Tales from the Den: Dark Fiction Volume 1

By Jessica Raney and Jae Mazer

Deep in the darkest den, a pair of demented minds are at work, writing together, producing macabre tales ranging from dark comedy to hard horror. From stalking swans to visceral Hellscapes, charmed dojos to speculative westerns, there is something between these covers to intrigue and horrify a wide array of readers. 

 

One

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corvidae Literary Services LLC
• Release date: Apr 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732204294

Book preview

Tales From the Den

Tales From the Den

Dark Fiction Volume 1

Jessica Raney

Jae Mazer

LDM Industries

Copyright © 2019 by LDM Industries

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Any references to real names and places are fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offense the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any people or locations involved.

He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf…

William Shakespeare, King Lear

Contents

Preface

The Lesson

Created by You

Higher Learning

She Grew Wings

Best Served Cold

Henry’s a Dick

Destiny Rides a Pole

Precisely

True North

Waiting for Tammy Albrecht

Close Enough

Sure Was

Luka’s Desert Sci-Fi Movie

Cotton Love

How Maggie Got Her Groove Back

The Downfall of Winnifred Beissner

The Last Nine Seconds

Lucky #48

Show of Power

Checkpoint Five

He’s Mine

Please

The Shade of Night

Come Home

Decisions, Decisions

Etude to Strength

Toast at a Funeral

SNEAK PEEK: Ways and Means

SNEAK PEEK: The Sisters Three

Who Wrote What

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Jessica Raney

About the Author

Also by Jae Mazer

Preface

What is this, you ask? Tales from what den? Where? Who? Why?

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Well, first you should meet us. Jess and Jae. We met at Comicpalooza in Houston many moons ago, and a fast friendship was formed. Now the best of friends, we do everything together. Notably, in this context, we write. Every Thursday evening, you can find us at our Denny’s, writing and chatting and critiquing… basically plotting world dominance.

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Often, we enter writing contests, and prompt each other through them. After our umpteenth contest and joint writing project, we decided we had accumulated quite the collection of various stories in multiple formats. Thus was born the idea of a collection to showcase us, our relationship, and our growth.

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Tales from the Den is a compilation of longer short stories, flash fiction, micro fiction, and screenplays. Many of these are products of a contest called NYC Midnight in which competitors are given writing prompts and a specified amount of time to generate a story. For example, in the flash fiction contest, we were given a genre, a character, and an object, and had 48 hours to compose a 1500 word story. In this past year, participating in these contests alongside each other, we have made it through more rounds than we ever did while tackling NYC Midnight alone.

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The interesting thing for you as readers is to get a taste of the very distinct styles in this book. Though the stories sometimes have overlapping themes or penchant for the horrible, the voices are very different. You will get a unique insight in to each mind, as terrifying and unsettling as that might be.

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So enjoy this book as a product born from friendship and love, and the never ending quest to become better, smarter, stronger writers. And this will be the first of many of these collections, so watch for us. We are unstoppable.

The Lesson

Her dress was new. Well, new to her, anyway, a hand-me-down from a cousin, light blue, dotted with little white embroidered flowers. The fabric was thin in places and some of the little flowers had unraveled, but once it was washed and pressed carefully, the dress had new life. She twirled in a circle to make the skirt flow out and smiled at the way the little white flowers twinkled in the morning sun. Her mother had warned her about vanity and pride and that morning her mother had given her an extra lesson about modesty. She didn’t understand. The dress was so pretty, and she never got new things. If it was wrong to like the dress, then why did she have the dress? There was an extra lesson for her in not asking impertinent questions.

When the lessons were done, and everyone dressed in the nicest clothes they owned, they walked together into town. Her father walked in front, then her brothers, then her mother. She walked last, always. She didn’t mind. Most of the time, she kept her head down, but sometimes, she would look up and see the sunlight glittering off the new green leaves or a little bird flittering from branch to branch, singing his Spring song. Once or twice, she dared a twirl, to see the dress move and the little flowers dance. Afterwards, she looked up carefully at her mother and father. If they saw, she would have more lessons later. Her mother’s head was bent, and her father was walking steadily, setting the pace for them, his head straight and his eyes on the path, not on her.

It was an important day, the most important of the year and everyone had come. Families that lived farther out than hers had come; some must have begun walking days before to make it on time. Everyone looked tired and slightly rumpled from their long journey. The women nodded at their husbands then carried their baskets filled with family lunches and suppers to the rough picnic shelter. The boys mingled and talked quietly amongst themselves, while the girls lined up next to the shelter and said nothing.

They had all had many lessons.

They were supposed to keep their heads bowed and pray. She never did. The things she was supposed to ask for, humility, modesty--obedience, she didn’t want, and she wasn’t sure anyone was listening anyway--despite repeated lessons to the contrary. This was the first Spring Gathering she had been allowed to attend, fully. She attended worship services, of course, twice a week, but this was an event. In past years, parents ushered the small children out and they spent the night in someone’s home, where they read scripture and sang songs until their families collected them the next day. Her parents said the Spring Gathering was special. She wondered what made it special. Nobody would tell her. Her brothers, who normally liked to tease her with all sorts of tall tales about everything were sedate and quiet about this.

She was hot. They were standing in direct sunlight and while the morning had been cool, the sun was at full strength now and its bright rays and the layers of clothing were making the girls sweat. Mercifully, the worship bell rang. Seven long, slow chimes signaled everyone to assemble and begin. The small children were collected and taken by a group of women. Everyone else filed into the worship area. It was different from the normal area. Set back into the forest a quarter of a mile from the main church, the land was cleared. There were roughly hewn wooden benches and a rudimentary stage and altar. There were poles and lanterns surrounding the entire area, but none of that seemed at all remarkable to her. What was remarkable was the area to the left of the pulpit, a perfect circle of dead grass. It wasn’t burned or charred, just dead. Brittle and gray, the circle stood in stark contrast to the tender, green grass that grew thick and luscious all around it.

Her father led them to a bench, and they sat down when he did. It was no different than any other service that she had ever been to. The main difference was the silence. There wasn’t the usual friendly hum of conversation that preceded a normal service. Nobody said anything. In fact, nobody moved. No fidgeting, no shuffling in seats, everyone sat still and stared directly ahead. Her brothers both looked pale and nauseated, as if they were both about to throw up. Her mother was sweaty and kept her head bowed, her lips moving in silent prayer. Her father sat there sternly as he stared at the altar.

She didn’t know how long the silence lasted but it was finally broken when the Pastor climbed on the stage and took his place in the pulpit. He instructed everyone to stand for the invocation, which was the longest one she had ever heard. The clearing was in full sun and it was stifling hot with no breeze. It was difficult to stand still but nobody dared move, not even to fan themselves.

When the Pastor was finished, he motioned for some of the fathers to help him and they brought out a big copper kettle. It was steaming hot. The men used thick woolen mittens to handle it and when they placed it on a tripod in front of the altar, she could see the wisps of vapor and waves of heat. The pastor gave another long-winded blessing over the kettle, then he dipped a ladle in and extracted some of the liquid. He poured some out on to the spot of dead, brown grass and he drank a ladle full himself. He coughed and his face reddened, but he didn’t do anything else remarkable. He motioned for the fathers to bring their families forward. Each father obliged. They led their family to the kettle and each took the ladle and made every member of their family drink. She could tell that several did not want to drink. They looked afraid, their faces pained and locked in a grimace even before the ladle touched their lips. But they had no choice in the matter. The fathers forced everyone to drink. When her own father led them to the kettle, her mother swallowed her portion without any complaint and went back to praying. Her older brother did the same and her middle brother sniffled a bit, but he drank.

She was unprepared for the smell of the liquid when her father put the ladle to her lips. The steaming brown liquid smelled like the outhouse in the middle of summer and burning hair. She wrinkled her nose and took a step backward, but her father’s eyes flew wide and his mouth got the angry white ring around it. He grabbed her and pulled her closer, then grabbed her chin and poured the liquid down her throat. She doubled over and coughed and sputtered. It was the most vile, bitter, foul tasting thing she had ever put in her mouth. She thought she might throw up, but her father grabbed her chin and held her mouth closed. The sick came up, but had no place to go, so she swallowed it down and he dragged her back to their seats.

Once every person in the clearing drank the liquid, the men put the kettle away. The Pastor began to read scripture. After a while, people in the crowd began to shout at him, their words were gibberish. He ignored anything except the book in his hand and kept reading. His voice started out as a dull drone, but as time went on, he got louder and more animated. His face turned beet red and he sweated profusely, his white shirt front soaked through with brown stains. Everyone in the audience was sweating too. Her own blue dress was completely drenched, and her hair stuck to her head. The world was spinning, and she could no longer hold in the sick. She threw up all over her dress front and she wasn’t the only one. All the children had vomited on themselves, some of the older teens too. Most of the adults looked sick, but only a few of them had. Her father and mother were drenched in sweat and pale looking but they looked otherwise well enough. Her mother had raised her hands to the sky and was swaying back and forth, speaking in gibberish and her father’s eyes were flashing as he growled and shouted encouragement to the Pastor.

The Pastor screamed and she couldn’t understand anything he said. He’d gone on for hours and it was dusk now. All the colors were dark orange and vibrant, like nothing she had ever seen before. If she hadn’t been so sick and confused, she might have said the world looked beautiful. But it was still so hot, and everything smelled like vomit and body odor, the smells and heat hit her in never ending waves and cramps gripped her stomach. She soiled herself as had everyone else in the clearing. The whole place stank of vomit and urine. Some of the children had fallen over. They twitched every so often and she didn’t think they were dead, but that was the only indication that any of them were alive. Her older brother joined a group of men who were tearing at themselves and pounding the area around the pulpit as the Pastor spoke. She had never seen him act that way before. He was normally quiet and docile but now he was a wild thing, beating his fists bloody against the rough wood.

Someone started a chant. It was nonsense to her, but soon almost everyone picked it up, including her parents. She couldn’t get it and she stood silent as everyone else sang. After a bit, a father screamed a blood curdling yell, not a fearful sound, but one full of anger and rage and they would grab someone and pull them to the circle of dead grass. She watched her Uncle yell and grab her cousin Ava. Ava screamed and vomited,