FLASH FICTION: The Terrible Thing at the Edge of the Lake

Yvette who blogs at "In so many words..." offered up a Flash Fiction Challenge for today.  Participants were to write a brief story about what's going on in the painting by Mario Cooper shown at the left. The picture was used to illustrate a story in one of the many magazines for which Cooper often did artwork. Writers were to ignore the original story (I don't even know what it was) and make up their own tale of why the young man in the swimsuit and the woman in the flouncy dress were locking the door.

Mine is a very strange blend of psychological and material horror. Today also happens to be Gay Pride Day in Chicago and I believe I was visited by the ghost of a certain playwright whom I have always admired. So here's a tribute to him. Apologies to the man for borrowing one of his characters and quoting a few of his lines. I secretly think might see the humor in it all.

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The Terrible Thing at the Edge of the Lake

Why they called it a summerhouse was a mystery to her. It was barely more than a single room, sparsely furnished with a tiny fireplace in the corner as its sole source of heat. Far too small for a house, you could barely call it a cabin. A shack really. But a cozy shack someone transformed into a private retreat here tucked away in the woods just a few yards from the shoreline of Moon Lake. The casino was only a ten minute walk through the neglected path and polka music was drifting from the ballroom. She glided to its syncopated rhythm thinking to herself. She came here for an escape, to meditate, quietly summoning the courage she needed. In her mind she carefully constructed the sentences, choosing the words carefully, trying not to make it as hurtful as she knew it was going to be.

The door burst open. A rugged young man drenched from head to toe in a tight fitting swimsuit that showed off his athletic build came rushing in. He was startled when he saw her dancing with herself.

"Huh? What are you doing here?"

"Oh Allan, you've been swimming. Come here by the fire."

"Allan? You've got the wrong guy." He headed for a small bureau, opened a drawer and pulled out a towel and began drying himself.

"You know what's going on out there?"

"Dancing, gambling, drinking, laughing. They're all too gay for me. Such a sad night this is. The loss of love is always sad."

He stared at her and smirked. Drunk. Sure as hell she's drunk. Dancing with herself in this shack.

"Someone said a guy fell in the lake. I jumped in and pulled him out. His throat was torn open, his head's a bloody mess. Looks like some kind of animal got him."

"Allan, I know all your secrets. There's no use covering them up with romantic tales."

The music stopped by now. Sounds of a crowd replaced the lilting jaunty melody. A woman screamed.

"Listen, I'm not Allan, lady. I told you that. What are you doing here? This is for the lifeguards only."

"I saw you with him. Caught you in flagrante delicto. Disgusting it was. No… that's not right. You. You disgust me! Yes. That's it."

She paused, took her scarf from her neck, and draped the lampshade. The light in the room softened and was tinged with the colors of roses and lilacs that made up the printed pattern. She started to sway to a melody only she could hear.

"Say… Do you know something about that kid out there?"

"A boy. Only a boy. And so beautiful."

"Well, I wouldn't call him a boy. Looked to be early twenties. I don't know about beautiful either. His face was pretty much gone. And there were weird footprints around the shore edge, too. Some kind of animal attack, I'm sure. But never seen any prints like those."

Another scream. This time not a woman's. Something bestial. Something from the abyss.

"What the--?" He ran to the door and threw the bolt. Grabbed the only piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair, and shoved it against the doorway.

"Don't be frightened, Allan. You are what you are. A temptation to everyone, both women and men."

"Stop calling me Allan. Didn't you hear that? That thing by the lake out there?"

"Je suis la Dame aux Camellias. Vous etes --Armand?" She smiled at him. "Do you speak French?"

"Cripes! I'm stuck in this shack with a kook. We've gotta get outta here. There's a way out through the basement I think. Come with me, lady."

"Call me Blanche, please. After all, we're husband and wife, Allan." She was at the other window seemingly ignoring him and the threat at the door. She looked out into the cloud covered sky. "I've been looking for the Pleiades tonight -- the Seven Sisters -- but those girls are not out tonight."

A shot. Then another and another. More screams and shooting. Once more that terrible unearthly cry echoed in the woods, closer this time. Footsteps crunching in the pine needles strewn in the pathway to the door of the shack. Scratching at the door. A pair of gleaming eyes peering in the window.

"God Almighty!"

The window burst in a shattering of glass. A hairy clawed arm intruded into the space. The young man who wasn't Allan grabbed a log from the pile near the fireplace and beat furiously at the arm, claws digging into the wood, then his wrist. He let loose with an excruciating wail of pain.

"Help me! Blanche! Help!"

She stood in place with a look of concentrated effort. Thinking of the lack of stars in the night sky, thinking of the right words for Allan. She watched as the young man who wasn't Allan was dragged out of the window frame screaming for his life, screaming for Blanche.

"Sometimes -- there's God -- so quickly," she whispered.

The music started up again. Blanche unbolted the door and made her way back to the ballroom. She resolved to have one last dance with Allan. She would abandon him there with the choice words she just composed. He was never really hers. And it was all so disgusting. She cocked her head and caught that haunting tune again. She started to cry. That melody -- that lively polka of the Varsouviana -- would never sound the same to her after tonight.

FFB: Forty Lashes Less One - Elmore Leonard

I wanted a western for today's tribute to Grand Master Elmore Leonard so I chose Forty Lashes Less One (1972) And here were my reasons: very odd title sure to have some unusual meaning, the very cool cover with two gun-toting characters in threatening poses and early 20th century prison garb, and a mention in a 2009 blog review that the book was going to be a Quentin Tarantino movie. While he may have been inspired by this book Tarantino's Civil War era spaghetti western Django Unchained, which won him his second Academy Award for Original Screenplay, has little in common with Leonard's novel. I have not seen the movie but based on the trailer and reviews I have read the only thing it shares with Forty Lashes Less One is a lead character who sticks it to the white man. And but good!

Based on the cover of the original 1972 paperback (seen at left) I expected this to be a prison break novel. I was pleased to discover it's more than that. There is a helluva a lot going on in this book beyond the actual plan to escape from jail. Ostensibly set in 1904 in a crumbling prison in the Arizona desert where the inmates are awaiting transfer by train to a brand new facility it felt more like a book set in the 1950s. No matter, the characters and situations are the selling point as they usually are in any book by Leonard. Everett Manly, a failed minister, volunteers to serve as interim superintendent of the Yuma prison and while there decides to try some inventive forms of prisoner rehabilitation involving an unusual combination of Bible thumping sermons, lessons in the origin of different races, and -- of all things -- athletic competitions.

It's all sort of an accident how it comes about. Harold Jackson, a wily black prisoner, and his cell mate the simple-minded Raymond San Carlos, an Apache who likes to think of himself as Mexican, have not been getting along. The insult each other and have been fighting regularly. The usual punishments don't seem to be working. Mr. Manly is determined to bring out the good in each man and make them friends, but his Bible lectures fall on indifferent ears. Until he makes the mistake of saying "We are all related by blood" leading to a hysterical discussion that begins with Adam and Eve and leads to talk of incest and miscegenation. Harold and Raymond grill Manly mercilessly. At first Manly taken aback but since he finally has gotten their interest he answers their questions getting into deeper water as he goes. Then he hits upon a brilliant idea. He talks of the legacy of Geronimo as a hero to the Apaches and the legends of the Zulu warriors of Africa. Manly shows that not only do Harold and Raymond share metaphoric blood they share an ancestry of heroic warriors. It's an epiphany of sorts for all three.

Soon Mr Manly finds he has two warriors in training on his hands. There are foot race competitions and handmade spear throwing contests. Harold and Raymond now make up their faces with stripes of iodine and white paint inspired by illustrations they saw in Mr. Manly's books. Harold even says all that is missing is a real lion for him to spear. The prison yard becomes an arena for a mini Olympics between Black man and Indian with all the white prisoners acting as their audience of gamblers and hecklers. And all the while Mr Manly never realizes that his seemingly naive pupils are waiting for the precise moment to prove what they truly are capable of.

While the dubious religious education and more successful athletic transformation of Harold and Raymond is going on Alpha prisoner Frank Shelby and his gang of sycophants are plotting their escape. With the help of Frank's brother Virgil who makes weekly visits each Sunday Shelby is hoping to sabotage the train that will transport the prisoners from Yuma to the new prison in Florence and free the gang of eight including Norma, one of two female prisoners who has a few tricks up her sleeve. But no fictional prison break ever goes as planned and with two warriors on the verge aboard the train, underestimated by both Shelby's gang and Mr. Manly, there is plenty of action and revenge waiting to explode.

This was one quirky western. I liked the subversiveness of it all. The characters are so utterly unexpected in how they change from beginning to end.  Harold and Raymond seem like patsy symbols, dumb and dull at first but Leonard cleverly undermines the entire story as roles are reversed and Black man and Indian once sworn enemies become ever sure and true allies. Manly who you want to succeed at his goofy experiments is a character to be both ridiculed and pitied. Shelby is typical of the villains Leonard creates -- vile and loathsome without one redeeming quality you're hoping for an equally vile end for the man. Somehow everyone around Shelby suffers worse than he does. Glib, self-assured, conceited, and essentially untouchable, he's a bad guy you'll see again and again in Leonard's books. Does he get his comeuppance? You'll have to read the book to find out. The ending is absolutely perfect. If you don't bust out laughing I guarantee that you'll break out in a broad grin.