Night Watchers

She slips through the night,
A dream world of grey,
Listening to secrets,
We deny in the day.

The Inside Story

Flood, the gracious host over at Flash Flood, is running a wonderful series of interviews on fellow writers and bloggers. I'm honored to be her first guest! If you're interested in Jason Evans, the inside story, please stop by and check it out!

Jason Evans, The Interview

Flashlight Tag, Part 5, Final (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       Stephen stumbled back.
       Back.
       He was caught. His legs too rubbery to run. The figure's crooked movements bounded down the hill.
       The light shook. His mouth stretched wide to shriek.
       Then, his heel slapped a rock.
       He tripped.
       He flailed and landed.
       In the last seconds, he surrendered his body. Like prey finding peace in the jaws of the predator.
       Only, he didn't want to see his blood.
       Or worse.
       He crunched down on the flashlight.
       Flinched from the final blow.
       Which.
       Didn't.
       Come.
       All sound vanished in the darkness.
       He lay cringing.
       Crying voiceless tears.


       "Get your hand off my fucking ear!"
       Craig dragged Chris with a nice pinch. He was pulling him up the path like a schoolmarm.
       "Ah, wook. I got a pwetty one."
       "All right. Let him go, Elmer Fudd."
       "Well," Craig said, dropping Chris on the pile of trophies. "Looks like I win. You're all a bunch of losers, you know that?"
       "Yeah, yeah. We all bow to the majesty of Craig. Now suck it."
       "Just one problem," Craig said. "Where the hell is wet diaper?"
       "I haven't seen him."
       "Me neither."
       Craig frowned.
       "That's pretty strange," he said. "Stephen's got an amazing vibe in the forest. Really fucking amazing. I thought he'd win."
       "Well, not this time."
       "Maybe the dude went home," Chris said.


       Stephen coiled in the soft decay. The smell was scratchy, too pleasant for the decades of death comprising it.
       Crickets called in the stillness. Something squeaked in the trees overhead.
       Had it gone?
       Stephen didn't think so.
       But he couldn't pry open his eyes. He wished it would strike. He wanted it to be over.


       "So how long do you want to wait for him?"
       "Screw waiting for him! Let's split up and find him."
       "No way, we'll all get lost," Chris said. "We'll be looking for each other until dawn."
       "No we won't. He's got a flashlight. All we have to do is look for it."
       "No," Craig said, cutting off the debate. "Chris is right. If we split up, we're dead. Stephen's flashlight won't be on, anyway. He's better than that. He only uses the light to catch you. Never to find you."
       "Bullshit."
       "No. It's not. It's just what he does," Craig said.


       Nothing.
       Not even the tiniest crunch of a leaf.
       Trembling, he dared to stir. Just a hair.
       He stopped. Waited.
       Nothing answered his movements.
       Nothing attacked.
       He shifted more. Gripped the flashlight.
       Each moment he lived, he warmed a bit more.
       He began to turn onto his knees.


       "So what do you want to do then? Make a campfire and toast marshmallows?"
       "Shut the fuck up," Craig said. "Let me think a minute."


       The thought of running blind terrified Stephen. What if he touched it? What if he dove toward the valley and crashed into its arms?
       He felt along the ground and closed over one of the countless stones, long and jagged.
       He locked his hold. He raised it to strike.


       "You know, that was the worst hiding spot I've ever seen. Those rocks barely hid your head. Your ass was waving in the air. We should call you ostrich from now on."
       "Get off my back, Chris. I just got chased out of an awesome spot. How was I supposed to know you were coming up the other side?"
       "You didn't hear me fall like thirteen times? That was a pitiful short cut. I--"
       All heads turned to the south.
       They listened.
       "Hey," someone whispered, "did you hear that?"
       "Hell yeah. What was it?"
       "Shhhhhhhhh!" Craig said.
       "A coyote?"
       "No way."
       "Quiet!"
       A howl rose.
       Perhaps from the Earth itself.
       "Someone's down there," Craig said. "Calling for help."
       The others hesitated, but Craig ran.


       In his mind, Stephen roared a battle cry. He hurled the flashlight beam up the hill. The light splashed on the steep slope. On the lichen-stained stones.
       And nothing more.
       He didn't believe it.
       He waited. Steady. Sure it would come.
       One breath.
       Two breaths.
       His heart exploding.
       Something hopped in the ferns. A wood frog shopping for a new home.
       Enough!
       He turned to run.
       If he could just make the wood line. He'd reach the cottage and--
       Dear God!
       In the light.
       Not more than an arm's length behind him.
       He saw the delicate rib cage first. Then the face. Then the shape.
       A person, but not a person.
       Hair of decayed moss. Skin like tree bark. Leering fangs fashioned from the skeleton of a bird.
       Not alive.
       Except the eyes.
       Their squirming sparkled with hideous consciousness. Two glistening slugs. Tortured to the creature's purpose.
       A hand of branches flashed toward his face. Stephen dropped the light.
       Only a breeze tickled his skin, but along the ground where the cone of brightness lay, those horrid fingers ripped at the ground.
       The light. It came in the light. But it lived in the dark.
       Stephen obliterated the flashlight with the rock.
       Then perilous silence seized him.
       He screamed so hard his throat tore.


       "Keep up!" Craig yelled. "It came from down there!"
       "Jesus, someone's going to break their neck! There are rocks everywhere!"
       "Not my problem! Come on! Get those fucking flashlights up here!"


       Stephen heard the thundering above. Heard them coming. Light winked in the trees.
       Nearer and nearer, the rays tightened.
       Something moved.
       Intimate.
       A sweet breath on his cheek.
       In a blaze, he understood. He saw their lights coming. Their lovely lights. He knew they would die.
       A rush of wind and branches raged up the slope toward Craig and the others. Stephen threw himself the other way.
       Flying down, down, he broke from the wood line. His footfalls beat when the weeping and shrieks erupted.
       As he glided past the cottage, he saw himself in the broken panes.
       And more.
       Just like the night he walked in his sleep and Craig found him, Stephen saw the little boy who died. But it wasn't like Craig's story. It wasn't like the way it was always told.
       That little boy didn't wander out into the forest. The forest came and snatched him. And his mother watched. She ran from the bright cottage to save herself.
       The little boy cried. He stayed. He feared the dark.
       The forest came, and his mother watched.
       Like Stephen watched.
       And they both kept running.

Back to Part 4

Fire and Twilight

Twilight is the destruction of light.

It begins brilliant white, pure as the first spark of the sun. The mind and body joined. The giver of all that is Earth.

Yet, in the sigh of evening, it strikes the deepest of airy seas. Mind and body divide. Blue breathes into the waters, while red endures in the glow of sunset.

And when red falls to rekindle another day, blue remains to sing. Listen to the lullabies of all you've ever known. The voice of all the years.

Twilight is more than the destruction of light.

With knowing eyes, you welcome the night.

Flashlight Tag, Part 4 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)

       Color bloomed in the flashlight's circle.
       Nothing. No one there.
       "Damn," Stephen whispered.
       He tracked the ground up the side of the depression. Shadows sprayed as the light moved.
       Still nothing.
       Along the rim and down the other side. Empty, except for moths twirling in the air.
       He dropped the light back to the bottom.
       "Jesus," he croaked.
       A shape crouched. A guy on his knees?
       He wasn't there a few seconds earlier.
       "Hey! I got you down there! Come on up!"
       The shape did not stir. No acknowledgment.
       "Chris? Is that you?"
       Chris wore a dark jacket. Could be him.
       "Chris?"
       Maybe they switched jackets. Oldest trick in the book.
       "Don't be an ass! Don't make me chase you down!"
       Still nothing.
       Weird.
       It was a person, right? Not a stump. Not a rock sticking from the ground.
       He shook the flashlight despite the steady, crisp light. He aimed it again.
       His chest squeezed.
       The figure was standing. Not Chris. Not anyone he recognized.
       Man or woman? The ratty clothes had no definition. Shoulder-length hair hung in oily clumps. A glint reflected from hidden eyes.
       It stepped forward. Branches snapped. A chill snaked up Stephen's arms.
       Instinct yanked him backwards. He dove into the trees and sailed over ground as fast as he could. His light thrashed through the forest.
       He pushed himself higher and higher on the slope toward the others, but soon his legs burned. The pull of the valley was too strong. To keep speed, he turned bit by bit. In the end, he was heading down again.
       Panting, he ripped himself around a trunk and pointed the flashlight back. The light bobbed with his breath.
       Emptiness.
       He searched left and right.
       No. No sign of the creepy figure.
       The crickets sang to the calm, still night.
       He waited. Listening. Trying to calm his thundering heart.
       Nothing moved out there. He must've outrun it.
       He started forward again. He pointed the flashlight ahead.
       "Gah!" he cried, shrinking back.
       The figure. Ahead of him.
       And closer.
       Impossible!
       The hush a moment before crashed as it came toward him. Panic exploded.
       As if on wings, he spun and sprinted. Pounding the soft ground, he smashed away branches with his shins.
       Like a hurricane in the forest, he stormed downward, gobbling speed. Last year's leaves hurtled from his shoes. Faster and faster, his legs flailed to keep up with the ground.
       Then, his shoulder caught a sapling. It punched him sideways.
       Spinning.
       The back of his head struck a wind-bent tree. His ankles pitched up. The world whipped in an indigo soup of swirls.
       His face hit. His body pattered down later. The impact knocked his fear spinning to the heavens.
       His unconscious body skidded to a stop. Flakes of bark settled, and quiet poured over him.

* * *

shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
yes
shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hickory hickory hickoryhickoryhickory
feet
(in the dark)
hickorypricklyhickorypricklyhickory
star (wind)
blowing and
(blowing and)
walk--
within (sleep)
colors in light
blood in the light
walking (walking)
goose bumps singing
find me sitting
stars circling
listening to mother moon
reflected
(in broken windows)
they ran
away
(I'm afraid)
they ran
(THE COTTAGE)
they ran and ran and ran and ran....

* * *

       Stephen stirred. He crawled through the fog of his injury back to consciousness.
       He unknotted his neck. He spit grit from off tongue.
       What was he doing in the dirt? Dreaming? God, his head hurt like hell.
       Images still flitted in his mind. Craig's house. Back when they were kids.
       He was remembering the night he slept over years ago. The night Craig alluded to when he scared the others. They had screwed off half the night. Way past three o'clock.
       Stephen didn't remember shutting his eyes. One moment television scenes danced, the next he was swimming in the strangest sensations. Especially wetness. On his feet.
       Craig told Stephen the next morning. Told him what he did.
       Craig heard the door. He snapped awake. Where was Stephen? Not in the sleeping bag.
       Craig checked the house. The bathroom. The kitchen. He never thought to check the front door.
       A breeze nudged it as he tiptoed by.
       Craig pushed and bared himself to the open darkness. Stephen?
       Not much choice. He laced on shoes. He slipped into the pre-dawn stillness.
       Craig walked a while, avoiding the woods. Headlights washed over him from one lonely car. It didn't stop. It wove deeper into the scrub lands. It's tire-hum dwindled.
       Farther on, he heard it.
       Crunching. Crunching.
       A porcupine waddling?
       No. Too steady. Too long for stubby legs.
       Craig prodded himself into the black sweep of the mountain. Poked, scraped, and scratched, he caught the form of Stephen tracing unseen trails. He grabbed him.
       Below, a fiery glare burst through the trees. The rising moon reflected in the broken windows of the cottage.
       Next to the windows, an open door.

       And now his ass was planted in the dirt. What the hell happened?
       The pain in his head was exquisite. Jesus Christ.
       He sat up in the darkness. He leaned against the tree he bashed his head into.
       Vaguely, he recalled running, but the throbs in his brain scrambled the memories.
       Wait. That's right. He was looking. Playing the game. He cornered someone. He--
       Shit!
       He curled his legs closer.
       Chased! He'd been chased!
       He craned in all directions. Searching. Listening.
       Where was it?
       No sound of it now. Not even a breeze moved.
       God, how long was he out?
       He felt a lump under his legs. He reached and found the grip of the flashlight. Cupping light with his hands, he glanced at his watch. Only forty minutes since the game started. The light flicked out.
       What should he do?
       He listened for the others higher on the mountain. He rubbed the knob swelling on the back of his skull.
       He had to get up there. As a group, they'd figure out what to do.
       Some crazy asshole was loose in the woods.
       And he was afraid.
       Cautiously, making no sound, Stephen pushed himself to his feet. He faced the long climb.
       He had to do it.
       He had to do it fast.
       He relit the flashlight.
       And there it was. Already coming.
       The forest erupted before he could scream.

On to Part 5
Back to Part 3

Cemetery Symbolism--Shorn Wheat

Victorian cemetery art incorporated elaborate symbolism to convey the hopes and sorrows of those left behind.

Shorn Wheat: symbolizing the harvest of a long and fruitful life. Usually found on the stones of the old.

Inscription:
JOHN CRAGER
Died
Nov. 17, 1877
Age 94 years, 11 mo.

~~~

Seasons of labors
Warmed in the sun.
Life's greatest achievement?
To be mourned when you're gone.

(St. Peter's United Church of Christ, West Pikeland Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Flashlight Tag, Part 3 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)


       Stephen stuffed the flashlight into his pocket and crept down the mountainside in darkness. His feet brushed ferns, which nodded, swaying closed in their ranks behind him.
       He wormed into shadows. He wore the night like a womb. It cradled him. Protected him. The stab of Craig's light could not touch him. And the distance grew.
       He scanned the slope in the oily light. Too far to see bottom.
       Could they be down there? Any of them? The cottage was there. Places they were warned not to go.
       Stephen turned back. A glow whisked across the treetops.
       The hunters were searching. He heard them now. Taunting. Threatening. Making lunatic noises in the hope someone would laugh.
       Stephen closed his eyes and visualized the echoes in the valley. Like colors and patterns, they pulsed on the edge of sight. As he eased to the ground, his mind lifted above the noise. He tuned himself to the night sounds.
       As minutes wore on, the voices faded. A shrew twittered in the leaves by his feet. He fluttered on the frontiers of sleep.
       Crackling into his consciousness, a new sound emerged. The sound of someone walking. Sixty or seventy yards out, he guessed, and farther down.
       A smart one, Stephen thought. The guy was going to sneak behind the hunters. A great tactic. They wouldn't soon check a place they already searched.
       Stephen bent forward, but held. He didn't pounce for the easy kill. He wanted to turn the tables, to use the maneuver against him. The guy believed the threat was ahead, not sneaking up from behind.
       Stephen shadowed the steps. Keeping distance. Keeping discipline. When the pace quickened, he did not rush. Each footfall, he tested. He dodged fallen twigs and rocks. He dodged the briars without snagging a thorn.
       The footsteps stopped.
       He froze.
       He counted the seconds and considered. Then, he decided to take him.
       Slithering through the undergrowth, his crouched body flowed, leaving no imprint on the ground.
       Upward.
       Silent.
       He crested a rise to find the edge of a great bowl in the landscape and frowned.
       That's why the sounds snuffed out. The sunken ground smothered them.
       But could the guy have gone up the other side without being heard? Doubtful. More likely he was down there. Heart squeezing. Panting at the possibility of being pursued.
       Stephen imagined wide eyes blinking from the darkest hole. There. To the left. That would be the place. The blackest place.
       Beneath the surface, Stephen smelled moisture and mold. The air tasted too thick to breathe.
       Grinning, he raised his arm and aimed. He thumbed the switch, and a circle of light shot downward.

On to Part 4
Back to Part 2

Forest Calling

Painted Trillium
(Trillium undulatum, Pocono Mountains)
*****

Peepers raining
Dark pools
Whistling
Dreaming, Waking
Blood green
Spring

We Have Another Winner: The 20,000th Visitor!

After hitting a blog milestone of 10,000 visitors on March 27, 2006 after seven months of blogging, we've hit another milestone less than two months later. The 20,000th visitor!!

And the lucky winner is:

SANDRA RUTTAN

Stop by her blog and say hello. Her first book, Suspicious Circumstances, will be released later this year. Congratulations, Sandra!

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Look for the prize patrol again at 30,000. See you then.

Flashlight Tag, Part 2 (Fiction)

(Just joining us? Go back to Part 1)


       Sounds fly far in the darkness. In every direction, they rustled, like windy leaves.
       Minutes passed before all traces of them faded. When they did, the black skies pressed lower, and Craig stood rooted with the trees. His lidless eyes stared.
       "You ever hear them crying?" he whispered.
       "What?" someone asked.
       Stephen inched backward. The guy was a freak.
       "You ever hear them crying?" he repeated.
       "Oh, cut the shit, Craig. Jesus. Save it for your summer camp."
       A smile slithered over Craig's face.
       "He's not a camp counselor anymore, dumbass. He's got a bank internship. When he gets his degree, they'll probably hire him."
       "Whatever."
       Stephen crunched onto a twig. Craig's glare snapped onto him. The retreat froze.
       "Have you heard them," Craig asked.
       Stephen stared. He made no move to answer.
       "Have you?"
       A beam spotlighted Stephen's face. He shielded his eyes.
       "Get that off me!"
       "Have you?"
       "I said get that Goddamn light out of my face!"
       The light clicked off. The eyes of the group burrowed into the two of them.
       "Alright. Alright. If you won't tell them, I will," Craig said. "A little boy died in these woods."
       One of them snickered. "Bullshit."
       "Oh?"
       Craig shot a stony arm down the mountain. "People abandoned that cottage down there for a reason," he said.
       Someone swallowed. His Adam's apple curtsied.
       "It was winter," Craig said. "Back in the 40's. A family lived in that cottage, but the father died in the bluestone quarries. The mother was barely holding it together. For herself and her son."
       Craig stepped toward the long slope down.
       "It was deathly cold that night. And late. The wood stove burned full force, and it couldn't stop them from shivering. The mother went outside to get more wood. That's what started it."
       Craig stepped again.
       "The little boy woke from a nightmare. He was scared. You can't blame him. He wanted his mother. But when he opened the door to look outside, he couldn't see her. The woodpile was on the side of the house."
       "Don't even tell me he went out there!"
       Craig shrugged. "Why would he, right? It would be crazy. It was freezing out there. But that's exactly what he did. He walked out into that horrible night. His mother didn't hear him. She didn't see him."
       The circle of faces furrowed.
       "Something drew him into these woods," Craig said, stabbing his light downward. "Something that walked this very ground."
       No one breathed.
       "His mother didn't even know he was out of bed. She saw the empty sheets in the morning. By then, a lake snow had covered all the footprints. They searched, but didn't find him for days. Two miles deep. Frozen with feet torn open from rocks and ice."
       Craig was lying out his ass. Stephen knew it. Yet there was a shard of truth. Years before. An even darker night.
       They waited.
       The crickets sang.
       "TIME'S UP!" Craig screamed.
       They nearly leapt into the trees from shock.
       Craig laughed and laughed.
       "I can't believe you fell for that!"
       "You're such an asshole, Craig."
       "Come on, don't be a bunch of old ladies!"
       "Kiss my ass."
       "Hey, I'm not the one who started it. Stephen did!"
       They turned.
       Stephen?
       They waved through the gloom with their lights.
       The katydids chattered. Stephen was gone.

On to Part 3

Little Windows--The Unfortunate Swing Set Incident

Invite the neighbors, the cousins, and your maladjusted uncle! It's summer in the mid 1970's and the grill is lit!

Pull up a lawn chair, grab a beer, and soak up some scintillating conversation.

But what to do with those pesky kids?



Sears, my friend. Sears.

Forget about how they violated physics to get the whole thing in the box. Grab a socket wrench, a screwdriver, and some bandaids, and you too could have a knee-slapping swing set.

Just look at the pandemonium!



Monkey bar, teeter totter, sliding board buffed to a rusty sheen. The works!

They look like a happy bunch.

But the truth was darkner, my friends. This little group of friends/family/neighbors trailed some seriously bad karma over the years. There was the time my neighbor got his thumb nailed to a tree. And the time our experiments in gravitation shed light (albeit red) on the stone-skull effect. Sooner or later, my turn came. Karma sets aside a summer day for all of us, I suppose.

But it wasn't my fault! It was my cousin. He was bad, bad, bad.

It's okay. We can say it.

There I was chilling on the teeter totter. I could ask you whose business I was minding, but you already know the answer.

I did not consent to a ballistics test on my head. I'm quite sure of that.

My cousin took the empty swing. He took aim. I turned around and caught cold steel on the forehead. If you weren't aware of this before, let me impress upon you that those cuts on the head BLEED.

So, with the thumb-to-tree crisis and gravity experiments fresh in my mind, I sought an audience with the adults to discuss the situation. Politely, of course. Calmly. I didn't want to make a scene. However, my neighbor's mom, suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome from the nailed thumb, screamed. At least, I did my part to maintain the peace.

Here I am blissfully unaware of what fate was cooking. But my pose is strangely prophetic, don't you think?



P.S. After getting stitches at the hospital, I never did regrow hair on that little patch of my scalp. It was a quirky little bald spot. A battle wound.

Until my forehead overtook it several years ago.


(The "Little Windows" Series: A while back, I transferred our old Super 8 home movies onto VHS. Now I'm moving those to DVD. They're an odd record of the past. More vibrant than photos, but still distant and imperfect. I thought it might be fun now and again to share some of these "little windows" into my past.)

Flashlight Tag, Part 1 (Fiction)

       "That's not the way we used to play it."
       "For Christ's sake, Stephen! Stop your damn complaining!"
       "I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. That's not the way I learned flashlight tag."
       "Expand your freaking horizons, then. You see this?"
       Craig swung his flashlight in a semi-circle past the gathered faces. The beam trickled on some undergrowth before the black woods pounced. Couldn't see much. Stephen didn't like that at all.
       "That's sixty acres, my friend. Hollows, holes, and hills. If we had only one person looking, we'd be here all night."
       Wonderful.
       "Think of it as hunting," Craig said. "The one who kills the most prey and drags it home wins!"
       "That's sick."
       "Oh, shut the fuck up."
       The others stood close in the darkness. Craig's lone flashlight cast a deranged light.
       "Come on, can we get going?" one said.
       "Yeah, let's rock and roll."
       "Okay, okay," Craig said. "Fire up your weapons."
       More beams flicked on. Stephen's too, but his light wilted to sad orange.
       "Hey, why do I get the crappy one?"
       Craig groaned. "Is your diaper wet or something? Here!"
       A brilliant LED slapped into his hand. Cool. Electronic. Stephen felt a little better.
       "Now remember what's off-limits. Stay away from the cottage. You go in there, and you'll fall through a rotten spot in the floor. Also, steer clear of the north side.
       Craig pointed the light in that direction.
       "That's a nasty ravine. If you loose your footing, it's a long way down."
       Craig grinned wickedly in the fractured light.
       "You have five minutes. Hide well. First one found pays a special penalty."
       Stephen shifted on his feet.
       "You didn't say anything about that."
       "What the hell are you worried about? You're one of the ones looking."
       True. But--
       "Everyone ready?"
       Heads nodded.
       Craig motioned, and the prey scurried off.

On to Part 2

Remember: Mrs. John Wells, M.D.

Walk with me a moment
In the calming reach of the sun
Thousands of voices recorded
A lifetime, every one.

We cling to the strength of stone to fight the fear of being forgotten. Will you listen to their voices with me? Will you take a moment to remember?

Inscription:

MY
HUSBAND
JOHN WELLS, M.D.
HAVING FILLED HIS
MISSION OF TRUST AND
RESPONSIBILITY, DIED
AUGUST 15th 1871
AGED 43 YEARS

So much is poured into these words...but not about Dr. Wells. Can you hear her--the one who accepted the demands of his calling? She speaks of his mission and responsibility. They are fulfilled. Her claim, however, endures. She proclaims it to the world.

"MY husband."

Frozen in his prime. Never to be shared again.


(St. Peter's United Church of Christ, West Pikeland Township, Chester County, Pennsylvania)

Twenty-Three in Motion

"Twenty-Three in Motion"

The train stops.
My mind in whirls
Floating over tracks
And confusion.
I'm feigning sleep
Swirling in music
Burdened with memories.
Over ground
Swaying in blackness
In the air
In my stomach
Whispering truths
I don't want to hear.

The train stops.
Chipping away images
Swimming in fumes
of laughter and conversation.
I'm fighting facts
Hidden in music
Hoping I'll forget.
Lift me lower
Paste reflections
Of broken mirrors
Behind my eyes.
Whisper the truths
I know I must hear.

Comments on Contest Entries

As of 11:30 p.m. Monday night (5/1/06), I've posted comments on the first 20 entries. In each case, I've identified what I liked best. Some excelled in storytelling and overall reading enjoyment, while others excelled in pacing, technical use of language, and voice. The winners and other leading entries delivered on all points with skill.

Participants should feel free to email me if you would like any constructive comments I might have to offer.

I hope to finish the remainder of the comments tomorrow. Regular Clarity of Night content will continue soon, including my exploration of different fiction genres. Next week, look for a serial short story to begin in the horror/suspense genre called "Flashlight Tag"--a young man is stalked by a bent figure in the forest, but only when his flashlight is turned on.

UPDATE: Comments are now posted up to and including #30.

SECOND UPDATE: Comments are now posted for all entries! If I haven't responded to an email request for constructive comments, I will do so shortly.

Kill the Lights

It's only fair, I guess. Here's my take on the "two lights" picture!



"Kill the Lights"
by Jason Evans


Outside, nothing moved in the spring night. Alone, Amy stared at the television with the sound dialed down.

The telephone rang.

Her breath froze.

Wide-eyed, she watched the answering machine clip the forth ring.

"Hi, this is Amy. I can't come to the phone right now...."

Her heart thumped through the long beep.

"Tonight!" a voice hissed. The line cut.

In the distance, a car engine revved. Tires screeched.

Amy leapt from the couch and grabbed the lamp. She spun the switch too fast. The bulb flashed on and off before it doused.

She ran.

The overhead light. Out.

The kitchen light. Out.

Another squeal. His muscled-up car shook the night.

In the near dark, she couldn't find the remote. Scenes from the television danced on the walls. Precious seconds bled away as she patted the set for the switch.

On her road now. Then, the gravel driveway. Headlights washed across the windows.

The television winked out. She charged up the stairs.

He skidded up to the house and slammed the car door.

As she reached the second floor, he threw himself against the lock. The threshold splintered.

In fuzzy socks, she raced past the little table without a sound. Two lights glowed. No time to stop.

In the far bedroom, she crept into the floor shadows by the bed. Her mouth pulled into a silent scream.

Scraping on the stairs.

Sneaking.

Stalking.

A dark shape slid around the far wall. Two points like stars glistened in its crystalline eyes.