TotenFolio

The silhouette fell over Snatch and he turned to look over his shoulder. His gray eyes turned up to view the source of the shadow in the woods.

“Mother?” Snatch asked. He stood so quickly his knees popped and both locked into place with enough force to send sharp pains from his kneecaps to his shins.

Mother stood barefoot, in a stretched, sweat-stained knock off sports jersey and a pair of black cutoff denim shorts. Rolls of sweaty fat hung over the unbuttoned waist band of her shorts and beads of dirty sweat clung for their lives to her forehead. She blinked her beady eyes and looked at Snatch through a drunken haze.

“Why are you out here, Mother?” His throat shoveled the sound of his voice out of his mouth; each word lurched and rolled off his dry, sticky tongue.
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Potatonaut

As I said, this is a flying potato. I call him Potatonaut.

Snatch stepped out of the farmhouse and swung the sledgehammer up to shoulder it. He searched the immediate area for any sign of the old farmer, the Reaper, but found nothing. He stood alone.

He pressed his temple with the heel of his palm. He felt a headache swelling behind his temples in the form of increased bloodflow. His blood pressure climbed and his brain pulsed in his skull with the extra flow of blood. With a grimace, he walked toward the woods.

For the second time now, the Reaper denied the existence of Danielle, but Snatch knew she existed. He remembered all too well how her head split like a watermelon under a cinder block. He remembered the look on her face when she fell; he remembered the way her eyes stayed open and her features bore the look of surprise and shock.
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For the past three weeks, I’ve been participating in the FridayFlash group over on Twitter. The whole concept is run by J.M. Strother and is a great way to get readers for your work. I’ve noticed a large spike in traffic to all of my websites which, of course, means more readers. In order to better manage my traffic and keep my FridayFlash fiction separate from the rest of my writing, I set up a blog at Posterous (highly recommended, if you need a quick blogging platform that’s easy to set up).

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The current state of my blog

This is the current state of my blog, illustrated through a word cloud generated from my blog’s RSS feed. I generated the word cloud using Wordle. As you can see, my blog has focused largely on the story of Edgar Snatch. I’m working on a few ideas to expand the content of my blog and offer new material for your enjoyment.

Until then, enjoy the story of Edgar Snatch!

Edgar Snatch walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard to find a bottle of rum. He breathed through his clenched teeth and gripped the cupboard handles until his knuckles turned bright white. If he kept his grip on the gun when the barrel bumped the arm of the couch, he would not be fetching a drink now. He would be outside, searching for a sheet of plastic and another old carpet to roll Mother in. His heart pounded.

Uncertainty showed clearly in his eyes as he swallowed hard and loud. The lump in his throat felt like a stone. Even if his grip had remained true on the gun, he may have not carried the deed through to conclusion, he knew. He searched the cabinet for the drink and grabbed a half-empty bottle of rum. He turned and came face to face with the old farmer – the man who called himself the Reaper.

“You know you’re hanging on by your fingernails, Snatch.”
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I wanted to make a quick update to let you know that for the past two weeks I have participated in the #FridayFlash group over on Twitter. Be sure to check out the #FridayFlash hashtag on Twitter every Friday for some great fiction written by some really talented people.

Also, you may have noticed there wasn’t an Edgar Snatch story Sunday. Between being busy and the weather peaking at 3 degrees less than the temperature on the surface of the Sun, I didn’t have it in me to do two updates this week. Edgar Snatch will be back in all of his delusional, twisted glory on Wednesday, June 23rd.

Edgar Snatch listened to Mother in the den, where she sat propped on her back on the couch like a paralyzed walrus. Mother guzzled Vodka from a bottle. Snatch knew without seeing her that the bottle contained Vodka. The sound of each hissing breath confirmed the sharp intake of breath Mother used to counteract the sting of the alcohol burning her throat.

He looked at the polished gun on the kitchen table. He’d taken the gun from the Sheriff before he shoved the dead body into the cruiser. The cruiser now sat in its new home, a small running body of water, too small to be a river and too big to be a creek. Hunters used the body of running water as a graveyard for animal parts. He used it as a graveyard for the Sheriff.
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Edgar Snatch wrapped the dead Sheriff in a sheet of plastic meant to protect furniture from dust, paint and other common hazards. The plastic sheets cost little enough that he could wrap liberally and Mother would never miss them. After the plastic sheets, he rolled the Sheriff in a brown shag carpet that he’d ripped from the living room of the farmhouse a year ago. For a year, the shag carpet sat outside in the elements, surviving storm after storm, braving dry rot on the hot days and dirty mold on the wet days. The shag looked like the fur on a mangy mutt, spotted and smooth in areas, scraggly everywhere else.

But it met Snatch’s requirements. It stunk like death itself, so the carpet wouldn’t mind being wrapped up tight and snug around a fat, oozing corpse. As he rolled the Sheriff into the carpet, he slapped the corpse’s chest to be sure the mouse had not miraculously appeared again in the man’s shirt pocket.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Snatch said to the body. He kicked the last flap of shag carpet into place, stood straight and wiped his hands. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
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Edgar Snatch blinked twice and shook his head to clear the talking mouse out of his mind. When his eyes opened, the mouse, a macabre sight, sat upturned in the shallow grave. The mouse’s teeth were exposed and the tiny, dead black eyes stared without purpose.

“You can’t talk,” Snatch said to the dead rodent. His voice moved through the air clumsily, like an obese child shouldering his way to a vending machine.

The mouse did not respond. Not right away.
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