THE SHELL
by Michael Lizarraga

The following excerpt is from 'The Seashell,' a story by Michael Lizarraga published by Schlock! Publications in an anthology titled 'Timeless Worlds.' An excerpt screenplay from an upcoming film version can be found at www.MichaelLizarraga.com, under The Shell (short)

Synopses: “Hold a seashell to your ear, hear the sounds of the ocean” is one of the biggest myths many of us believed while growing up. In addition to this is an even stranger tale – a captured “scream” heard within a seashell, from someone who had drowned near it while it was in the ocean. Forever echoing.

But suppose these were not mere ocean legends... 

Anna heard the noises again, from the shell's mouth, this time giggles. Children, echoey and distant, as if in a basement or cellar. 

It was the size of a football, a particular seashell known as Murex Ramosus, its rock-rough, spiny exterior blended white and brown with thin beige streaks, pinkish blotches and striations all around.   

The bewildered woman grabbed the seashell, studied its multiple pointy edges, its rows of short, long thick/thin finger-like arms jutting in different directions, one end like a spiraled drill or an Indian pagoda, swirling into a pinnacle. Anna listened as the echoey laughing of children continued. Holding the shell closer, she peered into its wide opening, its oval, lemon-shaped mouth the size of a large pomegranate, or a small bowl, ten centimeters in diameter. Resembled a clown with no eyes tilting his head, mouth wide open, laughing.

Then her head jolted back as a gush of water shot out from the seashell's mouth, splashing her face. Her eyes squinted, mouth gasped, and she was unsure whether to be startled or annoyed. Again, she heard the children's smirks from within the shell.

Then, silence.        

Her brows arched with intense curiosity, putting the shell's mouth to her right ear, its cold porcelain like interior against the side of her head. It was the sound of the ocean deep - the actual deep - far different than any seashell Anna ever held. The lapping and swishing of underwater currents, the movement and noises of marine life, similar to aquatic recordings played in Yoga classes, or therapists' waiting rooms. 
                                               
Keeping the shell pressed to her ear, she heard whispers again, sounding like a little boy and girl. The sounds shifted, from echoey and distant to girggling "underwater talking" sounds.
 
But curiosity switched to pain when Anna felt a sharp, powerful clamp on her ear. She wailed in agony and terror as she pulled the seashell away and gazed into the bathroom mirror. Attached to her ear and lower cheek was a thick, slimy six-inch leech, its dark body as fat and as big as a baby fig banana. Its anterior jaws were unyielding, hundreds of tiny sharp teeth slicing and digging further into the woman's flesh and bone the more she tugged on the blood-sucking creature, while the jaws on the leech's posterior end were equally stubborn. Extending from her ear almost to her mouth, it looked as if she held an opened flip phone to her cheek, blood now streaming down her jaw and neck.

 She brought the seashell back to her agonizing face, the screaming Anna again peering into its mouth, frantically searching the curvature of this shell's throat for any other signs of life as a confirmation that this experience was actually happening. She shrieked when thick, liquidy black/green sea sludge exploded from the shell, catching Anna's face. An overwhelming stench of waste and chemicals assailed her nostrils. The entire left side of Anna's face was now covered in slime, a pain like fire on an opened wound. She dropped the seashell, shouting and falling to her knees, steam and smoke ascending from both the sludge and her melting, drooping face. Her cheek showed bone, while flesh dangled from her jaw like shredded meat. An actual hole formed in the side of her face, revealing molars. On the other side, the hungry leech dug deeper, producing veins. Her screams raked out of her throat and bolted from her mouth in howling spates.  

Anna looked at the seashell on the floor, watched another phenomenon occur. Small, insect like sea creatures scurried from the seashell's mouth, by the hundreds, like popcorn bubbling from a popcorn machine. Assorted species - crustaceans, mites, worms, parasites - quick and fast, campaigning toward Anna. 

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For complete version of The Shell, you may purchase "Timeless Worlds," (titled The Seashell), a horror anthology from Schlock! Publications. Available on Kindle and paperback. http://www.amazon.com/Timeless-Worlds-Schlock-Anthology-Book-ebook/dp/B009EA05MK


Be sure to Like my website: www.MichaelLizarraga.com.

Also feel free to toss a comment (or question or concern or derogatory remark) on my blog page.

                             

FRAMES  

by Michael Lizarraga

Synopses: Former metal musician-now front desk clerk Dave Clinger is a bitter man. An angry man who, like so many other talented artists, never quite made his “mark” in life. A 31-year-old ex-guitarist/lead singer now emptying his pocket of passion into the gutter of defeat, reluctantly joining the league of the working class. But Dave will soon discover something else amongst the rubble of self-pity and heap of regret. A sort of pathway - a hallway of reflections in the form of "infinity mirrors" leading someone (or something) straight to him; a little creature with no name, no words, and no warning to this man in need of a second chance, redemption and an alternative...  

The following is an excerpt from 'Frames,' a story by Michael Lizarraga published by Horrified Press in an anthology titled 'Tales of the Undead.'

 Dave stood before the dresser mirror, and with the square table mirror in hand, aimed it at the larger mirror. He maneuvered the table mirror, finding the infinite frames, the virtual hallway, his face peeking just behind the small mirror.

But he only saw the infinite frames - his own infinite reflections behind the square frames - nothing else. No sign of her.

 

He first saw her in the elevator when arriving home, the lift’s mirrored flanking walls reflecting each other, creating a virtual row or hallway of squared windows with repeated images of the room and Dave. And there, within the sixth frame, to the left of Dave’s back reflection, stood a small person. Short, about three and a half feet tall. Petite, light brown hair, fair skin. Head and eyes slightly bowed, staring directly at Dave. 

                      

He smirked, keeping the table mirror pointed at the dresser mirror, toying with the frames within frames within frames, playfully moving them side-to-side.

Suddenly, from the right side of the fourth frame, the little girl’s face appeared, as though stepping onto stage from behind a curtain. 

Stared at Dave with her trance-like gaze, her head and eyes slightly bowed. Dave was aghast, blood throbbing through his temples. He shouted hideously, throwing the small mirror into the dresser mirror, cracking them both. Stepping back, the back of his neck red hot with fear, he screamed, "WHO ARE YOU?!"

 

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For complete version of Frames, you may purchase "Tales of the Undead," an anthology from Horrified Press, available on Kindle and paperback. http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Undead-Suffer-Eternal-III-ebook/dp/B00JMCBFME.

Be sure to Like my website: www.MichaelLizarraga.com.

Please feel free to toss a comment (or question or concern or derogatory remark) on my blog page.

 

PATTERNS

by Michael Lizarraga
  
Synopses: Mr. Louis Arroyo, 29. Occupation: Security Officer. A recovering junkie who fosters a most unusual addiction, yet suppresses it with the most unusual allies. A 'higher power,' if you will. Not the conventional constellations or mystical mists, but faces and figures he finds in the contours and constructs of plastered walls, floor tiles, ceilings, table stains or cemented sidewalks. Any place he could pattern a mouth with a pair of eyes, or a torso with a set of limbs. A wince or a wink or an occasional sound from one of these silhouetted characters; an obsession since childhood he’s always referred to as The Line People. Pals and protectors who have cradled, calmed, cared and, at times, corrected Louis throughout his life.

In a moment, Louise will find out just how real his 'higher power,' The Line People, actually are...

The following is an excerpt from 'Patterns,' a story by Michael Lizarraga published by Bete Noire magazine.

He was aroused moments later by low-soft whispers. Fragmented words, as though searching for a radio frequency. Eyes still closed, he heard a calm, clear quiet voice.

We’re right here beside you.   

The voice could have been a man or a woman’s, and sounded eerily distant and close.

He staggered out of bed, as though drunk.He flicked the light on, and on a blue plaster wall just before his face stood a contour image more apparent than any other 'Line Person' Louis had ever seen. Almost as if looking at a blue abstract painting of an oval shaped, balding head, “Einstein” hair waving behind it. Multiple lines formed what seemed like sagging skin along the face, as though a melting wax figure. The mouth was a small crooked rectangle, cradling three squares resembling piano keys – its teeth. Its eyes stood out the most. Light blue, almost white, like two round hardboiled eggs with little yokes as pupils, staring at Louis as if someone under a spell. 

                                 
The blue face suddenly jutted toward Louis, like a 3D movie, the wall plaster expanding behind its head in a dream-like, surrealistic stretch. Simulating an elastic band, or someone teeth-pulling on a thick, chewy taffy bar. The plastered face came inches from Louis’s, its round eyes gazing into his with its trance-like stare. Close up, the character reminded Louis of The Elephant Man, or a zombie shrouded in a shredded burlap scarecrow mask. The bottom of its square mouth lowered, and with the sound of a distant underwater echo, in a mixture of taunt and condescension, said, Let’s talk. Blood pounded through Louis’s head as if pumps had been shoved in his ears and were trying to suck him dry. Aghast, he couldn’t move other than to tremble.

Again, that calm, quiet voice.
 
We’re right here beside you.                                                                 
                                                                         
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For complete version of Patterns, you may purchase issue #12 of Bete Noire magazine at https://www.createspace.com/4411452.

Be sure to Like my website: www.MichaelLizarraga.com.

Please feel free to toss a comment (or question or concern or derogatory remark) on my blog page.