Detective

Investigating crime scenes with One Faithers always made it a hard day. They didn’t drink, they didn’t joke, and most of all, they liked to take their time. They made great detectives but boring company.

This one’s rustle of black hair etched back like a broom around the semi-circular metal implants she had in her temples to keep her hormonal impulses in line. We outsiders called them ‘blinders’. If pushed too far into a mood of lust or rage, they’d put her into a seizure. During prayer, they gave her a dose of peace.

She had one red dot on the back of each hand. I knew that underneath the tongues of her shoes she’d have matching dots on the top of each foot. Stigmata tats. Faithful to the core whether she wanted to be or not.

Methodical and loyal. I didn’t even need to be here.

She walked carefully over the dead couple that we’d found in the living room after responding to the domestic disturbance call.

“This looks like an entry wound here. I think that’s a defense wound on the hand. It looks the woman was stabbed but shot the guy and called us before bleeding to death. We should have gotten here sooner.” She said.

I sighed and reached to my back pocket for my whiskey but remembered that I’d left it in my desk at the station in my rush to get here. This was going to be a long day.




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You Don't Have to be Crazy to Work Here, but it Helps

My entire being is a seven-eleven and I am the manager.

I have a day shift of adults who curse the fact they’re working here.
My night shift is made of lazy teenagers who don’t put in the effort.
The candy aisle beckons.
The place is stocked with food that won’t go bad for a century.
I wait for duty under fluorescent lights.
I blink at the emptiness of the night.

The only ones that come through after dark are:
Drunk and hungry on their way home.
Looking for condoms on their way to someone else’s place.
Slaves to weakened morals.

The daytime customers are:
Bums that have all the time in the world but no money
Terse people with pinched mouths that are in a rush and disappointed with their purchase.
Animals without masters.

I wear a uniform that was provided for me by The Boss.
I have no choice but to wear it every day.
It gets older and more faded as time goes by.
The Boss is too cheap to issue a new replacement.

I put prices on what I have to sell. Most of it’s cheap.
The bad stuff is behind the counter.
I check IDs and watch the pretty people come in and go out on their way to exciting nights.

Occasionally there are fights or rude people that I handle with all the smoothness I can.
I don’t get paid enough to stop people from stealing if it looks like they’re dangerous.
I’m too old to work here but I can’t leave.

My name tag says Duncan.
My shirt says “Can I help you?”
Look at my eyes.



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Entry

This is a Wyoming parking lot in 1976 outside a diner. It’s dark.

The town is sleeping except for the few straggling, heavy-lidded partiers that are trying to get home. The buzzing neon sign that says ‘open’ turns off and silence comes to the front row of the night. The only sound now is the wind pushing a couple of losing lottery tickets in little swirls underneath the streetlight.

There’s a smell of car oil and chicken strips still lingering in the air. It’s really still. The greasy moon hangs fat, peeking yellow through scudding clouds.

The town is asleep and those few that are awake aren’t around here.

This was the point of entry. A heartbeat sounded underneath the asphalt.

What looked like a drawing in black chalk started to show up in the center of the parking lot. It was a circular symmetrical design. Glyphs familiar to a few living scholars peppered its perimeter while angled lines pointed towards its center.

The heartbeat struck again. The center of the black seal bulged in time with this second beat.

A slight creaking sounded underneath the concrete like the sound of ice breaking deep under winter snow. It was a sound that could be felt more than heard.

A crack appeared in the center of the black circular design. The design was burning itself into the pavement like it had been drawn in acid. It moved.

The heartbeat struck again.

The outer glyphs spun like the combination on a safe door before clicking into place in a new configuration. The glyphs changed from black to glowing red. The crack spiderwebbed out in a stress fracture.

The heartbeat was something hitting the pavement from below, trying to get out.

This was a birth. This was a prison release.

With a final heartbeat, the center of the glyph pushed upwards with a soft crack. It was like watching a baby bird’s beak thrust against the inside of an eggshell.

The asphalt folded up and over in the center, blooming like a flower. The red, glistening expanse of a huge back pushed up and through. Black horns like a water buffalo and a massive collection of red muscle followed. The creature’s head was bowed down and its arms were crossed. Its legs were last to appear and looked almost dainty with their hooves.

The monster was wet and steaming. He was asleep. He spun slowly as he rose like he was being unscrewed out of the earth.

Gravity took over and he fell to the ground.

The gateway in the pavement stopped glowing. The glyphs turned to ash and started blowing away in the wind. The parking lot gained a pothole but other than that, no evidence existed that the gateway was ever there.

Except for the shivering mass of horned demon on the pavement awakening from a nightmare.




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