THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 36TH POSTCARD

The postcard for Oklahoma reminded Darren of Gettysburg, which he found odd, since the knew Gettysburg was in Pennsylvania. However, the sepia toned photorealistic painting of a battle scene invoked the Civil War. There was no caption, date, or description of the image, however, so Darren shrugged as he turned over the card to begin the tale.

 And They Go Marching

            The black soldier tumbled down the incline, his legs folded under his body. He came to a painful halt upon his back, but he soon righted himself. There was dust in his eyes, but he did not notice at first. He checked to see that he had no open wounds and then breathed in deeply. He could feel the vibrations of the fighting above his head. He had no need or desire to crawl back up and see the battle. He had had enough of the fighting for now. To escape the Reds, he had dived between the branches of a low bush and crawled his way right to the edge of this slope. He had not been able to maintain purchase on the ground, and so had slid down with the loose dirt. Now here he was, easy pickings for any enemy soldier that might discover him, but perhaps if he began to dig, he could build a short tunnel for safety.

            He dug for only a few minutes before he heard a cracking noise above him and looked up in time to see the body of an enormous Red falling right on him. The two soldiers collapsed together in a heap, but it was the black one who got back to his feet first. His jaws were clenched in anger as he readied himself to leap upon the Red, but then he paused.

            The Red clenched his jaws too, but not in anger. He was nursing one leg, which looked as if it had been seriously crushed. He locked eyes with the black soldier, and fell back in the dirt, writhing with pain, but obviously expecting to be killed.

            “Did the fall do that?” The Red looked annoyed as he shook his head in reply.

            “No. One of yours. I managed to drag myself up that branch-“ here he indicated the slender branch above that now dangled, broken, -“but this leg made it hard to climb, and so I fell.” His eyes flicked between the black soldier and the excavated earth. “Digging a tunnel, I see. Isn’t that desertion?”

            “Hardly!” the other shot back, glaring at the larger solider. “Merely protecting myself from attack.”

            “I don’t see anyone attacking you,” the Red replied mildly, his large eyes locked with the black soldier’s. But it was the Red who looked away first. Perhaps it was the pain that caused him to do so, perhaps not.  The other solider stared at the large body prone upon the dirt. He should dispatch this enemy; sever its head, crush its chest. Yet he was still afraid. A Red generally could take one of his people easily. His fighting had always been done beside his peers- their strength was in numbers. The Reds’ strength was in their . . . well, strength.

            “Well? You going to kill me or what?” The Red’s sardonic words broke into the black soldier’s thoughts. He hesitated then turned back to his task of digging. “You’re not going anywhere soon,” he called over his shoulder. In the next instant, he found himself flipped over on his back, and the Red was on top of him. He could feel sharp points pressing against either side of his head.

            “I can go far enough,” the Red said. Then he doubled in pain, and his would-be victim shoved him aside, scrambling backwards into the hollow, his legs throwing dirt up into the air. The Red regarded him with amusement. “Your first time in battle with us?

            The other gave an affirmative reply, watching his larger opponent warily. The Red chuckled. “First often equals last with your people. You have always underestimated us.”

            “And yet we’re still here, still fighting,” his opponent shot back. The Red glared angrily for a moment, then chuckled again, falling back to take weight off his useless leg.

            “You got spirit, I’ll give you that.”

            Silence fell for a while. As much silence as could be had during a pitched battle, that was. The black soldier turned back towards the tunnel, and scraped half-hearted for a few moments.

            “Ahoy down there!” The voice startled the black soldier, and he jumped far enough to whack his head upon the ceiling of the newly excavated space. Scrambling backwards into the open space, he nearly tripped over the lifeless body of the Red. He started at the unmoving enemy for a moment before glancing up to seek the origin of the call.

            One of his own, another black troop member, peered over the lip of the slope. “You need help out of there?” the other soldier called. He nodded in reply. “Wait a moment, we will have you out soon.”

            The soldier signed in relief. It was a bit strange, being trapped in this pit with a dead Red. It was not the first dead enemy he’d seen, but he had never had to stay in close proximity to one either. Suddenly dirt rained down onto his head, and in shaking his head, he noticed the Red’s mangled leg twitching slightly as several pebbles landed on it. He realized the Red was shamming, hoping to escape notice by the other troop members above. The Red probably was hoping to wait out the battle, and then limp back to his own home base, the black soldier surmised. Clever. Worthy of a formidable adversary.

            “Watch out below!” he glanced up again to see a huge piece of wood, clearly broken off a tree, toppling downwards into the pit . . . headed straight for the head of the Red. The enemy’s cranium would be crushed.

            Without thinking, the black soldier threw his own body against the larger one of the Red, grunting with effort as he heaved the Red scant inches out of range, but even so  he was not quick enough to escape the excruciating pain of having the very tip of his own foot smashed painfully.

            “Well that was quite stupid of you,” came the call from above. The black glared up at his fellow solider, not bothering to reply. Slowly with great care, and nursing his sore foot gingerly, he began to climb up the length of the makeshift ladder.

            Suddenly, he heard a whisper underneath his feet. “Thank you. May we never meet again, especially in battle.” He stopped, and looked down at the Red, who still lay immobile.

            The black ant nodded his head in silent acknowledment of the red ant’s gratitude before continuing its climb up the twig.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE THIRTY-FIFTH

The postcard for Ohio didn't specifically appear to be Ohioan, but Darren had never been there, so he figured no wasn't one to make that determination. It seemed to be a handmade postcard, however- a photo glued upon a piece of card stock paper. There was some handwriting on the front, and as faded as it was, Darren could just make out the following: Jolly Hal oween from Gret hen and Bruc in F lh 195. The same handwriting was on the back, Darren noted as he began to read

THE ARITHMETIC OF MEMORY

You peer out from behind your curtain. You can remember a time you weren’t afraid to let the sunlight streaming through your windows, to have your rooms visible to outsiders. You can remember a time when you weren’t afraid to venture outside at any hour, and wave at your neighbors. When you could sit and eat a meal in peace.

But all that has changed, since the broadcast. Since the newscaster talked about the monster who lives at 4851 Galloway Lane, your street. The monster who has been abducting and killing the children of your town. Abducting them, starving them, suffocating them, then burying the blade-mutilated bodies out in the woods beyond the suburbs. A true monster.

You shiver. Hopefully, it will all be over soon. The news also said that the police were close to catching the monster who had eluded them for so long, the monster  which they had finally cornered at 4851 Galloway Lane with the monster’s latest victim, who was hopefully still alive. It will only be a matter of time now. Then the monster will be gone.

You move the curtain aside a little more, quickly scanning the street. You can see a police car parked nearby. And another. Are those sirens you hear? You release the curtain, wheezing a bit. The near-crippling  anxiety again, the same old anxiety that has plagued you since you were a child. You clench your hands as the sirens grow louder.  Your left hand feels strange. You look down, and see the knife in your fist. The blood is still wet enough to drip onto your leg and the floor. 

Then you remember: you live at 4851 Galloway Lane.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: THIRTY-FOURTH POSTCARD

Darren started at the postcard for North Dakota. The front photograph was of a butterfly, but the picture was so clear and vivid, he almost could see the wings quivering.

FABLE

           

Sam eyed the disheveled man warily as he stumbled in her direction. The man’s overcoat was too clean for someone who appeared to be homeless but his leathery skin and shaggy, greasy hair, which somehow managed to simultaneously stick up and hang down in ropy strands, suggested otherwise. Either way, Sam was not eager to make his acquaintance, so she began to walk faster, fiddling with her lip ring.

The man moved a lot faster than Sam would have thought he could. He was suddenly at her side, keeping pace with a strange rolling gait, like a wolf moving through a wintry forest.

            “Wanna buy some butterflies?” the man asked in a hissing whisper. He smelled like rotten fruit, all at once sweet and cloying. Sam was so surprised by the odd request that she looked at the man. His eyes were lanced with flecks of gold- giving them an uneasy yellow tinge.

            “What? No,” Sam muttered, picking up her pace, and unconsciously zipping up her hoodie up to her throat. Undeterred, the would-be butterfly merchant continued, reaching into one of the pockets of his overcoat.

            “You look like a girl who needs a butterfly,” he said, pulling his hand out and opening it flat in front of Sam’s face. His grimy potato hand trembled; giving the dried pods in his palm the appearance of movement. Sam drew her head back sharply. The brown, papery things looked like hollowed-out cigars, but still looked dead. AS if they were connected to organic life in some way.  Sam stooped walking.

            “These aren’t butterflies,” Sam retorted, her eyes darting in all directions for an escape route. The man stared down at his palm for a moment as if struck with the realization that Sam spoke the truth, his mouth hanging open. Then he grinned, revealing very yellow but otherwise intact teeth.

            “Yes, yes. They are just asleep. Cocoons,” the man offered, holding his palm out, closer to Sam.

            Sam suddenly reached into her bag. The man seemed harmless, and if giving him a dollar for some old rolled up leaf would get rid of him, that was fine, and he could use the money more than she did, undoubtedly.

            “Alright, I will take one,” Sam said, glancing down to look inside her bag, pushing the contents around in search of her cash purse. “How much?”

            The man smiled again, his face wrinkling with brown lines criss-crossing the darkened leather of his face.  He squinted at the pods in his hand, touching each one and muttering inaudibly. He finally chose one and handed it to Sam. It almost seemed to twitch in her own palm, but Sam knew it was just a sensory illusion.

            “For you, the price is a simple one. One butterfly for one . . .” Cupping the pod in her hand, she pulled out her purse and undid the clasp. She began to tug out a dollar.

            “ . . . kiss,” the man finished. Sam gasped, her face flushing scarlet. She shoved her purse back into her bag, inadvertently also dropping the ‘cocoon’ into the bag. She backed away from the lunatic.

            “What the fuck?” Sam exclaimed, “no way I am gonna do that with you, you sicko pervert! God!”

            The man actually seemed genuinely offended. He jammed his hand back into his pocket, disposing of the other pods. Then he brought his hands up in a gesture that appeared at once defensive and accusatory.

            “Did I say the kiss was for me? Girl, don’t flatter yourself,” he spat. “But you gotta pay.”

            Sam stared at the disheveled man. She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “You can keep your damn bullshit fake cocoon.”

            “Chrysalis,” the man replied, his eyes glittering in the late morning sun. Sam frowned, shaking her head in obvious puzzlement. “It’s called a chrysalis, not a cocoon actually,” the man explained. “You took it. That means you did need it, and since you took it, I expect payment.”

            “Oh my God,” Sam exclaimed. Here, take it back!” She rummaged through her bag, but she could not find any sign of the dried pod inside. The man shrugged.

            “You don’t seem to be a thief, but if you don’t pay me, then I gotta report you.” Sam snapped her head up to glare at the man, and then continued to dig through her bag. After another minute or so, she shut her eyes and let her hands drop.

            “Are you kidding me?” she complained, addressing the sky above.

            “A kiss,” the man insisted, “and you may keep the chrysalis.”

            “It’s not even in my bag!” Sam protested. The man sighed, and looked down the street. He began to wave wildly, and Sam followed his gaze to discover to her great horror and embarrassment that he was trying to flag down a police squad car. She plucked at the man’s sleeve. “Alright, alright, Christ!” she hissed. She leaned forward to give the man a peck on his cheek, but the man evaded her, again with speed that belied his appearance.

            “What did I tell you?” the man thrust his head forward as he held up his hands in an overblown gesture of exasperation. “Kiss ain’t for me!”

            Sam closed her eyes. This was such a bizarre thing happening to her. She shook her head slightly and bit the bullet. “Fine.  Then who?”

            In reply, the butterfly merchant pointed past Sam, indicating the coffeehouse window behind her. Sam looked, noticed her own reflection: a young brunette with a red hoodie and a green-blue skirt.  Then she saw past the reflection. A very handsome man sat inside, drinking coffee and reading a book. Sam turned to look at the butterfly merchant with a raised eyebrow.

            The man was gone. Vanished. Sam glanced up and down and across the street, but the man had truly disappeared. She frowned, her brain experiencing sudden and extreme fatigue. She needed coffee. And here was a coffeehouse with a very cute guy inside.  What the hell.

            After ordering her latte, Sam maneuvered her way towards the table where the handsome man sat. She planned to just flash him a smile, but then she noticed the chrysalis on the table. She stopped short, staring at the dried, yet fresher-looking pod. This one had a greenish tinge and also appeared to pulse slightly.

            The man noticed her staring and when he followed her gaze to the chrysalis, he blinked in surprise. He began to rise out of his seat.

            “Did he send you?” he asked, his tone earnest.  Sam cocked her head, her question unspoken but plain upon her face.

            “He said it would be the first woman to stop and notice the cocoon.” He explained, gesturing toward the pod.

            “Chrysalis,” Sam corrected automatically. “Uh- I mean, well, he did tell me I should come inside, so I guess in a way he did. Did he give you that?” The man nodded, then abruptly shook his head.

            “No, no he didn’t give it to me. He sold it actually. Well, kind of. It wasn’t for money,” the man stammered, blushing in a very cute manner, Sam thought. She let him flounder for a couple more seconds before interrupting him gently.

            “He tried to sell me one, too, so I know what you mean. What did you buy it for?”

            The man’s face became even more crimson, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He shook his head, shrugging, all the while with a nervous smile. “I- ah, it’s kind of- oh this is just-“ Sam suddenly smiled.

            “Was it for a kiss?” Sam thought the man might faint, he was so flustered. But eventually, the man managed to nod. Entertained by his shyness, Sam decided to take a risk. What harm could it do, after all? She shrugged amiably, still smiling. “Well a sale is a sale,” she remarked, and leaned over to kiss the man on his cheek.

            With predatory swiftness, he turned his head so that his lips met Sam’s. She tried to draw back, but it was as if her lips had touched an electric fence. A buzzing, bright, tingling sensation stung her lips, then spread to her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, hands, and stomach. She started as the not altogether unpleasant sensation reached her thighs and everything in between.  Her vision filled with static, and she went limp as she gave herself up to the experience.

            Sam blinked, confused. She stood outside the coffeehouse, hands still raised slightly in annoyance at the butterfly merchant’s disappearance. She glanced at the window, and saw the handsome man seated, still engrossed in his book.

            Did she just have some kind of bizarre hallucination, some weird daydream? Sam shook her head, slightly dazed. Without being fully aware of her movement, she approached the bus stop two blocks north of her. It seemed like a good day to leave town. She’d go as far as she could, and then see how much further she could walk. A breeze came up, and she pulled her hood over her head. While she waited at the stop, she began rummaging through her bag for fare money.

            Her fingers came across an odd object she couldn’t identify by touch. It was velvety smooth, slightly yielding, yet had some rigid edges. Grasping the object she brought it out and gasped in wonder. She held a chrysalis, but one quite different than the one she’d acquired earlier. This one was a vibrant green, looking very fresh, and it pulsed with life. She could feel something moving inside.

            Without really knowing why, she raised the chrysalis to her lips, and then put it inside her mouth. She let it lie upon her tongue for a moment. It tasted slightly bitter, but also made her think of the earth and of leaves and rain. Then she swallowed it whole, just as the bus came up.

            She didn’t see the man from inside the coffeehouse standing outside on the sidewalk half a block down from the bus stop, watching as she boarded the bus. She didn’t see how his face began to change; how his hair grew long and tangled, how his smoothly shaven chin sprouted a beard. How his eyes grew lighter in color, until they were almost gold. How his skin darkened and wrinkled like leather. How he reached into the pocket of the overcoat that had suddenly appeared upon his frame. How when he smiled at the departing bus, his teeth practically glowed, the canines long like a wolf.