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The Cabin

Michael reaches the climax of the story, his deep voice filling the room. He likes the way his story makes Beth squirm, but he’s overdoing the theatrics, trying to get a reaction from John who is as stoic as ever. I listen carefully, using the action of the story as an excuse to curl closer to Kyle on the couch.

“He lunged at the knife in his attacker’s hand. He wanted to kill the girl. He couldn’t help himself. Tears blurred his vision, but his anger propelled him forward to overpower the stunned girl. And without hesitation, he stabbed her in the stomach. One penetrating blow into the hot, slick flesh wasn’t enough for him. No. He stabbed the girl again, and again, and again until the blade finally slipped in his bloody hand, slicing his palm open. He walked away slowly. His shoulders hunched in defeat. He crumbles on the floor next to his dead lover’s body, weeping cradling the almost decapitated corpse.”

Michael stares at each of us in the silence, letting the images from his horror story sink into our psyche. I try not to laugh at Beth’s overreaction, with her iron clad grip around John’s arm, her face buried in his shoulder. Michael becomes more animated as he finishes.

Somehow, he has roped us into sitting next to the fireplace as he waves a flashlight in his face attempting to scare us all. This is not how I planned for the weekend to go, but I’m content right now, sitting next to Kyle who cannot take his eyes off of Michael and his story.

Once he feels like the silence has completed its purpose, Michael lowers his voice, angling the flashlight under his face so the contours of his features are more pronounced.

“He glared at the body of his attacker, angry he could not reanimate it for the sole purpose of killing her again. He didn’t want to remember what had happened and what he had done. He grabbed the spare tanks of gasoline from the shed, spreading the contents throughout the house, taking slight pause in his work to douse each body thoroughly. Outside, in the night, he threw a lit match on the wet steps, watching calmly as the cabin was quickly engulfed in flames, burning brighter than the stars in the sky. Satisfied. He walked away without looking back, not wanting to think of that dismal weekend ever again. Today, he walks among us as a broken man.”

Once Michael finishes his story the spell breaks, and Beth fills the silence. “Did they really have to be in a cabin in the woods? I’m terrified now.” Beth’s voice breaks as she cautiously looks from around John’s shoulder.

“So it worked.” Michael answers with a charming wink.

John gently pries Beth away from him, shaking his arm to regain blood flow. “At least someone makes it to the end. It should have been the black guy for once. You know, mix it up a bit. You could have even thrown in a lesbian, a samurai, or a witch. They are very underrepresented parties in the creepy campfire genre.”

“Or, their parents could have showed up and baked them cookies. Well, not in my story, buddy.” Michael retorts, slightly annoyed at John’s slight critique.

John ignores him turning to Kyle, “What did you think of it, Kyle Earl Scott?” He smiles at the mention of his full name. John’s the only one that calls Kyle by his full name. It’s weird.

“I think there was a great moral to the story.” Kyle looks between me and Beth as if he knows he’s about to say something he shouldn’t. “Chicks are crazy.”

“Shut up.” I playfully hit Kyle across the shoulder, but all of the boys can’t stop laughing.

“Ow, Natasha,” Kyle rubs his shoulder, speaking only after his fits of laughter subside. “It was only a joke.”

Beth doesn’t respond to Kyle’s comment at all. She’s still terrified from the story. She has her hands clasped together, shaking in her lap. Her makeup is smudged all over her face, but her hair is still tied back immaculately, a glimpse of Beth’s true nature when she’s not scared out of her mind. “Can someone please turn on the lights? And get some firewood? I’m freezing.” Beth starts rambling off demands that are hidden as requests.

I like the cold. I like the draft that’s natural to the cabin and the random creaks of the old wood. It comforts me to know that this place has history. People have lived here. People have died here. It’s wonderful.

Michael turns on the light, while John offers himself and Kyle to go get the firewood. Kyle agrees because he’s a nice guy, but I want him to stay. That is the whole point of the weekend, for me to be with Kyle. But, somehow, John got invited and then Beth and Michael. I’m just trying to make the best out of the situation. Think positive like the book my mom gave me tells me to.

John puts on his letterman jacket before leaving, beckoning for Kyle to follow, “C’mon. We have tiring work ahead of us.”

“Don’t worry Natasha.” Kyle gently adds, still trying to get away, “If a mad slasher woman comes barreling through the woods, Michael will be here to protect you.”

“Yeah. Whatever,” I can only roll my eyes at the ludicrous comment, before finally letting go of him.

“Fat chance,” Michael retorts from the kitchen. “I know what happens to people like me. We die. First sign of trouble, I’m hoping in my car and driving until I get a signal on my phone. It’s everyman for himself. Survival of the fittest. It’s only natural for-” The rest of his rant is lost in muffles as he begins to stuff his face with food.

“You don’t mean that,” Beth snaps, slowly getting back to her normal self. She’s opened a compact mirror and has begun to put back on the foundations of her face.

“It’s okay,” John remarks in the frame of the door, obviously eager to get out into the night. “If you scream loud enough, we’ll come running back.” Kyle slips out the door behind John and the wait for him to come back begins.

“You ladies hungry?” Michael momentarily surfaces from in the kitchen, offering us a plate of food.

Beth waves him away with a hand, and I leave as an answer. I don’t like either of their presence here, ruining my weekend away with Kyle. I walk upstairs to my room. My parents and I move around a lot because bad things always seem to happen around us.

This cabin has been in the family for years, and it just so happens that this year we live close enough to it that I can use it on a regular basis, instead of as a vacation destination. I haven’t been back long enough to redecorate my room, so it is still filled with all of the things I loved when I was seven. Random CDs and a picture of me and my best friend at the pool are all scattered on my dresser. Her name was Alice. I saw her drown. Then we moved for the third time in two years.

The Secret, a book my mom gave me so long ago but I only recently cracked open, lays on the bookshelf as the only new addition. My mom gave it to me as a not so subtle hint. I resented her at first, but I’ve been trying to follow what it says about positive thinking lately. If the start of this weekend is any indication, positive thoughts don’t work.

Someone knocks on my door. Michael pops his head around the wood, with the last vestiges of his sandwich disappearing between his lips. If I’m not with Kyle, I want to be alone, but Michael can’t seem to get the hint.

“Go away,” Even before I spoke, I knew my command would fall on deaf ears. He walks into my room anyway and sits next to me on my bed. Wait. Positive thoughts. Hopefully, Michael will get hungry again and walk away.

Michael begins to do the most irritating thing he could possibly do right now. He opens his mouth and words start to come out. “I’m trying to figure you out. You invite us all down here yet-”

“I didn’t invite all of you.” I interrupt him, trying to make it clear that this weekend has not been going the way I wanted it to. If he knows that I positively don’t want him here then maybe he’ll go away. “I only invited Kyle.”

“Oh, if that’s the case then let me tell you right now that it’s not gonna happen, sweetheart. Trust me.” Michael smiles as if he’s laughing at an inside joke. “Don’t waste anymore time on him.”

Positive thoughts aren’t working. Michael isn’t going away, so I have to make him got away.

“Follow me,” I say with a smile, instantly switching strategies.

“Um, okay,” Michael stutters before stupidly following me into the bathroom. “What’s going on?”

“I just want to show you something,” I turn on the shower first then quickly look for the knife I used to keep in here. “Here it is.”

I turn around and jam the dull knife in Michael’s neck. He doesn’t even have enough time to look surprised. A soft gurgle escapes his red lips, but the steady rhythm of the shower drowns out his muffled screams. His fingers weakly grab at me as I stab him again with more precision, making sure to hit a major artery. He crumples on the floor in front of me. For fun, I stab him in the chest; his last heartbeat reverberates from the steel of the blade to tingle the palm of my hand.

“Everyman for himself, right?” I whisper mockingly over Michael’s corpse. Not wasting any time, I drag his body over to the bathtub. First, I lift his legs into the tub, then the rest of his body. I’m covered in blood so I decide to take a shower while I’m here. The water feels nice cascading down my back as I straddle Michael’s body, my feet completely immersed in his blood. With one down, I have two more to go before I’m alone with Kyle. This weekend might not be so bad after all.

After I’m all cleaned off, I hear boots and the door opening downstairs. That has to be Kyle returning. I can’t help the smile that engulfs my face and the excitement I feel as I put on fresh clothes.

I reach the bottom of the steps before I can see Kyle. He’s smile beaming as he puts his logs on the fire with one hand, using the other to brush leaves and twigs out of his dirt hair. If we were alone, Kyle and I would be sitting next to the fire together. He would whisper in my ear and I would-

“Where’s Michael?” Beth interrupts my thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I answer with a shrug of my shoulders, switching my attention from Beth to John. “You guys didn’t bring back enough firewood.”

“That’s all we could find. We checked everywhere,” John shares a laugh with Kyle for some reason.

“Well you didn’t go in the shed. That’s where we keep most of the firewood. Follow me John. I’m going to need some help,” This time John follows me out the door, and we make the short trek to the shed.

“So why do you call Kyle by his full name?” I ask, wanting to know before I kill him.

John opens up easily, “With a name like Kyle Earl Scott, how could you not?” John gets oddly animated when talking about Kyle’s name. “It’s so perfect. Each part of his name could be a first name. And it’s like you just know one of his parents wanted to call him Earl and the other didn’t want their son to go through his childhood years with the name of a grandpa. And it’s just one of those names you have to say it fully because it just sounds better. And of course, once I started calling him by his full name, I couldn’t stop.”

We finally make it to the shed, and I let John enter first. I follow, but instead of going to the piles of firewood, I go to the back of the shed, grabbing my axe. I stand there for a moment contemplating what John said about Kyle’s full name. Kyle Earl Scott. Kyle Earl Scott. Kyle Earl Scott. It sounds nice, but I don’t like it. Kyle Scott sounds better.

I turn around and John is still bent over the pile of firewood. Without a moment’s hesitation, I swing the axe high, aiming for his neck. I feel a satisfying thunk as the blade of the axe connects with bone. Blood splatters against the wall and along the piles of wood but thankfully none gets on me. I could explain one costume change but not two. Beth already thinks I’m weird.

John slumps onto the ground, his head jutting off at an unnatural angle but still connected to his body. I’m impressed with my work. John has a thick neck, but I easily cut through half of it with one swing. Those trips to the gym have been paying off.

I want to move him into my bathroom so all of the bodies are in the same place. I wrap John’s body in a tarp and drag him to the back door of the house. I make sure Beth and Kyle Scott are not around before entering the house. For being a starting football player, John is oddly light. I get him to my bathroom without any problems. When I come back downstairs Kyle Scott and Beth are sitting on the couch together, looking worried.

“What’s wrong?” I feign concern.

“Michael. We can’t find him anywhere and his car is still here.” Beth answers truly concerned.

“Where’s John?” Kyle Scott asks, his eyes wide with panic.

“He’s still getting firewood. Calm down.” I answer, sitting next to him on the couch and grabbing his hand. “Maybe Michael saw trouble and left. Everyman for himself and whatnot.” I say with a halfhearted laugh.

“But his car is still here.” Beth says, clinging to logic.

“We can look for them again if you want,” I say, giving in so I can get her alone with me. “You and I can check upstairs and Kyle Scott can stay down here.”

“What did you call me?” Kyle Scott asks stunned.

“Kyle Scott. I like the way it sounds.” I look at him, wanting him to smile like he did when John said his full name, but I don’t even get a smirk. That will change when we’re finally alone.

I walk upstairs and Beth follows. “We should look in my room first since it’s at the top of the stairs.”

Beth can’t find the words to answer but she nods. Beth had just finished putting herself back together, now she’s starting to unravel again. Her usually pristine nails are chewed to bits.  Her clothes seem ruffled and her face seems to be riddled with lines. She is stressing herself out and it is tearing her apart. If I toyed with her a bit more, I bet she would go crazy and take her own life. But I don’t have that kind of time.

I slip into the bathroom, grabbing the knife I used to kill Michael. I do have some time. Maybe I can gag her and have a little fun. I could get rid of the rest of her nails or make my own lines on her body. The knife is old and dull so it will hurt, and I will be able to see the pain in her eyes. I scurry out the bathroom in my excitement, careful not to open the door too wide.

Immediately, I see the red cover of The Secret flying at my face, knocking me on the head. Someone throws me against the wall and my feet give out from underneath me.

“It’s you. You’ve done something to them?” Beth says calmly while kicking the knife out my hand. For once someone has taken me by surprise. “Michael goes to look for you then we can’t find him. John gets wood with you, and he still hasn’t returned. Where are they? What have you done?” Again her questions demand answers.

I try to get off the floor but she kicks me back down. Instead, I tackle her knees, taking her down with me. We grapple on the floor, but I easily gain the advantage. I wrap my arm around her neck, pulling tight. She struggles. Who knew Beth would be the fighter in the group? I like it. I like not knowing if she will overpower me or not. She struggles and struggles until she’s finally still in my arms.

“Is everything okay up there?” Kyle Scott yells from below while running up the stairs. Panicked, I quickly kick Beth’s body into the bathroom, unable to fully close the door before Kyle Scott finally barges in.

Getting over my initial panic, I can’t help but smile. We’re finally alone.

“What’s going on? Where’s Beth?” He belts, frantically walking to the other end of the room as if one of his friends will magically appear.

“She’s down the hall, looking for Michael.” I answer calmly.

“I heard something in here, though. It sounded serious.”

“That was just my book falling.” I lie unconvincingly as Kyle Scott’s eyes find the smallest book on the floor. He raises an eye, trying to connect the amount of commotion with the small novel. I should really get better at lying on the spot. I don’t want to have to kill Kyle Scott. That would make this weekend a waste.

His eyes find the knife instead still coated with Michael’s blood and his eyes turn wide. “John never came back. Michael is gone and now Beth. What have you done, Natasha?”

“Nothing,” I answer. “I just wanted for us to have a nice weekend together and they were in the way.” I try to grab Kyle Scott’s arm and pull him toward the bed but he doesn’t budge.

I can tell that he’s not taking it well. My parents didn’t take it well the first time they found out either. I don’t want to hurt him, but I might be forced to. Maybe, he will see that I did this all for him.

“Natasha. Where are they?” Kyle growls at me, demanding an answer. I point to the bathroom. He gently tries to open the door but is stopped by Beth’s body. He steps over her body and disappears behind the door.

“No! No!” Kyle Scott yells as he fully begins to comprehend what I’ve done.

“But we’re alone now. We can be together.” I try and convince him through the door, but I pick up the knife in preparation.

“I’m gay, Natasha!” Kyle Scott yells barreling through the bathroom door, blood on his hands and tears streaming down his face. I see the fury in his eyes, and he lunges at the knife in my hand.

I’ve already been told what’s going to happen next. I’ve already lived this life. This is the story of how I die.

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Her Galateo

Coin-Operated Boy by The Dresden Dolls on Grooveshark 

She did the worst thing to him she could think of. She bound his skin to tenterhooks and twisted.

His flaws were the first thing to go. His smile was just a little too sloppy, too wide, too dangerous. His casual words came from a lolling, lazy tongue, so that she replaced with shiny aluminium. It's more proper that way. She filleted the thick meat of selfish living down to bare bones and replaced even those with wrought iron and oiled joints. She gave all of his parts purpose.

Then came his history, which just really wouldn't do. She unlearned all of his lessons. She rewrote the way they'd met. She opened up the crystal candy case of his organic brain and she ran copper lines and quicksilver down the ridges until something fit. The past is best manipulated, not remembered, after all. Backstories ought to hurt, if only just a little.

Last? She took away his dreams. She told him all that he could be. He could be nothing less.

He could be nothing more. Well, no. I suppose that, if he broke, then he could just be nothing.

She did the worst thing to him she could think of. She remade him in her own image.

What else could she do?

Well, no. I suppose that she just... be...

Nothing?

Prompt: writeworld:

 

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.
 

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

The worst monsters are the ones we make. The most terrifying? The ones that we recognize.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, questions, and more! Click it.

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Making the Most

Whats Going On by Marvin Gaye on Grooveshark

We painted the walls red. It's fine. The blood was ours; the room wasn't.

The night was good.

We'd shopped at a shopping mall. We'd had drinks and told edgy jokes at our neighborhood disposable restauraunt. We'd walked for hours through well-lit boulevards and smoky lots. We'd kicked cans. We'd danced to music that we made up, silly little hums. Everything was all fine.

Then the muggers found us. They thought we looked rich. They thought we looked easy.

When we got back up, all slit and savaged, they screamed and left half a dozen wallets behind.

We'd kissed gently at each other's painless wounds. We'd laughed, even if we'd cried a little. It had been the perfect, peaceful evening, but then it wasn't, and then we had to cry a bit. We really had been asking for it, hadn't we? It was what we were. Not. Normal, that is.

So we broke into a pawn shop, all off-white walls and thin glass cases. We rocked and rolled against each other until we shone like iridescent porcupines. We made an evening out of it.

We weren't normal. We weren't nice. But we were together, and we had two pints of Dreyer's.

Strawberry. Of course it was strawberry. What else could it have been? The night was good. 

Prompt: writeworld:

Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.
 

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

Still on the road. Still seeking love and other input.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, questions, or what-have- you.

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A String of Dawns

(Trigger warning - see tags if concerned.)

It wasn't the falling lattices of flame that broke me. It was opening my eyes after they'd fallen.

It wasn't the stink. Brimstone, after a while, can be a comfort. I;d wandered through too many shells of homes, bonemeal crunching underneath ill-fitted, dead men's shoes. They'd been clean once - the shoes, the floors, the homes. Now they were tombs of dust and stink, but not even stink lasts forever. Flame was fresh. Flame cleans. Sometimes, in the flame, you found survivors.

The ropes and weaves of falling flames were almost always the last to die.

And it wasn't the scream of howling engines that electrified my heart. It was silence, open air.

Silence was certain. Engines had hope. Wings of possibility, Starya had called them. Friend or enemy? Food parcels or penetrating spikes? Every bird's a bird of prey, but you never could know if you were the intended meal. There's a comfort in that, in the thick of bonemeal and living flames. There's a chance that  shrill cry might just save your life. Birds call; survivors hear them.

And... it wasn't the taste of my own blood that tore the sweat out  my heaving chest.

It was the breath of sweet air, the scent of warm tea, the reality of a world that wasn't falling all around me. There was no gallows humor; only rusty gallows to remind me of the good jokes. There were no somber songs, just  children's voices who had never seen open skies and wept. There were no penetrating spikes, no wings or bonemeal. No Starya. No Starya. No falling flame.

It wasn't that she hadn't made it. It was that the flames had died.

It was that I had survived. It was that the bonemeal crunch never goes quiet.

But I'd survived.

Or had I, really?

Prompt: text-onlynopromises asked you:

2) I thought I was not in a dream, for I had seen this city once before in my nightly sojourn, but I was still asleep.

Lighter pieces with lighter prompts, I hope, over the next few days. I'll be traveling, so posts may come at odd times or with a surprising brevity! Be prepared!

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins.

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Still Life

He stood still, while his whole world lived and danced under the streetlights and the stars.

He stood in his own shadow, winding streets ahead him and so far behind. He'd walked as far as he could remember, had gone as far as he could bear to go. So now he stood and watched and wondered if the asphalt had drunk up all of his sweat and youth and strength and possibility.

You see, the streets slithered like snakes. They bit their own tails in turnabouts. They spread, wide and inviting, into Christmas-colored boulevards.

The pavement might as well have been guzzled-down, smooth gizzard stones. It swallowed him.

Above him, hungry birds swept up and down to mock him. Hawks soared under the sun. Owls taunted him in moonlight with one ugly little question. Over and over. He couldn't answer, even as the hawks screamed. He couldn't shut it out, no matter how many times the owls asked him.

The sun and moon made love next door to the space lived in. The stars watched everybody. Perverts. Voyeurs. Sadists.

He hated the stars. Their stories were always over by the time they got to him.

When would his even start?

Or worse, was this it?

Prompt: text-onlynopromises asked you:

1) The streets have wandered time again/the lonely hawks on herbs they plan/the stars undo the frisky night.

I may be tired or in a bad mood. Maybe. Maybe...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins.


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New Tricks

    “I’d bet my life you have no idea how to handle that… thing." The words pierce ego like ice picks as Dani turns and walks backwards, slowly leading us down the dimly lit alleyway behind the bar.
    “Is that so? You handle it, then, smart ass." I tighten my grip around the long, slender, rubberized handle of the axe, then push it into her chest, firmly. “Take it. Take it!" She looks up at me, wide-eyed, backpedaling with every shove.
    “You’re scaring me, Jake." I take one more abrupt step before she falls, hitting the ground like a crumbling jenga tower. “Look at what you did!" She reaches towards our feet and pries her shoe from between two stones. The heel’s snapped in half, looking like Maurice’s mangled horn in Little Monsters, hanging on by a thin strip of leather.
    “I’m sorry, dear." I reach down and offer my hand, then pull her up quickly. “I’m just a little stressed. This doesn’t happen every day."
    “No kidding. I keep asking myself what was in my drink." I reach out and grab the shoe from her hand, studying it for a crease, something to tell me I could just rip it off. I decide it’s solid, so I kneel down, placing my fingers inside the shoe to hold it upright, and lift the axe.
    CLANK! One heel cut cleanly off. I hand it to Dani and motion for the other. CLANK! I inspect the newly minted flats, then hand them back to her. “Good running shoes, now."
    “Thanks, I guess. I’m sure that’ll help when I’m being chased by a madman with an axe."
    “Regular occurrence for you?"
    “Let’s just say I go through my fair share of sneak—"
    “Shhh!" I motion to my left, towards the bar. We stand frozen, ears perked.
    “What did you h—"
    “Shhhhhhh!"
    A voice slowly rises from the darkness. “Spare…. Spare…."
    “I’m scared, Jake."
    “We need to get out of here, now." I reach for Dani’s hand and she recoils. “What the hell? Let’s go!" She covers her mouth with one hand and kneels down, trembling.
    “Spare…" A new voice is behind me. I clench the axe. "…some change?"

    It must have been five minutes I watched her bounce across the shrinking span from one to another to another, pushing one back a foot, another, a few inches, and another, and another. There was nothing I could do—stabbed in the neck before I could turn to swing. I couldn’t bring myself to pull it out and fade away.
    I wish they had finished me before… I had to watch her—screaming, crying, twitching—focusing every last bit of energy into kicking with her feet, running in her new flats. It wasn’t the devouring I had planned when we met.

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Cold Turkey

"I can do this. I can do this. I can do this..."

Second-hand rain dripped down from gutters in streams, from jagged corners in gray dots, and from his hoodie down his face like tears. Brown, black, and a dry red flaked down to his lips.

He licked his lips. He sighed, for reasons he didn't want to think about, then he spit.

Vomited. Clenched his fists tighter.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can do this..."

It had been four hours. It was closer to morning than midnight, but it felt too bright to be fair. The sunbeam-yellow of a phone advertisement warmed the block like a sun, even if the heat didn't quite make it. Neon technicolor bounced up like a rainbow from the rippling puddles. Street lights. Lit windows. Budweiser and Corona, buzzing on right up till morning.

Then...then it'd get quiet.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can...do this..."

Another hour passed. Soaked through and sweating, he forced himself into a tight ball. He hugged his knees against his bare chest, covering pale skin with the thin sweater material. He wasn't cold. His breath didn't stain the air white. He tried not think about it, about why, about...

He tried not think about- no!

All he had to was wait for morning, for the sun. Then quiet.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can-" 

A girl walked out of Phong's. He sniffed the air by reflex - pho tai. A single, red tear streaked fresh down his face. He wished it hadn't. Every drop he lost only made him hungrier.

Maybe she'd taste like pho, was the last thought that he ever had.

Until he woke up the next night, even dirtier.

Dirty, but warm. Warm, but hungry.


Prompt: littlelilinlover asked you: "Your favorite food in the world suddenly makes you so ill you can't consume it. Ever."

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Off the Shelf

He buys his anger off the shelf in little green bottles, each stoppered with a tiny cork, each cork sealed with wax the color of obsidian. He pays with pieces of bone and twists of hair, laying them on the scarred wooden counter in front of the woman with the cloth face and stitched eyes, who blindly and unerringly takes the payment in her shriveled hand and makes it vanish into her till. Transaction complete, he slithers down the abandoned hallway to the door which only opens for the right sort of customer, where he breaks the seal on one of the bottles and pours the thin bitter fluid contained within into the hole in his throat, drowning in it. He crushes the empty bottle in his stone hand, the glass not daring to cut him, and he flings the pieces away into the shadows of the room.

He takes his tools from his coat pocket, his hammer specked with bits of hair and stained the color of copper, his blade with jagged edges like the backs of broken ships, and the door opens for him without having to be touched. He crashes into the dark, focusing his reptile brain on her, always on her, knowing that he will find her tonight, as he does every night, and he will show her what a fine vintage of anger can do for man.

Behind him, the door swings silently shut, and disturbs the fine talcum cloud of ash and soot left hanging in the air with his departure. Inside, the woman with the cloth face begins restocking the shelf with a dozen little green bottles, in anticipation of the man’s return the following night.

After all, he is her best customer.

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Still Water

The water falls still.
And soon I am too.

A calmness settles over me.
A clarity.
One I haven't felt since I found your letter.
Rage thrashed inside me like the water when I read it.
But it is calm now.
I am calm.
The water is calm and I am calm.
I never thought such a stillness would settle upon me.
As my footfall crushed the gravel beneath when I walked down your driveway, I never thought to the purpose I headed toward.
I knew what I was doing but there was no thought.
Like how a falling stone does not reason what is happening
There was no alternative.
I was singular in my purpose as the sound was singular across the lake.
I never thought that holding you down would calm me.
I never thought such a silence would follow.
Such a calmness.
Such a stillness.
I only knew that rage that churned inside me had to be reciprocated.
I don't need to hold anymore.
You'll stay down.
The moon light shines pale as you look up at me through the water so still.
The water so cold.
I know what to do.
I know what comes next.
I hear the wail of sirens and the screech of tires as I walk back to the stony shore.
Shouts and cries of strangers calling out for you.
Calling out for me.
I fill my pockets and turn back to the still water as the lights begin waving in the distance.
The faint sound of feet crushing the gravel grew.
Haste and desperation in each step.
They are too late.
The rocks are heavy and I follow you down.


The water falls still.
And soon I am too.

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patchwork narrative - Monster

patchwork narrative - Monster

MAY 10

http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/

Monster


“Maybe he does love us. Maybe it’s a kind of love that’s about ownership.
You know, you own what you can destroy. Maybe the base idea,
underlying truth, is about securing what you love with total control,
power over, complete dependency. I guess it may be that he gets a thrill
from an intimacy of pain, giving what is his to give, taking satisfaction
from that intensity of power.”
Autumn speaks of her father, the monster who in a sense devoured
her life. He is part of her creation, an overarching part. He is the
beast who devoured, destroyed her mother’s beauty and innocence,
and will to live, belief in anything like love or security or pleasure.
The need to escape his violence sent them on the run, landed them
in this dismal place. Yet Autumn loves her father, in a simple, complex
wishful desire for belonging, for family myths of entangled love.
Perhaps her primal, formative experience in monster love allows her
to feel safe with me. I am certainly dangerous to those strangers I
prey upon who seem quite at home in monstrous desire.
Perhaps I could subsist without draining, killing, could take just
enough to weaken unconscious drunks or junkies, derelicts who
would never be believed if they did remember me. Would that make
me less a monster? What if I fed on lesser animals, rats, coyotes,
feral dogs? Would that look like penance for my crimes against nature,
my unnatural afterlife?
I do as I do, among all that I can do, what feels natural to me.
Monster nature, without assured end, its own retribution, punishment,
enduring burn of caustic guilt.
No, the shame did not lessen on my experimental diets of nonhuman
vermin or hits of drug infused blood. I have walked undead long
enough to try it all, discover my vampire nature, with all of eternity
yet before me.
It’s not the loneliness, though I have often told myself, private pity
party cried that lie.
I do enjoy this amazing interval of fantasy, hours with Autumn away
from relentless confrontation with my truth. There is no real escape,
relief from the story I inhabit. I have no hope of welcoming home.
I died so very long ago. The monster who makes appointed rounds,
hides from day, becomes shadow through the night, knows this is
no way to live. There is no better future in my neverending sentence
without possibility of meaningful change, meaningful connection
with any kind of interactive social world. I fill my days with fantasy,
nights with necessity. Long since dead, mine is a parody life,
perhaps a homage to the archetypal monster vying for control.