Short Story Wednesday: One for the Angels
Hello and welcome to all my new subscribers and followers (and a hearty hey there, how ya doin’ to my longtime readers)! Through a Glass, Darkly is where I publish horror, dark fantasy, supernatural thriller and other speculative fiction, short and long, new and old, as well as weekly(ish) updates on what I’ve got going on. Newcomers are encouraged to check out my About page and my roadmap to this site to learn more.
I didn’t have anything on the schedule for today, but to celebrate the update and 15th anniversary re-release of my first short story collection, Fragments & Fancies (and also to make up for the fact that I didn’t send out the promised Tuesday Tunes debut of my husband’s new track; that’s a long story that ends with him deciding to hold off another week), I decided to share one of my favorite flash fics from that book. It’s a quick read, and I hope you enjoy it.
Fragments & Fancies was my first foray into self-publishing, just to learn the ropes in preparation for releasing my debut novel, Restless Spirits. It’s more of a chapbook, collecting experimental short stories, flash fiction and some micro-fiction I wrote for a long-defunct community fiction website called Ficlets. I’ve given it a new cover and I’m working on updating the formatting and doing an official re-launch once that’s done, but you can go ahead and get it here for only 99 cents.
I’ve also read some great shorts here on Substack recently, which I’ll share down at the end.
I’m toying with the idea of making this a weekly feature, sticking with my established pattern of posting three times a week. So that would be an episode of my serial on Monday, a short story on Wednesday, and my newsletter on Friday. If I don’t have any short fiction of my own to share, I can still share recommendations.
But as I said previously regarding the upcoming new serial, I’m in kind of a chaotic season, so my “weekly” schedule may be a bit erratic. I can strive for weekly, and beg your patience when I need to skip a week.
Without further ado, here’s the story. Oh, warning — this one has a lot of strong cussin’, a lot more than I tend to use in my fiction nowadays.
ONE FOR THE ANGELS
The river looked hostile. Choppy waves on black water made it look cold. But it was warm this time of year. I guessed it would feel like going back to the womb, floating in that warmth, letting it fill my lungs. I took a deep breath to strengthen my resolve, and climbed over the rail.
“Geddown from there!”
Halfway over the rail, a hand grabbed my arm and jerked me back. I lost my balance and sprawled on my ass, cracking my tailbone on the pavement. “Ow! What the fuck?”
A homeless guy stood over me. Greasy hair, greasy clothes, skanky trench coat held together with safety pins. Hadn’t shaved in at least a week. Or bathed, by the smell of him. “What the fuck?” I repeated, in case he didn’t hear me the first time.
He crouched over me. His hand held a burning cigarette that he waved in my face. “Seven. Just this morning, I pulled this kid out of a car wreck. Seven years old. Had her whole life ahead of her. And here you’re about to throw yours away. So I’m asking YOU, kid, what the fuck?”
He stood, puffing his cigarette, and offered his hand.
I took it. He pulled me to my feet. “What happened to the kid?” I asked, rubbing my ass.
“Whad’ya think? She died.”
I was stunned. My world had gotten so small, my problems so huge, I forgot about those of other people. Man, the kid’s family. What they must be going through. Not that I didn’t have a pretty good idea.
“Look, kid, I’m sorry about your wife, but—”
“How do you know about my wife? Who the hell are you?”
The guy hesitated, then shrugged. “It was on the news.”
“Oh. Right.” I remembered that reporter holding the mic in my face and nodding sympathetically as she got me to give a statement. I only did because I was still in shock. Fucking vulture. I pointed at his cigarette. “Got another one?”
“You smoke?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t smell like you smoke.” He lit one with the butt of his active one, and handed it over. “You know, these things’ll kill you.” I just looked at him. He laughed. “Guess it’s better to do it slow.”
I tried the cigarette, and nearly hacked up a lung. He was right. I didn’t smoke. Laughing, he slapped me on the back until my coughing fit ended.
“Why’d you stop me?”
“Told you. You’re too damn young to die.”
“I’m too young to be widowed.” I took another tentative puff.
He shrugged again. I wanted to knock his remaining teeth out.
“You’re hurting. Who isn’t? Hurting’s what makes you you. Tells you you’re alive.”
“Thanks for that brilliant and original bit of insight, Clarence.”
“Just ‘cause something’s cliche doesn’t make it untrue. Go home, kid. Your mother needs you.”
“What do you know about my mother?”
“You got a mother? She needs you alive. Trust me, I know.”
I winced at that. Life had clearly beaten him down. Yet was trying to get me to go on. “What’s your name?”
“Gotta go. Got an appointment.”
“Wait!”
“Don’t worry, kid. We’ll meet again. You stay out of the drink, a’right?” I turned to look out at the water. Suddenly it didn’t seem so appealing. I looked back. He was gone.
***
I thought about him as I watched my mom through the ICU observation window. Just like I’d thought about him when she received her diagnosis. It was like he knew. “Your mother needs you.”
Twenty years later, it was the reason I was still here. It hurt, watching her die like this. A different kind of hurt than losing my first wife, but just as intense. This time, I knew I could take it. I hated it, but I could survive it. I had to. I had others who needed me.
I needed a cigarette. I went outside to have a smoke and call my wife. I let the nicotine buzz set in before calling home. I was opening the phone and speed-dialing home when the coughing started.
I doubled over. The phone slipped from my hand. I heard my wife’s far away voice calling my name. I coughed so hard I fell to my knees. I felt a hand pounding me on the back, and looked up.
Greasy hair. Greasy clothes. Skanky coat. Hadn’t shaved in days. He smiled. “You made it, kid.”
“What the fuck?” I managed to ask between coughs.
***
“I’m ready to retire,” he said, his tone conversational, as if I wasn’t coughing my lungs out. He lit a cigarette. I wiped the slobber from my mouth. My hand came away red. “Had to find a replacement first. Someone who could stand this job. I gotta say, I had my doubts about you, that night on the bridge. But you pulled yourself together and proved your mettle.”
I just stared at him as he took another leisurely drag. I couldn’t draw breath. Fuck this. I started to crawl toward the door. This was a goddamn hospital, wasn’t it? Where the hell were all the doctors?
“I’m proud of you, kid. You’re gonna make a great agent.”
I collapsed on the ground. “Who… who are you?” I croaked.
He came over to crouch beside me. “You know who I am. I mean, who I used to be. That title’s yours now.” He patted me on the back. Then he held up his cigarette and considered it. “It’s not like you didn’t get a heads up,” he said, leaning down to brandish the cigarette in my face. “I told you these things would kill you.”
I hope you enjoyed that! If you did, be sure to let me know with a like, comment or restack. And don’t forget to subscribe so you don’t miss upcoming stories!
And now for the recommendations…
Shawn Brooks has posted four parts of what’s turning out to be a creepy serial with shades of Blair Witch and Slenderman.
Nancy Waddel has written a very effective and spooky ghost story for Friday the 13th:
The incomparable S.E. Reid has written a piece of techno-horror that will have you giving ChatGPT a lot of side eye.
GrousyGirl brings us another eerie and atmospheric ghost tale:
Shane Bzdok turned a writing prompt into a disturbing tale about a feral… well, just read it.
Andy Futuro is turning into Substack’s king of satirical horror. The scariest part is how easy it is to see his dark and twisted visions of the near future coming true.
This short story by grace reminds me of one of the most disturbing old school Stephen King stories I’ve read.
Finally… it’s not horror and it’s not short, but I would be remiss in not telling you to make sure you don’t miss Bridget Riley’s Murmurs in the Walls, her third Judith Temple, Psychic Paranormal Detective novel, which just concluded yesterday. It won’t be free forever, so go enjoy the heck out of it while you can.
Muchisimas gracias 🙏
Thanks for the mention!