Seafood and Other Stories
Andre Farant
Seafood and Other Stories
By Andre Farant
Copyright 2012 Andre Farant
www.andrefarant.com
Also by Andre Farant
Frozen Dinner
Deepest Quiet
Deer Lake: A Novel
High Art
Table of Contents
Burden
Seafood
The New Landlord
Out of Body
Birth Day
Contact Andre
Deer Lake Preview
SEAFOOD and OTHER STORIES
Burden
I lean forward and readjust Collin's arms around my neck. Ten years old but he weighs a ton.
"Hang on, buddy."
We left over three hours ago and, at this pace, I estimate we have another five hours' hike before we reach the road. We won't make it before nightfall.
Maybe we should have remained at the tent, waited for someone to come along. No; we could have been there for days.
Loose rocks shift under my feet. Pebbles skitter down the embankment to the lake shore ten feet below.
On the water, the empty rowboat floats a hundred yards from shore, its broken tether dangling like the world's worst fishing line. The boat drifts along, following me, taunting me. I consider swimming out to it, but know I wouldn't be able to make it with Collin on my back and don't want to leave him alone.
"Okay, buddy, I gotta take a break."
I shift Collin off my back, unhook his hands from around my neck, and set him down on a grassy patch.
His eyes have come open again. Why do they keep doing that? I brush my hand over them, feel his eyelids lower.
I stroke his hair, try to hide the bloody divot where his skull struck the stone.
I never should have sent him up there, to see if he could spot the lost boat. I should have been more aware, more careful, but he'd always been such a good little tree-climber. Like a monkey.
After a moment, I hoist him into position. His limbs are stiff but still flexible, like pipe cleaners. I check the twine linking his wrists at the base of my throat, set my hands under his thighs, and resume our trek.
He seems to be growing heavier by the second, but I can't leave him behind. His mother will want to see him—one last time.
Seafood
Originally published on Micro Horror and in Daily Frights
The waves gnaw at the shore and slaver over my feet as I follow the beach. At the end of the sand crescent, the shipwreck squats, bleached bone grey. I clamber over the splintered gunwale. Despite the ocean's proximity, the cabin is warm and dry. It smells of dust and ancient leather.
A corpse slumps over scattered bones. The corpse's skin is tight, papery as an onion's. The bones are gnawed, emptied of marrow.
Turning from the funereal tableau, I find the ship's manifest. Its brittle pages list no livestock, no meat stores, and a crew of eight.
The New Landlord
Originally published on Weird Year and in Daily Frights
As Edwin reached for the coffee mug it leapt out of the drying rack, flew across the kitchen, and crashed against the far wall.
Edwin stood very still.
Moving slowly, he turned off the flow of water into the sink. He took a step away from the counter and toward the doorway.
A plate, spotted with food and dripping dish water, rose from the sink, hovered, and came at him as though shot from a cannon. Edwin dodged to the left, feeling the air split open an inch from his right ear. China shards stung his face and neck like a swarm of hornets.
Still crouched, he made a run for the doorway. Unseen but powerful hands gripped him by the throat, slammed him against the wall. He felt a man's body press up against him, though he saw no one.
Warm breath tickled his ear.
"Hear that?" The voice was deep, cold. "That's the sound of the shower running upstairs. Your wife, Shannon's in there."
"Wh—H?"
"Shut up, Ed. You know that's been my favourite part of the day for the past week, watching you wife take her shower? I'm skipping that for you, Ed." A snort, derisive. "You don't deserve a woman like that. You don't deserve this house, either."
"Who are you?" Edwin said.
"Just a man. A man making the best of an accident."
"Accident?"
The invisible fingers tightened around his throat. "You really need to focus, Ed."
"What do you want?"
"This house. This house and maybe . . ." The voice trailed off, leaving behind only the distant sound of the shower.
Summoning courage he did not feel, Edwin said, "I'll call the—"
"The police?" The voice laughed. "And what're you going to tell them, Ed? 'There's an invisible man in my house and he won't leave?' Sure. Yeah. Try that." The nearby phone popped off its wall mount and seemed to float before his eyes. "Go ahead."
The phone clattered to the floor.
A sob escaped Edwin's throat.
"Don't cry, Ed," the voice said and Edwin was abruptly released.
His knees failed him and he sat hard on the floor, his back to the wall.
"Look, this is my house now." The intruder's voice faded; he had left the kitchen. "And you're welcome to stay." The stairs creaked; the stairs leading to the second floor, to the bathroom, where the shower was still running. "But I'll warn you," the voice said, "the rent is steep."
Out of Body
Originally published in The Eclectic Flash Literary Journal
All day, every day, she staggers through the neighbourhood. She stops at every sound, her eyes searching, moving. Unlike more efficient hunters, her sense of smell is terrible, just as it had been in life. I wonder if she could starve, just fade away.
Her condition and appearance worsen by the day. Her skin has turned the pasty pink of suet and her teeth have taken on the appearance of animal horn. Tiny tusks jutting out of her blackened gums. Oddly, her hair causes me the greatest heartache. Her hair is greasy and lank, falling out in clumps, leaving raw-looking bald patches behind. I'd spent so much time and effort caring for that hair.
She comes across an injured dog. The mutt limps away as fast as it can, but she falls upon the animal with a speed that bellies her necrotic state. She tears into the dog's throat with those tusk-like teeth. The dog yelps, it whines, it kicks, and it lays still. She continues to feed, blood running down her chin and onto her shirt. I turn away, repulsed and embarrassed.
As she walks past Fred Hillary's old place, I hear a voice. She hears it too, and her rotting face swivels toward Fred's house. The front door is open and a man is standing there.
"Nancy?"
Tom.
"Oh god, Nancy. It is you."
He looks so happy and, for a moment, I think he can see me. But, with a fear that would have turned my stomach if I'd still had one, I realize he is looking at her.
He is smiling. He takes a step forward. Can't he see she isn't me? Can't he see she is no longer me?
No, Tom! Get back in the house, I shout but I have no voice.
He jogs forward and, as the smile fades from his face, she lunges at him. He screams and turns away, but he is too slow. She grabs him by the shoulders, pulls him to her chest, and buries those horn-teeth into his neck.
His scream is choked with blood. My scream is silent.
Tom collapses and she kneels beside him.
An older man appears in the doorway. "Tom?" says Fred Hillary. "Oh, Christ, no." Fred shoulders his rifle and fires. The bullet tears a hole the size of a lemon through her head and she collapses next to Tom.
Fred rushes to Tom's side but he is far too late.
I watch as my husband dies, lying next to her, lying next to what remains of my bod
y.
I look to the sky. I hope to see a bright light, to see laughing relatives and smiling ancestors. I hope to see Tom.
Birth Day
Originally published in the Midwest Literary Magazine and the Off Season anthology
She stands before him, the box cradled in both hands. Her smile is broad and proud. In the box, he knows, is a birthday cake. He sees her open the box, pull back the lid like a jeweller unveiling her finest piece, and inside is a foetus. Red and wet as a skinned squirrel, curled up like a bloody question mark.
"We made it together," she says, "but it's just for you."
He blinks and the kitchen spins, slow as a clock's minute hand.
"Happy birthday," she says, still smiling.
The lid comes up, revealing a beige slab the shape and size of a hardcover novel.
"Carrot cake. Your favourite."
He nods then tilts his head back, stares at her. "Did you do it for me? Because it's what I wanted?"
Her mouth opens, about to speak, and shuts again. Her smile wilts as realization blooms. No, he projects with his eyes. I'm not talking about the cake.
She lowers the box, shielding her lower abdomen.
"No. I didn't do it just for you. Neither of us—I wasn't ready either."
"You're sure?"
The cake box trembles and the lid floats down, obscuring the brick of flour, egg and sugar.
"Yes," she says.
"So why're you crying?"
She laughs. "I just—one of your gifts . . . It was supposed to be funny."
"What?"
"It's terrible."
He stands, takes the box from her, places it on the table. Her shoulders relax under his fingers.
"What is it?" he says.
Her laugh is half sob. "A box of condoms."
It's his turn to laugh, and he pulls her to him.
"That settles it then," he whispers.
She nods against his chest.
The box lid has come open again and inside is just a cake.
Contact Andre
Thank you, first off, for reading High Art. I’d love to know what you thought of it or any of my stories.
Reach me at [email protected]
Find me on my website www.andrefarant.com
Friend me on Facebook
Follow me on Twitter
Thanks again and hope to hear from you.
Now, please check out the first three chapters of my novel, Deer Lake, available as of February, 2012.
Deer Lake Preview
Deer Lake is a hilarious crime thriller—basically Jaws if it had been written by Carl Hiaasen or Janet Evanovich and set in Quebec cottage country.
Here’re the first three chapters of Deer Lake. Enjoy.
Deer Lake is copyright 2012 Andre Farant
Deer Lake
PROLOGUE
Mary and Alan Demers were happy. They had been married for all of thirty-eight hours and were basking in their shared marital bliss.
They stood at a lookout built by the Deer Lake Cottager’s Co-op at the top of a cliff, overlooking the jewel-like lake. Alan breathed deeply, noting the absence of the exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke that permeated every cubic inch of Detroit’s atmosphere. “It’s absolutely gorgeous here.”
Mary nodded. “Mmm, beautiful.”
They stood behind the wooden safety railing, Mary’s arm around Alan’s waist, his arm encircling her shoulders. They could count the islands dotting the lake (six). Sailboats, tiny from such heights, glided silently upon the still surface. Without saying a word, the happy couple scanned the waters, looking for a tell-tale ripple, a hint of the lake’s claim-to-fame.
“Ouch,” Alan slapped at his neck. “Damned mosquitoes.”
“Oh, babe, poor thing,” Mary said.
“The mosquito?”
“No, silly, you.”
“Mm, I guess maybe I’ll need a warm bath to help keep the swelling down. Maybe you’d like to join me, hm?”
Mary wasn’t listening.
“Alan, what is that?”
“What, did you see it?” Alan said, scanning the lake.
“No, no, there.” Mary pointed straight down to the base of the cliff where the water lapped at a narrow beach. Alan leaned over the railing, squinting. It was pale and lumpy, its size difficult to gauge from their current vantage point. It was caught on a tangle of branches overhanging the shallows. The thing was half in and half out of the water, rocked back and forth by the lake’s lazy waves.
“I’m not sure what it is,” Alan said.
“Here,” Mary pulled her digital camera from its carrying case, “I’ll use the zoom.”
She brought the device to her eye and zoomed in on the thing. It took her a few moments to find it.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, nearly dropping the camera. “It’s a person.”
“What?”
“Alan, it looks like a person.” Mary handed her husband the camera.
He focused on the pale form. “I think you’re right, hun. That looks like a shirt, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think that’s what’s got him caught on the branch. His shirt. I think I saw his arm, too.”
“Yeah.” Alan nodded. “I see it.”
“Oh, god, Alan . . . What do we do?”
Alan stared at her, his mind a blank. Alan was quality-control manager for one of Michigan’s largest discount toy manufacturers. The company’s biggest client built and rented out claw vending machines. The toys housed in claw vending machines were not known for their quality. Consequently, Alan was rarely pressed to find solutions to difficult problems.
“Um,” he said, eyes wide. “We could blow our whistles.”
As a kindergarten teacher, Mary was inordinately patient and completely immune to stupid answers. “No, Alan. We have to go see if he’s okay.”
“Um,” Alan said. “I’m pretty sure he isn’t.”
“Well, we have to check. It took us hours to get up here. By the time we got back to the cottage, or the village, he could be dead.”
“Um,” Alan repeated. The word seemed to best express his feelings. He peered down at the pale lump floating in the water. “What if he’s already dead?”
“It couldn’t hurt to check,” Mary said.
Uh, yeah it could, Alan thought. It could hurt a lot.
He realized she had given him his way out: “But, like you said, it took us hours to get up here. How could I possibly get down to him in time to help? I can’t teleport down there.”
Mary sighed. While they were dating, as a way to get to know each other better, Alan had asked Mary which super power she would want if she could have any power at all. She had chosen the ability to speak and read all and any languages throughout history and the world. He had informed her that this particular ability, though impressive, did not constitute a super power. He had chosen teleportation, which was, in his esteem, a proper super power. They did not talk about it again.
Now Mary examined the cliff side. Her eyes settled on a densely wooded section of the cliff some fifty yards to the left.
“Right there, go down there,” she said.
Alan stared. Um. It was not as steep as the sheer drop that lay directly beneath them, but it was still pretty damned steep.
“Mary, if I go down that way I’m gonna end up like that guy. Heck, for all I know it’s how he ended up down there in the first place.”
“Don’t be silly, Alan.”
He looked from her to the trees. There were a lot of trees. He could hang on to them as he climbed down those boulders.
“Okay. Fine, I’ll try,” he said with all the enthusiasm of one announcing that he had won a free kick to the back of the head.
Mary pulled his face to hers and kissed him, long and hard. “I am so proud of you,” she said. “And kinda turned on.”
“Really?” Alan said, standing straighter.
“Mm-hm. It’s very brave. Heroic.”
Alan grinned
like the proverbial idiot, pulled off his backpack, and set out for the wooded area.
He stumbled over a few stones, tripped over a branch and found himself hugging the trunk of a poplar. He no longer felt heroic.
Alan Demers pushed off the poplar and began his descent, moving slowly, from tree to tree.
He gripped a sturdy-looking branch to steady himself as he baby-stepped over a moss-smothered boulder. He could feel the stuff slipping under his feet. Then the branch snapped, the boulder disappeared, moss and all, and he was suddenly running down the cliff face, his body nearly horizontal. Gravity carried him further, faster. He watched as trees flashed by him, branches raked his face and tore at his clothes. His fanny-pack, bouncing against his butt, came open, producing a rooster’s tail of allergy medication, breath mints, dried apricots and condoms (just in case).
A giant pine loomed ahead, its trunk like the canon on a Navy destroyer aimed at taking out the sun. That will stop me. He directed his run at the tree. He would plow straight into it and hang on to its trunk for dear life. It would work. It would hurt like a hell, but it would work and he would live to tell Mary that this whole thing was a stupid idea and that teleportation was a much better power than being able to speak and read everything which wasn’t even a power anyway.
He hit the tree.
And he was right: It hurt like a hell.
And he was wrong: The tree did not stop him. In fact, the tree simply hitched a ride. As he hit the conifer, so strong and solid looking, Alan, now an Alan-shaped projectile, uprooted the tree and sent it tumbling ahead of him in a spray of dirt and pine needles. It came down with an ear-splitting crash, pulling smaller trees with it, sending still smaller trees flying into the air and tumbling in every direction. And in the midst of this arboreal maelstrom, Alan screamed.
