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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781612921372 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Purple Sword Publications, LLC |
| Publication date: | 02/05/2015 |
| Pages: | 186 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.40(d) |
About the Author
Max writes horror and science fiction stories, often with a dark twist. John Gardner's The Art of Fiction is the single most important influence on his thinking about the craft of writing. Authors as diverse as John Updike, Dean Koontz, Richard Matheson, and Lawrence Block inspire and inform his literary style.
Max Griffin is the pen name of a mathematician and academic. Under his professional name, he is the author of a graduate textbook in real analysis and numerous research articles in nonlinear functional analysis. When he is not writing fiction, his days are filled with teaching mathematics and statistics, research, and administrative work at a major comprehensive university in the southwest. He is the proud parent of a daughter who is a librarian, and the grandparent to two beautiful little boys. He is blessed to be in a long-term relationship with his life partner, Mr. Gene, who is an expert knitter.
The two humans in Max's household are the pets of an Abyssinian cat named Mr. Dinger, short for Erwin Schrodinger the Cat. Mr. Dinger graciously lets them live in his home in return for food and occasional petting. Oh, and there's that litter box thing they do for him too.
Read an Excerpt
The ancient, blue van prowled the dark and empty streets.
It shuttled between shadows and pools of yellow illumination, creeping along and puffing foul exhaust. Scraps of trash and the occasional leaf swirled in random breezes in its wake. A rusted dent scarred the right rear panel and mud obscured the license plate. Opaque, tinted windows cloaked the van's driver. A dog hung out of the window on the passenger's side, his ears flopping.
The driver ran one hand over the sparse beard that bristled on his sunken cheeks. He pushed greasy ropes of dark hair back onto his balding head and reached out to pet the dog. His hands were filthy, his long fingernails fouled with grime, but the dog didn't care. A misborn mongrel, the creature's burly torso filled the passenger seat. Under the mud matting his shanks, his mottled fur was mostly yellow, but flecked here and there with traces of gray. One ear flapped in two pieces from an old injury.
Disintegrating warehouses huddled along one side of the street. Brambles and weeds entwined a chain link fence running along the other side. An old cemetery, dark and silent, lay beyond the fence. The cemetery's plots had been exhausted nearly a century ago and no mourners remained to visit the dead entombed there. Deep inside the cemetery, a statue of a grieving monk loomed on a small hillock, a gift from a long forgotten benefactor. A shroud of stone cloaked the monk's features, his face forever hidden from view. Crumpled cigarette butts, IV needles and used condoms littered the base of the statue, marking it as a meeting place for drug deals and male prostitutes.
The blue van wheezed along the near boundary of the cemetery. Now andagain the dog's nose twitched as he picked up some new scent. Then he dropped back inside and woofed at the driver. The van slowed.
"You found someone for us to play with, Chippie?" The man's whispered voice was high and whiny, but even so, seemed to bubble up from the depths of his throat.
The dog woofed again, gazing up at the driver. He nodded his head up and down, as though answering, "Yes." His tail wagged like a crazy metronome and he pawed at the steering wheel. The van pulled to the curb and the driver doused the lights. The dog whimpered in anticipation. The engine stumbled and coughed to a stop.
"Where is he at, Chippie?" The man looked at the dog as though expecting an answer.
The dog stood on the seat and pointed his nose toward the cemetery. He tossed his head and woofed again. The dog's eyes reflected the street lamps with a verdant internal gleam.
"There in the cemetery, Chippie? Is our new toy out there?"
The dog chuffed and jerked his head.
The man smiled. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a filthy fake cast, which he slipped onto his arm. He twisted his hand to make sure the cast was secured and opened his door. "Anyone else out there, Chippie, or just our new toy?"
The dog leapt over him to the street, twitching his nose as he tipped his head this way and that. He peered back at the man. This time he shook his head back and forth, as though to say, "No, there is no one else."
Missing teeth gaped through the man's smile. The two set off into the cemetery, the canine bounding ahead of the human into the murky night.
"Chippie! Come back here, dog!" His voice wafted through the darkness, trailing after his mutt. When the statue of the monk loomed out of the darkness, the man hid in the shadows. In the chill air of this night, he saw another person huddled in the cemetery, a young man. He was hunkered down, resting with his back against a tombstone. He shivered slightly and clutched at his bright yellow and green letter jacket.
The dog sped in the direction of the newcomer. He stopped momentarily at the statue of the hooded monk to relieve himself.
"Chippie. Where are you, Chippie?" The man called out in his high, bubbly voice.
The dog scratched at the dirt, sniffed around the base of the statue, then looked directly at the figure crouched against the cold and trotted over to him. He wagged his tail, and the young man ruffled his ears. "Are you Chippie, fella? How you doin'? Yeah, you're a good dog."
Woof! Frantic with glee, the dog licked at his hands and face. Woof, woof!
Time to move, the man decided. "Chippie! Is that you, dog? Come here, boy. Come to pappa!" He panted and clouds of breath puffed from his mouth while he wiped a sheen of cold sweat from his brow.
Chippie turned toward his voice. Woof!
The man wove his way through the tombstones. As he approached, the other coalesced out of the darkness and took clearer form. He read the name Walt Sedgwick, embroidered in script over the heart of the letter jacket. The fellow was young and slim, with shaggy hair and a discouraged beard. Dirt smeared his face and he could hear his stomach growl. Good. I bet he's lookin' for a trick. Well, he's gonna get what he's askin' for, and more! A dry chuckle rasped in his throat.
"Hey, mister, didja lose your dog?" Walt's clear tenor rang through the darkness. His voice shivered in the cold.
He'll be a nice toy for us, all right, the man thought. He stopped short, feigning surprise at finding someone here.
Woof! Chippie slobbered ever more frantic licks onto the young man's hand before stopping and looking at his master. The mutt's head bobbed up and down.
The man plastered his most woebegone look across his face. "Yeah, he's my dog. Chippie, come here boy." The man dangled the leash. The dog didn't move.
The man sighed and edged closer. "I was gonna take him for a walk, y'know, to do his business? But he ran off before I could get his leash on him." The man rubbed his cast. "It's hard, with my arm the way it is."
Walt smiled and tousled the dog's ears again. "I think he already did his business, over there by the statue."
"Yeah, that's good." The man struggled with the dog's collar and leash. "Could you maybe help me, young fellow? My arm hurts so bad, and I can't get the leash on him. He don't like it much."
"Sure, why not?" He took the leash from the man and clipped it to the dog's collar. The dog sat on his haunches and looked first at one, then the other.
"I wonder, could you please help me get him back into my van? My arm hurts when he tugs at it. It takes two good arms to get him back inside the van."
The other narrowed his eyes and peered at the older man. He wrinkled his nose. "What's in it for me?"
You don't smell so good, neither, the man thought. But he said, "I ain't got no money or nuthin' to give you, but I'd sure be grateful if you'd help." The man paused. "I've got some snacks in my van you could have. And you look cold. I could give you a warm place to sleep, if you want." The man held himself and shivered.
Walt's stomach growled again and he hesitated. But then he shrugged. "Sure, why not?" He tugged on the leash. "C'mon, Chippie, let's go."
"Oh, thank you so much, young man. It is so good of you to help an old man like me." He rubbed the cast again and beamed. The scent of his rotting teeth fouled the frigid air.
All the way to the van the man babbled about how badly his arm hurt, about how the dog was so hard to handle, about how good it was for Walt to help him.
"Here, let's put him in the back." The man rushed ahead and opened the rear door of the van. "If you'll climb in the van and pull on the leash, then maybe he'll go in after you."
Trash and an overpowering stench clogged the rear of the van. Walt seemed to balk for a moment and shivered in a gust of cold air. He climbed in and tugged at the leash. "C'mon Chippie, let's go!" The dog resisted a moment and then leapt into the van. His forepaws thrust against the young man's shoulders and frantic licks cascaded across his mouth and cheeks. Woof! The two tumbled to the floor of the van, Walt laughing and the dog woofing, wagging and licking.
The smelly man climbed into the van with them. "I'm so sorry. Chippie, what are you doing? Get away from there!" His voice was sharp and biting. Casting a wary eye on Walt to be sure he wasn't looking, he picked up a crowbar from the clutter on the floor and hid it behind his back.
The dog whimpered and withdrew.
Still laughing, Walt sat up and wiped at his face. "It's all right. He's just happy to be back here I guess."
The stinky man came closer, gazing down upon him. The dog crouched and panted, watching, his tongue drooling out of his mouth and slobber pooling in the trash on the floor. The dog tipped his head as though to get a better view of what was to come.
Walt locked eyes with the man and touched his crotch, as though in invitation. He smiled and waggled his hips.
The stinky man smiled back, and then, with no warning, swung the crowbar. Walt flopped to the floor of van, blood spouting from a wound in his scalp. The van shook as the man swung the crowbar four more times in rapid succession, careful not to strike the head again. Dropping the crowbar, he bound his victim's wrists and ankles with duct tape. One long piece went all the way around Walt's head, muffling his mouth.
The man ruffled Chippie's ears. "Good dog. This one looks like he'll be a fun toy."
Chippie nodded in fervid agreement. Woof! His tail wagged with an insane frenzy.
The man slammed the rear door of the van and crawled to the driver's seat while Chippie leapt into the passenger seat. The engine coughed and smoked before it started. Together they drove away, a man and his dog.