The Karma Book

This is a story I wrote a long, long time ago for a short story contest ... I think.

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Sitting on a hard milk crate, Andrew bit into a turkey wrap in his uncle’s dark musty attic, pondering why people hang onto useless junk. Being his uncle’s only living relative, naturally he inherited the entire estate, which amounted to a rusted 1983 Ford Escort and an 87 year old dilapidated brick rancher in Hackensack, NJ. He had cleared his weekend, reluctantly, to clean out the old house for a quick sale. As of Sunday morning, the only thing left to do was clean out the attic and then he could return to the lavish lifestyle he had come to know from his success as a fund manager on Wall Street. Having to do work like this on his well-deserved weekend cramped his way of living, but his wife insisted. “He is your uncle who obviously loved you very much.” she would say.

Andrew finished eating and sorted through the rest of the attic, throwing out just about everything he saw. The sight of only a few boxes left in the corner eased his nerves as he had looked over what must have been every book his uncle ever read. One particular one on top of the stack stood out as it was bound in an old weathered brown leather jacket with gold leaf edges. A swipe of the dust on the cover allowed him to make out the title: The Karma Book. The term “karma” wasn’t entirely new to him; some hippie had once preached about it to him. What goes around comes around – or some shit like that. He cracked the book open to find it riddled with blood and instantly threw it in the trash as though casting away any diseases that may have jumped out of the pages. However, curiosity had been planted from The Karma Book and it wasn’t long before Andrew was digging the book out from the bottom of the trash.

What kind of weird satanic shit was his uncle up to? With a precision grip on the edges of the book cover, Andrew delicately flipped it open. Every page showcased splatters of blood - like some kind of freakish Jackson Pollock inspired artwork. Strangely, names accompanied the blood and nothing else. Name after name, blood splatter after blood splatter. A slow chill crawled slowly up his back as the house turned painfully silent, every creak and crack from the old wood amplifying tenfold. A cockroach scurried up an adjacent wall, reminding him of a movie in which the devil had taken the form of a thousand cockroaches.

The last name entered in the book was Roger Harrison, followed by blood. With it all being too much to digest at that moment and the urgent need to get out of the creepy old house, he snapped the book shut and quickly finished clearing out the boxes, only to pack away an old photo album he kept to appease his wife. Upon standing to make his exit, a newspaper clipping fell from The Karma Book. He picked it up and read it:

Man Gets Month in Jail for Animal Cruelty, Then Mauled at Facility
Local resident, Roger Harrison, received the county’s first conviction for cruelty to animals. Harrison reportedly picked up stray dogs in the neighborhood for use in his backyard dog-fighting ring. One neighbor, who asked to remain anonymous, claimed Harrison stole his Irish Setter for involvement in the dog-fighting ring. On his departure from the correctional institution, two stray Pit Bulls attacked Roger Harrison causing injuries that required over 300 stitches.

That’s an odd article to keep, Andrew thought, as he put the news clipping in his pocket before leaving to return to the city.

Andrew hardly noticed his wife waiting to greet him at the front door. He showed her the photo album, but said nothing of The Karma Book and she settled into a comfortable spot on their expensive leather sofa as she opened the old album and perused the pictures for a younger, innocent Andrew.

“What is going to happen to your uncle’s dog?” she asked.

Andrew had been digging in a cabinet for his bottle of Patron. “What dog?” he snapped back.

“This Irish Setter … sitting with your uncle. I’m assuming it was his dog.”

Andrew looked at here blankly, unsure. “He didn’t have a dog.”

He quickly exited the room, mumbling the need for a long hot shower. In the bathroom, he locked the door, unzipped his jacket, removed The Karma Book, and turned to the first page without haste.

It read:
Karma is that which guides our past, present, and future life experiences through the manner in which we live our lives. This book has been crafted to ensure Karma is served justly to those who have not yet reaped the experiences they have sewn. To assure this effect is prominently served, write the name of a person within the pages of this book and complete the entry with a drop of blood.

Countless pages of written names combined with blood seals followed. Who were all those names and what actually happened to the people? It had to be some kind of gag or freakish experiment designed by a bunch of bored teenagers. But how did it get into his uncle’s house? Did his uncle really own an Irish Setter? And if so, was it the same dog that was stolen by Roger Harrison from the newspaper clipping?

A devilish thought emerged. What if this book is for real? What if it really did dip into some kind of occult shit responsible for serving justice … or karma … or whatever you call it? Andrew thought of all the assholes he could use it on, the idea infusing a sense of power that he had never known. Perhaps he should give this book a test drive. But who should he extract Karma’s wrath upon first? Maybe all the bullies that picked on him in grade school, or one of the many stuck-up bitches that turned him down during his college years, or perhaps the ass-kisser at his company with the corner office that always managed to get the yearly merit awards. Yes, yes, and yes. They would all eventually find a page in The Karma Book. But he would start out slow and test it out on a lesser subject.

Kyle Forester lived one floor down in Andrew’s building -- the perfect person to test this Karma thing on. Kyle consistently beat Andrew home from work and took the only parking spot close to the elevator in their high rise luxury building. The remaining spots were further down in an unlighted area, often times scouted by would-be thieves.

The other perturbing thing about Kyle was the fact that he had a gorgeous wife and Andrew never understood how he got such a beautiful woman. That hardly mattered now because The Karma Book would do its work and root out all that was wrong with Kyle … serve him a swift dose of Karma. Andrew wasted no time entering Kyle’s name below Roger Harrison and then completed the deed with a fresh dose of blood from his finger.

I wonder what Karma will be dished out to old Kyle tonight? Andrew wondered as he lay in his bed. Maybe that hot wife of his will finally see him for the idiot he really is and leave him. The evil, yet happy thoughts danced through Andrew’s head until sleep finally silenced them.

Unlikely events had come about the next morning - just as expected. Kyle Forrester sat at the edge of his sofa, surrounded by the police, his hands covering his face as he sobbed uncontrollably. One floor above, Andrew Chamber’s apartment also flurried with police activity, where his bloodied bullet ridden body lay lifeless slightly over the threshold of his door. Slouched on the other side of the door, Kyle’s deceased wife lay holding a revolver in one hand and a murder-suicide letter in the other. It explained the long-standing affair she had been having with Andrew Chambers and her sudden impulsive need to make it right by Kyle.

Finding Balance

This is a short story I submitted many years back. It had to start off with the beginning paragraph to satisfy the rules. !!PG13 Material!!

Finding Balance

A group of college students played yet another loud game of Mixin' Fixion. After his second winning revelation, the youngest, Danny, decided to retire to the back of the crowded bus to get some rest before their big tornament in the morning. Four hours on the bus combined with the Vodka-Cranberry cocktail they smuggled aboard was enough to put him into an instant sleep.

Danny woke abruptly when the bus hit a pothole causing his head to slam against the metal handrail he had been using as a pillow. Now dark outside, the remaining students slept peacefully as the driver pulled to the side of the road and promptly exited the bus to inspect for damage.

Moments later a strange man entered the front of the bus slinging a large black bag over his shoulder. As he stepped onto the bus, he turned his head toward the bag, slapped it, and yelled, “Is there anyone awake on this bus!”. Such an outburst was sure to wake someone, but mostly it just rustled a few of the students into a more comfortable sleeping position. The man caught sight of the only person awake, who stared in a curious manner at him. He walked to the rear of the bus and sat down directly behind Danny.

“Your driver out there says it’s alright for me hitch a ride into the next town with you guys. My piece of shit car broke down again. … Name's Buddy.”

Danny, turned to the man. “Hi, my name’s…” But he stopped suddenly when the driver climbed back into the bus mumbling something about paying to fix the paint job.

The bus was soon back on the road and an hour had passed before Buddy broke his silence.

“You know why this world is out of sorts Danny? … Because the people in it are all out of balance.”

It surprised Danny to hear this man use his name as he had never actually finished introducing himself.

“How do you know my name?” Danny asked in a shaky voice.

Buddy did not respond and continued with his thought, now agitated from having been interrupted.

“See … the problem is we're all a bunch of sinners without accountability. Our sins start out small, but when we get away with those sins, new ones develop with greater severity. So then the question becomes, how do we balance out these bad deeds?”

Buddy’s voice grew deeper, more serious. “Well, we punish our selves of course.”

Danny started to get up, thinking it was the perfect time to rejoin his friends at the front of the bus.

“SIT THE FUCK DOWN OR I’LL CREATE A NEW PASSAGE WAY FROM THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD TO YOUR MOUTH.” Buddy returned to his calm manner of speaking. "And I should probably tell you that saying anything to these people will yield you the same results.”

Danny instinctively followed the man’s orders and returned to his seat.

“Now, I am going to show you an exercise I like to do to keep myself in balance.”

Buddy picked up his bag and moved into Danny’s seat, which blocked any chance of escape. Buddy rummaged through his black bag and pulled out a knife as Danny trembled.

“Just need a little balancing, Danny. One of my most recent sins was sleeping with a married women … so I need to punish this act, and I think it would be best if you assisted.”

Buddy handed Danny the knife and instructed him to carve the word “Adulterer” into his left forearm. Danny’s refusal angered Buddy to the point that he grabbed hold of Danny’s hand, knife clentched tightly, and guided the knife's sharp edge into his arm. Blood instantly covered Buddy’s entire forearm as Danny watched in horror, struggling to maintain silent.

“Now, wasn’t that easy Danny-Boy!” Buddy said in a morbidly satisfying tone.

“But, I’m afraid I’m not quite balanced just yet. You see, I have also been extorting this same woman for money by threatening to tell her extremely rich husband about us.”

With this, he again coerced Danny’s hand into carving the word “Extortionist” – this time into Buddy’s right forearm. Buddy then calmly wiped the blood off his forearms, bandaged them up, and put his knife back in the bag.

“Danny, I hope you follow my example and start making retribution for your sins.” His voice grew more menacing. “OR I’LL DO IT FOR YOU!”

Anxiety flooded Danny, darkness came over him.

As Danny woke the next morning, he instantly surveyed the bus for Buddy, but the mysterious man had vanished. His friend John stumbled to the back of the bus and slumped in the seat in front of him.

“The driver says were about twenty minutes away so be ready.”

Danny, wanting to tell his friend what had happened, couldn’t seem to find the words before his friend droned on.

“We drank the rest of that Vodka last night. I’m afraid I might have said something I’ll regret playing that 'Mixin Fixion' game.”

It was then that John leaned over the back of the seat and discovered Danny’s current state.

“IS THAT BLOOD! WHAT HAPPENED!? ARE YOU OK?”

The bus arrived at the school, where two patrolmen and an ambulance waited. After reciting everything that had happened to the police, they sent him to the hospital as a precautionary measure, his friend John accompanying him. In the back of the ambulance, John kept up the conversation to keep his friend occupied.

“You really ruled that game yesterday, but I have two questions for you. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were sleeping with a married woman and what was with you wanting to be called 'Buddy' yesterday?”

Danny glared at John and then at a large black bag sitting in the corner of the ambulance with the name “Danny” embroidered across the front of it. Seeing this, he bolted upright and teared off his shirt to find bandages covering his forearms. Under them were two bloody words scrolled across his forearms: “Adulterer” and “Extortionist”.

Eternity

This is a short story from a recent contest I entered. The criteria was it had to be under 800 words and be about the topic 'the writer'. Warning - may be inappropriate for minors. Enjoy.



Nothing writes smoother than warm blood dispensed from the tip of a fine fountain pen. A clear tube, originating just beneath my client's skin, dispenses drops of living ink into a sterile bowl for writing. It takes a while to collect enough for an entire contract, but this is of no concern to me; time is a concept that does not exist in Hell and Eternity knows no boundaries.

The ambitious nature of this young woman reminds me of myself some three hundred years ago - the unwavering energy of a mortal willing to trade everything for power, fortune, and glory. Rational sense, that common trait instilled in most people from birth, vacated her long, long ago. It is only after centuries of experience I can say this without doubt, because it is this same desperation which seeps from all patrons wishing to make a pact with the devil.

Joyful memories from the life I lived so long ago have disappeared, drowned under the heavy weight of regret. Everybody knows a pact with the devil means selling your soul, but there is something else that is not common knowledge - a much more important aspect. Although your soul is stripped to never be felt again, your conscience is left behind to rot within you until the end of time, forever tortured from the atrocities your contract expelled upon the innocent living. For the precious one life I traded, many lifetimes have already soared by, each one harder to endure than the previous.

The content of my original contract, to be a world renowned writer, has allowed me the one exception to be able to remain in the mortal world. I write contracts for Hell. For this reason, I dare not share my apprehension with this woman in front of me about the devastating consequences of her decision. Lose a client, lose your writing gig - so it goes. I wouldn't be able to warn her anyway; Hell claimed my free will the moment I died.

She is the last of my clients ... today; five contracts written from a list that will never end - because this part of human nature doesn't respond well to change. Like my own work ethic back in the seventeenth century, hard work is not an option for these people, but in a hundred years it will be a trivial concept to them. Such a simple principle...

When I lived, before the contract, I didn't believe in an afterlife. I would have said the soul just burned out to nothing - blackness. The concept drove me mad with fear. And now, when I think of such an event, it is my perceived heaven. I would trade a thousand more of my souls ... just to not be.

"So then," I say with expressionless remorse to this woman, "What is it you would like while you are alive on Earth?"

She looks to be in her thirties. My guess is the boss will grant her forty good years to live her dream. Forty years, in the grand scheme of things, is but a flash in Hell. I've written thousands of contracts, for people just like her, which have already been exercised. Their names are engraved in my mind. Tonight I will recite every one of them, like I do every night. Then tomorrow I will write five or six more contracts. The first hundred years numbed my emotions enough to quell my tears at night and I fear I can no longer decipher the difference between sadness, anger, joy, or even fear. I just am.

I pass a man, Conrad, in the streets on occasion. He is a man I despised for a long, long time, until I forgot how to feel. He was my writer. I make no attempt to be cordial or friendly with him. What's the point? My clients would eventually form the same feeling toward me, only they will not be as fortunate as I am to stay here.

The hunger which pours from this woman's eyes attempts to bore through a soul I no longer have. Even if I were able to warn her -- stop her -- it wouldn't make a difference. I know that look.

"I want", the African American woman blurts out. "I want to become the most powerful talk show host that has ever lived!"

Some contracts I feel less guilty about writing than others.

Brian's Web

Echoes of a woodpecker probing for hidden treasures in a distant tree first convinced Brian to open his eyes from a deep sleep. At first he merely shifted his weight to find a more comfortable position, but the forest’s voice was a persistent presence that would not take no for an answer. The unwavering noise forced his eyes open to discover he had been amidst a thicket of bushy trees. Must be another night gone wrong with the fraternity brothers, he thought. But a prank of this level was way too elaborate…even for his brothers. In fact, shock came on instantly as he learned he wasn’t on the ground; he was suspended mid air about four feet from the earth below as a foreign stringy substance bore the weight of his body. Swaying in the melodic breeze of the forest, Brian shook his head feverishly to rid the drowsiness that clung to the underside of his eyelids.

The netting was no ordinary rope, strangely silky with yet a tacky feel to it. The dull white color of it glistened as the sun peaked through the trees. As curiosity set in, he arched his back up to get a better look. But the quirky substance mimicked Brian’s body movement and clung to all of his limbs like it had millions of tiny fingers. Harder and harder, he twisted, but tighter and tighter the net entwined him. A bad science fiction movie entered his mind, but he dismissed the thought quickly. However, the uncertainty of it convinced him of a pending need to get out of it. Slowly, he wiggled and shifted his body to a better vantage point, but the net spawned a will of its own and further constrained Brian. Hysteria festered in Brian’s stomach as it slowly crept into every last muscle, which created a heavier weight to bear with each passing movement. All attempts of escape, erratic and frantic, were met with no success. After all energy reserves had been drained, a paralysis-like state defeated his ability for any further movement. That’s when Brian realized the thing had not been put there to hold him up; it was there to hold him in. Indeed, it was a gigantic web, and its intended purpose was self evident.

Now immobilized, Brian temporarily abandoned his attempt to escape and lay calmly in the live hammock to analyze the situation. A sharp blinding light pierced the corner of his left eye and panic surfaced once again, his fears restrained by the idea of what might hear him. Once again, a ping of light grazed his eye. Overwhelming emotions seized control of him and tears trickled from his eyes, his body trembling. On the third flash, he noticed the direction it had come from and realized it was a reflection from the sun on a knife protruding from his pocket. Hope presented itself instantly as he quickly hatched a plan to cut himself free from the web. That is, until his body reminded him of its incapacity.

A twig behind him snapped and doom filled the air. The blind zone behind him filled with questions from the muffled sounds of a horrible shriek. Some living thing approached him as the horrid sounds focused into clarity, to pierce Brian’s inner ears. It slowly moved into Brian’s right visual periphery in a jerky sort of motion but stopped short of allowing Brian a full view of it.

Despair flooded Brian’s senses and jumpstarted his body which gave him back the gift of movement. He instinctually grabbed the knife and hacked at the web. Now, with his body half liberated, the creature changed its path to maintain the stealthy advantage as it continued in from exactly behind him. The sounds were only about two feet away and it became apparent that he wouldn’t have enough time to escape the rest of his web. Brian held up his knife to catch a glimpse in the reflection at the entity that would soon seal his fate, but the blade was too dirty to make out much more than a general shape. At least he could see enough to know when the creature was about to strike. With about two paces from the onslaught, Brian made one last attempt and heaved the knife over his head in the direction of the creature. The thud that followed suggested that his defensive maneuver had been successful. The air filled with violent shrieks, and then silence. The only thing left to do was wait and listen for the movement to continue. Too quickly he assumed the best after a minute of silent celebration. The sound of the creature struggling to get up once again tortured Brian.

Sensing that Brian was now completely helpless, its movement slowed with caution. Ironically, it was the most intense moment of the ordeal, but a serene calmness found its way into Brian’s soul that he had never experience before. His fear drained from his brain, through his body, and out his toes. The sun produced an amazing glow, the air tasted of nothing but freshness, the breeze once again massaged his skin, and the jungle sounds filled his ears like a finely tuned symphony orchestra. He accepted what was about to happen and he found peace with it. There was nothing left to do now but take in his last few seconds of life in peace.

Brian gazed into the beautiful blue sky as wisdom poured into him from the heavens. He almost appeared to be smiling as if all the answers of life had suddenly shown down on him. A forceful blow punctured the side of his lower back without warning. Air dispersed from his lungs as he looked down to find a steel claw protruding from the side of his torso. He tried to grasp onto it to prevent further infliction, but his strength exited along with the air in his lungs. Excruciating pain followed which left his momentary peace nothing but a memory. Pain ricocheted against every nerve ending in his body. Brian clenched his hands as he prepared to welcome the final blow.

But then a loud clash was heard, followed by a desperate cry. Brian’s monster dropped lifelessly to the ground. Two men wearing green fatigues stood in front of him with guns pointed beyond him at the thing they emptied their ammo into.

The men cautiously moved his way as they surveyed the surrounding area. One of the men walked up to him, quickly assessed the condition of his shredded body, and stuck him with a needle. “Don’t worry pal, this morphine will take the pain away.” he said.

The men started to cut the web from around him and Brian turned to finally get a good look at his assailant, but a quick rush of blood flow to his head stole his opportunity to see it clearly. After a few minutes of darkness, he woke up on a stretcher, and looked up at the rescuers that saved him. Everything was still a blur with the morphine severely dampening his ability to process any thoughts. However, he managed to look over to faintly see where the horrible incident had happened. He struggled to bring it into focus, but it seemed impossible in his current state. “I don’t know how I got here. Who are you? And what is that?”, Brian asked one of the soldiers. The man dressed in green replied, “We are United States Army just like you, soldier. That is the Viet-Cong who almost took your life.” The soldier pointed at a dead Vietnamese soldier on the ground just beyond a net that had been used to detain Brian.

Brian closed his eyes and could once again hear the peaceful sound of a woodpecker in the distance, but this time he recognized it for what it truly was - gunfire.