The Plague Man

“I bring to you the seven tokens of the flesh to end the blight.”

The Plague Man knelt on the stone floor; his raven mask muffled the sound of his voice, red glass hid his eyes, while his black coat spread out behind him.

The old monastery was nearly abandoned. Only one remained to keep the copper pipes struggling to bring in clean air, free of disease, or to replace the broken glass on the stained windows. The rest had fallen to ruin­­, the gardens now nothing more than a graveyard.

Isaiah reached for them­­: blood, scales, bone, and claws, all carved from the monsters that brought the sickness.

The Plague Man stopped his hand. “Perform your rite Holy Man, but touch them not, or the seven devils will search for you instead.”

Had the man asked Isaiah the same only fourteen days past he could have­­--the plague would have ended right here and now.

“I cannot.” Isaiah replied, and hung his head in shame. “I gambled with the necromancer on the hill, and lost my soul. I had hoped…” Tears blurred his vision as he cut off what he had been about to say. What difference did it make what he had hoped? “I must now give him the tokens or my afterlife will be his to command.”

A specter's wail sounded in the distance, carried by the wind.

“The devils are near.” The Plague Man tilted his head in the perfect parody of the carrion eaters he resembled, listening. “I did as you asked thinking I had finally found the end.”

His cloak folded like wings against his body when he stepped aside, favoring the shadow of a pillar. Isaiah stared down at the tokens, seeing freedom from the plague ruined because of his folly. Because he thought there had been a way to convince the necromancer to destroy the demons.

“Tell me Plague Man, now that you have them could you not seek another holy man with these hidden away?”

“Not with seven devils at your door. My skill is not so great as that.”

The scratching and pounding announced their arrival; with howls to send the bravest intentions to dust with terror at what waited beyond the oaken door.

Before there could be any objection or thought, Isaiah reached out and touched each grisly item. He did not feel fear as he thought he would, but instead absolved.

“I swear to you, for the time you have bought me, when this is done I will free your soul.”

The Plague Man wrapped the tokens in a thick leather case, so as not to touch them again, and let them vanish into the folds of his coat.

"Thank you,” Isaiah whispered to the dark­­, never hearing or seeing the man disappear as the door shattered.

A.J. Vasquez says, "Unfortunately, I’m not funny, and cruel to my subconscious creatures as I toy with their emotions in black and white."

Family Manners

Beyond the free-for-all approach to large family get-togethers for in-laws and outlaws, her family no longer has any manners at table. There is no formal prescription or proscription of actions surrounding holiday get-togethers, except for the one great shared meal each Thanksgiving. Rules apply then. Animosities must be held in abeyance. A hierarchy of age is instituted for serving and seating. The smallest children are banished to another room, at least to another table, usually a card table, or TV trays. Adults are left to their strained relationships, but everyone is expected to be on their best behavior: no discussion of politics, religion or sex, by tacit, mutual agreement. All three subjects, therefore, become focal points of riotous disagreement within the first few minutes. It had been her deepest hope that it would work this year, but she knew it might be doomed and had planned for it.

She realizes one result of not allowing the youngest children at the main table will be their postponed acquisition of profanity until preschool. But the best result is that the children are not served from the turkey she prepared especially for the feuding adults from her own very special recipe.


Rick Hartwell believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like William Blake, that the instant contains eternity.

Two More For Dinner

Dinner went well until Mother swallowed too large a piece of turkey and, after a hurried but heartfelt thump on the back by Uncle Victor, ejected not only the lump of partially chewed meat but a proportion of her stomach contents as well. 

Donald looked at his mother with some anxiety while Jennie, a napkin pressed over her nose and mouth, hurried to open a window. “Are you all right, mum?”

“She's fine.” Oblivious to the smell of vomit, Victor returned to his plate, taking the opportunity to snag a second helping of roast potatoes. He nudged their mother with his elbow. “You're fine aren't you, Mum? The food was a bit richer than she's used to, that's all.” He speared a Brussels sprout and held it aloft. “Marvelous fare though, Jennie. Thanks for inviting us.”

“Er... You're welcome, Victor. I'm glad there's enough. Don didn't mention you were coming.”

“I didn't know.” Donald scowled at his brother. “You never said you were visiting.”

“It was a last minute decision.” Victor nudged the old woman again. “Wasn't it mum?”

“Last minute.” The old woman's movements were almost mechanical. Cut-stab-cut-stab-transfer to mouth-chew-swallow-repeat. 

Donald pushed his plate away, searching for a topic of conversation. “So what made you come this year? Don't you usually go to Ludmilla's?” Ludmilla was their sister. She lived only a few miles from their mother's house in Norfolk. “Not that it isn't a nice change you came here, of course. I was just curious.”

“Ludmilla's got the exterminators in.” Victor speared a piece of roasted turnip, added a slice of sausage stuffing and steered both through the pool of cranberry jelly. “Someone complained about the rats.”

Their mother's eyes flickered briefly. “Rats.” 

Donald nodded sagely. “Ah. She always had a problem with rats. Comes of living on the fens, I suppose.” 

“So they say.” Victor gave a snort of laughter. “Though the mud helps preserve the bodies.”

“Bodies?” Jennie turned from her street gazing. “What bodies?”

Donald narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Didn't I ever tell you, love? Ludmilla's a mortician. I'm sure I would have said.”

“We've been married eleven years, Donald, and you've never mentioned it once.” Jennie's tone was as cold as the congealing gravy. “I think I'd have remembered, especially after Uncle Ron died . We had such a fuss trying to find someone willing to reassemble him after his accident.”

“You should have asked, Don. Ludmilla would have been more than willing.” Victor gestured at her with his knife, mercifully devoid of content. “She's got a beautiful blanket stitch. She wins prizes for it.”

Donald looked at their mother. She had, thankfully, cleaned up most of her plate and was reaching for the dish of turkey slices. There was a sudden noise from the region of her armpit, the sort of sound cloth makes when it rips down a seam. A bulge appeared in the sleeve of her dress. Victor looked alarmed.

“Have you torn your dress, love?” Jennie reached to push the plate of turkey closer to her mother in law but stopped in mid-action. “Donald? There's something on her sleeve.”

Donald followed the line of her pointing finger, expecting but dreading what he saw. A single white maggot worked its way out of her cuff and dropped to the table, and where there was one, there were a hundred more. The bulge in her sleeve was wriggling. “Victor? I think you need to take mum for a comfort break.”

“If you think so, Donald.” Victor stood, very deliberately placing one hand over her arm to prevent further escapes. “Come on mother. Let's get you sorted out. I told you not to eat so much.”

“Eat much. Eat.” Their mother grinned suddenly, her teeth yellow against the dark cavern of her mouth. “Food good.” Her elongated vowels were the sound of wind through a mausoleum.

“Jennie's glad you enjoyed it.” Victor steered her out of the room.

Donald sighed. Jennie had a look of clouds before a thunderstorm. He reached across the table and picked up the stray maggot, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I should have told you this a long time ago, love, but our name hasn't always been shortened to 'Stein'...”

Rachel Green juggles time between walking in the Derbyshire Dales and writing. She doesn't walk all that much.