“Cracked. . .furnace dried, arid eyelids
trickling blood, seeping pain
dead eyes beneath
what visions once captured
by thine occipital cameras?”

Few will forget his shadow, the morbid chill whose cold fingers coaxed unwanted shivers, and curdling screams never heard – sitting as frozen dead, though never actually feeling his ghastly, encrusted yellow nails. . .

To my recollections, no woman had ever been defiled. Except one: though suspiciously self proclaimed – Martha Prechaud. A callous, God fearing deceiver of beautiful children. Yet her love – a love frigid, hollow, wicked and they soon suffocated within her seductive web of blessings. Living as dead souls, our precious sons and daughters would have never known our pain. My last tear was painfully shed in 1987, but it was, I assure you – butcher cleaved from my soul. My lachrymal glands were surgically removed, thus no tear will trickle down this wrinkled old thing I call face again. Martha was the church administrator in our little town of Lyman; a country town on old highway49. She personally had adopted seven children and often took in elders who had lost their way or had nowhere else to go. Everyone thought of her as a selfless woman who only helped those in need. I do suspect that many knew the truth, but were afraid to ever say.
Maddening silence swept through – some holding their breath, while others posed as window manikins – plastic personalities, hollow hearts – empty souls as they faced away to avoid being the one. The one chosen as that for which he desired. In the corner was the old man in the wheel chair. Though he sat facing the corner, there were three large mirrors from which he could watch the services – studying the people who attended with bloodshot eyes that never closed. Many stories surrounded the reasons for his presence and Ms. Prechaud was the source for all. All that was seen was his long silver locks, and his curly yellow nails which peered from under the blanket which was draped across him. His face in the mirrors from which he glared of course, was the most memorable of his offerings. There was he, but how close? Upon which unfortunate back did his gaze fall? Still a groan or cough much like first time murderers with blood drizzled faces – mangled portions of victims stuck beneath shoes, every step sickly peeled – caught red handed. Yet still, they sit – pretending.

My beautiful Sondra, whom I married under crisp breeze and golden sunset to be a dream of love which I, the luckiest man alive hath never taken for granted. Sondra’s bridesmaids cried frenetically with dreams in their eyes; our love would make their young lives miserable – should they never attain that which we possessed. Ours was a love so easy, so true and smiles after since were forever crafted in our faces – immortalizing our every moment of those 30 years. Proudly displayed was our integrity – the stabilizing structure which fortified our bond. Now to tell you why I suffer so: My lovely Sondra was burned to death the night she drove through a truck whose payload was jet fuel. Miraculously witnesses reported she escaped while engulfed in flames, yet ran some fifty yards screaming until collapsing to the pavement – smoldering for two days.

No depression remains? Of course my wife and I had two beautiful children – Anthony, and my precious daughter Alessandra. Both were taken into custody and now Martha Prechaud was their caretaker. I haven’t seen their faces in two years. Anthony drowned mysteriously last summer,stripping me of every last glimmer of hope. I sit in this wheel chair waiting for my death; helpless and weak. I take up quarters in this old church as I too am cared for by Mrs. Prechaud. My wheels nailed to the floor and arms bound. I sit in this corner so I will never again see my children. I was a man so damaged by loss I was unaware if I were dead or possibly already in hell. I am sure I had been regularly sedated with powerful opiates and tranquilizers, yet it was never enough to make me forget about my Alessandra.

Martha and Alessandra prepared to leave one morning late in February. Hurriedly preparing, both were through the door. Little Alessandra ran back in to retrieve her canary yellow scarf, a gift from Sondra – sweetly scented in perfume, her aroma lingering since her passing. As she smelled the cherished last gift of her Mother – an out of control Ferrari violently twitched on the icy street – twirling as a bladed centrifuge viciously spalling Ms. Prechaud into a mist of blood smoke.

Alessandra peered outside seeing nothing but the bloody limbs rived from the splattered remains. She quickly ran inside to the immobilized wheelchair; in it’s lonely corner, “Daddy?”

She crawled onto his lap as the first smile to brighten his face in eternities erupted in a magical dream of love so beautiful – they melted into each others souls. His long yellow fingernails became entangled in the perfumed scent of their Mother. Both enwrapped in the arms of Sondra – canary yellow now glowing from heavenly intervention. They trembled as her Father cried. Sobbing as an infant, tears drizzled down his face. Love has finally brought this beautiful family, home sweet home.

By Bobby Revell

Authors note: This is a short abridged version of a screenplay I had worked on around three years ago. This story is part horror, more in atmosphere than plot – and part drama. I will release another story next Friday. Every story will be a totally different genre or mixture of. For those interested I will publish my horror stories on another site as I wouldn’t have any friends at all if I release them here. If you are a fan of psychotic tales of horror, come back soon. I’ll have the link posted. Thank you readers!

Urbis Review:

May 22, 2007

campb26593

The prose in this piece is artistic beyond most that I’ve seen on urbis. The family’s tragedy and the protagonists pessimistic outlook are carefully unwrapped. Very nice.

Because this piece is so carefully crafted, you might never find these typos:

Everyone though of her should be thought

brides maids can be one word bridesmaids

The only suggestion that I can think to make for possible improvement is to look at the number of occurrences of conjugations of the verb ‘to be’ (was, were, etc) and the word ‘had’ and decide if the sentence can be revised to remove some of them. But honestly, the story is still very, very good as it is written.

Tags: fiction, horror, short-story