Dark



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  DARK

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  James A. Brakken

  Author & Illustrator of The Treasure of Namakagon

  (Discounted prices for softcover and ebook versions.)

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  DARK

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by James A. Brakken at SmashWords.com

  Softcover ordering information and more at BadgerValley.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Content herein may not be reproduced, transmitted, conveyed, copied, or printed without the author’s written permission.

  Other than Chief Namakagon, no characters in this book represent actual individuals. Any similarity to real persons, either living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental. Unlike the text, all illustrations that follow are copyright free.

  All writings in this ebook and in the softcover version of DARK are original and copyright 2012 by James A. Brakken. The images are public domain. They are not intended as illustrations for the poems and stories. Rather, they are intended to serve as visual relief. More information on the artists can be found at BadgerValley.com on the DARK webpage.

  The author expresses sincere gratitude to the gifted authors in the Yarnspinners Chapter of the Wisconsin Writers Association for their steadfast support and creative counsel.

  Because this ebook was published after the softcover version of DARK, it may contain additional copy.

  Notes on James A. Brakken’s“The Zombie Apocalypse” series:

  Following several gruesome 2012 murders in several U.S. cities where the suspects ate parts of the remains, Google® announced “zombie apocalypse” was their most-searched term in June. The author chose to begin a series of short stories designed to explain how a pandemic with attributes similar to zombie behavior could, in fact, happen. The theory is based on modern day, medical research in nano-robotics already successfully administrated into patients’ bloodstreams. The benefits of nano-biotics are clear. Risks, however, often accompany great scientific discoveries. The author prays the hypothesis suggested in his series will always remain fictitious. Future chapters of Brakken’s “Zombie Apocalypse” series will be offered through BadgerValley.com along with other writings.

  The print version of DARK is neatly divided into three sections: DARK, DARKER, and DARKEST. The author recommends DARK be experienced in that order as some of the works are sequential in nature. Each section of DARK is offered as a separate ebook on SmashWords.com at a very reasonable price. Alternatively, the complete DARK text is available in ebook format through Amazon/CreateSpace for a significantly higher price. Similarly, the softcover edition of DARK may be purchased from a variety of online vendors but the most economical opportunity is BadgerValley.com where all copies are signed by the author. This service is not available through most other venues.

  No-risk fund raising plan: Purchase 50 or more copies of DARK or THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON at a greatly-reduced price. Your organization sells the books at list price at a substantial profit. Following your fund raising event, you can return all unsold copies for a full refund, provided returned books are in like-new condition, making this a no-risk plan. Consult BadgerValley.com for complete details.

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  “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there,

  wondering—fearing—doubting

  dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

  Edgar Allen Poe

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  Peer into this DARKness at your own risk.

  HERE THERE BE DRAGONS!

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  Table of Contents: DARK DARKER DARKEST

  DARK

  Thief of Dreams

  Clarence Walter Wilson’s Nest Egg

  Beyond Superstition Creek

  The Parson Joshua Black

  Thief of Dreams II

  The Zombie Apocalypse Part I

  Three Dragons Part I: The First Dragon

  A Bedtime Story

  The Count

  Dark Visions

  The Cabby

  The Bones of Ole Johnson

  Another Mess for Ma to Clean Up

  Death by Ecstasy

  The Zombie Apocalypse Part II

  # # #

  Thief of Dreams III

  Nevermore

  Like Magic

  Thief of Dreams IV

  The Ballad of the Ne’er Do Well Boys

  The Great Makwaa

  Oh, Shanty Boy

  That’s One

  Beneath the Clay

  The Widowmaker

  Beastly Feastings

  The Zombie Apocalypse Part III

  Gramma’s Noggin

  Three Dragons Part II: The Second Dragon

  Death’s Dreadful Schedule

  # # #

  Thief of Dreams V

  Them

  Something in the Shadows

  Three Dragons Part III: The Third Dragon

  Dare not Swim in Devil’s Lake

  I—Have—You—Now

  The Zombie Apocalypse Part IV

  Our Lovely Lucy Brown

  A Pinery Tale

  The Kinabalu Affliction

  In Gloomy Wood

  Thief of Dreams VI

  Death Deceived

  Beyond the Laterals

  The Zombie Apocalypse Part V

  Move Not Cold Stones by Midnight’s Mist

  Thief of Dreams VII

  # # #

  ~ ~ DARK ~ ~

  Thief of Dreams

  From dusk to dawn he wanders through your town,

  Hour after hour,

  Haunted by his power,

  A dark gift he once tried to lay aside.

  But, since his mentor died,

  He’s relished in this strange equation.

  He can invade the mind of anyone,

  A one-way conversation,

  Reading any dreams that linger there.

  A loner he’d become, this pitiful lad.

  His mentor, it now seems,

  Also purloined dreams.

  But now this curse was his and his alone.

  One starlit night a drunkard lay just down your road.

  That’s where our boy

  Explored his most-loved joy

  Of delving into nightmares, dark and deep.

  While the man did sleep

  Our lad explored the strangest visions.

  Visions black but true,

  Satan’s favorite view.

  Hence, this book before you did unfold.

 

  A heavy load this drunkard carried in his mind.

  Each refrain

  Wrought him fear and pain

  As frightful dreams streamed through his sleeping brain.

  Yet, our boy remained,

  Drinking in the old man’s nightmares.

  Ignoring every warning,

  Absorbing death and mourning,

  Seeking out the darkest dreadful tale.

  Now, like the Thief of Dreams this boy’d become,

  You, dear one, you have just begun

  A journey down this dreary track.

  You can’t turn back.

  There is no stopping at the station.

  A voyeur are you now

  Of nightmares. Oh, and how

  You’ll dread the turn of each and every page.

  # # #

  Clarence Walter Wilson’s Nest Egg

  “Make yourself at home, Clarence. Lillian should be here directly. Pour yourself a drink.”

  That upstairs shout came from Henry Warburton, my fiancée’s bull-like father. As usual, I followed his orders. Im
ported brandy—a luxury during Prohibition. I slammed it and poured another full tumbler.

  Warburton’s damn trophies littered the mantle. He was best of the best in pistol marksmanship. One-by-one, I scrutinized his precious awards. That’s when I spotted the envelope neatly tucked behind the family portrait. I peeked inside—five one-hundred-dollar bills. I swiftly replaced it when the front door opened.

  “Clarence?”

  “In here, Darling.”

  Lillian Warburton was sweet, savvy, a living doll. We wanted so to marry but the old bull insisted I first have financial stability. I was out of work—in 1932.

  She dropped her books. We embraced.

  I poured my third bandy.

  “Clarence, Dear, have you considered Daddy’s advice?”

  “Lillian, Darling, I’ll find work. We’ll get by. I’ll …”

  “Clarence! You heard Daddy. We must wait until we can afford our own life. I will not accept living with my parents once we wed.”

  We had other words.

  Angry, I left, door slamming, another fifth of Henry’s brandy in my coat pocket.

  Around midnight, by flashlight, I broke in through his kitchen door. I found my way to the parlor, the mantle, the envelope—our nest egg! Miss Lillian Marie Warburton and Mister Clarence Walter Wilson could now marry.

  “Who’s there!” Henry shouted.

  I spun toward the stairway.

  My flashlight blinding him, he fired.

  I slumped.

  The old bull knelt over me.

  “My God, Clarence. I didn’t know it was you. My God. My God. What—what’s this?”

  He tore the envelope from my hand.

  “Clarence Wilson, you fool! Why, oh why, would you steal your own damn wedding gift? Oh, Clarence, you fool.”

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  # # #

  Beyond Superstition Creek

  Somewhere up on a stream

  Known as the Superstition,

  Beyond the swamp where Oscar Morey died,

  I tried my luck a-fishin’.

  With a swish my hand-tied fly

  Flashed above the pool,

  Landing gently on the other side.

  It floated there, while, just below,

  A Brookie eyed it briefly,

  Then broke the surface with a fearsome smash.

  My hand-tied fly it did grasp

  ’Fore dashing down so deep.

  Then, flashing to the surface,

  It crashed the evening silence with a splash.

  All my concentration

  Focused fishward now.

  So, I did not see old Oscar’s ghost down there.

  To him, did I appear like

  Some hand-tied fly? Oh, my!

  This creek called Superstition we now share.

  Now, somewhere there’s a pool

  Where Brookies often school.

  Giant trout, waiting there to thrill.

  Superstition Creek it’s said,

  Will ne’er give up its dead,

  When Oscar’s ghost makes yet another kill.

  And where is this Superstition?

  That’s not for you to know.

  Go there not, dear angling friend of mine.

  Danger lurks in waters cool.

  Tread thee not there or, like this fool,

  You’ll be on the end of Oscar Morey’s line.

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  # # #

  Bedmates

  A blood-sucking spider resides

  Close by in the dark. And, besides,

  It’s warmer down there

  Because of your hair’

  For ’twixt pillow and mattress he hides.

  # # #

  The Parson Joshua Black

  You’ll all be damned!” he shouted out.

  “Condemned to burn in hell!

  Unless you climb high on the hill

  And fill your hearts so dark,

  With prayerful words, oh, sinners you.

  Now pack your bags and go.

  Go seek out God’s glory there.

  Where the angels stay. They know

  All you’ve done in your meek life

  Wife and husband, daughter, son,

  ’Tis time your journey was begun.

  Go ye now, high up the mound,

  And lay thee down your burden there.

  Carry forward. Do not wait.

  Or never reach ye, Heaven’s gate.

  And so he led the people there,

  Upon the fair and gentle hill.

  Until the Prince of Darkness,

  Thrilled to see them all,

  Called to the congregation,

  “Come and dance with me.

  Dance the never ending dance,

  Dance until you’re free.”

  The sinners soon all shed their clothes

  and danced the night away.

  And, by the bright October moon

  The Devil’s tune was played.

  The preacher tried to reign them in,

  Save these sinners from such sin

  As no man ever saw before.

  I saw it all. I’ll say no more.

  The parson stood and shouted now,

  “You must stop!” Oh, but how

  These sinners simply loved their sinning so.

  They shared whiskey from the jug

  And, dancing to this evil drug,

  Abandoned all their will and let it go.

  This preacher watched in disbelief,

  His grief was plain to see.

  He’d have to find a way to free

  His people from this curse.

  Seeking other tactics now,

  He took old Satan by the horn

  And warned him not to stand in Heaven’s way.

 

  Captured, Satan had no choice.

  His voice it echoed in the night.

  “Parson Black, I beg you, please give way.

  I will let your people go.

  Just give to me your mortal soul.”

  “Never.” cried the preacher, “will I stray.”

  The Prince of Darkness laughed out loud,

  From somewhere there beneath his shroud.

  “I’ll have you now or later Parson Black.

  Come back with me to my domain

  And reign above my field of pain

  And suffering. Why, you’d be like a king!

  Come with me, oh Joshua Black.

  Turn your back on these wretched souls.

  They’ll never thank you for this stand you make.

  Live the grand and glorious life.

  Every night another wife.

  Every day lay sleeping in the sand.

  You’ll sit beside me on a throne,

  It seems so simple to decide.

 

  What have these sinners ever done for you

  But cause you worry and concern?

  Turn to me. Earn respect

  From each new soul that I collect.

  Release me now and power you shall earn.”

  And this is where my story ends.

  The congregation soon descended,

  Tired and naked, shiv’ring in the cold.

  They told of fire, pain, and grief

  And of relief they finally gained

  When Satan told them all they could go home.

  From that day they stayed the path,

  Wrath of Satan never doubting,

  Pious to the core, through and through.

  Only one did not come back,

  The former parson, Joshua Black,

  Who sits upon his throne awaiting you.

  Copyright2012 James A. Brakken, author of THE TREASURE OF NAMAKAGON. BadgerValley.com

  # # #

  Thief of Dreams II

  Now I urge you, muster all your courage.

  Anoth
er leaf

  You need to turn,

  But only after you confirm

  The door is barred.

  For if not locked,

  No blocking of nightmares frightful

  Will protect you from another night

  Full of fear and terror.

  Turn the leaf, I dare.

  # # #

  The Zombie Apocalypse

  The nano-robotic formula worked—well, somewhat. It was my third attempt with this particular solution. I was confident it would stimulate tissues back to life. It had worked on the neighbor’s cat and a few squirrels that found themselves caught in my live trap before I drowned them. The squirrels seemed fine after the injection brought them back to life. The cat? Well, it was alive—but not quite the same as before. I heard my neighbor comment that it seemed disoriented. Disoriented and particularly hungry—not for its normal kibble, but for mice and birds—carnivorous behavior their cat had not previously displayed. Her words made me ponder how my solution would have affected Wilbur, her beagle.

  Yes, my formula worked—on small animals. But would it work on humans? There was only one way to determine this and it was neither legal nor moral. On the other hand, if I succeeded, think of the good it could do for medicine—for Mankind! My God, imagine the possibilities!

  Around eleven that evening, I found myself wandering with a solution-filled syringe in hand near the San Francisco waterfront. I believed I could find some wayward drunk, some societal reject, who would… well, let’s say, “cooperate” in my experiment. It didn’t take long. I found my subject under Pier 7 at the east end of Broadway. He looked to be about thirty-five to forty, though maybe younger. Some lifestyles make it difficult to judge age. He was drunk, all right. Out cold. I had no problem administering the plastic bag over his head and securing it and his hands with duct tape. He hardly struggled, then lay there, motionless. I checked for a pulse. When quite certain he had expired, I injected my solution directly into his heart with a four-inch cul-de-sac needle.

  I waited. Five, ten, twenty minutes. He didn’t come around. I tried chest compressions. Nothing. I went home, depressed and dejected, vowing to keep working on my formula until I had a viable solution.

  The next morning I was in my neighborhood coffee shop when I saw the KNTV News item crawl across the bottom of the TV screen: TWO LONGSHOREMEN DEAD AFTER WATERFRONT DISMEMBERMENT. SFPD DENIES MIDNIGHT DEATH CAUSED BY ZOMBIE. I didn’t pay much attention—all part of this ridiculous Zombie Apocalypse craze I supposed.