I found Melissa in a jug on a shelf at Wolfgang's, a little do nothing shop that sits between a meat market and a winery in downtown Columbia. I never noticed the small red brick building with the faded gray trim before. Frosted windows obscured viewing from the outside.

A cowbell clattered when I opened the door, clattered again when the door closed. The room was large—much bigger than I thought it could be—with shelves lining the walls, tables forming aisles. Fluorescents hung from the ceiling, bulbs caked in grime, casting a yellow glow about the room. Dust clung to everything, including the counter at the back of the store, where an old man sat. What little hair he had poked out along his skull, one long strand stretched down the side of his face and disappeared behind his back.

He looked up. I looked away.

The trinkets that lined the tables and shelves were nothing more than what you would find at most souvenir shops in America: small statues, thimbles, decorative plates and spoons, post cards . . . from the dead.

I found the display odd, lifted a post card from its tray and wiped the dust away.

"That is a post card from George Custer," the man said.

Startled, my heart sped up and I wheeled on one heel. Up close, the man was older than I thought. Wrinkles lined his face, eyelids drooped, teeth yellowed. I fumbled with the card, setting it back in its tray.

"Can I interest you in anything?"

"No, just looking. Thank you, though."

Her voice caught my attention. "Charles, help me," she said. I turned, frowning. I heard my wife, but she sounded so far away, like maybe she was outside or in a closet. I glanced back at the shop owner. He gave me a crooked smile.

Edging away from him, I followed the voice until I reached a shelf filled with glass jugs near the back counter. They were different shapes and sizes and colors, as well. They were marked with white tape, names on each one: Wayne, Robert, Lee, Sandra, Doris. . . Melissa. And many others.

"Charles, help me," she said again, her voice hollow. "Get me out of here."

I lifted the bottle marked MELISSA off the shelf-it was heavy, much like my Melissa was. There was nothing small about my Melissa. Large body, large attitude, large and venomous mouth.

"Careful. Those bottles are very heavy," the proprietor said.

"Yeah, I can tell." I gave a nervous chuckle.

"Get me out of here," Melissa said again, this time a bit more anxious. A thump came from inside the jug.

"She seems quite taken with you."

I looked back at the shelves, at the many odd urns "What are these?"

"Those are soul cells," the man said with a smile.

"Soul cells?"

He nodded. "Yes. Some folks need somewhere to be, since not all of them are that pleasant to be around."

I thought of Melissa, my wife of four years, who never made it a habit of being kind to people, especially not me.

"Charles, get me out of here." She was angry.

"How do they get in there?" I asked.

The man shook his head to the side, an odd gesture. "They put themselves in there."

"How?"

"With their deeds." He raised his eyebrows in a ‘you understand what I am saying’ expression.

"This one is fairly new, isn't it?" I asked, trying to remember the last time I had seen my wife.

"Yes-only had that one since this morning. Had a fit of a time with the lady, if I might say."

A slight since of fear swept over me, but faded with Melissa’s yelling from the jug. "I believe you."

"Charles!"

I winced, almost dropped the bottle.

"Careful," the man snapped. "If the bottle breaks or the cork comes out, the soul goes free."

The thought occurred to me, maybe this old man killed Melissa, but as I said before, she wasn’t a small lady. "If you have their souls, where are their bodies?"

"They are disposed of in due time, but, trust me, nothing goes to waste around here."

"Charles! Stop your yapping and get me out of here."

I set the jug back on the shelf, wiped my hands of the icy feel of the glass.

"Charles, what are you doing?" Melissa yelled. "If you don't get me out of here, you'll regret it."

"A feisty one, isn't she?" the old man asked with a toothy smile.

"You can say that again."

"Charles!"

I backed away from the shelf, went back to the post cards. "How much are these?"

"Four dollars."

"For a post card? Seriously?"

"Flip it over and listen."

The backside was blank except for Custer's signature. A moment later, the card began to speak of battles in the civil war and with Native American tribes. Startled, I fumbled the card, caught it without creasing it. Custer told his story, not missing a beat.

"I'll take it," I said and paid for the card.

I passed Melissa on the way to the door, she yelled at me. I flinched, hurried by her.

"Make sure you stop off at the winery and the meat market. Today's specials are heavy treats."

I smiled. "Thanks. I'll do that."

I opened the door, the cowbell clattered. As it closed behind me, I could hear Melissa's angered voice. The cowbell clattered again. Suddenly, I was hungry for steak and a nice red wine.

"Melissa in a Jug"

Copyright: © 2010 AJ Brown

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AJ Brown is a southern born writer with constant headaches and a limp acquired from the beatings his muse gives him. Currently, he is sporting a broken nose, inflicted by one of her minions. As of the writing of this bio, she stands over him, whip in hand. He must get back to writing....

Crawling along my skin. Hands like whispers, dancing their way up my body. Their pads lightly brush their way like small spiders on a web. They caress in areas that not even I dare to touch, neither for necessity nor pleasure.

I want to scream. Opened mouth formed into an oblong O. Nothing comes out. Nothing is heard. Not even in my mind's ears.

Then their weight is upon me, pushing inwards. Probing. Jabbing. Penetrating the soft flesh between my thighs.

Labored breathing. Breath of beer or bourbon. The stench of old lovers still on their mouths. Each hurried kiss leads to another and another. None of which I want. The sweat of a thousand bodies covers me. Like poison.

They stiffen. Groan. Growl. Release. The heat fills me and then they are gone. The wisping hands. The vile breath. The weight of their bodies. The heat of the semen. All gone in an instant.

Roll over. Stand. Cum drips down my thighs. In the bathroom and in front of the mirror. The reflection laughs at me. The heat of the shower takes part of them away. The reflection. The reflection—she stays. And she laughs. Always laughs.

On the lamp stand sits the money. They pay well. Rent for a month. Food in my mouth. Clothes on my back. All a means to an end.

A knock on the door. I frown. Deep sigh.

I hurt down there. I always will. Somehow, I always have.

Crawling along my skin. Hands like whispers, dancing their way up my body. It's all the same. A lay. A buck. A suck. A buck. No love. No feelings. I often think it's a nightmare. My nightmare.

He crawls on top. Pushes in deep. It will be over in a minute. But as I bare his weight, I hear it. The reflection. My reflection laughing. Always laughing.

"Always Laughing"
Copyright: © 2010 AJ Brown
---------------------------------

AJ Brown is a southern born writer with constant headaches and a limp acquired from the beatings his muse gives him. Currently, he is sporting a broken nose, inflicted by one of her minions. As of the writing of this bio, she stands over him, whip in hand. He must get back to writing....

He lay on the bed, still, cold and stiff. Skin pale blue, lips purple, eyes open and unseeing. His arms hang off either side of the bed, palms out, skin ashen, fingernails long and cracking, yellowed. Golden hair lay about his head like a dead bride’s vail. His lips are parted, exposing a glint of white teeth.

A stained sheet covers him from navel down, leaving his bare chest for all to see. Other than his golden mane, he has no hair on his body, only scars, both old and new, some oozing blood, others crusted over.

Flies buzz and zig and zag about the room. Sometimes they take perch on any and all things that they can. Then they’re off again, buzzing and flitting about.

Few furnishings sit in the room; save the bed and a small table there is none. The floor is sticky with dried fluids that hide under picked clean bones,they litter the room in piles making it difficult to walk around without kicking one or two or five of them. Webs, spun in silver silk, drape the corners of walls and the cluttered bones throughout the room.

A sound appears; soft at first, but grows. A hum vibrates through the room. Bones shake, dance across the floor. They rattle as they click and clack against each other.

His eyes blink, lids closing and opening in rapid succession. Clear, now, he sees. He moves, rising as joints and muscles pop, creak, stretch and yawn. He edges his feet from the bed, pads touching icy wood, looks about the room. He should be horrified, yet he feels nothing. Nothing... nothing...

From under the bed where no light shines and spider webs dangle, the hum begins again. Soft; almost a coo from a child. A tongue, long and purple, flickers, a whip from a wide mouth edged with shards of teeth. It slithers between lips that aren’t there and nips one bare foot of the man. Slime, wet and sticky adheres to the his foot.

He nods, accepting what he is to do.

“Not long,” he says in a haggard voice. “Not long and you shall eat.”

He stands and the sheet drops to the floor revealing a mangled and mutilated body. He drags his feet through bones and cobwebs that plaster them until the door is at hand. It is opened and he is out of it, fading from sight and into nothing.

Eyes, once glazed and unseeing flow of the misty wind; along the foggy banks. They seek, find and stalk on silent wings pushed by the cold puffs of stale air.

A breath; soft, startles the pray. She turns her aging gray eyes. Teeth with no face comes from the fog; long, sharp... and hungry. A scream escapes... is cut down... ceases.

Blood, hot and rich fills his throat and stomach. He shakes in ecstasy, and pulls himself from the dead woman. Licking, flicking his tongue, he laps more blood, savoring the taste of fear permeating through it.

The journey home is short but tiresome. He enters the room dragging the woman’s body, cutting a path through bones and webs.

The soft humming begins again, increases. Bones rattle and dance once more. The body falls by the bed, a thud of dead weight among the hundreds of web-covered bones.

Picking up the sheet he lies back on the bed, pulls it up to his navel. His arms drop to his sides. His mouth and face are crimson stained. He blinks, lids shuttering in rapid succession. Laying there he sees nothing, feels nothing.

An impossible tongue flickers from beneath the bed, licking blood. It coils around the woman’s open throat and pulls her under the bed with several bumps and thumps. Spinning, twirling, the body rolls over and over, layers of silver silk cover it. There is slurping and grunting and belching.

The man, unseeing, stares at a ceiling a million miles away. He hears the feeding of the crimson monster. It will not want food for a time, but soon enough… He will awaken again. The crimson monster will seek, hunt and send him out to retrieve. For now, he hears the crimson spider, the crimson monster and he wishes for death that will never come for him...

"The Crimson Spider"
Copyright: © 2009 AJ Brown
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AJ Brown is a southern born writer with constant headaches and a limp acquired from the beatings his muse gives him. Currently, he is sporting a broken nose, inflicted by one of her minions. As of the writing of this bio, she stands over him, whip in hand. He must get back to writing....