Imp's Cracked Cauldron

By Rubee Dagger

Trouble Does Have a Name


So how will it happen to you? Or maybe it already has. Time and Death are two characters that walk hand and hand and undoubtedly change our lives whether or not our life is taken from us. But as important as they are in shaping our world, there is another who gets little credit for his work, and now his opportunity to shine is what could mean the end of us all. Stripped of his former glory, the Imp of Mischief will show how influential he really is in a collection of stories caused by him. Evil stirs the Imps Cracked Cauldron.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499006117

Book preview

Hole Hearted

I T WAS TH E cinnamon-flavored ChapStick that caught the light on Katherine’s firm young lips as she stood in the doorway of her dorm room waving good-bye to her roommate, who was leaving for winter break. Slightly jealous, she watched her gothic-dressed best friend happily trot down the hallway toward the stairwell, twitching her hips and flipping the short plaid skirt with nothing underneath from side to side with her boyfriend tightly in hand. Katherine’s false smile faded, showing her true feelings as soon as she closed the door, letting out a long sigh and locking both latches securely before preparing herself for the night’s events. Most of the building had emptied out for the holiday, so she had no plans on being disturbed, which was a peaceful thought in itself.

Stripped down to her favorite pink silk nightie, her body pressed its form nearly through the thin fabric as forty minutes escaped the clutches of her vintage alarm clock. With the lights turned off, she found herself sitting alone, sobbing on the small rug she recently purchased, wondering if he would ever come back. The one who gave her negligee its sentimental meaning. She could almost feel his touch as she thought of the birthday they took it for its first spin. Trapped inside her own flashbacks and dazed by the Ever Clear running through her veins, she failed to notice that the halls had gone completely silent as the afternoon sun went down and the temperature in her room rose steadily, caused by the failing thermostat that only her roommate and maintenance man Keith knew how to fix. Beside her trembling leg rested her pink encased cell phone that constantly beeped, indicating that the battery would soon expire. She had neglected to charge it all day, waiting for a call, waiting for the screen to light up, flashing his number, telling her that he might have changed his mind. But it never did. This is why her heart was aching; it ached for all the time they had spent together, but even more so for the time they spent apart. Despairing thoughts increased every minute since their altercation in the car. She replayed the scenario over and over, looking for an explanation. Did she push him away? . . . Or did he push her? Memories and excruciating emotions danced around each other like the darkness and the flickering candlelight caused by a controlled flame sitting on a nightstand wearing away red wax, while exposing the half-torn posters and broken ceramic figurines from her childhood, which almost seemed to move on their own as they drifted in and out of shadows at will. The single candle, symbolic of her status, lit the small dorm room in a way that it seemed three times bigger than it really was. She knew too well, emptiness has that effect.

Who was to blame for their current situation? Why didn’t she see the signs as they clearly marked the path he’d chosen? More tears flowed as one by one they flashed in her mind, telling a story way too obvious to feel comfortable with her intelligence. The late nights, the later mornings, the changes in sexual appetites, all there in her face, standing at the gates of doubt, ready to flood her soul at the first second of clarity from the fog storm created by their passion. A road she traveled time and time again, man after man, ending up at the same destination. But he was to be different; what they shared was always more intimate than the others wanted to be… More than they could be. The end began with the news that he was going to move to the southern part of the state, after obtaining a new promotion. And the way he broke it to her, it was as if he took the job intentionally, even though he was always there whenever she needed him. No questions asked. For a while, it seemed as if he wasn’t really going to leave or at least he wasn’t going to stay away for long. He took nothing from the old apartment they shared during the summer, but his clothes and the ancient yellow kitchen table she never really cared for anyway. Shortly after, it didn’t feel the same between them; his voice had changed. It was his tone; it became more abrupt. And when they argued by the car after dropping her off at school this last time, there was no admiration in his words, just regurgitated facts and statements of their past.

Her heart bled for an answer, she pleaded with herself to forget, to just let it all go and move on. But she couldn’t, because it was different this time. He wasn’t just another boy trying to slip beyond her white lace waistband; he cared for her. Yes, she truly loved him and for a time; he loved her. That’s what she wanted to remember. Her eyes widened and her smile returned with this final thought as she used the last of her strength to twist the knife plunged into her chest hard enough to crack a bone in her ribcage. She bled out, feeling no more pain as gravity placed her onto her back leaving her spread across the floor as a spoiled child does an old tattered doll. The light danced upon the wick waltzing strange shaped shadows on the ceiling and walls of the room as her clothes and the rug beneath her continued to become soaked. Her life abandoned body allowed her eyes to release one last droplet down the side of her flushed skin while growing cold in a pool of what was truly her own blood, sweat and tears.

No Phase

V INCE WOKE UP realizing far too late that the six on his clock was actually an 8. The thought of rushing through his normal rituals in order to salvage some part of his busy morning was tossed aside by his half woken mind, comprehending that trying to catch up on two hours’ worth of useless paperwork wasn’t his best idea. A deep stretch and the blinding light coming from his window was just enough to slide him from beneath the silk sheets of the black metal-framed, queen-sized bed he recently bought. With his feet dragging across the cold cherry oak floor, he somehow managed to stumble into the marble saturated shower that for him, sealed the deal on his new apartment.

He adjusted the chrome shower head to pulse while the water ran lukewarm, running down his sculpted chest as he waited for the hot water to make its way up the sixteen stories of his high-rise building. To most people, it seems like overkill, but ever since he was a child, Vince had been very particular about certain aspects of his life. And bathing was one of them. Now he wasn’t a vane man, but he did wash himself thoroughly, getting into every crevice and scrubbing it clean to a strange satisfaction. The standard protocol for this was washing three times over with two different soaps, one bar and one gel, was a bare minimum he’d allow. For him it was euphoric, but knowing he was short on time, but in no real hurry, he pushed in the shower handle then stepped out onto the bath mat and shook like a dog at the coldness surrounding him. Blindly he searched around, reaching for one of the towels off of the steam drenched rack, accidently knocking the second one to the floor. He preferred drying naturally, so he only wiped his face and wrapped the towel at his waist then exited the bathroom, leaving a trail of wet foot prints back to the bedroom.

Sliding his feet beneath the foot of his bed he found his house shoes then proceeded to the front door to retrieve the specially ordered newspaper he received from the town he used to live in, he tucked it under his arm and headed into the kitchen. Even though the coffee was cold and two days old he still poured him a cup popping it in the microwave, forgetting what fresh coffee even tasted like. Toast on the other hand was a different matter. There was no getting around it; it had to be fresh. He dropped a couple of slices into the toaster then proceeded to open the paper while sitting at the little yellow kitchen table he inherited from his mother. As to be expected, it happened right on time, just as he got comfortable, the toast popped up and the microwave beeped. He grabbed his morning necessities, tossed the dry toast onto a saucer and revisited his paper.

Vince had perfected a simple routine to reading the paper. First he’d read something to lift his spirits then any news that was depressing, which in truth he felt was about 85 percent of everything else written. Infamously, the first section he sought out was the obituaries. He’d grown cold over the years, so to him they were always good for a slap and tickle. All of these old people, who would have sworn they were going to be somebody, finally get their fifteen minutes in the paper for being just another body. A devilish laugh filled the kitchen as he ran down the ages. Who cares if the elderly die? Sooner or later right? This was an explanation he normally gave his friends for glancing over the senior citizens searching for a younger crowd. Carole Potts, 76; Pete Ronz, 63; Heather Seabolt, 45; suddenly Vince’s coffee cup hit the floor splashing its contents across the front of his new white stove.

Katherine Chase, 22, died from self-inflicted wounds. He couldn’t help but feel guilty; she seemed OK when he spied on her couple of days ago. I should have called, but she seemed to be holding herself together just fine. On top of that she was surrounded by friends, all laughing and having a good time. There was a weird tone to her voice after I told her I was staying out here, and she did take the breakup kind of hard too. Maybe I should have been there for her and paid more attention to the signs.

He stood and his grief passed as quickly as his bread had shot out of the toaster. Calling his assistant, he rescheduled his meeting, which he had missed earlier anyway, and told her he wouldn’t be in because of another current tragedy which was also his reasoning for the already missed conferences. He picked up the remains of his cup, then headed for the living room, tossing the shards along with the paper in the trash on the way. The damp towel still wrapped at his waist moistened the black leather as he sat at his coffee table, inhaling the two lines left over from the night before. Her death isn’t my fault, it isn’t. She knew the situation. I told her, if circumstances could change, she could be the one… I might decide to stay so we could still be together. Damn… He picks up the remote, turning on the morning news. Mom isn’t going to like this.

Sad Circumstances

T HE NIGHT WAS warm, and the school year was nearly over for some underage drinkers leaving an end of the year blow out. Their designated driver, reluctant to catch up with the other party goers at a backup spot in the woods, decided to take a long scenic route down the back roads of the suburbs to avoid city cops, who no doubt were looking for their kind. Henry, not the least bit intoxicated, drove quietly, occasionally adjusting his glasses wondering if going to high school parties where he never drank was the price he’d have to pay just to get out of the house on the weekends. Tammy and Dodge drunkenly debated in the backseat, ignoring their friend Tom; who was hanging his head out the window, inhaling vast amounts of some much-needed air.

Hey, man, doesn’t look like the party’s over yet! The smell of gin shots, beer, and cheap bubble gum (which Tom always kept on him because it was for the ladies) blasted into the car causing Henry to nearly swerve off the weather-beaten road lit only by his head lights. His sudden jerk of the wheel to return to his lane momentarily stopped the arguing in the backseat, leaving the abrupt silence to lay the tracks to the sight of an old familiar kind of haunt. Instantly, the other three knew what Tom was talking about and plans were being formed.

Well off the side of the road, cradled in the middle of a huge field was a small-time carnival, complete with Ferris wheel and spin rides. Its festive lights dimly disappeared into the sky as the onlookers gaze followed through to the stars in the distance. Each of Henry’s fingers tightened their grip around the leather-wrapped steering wheel as his foot leaned heavier on the pedal of his conditioned ’86 Grand Marquis, while firmly making his statement clear to his traveling companions.

Tom, we’re not stopping there; this night has gone on long enough. Dodge, not seeing the situation, progresses quickly enough, abused his position, pulling on the back of the driver’s seat placing his freshly licked lips inches away from Henry’s ear.

Come on Hen, he said calmly. It’d be fun, plus it’d be the perfect end to the night. That party was only good until the cops showed up. Besides, it’s not like your mom cares how late you come home. He released his hold falling back against the sued-like fabric, tapping Tammy’s arm then nodding toward Henry, to get her involved. Everyone knew Dodge was right about Henry’s curfew, but only one of them knew how close he was to crossing the line with Henry.

The very thought of his parent made the car slightly reduce speed. By now, his mom, the queen of disappointment, is slumped over the edge of the couch with an empty bottle of wine and a horrible, half-read dime novel barely dangling in her hand over the armrest. That was her weekend ritual for the past fifteen years, ever since his father left them. Ever since he went to work and never came back. Shortly after that day, Henry’s last tear ran down his cheek as his little lungs blew out the two candles on his birthday cake. He never did get what he wished for that night. Neither did his mother. As depression spread across her life like cancer, his mother became about as much a support system as a piece of yarn, hanging out the window of a sixty-story burning building. In other words, no hope. Whenever Henry’d ask about his dad, just to feel a little