Blood Flower by Tim Eagle (Part 6)

Welcome to FREE FICTION FRIDAY!

I give you the very old, circa 2016, version of Blood Flower, a macabre tale that I rushed through back in my young impatient years. Please enjoy, and please don't be too harsh, it's fiction from my beginnings, while raising a family, working full time, and grinding daily...the genesis of an ambitious writer. If you want the properly formatted version of this in print and don't want to wait every until Friday to continue reading for free, please buy a copy in print here: Blood, Dreams & Tears or purchase the eBook here: Blood, Dreams & Tears

This is the last of Blood Flower, be sure to tune in next week for a new free read, hand selected for you from my personal bibliography of terror!

Jake wondered why the executioner wasn’t gone from the acidic down pour. It was the brown leather, somehow it protected him. He wanted to yell at the man but instead fell to the ground. Although untouched and unscathed by the pouring of crimson, everyone turned into unrecognizable monstrosities, and the fact that the executioner still stood was a miracle, Krew kwiatów, Jake shivered at the haunting words of his mother and saw the glimmer of keys lying by the guard’s mound of flesh. He bent; kept his eyes on the man in leather for any moves he may have in store, and picked them up. 

There were two keys on the ring and only one that unlocked the cuffs that wrapped his wrists. The first key worked, Jake’s hands were free. He unlocked the shackles around his ankles, the ground trembled, and then stillness. The leather man left his post. Jake could almost see the piercing green eyes through the openings of the leather shroud covering his face.

“Hold it right there, Jake Heathcowski, by the power invested in me by the village of Stevats, I must,” the voice was loud and belonged to Sheriff Daniels, “make you pay for the crimes you committed!”

The Sheriff walked through slush piles of sinewy leftovers, his head high, his gait slow and confident. Jake wanted to bolt through the patches of sunflowers. He wanted to get away from Sunflower Row, from the stench of melted carrion, and as far away from Stevats as he could, but something stopped him, it was the presence of something more evil, but was saving his life. He looked at the flower which he held in a fist and blood dripped from it.  

Jake opened his hand and the sunflower was crumpled, its yellow petals milky and red, the dots had saturated each petal reaching the center, brackish liquid ran into his palm down his wrist. Jake’s flesh crawled with goosebumps.

Shaky words left his dry mouth, “Coward!” Although Jake shouted, the word was soft. The executioner stopped.

Beads of sweat trickled from out of the Sheriff’s mask and down the eye holes, and he answered, “I don’t think I heard you right.” The Sheriff laughed, his laugh was shrill and pitched with authority.

“You, Sheriff, you’re hiding behind a mask. I’m here in the open walking to my death and you don’t want me to see your face. That’s a coward.” Saliva rejuvenated Jake’s mouth.

“You’re the one who must pay with your life, Jake Heathcowski.”

 

“I want to see your face. If I don’t then I won’t agree to your sentence. I was falsely accused.” Jake said. A sense of relief filled him.  Jake ambled closer to the sweating executioner.

Sheriff Daniels paused. The sun beat down on the path stiffening the air. Jake hoped he was getting through just enough for the Sheriff to loose attention on what was happening. 

The Sheriff chuckled, “I can’t hear you.” 

“There’s nothing shackling me, there are no guards to apprehend me, I’m as free as you, Sheriff.” Jake said. 

He reluctantly grabbed his mask. Jake’s stomach writhed with apprehension; he knew he was going to make a run for it. 

“No matter what happens, Jake Heathcowski, you’re a dead man.” He pulled the leather hood off.

The summer heat rose to noxious desert warmth, and more red splotches fell. The sunflowers waved in a welcomed dance as each was doused with yet another dot of red on top of the previous blemish. The Sheriff’s eyes bulged out of his forehead. His tongue, swollen and red, plopped out of his mouth landing on the ground with a thud. His large calloused hands grabbed his throat as he wheezed for air. Like a wax candle made of flesh his face began to fall off. Blood and other bodily fluids swirled in a downward spiral and into the mound of flesh. 

A cool northerly breeze blew. The hanging tree creaked and groaned, all had disappeared. A faint ringing of what was left of the church bells requiem vanquished into the breeze and Jake stumbled forward. Befuddled and confused he looked down at the fluidity of melted tissue that was once Sheriff Daniels. An old familiar voice, his mother’s, in her broken polish dialect, whispered two words that assured Jake that all was well and life would go on: Krew kwiatów. 

Jake whistled and strolled away from Sunflower Row. The Blood Flower a memory, a whispered tale from his mother who wanted to warn him about the way things were. Jake relished the memory, stored it inside and left everything behind.

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Tim Eagle

Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.com 

Tim Eagle's Blood Flower