him. Even when you knew what a huckster
he was. There was something endearing about someone who was up front about
being in it strictly for the money.
the one amusing moment in the horror that was D-Day. While we were waiting to
get off the landing boat at Omaha Beach to try our luck against Nazi machine
gun nests, he was still selling rabbits’ feet and “good luck” coins.
died clutching them.
made it to the beach and through the frozen hell of the Battle of the Bulge and
into Berlin without a scratch.
was not so
lucky. A Nazi sniper shot off his hand just as he hit Omaha Beach. He was
looking for it in the surf when that buck sergeant grabbed him by his backpack
and drug William to what passed for cover on the beach.
came over, the buck sergeant’s head exploded.
seen it all and without missing a beat, bullets pinging off his helmet, was
able to save William’s life, even with the blood jetting out of the stump where
his hand used to be.
William said, zipping up the Bigfoot suit with the hand that stayed attached to
his body. He then covered the brass zippers with fur so the camera wouldn’t
pick it up.
“Hurry up, will ya? This thing is hotter than
hell,” I said.
how rich we will be when we sell this to NBC,” he said, picking up the handheld
camera he brought to lend the “sighting” some authenticity. The idea was that
he would make the camera lens go all over the place because he was chasing the
“creature” across the rough terrain of the California mountains.
your arms like a gorilla. Then look over your shoulder at me, and then race
into the woods.”
I was good.
it in one take.
was starting to go down.
We made camp.
swapped war stories. Of course, we got shit-faced.
Bigfoot suit that lay neatly folded by the tent.
of shape in the drinking department. He passed out first.
glass of apricot brandy and did likewise.
dreamed about the war.
When the landing craft door opened, I dove over the side of
the boat just as my comrades in front of me exploded in cloth and blood and
Unlike the others who floated underwater past me, I was
able to get my 20-pound backpack off and not drown.
I swam/crawled to the beach, Nazi bullets miraculously not
Right when I found some cover—courtesy of-two corpses I
stacked up in front of me—-I smelled a rank, sweaty smell.
That’s not how corpses smell.
looking into the lifeless eyes of William. He died with the same expression on
his face as I saw on those who had their life shot out of them on that horrid
day in 1944. Confusion more than horror.
body was several feet away.
Bigfoot costume were flying into the air.
It stopped, and turned to me.
feeding grounds and now we were its food.
mad because we pretended to be it.
Ron Capshaw is a writer based in
Florida. His debut horror novel, The Stage Mother's Club,
came out in June from Dark Edge Press.
If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan
Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak by passing
strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved
with his humor, which isn’t saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only
ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art has been shown at
his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If
you want to see more of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him
on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.