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STORIES FOR THE MAD
RELEASE WEEKEND SALE
The wait is finally over, Stories for the Mad - Volume One, the debut fiction anthology from Moran Press is ready for orders! An official post will drop Sunday afternoon with all the details, but you can order a copy of STORIES FOR THE MAD now in the Moran Press store. Click HERE.
To celebrate the release, eight Moran Press titles are on sale in Ebook for 99 cents and many of the paperbacks are heavily discounted as well.
TITLES AVAILABLE FOR 99 CENTS ON KINDLE
ELLA
BLOOD CHILL
CRUMBLING UTOPIAN PIPEDREAM
BONDAGE NIGHT
CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
SERVER
MEMOIRS IN FRAGMENTS
LOVE AND QUARTERS
ELLA
BLOOD CHILL
CRUMBLING UTOPIAN PIPEDREAM
BONDAGE NIGHT
CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
SERVER
MEMOIRS IN FRAGMENTS
LOVE AND QUARTERS
And the reason for the season. Release weekend for Stories for the Mad. Get a paperback copy for $15 SHIPPING INCLUDED to a US Address. Each purchase gets a FREE homemade chapbook OR FREE EBOOK of choice added to the order.
STORIES FOR THE MAD
THE DEBUT FICTION ANTHOLOGY
FROM MORAN PRESS
FICTION
IAN'S VIKING FUNERAL DREAMS
BY GABRIEL RICARD
Ian sat up, head screaming like a history of haunted house movies, confirmed that he was indeed inside a boat, and felt briefly pleased that his guess from a few minutes ago had turned out to be true. Waking up from a dream often meant a shaky transition into reality, which also meant having to accept that reality wasn’t what it was cracking up to be moments earlier. Sometimes, that was a shame.
He thought about this for a second, which ushered him towards realizing that he was inside a fucking boat. “And it’s on fire.” He said this to see how the words would feel in the open air. The hangover was immediate. A migraine was cramming an entire Black Flag concert into his skull, and the line to get into the broom closet venue was trailing around the block that made up his neck and spine.
He was pretty sure a small piece of vomit was stuck in his teeth. Saying again out loud that the boat was on fire gave him the energy he needed to quite possibly ruin his body by getting up. It wasn’t the most realistic plan of all time. The migraine didn’t need the strength of ten urban legend lumberjacks to knock him into what turned out to be shallow water.
A functional section of his brain told him this was probably the lake behind Michele’s grandparents’ rarely-used summer home. Swallowing too much water brought on some heaves, but his stomach had nothing to offer in the way of sacrifice.
Someone screamed what the fuck, and he realized after a moment that it was him.
“Shit, guys.”
That sounded like Campbell.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
And that sounded like Anna.
“Is someone gonna help him?”
Campbell again.
“Eh, he’s got it.”
That sounded like Dominique, probably lighting a cigarette as she spoke, for effect. He finally turned around to confirm all of those suspicions. Everyone else looked uncomfortable with the idea of expressing themselves. They had not foreseen this development. “What the fuck,” he continued spitting out drops of water, “What the fuck?” His Frankenstein Monster legs carried him the few feet he needed to travel to get to dry land. That was all they were going to do for him. “What the shit?”
“Well,” Casper started, “We thought you were dead.”
He remained on his knees. Everyone was just shy of arms reach, and no one made an effort to change that. The pieces of last night, of the entire weekend, were not only pieces of the smallest, most useless quality. They may as well have been travel videos from eons ago. “What does that even mean?”
“It was a Viking funeral,” Dominique replied, almost in the form of a question.
There was no reason why this had to qualify as a mystery. He thought about getting up, but the early morning oxygen was somehow cleaner, more medicinal, when it was closer to the ground. Maybe it was the light fog, or the way it kept him away from Dominique’s cigarette. “I don’t,” his gag reflex jerked the words away, and he looked up. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“You’re always saying how you want a Viking funeral.”
For the five years in which he had known him, Campbell had always liked to tell people outside of their social circle that he was the voice of reason for said social circle. “I have never, never, ever, never,” he coughed, “Ever said that.”
“You’ve been saying that for years,” Campbell retorted.
To be fair, it was possible. Their routine habits formed routine evenings, and those were numbering in the four-figure range at this point. “You set the boat on fire…” He realized he had not completely caught up with reality yet. Those words could have been used to describe the plot of a movie, and they would have sounded exactly the same.
Bill coughed, looking back at the house several times. “It seemed easier than calling the cops.”
“Why would you call the cops?” Good. Whole sentences.
“You drank half a bottle of Everclear,” Anna explained, in a tone that was trying to break the tension with understanding and low volumes.
“And we’re twenty miles from anything,” Casper reminded him, “Let alone a hospital.”
“Viking funeral just seemed like the easiest way to go,” Campbell said.
“It didn’t occur to you…” It was a perilous call to make, but his knees couldn’t take digging into the small rocks and twigs that made up the landscape. He shifted his body to put the balance of his universe on knee. He couldn’t choose between the various things they could have done instead. “What about a shower?” Anna of all people helped him finish the journey to becoming upright. She held onto him. “Doesn’t anybody,” he stopped to let heavy breathing do what it could, “Induce vomiting anymore?”
Dominique dropped and stomped out her cigarette. “We’re still kind of drunk,” she reasoned. “And well…”
“We kind of felt bad about your birthday last month.”
The last two or three minutes had been spent trying to create a memory of this latest reenactment of the first weekend they had ever gotten together, the one that had put them close to bragging rights with immortality. The half-clear images he could pull from this weekend needed to keep their shape for more than a minute, and also be capable of standing up to scrutiny. So far, nothing. He couldn’t even remember things like his birthday last month. Everything was severe and violent enough to feel like it was all happening for the very first time. Thirteen years old, hanging out with that kid, what was his name, he had kept plastic sheets under the bed. “I see,” he finally said, taking Anna’s hands away from him. Now or never.
“You’ve been so depressed the last few months,” Carly added, finally finding the courage to speak. “What with the last seven years of your life culminating in what you realized was complete failure at everything you’ve ever hoped to achieve.”
The temples continued to try to push whatever was trying to massacre his brain right through the actual skull. “I wouldn’t go that far…” But at least it was a little easier to breath. His hands dug through his pockets for cigarettes, ibuprofen, or the miracle of both.
“You said it like seven times yesterday morning.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t seven, Carly.” he replied, dimly wondering if they were getting too far off topic. After barely swallowing seven ibuprofens, he lit a cigarette. It was then he realized he didn’t have shoes or socks.
“It was seven,” confirmed Dominique.
“We were just trying to help,” Anna said.
“It was just kind of a why-not-kill-two-birds-with-one-stone thing that no one wanted to drive you to the hospital.”
“And I mean, your birthday,” Casper started, “All we did was take mushrooms and go to Six Flags.”
“Which we were gonna do anyway,” Campbell said. “And we just kinda felt bad about that.”
“And it’s not like your life is going to get any better,” Casper continued.
“Boom,” Dominique said, holding up her hands, “Viking funeral.”
He suddenly remembered a conversation with Kieran from a month ago. Condescending was his natural language, the natural language of older siblings, and he had always felt that people who kept anything or anyone around for more than five years was clinging to the past. Ian couldn’t wait for Kieran’s fifth wedding anniversary, which was less than a year away. “I don’t get it,” he said, trying to claw his way back into the present. “I don’t understand.”
Campbell and Casper both came forward, but Campbell was the one who put an arm around him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get inside, have a beer and some of those toquitos, and we’ll try to explain everything again.”
Ian let Campbell move him along. Each step meant crushing twigs and small rocks under his feet. It wasn’t something he could ever see himself getting used to.
“We’re glad you’re alive,” Anna told him.
“History’s important,” Dominique concurred.
Kieran didn’t have a very high opinion of these people. Ian had made the mistake of asking him about things like ruts and the value of consistency in a friendship. The argument that quickly took over the conversation focused a lot of its time and energy on the shitty people who were making it easy to make it to 30, and have nothing to show for it. Ian could remember now that he had argued that they were still his friends, that history was important, and that he was a long ways off from 30 anyway. Kieran dismissed those reasons, and then apologized later without actually saying anything that someone would normally include in an apology.
Campbell sat him down on a stool at the kitchen’s island. He brought him a beer and a plate of toquitos a moment later. Anna sat at the stool next to him, and everyone broke off into watching TV, dicking around with their phones, or fixing drinks. Dominique announced she was going to bed, and disappeared up the stairs.
He could remember the drive up here now. Sitting in the back, listening to Anna and Dominique argue about whether or not Casper was doing coke again. His headphones had stopped working again, so their banter was the only thing available to pass the long drive, deeper and deeper into the kind of middle of nowhere that some people were spiritual about. The house was located in a small gated community, and the best part about the long drive over was how the trees became bigger, older, more frightening in the arrangement of their branches. And the longer the drive went on, the more of them there were.
He could remember thinking about that when they were heading up this way, as he always did, but almost everything after that was still a stack of shredded abstract paintings. No point, he thought, washing down a toquitos with a small sip of beer, about half of the original migraine gone, in getting frustrated. Nothing was going to change for now. It was best to just stay calm and feel better.
Casper wondered aloud how many more days they were going to stick around.
Campbell wanted to put in a couple more days, but he added that he wanted to wait until Dominique got up from her nap. Then they would put it to a vote.
I hope you enjoyed the fiction. Get books by Gabriel Ricard. Bondage Night, a romance that dares to tell the whole sordid truth about happily ever after, and Love and Quarters, because the world is a badly run 1890's-style asylum, but at least there's a lot of good stuff on TV.
Bondage Night
$15.00
$10.00
A savage, unreasonable love story for savage, unreasonable times.
Bondage Night chronicles the vicious climax of a chaotic, intense, compulsion-driven love affair between two unhappy, delusional people.
Gabriel Ricard's debut novel shows what brought them together in the first place.
Then comes the surreal, exhausted aftermath.
Through it all, the protagonists persevere.
But by the time it finally ends, Leo and Laura may never be the same.
*Bondage Night will be available on Valentine's Day and will ship a few days after that.
AMAZON PAGE
Bondage Night chronicles the vicious climax of a chaotic, intense, compulsion-driven love affair between two unhappy, delusional people.
Gabriel Ricard's debut novel shows what brought them together in the first place.
Then comes the surreal, exhausted aftermath.
Through it all, the protagonists persevere.
But by the time it finally ends, Leo and Laura may never be the same.
*Bondage Night will be available on Valentine's Day and will ship a few days after that.
AMAZON PAGE
Love and Quarters
$15.00
$10.00
Gabriel Ricard’s 2nd poetry book is about coming to terms with the good, the bad, and the reliably hideous. The world is a badly run 1890s-style asylum, but at least there’s a lot of good stuff on TV. Love and Quarters goes deep into love, depression, high adventures in the great outdoors, and whatever the hell else may happen while in transit.
Art/Coloring Page for Homemade Chapbook
Proceeds to Benefit Mom's Demand Action
Gun violence is front and center in the news with recent tragedies in El Paso, TX and Dayton, OH
Moran Press joins with the vast majority of Americans asking for representatives to take action and pass sensible gun control. Enough is enough.
The artist, Anne Segal (creator of the Cloudy Days, Still Nights and Second Civil War cover art) made this cover art to help my kids color covers for the Mom's Demand Action homemade chapbooks. $5 will be donated to Mom's Demand for each chapbook purchased.
What you get
A homemade chapbook with a generous sampling of Moran Press fiction and poetry as well as special spotlight author angels that donate their words to this charity printing.
What it costs
It's $10 for a custom homemade chapbook. $5 to Mom's demand. $1 to my color artist. The rest helps pay for costs of printing - toner - shipping - envelopes - processing fees.
Please support Mom's Demand Action whether you get a chapbook or simply make a donation direction on their website. Click the Mom's Demand Action Logo for more information.
TO PURCHASE HOMEMADE CHAPBOOK - MOM'S DEMAND EDITION - CLICK THE 'BLOSSOMS NOT BULLETS' COVER IMAGE
Moran Press joins with the vast majority of Americans asking for representatives to take action and pass sensible gun control. Enough is enough.
The artist, Anne Segal (creator of the Cloudy Days, Still Nights and Second Civil War cover art) made this cover art to help my kids color covers for the Mom's Demand Action homemade chapbooks. $5 will be donated to Mom's Demand for each chapbook purchased.
What you get
A homemade chapbook with a generous sampling of Moran Press fiction and poetry as well as special spotlight author angels that donate their words to this charity printing.
What it costs
It's $10 for a custom homemade chapbook. $5 to Mom's demand. $1 to my color artist. The rest helps pay for costs of printing - toner - shipping - envelopes - processing fees.
Please support Mom's Demand Action whether you get a chapbook or simply make a donation direction on their website. Click the Mom's Demand Action Logo for more information.
TO PURCHASE HOMEMADE CHAPBOOK - MOM'S DEMAND EDITION - CLICK THE 'BLOSSOMS NOT BULLETS' COVER IMAGE
FICTION
BUTTERFLY
A RAY HOLDEN STORY
Rose talked while Ray watched the sun through her hair, which blonde and straight, seemed to glow. He smiled and the mother centered her dark brown eyes upon him, twisting a curl of hair with her finger. Doris laughed at a remark by her daughter, teeth showing careful white and fine polish. She kept her gaze upon him, smiling, always smiling.
“It is a wonderful day,” Doris said. The comment hung limp in the summer heat and Ray felt no desire to respond.
The daughter shuffled a deck of cards and began laying out a game of solitaire. Moments passed without any sound except cards and birds. Ray reclined the chair and watched, looking from mother to daughter. Doris continued to finger her curls, running painted nails through hair dark brown.
“Tell me about your book, Ray,” she said, sipping lemonade.
“I’m waiting for the galley proofs to be sent. You know, publishing stuff, quite tedious if you ask me.”
“I’m sure,” she said.
Rose continued playing cards, appearing to be oblivious to the conversation.
“I’m excited for the day I can see my book,” Ray said.
“When will that be?”
“Six months.”
Doris nodded, crossed her legs, and leaned towards him.
“What type of advance did they give you?”
“Mother.” Rose grunted.
“What is it now, darling?”
“I told you no talk about money, ok?”
“I’m just asking him. If he doesn’t want to tell me, he doesn’t have to, darling.”
Rose got up from her chair, staring for a few moments at her mother and walked towards the garden.
“Tell me when you are finished.”
Silence fell and Doris began swinging her leg, slow and steady, the red polish on her feet shining, her skin bronzed and glistening with sunblock. She ran fingers over one leg, staring out into the garden at her daughter.
“She is pretty, isn’t she?” This seemed to be more of a comment that a question.
“Indeed,” Ray answered. His glass remained untouched, drops of condensation slid slowly and unnoticed onto the table.
Ray looked towards the garden, noticing how small Rose looked from a distance. He watched as she chased butterflies with a net, thin, muscular legs propelling her into the air, her skin a pearl white. She caught a butterfly in her net and laughed with joy. She swung the net in a circle, jumping and screaming.
“I’m sorry about the money talk, Ray. I want to be sure you’ll be able to take care of my daughter.”
Ray shrugged his shoulders and continued watching, not turning to face Doris. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and put one to his lips, lighting it without looking.
“You have to quit that filthy habit one of these days.”
He nodded and took a drag, exhaling slowly in her direction.
“You went tanning.”
“Yes. One simply must have the finer things in life.”
She laughed and began telling him about her weekly beauty routine. Listening with half-interest, he concentrated on the book release.
“What was that?” He asked her, coming out of his reverie.
“I said this takes money.” She extended her hand in a sweeping motion from hair to pumps.
“Money can’t buy happiness,” Ray said.
“Darling, money is the only thing.” She stood, ending the discussion.
“Leaving?” He asked.
“I have to meet someone.” She turned and without further comment, walked towards the house.
Ray shrugged and looked for Rose to see her still swinging the trapped butterfly. As she swung round, her shirt lifted, showing her stomach, flat and smooth.
“Rose.”
Startled, she stopped her arm in mid-swing and placed the net on the ground, the butterfly still trapped. “I didn’t see you.”
He hugged her against his chest. “I wondered what you might like to do this evening.”
“Anything you want,” she said, her eyes sparkling a bright blue in the mid-afternoon summer sun.
“That is what you always say. Tell me what you want to do.”
“Really?”
“Of course, really.”
She laughed and clapped her hands with delight.
“Let’s go to the carnival.”
He lowered his head and muttered something she didn’t hear. “Why don’t you go with your friends?”
“I want to be with you, Ray. Why can’t you hang out with them more often?”
He sighed and reached for the net, attempting to lift it from the ground.
“No, don’t,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“It’s ok. Just tell me you’ll spend tonight with me.”
“I want to, I really do. I just don’t want to be around your friends.”
She dropped her arms to her side and stamped her foot in anger.
“Why don’t you go with your friends to the carnival and then call me later?”
“Ray, you know I need to get up early tomorrow. I can’t stay up all night with you like last week.”
Ray turned and faced the house. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something to say.
“Go to the carnival. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Ok.”
“Can you just do me one favor?” He asked.
“What is it?”
“Free the butterfly.”
He walked towards the street, not looking back or answering her demands to stop. Getting into the car, he took a last look and saw her wave. He drove in silence for a time, staring at the road ahead without expression. Miles later, he lit a cigarette and looked into the rear-view mirror.
“Goodbye,” he said.”
If you enjoyed the fiction, buy paperbacks by Stephen Moran.
FICTION
NOON DAY SUN
A RYAN HOLDEN STORY
(ALTERNATE UNIVERSE)
Robert glanced at his watch and shook his head in irritation. He seemed to be waiting for something, although he did not know what, for indeed he thought to himself, ‘What?’ His lunch remained untouched as he looked over the balcony, located on floor two of the arcade, which gave out onto Westminster Street, affording him a view of Fleet bank. He focused his eyes and his attention on the bank. He watched two businessmen, wearing fit suits of blue and white pin stripe exit the bank chatting and putting receipts, slips and cash into pockets.
‘Them,’ he thought to himself, a grin played on his face, stretching wide upon his features, which lent him a temporary look of malice. Indeed, he possessed features which of ease lent themselves to such an impression, with deep set brown eyes, a thick broken nose that leaned slight to a side, and ugly pig shaped thick lips.
‘But not them. Not exactly, but the type, the type is right.’ He said this aloud to himself, knowing he was alone on the balcony. He observed men in suits and women in fine cut dresses of red and black enter and exit, a constant stream of commerce, veritable visible success. He eyed a blonde woman, tall and wearing a green skirt with a white blouse, her beauty smiling up at him from the street. His eyes traced over her long legs, moving with grace and surety.
‘No, she is not right at all.’ He said to himself, all the while fingering gentle short stokes upon the metal inside his waistband. He leaned over the balcony to look down upon the street, for a moment diverting his attention from the bank’s rear entrance, to watch the pedestrians and cars make mad day noise. A bright red sedan held up traffic as it waited for an elderly lady, white hair moving in the breeze, to cross the street.
Put a move on it
He hated old, couldn’t stand anything old and when three days previous he acquired the piece of metal now safe and secure lodged in his waistband, he said in an emphatic tone to a stunned clerk, “Be sure it is new.”
The clerk, a youngish man with dull features, in utter shock said, “Sir, I can assure you all of our merchandise is new and backed by a full guarantee.”
“I do not want a guarantee.” Robert said, putting an end to further conversation. “Just be sure it is new.”
“Yes…yes, sir.” The clerk stuttered. He did not like the look of this man and hesitated, but not wanting to disturb his manager, whom he feared more than this harsh featured man, he simply placed the package in a brown bag and pushed it across the counter. He felt a wave of relief when the man took the package away and without further words left the store.
During the space of those three days, between that and this, Robert wandered lost about the city, looking, searching, searching, looking for time or a place to assert itself, not knowing the first thing himself. He spent a day on the east side strolling without destination past cafes with their blinking neon lights proclaiming for all to see and read The best cup of java in town. He walked past or rather around college students dressed in summer clothes, shorts and tee shirts baring youthful flesh.
He eyed a young coed; a handsome young man no doubt completing his freshman year of math, English lessons and time spent chasing ladies on campus, wearing gray shorts, a white tank top and the seeming requisite sandals so in vogue, as the student sat drinking coffee and chatting friendly with a red head, rather cute herself with blue eyes to match rosy healthy cheeks. The woman seemed not to follow his conversation and wished to leave, her feet shifting, one to the other, her eyes roaming the street. Robert smiled and thought to himself,
‘You should have taken her down the street, young sir. They have the best java in town.’
He walked on without further comment and decided the east side, with its cafes, used cd stores, college students struggling to afford the best java in town not to be the place, not right at all. He boarded the bus and left those that would be well enough left alone.
We must consider carefully what we do
These thoughts came as the bus entered the tunnel, bound for downtown, leaving all in darkness.
He came to, or rather, focused his eyes, which indeed were and had been trained upon the bank the entire time. He observed the man, the right man he knew, rounding the corner and making straight for the bank, head cropped close and held high, hands stuffed inside his gray suit pants, a man who was somebody. He watched, in seeming slow motion, as he, the man, gray suit and all, reached his hand out and opened the door. He smiled and felt cold ice running wild in his blood, cold, cold black ice in his veins. He gripped metal, hard with his fingers to contain his excitement. The wait indeed would soon be over.
“When he is done with business, he is finished,” he thought, almost daring to laugh aloud at his wittiness, but he thought better. Shaking his head all the while he mumbled under his breath, “I won’t draw attention to myself. Not yet. Not yet.”
The man in the gray suit, named Ryan, walked, quick and sure to the desk of the loan consultant, sure because he knew the way, quick because he wished the entire drama to be at an end. He had been to see the loan consultant there several times over the previous month, all attempts or rather requests for the bank to give him “a bit more’, the exact phrase he used the first day he sat sweating tense nerves and trying to convince the loan consultant to give him an extension on his car loan.
I need a bit more time to get my finances in order. He remembered saying, a memory that caused him discomfort, visible discomfort, as indeed, worry lines appeared without warning above his sky-blue eyes, his beautiful, troubled sky-blue eyes. It pained him to ask the man behind the desk, whom while he asked and begged for an extension, ‘a bit of time,’ did not look up and instead remained seated, rather on the fat side, flesh pushing over his shirt collar, as he tapped in rapid succession on the computer keyboard.
“Name?” the man asked. He still did not possess the courtesy to offer Ryan a look, a greeting or as much as a nod.
“Ryan.”
“Last name, please."
“Holden.”
“One moment.”
The man busied himself with the computer as Ryan stood nervous and impotent, picking at his nails.
“Hmm.” The man appeared happy at Ryan’s financial difficulties on the screen in front of him, indeed, was smiling. “Yes, you are here about the extension you requested on the phone.”
“I am. I just need a bit of time to get things in order. The last few months have been slow at work.”
“I see. Well, your request is being processed; there is nothing I can tell you today. You can stop in over the next week to check.” The fat man seemed content. One more life put under the hooks, one more number under pressure, the constant downward pressure of financial ruin.
Ryan stood there in confusion, not understanding. He thought of things to say, but his words seemed futile.
‘This man pushes papers.’ As he left a thought that recurred to him as he approached the desk for the fourth and final time.
Today, there was no sign of the fat man. He brushed a hand, one sweaty palm over his head, unable to stop the nervous display. He waited, sweat appearing and running free over his forehead, sweat under his arms and upon his palms, which he ran over his cropped hair.
‘I have to remember to dry clean this suit before I give it back to Greg.’ He thought to himself as a lady tapped his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” She asked. She smiled at him and brushed her hair, long and brown, away from her eyes with fingernails painted a glossy red. Her eyes sparkled brown and friendly and wide, which for a moment gave him respite from his nerves.
“I’m here to see Mr. Brown.” He said, struggling to remember the man’s name as he stared into her eyes. She wore a red dress, cut with black trim, which hugged tight against her hips and did little to hide her full breasts.
“Mr. Brown is at lunch. Can I take a message for you?” She asked, her voice sweet and light.
“No. He told me to be here at one o’clock. I’ll go for lunch myself and come back in an hour.”
“Okay, great.” She said. Great indeed, he thought to himself.
“Thank you.” He said, not wanting the conversation to end.
“No problem.” That voice again, sweet and light, tickled at his spine and caused his knees to weaken, and if just for a moment he no longer felt the constant worry of his finances.
He turned away and began to walk, although not so quick as before, towards the door.
‘I’d like to know her name.’ he thought. ‘I’d like to take her to lunch.’
The thought of lunch reminded him once again of his present troubles and he removed from his pocket a five-dollar bill, the last of his money until payday. He fingered the paper as he walked, thinking where he could get a lunch for five dollars.
“It will be a burger and fries, again.” he said to himself as he exited the rear doors of the bank.
Robert saw Ryan exit the bank, his blonde hair shining in the sun, his eyes shielded by a hand, which held the last of his money. Robert smiled to himself as the man stood there, as if waiting for him, motionless.
‘You shall not escape.’ Robert said to himself. He raised his gun and took aim.
Ryan waited for an opening in traffic to cross the street, the arcade being close enough to see the usual counter person in the window of his favorite burger joint.
“I have enough for two cheeseburgers,” he said as he stepped from the curb.
He heard the shot after he felt the impact against his shoulder and found himself sprawled upon the sidewalk. A woman screamed and car brakes squealed moments before a second shot smashed into the concrete next to his leg. He pressed his hand against his shoulder and felt blood oozing through his fingers. The five-dollar bill was on the ground a few feet away, fluttering in the breeze. He reached for it, but a hot white pain exploded in his thigh. He screamed, but his voice sounded thin, as if he heard himself from a distance. He looked up, blinded by the noon day sun, looked up at the very moment that Robert fired.
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Server
$15.00
$5.00
“If the lady at table twenty-four asks me for another side of ranch dressing, I’m going to stab her in the neck with a fork ...”
Scott Holden lives two lives. In one, he waits tables, enduring an unending siege of abuse from customers, co-workers, and bosses. Invisible to them, he also feels like there’s a target on his back.
In the other, Scott is a writer during furloughs from his working-class nightmare. But the line between his work identity and his artistic one is blurring under the strain.
Is his life filling his fiction with violent daydreams or is his writing fueling the real-life desperation and darkness in his soul?
Stories for the Mad Volume One
$15.00
Paperback Edition of
Stories for the Mad Volume One - Anthology of dark, literary fiction from Moran Press
Fiction by
Justin Bog
Gabriel Ricard
Agnes Bookbinder
Pete Donohue
Danielle McCoy
Rae Theodore
Richard Wall
Brian Rouff
Dan Provost
Scott Wozniak
Also available at Amazon in paperback and Kindle.
Amazon is priced at $12.99 ,
Paperback is $15 at Moran Press with a FREE Homemade Chapbook or FREE paperback from available inventory.
FICTION
BEFORE THE LAW
FRANZ KAFKA
The short stories of Franz Kafka remain an important influence on my writing and on the collection, Stories for the Mad. Enjoy the story and please PREORDER a copy of the new book!
Before the law sits a gatekeeper. To this gatekeeper comes a man from the country who asks to gain entry into the law. But the gatekeeper says that he cannot grant him entry at the moment. The man thinks about it and then asks if he will be allowed to come in later on.
“It is possible,” says the gatekeeper, “but not now.”
At the moment the gate to the law stands open, as always, and the gatekeeper walks to the side, so the man bends over in order to see through the gate into the inside. When the gatekeeper notices that, he laughs and says:
“If it tempts you so much, try it in spite of my prohibition. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the most lowly gatekeeper. But from room to room stand gatekeepers, each more powerful than the other. I can’t endure even one glimpse of the third.”
The man from the country has not expected such difficulties: the law should always be accessible for everyone, he thinks, but as he now looks more closely at the gatekeeper in his fur coat, at his large pointed nose and his long, thin, black Tartar’s beard, he decides that it would be better to wait until he gets permission to go inside.
The gatekeeper gives him a stool and allows him to sit down at the side in front of the gate. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be let in, and he wears the gatekeeper out with his requests. The gatekeeper often interrogates him briefly, questioning him about his homeland and many other things, but they are indifferent questions, the kind great men put, and at the end he always tells him once more that he cannot let him inside yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, spends everything, no matter how valuable, to win over the gatekeeper.
The latter takes it all but, as he does so, says, “I am taking this only so that you do not think you have failed to do anything.” During the many years the man observes the gatekeeper almost continuously. He forgets the other gatekeepers, and this one seems to him the only obstacle for entry into the law. He curses the unlucky circumstance, in the first years thoughtlessly and out loud, later, as he grows old, he still mumbles to himself. He becomes childish and, since in the long years studying the gatekeeper he has come to know the fleas in his fur collar, he even asks the fleas to help him persuade the gatekeeper.
Finally his eyesight grows weak, and he does not know whether things are really darker around him or whether his eyes are merely deceiving him. But he recognizes now in the darkness an illumination which breaks inextinguishably out of the gateway to the law. Now he no longer has much time to live. Before his death he gathers in his head all his experiences of the entire time up into one question which he has not yet put to the gatekeeper.
He waves to him, since he can no longer lift up his stiffening body. The gatekeeper has to bend way down to him, for the great difference has changed things to the disadvantage of the man.
“What do you still want to know, then?” asks the gatekeeper.
“You are insatiable.”
“Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?”
The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.”
STORIES FOR THE MAD
$15 INCLUDES SHIPPING
Dark literary terror and horror, mixed with dread and fear in the tradition of Poe, Kafka, Shirley Jackson and Gilman.
New stories from Justin Bog, Gabriel Ricard, and many more.
New stories from Justin Bog, Gabriel Ricard, and many more.
FICTION
DAY ONE
GABRIEL RICARD
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
WARNING FOR VIOLENT SUBJECT MATTER
Day One examines the horror of mass-shootings and the origins of that violence. Reader discretion advised.
WARNING FOR VIOLENT SUBJECT MATTER
Day One examines the horror of mass-shootings and the origins of that violence. Reader discretion advised.
Day One
By Gabriel Ricard
Authors Note: The following piece is a work of fiction. The author does not condone this sort of thing in real life.
I'm not one of those people, who always wish to be seven years old again. Why bother? For one thing, it's totally redundant to wish for something that's already passed you by, with no chance of returning. I've never resembled those kinds of people but still, I'd like to be totally ignorant of the future like most children are. As a kid, I was never a smart enough to figure out early that my classmates and teachers were all manipulative, unrelenting monsters. I just skipped along in rain boots, shrugging off a bad day with the knowledge that tomorrow would definitely be a lot better. That sort of ignorance would be really nice to have at this point. When you realize there's no way in hell that things are going to improve. You start counting down the days until it, and I'm referring to school, will be over. Even though there's still several hundred of the bastards to go.
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Mom tells me I do that all the time. Make up my mind before anything's even happened. After all, it's only the first day, and school hasn't even started yet. Still have another three hours, since I made it a point to get up at four in the morning. I haven't been sleeping very well over the last week anyway. Nervous I guess. Ninth grade doesn't actually sound that important until it's staring you in the face. Schoolwork has no part in the worrying. It's just thrown in front of me. I do it only to avoid the stamp saying I'm one of those kids that puts their head down and goes to sleep. What bothers me, is that I won't be able to handle the other students. I'm almost a hundred percent sure. Only fifteen and I'm completely destroyed. A hefty database of past indiscretions convinces me there's truth in my assumption. I have compiled such a list, as a matter of fact, but it's only in my head.
While I couldn't hope to give a description about the rock cycle, I could easily list off every single time someone threw food at me in the cafeteria. Or, when a complete stranger would approach me in the hallway to ask if I was gay. I remember the time someone stole my notebook when I went to the bathroom. Whoever did it, they were kind enough to rip it to pieces and put it back in my locker. A personal favorite was the long-standing agreement between everyone not to use the same urinal as me. It's all in there, molded into one fresh memory.
Of course, Mom tells me I focus too much on that stuff. So does the shrink she made me visit twice in July. It took me about a half-hour to figure out their opinions were exactly the same and that I was wasting my time trying this. Actually, that's not entirely true. This guy did tell me something new. He said I brought a lot of these things on myself. I should become more self-aware of the way I act and the words coming out of my mouth.
I tried making a comment about this to Mom. She waved me off, remarking that I was still being too dismissive. Muttering "It's rude to laugh at other people's suggestions." Since I actually agree with this, I tried my best not to laugh at her moment of hypocrisy.
I didn't expect this therapy thing to change the quality of life. Mom's vague attempts at parenting are so infrequent and dull.
All the crap with that shrink did make me wish I actually had a friend. I've heard before that you should consider yourself lucky if you make even a few really good friends. Well, I'd like to make one. Nothing too selfish right? Just one. That doesn't exactly live in the realm of possibility, so no heavy worries about it.
When I was really little, and rather stupid, I thought that maybe everything was related to where I live. Like California just happened to have more than the average number of jerks and I'd be happy if I moved somewhere else. I used to bring up living somewhere else to Mom. Surprise, surprise, it didn't get me anywhere. My little theory changed with vacation I took with my Mom to see her sister in Oregon. Big, ignorant, ugly people are going to be prevalent no matter what town you're in. Deciding I was the one who had to change, a great idea came to me. While not terribly original, it's definitely worth pursuing with the right know-how.
I had no idea California is such a hot bed for school shootings. The last decade alone, there have been four major incidents. Only eight people have been killed total but dozens were wounded. I've been researching the topic and Santana is the personal favorite, the easiest to gather information on. I figure if you want to go about an act as complicated as this, you need to know what's what.
I was pretty set on doing the so called "unthinkable." I mean, anyone would in my position. I tried to tough it out. Tried to laugh when snowballs bearing sharp chunks of gravel were hurled in my direction. I tried not caring when I found my gym clothes spread out in the teachers' parking lot, each article of clothing placed on a single car. And believe me when I say that I tried shrugging off the notes that were occasionally passed to me in the fifth and sixth grade. Clever little slabs of paper that summed up my entire being in one insulting sentence. Or better yet, a drawing meant to show how ugly I was. In some artwork they paired me up with another school outcast. Those kids never last. They either move away, or manage to find themselves forgotten. In the end, it doesn't do anything.. The more I think about anything, the more it occurs to me that I'm going to fail at it.
But I am a slave to habit. I drink tea every morning and stir it for exactly thirty seconds. Sleeping on my right side is a necessity for a good night's rest. And I constantly feel like trying again with a continuous problem. Hence the frequent attempts at getting through to Mom.
So, due to stubbornness, I'm not going to give up just yet. There's going to be one last shot at fitting in. I'll even go all out, make the strongest effort I ever have. First thing, I'm going to dress with strict adherence to whatever's popular. Guy's fashion doesn't change too much around here, so I went ahead and bought some clothes.
Second, I'm going to make serious changes in the way I talk. I've often been accused of "talking too smart." To change that, I'll talk exactly like everyone else. Pick up on the latest slang words, use an accent that matches someone who apparently believes they're from the dirtiest ghettos in the country. It's not that hard really. I watch a lot of movies so I have a pretty decent grasp of pretending.
I'll ask out the first girl I talk to as well. Get all those idiots to start whispering through the hallways about me. I almost did this last year but the reasons were completely different. Carley Feathers, the girl in question, is my hopeful. It makes sense to try for someone you actually like. As I said though, first girl I strike up a conversation with. I would like it to be her.
The last thing I'll do is take up smoking. I've noticed that the kids at my school are always bumming cigarettes off each other. Everyone goes to a place outside the building where it's safe to smoke during lunch. All I have to do is make it known I'm a smoke and they'll walk up to me, and start talking.
I can't really say if all of this will work for me. I'm hardly an optimist, especially where I'm personally concerned. I'll give it my best shot and go from there.
In a small way, I don't want to succeed. I'd rather make a little history, causing the first massacre in the history of my school. That would really make a lasting impression. It probably works a hell of a lot faster than what I'm attempting instead. I'm nowhere near being scared to kill either. I just I recognize how big a step that is. There's no way you can go back after you start.
So today, it's the first real day of the rest of my life. Here goes nothing and all the like.
Just in case though, I already borrowed a couple shotguns from my grandfather's house during the latest weekend visit.
I don't know anything at all about guns. The only aspect didn't undertaken research for. I just have to pull those weapons out of their hiding place and look at them to know they're absolutely perfect.
If I don't change my life for the better, they will.
End.
By Gabriel Ricard
Authors Note: The following piece is a work of fiction. The author does not condone this sort of thing in real life.
I'm not one of those people, who always wish to be seven years old again. Why bother? For one thing, it's totally redundant to wish for something that's already passed you by, with no chance of returning. I've never resembled those kinds of people but still, I'd like to be totally ignorant of the future like most children are. As a kid, I was never a smart enough to figure out early that my classmates and teachers were all manipulative, unrelenting monsters. I just skipped along in rain boots, shrugging off a bad day with the knowledge that tomorrow would definitely be a lot better. That sort of ignorance would be really nice to have at this point. When you realize there's no way in hell that things are going to improve. You start counting down the days until it, and I'm referring to school, will be over. Even though there's still several hundred of the bastards to go.
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Mom tells me I do that all the time. Make up my mind before anything's even happened. After all, it's only the first day, and school hasn't even started yet. Still have another three hours, since I made it a point to get up at four in the morning. I haven't been sleeping very well over the last week anyway. Nervous I guess. Ninth grade doesn't actually sound that important until it's staring you in the face. Schoolwork has no part in the worrying. It's just thrown in front of me. I do it only to avoid the stamp saying I'm one of those kids that puts their head down and goes to sleep. What bothers me, is that I won't be able to handle the other students. I'm almost a hundred percent sure. Only fifteen and I'm completely destroyed. A hefty database of past indiscretions convinces me there's truth in my assumption. I have compiled such a list, as a matter of fact, but it's only in my head.
While I couldn't hope to give a description about the rock cycle, I could easily list off every single time someone threw food at me in the cafeteria. Or, when a complete stranger would approach me in the hallway to ask if I was gay. I remember the time someone stole my notebook when I went to the bathroom. Whoever did it, they were kind enough to rip it to pieces and put it back in my locker. A personal favorite was the long-standing agreement between everyone not to use the same urinal as me. It's all in there, molded into one fresh memory.
Of course, Mom tells me I focus too much on that stuff. So does the shrink she made me visit twice in July. It took me about a half-hour to figure out their opinions were exactly the same and that I was wasting my time trying this. Actually, that's not entirely true. This guy did tell me something new. He said I brought a lot of these things on myself. I should become more self-aware of the way I act and the words coming out of my mouth.
I tried making a comment about this to Mom. She waved me off, remarking that I was still being too dismissive. Muttering "It's rude to laugh at other people's suggestions." Since I actually agree with this, I tried my best not to laugh at her moment of hypocrisy.
I didn't expect this therapy thing to change the quality of life. Mom's vague attempts at parenting are so infrequent and dull.
All the crap with that shrink did make me wish I actually had a friend. I've heard before that you should consider yourself lucky if you make even a few really good friends. Well, I'd like to make one. Nothing too selfish right? Just one. That doesn't exactly live in the realm of possibility, so no heavy worries about it.
When I was really little, and rather stupid, I thought that maybe everything was related to where I live. Like California just happened to have more than the average number of jerks and I'd be happy if I moved somewhere else. I used to bring up living somewhere else to Mom. Surprise, surprise, it didn't get me anywhere. My little theory changed with vacation I took with my Mom to see her sister in Oregon. Big, ignorant, ugly people are going to be prevalent no matter what town you're in. Deciding I was the one who had to change, a great idea came to me. While not terribly original, it's definitely worth pursuing with the right know-how.
I had no idea California is such a hot bed for school shootings. The last decade alone, there have been four major incidents. Only eight people have been killed total but dozens were wounded. I've been researching the topic and Santana is the personal favorite, the easiest to gather information on. I figure if you want to go about an act as complicated as this, you need to know what's what.
I was pretty set on doing the so called "unthinkable." I mean, anyone would in my position. I tried to tough it out. Tried to laugh when snowballs bearing sharp chunks of gravel were hurled in my direction. I tried not caring when I found my gym clothes spread out in the teachers' parking lot, each article of clothing placed on a single car. And believe me when I say that I tried shrugging off the notes that were occasionally passed to me in the fifth and sixth grade. Clever little slabs of paper that summed up my entire being in one insulting sentence. Or better yet, a drawing meant to show how ugly I was. In some artwork they paired me up with another school outcast. Those kids never last. They either move away, or manage to find themselves forgotten. In the end, it doesn't do anything.. The more I think about anything, the more it occurs to me that I'm going to fail at it.
But I am a slave to habit. I drink tea every morning and stir it for exactly thirty seconds. Sleeping on my right side is a necessity for a good night's rest. And I constantly feel like trying again with a continuous problem. Hence the frequent attempts at getting through to Mom.
So, due to stubbornness, I'm not going to give up just yet. There's going to be one last shot at fitting in. I'll even go all out, make the strongest effort I ever have. First thing, I'm going to dress with strict adherence to whatever's popular. Guy's fashion doesn't change too much around here, so I went ahead and bought some clothes.
Second, I'm going to make serious changes in the way I talk. I've often been accused of "talking too smart." To change that, I'll talk exactly like everyone else. Pick up on the latest slang words, use an accent that matches someone who apparently believes they're from the dirtiest ghettos in the country. It's not that hard really. I watch a lot of movies so I have a pretty decent grasp of pretending.
I'll ask out the first girl I talk to as well. Get all those idiots to start whispering through the hallways about me. I almost did this last year but the reasons were completely different. Carley Feathers, the girl in question, is my hopeful. It makes sense to try for someone you actually like. As I said though, first girl I strike up a conversation with. I would like it to be her.
The last thing I'll do is take up smoking. I've noticed that the kids at my school are always bumming cigarettes off each other. Everyone goes to a place outside the building where it's safe to smoke during lunch. All I have to do is make it known I'm a smoke and they'll walk up to me, and start talking.
I can't really say if all of this will work for me. I'm hardly an optimist, especially where I'm personally concerned. I'll give it my best shot and go from there.
In a small way, I don't want to succeed. I'd rather make a little history, causing the first massacre in the history of my school. That would really make a lasting impression. It probably works a hell of a lot faster than what I'm attempting instead. I'm nowhere near being scared to kill either. I just I recognize how big a step that is. There's no way you can go back after you start.
So today, it's the first real day of the rest of my life. Here goes nothing and all the like.
Just in case though, I already borrowed a couple shotguns from my grandfather's house during the latest weekend visit.
I don't know anything at all about guns. The only aspect didn't undertaken research for. I just have to pull those weapons out of their hiding place and look at them to know they're absolutely perfect.
If I don't change my life for the better, they will.
End.
If you enjoyed this piece of short fiction, please check out Gabriel's debut novel, Bondage Night. It's an uncompromising and unflinching look at two mismatched lovers, sparing readers the tired tropes of the romance genre - a book that dares tell the whole sordid truth of what's beyond happily ever after.
THE INSPIRATION BEHIND
STORIES FOR THE MAD
THE TELL-TALE HEART
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Edgar Allan Poe remains one of the biggest influences on my writing, especially my short fiction. The drama, terror, and ghastly endings of Poe's stories carved a place in my writer's mind that I was never able (or desired) to forget.
When I selected the fiction for Stories for the Mad, my process was simple. I read the submissions *with* Poe and Kafka stories - seeking dark fiction that would fit seamlessly with two of my most important influences. I'm confident lovers of Poe and Kafka will be thrilled with Stories for the Mad. Without further ado, I present The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. Enjoy.
When I selected the fiction for Stories for the Mad, my process was simple. I read the submissions *with* Poe and Kafka stories - seeking dark fiction that would fit seamlessly with two of my most important influences. I'm confident lovers of Poe and Kafka will be thrilled with Stories for the Mad. Without further ado, I present The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. Enjoy.
THE TELL-TALE HEART
TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who’s there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks! here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
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