Lawrence Kithcart

Listen to Lawrence’s story – read by Terry Holland

 I smooth the lapels of my Armani and press the down button. I step into the car and select floor 14, rolling my eyes at the superstitious nature of our species. We avoid numbers and phrases like the plague, but we trust a random YouTube video to tell us which snakes are venomous, which drugs are the best for weight loss, and which whitecaps are safe to eat. My channel gives terrible advice. Just ask Mr. Greely in 1427. His risotto didn’t sit well, I’m afraid, and that works out perfectly for me. I need a few drops of his blood, and something tells me he won’t mind. Now, I may have told him, in private text messages, that Destroying Angel was a cool name given to an innocuous little ground dweller; his gullibility is his problem. Enough about old Herman. He’s not important. His soon-to-be widow, on the other hand, is the prize of a lifetime. 

Janice Greely, née Vernon, was my high school chemistry teacher. My reports were flawless, my calculations and understanding of chemical formulas beyond reproach. And yet she gave me a B. Said my paper was derivative. The insult still burns, some 20 years later. Sure, I may have borrowed from the writings of Emily Fairsborne, but Ms. Vernon had no way of knowing that. How could she? Fairsborne was stoned, hanged, and burned on a pyre in 1690. Not something you’d read about in the local library either. This accusation is what set me on my path. That, and what I found locked away in a mausoleum on the outskirts of Beverly, in an abandoned churchyard. I walked past moss slicked tombstones in a trance, no memory of how or why I ended up in that town. But what I found there altered my way of thinking. I saw the opportunities the craft presented, and that, superstitious as we are, it pales in comparison to the ways of the early settlers. No one would believe such things exist, even when the IV bag is staring them in their pale, blue face as their life ebbs away. 

Leaving Herman’s room, I head for the stairs. Don’t want to wait on the elevator. On the 9^th floor stairway, I sense movement rounding the corner of the next flight. The footfalls cease, then begin again, growing louder this time. Rising in front of me is Mrs. Greely. She looks exactly as I remember her; then she flashes out of existence. She reappears and all I see is rope burn, crushed bones, charred skin. Then, in my mind’s eye, I see her syllabus. Words I now know I should have taken to heart: “I take plagiarism personally.”

Lawrence’s prompts were: A Hospital, a Witch, and Fungi

He said of the challenge: “Love the way it made me think. I know more about mushrooms than I did, and witch trials too.”

Lawrence Kithcart lives and writes in the Charlotte, NC area. His hobbies include self doubt,
listening to music, and trying to balance coffee and sleep.
He can be found on Twitter and Bluesky @amityvandal.

Read more from Lawrence:

Punk Noir Magazine – ‘Silence is Deafening‘ and ‘The Perfect Crime‘