#1
Two rednecks walk into an eatery and order some subs, which in Georgia are called 'samichets'. This is inexplicable in the same way that all yellow cheese is cheddar and all soda is Coke and all beer is PBR. As their cheerful sandwich-maker prepares their food, a conversation springs up on the subject of tornadoes.
"Tornadoes are fun!" The sandwich-maker remarks with a winsome smile, "Growing up in Pennsylvania, I've had the pleasure of their company several times."
"Pennsylvania!?" The rednecks exchange a glance and then the taller of the two gives the sandwich-maker a suspicious stare and leans in close. "You ain't kissin' up on Obama's ass like all them other Pennsylvanians are, are ya? I can't stand that Muslim freak. I can't stand them people. They so ignorant."
"Why no! I'm more or less apolitical, really." The sandwich-maker says, trying not to fall over laughing, then sees their blank expressions and tries again. "I don't care one way or the other."
"Ah, well. Maybe you should just make our samichets," says the tall redneck and turns his back to the sandwich-maker to begin a loud conversation about God and guns with his shorter, hirsute companion.
Some minutes later, when the subs are finished and presented to the customers, the taller fellow offers an apology.
"I didn't mean to be insulting. Being from Pennsylvania is okay, I guess. At least you ain't from Commie-fornia! But you should just stick to makin' samitchets. God bless you."
#2
After seven months or more without speaking a mother, moved by the birth of her third grandchild and first grandson, calls her own oldest child. This child is a rebellious daughter living far away from the comforting confines of pig farms, strip mines, and an ever-growing family of mentally unbalanced alcoholics.
As they chat, somewhat tentatively, the mother talks about how she still can't find work after two and a half years and the unemployment has run out. Everything is fine except she has no money because her husband keeps it all for beer. And then she fills her daughter in on how her three younger brothers are doing.
The oldest of three has finally moved out and his living with his baby-mama in a far away city, about an hour's drive away. He has a job for the first time and is working double shifts when he can. This is a major improvement from drinking, smoking pot, and smacking his mother around.
The middle brother is much less of an alcoholic than he used to be. He hasn't gotten a DUI or taken out a tree with his pick-up truck in months. He's got a job, but he still lives at home, though he gets to see his two kids every other weekend so that's okay because the mother gets to see them as well. Such a blessing.
The youngest boy has a new girlfriend who is a batshit crazy cling-on and they live together only twenty minutes away in the first real town one can come to in that neck of the woods. It's a change from the 50+ woman he was dating which is good. But he's having trouble staying in college, which is bad. And the girl he's with is crazy, which is also troubling. But hey, he's moved out and all so awesome.
Then the mother asks the daughter how her life is going. The daughter talks about her job, the decent pay and health insurance. She brings up her writing and her happy relationship of two years, the expansion of her skills in various crafts.
And then her mother chimes in. "Well. That's good. At least you aren't working a street corner somewhere. Oh by the way, that box of toys you sent for your brother's daughters hasn't gotten here yet, so you have a mission. Fix that. I hope we can talk again soon, bye."
#3
A man walks up to a woman who is wrapping yarn around pointy sticks in an intricate pattern that appears to be resulting in some sort of fabric.
"Say, that's pretty neat. What do you call that? Is it crochet? My mother used to crochet before she got too busy raising us kids."
"No," says the woman, not glancing up from her project, "This is knitting. Two or more needles with pointed ends. Crochet is one hook."
"Oh, well. That's cool too. You could sell that, you know. What are you making? A hat?"
"I'm making a hexagon and when I finish it, I will make another. It's an easily transportable project, and when I have enough of them, I will sew them together into a quilt."
"Are you going to sell it?"
"It isn't feasible, really. No one would pay what it is worth. Each hexagon takes about thirty minutes. If I charge $10 an hour, which is cheap for skilled labor, it would be ten times two hundred hours for the work alone. That's $2,000. Which doesn't count the cost of the yarn, another $100 or so."
"Oh," the man says, scowling and walking away. "I guess you're wasting your time then.
Inspired by the Open Bar thread and NaNoWriMo-procastination. Probably NSFW.
In the bar, you thought it was sexy, how she kept her shades on, peering at you now and again over the rims. Giving you the tiniest glimpses of her dark eyes. Contacts, you thought, and admired how the eyes and sunglasses set off the cascade of honey brown curls falling even with the end of her sternum.
You really wanted to touch that hair, back in the bar. It looked so soft, and shone with gold highlights. It almost seemed to have a life of its own as the coils spilled over one another when she turned to take delicate sips of her drink, demurely facing away from you as she did so.
And though she wore gloves, feminine and delicate; closing with a pearl button just where her hand met the wrist, you could feel the heat of her skin when she laid her hand on your arm. You could see the same heat in the curve of her body towards yours when she gave you her full attention as you spoke.
So now you find yourself in her house. Watching her sway around the perimeter of the room, lighting candles set on bookshelves, wall sconces, and the mantle over the dimly glowing fireplace.
She throws you a smile over her shoulder and your heart jumps into your throat.
"I'll be right back. Make yourself at home. Just slipping into something more comfortable."
"S-sure!"
And you can barely decide what to do with yourself while you wait. Sit down, stand up, take off your jacket and unbutton your polo shirt. Sit back down and fidget impatiently.
When she emerges from some other room, she's wearing a semi-sheer robe. And nothing else. You notice how her skin is just as soft-looking as her hair. And how she smiles, showing you a dazzling set of teeth beneath those luscious red lips.
She holds her hands out and turns, showing you everything, almost.
"What do you think?"
You know the answer to this one, you're not an idiot. "You're beautiful. A goddess come to earth."
This makes her laugh. She throws her head back and you watch her throat move in time with the sweet sound she makes.
Then you notice her hands, folded over her stomach while she laughs. And her fingertips are black, somewhat stubby, though her fingers are still elegant, for they filled the gloves perfectly, didn't they?
Her head lowers and she looks at you. In the candle light you can see, behind her black eyes, two glowing red flecks in each one.
"I don't get out much," she says, slinking over to your chair and sinking side-ways into your lap, wrapping her arms around your neck. "I was so happy to meet you. I hope you're enjoying yourself."
Less sure of things than you were a minute ago, you reply anyway. "S-sure! Sure am."
"Such a sweetheart."
Her fingers trail down your cheek and you realize they're leaving a trail of char. And you realize her breasts, full and lovely, are also blackened where the nipples should be. Her toes, one foot caressing your calf, are black. Her earlobes.
As she leans in to kiss you, you see past the gates of her teeth for the first time. And her tongue is not charred. Twin heads extend from the tip of that delicate tongue, twining their necks together as she parts your lips and kisses you.
Those heads enter your mouth, pulling the tongue along behind them like a straining tether. The tiny mouths open and clamp on to the insides of your cheeks. Quicker than you can scream, you are numb and drowsy. Eager, with such a lovely creature in your lap.
She ends the kiss and pulls back, shrugging the robe off at the shoulders, though it's still wrapped tightly around her hips and thighs. Her breasts slip free and their singed tips leave spots of ash on your shirt.
"I did try," she says, resting her forehead against yours, letting the creatures behind her eyes stare deep into your skull. Her eyes are merely dark tinted glass, clear as beer bottles. "Steel and fire. But they just kept coming back."
She sighs, wriggling closer against your body. Automatically you put your arms around her, your hands on that skin. Beneath it, serpentine shapes roll like muscles and she stretches in your grip, shifting her body to allow the inhabitants easier access to where they want to go.
"They get so restless when I bring a friend home," she says, her speech taking on a faint lisp. "Usually, it's because they're hungry. It's hard to digest food with a belly full of these things."
"Huu-huu-how?" You manage, cringing inside your head at the roiling flesh you can't let go of.
"So sweet of you to ask," she coos, laying her head on your shoulder and kissing your cheek, just a quick peck. She wraps her arms around you again and settles in.
"At first we thought it was cancer. Then some parasite I picked up on a trip to Greece. I had two surgeries. A hysterectomy to remove a mass that couldn't be biopsied. And brain surgery to remove another tumor from between my eyes. They went in from the top of my head so there wouldn't be a scar. You can't even see it now."
She sighs, drooping in your arms. "Maybe if they'd cauterized the tissue surrounding the affected areas more thoroughly this wouldn't have happened. I just don't know. My little friends just kept growing back, more insistent. Aggressive really, every time. They whispered to me no matter how I drugged myself or hurt them. Begging me to accept my fate, to let them in. Even in my sleep. Every waking moment. Until I finally gave up. But we're so lonely. That's where you come in."
Sliding out of your lap, she kneels, undoing your pants and pulling them off. She keeps one hand planted on your chest to keep you from sliding out of the chair as she tugs. Pinning you in place, as if you could move, which you can't.
Then she stands and sheds the robe. Two heads on slender necks peep out shyly from between her thighs.
"Don't be afraid. And don't struggle. You don't want to excite them too much, darling."
As she sits in your lap again, you wish you could scream.
More of that, please.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!!!!!!!!!!
Fuckity-fuck. Wrote a story and the internet ate it.
This stuff is awesome. Especially the bit about the two rednecks in the shop.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 01:40:21 PM
This stuff is awesome. Especially the bit about the two rednecks in the shop.
They came back a week after that incident and were giving the same spiel to a co-worker, a man. They said something about how I should be in the kitchen, shouldn't I? I laughed and went on my way. I haven't seen them since the election.
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:19:25 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 01:40:21 PM
This stuff is awesome. Especially the bit about the two rednecks in the shop.
They came back a week after that incident and were giving the same spiel to a co-worker, a man. They said something about how I should be in the kitchen, shouldn't I? I laughed and went on my way. I haven't seen them since the election.
Georgia, right?
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 07:20:28 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:19:25 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 01:40:21 PM
This stuff is awesome. Especially the bit about the two rednecks in the shop.
They came back a week after that incident and were giving the same spiel to a co-worker, a man. They said something about how I should be in the kitchen, shouldn't I? I laughed and went on my way. I haven't seen them since the election.
Georgia, right?
Yep.
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:23:18 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 07:20:28 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:19:25 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 01:40:21 PM
This stuff is awesome. Especially the bit about the two rednecks in the shop.
They came back a week after that incident and were giving the same spiel to a co-worker, a man. They said something about how I should be in the kitchen, shouldn't I? I laughed and went on my way. I haven't seen them since the election.
Georgia, right?
Yep.
AH WAS JES FUNNIN, LIL THANG.
\
:mullet:
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 07:24:02 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:23:18 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 07:20:28 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:19:25 PM
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 01:40:21 PM
This stuff is awesome. Especially the bit about the two rednecks in the shop.
They came back a week after that incident and were giving the same spiel to a co-worker, a man. They said something about how I should be in the kitchen, shouldn't I? I laughed and went on my way. I haven't seen them since the election.
Georgia, right?
Yep.
AH WAS JES FUNNIN, LIL THANG.
\
:mullet:
Pretty much accurate, down to the mullet. We're fairly close to Athens and Atlanta but have that tiny town glory of being filled with complete redneck assholes. Luckily, they have not figured out I am laughing at them, not with them. But then, I need to rephrase what I say half the time.
I told a customer it sounded as if she'd had a tumultuous experience regarding some vacation she went on that turned into a disaster. I had to explain I meant it sounded like she'd had a rough time. I told my boss he was exacerbating the issue between two co-workers and he told me to shut up or speak English.
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:32:15 PM
Pretty much accurate, down to the mullet. We're fairly close to Athens and Atlanta but have that tiny town glory of being filled with complete redneck assholes. Luckily, they have not figured out I am laughing at them, not with them.
Interesting thing: Go to Youtube and watch/listen to James Brown's
Living in America video (from Rocky IV), with the idea in mind that he's not being hyper-patriotic, he's
laughing at us.
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on November 12, 2012, 07:34:30 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 07:32:15 PM
Pretty much accurate, down to the mullet. We're fairly close to Athens and Atlanta but have that tiny town glory of being filled with complete redneck assholes. Luckily, they have not figured out I am laughing at them, not with them.
Interesting thing: Go to Youtube and watch/listen to James Brown's Living in America video (from Rocky IV), with the idea in mind that he's not being hyper-patriotic, he's laughing at us.
I think he's got the right idea.
Love this stuff, CPD!
[The 'play' button is pressed. At first the cassette plays a series of whistles, clicks, screeches, and a peculiar metallic rasping. Eventually, a woman's voice can be distinguished from the noise. She sounds like a mature woman, perhaps late-forties, early-fifties. Her speech varies from strong, clear diction and hoarse muttering.]
"Sorry about that. They bring me these toys and want me to explain them. Sometimes it's just easier to demonstrate."
[More noise follows, including no few expletives from the woman and that peculiar metallic rasping, now louder. The tape stops and stars several times as various noises are recorded and, presumably for the 'they' earlier mentioned. The tape resumes after several moments of hissing static punctuate by a trilling burble and three loud clicks. When the tape resumes, the original woman's voice returns, sounding stronger and less harsh.]
"All right. Now that they understand, sort of, my work here is done. But - [a pause filled with a heavy sigh and static] - it was refreshing to hear another voice. Even if it was just my own. I may keep this toy. If I can find more tapes."
"After everything that's happened, I'm amazed at how curious they are. Almost like kittens with a basket of balls. Some balls jingle, some rattle, some light up, some bounce, and some fly. They are determined to suss out every kind of ball in the basket. And then find another basket."
[The woman chuckles and then coughs. Again, metallic rasping can be heard, this time as if it is scraping over something soft and then clashing against another metallic object.]
"Gah, this is such a bitch. You never notice how much a handicap has affected you until you can't do something simple like cover your mouth when you cough. I can just imagine what wiping my ass would be like if I didn't have the hot pools to slip into afterwards. It boils everything right off and you come out feeling like a brand new baby."
[More coughing fills the next several minutes, dry and hacking. Metal rasping becomes louder and the tape clicks off.]
. . .
[A click and then static before the woman's voice returns, sounding exhausted and congested. Small bouts of coughing punctuates every pause. A hissing noise, similar to boiling water can be heard in the background, as well as several different drips and an occasional far-off high-pitched burst of sound.]
"They mean well, I think. After everything. But we all know . . . I'm on my last legs. And I've already given up my hands, so this is probably it. I'd almost be willing to go to the surface . . . if I thought there was a surface left. If I thought I wouldn't be dissected. Or just plain executed. I don't expect to tell my story to anyone who cares, so an unfeeling machine may as well hear it."
[A series of splashes fill the tape and then a surging in the hissing bubbling noise. The woman sighs, her breath hitching at the end as she coughs.]
"When I was little I wanted to be a housewife. A stay at home mother, tending her children, house, and husband. Maybe grow roses. Or lilacs. I've always been partial to lilac."
[She stops talking and the background noises can be heard more clearly. The sounds of water in various states, the shrill screams and cackles. The sound of something heavy being moved across a hard surface. These noises, except for the water, recede into the background over the course of several minutes.]
"There. They've gone out again. Who knows what they'll come back with next time. There are only a handful left. I think they're waiting for me to die. They disappear one at a time and . . . I don't think the fights are continuing. I haven't seen the strange man or heard sounds of fighting. I certainly haven't had my own youngling dumped in my lap like so many pounds of gutted fish."
[Water sounds; the hissing boil, steady drips, a far-off rushing; are present. Almost imperceptibly, the sounds of quiet sobbing joins these noises. Eventually, the woman's voice returns, rougher now.]
"It went wrong when I betrayed them. But they'd taken my hands and that man had tried to warn me. It went worse when I turned on those humans who were trying to fight them.
But the humans had promised not to hurt my little one. And they gutted him. Brought him to me like a trophy. Telling me they did me a favor, killing the one that bit off my hands. I tried . . . I tried to explain it was only because they'd become infected from all the cuts.
All the junk I'd been handling for the creatures, sorting it into piles, explaining how it worked. My baby hadn't meant any harm. He just hadn't wanted me to die from the infection. But they killed him anyway."
[A long pause punctuated with coughing.]
"Now there's nothing left. Not of me, not of my baby, not of the battle. I don't even know how it ended. Who won? Why didn't they just kill me, too?
But the answer to that one is obvious. Too stubborn to die. The good die young and I've never been that. Not good enough, anyway. It's a sad thing, to look back and feel you've failed at every turning point.
When we're in the moment, all we can do is act on the information we have, do what we think is right. We try not to act rashly, try to be cautious . . . but then we cage ourselves in cotton and concern. If we submit, dive in head first and commit fully to every day and every situation . . . well then when things go horribly wrong . . . and they will . . . we have the regrets to haunt us.
Sometimes I don't think there is a right way - a least painful way. Sometimes I think the whole universe is spun of different flavors of pain, all of them heart-breaking and all of the awful. But our only choice is to pick our flavor and eat it."
[The metallic rasping comes again and the tape is shut off with a harsh click.]
This is brilliant! Moar plz!
what in the sweet gibbering fuck :eek:
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 12, 2012, 09:52:52 PM
[The 'play' button is pressed. At first the cassette plays a series of whistles, clicks, screeches, and a peculiar metallic rasping. Eventually, a woman's voice can be distinguished from the noise. She sounds like a mature woman, perhaps late-forties, early-fifties. Her speech varies from strong, clear diction and hoarse muttering.]
"Sorry about that. They bring me these toys and want me to explain them. Sometimes it's just easier to demonstrate."
[More noise follows, including no few expletives from the woman and that peculiar metallic rasping, now louder. The tape stops and stars several times as various noises are recorded and, presumably for the 'they' earlier mentioned. The tape resumes after several moments of hissing static punctuate by a trilling burble and three loud clicks. When the tape resumes, the original woman's voice returns, sounding stronger and less harsh.]
"All right. Now that they understand, sort of, my work here is done. But - [a pause filled with a heavy sigh and static] - it was refreshing to hear another voice. Even if it was just my own. I may keep this toy. If I can find more tapes."
"After everything that's happened, I'm amazed at how curious they are. Almost like kittens with a basket of balls. Some balls jingle, some rattle, some light up, some bounce, and some fly. They are determined to suss out every kind of ball in the basket. And then find another basket."
[The woman chuckles and then coughs. Again, metallic rasping can be heard, this time as if it is scraping over something soft and then clashing against another metallic object.]
"Gah, this is such a bitch. You never notice how much a handicap has affected you until you can't do something simple like cover your mouth when you cough. I can just imagine what wiping my ass would be like if I didn't have the hot pools to slip into afterwards. It boils everything right off and you come out feeling like a brand new baby."
[More coughing fills the next several minutes, dry and hacking. Metal rasping becomes louder and the tape clicks off.]
. . .
[A click and then static before the woman's voice returns, sounding exhausted and congested. Small bouts of coughing punctuates every pause. A hissing noise, similar to boiling water can be heard in the background, as well as several different drips and an occasional far-off high-pitched burst of sound.]
"They mean well, I think. After everything. But we all know . . . I'm on my last legs. And I've already given up my hands, so this is probably it. I'd almost be willing to go to the surface . . . if I thought there was a surface left. If I thought I wouldn't be dissected. Or just plain executed. I don't expect to tell my story to anyone who cares, so an unfeeling machine may as well hear it."
[A series of splashes fill the tape and then a surging in the hissing bubbling noise. The woman sighs, her breath hitching at the end as she coughs.]
"When I was little I wanted to be a housewife. A stay at home mother, tending her children, house, and husband. Maybe grow roses. Or lilacs. I've always been partial to lilac."
[She stops talking and the background noises can be heard more clearly. The sounds of water in various states, the shrill screams and cackles. The sound of something heavy being moved across a hard surface. These noises, except for the water, recede into the background over the course of several minutes.]
"There. They've gone out again. Who knows what they'll come back with next time. There are only a handful left. I think they're waiting for me to die. They disappear one at a time and . . . I don't think the fights are continuing. I haven't seen the strange man or heard sounds of fighting. I certainly haven't had my own youngling dumped in my lap like so many pounds of gutted fish."
[Water sounds; the hissing boil, steady drips, a far-off rushing; are present. Almost imperceptibly, the sounds of quiet sobbing joins these noises. Eventually, the woman's voice returns, rougher now.]
"It went wrong when I betrayed them. But they'd taken my hands and that man had tried to warn me. It went worse when I turned on those humans who were trying to fight them.
But the humans had promised not to hurt my little one. And they gutted him. Brought him to me like a trophy. Telling me they did me a favor, killing the one that bit off my hands. I tried . . . I tried to explain it was only because they'd become infected from all the cuts.
All the junk I'd been handling for the creatures, sorting it into piles, explaining how it worked. My baby hadn't meant any harm. He just hadn't wanted me to die from the infection. But they killed him anyway."
[A long pause punctuated with coughing.]
"Now there's nothing left. Not of me, not of my baby, not of the battle. I don't even know how it ended. Who won? Why didn't they just kill me, too?
But the answer to that one is obvious. Too stubborn to die. The good die young and I've never been that. Not good enough, anyway. It's a sad thing, to look back and feel you've failed at every turning point.
When we're in the moment, all we can do is act on the information we have, do what we think is right. We try not to act rashly, try to be cautious . . . but then we cage ourselves in cotton and concern. If we submit, dive in head first and commit fully to every day and every situation . . . well then when things go horribly wrong . . . and they will . . . we have the regrets to haunt us.
Sometimes I don't think there is a right way - a least painful way. Sometimes I think the whole universe is spun of different flavors of pain, all of them heart-breaking and all of the awful. But our only choice is to pick our flavor and eat it."
[The metallic rasping comes again and the tape is shut off with a harsh click.]
Dear lord. The ambiguity of what the hell is going on here really creeps me out.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 13, 2012, 01:21:10 PM
Dear lord. The ambiguity of what the hell is going on here really creeps me out.
I try.
ETA: Bwuahahahhahahahaha!!! Internet ate my spooky laugh the first time I replied.
Now that it's been read a few times, here's the skinny. That last bit was part of Khara's story, in the Nessies epic, that I never got around to posting.
All of these are brilliant!
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 17, 2012, 05:43:53 AM
Now that it's been read a few times, here's the skinny. That last bit was part of Khara's story, in the Nessies epic, that I never got around to posting.
:eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek:
Quote from: American Jackal on November 17, 2012, 06:17:05 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 17, 2012, 05:43:53 AM
Now that it's been read a few times, here's the skinny. That last bit was part of Khara's story, in the Nessies epic, that I never got around to posting.
:eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek: :eek:
I couldn't finish it and then life happened and my computer randomly renamed some of my files so I thought it was gone. Found part of it in my mp3s and tweaked it a little. Added to it. And brought it here to give someone else nightmares for a change. :P Aren't I kind and caring?
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 17, 2012, 05:43:53 AM
Now that it's been read a few times, here's the skinny. That last bit was part of Khara's story, in the Nessies epic, that I never got around to posting.
That's what I thought as soon as I read it!
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on November 18, 2012, 02:16:58 PM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on November 17, 2012, 05:43:53 AM
Now that it's been read a few times, here's the skinny. That last bit was part of Khara's story, in the Nessies epic, that I never got around to posting.
That's what I thought as soon as I read it!
Woo! There's more to it, somewhere. Should I put the rest of it up or let it stay buried? I kinda don't want to start something now that Khara isn't here anymore. I need to e-mail her this bit, before I forget.
Bad poem is bad. I got the first three lines in the shower and then forgot the rest. It wasn't this, but this is what came out when I tried to re-write it. Hoping the original will occur to me now that I have part of it out of my head. Mah brain is fried.
See the rebel sun send messages
through the moon;
how it is always watching us,
the light will always find us;
there is nowhere to hide.
Comforting in a cruel way,
we live by light, after all.
Save the nights the sky is black,
when we howl and bay
for the moon to come back
to reflect
the glory of the sun
into something that doesn't burn
quite as much.
No one likes
being left alone
in the dark.
CPD, I've been compiling/editing the Nessies stuff. I've gotten Khara's permission to keep her narratives intact. If it's ok with you, I'd like to grab this and add it into the story.
Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on November 19, 2012, 02:25:38 PM
CPD, I've been compiling/editing the Nessies stuff. I've gotten Khara's permission to keep her narratives intact. If it's ok with you, I'd like to grab this and add it into the story.
Go for it. Same with the other parts, if I keep on with it, here.
I wrote some stuff during NaNo to amuse myself when the stories I was working on didn't want to go my way. Here's one, I fancied it the beginning of a child's book. :P
"Lock the windows," bitter Aunt Agatha ordered, scrunching her lips up into a circle of ruched skin.
Ent sighed. "And the doors. Salt the drains, cover the electrical outlets. Draw the blinds and plug the tub."
Aunt Agatha nodded sharply, precisely. As if filleting a fish with the jut of her chin. She turned and left the house, disappearing into the night with a flap of wind-blown linen and the crinkle of ancient crinoline. Ent sighed again, then began the nightly ritual of securing every possible entrance point. Stupid Aunt Agatha and her mouth like a cat's chapped asshole. It wasn't the danger of things coming INTO the house that disturbed the old bat. It was the threat of Ent getting out, without her consent.
Once the house was barricaded and warded with holy water, salt, jars full of broken glass and rusted nails, and twigs tied up with red string; Ent brushed her teeth. Swore as the foam and spit washed away the salt. Re-salted the drain.
Then she tucked herself into bed and sang herself to sleep like she did every night, making up songs about normal people who didn't have aunts that flapped like bats and hissed like cats while ordering and organizing every moment of every day only to disappear at night.
. . . .
It wasn't an owl. It wasn't wind or wind knocking tree branches into the window. Aunt Agatha didn't allow any of those things. It wasn't wind-blown litter brushing up the house. Or rain. It wasn't a stupid opossum or slinky skunk. Those weren't allowed either.
But Ent found herself woken up, all the same. She wiggled out of her warm covers and tip-toed to the window. Careful of the salt and jars and twigs tied up in red string, she pulled back the curtain. Night was thick and swathed everything in black. Abyss black. Black hole black. Ent couldn't see across the street. She couldn't see the street. She couldn't see her own paltry lawn.
The only thing in the window that wasn't blackness was a red palm. Someone with hands the size of her head and skin the same color as fire engines had their palm pressed against the glass. Smoke or steam curled away from the hand, where the skin came in contact with the wards and shields.
Ent leaned closer, reading the lines in the palm. It was a skill Aunt Agatha didn't know about because she hadn't approved it. Ent did it anyway. Nothing good, she thought, following the story of callusus and scars from wrist to clawed fingertips. She put her hand up to the red one, touching the glass because the wards and shields were keyed to her, after all. Her hand was swallowed by the creature's. She could have fit three of her hands, if she'd had three, side-by-side to go across the width of her visitor's palm.
And the heat coming off the glass was incredible, it burned hotter than fire. It sort of tickled.
"Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in." The hand's voice, deep and terrible, reverberated on the glass and thrummed in Ent's bones.
"Yeah, I think you have the wrong house. There aren't any pigs here." Ent replied. "You might want to recheck the address you're looking for."
A pause. Puzzled, Ent thought. She'd confused her first ever visitor. Oh well. Probably some kind of salesman. Aunt Agatha was always warning against them. She shrugged and dropped her hand.
"Little Red Riding Hood, sweet Snow White, aren't you going to let me in?" The voice crooned.
"Still have the wrong house, mister, I don't know either of those people. Who gives their kids such stupid names, anyway?"
Ent closed the curtain carefully and crawled back into bed. Some people. Everyone knew what a GPS was, these days. Why didn't more people use them?
She was asleep in moments, still muttering to herself.
ETA: Fixing word arrangements, adding a comma, and throwing in a scene break.
:lulz:
:mittens:
That was an awesome story!
:lulz:
The sun rose, as it always did, scooting Aunt Agatha along on the first sunbeam. Forcing her to do her duty by her wayward ward.
She'd taught Ent that sunlight laid everything bare. Then she'd promptly grounded Ent and taken away every single book as punishment for pointing out that sunlight laid bare the fact Aunt Agatha would rather be eaten by rabid wolves or end up on daytime TV than continue her self-appointed task of tutor and nursemaid by making the lines on her face deeper. The child would not learn propriety.
Aunt Agatha approached the house, pursing her lips as she noticed the glaring scarlet smear on the wards around Ent's bedroom window. Cloven hoof-prints circled the house thrice. There was a steaming pile of devil excrement on the front porch.
Clearly more wards were needed. And some sigils pointing out just how rude it was to do a dirty on someone else's porch.
Already annoyed, she let herself into the house, carefully lifting her skirts over the unmentionable mess. Ent, as usual, was waiting to take her cape and hat.
"Ent," Aunt Agatha snapped, sorely tempted to hurl the hat at her young charge. "What happened last night? Why did you not call me?"
Ent's face clouded with puzzlement and then cleared. "A person came by looking for some pigs. Or a woman made of snow wearing a hood. He seemed rather confused. I told him he had the wrong house but I don't think he believed me."
Aunt Agatha's jaw dropped. "You mean you spoke to the devil? Did you let him in?"
"Of course not," Ent replied, rolling her eyes. "I thought he was a salesman, at first. And you always say that solicitors are like Mormons. They drink your tea and muss your carpets and scream too loud when you try to cook them, so it's best just to ignore them until they go away."
"Well then. At least you listen to SOME of what I say."
"Yes, Aunt Agatha."
"Have you had your breakfast?"
"Yes, Aunt."
"Very well. Today's lessons will begin with sigil writing. We're going to leave a polite but firm message for that devil, should he come back. It isn't seemly to be coming to young women's houses in the dead of night and using their porches for outhouses," Aunt Agatha sniffed in disdain. "Run and fetch the dragonsblood ink and the raven feather quill. We'll practice on parchment and go on from there."
. . .
Ent heaved a sigh of relief when Aunt Agatha finally left, waiting on the stoop until the door was locked behind her.
Ent watched as the older woman made sure the sigils they'd painted on the welcome mat were facing the right way, before she swept down the walk and disappeared.
If he was lucky, Ent thought as she began her nightly routine, the whatever-he-was wouldn't bother her again. If he was really lucky, he'd found whatever house he was looking for and had forgotten all about his little present on the front steps.
She finished locking the locks and placing the charms. She brushed her teeth and washed her face. Then she put on her pajamas and tucked herself into bed.
The covers weren't even up to her chin when something went rap-a-tap-tap on her window.
"Darling Sleeping Beauty, did you miss me?"
"Go away," she called, rolling over to put her bac k to the window.
She heard a dark, melodic chuckle. Then the steady thunk and thud of a swaggering gait circling her house. The footsteps stopped at the porch. Then they turned and instead of swaggered, they stomped straight back to her window. And this time it was no gentle tapping. The devil pounded on her window, fit to shake the glass apart and the window frame with it.
"What the hell is that? Sigils? Seriously? Do you NOT know who I am?"
Ent sighed and kicked off the covers. She got up and went to the window.
"Look," she said reasonably as she parted the curtains and raised the blinds. "I tried to be nice last night but I'm a growing girl and I need my sleep and you are just one rude mister, Mister."
The scowling face was all ruddy skin, glowing eyes, and sharp teeth. Ent rolled her eyes.
"You're being rude. You can't come in. I'm not coming out and if you keep causing trouble I'm going to have to call for help," she stated, crossing her arms and giving him her disapproving glare.
"And who will you call, you little brat? Ghostbusters?" The devil demanded, raking his nails down the glass in a horrible cacophony.
"I will call my Aunt Agatha. Which will make her mad and she will fuss at you. Then she will yell at me which will make me fuss at you. And then we will flay your skin from your body and use it for a nice rug or a bathrobe for Aunt Agatha. She fancies the color red, you know."
The devil glared. Then thought about it. He looked towards the porch and then back at Ent.
"Ooooh. Oh. You're THAT kid. Right, I got that memo. Hey, look, I'll just clean up a little out here and be on my way. I don't wanna keep you any longer than I have. You just go back to bed, sweetheart and we won't say anything about this to anyone, right?" He smiled at her, showing all his teeth to best effect.
She rolled her eyes again and closed the blinds.
"I bet salesmen are way more terrifying than you are," she muttered.
And then she went back to bed.
Nice! I like this Ent kid.
Bumpity.
Beautiful stuff.
There's so much awesome on this forum.
More random shit when I was supposed to be working on a novel.
I come apart at the seams rather frequently. Easily.
Sometimes I am sewn up so tight that not even air can pass between the tightly clenched stitches. I sit so still and silent inside my head, wrapped inside a tightly woven shroud of my own crafting.
It's quiet, in here. Still. Except for the endless screaming. Except for the steady trickle of blood, like the ticking of a bomb. Bound and caged in my own limits and boundaries I have nothing to do but think. Over and over again, the same thoughts replay.
Sometimes with pictures.
Then the screams get too loud and the blood soaks through and the stitching comes unraveled. I am spit out and split apart, divided into pieces and left gristly and blood-drenched in the sun to attract flies and predators.
But few things can eat my poison flesh and survive. Mostly, except for a few nibbles a few new wounds, I am left alone. Until I can gather my gobbets of flesh, skin, and sinew into a pile and try reassembly once more.
Most of this is painless, have no fear on that account.
Most of this, I don't even notice anymore.
So many pieces. So many irregular shapes to compile into a pleasing final construction. There is only one true answer to the puzzle of my parts.
But millions of combinations to try until I find it.
They ache when they are put in incorrectly. Corners smashed and pieces squished together, sometimes intentionally pulling the wounds open so the blood melds the parts into a solid wall of flesh.
But that never lasts. Blood is a poor excuse for adhesive, whatever sort might work here.
I have become somewhat numb to the cobbled together state of affairs.
I can cope. Thrive, even, if the planets align and the moonlight is bright.
Some pieces have found their mates and become complete. Other pieces have broken down into smaller, sharper splinters.
Finding the correct combination to make one whole person seems impossible.
Sometimes I don't care if I solve the puzzle.
But I can't stop playing with the pieces, like picking at a scab or poking a bruise.
Like a person raised from diapers up to always be working, always have busy hands, I cannot leave the parts alone.
I gather them up as they drop away. I polish them like precious stones. I pull away the maggots and pick out the debris. I turn them this way and that in the light, trying to discern clues as to their proper placement.
They fascinate me, these shards, these slivers of bone and gristle that once built a whole body fit to house an unfractured soul.
Rotting bits of mirror reflecting back only gore-smeared images, they can be washed and bandaged but the reflections are still tainted.
Until another sack is sewn and the shapes stacked neatly inside, fitting together as best they can. With the help of much crushing and swearing, and smashing. And then the sack is sewn shut. Rolled tight. Swaddled snugly.
And left to cure on the shelf to see if the joints and seams and hinges hold.
Or if the screaming will start again.
One furtive step at a time. Tense and ready to run. The wiry old man slips into the tunnels below the streets and winds down farther and deeper. Things have changed, the creatures - those wild, intelligent, murdering monstrosities are gone. The riddle was resolved, or so he heard through a friend of a friend of someone who might have been there to hear those words said and might not have been there at all. Everyone was disavowing knowledge of the creatures and of the immense cover-up operation going on now that the creatures were gone.
What had been a school was now just a crater, about to be filled with gravel and water and made into a large artificial lake with a park around it. What had been an entire slum was being 'revitalized' into boutiques and trendy condos.
When people couldn't cope, they forgot. They sandblasted and whitewashed and paved over.
It made him sick to his guts. And it kept him coming down here whenever he could get away from 'normal' life. He couldn't forget. He couldn't complete his 'meaningful reintegration'.
Liars and idiots, all of them.
He retraced the old route, still burned into his brain after years, leaving the man-made tunnels for nature-made caverns. Some were as big as the city above. Some bigger. He knew he was getting close when he heard the faint burble of water and picked up the heavy mineral odors in the air.
He knew he was close when piles of detritus; old TVs and small cars, broken appliances, piles of books and canned goods, cameras and lawn mowers and tool boxes; began appearing. No human had hauled all this garbage down here. No sir.
The curious ones had. The rampaging beasts had picked up anything that puzzled them and brought it down here for her to explain. Like she spoke the language. Maybe she had. Or still did.
He hadn't come back for a long time. She'd rejected his last offer of help and then the whirlwind of fighting and hiding and everything going batshit had kept him away. Busy. A blow to the head and a hospital stay and wading through well-meaning but idiotic social service counselors had almost made him forget.
It still smelled like the creatures down here, under the wet and stone. Like snakes and blood and swamp. Like carrion and a predator's fetid breath on the back of his neck. But maybe that was just the hot springs.
One by one he searched the caves until there was only one left. The biggest cavern where they'd slept. Where she'd held court, so to speak. He peeked through the opening, carefully. Then, feeling stupid, he sauntered on in and began his search. The walls of this cave were still covered with some bioluminescent slime. The hot springs were still roiling away. Bits of metal and other things glinted in the nooks and crannies. Parts of the floor were worn baby smooth from the passage of sliding coils. Pieces of the wall were broken off in ragged, ripped chunks. Evidence of past battles?
She was still here. His heart shriveled in his chest and got lodged in a lung, making it hard to breath. She was here all right.
Laid out beside the largest hot spring, on a tattered but colorful pile of blankets and foam padding and scraps. Dead. Little more than bone and cartilage. Her hooks gleamed in the dim light. They crossed over her chest where something black was pressed to her withered ribcage. He peered closer, absurdly afraid of waking her.
She'd been so tired, the last time he'd seen her. And now she was finally resting.
The thing held to her chest was a rectangular box. A tape recorder. His mouth fell open. And then he realized her pillow was a lumpy sack of what had to be cassette tapes.
He suddenly missed the cocktail of emotion-removing medications he'd weaned himself from before escaping the hospital.
Carefully, he reached out and slid the box from her grasp. Her corpse didn't want to let it go at first, but he tugged sharply and she let it go with a small clatter and whine of metal as her hooks, the blades, rubbed together. Cutting her paper-thin skin.
More carefully, he lifted her head from the pillow and took that away, too. Something in her neck snapped as he put her head down on the makeshift bed and her skull turned to one side in a raspy flop. Staring at him with accusing and immensely sorrowful eye sockets.
He swallowed hard and backed away, almost falling into the hot spring. He was breathing too fast. Sweating.
He sat down and the box slid. His thumb hit the play button, which was almost pierced through from the press of the tip of her hooks. It scraped on the pad of his thumb as her voice leapt from the box, filling the cavern.
"There's only one left. All the others are gone. My legs stopped working after my last fall. I tried to climb out but I fell. It brought me back here. Chiding away like I was a straying kitten and it a mother cat."
A gurgling, crunchy cough came from the tape. He winced at the noise and winced more at the shrill shrieks of a concerned monster. Then her voice returned.
"It is very concerned. I don't know why. I brought nothing but trouble to them. But I won't be alone when I die, which I think will be soon. It's very dark in here and I'm so tired. I wonder if my family has any idea what happened to me. I wonder if they care.
I always thought I'd have a pile of regrets when my time came, at an old age. I always thought there'd be grandchildren and maybe great-grandchildren. But there isn't anyone but this creature and I find that I have no regrets. It is the most strange and alien thing I've ever experienced.
I'm going to turn this off and rewind it part-way. Then I'm going to sleep. We'll see if I wake up."
The click startled him. He almost dropped the box. But he didn't. Instead he put it in the sack with the tapes. He went to her side and found a blanket to cover her with.
Then he left, taking the sack with him.
He wouldn't come back. She needed her rest. But the tapes would keep him company.
:aaa:
moar plz.
Oh, wow.
And now for something entirely different than the last thing.
The first thing I notice is tobacco smoke. Richer, more pure than cigarette smoke. Less foul.
The second thing I notice is the rock. Here again. Or still.
The third thing I notice is his chuckle. Wry, sardonic.
"Why do you keep coming here? Why do you spend so much time here?"
I pull myself into a sitting position, spine straight and legs crossed at the ankles. "I spend a lot of time in a lot of places."
He asks again. "Why here? Why so much?"
I shrug, rolling tension from somewhere else and caused by someone else free from my shoulders. "I guess this place means something to me. It's a special place. A lucky spot. A lodestone."
His laughter hasn't changed, just faded around the edges a bit. "Well isn't that something?"
"Yeah," I say, looking around.
It's a lot darker than usual. Almost all the stars are hidden but whether they've fled or there are just camouflaged clouds blocking their light, I can't tell. Only a few glittering specks follow their ancient dance steps across the sky. Unceasing rhythms, reassuring continuity in chaos. A reminder that some things are more permanent than others, but nothing lasts forever.
"Why do I come here?" He asks, taking a drink from a bottle. I can't see it or smell it, but I hear the slosh of liquid and the click of glass against teeth. The clink-scrape of glass against stone as he puts it down. I can't see him either, but I still have a fair idea of what his expression would be if I could.
I wonder if he can see me. Then I shrug again and put my arms behind me to lean back for a better look at the stars.
"I used to pass out answers for everything," I say. "But maybe I've run out of 'em. Used them all up on small, silly questions like 'Which toothpaste is better?' or 'What kind of pie for supper?' instead of the important things like 'Why are we here?' and 'Where do we go next?'. Sorry about that."
He laughs again, more amused and more bitter at the same time. Regardless of the emotion in it, it's a good sound. Like ice cream. All sorts of delicious flavors but it's all good. Even the ones with bitter flavorings.
He'd probably use alcohol as a metaphor. Which is fine for him. But I've tasted some of the shit he drinks and no way would that work for me. So ice cream it is.
"Maybe this place means something to me, as well," he says evenly, punctuating his sentence with clicks, sloshes, and clink-scrapes. "Maybe it reminds me of something better. Or more real. Or something terrible best left forgotten, except for the scars it gave me as a souvenir."
"But this one piece is nice," I observe, directing my comment to the stars. "This little bit left over is a nice spot to think and remember on."
"Heh. Yeah."
A glass bottle nudges my shoulder in the darkness. I accept it, my fingers touching his. Hopefully he doesn't see my wince. Turpentine or tequila? I take a sip and swallow carefully. The much-better-than-it-could-have-been stuff, praise Jose. I take another more appreciative sip.
And he chuckles, all amusement this time. "Still a light weight."
"Says the guy who may as well be drinking diesel fuel," I say, passing the bottle back.
He laughs again and the bottle disappears into the dark.
Note to self - Finish this thought :
A grey and silent night inside the stone and metal walls. The search lights turn the clouds into something dirty and gives them a menacing glow. A glower. In the woods around the compound, shuffling noises and scratches continue on unceasing. Sniffles and muffled screams.
On the wall-walks, a ledge along the inside of the walls five feet from the top of the wall, we've got our perches. And all we have to do, all night long, is listen.
To the zombies. The mindless, endless hordes of walking corpses moaning and trying to scratch through the walls with bloody fingernails. They try to pile up on top of each other to get over the wall, but fall down. Clumsy as crabs in a bucket. If they catch sight of us they wail. High and keening. It's a cross between a baby calling for its mother and the condemned spotting the hangman.
. . .
Peters looked at me with wide, scared eyes. Sweat beaded on his skin and the grip on his gun was too tight. All white knuckles and numb fingers.
"Do you think they'll ever get in?" He squeaks each word out like there's a mouse in his mouth doing the talking for him.
"If they do, they'll tear us apart," I said. "It's been too long since they've been fed."
"Sarge says they aren't people anymore. Just animals. Zombies. Monsters." Peters wiped the sweat from his face and gave me scared eyes again. "He says if they get in, we'll end up just like them."
I sighed. "He isn't a fucking sergeant. He's a god damn district manager for Kwiq Tryp gas stations. The only reason he wants us to call him 'Sarge' is because we're using his guns to hold the wall. His name is Dale."
Peters frowned at me. "You don't like the Sarge? He's protecting us from the zombies."
"Dude. This isn't a movie. Those aren't movie-type monsters. Those are real people. Exhausted, frightened people. We aren't letting them in because we don't have enough food and water for everyone as it is and the people outside the walls out number us five to one. They're just people. But they're a mob and they'll tear us apart because they're hungry and terrified."
"That isn't what the Sarge says."
"That's because Dale is the hero of his own fucking story."
"But when the helicopters come, they'll just take us, right? Because we're the people. They'll help us kill the zombies and everything will be okay."
"Jesus Christ," I muttered. "Just watch your part of the fucking wall and don't shoot anyone."
Rough draft of a NaNo excerpt. Ignore the name substitution things. Haven't worked that out yet.
It's a dark night. Dark is always more absolute in the country but there's the sky to sparkle and dazzle out there. In a city it's all dim and dingy. No sky. Just darkness and pockets of sulky light like cigarette burns on a quilt top, exposing the pale batting beneath the colorful patches.
There's nothing beneath the city. Nothing on the earth that interests me tonight. All I want is to see the stars, spangled and arrayed before me like an endless panoply of noble figures on progress from one grand celestial palace to another.
I feel trapped by all this concrete and wire. By the cars and the slumping houses, dusty with dirt blown along the streets, unstopped by trees or bluff. The grid cares not for grime or natural variance. Heh.
Clearly I'm grim tonight. Which isn't going to bode well for the chores ahead. Things done with a heavy heart only add to the weight carried around already. Cliche but true. Damn it.
I pick up the pace to the river where my friends are waiting. I know what the rough plan is but I also know nothing goes according to plan with us. That's like drawing a map of a land you've never seen and expecting what you find to conform to whatever whimsy you put to the paper before your arrival.
We are not forgiving folk in our meanderings. Some nights we pick up trash. Some nights we educate random passersby on their various prejudices. Some nights we just walk, silent and shuffling along, enjoying the sense of moving in tandem with many others. Some nights we sit and exchange sips from bottles and snips of story.
What we do not do is add to the crazy of this place. We don't howl or scream. We don't throw bicycles in the river (why is that a thing?) or shoes up onto the power lines. We don't harass people or intimidate or raise our voices.
One of our other friends, who doesn't walk with us at night, works at the library and she calls us the "Clean Sweep Crew". Says our wanderings refresh the city at night. We take up the bad energy and brush it away, clean off the bits of hate and ash. Buff it up on our shirt sleeves and let it fly around all shiny again.
She ought to be a novelist with sentiments like that. Or a poet, maybe. Writing the stories instead of curating them. Maybe she'll get around to it some day when our wandering is done. If it ends.
The road takes a steep turn down to the river. For a moment the downtown is laid out like a glittering mimicry of the stars above, all glittering in haphazard patterns and then down the street goes, close and dark, trees overhanging the sidewalk and cars huddled against the curb like broken-spirited dogs waiting for their masters.
Grim and grimmer. Sheesh.
The blocks go past quickly, going downhill. I can still do hills so long as they are down. It's the up that slows me to a snail's crawl and sends my breath laboring through my lungs. Bad knees and arthritis. They suck. I start jogging just a little, a bit of masochism as much as an eagerness to get to the river front and use the bathrooms, if the park attendant left them unlocked as usual. If not, I'll be holding it for awhile.
But my friends are up ahead and there's a Pepsi waiting for me. Can't go on without my sweetest addiction, you know. It's a great motivator.
I can hear their voices echoing across the parking lot. They can probably hear my footsteps now. As always, my heart lifts and my spirits soar just a little to hear Key's bass rumbling laughter and Gain's witty sarcasm. Even when I can't make out the words I know Key is wryly amused and Gain is just a little more cynical but just as entertained. They're probably talking about politics. Key thinks there's hope, very faint hope. Gain doesn't. I agree with Gain but hope Key is right. Na is there tonight, her raised voice is all command and comedy. The boys must have lured her out with promises of helping her wind her yarn or something after.
There are other voices that I don't recognize as easily. Probably Tu and Ri. Die and Caw. Some others. I know them all, but those first three are the most prominent to me. And if I don't matter quite so much to them, they are the foundations of my world right now.
"There she is," Gain calls, and jogs up to me, tossing me a cold can of Pepsi and slinging his arm around my shoulders. It's a bit of a stretch since only Tur and Key are taller than I am and Gain is the most petite and slender of all the men. But he manages it and I put the can not holding the Pepsi around his waist.
"Got held up," I report, cracking the can open one-handed and taking a swallow. "Sorry about that."
"You're here. We're here. Let's go." Key replies with a smile and a ruffle of my hair with his long-fingered hands. "We'll roam for awhile tonight. Slowly so you can keep up," he adds with laugh at my expense.
I grin and hand Gain my Pepsi then hustle over to the park's bathrooms, which are, thank god, not locked. Two minutes later and I'm catching up to the group as they wander down the sidewalk along the water. Die and Caw are picking up litter. Na's holding the bag. Tu and Key have nets and are skimming things from the top of the water while someone else holds the bag for them to deposit their findings in.
Gain hands me my drink back and goes over to see what Key's just pulled out of the water. Na gives Caw the bag and comes over to me with a new one she hands it to me and starts picking things out of the grass. Gum wrappers, soda cans, cigarette butts. We're thorough.
I hold the bag one-handed while I drink my Pepsi and then help her pick up once I've finished the drink and added the empty container to the bag. We wander along the river front and up main street still picking up litter and adding the bags to the trash cans on every street corner when they're about 3/4's full. Gotta leave plenty of room to tie the bags and make 'em fit in the container so they won't rip when they come out. City clean up guys are fussy about that.
We slow down as we trudge back up the hill, out of consideration for Na's once broken and forever aching foot, Key's horrible knees, and my arthritis. The others dance about, skipping in and out of alleys and scouring them of debris before joining us back on the sidewalks.
Back and forth we wander, zig-zagging up the side of the hill away from the river. We stop at one of the Kwik-Trip gas stations for a midnight lunch of cheddarwursts and Slim Jims for Gain, Key, and I. Na refuses the junk food but indulges in a bagel and a jumbo cinnamon and vanilla coffee. Caw and Die take turns biting off mouthfuls of a gigantic burrito. Tu and Ri feed each other pieces of blueberry muffin.
Then it's back out into the night, somehow a little colder and darker. But we're ready for it and refueled for the fight.
By the time we're up the hill we're all flushed and glowing with good company and exercise. Tu and Ri have disappeared somewhere, probably having sloppy sex up against a tree somewhere. Die and Caw and fluttering around Na like baby birds begging to be pushed out of the nest with their excited chatter and wildly flapping arms.
Key, Gain, and I bring up the rear. Gain found a soda machine in front of a closed corner store and got me another Pepsi. It's so cold my fingertips burn and tingle.
Key and Gain are discussing something quietly, one or the other of them reaching out to steady me if I wobble too much, trying to take too-long swallows of soda until my head tips back and I teeter.
We're all watching Na. Any second she'll shoo off the fluttery ones and we'll be alone. Dam and Ar and some of the others who don't hang out with us often have peeled off down their own streets, caroling and rustling their bags as they fill the last ones with litter and leave them for the garbage men in the morning. Their noise is a muted, fading music in the background.
And I realize this feels like a holiday. A joyful occasion; a gathering of friends and family, a sharing of food and drink. Na probably thinks of it as a ritual, being a priestess. A gathering and focusing of energy and purpose. Then the grounding and releasing of what remains once the purpose is accomplished.
It's both of those things and something more, I think. But my Pepsi is gone and I over think. It's my thing. Na obsesses, Gain broods, Key contemplates, and I over-think.
The streetlights are going out and the sun is peaking over the horizon, with its wash of peach and pink going before it.
Caw and Die part our group with a screech and flutter, dancing off into the dwindling dark towards their home further up the way. The four of us head for Na's house, stripping off outer layers - three outer laters in Na's case, none in mine - and hanging up coats and jackets and scarves.
Being bundle free, I go ahead into the kitchen to wash my hands and face first. I start Na's coffee pot and pull out four bowls for cereal and start making toast. By the time the others have washed up and joined me, Na redressing in fresh layers, there's toast and a collection of cereals for everyone. Na has more coffee and toast. Key and Gain jockey for first go at the sugary cereals and I make a bowl of instant oatmeal.
We're nearly silent now, except for the click of coffee cups on the table and spoons against bowls and the shuffle of Key and Gain's scuffle.
Other people sleeping in the house are starting to wake and the upstairs rumbles with footsteps and kids complaining loudly about the hour.
By the time Na's husband and mother head off for work and Na's kids are off to school, we've gotten everyone, us and the kids at least, breakfasted and cleaned up the kitchen. Gain and I fall asleep on various couches, him on the three-season porch and me carving out part of the living room couch that the dogs haven't claimed.
Key and Na sit up in the kitchen chatting and prepping the dishwasher as I drowse against the Australian Shepherd's heaving side. Everything is warm and cozy. We'll nap briefly then get up and go about our days, napping again in the evening before we meet again tonight.
If I'm late because of work or if Na can't come because one of her kids has a headache, well there will be someone waiting and someone new to meet. We'll do our rounds and Gain, Key, and I will come back here to nest, helping Na with the laundry or walking the dogs or going to the drug store for cough syrup and Tylenol.
It's a good life. A quiet life. Steady and reliable. It's all in one piece. Hopefully.
Rough draft of a NaNo excerpt.
My life is made up of quiet nights. Dark falls and the day is erased. Things that happen become inconsequential, meaningless. A new order falls into place.
Laying in the dark, waiting, it's well past my bed time and I've been in bed for awhile. But I'm not asleep. I can't sleep until I know. Is tonight going to be a good night or a bad night?
There've been two good nights in a row and that's almost unheard of lately. So I'm tensed and ready for a bad night. But so, so desperately, wildly hopeful for a good night that I almost cry.
I can't sleep from the adrenaline rampaging through my body, making every muscle tense and quivery like the neighbor's dog gets when it sees a squirrel or a rabbit.
Every time a car goes by, I tense even further. My ears ache from straining to catch the first sounds of a familiar tire tread, for the slowing down and turning of rubber from asphalt to gravel. The crunch of stone and the slam of a door that heralds the moment of truth.
Is this going to be a good night or a bad night?
And here it comes, that familiar engine roaring towards my house, my crib, towards my mother and I. Too fast. It's coming too fast and my stomach sinks. I wet myself and feel tears trickle down my face. The breaks squeal as the truck turns from the road into our driveway, sending lights running across my walls. A warning flare.
The truck door creaks open, the hinges never get oiled. There's a thud on the gravel and loud swearing.
It's going to be a bad night. I start crying in earnest now. And my mother ghosts past the door, giving me a frantic frown and flapping her hands like broken-necked birds.
"Shush, baby, shush. No tears."
Then she's gone, down the hall and opening the door. The truck door slams mightily and I hear her breath catch in her throat.
"Honey, are you okay?" My mom calls softly, barely audible over his swearing.
"Shut up, you dumb whore. You want the whole trailer park up? You want them all to know I fell out of my god damn truck? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry, honey," she says, a quaver in her voice. I know that sound.
I wail once, because I can't help it, as the front door is thrown open so hard it rattles the trailer. Then I shove my fist in my mouth and wait.
"God damn it, woman, you woke the baby. Now the little brat is going to be crying all night long."
"If you'd lower your voice, honey, she'll drop right off again."
A sharp crack, her sharp cry, and a heavy thud followed by a slow slide. She's crying and a picture has fallen off my wall. Mother Goose is face down on the floor, her eyes hidden from what's going to happen next.
More thuds and sharp cries. Until the thudding is like drum beats or rain hitting the window. Slaps and cracks of thunder and soft sobs growing into wild screams.
And all his shouting won't stop the maelstrom he's unleashing on her. She can't stop doing something she wasn't doing in the first place. But he doesn't care because he's so angry. So angry at everything he can't control.
Even then, I understood that. The monsters are scary to me because they are in control. They're even scarier because they think they have to be in control but aren't. They don't control anything. They're weak and pathetic and stupid. Except when they find someone weaker. That's why being weak is bad. As a toddler, as a young child, I knew that.
But it didn't help me that night or any other that followed. Because what can a kid in a crib do when her mother's being beaten to a pulp by her father?
Crying makes him hit harder. Silence makes him yell louder. There isn't anything to do except wait. Wait and be afraid.
Eventually the storm of slaps and kicks and punches stops and the screaming subsides.
"God damn it, woman, you're bleeding all over the fucking floor." Another thud as he kicks her, making her vomit on the floor. "You're disgusting. I don't know how I ever married a worthless piece of trash like you. Clean this up. Right fucking now."
Another thud from another kick.
"My bed better be made and there better be breakfast on the fucking table in six hours, bitch. You hear me? I will break your fucking neck otherwise. And clean up that fucking brat's mess. I can smell her shit and piss from here. What the fuck is wrong with you? Leaving your baby a disgusting mess just like you? What kind of mother are you? Huh? What kind of mother are you?"
The yelling starts again and she just moans. A few more thuds and slaps. Then he lets her body drop to the floor.
Heavy footsteps come towards my room. A shadow fills the doorway. A foul smell; part sweat, part blood, and something I know is poison but is actually alcohol; rolls through my room filling the shadows with menace and the light with pain.
"It's okay, little baby," he croons, coming closer. Stepping on and crushing Mother Goose's picture.
"God damn it!" He yells, kicking the picture and making a dent in the wall where it hits. "This place is always a fucking mess!"
He's so close and so angry, the heat of it boils off of him in waves, scalding my skin. His voice rings against my ears, stabbing needles into my head. And I cry.
"God damn it! God damn it all! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" A dark hand comes down on my head, slapping me and pressing me into the crib mattress, stealing my air and cutting off my cries.
At last, everything goes dark and quiet.
I keep coming here to write and my brain is full of static.
The words I want to put down taste like ash on my tongue.
Buzzing in my brain isn't enough to wipe out the images.
Just enough to jumble them and skew with jagged lines.
They came for us because we let them. Too preoccupied with our Wiis and gadgets and lying to our Second Life spouses about how much we loathed our IRL spouses and preferred the sweet whispered words of cyber fantasies; we never had a chance. We didn't care, anyway. Too many other things to worry about. Miley Cyrus. Robin Thicke. Who will be the next American Idol? What will Kim Kardashian wear at her wedding? These were pressing matters. Too important, too all-consuming for us to spare attention to the slow assimilation we were being gently herded towards.
Like lumbering cows, confused sheep. Like animals we stumbled dumbly onwards, before the shepherd's crook and to the lee of the dogs snapping at our heels. Oh we were herded by pros. None of us could break ranks. Those of us on the edges, who could see the teeth and shapes of the beasts that goaded us onward, they tried to free themselves. They tried to warn the rest of us, bleeting their fear and suspicion as loudly as they could over the dog's fierce barks and the shepherd's soothing calls.
But we were distracted by our Nintendo 3DS, our iPods, our voice-activated lawnmowers. We went uncaring to our fates. We were shorn. Fleeced. We were left stranded and naked with nothing for warmth and no awareness of where our toys and gadgets had gone. We stared at each other with bleak eyes and exchanged mournful baas.
And as the butcher came towards us, over the hill, reeking of blood and offal, we waited to see what would happen next. We felt the dread growing thick and viscous in our bellies. And we wondered who would fall first. We wondered which of us would shed the sheepskin and emerge a wolf and do battle with the butcher.
But that wondering only lasted a few minutes because the butcher began singing a catchy commercial jingle. Something about remote-control power tools. And we were entranced.
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on December 18, 2013, 07:25:46 AM
They came for us because we let them. Too preoccupied with our Wiis and gadgets and lying to our Second Life spouses about how much we loathed our IRL spouses and preferred the sweet whispered words of cyber fantasies; we never had a chance. We didn't care, anyway. Too many other things to worry about. Miley Cyrus. Robin Thicke. Who will be the next American Idol? What will Kim Kardashian wear at her wedding? These were pressing matters. Too important, too all-consuming for us to spare attention to the slow assimilation we were being gently herded towards.
Like lumbering cows, confused sheep. Like animals we stumbled dumbly onwards, before the shepherd's crook and to the lee of the dogs snapping at our heels. Oh we were herded by pros. None of us could break ranks. Those of us on the edges, who could see the teeth and shapes of the beasts that goaded us onward, they tried to free themselves. They tried to warn the rest of us, bleeting their fear and suspicion as loudly as they could over the dog's fierce barks and the shepherd's soothing calls.
But we were distracted by our Nintendo 3DS, our iPods, our voice-activated lawnmowers. We went uncaring to our fates. We were shorn. Fleeced. We were left stranded and naked with nothing for warmth and no awareness of where our toys and gadgets had gone. We stared at each other with bleak eyes and exchanged mournful baas.
And as the butcher came towards us, over the hill, reeking of blood and offal, we waited to see what would happen next. We felt the dread growing thick and viscous in our bellies. And we wondered who would fall first. We wondered which of us would shed the sheepskin and emerge a wolf and do battle with the butcher.
But that wondering only lasted a few minutes because the butcher began singing a catchy commercial jingle. Something about remote-control power tools. And we were entranced.
I like.
Haunting.
remote control power tools a drone reference?
Quote from: :regret: on December 18, 2013, 09:04:40 AM
Quote from: Cardinal Pizza Deliverance. on December 18, 2013, 07:25:46 AM
They came for us because we let them. Too preoccupied with our Wiis and gadgets and lying to our Second Life spouses about how much we loathed our IRL spouses and preferred the sweet whispered words of cyber fantasies; we never had a chance. We didn't care, anyway. Too many other things to worry about. Miley Cyrus. Robin Thicke. Who will be the next American Idol? What will Kim Kardashian wear at her wedding? These were pressing matters. Too important, too all-consuming for us to spare attention to the slow assimilation we were being gently herded towards.
Like lumbering cows, confused sheep. Like animals we stumbled dumbly onwards, before the shepherd's crook and to the lee of the dogs snapping at our heels. Oh we were herded by pros. None of us could break ranks. Those of us on the edges, who could see the teeth and shapes of the beasts that goaded us onward, they tried to free themselves. They tried to warn the rest of us, bleeting their fear and suspicion as loudly as they could over the dog's fierce barks and the shepherd's soothing calls.
But we were distracted by our Nintendo 3DS, our iPods, our voice-activated lawnmowers. We went uncaring to our fates. We were shorn. Fleeced. We were left stranded and naked with nothing for warmth and no awareness of where our toys and gadgets had gone. We stared at each other with bleak eyes and exchanged mournful baas.
And as the butcher came towards us, over the hill, reeking of blood and offal, we waited to see what would happen next. We felt the dread growing thick and viscous in our bellies. And we wondered who would fall first. We wondered which of us would shed the sheepskin and emerge a wolf and do battle with the butcher.
But that wondering only lasted a few minutes because the butcher began singing a catchy commercial jingle. Something about remote-control power tools. And we were entranced.
I like.
Haunting.
remote control power tools a drone reference?
Thanks. Yup!
I was going to write but I ended up doing my taxes instead. WOO! I made 10k all year. O.O