Just for shits and giggles, and so no one thinks I've forgotten about this blog, I thought I'd post one of my old college short stories. According to the copyright notice I put on the file when I wrote it, this was written in 1996. Also, just so you know, I'm currently working on a short story, which may become a novella, centered around the resurrection of Jesus, what it might really have been, how it might really have happened, and how the early Christians might have gone about spreading Jesus's message. It is tentatively entitled "The Galilean Transformation."

But anyway, for now, here's a really bad short story from my college days. As I recall, this was based partly on a short story I first wrote for an assignment in my high school English Comp class, circa 1992-1993. Enjoy and feel free to laugh.

A HELL OF A NIGHT

I

The night was dark and moonless. Clouds swept through the sky like ocean waves, oscillating back and forth under the control of the mighty wind. Thunder rolled ominously in the distance, and leaves swirled in little eddies around the tombstones. As two darkly clad figures stole through the blackness of the graveyard, large drops of rain began to fall from the sky. Shielding their faces, they made their way quickly to a fresh grave at the edge of the grounds.

The tallest figure reached the stone first and bent down to read the name.

"Edward Myron Muncy,” he whispered as the second figure came up behind him, carrying a large bag. "This is our man."

"Are you sure?" the shorter man said, wincing as the rain pelted his face.

"Edward Myron Muncy," the first repeated, becoming agitated, "see for yourself."

The short figure looked closely at the stone. Once convinced he stood back up and quickly began to empty his large bag. He produced two spades, a crowbar, and two metal scrapers. Being careful not to clang the tools together, he laid them gently on the grass next to the mound of dirt. The thunder grew louder in the darkness and the clouds began to flash with excitement as they sped through the sky.

"We've got to work fast,” the tall figure said, glancing over his shoulder. "And keep quiet."

He knew that the grounds keeper, Mavin Johnson, would shoot first and ask questions later if he caught grave robbers on his property. This was serious work. This was his work, and he had never botched a job before. He sure as hell wasn't going to botch one now.

He and the other began digging vigorously, threatened by the impending storm. Although it would help to cover any noise they made, the storm was a potential danger because of all the trees in the graveyard. Everything from dogwoods to oaks to weeping willows grew on this property and it wasn't unusual for one to be hit by lightning. Mavin Johnson's house had been damaged more than once by falling limbs.

As the two men flung mud left and right, flashes in the clouds turned to streaks in the sky. The thunder began to crash and the rain began to pour down in sheets, making it impossible to see anything out in the distance. The fresh soil, still soft from the burial, came up easily and they were making good progress, despite the torrential rains.

Suddenly, as they raced against the rains, a shot rang out from the distance. It was barely audible over the sound of the storm. The tall figure looked up, frightened. Another shot rang out. He heard the other man give a shallow gasp and fall to the ground. Fearing for his life, he turned to run. The invisible gun discharged again and he felt a strong impact against his body, as if something had run into him. He fell to his knees, thinking he was hit. Once convinced that he was not, he scrambled to his feet and began to run for the woods on the far end of the graveyard.

II

Clayton Miller had been sprawled out on his sofa, aimlessly flipping through the channels, when the phone had begun ringing. Knocking over empty beer cans, he fumbled with the receiver, dropping it first and them answering it upside down.

"Hello."

"Miller?" a gruff voice with a New York accent answered on the other end.

"Yeah, this is Miller. Who is this?"

"That's not important right now,” the voice answered. "Are you busy tonight?"

"What?"

"I said are you doing anything tonight?"

"No, I'm not. Who the hell is this?" Miller ran his hand over his jet-black hair.

"Then meet me at Allen's Landing tonight at 8:30."

"What? I don't even know who the hell you are. I'm not going to meet you there until you tell me why."

"Constance Clark told me to get in touch with you. She said you are the best at what you do." The voice paused. "I need you to do a job for me."

"Constance Clark?" Miller said, trying to remember if that was the girl he had spent the night with last weekend.

"Yes, Constance friggin' Clark. She's Gary Clark's wife."

Miller suddenly remembered. His last job had been for Gary Clark and his payment, along with twenty grand, had been a blowjob from Constance. He smiled at the thought.

"Oh yes,” he said, "I remember now. She gave you my name?"

"Yeah, she did," the voice answered dryly. "So are you gonna meet me or not, I ain't got all damn day."

"Yeah, I'll meet you. 8:30?"

"Yes, 8:30."

Miller hung up and flopped back onto the sofa. He hoped that this guy would pay better than his last patron. Clark had promised him fifty grand but couldn't come up with it after Miller completed the task. So he offered the services of his wife. Miller gladly accepted, but he would have rather had the extra thirty thousand. But what the hell, he thought, it was a good blowjob.

Glancing at his watch he picked up the phone to call Pete Wilson, his partner. Wilson would be glad to hear that they had another job pending. He always blew his portion of the cash on poker games and was always in debt to some card player. Miller had saved his ass several times when he was unable to make his payments. But that's just the way Wilson was, and Miller accepted it that way.

Miller left his house at 8:00, wanting to make sure he got to the Park on time. He knew from past experience that the better impression you made, the more money they would dish out. As he sped down Interstate 10 through the heart of Houston, his thoughts wondered to his last job. Clark had wanted some kind of Mexican War artifact that belonged to an old lady in San Antonio. So Miller and Wilson had gone there, broken in the lady's house, and taken the artifact. Everything went perfectly. The police were totally baffled. Miller and Wilson had even stayed a few extra days in San Antonio, touring the Alamo and River Walk, and catching a Spurs game. He hoped this new job, whatever it turned out to be, would go as smoothly as that one had.

He turned off the highway and made his way through downtown Houston to Allen's Landing, which sat literally in the middle of the high rise buildings. Miller was used to this area. He had taken classes at the University of Houston-Downtown, whose single building overlooked the landing.

He parked his car on the street corner and positioned a switchblade in his palm. One could never be too careful in a big city at night. He made his way cautiously to the landing and looked around. He saw several homeless people laying on the ground, but no sign of anyone else. Suddenly a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, wheeling him around. He stared into a mustachioed face.

"Miller?" the man said, his New York accent unforgettable.

"Yeah, it's me. Let's pass by any small talk. What's your name and what's the job?" Miller said, gripping his switchblade.

"Joey Mazzone,” the man replied, "and I want you to dig me up a body."

Mazzone waited for a reply and when he received none, he went on. "A stiff named Edward Myron Muncy died and was buried with a ton of jewelry. I know 'cuz he was my uncle. I want you to get that jewelry for me. It's a damn gold mine."

"And they payment?" Miller replied, calmly.

"Forty grand, up front. And ten more when I get the jewelry." Mazzone paused. "Of course if I don't get the stuff then . . . "

"You'll get it, don't worry."

III

As Miller had begun running, he heard the voice of Mavin Johnson screaming over the thunder. But now his voice was beginning to fade. Miller was nearly to the tree line and he knew he could get away if he made it into the woods. Gunfire continued to ring out behind him as he weaved between the graves. The grass was wet and the driving rain made it hard to see. His foot caught the corner of a tombstone and he fell hard to the ground. Picking himself up, he glanced behind him; only sheets of rain.

The last few stones were easy to dodge and he jumped into the underbrush at the edge of the woods. He hadn't remembered the woods being so thickly populated with trees. It felt as though he was weaving his way through a mighty forest. His head was pounding and his face felt very hot. The rain suddenly felt good against his skin.

He began to slow his run to a jog as he continued to make his way deeper into the woods. The storm seemed to be subsiding and the rain was easing up as well. Starting to walk, he marveled at how quickly the storm had calmed down. The rain finally stopped completely and the thunder became only a very distant rumble. Suddenly the night sounds of the forest filled his ears. Snakes slithered across the wet leaves; unknown animals growled in the darkness; crickets chirped; owls hooted.

A ghostly fog began to roll in around his ankles, covering the wet surface of the forest. He found himself wondering if he would ever make it to the other side. It felt as though he had been walking for hours. The trees began to sway towards the ground, as if they were reaching out to grab hold of him and he jumped as his shoulder grazed a nearby branch. The whole world seemed to be bending around him as he walked.

Suddenly he reached a clearing. The fog was very thick here but it was easy to see what took repose in the open area. A large house, with magnificent windows and eight gables stood in front of him, the fog circling around it in ghostly wisps. He walked up the staircase to the front door. Upon the door was a plaque. It read:

Before this ghastly house we stand
With fearful heart and unknowing hand.
It pulls us in with its beckoning glow,
Unsure of what evils may show.

He stared at the plaque, puzzling over the meaning of the strange poem. He wanted to open the door, but he feared what was on the other side. Somehow he knew what lay behind the door. If he opened it, he would have to face the ultimate terror, the ultimate fright. Bu the door had to be opened, he knew that. No matter how terrible it was, he had to open it.

Pulling on the heavy brass handle, he edged the door slowly open. Inside was darkness. Ultimate darkness. Blacker than any darkness he had ever seen. Evil darkness. He peered through the doorway, trying to see if anything lay inside. His head throbbed, and he blinked, feeling unable to focus on what he was looking at. It felt as though warm, thick liquid was covering his head, coating it with an evil stickiness. His vision began to blur and he felt himself backing away from the door. Suddenly a blast of stinging warm air from inside the house hit him and he began to topple down the stairs. The fall seemed to happen in slow motion. He could feel his body flailing backwards into the foggy ground. His hands were trying to catch hold of something, but found nothing to catch hold of. Finally his body thudded into the ground, enveloped by the fog. He could see nothing but an immense brightness. Then everything went black.

From inside the house, an evil laugh filled the air.

IV

Mavin Johnson gazed unemotionally down at the two bodies in front of him. The thing that bothered him most about it was not that he had killed two men, but that it was such a hassle to get this taken care of. He figured he needed to call the police right away. He also figured he needed to get out from under such tall trees during a storm. Before he turned to go, he glanced back at the bodies. One man lay crumpled in a ball on top of the grave. The other man, who had tried to run away, lay spread eagle on the grass, his head covered with blood and a bullet through his skull.