Wonderfully Weird World

By Ray Schar

This book is a collection of some of the authors short stories, a novellette, an article on the meaning of 2012, and some unedited letters to the editor of the Trinity Journal, a Weaverville CA based weekly publication. The author is currently working on more stories, a novel, a screenplay, and a non-fiction book, hoping to finish before the world ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453539484

Ray Schar

The author has been a runner (sub-4 minute mile), kayaker and rock climber, OTR truck driver, Network Administrator/computer technician, monster and ghost hunter, and kennel helper at a pet motel. Other interests include music ('stage fright' prevented a singing career), movies, reading, gardening, and traveling in Mother Nature’s grand project. He was born with a cawl, conversed with something extraordinary as a preschooler, and has been a Remote Viewer and spiritual seeker, looking into the world’s religions before discovering Wicca as the most gentle and peaceable and which agrees with everything he's read in physics, history/archeology and other sciences. Currently battling an addiction to computer games.

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Copyright © 2010 by Ray Schar.

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4535-3947-7

ISBN:   Ebook   978-1-4535-3948-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

WEBS

LAKESIDE ATTRACTION

THERIANTHROPE

TOXIC WASTE SOLUTION

HUNGRY

HIDDEN DRIVES

TIME ENOUGH?

LIFE W/ WIFE (1)

LIFE W/ WIFE (2) AND KIDS

What Happens In The Forest, Stays In The Forest

Unabridged Letters to the Editor

This volume is dedicated to Jason and Diana, my son and daughter,

Sherri my Goddess incarnate, and all life on Planet Earth; I sincerely hope everyone and everything have the opportunity to live out their days in peace, harmony, and prosperity.

the Quest:

I determined at the age of eleven to read every book, to watch every movie, to listen to every piece of music, to learn everything about everything . . . .

I began writing fiction.

the Vision:

I saw a tall pyramidical structure with a large flattened area where the apex would be, and upon that several more smaller elevated platforms with ramps sloping downward toward the level central platform of the main structure. On each smaller platform was a single golden radiant serpent; at the center of the main platform, where one would have to pass to get to any of the sloping ramps and attain access to each of the radiant golden snakes and their respective platforms, was a black cobra emanating malevolent protection and foreboding.

I took the radiant snakes to represent knowledge and / or the power to heal, and to get there, to that point, I would first have to deal with something extremely dangerous and potentially lethal.

Eventually, I set out on the path of the Shaman . . . .

WEBS

WHITE LETTERS AGAINST a green background floated out of the night. The sign read LAST EXIT BEFORE BRIDGE & TOLL. He was almost there.

Before him the striped ribbon of highway stretched out to the horizon, the painted macadam and the grassy shoulder and the edges of the pine trees and dense underbrush harshly illuminated by the highbeams of his speeding car. Thick clouds touched the treetops, blotting out the stars, and eerie shades of grayness was a blanket over the still night. He glanced nervously at the fuel gauge and regretted not refuelling earlier in the day, when he’d had the chance. The needle hovered directly over E, and he couldn’t remember any overnight gas stations on his current route. He was almost resigned to the fact that he was going to run out of fuel somewhere along the road soon, before he could get to where he was going, but he had hope . . . .

And if he couldn’t make it all the way to his destination, he once again hoped he would be able to nurse it just a few more miles, at least over the bridge into Pennsylvania . . . .

The engine coughed, sputtered, Shit! and died.

Containing his rage (barely), he steered the car to the side of the road and parked on the shoulder. Killing the lights, he spat curses into the windshield, pounding the steering wheel and dashboard with his fist. Gradually his verbal onslaught weakened and sputtered out, and he rested his head against the top of the steering wheel.

For the hundredth time Gary silently cursed himself for even going out tonight. He should have known that something like this would happen, that he would wind up with the car running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, and yet he’d left the security of his apartment anyway, all because of HER.

She’d said over the telephone that she was moving away for a while, don’t try and change my mind because I’m already packed, it’s over, don’t bother coming over to talk to me, we’ve nothing left to say to each other, click!

He’d immediately redialed her, but she wasn’t answering. So of course he’d jumped right in his car, feeling it was the only way to convince her to stay, to stay with him. He’d imagined arriving at her house and finding her blanketing her furniture with sheets; she wouldn’t stand for dust on her things when she got back, whenever that would be. And then he’d seen the gas gauge – but everything would be all right.

He’d maintained a steady speed of seventy miles an hour (what the hell, it was almost two in the morning, the fucking highway was as empty as his gas tank) and had just about passed the halfway point when flashing red lights had appeared in his rearview mirror, winking at him angrily, knowingly.

He had immediately turned off the engine upon pulling to the side of the road to conserve what little fuel the tank held, and then despite his pleading which he hated to do (I’m sorry, officer, I know I must’ve been exceeding the speed limit a little, but you see it’s been a rough night and I guess my mind wasn’t really on my driving, my gas tank’s on E and I can’t find an open gas station, I haven’t been drinking but I’m worried about running out of gas so I guess I wasn’t paying attention to the speedometer, I’m so worried about running out of gas, could you please let me off with a warning this time, I promise I won’t go over the speed limit again, just please don’t give me a ticket –) the cop gave him a summons for doing seventy two in a fifty five.

And now, nearly at his destination, almost two miles from the bridge crossing the Delaware River, the trip was over.

Out of gas. Shit, again.

He dragged the weighty overnight bag (so he was into some kinky shit, so what?!) out of the back seat and angrily slammed the door closed. He briefly thought that perhaps he should put on the four way flashers so some drunken idiot wouldn’t cream his car, but he didn’t really expect to return within a few minutes and the way his luck was running, the flashers would drain the battery dead by the time he did come back. And he really didn’t feel like writing out a note either, so he set off down the deserted highway towards the bridge, hoping it wouldn’t take him more than an hour or two, tops.

About a half a mile down the road the highway turned, revealing a bright string of harsh yellow lights in the distance ahead. The overnight bag slung over his shoulder getting heavier and heavier with each tiring step he took, he peered back at where he’d abandoned the car, but it was now lost from view in the blackness. He switched the bag to the other hand and shoulder, wearily shuffling down the hill and now dimly realizing that it would probably take him a little longer than a couple of hours. The very few vehicles that passed him did not so much as slow down when their headlights washed over him and his outstretched thumb, and soon he didn’t even bother to turn around when another vehicle approached. He merely stuck out his thumb and kept walking. Of course no one stopped.

The banks of the roadway fell away into darkness as the highway pavement rose, and after another mile or so a sign announced START DELAWARE RIVER BRIDGE AUTHORITY. A few yards beyond that was another that read NO PEDESTRIANS OR BICYCLES ALLOWED ON BRIDGE. He spat at the signpost and kept on walking.

Tendrils of mist swirled around his ankles, and the overnight bag seemed to get heavier.

The yellow glare of the sodium lamps spanning the bridge was harsh and ugly, but it enabled him to see all the interesting details of his journey across the bridge, the old painted – but – peeling rails topping the cement curbs heavily coated with ghostly spider webs, the soft whiteness of the fog covering the churning waters of the river below, the ancient, cracked pavement, some of the crevices so large that some thing could be hiding in it. He tried to keep to the edge of the pavement, though the spider webs were thickest at the railings, and he shivered in disgust as he passed them. He’d always had an aversion to the arachnids, no wonder they don’t want pedestrians on the bridge, he thought, the fucking spider webs are the only thing holding it together.

He walked on, being careful of where he stepped. In the center of one of the larger webs was the biggest spider Barry had ever seen, and he stopped to examine it more closely, setting the bag down beside him even as his mind screamed for him to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. The spider was a toad-sized bulbous creature, dirty gray with dull white or pale yellow stripes across it, and long hairy legs holding it motionless onto the web, waiting for its next meal to become ensnared. It didn’t acknowledge his presence in any way, yet Gary somehow got the feeling that it was aware of him, that it was waiting for him. He peered closer, the spider’s eyes sparkling black, hypnotic in the sodium glare, it was waiting for him to get even nearer, and then –

Fuckin ugly thing, he thought as he straightened, hate’m all, wish they were extinct. What good are they? Revulsion backing him away from the evil creature, he picked up his bag and continued on across the bridge.

The fog thickened ahead, rising out of the river to engulf the center of the bridge, and his footsteps were eerily muted on the cracked pavement. Though the overnight bag grew tremendously heavier with each weary step, he walked faster, hastening to be where he wanted to be but especially off this damned bridge, knowing full well that it would be at least another hour to his destination at this rate. A quarter of the way across the bridge, and so far not one vehicle had passed him in either direction. He thought about what he’d say upon his arrival at his girlfriend’s house (I know you said not to come but here I am, I’m so glad to see you but I’m exhausted, let’s go to bed and we’ll talk about it in the morning) and about the nice firm mattress he’d fall onto just before falling asleep. The bag pulled at his arm muscles, bumped against his sore leg, and he shifted the weight to his other hand where the bag jarred his other leg with each tiring step. Spider webs gleamed moistly in the yellow light, the huge arachnids hanging motionlessly, waiting . . . .

The fog crept up his ankles and he shivered, once again shifting the bag to his other hand. He was entering the thickest part of the mist covering the bridge, and on the other side he could barely see the toll port. He wondered if there would be someone there to arrest him for walking across the bridge, it looked as deserted as the rest of the landscape, maybe they didn’t even bother collecting tolls this late at night. For the privilege of crossing this –

Something landed on his foot, something soft, and he thought he might have kicked at a rag or some trash. He looked down as he shook his leg to dislodge the debris and saw a dark hairy thing jumping from his shoe to cling to his pantleg. A scream escaped his lips as he dropped the overnight bag and violently shook his leg, banged his foot against the curb, against the bag, but the huge spider wouldn’t let go. In a panic he ran to the rail, smashing his ankle against the curb, ignoring the sharp pain but mindful of the sickening crunch between his ankle and the curb, and the horrible creature finally fell away, oozing dark liquid as its segmented legs spasmed. Breathing heavily, Gary leaned on the rail watching the thing writhe in agony, then retrieved his bag and carried it back to the spider to smash it down on top of the monstrosity.

Certain he had killed the spider, yet still uneasy about being on the spider – infested bridge, he sprinted over the fog – shrouded pavement toward the toll port, slowing as the heavy mist thickened at the structure’s center. Even as he congratulated himself on escaping the monster spider, he felt the whispery touch of something on his back, and on his shoulders. He had leaned against the rail –

Frantically swinging the heavy bag over his shoulders, he repeatedly slammed it against him until he felt wetness trickling down his back and arms. He dropped the bag into the mist that lapped solidly at his knees and hurredly removed his jacket, holding it out at arm’s length with disgust at seeing the bleeding pulps still clinging to the stained material, their hairy legs writhing and seeming to point at him accusingly. He dropped the tainted jacket into the enveloping fog and, his muscles and joints aching with the effort of carrying and swinging the bag and from the beating he’d given himself, he snatched up his bag. The toll port beckoned beneath the sodium glare, haven from this horror. He ran, dark shapes reaching out at him from the rail and the webs, hairy fingers clutching at his legs as he sprinted by, deeper into the mist that enveloped the bridge and now reached to his chest like a solid wave of fog. The toll port seemed to remain the same distance away no matter how long or how hard he ran; he was trapped inside this nightmare and he felt panic bubbling up in his throat.

A crack in the pavement snared the toe of his shoe and he was wrenched to the ground, the overnight bag flung out into the engulfing fog as he sprawled across the sandpapery macadam. Even as he scrambled to his feet, crying out in panic, there were dozens of black things crawling all over him. All at once the things started biting him and he screamed in pain, wildly slapping at the hideous creatures as he ran for the toll port waiting at the other end of the bridge.

Vague dark shapes skittered through the dense fog toward him and he ran faster, his heart pumping wildly in his chest as sheer terror worked his muscles. He clutched at the biting things and threw them off even as they bit at his hands. Staggering, he almost fell under the assault of venomous bites, and he felt his energy draining fast as blood drenched his clothes. The mist crept up over his shoulders and engulfed him, but not before he glimpsed the toll port bathed in yellow light waiting for him a scant dozen yards away. Then he could see nothing as the fog covered everything.

Shrieking in alarm and pain as he dashed forward, he emerged from the opaque fog, the last of the biting creatures dropping off him. He approached the toll port, his body ready to crumple with exhaustion the minute he found somebody.

There was a patrolcar parked alongside the terminal, but the place appeared deserted. Feeling a measure of safety at last, Gary leaned wearily against the toll booth.

Inside the booth was a sheet-covered mannequin, smelling of rotting meat. Realizing what it was, he reeled away from the toll port back into the roadway and saw a large black shape rising from the roof of the terminal, its spiked legs the thickness of his arms. Numb with fear, he watched as the nightmare moved slowly to the edge of the toll port, its appendages loudly clicking on the metal structure. It climbed down to the pavement and stopped, and he heard something else. A glance behind him revealed hundreds of smaller spiders creeping out of the fog toward him, the thousands of scrabbling legs making a sound like cellophane being wrinkled. He was trapped . . . .

Screaming insanely, he charged to the side of the road and the patrolcar, frantically trying the door as his trembling hand kept losing grip and slipping off it. He finally got the door open and threw himself inside, then reached out hurry the thing’s right outside it’s going to tear your arm off hurry HURRY to pull the door shut just as the huge beast reached the patrolcar and clambered on top of it.

Sprawled across the front seat, he watched helplessly as the roof began to buckle under the monster’s weight, but ultimately held. He gasped for air as he tried to figure out an escape from this nightmare. The huge creature’s legs were clasped around the vehicle, the windows were all up, no key in the ignition, riot gun holster empty. There had to be something he could do, something.

The monster couldn’t seem to reach him. At least for now he was safe.

Somebody was bound to come by eventually. Even if only at dawn.

He was cold and tired, sore all over from the bites he’d suffered, his clothes soaked with his blood. He closed his eyes, trying to will the pain away, ignoring the sounds of the creatures trying to get in at him. He left consciousness gratefully and slipped into narcosis.

He dreamed.

It wasn’t pleasant, and he woke up screaming.

He lurched up on the front seat to stare confusedly at the windshield. It must have snowed while he was out, he could barely see through the white stuff covering the windows. He was freezing, he had to get moving, had to get some circulation going in his limbs, generate some heat.

But he was so very tired, moving took too much energy, and anyway, help would be arriving soon and he’d get out of this predicament . . . .

The patrolcar was moving.

He opened his eyes again. Help had arrived and they were towing him to a gas station, but why didn’t they get him out of the car first, didn’t they know they weren’t supposed to tow a vehicle with a passenger in it? Perhaps they didn’t know anyone was in here . . . .

He clumsily pulled at the door latch and pushed, but the door refused to open. He tried again, shoving angrily, but the door wouldn’t budge, and he tried the passenger door with the same result. For some reason the doors had been sealed shut, and he was locked in.

The dreamlike stupor he had been thinking through suddenly cleared and cold fear gripped him as he watched the blanket of white on the windshield move. Saucer-sized black eyes peered in at him through the strands of webbing, hungrily gleaming.

He savagely kicked at the steering column, and the sheathing broke away to expose wiring. His fingers shaking badly, he blindly ripped wires out and touched various wires together until he saw sparks and he heard the engine roar to life, and with a whoop he got behind the wheel and slammed the car into gear. Though he was pressing down on the accelerator the vehicle only slowly surged forward, as if it were underwater or dragging something really heavy, and he could hear the tires spinning on the pavement. He turned the windshield wipers on and the windshield washer, and the wipers swept clean only a minimal area, but it was enough to see what was going on outside the patrolcar.

The monster spider had settled on the roof of the car, some of its legs that wrapped around the vehicle preventing the doors from opening. With its other legs it was trying to drag the car towards the middle of the bridge.

He shifted the car into reverse and a jolting impact brought the patrolcar to a dead stop, and he again shifted into drive and pressed on the pedal. He was moving a little faster this time, and he once more switched to reverse and slammed into something. Forward and reverse, forward and reverse, each time the car moving a little faster, until suddenly he was free, the patrolcar jackrabbitting forward across the macadam.

He made a tight turn and headed back to the tollbooths and away from the bridge. The monster spider was lying on its back, twitching in what he hoped was its death throes, and he gave it a wide berth as he drove around the terminal and back onto the highway.

Gradually, as the patrolcar picked up speed, the webs that had trapped him in the vehicle shredded in the wind and flew off into the night. By the time Barry turned off the highway and slowed down for the secondary roads, most of the webs had dissipated and he could see that there were no more spiders hanging onto the car.

He might be arrested for stealing a policecar, but at least he was alive.

*     *     *

Dawn was waiting over the horizon as he pulled into his girlfriend’s driveway and parked the stolen cruiser. He was near exhaustion from lack of sleep and the spider bites all over his body, but he knew he would come through it okay. After all, he thought, he had gotten to where he wanted to be, he had survived.

He shoved the car door open and staggered to the side door of the house, which she always left unlocked, through a light dusting of snow. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

Fluttering whiteness enveloped him, spindly hirsute arms embraced him.

Ordinary Moment

In the wild deep dark of the forest

Where no Woman’s gone before

Lives a Light Being clothed in darkness

It’s the encounter du jour

It will wrap Itself in a rainbow

And dance dry through the rain

It might do anything to you

It might take away your pain

              Every ordinary moment can be extraordinary

              It depends on how we perceive it

              What we choose to believe in

              Is real if we can conceive it

Dig deep down inside yourself

Then pull yourself right out

Sometimes put You deep on a shelf

And let your whole Being shout

But you know you can’t save anybody

You can only save yourself

You gotta put your past behind you

Don’t stagnate on that shelf

              Every ordinary moment can be extraordinary

              It depends on how we perceive it

              What we choose to believe in

              Is real if we can conceive it

LAKESIDE ATTRACTION

TWILIGHT WAS SWIFTLY ap-

proaching, the red sun sinking towards the mountains in the west and darkening rainclouds looming in the north, and Randall Kennsey knew he was doomed. Thirty miles back he’s had his chance, but then he hadn’t wanted to waste the last hours of sunlight doing nothing when he could’ve