Campus Collection: Senior Stories Written By Matt Beyer
Another incomplete and rough compilation of stories. Any feedback is welcome. Hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!
Clean (200 Words)
By Matt Beyer
Little Michael gently closed the apartment door, he wouldn’t wake anyone up. There was a mechanical whir-click from inside the wood. He gasped: the self-locking knob, and neither his soft fist nor the buzzer could save him.
Michael laid there on the porch in footie-pajamas, the midnight winds creeping their way under his sleeves. His body tightened into the fetal position, attempting to salvage the remaining warmth he had retained from his bed.
‘Never go out alone at night,’; the usual sunshine in his mother’s voice had faded from Michael’s memory, tainted by the smell of dead vegetation in an ancient dumpster. The apartment lay exposed to the street, inviting night-lurkers a look at the small child against the cement wall.
There was an oncoming hissing, followed by a light emerging up the far side of the street: a massive white machine with bristles, collecting broken bottles or scrap clinging to the asphalt. The machine halted; a man in a yellow uniform emerged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device.
“Hey, little man. What’re you doing out here this late at night?”
“I just wanted air”, Michael mustered.
The man placed the device to his temple.
“Locksmith.”Clean
By Matt Beyer
Little Michael gently closed the apartment door, he wouldn’t wake anyone up. There was a mechanical whir-click from inside the wood. He gasped: the self-locking knob, and neither his soft fist nor the buzzer could save him.
Michael laid there on the porch in footie-pajamas, the midnight winds creeping their way under his sleeves. His body tightened into the fetal position, attempting to salvage the remaining warmth he had retained from his bed.
‘Never go out alone at night,’; the usual sunshine in his mother’s voice had faded from Michael’s memory, tainted by the smell of dead vegetation in an ancient dumpster. The apartment lay exposed to the street, inviting night-lurkers a look at the small child against the cement wall.
There was an oncoming hissing, followed by a light emerging up the far side of the street: a massive white machine with bristles, collecting broken bottles or scrap clinging to the asphalt. The machine halted; a man in a yellow uniform emerged. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device.
“Hey, little man. What’re you doing out here this late at night?”
“I just wanted air”, Michael mustered.
The man placed the device to his temple.
“Locksmith.”
The Reincarnation (400 Words)
By Matt Beyer
It was an accident, the hunter told himself, walking through the slope of a corn field and discovering his prey: a Norfolk terrier, poxed with buckshot. Precariously examining the body, he saw it was a pup, not even a year old. On the collar was a name: Solomon Judge, a man who was known by the townsfolk for his numerous breeds of dogs. Mr. Judge was also a gamesman and would often take several of his hounds to hunt foul in the surrounding fields. Mr. Judge was also notoriously caustic; hot as the barrel of his favorite shotgun.
Fully exposed from the cover of the hill and within range of rifle shot from Judge’s land below, the hunter remembered the corpse dangling on his side and darted down the hill. Beyond the edge of the cornfield was a gully, which was where the hunter decided to bury the body. The deed finished, he latched himself inside his cabin. The hunter lay frozen that evening, the killing blast reverberating in his skull. It was a dumb dog, he thought, smothering his conscience.
It was after midnight when the vibrations had faded, now replaced by the sound of what seemed like timber being crushed by the heel of a solemn boot. The hunter, fearing a fiery Judge, trembled in his haste to find his glasses, knocking them off the nightstand. He fingered and flailed his way through the darkness for the firearm he kept by his bedside. One swipe brought on the shock of cool, metal muzzle, sending a surge of relief through him. Fumbling in the dark, he thought he found the safety, flicked it, and his body went limp.
*
The hunter opened his eyes and found himself at the top of the hill again. He felt an uncanny lightness. His arms were light and brittle. He couldn’t feel his hands and his feet were scrawny and taloned: the body of a pheasant. He tried begging forgiveness, but there only came a squaw.
There was movement at the bottom of the hill: an English Coonhound reared its head, baying, “You! You, You,” and its cavalry of hellhounds raced to the top of the hill. The inevitable trophy took flight and a figure rose from the ground, aimed, and fired shot after shot at the wavering prey, the hounds at his command. The devil would have his fun for a while.
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