Another New Story: The Old Box

                                                                        The Old Box

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by D.F. Rucci

I knew an old man, who lived in an old cabin. He would sit on his old chair, and think of the old days. His hair was gray, and his eyes were old and wise yet cold. For as each day came by, the blue in his pupils grew weary and gray. When he grew tired of sitting on his old chair, on the old porch which barely hung from the front of the cabin, he would bring himself inside it’s old frame.  The cabin was bare, as bare and cold as his lonely heart, nothing stood in its wall besides a small table, and an old box.

The box was made of wood and metal, and looked like a chest. For as long as the old man could remember, he remembered the box as something so valuable, so precious that he may never open it. He grew curious and he grew stubborn and he would trail his fingers over it’s course exterior, dreaming of what could be inside. His eyes would swell and his old fingers would fumble for its padlock, but he would never open it. It was forbidden to open the box, for the box was as old and weary as he was.

Times came slow, and slower as the winters take grasp of the forests around his cabin, keeping him from his old chair, on the old porch. Times like these he would find himself staring at the box, always staring at the box, for the box was ancient and wise and it was his box after all. When he would get especially lonely and bored he would polish his father’s old Winchester, careful as to avoid the deep red stains on it’s barrel. Such a thing was important, such a thing was there to remind him of the past, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember after all, but he did want to know what was in that box.  Always what was in that box.

Sometimes at night, when he would lay on the old floor in his old cabin, he had dreams; rather nightmares that kept him awake most of the night. He thought of a young girl most of the time, he didn’t remember if he had known her or maybe he had just made her up, but she kept him up most of the time.  Whatever she was, she made him sad, bringing old tears to his old eyes, and still couldn’t recall anything. But whenever he thought of her, he thought of the Winchester and he wept. This never perplexed or confused him so to say, for it was the way it had always been, and once he grew disheartened he would forget soon after, most of the time anyway.

It happened one night after he had spent most of the time in his own old thoughts, that he stumbled over to the old table, which held the old box. With reddened eyes and trembling hands he shook the box and he yelled.  Cursing it, cursing whatever it held. His old voice quivered and he shook it with violent strength until the padlock broke free from the old box spilling it’s insides over the old table:

A pink ribbon, a gold ring, and a photo of a young boy and girl lay on the old table.  The Winchester cried out and the old man found peace.

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New Story: Vampyre

Here’s a new piece of flash fiction. Enjoy

It is humorous that money buys nothing in the end. We work for this paper our entire lives and when the end is near we lie there like any other and wait for fate to come down and shit on us. Believe me, I have climbed the ladders from scum to supreme, from poverty to powerful, from a New York City bum to a corporate entrepreneur with more money than the goddamn president; but as I write this down I am immortal. The blood that flows through my veins is not pure, but a coarse black serum that keeps my pale skin thriving in the dark.

My secretary had first introduced me to the treatment. When I had been diagnosed with cancer a year ago I’d given up. The doctor told me I had less than a year to live, that no treatment would remedy the affliction. The bastard gave me a Medical Marijuana card, and enough painkillers to drug a fucking whale.

“I got something” My secretary said nervously, rubbing his hands together. “Shipped straight from Asia, real weird shit.”

“If I’m looking to get high I’d just smoke the weed, Tom” I had told him and twirled a quarter on my desk.  “I need a cure. I have all the money in the world, but the doctors got nothing.”

“Nah, a friend from overseas told me about something that’s been passed around in the underground markets. People call it ‘Vampyre’.”

“Vampyre?”

“Yeah as in ‘Vam-pire’. It comes in a fluid, you inject it and in three days the cancer will be gone.” Tom cleared his throat nervously. “But-“

“Side effects?” I asked.

“Typical bullshit- headaches, nausea, minor hallucinations, and in some of the cases death.” Tom paused.  “But that’s a small percentage of trials. “’Course it’s not FDA approved or nothing but I can get it in here in a week or two,”

That’s all I needed. I just needed to see a spark of opportunity, even if it were dim. I wouldn’t have cared if he were trying to pour rat poison down my throat, or inject cyanide in my veins. As the cancers swam through my veins each and everyday grew more dreary; more cold and hostile. I would eat my lunch at my desk and then stand tall and watch the world flutter by outside of the windowpanes. Sometimes I would count the snowflakes as they splashed against the glass and freeze. When each moment matters and death lingers at your doorway you have two options; to run away until it eventually finds you, or to jump into it and knock death on its ass. I chose the second path.

My secretary came to me one morning with this bottle of dark liquid. He placed it on my desk and dropped a black balloon and a syringe beside it. “Just like shooting dope,” He spoke as if it were nothing. I looked bug-eyed, but I let him tie my arm and inject the ‘Vampyre’ into my veins. It burned but then went cool as it climbed throughout my veins.  He found his way out of my office and I slit down the wall nearest my desk; my skin grew clammy and cold as my insides twisted and turned.  The morning came through the window but I shriveled away from the light of dawn, into a closet near the door. I didn’t leave my office for the last couple of days; I left my wife lonely at my home and my kids oblivious away at school. I cowered from the daylight and marveled in the shine of the harvest moon.

The cancer had subsided, and I watched the world at night through a thin glass array. To my family and friends I was a man who overcame cancer; but to me, I was Vampyre.