A.K. McCutcheon
Short Fiction
A few pieces not published elsewhere that I thought you might like to see...
KEEPER OF THE CASTLE
This story earned an Honorable Mention in Elegant Literature's September 2023 issue.
Why is it so quiet? Moments ago, the savagery of the attack splintered the cabin’s furniture into pine pulp, churning the air with gale force volume. Now the only sound is my ragged breathing, bubbling with spit and froth. Bracing my back against the bedroom door, I slide down its length and hit the floor. Pain scorches like an electric shock from my knee to my spine. Terrified of what I will see, I force myself to look at my right leg. My knee is splayed open, blood pooling in the exposed fissure. My lower thigh is swollen and purpling where four deep punctures ooze wet crimson, soaking my torn khaki pants. The blood-borne stench registers as a metallic saccharine taste in my mouth, triggering a violent gag reflex. Mopping my face with my shirt sleeve, I mutter, “It’s not that bad”—a pathetic effort to calm myself. I need to get out of here before it comes back. I fumble for my cell phone in the pants front pocket. The pocket is ripped away—the phone is gone. My face heats with panic. What would Dad do? He kept guns at the cabin, but they’re long gone. When he learned his cancer was terminal, he shipped the firearms to his brother in Colorado. Dad was a career Marine. He gave me his cleft chin and his growling baritone voice, but not his towering height or his measured gravitas. He didn’t engage in conversations with me; he conducted lessons. Recollections surface… The FOUR “E’s” of Field Survival he insisted I memorize and recite: #1: EMERGENCY aid for the wounded. I need to wrap my leg to staunch the bleeding. As a result of my weekend visits to empty out the cabin, there are no sheets or towels, no first-aid kit. Time to improvise. I tear off long strips from my shredded pants and wrap my leg with the makeshift bandages. It hurts like hell. It was reckless to enter the cabin after I spotted the broken window near the front door. Dumb luck that I saw the beast before it saw me, and a miracle that I was able to kick it off me and barricade myself inside the bedroom. #2: EVALUATE your situation. Slumped against the door, lightheaded with pain, I struggle to organize my frenzied thoughts into an action plan. Dad built his hunting cabin in isolated timberland. No electricity, no landline, spotty cell service. The nearest Ranger station closes at sundown. My best chance for rescue is to find my phone. If not, the only escape with my bandaged leg is down the front porch stairs and across the clearing to my truck. And something else—the gnawing hollow in my gut. It’s been hours since coffee and toast at home. I wonder if there are any supplies left in the cabin’s pantry. I think of Sarah, at home with Jimmy. She’ll start to worry soon. #3: EVACUATE to a safe location. I need to move. As I roll on my side to attempt to stand, my gaze shifts toward the bedroom’s narrow window. Fir trees loom, stark silhouettes against a shimmering sky, the last light of the dying day before the onset of the dark. Then I see it. A hulking shadow lumbering past the window frame. I hear the sounds: the muffled grunting, the rasp of curved claws on the pine floor. It knows I’m here. [TO READ THE REST OF THE STORY, visit my Contact page and send me an email. Type KEEPER in the message bar.]
THE WANDERER
This story was a finalist in WOW-Women On Writing’s Flash Fiction contest in Summer 2024.
Four days before his funeral, my father went missing. The phone buzzed as I ransacked my bedroom closet for a work-appropriate outfit that didn’t need ironing. A bass voice rumbled: “Ms. Silva? Howard Washington calling from Serenity Memorial Gardens. Can you come to my office this morning? It’s urgent that we speak in person.” Oh, no. Urgent? In person? I’d need to reschedule a client tour—a newlywed couple looking for a downtown condo—and drive in choking traffic across the Bay Bridge to the mortuary in Oakland. I sighed. “All right, I’ll be there.” An hour later, I sat in the softly-lit office, tapping my foot on the beige carpet. Mr. Washington (“Please call me Howard”) placed his folded hands on the glossy desk between us and cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry to tell you that your father never arrived here from the assisted living facility.” My heart pounded a drumbeat in my ears. I gripped the armchair’s padded brown upholstery. “Are you saying you lost my father?” “He was misdirected to another mortuary.” Howard looked down at his hands. “There were two intake cards with similar names.” His temples glistened with sweat. “I regret to say... the receiving mortuary conducted a cremation.” Time stopped, then restarted. The room careened around me. I registered Howard’s voice as if from under water— [TO READ THE REST OF THE STORY, visit my Contact page and send me an email. Type WANDERER in the message bar.]
THE LEGACY
This story earned an Honorable Mention in Elegant Literature's November 2023 issue.
His bare feet burned on the frigid stone as if standing on a flaming hearth. Shuffling nervously, Alexandros glanced toward the bottom of the portico steps where he had discarded his clothing in accordance with the scroll’s directives: "Abandon tunic and sandals at the steps. Enter unclad to claim your legacy." He crossed his arms against the biting cold and tried not to think about the warnings, the entreaties not to come to this place. The night was ominously quiet. No passersby afoot on the road below the lodge, no night birds astir, not a whisper of wind. The waxing moon observed the scene, lurking stealthily behind the cypress trees. “Who waits at the door?” A sonorous voice from within the lodge broke through the oppressive silence. Alexandros recognized the voice of the hooded man in red robes who called on him last night to deliver the scroll of secrets and signs. He gave the prescribed response to the question: “Alexandros, son of Senator Costas Demetrios, seeks entry.” The voice answered: “Take our hand three times and join us within.” Alexandros reached for the door knocker: a bronze figure of a hand, severed at the wrist, with an ornate ring on the third finger. He clapped the metal plate, once, twice, thrice. The oak door creaked open slowly… [TO READ THE REST OF THE STORY, visit my Contact page and send me an email. Type LEGACY in the message bar.]