David Fingerman - Edging Past Reality - a collection of short stories

Edging Past Reality

A collection of short stories

by

David Fingerman

For

Beth

Thank you for your love and support while I chase my dream.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my family and friends for the continual support and giving me the encouragement to press forward. The Minneapolis Writers' Workshop and The Southside Writers' Group. John-Ivan Palmer for his invaluable insights and critique. And Maria Murad, a teacher whose knowledge of the English language surpasses everyone I know.

This book is a work of fiction. All names and characters are either from this author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Too Young To Know Any Better

Marty's Toy

The Meadow

Previously published in The Midnight Gallery: 1998

A Halloween Story

Grandpa's Watch

Previously published in the Anthology The Darker Side of Outer Darkness: 1997

Mosquito Tim

Previously published The Vampire's Crypt: 1999

Old Enough To Know Better

Is That My Reflection in the Mirror?

A Peaceful Lake

Edging Past Reality

The Witness

Previously published in Kracked Mirror Mysteries: 1996

The Scream Box

Peeping Tom

Is This A Mid-Life Crisis?

Anybody Got a Smoke?

A Walk in the Woods

The Blue Light

A Crack in the Air

The Perfect Jury

The Last Patch of American Wilderness

Senior Moments

Nothing But Air

Previously published in 69 Flavors of Paranoia: 1998

The Verdict's In

Midnight Stroll

A Mistake

Previously published in Just Write Magazine: 1994

Snow Crabs

Welcome to David Fingerman's death farm of terminal terror.

Don't even try to imagine what leads an author to such a deranged imagination. But as a professional hypnotist, I have to warn you. Suggestion can be dangerous. The shaman points the hexed bone at someone's face and they drop dead. Could it happen to you? Is your mind strong enough to resist the possibilities these stories suggest? Do you really think you can to repel the Fingerman strain of voodoo? Famous last words: "He'll never get me!" Right.

In this collection be ready to walk through a world of unhinged assumptions. Expect to kiss your sanity good-by. The most common and familiar elements of life -- a lovely forest, a welcome hotel, freshly fallen snow, your job -- will explode into a circus of horror. Once the sinister Fingerman points to where it leads, you might think twice about casual temptation. Or pulling a fast one. Or simply minding your own business. Can you hear the faint, distant music of madness already? Can you feel the biting breeze of pain up ahead?

This is your last chance. Get out while you can.

John-Ivan Palmer

Minneapolis, Minnesota

July 22, 2008

Too Young To Know Any Better

MARTY'S TOY

Past the rows of superheroes, super villains, games of violence, death, and destruction that are fun for the whole family, hung MEGA-GLOP. The green-skinned, orange-eyed monster with pointed white teeth, complete with two large fangs and a removable brain, stared at Ellen Donahue. Red paint, supposedly signifying blood, streaked down the side of its mouth. Plastic ripples coursed down its chest; bulging muscles in a steroid body looked as if it were trying to break through the plastic wrapping. Its hands were half-clenched, about to grab. At the ends of its fingers, long black talons stood ready to tear its prey apart. The only one of its kind left, it hung suspended from the hook. All the other dolls, even monster dolls, seemed to shy away from it.

"Marty will love you." Ellen picked it from the rack and threw it into her cart. She had to hurry if she was going to get home before her kids.

Sara walked in the door ten minutes after her mom. Ellen cursed under her breath that the day flew by so quickly. She hadn't even started dinner yet.

"How was school, sweetie?" Ellen bent down and gave her eight-year-old a hug.

Sara started talking with enthusiasm. "We were taking a spelling test and Miss Stokes wouldn't let Jimmy Poole go potty and Billy Ferguson jumped up and yelled 'Jimmy Poole just peed his pants!' and everybody laughed and Jimmy Poole started crying and ran out of the room. Miss Stokes had to call the janitor to mop up around Jimmy's desk."

Ellen sighed, knowing that the boy had been branded for life. "You be nice to Jimmy Poole, okay? I don't want to hear about you joining in when other kids pick on him. Now go wash up and you can help me with dinner."

Marty walked in as Sara ran up the stairs.

"Happy birthday, champ." Ellen kissed him on the top of his head. "How does it feel to be ten? And how was school?"

Marty shrugged his shoulders. "S'all right, I guess." He threw his backpack on the kitchen chair. "Jimmy Poole wet his pants. I gotta do a science project for next week."

Ellen wondered how many seconds it took for the entire elementary school to hear about Jimmy Poole. "What kind of project?"

"I dunno. I have to think one up."

"Well, you'd better not wait until the last minute again. Remember what almost happened last year."

"I know," Marty said. The thought of summer school made him shudder.

A scream from Sara's room shattered the half-second of solitude. Ellen groaned before tearing up the steps.

"What is it?" Ellen couldn't keep the exasperation of too many of these episodes out of her voice.

"Roscoe got out of his cage!" Sara yelled.

The door to the wire cage flapped down. Inside, the cedar chips lay undisturbed. The water bottle and food dish were full.

"How many times have you been told to check the latch?" Ellen said.

Sara wavered on the verge of tears.

Ellen felt guilty about exploding at her daughter. She stuck her hand in the cage and touched the exercise wheel. "Still warm," she said. "He must be close."

Hope filled the little girl's eyes as she dropped to her knees, checked under the bed and slowly scanned the floor.

"Damn gerbil," Ellen muttered as she stomped back downstairs.

--

After the dinner dishes were cleared, Sara turned off the lights and her mom brought out the cake. They both sang "Happy Birthday," but Sara seemed more concerned with watching where everybody stepped.

"Happy birthday, sweetie," Ellen handed him a gift. "From me and Sara."

Marty tore off the wrapping and stared face-to-face with MEGA-GLOP. It had been too long since Ellen had seen him smile like that.

On the back of the package it showed how to take off the back of the doll's skull and scoop out the gray glop it had for a brain. Hours of fun, it promised, as you could squoosh it between your fingers or splat it against a wall, guaranteed not to leave a stain. Once back inside its head, the glop would reform to look like a brain again for next time.

Marty didn't bother to read the package. He just tore it apart to get to the toy. The MEGA-GLOP and Marty stared at each other, and Ellen could've sworn that the monster's evil smile grew.

Later that evening, another scream from Sara's room made Ellen shiver. She ran up the stairs thinking of squashed gerbil under her daughter's backpack, or something equally as gruesome. Sara stood next to her bed, the sheets turned down. Resting on her pillow a gray gelatinous brain jiggled. Ellen held her arms open and her daughter raced into them. In as stern a voice as she could manage, while trying to hide a smile, Ellen yelled. "Martin J. Donahue, get in here, NOW!"

--

Two nights later, Marty sat at his desk and cursed. It wasn't fair. It seemed as if every kid in school had a computer, except him. How could anyone expect him to do a halfway decent science report without access to the Internet? He cursed the blank piece of paper and the typewriter in front of him.