(context: Micah McQuistan, a vampire; Johnny Ray Maxwell, his boyfriend)
It was an accident. The force of habit. When he made the strawberry-rhubarb pie, one of his best, he wasn't thinking. He hit up his ma's place, got the strawberries and the rhubarb stalks from her garden. Stewed them, added the nutmeg, the cinnamon. A little crystallized ginger for something extra. Rolled out the crusts and tried his hand at a lattice-top, and it wasn't the prettiest thing in the world, but that was all right. It was more fitting that way, rustic. Like him. Anyway, he always said it didn't matter so much how a thing looked so long as it tasted good. You just might have to trick people into eating it.
But now Johnny Ray was kicking himself. How could he have forgotten something so important? Again, he supposed it was habit. He was so used to cooking for Micah, having the boy try every little thing, tell him what it needed, that he didn't stop to think twice about the pie. It didn't hit him until he brought it to the table when Micah came over that night and the pale boy's expression sank like a stone down to the riverbed. Right. They'd had this conversation already. That night Micah came over and "surprised" him--and it was quite a surprise--he offered to get into the kitchen, make something up to try and placate Micah's hunger, but he didn't understand it. It had to be explained. No food. None, not even celery, and even if he could keep it down, it wouldn't put a dent in that new-found hunger. No drinks, either--except the obvious. No more cocktails or wine coolers or Johnny trying to get him on beer. No milkshakes or cappuccinos, no biscuits, no scrambled eggs, no skillets. And definitely no pie.
Johnny stared at Micah across the table, fumbling for something to say, some way to take it back. The pie sat in the middle of the table, and the whole kitchen smelled of it--fresh sweetness and summer air. What an eyesore it had suddenly become, that painstakingly laid pastry crisscrossing violently red, glistening filling. A poor attempt to hide the strawberry gore. The sugar dusted over the top glittered like shattered glass, and Micah made a point of not looking. It was okay, he said. Johnny just forgot--no big deal, and did he wanna go watch a movie or something? But it wasn't okay. Johnny could see that Micah's eyes were wet, going pink at the corners.
Johnny wrung his hands, looking past Micah across the kitchen counters, thinking, searching. Then he spied it. "You know--you know, I bet it's no good anyhow. I think I fudged it up, cooked the filling too long. And I was always terrible at crusts, real dry and tasteless."
He moved across the kitchen and grabbed the salt shaker he had his eye on. Plucked the bottle of tabasco from the back of the stove and came back to the table, and before Micah could ask what he was doing, Johnny upended both over the top of the pie. The salt sprinkled down like tiny snow, indistinguishable from the crystals of sugar, and the tabasco too was masked by its hue.
"I think I added too much salt, too." Johnny unscrewed the cap with his thumb, and a whole shaker's worth landed in a messy pile in the middle of the pie. He spread it around with a finger and kept at the tabasco, splashing the white with orange. "And who the hell puts hot sauce in a pie, right? Lord, I'm probably about the worst pie-maker you ever laid eyes on."
Micah stared up at him, confused. Maybe a little worried, because it seemed very much like his boyfriend had just lost it. As a final touch, Johnny took the sauce bottle and pushed it down into the middle of the pie, sending salted strawberry ooze up through the spaces in the crust. Then he met Micah's eyes.
"Damn awful. Completely. Can't even stomach lookin' at it. You must be ashamed to call me yours."
And Micah laughed. His eyes were still a little red, and Johnny knew things still weren't really okay on a grander scale, but he felt the tension break, the tragedy give. He wouldn't make this mistake again, wouldn't hurt Micah like this for no damn reason.
"Yeah, you are pretty terrible. Should probably go back to Paula Deen for another lesson or two." Micah was grinning now, and Johnny knew that hard moment had passed. "Come on, you'd better make it up to me for this wreck."
Micah got up and took Johnny's hand, tugging him around the table and toward the other room. Johnny tossed the salt shaker over his shoulder, and it landed with a moist smack on the ruined pie.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
cynical - E
sometimes, i wonder what people think of themselves. the way i see myself moving through the world, the performance from my view is probably nothing like what everyone else sees. does this chick see herself as a humanitarian? does that guy really think he's all that funny? are people really that naive? no, i figure they're not oblivious-- there's always a keen eye for the faults of others, cracks in the character, missed lines. how can people have such a blind spot for the self, i wonder?
like this guy, Andy. he's got a cocked eye and a cocked face, like he's never entirely done smirking. like he knows some secret about you, or the nearest person, or the world but he won't talk about it. he sits across from me now, his peanut of a head taking the ballroom of the elk's lodge in at a forty-five degree angle, wearing a short-sleeved yellow dress shirt and khakis. they still have the creases from where they sat on store shelves this morning. he sits just a little too close, hunching forward on a metal folding chair with an elbow on the table between us. his breath is cheap champagne. i use my merlot as a sort of shield, an excuse to pull my body back a little from him while i sip it. he's talking between my nods and uh-huhs, and he's telling me about his job, and he's telling me about his friend who works for some video game company, and how he was kicked out of his university. we met once, six or seven years ago when i was a young teenager. he was grabbing for power in a tabletop roleplaying game, and my older brother was letting me watch.
one big power grab, is the vibe i get from this guy. making his life out to be one big struggle for him to reach the top. i'm his captive audience. i wish i'd not been polite, not said "hello" the fifth time he hovered past my table glancing sideways at me, i wish i'd not recognized him at all, but hey, i've got a thing for faces and names and being polite and all we can do is be ourselves right? right. and it's my brother's wedding, and the less awkward things are for everyone, the better the whole affair is. so i make nice.
and that cocked eye of his, that hunched posture, it makes him look like igor. the only thing i can think of is asking him to fetch another body for my next experiment. i don't ask him this, of course. i just repeat the last thing he said like i understand, or care. but i think of it, of him as igor. i think, given the opportunity, he would make friends with the publisher who published the story of frankenstein, and suggest some changes, and before you'd know it we'd have mary shelley's "Igor", the tale of a man whose genius was overlooked for someone less talented but more genial, the story of a guy who overcame and rose to the top in spite of being disliked and unsightly.
and i think to myself that maybe i'm being too harsh about this judgment.
"oh? so you said you were his friend, and then...ahh, they just had you skip that interview then? mm."
we share a laugh about it. it's good to know people in high places, he says.
a power grab. a climber. going places, he feels. does he know what he sounds like? do other people know what he sounds like? the next thing to come to mind is the word "deluded". i wonder if everyone thinks of themselves as something more than they actually are. i wonder how many of us wear these puffed-up caricatures of ourselves to be validated by others. i wonder how many of us are actors-- i wonder how many of us who don't think of ourselves as actors are acting more than we realize.
i wonder if critics get a bye on this sort of thing.
i excuse myself for a second glass of merlot.
like this guy, Andy. he's got a cocked eye and a cocked face, like he's never entirely done smirking. like he knows some secret about you, or the nearest person, or the world but he won't talk about it. he sits across from me now, his peanut of a head taking the ballroom of the elk's lodge in at a forty-five degree angle, wearing a short-sleeved yellow dress shirt and khakis. they still have the creases from where they sat on store shelves this morning. he sits just a little too close, hunching forward on a metal folding chair with an elbow on the table between us. his breath is cheap champagne. i use my merlot as a sort of shield, an excuse to pull my body back a little from him while i sip it. he's talking between my nods and uh-huhs, and he's telling me about his job, and he's telling me about his friend who works for some video game company, and how he was kicked out of his university. we met once, six or seven years ago when i was a young teenager. he was grabbing for power in a tabletop roleplaying game, and my older brother was letting me watch.
one big power grab, is the vibe i get from this guy. making his life out to be one big struggle for him to reach the top. i'm his captive audience. i wish i'd not been polite, not said "hello" the fifth time he hovered past my table glancing sideways at me, i wish i'd not recognized him at all, but hey, i've got a thing for faces and names and being polite and all we can do is be ourselves right? right. and it's my brother's wedding, and the less awkward things are for everyone, the better the whole affair is. so i make nice.
and that cocked eye of his, that hunched posture, it makes him look like igor. the only thing i can think of is asking him to fetch another body for my next experiment. i don't ask him this, of course. i just repeat the last thing he said like i understand, or care. but i think of it, of him as igor. i think, given the opportunity, he would make friends with the publisher who published the story of frankenstein, and suggest some changes, and before you'd know it we'd have mary shelley's "Igor", the tale of a man whose genius was overlooked for someone less talented but more genial, the story of a guy who overcame and rose to the top in spite of being disliked and unsightly.
and i think to myself that maybe i'm being too harsh about this judgment.
"oh? so you said you were his friend, and then...ahh, they just had you skip that interview then? mm."
we share a laugh about it. it's good to know people in high places, he says.
a power grab. a climber. going places, he feels. does he know what he sounds like? do other people know what he sounds like? the next thing to come to mind is the word "deluded". i wonder if everyone thinks of themselves as something more than they actually are. i wonder how many of us wear these puffed-up caricatures of ourselves to be validated by others. i wonder how many of us are actors-- i wonder how many of us who don't think of ourselves as actors are acting more than we realize.
i wonder if critics get a bye on this sort of thing.
i excuse myself for a second glass of merlot.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
how elle got her groove back - E
it stares me down with that enormous glassy eye. i know it can sense my fear, perhaps smell and taste it in the air-- there's plenty of it to be detected, after all. it pierces my soul, pins me where i stand with that volcanic glass jettatura. from somewhere deep in my brain, echoing from some ancient part of it we had when we weren't human, a primal, haunting, chilling instinct grips me. as cold and dark as the depths of the ocean womb, it engulfs me, pervasive and paralyzing. "it hungers."
alt title: i actually took the time to post this on facebook about someone's gargantuan pet rabbit and felt bad about not being a productive blogger. - G
alt title: i actually took the time to post this on facebook about someone's gargantuan pet rabbit and felt bad about not being a productive blogger. - G
Monday, April 11, 2011
butcher - E
Sometimes, I think of you.
Mostly, I don't, and I think you'd like it that way. But sometimes I do.
I put down the metal edge, wipe my brow and fail to keep from smudging my face. I breathe out, and before I can even admire my work you're there again. I can't let my guard down for a damn second with you. Your elbows rest on my shoulders, your arms drape themselves gently around my neck. Your hands feel my heart beat where it hides in my chest. There's that smell again, like lilac and lavender ground freshly together, dried, burned. I catch from the corner of my eye that wry little smile of yours twisted up at one end, the little smirk that captivated me until I knew what it meant.
All I can do is cover it all up. It smears everywhere, all up my sleeves and over the pages-- it's so reflexive and so fast that I almost knock the pen away. I pause, hovering between anger and bewilderment, sifting through the paper to see what's been undone. I breathe. The rushing sound drains away from my ears, and I'm alone again.
Mostly, I don't think of you, and I like it that way.
But sometimes I do.
Mostly, I don't, and I think you'd like it that way. But sometimes I do.
I put down the metal edge, wipe my brow and fail to keep from smudging my face. I breathe out, and before I can even admire my work you're there again. I can't let my guard down for a damn second with you. Your elbows rest on my shoulders, your arms drape themselves gently around my neck. Your hands feel my heart beat where it hides in my chest. There's that smell again, like lilac and lavender ground freshly together, dried, burned. I catch from the corner of my eye that wry little smile of yours twisted up at one end, the little smirk that captivated me until I knew what it meant.
All I can do is cover it all up. It smears everywhere, all up my sleeves and over the pages-- it's so reflexive and so fast that I almost knock the pen away. I pause, hovering between anger and bewilderment, sifting through the paper to see what's been undone. I breathe. The rushing sound drains away from my ears, and I'm alone again.
Mostly, I don't think of you, and I like it that way.
But sometimes I do.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
the cold - K
I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I guess people would say different things--obvious things.
Well, you're a woman. You're just hormonal.
You're lonely. You haven't been with anyone in--what, two years?
It's the season. Everybody gets down in the winter.
But I don't think that's it. And I know it sounds silly and dramatic, but it's just so much and I don't know how to hold it all.
I got on the bus this morning at the Peach Avenue stop. It was so cold--the wind chill was in the negatives, I remember the weatherman saying. My body remembers how it pierced and numbed me while I stood there at the bus stop. And I was dressed for it. You don't live up here without knowing how to dress for it. It nipped at my toes through my shoes. Should've worn two pairs of socks. I stood there so long I couldn't feel any of them, and when the bus finally came and I had to climb the steps, I thought I would fall.
It took a long time to warm up. The bus was heated, but my mouth was stiff from the knife-wind I'd been standing in. When I could feel my toes again, it was only because they hurt so much. Like cold fire. Like I always imagined it would feel to touch dry ice. My face felt raw and my toes stung in my shoes and my hair was everywhere, and as I sat there, in a seat by myself, I realized I was about to cry.
Well, you're a woman. You're just hormonal.
You're lonely. You haven't been with anyone in--what, two years?
It's the season. Everybody gets down in the winter.
But I don't think that's it. And I know it sounds silly and dramatic, but it's just so much and I don't know how to hold it all.
I got on the bus this morning at the Peach Avenue stop. It was so cold--the wind chill was in the negatives, I remember the weatherman saying. My body remembers how it pierced and numbed me while I stood there at the bus stop. And I was dressed for it. You don't live up here without knowing how to dress for it. It nipped at my toes through my shoes. Should've worn two pairs of socks. I stood there so long I couldn't feel any of them, and when the bus finally came and I had to climb the steps, I thought I would fall.
It took a long time to warm up. The bus was heated, but my mouth was stiff from the knife-wind I'd been standing in. When I could feel my toes again, it was only because they hurt so much. Like cold fire. Like I always imagined it would feel to touch dry ice. My face felt raw and my toes stung in my shoes and my hair was everywhere, and as I sat there, in a seat by myself, I realized I was about to cry.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
the archivists, part ii - K
When Geoffrey awoke, Clarice was not in the immediate vicinity. With the startlingly crooked image of his cat out of sight, Geoffrey was quick to dismiss the whole thing as a dream. He had fallen asleep without realizing it. He was working strange hours on this website and staying up late and drinking coffee in the middle of the day, and it was having adverse effects. That was all. He would happily have splashed a little water on his face, pointedly not looked for Clarice, and returned to his work, but he was aware of someone standing on the other side of his desk. Cautiously, because he was quite certain the front door was locked, he craned his neck to look over the top of his monitor.
The someone, who stood very straight and waited patiently to be addressed, was as nondescript as Geoffrey thought a person--or an animal, or an inanimate object--could possibly be. Not tall and not short. Not skinny, but not fat. The facial features, all quite regular and plain, looked neither masculine nor feminine, and Geoffrey found the only descriptor he could apply fairly to this someone was "human-ish."
He was probably still dreaming, he reasoned, but his hand crept surreptitiously toward the cell phone that rested beside his keyboard.
The someone--he, Geoffrey decided, for the seeming lack of breasts--raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes, and Geoffrey could not tell whether the resulting expression was of interest or alarm.
"Stop," he said. "Please," and the word sounded unnatural, as though the mouth had very little experience shaping it. Despite such a word, it was not spoken as a plea, nor as a command. It simply was. "Your law enforcement officials will not respond."
Geoffrey's hand stopped. In this context, those words should have been threatening; but imagine as he might the various terrible ways in which this encounter could end, he simply couldn't perceive any malicious intent. He wasn't even intimidated, he realized. He leaned back in his chair, and he thought he saw pleasure in the stranger's lowering of brows.
"Gratitude," he said, and handed Geoffrey a sheet of paper. Geoffrey took it, but for the moment kept his eyes up. "We regret to inform you that your quadrupedal animal companion was found unsalvageable. Data corrupt. Based on your files, we have provided you with what we perceive to be a suitable replacement."
Geoffrey could scarcely make out the words for the complete lack of life in the voice that carried them. Monotone didn't quite hit it. It was a drone, but not unpleasant. Placid and entirely devoid of inflection.
"Who's 'we'?" Geoffrey managed, and then sat straighter in his chair. "Wait a second, you took my cat?"
"We have provided you with a suitable replacement." Geoffrey hazarded a glance around his office, but, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, quickly fixated on the stranger once more. "We are the Archivists."
"What's that? Did Gary send you here? Like, as a joke? Because this is getting kind of we--"
"Please see our memo for a detailed warning against your recent conduct."
"Warning?" Geoffrey echoed. Ah, there it was--a stirring of that far off emotion, fear. It was only a trickle, but there it was. Somehow, this didn't feel like a joke. It felt like even less of one when the stranger vanished soundlessly, not disturbing a single mote of dust.
The someone, who stood very straight and waited patiently to be addressed, was as nondescript as Geoffrey thought a person--or an animal, or an inanimate object--could possibly be. Not tall and not short. Not skinny, but not fat. The facial features, all quite regular and plain, looked neither masculine nor feminine, and Geoffrey found the only descriptor he could apply fairly to this someone was "human-ish."
He was probably still dreaming, he reasoned, but his hand crept surreptitiously toward the cell phone that rested beside his keyboard.
The someone--he, Geoffrey decided, for the seeming lack of breasts--raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes, and Geoffrey could not tell whether the resulting expression was of interest or alarm.
"Stop," he said. "Please," and the word sounded unnatural, as though the mouth had very little experience shaping it. Despite such a word, it was not spoken as a plea, nor as a command. It simply was. "Your law enforcement officials will not respond."
Geoffrey's hand stopped. In this context, those words should have been threatening; but imagine as he might the various terrible ways in which this encounter could end, he simply couldn't perceive any malicious intent. He wasn't even intimidated, he realized. He leaned back in his chair, and he thought he saw pleasure in the stranger's lowering of brows.
"Gratitude," he said, and handed Geoffrey a sheet of paper. Geoffrey took it, but for the moment kept his eyes up. "We regret to inform you that your quadrupedal animal companion was found unsalvageable. Data corrupt. Based on your files, we have provided you with what we perceive to be a suitable replacement."
Geoffrey could scarcely make out the words for the complete lack of life in the voice that carried them. Monotone didn't quite hit it. It was a drone, but not unpleasant. Placid and entirely devoid of inflection.
"Who's 'we'?" Geoffrey managed, and then sat straighter in his chair. "Wait a second, you took my cat?"
"We have provided you with a suitable replacement." Geoffrey hazarded a glance around his office, but, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, quickly fixated on the stranger once more. "We are the Archivists."
"What's that? Did Gary send you here? Like, as a joke? Because this is getting kind of we--"
"Please see our memo for a detailed warning against your recent conduct."
"Warning?" Geoffrey echoed. Ah, there it was--a stirring of that far off emotion, fear. It was only a trickle, but there it was. Somehow, this didn't feel like a joke. It felt like even less of one when the stranger vanished soundlessly, not disturbing a single mote of dust.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
tucker, an interlude - E
"Hello, thank you for calling Kelloggs. My name is Becky, how can I help you?"
"Hey, this is Tucker. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine thanks. How are you?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine."
"Well that's good! What can I help you with today, Tucker?"
"I just wanted to call and ask you about Pop-Tarts. I got a couple questions about 'em, actually."
"Oh, okay. Liiiike...?"
"Like, what happened to Frosted Vanilla?"
"Ahh, Frosted Vanilla? We stopped making those a while ago, it was, mm, probably a year or more, I think. Yeahh, I'm sorry about that."
"Oh, I see. It was kind of my favorite. You guys don't, like, do special orders for them or anything?"
"Mm, no, I'm sorry. We, uh, stopped making that flavor, once it's done it's done."
"Oh, I see. You think it'll ever be back, or?"
"Umm, I don't think so, but I mean, I don't know for sure, so."
"Okay, yeah, I see. Also, how dangerous is your product?"
"...I'm sorry?"
"Dangerous. How dangerous is it to eat Pop-Tarts?"
"How dangerous is it...to eat Pop-Tarts."
"...I ask because a friend of mine ate your Pop-Tarts and died."
"Ah, uh, I'm...Sorry to hear about that, sir..."
"It's fine, don't worry about it. He was kind of an asshole anyway."
"Uh--"
"I mean, I've eaten a lot of these things but I've never seen any warning labels or anything. So what's the verdict on these?"
"Well, uh...I guess if you're, like, allergic to them or something it could be--"
"Oh, he wasn't allergic. He fell asleep at the wheel and ran his car into a tree."
" ... "
"And he wasn't really my friend. He was more like my neighbor."
"...Are y--"
"And I used to take his newspaper every morning."
" ... "
" ... "
"...Sir, I don't think it's dangerous to eat Pop-Tarts unless you're allergic."
"What if you choke on them? You could probably choke on them, too."
"I...Guess? You could choke on anything really."
"Not pudding. You'd practically have to breathe pudding to choke on it, I think. So it's not really that dangerous then, you think?"
"I really doubt it."
"Well that's good to know, Becky. Really puts my mind at ease. Hey, who's your supervisor?"
"My supervisor? Um, her name's Angela, why?"
"Good. No reason. Could you connect me with Angela please?"
"I, uh...O...kay? She'll be with you in a moment, sir, thank you for calling Kelloggs."
---
"Thank you for calling Kelloggs. My name is Angela, how can I help you?"
"Hey Angie. Do you have to say that every time?"
"Yes, Tucker, I have to say that every time. You really shouldn't be doing this. I have a cell phone. They record these calls, you know."
"I know. It's just a lot more fun this way. You don't tell the newbies about me?"
"Listen, just...Send me a text or something and I'll check it at lunch. Okay?"
"Fine, all right. Just don't ignore me this time."
"Okay, fine. Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?"
"Yeah, bring back Frosted Vanilla."
"Thank you for calling Kelloggs, have a great day."
click
"Hey, this is Tucker. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine thanks. How are you?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine."
"Well that's good! What can I help you with today, Tucker?"
"I just wanted to call and ask you about Pop-Tarts. I got a couple questions about 'em, actually."
"Oh, okay. Liiiike...?"
"Like, what happened to Frosted Vanilla?"
"Ahh, Frosted Vanilla? We stopped making those a while ago, it was, mm, probably a year or more, I think. Yeahh, I'm sorry about that."
"Oh, I see. It was kind of my favorite. You guys don't, like, do special orders for them or anything?"
"Mm, no, I'm sorry. We, uh, stopped making that flavor, once it's done it's done."
"Oh, I see. You think it'll ever be back, or?"
"Umm, I don't think so, but I mean, I don't know for sure, so."
"Okay, yeah, I see. Also, how dangerous is your product?"
"...I'm sorry?"
"Dangerous. How dangerous is it to eat Pop-Tarts?"
"How dangerous is it...to eat Pop-Tarts."
"...I ask because a friend of mine ate your Pop-Tarts and died."
"Ah, uh, I'm...Sorry to hear about that, sir..."
"It's fine, don't worry about it. He was kind of an asshole anyway."
"Uh--"
"I mean, I've eaten a lot of these things but I've never seen any warning labels or anything. So what's the verdict on these?"
"Well, uh...I guess if you're, like, allergic to them or something it could be--"
"Oh, he wasn't allergic. He fell asleep at the wheel and ran his car into a tree."
" ... "
"And he wasn't really my friend. He was more like my neighbor."
"...Are y--"
"And I used to take his newspaper every morning."
" ... "
" ... "
"...Sir, I don't think it's dangerous to eat Pop-Tarts unless you're allergic."
"What if you choke on them? You could probably choke on them, too."
"I...Guess? You could choke on anything really."
"Not pudding. You'd practically have to breathe pudding to choke on it, I think. So it's not really that dangerous then, you think?"
"I really doubt it."
"Well that's good to know, Becky. Really puts my mind at ease. Hey, who's your supervisor?"
"My supervisor? Um, her name's Angela, why?"
"Good. No reason. Could you connect me with Angela please?"
"I, uh...O...kay? She'll be with you in a moment, sir, thank you for calling Kelloggs."
---
"Thank you for calling Kelloggs. My name is Angela, how can I help you?"
"Hey Angie. Do you have to say that every time?"
"Yes, Tucker, I have to say that every time. You really shouldn't be doing this. I have a cell phone. They record these calls, you know."
"I know. It's just a lot more fun this way. You don't tell the newbies about me?"
"Listen, just...Send me a text or something and I'll check it at lunch. Okay?"
"Fine, all right. Just don't ignore me this time."
"Okay, fine. Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?"
"Yeah, bring back Frosted Vanilla."
"Thank you for calling Kelloggs, have a great day."
click
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
the archivists, part i - K
Geoffrey's cat had never been much more than ordinary. She was largely white with patches of gray-ish tiger-looking stripes, a very pink nose, and eyes that appeared to grow larger when she was about to maul his low-hanging elbow while he worked. Generally, he failed to notice this until it was too late and his elbow was in tatters, but that did not change the fact that it was a very good warning sign.
Geoffrey had a great deal of work to do that day. He was fiddling with a website for a very impatient, very finicky woman who was in the business of selling knit hats and making unusually terrible design decisions ("But Comic Sans looks so friendly!"). He was not sure what self-respecting person would buy a knit hat from a website written in Comic Sans, but as long as he was getting paid, he supposed he could grit his teeth and bear it.
Being very busy, it was natural that his cat (who was sometimes called Clarice but was very often called other things) should be doing every single thing Geoffrey dearly wished she wouldn't. She chewed the houseplants, knocked over the kitchen trash, jumped up the walls chasing spots of light, and, of course, played scratch tag with his elbows. He ignored her as well as he could, which was also very natural, until he was forced to submit when she leapt on to his desk and pranced across his keyboard.
It was not until he moved to shove her back to the floor that he noticed she was in two pieces. She landed with a whump on the carpet, as though she were not in two pieces at all, and began to lick her paw.
Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and stared. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, but when his spectacles were back in place, the situation had not changed.
It was not as though one half of Clarice was at his feet and the other was across the room, but as though the two pieces of her, usually seen as one seamless whole, had been misaligned when they were joined together. Her head and shoulders appeared fine, but everything that came after was slightly too far to the left.
Geoffrey thought about yelling. Not for help, as he was quite alone in the apartment (save, of course, for Clarice), but because he felt the noise might shatter whatever illusion he was witnessing. Or at least make him feel better about having to witness it.
He tried. It did neither.
Clarice looked up at him and mewed. Geoffrey's head landed on the keyboard when he lost consciousness, and a long row of B's stretched across the screen.
Geoffrey had a great deal of work to do that day. He was fiddling with a website for a very impatient, very finicky woman who was in the business of selling knit hats and making unusually terrible design decisions ("But Comic Sans looks so friendly!"). He was not sure what self-respecting person would buy a knit hat from a website written in Comic Sans, but as long as he was getting paid, he supposed he could grit his teeth and bear it.
Being very busy, it was natural that his cat (who was sometimes called Clarice but was very often called other things) should be doing every single thing Geoffrey dearly wished she wouldn't. She chewed the houseplants, knocked over the kitchen trash, jumped up the walls chasing spots of light, and, of course, played scratch tag with his elbows. He ignored her as well as he could, which was also very natural, until he was forced to submit when she leapt on to his desk and pranced across his keyboard.
It was not until he moved to shove her back to the floor that he noticed she was in two pieces. She landed with a whump on the carpet, as though she were not in two pieces at all, and began to lick her paw.
Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and stared. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, but when his spectacles were back in place, the situation had not changed.
It was not as though one half of Clarice was at his feet and the other was across the room, but as though the two pieces of her, usually seen as one seamless whole, had been misaligned when they were joined together. Her head and shoulders appeared fine, but everything that came after was slightly too far to the left.
Geoffrey thought about yelling. Not for help, as he was quite alone in the apartment (save, of course, for Clarice), but because he felt the noise might shatter whatever illusion he was witnessing. Or at least make him feel better about having to witness it.
He tried. It did neither.
Clarice looked up at him and mewed. Geoffrey's head landed on the keyboard when he lost consciousness, and a long row of B's stretched across the screen.
tucker & spencer, part IV - E
Spencer had practically collapsed under the stress into a complete, total wreck. Half the time he was with me in the real world, shuffling in the brown slush toward our dorms. The other half, he was still standing in the snow dumbfounded over Laura's crumpled body. I tried urging him along as discretely as I could, but he always slowed back to his funeral march. It was probably really accurate foreshadowing, I thought. He was fucked, and at that point I was still unsure if he deserved it.
Legendary "Prankmaster Gen'ral" Spencer divulged to me in the laundromat that he had, the week before, gone through all the effort to make himself look like a real zombie for what I'm sure he felt was his best prank yet. It was real convincing, he said, scars and makeup and fake blood and the most worn-out clothes he could find in his closet. He wanted to create some sort of zombie scare, maybe get on the news again and make it onto the internet. He trudged out into one of the more remote campus walking trails, into the woods one evening and waited for someone to walk by. That someone had been Laura. Mousey, loner Laura who had been trying to get out of the dorms for once probably. Trying to feel the world. Maybe trying to relax in a way that, given the circumstance, was ironically normal.
He said he shuffled toward her out of the woods, well, like a zombie. If I know anything about Spencer, I would guess it was pretty convincing, complete with a limp on a crooked leg, mouth agape, and a practiced but ghastly moan. She called out to him at first, guessing his name correctly, but he kept limping toward her. She shouted a warning, too, he said, but he wanted the illusion to be complete and figured if anyone would believe it it'd be her. So he kept it up. He was closing on her, and she was hyperventilating. She started fumbling for something in her bag, and Spence was real close then. He was looking up and trying to space out, to stay in character, he said, so he couldn't see real well what she was doing, but he could hear her breathing, sharp, rapid, and shallow. Then came a painfully loud gunshot, and a ringing in his ears, and a dose of panic.
When he looked at her, he said, she was only about ten feet away, falling into a heap by the snowy trail. Blood was creeping out from all around her, gushing from a gaping hole in her chest. I could picture it as he told me how she looked, the stained snow and vacant look and wet bloody coughs and pale clammy skin. The gun was a snub-nosed pistol, probably a .357 mag, the kind people get for self-defense and never practice using, and it was lying on the ground between them with the barrel pointed at her feet. A tiny silver-and-black thing that bit its owner, as if to show it could bite. Spencer knew right off he was way too late to do anything, he said it all happened so fast that he couldn't tell what she did. All he knew at that point was what it would look like. He fucked up royal, I knew when he told me through bleary eyes and big tears, a bitter and scared expression, how he dragged her into the woods and into a snow drift, picked up the pistol and laid it beside her. He was lucky it snowed heavily since then. He had wandered around the outskirts of town, avoiding anything and anyone for the next six days until he followed me into the laundromat. He slept like a homeless person, wrapped in newspapers or under bridges or whatever they do. He didn't even remember. He said he thought about going back and seeing if there were more bullets left, that he might have offed himself out of guilt and fear of blame. He thought better of it. Looking back now, I'm glad he did.
But he was really boned. Like, really bad, and I told him so, and the look he gave me begged for help. I did. I was. I took him back through the darkened streets to our dorm, and helped him pack some clothes. It was too late to suddenly appear, and no doubt he'd crack if anyone asked him anything about anything. He was going to disappear somehow, like we'd seen in movies and TV shows and video games. I was going to help him vanish.
---
i am sorry these have been so short and end so abruptly. i should probably start writing these earlier in the evening. -M
Legendary "Prankmaster Gen'ral" Spencer divulged to me in the laundromat that he had, the week before, gone through all the effort to make himself look like a real zombie for what I'm sure he felt was his best prank yet. It was real convincing, he said, scars and makeup and fake blood and the most worn-out clothes he could find in his closet. He wanted to create some sort of zombie scare, maybe get on the news again and make it onto the internet. He trudged out into one of the more remote campus walking trails, into the woods one evening and waited for someone to walk by. That someone had been Laura. Mousey, loner Laura who had been trying to get out of the dorms for once probably. Trying to feel the world. Maybe trying to relax in a way that, given the circumstance, was ironically normal.
He said he shuffled toward her out of the woods, well, like a zombie. If I know anything about Spencer, I would guess it was pretty convincing, complete with a limp on a crooked leg, mouth agape, and a practiced but ghastly moan. She called out to him at first, guessing his name correctly, but he kept limping toward her. She shouted a warning, too, he said, but he wanted the illusion to be complete and figured if anyone would believe it it'd be her. So he kept it up. He was closing on her, and she was hyperventilating. She started fumbling for something in her bag, and Spence was real close then. He was looking up and trying to space out, to stay in character, he said, so he couldn't see real well what she was doing, but he could hear her breathing, sharp, rapid, and shallow. Then came a painfully loud gunshot, and a ringing in his ears, and a dose of panic.
When he looked at her, he said, she was only about ten feet away, falling into a heap by the snowy trail. Blood was creeping out from all around her, gushing from a gaping hole in her chest. I could picture it as he told me how she looked, the stained snow and vacant look and wet bloody coughs and pale clammy skin. The gun was a snub-nosed pistol, probably a .357 mag, the kind people get for self-defense and never practice using, and it was lying on the ground between them with the barrel pointed at her feet. A tiny silver-and-black thing that bit its owner, as if to show it could bite. Spencer knew right off he was way too late to do anything, he said it all happened so fast that he couldn't tell what she did. All he knew at that point was what it would look like. He fucked up royal, I knew when he told me through bleary eyes and big tears, a bitter and scared expression, how he dragged her into the woods and into a snow drift, picked up the pistol and laid it beside her. He was lucky it snowed heavily since then. He had wandered around the outskirts of town, avoiding anything and anyone for the next six days until he followed me into the laundromat. He slept like a homeless person, wrapped in newspapers or under bridges or whatever they do. He didn't even remember. He said he thought about going back and seeing if there were more bullets left, that he might have offed himself out of guilt and fear of blame. He thought better of it. Looking back now, I'm glad he did.
But he was really boned. Like, really bad, and I told him so, and the look he gave me begged for help. I did. I was. I took him back through the darkened streets to our dorm, and helped him pack some clothes. It was too late to suddenly appear, and no doubt he'd crack if anyone asked him anything about anything. He was going to disappear somehow, like we'd seen in movies and TV shows and video games. I was going to help him vanish.
---
i am sorry these have been so short and end so abruptly. i should probably start writing these earlier in the evening. -M
Monday, January 24, 2011
the animal inside (immortal lion pt II) - E
The drills were hard, designed to carve soldiers out of doughy citizens, but Razheed was harder. The trouble was pretending he wasn't. It was a problem, deciding how far ahead he should run to make his victory seem hard-earned. Should he win by ten seconds? Twenty? Should he come out on top all the time? Would that be obvious? Leiza's baleful jade glare seemed to burn into him through every moment of training, and she always managed to find a way to turn the squad's ire against him. It was an age-old game; she would make them burn together and either break him or forge him into a champion. He kept his eyes forward and his head low, and absorbed their scorn as capably as he performed at everything else. He would not be deterred.
It was a grueling month of basic training. He felt the facade making him sedentary, complacent. Sparring made him feel like an adult among children. He began to wonder if he was getting rusty, spending his concentration holding back rather than unleashing. Still, he was doing well as a spy-- assassin, he resolutely corrected himself --but it certainly wasn't his strong suit. He thought about his strong suit. About Balrahn, the one-eyed serpent Emperor. The scene came to life in his imagination:
A night of complete uneasiness creeps through Aht Urghan. A storm rolls through from the north without warning, a bitter chill and the stale scent of dead marshlands carried over the waves from the Caedarva Mire. The thunder and the roar and the empty streets sets the Imperial Whitegate, the whole palace grounds on edge. This feeling stalks by every open door, raising the hairs on the necks of all who have not anchored their concentration to something, and many who have. The Emperor, a grey-crowned man with an aging warrior's body, sits at a table in his library. He uses his good eye to pore over history texts from the continent. He is searching for something, a fragment of a memory from centuries ago, any scrap he can find of the sunken ruins of Alzadaal. He knows Ghatsad has already read every word in the library to find it, but still, he searches.
He is flanked by two soldiers, clad in loose, azure clothing, their mouths hidden behind black veils. These are the blue mages-- the immortal spellswords of legend, the elite warriors said to be more beast than man, chimarae on two legs --and Razheed is one of them. He has been the Emperor's personal guard for almost one year by now. Earned his trust. Protected him. Killed for him, without trace of remorse or mercy. Razheed is a faceless, reticent part of the Imperial Whitegate, an extension of the Emperor's will.
The candles, the lanterns, the fireplaces, all of them in the tall, book-lined chambers of the library suddenly flicker and vanish, their light swallowed in darkness deeper than new moon's midnight. The entire palace is taken by this shroud. Frightened yells and screams echo through the grounds in the frantic few minutes it takes for Balrahn to find his lantern and relight it. Disoriented and furious, he whips around to his feet to tongue-lash his bodyguards, but they are not there in the cavernous darkness. Anger melts away to show fear. The thunder rolls through unaccompanied by lightning, the deep and terrible bellow of an enormous beast heard from inside its gaping black maw. He calls for them by their names, watching shadows slide and dart with the quivering lamplight. He moves forward, stumbles over something with one foot and nearly slips with the other in some liquid that now seeps through his silken shoes, prickling and hot against his feet. The light falls on one of them-- the elder warrior -- what is left of him. Fear distills into terror.
His eyes rake over the chilling mess. It is a distorted half-human torso, blue fabric dangling from its limbs as its monstrous face screams silently to the ceiling. Its arms are wrenched in terrible directions, impossible directions, bones protruding, too many joints. He lifts the lantern barely, trembling, and its light glints on a trail of azure blood. It ends at a book case, fifty paces into the dark. More blood drips from above, where the pair of blue-clad legs had been flung against the shelf. The terror is pure, adrenal, blind panic, and he is sprinting, twisting down ink-black corridors with the unshakable feeling that something, a monster is stalking him all the way...
It was a grueling month of basic training. He felt the facade making him sedentary, complacent. Sparring made him feel like an adult among children. He began to wonder if he was getting rusty, spending his concentration holding back rather than unleashing. Still, he was doing well as a spy-- assassin, he resolutely corrected himself --but it certainly wasn't his strong suit. He thought about his strong suit. About Balrahn, the one-eyed serpent Emperor. The scene came to life in his imagination:
A night of complete uneasiness creeps through Aht Urghan. A storm rolls through from the north without warning, a bitter chill and the stale scent of dead marshlands carried over the waves from the Caedarva Mire. The thunder and the roar and the empty streets sets the Imperial Whitegate, the whole palace grounds on edge. This feeling stalks by every open door, raising the hairs on the necks of all who have not anchored their concentration to something, and many who have. The Emperor, a grey-crowned man with an aging warrior's body, sits at a table in his library. He uses his good eye to pore over history texts from the continent. He is searching for something, a fragment of a memory from centuries ago, any scrap he can find of the sunken ruins of Alzadaal. He knows Ghatsad has already read every word in the library to find it, but still, he searches.
He is flanked by two soldiers, clad in loose, azure clothing, their mouths hidden behind black veils. These are the blue mages-- the immortal spellswords of legend, the elite warriors said to be more beast than man, chimarae on two legs --and Razheed is one of them. He has been the Emperor's personal guard for almost one year by now. Earned his trust. Protected him. Killed for him, without trace of remorse or mercy. Razheed is a faceless, reticent part of the Imperial Whitegate, an extension of the Emperor's will.
The candles, the lanterns, the fireplaces, all of them in the tall, book-lined chambers of the library suddenly flicker and vanish, their light swallowed in darkness deeper than new moon's midnight. The entire palace is taken by this shroud. Frightened yells and screams echo through the grounds in the frantic few minutes it takes for Balrahn to find his lantern and relight it. Disoriented and furious, he whips around to his feet to tongue-lash his bodyguards, but they are not there in the cavernous darkness. Anger melts away to show fear. The thunder rolls through unaccompanied by lightning, the deep and terrible bellow of an enormous beast heard from inside its gaping black maw. He calls for them by their names, watching shadows slide and dart with the quivering lamplight. He moves forward, stumbles over something with one foot and nearly slips with the other in some liquid that now seeps through his silken shoes, prickling and hot against his feet. The light falls on one of them-- the elder warrior -- what is left of him. Fear distills into terror.
His eyes rake over the chilling mess. It is a distorted half-human torso, blue fabric dangling from its limbs as its monstrous face screams silently to the ceiling. Its arms are wrenched in terrible directions, impossible directions, bones protruding, too many joints. He lifts the lantern barely, trembling, and its light glints on a trail of azure blood. It ends at a book case, fifty paces into the dark. More blood drips from above, where the pair of blue-clad legs had been flung against the shelf. The terror is pure, adrenal, blind panic, and he is sprinting, twisting down ink-black corridors with the unshakable feeling that something, a monster is stalking him all the way...
Saturday, January 22, 2011
danse macabre, part i - K
The invitation came as any other, arriving at my door a fortnight prior to the engagement. The envelope was addressed very plainly and was inconspicuous enough, and I assumed upon receiving it that it was for one of the myriad winter balls at which my presence was often requested. Mr. and Mrs. Albert Maynard generally hosted a very popular Christmas ball, and Mrs. Florence Gott was forever demanding I drop in to her dinners. I admit I let the invitation sit longer than was polite, and I was doubtless the last to respond (it is not in my manner, I assure you, but I was a bit overwhelmed at the time); but when I did open it, I was entirely unsure as to the meaning of its contents.
The invitation was printed very neatly on sturdy card, and the design was tasteful. A simple border decked with flowering belladonna while, though a strange choice (the season tended to encourage mistletoe and holly), was not unappealing. It was the print that provoked my confusion. The black lettering read as follows:
The invitation was printed very neatly on sturdy card, and the design was tasteful. A simple border decked with flowering belladonna while, though a strange choice (the season tended to encourage mistletoe and holly), was not unappealing. It was the print that provoked my confusion. The black lettering read as follows:
SOLSTICE BALL
The company of Mr. James Piper and Lady is respectfully solicited at the Chrysanthemum Hotel, on Sunday Evening, December 21st, 1834, at 5 o'clock.
The company of Mr. James Piper and Lady is respectfully solicited at the Chrysanthemum Hotel, on Sunday Evening, December 21st, 1834, at 5 o'clock.
Dancing to commence at 6 o'clock.
It appeared perfectly ordinary. My name had been penned in by a careful hand, and at the bottom was printed the date on which I had received the invitation. However, where a list of managers would normally have been included, there was only one name: Death.
I assumed it a joke, naturally, and in very poor taste, considering the season. Such a jest would be distasteful at the best of times, but so close to Christmas, it seemed almost blasphemous. Reading it over again, my eyes lingered on the graceful, looping slant of my name, and I grew angry. Death, indeed! But there was something sinister about the pure, clean blackness of the ink, and I could not bring myself to toss the invitation into the fireplace as I wanted.
Frustrated, I called for a drink, and when my valet arrived, I waved the card beside my head.
"Dawes," I said as he poured the brandy, "this invitation. Do you remember who left it? What he looked like, if he said anything peculiar?"
"No, sir," he answered. I took the snifter from him and pursed my lips unhappily. "Can't say as I do, sir." Not that it would have helped matters to obtain the description of a man-servant, but in my discomfort, any information seemed better than none.
I elected to dine at the club that night in the hope that some of the other gentlemen had also received invitations. Dinner was unusually subdued, and I found myself reluctant to broach the subject. I had considered throughout the meal that it was a joke played upon me by one of the very men with whom I was dining. Were that the case, introducing the matter into the conversation would succeed only in making me look very foolish.
After dinner, we retired to another room for gin and cigars. The conversation remained rather trivial, but spirited, centering primarily around the weekend's horse races and what an astonishing amount of money Lawrence Kirby had lost. Kirby, though the tight smile on his face suggested it pained him greatly, suffered the jibes with extraordinarily good humour. He even went so far as to make several jests at his own expense, but the light-hearted air of the men felt unnatural and forced. The drifting smoke had a weight as it gathered, and the party soon fell quiet.
I, ruminating in an armchair for quite some time, finally decided whatever risk to my reputation the invitation posed was worth it to get the thing out of my head. The conversation lulled, and I cleared my throat to speak.
"I received a queer invitation last week. For a ball to be held at the Chrysanthemum Hotel." I did not think it possible, but the hush in the room grew more severe. Glasses were stalled halfway to mouths, and all eyes turned to me. Samuel Hadley's cigar fell from his lips, and he fumbled to catch it, sprinkling his waistcoat with ash. Kirby exahaled as though struck in the stomach.
"Who, ah," Hadley ventured, careful to keep his eyes down as he brushed at the ashes, "who is giving this ball, then?"
I knew in an instant he had gotten the same card. In fact, I was willing to bet Kirby's losses they all had. I could see the interest in the eyes of the other men, and the uncertainty. There was fear. There was a need for assurance that it was a very vulgar bit of mischief.
I was hesitant, but it was clear now I would not be mocked for my answer. I rested my glass on the nearest table.
"Death," I said, and I felt a snagging in my throat. "The ball is being given by Death."
Friday, January 21, 2011
wish by day - E
I can't sleep.
I mean that in a different way than you're used to hearing, probably. Chamomile isn't going to solve my problem, and neither is Valerian root. In fact, they might actually end the world. Or cause me to, anyway.
That sounds really dramatic. Let me explain. It can be sort of confusing.
Everyone's got something, a little something special they've always had. Call it a gift if you really want to. Thing is, most people don't know that they've got it. Sometimes a person will go through their whole life and never use it, or never be put into a situation where it can even be used. Talk about wasted potential, right? Sort of. Sometimes a gift isn't much of anything. Like the latent power to make plants grow more healthy, or being a natural insect repellent, or giving off a little glow that people can't perceive is there but can feel it (a lot of movie stars actually have something like this). Sometimes it's a phrase that they could utter a very specific way to have flames shoot from their fingertips. This phrase could be anything-- it could be something that could take their whole lifetime to say out loud once, or it could be "bagged milk" with a Scottish-sounding accent. It might not be flames, either. It could be a foam resembling cheez-whiz. I know how crazy it sounds, trust me, but a lot of people have gifts like that. A lot of people have much better gifts.
I knew one guy who found out he could staple things with his mind. I'm not making this up-- he could really staple things together, just by thinking about it. He never told anyone but me, and he never used it for anything absurd that I ever heard about, but that was his gift. He said it saved him countless minutes at the office. I bet he wished he could materialize coffee. Mark was really into coffee.
The people who know about gifts, my people, they tell me my gift is something special. I believe them. It certainly is something else altogether. They seem to think I'm part of something bigger, that I'm a prophet, or a piece of a prophecy, or a vessel of something. I don't know. I don't really feel like I'm any of those things, but I didn't really feel like I would have a special power someday either, so anything's possible. I also didn't really want this in the first place.
Do you know what it's like to wake up when you're seven years old to find a unicorn in your backyard? No, but you can guess. Yes, it's really awesome. The first time. And suddenly having that cute boy you like in seventh grade ask you out all of a sudden is great too. Actually showing up to class naked? That is a traumatizing event that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well, maybe my worst enemy. But it's really traumatizing, take it from me.
My gift is that my dreams sometimes come true. It could be any dream, doesn't matter how short or long, how ridiculous or mundane, anything. I have had situations and conversations take the most bizarre twists because I dreamed it happened the night before. A lot of the time, I don't even remember, and I have to think to myself, "Oh, right, the dream, of course. Why else would Becky try to warn me about an Egyptian plague. Of course Ethan doesn't know how to ride a unicycle, but that's what he took to school today. I don't recall the school choir being accompanied by banjos, but, well, here it is. I really need to ditch this bluegrass kick I'm on."
Most of the time, the gift is harmless. After the dream is re-enacted, most things tend to go back to normal and nobody ever seems to be the wiser. I've always been kind of an upbeat person, so I guess a lot of my dreams wind up being junk leftover from the day, or stuff I worry about in my social life. My family had asked that I keep this journal to log these dreams. I did, for a long time, and every night before I slept they'd pore over it and try to fit it all into their prophecies or whatever. One night a few weeks ago, I dreamed of something really scary. I saw a vision of hell. The first real nightmare I can recall, and thank the stars above it didn't come true. Now they won't let me sleep, and I have to use this really weird form of meditation I've taken to calling "zoning out". It's not nearly as satisfying as sleeping, and I'm almost to the point where the world can literally go to hell because I just want to get some fucking shut-eye for real.
Anyway, this is more of a personal journal I wanted to keep. Something for me, to help keep me sane until this whole "hell dream" thing blows over. It's kind of fun though. I might keep it up after. We'll see.
Sleep and I have a strange relationship. I miss it a lot.
I mean that in a different way than you're used to hearing, probably. Chamomile isn't going to solve my problem, and neither is Valerian root. In fact, they might actually end the world. Or cause me to, anyway.
That sounds really dramatic. Let me explain. It can be sort of confusing.
Everyone's got something, a little something special they've always had. Call it a gift if you really want to. Thing is, most people don't know that they've got it. Sometimes a person will go through their whole life and never use it, or never be put into a situation where it can even be used. Talk about wasted potential, right? Sort of. Sometimes a gift isn't much of anything. Like the latent power to make plants grow more healthy, or being a natural insect repellent, or giving off a little glow that people can't perceive is there but can feel it (a lot of movie stars actually have something like this). Sometimes it's a phrase that they could utter a very specific way to have flames shoot from their fingertips. This phrase could be anything-- it could be something that could take their whole lifetime to say out loud once, or it could be "bagged milk" with a Scottish-sounding accent. It might not be flames, either. It could be a foam resembling cheez-whiz. I know how crazy it sounds, trust me, but a lot of people have gifts like that. A lot of people have much better gifts.
I knew one guy who found out he could staple things with his mind. I'm not making this up-- he could really staple things together, just by thinking about it. He never told anyone but me, and he never used it for anything absurd that I ever heard about, but that was his gift. He said it saved him countless minutes at the office. I bet he wished he could materialize coffee. Mark was really into coffee.
The people who know about gifts, my people, they tell me my gift is something special. I believe them. It certainly is something else altogether. They seem to think I'm part of something bigger, that I'm a prophet, or a piece of a prophecy, or a vessel of something. I don't know. I don't really feel like I'm any of those things, but I didn't really feel like I would have a special power someday either, so anything's possible. I also didn't really want this in the first place.
Do you know what it's like to wake up when you're seven years old to find a unicorn in your backyard? No, but you can guess. Yes, it's really awesome. The first time. And suddenly having that cute boy you like in seventh grade ask you out all of a sudden is great too. Actually showing up to class naked? That is a traumatizing event that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well, maybe my worst enemy. But it's really traumatizing, take it from me.
My gift is that my dreams sometimes come true. It could be any dream, doesn't matter how short or long, how ridiculous or mundane, anything. I have had situations and conversations take the most bizarre twists because I dreamed it happened the night before. A lot of the time, I don't even remember, and I have to think to myself, "Oh, right, the dream, of course. Why else would Becky try to warn me about an Egyptian plague. Of course Ethan doesn't know how to ride a unicycle, but that's what he took to school today. I don't recall the school choir being accompanied by banjos, but, well, here it is. I really need to ditch this bluegrass kick I'm on."
Most of the time, the gift is harmless. After the dream is re-enacted, most things tend to go back to normal and nobody ever seems to be the wiser. I've always been kind of an upbeat person, so I guess a lot of my dreams wind up being junk leftover from the day, or stuff I worry about in my social life. My family had asked that I keep this journal to log these dreams. I did, for a long time, and every night before I slept they'd pore over it and try to fit it all into their prophecies or whatever. One night a few weeks ago, I dreamed of something really scary. I saw a vision of hell. The first real nightmare I can recall, and thank the stars above it didn't come true. Now they won't let me sleep, and I have to use this really weird form of meditation I've taken to calling "zoning out". It's not nearly as satisfying as sleeping, and I'm almost to the point where the world can literally go to hell because I just want to get some fucking shut-eye for real.
Anyway, this is more of a personal journal I wanted to keep. Something for me, to help keep me sane until this whole "hell dream" thing blows over. It's kind of fun though. I might keep it up after. We'll see.
Sleep and I have a strange relationship. I miss it a lot.
cell - K
It was unusual for Will to go off without his cell phone. The once in a blue moon, maybe when hell freezes over kind of unusual, but there it was. A simple flip phone resting forgotten on the kitchen counter next to a bunch of bananas that were still too green to eat. But he'd been in an awful rush. Something about an important meeting as he crammed a piece of slightly blackened toast into his mouth. He must have overlooked it in his hurry.
Christian stood near the counter, watching the mobile as though it might hop up and totter off after its absent-minded owner. It was sleek, all slim and black, unmarred. Stylish, professional. It gave off just the sort of air Will liked to project himself when in the presence of people who weren't familiar enough with him to know better.
Cautiously, Christian plucked it from the counter top. He turned it over in cool fingers. The digital read-out on the front display said that it was Thurs, July 23, 10:32 AM. Three hours since Will had gone out the front door. He opened the phone and was met with a colourful abstract background, mostly red. The kind of background that comes pre-programmed into the phone. Nothing personal. He pressed the button that would take him into the address book and began scrolling down. There were an awful lot of names. He recognized some of them, people that Will did business with on a regular basis. Others were foreign. He scrolled and scrolled, through Cs, Fs, Js, and Ls. All the way down to where the Ns began. He knew what he was looking for, but would it be there?
Nathan Carlisle. Nigel Waters. Noelle Bradley. And then, at the very end, right before Owen Michaels, was N. M. Not even a name, just letters, but Christian stopped. Highlighted them. Pressed the TALK button and held the phone to his ear with a far-off look on his face.
It was not his phone. It was not his number that would be showing up on the other end, but Will's. It would be a wonder if the call was even answered. But Christian's heart was thumping at a strange pace and his hands tingled and his stomach felt full of unpleasant fluttering. The last time they had seen one another...
Christian was suddenly aware of a man leaning against the counter beside him. He had seen this man before and didn't like him one bit. He talked too much about things Christian didn't care to hear. And the worst of it was that he didn't go away until he felt like it. Christian had so far been unable to discourage the man with any amount of persuasion, physical or otherwise. Too often, his hands went through the man instead of taking hold of him.
His unwanted guest was dressed in a pale green hospital gown and a brown bowler hat, and he smiled as Christian listened to the phone ring.
"If it he picks up, you know it's just because he thinks Will's on the other end," said the man. Christian said nothing, and the phone continued to ring.
"It's Will he wants these days. You know he's forgotten about you, right? Moved on to better things. People who can actually function in society," the man went on.
Christian looked at him, and there was a click at his ear as the other end was picked up. The voice was unhappy, irritated, but familiar.
"What do you want?" it demanded brusquely.
It was a good question. What did he want? He hadn't really thought about that before he'd called. He knew he wanted to hear the voice on the other end. He knew he wanted to see the man it belonged to. There was a sudden tightness in his chest, and the gown-clad man sighed pityingly.
"You don't matter to him now. Don't you think he would've come to see you by now if you meant anything? You were just a burden. He's washed his hands of you!"
Christian felt light-headed. He'd learned long ago not to listen to the man in the hat when he came calling, but there were an awful lot of strange feelings trying to seep out from his heart as he held that phone to his ear.
"Hello?" came the voice again. There was a bite to it. "This is childish, William."
No, not William. Christian, he wanted to say. You remember, he wanted to say. But his voice was comfortable in his throat, hoarding his words like a dragon greedily protects the gold it will never spend.
"I'm hanging up, William."
Christian stood near the counter, watching the mobile as though it might hop up and totter off after its absent-minded owner. It was sleek, all slim and black, unmarred. Stylish, professional. It gave off just the sort of air Will liked to project himself when in the presence of people who weren't familiar enough with him to know better.
Cautiously, Christian plucked it from the counter top. He turned it over in cool fingers. The digital read-out on the front display said that it was Thurs, July 23, 10:32 AM. Three hours since Will had gone out the front door. He opened the phone and was met with a colourful abstract background, mostly red. The kind of background that comes pre-programmed into the phone. Nothing personal. He pressed the button that would take him into the address book and began scrolling down. There were an awful lot of names. He recognized some of them, people that Will did business with on a regular basis. Others were foreign. He scrolled and scrolled, through Cs, Fs, Js, and Ls. All the way down to where the Ns began. He knew what he was looking for, but would it be there?
Nathan Carlisle. Nigel Waters. Noelle Bradley. And then, at the very end, right before Owen Michaels, was N. M. Not even a name, just letters, but Christian stopped. Highlighted them. Pressed the TALK button and held the phone to his ear with a far-off look on his face.
It was not his phone. It was not his number that would be showing up on the other end, but Will's. It would be a wonder if the call was even answered. But Christian's heart was thumping at a strange pace and his hands tingled and his stomach felt full of unpleasant fluttering. The last time they had seen one another...
Christian was suddenly aware of a man leaning against the counter beside him. He had seen this man before and didn't like him one bit. He talked too much about things Christian didn't care to hear. And the worst of it was that he didn't go away until he felt like it. Christian had so far been unable to discourage the man with any amount of persuasion, physical or otherwise. Too often, his hands went through the man instead of taking hold of him.
His unwanted guest was dressed in a pale green hospital gown and a brown bowler hat, and he smiled as Christian listened to the phone ring.
"If it he picks up, you know it's just because he thinks Will's on the other end," said the man. Christian said nothing, and the phone continued to ring.
"It's Will he wants these days. You know he's forgotten about you, right? Moved on to better things. People who can actually function in society," the man went on.
Christian looked at him, and there was a click at his ear as the other end was picked up. The voice was unhappy, irritated, but familiar.
"What do you want?" it demanded brusquely.
It was a good question. What did he want? He hadn't really thought about that before he'd called. He knew he wanted to hear the voice on the other end. He knew he wanted to see the man it belonged to. There was a sudden tightness in his chest, and the gown-clad man sighed pityingly.
"You don't matter to him now. Don't you think he would've come to see you by now if you meant anything? You were just a burden. He's washed his hands of you!"
Christian felt light-headed. He'd learned long ago not to listen to the man in the hat when he came calling, but there were an awful lot of strange feelings trying to seep out from his heart as he held that phone to his ear.
"Hello?" came the voice again. There was a bite to it. "This is childish, William."
No, not William. Christian, he wanted to say. You remember, he wanted to say. But his voice was comfortable in his throat, hoarding his words like a dragon greedily protects the gold it will never spend.
"I'm hanging up, William."
Click.
The man in the hat and the green gown was gone. There was silence on the line, but Christian kept the phone against his ear.
"I miss you," he said finally, and flipped the cell shut.
The man in the hat and the green gown was gone. There was silence on the line, but Christian kept the phone against his ear.
"I miss you," he said finally, and flipped the cell shut.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
footlights - K
He was always someone else. Consistently, day after day, he thrust himself wholly into a role that existed outside him. He became another person entirely. He rewired his own brain until he no longer liked the butter chicken from Radhika's on King Street that he'd found so delightful the week before; until he preferred powdered creamer in his coffee to milk, which he had taken without protest last Thursday; until he could no longer stand for his hair to be that shade of pale yellow, because that wasn't him. He became Mr. Julian Moore who smoked a pipe and made catcalls to poor, frightened women. He became Dr. Daniel Newhouse, the studious and humourless professor of logic. Always, always he was someone else. Someone who was not real. Someone who existed only on the page until he took them and absorbed them into himself. He gave them fire.
It was beautiful. He knew it was beautiful, because he abandoned himself to make it so. He had to, to make it believable. To make people laugh at his light-hearted follies or cry when he lost something precious. He had to make them want to scream at him when he was dastardly, want to punch him in the mouth or wrap their fingers round his throat and squeeze the life from him. He had to make them want to fuck him when he was sensual, and whether the desire was sweet with feeling or filthy and base was something he needed to control.
His true passion was for the stage. When he first tried his hand at screen acting, they had dismissed him. He was too over the top, they said. He made love to the panels during casting calls as he made love to his audiences, and it was too much. It wasn't realistic. He worked on his manner and his method and tried again. Again. Again. The transition to screen was not an easy one because the people watching him while he practiced his art were not the right people. They were not the people who loved him or hated him for who he was on stage, not the people whose energies and emotions he fed from during a performance—
A stage. A barely known piece, just finished, from a local playwright who had gained some popularity within the city for his last play. It had been about a child growing up in Alaska. This one was about sin.
A stage. He was poised there. He was fluid and erotic. Tempting. He was sweating under the stage lights, and the white makeup was suffering for it, but the audience was enthralled. He was Sin. He was every terrible thing in the world that someone, somewhere desperately desired. He was vile, but they wanted him. They all wanted him. Under the glaring lights, to the sultry voice of a cello, he swelled with it.
A stage. It was the only place left in the world. He had forgotten the filthy, beer-stale bars where he had drunk himself dumb and cheated at cards, and the beige-draped motel rooms where he had paid thin, smoky women to suck his cock. He forgot the casinos, he forgot the nameless, impersonal rooms and hallways in which he had lied to people. He forgot them, but he never forgot the sin. He became it.
—Oh. No. They wouldn't give him what he craved. They weren't there to be swept away, but to analyze and judge. Can you fill this role or can't you?
He understood what they wanted, eventually. He gave it to them, and when he did, they gave him the parts. He was given Julian Moore and Daniel Newhouse, and he violated every part of them with his fierce need to become.
But what of Afton Stanwood? Lord knew there was only room for one man in there at a time, and when other men reigned, Afton was forcibly silenced, cut down to be resurrected at a later date. Slowly, Afton became subject to the same version of reality as Moore and Newhouse and countless others. Afton was a role. A part to be played when other parts were no longer needed. And the man himself was lost.
wheeling thrust (immortal lion pt I) - E
Battle was the only thing in Razheed's life that felt right. "Right" wasn't the best word for it. It was natural to him. In fact, he was quite unparalleled. He took to fighting like wind takes to the sky. Like heat takes to magma. It was something that was in his nature, and that had defined him all his life. Why did this moment, this single instant, suddenly feel wrong? How could anything feel so heart-wrenching with a spear in his grip? With hot blood running over his knuckles? That was his element, from the moment he could swing a fist. This single breath felt to him like a stone making its first impact against a stained-glass window. For a second, he froze, caught himself, choked. His grip loosened, and he let the spear slip from his slick hands. She fell against his chest, impaled.
---
Razheed was utterly confident, firm in his resolve to see the Emperor of Aht Urghan choking on his own blood as he tried to bargain for his life. The vision was clear in his mind when he set foot in the imperial capital. He had had plenty of time to form it, and to refine it as he trekked across the continent-- or what was left of it, anyway. It was a long, solitary journey. He was the last soldier of Alzadaal, which now rested in ruin at the bottom of the ocean.
So utterly confident was Razheed that it was difficult to feign having the wind knocked out of him when Leiza rammed her fist into his solar plexus. It was a forceful gesture meant to be a surprise, a show of strength to assert her role as their sergeant. He knew it was coming, for he had done it numerous times himself to numerous unsuspecting privates. He tried not to brace himself, and though her strike thudded dully against his muscular abdomen, he staggered back, doubled over and coughed. He even spit into the dirt a bit to make it look more convincing. He even dropped to his knees. This was not a stretch, he knew; any ordinary person, even a soldier ready for military service would have been incapacitated by such a punch. Leiza had made a good impression on Razheed and on her squad.
She scowled viciously as she paced before them, patiently waiting for Razheed to finish his act. He took his feet, and she shouted,
"You think of yourselves as soldiers? You think you've got the right to take up arms in defense of the Empire? To fight alongside me? Alongside the Serpent Generals?! You're nothing! You're worthless, vile vermin! I've seen more dangerous things creep out of the leftover bucket at the Alchemists' Guild!!" At this, she spat at the ground, then flashed a fierce beryl gaze over the squad. "You're lower than the lowest tunnel worm! Until each and every one of you can last two minutes on your feet against me, you will remain at the rank of Private Second Class-- the lowest pay-grade. If you can keep up with me, you'll be promoted, and maybe someday we'll let you earn your keep against the scalebacks. Until you collectively reach that point, your asses are mine." She shot a particularly sharp glance at Razheed, and gave the dismissal.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
tucker & spencer, part III - E
Spencer wound up finding me.
I was at the laundromat that Saturday evening, alone with my freshly-dried underpants. All my weekend plans had washed out-- a lot of the people on our floor were trying to throw together search parties for Laura out of either pity for her parents, or guilt that they hadn't noticed her missing. He walked in stiffly, plopped into a plastic chair and slumped down a few inches. He was caked with dirt all over, nicked here and there by little scratches. He looked like he hadn't ever slept before in his life, and the way he failed to blink, the weight his half-closed eyes fought against made it seem like he didn't even know how. I could smell him from the door.
"Spence...? Dude, is that you? Where've you been?" I leaned across a nearby washing machine. He wasn't looking up at me, or anywhere actually. The silence was long enough I thought he might have fallen asleep. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, and there were flecks of blood on the front of it. I leaned closer and picked a dead leaf out of his curly copper hair and dropped it on the floor. "...Spencer?" I got my face closer to get a better look at him, but he didn't move. He was nearly comatose. Suddenly, as if it were a delayed but automatic reaction, he snapped to, finally aware of my presence.
"Oh h..." he cleared his throat but his voice was still sort of hoarse, "Oh hey Tuck." He sat up a little and looked me dead in the face-- dead as I'd ever seen someone with a pulse. He licked his chapped lips, meeting my gaze squarely. It made me feel a little better that I suddenly had his full attention, that he was actually there. Something deep inside, the support beams for his soul, quivered under my scrutiny. Something was really wrong here. I swung around the washer and into the chair next to him without letting go of his stare.
"Spence what...are you okay, man?"
He stuck his chin out a little, pulling his bottom lip in to make a painfully serious frown. He shook his head slowly. His brow buckled upwards. By that point I got the feeling I had every reason to be scared. I tried not to be.
"What happened to you?"
His mouth moved, formed a word with no sound-- a name, two syllables long, starting with his tongue on the backs of his top incisors: Laura. My mind raced frantically, trying to make sense of his one-word explanation for everything wrong with him-- What about her? She's missing. You've been missing. You're filthy and you stink like a French sewer. You're tired and sore and about to come apart at the seams. All you're telling me is 'Laura'. Why are you saying 'Laura.' We don't even talk to her. The gears grinding in my head were at a standstill for about five seconds. I thought I would blow my lid at him.
Click.
Like the hammer of a pistol I didn't know was there, the gears finally budged one small, sickening bit and painted its gruesome image in my mind. He'd done something to her. Something bad. The blood, the absence, the living dead routine, the sheer sorrow welling in his eyes. He'd been running, hiding, sleeping outside, starving and freezing, crying. He did something really awful, and I was the only person he could look to for help. I was reminded of Tracey's funeral, that broken little boy who held my hand, bawling. I looked around the laundromat-- it was still empty. A group of kids walked past the door with flashlights and flyers. One stopped to put up a flyer on the telephone pole outside. I didn't need to see it to know. Her awkward yellow-banded half-smile would be there to greet us, the one picture she had of herself on MySpace.
It was like suddenly realizing you're with your best friend, standing on thin ice over an active volcano. For the time being, this was the best place to be. The eye of the storm.
"What happened?"
I was at the laundromat that Saturday evening, alone with my freshly-dried underpants. All my weekend plans had washed out-- a lot of the people on our floor were trying to throw together search parties for Laura out of either pity for her parents, or guilt that they hadn't noticed her missing. He walked in stiffly, plopped into a plastic chair and slumped down a few inches. He was caked with dirt all over, nicked here and there by little scratches. He looked like he hadn't ever slept before in his life, and the way he failed to blink, the weight his half-closed eyes fought against made it seem like he didn't even know how. I could smell him from the door.
"Spence...? Dude, is that you? Where've you been?" I leaned across a nearby washing machine. He wasn't looking up at me, or anywhere actually. The silence was long enough I thought he might have fallen asleep. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, and there were flecks of blood on the front of it. I leaned closer and picked a dead leaf out of his curly copper hair and dropped it on the floor. "...Spencer?" I got my face closer to get a better look at him, but he didn't move. He was nearly comatose. Suddenly, as if it were a delayed but automatic reaction, he snapped to, finally aware of my presence.
"Oh h..." he cleared his throat but his voice was still sort of hoarse, "Oh hey Tuck." He sat up a little and looked me dead in the face-- dead as I'd ever seen someone with a pulse. He licked his chapped lips, meeting my gaze squarely. It made me feel a little better that I suddenly had his full attention, that he was actually there. Something deep inside, the support beams for his soul, quivered under my scrutiny. Something was really wrong here. I swung around the washer and into the chair next to him without letting go of his stare.
"Spence what...are you okay, man?"
He stuck his chin out a little, pulling his bottom lip in to make a painfully serious frown. He shook his head slowly. His brow buckled upwards. By that point I got the feeling I had every reason to be scared. I tried not to be.
"What happened to you?"
His mouth moved, formed a word with no sound-- a name, two syllables long, starting with his tongue on the backs of his top incisors: Laura. My mind raced frantically, trying to make sense of his one-word explanation for everything wrong with him-- What about her? She's missing. You've been missing. You're filthy and you stink like a French sewer. You're tired and sore and about to come apart at the seams. All you're telling me is 'Laura'. Why are you saying 'Laura.' We don't even talk to her. The gears grinding in my head were at a standstill for about five seconds. I thought I would blow my lid at him.
Click.
Like the hammer of a pistol I didn't know was there, the gears finally budged one small, sickening bit and painted its gruesome image in my mind. He'd done something to her. Something bad. The blood, the absence, the living dead routine, the sheer sorrow welling in his eyes. He'd been running, hiding, sleeping outside, starving and freezing, crying. He did something really awful, and I was the only person he could look to for help. I was reminded of Tracey's funeral, that broken little boy who held my hand, bawling. I looked around the laundromat-- it was still empty. A group of kids walked past the door with flashlights and flyers. One stopped to put up a flyer on the telephone pole outside. I didn't need to see it to know. Her awkward yellow-banded half-smile would be there to greet us, the one picture she had of herself on MySpace.
It was like suddenly realizing you're with your best friend, standing on thin ice over an active volcano. For the time being, this was the best place to be. The eye of the storm.
"What happened?"
home 2 - K
Once more. I keep telling myself that. One more time. One more time, and then I'll stop. Then the itch will go away. I'll be satisfied. Just one.
So I do it. Like so many times before, and it bubbles up like a spring from the earth. It's warm. I'm not careful. I make a mess. It dyes my hands and pools on the wet night grass and my knees are black with it in the dark. Scratch scratch scratch.
I don't have to be careful. I have Abner. He watches the messes I make. Patient like a father watching his toddler with paints. He knows I'll get them on the carpet and the walls, and sometimes he acts like he's only putting it up with it, but I know. I see the way his eyes water when the blood comes. I see the tightness in his jaw and the way the muscles stand out in his neck. He's hungry.
Abner cleans up when I'm done. I don't watch, usually. I don't like to see him that way, bent over my mess on his hands and knees. His back arches too severely, and I can see the bumps of his spine. The sounds are terrible, like an animal. Like desperate, starved wolves with a sheep from some farmer's stock. The red on his face is enough. The wet of his eyes is enough.
Abner scares me then. When he looks at me, I think he might do it to me, too. Worse, I think that might be okay.
But he hasn't. Won't. The satisfaction never stays, and he knows it like I do. Just one more time never is. The itch starts again, the drive, the need. I need I need I need. Abner looks lean and his eyes glint.
We help each other. I don't mean to sound ungrateful.
We drive home. I wash my hands and change my clothes, and Abner cleans his face. He tucks me into bed, and I see him in my dreams.
So I do it. Like so many times before, and it bubbles up like a spring from the earth. It's warm. I'm not careful. I make a mess. It dyes my hands and pools on the wet night grass and my knees are black with it in the dark. Scratch scratch scratch.
I don't have to be careful. I have Abner. He watches the messes I make. Patient like a father watching his toddler with paints. He knows I'll get them on the carpet and the walls, and sometimes he acts like he's only putting it up with it, but I know. I see the way his eyes water when the blood comes. I see the tightness in his jaw and the way the muscles stand out in his neck. He's hungry.
Abner cleans up when I'm done. I don't watch, usually. I don't like to see him that way, bent over my mess on his hands and knees. His back arches too severely, and I can see the bumps of his spine. The sounds are terrible, like an animal. Like desperate, starved wolves with a sheep from some farmer's stock. The red on his face is enough. The wet of his eyes is enough.
Abner scares me then. When he looks at me, I think he might do it to me, too. Worse, I think that might be okay.
But he hasn't. Won't. The satisfaction never stays, and he knows it like I do. Just one more time never is. The itch starts again, the drive, the need. I need I need I need. Abner looks lean and his eyes glint.
We help each other. I don't mean to sound ungrateful.
We drive home. I wash my hands and change my clothes, and Abner cleans his face. He tucks me into bed, and I see him in my dreams.
Monday, January 17, 2011
tucker & spencer, part II - E
Spencer and I started off going to the same college, after we graduated. We stuck pretty close together again after that whole night, and we had a few friends that came long with us when we ventured out into the world. I went in undecided, thinking the first couple years would point me in the right direction. Spencer went right off the bat into a pre-med program. That surprised pretty much everyone, since Spencer never came off as really bright, or altruistic, or ambitious...At all. Neither did I, but at least I went the prescribed slacker route about it and didn't try to pull any punches. He did seem to try though. Underneath it all he was grasping at something, desperately. I don't think anyone else could tell, but the way he tried to study, the way he took it seriously and got angry with himself, I could tell he was giving it as much effort as he could muster.
We were going to the same school and lived across from each other in the dorms. We did more or less the same thing we did in high school-- played a lot of video games, drank on the weekends, I let Spence copy my homework in the classes we had together. It was kind of a small college town, not a whole lot to do even on its best nights. By the end of the year every freshman was thoroughly sick of cosmic bowling. I didn't care much about anything except getting Bs, which would get my parents off my back, and skating-- I couldn't tell you how many times I'd been escorted off private property in the first semester, but the second semester saw a flourishing population of anti-loitering, skating, and roller blading signs around town. Spencer didn't stick with the basketball thing actually. As it happened our college basketball team blew really hard and he didn't feel like fighting that kind of uphill battle. He had to reinvest his time somewhere, somehow.
Things start to get a little weird here, so let me just preface this by saying it was all an accident and we're working things out, okay? Just suspend your judgment for a little bit and let me explain. Also, a quick and relevant side-story before we come back to Spencer's shit.
Laura was a mousey girl who lived on our floor. She moved in from somewhere in the Northeast of the country. She was short and skinny, with frizzy brown hair, comically thick glasses, braces with yellow rubber bands, and I think she may have even had a skin disease of some sort because she looked like she had mild acne that she wouldn't stop picking at. Her roommate had quit after the first few weeks of school, left for some family-related problem, and nobody had moved in in her stead. And nobody wanted to move in from the rest of the floor, to her dismay. She must have had asperger's or parkinson's or something because she could not function in normal society, with people her own age. The week after her roomie left, she went on a fruitless recruitment campaign. Every day that week, every day and I'm serious, she got fast food to eat. She had been depending no her roommate for actual food. This was Laura. A lone mariner stranded in an ocean full of capable young adults, desperately clinging to the makeshift raft of her social skills and utterly paralyzed by fear, unable to call for help. If she looked someone in the eyes for more than a few seconds, it was a good day for her.
Spencer kept himself occupied the next few months by pranking people. You know, like putting someone's hand in warm water while they're sleeping, or putting shaving cream in their hand and tickling their nose, or like filling the shampoo bottle in your shower with honey mustard. It was some sort of sick trickle-down stress pyramid; Spencer's professors would load him up with work, and he'd sit and stare at it for a few hours, get frustrated, then fuck with other people to let off steam. It started off pretty innocent, a lot of the classics like I said before. He was discovering this whole new side of himself he could use to stay entertained, and in exploring it he was learning a lot about the people around him. For example, I really don't like having the optical part of my optical mouse taped over when I have a term paper due the next day that I haven't started on. A lot of people really didn't like that.
I couldn't spend a lot of time with him, which is unfortunate because I think that's what was balancing him out, sort of. He's not psycho crazy or anything, I think he was just under a lot of stress. I shouldn't apologize for him. I just don't want you to think badly of him for what happened. I had a lot of homework and studying to do, so I sort of left him to his own devices a lot of the time, and those devices got more elaborate. Once, he had one of the girls in the dorm help him by holding a bowl of water against the hall ceiling with a broom, then he slapped her in the ass and it came down on top of her. She had a crush on him, so no harm no foul, but you see what I mean. He would take to shit like hiding in our room in ridiculous places, creeping out slowly when I wasn't looking and scaring me. I tolerated it, some people got pissed. Mostly, I think he got ignored, which was for the better. He didn't always stick to the dorms, though. The school newspaper started running stories about weird stuff happening around campus-- pranks like bikes taken apart and welded back together around lamp posts, or a crazy person in an animal suit running around and acting retarded in the middle of the night to scare people. He was getting really into this thing. It was moving past a hobby and was what most would call an obsession. I like to think he was refining an art form. Seriously, welding someone's bike around a lamp post? I didn't think he even knew how to weld. That's just dedication right there.
It was probably around February when he finally stopped, and it was cold turkey too. He started spending most of his time sleeping. Either studying, sleeping, or nobody knew what he was doing. At least, that's what I heard from his roommate and the other people on the floor. I was really too busy to notice, and I regret that now. It was also around this time that news spread about Laura. She'd gone missing that week. A few people from her classes became concerned that she wasn't around, and when her parents showed up it finally set off the whole powderkeg that'd been building up.
There was some commotion in the hallway that day so I peeked out to see. Mrs. Laura's Mom had the body of a retired professional wrestler from the 1940s, a stocky blob you could wrap a leotard around, and hair that was gray long before its time. Her husband wasn't faring much better-- he looked exactly like a molester would look, complete with a caesar-cut bald spot, big thick rounded-square glasses with a brown tinted plastic frame, and a big round puffy body that stick out over the belt just a little too much. From humble beginnings. They were both part of a huge combined emotional wreck, and when it got too awkward for me to watch I just listened from my door about how they talked on the phone every night to their daughter and that she hadn't been returning their calls for five days now, that they flew straight in from Montpilier when it started going right to voicemail because Mrs. Laura's Mom('s intuition) was going nuts. They poured their hearts out to everyone on the floor but me and Spencer. I didn't feel like dealing with it, and Spencer was nowhere to be found.
We were going to the same school and lived across from each other in the dorms. We did more or less the same thing we did in high school-- played a lot of video games, drank on the weekends, I let Spence copy my homework in the classes we had together. It was kind of a small college town, not a whole lot to do even on its best nights. By the end of the year every freshman was thoroughly sick of cosmic bowling. I didn't care much about anything except getting Bs, which would get my parents off my back, and skating-- I couldn't tell you how many times I'd been escorted off private property in the first semester, but the second semester saw a flourishing population of anti-loitering, skating, and roller blading signs around town. Spencer didn't stick with the basketball thing actually. As it happened our college basketball team blew really hard and he didn't feel like fighting that kind of uphill battle. He had to reinvest his time somewhere, somehow.
Things start to get a little weird here, so let me just preface this by saying it was all an accident and we're working things out, okay? Just suspend your judgment for a little bit and let me explain. Also, a quick and relevant side-story before we come back to Spencer's shit.
Laura was a mousey girl who lived on our floor. She moved in from somewhere in the Northeast of the country. She was short and skinny, with frizzy brown hair, comically thick glasses, braces with yellow rubber bands, and I think she may have even had a skin disease of some sort because she looked like she had mild acne that she wouldn't stop picking at. Her roommate had quit after the first few weeks of school, left for some family-related problem, and nobody had moved in in her stead. And nobody wanted to move in from the rest of the floor, to her dismay. She must have had asperger's or parkinson's or something because she could not function in normal society, with people her own age. The week after her roomie left, she went on a fruitless recruitment campaign. Every day that week, every day and I'm serious, she got fast food to eat. She had been depending no her roommate for actual food. This was Laura. A lone mariner stranded in an ocean full of capable young adults, desperately clinging to the makeshift raft of her social skills and utterly paralyzed by fear, unable to call for help. If she looked someone in the eyes for more than a few seconds, it was a good day for her.
Spencer kept himself occupied the next few months by pranking people. You know, like putting someone's hand in warm water while they're sleeping, or putting shaving cream in their hand and tickling their nose, or like filling the shampoo bottle in your shower with honey mustard. It was some sort of sick trickle-down stress pyramid; Spencer's professors would load him up with work, and he'd sit and stare at it for a few hours, get frustrated, then fuck with other people to let off steam. It started off pretty innocent, a lot of the classics like I said before. He was discovering this whole new side of himself he could use to stay entertained, and in exploring it he was learning a lot about the people around him. For example, I really don't like having the optical part of my optical mouse taped over when I have a term paper due the next day that I haven't started on. A lot of people really didn't like that.
I couldn't spend a lot of time with him, which is unfortunate because I think that's what was balancing him out, sort of. He's not psycho crazy or anything, I think he was just under a lot of stress. I shouldn't apologize for him. I just don't want you to think badly of him for what happened. I had a lot of homework and studying to do, so I sort of left him to his own devices a lot of the time, and those devices got more elaborate. Once, he had one of the girls in the dorm help him by holding a bowl of water against the hall ceiling with a broom, then he slapped her in the ass and it came down on top of her. She had a crush on him, so no harm no foul, but you see what I mean. He would take to shit like hiding in our room in ridiculous places, creeping out slowly when I wasn't looking and scaring me. I tolerated it, some people got pissed. Mostly, I think he got ignored, which was for the better. He didn't always stick to the dorms, though. The school newspaper started running stories about weird stuff happening around campus-- pranks like bikes taken apart and welded back together around lamp posts, or a crazy person in an animal suit running around and acting retarded in the middle of the night to scare people. He was getting really into this thing. It was moving past a hobby and was what most would call an obsession. I like to think he was refining an art form. Seriously, welding someone's bike around a lamp post? I didn't think he even knew how to weld. That's just dedication right there.
It was probably around February when he finally stopped, and it was cold turkey too. He started spending most of his time sleeping. Either studying, sleeping, or nobody knew what he was doing. At least, that's what I heard from his roommate and the other people on the floor. I was really too busy to notice, and I regret that now. It was also around this time that news spread about Laura. She'd gone missing that week. A few people from her classes became concerned that she wasn't around, and when her parents showed up it finally set off the whole powderkeg that'd been building up.
There was some commotion in the hallway that day so I peeked out to see. Mrs. Laura's Mom had the body of a retired professional wrestler from the 1940s, a stocky blob you could wrap a leotard around, and hair that was gray long before its time. Her husband wasn't faring much better-- he looked exactly like a molester would look, complete with a caesar-cut bald spot, big thick rounded-square glasses with a brown tinted plastic frame, and a big round puffy body that stick out over the belt just a little too much. From humble beginnings. They were both part of a huge combined emotional wreck, and when it got too awkward for me to watch I just listened from my door about how they talked on the phone every night to their daughter and that she hadn't been returning their calls for five days now, that they flew straight in from Montpilier when it started going right to voicemail because Mrs. Laura's Mom('s intuition) was going nuts. They poured their hearts out to everyone on the floor but me and Spencer. I didn't feel like dealing with it, and Spencer was nowhere to be found.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
blood - E
They won't let me out.
I've been here for six months and they won't let me out.
I think that maybe since it's been this long, it'll be okay. Maybe, maybe I'm lucky, and it won't find me, and I can just pretend nothing ever happened and I can just pick up my old life where I left off. When I sleep, I dream. Sometimes there are nightmares, washed in scarlet and plastered across my frontal lobe.
---
for the sake of complete honesty, i must tell you that when i wrote these few lines i was utterly drunk. i figured, "fitzgerald did it, it seemed to work out for him." but i am not my hero, not by a long shot. i'll finish it later. right now i'm drinking water and staring down the child-proof cap of a bottle of ibuprofen.
---
But oh God they won't let me go, they won't. They put me in this jacket so I can't scratch my nose or pick up a pencil or a fork or a knife or anything at all. They make me use a special mouthpiece that sticks in place so I can't bite my tongue in half. They really think I'm crazy. They really won't let me go. And every minute, every second I can feel it getting closer. I can see it in my nightmares, oozing through the ether toward my plump, ripe veins. I scream and I cry and I beg and they won't let me go. I don't need food, I try to tell them in desperate vowels around my mouthpiece, I don't need water or sleep or anything except to get rid of this blood and right now.
Donovan didn't know. He couldn't have, he wouldn't have called it if he knew what would happen. We were at his place one night, and he said he wanted to try something different, a ritual that was deeper and older and more powerful, that would summon something that we couldn't imagine. He said he'd be even stronger if he could strike a deal with it. He said the sex would be even better, and God had it been good until now. Every ritual made him better, more charming or better looking or something. I wouldn't argue with results like that. I'm not superstitious, really I'm not.
Everything was fine, as far as I could tell, and he looked really confident. The candles flickered to black like the other times. He was talking to something, bargaining, I think, I don't know. He was speaking some language I didn't understand, and then he started to argue with it, and he told me he'd been insulted and wouldn't stand for it. He tried closing the gate, I had seen that part before, and then it was
and then the flames went dark and red as arterial blood and i saw it, i saw it oh my god i saw it there in the crimson darkness, nothing but a slick and alien grin with a body like bullets strung together by a spider's web. and donovan, he wouldn't move, he was as dumbfounded as i was and stood there with the knife in his hand and the blood was still dripping into the gate out of his spindly little wrists, feeding it the whole time. and the thing, it inched closer to him and closer to me and it crawled into his open vein, slimy and thick and terrible. i was crying and screaming, terrified and deaf from the adrenalin but i couldn't move. he looked back at me, and he gurgled the sickest and most pathetic wet sounds like someone drowning from the inside, and then his screams split my ears. he was wailing, and all i could hear was that it burned, and he was tearing apart and oh god, oh god please no...he was bleeding from everywhere, from fingernails and his eyes and ears, and his skin was splitting in cuts and gashes, and when he screamed i could see his teeth bursting open like popcorn in his mouth, one by one, and god the screaming, oh god the screaming still won't stop. i ran and ran.
And I woke up here.
The first thing I did was carve open my arm with a fork from the cafeteria. The next week I tried again with the plastic one they gave me, and then I bit my tongue really hard, and that's when they finally put me here. I keep trying to tell them, I told them everything, and they still won't let me go. It's out there, it's inching toward me. I feel it. It wants my blood, too. If I can get rid of it all, I won't die, I won't be torn to pieces, I...
---
edited/added @ 4:11AM - M
I've been here for six months and they won't let me out.
I think that maybe since it's been this long, it'll be okay. Maybe, maybe I'm lucky, and it won't find me, and I can just pretend nothing ever happened and I can just pick up my old life where I left off. When I sleep, I dream. Sometimes there are nightmares, washed in scarlet and plastered across my frontal lobe.
---
for the sake of complete honesty, i must tell you that when i wrote these few lines i was utterly drunk. i figured, "fitzgerald did it, it seemed to work out for him." but i am not my hero, not by a long shot. i'll finish it later. right now i'm drinking water and staring down the child-proof cap of a bottle of ibuprofen.
---
But oh God they won't let me go, they won't. They put me in this jacket so I can't scratch my nose or pick up a pencil or a fork or a knife or anything at all. They make me use a special mouthpiece that sticks in place so I can't bite my tongue in half. They really think I'm crazy. They really won't let me go. And every minute, every second I can feel it getting closer. I can see it in my nightmares, oozing through the ether toward my plump, ripe veins. I scream and I cry and I beg and they won't let me go. I don't need food, I try to tell them in desperate vowels around my mouthpiece, I don't need water or sleep or anything except to get rid of this blood and right now.
Donovan didn't know. He couldn't have, he wouldn't have called it if he knew what would happen. We were at his place one night, and he said he wanted to try something different, a ritual that was deeper and older and more powerful, that would summon something that we couldn't imagine. He said he'd be even stronger if he could strike a deal with it. He said the sex would be even better, and God had it been good until now. Every ritual made him better, more charming or better looking or something. I wouldn't argue with results like that. I'm not superstitious, really I'm not.
Everything was fine, as far as I could tell, and he looked really confident. The candles flickered to black like the other times. He was talking to something, bargaining, I think, I don't know. He was speaking some language I didn't understand, and then he started to argue with it, and he told me he'd been insulted and wouldn't stand for it. He tried closing the gate, I had seen that part before, and then it was
and then the flames went dark and red as arterial blood and i saw it, i saw it oh my god i saw it there in the crimson darkness, nothing but a slick and alien grin with a body like bullets strung together by a spider's web. and donovan, he wouldn't move, he was as dumbfounded as i was and stood there with the knife in his hand and the blood was still dripping into the gate out of his spindly little wrists, feeding it the whole time. and the thing, it inched closer to him and closer to me and it crawled into his open vein, slimy and thick and terrible. i was crying and screaming, terrified and deaf from the adrenalin but i couldn't move. he looked back at me, and he gurgled the sickest and most pathetic wet sounds like someone drowning from the inside, and then his screams split my ears. he was wailing, and all i could hear was that it burned, and he was tearing apart and oh god, oh god please no...he was bleeding from everywhere, from fingernails and his eyes and ears, and his skin was splitting in cuts and gashes, and when he screamed i could see his teeth bursting open like popcorn in his mouth, one by one, and god the screaming, oh god the screaming still won't stop. i ran and ran.
And I woke up here.
The first thing I did was carve open my arm with a fork from the cafeteria. The next week I tried again with the plastic one they gave me, and then I bit my tongue really hard, and that's when they finally put me here. I keep trying to tell them, I told them everything, and they still won't let me go. It's out there, it's inching toward me. I feel it. It wants my blood, too. If I can get rid of it all, I won't die, I won't be torn to pieces, I...
---
edited/added @ 4:11AM - M
Friday, January 14, 2011
tucker & spencer, part I - E
Spencer's always been a weird one, ever since we met in third grade. I found him in the library. We were both in the horror section, which was marked with a friendly-looking spider at the end of the shelf, and I was looking for the latest Goosebumps book. As it turns out the class fat kid beat me to it so I'd have to wait a week, but it worked out in the end because I ran into Spencer. He was checking out a book about ghosts that was probably around when our parents went to school. He was a twig of a kid with green eyes and short, rusty brown hair, wearing a basketball jersey. My memory's fuzzy, but it went something like this:
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You like scary books and stuff?"
"...Yeah?"
"Cool. Me too. I read that one before, even the pictures are scary in it. There's this one thing that's like a big huge head but it's a balloon and its eyes are buggin' out and it's chasin' this guy down a road, it looks just like Mrs. Sanders when she's real mad."
He looked at me for a second and then we both laughed hard enough that we almost got put in quiet time for the day. We were best friends after that. He did like scary stuff, and so did I, probably more than most prepubescent boys do. Between the two of us, we made quick work of the school library's horror section, and by middle school a good piece of the local library's too. When we had sleepovers, we told ghost stories that got creepier every weekend. I always came out of them laughing, a little nervous, but laughing. Spencer didn't, always. Spencer's been a weird one for as long as I've known him, and he tended to take the ghost stories more seriously.
When we were in seventh grade, Spencer's cousin Tracey was killed in a drunk driving accident. They were pretty close. We lived in a small town, and they lived only a couple houses apart so they saw a lot of each other. Mom didn't think it was very appropriate for me to attend her funeral, but Dad helped me into my dress clothes and sneaked me out to the funeral parlor. As I remember, Tracey had a reputation for being kind of strong-willed, but she wasn't a bad person and had a lot of genuine mourners. Spencer, he was pretty broken up about it, of course. I held his hand at the ceremony, and his Dad held his other, and he didn't stop crying the whole time. It was at least a month before anyone saw him in school again, and another month before he actually got over the event. Or at least, until he pushed it under and got on with his life.
He was more or less the same after that, but ghost stories weren't something he wanted to get into anymore. We sort of redirected that horror interest into zombie junk, B-movies and comics and all that nerdy sort of media that started resurfacing in pop culture at the time. The bond was never quite the same after that, and we sort of grew out into high school in our own directions. I started skateboarding, and he joined the basketball team. We were still good friends and hung out a lot, but we had our futures to consider and girls to chase after and a whole high school to impress. We grew from tadpoles to little social frogs in that pond. It wasn't until everything slowed down around the middle of our senior year that we started really reconnecting. We were best friends united again against the big scary world we were going to have to face soon, and we started taking each other more seriously. I never had a brother, but if I ever did I hope he'd be as good to me as Spencer was.
That spring we were hanging out one night at my place, playing a skating game, sitting on beanbag chairs in the dark of 1AM, tiredly going through all our fond memories of childhood. I asked him about ghost stories, and he kind of stopped for a second.
"I mean, we used to love 'em man. What happened?"
"Ah, you know. I thought we grew out of that." He grinned at me. It was common sense, I guess, kids grow out of being scared by shadows and creaky houses, but I got the feeling there was more there and against my better judgment I pressed him for it.
"No I mean, like, the zombie shit is cool, but you know it's not scary. Listen, we know scary, Spence, we were all about it for years. It's like you just kind of blanked out on it, I don't know." I trailed off a little. I was losing focus, and I couldn't figure out how to say what I meant. I mean, I could, but I wasn't going to be a dick to him. I was pretty sure I knew what it was already. I think he knew, too. My boarder tumbled headlong to an ugly demise on the concrete below. He looked at me with his big green Irish eyes, devoid of all humor, and things got real heavy.
"I think...I think it's just that all our stories were really terrible, you know? Like the guy would get killed by a vengeful ghost with a rusty hook, or the girl would leap to her death after running from something, she'd jump off a bridge in sheer terror..." The girl who jumped off the bridge was my favorite. I just watched him. I'd never seen him so serious. His eyes were searching for something, a way to put together the epiphany he'd had in a way I'd grasp. "...I guess, if I ran into someone from the other side, I wouldn't want to run away screaming. I think I'd want to ask, 'Hey, how ya been? We missed you a lot. You never visit.' I'd want to shake their hand, or hug them, or...Something, you know?"
The look on his face, in his eyes. His complete vulnerability at that moment. I knew he was serious, and I knew who he had in mind. It was almost insulting to me, that he'd throw away our biggest "thing", our bond, for someone who wasn't coming back. For someone's memory. Sympathy isn't my strong suit, it never has been, but for Spencer...I just couldn't get selfish about it. Not with him wide open like that, and he probably knew it. Maybe it was just violent fantasy, I thought, maybe we just liked those scary stories for their shock value, for that brush with insanity that makes your heart beat faster than you ever thought it could. Maybe it wasn't worth fucking up another childhood memory that was more important to him just to make myself feel better. It's not like chiding him now would turn back time for me either. I just nodded at him, an understanding and respectful little nod. I started the stage over and handed him the controller.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You like scary books and stuff?"
"...Yeah?"
"Cool. Me too. I read that one before, even the pictures are scary in it. There's this one thing that's like a big huge head but it's a balloon and its eyes are buggin' out and it's chasin' this guy down a road, it looks just like Mrs. Sanders when she's real mad."
He looked at me for a second and then we both laughed hard enough that we almost got put in quiet time for the day. We were best friends after that. He did like scary stuff, and so did I, probably more than most prepubescent boys do. Between the two of us, we made quick work of the school library's horror section, and by middle school a good piece of the local library's too. When we had sleepovers, we told ghost stories that got creepier every weekend. I always came out of them laughing, a little nervous, but laughing. Spencer didn't, always. Spencer's been a weird one for as long as I've known him, and he tended to take the ghost stories more seriously.
When we were in seventh grade, Spencer's cousin Tracey was killed in a drunk driving accident. They were pretty close. We lived in a small town, and they lived only a couple houses apart so they saw a lot of each other. Mom didn't think it was very appropriate for me to attend her funeral, but Dad helped me into my dress clothes and sneaked me out to the funeral parlor. As I remember, Tracey had a reputation for being kind of strong-willed, but she wasn't a bad person and had a lot of genuine mourners. Spencer, he was pretty broken up about it, of course. I held his hand at the ceremony, and his Dad held his other, and he didn't stop crying the whole time. It was at least a month before anyone saw him in school again, and another month before he actually got over the event. Or at least, until he pushed it under and got on with his life.
He was more or less the same after that, but ghost stories weren't something he wanted to get into anymore. We sort of redirected that horror interest into zombie junk, B-movies and comics and all that nerdy sort of media that started resurfacing in pop culture at the time. The bond was never quite the same after that, and we sort of grew out into high school in our own directions. I started skateboarding, and he joined the basketball team. We were still good friends and hung out a lot, but we had our futures to consider and girls to chase after and a whole high school to impress. We grew from tadpoles to little social frogs in that pond. It wasn't until everything slowed down around the middle of our senior year that we started really reconnecting. We were best friends united again against the big scary world we were going to have to face soon, and we started taking each other more seriously. I never had a brother, but if I ever did I hope he'd be as good to me as Spencer was.
That spring we were hanging out one night at my place, playing a skating game, sitting on beanbag chairs in the dark of 1AM, tiredly going through all our fond memories of childhood. I asked him about ghost stories, and he kind of stopped for a second.
"I mean, we used to love 'em man. What happened?"
"Ah, you know. I thought we grew out of that." He grinned at me. It was common sense, I guess, kids grow out of being scared by shadows and creaky houses, but I got the feeling there was more there and against my better judgment I pressed him for it.
"No I mean, like, the zombie shit is cool, but you know it's not scary. Listen, we know scary, Spence, we were all about it for years. It's like you just kind of blanked out on it, I don't know." I trailed off a little. I was losing focus, and I couldn't figure out how to say what I meant. I mean, I could, but I wasn't going to be a dick to him. I was pretty sure I knew what it was already. I think he knew, too. My boarder tumbled headlong to an ugly demise on the concrete below. He looked at me with his big green Irish eyes, devoid of all humor, and things got real heavy.
"I think...I think it's just that all our stories were really terrible, you know? Like the guy would get killed by a vengeful ghost with a rusty hook, or the girl would leap to her death after running from something, she'd jump off a bridge in sheer terror..." The girl who jumped off the bridge was my favorite. I just watched him. I'd never seen him so serious. His eyes were searching for something, a way to put together the epiphany he'd had in a way I'd grasp. "...I guess, if I ran into someone from the other side, I wouldn't want to run away screaming. I think I'd want to ask, 'Hey, how ya been? We missed you a lot. You never visit.' I'd want to shake their hand, or hug them, or...Something, you know?"
The look on his face, in his eyes. His complete vulnerability at that moment. I knew he was serious, and I knew who he had in mind. It was almost insulting to me, that he'd throw away our biggest "thing", our bond, for someone who wasn't coming back. For someone's memory. Sympathy isn't my strong suit, it never has been, but for Spencer...I just couldn't get selfish about it. Not with him wide open like that, and he probably knew it. Maybe it was just violent fantasy, I thought, maybe we just liked those scary stories for their shock value, for that brush with insanity that makes your heart beat faster than you ever thought it could. Maybe it wasn't worth fucking up another childhood memory that was more important to him just to make myself feel better. It's not like chiding him now would turn back time for me either. I just nodded at him, an understanding and respectful little nod. I started the stage over and handed him the controller.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
nothing more than - K
The air that night was colder than Thomas had accounted for when leaving the apartment. It had been such a hasty departure that his coat was left hanging forlornly on the hook by the door, subject to the sounds of Marilyn's over-exaggerated anguish as Thomas pulled the door closed in between them.
He was not leaving her to her sorrows. It did look a lot like running away from her pain, but he knew that wasn't the case. She had asked--told him to leave in between dramatic sobs, dabbing at damp, glassy eyes with a tissue, careful of her makeup. Every time, it was the same. She would pose the question with such unassuming sweetness, as though she didn't know she was provoking a fight, as though the same damn argument didn't erupt every time she tried to broach the subject, and it always ended this way. She would be in tears, and he would be out the door.
"Thomas," she would begin. This time he had been sitting at the dining room table, still in his work clothes and attempting to pick through the paper's crossword. His tie was loosened and his blazer was draped across the back of the chair, and she'd slid her arms around him from behind. She smelled like lilies, vanilla--soft, chemical fragrances in her hair and sprinkled across her throat. "Don't you think it's time we started a family?"
The words filled him with a cold dread every time. She wanted children. She needed to be a mother, she said. She was destined for it. She dreamt about it. But it was a matter on which she and Thomas vehemently disagreed. Perhaps it was her destiny. She would probably make a very good mother, but Thomas had no desire to be a father. The idea terrified him--the two of them going to ultrasound appointments together. Lamaze classes. Taking turns swinging stumbling, tired feet on to a cold floor in the small hours of the morning to answer the desperate wail of a tiny, incompetent other.
The situation inevitably blew up. When they got to the miscarriage (for they always did get to the miscarriage), the tears began to stream, and it was only a matter of time before she wanted him to leave so she could heave herself across the sofa and phone her mother. He was always fully frustrated by that point. On the verge of some real anger over the way she always tried to heap that undeserved guilt on him, but he never raised his voice to her. This time, as he had several times before, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, took his keys from the bowl beside the door, and left.
The bar was not his usual destination. Typically, he got into his clean little Ford Focus and drove around town for a couple of hours. Marilyn would always ring his cell before the 180 minute mark, and he would drive home again. Crisis over. But that night, he needed a drink. A nice Jack and Coke, and he couldn't have said when he left the place how long he had been there in the low lights and the thin tendrils of cigarette smoke that crept like lazy spectres through the air. Long enough that the smoke and the cheap beer had woven their respective scents into his clothes. Long enough that things were bleary and muffled and the keys in his pocket would only get him in trouble.
It was then, walking out into the dark February chill, that Thomas began to regret leaving his coat on the hook. Watching his breath blow out in great, frosty gusts, he was quite sure the night was colder than it felt with the insulating ersatz warmth of whiskey. It should have bothered him, probably, as he moved away from the bar, but his mind was wandering like a drowsy bee through the humid air of a summer day. He thought not of Marilyn (who had called once already to find, to her dismay, Thomas's phone ringing futilely in the pocket of his coat), pouring her feminine frustrations out to her prejudiced mother, but of a park on the other side of town. Of breakfast. Fantastic pancakes. A strong hand arched beneath his own and the warm, genial face of one Parker Reed.
That's right. Even then, even with the haze between his ears, he remembered the meeting clearly. It had seemed silly initially, as all of Parker's plans did. Parker was a silly man, after all. It had once struck him as odd that they even got along. Thomas had no real interest in silliness, and he knew with a comfortable certainty that he was as dull as televised golf. He enjoyed filing and alphabetizing and reading back issues of National Geographic, and still Parker desired his company.
The visits, Thomas had realized, should have been impositions and were not. Every brief instance of Parker dropping by the office to talk should have grated on his nerves--they were distracting from his work!--but did not. He found he liked seeing the other man, even for just a little while, even if nothing more than an amusing anecdote passed between them. It was different. It was nice. But it was also unsettling.
The night before their breakfast, while setting the table, he'd been compelled to tell Marilyn of his plans for the following morning.
"Oh, it's so good to hear you're finally making some friends," she'd said to him, placing a fork to the right of her plate.
"Please, dear," Thomas remembered answering. He had barely glanced at her. "That's very--condescending."
"Oh!" Her exclamation of feigned shame at her words, her hand across her mouth to emphasize it. But Thomas had seen the wrinkles to either side that indicated her hidden smile. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just happy for you, that's all."
Happy. It was strange. Marilyn was a middle-class socialite. She liked dinner parties and dancing and brunch, and she wanted to shape Thomas until he did the same. Of course she would be happy that he had finally connected with someone in this small town, because he certainly didn't appreciate any of her friends. But Parker was not so simple as that. There was something wholly inexplicable about him--the crooked smile and the way he coaxed laughter from the chest up through the throat with little more than the spark of amusement in his eyes. And hadn't Thomas, against his very character, laid his hand over Parker's across their breakfast table? Felt the thick cords, the large knuckles, the warmth that was such a part of Parker?
Thomas had never devoted much time to the subject of his romantic interests. He had never sat down to puzzle out why he liked women, or if he even did like them all that much. But as his father's son, his heterosexuality was politely assumed, and he never felt the need to challenge it. He had always been too busy with his education, dutifully preparing to take up his father's white collar when the proper time came, to bother about it. He could not have found the time for a sexual identity crisis.
In the same fashion, he had always known he would marry. He had never really had time to decide if he wanted to, and if he did, he was never given the chance to look forward to it before it happened--but he expected it. The only real surprise had come in how quickly it had been heaped upon him, in the unfortunate circumstances that had prompted his marriage.
He could not say he was unhappy with Marilyn.
He would not say he was unhappy with Marilyn.
At no point did he decide consciously to head in the right direction or to take the right streets. The signs he barely saw, dark green blotches with smeared white lettering under the glare of the occasional street light. It was several blocks from the bar. He recalled the address with surprising clarity--they had planned to meet at Parker's apartment for--something. It didn't seem to matter what, only that he had the right names and numbers floating through his head.
The cold had finally seeped through his blazer when he entered the building. When he reached Parker's door, the tips of his nose and ears and fingers were all pink with it, but he didn't care. He didn't hesitate on account of the hour--not that he was certain what the hour was--but lifted a loosely curled fist to the door and knocked.
He was not leaving her to her sorrows. It did look a lot like running away from her pain, but he knew that wasn't the case. She had asked--told him to leave in between dramatic sobs, dabbing at damp, glassy eyes with a tissue, careful of her makeup. Every time, it was the same. She would pose the question with such unassuming sweetness, as though she didn't know she was provoking a fight, as though the same damn argument didn't erupt every time she tried to broach the subject, and it always ended this way. She would be in tears, and he would be out the door.
"Thomas," she would begin. This time he had been sitting at the dining room table, still in his work clothes and attempting to pick through the paper's crossword. His tie was loosened and his blazer was draped across the back of the chair, and she'd slid her arms around him from behind. She smelled like lilies, vanilla--soft, chemical fragrances in her hair and sprinkled across her throat. "Don't you think it's time we started a family?"
The words filled him with a cold dread every time. She wanted children. She needed to be a mother, she said. She was destined for it. She dreamt about it. But it was a matter on which she and Thomas vehemently disagreed. Perhaps it was her destiny. She would probably make a very good mother, but Thomas had no desire to be a father. The idea terrified him--the two of them going to ultrasound appointments together. Lamaze classes. Taking turns swinging stumbling, tired feet on to a cold floor in the small hours of the morning to answer the desperate wail of a tiny, incompetent other.
The situation inevitably blew up. When they got to the miscarriage (for they always did get to the miscarriage), the tears began to stream, and it was only a matter of time before she wanted him to leave so she could heave herself across the sofa and phone her mother. He was always fully frustrated by that point. On the verge of some real anger over the way she always tried to heap that undeserved guilt on him, but he never raised his voice to her. This time, as he had several times before, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, took his keys from the bowl beside the door, and left.
The bar was not his usual destination. Typically, he got into his clean little Ford Focus and drove around town for a couple of hours. Marilyn would always ring his cell before the 180 minute mark, and he would drive home again. Crisis over. But that night, he needed a drink. A nice Jack and Coke, and he couldn't have said when he left the place how long he had been there in the low lights and the thin tendrils of cigarette smoke that crept like lazy spectres through the air. Long enough that the smoke and the cheap beer had woven their respective scents into his clothes. Long enough that things were bleary and muffled and the keys in his pocket would only get him in trouble.
It was then, walking out into the dark February chill, that Thomas began to regret leaving his coat on the hook. Watching his breath blow out in great, frosty gusts, he was quite sure the night was colder than it felt with the insulating ersatz warmth of whiskey. It should have bothered him, probably, as he moved away from the bar, but his mind was wandering like a drowsy bee through the humid air of a summer day. He thought not of Marilyn (who had called once already to find, to her dismay, Thomas's phone ringing futilely in the pocket of his coat), pouring her feminine frustrations out to her prejudiced mother, but of a park on the other side of town. Of breakfast. Fantastic pancakes. A strong hand arched beneath his own and the warm, genial face of one Parker Reed.
That's right. Even then, even with the haze between his ears, he remembered the meeting clearly. It had seemed silly initially, as all of Parker's plans did. Parker was a silly man, after all. It had once struck him as odd that they even got along. Thomas had no real interest in silliness, and he knew with a comfortable certainty that he was as dull as televised golf. He enjoyed filing and alphabetizing and reading back issues of National Geographic, and still Parker desired his company.
The visits, Thomas had realized, should have been impositions and were not. Every brief instance of Parker dropping by the office to talk should have grated on his nerves--they were distracting from his work!--but did not. He found he liked seeing the other man, even for just a little while, even if nothing more than an amusing anecdote passed between them. It was different. It was nice. But it was also unsettling.
The night before their breakfast, while setting the table, he'd been compelled to tell Marilyn of his plans for the following morning.
"Oh, it's so good to hear you're finally making some friends," she'd said to him, placing a fork to the right of her plate.
"Please, dear," Thomas remembered answering. He had barely glanced at her. "That's very--condescending."
"Oh!" Her exclamation of feigned shame at her words, her hand across her mouth to emphasize it. But Thomas had seen the wrinkles to either side that indicated her hidden smile. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just happy for you, that's all."
Happy. It was strange. Marilyn was a middle-class socialite. She liked dinner parties and dancing and brunch, and she wanted to shape Thomas until he did the same. Of course she would be happy that he had finally connected with someone in this small town, because he certainly didn't appreciate any of her friends. But Parker was not so simple as that. There was something wholly inexplicable about him--the crooked smile and the way he coaxed laughter from the chest up through the throat with little more than the spark of amusement in his eyes. And hadn't Thomas, against his very character, laid his hand over Parker's across their breakfast table? Felt the thick cords, the large knuckles, the warmth that was such a part of Parker?
Thomas had never devoted much time to the subject of his romantic interests. He had never sat down to puzzle out why he liked women, or if he even did like them all that much. But as his father's son, his heterosexuality was politely assumed, and he never felt the need to challenge it. He had always been too busy with his education, dutifully preparing to take up his father's white collar when the proper time came, to bother about it. He could not have found the time for a sexual identity crisis.
In the same fashion, he had always known he would marry. He had never really had time to decide if he wanted to, and if he did, he was never given the chance to look forward to it before it happened--but he expected it. The only real surprise had come in how quickly it had been heaped upon him, in the unfortunate circumstances that had prompted his marriage.
He could not say he was unhappy with Marilyn.
He would not say he was unhappy with Marilyn.
At no point did he decide consciously to head in the right direction or to take the right streets. The signs he barely saw, dark green blotches with smeared white lettering under the glare of the occasional street light. It was several blocks from the bar. He recalled the address with surprising clarity--they had planned to meet at Parker's apartment for--something. It didn't seem to matter what, only that he had the right names and numbers floating through his head.
The cold had finally seeped through his blazer when he entered the building. When he reached Parker's door, the tips of his nose and ears and fingers were all pink with it, but he didn't care. He didn't hesitate on account of the hour--not that he was certain what the hour was--but lifted a loosely curled fist to the door and knocked.
ivory towers - E
The roar of battle around me is like the tortured scream of a single, dying giant as it bellows its last breath to the dark heavens above. For an instant, everything is still and silent and frozen before my eyes. I imagine this is what nirvana could be like, that what I'm touching with my mind right now could be the one true state of zen. But everything starts to move again, and one of the mindless black things is gurgling acid to me, and all I can think is that I won't die here, not now, not while the white pillars at my back yet stand. They are not smart, these inky, caustic creatures, and are not difficult to out-maneuver or kill in single combat. So I run this one through and cleave it sideways, slinging its filthy excuse for blood into the red earth. My muscles ache, my armor is heavy and spattered with their sludge, and still they come. They always come, and they never stop.
Void help us all.
We fight them. We, the white knighthood. Our duty since the Great Emergence has been to fight, and to protect the Ivory Towers that rose one by one in a great arcing wall from the soft pink sands of our homeland. We volunteered, trained. We were happy to put our lives on the line, thinking that in a few years we would be free, and the first few years were very successful. Our numbers thinned, but the towers remained untainted. Our enthusiasm proved naive, of course, and two decades have gone by-- twenty years of war and terrible mottled black rot, punctuated only by sunrise and sunset.
Still, we count ourselves fortunate, for we are not alone in this war. The sun's coming and going heralds a great miracle, and shows us that God Himself is on our side. In the early morning, when the battle looks its bleakest and the towers are beset at their roots by the black evil, the sun rises and the long white fingers of God sweep over us. We see from the parapets, we watch as the evil is washed back and away and gives us a moment's respite to catch our breath. The battlefield is swept clean and the monsters abate for a few hours, while they replenish their numbers and we nurse our wounded.
This is our daily routine. We fight, we recover, and we fight again, and we pray with each changing of the daylight that it will be the last we see of the shambling rot. For all our experience, we do not know much of these things we fight, only that they will stop at nothing to eat away at the towers. That without us, the towers that remain would crumble into their fold and be lost forever. Our families, too, would join their inky conglomeration. All that would be left of our country, the decayed foundations of these towers, the pale red earth, and perhaps God.
---
alt title: dens custodia
(get it?)
Void help us all.
We fight them. We, the white knighthood. Our duty since the Great Emergence has been to fight, and to protect the Ivory Towers that rose one by one in a great arcing wall from the soft pink sands of our homeland. We volunteered, trained. We were happy to put our lives on the line, thinking that in a few years we would be free, and the first few years were very successful. Our numbers thinned, but the towers remained untainted. Our enthusiasm proved naive, of course, and two decades have gone by-- twenty years of war and terrible mottled black rot, punctuated only by sunrise and sunset.
Still, we count ourselves fortunate, for we are not alone in this war. The sun's coming and going heralds a great miracle, and shows us that God Himself is on our side. In the early morning, when the battle looks its bleakest and the towers are beset at their roots by the black evil, the sun rises and the long white fingers of God sweep over us. We see from the parapets, we watch as the evil is washed back and away and gives us a moment's respite to catch our breath. The battlefield is swept clean and the monsters abate for a few hours, while they replenish their numbers and we nurse our wounded.
This is our daily routine. We fight, we recover, and we fight again, and we pray with each changing of the daylight that it will be the last we see of the shambling rot. For all our experience, we do not know much of these things we fight, only that they will stop at nothing to eat away at the towers. That without us, the towers that remain would crumble into their fold and be lost forever. Our families, too, would join their inky conglomeration. All that would be left of our country, the decayed foundations of these towers, the pale red earth, and perhaps God.
---
alt title: dens custodia
(get it?)
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
doppelgänger - K
They say everyone has a double. I guess I never thought about it before. It seemed sort of stupid, sort of little-kid-fantasy. Like a ghost story or a fairy tale, people seeing their doppelgangers and then getting sick or dying or something ridiculous like that. I didn't think about stuff like that. I thought about theatre, mostly. I was going to school for it. I mean, I was getting the degree, but it wasn't specific enough, tailored to me. I did makeup and costume design. I was good, too. You could've asked anyone in the theatre department. I was graduating soon, though. I wasn't sure what to do after that. More school, maybe. Somewhere with better classes, real costume classes.
I was adopted when I was still a baby. My parents have always been really open and honest about it, though. They said I had a right to know. They told me everything they knew about my birth parents, which wasn't a whole lot. My bio mom was dead, had died not very long after I was born. My bio dad was gone. Nobody knew where he was, so I guess that's the way he wanted it. It didn't bother me, really. Sure, I was curious and all, but my adoptive parents were my real parents as far as I was concerned.
Because I didn't think about it all that much, the surprise my parents had for me when I came home for Christmas break really was surprising. Not "Surprise, we're going out to dinner" or "Surprise, we got you another brush set."
"Mickey," they said together after dinner, "we need to talk."
I thought I was in trouble. I was 22, but that wouldn't stop them from lecturing me if they found out I'd picked up smoking again.
We went into the living room and sat. Mom brought in coffee, which she hated but I loved, and smiled. Dad had his hands clasped, thumbs twiddling. Nervous.
"Mickey," mom said again, "we have a wonderful surprise for you." She reached for dad's hands to stop the rapid twitching of his fingers. "We got a call the other day from a young woman named Rita. She's your age." Dad smiled now too. "She was adopted just a week or two before you, through the same agency."
I sipped my coffee and tried not to let my eyebrows ride too high up my forehead. I couldn't see what she was getting at. What did some other adopted girl have to do with me?
Mom leaned forward so she could touch my knee. "Mickey, Rita is your sister. Your twin sister." She was so excited with the news. Her mouth was so wide, all her teeth showing. It was like a toothpaste commercial.
"What?" It was a whisper from me. Shock. Disbelief. Maybe the first stirrings of horror. My eyes were big and my knuckles were white on the handle of the mug.
"I know! We had absolutely no idea, but we've confirmed it with the agency. The lady I spoke to said they hadn't been allowed to disclose the information when we adopted you, something about Rita's adoptive parents, and they really try to keep twins together, but--oh, Mickey, isn't this wonderful!" She was flushed. Dad was twiddling his thumbs again. I stared down at the muddy puddle in my mug.
No, this wasn't right. Couldn't be right. Someone was lying. I didn't have a twin--how could I? I didn't feel broken or empty or incomplete. Nothing was missing from my life. Isn't that the stuff they talk about in those "separated at birth" stories? And if I had a twin, I would know, because that's just one of those things you know. I felt cold inside. I couldn't get at the joy on mom's face or in her eyes. I just felt frozen. Everywhere, frozen. Mom didn't notice.
"She wants to meet you," she went on. "I mean, of course she does, after all these years!" She paused expectantly, but I didn't say anything. My hands were starting to shake. My eyes were watering. "She's coming for lunch tomorrow."
I almost dropped the mug. Mom had invited some person, some stranger into the house. Some stranger who said she was my sister. And I would have to pretend it was okay.
(will be continued.)
I was adopted when I was still a baby. My parents have always been really open and honest about it, though. They said I had a right to know. They told me everything they knew about my birth parents, which wasn't a whole lot. My bio mom was dead, had died not very long after I was born. My bio dad was gone. Nobody knew where he was, so I guess that's the way he wanted it. It didn't bother me, really. Sure, I was curious and all, but my adoptive parents were my real parents as far as I was concerned.
Because I didn't think about it all that much, the surprise my parents had for me when I came home for Christmas break really was surprising. Not "Surprise, we're going out to dinner" or "Surprise, we got you another brush set."
"Mickey," they said together after dinner, "we need to talk."
I thought I was in trouble. I was 22, but that wouldn't stop them from lecturing me if they found out I'd picked up smoking again.
We went into the living room and sat. Mom brought in coffee, which she hated but I loved, and smiled. Dad had his hands clasped, thumbs twiddling. Nervous.
"Mickey," mom said again, "we have a wonderful surprise for you." She reached for dad's hands to stop the rapid twitching of his fingers. "We got a call the other day from a young woman named Rita. She's your age." Dad smiled now too. "She was adopted just a week or two before you, through the same agency."
I sipped my coffee and tried not to let my eyebrows ride too high up my forehead. I couldn't see what she was getting at. What did some other adopted girl have to do with me?
Mom leaned forward so she could touch my knee. "Mickey, Rita is your sister. Your twin sister." She was so excited with the news. Her mouth was so wide, all her teeth showing. It was like a toothpaste commercial.
"What?" It was a whisper from me. Shock. Disbelief. Maybe the first stirrings of horror. My eyes were big and my knuckles were white on the handle of the mug.
"I know! We had absolutely no idea, but we've confirmed it with the agency. The lady I spoke to said they hadn't been allowed to disclose the information when we adopted you, something about Rita's adoptive parents, and they really try to keep twins together, but--oh, Mickey, isn't this wonderful!" She was flushed. Dad was twiddling his thumbs again. I stared down at the muddy puddle in my mug.
No, this wasn't right. Couldn't be right. Someone was lying. I didn't have a twin--how could I? I didn't feel broken or empty or incomplete. Nothing was missing from my life. Isn't that the stuff they talk about in those "separated at birth" stories? And if I had a twin, I would know, because that's just one of those things you know. I felt cold inside. I couldn't get at the joy on mom's face or in her eyes. I just felt frozen. Everywhere, frozen. Mom didn't notice.
"She wants to meet you," she went on. "I mean, of course she does, after all these years!" She paused expectantly, but I didn't say anything. My hands were starting to shake. My eyes were watering. "She's coming for lunch tomorrow."
I almost dropped the mug. Mom had invited some person, some stranger into the house. Some stranger who said she was my sister. And I would have to pretend it was okay.
(will be continued.)
home - K
The road curves away in the dark.
Sometimes, on nights like this, I think it really does. Curves away into nothing, and if I keep driving, I'll go right off into it. No squealing tires, no skid marks, no crunch of metal against a tree trunk. Just nothing. Just dark.
They stand along the road. Trees. They lean and arch their limbs over the car, clattering, sheltering from the black in their dead, clinging way. I think I appreciate it. I think I feel safe. We don't see the stars this way.
There is a cross stuck in the dirt by the side of the road. I wouldn't have seen it, but the reflective tape smoulders like coal in the flash of my high beams. Someone died here. A quick turn, a steep hill, too much speed, too many drinks, rain, ice, fog, deer. Then would come the squealing, the marks, the crunch. A heavy head and heavy eyelids, the cut across the brow, the blood the warmth trickling down the pain the heat the blood the blood.
It makes us shudder. Seeing it. Even now, even thinking about it, our hands tighten on the wheel, force that little squeak from the rubber. It's bad. I don't know when it got so bad. The pressure behind my eyes and the rasping whisper at my ear. I know where we're going. Into the woods. Strange things happen in the woods.
There's a turn up ahead, another farm road, like this one. The dirt kicks up around the tires and makes clouds in the dark. Rocks ping against the undercarriage. Sometimes the line of trees breaks and we can see the fields, the land belonging to the local farmers. Acres of snap beans and tomatoes and the skeletal frames of dormant irrigation systems. Pastures. Hollow-eyed barns. A gravel driveway. We pull off the road beside it and kill the engine. Get out. Hop the fence.
It's quiet here--one of those pastures. The owner doesn't stable his horses at night. They run through the dark grass like they think they're free. There's one close by. She saw the car pull up, stop. She watches us with lava glass eyes, stamping. We make her nervous, don't we? Animals know. She holds her head up. Snorts and stares and shies away. She's tense. We don't blame her.
The trees grow thick and close again behind the barn and the sleeping farm house. We break into a run. The horse kicks up and turns the other way, eager to put distance between us. The grass is soft and slick and cool and the wind stings our face and our hair flies like a flag as we leap another fence.
The hard, dry whiteness of birch bark and aspens. The underbrush that claws at our ankles like tiny, eager hands. The rustle of dead paper leaves in the dark. We breathe deep the wet earth and the promise of rain.
Welcome home, we whisper. Welcome home.
Sometimes, on nights like this, I think it really does. Curves away into nothing, and if I keep driving, I'll go right off into it. No squealing tires, no skid marks, no crunch of metal against a tree trunk. Just nothing. Just dark.
They stand along the road. Trees. They lean and arch their limbs over the car, clattering, sheltering from the black in their dead, clinging way. I think I appreciate it. I think I feel safe. We don't see the stars this way.
There is a cross stuck in the dirt by the side of the road. I wouldn't have seen it, but the reflective tape smoulders like coal in the flash of my high beams. Someone died here. A quick turn, a steep hill, too much speed, too many drinks, rain, ice, fog, deer. Then would come the squealing, the marks, the crunch. A heavy head and heavy eyelids, the cut across the brow, the blood the warmth trickling down the pain the heat the blood the blood.
It makes us shudder. Seeing it. Even now, even thinking about it, our hands tighten on the wheel, force that little squeak from the rubber. It's bad. I don't know when it got so bad. The pressure behind my eyes and the rasping whisper at my ear. I know where we're going. Into the woods. Strange things happen in the woods.
There's a turn up ahead, another farm road, like this one. The dirt kicks up around the tires and makes clouds in the dark. Rocks ping against the undercarriage. Sometimes the line of trees breaks and we can see the fields, the land belonging to the local farmers. Acres of snap beans and tomatoes and the skeletal frames of dormant irrigation systems. Pastures. Hollow-eyed barns. A gravel driveway. We pull off the road beside it and kill the engine. Get out. Hop the fence.
It's quiet here--one of those pastures. The owner doesn't stable his horses at night. They run through the dark grass like they think they're free. There's one close by. She saw the car pull up, stop. She watches us with lava glass eyes, stamping. We make her nervous, don't we? Animals know. She holds her head up. Snorts and stares and shies away. She's tense. We don't blame her.
The trees grow thick and close again behind the barn and the sleeping farm house. We break into a run. The horse kicks up and turns the other way, eager to put distance between us. The grass is soft and slick and cool and the wind stings our face and our hair flies like a flag as we leap another fence.
The hard, dry whiteness of birch bark and aspens. The underbrush that claws at our ankles like tiny, eager hands. The rustle of dead paper leaves in the dark. We breathe deep the wet earth and the promise of rain.
Welcome home, we whisper. Welcome home.
ghost hotel - E
Tuesday night. The most boring night. Last weekend's guests have checked out, and nobody's here yet for the next one. I usually spend these nights reading a book, maybe a magazine. Tonight, I'm training the new girl.
It's not really hard, I tell her, the hardest part is putting up with the guests. Guests and weekend traffic gets pretty hectic. Rigging the ice machine to work is no picnic either, but the guests are what'll get to you. She nods and smiles at me, pretending to be interested in the job-related checklist I'm going through. She's convincing enough. Some of these are on the photocopied list, others are things I throw in for the boss.
Answer the phone.
Keep the front desk tidy.
Don't mix up the room keys.
No visible piercings or tattoos.
"Uh-huh". She nods. She doesn't have any.
Don't steal pens, or the mints we leave on pillows. Don't steal anything, in fact.
The uniform is to be returned if you quit or are terminated.
I show her how to confirm reservations using the computer at the front counter. She stands behind me and watches, but doesn't lean in to see the details. She says amicably that she'll learn from experience. I say that's fine 'cause it's pretty easy anyway. I sit down at my end of the counter, by the long hall that leads to the rooms, and I pick up where I left off in the local skate 'zine. She's got that look of passive teenage boredom on her face, like the world is a Greek play she has to sit through between internet videos and the latest episode of Jersey Shore or Celebrity...whatever. I see a slight shift, her face perks up. She's gonna start talking. I pretend not to notice at first.
"So how long have you worked here?"
I look up at her, eyebrows raised, and blink. Her short, thick legs dangle from the tall chair parked in front of the computer. She's a big girl-- not tall, just sort of short and stout. She's packed into worn jeans that are probably a size too small, and she's wearing a loose blouse-type deal with big, inky-looking flower patterns in blue, white, and brown. We don't have a uniform shirt in her size yet. Her hair's a flat shade of brown, falling evenly, more or less, from a middle part down to her shoulders. Her face is doughy at the edges, but cute. She's wearing make-up. She tries to take care of herself.
Do you really care?, I want to ask, because your tone says anything is better than silence and I'm basically your last resort. And it's not like you'll be here next week or anything anyway because the only people I know who've ever lasted more than a month are Spencer and me. I want to ask her where she sees herself in a week. I blink again and turn my attention back to the magazine.
"Two years." I say, shoving some fake energy into it. Maybe she'll stay, I think. Who knows? Let's not close any doors.
"Oh wow, really?" She's said this phrase a thousand times before, a hundred times this week by the sound of it. Not the type to have insightful conversations, I decided. She paused, then added, "Shouldn't you be, like, a manager by now or something?"
"I guess." Even if there were managers around here I doubt there'd be much to do. The hotel employs a grand total of five people at any given time during the year: a receptionist for the front desk who manages reservations and rooms, a valet attendant, a cook, a bellhop, and a maid on occasion. I'm the bellhop. Spencer's the valet attendant. We've been best buds since grade school. Sometimes we get extra help during the busy season, but...Well, I'll get to that.
She digests the answer with a thoughtful half frown stretched out on her face. She turns back to the computer and checks it out for about a twenty seconds before she realizes she won't get to Facebook on it, let alone the internet, then sighs and slumps her shoulders a bit.
I don't want to care, but I can't leave her hanging. I fold the magazine up.
"Tucker."
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"My name. It's Tucker. Nice to meet you..." We shake hands.
"Jeannette."
"...Jeannette. Welcome aboard, then. Not to scare you off, but uh, we get a lot of new people here."
"I thought you said it wasn't hard?" She tilts her head and squints a little, an upturned hand pointing a finger at nothing in particular. She looks like she's trying to solve some sort of riddle.
"Well it's not, it's just...How did you find out about this place anyway? I mean, it's not really a tough job, it's just that there's a lot of weird stuff that happens here."
"I answered the ad I saw online-- I've worked in customer service before, so I figured...why not? And what do you mean by--"
Suddenly, the whole lobby smells like dead river. There's a man standing at the counter, glossy eyes locked somewhere off in the distance behind us. He's late sixties, maybe early seventies, but it's tough to tell since his skin is a grotesque, pulpy shade of purple. His suspenders keep his wrinkled, soggy jeans up as best they can, and he's dripping onto the carpet. Dripping from everywhere, from his bald crown and his bushy mustache and his bloated hands and crumpled flannel shirt. His mouth hangs slightly agape and I'm instantly reminded of a turkey staring up into a thunderstorm, drowning itself in the rain. Jeannette freezes, looks like she's going to draw a breath but seems to gag on the smell and starts coughing hysterically. Our first weeknight guest in a month, and his timing couldn't be better. I swing to face him, back straight and everything.
"Sir, I'll be with you in a..." No response. Good. "If you'll excuse us a second sir." I grab Jeannette, who's almost recovered, and yank her around the corner, down the hallway a few feet to the ice machine.
"Listen, this is going to seem really bizarre, but play along. That's all I need you to do, just play along and treat this guy like a normal human being. He is a guest. Okay?" I stare into her soul. She's swallowing carefully to keep from heaving, and her face looks like she's sucking a salted lemon. She closes off her nose.
"Ogay."
"Good. When we get back there get started checking him in. I'll get the information from him, you just hand him the key once we figure out his room. Remember: Think normal." She puts her game face on, and now it looks like she's swallowed the lemon instead.
I bring her around to the counter again and the old man is still standing there. Of course he is, I think, he's dead. He's probably having trouble remembering right now, too. Jeannette starts learning the computer system while I approach him, the wet stench permeating into everything.
"Welcome to the Twilight Arms Hotel, sir. Have you booked a room for the night?" I speak loudly, clearly, like he's deaf. Somewhere in his fog he hears me, and his milky eyes blink, stretch open, and then focus in on my face.
"I...think so, young man." A gush of filthy black water pours from his mouth like a bilge pump across the counter toward me. I pretend it didn't happen at all, and he doesn't seem to notice. Jeanette is at the brink of insanity. "I'm in...Room one-one-three, I think. Have you seen my son Dennis? We were supposed to go fishing, and I haven't seen him. His name is Aaron Evans. Did he call here?" She's already scrambling for the room key.
"No, sir, I don't believe so. If he calls, though, I can ring him through to your room, if that's all right with you."
"Oh...Oh, that's fine, thank you young man." He's having trouble focusing again, and starts staring down the hallway. Jeanette shoves the key into my hand and almost sprints to the lobby door, blurting something to the tune of Igoddago. I wonder if it's the last I'll see of her. Probably, I think. They never last more than a week or so anyway.
"Can I help you with your luggage, Mr. Evans?" He blinks himself back to me and nods.
I scoop up his fishing tackle he calls his baggage and lead him back down the hallway. He never stops dripping.
Tonight I find out how Walter Evans died.
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edit for formatting and minor tense fix. -M
It's not really hard, I tell her, the hardest part is putting up with the guests. Guests and weekend traffic gets pretty hectic. Rigging the ice machine to work is no picnic either, but the guests are what'll get to you. She nods and smiles at me, pretending to be interested in the job-related checklist I'm going through. She's convincing enough. Some of these are on the photocopied list, others are things I throw in for the boss.
Answer the phone.
Keep the front desk tidy.
Don't mix up the room keys.
No visible piercings or tattoos.
"Uh-huh". She nods. She doesn't have any.
Don't steal pens, or the mints we leave on pillows. Don't steal anything, in fact.
The uniform is to be returned if you quit or are terminated.
I show her how to confirm reservations using the computer at the front counter. She stands behind me and watches, but doesn't lean in to see the details. She says amicably that she'll learn from experience. I say that's fine 'cause it's pretty easy anyway. I sit down at my end of the counter, by the long hall that leads to the rooms, and I pick up where I left off in the local skate 'zine. She's got that look of passive teenage boredom on her face, like the world is a Greek play she has to sit through between internet videos and the latest episode of Jersey Shore or Celebrity...whatever. I see a slight shift, her face perks up. She's gonna start talking. I pretend not to notice at first.
"So how long have you worked here?"
I look up at her, eyebrows raised, and blink. Her short, thick legs dangle from the tall chair parked in front of the computer. She's a big girl-- not tall, just sort of short and stout. She's packed into worn jeans that are probably a size too small, and she's wearing a loose blouse-type deal with big, inky-looking flower patterns in blue, white, and brown. We don't have a uniform shirt in her size yet. Her hair's a flat shade of brown, falling evenly, more or less, from a middle part down to her shoulders. Her face is doughy at the edges, but cute. She's wearing make-up. She tries to take care of herself.
Do you really care?, I want to ask, because your tone says anything is better than silence and I'm basically your last resort. And it's not like you'll be here next week or anything anyway because the only people I know who've ever lasted more than a month are Spencer and me. I want to ask her where she sees herself in a week. I blink again and turn my attention back to the magazine.
"Two years." I say, shoving some fake energy into it. Maybe she'll stay, I think. Who knows? Let's not close any doors.
"Oh wow, really?" She's said this phrase a thousand times before, a hundred times this week by the sound of it. Not the type to have insightful conversations, I decided. She paused, then added, "Shouldn't you be, like, a manager by now or something?"
"I guess." Even if there were managers around here I doubt there'd be much to do. The hotel employs a grand total of five people at any given time during the year: a receptionist for the front desk who manages reservations and rooms, a valet attendant, a cook, a bellhop, and a maid on occasion. I'm the bellhop. Spencer's the valet attendant. We've been best buds since grade school. Sometimes we get extra help during the busy season, but...Well, I'll get to that.
She digests the answer with a thoughtful half frown stretched out on her face. She turns back to the computer and checks it out for about a twenty seconds before she realizes she won't get to Facebook on it, let alone the internet, then sighs and slumps her shoulders a bit.
I don't want to care, but I can't leave her hanging. I fold the magazine up.
"Tucker."
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"My name. It's Tucker. Nice to meet you..." We shake hands.
"Jeannette."
"...Jeannette. Welcome aboard, then. Not to scare you off, but uh, we get a lot of new people here."
"I thought you said it wasn't hard?" She tilts her head and squints a little, an upturned hand pointing a finger at nothing in particular. She looks like she's trying to solve some sort of riddle.
"Well it's not, it's just...How did you find out about this place anyway? I mean, it's not really a tough job, it's just that there's a lot of weird stuff that happens here."
"I answered the ad I saw online-- I've worked in customer service before, so I figured...why not? And what do you mean by--"
Suddenly, the whole lobby smells like dead river. There's a man standing at the counter, glossy eyes locked somewhere off in the distance behind us. He's late sixties, maybe early seventies, but it's tough to tell since his skin is a grotesque, pulpy shade of purple. His suspenders keep his wrinkled, soggy jeans up as best they can, and he's dripping onto the carpet. Dripping from everywhere, from his bald crown and his bushy mustache and his bloated hands and crumpled flannel shirt. His mouth hangs slightly agape and I'm instantly reminded of a turkey staring up into a thunderstorm, drowning itself in the rain. Jeannette freezes, looks like she's going to draw a breath but seems to gag on the smell and starts coughing hysterically. Our first weeknight guest in a month, and his timing couldn't be better. I swing to face him, back straight and everything.
"Sir, I'll be with you in a..." No response. Good. "If you'll excuse us a second sir." I grab Jeannette, who's almost recovered, and yank her around the corner, down the hallway a few feet to the ice machine.
"Listen, this is going to seem really bizarre, but play along. That's all I need you to do, just play along and treat this guy like a normal human being. He is a guest. Okay?" I stare into her soul. She's swallowing carefully to keep from heaving, and her face looks like she's sucking a salted lemon. She closes off her nose.
"Ogay."
"Good. When we get back there get started checking him in. I'll get the information from him, you just hand him the key once we figure out his room. Remember: Think normal." She puts her game face on, and now it looks like she's swallowed the lemon instead.
I bring her around to the counter again and the old man is still standing there. Of course he is, I think, he's dead. He's probably having trouble remembering right now, too. Jeannette starts learning the computer system while I approach him, the wet stench permeating into everything.
"Welcome to the Twilight Arms Hotel, sir. Have you booked a room for the night?" I speak loudly, clearly, like he's deaf. Somewhere in his fog he hears me, and his milky eyes blink, stretch open, and then focus in on my face.
"I...think so, young man." A gush of filthy black water pours from his mouth like a bilge pump across the counter toward me. I pretend it didn't happen at all, and he doesn't seem to notice. Jeanette is at the brink of insanity. "I'm in...Room one-one-three, I think. Have you seen my son Dennis? We were supposed to go fishing, and I haven't seen him. His name is Aaron Evans. Did he call here?" She's already scrambling for the room key.
"No, sir, I don't believe so. If he calls, though, I can ring him through to your room, if that's all right with you."
"Oh...Oh, that's fine, thank you young man." He's having trouble focusing again, and starts staring down the hallway. Jeanette shoves the key into my hand and almost sprints to the lobby door, blurting something to the tune of Igoddago. I wonder if it's the last I'll see of her. Probably, I think. They never last more than a week or so anyway.
"Can I help you with your luggage, Mr. Evans?" He blinks himself back to me and nods.
I scoop up his fishing tackle he calls his baggage and lead him back down the hallway. He never stops dripping.
Tonight I find out how Walter Evans died.
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edit for formatting and minor tense fix. -M
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