From the Desk of the
Editor;
Hello and welcome to
Larks Fiction Magazine! In today's issue we are traveling into the
world of dreams to discover what thrives in the darkness of the human
mind.
In news the bank is
moving toward closing on our deal! This means soon we will be in our
own space.
Thank you for
reading and make sure to check out our online store on Smashwords.com.
Yours,
Daniel J. Pool
LFM Editor
Trapped in a dream
By Charles Bernard
September 1999 was a
dream come true month
A journey to freedom
has been perfected
Excitement brewed on
my chubby face as
The dusty wind of
sahara blew against my plumpy cheeks
Behind me stood my
father ‘the pride of my very being’
The heights of
academic excellence i climbed
Far from home in the
land of the unknown
A peaceful world i
build around me ‘friends and foes’
11 years on each
step i quietly climbed with ease
Through all i dreamt
at the very peak of my dawn
A snore away from
the cock crow
Faces of smiles
turned to faces of worry
The sounds of
playing kids suddenly extinct
Suspended breakfasts
as anxiety cripped into homes
Hope hang in balance
and faith lay in ruin
The rain washed the
blood of loved ones down drainages
Around me scary
scenes played , beautiful dream turned sour
I am trapped between
living and believing
My dreams and my
reality
Caveat Emptor
by
D. Robert Grixti
He hadn't meant to,
but Jack Livings had found himself browsing the dimly lit shop,
poring over dusty junk that he didn't think he'd consider buying in a
million years.
He really hadn't
counted on stopping by the little store but he'd been driving all day
and, confident that he would get to the interstate in time for the
big conference, he'd pulled over beside it anyway, suddenly taken by
the strange desire to see what was sold within.
The Sanguine
Exchange, the faded sign above
the shopfront had read. It was an odd name for a store of any kind,
thought Jack, but somehow it seemed apt for the run down, almost
deserted looking little shop that had seemingly sprung up out of
nowhere on the side of the highway.
It had struck Jack
as weird that such a place existed out in the middle of nowhere, and
it didn't surprise him that his was the only car parked in the
sunbaked car park. He had only intended to stop for a few minutes, to
check out the merchandise on display, but he found the large, dusty
window display completely empty, except for a termite-eaten
mannequin, beckoning him with an outreaching hand. In spite of
himself, he approached, and then he noticed a yellowing sheet of
paper taped to its wooden chest:
Welcome, friend.
Please feel free to enter.
And so, Jack had
suddenly felt the bizarre, urgent desire to enter, and here he was
now, browsing the meagre selection of ancient, dusty objects and
antique furniture that was scattered about inside. The proprietor, a
pale skinned man who looked like the walking dead, watched him
eagerly as he went.
“I
know just what you're after,” the proprietor said, motioning
towards a small wooden box stuffed haphazardly on a shelf in the
back.
“Uh,
I'm not really looking to buy anything today,” Jack said, shaking
his head. “I just wanted to browse.”
“Please,
Mr Livings, I'm sure you'll want to take a look at this,” the
proprietor said, gripping Jack's arm in a bony hand that felt more
like a talon and leading him across the room. “Nobody has ever left
my store without finding something they absolutely have to own, and I
won't take no for an answer.”
It occurred to Jack
that the proprietor somehow knew his name even though he hadn't
mentioned it up to this point, but there was something about the old
man's face that was so entrancing that it didn't seem to matter. Jack
couldn't help staring at his eyes, faded blue ones that had lost
their vibrancy decades ago and before he knew it, the tiny box was
sitting in the palm of his hand, and the proprietor was staring back
at him, giving him a wide, welcoming smile.
“Well,
go ahead and open it, Mr Livings,” he prompted, tapping the lid
with a skeletal finger. “I guarantee you'll like it.”
Well, the man
certainly knows how to drive a sale, Jack thought, flicking the brass
catch on the front of the box and opening the lid.
Inside the box was a
shard of glass. It was jagged and cracked and it seemed to Jack to be
a piece of a mirror, even though it was blanketed in a layer of dust
so thick that it only reflected hazy outlines and shadows.
“Do
you like it, Mr Livings?” the proprietor asked kindly. “It's
yours for forty dollars.”
Forty bucks, Jack
thought, shaking his head. The man was obviously senile - the thing
didn't even reflect anything anymore.
“Uh,
I don't really think I-“ Jack stammered, fumbling for the lid,
still unable to look away from the old man's face. “I mean, the
dust…”
“The
dust?” the proprietor said, taking the small box and raising it to
his eye. “What dust? I don't see any dust. Maybe you should take
another look.”
He
handed the box back to Jack and smiled. Jack opened his mouth, to
begin telling the man that the thing was in fact covered
with dust, but then he caught sight
of those old, ghostly eyes again, and he somehow felt like he had to
check to make sure first.
He flipped the brass
catch again and opened the lid once more. This time the shard was
clean. The surface of the glass, that (he thought) had been cracked
and covered in dust only seconds ago was now smooth and polished, and
when he picked it up in his fingers and carefully brought it to eye
level for closer inspection, he saw his face reflected in it
perfectly.
“Wow,”
he said, astonished. “What did you do? It's- Ouch!”
He felt a piercing
pain shoot through the bridge of his nose, and he dropped the shard
back into the box. He rubbed the tip of his nose with his finger and
felt something wet.
“Are
you okay, Mr Livings?” the proprietor asked, frowning in what
appeared to be concern.
“It's
fine,” Jack said, pinching his nostrils together with his fingers.
“It's just a nosebleed, but I don't know how it's-”
“Ah,
don't worry. Here, I have a handkerchief you can use,” the old man
interrupted, pressing a handkerchief that looked as if it had not
been unfolded in centuries into his hand, exchanging it for the box
with the shard, which he promptly shut and returned to the shelf.
“All
better now?” he asked when he was facing Jack again.
“Yes,
it's stopped now. Thanks,” Jack replied, folding up the bloody
handkerchief and handing it to the proprietor.
The old man smiled
kindly and shook his head.
“You
keep it, Mr Livings. You might need it.”
Jack nodded in
thanks and made to put the handkerchief into his pocket. As he
turned, he caught a glimpse of the old man's strange eyes once again:
this time, they were a deep, piercing blue, vibrant and youthful once
more.
“Obviously
the shard isn't for you,” the old man said, taking Jack's arm in
his talon-like hand once more and escorting him to the front of the
store. “Never mind, though. That wasn't the only trinket I have
tucked away in this old store of mine.”
“What
did you do back there?” Jack asked, scratching his nose again,
where he felt the slight tingling sensation of another nosebleed
coming on. “One minute it was all old and dusty, and the next-”
“It
was shiny and new again, wasn't it?” the old man said, chuckling as
if at some sinister inside joke. “Yes, that's what it does.
Everyone who stops in always finds it most fascinating,
you know?”
“But
what is it?” Jack
asked, his bleeding nose wrapped in the handkerchief again.
“It's
exactly what it seems to be,” the proprietor said. “It is a
mirror. And as for what it does… It does just what mirrors are
meant to do. It reflects.
In fact, I think it reflects just a bit too well, which, alas, is why
its creator took to smashing it.”
He paused
dramatically to let the meaning of his words sink in, and, as he
pondered over what he had just heard, Jack felt for the tiniest
second the slightest hint of foreboding.
Jack saw the
proprietor's eyes drift to the small doorway that led to the dusty
storage room. He followed the old man's gaze and, in the shadows, he
could make out the silhouette of a large floor mirror. The sun chose
this convenient moment to emerge for from behind a cloud and a ray of
light illuminated the glass frame just long enough for Jack to get
the vaguest glimpse of what it reflected: Jack's own face, with dead
eyes and the gray, leathery skin of a week old corpse.
“What
is it that seems to be the matter, Mr Livings?” the old man asked
kindly, noticing Jack's stunned expression out of the corner of his
eye.
“It
was- I- the mirror,” Jack spluttered, trying to regain control of
his own mind. An intelligible voice seemed to chatter somewhere
inside his head, urging him to leave the weird little store,
reminding him forcefully that he had places he needed to be,
but no sooner had he tuned into it before he found himself entranced
by those commanding eyes again.
“Of
course, I told you nobody leaves my store empty handed, did I not?”
the proprietor said, smiling mischievously. “In fact, I think I
have the very thing for you. I'm assuming by the fact that fate has
brought you past my little den today on the edge of an otherwise
deserted highway, you're away from home on a road trip of some kind,
aren't you Jack?”
He leaned in over
the dirty counter as he said his words, inching his weathered face
closer to Jack's, and suddenly, his tone went cold and sinister.
“You're
all alone and a very long way from home, my friend.”
His eyes gleamed
hungrily, like sparkling blue flames. Their terrible gaze lingered on
Jack's stony face, and Jack didn't seem to care that the old man was
edging ever closer to him. He didn't notice that the proprietor's
cracked lips were beginning to part to reveal bloody, bestial teeth
behind, and then-
“Ouch!”
he said, another bout of pain tearing through his nose and forcing
him to look away. When it passed and he looked back again, the
proprietor had pulled away, and was smiling happily from behind the
counter once more.
And now, Jack
remembered suddenly, it really was time to leave. The
incomprehensible voice inside his head was back, yelling at him as
loud as it could.
Get out!
Go!
This place isn't
right!
“Look,
I probably should get back on the road,” Jack said to the
proprietor. He meant it too; the nosebleeds were starting to make him
feel queasy. “I have to be in the city by tomorrow morning, and I
told my daughter I'd be back home in time for her birthday, as well.”
“Of
course,” said the proprietor kindly. “I was merely going to
suggest you take home a souvenir for your little girl. A birthday
present from the interstate.”
He fumbled under the
counter, still not letting Jack out of his sight, and then he reached
out and pressed something cold and sharp into Jack's left hand. He
wasn't going to let his customer leave without making a sale.
Jack sighed and
looked down at the object sitting on his palm. It was an uncut ruby,
obviously worth a bit, because it glowed a deep, vibrant red even in
the shadow of the store's interior.
“The
local export,” the proprietor announced. “There used to be a gem
mine around here years ago. Not very far from this shop, if you'll
believe it. I used to make a roaring trade in those stones, at least
until some of the miners died in an unfortunate accident decades ago
and the operation was shut down for good.”
“And
this is one of the last gems they mined, right?” Jack asked,
turning the stone around in his fingers absentmindedly.
“The
very last,” the
proprietor replied. “In that way, it's a very special stone indeed.
It's also very special because it's impure, cheap, which is why I was
never able to sell it. But it'd make an excellent gift for a young
girl's birthday, don't you think?”
If the ruby was low
quality, it didn't look it to Jack. It was one of the biggest,
realest looking gemstones he'd seen, and if the unnoticeable fact
that it wasn't pure made it cheap…
His daughter
certainly wouldn't care, that was for sure.
“How
much?”
“A
bargain. Twenty dollars, and the deal, as they say, is done,” the
old man declared with a flourish.
Jack retrieved his
wallet and placed a twenty dollar note down on the counter.
“Thank
you, mister Livings,” the proprietor said, opening the ancient cash
register beside him to put the money away. “The little girl won't
forget this birthday,
I guarantee it. She'll be having quite the surprise indeed.”
He stared into
Jack's face one last time, and laughed. He didn't look like the
walking dead anymore. Now his skin was illuminated in the sunlight
that billowed in through the window at the front of the store, and -
healthy and filled with colour after all - it wasn't pale and ghostly
any longer.
“You're
looking a bit pale, Jack,” he said, pointing towards a looking
glass behind the counter, where Jack's gaunt face languished,
suddenly pasty and dry. “Maybe you should see somebody about those
nosebleeds? In either case, I think you should be on your way now.
You have to be in the city by tomorrow, remember?”
“That's
right,” Jack said in a slur, before clasping the handkerchief to
his nose.
“You
really do look like you're getting a bit ill,” the old man
commented softly. “Get yourself out of the dust and into the fresh
air before you faint, my good friend.”
He pointed
forcefully to the door and waved goodbye with his right hand. The
carved oak door that served as the entrance swung open of its own
accord and, seemingly on their own, Jack Livings' legs carried him
out of the store and back to his car, which was waiting where he left
it outside.
Jack climbed into
his car and wiped the last dregs of blood from his nose. He folded up
the proprietor's handkerchief again (it was now nearly entirely
soaked in crimson) and shoved it into the glove compartment, before
reaching for his keys and inserting them into the ignition.
What
a strange store, he thought, taking one last glance at The
Sanguine Exchange as he pulled
out of the car park onto the deserted highway. The store still looked
as strange and out of place as it did when he first arrived. Except
now, the sight of it stirred something inside him, and filled him
with some unexplainable feeling that something was very wrong. The
tattered mannequin still stared at him from the window as he drove
away, except now its hand was no longer beckoning and the yellowing
note, if he had still been close enough to read it, now said:
Thank you. DON'T
come again.
Inside the store,
deep within the silent storage room, the strange old man pondered the
reflection of the dead man in the mirror before him, and smiled a wry
smile.
* * *
MAN FOUND DEAD ON
FREEWAY
Clement Cove
Courier, December 2nd
The body of an
elderly man was found this afternoon by a family of holiday makers,
on the Western Freeway, 12km from Black River, a close by mining
community.
The deceased,
identified as Mr Jack Livings, was found slumped at the wheel of his
car, which had pulled over at the side of the road. The state coroner
reported that Mr Livings had apparently been dead for just over 48
hours. The cause of death appears to have been a brain haemorrhage.
The deceased's face was covered in blood. Mr Livings was found
clutching a blood soaked pebble. The significance of this remains
unknown.
Police say that
Mr Livings seems to have died of natural causes and have ruled out
foul play. Mr Livings is survived by a wife and two children.
About the Author;
D.
Robert Grixti is a writer and indie video game
developer hailing from Melboure, Australia. His major influences
include John Wyndham, Robert J Sawyer and Lovecraft.
His work has been
published in Imagine Literary Journal (the literary journal of
Deakin University in Australia), Crossfire Magazine, Danse
Macabre, The WiFiles, Linguistic Erosion, Black Petals, Static
Movement, Eunoia Review and more.
His first novel, Sun
Bleached Winter, is to be released in December of this 2012 from
Damnation Books, in digital and paperback formats, and he has a
novelette entitled Fragments of Sunrise that is to be released
as an e-short by Disposable Fiction.
You
can follow Grixti on Twitter at https://twitter.com/#!/DRobertGrixti
and on Facebook at
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dark-Gaia-Studios/365139189465
Thank you for
reading and make sure to come back next week for more great fiction.
Also make sure to see our expansive collection of past issues.
