Happy Holiday!

Sprinkles on Top

“Okay,” said Boomba. “You can take your helmet off.”

Dax could barely understand the muffled voice from the confines of the space suit helmet. The visor shielded his eyes from his surroundings making navigation near impossible. Boomba had led Dax by burying his head in the small of Dax’s back and pushing him forward, though Dax didn’t have much confidence in Boomba’s depth perception. In fact, after the third time Dax’s knee was slammed into a foreign object, he doubted whether or not Boomba could see at all. But now they had stopped moving and Boomba tapped Dax on the leg incessantly. I guess that was the signal that it was time to peek. Dax unlatched his helmet and attempted unsuccessfully to tug it off of his head.

“Boomba, I’m stuck!” Dax cried.

“Bend over.”

“What?” Dax’s ears were pinned beneath the opening of the helmet.

“I said, bend over!” Boomba yelled.

Dax leaned forward and felt the pressure of Boomba’s tiny hands pulling on the helmet. The opening was tight, but with Boomba yanking, the thing popped off his head and Dax stumbled backwards into something hard. He turned and saw a massive pair of biceps connected to an even more massive torso. The creature stood on its two arms while a comically tiny set of legs dangled freely. It had two eyes resting on stalks which protruded from its otherwise plain face. It turned to Dax and spoke in a voice that reminded him of the sound of ice crunching underfoot. He couldn’t understand the language but he could definitely understand the angry tone. Boomba flitted between Dax and the bulbous gentleman and began speaking in the same gravely language. Dax wasn’t sure what he said but the big armed threat choked out a sound that he hoped was laughter.

“What did you say to him?” Dax asked.

“I just told him his muscles were looking especially beefy today,” said Boomba. “Flattery will get you everywhere with a bulkin.”

Boomba once again leaned his body into Dax and pushed him away from the strong armed brute. With the threat of violence behind them, Dax finally had a moment to take in his surroundings. A world of sights and sounds stormed past his senses and assaulted his neurons. There were hundreds of people, all from different species, bustling about in a space big enough to fit an entire Star Frigate. Dax ran over the railing in front of him and looked down. They stood twenty stories up and there were at least twenty more above them.

“What is this place?” Dax asked in amazement.

“Only the largest candy store in the known universe,” Boomba said.

He smiled so wide, it looked as if the lines of his mouth might extend past his body. Boomba was an adorably small alien. His hairy blue body only came up to Dax’s waist and Dax wasn’t even that tall to begin with. At first glance, Boomba appeared to be nothing more than a big ball of fur with one single eye in the center of his body, but Dax knew better. Underneath all that fur concealed two tiny legs and two tiny hands.

“Holy spumoly, look at all these people!”

Dax lost himself in the throng. There were tall skinny green folks, ones that looked like walking alligators, even some that looked vaguely human - albeit with purple skin and horns. Dax had met a lot of people from a lot of planets but this was the most diverse selection he had seen in one place.

“Who doesn’t have a sweet tooth?” said Boomba, “I mean apart from those without teeth. You know what I mean. Let’s scoot, there’s a place I think you’ll like.”

Boomba skittered off into the crowd and Dax ran after him. In the center of the facility stood what looked like a giant gumball machine, only the gumballs it contained were as big as Dax. Each one looked like a miniature planet, complete with land masses and weather patterns. A particular green and blue gumball brought back memories of Earth. Dax caught an elbow in the side - although it could have been any number of foreign appendages - and snapped out of his reverie. He scanned the crowd for Boomba who had already reached their destination. He was quick for a little guy. Dax caught up with him and stared at the sign above the shop.

“31,000 Flavors.”

“It’s an ice cream parlor, just like on Earth!” Boomba said excitedly. “I know you’ve been missing home. Especially on the anniversary of…”

Boomba cut himself off as he watched Dax’s face droop at the mention.

“Come on, let’s go inside.”

As he stepped inside, Dax was greeted by the attendant behind the counter. He wasn't of any species Dax had encountered. The attendant had orange skin and six arms and wore a red and white striped apron.

“Welcome,” he bellowed enthusiastically. “Care for an authentic iced cream? Made the old fashioned way by extracting fluid from a strange mammal’s teat. Who wouldn’t want that?!”

Dax chuckled a little at the entire concept of this place. They were trying desperately to replicate an ice cream parlor but clearly had never seen one with their own eyes. Dax looked at some of the ice cream flavors with a mix of confusion and revulsion.

“Boomba, these flavors are barf town,” said Dax, “I’m pretty sure that one has live insects crawling in it.”

“What, you don’t like Chunky Dumpster?”

Dax laughed, “No.”

He continued to scan the endless rows of ice cream flavors until he found the one thing he’d never expected to taste again - rainbow sherbert.

“Excuse me?” Dax asked the attendant.

“What can I do you for, kid?”

“Does this rainbow sherbet have anything in it that would kill a human? It’s not radioactive is it?”

“No sir, just frozen milk and sugar.”

“I’ll take one scoop, please.”

“One scoop coming right up.”

They paid for their cones and then Dax and Boomba took a seat next to the window to watch the crowd rush by. Boomba’s tiny hand poked out from under his fur and held a cone that was stacked so high with scoops of ice cream that Dax was sure it would topple. Dax didn’t need that much ice cream, a little taste was all it would take to bring him home. The flavor transported him light years away and suddenly he was sitting in his living room on earth. Everyone was there - his mom and dad, his baby sister, all his aunts and uncles. The smell of burning candles still lingered in the room and Dax could see the half eaten birthday cake sitting on the dining room table. The gentle hum of voices surrounded him but he was able to pick his mother’s out of the crowd. She was the nicest person Dax could remember. He looked at her and she smiled at him from across the room. Dax looked down at the bowl of rainbow sherbert in front of him. One bite left. He lifted the spoon to his mouth and savored the flavor. It tasted like home.

“How’s the ice cream?” Boomba asked.

Dax swallowed and and looked over to Boomba whose face was filthy with ice cream residue.

“It’s perfect,” said Dax.

Boomba’s giant tongue swept his lips in an effort to recapture the remaining flavors that dwelt there. Dax rested his head on his free hand and gazed out the window. A young girl was walking tentacle in tentacle with her parents, her face aglow with wonderment.

“Hey Boomba,” said Dax. “Thanks.”

“No probs, friendo! I know it’s been tough for you and I just wanted to do something special. Happy birthday, Dax.”

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Sprinkles on Top was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

Iris Beaumont - Writer's Block

Iris stared at the spinning blades of the brass fan above her. It was mesmerizing the way it wobbled. Monte Carlo, she wondered, that’s a curious phrase to be written on a fan. A brand name she guessed. Iris groaned inaudibly as she slid her fingers under her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had begun the day sitting at her desk with impeccable posture but as the sun slumped across the horizon so had she slid down her chair. She had achieved mega-slouch. Ok, no more distractions Iris, she told herself, time to write. With a concerted effort, Iris pushed herself once more into a proper sitting position. She placed her hands against the cool metal typewriter and her fingers found a home against the keys. She took a deep breath in an attempt to clear her head but the words wouldn’t come to her. These stories usually write themselves, she thought, I’m merely a vessel through which creativity flows. She took a moment to revel in her own smugness and then decided that was a good enough place as any to start writing.

I am a vessel through which creativity flows.

She finished typing and pulled the line space lever to slide the page up. Well, it’s not a story but it’s a start. She peered at the freshly dried ink against the stark white page then cocked her head as she noticed that a few of the letters were faded. Great, she thought, I finally start writing and already I have technical difficulties. But secretly she was excited for the immediate distraction. Iris flipped the release switch on the side of the typewriter and the face popped open revealing the spools of the ink ribbon. She wriggled the spools until they came loose then tossed the worn out ribbon aside. The wooden drawer of her desk refused to open smoothly, but Iris knew just how to coax it. She tugged on the handle and it jolted open, jostling the knick-knacks inside. The contents were scattered in disarray but after a little rummaging she found the new ribbon she was looking for. She slid the spools into place and clicked the faceplate shut. Alright, she decided, let’s try this again. She pondered for a few moments and then let her fingers lead the way.

I can’t think of anything useful to type.

That’s strange, Iris mused as she gazed at the faded letters of the sentence she had just written, I just cleaned you. She scrunched her face in frustration but as she did so, something became hauntingly clear to her: the faded letters spelled something.

Iris

I can help

Iris’s eyes widened and she immediately jumped from her chair uttering an involuntary squeal as she did so. She looked around the room frantically and then her eyes landed on the bean bag chair in the corner. Without hesitation she bounded across the room and dove for the cushion. She rolled over it onto the floor and then pulled it over her head. Surely she was safe from whatever spectre dwelled in her typewriter as long as she remained in the comfortable cover of darkness. She curled into a ball for a few minutes until she felt brave enough to peek.

The room was still, save for the spinning of the fan. The gentle breeze filled the room with a peaceful coolness. The last lingering light of the sun cast a long pattern across the stained wooden floor. You’re being crazy, Iris. She cautiously oozed her way from underneath the beanbag like a snail wary of a boot. Iris stood up, dusted herself off, and confidently marched back toward her desk. Before she could take more than two steps, her slipper caught on an uneven floorboard and Iris stumbled. She rebalanced herself at the edge of the desk and looked around to make sure no one saw her faux pas and then remembered she was completely alone in her office. Smooth.

Iris sat back in her chair and swiveled to face the typewriter of doom. Against all odds, the machine sat completely still. I see what game you’re playing, you crafty devil. Waiting for me to make the first move. Iris darted her hand forward and mashed her open palm onto the keys.

awefljag

At first there were no messages hidden in faded ink but as Iris continued to type a paragraph of gibberish the faded letters returned.

just type whatever comes to mind and ill do the rest

Well, what do you have to lose, Iris? She removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter, inserted a blank one, and began to write. Her mind was razor sharp now - all distracting thoughts were buried underneath a newfound fixation. Her fingers danced along the keys as if performing a choreographed routine. Page after page flew from the typewriter as her story unfolded. After an hour had blazed past, Iris looked up from her work and realized that the sun had long since set. She checked her watch and was amazed that so much time had passed.

All around her, the desk was littered with pages full of text. She began gathering them, reading passages as she did. Wow, Iris smiled as she heard her own words in her head, this is good. She ordered the pages and then glanced around confused. Where was that first page? She dropped down to her knees and searched under the desk but it was nowhere to be found. She flipped through the pages of her manuscript and saw no signs of faded ink. That’s weird, thought Iris. She dropped the stack of papers on the desk and plopped back into her chair. I really need to get outside more.

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Iris Beaumont - Writer's Block was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

The Visitor in Postern

Through a series of unforeseen circumstances I found myself living in a small town called Postern near the coast of Maine. After graduating from Colby College I had a job lined up with a small publishing company called Cadrick. I left everything behind and moved to Postern only to lose the job six months later. Cadrick had seen a considerable loss in revenue and was on the verge of bankruptcy. New hires were the first to go. I had student loans to repay and uprooting myself again was not an option. That’s how I ended up working in the Postern Public Library.

Maine was a beautiful state to be stranded in. Everywhere I looked I could see the bright orange, red, and yellow hues of the leaves. Having grown up on the west coast, I never really got to appreciate the seasons. That was part of what drew me eastward in the first place - that and my unquenchable wanderlust. There was something undeniably surreal about this town and it’s surrounding wilderness. In the days and weeks following my unemployment, I spent much of my spare time hiking through the woods, hoping to become lost in a hidden glen or find a crashing waterfall to rest beneath.

I had heard of secluded trail behind an abandoned sawmill located a few miles east of Postern. The road leading to the mill was overgrown and narrow making for a precarious drive. The air was especially frigid that day and the marine layer had settled deep inland forming a penetrating mist. After a point, the road became too treacherous to drive so I parked my car and continued on foot. The sawmill was nestled in a clearing in the woods partially enclosed by a rusty chain link fence. A single tall building rested in the center of the facility surrounded by a few dilapidated shacks. A rusty yellow backhoe with tires half buried in the dirt had clearly not seen use for some time. The place was ghostly quiet except for the occasional chirping bird in the distance. There were no sounds of spinning blades and no lumberjacks hauling logs.  

I sat on a fallen log to catch my breath when I saw a man leaving the treeline and enter the sawmill grounds through a gap in the fence. I don’t know why my instinct told me to remain hidden but I listened. I ducked behind the cover of the log and peeked my head up just in time to see him disappear into a large barn shaped building. Something didn’t feel right and I knew I should probably just leave but I felt compelled to stay. I left the cover of the tree and crept over to the building where the man had entered. I pressed my back against the outer wall and leaned my head around the large opening. There was no sign of the man. Cautiously I entered the building. It was full of machinery that I had no names for. I scanned the room but it appeared to be empty. Perhaps my mind had been playing tricks on me. Without warning the large sawblade at the center of the room whirred to life. My legs nearly buckled at the sudden rush of adrenaline and my heart pounded against my chest. My stomach overturned as I heard footsteps clattering on the metal rafter above me. I didn’t stay to investigate further, instead I fled the premises and ran to my car.

The whole drive home I remember replaying the incident in my head but when I returned to my apartment the importance of what I had seen seemed to fade away. I wasn’t even sure I had seen anything out of the ordinary at all. By the time I laid down to sleep that evening I was convinced that it had all been a hallucination.

A few weeks later I was sitting at the front desk of the Postern Public Library with my nose buried in a history book. The library didn’t see a lot of patronage, which meant that on slower days I was the only employee. I didn’t hear the bell ring as the door opened. It was the way he moved in the corner of my vision that broke my concentration. It was the man the I had seen at the sawmill and the memories of that day came rushing back to me. I wanted to crawl under the desk and hide and hope he just left but I was transfixed. The man crossed the room without so much as a glance in my direction before disappearing behind the shelves. As I sat there frozen in fear, I realized I had no idea what this man looked like. Just moments ago he had passed in front of me but for some inexplicable reason, the image refused to form a solid memory. How had I even recognized him in the first place? I never got a close look at him in the forest. The compulsion to get another look at the stranger was so strong I felt as if I was being dragged from my chair. I searched up and down the rows of shelves but found no sign of him.

The library had been rebuilt nearly twenty years ago. According to the papers of the time, there had been a mysterious fire that destroyed most of the original building and its contents The basement had not been in use since the building had been rebuilt and I never had a reason to enter it. But now the door to it stood ajar revealing an old staircase going down. As I stood at the precipice I felt as if I was floating at the edge of a void and if I moved at all I would sucked into its dark recesses. I took a deep breath and shook away the image. The walls looked much older than the materials used to build the rest of the library. The bricks were charred and I wondered whether the basement had been renovated at all after the fire. I took a few steps down and was greeted by darkness. I took out my cell phone and opened the flashlight app and though the light did little to illuminate the stairway it was enough to guide my path down. The stairs groaned with each step and I was worried they might give way under the weight of my foot. I reached the floor below and shone my light around the room. I could see rows of shelves each lined with books. I paused and listened for a moment for signs that the man was down here but was greeted with silence.

I took a few steps deeper into the room and examined the rows of books. There was a thick coat of dust covering everything down there. A musty odor permeated the room and overpowered my senses. These books had been rotting here for far too long. I pulled a book from the shelf and blew away a layer of dust. Its wooden cover was bound in cracked leather making it seem more like a tome. I didn’t recognize the language it was written in but it looked ancient. I  began turning the pages slowly at first and then with increasing purpose. I was overcome with the sense that the book was guiding my hand, showing me specific entries none of which I could read. And yet understanding began to seep into my thoughts as if the language was no longer a barrier. The pages flew by and I can’t say for certain that my hand had anything further to do with their motion. The book contained truth but it was a truth I wish I’d never known. Behind my eyes, in the space where nightmares dwell, I was consumed by an unrelenting madness. The world around me began to quake as if the fabric of reality was loosening at the seams. A series of loud thumps freed me from my mania and I was momentarily thankful for the reprieve. But then I realized that the tremor hadn’t stopped. A foreign wind whistled down the stairs and I heard the eerie cry of the hinges as the door began to swing shut. I dropped the tome and ran for the stairs just as the door slammed. I stumbled up the steps afraid that when I reached the top the door would be locked, trapping me down here. Without looking back I clenched my fist over the handle and pulled. The door flew open and I very nearly tumbled back down the stairs but I refused to loose my grip on the handle and hoisted myself up. I slammed the door shut and locked it behind me.

I couldn’t reconcile the events that day nor those in the woods but the more time passed, the more I was sure that nothing strange had happened. I hadn’t noticed the man enter the library so it stood to reason that I hadn’t noticed him leave. The horrors I felt in that basement faded from my mind like a dream upon waking and eventually I stopped thinking about them. A month later, I was taking a walk at the beach when the weather took a sudden turn. I was huddled under the cover of a public restroom awning checking the weather on my phone to see if the rain was going to let up at all when I saw him. He was walking along the shore seemingly unconcerned with the inclement downpour. I had to know what he was doing and so I stepped out onto the beach and followed him.

Pinkman’s Lighthouse was a landmark in Postern. The town wasn’t known for much, but on the rare occasion that a tourist happened through, they were often directed to the site. It wasn’t open to the public but it was something to look at. The strange man walked the winding path up the bluff, stepped over a broken fence and splashed toward the cylindrical building. The lighthouse was much taller than it seemed from afar - it must have been two or three stories high. The door, to my surprise, was unlocked. I slipped inside and followed the sound of the man’s footsteps up the stairs.

The staircase curved around the frame of the lighthouse until finally unfolding into a sizable open space. At the center of the room stood the massive rotating spotlight which served as a guide for ships nearing the shore. For a brief moment, the entire room was engulfed in a haunting white light as the bulb revolved. The beam swept the room revealing more than mere shadows could conceal. It was like the visual representation of a weak radio station being overtaken by a stronger signal. I was staring into a space between realities and what I saw threatened to splinter my psyche. There was a far away sensation that I recognized as horror but my consciousness and body were worlds apart. There were no words to describe what lay there in the cracks but in the span of what felt like mere seconds, I knew the true definition of insanity.

I don’t remember collapsing to the ground. I don’t remember crying. But there I found myself, curled in a ball, tears wetting my cheeks. I tried to push myself to a sitting position but my arms would not stop shaking. I stared out over the balcony towards the foggy sea as the light continued its revolution. I desperately wished I had never come here; to this lighthouse, to Postern. I wished I had never left my west coast home at all. And then I saw the man and I knew my misery was only just beginning.

The truth washed over me like a wave, drowning away any lingering doubt: he wasn’t a man at all. His body was merely an anchor, binding his true form to this world. I looked into his eyes and for the first time he looked into mine, only it wasn’t his eyes that noticed me, it was the beast that lay beyond. In all of my education I had not encountered words adequate enough to describe its visage. It was amorphous and yet somehow solid. It had no mouth and yet I saw rows of fangs. It had no eyes and yet it watched me with an alien curiosity. As I lay on the cold metal floor of the lighthouse, the beam of light seemed to spin faster and faster and with each gyration it illuminated the abomination. I yearned to avert my gaze but I was mesmerized by the strobe effect. I clawed at the ground, pleading my body to stand, but all I could do was crawl. The man stood perfectly still but the part of him that existed beyond reckoning crept toward me. It flickered closer and farther all at once as if the physical space between us was immaterial. I inched toward the edge of the balcony unsure of what I planned to do if I reached it. Maybe I thought I had a better chance surviving the thirty foot drop than I would with the anathema, but before I had a chance to decide, the beast’s outstretched appendage twisted around my leg and dragged me back. I pleaded for mercy and this time I remembered the tears.

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The Visitor in Postern was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.