Jack & Evil

121

Jack & Evil

By

Shaun Adams

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Shaun Adams

Cover Art: http://www.thecovercollection.com/

All short stories in ‘Jack & Evil’ are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical without permission of the author.

This book contains all my short stories from 2011 to 2013 except one

This book is dedicated to the memory of my friend Ernie Coder

Yeah, time gets shorter every day!

Contents:

The Blind Star

Evil Moon

Sweet Family

Eyes Of Clouded Glass

A Rough Parody Of Billy

Out Of A Dust Demon 5000

I Never Ordered Pizza

Riley Crane

Sarcophagus Rising

Eight Clicks To Eternity

Soil Dweller

The Photograph

Skin Deep

Jealous Hands

Ghost Walkers

Red Admirals & Rotten Fruit

Canyon Lands

Silence

The Appointment

The Bookworm

Lily Of the Valley

Jade

The Hands of Molly Kramer

Strange Stars

The Blind Star

Article: The Daily Word

Surrounding our solar system and extending outward from the Sun’s centre for a distance of three light years is the Oort cloud. Here, swayed by the gravitational ebb and flow of the galaxy acting upon them, comets begin their journeys. Like balls on a cosmic Pool table, external forces determine their direction, out into the universe or inward, toward the heart of the solar system. One great comet began its journey in just this way. Around the same time on earth, our earliest ancestors were beginning their own journey too, migrating out across the African Savannah. It would be 60,000 years before humans crossed paths with this comet.

Excerpt: Strange Science Magazine

When astronomers noticed it, they termed it a Long Period Comet. They studied its approach with interest. That interest grew when they realized how big it was, how close it would come, and that the earth would pass through its tail. In addition, they gave it a name. As was tradition, they named it after the men who discovered it, George Robbins and Harold Ogilvy. However, the Cultists had a different name for it. They called it, The Blind Star.

Church Of The Blind Star, web portal

Psalms 91:5-6 Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

Tomorrow's news

In the early afternoon of a bright September day, millions of people across southern England observed the close approach of comet Robbins- Ogilvy. High above the autumn sun, it pierced the cloudless blue sky like a giant’s arrow. Astonished onlookers gasped in awe and surprise, as if caught centre stage in Gods own limelight. Then the madness began...

***

Noah Hilton ambled through the park entrance; the heady aroma of freshly pulled cappuccinos lured him in the direction of a small café. He carried a newly purchased hardcover copy of ‘Decoding the Universe’ by Charles Seife in his hand.

He had a definite spring in his step as he strolled through the park. His flip-flops made a pleasant slap- slap sound as he walked. He relished the freedom of wearing shorts and a T-shirt, for he knew the days of winter clothing were just around the corner.

Pausing at a bench, he put down the new book, being careful to avoid placing it on any pigeon droppings. He slipped a hair-band from off of his left wrist and pulled back his long red hair, bunching it into a ponytail and fixing it with the band. His mobile began to buzz and vibrate in his pocket.

Hey, Charlotte. What’s up?

Oh, like you don’t know ginger boy?

Noah grinned. Oh, dinner at mine tonight?

Duh, yeah. Hey, what are you up to right now?

Oh, just chilling down at the park, enjoying the last day of summer break.

Okay, don’t forget, it’s your turn to cook. Laters.

Noah slipped the phone back in his pocket. His fingers brushed against the small box nestled there. The ring inside had belonged to his grandmother. He would propose during dinner, he decided. Crazy girl, he muttered under his breath as he made his way into the café.

It was one of those wooden single-story alfresco Café’s. Soon it would be silent. Boarded up and deserted. A place of broken bottles and graffiti through the winter months, but for now it was doing a roaring trade.

Noah joined a queue for service. While he waited, he casually studied the cheap sunglasses in the spinning display rack; the conversations he overheard were all about the comet. It had been visible by night for a few weeks now, but according to the newspapers, it would soon be close enough to see during the day.

In front of him, a large middle-aged woman wearing an overly tight flower print dress with dark stains under the armpits, questioned the elderly man in front of her. Every so often, her head would twitch to the left.

Why haven’t they done anything about it, that’s what I want to know? We pay our taxes. The old man smiled and nodded politely.

My daughter is one of those cultists; she says it is the end times.

The old man raised his eyebrows in response. Noah smiled to himself, feeling sorry for the pensioner who was looking around as if for an escape route. His chance came when the café owner served him with a tray of teas and cream scones, which he snatched up and carried off with obvious relief.

Everyone who frequented the park knew the café owner as Frank. He was a relic from a bygone age. He still sported an extravagant quiff, though his hair was almost completely grey. Over his white tee shirt, he wore a leather waistcoat. Faded tattoos adorned his arms.

Rumour had it that he was a bit of a terror in his youth, one of the original ‘Ton up Boys.’

Yes, love? Frank enquired of the flower print woman. Hairy arms resting on the counter, a towel draped casually over his shoulder, mischievous eyes sparkling in a face that resembled a walnut.

A sudden collective gasp followed by the crash of crockery and cutlery diverted the attention of everyone in the café to something taking place outside.

Noah joined the immediate exodus of café patrons curious to see what had just happened. As he emerged, shuffling into the sunlight, he could hear the flower print woman’s agitated voice carrying over the general murmur of the crowd.

Don’t push. Oh my Lord we will all be trampled. What is happening?

Outside the café, several shiny metal chairs and a table lay overturned where people had stood up in a rush. Noah could not believe his luck; seeing the animated gesticulations of the assembled crowd, he followed their example, gazing up into the sky.

He stood; stunned that he was witness to a fiery bright orb slicing through the September sky in broad daylight. He knew it was imminent. Everyone knew it was coming. He had even studied it by night through his own telescope. This though, for want of a better word, was biblical.

It was much more than he could have hoped or dreamed might happen and yet, he thought it such a fleeting encounter in the great scheme of things. Unlike many, even some of his own circle of friends, Noah refused to believe any of the superstitious ranting of the cultists. He preferred to view it as a rare opportunity for the occupants of spaceship earth, a chance to say hello to a friendly alien traveller in space and time. At least, that was how he planned to write it up in his blog when he got home.

Tomorrow, he would be returning to college. Noah knew campus would be buzzing with talk of current events, rife with speculation. He needed to prepare an update for his blog followers.

He had a growing network of regular contributors prepared to discuss views on life, the universe, and just about anything else. The only major downer in the last few months had been the church of the Blind Star Cult. He got quite a lot of opposition for his views about the comet. Even so, as long as they were willing to discuss their crazy ideas politely he did not mind too much. It kept the hit counters rolling over.

Gradually, Noah became aware of how silent the day had become. He could hear an aircraft high overhead and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. All across the park, people were hushed. Except, just for a moment, he thought he heard a woman singing. He frowned; slowly he lowered his gaze and began scanning the many human tableaux dotted about the park, trying to pinpoint the source of the strange, melancholy song that he found somehow disturbing.

He tried to make out the faces of the people upon the gently undulating greensward. Some were sitting singularly or in groups. Others stood alone or huddled together. Noah, struck by the oddly primitive look of fear that he saw in their eyes, a look that denied the passing of 2000 generations and the coming of the age of reason. Felt the first stirrings of anxiety himself. It was then that he saw the singer.

She was sitting only a short distance away, cross-legged at the base of a magnificent weeping Beech. Although the trailing branches partly obscured his view, he knew, it was she.

She had the look of a hippie chick: long blonde hair, denim jacket, tasselled skirt and combat boots. Noah fancied he could smell Patchouli oil from where he stood.

She rocked gently, side to side, as she sang. She had her hands clasped together in front of her, as if in prayer. No, that was not it. She was holding something, thought

Noah. Something to do with the red rectangular object discarded at her feet. The singing stopped abruptly. Somewhere deep inside Noah’s brain, connections completed—red petrol can, holding a lighter, singing a cultist song. However, it all came to him far too slowly. In the instant his mouth opened to shout a warning, the singing girl became a living candle.

Self-immolation was something you heard or read about in history classes, something distant and unimaginable. It did not happen in leafy Suburban parks in Southern England. Yet as he watched, the girl disappeared under billowing voracious flames. Despite the courage of her convictions, the reality of her situation caused her to stand up. Her arms flailed as she tried to beat at the flames.

People were reacting now, some running toward the girl, including Noah. Some stood rooted to the spot. Others spoke urgently into mobile phones. Shouts and screams echoed throughout the area. Noah caught sight of the flower print woman; she was yelling hysterically, her face livid as chopped beetroot.

That’s my daughter, my Jasmine. Oh God help her.

Noah watched Frank, the proprietor of the little café, as he hurried forward with a fire extinguisher. The fire scorched the grass black across a wide area. The girl decided to