Psychochronograph: Short Fiction Bursts Jon Wesley Huff

Far away from here, and many thousands of years in the future, a young girl by the name of Coletta von Nestershaw walks through the empty rooms of the station. Its formal name is very long and tedious, as names of things tend to become when the same organizational scheme has been used to assign them for over a thousand years. It all ends in a number—893. Thus, its three occupants call it Station 893.
Coletta is twelve and has many strict ideas about all sorts of things. One of these is her annoyance over the fact that some things have multiple names. It seems redundant, hampers communication, and makes everything harder to learn. So, while she is not satisfied that the station has multiple names, she accepts it. She is also very fond of her home. She has lived here since she was ten, when her father—Venya von Nestershaw—was assigned to the planetoid in which the station is embedded.
The planetoid has no name, it’s just a seemingly endless series of numbers and letters, so Coletta calls it “the rock” or, more often, “planetoid” because there seems to be no reason to give it another name. It is brutally cold outside, and as far as Coletta can see vast planes of ice recede into the distance. It glitters at sunrise, although the star for this system is very distant. The light will sometimes refract in hues of purple and blue. But now the short day is done, and the sun is hidden.
The station is anchored into the ice—it’s shark-tooth shape sunk deeply in through force and heat. She never tires of the vast emptiness of the rock, but she loves it most of all this time of year. Because she is only days away from Kriznas, and the cold and Kriznas go together.
“It is time to sup, Coletta,” says Nan, the ovoid comfortdrone who has raised her since she was very little, after her mother expired.
“Very well, Nan,” Coletta sighs, stopping the game of leapscotch she was playing in the game room, and bowing her head slightly. A smooth tube slides out of a recessed panel in Nan’s side and attaches itself to the center port in Coletta’s nexum, a cluster of natural ports that all humins have evolved. A puree of fiber and nutrient-rich suspension shoots through the tube, past the center port’s tasting ring, and directly into Coletta’s system. Coletta smiles appreciatively.
“Mmmm. What was that? I liked it very much,” Coletta said. Nan chirped, pleased with herself.
“It is a special mix I’ve been thinking up. It’s called ‘Rain in the Woods,’ If you like it, I can add it to the regular rotation,” Nan said.
“Yes, please. Are you planning a new taste for Kriznas?”
“Perhaps. If you are good.” With that, Nan floated away to attend to other duties. Nan had many bodies throughout the ship, all working simultaneously, so she was never far away. When Coletta’s father was away working, Nan was more than just her comfortdrone. She was the keeper of their residence. Venya operated a large rover and did his scientific work over long sojourns over the ice. The weather on the planetoid was too violent for aircraft. Even the formidable traction of the rover wasn’t enough when the weather was at its worst. So, it was a slow and tedious business, and he was usually gone for months at a time.
“I hope he’s home for Kriznas,” Coletta said, stopping by the nativity on her way to the Kriznas tree. Nan was not physically present, but her warm intelligence permeated the station. Coletta would often speak to her, just to make her thoughts known, without expecting a reply. The nativity was a traditional one, although other families had trendier-looking ones. At least, that was her impression from the shows and commercials she saw on the viewer. They were well out of regular broadcast range, but they got data bursts every six months. It was expensive, because of the raw power needed to send the info, but it kept them at least marginally in contact with civilization. They were due another a few days before

Kennedy's eyes grew heavier by the second until, at last, her head dipped forward, her hands fell heavily on the keys, and the computer let out an electronic squawk. This shook her awake, and she tried once again to focus on the Excel sheet in front of her. But the grids began to dance in front of her eyes—numbers jumping in her vision from row to row and column to column. Mr. Bowles paid her a little extra each week to balance the books, even though Kennedy had no training in that sort of thing. It wasn't exactly hard, but it was tedious—especially when she was running on three hours of sleep. Her main job here, acting as the second shift desk clerk at the Paper Moon Bay Motel, was equally as easy. Particularly through the weekdays.
The motel was old, built sometime in the late 60s when the old highway saw a lot more business than it did now. It hadn't been maintained well enough to be a cute-and-trendy destination, and Mr. Bowles refused to invest any money to get it there. That meant it was a motel for diehards who found its decay charming, people who didn’t want to pay a lot for a room, or for the people who were visiting the nearby state park. Kennedy's eyes were feeling very heavy again when the old phone on the desk rang. Kennedy hated this phone. It was made of an off-putting peachy-flesh color better reserved for prosthetics. Oh, and usually when it rang it was a customer complaining.
“What’s up b***h?” Teri yelled as soon as Kennedy picked up the receiver.
“Me, unfortunately,” grumbled Kennedy. “Can you please not shout.”
"Poor girl, you must really be feeling those shots. They went down so smooth, but damn, they could mess a person up,” Teri said.
“How are you so… not dead?”
“I haven’t gone to sleep! That’s the secret. Just keep going until you can sleep for the next day. Speaking of which, want to come by my place tonight? Keith and Shawn are going to swing by.”
“No! No, that sounds like the absolute worst idea. Aren’t you going to crash before then?” asked Kennedy, although she already knew the answer. She’d been friends with Teri since college, and she was fun. But she was a Chicago suburbs trust-fund baby through and through, and had no clue about how life in the real world operated. Kennedy was equally judgmental and jealous about this fact.
"No way," Teri said, shaking a bottle of pills near the phone. "I get tired when I want to get tired, and I stay awake when I want to stay awake." Kennedy involuntarily yawned so hard the muscles in the lower part of her jaw cramped painfully. A small, older woman entered the motel office at that exact moment, thrusting the door open with such force the small entrance bell clacked tunelessly.
"I'll talk to you later," Kennedy said quickly before hanging up the phone. The woman was halfway through the door and gave Kennedy a quick smile before suddenly turning around and poking her head back through the door.
“Do you two want something to drink? Maybe a fruit juice? Sure, Grammy can do that," the woman said before turning her attention back toward Kennedy. She closed the door behind her gently. "Sorry about that, my grandkids are darlings, but they never seem to stop needing food and drinks! Do you have any fruit juice?"
“Sure, over there in the case. I mean, it's Snapple, but I think that still counts,” Kennedy said, pointing toward an old, refrigerated unit that kept the bottles inside a few degrees colder than the air outside of it. The woman tottered over toward the case. She was very short–under five feet tall—with fluffy white hair and a thick middle. She wore a blouse with a delicate pink and green floral pattern and light blue jeans worn high on her hips. A loose-knit shawl in light blue draped around her shoulders and hung down her back and at her sides, almost to her knees. She completed the look with a large purse slung over her neck, its strap bisecting her breasts. Kennedy knew that Teri would find her hi

Hello everyone, and welcome to this month’s Short Fiction Burst. Usually I present a piece of short fiction here. But this month I have something a little special for you. That’s because my horror novel, In the Dark of the Grove, has been released from Gurt Dog Press!
That’s right, it’s October 29, 2021—the day is finally here! To celebrate, I’ll be reading a couple chapters from the book. For more info on how to order your copy (ebook or physical) you can go to my website: jonwesleyhuff.com
In The Dark of the Grove
by Jon Wesley Huff
Prologue
Dying ended up being more difficult than Herb Thomas had anticipated. He’d assumed the build-up to it would be the worst part. The drive to Silver Cove had been an uncomfortable mix of familiar and foreign. He hadn’t been up this way in nearly a decade. The once charming lakeside town had taken on a commercialized feel, with tall condos now partially blocking the view of Lake Michigan. He drove into the familiar parking lot of Silver Cove Beach, though he preferred the free parking along the roads of the quaint downtown. His wife, however, had always insisted on paying to park in this lot, since it was closer to the beach. She could spend twelve hours working in the fields, but she hated walking on sand. He smiled at the memory of her and their son, Kyle, running as fast as they could to the shoreline and the cool wet sand that awaited. The smile didn’t last long.
Herb’s wife had been gone a long time now, and he hadn’t seen his son in fifteen years. This time, he parked in the lot because he wanted his car to be easy to find. He snuffed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray—the result of picking the bad habit up again in the two years he’d been planning all of this. The build-up to this moment had been hard. The uncertainty of whether this was an act of bravery or cowardice plagued him. He never thought of himself as a brave man. Even the book, the greatest act of bravery he’d ever managed, was masked in illusion and art. He looked at the passenger seat, where his comp copy of Dunbar’s Grove sat. His last book, and his most important one.
Herb thought of his life. He thought of the series of mistakes and blunders that had left him with a family he hadn’t wanted, and finally to this moment. Why was it that now—just as he was ready for it to be over—it suddenly felt precious? One last time he allowed his mind to wander. What if he’d told his father he wasn’t going to take over the farm? What if he’d been able to write full time, instead of at night, when it rained, or when the fields were dead and frosted over? He put those thoughts away, as he slid Dunbar’s Grove into his jacket. It was long past time for that sort of daydreaming.
He mentally went over every detail again, craving the solace of knowing he’d done everything he could do. The agony of the last two years of planninghad left him utterly exhausted. He’d spent so many sleepless nights trying to figure out how to get his message across, but in a way that they wouldn’t know what he’d done. This kind of exhaustion wasn’t cured by even days of sleep. This kind of exhaustion crept straight to the bone and then rested heavy like a lead weight. He was only alive because his death would draw too much attention, given the talk that had started to swirl around the book. But his suicide? That would be a nice bow wrapped around everything. They’d put their guard down, at least at first.
The fact this entire plan hinged on someone—who had every reason to hate him—piecing together clues that were designed to be vague at best didn’t fill him with much confidence. That was, of course, assuming Kyle even bothered to return home. There was always the chance his son could leave it to the lawyers, and Herb wouldn’t have blamed him.
All of this, however, was just a prelude to the annoyance of dying itself. He walked a half hour down the shoreline, away from the lights of the

Witch Adder
by Jon Wesley Huff
Witch adder blackWitch adder greenWhich is the riderAnd which the unseen?
Witch adder crimsonWitch adder whiteWhich is the cureAnd which is the blight?
Run to the milland run to riverRun past the straw manThrough briar and heather
Run past the winding roadWinds round the deadWave to the porchmanThat holds his head
Witch adder silverWitch adder yellowWhich is the sawbones—that curious fellow?
Witch adder slitheringWitch adder blueWhich adder killed me?Witch killed you?
Thanks everybody for listening to Psychochronograph audio. I hope you don’t mind me diving into spooky season a little early. I had planned to save this one for October, but then I realized I’ll have something more pressing to read for you then. My new book, In the Dark of the Grove, will be out next month (October) from Gurt Dog Press. The exact date is still up in the air, but I’ll let you know when it’s coming out. Don’t worry. And I'll be reading a couple chapters from it next time.
Witch Adder was written a couple years ago for Halloween. I find poetry difficult. I have written some, but rarely every feel like it’s good enough to share. The line between impactful poetry and not-great poetry always seem so razor thin to me. And i’m not even sure I’m a good judge.
But my main goal with Witch Adder was just fun. Something that incorporated a little bit of the lore I heard around the campfire as a kid. But mostly I just wanted it to be fun to read out loud.
Audio: Very Low Note by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4581-very-low-noteLicense: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license


This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jonwesleyhuff.substack.com

Don’t worry, this isn’t Groundhog’s Day. I’ve decided to upload audio versions of my short fiction so you can enjoy them podcast-style. This required re-posting this story. In between each newsletter, I’ll be sharing some of my short form writing. Some, like this one, will be older. Some will be new. The first one is, in some ways, a special one.
Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic
Crik-crik-crik-crik-clak-crik-crik
I listened for this sound. I listened with my whole body. Do you know that sort of listening, where you try to open yourself wide as if trying to summon some other senses beyond the ones that are failing you? I clutched the rope with all my might, its coarse, twined strands digging into the flesh of my hands, biting with every lurch and twist. I held on for dear life, and wished my hands were calloused again. Ahead, somewhere, was Bartleby’s wagon. Brown dust stung my eyes, impossibly thick. I could not see the end of my arms, though of course I could feel them. I could not see the wagon, though I could hear it. I tried to conjure the picture of it in my mind, as though it might make it easier to follow. I was so afraid. So afraid I’d be lost to the dust. I imagined the wheels, cracked red paint flaking from the split wood of the spokes. Crik-crik-crik-clak-crik. They rhythm of them was comforting, as was the discordant sound where the forward left wheel rim had been broken and hastily mended.
I tasted the dust. Grit and earth in my mouth. I spat it out, but only succeeded in swallowing more. Concentrate on the wagon, I told myself. I imagined it not as it is, but as it must have been long before I first saw it. Bold colors blazing, apple red and evergreen; ornate swirls and decorations. On the center of each side, inscribed in grand letters upon a swirling yellow-painted banner: “Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic.” I was crying now, involuntarily. Dispassionate tears flowed from my reddened eyes. Such tears always feel strange, as if someone else were crying them. Wet and trickling and mixing with the dust to form rivers of brown sludge on my face; products of basic physical reactions to the foreign agents in my eyes.
“You still alive back there, m’boy?” Bartleby’s voice called out from the brown mass before me. There was no real concern in his voice. But then, I expected none. I did not call out, nor attempted any sort of response, already struggling with the taste of the storm in my mouth. Bartleby did not bother to ask again. After what seemed like hours of struggling through the dust storm, it was over. I coughed and spat and rinsed my eyes out with the canteen.
“Now don’t you go wastin’ that water, boy. You’ll wish you had it ‘fore long.” I eyed him miserably. He laughed–his nasty, phlegmy laugh–before taking a deep swig of his own canteen. It was not filled with water, but rather liquids of a harsher temperament.
“Why couldn’t we have just stopped?” I spat on the ground, and the spittle was brown and rough. “Stopped, ‘til the storm blew over?”
“Timing, my boy, is everything. Now be a good lad and try to get some of the dust off the ol’ wagon.”
“Yessir,” I said. I must have let my reluctance creep into my voice too much.
“Now don’t you go acting like that! You’re the one who wanted to come along with me, remember? Now git to it!” Bartleby’s tone was harsh, but I could see in his eyes that he was just enjoying giving me a hard time. I rubbed my hands together, trying to stop the sting of the rope burns. Bartleby saw me and grabbed my hand. 
“Ha, that’ll teach you. I told you you’d regret it.” I said nothing.
I shaved a few pieces of soap into the bucket, poured about half of what water was left in my canteen in it and let the soap dissolve a bit. I grabbed the old scrubbing brush, its bristles barely clinging to its bone handle (it might have been an expensive horse grooming brush, ages ago) and got to work. I was worried about scrubbin