Lonely Stories - Xavier St John (latest ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Contents

 

 

Lonely Stories

 

An Anthology of Short Tales

 

By Xavier St. John

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For those who know I couldn’t have done this without them

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contents

 

One - The Beast 

Two - The Ballet Dancer 

Three - Date 

Four - Kevin and Cthulhu 

Five - The Trek 

Six - Palace 

Seven - The Companion 

Eight - Revolution 

Nine - The King’s Men 

Ten - Betrayal 

Eleven - President 

Twelve - Singing in The Rain 

Thirteen- Heaven Sent 

Fourteen - Hell Bent 

Fifteen - A Starry Night 

The Beast

 

 

 

The Beast

 

The cliff was full of crags and outcrops. These juts of solid rock made the footpath up it as treacherous as the winds that swept the broken twigs off of it, and fitted in with the colour of the hill – black. I looked up at the place I used to love, the old mansion sitting atop the mountain, and looked back down at the dusty path in front of me, constantly being peppered with the dark splodges of rain. Even the sea seemed shadowy by the cliff edge, a swirling pit of lurking beings and the volcanic sands were the colour of dried blood. I never remembered it to be like this. The sea always seemed beautifully tranquil whenever I looked out of the window in the mornings, coffee in hand and the smell of eggs and bacon in the kitchen. Now, it was an angry ocean. I climbed up the first length of steep path, constantly thinking of the shouts at me when I walked along the beach. Screams of warnings, obscenely foul words shot at me concerning my destination, children crying after their parents took them hurriedly away from the man who used to live up there, ‘the Mansion’s Madman.’ I didn’t understand why the fear of the mountain made everyone afraid of the home on it. I grew up there, it was an incredible place. My footing slipped, I found myself tumbling back down the steep incline of a path I had spent the last.... I wasn’t sure how long it had taken. How could I not know? This was not the place for wishful memories, the cliff seemed resentful to visitors. I returned to my climb, careful to stop my head wandering again. It might just get me killed if I thought too much. Anyway, thinking about past memories is not what I came to do. Getting to the top, on the other hand, is my priority for the time being. The rain hadn’t stopped. Everything was wet, and cold, but still rough, like it was actively hurting me. This wasn’t the friendly childhood home I missed. I stood atop the cliff, raw hands and emotions, watching the waves crash and drag the sand back into its pit. The sand almost sounded human as it wailed against of rocks, inevitably succumbing to the tug of the ocean.

Turning back, I stepped around one of the boulders that greeted me like a doorman and saw the lights were on. Whoever lives there now must be in, or just wasting light for the fun of it. I started walking, and suddenly realised my leg throbbed from the fall earlier. No matter, I can go slower, there is no rush to burst in on them. Maybe a lot slower. I didn’t realise it was that bad. I loped back behind the boulder again, and looked at the floor behind me. Blood was streaming down to my rear, creating a river of red, and mixing with the muddy puddle to form a gruesome concoction. To my dismay, the pool was running off the cliff, pulling the sickly colour across the dark rocks. The rain should clean the ragged edge. The grass was wilting under the torrent of water, and mud caked everything. The lights were looking more appealing by the second. For a second time, I manoeuvred around the boulder. The wind pulled at the trunks of the trees. I watched as the doorway seemed to stretch away from me, further with each step. The storm was loud. My feet were hitting the ground with a resounding thump, resonating through the mud. The lightning flashed above. The lights glimmered, and through the window I could see the chandelier. The waves crashed against the sand. I lurched into the window ledge, peering through the window to see nobody in the room – my vision tilted, spinning.... The rain hammered against the floor, and then after a minute of spattering, relented and stopped.

I woke up. It was still night, but the rain had stopped and the storm must have moved on. I didn’t remember lying down or sleeping, and realised where I was. The mansion. I pulled myself up, grabbing the window ledge, and went to the door. I saw it was slightly open, letting light flood from the house to the dark I found myself in. Entering the hallway, I turned to my left, into the room with the chandelier, and saw a set of stairs leading away in the corner. Careful not to touch the table, I followed the beckoning of the stairs. Ascending, I found myself on a balcony around a central dinner hall, overlooking a family eating dinner in a room lit by another glass chandelier and candles. The smell of roasted chicken and buttered potatoes filled my nostrils, and I found my tongue lolling, even dribbling a little. It smelt like perfect food. Suddenly, the boy at the end looked up, and screamed. His sister, next to him, followed his eye line upwards to the balcony, and knocked her chair backwards.

The room descended into chaos. Screams of a monster, lights popped, the boy crying, parents rushing out of rooms. Panicking, I limped with them, diving into a room and slamming the door behind as a jerk of pain shot up my leg. I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, a broken child yelling about a beast to his mother, with her desperately trying to calm him down.

“Please mummy, don’t let the beast find me. It was here mummy! Please mummy, please oh please oh please oh please....” The child was a wreck, blubbering against the oak door I was jamming shut with my back against it.

“We need to get out of her darling. Please stop crying, PLEASE! It can hear you. Please, just stop...” The mother trailed off. I looked out of the window to see the daughter and the father running, with wide eyes pleading at me, screaming for everyone still inside to get out. I talked softly through the door, ‘You don’t know who I am, and I can’t explain now, but please just let me out of here.’ I heard another lightbulb pop outside, and the son and mother screamed as the shroud of darkness descended on them.

 

I heard footsteps on the stairs, sliding, desperate to get down, and the slam of a door with the mother and son running for their lives. It was just me left here now. Me and the boy’s beast. I sat, crying, against the door, with no idea how to get out of here without dying. The fall was too far from the window. And the monster will reach me, especially with my leg in the state of disrepair. I pulled the bed across the doorway to block it, and sat in the far corner. I pulled a blanket off a mirror to sit under and await death, and caught my reflection.

A monster stared back at me. With a cut on his leg.

 

 

 

The Ballet Dancer

 

The Ballet Dancer 

 

This was it. I looked up at the looming curtain, its red folds beckoning me closer. Brushing one of the many folds across my body, I opened a small gap, revealing the bright lights of the stage. I glanced at the audience. None of them were looking. They were all too busy talking, proud mothers boasting about their angelic daughters, competing for the verbal victory as they interrupted each other with stronger and increasingly obscure achievements their angels had won. As my single eye brushed over the faces, a smiling grandma caught my stare and her face dropped as though she had been hit by a spade. Quickly, I darted back behind the crimson barrier, my heart pounding out of my chest. Everybody else behind the curtain was lining up, their perfectly balanced tutus hanging gracefully from their waist as they stood there silently in their pearly slippers – It was now or never. 

I remember my first lesson. I was a late starter, so was a few years behind all the other ballerinas. Most had been training since they were 3 or 4, their parents hoping desperately that with enough tireless practice and eloquent dresses that their little girls would blossom into Prima Ballerinas. The walk to the studio was not the most calming; it was 3 miles of being dragged along by my mother in the downpour of the century, across 2 playing fields and past a decaying oak tree. Subsequently, by the time I had arrived my shoes were caked with mud and tangled in my hair were knotted clumps of leaves. Thrusting the door open, my mother gave me a last small smile before lightly pushing me across the boundary, into the studio. The only way to describe it? White. The walls, the floor, the pristine ballerinas slipping on their delicate ballet slippers: all of it the colour of an eagle’s feather. After the door slammed shut behind me, I was greeted with stares as dozens of eyes tracked me as I made my way along the edge of the room, trying to keep my muddy feet from touching the central space, the dancing plateau I supposed. I skirted towards a tall and elegant lady, who I assumed was in charge, and lightly tapped her on the back. As she turned, I saw her face contort into a gasp, but quickly turn to a smile. Not a proper smile, mind, one of those pretend smiles that you wear for the other person’s benefit, but a smile nonetheless. She greeted me, sizing me up as she strode off to find clothes that fitted my large frame. As the other girls watched, the lady quickly returned, announcing with a flourish that I would be the newest member to the ensemble. A single, loud, piercing gasp filled the air, quickly shut off by the person from whom it had