13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series)

  13 BITES

  A Short Story Anthology

  Edited by Alan Seeger

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  “13 Bites” title and cover design ©2013, all rights reserved.

  The individual stories contained herein are copyrighted by their respective creators as indicated herein, and are reproduced here with permission. All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author(s), except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Paperback:

  ISBN-13: 978-1492986980

  ISBN-10: 1492986984

  Kindle edition:

  ASIN: B00FUZ3KVQ

  Proofing and editing services by Five59 Online - www.five59.com

  100 percent of the profits from this anthology go to benefit organizations that promote children’s literacy programs around the world.

  13

  Thirteen noun From the Old English threotēne.

  In mathematics, it is the cardinal number that is the sum of ten and three. A prime number, it is represented in Arabic numerals by 13 and in Roman numerals by XIII, and is often referred to as a “baker’s dozen.”

  So what is it about the number thirteen? For many people, it sends a chill up the spine. Some avoid it at all costs, even making arrangements to stay home, in bed, hiding under the covers, when a Friday the 13th comes around on the calendar.

  The fear of the number 13 is referred to as triskaidekaphobia.

  Many tall buildings skip 13 in their floor numbering, hotels being conspicuous examples. It’s commonly considered unlucky to have thirteen guests at a table, possibly dating back to the Last Supper, when Judas, the thirteenth person at the table, allegedly betrayed Jesus. In some circles, superstition says that the first person to rise from the table after the thirteenth guest sits down will have bad luck befall them.

  In a tarot deck, XIII is the Death card, usually depicting the Pale Horse and its rider from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  A few, however, consider 13 to be lucky. I know a woman who was born on the 13th of the month and always considered it to be her lucky number; I guess people like her are the exception to the rule, and that includes a couple of the authors represented here.

  So at any rate, in this slim volume we present for your reading pleasure thirteen bites, thirteen snacks, if you will; thirteen titillating tidbits of terror, treachery and trauma. Not all of them are frightening; one or two might even warm the cockles of your cold, stony heart. But whether you are reading this during Halloween or at some other time of the year, we hope that you enjoy them and that you will seek out other offerings from these writers.

  Alan Seeger

  October 13, 2013

  13 Bites

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Preface

  NIKOLAS’S HEART

  A MAN’S GOT TO DO WHAT A MAN’S GOT TO DO

  WHEN IS A NURSERY RHYME NOT A NURSERY RHYME?

  NATURE’S CALL

  HAPPY HALLOWEEN

  KNOCK, KNOCK

  AFTER ONE YEAR IN AUTAR

  CHARLATAN

  THE COSTUME SHOP

  BULL LICK LODGE

  THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE YOU

  I’M NOT HER, I’M ME

  BAKER’S DOZEN

  Born in 1976, Joseph Picard has lived all over Canada, but has called the Meadow-Ridge area of British Columbia his home since 1992. While cycling to his job as a computer technician in 2001, he got into a fight with a car. The car won, and Joseph became a T5/6 paraplegic. This has not hampered his chances at winning the Super Bowl, as he’s been a self-declared nerd for as long as he can remember.

  Since his injury, he has focused on his writing and a little on his art, much of which is related to his fiction and can be found at www.ozero.ca. In May 2007 he became the proud father of Caitlin, followed in 2011 by a son, Lachlan.

  He awaits the day that stem cells or super awesome telekinetic flight powers will allow him to unfurl his black trenchcoats yet again.

  NIKOLAS’S HEART

  Joseph Picard

  Thanks to Lynne Cantwell’s keen edit-eye and my usual crew.

  Revenge.

  How trite is that? How petty? Sure, everyone wants it now and then, but how many people actually follow through? How many people do it right?

  Nikolas Hagen stewed, hoping his hatred of Lyndon Bourke would fade; that life would go on. Every time Nikolas saw Lyndon around the office, the anger was quietly stoked anew. Seeing Lyndon, seeing his project, or even seeing his car in the parking lot. Especially seeing his car in the parking lot.

  More than once Lyndon came to his car at the end of a day to find a fresh scratch in the red paint. The first scratch was small, an inch at most. A few more stretched more than a foot. The newest flowed from headlamp to rear turn signal.

  Lyndon’s laments the next day were music to Nikolas’s ears. Lyndon’s frustration rang so sweet. Sweet, but not satisfying. Appreciated, like an appetizer.

  Nikolas wanted steak. Rare, singed on the edges but soft and bleeding in the middle. Yes, this revenge thing was attractive, and Nikolas planned to do it right.

  A gun was not so easy to get hold of. At least not a ‘clean’ one suited to perform such a thing. Knives? Similarly complicated. Nikolas had seen more than enough procedural crime shows to know the risks. He needed something the police could not track. When Lyndon breathed his last, there could be no trace. No method to find a killer’s hand at work, or at least, not Nikolas’s.

  This was the Nikolas from high school doing the thinking now. The one who collected old, dark books. Fascinated by powers he had no business dabbling with, he had managed a few little things.

  Once, a garter snake was brought back to life. After being killed, of course. It had been dead a good day or so before a favour was asked of the unseen, and the critter was called back. Oh, goodness, how it bolted for the door after that!

  Another time, he had cast a ward with a chant, blood from a scab, and petty ingredients from the kitchen. It did its job a little too well. For a year, any fly that crossed his bedroom threshold died nearly immediately. In the summer, especially, he had to wake up early to dispose of the carnage before someone came along to see a suspicious row of tiny deaths.

  Nikolas didn’t see a viable future in his hobby, and even with his greatest accomplishments kept secret, it unsettled his family. The books that he had stored in the garage were thrown away at some point by his mother. Nikolas was a little upset, as you would be when you found one of your toys had been discarded, but it wasn’t that important.

  Now, it seemed important. At least it seemed like an option. Nikolas could remember the incantation he desired. Not well enough to cast it, mind you, just well enough to know what book it was in, and he remembered a couple of the most vital ingredients. No use in collecting those if he couldn’t get the book.

  The calendar on his wall wouldn’t do for the next step, but a little work online told him when things would be favourable. Oh, this wasn’t just revenge now, this was a project!

  On the chosen evening, Nikolas rubbed a pinch of salt between his palms and
closed his eyes, silently reciting a basic little chant. With luck, his kuntari was still offset enough after all these years for him to feel what he needed.

  Opening his eyes to the night, he felt it. It was not close, but it was clear. Favoruri, mari și mici. He drove into the city, into parts that are quiet at night. Parts where wealth is far and few between, but crime is also sparse.

  A storefront. Of course. It had to be, of course. A fortune teller. It was quite late, but a light could be seen on the second floor. The fortune teller likely lived above. Nikolas knocked on the door. Not loudly, but enough that he saw shadows move across the window above almost immediately.

  He heard the footsteps come, and the door opened. The young man inside didn’t look like the type he expected. He wore a lot of black, and a few unnecessary zippers decorated his pants.

  “Oh, you’re not who I was expecting.” the young man said, echoing Nikolas’s thoughts.

  “Sorry to come so late,” Nikolas said, “I’m looking for a book.”

  “Oh, shit!” The young man’s pale face went even whiter. “What book?”

  “Favoruri, Mari și Mici.”

  The title seemed to relieve him, as he let out a sigh and the look of horror faded. “Never heard of it. Hang on, I’ll get my sis, this isn’t my thing.” He turned to the interior. “Evelyntra? This bloke’s looking for a book. And it’s not that book, I asked. Favour Mary something.”

  His sister was already descending the staircase. The woman was also dressed in black, but while the brother looked like a punk, the sister, even off duty, was a definitive fortune teller. Her house-garb was lace, with detailed lattice that hung heavily from her in mourning. Her gaze was one perhaps practiced for her career, but it was dark, knowing, and captivating.

  “Sir,” she said with the smallest hint of a smile, “We are not a library, but what is it you seek?”

  “Favoruri, Mari și Mici.” Nikolas said.

  “Ah. Yes. It is an... extensive tome. Some say dangerous. But you know this, yes?” Her Romani accent flowed like falling molasses, befitting her eyes perfectly. She must make a good living, Nikolas thought.

  “Yes, it is, though you don’t have to worry about me fumbling around with it. I’ve owned one in the past.”

  This didn’t seem to overly comfort Evelyntra. “So you now have a new purpose for it. Are you seeing a favoruri that is mari, or mici?”

  Nikolas acted his best sad smile. “Mari.” he sighed. “It is a matter of my health. I’m not eager to turn to these powers for such things, but I still have duties in this life.”

  Evelyntra nodded, and gestured to follow her. Nikolas did, and the brother closed the door before heading upstairs.

  The reading room felt like an extension of Evelyntra, with all the classic fortune teller props. Tired old candles of many sizes, beautiful hanging decorations, metal, macrame, and fabric patterns loomed in audience to every consultation with the crystal ball, or tarot cards, or any number of techniques in Evelyntra’s repertoire. She seated gracefully in her ornate, high backed chair, and bade Nikolas to sit across from her at the table.

  “It is a show, I trust you realize,” she said, gesturing around her. “I provide entertainment to many, and comfort to some. What I do is not real. You know this?”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Nikolas asked.

  “My baba, she was no hoax. She did everything I do, but she did it better. And she did more. I just want you to understand that there is play, and there is real. Real spirits, real powers.”

  “And Favoruri, Mari si Mici is a way to them, I know.” Nikolas said.

  “Do not fuck up.” she said in her old world accent. “And if you do, do not come to me. I would be of no help in such things.” She leaned back while maintaining eye contact, to let things soak in.

  “I understand.” Nikolas said. Silence passed for a while, as Evelyntra maintained her stare, testing if he would crack. Finally she smiled her subtle smile again, and shrugged. She rose, and went further back into the building. She soon returned with the book. The thickness of the front cover alone was more than a typical paperback’s entirety. The dark green leather binding had an ageless quality, not betraying the true length of its life.

  She sat and put the book on the table between the centre crystal ball and herself.

  “It looks remarkably like the one I had,” Nikolas said with nostalgia in his voice. “Could it be the same edition?”

  “These were not exactly mass produced.” Evelyntra said.

  Could the spirits have guided him to his copy? “Tell me,” Nikolas said, peering at the cover looking for familiar nicks or creases in the cover. “Are there notes written inside?”

  Evelyntra opened the front cover at an angle so that only she could see, and surveyed the crude note of ownership. “Tell me what it says.” she said with eyebrows raised.

  “If it is mine, there’s a limerick written in blood. Just from a scab, it’s my own blood. Blood wasn’t even needed, I just... was young and enthusiastic to be in theme.”

  Evelyntra smirked. “And what does this eloquent limerick say?”

  Nikolas sighed. “Do I have to?”

  She tilted her head like a teacher awaiting a response. He mumbled the brief response, but Evelyntra was not content. “I didn’t hear that; could you say it louder?”

  Another sigh and a sheepish smile later, Nikolas rolled his eyes, and said “Nick’s dick is thick.”

  “Was that so hard?” she asked.

  “And now you’re making fun of me.”

  “Yes, I am. Tell me, are you Nick, or was that the name of your lover?”

  Head hung low, Nikolas said, “Can I just have my book now?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “But...”

  “It was given to me by my baba, and has evidently not been yours for a very long time. If it makes you feel better, consider it a storage fee.”

  “Three hundred,” Nikolas offered.

  “Is that all your health is worth? Four.”

  “Three fifty.”

  The dance was danced in efficient steps, and ended around where Evelyntra expected. Certainly three hundred and fifty dollars more than she expected today, for a book she’d scarcely skimmed. “Done.”

  They stood and Nikolas dug out his wallet. He had brought four hundred, and discreetly kept fifty tucked away. He handed over the money while she handed over the book.

  “Nick, you are not worried, carrying this much money, that you might be robbed?”

  “I just was.” he said with a wink. “Ah, by the way, I expect I’m low on a few reagents, can you recommend a supplier?”

  After a quick trip out back again, she gave him a piece of paper with a handwritten name and address. “Tell him ‘Muscles’ says hi.”

  “Muscles?”

  Evelyntra bowed her head with a smile. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “It has. If you’ll excuse me, I have some studying to do.”

  Step one complete. Back home, Nikolas wasted no time in finding his desired incantation. It described the details of the incantation, as well as the chant to go with it.

  De viață am susținut,

  Cu lama eu mânui,

  Vânătoare cel a cărui soartă este pecetluită.

  The translation was “By life I claimed, with blade I wield, hunt the one whose fate is sealed.” It sounded good in English, while the original wasn’t quite as lyrical.

  He had everything he needed except two things. One could be tricky. The other... very tricky. The weekend was still young, so getting a personal item of Lyndon’s was not an easy option for a while, so he considered the other item. He had to look up the contact Evelyntra had given him.

  ~~~

  The address led to a New Age type health store. Very multicultural, but very it looked very clean-cut overall. Clean, broad solid colour panels along the walls were decorated with runes, talismans or other wares from many cultures and peoples. Nikolas’s ow
n heritage, the Romani, China, the Aborigine, the Aguei, Korea, good ol’ Yahweh, and on, and on. It was the bloody United Nations of… well, crackpot woo-woo. This place was too tidy and all-encompassing to be anything but a well-designed cash grab.

  Nikolas knew what he needed would not be on the shelves, so he went right to the counter. The man there was a little less tidy, which was encouraging. He either needed a shave badly, or his black, coarse beard was just that scraggly. His polo shirt was a little too tight on his portly frame, and one could imagine sweat stains showing up by the end of the day.

  Checking Evelyntra’s note first, Nikolas said, “You must be Micah Abrami?”

  Micah smiled. “That depends! How much do I owe you?” He laughed.

  Nikolas smiled back. This was a good start. “No, no, nothing like that, but now it will sound that much stranger when I tell you that ‘Muscles’ sent me.”

  Micah eyed Nikolas with friendly inquiry. “Muscles? Oh, don’t tell me she finally has a boyfriend! Did she send you to pick something up for her? She didn’t call in with any order.”

  “No on both accounts. She recommended you as a supplier. And what I need is not... it’s not something that one puts on shelves.” Nikolas looked around to see if anyone else was within earshot.

  Micah shrugged. “Dried animal penis? What animal, we keep those on the shelves, no problem! They’re stocked by which culture uses which, though, so —”

  “No, no. Ah... what I’m looking for is not so legal, and it has to be relatively fresh.”

  Micah’s smile faded, and he let out a heavy breath. “Dark, is it? Hmm. I’ve never known Muscles to play all that dark.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with her, it’s for me. And it’s... it’s important.”

  Micah stared at the counter, and shook his head slowly while he talked. “No one plays dark unless they feel it is important. No, I am wrong. Also stupid people play dark. Both kinds of people are taking big risks.”