Whelp... Week two is here and it’s time for another Dennis Timothy feature!!
Today we will be getting a glimpse into
One Heartbeat Past Normal by Dennis Timothy!
One Heartbeat Past Normal
Publication Date: 16 February 2014
Book Description
Imaginative, quirky, and always surprising! Meet the ordinary players on life's stage whose realities are forever changed by chance meetings with supernatural forest dwellers, mysterious things in the sky, murder plots by evil antiques, and a talking tattoo. These occurrences and more collected in fifteen short stories each ending with its own unique twist.
Do you want to read a quick taste?
"Mr.
Clifton Cooper, you will account for your activities over the past two weeks,"
said Dr. Weatherspan. The flat of his hand banged down on his desktop as he
delivered the last three words.
I sat
there in a chair, in front of the man's desk, thinking about my answer. I had
never really liked Dr. Weatherspan. He was pompous in his attitude, demeaning
in his conversation, and overweight with a moist appearance to him.
I watched
as he settled back in his chair, his blue eyes staring at me over the tops of
his glasses, which sat perched at the very end of his round nose. His face was
florid, and his lips were almost purple in color as they peeked out from a
large gray mustache.
"You
have to understand, Dr. Weatherspan, this type of work takes time," I
said.
"Nonsense,"
said Dr. Weatherspan, "your work, and I use the term loosely, blights the
face of scientific endeavor, and the reputation of this school in particular. I
can't believe I helped you with your grant request. That was a moment of
personal weakness, if ever there were one."
The bulky
man leaned forward in his chair, his elbows touching the top of his desk as he
leaned his chin on the laced fingers of his hands. "But, I intend to
correct that as well. You will produce something meaningful, inside of the next
two weeks, or I intend to disassociate myself with both your work and your
doctoral thesis."
"You
can't mean that, Dr. Weatherspan," I said. "That's not fair, and it's
certainly not enough time."
The
corners of the man's lips crept into his jowls, as he smiled at me and said,
"Oh, I certainly do mean that. This farce of a research project of yours
has wasted enough of my time, and can only result in personal ridicule in the
scientific community."
"I
admit that my research has taken a slightly different path, based on my
interests, but that doesn't mean it's not important work," I said.
"Your
work," the man snorted. "What you are pursuing is high silliness of
the first order. You hoodwinked me into helping you with that grant
application, the purpose of which was to be zoology. You are now exploring some
form of pseudoscience, crypto zoology if you prefer, and you are now operating
well outside the bounds of your grant proposal."
"Dr.
Weatherspan, simply because you do not agree with me does not make my pursuits
a pseudoscience. I tell you, there is something to be discovered in those
woods. Folkloric sources have reported the same mysterious stories for
generations. I intend to discover the source of those stories, and present my
findings to this University and the scientific community at large."
"It's
not going to happen," said Dr. Weatherspan, "because there is nothing
there. You are pursuing the ghosts of your own imagination. When I first met
you, I thought you to be both mature and thoughtful. I now see that I was wrong
on both counts."
The man
leaned back in his chair again, which screeched in protest as he adjusted his
bulk. "But I am a reasonable man, that's why I have given you two
additional weeks. And I expect notes of your work, your itinerary, and your
expenditures. This means a daily update from you concerning your progress. This
disappearing act of yours, with no word from you for a month, comes to an end,
now."
The man
rattled me for a second, and I slapped my hands to the tops of my knees.
"You know that in this line of work, nothing meaningful is discovered in
two weeks. I have provided you with some of the notes of my findings. And what
about the evidence from the trail cameras?"
"Please,
you have two pictures of shadows. I hardly call that conclusive evidence,"
said Dr. Weatherspan.
"Dammit,
man. Can't you see? Something cast those shadows," I said.
"Something,
anything, or nothing could've been responsible for your so-called
evidence," he said. "I'm not wasting my time arguing this absurdity
with you. You've heard my terms, and now you may leave."
I glared
at the man for a second, before I stood and left the room, slamming the door
behind me. I marched down the hall, anger lending speed to my steps, until I
realized I was going the wrong way.
Fury and
panic had seized me. I stopped, and leaned my hand against the cool marble of
the wall. I took a couple of deep breaths. "Shake it off," I thought.
I turned
in the proper direction, and in strides which looked more confident than they
felt, I left Brighton Hall.
I walked
down the two short flights of concrete steps to the parking lot below. I went
to my motorcycle, a dark blue Kawasaki, which was fun to ride but a real pain
in inclement weather.
I threw
my leg over the seat, balanced on the machine, and reached back for my helmet.
I buckled the chin strap, pulled the key from my pocket, and started the big
machine. The engine rumbled to life. I squeezed the clutch, dropped it in gear,
and tore out of the lot.
Fifteen
minutes later, I pulled into the driveway of the small house I rented. With its
curling shingles, peeling brown paint, and flaking white trim, it looked as
forlorn as I felt. I kicked the stand down with my left foot, hopped off the
bike, and hooked my helmet to the back of the seat.
I walked
into the house, and stood for a second in the living room. I thought about what
Dr. Weatherspan had said to me. It was my belief that something strange was
occurring in a place known as Robert's Woods. For sixty years, the locals in
that area told stories of mysterious goings-on. People had lost pets, been
pelted with stones, heard strange noises, and been attacked by something they
couldn't see. Nobody had been seriously injured, just scratches and bruises,
but nobody who fell victim to such an occurrence ever returned to those woods.
So now I
had two weeks left to find this damned thing, whatever it is, and satisfy Dr.
Weatherspan. The man was an unrelenting idiot. It mystified me how such an
arrogant wretch could have worked his way up to the position he held.
But I
didn't have time to worry about that now. I went to my bedroom and grabbed my
backpack, which was already packed with the things I would need. It held my
camera, notebook, pencils, pens, tape measure, GPS device, digital recorder,
and all the other things I was using to bring an end to this mystery at
Robert's Woods.
I slung
the bag over one shoulder, walked to the kitchen, and set it on the small,
cheap dining table. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the lunch I put up
the night before, and a bottle of water. I stuffed these things into the bag.
I'm not a
vegan but one of my specialties is a grilled portabella mushroom, glazed with a
balsamic vinegar and brown sugar reduction. This, nestled between two slabs of
sourdough bread, was the main feature of my lunch. One of the few things I had
to look forward to today.
I carried
the bag to the door, grabbed a light jacket from the coat hook, and walked
outside to the bike. I set the backpack on the drive as I pulled on the jacket.
I reached back for my helmet, put it on, and wiped at the remains of a small
bug, which had expired in the middle of my tinted faceplate, with the back of
my jacket-sleeved arm. I reached down and pulled on the backpack. I gunned the
big motorcycle to life, dropped it into first gear, and rolled from the drive
into the street.
I rode
fast, working my way through the gears, and reaching Highway 131 in about
fifteen minutes. I headed north, and really let the big machine unwind.
Forty-five minutes later I slowed the bike, and turned onto County Road C. I
twisted and turned down the road, driving slowly and carefully on the white
gravel. Twenty minutes later I parked the bike on the shoulder of the road, on
the bluff overlooking Robert's Woods.
I hadn't
realized how upset I was until, as I climbed down to the level below, in my
mind's eye I could see myself pushing Dr. Weatherspan down this very hill. The
mental image of it both amused and shocked me. I enjoyed the thought of his
large arrogant butt rolling down the hill, but I'm not a violent person,
usually.
The area
I was examining was fairly open, about half the size of a football field,
populated with a dozen large red oak trees. In the spring and summer, these
trees formed an almost impenetrable canopy of leaves fastened to branches high
overhead. Only the occasional clumps of runt sumac, and the rare tufts of
grass, were able to survive the shadow of these massive oak trees. Now the
leaves had fallen from their posts, and lay in a thick, noisy carpet on the
ground beneath the trees.
Blue
jays, squirrels, animal game trails, and the blue sky above were my companions
in this area, known to the locals as "The Hollow". I stepped over a
large downed log, and then sat on it. I pulled the backpack from my shoulders,
unzipped it, and reached inside for a trail camera. The camera had two yellow
and black bungee cords wrapped around it. I set the camera on the log, and
pulled out my lunch and the bottle of water. I set these on the log as well,
and hung the backpack from a nearby branch.
I stood
and begin moving in noisy, crackling steps towards one of the oak trees in the
clearing, about fifty yards from the log upon which I placed my things.
Arriving at the tree, I knelt at its base and began the nearly impossible task
of trying to stretch my arms, and the bungee cords, around the massive trunk.
After a
struggle, which left me with scratches on my wrists, I finally attached the
camera to the tree. I wedged two twigs between the top of the camera body and
the trunk of the tree, to hold the device parallel with the ground. I twisted
the control knob on the front of the camera, activating the laser aiming light.
It was my intention to aim the camera at a major game trail near a copse of
sumac bushes. As I turned to look down the trail, I noticed someone sitting on
the log, holding the bag containing my lunch on his lap. I was astonished to
see he was chewing on my sandwich.
I pulled
the camera around to the general direction of the log, and turned the control
to "On". I scrambled my feet, and yelled, "Hey, what the hell do
you think you're doing?" The man on the log waved to me, and continued to
eat my sandwich.
In noisy,
crunching strides I moved towards the man. He was short of stature, and dressed
as a country person. The ankle-length brown boots he wore on his feet swung
back and forth through the air, just clearing the ground, and revealing red and
white striped socks. His faded blue overalls were inches too short for him. He
wore a brown work coat, and a rumpled green hat.
The
little man smiled at my approach. Tufts of white hair sprouted from beneath his
cap and curled around the tops of his ears. He had a large Roman nose, which
ended in a point. His dark eyes appeared too large for his pixie face. He
carried a large leather pouch which hung at his side, held in place by a single
wide strap over his shoulder.
"Who
are you?" I said.
"Portabella
mushrooms. I love portabella mushrooms. Very difficult to get," he said.
He had a high-pitched voice, and spoke in a sing-song manner. As he answered,
he chewed with his mouth open.
"Who
are you?" I repeated.
"Portabellas.
They are the best."
I leaned
in closer, and said, "I want to know who you are, and what gives you the
right to eat my sandwich?"
The
little man leaned back on the log slightly, his large dark eyes searching my
face. He hesitated for a moment, and then said, "I am Aloysius." His
legs still swung happily back and forth on the log.
"Okay,
Aloysius. What are you doing here? And, why did you eat my sandwich?"
"I
live here," said the little man. "I am a Marcon."
"A
Marcon? Is that your last name? Does your family live around here?" I
said.
The
little man circled his hand through the air. "Yes, yes. I live right
here."
Understanding
was beginning to dawn upon me. "You mean, you live right here. Right here
in these woods. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes,
yes." The little man began to point in different directions.
"Sometimes over there. And, sometimes over there. And, sometimes, even far
away in that direction."
"So,
you live here, in these woods. Do you live here with your family?"
The smile
vanished from the little man's face, and his look grew serious as he tilted his
head and answered, "There's no family, only me. These are my woods. Nobody
comes into my woods."
"So
your name is Aloysius Marcon. You have no family. And you live in these woods,"
I said.
"You
are slow. My name is Aloysius. I am a Marcon. There are others like me, but
they live in other places. These are my woods."
"Do
you mind if I sit here with you for a minute, Aloysius?" I said.
Before he
answered, I swung around and took a seat on the log about two feet away from
the little man. His large dark eyes followed my movements, and I could tell he
was becoming agitated. I placed my hands to the tops of my knees, hoping the
non-threatening gesture would put him at ease.
"A
Marcon. So, Aloysius, what is a Marcon?"
The
little man thought for a moment before answering me, his dark eyes blinking a
couple of times. "I suppose your kind would call me a troll, or a fairy,
or, more probably, a goblin."
"And
how long have you lived in these woods?" I said.
"I
don't really keep track of things like that. I suppose one hundred fifty or one
hundred sixty years."
"That's
bull. I don't believe you," I said. "Nobody lives a hundred and sixty
years."
"If
you don't like the answer, you shouldn't ask the question." The little man
giggled at me. He licked what remained of the glaze of the sandwich from his
fingertips, and threw the plastic wrapping to the ground.
"Have
you ever played tricks, or done mean things to people who walk through your
woods?" I asked.
"Do
mean things? I would never do mean things. I just shoo people out of my woods.
I have my ways. They don't come back. These are my woods."
"I've
spent a considerable amount of time in these woods, Aloysius. Why haven't I
seen you before?"
As the
little man looked at me, I was fascinated by those large dark eyes. The
expression on his face approached something akin to a smile, as he said,
"I prefer the nighttime. The woods are very noisy in the daytime. Too many
distractions, very difficult to get my work done, and the bright light hurts my
eyes."
"But,
you're here now," I said. "It's the middle of the afternoon."
Yes,"
said Aloysius. "Usually, I wouldn't start my work for another four or five
hours. But the smell of the mushrooms you brought into my woods woke me from my
nap. Worth the trip outside during the daylight to get the mushrooms."
As a
researcher, I would certainly need more conclusive evidence. But it would
appear that the answer to my problems with Dr. Weatherspan had just eaten my
sandwich, and was sitting next to me on the log.
"I
see. In that case, let me say it is very nice meeting you, Aloysius."
I leaned
forward and slowly reached for my backpack. I glanced over and noticed the
little man was staring at me intently, following my every movement. I reached
into the bag, and pulled out a digital camera.
"What
is that?" he asked.
"Nothing
much, just a camera," I said. I slid its power button to "On".
"What
is a camera for?" I could hear the nervousness creep into his voice.
"Nothing
to get excited about," I said. "It just takes your picture."
"No,"
he said. "No picture."
"It
won't hurt you, Aloysius. It's only a picture."
"No
picture," the little man screamed at me.
"I'm
sorry, Aloysius. But, right now I'm in a jam. And it would take far too long
for me to explain the circumstances to you. I'm going to get some pictures, and
then I'm going to ask you some questions, and then I'm going to leave. And if
you let me come back later, I'll bring some more portabella mushroom
sandwiches."
"No,
I won't let you. I'm faster than I look." He hopped from the log and
prepared to run. "My kind are very fast."
I lunged
forward, and caught the shoulder of his work coat. I held him in place as his
feet drummed the ground. "I guess you're not that fast, are you?" I
said.
He spun
in his coat, and said, "Wanna bet?" His hand flashed to his pouch,
and he threw something at me. The thing hit me above my right eye. It felt soft
and squishy, and smelled.
Oh God,
it smelled horrible, a mixture of rotting flesh, ripe manure, and ammonia. I
rubbed at it with my hand, and the smell worsened. The palm of my hand was
covered with a dull brown stain. I rubbed my hand on my pants leg, and my
fingers were covered with the same brown stain.
The
little man danced back away from me. "That's goblin daubie; it won't come
off that way. The more you rub, the more it spreads," he giggled. He
turned, and dashed off.
"Come
back here," I cried.
I jumped
to my feet, preparing to run after him, when the smell hit me again. Essence of
skunk, rotting fish and strong bleach mixed in my nose and burned my eyes. I
doubled over, retching, trying to breathe. When I got control of myself, I
looked around, and the little man was gone.
Just to let you know...
I am currently reading One Heartbeat Past Normal and will have my review ready for all of you next week! SO be sure to come back and see what I thought of the book!
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