The Former Online Journal of Eric T. Marin
This is my former online journal. To read current entries, please visit my LiveJournal blog here.
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Photo copyright 2004 Eric Marin
"Soul Food"
This is a 2000 word story that I wrote in college and had printed in a short-lived, student-run journal named Desolate Citadel at the same college. I forgot about that printing until I ran across a copy of it recently, so this story is now a reprint. Therefore, rather than try and find a place to reprint a tale from a tiny college journal, I'm going to publish the now revised and polished version here. Enjoy!
SOUL FOOD
Copyright 2005 Eric Marin
Kevin broke through the surface of liquid darkness to focus on a sooty bulb hanging from a cord of wire several feet above him. His eyes traveled along the peeling ceiling, examining large flakes of paint clinging to the chalky drywall. A beam of sunlight from a broken skylight thrust its way down onto the cracked concrete, and motes of dust danced in lazy orbits along the beam's length. His gaze refocused on the burned out light, as his mind began to grind back into order.
Sensation tingled up and down his arms and legs, and he felt a warm wetness spreading across his chest. He turned his head to the right in a stiff motion and saw blood oozing away from him in a dark pool. He craned his neck to peer at his chest and stared at the two holes near its center. Dark liquid seeped from the torn edges of his skin.
I've been shot, he realized, and the memories crashed into his consciousness like a wave breaking across a tide pool.
* * *
"You double-crossed me," Peter said in a low voice that echoed in Kevin's ears.
Kevin stared at the wrinkled face of his employer and noted in absent clarity the blue-black patches beneath Peter's fatigue-reddened eyes and the slight twitch around his chewed lips. He fought the urge to fixate on the small gun in Peter's bony hand that now pointed at Kevin's chest.
"I didn't, Peter," Kevin said, his tongue sticking to the lie.
A body lay twisted on the edge of his vision, two entry wounds in its upper left chest. The slack fingers of the corpse draped across the grip of a small revolver.
The speed with which Peter had drawn and fired his own pistol had shocked Kevin and provided a fatal surprise for the buyer-turned-robber. Kevin's own handgun still nestled untouched in its shoulder holster.
A lot of money to do nothing, he had thought a few days before when he accepted the bribe from the now dead man. Just stand by while we get robbed.
Doing nothing would now cost him his life as well.
Peter shook his graying head. "You're lying," he said. "You never even went for your gun."
He's too far away, Kevin thought, as he eyed the distance between the two of them. How can a guy that old move so damned fast?
"I took care of you, Kevin. Taught you the business, invited you into my confidence," Peter continued. "And you show your gratitude by standing aside while some schmuck tries to rob me."
Kevin's eyes flicked toward a stack of crates to the left, all containing artifacts stolen from private and public collections in Europe and brought to this decrepit warehouse in Austin, Texas by way of Mexico. The items would trickle through the U.S. antiquities black market to various individuals with more money than morals, and their sale provided Peter with significant income that never appeared on his tax return.
The same items also paid for Kevin's services as a bodyguard and assistant to Peter.
Kevin looked back at Peter and tried to think of something to say to avert the inevitable and realized that he could not. "It was just business, Peter. No one was supposed to get hurt."
Peter clenched his jaw for a long moment.
"Just business?" repeated Kevin's employer in a bleak voice, as his finger tightened on the trigger. "Well, our business is concluded."
In desperation, Kevin leaped forward to claw at the weapon with his right hand while digging for his gun with his left.
The double crack of two shots sounded out micro-moments after the bullets punched through Kevin's chest, and his lunge degenerated into a spinning fall that ended with him lying face-up at Peter's feet. A thunking impact vibrated through his head, as the back of his skull bounced up from the concrete floor.
Kevin's eyes grasped at the fading image of Peter's harsh face floating above him, and then a flickering storm of brilliance swept away his sight and consciousness.
* * *
It's strange that I can't feel any pain, he thought as he examined his wounds. His calm surprised him in a distant way. I must be in shock.
He tried to move his legs and arms but found them immobilized by something he could not see, only feel. His left hand stirred, but it lay trapped with the holstered gun in his jacket.
"Your efforts are wasted," said an amused voice with a pronounced Irish accent.
Kevin turned his head to see a thin child dressed in clothing of natural hues - emerald pants, a taupe shirt, and umber shoes - standing a few feet away. White-blonde hair fell in waves around a pale, delicate-featured face. The child smiled, showing off a set of oddly pointed teeth.
"Where did you come from?" asked Kevin.
"Oh, I came with your latest shipment," answered the child in the same over-educated Irish accent. "There's a large Celtic burial urn in one of those crates that someone removed from a certain famous saint's tomb a few years ago. I was sleeping in it when you and your friend began to play out that amusingly dramatic scene. Oh, and if you are wondering, your angry friend thought you dead and left a few minutes ago."
Kevin looked down at his chest wounds again.
"Minutes? Then why am I still alive?" he asked in a mutter.
"Because I slowed the process when I bound you in place," the strange-looking child answered.
Kevin's patience, always limited, had reached its end.
"Cut the chit-chat, kid, and get me a doctor," he demanded.
"I am no child, and you are in no condition to issue orders," said the child with a sneer. "I have other plans for you."
Plans? thought Kevin with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"I grew bored wandering the same places over the past centuries," the not-child continued. "I decided a change of scenery was in order and. . . ...persuaded the most recent owner of the urn to allow me to travel here inside it in search of new fields to harvest. You Americans have such amusing accents, and I do love a good chat before dinner."
"Mortal? Dinner?" asked Kevin, confusion overcoming his growing alarm. "Who are you anyway?"
"My real name lies beyond your ability to pronounce. You may call me Elendel," replied the strange being with a toss of its head that revealed narrow, tapered ears. "I am of the Sidhe."
At Kevin's blank look, the creature snorted in contempt.
"I am an elf, you idiot."
Kevin blinked and wondered if other dying people had fairy tale hallucinations. Did they see dragons breathing fire or unicorns prancing on silver hoofs, as they bought the farm?
"Whatever, kid," he said, as he fought off the lapping waves of unconsciousness.
"You're weird enough; I'll say that much."
"Weirder and older than you can imagine. Though our conversation will amuse me for only the short time you have left, your soul will sustain me for far longer," said the elf with a smug tone.
"There's no such thing as a soul," objected Kevin, latching onto a concept he could understand, as he struggled to maintain consciousness.
Kevin did not believe in an afterlife. In fact, he hoped there was no afterlife.
"Oh my. An atheist - how delightful. The shock of life after death always adds spice to the taste of an unbeliever's soul," said Elendel with a smack of his lips.
Kevin stared at the gloating creature, as he struggled to get a grip on the bizarre situation in which he found himself.
This is crazy, he told himself. Blood loss must be making me hallucinate.
"You do have a soul, human," the thing calling itself an elf continued, "as I do not. The Sidhe cannot die natural deaths, but we fade without soul-based sustenance. Animals provide too little energy, and they tend to avoid us. Therefore, we feed on easier, less perceptive prey - humans like yourself."
After absorbing the elf's statement, Kevin had a horrible feeling that he was not imagining this morbid conversation, which meant that his soul might in fact exist.
He realized that he had nothing to lose by talking with the Sidhe. He might even have something to save.
"If you're going to eat my soul, what's keeping you from taking it? You've tied me up or something, so I can't stop you."
"Elves abhor the touch of iron," answered the creature. "Your soul is embedded in your body, and your blood is full of iron." Elendel glanced at the growing pool of Kevin's blood with an expression of revulsion. "When enough of your blood has drained away, your soul will be ready for the taking."
Kevin glared at the creature, his fighting spirit revived by its complacent tone.
Real or not, I don't want this little creep to snack on my soul, he decided. If I go to some sort of hell for my actions, at least I won't be feeding some mythical leech.
He tried to move again, but whatever the elf had done to hold him worked too well, and he subsided after a moment in exhausted failure.
The elf smirked at Kevin's aborted contortions.
"The fly wriggles in the web to no avail," said the elf.
I'm going fast, thought Kevin in leaden realization. I just wish I could screw up his plans.
An idea sprang into his head, a gift of his survival instinct. With a wrench of will, he dragged himself away from the black mist of looming unconsciousness.
I'll wipe that smirk off his face, he growled inside.
Focusing the little remaining strength he had left, he tightened his left hand around the pistol in his shoulder holster.
The elf noticed the movement and raised an eyebrow.
"What good will one hand do you?"
In answer, Kevin levered the pistol, still in its holster, away from his body, to point the barrel at Elendel. His sight faded in and out, and dizziness made his head feel as if it were bobbing in a sludgy river.
The Sidhe stared at the shape of the barrel pushing against Kevin's jacket and squeaked in mock terror. "Oh no. Not a gun! Please have mercy on this poor immortal."
Kevin ignored him and concentrated on staying awake. Blood loss had weakened him to the point where working the pistol into position involved more effort than anything he had ever done.
"Firearms are no use against me," the elf sneered at Kevin. "What are you going to do, fill me with lead?"
With a grunt, Kevin managed to line up the weapon with
Elendel's body.
Elves abhor the touch of iron, the elf had said.
"You don't give up easily do you, human? Waste of effor--"
The muffled crack of the gun firing cut off the Sidhe's voice.
With a sigh, Kevin let the pistol rest in its now hot holster and watched the results of his labor.
The elf stared open-mouthed at a small hole in its chest. Flames licked around the wound, then spread quickly across the elf's robes in a widening orange-red circle. In a moment the fire had traveled up and down the Sidhe's body, leaving only Elendel's face free.
The immortal lifted its head and looked at Kevin in bafflement.
"I use steel jacketed bullets," explained Kevin in a faint voice.
Before the elf could reply, the flames engulfed its head, and the creature exploded in a flash of red light. Droplets of hissing slime plopped against the walls and floor.
Kevin lay on the elf-spattered linoleum squares and stared in satisfaction at the charred smudge where Elendel had stood.
The sound of sirens reached his ears, and he blinked in slow surprise.
Someone must have heard the first shots, thought Kevin. Maybe I'm going to make it.
As the bleeding from his wounds began to increase in the wake of the elf's death, Kevin pondered the condition of the soul he had never thought he had before today.
It needed some work.
As the wailing sirens grew louder, he made a woozy resolution.
If I don't die, I'm going straight, he thought.
Right after I pay a little visit to Peter, he continued with a feral smile.
SOUL FOOD
Copyright 2005 Eric Marin
Kevin broke through the surface of liquid darkness to focus on a sooty bulb hanging from a cord of wire several feet above him. His eyes traveled along the peeling ceiling, examining large flakes of paint clinging to the chalky drywall. A beam of sunlight from a broken skylight thrust its way down onto the cracked concrete, and motes of dust danced in lazy orbits along the beam's length. His gaze refocused on the burned out light, as his mind began to grind back into order.
Sensation tingled up and down his arms and legs, and he felt a warm wetness spreading across his chest. He turned his head to the right in a stiff motion and saw blood oozing away from him in a dark pool. He craned his neck to peer at his chest and stared at the two holes near its center. Dark liquid seeped from the torn edges of his skin.
I've been shot, he realized, and the memories crashed into his consciousness like a wave breaking across a tide pool.
* * *
"You double-crossed me," Peter said in a low voice that echoed in Kevin's ears.
Kevin stared at the wrinkled face of his employer and noted in absent clarity the blue-black patches beneath Peter's fatigue-reddened eyes and the slight twitch around his chewed lips. He fought the urge to fixate on the small gun in Peter's bony hand that now pointed at Kevin's chest.
"I didn't, Peter," Kevin said, his tongue sticking to the lie.
A body lay twisted on the edge of his vision, two entry wounds in its upper left chest. The slack fingers of the corpse draped across the grip of a small revolver.
The speed with which Peter had drawn and fired his own pistol had shocked Kevin and provided a fatal surprise for the buyer-turned-robber. Kevin's own handgun still nestled untouched in its shoulder holster.
A lot of money to do nothing, he had thought a few days before when he accepted the bribe from the now dead man. Just stand by while we get robbed.
Doing nothing would now cost him his life as well.
Peter shook his graying head. "You're lying," he said. "You never even went for your gun."
He's too far away, Kevin thought, as he eyed the distance between the two of them. How can a guy that old move so damned fast?
"I took care of you, Kevin. Taught you the business, invited you into my confidence," Peter continued. "And you show your gratitude by standing aside while some schmuck tries to rob me."
Kevin's eyes flicked toward a stack of crates to the left, all containing artifacts stolen from private and public collections in Europe and brought to this decrepit warehouse in Austin, Texas by way of Mexico. The items would trickle through the U.S. antiquities black market to various individuals with more money than morals, and their sale provided Peter with significant income that never appeared on his tax return.
The same items also paid for Kevin's services as a bodyguard and assistant to Peter.
Kevin looked back at Peter and tried to think of something to say to avert the inevitable and realized that he could not. "It was just business, Peter. No one was supposed to get hurt."
Peter clenched his jaw for a long moment.
"Just business?" repeated Kevin's employer in a bleak voice, as his finger tightened on the trigger. "Well, our business is concluded."
In desperation, Kevin leaped forward to claw at the weapon with his right hand while digging for his gun with his left.
The double crack of two shots sounded out micro-moments after the bullets punched through Kevin's chest, and his lunge degenerated into a spinning fall that ended with him lying face-up at Peter's feet. A thunking impact vibrated through his head, as the back of his skull bounced up from the concrete floor.
Kevin's eyes grasped at the fading image of Peter's harsh face floating above him, and then a flickering storm of brilliance swept away his sight and consciousness.
* * *
It's strange that I can't feel any pain, he thought as he examined his wounds. His calm surprised him in a distant way. I must be in shock.
He tried to move his legs and arms but found them immobilized by something he could not see, only feel. His left hand stirred, but it lay trapped with the holstered gun in his jacket.
"Your efforts are wasted," said an amused voice with a pronounced Irish accent.
Kevin turned his head to see a thin child dressed in clothing of natural hues - emerald pants, a taupe shirt, and umber shoes - standing a few feet away. White-blonde hair fell in waves around a pale, delicate-featured face. The child smiled, showing off a set of oddly pointed teeth.
"Where did you come from?" asked Kevin.
"Oh, I came with your latest shipment," answered the child in the same over-educated Irish accent. "There's a large Celtic burial urn in one of those crates that someone removed from a certain famous saint's tomb a few years ago. I was sleeping in it when you and your friend began to play out that amusingly dramatic scene. Oh, and if you are wondering, your angry friend thought you dead and left a few minutes ago."
Kevin looked down at his chest wounds again.
"Minutes? Then why am I still alive?" he asked in a mutter.
"Because I slowed the process when I bound you in place," the strange-looking child answered.
Kevin's patience, always limited, had reached its end.
"Cut the chit-chat, kid, and get me a doctor," he demanded.
"I am no child, and you are in no condition to issue orders," said the child with a sneer. "I have other plans for you."
Plans? thought Kevin with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"I grew bored wandering the same places over the past centuries," the not-child continued. "I decided a change of scenery was in order and. . . ...persuaded the most recent owner of the urn to allow me to travel here inside it in search of new fields to harvest. You Americans have such amusing accents, and I do love a good chat before dinner."
"Mortal? Dinner?" asked Kevin, confusion overcoming his growing alarm. "Who are you anyway?"
"My real name lies beyond your ability to pronounce. You may call me Elendel," replied the strange being with a toss of its head that revealed narrow, tapered ears. "I am of the Sidhe."
At Kevin's blank look, the creature snorted in contempt.
"I am an elf, you idiot."
Kevin blinked and wondered if other dying people had fairy tale hallucinations. Did they see dragons breathing fire or unicorns prancing on silver hoofs, as they bought the farm?
"Whatever, kid," he said, as he fought off the lapping waves of unconsciousness.
"You're weird enough; I'll say that much."
"Weirder and older than you can imagine. Though our conversation will amuse me for only the short time you have left, your soul will sustain me for far longer," said the elf with a smug tone.
"There's no such thing as a soul," objected Kevin, latching onto a concept he could understand, as he struggled to maintain consciousness.
Kevin did not believe in an afterlife. In fact, he hoped there was no afterlife.
"Oh my. An atheist - how delightful. The shock of life after death always adds spice to the taste of an unbeliever's soul," said Elendel with a smack of his lips.
Kevin stared at the gloating creature, as he struggled to get a grip on the bizarre situation in which he found himself.
This is crazy, he told himself. Blood loss must be making me hallucinate.
"You do have a soul, human," the thing calling itself an elf continued, "as I do not. The Sidhe cannot die natural deaths, but we fade without soul-based sustenance. Animals provide too little energy, and they tend to avoid us. Therefore, we feed on easier, less perceptive prey - humans like yourself."
After absorbing the elf's statement, Kevin had a horrible feeling that he was not imagining this morbid conversation, which meant that his soul might in fact exist.
He realized that he had nothing to lose by talking with the Sidhe. He might even have something to save.
"If you're going to eat my soul, what's keeping you from taking it? You've tied me up or something, so I can't stop you."
"Elves abhor the touch of iron," answered the creature. "Your soul is embedded in your body, and your blood is full of iron." Elendel glanced at the growing pool of Kevin's blood with an expression of revulsion. "When enough of your blood has drained away, your soul will be ready for the taking."
Kevin glared at the creature, his fighting spirit revived by its complacent tone.
Real or not, I don't want this little creep to snack on my soul, he decided. If I go to some sort of hell for my actions, at least I won't be feeding some mythical leech.
He tried to move again, but whatever the elf had done to hold him worked too well, and he subsided after a moment in exhausted failure.
The elf smirked at Kevin's aborted contortions.
"The fly wriggles in the web to no avail," said the elf.
I'm going fast, thought Kevin in leaden realization. I just wish I could screw up his plans.
An idea sprang into his head, a gift of his survival instinct. With a wrench of will, he dragged himself away from the black mist of looming unconsciousness.
I'll wipe that smirk off his face, he growled inside.
Focusing the little remaining strength he had left, he tightened his left hand around the pistol in his shoulder holster.
The elf noticed the movement and raised an eyebrow.
"What good will one hand do you?"
In answer, Kevin levered the pistol, still in its holster, away from his body, to point the barrel at Elendel. His sight faded in and out, and dizziness made his head feel as if it were bobbing in a sludgy river.
The Sidhe stared at the shape of the barrel pushing against Kevin's jacket and squeaked in mock terror. "Oh no. Not a gun! Please have mercy on this poor immortal."
Kevin ignored him and concentrated on staying awake. Blood loss had weakened him to the point where working the pistol into position involved more effort than anything he had ever done.
"Firearms are no use against me," the elf sneered at Kevin. "What are you going to do, fill me with lead?"
With a grunt, Kevin managed to line up the weapon with
Elendel's body.
Elves abhor the touch of iron, the elf had said.
"You don't give up easily do you, human? Waste of effor--"
The muffled crack of the gun firing cut off the Sidhe's voice.
With a sigh, Kevin let the pistol rest in its now hot holster and watched the results of his labor.
The elf stared open-mouthed at a small hole in its chest. Flames licked around the wound, then spread quickly across the elf's robes in a widening orange-red circle. In a moment the fire had traveled up and down the Sidhe's body, leaving only Elendel's face free.
The immortal lifted its head and looked at Kevin in bafflement.
"I use steel jacketed bullets," explained Kevin in a faint voice.
Before the elf could reply, the flames engulfed its head, and the creature exploded in a flash of red light. Droplets of hissing slime plopped against the walls and floor.
Kevin lay on the elf-spattered linoleum squares and stared in satisfaction at the charred smudge where Elendel had stood.
The sound of sirens reached his ears, and he blinked in slow surprise.
Someone must have heard the first shots, thought Kevin. Maybe I'm going to make it.
As the bleeding from his wounds began to increase in the wake of the elf's death, Kevin pondered the condition of the soul he had never thought he had before today.
It needed some work.
As the wailing sirens grew louder, he made a woozy resolution.
If I don't die, I'm going straight, he thought.
Right after I pay a little visit to Peter, he continued with a feral smile.
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