DarklyEverAfter
Chapter Three Slow Tequila Drunk
Chapter Four Jack on the Rocks
Chapter Seven A Night At the Key Party
Chapter Eight Something to What You Say
Chapter Twelve The Secret Sins of Amy
When happily ever after has a dark side.
Allistar Parker has created a collection of stories to excite your darker side of life. Through the eyes of some seedy characters, difficult masters, a zombie, an old Volkswagen, you can experience those moments your mother warned you about.
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Darkly Ever After
Copyright © 2013
Allistar Parker
ISBN: 978-1-77111-533-9
Cover art by Angela Waters
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books
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Darkly Ever After
By
Allistar Parker
Index
The Man’s World
My Father’s House:
The camera caught it all.
Smoking:
Sometimes, we learn things the hard way.
Slow Tequila Drunk:
A noir detective finds life too rough in a small town.
A Night at the Key Party:
She got it right, but he got it good.
Rock, Paper, Scissors:
Another child’s game with a twist.
Something to What You Say:
Love waits.
The Woman’s World
Zombie Center:
Mothers’ Milk Can Heal Anything.
Bad Girl:
Most Husbands Get it, In the End.
Carla’s Room:
She had to have it there.
The Secret Sins of Amy:
An Old Guy’s Confession.
The Man’s World
Chapter One
My Father’s House
The
grass huts ringed the center of the village, browned from the sun. Over in the rice fields, the oxen stood hoof-deep in water. The church bell tower stood above the grass roofs majestically, as if watching over the people of the village.
They were hiding from us, waiting for us to appear in their sights. Just one misstep would offer us as clear targets. For now, the jungle leaves covered our march. Soon, we would be out of foliage and exposed to our enemy.
The only ones left were the young. The rest had been carried off by the insurgents months before. These children, robbed of their childhood, faced the awful choices left by decades of strife in their country. War ravages the young and old alike, but the children, the last seed corn of war, suffered the most.
Mud squished around my boots as I tried to steady myself for those first few shots. The clicking of my sixteen-millimeter Bolex movie camera set the cadence of my steps. Along the tree’s edge, mixed in among the leaves, facing us with childish determination, were the faces of the young boys and girls, armed and standing ready to fight. They were twelve or fourteen, maybe younger. With no experience, they would soon be massacred.
The lofty sounds of muttered prayer rolled out of some of our men. Others cursed the job. All of us carried out our usual battle rituals. I knelt down and begged God to spare all of us this insane massacre.
I believed in God, not that it mattered much. There was never a revelation that said I was anything more than one of his play toys. The thought of some supreme being watching over the earth as a benevolent king vanished with my childhood and dreams of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.
The officers, huddled in the recesses of their comfortable tents, pointed to their maps and shouted orders to us over the radio. A laugh or two escaped their lips as they contemplated the struggle we were about to begin. We could hear the sounds of lunch in the background with each radio contact from them. This scene had become far too normal.
The first shot echoed across the open field. Then another. With the screams and hollers, the kids catapulted as they froze in their tracks, hiding behind the barn or some tattered structure, their eyes fixed on the enemy ahead. The distinct rattle of an enemy’s AK-47 preceded the bolt slapping sounds of a Ma Deuce stippling a line of bullets through the boys along the tree line. The thunder from a grenade covered the shrillness of a lone soldier screaming in pain, all captured on my camera in brilliant Kodak color.
I lost my place in this mess, unable to tell where my camera pointed. The richness of the brown and camouflage scenery melted into the iris, swallowing the background of blue so that I didn’t know how close to the fighting I had wandered. Even in the fog of my thoughts, I found a place to hide. A small recess in the ground where I would be safe. Trembling as the film rolled, I continued, steadfast in my duty.
An explosion rumbled across the open field. The staccato sounds of shots bouncing around me were like musical triplets. The bass line rang from the thumps of the tubes on the hill, scattering shrapnel in the midst of the boys held behind the barn in reserve. I stood to capture the moment on film when, in an instant a single shot rang out from the bell tower.
After the echo left, I found myself engulfed in utter silence, devoid of my senses except for my sight.
The sun’s rays shone on the field as I viewed the whole process from above. I drifted past the bell tower window and saw the girl, no more than sixteen years old, ratchet another round in her rifle. She pulled the trigger without emotion, killing my sound man. I watched his soul rise from his body until he crashed through the clouds and out of sight, followed closely by the dead boys of the field.
The ragged clothes and unkempt hair of these kids somehow made the whole situation more palatable to us. The girl was too young to know about killing someone, to not feel anything as she watched someone die. She was a throw away child in a useless country, the victim of some far-off dictator whose quest was for power was at the expense of those young children. For the child’s lost youth, I was sad. For the child’s lost life, I cried.
I felt strangely safe as I rose through the clouds, hovered over the earth still draped in a blue hue. Crashing into space left me speechless. I was floating, but not at my will or my direction. I was drawn to that place, dark and murky, as if pulled along the way. The darker it got, the less I felt until my eyes closed in sleep.
Waking on a lawn, I looked across the green, lush field of freshly cut weeds. In the foreground stood a stately old mansion, one like my father restored for our family to live in. The wrought iron rails were entangled in vines and weeds, and the English boxwoods had grown high enough to cover the first floor windows. The whitewash on the bricks was faded and failed to cover the redness behind it. The woodwork had lost its charm, as the bare wood rotted in places. All manner of critters roamed the rooms as the missing windows allowed them access. I thought I was in heaven, but I must have found hell.
My camera was still around my neck, so I filmed the building. It might be disheveled, but no one could deny its majesty and beauty. Perhaps, for my sins, I was sent to hell to reclaim this house. Perhaps if I did, God would reclaim me. I didn’t know, but it felt good to film something so beautiful. Not the least of my joy was filming something devoid of blood and guts.
As I stood in the rough grass, my camera to my eye, a man placed his hand on my shoulder. “This is your mansion, Son, but it is not ready, yet. You must return home so that I can prepare this place for you.”
The gentle touch of the man startled me. I looked across the field, searching for a glimpse, but I found none. All I saw was a pretty young woman standing by my house, working on a small hole in the wood. Naked and unashamed, she skillfully worked her way around the hole until the hole vanished from sight.
Standing, she turned in my direction. Walking slowly, I could vision her beauty in the lens of the camera, slim waist, hourglass figure, and a smile that covered her face. Those blue eyes stared at me as if to invite me along the path she was taking. Holding my hand, she dragged me through the jungle, gently touching my arms once in a while.
“Would you like to touch me while we walk?” she asked.
I didn’t know how to react. The torturous desire to touch her breasts was held back by the thought of defiling this beauty with my lustful mind. In the end, I just held her hand.
We stopped at a pond just short of the field. I watched her settle onto a rock a few feet from shore. She dangled her feet in the water and her hand, disconnected from her thoughts, brushed her pubic hair, twisting it a few times before starting her pattern all over again.
The camera caught it all, from the first stroke of her hair until she was writhing in ecstasy. Her fingers gently rolled over her lower lips and down across her clitoris. With her eyes closed, I thought maybe she had forgotten I was here. The intense strokes turned to a deep pounding of her pussy. And when I thought she was through, she started again.
Her body telegraphed her orgasm by shaking and convulsing. Her legs stiffened as she opened her eyes to the sun. A small moan followed a vocalized pronouncement of pleasure. She came.
“Back to work, young lady,” the man said.
I lowered my camera so that I could meet this man, but all I saw was a Navy Corpsman frantically working on my chest wound. Flat on my back in the blood-soaked mud, I felt the cold prick of fear climbing up my spine. I held my camera tight to my side as they rolled me onto a litter. The bouncing trip to the Huey sent bolts of pain across my chest with each step until they racked me in a bunk.
They returned my camera to me several weeks later, untouched by others. I often watch the footage of the house when I am down or blue. Just knowing there is a restored mansion waiting for me is comfort enough. But I often wonder what happened to that girl.
Chapter Two Smoking
I sat in the chair staring across the room at the barroom beauty sleeping on the motel bed. Her long legs stretched across the spread to dangle her feet over the edge. I loved the peaceful look on her face, the comfortable semi-smile curling in an expression of satisfaction. Her sensuous smell of perfume and sex drifted in my direction.
