Here is the audio version of The Vase, a flash fiction piece written and read by the author Joe Stanley.
for written transcript see post here The Vase
Category: Joe Stanley
What you see is what you get
by Joe Stanley
At a small college, Dr. Sanders, a psychologist, developed an interesting hypothesis. He reasoned that art as a form of expression was a type of communication, acting on the mind not only consciously, but unconsciously as well. He suspected that colors and shapes and their composition comprised a “language of the unconscious”.
He devised an experiment to explore this idea. Volunteers underwent a guided relaxation technique similar to hypnosis and were then shown various abstract artworks. They recorded their impressions, thoughts, and feelings.
Initially, the results were disappointing. The responses were so varied that the only thing that could be said about them was that the observer apparently saw whatever they wanted to see.
However, the samples shown to them had come from students enrolled in the college’s art program and many were not particularly notable for their quality. He speculated that perhaps not all art is of the same importance or comes with the same magnitude of effect.
This idea seemed confirmed by the few pieces that struck a consistent chord in the viewers, and these pieces had this result even without the meditation and relaxation methods. These all came from the same artist, and the school had a number of these works in storage.
Sanders was interested in meeting the artist, but he found this was impossible. Her former professor recalled the individual as being what she described as a classic ‘tortured genius’ who was brilliant in her work but very anti-social. Sadly, the student had taken her own life before completing the program. Having no family, her paintings and sculptures were unclaimed and the researcher was encouraged to use them as he saw fit.
Several different volunteer groups were shown the works and the relaxation techniques were further refined. Perhaps things worked too well. As the professor lead the group in the last sanctioned experiment, the students were shown a piece entitled “My Inner Demon”. The painting was little more than a dark background upon which were bright streaks and orbs reminiscent of eyes.
All of the subjects were profoundly affected in a negative manner, with one suffering an emotional breakdown, requiring the summoning of an ambulance. The students reported that they felt as though a dark and malevolent presence lurked within the image, and the stricken student had screamed about movement in the image and the fear that it was coming after him.
After this event, Sanders was disciplined and barred from repeating the experiment. Over the remainder of the semester, he became very angry and embittered by the school’s decision to halt his work. He vanished near the end of the semester and was replaced by another instructor for the final exams.
His former students were concerned for his well-being and made a visit to his home. The house looked like it had been abandoned for some time, it was dark and quiet and the lawn was badly overgrown. Fearing that something terrible had happened they called the police who entered the residence to discover a horrible tragedy.
The educator had taken his own life some weeks earlier as the advanced state of decomposition showed. He left no note to explain his actions. An examination of the scene suggested the he had continued the experiment using himself as a subject. A photograph [omitted due to its graphic nature] revealed a strange detail that those familiar with the experiment have yet to understand.
The work used in this final session was nothing more than a blank canvas with the exception of a signature and the title “My Inner Demon”.
-end-
The Ghost of Dr. Ekhardt
by Joe Stanley
I’m an electrical engineering technician and work for a small but well-funded community college. In just a few years, the campus had nearly doubled in size with new buildings sprouting up almost seasonally. This allowed a greater diversity of classes to be offered which meant more money for the school and, thus, more growth.
At first, I was tasked with maintenance work, but a retirement granted me an opportunity for advancement. Soon, I was installing power systems in the new buildings and eventually I was overseeing them. Most of the buildings were identical in their power needs with the electrical and mechanical engineering building being an obvious exception.
I was surprised when the latest building called for a system which dwarfed even that. This single building was designed to use almost as much power as the entire campus.
Naturally, I was curious about what would require so much power and asked the head of this new department, Dr. Ekhardt, what would be going on.
He was, as I already knew from gossip, a rather unpleasant individual. True to the rumors, he tried to ignore me as if I wasn’t worth the time. When I failed to take his cue and leave, he sighed impatiently and condescended to inform me that I simply would not be capable of understanding. I took the insult as best I could, but I made it my business to find out what was going on.
This new department was a mystery unto itself. No one was willing or able to define it, not even some of the administrators I knew. All I managed to learn was that Ekhardt was personally responsible for very large donations to the college. I could only assume this was why he was given a building to “play” with and why his abrasive personality was overlooked. In an age where a student’s hurt feelings can result in the disciplining of an instructor, he seemed like a large liability. As to his field of expertise, all I could glean was that he was a physicist.
My inquires became known to him at some point, and he sent word for me to meet him at his office. He was reading a paper when I arrived and didn’t take his eyes from it as he informed me that his building was for research and wouldn’t be available for general classes. He then turned away from me and continued to read. I was also nudged away from further investigation by one of the deans who tried to laugh off Ekhardt’s lack of social skills as though it was an endearing quality.
There was little more that I could do but continue overseeing the installation of equipment. This was no small task as the machines were unknown to me and I was provided with only the information that was absolutely required. Keep in mind this is not like plugging a home appliance into the wall, it requires an understanding of the inductance and capacitance of the individual components in order to ensure things are running at peak efficiency. At one point, I discovered an error in the overall design and drawing this to the doctor’s attention, I actually managed to earn a small compliment from him. Later I would discover that the entire building was his design and that my observation had embarrassed him somewhat.
He was still aloof and haughty, though he was somewhat more communicative. As we neared the completion of the building he was notably excited. He didn’t even seem to care than many of the offices and storage rooms weren’t finished at the time, he was impatient for the equipment to be in working order. Though I assured him I was pushing the crew, I did no such thing. I wanted them to be careful in their work as the huge amount of power that would be in use was more than a little intimidating. A single mistake could cause untold damage and end up burning down what was an unthinkably costly effort.
We finally reached the point where things were almost ready, but the crew had already been working overtime and it would have been technically illegal for them to press on. I also wished to delay things as I intended to conduct a thorough final check before applying power to the titanic installation. Dr. Ekhardt was so excited, so impatient to see months of our work (and possibly years of his) drawn to a conclusion that he became incensed at the news that we were stopping for the night.
I remember the amusing and somewhat alarming shade of reddish-purple he became. He trembled visibly and said nothing as he stormed off and out of sight. At the time, I didn’t think one more day, just for safety’s sake, would be so much to ask. I had no idea how recklessly desperate he would become.
I’ll spare you the technical details, but it should suffice to say that all that was left to do was install what you might think of as a fuse and turn the power on. The “fuse” was nothing more than a thick bar of copper. The “fuse box”, so to speak, was operated by a ratcheting mechanism which extended two mechanical arms. The fuse would be placed into the arms and, with the press of a button, the arms would retract and set the bar in place, gradually applying power.
For whatever reason, he bypassed this safety feature and manually inserted bar. I had been outside in the parking lot joking with the crew when I saw the entire building light up in a brilliant flash that instantly went dark. Every machine in the building drew current at the same time and it all went through that bar. The solid block of copper essentially vaporized directly in his face. The effect it had on his body was a horror that will never be purged from my mind. I wish I had known what he was going to do, perhaps I could have saved his life.
The building stood unused for some time. Other experts came but couldn’t quite make sense of whatever Ekhardt had in mind. Some were sure he was a genius, others were certain that he was insane. His custom machines were removed, one by one, and sent to recycling centers, as the state forbids school equipment from being sold regardless of its condition. The building has remained largely empty except for occasional adjunct classes sometimes held on its upper floors.
The lower floors are avoided and for me there is a haunting memory to explain why. But others openly speak of an odd and creepy feeling in the halls. And though the building can supply far more power than it will ever need, there are unusual failures of electronic devices and an occasional odd flickering of the lights. Rumors claim that these events are accompanied by a sickening smell described as burning meat.
Sometimes they report a sight caught briefly from the corners of their eyes. They describe a man in a long white lab coat, whose arms, chest, and head are darker, as if scorched and charred.
-end-
A Predatory Heart
by Joe Stanley
As a waitress in a gentleman’s club, Susan Baker knew well the base nature of man. With but a few drinks, the kindest of them could forget himself and this said nothing about the fact that few men were truly kind. With a smoky breath growling through their drooling lips, they would fail to request permission for the privileges their rough hands would seek.
At the end of her shift, she would feel dirty as if they had somehow corrupted and infected her. Not even a scalding shower could make her feel clean. Things only got worse as time passed and eventually she felt filthy just for breathing the air or for the sight of the building.
She had no other choice but to endure the leering lechers who ogled her with glassy eyes. Alone in the world, she was estranged from her family and rejected by men who were too jealous to overlook her career. Having no other skills to lift her from her lot, she drifted from one club to another, but she felt trapped as if waiting for her doom.
The relentless ticking of time tapped constantly on her shoulder and whispered from the mirror with each glance. The other girls, who came and went, were younger with each batch. They were friendlier with customers and freer in the liberties they granted. There was no sisterhood to support her, they were childish and self-absorbed, truly as vile as the men.
Her own popularity was shrinking and with it the tips she relied on. She anticipated being fired every time her boss looked at her with his eyebrow raised. Often she wondered how much time was left before they had a little “talk”.
The few men who showed interest were the cast offs, the ones the other girls didn’t want. Fat, ugly, stinking, and repulsive animals, they made her bile rise. Of them, there was one worse than the rest, the creepy Mr. James. It wasn’t that he was bad-looking, on the contrary, he was quite handsome… for an older man, anyway. And by his dress alone it was obvious he was well-off financially. But everything about him filled her with an odd sense of dread.
He would sit in the darkest corner, staring out with piercing eyes. They made her shiver when they fell on her, and sometimes she could feel them even when her back was turned. They seemed to glow, strange and hypnotic, at once daring her to wonder what thoughts stirred behind them while filling her with horror for what they might be.
Boy Genius – 1
by Joe Stanley
I knew Mark and Greta Holger since we were all kids. We went to school together. Mark and Greta ended up going to the same college, where they fell in love. They were married and had a son Robert (Bobby.)
Greta was a nurse and Mark a businessman. They were both very intelligent, but such things, of course, are relative. If they had a flaw, it was the same elitism that successful people hold so stubbornly to. Overall, however, they were not bad people.
And as for intelligence, their son, Bobby, was beyond gifted. The Holgers were understandably proud and saw in his achievements verification of their own self-worth. To be fair, they were nowhere near where their son was. Young Bobby, was very, very special.
I was a councilor and first met Bobby after he had difficulty “fitting in” in school. They brought him to me to help him learn to adjust. Over the course of a few months I gathered the information I am sharing and have pieced the following together.
My initial interview with Bobby showed him to be polite and quiet. His answers to my questions were terse. He seemed to be watching his surroundings at all times. I once mistook him for not paying attention, but he showed awareness, readily answering my questions.
I quickly discovered that he had a great hunger for books and learning. While he was still an elementary student he had gone through his parent’s old college books. He studied everything he could and showed knowledge of subjects ranging from medicine to electrical engineering. My impression, with no exaggeration, was that this young boy would grow up to change the world. He would certainly change mine.
His parents expressed concern about his lack of interest in the other children at school. They had refrained from seeking a special school because they wanted him to meet a variety of other kids and public school was a great way to do that. It was of course his vast intelligence that separated him from the rest. This ultimately resulted in a fight between Bobby and another student, Mike (Mikey) Wells.
“Bobby,” I asked, “What happened at school?”
In a rare display of emotion, he frowned and stated, “Mikey beat me up.”
“Why?” I asked.
He thought only for a moment before responding, “Because he’s mean.”
“Oh, no, I meant what happened to make him be mean?” I clarified, or tried to.
“He’s jealous and angry because he won’t have a very good future.”
“Bobby,” I asked, “What did you and Mikey do just before he hit you?”
“We were talking. He said his Dad told him that God hates things.”
“What things?”
“Many things. Mikey’s God is a bigot.”
“Did you say that to him?”
“No, I told him that his father was a truck driver, not a preacher. Then he hit me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Can I ask you how that made you feel?”
Bobby looked at me with a mixture of confusion and amusement on his face, but he answered, “I was afraid, angry and sad.”
“I think I would be, too,” I said, trying to comfort him but not sure that he needed it. “Did Mikey get in trouble?”
Here Bobby showed me awareness in a way that nearly sickened me.
“Mikey is always in trouble. That doesn’t matter. He just comes back and says and does more mean things. The teachers know that he is bad, but they don’t do anything about it really. Mikey smiles and laughs at me because he thinks he got away with it.”
I was stunned and unsure what to say, but he continued.
“My Dad tried to talk to his Dad about it. Mikey’s Dad yelled and said there’s only one real God and that he would kick my Dad’s ass like Mikey kicked my ass. He said I was a faggot and a sissy. I was afraid for my Dad, but we left. I asked my Dad why they were so mean to us. My Dad told me,” and he looked into my eyes and smiled a little, “it doesn’t matter because we’re better than them.”
“Yes, you are,” I advised him, “as long as you don’t make the same mistakes he makes.”
“I try to avoid mistakes,” he said, looking out the window.
I completely mistook what he meant.
Sailing – 1
by Joe Stanley
1
It did not take me long to feel the swirling nausea of sea sickness. I am not a sailor, I am a scribe, and it was my task to record the events of our journey. We left the sunny, tropical shores for the gloomy gray and rainy port that waits across the ocean vast and blue. Our cargo was of rum, fruit and spices. These things would bring a fortune in the market place back home.
If only we could make it home.
As we sailed along, we saw that in our path a wall of fog or mist climbed up to the stormy clouds above. Those clouds were oddly colored, though I thought it was my illness turning everything to shades unpleasant and even… vile.
The clouds stretched from horizon to horizon, it seemed, and we had little chance to avoid them. We sailed to them, they flowed to us like duellists on the field of honor. It is an apt description of that sense of something ominous that gripped me.
Though here I can state I found them to hold more than mortal fear. For a mighty storm is a ship’s nightmare and one all sailors rightly see with the respect one might grant the visible hand of God itself. A storm falls upon a vessel like the wrath of a vengeful nature and every man aboard secretly recalls his failings and wonders if his judgement is at hand.
But what I mean is, sick though I was, the clouds and fog impressed on me a sense of the alien. It dwarfed that fear stated above with a greater fear – that of the unknown, that of the unknowable. Though I told myself that I was sick and only making fantasy and phantoms, I knew I merely held myself within the comfort of a hopeful lie.
Every moment between us and it was both a gratefully received reprieve and a ticking pendulum which announced the ever shrinking time until it had us. When, at last, we collided it was as if we sailed into some immense cobweb. Though we had been clipping along, our ship seemed to slow then as the ephemeral net dissipated what speed we had.
Oh, though words are my charge, I have little I can add to a ship swallowed up by a sea-going cloud. In all directions there was nothing but the limbo of formless, shapeless vapors. For it felt as if we were cut off from the world and I think that says it all. Even the sound of the water was so faint as to be absent. Were those missing sounds cast only back into the world we left behind?
How I wish that fears were all there was to it, if it was, perhaps we would have happily sailed through the other side and been on our merry way. But a cry and then another brought our attention to faint and colored lights which darted here and there all around us. What firey angels flitted, climbing through that cloud? As they danced and played and shifted shade the oldest sea dogs stood with mouths as wide as mine.
It was all I could do to clutch the rail and wonder for such things I think so few shall ever see. I think, perhaps, life is merciful for that. Time within that mist moves both slower and faster until one asks has it been but moments or is it years? Have centuries rolled by like heartbeats or have heartbeats taken centuries? I truly could not say and with horror I concede the answer there is one which I would rather remain ignorant.
We grew neither hungry nor thirsty and with no wind the sails hung useless. The mast rose up and away disappearing into the obscuring swirls that pressed down upon us. I had supposed we either moved not at all or surely drifted on the ocean’s current. Then again, only the mist seemed moving and perhaps that is the sole truth of it. Perhaps by moving, it moved us, somehow.
And as time rolled on unending, the dancing lights fell behind. Before us a dark triangle rose as the mist then thinned away. But here should be no island, let alone a mountain poking out of the ocean deep and rising to the sky. We broke the wall but to see the wall circled the island.
With a slight wind in the void between them we circumnavigated it and found no freedom from the tomb of its seemingly endless grayness. It was clear that we shall sail back into the fog again or seek landfall on the dark and towering cone-like pinnacle before us.
While the captain contemplated this, I slept.