GASP
The Last Gasp Motel will have you
Thinking on your feet,
If you like mystery books to read,
This might be up your street.
Break From Reality. Daily.
GASP
The Last Gasp Motel will have you
Thinking on your feet,
If you like mystery books to read,
This might be up your street.
August 14th, 1997
Dr. Anderson suggested I write it all down–that it would be helpful to get the story on paper and out of my head. A day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about it, but I’m not sure this will help at all. And it happened so long ago that I’m not sure how much of it is real and how much is just part of the nightmares that began afterward.
But I’ll do it because Dr. Anderson suggested it. He’s been so helpful in getting me to talk about it, especially since my parents never would.
So, here’s my story. I’m Violet Cooper and this is my journal entry. Everything you are about to read is true to the best of my recollection.
TOAST
The boy stood on the burning deck,
But he’d no room to boast,
His slice of bread and butter,
Had become a piece of toast!
It wasn’t the pram wheels that got stuck when they crossed the trainline, although that was what she worried about. The iron wheel rims always wedged in ruts. You can’t carry a baby everywhere, not when you have another child as well. The three-year-old liked to be out. Even as a baby, he’d worm an arm free from the blanket and wave his fist to the world. You couldn’t swaddle his independence, not the way she wrapped the baby girl’s sweet, paddling limbs. He ran so fast, flying his wooden train engine on invisible tracks of imagination, catching her own heart up into flights of joy, and fear. She couldn’t tell where he might run. She watched him, but not like the hawk that wheeled above the railway crossing. A hawk only had to watch one thing at once, to track its prey, whereas she had both the boy and the baby. Today the babe was fussing, a broken hiccupping snuffle, after a broken night’s sleep. The mother swatted at the fly sticking to the baby’s mouth. The walk would send the child to sleep soon, she knew it would. And it would keep the boy busy, so he wouldn’t poke his sister with his toy… Where was the boy?
From atop the towering gallows, the hooded hangman inhaled the mingled scents of damp dirt and fresh-cut timbers and smiled. It was a crisp, beautiful morning, perfect for a hanging, and no one deserved the punishment more than the notorious outlaw Henry Slade.
The manacled prisoner danced a carefree jig in the muddy street below. No one ever hurried to ascend the stairs leading to their execution, but Slade was the first to sashay up the foreboding thirteen steps.
The townsfolk gladly constructed the gallows overnight in a downpour, to rid the territory of the evil plague embodied by Henry Slade. They expected him to tremble with fear and beg for mercy, but the outlaw did not oblige. Instead, he cackled with glee from the elevated platform.
I’ve heard voices for as long as I can remember. To start with, they just told me what to do. Let’s change your nappy, Susie. Time for beddy-byes. They seemed kind, so I went along with them. As I got older, the voices took on a sterner tone. Don’t touch the fire.
At school, the pattern continued. No running in the corridor. Detention for you, young lady. As a teenager, I had a social life, but voices tried to control that too. You’re not going out looking like that, are you? Make sure you’re home by ten-thirty.
At Edinburgh University, no voices told me where to go or when or with whom. I was expected to attend lectures and tutorials. Don’t forget to hand in your assignment, Miss James. Luckily, there weren’t too many assignments.
Fred lays back in his favourite recliner two weeks after heart surgery. A cooking show is on the television and his mouth waters as the chef digs into a burger. The juices drip down the chef’s chin as he chews on the beefy goodness.
The clatter of his wife’s cooking comes from the kitchen next to the lounge. Fred’s pulled out of his dream state as a sulfury stench comes wafting into the lounge. “Fwah, what the hell’s that?”
“Your dinner. You’ll love it,” says Ivy as she stirs the cabbage on the stove.
Patricia glared in annoyance at the frumpy reflection glaring back from her full-length mirror. Who are you and what have you done with my body? she mocked. Today was her 60th birthday, and her mood was turning sour. Dismayed at her sagging figure, Patricia mourned her youth. Gone were the lacy ‘barely there’ panties and sexy demi bras. Nowadays, she squeezed her rolls and dimples into spandex briefs and underwire that poked and pinched but did little to lift her drooping cleavage. Maybe Stanley can invent a bra with a built-in wooden shelf. She laughed sardonically at the vision. Aging could certainly be a bitter pill to swallow, and today, Patricia felt as though she was choking on hers.
Stanley would arrive soon. She tried on dress after dress and one by one they pooled into a heap at her feet. Too tight. Too short. This one amplified her heavy chest and the next one suctioned to her ample backside. Finally, peeved, and glistening with perspiration, Patricia sighed, gave her damp armpits the sniff test, and reached for the one dress she was comfortable in; a shapeless black frock with full sleeves and a modest neckline. It was not flattering, but, she chided, Stanley liked her just as she was.
A moment later Stanley’s car squealed into her driveway, rock music thumping through his open window. Patricia raised an eyebrow at the racket, then hurried to put on lipstick. It was sweet of him to take her out for her birthday. She would do her best to smile, even if she had to paint it on.
The email lands in my inbox with a thud, and I stare at my computer as if I’ve found a spaceship in my cornfield. It’s the first time a literary agent has read my entire manuscript. My eyes scan her words for a quick clue as to her intention: is it good, bad?
Does she come in peace?
“You are a terrific writer,” I read. Terrific is in italics, and I feel elated. I imagine the extra two seconds it took to press command + i, and I count them as mounting evidence that this email might change my life. I skip across the following sentences in search of more clues until my eyes tangle at the most unfortunate coordinating conjunction.
But.
It was five minutes to the hour and the couple sitting in Alan’s therapy office were in a tail spin. To stay grounded, Alan gripped a small, smooth piece of granite, with colors evenly split between speckled white and creamy black. He found the stone on a trip to the Oregon coast with his wife and daughter during happier times. When he picked it up, his wife said it looked like a yin and yang symbol. Alan sometimes used it as a tool to keep him centered during tense sessions, but today it wasn’t working. He had been reaching for it a lot lately. He loosened his grip on the stone along with the thoughts of his own marriage and refocused his attention to the couple on the couch in front of him.
“I can’t do this anymore” Carol sobbed into her hands.
”Carol, I love you. We can figure this out.” Ted reached his hand to Carol but his voice was flat, void of emotion.
Ernie hated breakfast in general, and he hated muesli in particular. Yet here he was, munching away at a full bowl, just as every morning, because ARG-U5, his health insurance’s AI, had decided in all its wisdom this was what he needed. This and a glass of freshly replicated orange juice. No sugar, of course.
When Ernie had finished, he put on his coat and went to the Blitz, just as every morning. These things run at 450 km/h, he thought, one comes along every 8.5 minutes and yet, they somehow manage to be 28 minutes late on a ten minute ride.
35 minutes later, Ernie entered his company’s 55-story building. It was one of the smaller ones in the area. A nice cozy hut, former ACCE boss Dan Acreman had called it. Then, Acreman resigned and became CEO of GFY, a company with a 122-story building.
Ernie sat down at his desk and paired his neuralink with his workstation. He’d been away two days, and now had 342 new tickets. That’s what you got for taking off a long weekend.
So, the job had gone left.
“Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
Stars sprinkled throughout the darkening skies and the moon grew in size as Mick made his way back to his colony of family and friends that lived in the hollows and caverns nestled in the mountains of the Irish countryside. Thirty-three leprechauns and their extended families had lived there for centuries and most were related to him.
He tapped his walking stick against small rocks and hummed to himself, lost in the tranquility and peace of his surroundings.
A voice cried out, “Help”, and he startled, stopped and looked around. He waited and listened, but the only sound was that of the wind as it whispered through the trees and brushed against his face. “Sure ‘twas nothing,” he muttered under his breath and continued onward.
The voice grew louder. “Please help me.”
Daniel whimpered, but the sound was lost amongst the shouts in the village below. Dust billowed in the distance, cloaking the sunrise, yet it mattered little. Everyone knew what lurked in the shadows.
Vleron had finally found them.
The northern king sought to conquer Daniel’s homeland, and had spent most of the year consuming it bite by bite. Now, a small army had made camp near Daniel’s village, teeth bared for another mouthful.
Marwen felt strange as her uncle approached. Radoc had been family, but it had been years since she’d seen the man, and now he was a priest, a representative of mystery and power. He had been summoned to relieve the drought, and when his eyes met Marwen, she felt a stab of unease at their weight.
‘Radoc…what’s wrong?’
‘I bring bad news,’ her uncle sighed. ‘Do you remember Vilnus?’
Marwen nodded, recalling the legend of the man who’d given his body to bring water. It had been a barren year, so dry the oasis had turned to clay, and Vilnus had agreed to become the wind, to carry clouds from far away.
I was only eight years old when I rode the riverboat Twilight. That day Dad picked me up early from school. It was right before show-and-tell. I had been ready to show off two pennies that I had pressed flat on the South Side tracks when the school’s secretary, Ms. Richardson, poked her head into the classroom.
“Lillian, honey? Your daddy’s here.”
I whined in frustration but shoved the pennies into my pocket and said goodbye to my best friend, Rebecca Moyer. We made plans to meet up later to work on our clubhouse, then I followed Ms. Richardson out the front doors of the school.
Dad was waiting in front of his car, smiling. I was relieved. That morning at breakfast he hadn’t been smiling. He’d been shouting and making a scary face.
“Bamboo Walk cottage is haunted.” Allistair Cavendish’s family told him, claiming that is the only reason uncle George left him the property free and clear of any debts. He agreed that the cottage would be the perfect breeding ground for ‘duppy’ stories’— ghost folklore— vital to Jamaica’s culture as reggae to dance hall battles. He smiled at the notion of a ghost community; and wished he could write horror stories. He had not seen any shadows or ghosts; myths about duppies were entertainment when he was a boy.
What did his family know about loneliness and isolation? They were responsible for the isolation he felt every time they questioned his writing ambition.
“Allistair, when are you going to finish that novel?” Cousin Gary asked.
“How long has it been now? Ten years? Better stick to your day job.” His brother Ira teased.
Could it be?
Yes. A resplendent quetzal. The most beautiful bird in Costa Rica. Sacred symbol of the Aztec feathered serpent god, Quetzalcoatl.
Ilana had only learned about this creator god from Mesoamerican mythology at breakfast that morning. Their host at the lodge had told his captive audience of American tourists about Quetzalcoatl’s rise and demise. As with most gods, sordid sex spoiled his legacy. He slept with his sister – didn’t they all, Ilana had thought – and, riddled with shame, set himself on fire. It didn’t end on a completely sour note for the god, though. As his ashes rose into the sky, a resplendent quetzal swallowed them whole and promised to keep him safe until he was ready for rebirth.
Without making a sound, Ilana tugged on her husband’s jacket sleeve while pointing to the bird’s long, metallic green tail with her other hand.
Shadows danced and crackle filled the sky with gentle snaps as light traced her features, mouth open, convulsing. The smoky aroma, choked out by the day’s freeze-dried dinner and sunflower seeds. A rancid scent lingered in a pool between her hands.
With a quick motion, he snatched the feather from behind her ear, marveling at the damage it might have caused. “Let me hold your hair back?”
Unmanageable, tangled and falling out, he said, “Was it worth it? Free stones for your new garden. A stupid idea.” He tried to tie it back, but her scalp released more, falling to the ground, most sticking to his hand.
It was on a Wednesday in early spring when Carla woke up dead.
Since she did not realize the seriousness of her situation, she went about her normal routine. She headed for the kitchen where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air with tantalizing familiarity.
The coffee pot with a timer had been a birthday gift from her very busy son, Robert. He had loved coffee from the first day he stole a sip as a youngster. Throughout his childhood he surreptitiously drank from Carla’s cup until she acknowledged his craving and proffered a mug of the captivating liquid to accompany his breakfast. Coffee became the beverage of choice not only for breakfast, but for discussing life’s issues, both big and small. A mug of hot coffee had been an invitation to talk. In recent years visits were few, conversations fewer and the coffee pot a sad reminder.
If there was ever a day for pumpkin pie, this was it. I approached the wooden counter of my small, sunny kitchen and removed the glass case that protected the delicious treat and cut a slice for Mrs. Mayapple and myself. The pie shone like copper on the plate. I snatched a couple of forks and swept back across the room. Mrs. Mayapple had been assigned to be my chaperone ever since I was born.
When I was old enough to question it, my mother’s answer was, “How else are we supposed to guarantee that you stay pure?”
My father’s rumbling laugh followed. “That’s right. You know we can’t be with you every minute of every day.”
When June first started the trail, she’d set herself apart from the other thru-hikers, preferring to travel solo. Now, at the tail end of the season, there were only a few of those thru-hikers left. Some days June didn’t see another human at all. She typically preferred it this way, despite her family’s warnings.
“Don’t walk alone,” they’d said. Her mom’s voice rang in her ears. “You’re a woman, Junie. I know you’re strong, but what if someone takes you, hurts you? Women shouldn’t travel alone; it isn’t safe.” And June boiled inside. Apart from the fact that no one in her social circle could or would hike the 2,190 miles to Katahdin with her, she shouldn’t have to have a buddy. Yes there were risks—she’d read the statistics about women who hike alone—but there were too many things in this life that she “shouldn’t do” because she was a woman. This wasn’t going to be one of those things.
So she bought pepper spray, bear spray—all the sprays—and she bought a knife. Then she laced up her boots, flew to Georgia, Ubered to Springer Mountain and said, “screw the patriarchy.”
“There’s a body for you downstairs,” Cassia’s mother announces, wiping the blood from her hands as she passes the open bedroom door. “All set and ready for you.”
Her words spark a flood of excitement in Cassia, and she springs from her bed to follow her mother down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her fingers itch to snatch up the scalpel, to dig under the skin and see what lies within the corpse.
“I thought it was Alistair’s turn,” Cassia says, falling into step with her mother. “He claimed the next three that came in.”
“Cousin Alistair is otherwise occupied with another target. He’ll be gone a few days.”
Cassia eyes the basement door, practically twitching in her eagerness to get to work. Her mother pulls a mixing bowl out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter. Then she turns back to Cassia, sees her inching towards the door, and laughs.
“Your father and I already had our fun tracking him down and killing him,” her mother says. “You go have your own now. I’ll be baking a pie for the Mitchells’ funeral.”
The vast, red expanse of the planet spread out in front of Rodriguez—nothing but scarlet cliffs and crimson dust as far as the eye could see. A single speck of white, the pearlescent Hub of SX129, stood at the crest of the distant hill, becoming a rusted orange as the sand kicked up. Rodriguez could feel the wind pressing in on the arms of his EVA suit as he turned to scan the horizon. He clicked commands into his bracer, and the display inside his helmet overlaid waves of neon green onto his vision.
“Nothing here but dead space. I’ve tried every scanner I have; are you sure you saw the signature over here?” he asked Emerald.
“The infrared lit up like a Christmas tree,” she said. “Alerts and all.”
“There’s no way it could be that easy. We are not finding evidence of alien life forms this quickly.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see them.
“I swear it was right here,” she said. “If you’re scared of a little wind, you can go back. I’m going to keep looking.” Her grayish form disappeared with the next swirl of dust.
“The forest is haunted,” Tilly says. She holds me back but I pull from her grasp.
“Aunt Bess says you’ve never been in the woods,” I retort.
“That’s true,” she murmurs, twisting her long yellow braid in her fingers. “Because of the bone children.”
“The bone children?”
Tilly nods, her cheeks pink from the autumn air.
It was another miserable morning in a string of incessantly gray days when Beverly pulled aside the flimsy lace curtain and first glimpsed Millie’s even-paced shuffle. A shadow had initially drawn her to the window. She suspected the nasty black cat that had been hanging around might be lurking in her box hedges. But there was no cat, only her neighbor Millie in the road. She shuffled past without waving. Beverly frowned and closed the curtain.
The next morning, Beverly checked to make sure no cars were parked on the street. This was a favorite part of her daily routine; she’d gleefully ring the HOA to let them know about her neighbors’ policy violation. When Beverly glanced at the street, she found herself watching Millie walk by yet again. It was a strange coincidence, but Beverly didn’t believe in fate. Everything in her life could be controlled, managed, or leveraged.
Proper control was how she’d handled her son when he brought a boy home; unacceptable behavior was not tolerated in her home. He left. Her ex-husbands had to be dealt with so that she could control her own finances. Their departures were more permanent. Taking control of the situation was the practical prescription for all ailments.
At first I was delighted when Aunt June returned from the dead. I had adored her as a child and even more so as an adult. She was the most competent woman I knew. She had managed her sixty-two-acre farm alone after her husband Ed died in a tractor accident when she was twenty-six. She could repair heavy equipment and wield a chainsaw. She could tell the difference between the whistle of a Broad Winged Hawk and the raspy shriek of a Red Tail. As a kid, I followed her around the farm with the same devotion as the pack of stray dogs that never left her side.
But after a while, June’s miraculous return began to feel less like a cosmic gift and more like a haunting. Unlike the live June, who had been placable and easy-going, the ghostly June was usually in a foul mood and complained nonstop about something I did or didn’t do on her farm, which she’d left to me on her death. These days, June and I bickered—a lot. I hated that.
The waters of the dam glimmered alluringly between the trees beside the meandering road. Dozens of cars, caravans, and tents, piled up on the waterfront, appeared, as well as the fishermen, standing at a close distance from each other, patiently awaiting their catch.
“I assume this is the place,” said Michail, and he turned his Jeep down a gravel road to the left. While passing by the sign “Swimming forbidden!” the two gals on the back seat gave each other a perplexed glance, whereas the young lads at the front smiled mischievously. They all got off the vehicle and started looking around the place.
Pleading guilty to a state crime was one thing, but a federal crime? That was something else altogether.
First of all, the sheer amount of paperwork required by the feds was intimidating. Alice sat in the waiting room of the federal probation office with a stack of papers on her lap, waiting to be interviewed by a probation officer about the man she lived with, William Casey Battle. Billy had pleaded guilty to three counts of intent to distribute ten kilos of opioids and was being held in jail pending sentencing. The purpose of her interview was to talk with Agent Riley, who was preparing the presentencing report for the judge, about Billy’s character.
That was another thing about the feds—the probation officers were a far cry from the doughy, indifferent social workers who handled probation for the state courts. Federal probation officers were trim, neatly dressed FBI agents with close-cropped crew cuts and good posture. When Agent Riley introduced himself, Alice had straightened her shoulders, discretely sucked in her belly, and cursed herself for not wearing control-top pantyhose.
“S-swim team w-w-wasn’t m-my idea,” Stuart said, his voice muffled by pineapples and pink flamingos.
“Take that towel off your head,” Mom snapped, then she cleared her throat. “You’ll do great, honey.”
“Great,” Benny crowed. He reached over from his car seat and whacked Stuart’s arm with a slimy granola bar. Stuart shuddered and brushed off the crumbs.
“Sorry I can’t stay and watch, but I have to take Benny to visit his new school. I’ll be waiting in the parking lot when the meet is over.”
“O-k-kay.” The fewer people there to watch him the better. And no Mom meant no Benny crying or getting drool on his towel. Stuart gathered up his things and opened the car door.
“Have fun!” Mom called. “Be safe!”
The inhospitable shades of brimstone sear my vision as my mind stirs from its untold period of slumber. My limbs spasm as the agony of reawakening surges through me.
It is not an unfamiliar feeling. It always heralds the same obligation.
Another has called me. Another requires my service to commit sin so that their own soul may remain unstained.
The dim reds and yellows of my sight converge into a burning orange as the portal opens before me, beckoning me to the one who has demanded my arrival.
You’d laugh to see me writing this now. It was the first thing you asked when I told you I was a novelist. “Are you going to put this in a story?”
I gave you my standard answer. “Only if you piss me off.”
You grinned. “Revenge fiction, huh? Better than revenge porn, I suppose.”
For the record, you didn’t piss me off. And this isn’t fiction, though most people will think it is. Mysterious figures with magical powers will do that, every time.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Let’s start over.
I’m a pro at that now, thanks to you. Starting over.
On a gorgeous day, the old man and his grandson rode side by side on the buckboard. Blue skies, white puffy clouds chased by a light wind, and songbirds provided a lovely chorus in the background. Ol’ Dobbin had his head low as Grampa gently clucked and encouraged him along a well-known trail.
Near the top of a low ridge sat a shed used by the old man for years to sell the produce from his truck garden to travelers on the road to Easton, going one way, or those on the road to Weston, going the t’other.
Grampa eased Dobbin to a halt behind the shed and gave the reins a turn around a pommel. Stepping down from the buggy, he pulled a red bandana from a hip pocket, doffed his hat, wiped his brow, wiped the inside brim of his hat, plopped his hat back on his balding noggin, looked at the sky, and said, “Gonna be a beautiful day, Billy.”
Drip, drip, drip. Her eyes stuck to the laptop screen, flicking through the thirty browser tabs, trying to find the one with the good quote that was halfway down a page somewhere next to the weird graph . . . drip, drip, drip. How strange to hear a dripping sound inside? Oh, how she hated dripping sounds, and where the hell was the quote? And why did everything always. Have. To. Sound. So. Annoying?
Oh shit.
Maggie slammed her laptop shut and stood up. The drips grew louder and faster behind her, morphing into a trickle as she turned around to face the kitchen.
David Livingston Parker was finally attempting to read his novel out on the balcony. But it was Friday night, which meant another Sol Vista at Bayside pool party with free tacos, Dos Equis beer, and steel drum music worming its way out of tinny speakers right into his ears. He fumbled for his AirPods to muffle the noise.
Today’s theme was “Welcome Summer,” but in Florida, there are only two seasons, rainy and dry, so how can you really tell? A nagging voice in his head urged him to go mingle. But it had been a long week and he was not keen on trying to juggle a mask, taco, and beer while making small talk at six paces. Or get into another discussion on mask etiquette. He’d spend another night alone, which was just . . . easier.
I am the last one. My sisters are long gone. They were soft, floaty, shiny, and beautiful. We were the muses that enhanced her charm and enchantment. Then he came, and my sisters either broke, tore apart, or choked in trash cans.
Did she hide me on purpose, or did she forget me? All I know, I am still hanging here plastered against the far end of the wall, biding my time.
My beads have lost their shine in the damp air surrounding me, but my hope has endured. The newcomers—thick, itchy, poky—are unattractive and bulky, the cruel reification of the new man she brought home.
Mr. and Mrs. Venas were teleporters who looked like human beings. At the same time, they were the royals who ruled the mice populace in Porterland—an underground kingdom. Though they craved children, they wouldn’t have dreamt they would one day possess one of their own kind, either by chance or procreation. But it happened that Samantha, a beautiful 10-year-old girl, negligently went hunting, then went missing into a large mouse hole with her dog, and that seemed all.
The queen rose that evening and sped into the hall to the King.
“We must meet the mice,” she said.
Pamela stormed into the living room, where George was lying on the sofa reading a science magazine.
“You’re an idiot!” Pamela stood over her husband, hands on hips, red in the face.
George dropped the magazine.
“What?!”
“A blithering idiot.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lou and Jetta sat silently inside the tent, holding hands in the darkness. Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain pounded on the plastic roof as if trying to get inside.
Lou cleared his throat. “We have to make a decision.”
“I know,” said Jetta quietly. “What do you want?”
A sudden flash lit up the tiny space like day, and Jetta saw the grief on Lou’s face. Her stomach twisted, knowing she caused him so much pain.
“You know what I want,” Lou said.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a runner.
The door slammed shut, rattling the walls. I’d drawn it extra hard to make my point. Outside, I spun on my heels and zipped up my hoodie. The day had gone so well until we began arguing over something trite. And through some circuitous route, we’d ended back at a discussion we’d been having for the last few months. I could have stopped the argument, but I had already set myself up to bolt.
A gust of wind blew when the front door opened.
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