Going Out On A Limb

A short story of chance meetings, dirty laundry, and teeth. Enjoy. This is set in the world of "The Dead Repent" tale.

     Julian watched his finger trace along an angular crack in the dark wooden desk before pushing back from the papers on it, his scribbling unfinished. He was simply unable to write anymore. He had been holed up in this wooden shack he called home for far too long. He no longer visited friends, no longer searched out the mysteries and the wild in forests, and he was no longer riding high from his successful journey for redemption; nothing drove him. That sweet young woman Tilly had left, as he knew she would. She had to. Living in a falling-apart shack with a dead man was not the right approach to getting your feet under you in the world out there. Not when you were still alive yourself.      He needed a muse. My god how he needed a muse! Muses, however, only seemed to visit the living. At least, he had never been visited by one. Not that he had set out cookies or other gifts in the hopes one would drop in, enticed by his offering. He had to admit he didn’t know how to contact one. Still, he suspected muses only visited the living.      That bothered him. So what if he was technically dead? He was still kicking around, and he was going to kick around for a long time. No disease was going to put him down. He was immortal. So, how could one be immortal but not be counted among the living, in order to qualify for a damn visit from a muse? Just a small conversation over a cup of tea, was that too much to ask? He stood, his train of thought making him mad.

     Getting mad was not good. He had to calm down.      He looked around the shack, sighing. A new thought came to him. Maybe he just needed a television, rather than a muse. That would surely give him some ideas, too, right? Watching a show, maybe seeing an angle that would spur him to write something new. Yep, he needed that sort of inspiration, and if it came on one of those big screen deals, with the vivid colors, well, he deserved that and more. Tilly had mentioned getting a TV more than once. He nodded to himself and her wisdom, clapping his hands together, and then wrinkled his nose, noticing an odor. He needed to wash his clothes, too, evidently.      He made up his mind. He would go to the laundromat in town to start smelling a bit more civilized, to smell a bit less, well, dead, and then head over to some big box store and get a television that would wake the dead, so to speak.      He opened a desk drawer and pulled out some money. How much would be enough? He had no idea, so he stuffed a wad of the bills into a pocket, double checking there were no holes in his pocket at the same time. If he needed more money, he’d seek out some sicko and get what he needed. It wasn’t completely right, stealing from others, but justification could be made in his head by realizing the person he liberated the money from wouldn’t be able to use the money to get drunk and beat up someone. Julian had an ability, even now, to sniff out a violent streak in someone. It was what had kept him sane before he quit his habit. Anyhow, he wasn’t going to kill them like he used to do. Remembering that past saddened him, but he reminded himself that the past of his was not his fault; it was the disease he had been given, without asking, thank you very much. He had worked hard to get a cure, being chased through forests and dark alleys, discovering the many secrets of those walking in the dark. He missed his Padre, too.      He came back to the present. He liked his plan and left.      At the laundromat, he put his four extra shirts and two extra pants into a washing machine and plugged the machine with money, standing back once the machine whirred to life, admiring his handiwork. Chores, he thought. They sucked, but you sure felt good completing them. Even the immortal should have clean clothes and a couple of completed chores to make them feel good. Especially the immortal, for they lasted a long time. He chuckled to himself.      Things were looking up, he thought. This plan was going according to, well, plan. He shook his head, realizing how much he needed that muse or the TV to inspire him.      He was pulled out of his thoughts by feeling unfriendly eyes trained on him. Turning, he saw a woman with jade green eyes framed by jet black hair burning a ragged fire into him like a magnifying glass on a squirming insect. “Can I help you?” he asked, matching her cold eyes with his own dead look.      “Probably not.” She didn’t move, just continued to stare at him, her eyes holding him uncomfortably in their confidence.      “Then would you kindly turn your eyes and bother someone else? I’m not in the mood.”      “Not in the mood for what? What did you assume my staring meant, besides accusing you of being an imbecile?”      Julian frowned at her. “I’m not in the mood for nosey people and definitely not in the mood for rudeness. Please, you’re ruining a fine moment for me, here. Just…shoo!” His right hand made a slight motion of flicking her unwanted attention away.      She laughed, and the sound of her laughter was rich, intoxicating, and despite himself he took a step towards her. She managed to spit out a retort. “Really? Shoo? You think I am a fly to just shoo away, with words or a flick of your limp wrist? I cannot be shooed, mister. I refuse.”      “Well, I cannot be stared at, sister. I refuse! So if you won’t shoo, stop looking at me. I won’t stand for it.”      “You gonna tell your mommy on me? Poor baby.”      “What the hell is wrong with you?” He paused, waiting, until he realized an answer wasn’t going to be produced. Why are you going on like this? Look, I’m minding my own innocent business, happy I got my clothes here and managed to figure out these contraptions and you just want to bust in on my party with your sour look? I don’t have the time for it.”      “I see.”      “I doubt you do.”      “I doubt you do anything.” She smiled in a way that made him unsure of how cutting she meant that to be.      Julian clenched his fists, and moved towards her, still sitting in her chair. She didn’t flinch, just stared at him and that got to him. While standing above her, rigid, he whispered, “You don’t know what you are messing with.”      “Nor do you. And you should have put the outfit you are wearing in the washing machine, too. Who are you, Pepe Le Pew?”      “Pepe le who?”      “The skunk, you moron. You never watch cartoons?”      “Oh right. I haven’t seen that in a long time, and, besides, I don’t have a television.”      “Why not?”      The question sounded suddenly sincere to Julian, the rude tone in her voice disappearing, replaced by something approaching honesty and concern. He responded in kind. “Haven’t needed one. Until tonight.”      “You suddenly need a TV because you didn’t know who Pepe Le Pew is? Dude, don’t worry about it. It’s not that big of a deal. I’m sorry for bringing it up.” She motioned to him to sit next to her and he complied.      He laughed. “No, it’s okay. I wasn’t making a split second decision to get a TV because of your comment. My…” he looked at her, sizing her up, deciding on something. “My writing is suffering. I thought a TV would help, maybe give me some new ideas, be a window to the world type of thing.” He looked at her, realizing something about her was really compelling to him, down deep.      “Don’t do it! Don’t buy a TV. You’ll watch it all the time and be forever distracted. You need a muse to help your writing, not a TV! Trust me!”      Julian peered at her, his eyebrows furrowing.      She laughed. “Don’t make faces at me. I don’t accept faces and you can’t handle me if you get me riled up.”      “I can, in fact, handle you. I’ve handled things you wouldn’t believe.” He took a deep breath, looking around, considering and remembering the demons he had survived. He hadn’t mentioned his true self to anyone in a long time, not since Tilly moved out, but maybe this was a night for exceptions. If she didn’t believe him maybe it would make her leave him alone. If she did, then he had someone to talk to, so it was a win either way. “Look, here’s the thing. I am a reformed zombie. These teeth…” he made clicking noises with his mouth open and shutting, ivory hitting ivory, “…have taken bites out of quite a few necks in the course of handling quite a few people.”      She laughed. “I don’t like guys that boast. Plus, wait a minute, reformed zombie? What, is there a 12-step program for zombies now? Get real, brother.”      Julian looked away, frowning. “It’s not a joking matter. I hated it and worked hard at overcoming the compulsion to have a, shall we say, meat-based diet. It was a great relief to me to be able to stop eating others and to do that required a lot of me and others.”      She put a hand on his leg, squinting at him. “Sorry. Very sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of you.” She paused, looking around the room. Everyone else seemed to be buried in a smartphone. “Look, about your writing. I’m serious, I can help you. I am a professional muse.”      “Is that what they call it these days?” Julian snorted.      She rolled her eyes. “Hey, I helped a guy named Shelley once. You might have heard of him?” She waited, but Julian was not going to give her the satisfaction. “Whatever you think you are, I can work with it. For me, the weirder the better.” Still nothing. “Well, whatever, Mr. OnceAZombie. If you don’t want my help, fine. I think you need to check on your flannel shirts, anyhow. You probably need a seamstress more than a muse by the look of you. Too bad, I could have played Beatrice, again, but you probably don’t have the talent to write up to my amazing muse-ness.  Although, I must say you seem to imagine yourself in a hell all by yourself worthy of that one character.”      “Beatrice?” Julian eyed her sideways. “You played her and would play her again? The Beatrice?”      “I do not lie, Pepe.”      “So you are saying you were the inspiration for Dante in that poem?”      “In that poem? You can’t remember the title? As if it is a piece about which anything could be forgotten!” She shook her head, pausing. “Then again,” she looked down, “that is what has happened in the world. They have forgotten the great poets and timeless painters, and along with them, by natural extension they – you! - have forgotten the great muses that went with the poets and painters.”      “Okay. Stop a second.” Julian was making some sort of hard to make out halting signal with his hands. “You are saying that not only are you a muse, but you were a muse hundreds of years ago? So you’re how old?”      “Well, you’re saying you are a zombie. If one was to judge who had the classier fantasy going on, brother, I win hands down.” She smiled. “What’d you have for dinner tonight anyhow? Do I need to worry?”      Julian sat up straight. “I do not eat meat anymore. Human or otherwise.” He gave a small nod with his chin to add emphasis to his assertion. She held his gaze and he continued, “…rice, beans, and some fruit. A very simple dinner.”      She laughed. “Okay, hold on. Hold on. I don’t think you get how this game of yours is supposed to work. If you’re going to be living a fantasy you have to get your story straight. You see, zombies by definition are supposed to eat humans. It’s like some sort of law, a dark gift your creator gave you. You zombie, me meal. That sort of thing. You are making it all too hard on yourself…rice and beans. Geez.” She shook her head. “You’re nuts, kid. A zombie is hard enough to believe, but a vegan zombie? Well wait till the guild hears about my adventures tonight.” She laughed then, hard, and eventually her fingers wiped at her eyes, her head shaking from side to side. “…and not interested in my help, it seems.”      “Okay, then. I’ll bite,” said Julian, wincing at his choice of words. Her eyes opened a bit wide. “Umm, sorry for the phrasing. Let me ask, what’s a muse doing here at a public laundromat on a weekend night when you should be out inspiring some great piece of art? Talk about sucking at your day job.”      “I’m in between gigs.” The answer was softly voiced.      “In-between? You mean like fired?”      “I’ve had some creative differences with my clients.” She refused to look at Julian suddenly, studying the laundromat walls very intently. They were long-ago painted cinder block.      “I see. Since when do muses get fired?”      She smiled. A bit too menacingly. Julian took a deep breath and looked at the other four people in the laundromat, none of whom, at the moment, bothered to look their way.  The world was spinning oddly, and Julian felt the need to defuse the situation. “So, uh, what’s your name?”      Her smile softened. “Lilly Ardat. You’ve heard of me, perhaps?”      Julian’s lips pursed as he searched through his memory. He shook his head. “No, I am sorry.”      “You see?” Lilly shook her head, a small frown pinching her lips. “It’s like I said, we great muses have been forgotten by society and time both. It’s why I have gone back to my original line of work, lately.”      She seemed to want Julian to prompt her, and Julian could no longer stand the long pause of silences engulfing them in the unquiet static of the laundromat. “And what was your original line of work? If I may ask.”      She smiled and put her hand on his arm, electricity coursing through his arm at the touch. “I was a demon. I scared people for the fun of it and, well, when people go running from their abodes, whether mud or plaster, they leave behind their valuables. Easy pickings. The job paid rather well, to put it one way.”      “You don’t seem scary.” Julian was nonplussed.      “I haven’t shown you my teeth. Unlike you I don’t make boasts.”      “Ah, and maybe you shouldn’t.” Julian was thinking he needed to finish his laundry and get out of here. The woman was a nutcase. Engaging, yes, but he’d only wanted to come into town to get a new TV and clean clothes. He’d been bit once, years ago, and the results had been life-changing, to understate the impact. He didn’t want to risk another bite from an honest-to-goodness demon (that phrase gave him hope for his writing) or have some odd delusional person bothering him and ruining his night. Nope. Time to move away, but he wondered if she followed him how he might lose her. The flashing of teeth and implied trauma of life-changing consequences made him shudder and his mind blanked, for how long he didn’t know.      “Well, never mind.” She got up, leaned over, and kissed him on the side of his cold cheek. “You can read about me online. Search my name on the web, reformed zombie, and, please, come searching for me if you really do need a muse.” With that she tussled his hair and went to a dryer, her lithe form, words, and receding presence transfixing Julian. He missed the sound of his own washer chiming its completion of a cycle.      He continued to watch Lilly take her clothes out, fold them neatly and place them in a basket, before walking to the door. At the door she turned, her dark eyes sparkling gems in reflected light, though whether the luminescence came from inside Lilly or the dim industrial light of the laundromat he couldn’t tell. She mouthed something at him, and then breezed through the door, gone to the night. He wished he didn’t suck at reading lips. What did she say?      Julian sighed, feeling a bit more relaxed but then thought better of it. He walked quickly to the door and was outside, standing in the breeze and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the night. “Lilly!” He didn’t see her, and his heart sank. The moon was lonely in the sky, and the breeze blew memories at him of missed opportunities in his past. His mind churned, but he made up his mind to turn back and get his laundry.      “Did you call, poet-zombie?” Lilly emerged from the shadows, empty of laundry, confidence tensed in muscles and her eyes burning into him once more, this time without the rudeness. At her side she dropped a broken body, clothes ragged, and bones nearly protruding from ghostly skin. “Is this zombie some relation of yours? He didn’t seem to observe the same kosher rules you do.”      Julian froze. He could tell the thing truly was a zombie, all peeling skin, open sores, and death.      She walked over to him, and ran a sharp fingernail on his exposed neck as she leaned in, “What is it you seek? The muse’s inspiration or the demon’s scar?”      Julian gave a low growl, showing his sharp teeth.      “Those again?” Lilly laughed. “Take me to your place.” She gently pushed his mouth shut.      “(mmmhp)et’s ry ark…” he tried to speak though his mouth was gently held shut.      “Let’s try…a park?” Lilly released his mouth and grabbed his hand. “I know just the place. Do you have something to write with?”      "I’m always prepared,” Julian pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket, pen attached.      Lilly shrugged. “If that works for you.” She pulled him away into the night, Julian only now registering the chime of a washer. He looked back at the laundromat, through the window, seeing the harsh cinder block walls and stark machines.      “They aren’t worth it,” Lilly whispered, close, warm. “Me, all me, or nothing.”      Julian nodded. “What about the zombie…the one on the ground?”      She used her foot and pushed the body under bushes. “Let’s go.” She put her arm around him, sealing the deal and starting to walk with him in the direction of what could be described as over there.      He spoke something that came to him, then.           “Shadows of humans            walking from light to soft dark;            the night is warmer.”      “You see, you already have it back!” Lilly laughed. “Now, tell me your name. A muse must know the name of her artist.” _________ © 2016 by Stephen Ullom No part of this story may be reproduced or shared in any form without permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations. For more about Julian’s story, see “The Dead Repent”, on Amazon.com.