Free Stories
This page is for those who visit my site to read some of my fiction. I will be posting a new story up every few months, so stay tuned. Hope you enjoy.
Brethren
Multiple ripples of
gooseflesh cascaded down both of his arms as his blood ran cold.
He knew it couldn't be because of a cold draft coming through the screen door; it was ninety five in the shade outside. His farmhouse was always miserably hot in July.
Swarms of huge, greenback flies had gathered outside the front door, landing on the screen. Their buzzing, as loud as a hundred alarm clocks, was almost hypnotic, mesmerizing, as it filled his ears and invaded his brain. He sat staring at them wide eyed and silent, as if they were something to be held in awe.
A sound coming from outside brought him out of his trance-like state; What was that? he thought, alarmed. I live here alone.
He tried to get up from his chair, but his legs were too shaky. He plopped back down hard, and felt a painful, jarring sensation in his stomach, as if a prize fighter had just landed a round house punch to his guts. It felt like......something was...........moving around in there.
He glanced toward the front door, to see there were thousands of flies now, so many that the screen appeared to be painted a mish-mosh of green and black. Suddenly, the deafening buzz of the flies lowered into a soft whisper, as if the flies were....quietly laughing at him.
Then....that sound again, coming from outside. It sounded like someone was in his toolshed, and was rummaging around, moving things about. Damn kids, he thought. Always bugging an poor, helpless old man. I'll fix them!
He managed to get up from his chair, breaking out in a cold sweat from the task. His guts were still squirming around, as if a big snake were in there slithering around, looking for an exit. His skin felt cold and clammy, and he felt light headed.
He made it to the back door, opened it up, gazed out at the toolshed. Sure enough, the door was hanging wide open, and he'd had it locked. Damn kids! I'll teach them a thing or two about respecting other folk's property!
He turned, wobbled across the room on shaky legs, opened the broom closet. There it was; his .22 single shot rifle. He picked it up, made sure it was loaded, and went back to the door. He opened it up, raised the rifle, took aim at the shed's open doorway, and fired. Pop!
No response. He ejected the spent cartridge, reloaded, and fired again, this time hitting the shed window, leaving a spiderwebbed hole. Still no response.
''Come on out of there, you damn hoodlums!'' he shouted, reloading again. ''If'n you don't wanta be shot in the ass or worse, I'd be comin' out!'' He waited for a sign of anybody peeking out, but saw no one.
''Okay then, boys! Here I come!''
He slowly made his way down the back steps, the rifle in his hands, ready to fire. The loud buzzing had started again, but this time it seemed to be coming from inside the shed.
He walked on through the knee high weeds, the buzzing getting louder, so loud now he couldn't even hear himself think. As he neared the open doorway, it stopped abrubtly.
He shook his head, raised the rifle, and walked on in, saying, ''Here I come, boys! Prepare to meet your maker!''
When he stepped inside, what he saw made him freeze up as stiff as a dimestore mannequin. Standing in front of his workbench was a giant, greenback fly.
It was at least six feet tall, and weighed about two hundred pounds, about the size of an average man. It's wings resembled two transparent snow shoes. It's eyes, about the size of footballs, mirrored him as it glanced over at him, seeing a thousand of him at once. It glanced at him briefly, then went back to what it was doing. Laying on the workbench was a large, round, green coccoon. It looked slimy, covered in some membranous substance that glowed a light green as the coccoon pulsated. He could see something moving around in there, as if it were an egg ready to hatch.
The huge fly was stroking it gently, as a mother would the head of a crying child. With each stroke, the coccoon seemed to pulsate more. As the old man watched, the pulsating grew faster, stronger.
As he stood transfixed by what he was watching, the huge fly turned it's head to and spoke to him, the voice sounding electronic, as if it were being filtered through a voicebox.
''For he lives with the flies in shadow and darkness, and he is happy, here at home with his brethren.''
Finally, the old man understood. He understood the dreams he'd having lately, an underlying theme of gestation in most of them. Dreams of rebirth, of flying.
He dropped his rifle, walked closer. As he neared the table, the coccoon began to split open, spilling green goo all over the dirt floor. Hundreds of flies suddenly appeared, landing on it, lapping it up like honey.
His stomach began to rumble. It began doing flip-flops, then felt as though it was turning inside out, ready to implode. He fell to his knees, screaming in pain, as the huge fly stroked his head gently.
Suddenly, his abdomen exploded from the inside, showering the dirt floor with bloody viscera. The fly held on to his head, keeping him upright, as an object emerged from the carnage that used to be his body. It was a greenback fly, about the size of a football. It emitted a low pitched humming sound that vaguely resembled a baby's cry. The big fly grasped the newborn between it's two front legs, letting the old man's body fall into the dirt.
The fly stroked the newborn gently, attempting to soothe it's fear of the unknown.
The newborn resembled it's host.
He knew it couldn't be because of a cold draft coming through the screen door; it was ninety five in the shade outside. His farmhouse was always miserably hot in July.
Swarms of huge, greenback flies had gathered outside the front door, landing on the screen. Their buzzing, as loud as a hundred alarm clocks, was almost hypnotic, mesmerizing, as it filled his ears and invaded his brain. He sat staring at them wide eyed and silent, as if they were something to be held in awe.
A sound coming from outside brought him out of his trance-like state; What was that? he thought, alarmed. I live here alone.
He tried to get up from his chair, but his legs were too shaky. He plopped back down hard, and felt a painful, jarring sensation in his stomach, as if a prize fighter had just landed a round house punch to his guts. It felt like......something was...........moving around in there.
He glanced toward the front door, to see there were thousands of flies now, so many that the screen appeared to be painted a mish-mosh of green and black. Suddenly, the deafening buzz of the flies lowered into a soft whisper, as if the flies were....quietly laughing at him.
Then....that sound again, coming from outside. It sounded like someone was in his toolshed, and was rummaging around, moving things about. Damn kids, he thought. Always bugging an poor, helpless old man. I'll fix them!
He managed to get up from his chair, breaking out in a cold sweat from the task. His guts were still squirming around, as if a big snake were in there slithering around, looking for an exit. His skin felt cold and clammy, and he felt light headed.
He made it to the back door, opened it up, gazed out at the toolshed. Sure enough, the door was hanging wide open, and he'd had it locked. Damn kids! I'll teach them a thing or two about respecting other folk's property!
He turned, wobbled across the room on shaky legs, opened the broom closet. There it was; his .22 single shot rifle. He picked it up, made sure it was loaded, and went back to the door. He opened it up, raised the rifle, took aim at the shed's open doorway, and fired. Pop!
No response. He ejected the spent cartridge, reloaded, and fired again, this time hitting the shed window, leaving a spiderwebbed hole. Still no response.
''Come on out of there, you damn hoodlums!'' he shouted, reloading again. ''If'n you don't wanta be shot in the ass or worse, I'd be comin' out!'' He waited for a sign of anybody peeking out, but saw no one.
''Okay then, boys! Here I come!''
He slowly made his way down the back steps, the rifle in his hands, ready to fire. The loud buzzing had started again, but this time it seemed to be coming from inside the shed.
He walked on through the knee high weeds, the buzzing getting louder, so loud now he couldn't even hear himself think. As he neared the open doorway, it stopped abrubtly.
He shook his head, raised the rifle, and walked on in, saying, ''Here I come, boys! Prepare to meet your maker!''
When he stepped inside, what he saw made him freeze up as stiff as a dimestore mannequin. Standing in front of his workbench was a giant, greenback fly.
It was at least six feet tall, and weighed about two hundred pounds, about the size of an average man. It's wings resembled two transparent snow shoes. It's eyes, about the size of footballs, mirrored him as it glanced over at him, seeing a thousand of him at once. It glanced at him briefly, then went back to what it was doing. Laying on the workbench was a large, round, green coccoon. It looked slimy, covered in some membranous substance that glowed a light green as the coccoon pulsated. He could see something moving around in there, as if it were an egg ready to hatch.
The huge fly was stroking it gently, as a mother would the head of a crying child. With each stroke, the coccoon seemed to pulsate more. As the old man watched, the pulsating grew faster, stronger.
As he stood transfixed by what he was watching, the huge fly turned it's head to and spoke to him, the voice sounding electronic, as if it were being filtered through a voicebox.
''For he lives with the flies in shadow and darkness, and he is happy, here at home with his brethren.''
Finally, the old man understood. He understood the dreams he'd having lately, an underlying theme of gestation in most of them. Dreams of rebirth, of flying.
He dropped his rifle, walked closer. As he neared the table, the coccoon began to split open, spilling green goo all over the dirt floor. Hundreds of flies suddenly appeared, landing on it, lapping it up like honey.
His stomach began to rumble. It began doing flip-flops, then felt as though it was turning inside out, ready to implode. He fell to his knees, screaming in pain, as the huge fly stroked his head gently.
Suddenly, his abdomen exploded from the inside, showering the dirt floor with bloody viscera. The fly held on to his head, keeping him upright, as an object emerged from the carnage that used to be his body. It was a greenback fly, about the size of a football. It emitted a low pitched humming sound that vaguely resembled a baby's cry. The big fly grasped the newborn between it's two front legs, letting the old man's body fall into the dirt.
The fly stroked the newborn gently, attempting to soothe it's fear of the unknown.
The newborn resembled it's host.
Three of my stories have been published!
My story, ''A Bad Night in the Hood,'' has been published this month in An Electric Tragedy magazine, here http://www.anelectrictragedy.com/stories.html
My story, ''Funny Lookin' Critters, may be found in the June 2011 issue of Static Movement magazine, here http://www.staticmovement.com/funnylookincritters.htm
My story, ''Green,'' has published on Micro Horror, here http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/george-lacroix/green-2/
My story, ''Funny Lookin' Critters, may be found in the June 2011 issue of Static Movement magazine, here http://www.staticmovement.com/funnylookincritters.htm
My story, ''Green,'' has published on Micro Horror, here http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/george-lacroix/green-2/
