Read Online Halloween Is For Lovers by Nate Gubin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nate Gubin
Tags: Fiction & Literature
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hold your applause. I've been working on that one for quite a while. I was thinking of titling it ‘Charred Remains Wrecked Asunder’ but I also like ‘No, No, No, Horrible Vent of Perpetual Soul Degeneration.’ I'm not sure."
Crain nodded. "That was ... nice. You might want to work on the ending."
Hurt, Jerry held the pages to his chest. "What's a matter with the ending?"
"Maybe it could use a little reworking, you know, just a little edit here or there. Seemed kind of clunky."
"Clunky?" Jerry gasped. "Clunky? I've been working on that ending for years."
Crain backpedaled. "Don't get upset, I thought it was really, really ... nice. It just needs a little tweak at the end."
Jerry turned in a huff.
"You want my feedback, don't you? Let's talk about this later." Crain turned to Hugh. "Just in case you think we can't get to you in the land of the living, we have marshals that are quite effective at retrieving fugitive ghosts. If just a touch of the new day’s sun falls on you, we release the reapers."
Crain threw his hand to the cliffs above, toward the fortress where the reapers waited, bloodthirsty and anxious for the hunt.
The reapers were faceless except for searing red eyes deep in their leather hoods. They were a cross between Roman gladiators and motorcycle gang outlaws with bodies like WWF wrestlers. They were cold, without emotions, save one: the sinister joy they took when they witnessed the squeeze of terror on the faces of their prey. That precise moment of horror when the living realized the jig was up. That shudder from What's going on? Me? Dead? Seriously? to Oh no, please no, NO! Terrified and heartbroken, all in the blink of a reaper's ravenous hollow eyes.
They thirsted for that desperation on their victims’ faces. To rob the reapers of it by covering the eyes, or rolling over and dying facedown in the dirt? That really bummed them out.
The job of a reaper was difficult and thankless, like a dentist who only gets to drill and never gets to sell the painless teeth-whitening treatments. Reapers hunted the souls that refused to cross over, but more often they delivered the death notices to those delusional souls that rejected the reality of their demise. The shrieks of terror followed by the cries of sorrow were the only bright arpeggios in an endlessly sad symphony of suffering that they listened to day in and day out.
A reaper was nothing without his steed. Below the barracks in the iron stables lurked creatures hidden in darkness. Husbanded from a cross between cavalry horses and vampire bats, the hard-charging pegasus hybrids were massive. Their powerful wings were made of patent leather strung between spikes of sharply knuckled wing bones. They were not all that frightening from afar. If someone saw them from a hundred yards, they'd think, Wow, that's a big black pegasus, maybe I'll check it out, feed it a carrot or something. When approached, it would turn its head and stare with torched eyes. A shrieking whinny would reveal a weaponized mouth of nine-inch saber fangs.
As if it wasn't enough to crossbreed a fearless and powerful horse with a ravenous bloodthirsty bat, the pegasus foal—pegonies—were weaned on the blood of jockeys, the puree of polo players’ hearts, and on their first birthday were set loose to hunt and devour a rodeo cowboy.
In the courtyard of the barracks, two reapers stumbled into a drunken sickle fight. Leroy was twice the size of the other reapers. His black leather engineer boots were the size of cinder blocks and his shoulders were wider than the hood of a Chevy truck. He towered over the smaller, drunker Chuck, who swung his sickle wildly with one hand and wielded a Jack Daniel’s bottle as a shield with the other.
With an easy swish, Leroy sliced the arm off his foe. The other reapers laughed as Leroy picked up Chuck's arm and whistled for his pegasus.
Grisly, the biggest and baddest of the pegasus herd, thundered out of the shadows. Leroy tossed the
Crain nodded. "That was ... nice. You might want to work on the ending."
Hurt, Jerry held the pages to his chest. "What's a matter with the ending?"
"Maybe it could use a little reworking, you know, just a little edit here or there. Seemed kind of clunky."
"Clunky?" Jerry gasped. "Clunky? I've been working on that ending for years."
Crain backpedaled. "Don't get upset, I thought it was really, really ... nice. It just needs a little tweak at the end."
Jerry turned in a huff.
"You want my feedback, don't you? Let's talk about this later." Crain turned to Hugh. "Just in case you think we can't get to you in the land of the living, we have marshals that are quite effective at retrieving fugitive ghosts. If just a touch of the new day’s sun falls on you, we release the reapers."
Crain threw his hand to the cliffs above, toward the fortress where the reapers waited, bloodthirsty and anxious for the hunt.
The reapers were faceless except for searing red eyes deep in their leather hoods. They were a cross between Roman gladiators and motorcycle gang outlaws with bodies like WWF wrestlers. They were cold, without emotions, save one: the sinister joy they took when they witnessed the squeeze of terror on the faces of their prey. That precise moment of horror when the living realized the jig was up. That shudder from What's going on? Me? Dead? Seriously? to Oh no, please no, NO! Terrified and heartbroken, all in the blink of a reaper's ravenous hollow eyes.
They thirsted for that desperation on their victims’ faces. To rob the reapers of it by covering the eyes, or rolling over and dying facedown in the dirt? That really bummed them out.
The job of a reaper was difficult and thankless, like a dentist who only gets to drill and never gets to sell the painless teeth-whitening treatments. Reapers hunted the souls that refused to cross over, but more often they delivered the death notices to those delusional souls that rejected the reality of their demise. The shrieks of terror followed by the cries of sorrow were the only bright arpeggios in an endlessly sad symphony of suffering that they listened to day in and day out.
A reaper was nothing without his steed. Below the barracks in the iron stables lurked creatures hidden in darkness. Husbanded from a cross between cavalry horses and vampire bats, the hard-charging pegasus hybrids were massive. Their powerful wings were made of patent leather strung between spikes of sharply knuckled wing bones. They were not all that frightening from afar. If someone saw them from a hundred yards, they'd think, Wow, that's a big black pegasus, maybe I'll check it out, feed it a carrot or something. When approached, it would turn its head and stare with torched eyes. A shrieking whinny would reveal a weaponized mouth of nine-inch saber fangs.
As if it wasn't enough to crossbreed a fearless and powerful horse with a ravenous bloodthirsty bat, the pegasus foal—pegonies—were weaned on the blood of jockeys, the puree of polo players’ hearts, and on their first birthday were set loose to hunt and devour a rodeo cowboy.
In the courtyard of the barracks, two reapers stumbled into a drunken sickle fight. Leroy was twice the size of the other reapers. His black leather engineer boots were the size of cinder blocks and his shoulders were wider than the hood of a Chevy truck. He towered over the smaller, drunker Chuck, who swung his sickle wildly with one hand and wielded a Jack Daniel’s bottle as a shield with the other.
With an easy swish, Leroy sliced the arm off his foe. The other reapers laughed as Leroy picked up Chuck's arm and whistled for his pegasus.
Grisly, the biggest and baddest of the pegasus herd, thundered out of the shadows. Leroy tossed the
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