasons for doing this.

Thank God for... small mercies, he’d been about to say, but stops, abruptly cutting his sentence short. A harmless slip of the tongue, perhaps, but he scolds himself for it anyway. "Idiot! There is no God."

A single heavy teardrop slides out the corner of Robert’s left eye and he bites down on his tongue, effectively stifling a moan that would surely build to something far worse if he allows it. His hands are shaking more than ever as he reaches to adjust the rear-view mirror, more to derail his dark musings than any real need to adjust the silver-backed glass. Robert stifles another cry, appalled when he sees the state of the man staring back at him from within the mirror. He barely recognizes himself — a stranger with an unruly mop of tangled grey hair and an emancipated face, a man twenty years older than the one he remembers. Only his eyes are recognizable; tired and bloodshot but still carrying traces of his former self.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen… he tries to joke, but the words come out sounding pathetic rather than comical, prophetic rather than in jest.

Shut up! he screams at his reflection, unable to control the anger that suddenly surges up from within him. Stop it! Stop making it worse!

Robert struggles to regain his composure but it’s nearly impossible, his nerves are shot. He manages to pull the car over to the curb just as his pent-up emotional dam finally bursts. Tears of shame and self-loathing stream like thundering rivers down his red-flushed cheeks and a series of high-pitched sobs escape from his quivering lips. He lets his head fall into his hands and it’s ten full minutes before he’s able to pull himself together.

Swallowing another drink, he puts the Sunbird back into gear, takes a deep shuttering breath and drives on.

It’s not fair, he thinks. It’s just not fair…

Reverend Morris has lost his faith in God, in the church, and perhaps more importantly, in himself. Last year, his beautiful Rebecca — his wife and closest friend for twenty-nine years — developed pancreatic cancer, eventually dying of her illness eight excruciating months later. Her death had been slow, horrible, the terrible memories of her suffering haunting Robert to this day. Even now, right now, he can still hear her pain-filled screams.

He’s tried to carry on without her, to pick up the pieces and be a good minister, but it is impossible. He can no longer lie to himself in the mirror, pretending to still be the man he once was. He’s a man with a shattered soul now, his life a sham, a once decent man reduced to being nothing but a bad actor upon a gaudy stage yelling out memorized words from an outdated book that means nothing to him anymore. Nothing means anything to him anymore. He swallows another half-inch of liquid courage, and presses down on the accelerator.

It’s time to get this over with.

A few drops of rain fall from the darkening sky, splashing onto the reverend’s windshield. Robert is in such a confused state of mind he wipes at his eyes, mistakenly thinking it’s fresh tears that blur his vision. By the time he realizes his error and reaches to turn on the wiper blades, the rain has stopped again.

It’s going to pour down soon, but for the moment a bank of heavy black clouds hold the budding storm in check. A bright flash draws Robert’s attention skyward and he nearly rams into the back of a parked car when he sees what it is.

Almost in the exact center of the darkest cloud in the sky, a pinpoint of golden light forms and begins rapidly expanding. Not simply a ray of sunlight peeking through from behind the cloud, but an actual opening, a fissure in the sky, the golden light stretching and shoving the violated cloud out of its way as if the very fabric of the world is being ripped apart.

From within the circle of light, an enormous pair of hands begins to work their way out of the breach, spreading the opening further and further. Within moments, the dark cloud has been split in two and an immense portal has been opened, revealing a strikingly beautiful man visible from the waist up. He is a stunning figure, flawless in every detail, from his piercing blue eyes to his noble bearded chin. The majestic figure seems to glow, draped in a shimmering golden cloak with a small wreath of colorful flowers tied up in his long brown hair. In the ethereal twilight sky behind him, a flock of white Doves fly in playful circles, taking turns landing on his broad shoulders and nesting in his hair. He is smiling peacefully and looking directly down into Reverend Morris’ speeding car.

Robert gasps at the shocking sight, amazed, but not being much of a drinker, he assumes that he is seeing things, the alcohol playing strange tricks with his depressed mind. It’s the only rational conclusion to make. He glances skyward a second time, hoping his hallucination has vanished and is stunned to see the colossal man still smiling down at him. Panicking slightly, he steps harder onto the accelerator, the speedometer needle creeping up past sixty miles per hour, the comforting arms of the suicide sisters just coming into view only five blocks away.

This isn’t the way things have to end, Robert, the omnipotent being speaks.

Robert hears the softly spoken words clear as a bell inside of his head, although the man’s lips haven’t moved even slightly, still frozen in their loving smile.

This can’t be real, he whimpers. Maybe he’s having a mild stroke, or possibly the first signs of an approaching brain aneurysm? Anything seems preferable to accepting that this is really happening. Robert decides to ignore the voice, keep his eyes on the road, and his mind on nothing but the quickly approaching oak trees straight ahead. The speedometer inches up to seventy. Nothing is going to stop him this morning; he’s come too far to turn back now.

"I don’t want you to turn back, Robert, the voice in his head soothes, obviously listening in on his thoughts. I want you to turn the corner."

The confused reverend slurps another ounce from the bottle and with a badly trembling hand turns the knob on the radio to full volume, the mind-numbing screech of an electric guitar hopefully loud enough to grant him peace.

Why do you deny me? the radiant man in the sky asks, his quietly spoken words easily overpowering the