Corner of the Mind's Eye: Corner of the Mind's Eye, #1

By Douglas R. Curtis

An anthology of various short stories from the mind of Douglas R. Curtis, a reader can find anything to fit their taste.  From boxes holding the nightmares of three scared brothers, to an alien encounter that will change the course of a simple young boy's life, or a poem that can alter reality itself, with a desire driven by loss and grief.   From a man with dark thoughts about his wife next to him on his couch, to an eyeless boy with a great gift, or from a scientist bending time itself to have one more moment with his lost love.  There is even one story pulled from a very vivid nightmare which the author had.  We'll let you guess which one.

Enjoy these 13 tales of the absurd, dark, brooding, adventurous and bizarre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas R. Curtis
• Release date: Sep 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393983118

Douglas R. Curtis

Doug lives with his wife (whom he fell in love with in the second grade) and parade of pets somewhere in Minnesota.  He has four daughters, two of which still are at home. Doug has been a graphic designer, a caricature artist, and keeps up two webcomics at Webtoons, Slammer and The Flying Ferret.

Book preview

Preface

Here I am, over 50 years old.  I thought I was washed up, done, through, that there was no more time for me to live my dreams.  But I was wrong.  It is never over until you give up.  I have been receiving encouragement and inspiration from many different people.  One of them at this very moment is Don Bluth.  The great animator.  He is 81, and he is starting his own animation studio to bring back the wonderful hand-drawn 2D animation.  What a great and wonderful inspiration!  I shall complain no more.

What will I do?  Live my dream.  My dream is to write the stories I love, and I hope you love as well.

So, these stories.  Many of these stories have come from the wildest of places, my very dreams... or nightmares, if you will.  Most notably is The Impulse.  I woke from a cold sweat with that dream, and every bit of what I describe in the story is exactly what happened in my dream.  I could not resist but to write it down and use it for a future story.

So, I hope you don’t think I’m mad, my mind filled with a cornucopia of fevered dreams, daydreams, dark thoughts, or straight up nightmares.

Thanks for reading.

Crocodile Tears

Jonathan tried to lift his head from his wet pillow. The venetian blinds to his right cast slats of light and shade across his bed.  He could make out the form of his legs beneath the sheet, and the pointed end of his feet.

It was morning. The light was pure and clean, exposing the inside of the room.

The room was about as interesting as the inside of a cereal box.  The color wasn’t far off either, especially in the new light.  The room was also about the same shape, and just big enough for the bed, and the door, which was more of a shadow than wood.  There was a small shelf to the left of his bed, and on its top, arranged in militant rows, were his bottles of medicine.  He couldn’t remember ever taking any of them.

Next to the shelf and against the wall opposite his bed and window was a white metal and plastic chair. Another chair like it sat next to his bed.  It was placed so that the sitter could look into Jonathan’s face.  Jonathan could make out deep dents in the arm rest, gained from the door’s swinging arc.

Jonathan blinked, or at least it seemed like a blink.  When he had opened his eyes, the sun was higher, angling into the room at a steeper angle.

How are you feeling, Jonathan? a voice asked.

Jonathan hadn’t noticed the shadow seated in the chair next to the bed until the voice had spoken.  It wasn’t there a moment ago.

He must not have blinked. He must have fallen into a short nap.

Are you a doctor? Jonathan croaked.

The shadow leaned forward and the slats of light and dark cleaned the shadow away from his face. It revealed a youthful, healthy face.  HIs smile was pleasant and created dimples in his cheeks.  The man reminded Jonathan of his father.

You were coughing up blood this morning, weren’t you?

I... was?

Blood means many things, the man said, his smile never faltering, birth, death, sacrifice, love, menstruation... why were you bleeding, Jonathan?

I guess I’m... sick, shrugged Jonathan, trying to put as much sarcasm into his voice as he could.  It only made him sound pathetic, and it made his chest itch.  Had he started bleeding again? He tried to resist the urge to cough.

The figure receded into the darkness, but the whites of his eyes remained.  The silhouette curled his hands to his chin and the elbows dug into the dents on the armrests.

Sickness is always with us.  Some sicknesses aren’t physical, the man said matter-of-factly.

Jonathan raised his head, a wave of nausea washed over him.

If you’re saying I’m pretending to...

Jonathan lurched with a cough, his whole body convulsing in response.  A coppery taste clung to the back of his throat.

Easy, Jonathan, the man said, immediately at Jonathan’s side.  He held a frosty glass tumbler of water, offering it to him.  Jonathan couldn’t remember if there had been a tumbler or even a pitcher of water in the room.  He did not care.  The water washed away the thick coating of blood and phlegm.

I’m talking about the sickness of the soul, Jon...

What?

The man was wiping Jonathan’s lips with a soft, white cloth, thick as cotton balls.  He nearly gagged from its smell, decayed, but sugary.  He coughed lightly one more time and pushed it away.

Th-thanks.

The man went back to his chair, the cloth disappearing into a large pocket.

Had Jonathan blinked again?  There was no pitcher of water, no tumbler, but the man was still there.  Jonathan leaned back into his pillow, trying to ignore him.  He felt like he was melting.  Jonathan closed his eyes, but the man finally spoke.

Did you know that a crocodile’s eggs determine its sex by the exterior temperature?  Too warm—voila—-you have a boy. Too cold—voila—you have a girl.

W-what are you talking about?  Is that even true? Jonathan felt the nausea returning again, drowsiness sinking in again. The room was vanishing into an iris of darkness.

Does it matter if it’s true or not?  Jonathan... the man whispered.

What? Jonathan croaked, the irritation building in his head.

It wasn’t cold enough for you, was it? Or was it?

The room darkened, and all that remained were the man’s eyes, like a crocodile’s, yellow with cold, black slits, and that sweet, decaying odor.

It wasn’t a blink this time, but a complete black-out sleep.  Jonathan felt as if he were bobbing on waves, being gently kneaded to a shore.  A shore of smooth, cold rocks.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was much higher now.  It was some time before noon. The slats of light drove down.

The man was still in the chair. His eyes were still crocodile eyes, but narrowed to the barest of slits.  His elbows were dug into the armrest again, his hands, like they were praying, pointed directly at his chin.

Seeing Jonathan awake, the man stood and strode to the far left corner of the room.  He glared into the corner.

The heart, the man said, his back turned to Jonathan.  Somehow, Jonathan knew what he was going to say.  An immediate sense of deja vu filled the second-long pause.

The heart, he said again as if Jonathan had not heard him the first time, It’ll kill you, Jonny-boy.

Jonathan didn’t like the man’s tone.  It was like a dagger dragging across a wall.

It’s not my heart that’s killing me, Jonathan corrected him, it’s my lungs.

Your heart has been broken many times! the man bellowed, spinning around to face Jonathan, his hands flying out in a flurry of expression. For a split second, Jonathan thought the man had thrown something at him, so he flinched.

What do you know of my broken heart? his heart racing wildly.  He didn’t want to upset the man any further.  Jonathan could feel the blood taste grow in the back of his throat again.

The man took one stomping step towards Jonathan’s bed, causing him to jump.  The man curled his hands to his chest, like tyrannosaurus rex.  It would have been comical to Jonathan, if he could only tear his gaze away from the flashing crocodile eyes.  Jonathan could see him clearly now, it seems like for the first time, in the direct light.

Acne scars cratered his face, his hair was lopping off his head in spider-like tentacles, greasy and hard.  A stream of tears coated the side of the man’s nose.  He took another stomping step towards the bed.q

Lisa?  Allie?  Connie?  Shiela?  I know them all, Jonathan... it’s my job to know them all. The first kiss, the tantalizing touch, the one night of bliss, but never again, the fear, the trepidation, the man’s pitch began to rise and peaked into a shriek, AM I DOING THIS RIGHT?

Jonathan was expecting... no, he was praying that a nurse would come rushing in to see what the commotion was all about, but more likely this was the nurse, having lost his mind and chose to direct his madness upon Jonathan.  Jonathan felt no hope, no escape from the leering figure.

The tease, they promise... the man continued, ... and they LIE, Jonny!  But do they ever give you what you need? What you TRULY need? No, never, Jonny!  Do you need them, Jonathan? Do you?

Jonathan expected the man to take the final step, reach out and throttle Jonathan to death.  Instead, the man took a step back.  He turned away, panting.

It... it was never... like that, Jonathan gasped, feeling the nausea bubble up again.  He turned to his side, ready to empty his stomach.

The man spoke again, but softer this time, all of energy lost in the diatribe.

"Confusion, angst, fear, doubt, guilt, shame, paranoia....add a few hormones,