Yesteryear Fiction

Guests
By Gary Hewitt


Toby grabbed her trembling waist. Anne Corbyn didn’t resist.
“Be careful where your grasp wanders Mr Hunter.”
Toby’s touch wandered into dangerous ground.
“Let’s have a look at your treasure.”
An experienced touch exposed her shoulders. Her upper body erupted in goosebumps.
“What if there’s anyone around?”
Toby ignored her protests. Her breasts shone under the lunar glow. Toby eased Anne towards soft earth.
“There’s only me.”
Anne’s boots joined her upper garments. Toby eased her dress away leaving her almost naked.
“Toby, I’m not sure.”
“Hush.”
A gentle exploration of her flimsy fabric shield encouraged her to squeal. Toby hooked his fingertips underneath and tugged.
“Toby stop that.”
He cursed when Anne squirmed away.
“Can’t you hear that?”
“What are you talking about?”
Toby heard footsteps to his left. His fingers clenched into fists.
“Who the hell is out there?” he snarled.
Toby was ready to knock down his unwanted guests. He balked when a tower of a man burst into his secret place.
“Oh God help us,” he bleated when four similar sized men revealed themselves.
Toby received a vicious slap and he fell. He yielded to the onslaught and several pairs of harsh hands ripped away his clothes.
Anne tried to run but a hand seized her ankle. Her attackers cursed in a strange tongue. Her flesh was soon trapped in metal.
Anne’s head was illuminated by flame. A strange man wearing the Eastern garb knew she’d fetch a good price.
He hoisted her chained body over his shoulders and patted her backside.
He glared at her partner who begged to be released. He doubted whether he’d survive the trip and pondered if the prisoner would be worth the effort.
Anne’s sobs increased when her captor headed to the shoreline. She could see the outline of a ship and her screams increased until she received the back of his hand. The pirate’s mind wondered how generous the Sultan would be for such a good example of the female form.
He handed Anne towards one of the crew and instructed for her to be taken below. He ordered Toby to be taken to his cabin. After all, a captain has needs.


- - -
Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. He has had work published in many publications including Morpheus Tales, 100 doors to madness anthology and Linguistic Erosion.

Last Rites
By Gary Hewitt


The corpse was an easy target. Thomas yanked the leggings past his victim’s ankles and eased them away from the compliant body. He cast them into a pile before opening the man’s leather jerkin. Thomas discovered a gold chain upon a ruddy neck. The necklace passed over the head despite the width of the dead soldier’s huge head.
Thomas grabbed the ankles and turned the body over. His hands pulled away the ugly undergarments and revealed a generous portion of masculinity. He eased out a dagger eager for employment.
“You know what to do.”
Thomas reached down to the genitalia before parting them from an unresisting foe. He turned the sexless body onto the front before removing his longsword. He needed two strokes to part head from corpse.
“Stick him with the rest.”
Thomas pulled the body to a long trench filled with tar, oil and scores of mutilated victims. The corpse landed atop of a young boy. He skewered Henry’s head onto a pole and thrust the macabre totem into the ground.
“Remember Thomas, never lose in war. Vae Victus.”
His commander dropped a torch into the trench. Thomas prayed he would never hear the words from his enemy.


- - -
Gary Hewitt is a writer who lives in a small village in Kent in the UK. He has had several stories and poems published including editions of M-Brane, Linguistic Erosion and Morpheus Tales. His style does tend to be dark and is rather unique. He is a member of the Hazlitt Arts Writers’ Group.

The Non-seller
By Gary Hewitt


Tony turned the handle and savoured the smell of dusty pages and creation.

‘Hello there, welcome to The Cuckoo And The Hairnet,’ smiled an ageing employee. Her dyed blonde hair rose in a bird’s nest. She thought it made her young. Tony thought she looked like an overstuffed ice cream cone.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

‘No, I’m just browsing. That’s a strange name for a store.’

Her eyes widened.

‘It is rather isn’t it? Well, the owner wanted a name to grab the passer by. Mr Aitch came up with The Cuckoo And The Hairnet.’

‘How?’

‘Mr Aitch used to write books when he was younger. He wrote a scene where a villain called the Cuckoo was caught by a fiery old harridan wearing a hairnet and brandishing a rolling pin.’

‘Did he sell many?’

‘I think about four copies.’

‘I see, well no disrespect to Mr Aitch but I’m looking for something a bit more exciting,’

The woman laughed and pointed to the back of the store.

‘You’re quite right not to waste your money on that old drivel. I actually read his story once and it was truly dreadful. The books are laid out from A-Z by author. We’ve got the classics as well as some newer stuff. I’ll be right over here should you need me.’

Tony headed to the back of the store. He fingered his way past Dickens, Hardy, Lovecraft before stopping at an author called Paddlethorpe. His finger traced a path down the spine of the book and the red binding rippled at his touch.

He removed the book and a pentagram with childlike writing dared him to peer inside. He flipped the novel over and began to read the blurb.

‘Behold the book of evil. Inside you will find stories to incite you to despair, flee for your life, pray to your God and to run from death himself.’

Tony shook his head. He prepared to return the book yet the tome slipped from his grasp and fell open onto the floor.

He reached down and was aghast at the garish red font. He lifted the book and the handwriting was quite unreadable.

‘Ah, that’s a curious old book you’ve got there Sir. The book of blood I believe it’s called and a very peculiar work of fiction.’

‘You’re telling me. Damn thing slipped out of my hand and what’s with all this weird written text? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

The woman sighed.

‘Ah, yes well Mr Paddlethorpe was considered a bit of a tortured soul. Local rumours said he was a vampire and used to drink the blood of virgins, all ridiculous nonsense of course but it all adds to his mystery.’

‘I can barely read it. Did he not have it printed?’

‘No, he had hand written ten copies all by himself. He refused to have anyone put it into text although to be honest I can’t imagine any publisher willing to do so. The stories within are all rather self indulgent and not very good.’

Tony slid the book back to its home.

‘How come it’s with the classics then?’

‘It probably shouldn’t be I’ll agree but it is over a hundred years old. I can’t imagine anyone ever buying it though.’

‘How much is it then?’

‘Eighty five pounds.’

Tony shook his head.

‘You’ll never sell it.’

‘We wouldn’t be able to sell it at fifty pence Sir. Still, it’s our owner who sets the price and decides where it goes.’

Tony slithered towards W. His hand reached for Wheatley.

‘I think I’ll settle for this old devil.’

‘Ah, you can’t go wrong with dear old Dennis. Would you like it wrapped?’

‘No, that’s quite all right.’

Tony looked behind him and saw a trail of crimson leak from Paddlethorpe’s masterpiece.

‘Oh that blasted red ink,’ she cursed.

She removed the offending novel and beckoned for Tony to follow her to the counter. He paid her five pounds. His eyes dropped to her reddened hands.

‘This damn book is more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t know why we keep the ghastly thing.’

Tony shrugged and took his novel. He would at least be safe with devil worship.


- - -