The grainy waves waft in under the open blue sky. A boy plays in the yard while his mother hangs clothes, and a man crests the hill on their land. He carries his space helmet under his arm, but is wearing blue jeans and a button down.
The tall black trees reach into the dingy gray sky. A boy stands at the edge of the wood, parents nowhere in sight. He wears suspenders but no shoes, and waits at the edge of the winding trail that leads into the twilight and parallel lines.
The bare bulb hangs from a nicotine stained ceiling. A boy hides under his bed, while his mother feels her husband's fist across her tear-streamed face. Her cries and her husband’s shouts echo up the wooden stairs and into the dark.
She drops her laundry as she sees his face. Hiking up her skirts, she sprints down the front porch steps shouting, "Danny boy, look over the field, your daddy's come home!" he lifts his eyes and squints, barely making out his shape in the distance.
His courage comes as he takes the first steps into the tall, dark wood. The twigs and the stones don't hurt his feet so much, because he's never worn shoes so his soles are tough like leather. The sounds of woodland animals scurry all around.
She raises her arm against his next blow, but his strength is too much to fend off, and his hand catches her in the side of her head. She knows he’s going to kill her this time. As their filthy house spins around her, she shouts, "Baby, I’ve always loved you"
Like a cliché scene from a movie, the astronaut smiles and begins running to meet her. The warm, bulbous sun grins down with oppressive heat, but a swift, cool wind sweeps across their farm. The little boy is trying to keep up, peddling his little legs as fast as he can.
The woods were even darker than he could imagine. The shadows fell like a theater curtain, and swallowed up the little boy whole. He couldn’t see the trail, and he could feel his small heart trying to escape from its cage. Strange noises fill the air, and he can't place any of them.
Her husband stops mid swing. "You what?" his yells down at her. "You love me? I can't believe you would say that after all the things you’ve done." he hits her again. And again, and again. Upstairs, the little boy knows who she meant that for, and his tears burn his eyes and throat.
***
Saturday, June 8, 2013
What I've Written Today, Part 1 (Ophelia, Greg, and the Angel)
***
Chapter 1
Ophelia knew she wasn't an ordinary child. She certainly looked ordinary enough, with her round, fat wrists and long, curly black hair. But she didn't feel ordinary. Her mother said it was because her daddy was a unicorn, which Ophelia knew was nonsense because all of the unicorns had died out thousands of years ago, also because horse penises tended to be far too large for human women.
She did have a silver birth mark right in the center of her forehead though, and she loved oatmeal more than anything. They lived in an ordinary, boring townhouse in New York City, and she attended a droll, boring school. But she knew that her teachers were full of crap, and her classmates, for the most part were sheep. Not literal sheep, but sheep in the Machiavellian sense.
Except for Gregory. He was a skinny, shy boy with buck teeth and too many freckles for his own good. But he could see through the fog of misconception in their ordinary, boring, droll lives, and the truth terrified him. Also, Ophelia sometimes terrified him because of her assertiveness and the fact that she read far too many books for a person her age.
despite their gnostic outlook on life, and their disproportionately large brains both Ophelia and Gregory were struggling to make it through their classes, mostly because their answers were to creative, or insufficiently vague.
Also, Ophelia tended to be condescending to the teachers and because no one believed children, her teachers would mark her tests and papers down out of spite.
It didn’t really matter to them, though, because neither Greg nor Ophelia believed that primary school grades were a very accurate measure of someone intelligence. Obviously. Additionally, they hated the classrooms with their bright, terrible art and posters of people with milk mustaches looking down at them, smiling, and advertising their consumerist agenda.
What the children loved was their local library. After school, they would walk a mile and a half down the road to the giant, concrete and glass obelisk and walk in through the sliding doors. Ophelia would haul massive, cross-referenced tomes through the stacks and down the stairs to the hidden garden at the center of the building. There, Gregory would be waiting with a stack of comic books and together, with the massive grey wall towering above them, Ophelia and Greg could read unmolested for hours, inhaling the freshly produced oxygen put out by the flowers and trees.
Almost nobody would join them, for most people hate the outdoors because the light hurts their eyes and because they might get dirty.
Ophelia and Greg would sit in the garden until dusk, then return the books to their shelves and walk back to their respective apartments, hardly exchanging anything other than, "goodbye Ophelia, I'll see you in the morning." and "goodbye Greg, tell your mother hello for me" they rarely talked at length because they both knew a simple truth. The best friends can sit and share each other’s company in perfect harmony, without entertainment or manufactured conversation and simply enjoy their time spent together.
***
Chapter 2
"You pretentious little as swipe." growled mister Blaggerson, putting Ophelia’s latest test on her desk. At the top, in red ink, it bore a deep red C. "If I've told you once, I’ve told you 600 times, I'm not interested in your pet theories. You will answer your tests with the material I have presented in class, or you will fail. I am not interested in the opinion of an 8-year-old." he moved to the next desk, smiling again, "very good Lashaqua, B plus plus. Very good Ryan, a 92 today." and so on.
Gregory buried his face in his scrawny hands. Another 45. This time, he had been marked down 15% simply for pointing out several grammatical errors on the test sheet. Teachers hated that.
During lunch, Gregory would eat three hot dogs with lots of ketchup, and Ophelia would eat fries, as the lunch lady eyed her suspiciously. They never served oatmeal for lunch.
"Mother says hello" offered Greg, between sips of apple juice. "She’s making no-bake cookies tonight, and I know those are your favorite. She said I could bring some in a zip-lock baggy for our reading time tomorrow."
"Oh, that sounds lovely, Greg." Ophelia replied, smiling "your mother is such a dear. How is her new job going?"
Greg wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then returned it to his lap. Proper manners, he believed, were the only thing holding our society together. "Well, she's about to close a deal on her first apartment, and the commission will be something like 60 thousand dollars. She’s very excited." a flash of distress crossed his face.
Ophelia turned. Headed their way across the lunch room, were three particularly thick-headed and mustachioed fifth graders. In unison, Ophelia and Greg rose from their chairs, calmly bringing their trays to the wash bin. Being largely nonviolent, neither of them wanted anything to do with a lunchroom conflict. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have much choice.
A sweaty fist smashed into Greg’s face, sending his already duck taped glasses to the floor. "Morning twerps" belched the bigger boy "gay any good faggots lately?" he snorted
Greg reached for his glasses, his nose dripping blood and already swollen
Ophelia stood up for him "don't you Neanderthals have anything better to do? Like learning to read or something?"
The boy turned on her, spitting on her chuck Taylors. "We know how to read" he said, and the other two boys nodded and sneered "plus, you're a fat fatty" and he turned back to Greg.
"I'm not sure how my physical stature or Greg’s sexuality factor into this conflict, unless you're simply projecting your own insecurities about your reproductive ignorance and surplus of testosterone on us in a vain attempt to mask your own self-loathing and lack of accomplishments"
The fifth grader punched Greg again. "I know a lot about sex," he retorted "I watch porn on the internet in the computer lab every day"
Ophelia could tell this was going nowhere. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills, totaling almost $15. "Okay," she said "there's a hundred bucks in it for you proletarians if you will just leave us alone." she waved the money in front of them. She knew they couldn't tell how much it was. The bigger boy snatched at it.
Ophelia tossed the cash in the air and grabbed Greg’s wrist all in one motion, "come on!" she said, and together they ran out of the lunch room while their tormentors crawled around on the floor picking up the dollar bills.
They hid in a stall in the girls bathroom until their next period started, then walked briskly to their classes hoping that the eighth graders were still trying to figure out where the other $85 had gone.
***
Meanwhile:
Avery Redgrove was not a man to be trifled with.
Firstly there was his intimidating appearance. He was in his late fifties, with fearsome grey eyes which glint in the darkness like a hungry predator. He has a small black goatee, and receding dark brown hair with streaks of silver which he keeps pulled back into a tight pony tail. His teeth are perfectly white and exceedingly sharp.
Secondly, he was a wizard.
Wizard Redgrove sat in his study; a tall room filled with old books from floor to ceiling. There are two leather high-back chairs, and a fire is crackling hotly in the hearth. Everything is still. Slowly, Redgrove turned the pages of an ancient book, carefully scanning each page with his reflective eyes.
The fire in the hearth stirred, and there was a sound like a loud clap. He turned toward the sound, but saw nothing.
The angel was very tall, almost ten feet. Very humanoid in form, yet anything put human. Far from the Aryan stereotype so often associated with angelic beings. If anything, this angel looked Arabic, with dark skin and brown eyes. He had wings like a golden eagle, brown and gold feathers gleaming in the firelight. He stood near the window, observing everything Redgrove did with watchful eyes.
The angel knew that Ophelia and Gregory were a threat, and he needed them dead. According to his sources, Redgrove was the perfect tool for the job.
***
Chapter 1
Ophelia knew she wasn't an ordinary child. She certainly looked ordinary enough, with her round, fat wrists and long, curly black hair. But she didn't feel ordinary. Her mother said it was because her daddy was a unicorn, which Ophelia knew was nonsense because all of the unicorns had died out thousands of years ago, also because horse penises tended to be far too large for human women.
She did have a silver birth mark right in the center of her forehead though, and she loved oatmeal more than anything. They lived in an ordinary, boring townhouse in New York City, and she attended a droll, boring school. But she knew that her teachers were full of crap, and her classmates, for the most part were sheep. Not literal sheep, but sheep in the Machiavellian sense.
Except for Gregory. He was a skinny, shy boy with buck teeth and too many freckles for his own good. But he could see through the fog of misconception in their ordinary, boring, droll lives, and the truth terrified him. Also, Ophelia sometimes terrified him because of her assertiveness and the fact that she read far too many books for a person her age.
despite their gnostic outlook on life, and their disproportionately large brains both Ophelia and Gregory were struggling to make it through their classes, mostly because their answers were to creative, or insufficiently vague.
Also, Ophelia tended to be condescending to the teachers and because no one believed children, her teachers would mark her tests and papers down out of spite.
It didn’t really matter to them, though, because neither Greg nor Ophelia believed that primary school grades were a very accurate measure of someone intelligence. Obviously. Additionally, they hated the classrooms with their bright, terrible art and posters of people with milk mustaches looking down at them, smiling, and advertising their consumerist agenda.
What the children loved was their local library. After school, they would walk a mile and a half down the road to the giant, concrete and glass obelisk and walk in through the sliding doors. Ophelia would haul massive, cross-referenced tomes through the stacks and down the stairs to the hidden garden at the center of the building. There, Gregory would be waiting with a stack of comic books and together, with the massive grey wall towering above them, Ophelia and Greg could read unmolested for hours, inhaling the freshly produced oxygen put out by the flowers and trees.
Almost nobody would join them, for most people hate the outdoors because the light hurts their eyes and because they might get dirty.
Ophelia and Greg would sit in the garden until dusk, then return the books to their shelves and walk back to their respective apartments, hardly exchanging anything other than, "goodbye Ophelia, I'll see you in the morning." and "goodbye Greg, tell your mother hello for me" they rarely talked at length because they both knew a simple truth. The best friends can sit and share each other’s company in perfect harmony, without entertainment or manufactured conversation and simply enjoy their time spent together.
***
Chapter 2
"You pretentious little as swipe." growled mister Blaggerson, putting Ophelia’s latest test on her desk. At the top, in red ink, it bore a deep red C. "If I've told you once, I’ve told you 600 times, I'm not interested in your pet theories. You will answer your tests with the material I have presented in class, or you will fail. I am not interested in the opinion of an 8-year-old." he moved to the next desk, smiling again, "very good Lashaqua, B plus plus. Very good Ryan, a 92 today." and so on.
Gregory buried his face in his scrawny hands. Another 45. This time, he had been marked down 15% simply for pointing out several grammatical errors on the test sheet. Teachers hated that.
During lunch, Gregory would eat three hot dogs with lots of ketchup, and Ophelia would eat fries, as the lunch lady eyed her suspiciously. They never served oatmeal for lunch.
"Mother says hello" offered Greg, between sips of apple juice. "She’s making no-bake cookies tonight, and I know those are your favorite. She said I could bring some in a zip-lock baggy for our reading time tomorrow."
"Oh, that sounds lovely, Greg." Ophelia replied, smiling "your mother is such a dear. How is her new job going?"
Greg wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then returned it to his lap. Proper manners, he believed, were the only thing holding our society together. "Well, she's about to close a deal on her first apartment, and the commission will be something like 60 thousand dollars. She’s very excited." a flash of distress crossed his face.
Ophelia turned. Headed their way across the lunch room, were three particularly thick-headed and mustachioed fifth graders. In unison, Ophelia and Greg rose from their chairs, calmly bringing their trays to the wash bin. Being largely nonviolent, neither of them wanted anything to do with a lunchroom conflict. It seemed, however, that they didn’t have much choice.
A sweaty fist smashed into Greg’s face, sending his already duck taped glasses to the floor. "Morning twerps" belched the bigger boy "gay any good faggots lately?" he snorted
Greg reached for his glasses, his nose dripping blood and already swollen
Ophelia stood up for him "don't you Neanderthals have anything better to do? Like learning to read or something?"
The boy turned on her, spitting on her chuck Taylors. "We know how to read" he said, and the other two boys nodded and sneered "plus, you're a fat fatty" and he turned back to Greg.
"I'm not sure how my physical stature or Greg’s sexuality factor into this conflict, unless you're simply projecting your own insecurities about your reproductive ignorance and surplus of testosterone on us in a vain attempt to mask your own self-loathing and lack of accomplishments"
The fifth grader punched Greg again. "I know a lot about sex," he retorted "I watch porn on the internet in the computer lab every day"
Ophelia could tell this was going nowhere. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a wad of dollar bills, totaling almost $15. "Okay," she said "there's a hundred bucks in it for you proletarians if you will just leave us alone." she waved the money in front of them. She knew they couldn't tell how much it was. The bigger boy snatched at it.
Ophelia tossed the cash in the air and grabbed Greg’s wrist all in one motion, "come on!" she said, and together they ran out of the lunch room while their tormentors crawled around on the floor picking up the dollar bills.
They hid in a stall in the girls bathroom until their next period started, then walked briskly to their classes hoping that the eighth graders were still trying to figure out where the other $85 had gone.
***
Meanwhile:
Avery Redgrove was not a man to be trifled with.
Firstly there was his intimidating appearance. He was in his late fifties, with fearsome grey eyes which glint in the darkness like a hungry predator. He has a small black goatee, and receding dark brown hair with streaks of silver which he keeps pulled back into a tight pony tail. His teeth are perfectly white and exceedingly sharp.
Secondly, he was a wizard.
Wizard Redgrove sat in his study; a tall room filled with old books from floor to ceiling. There are two leather high-back chairs, and a fire is crackling hotly in the hearth. Everything is still. Slowly, Redgrove turned the pages of an ancient book, carefully scanning each page with his reflective eyes.
The fire in the hearth stirred, and there was a sound like a loud clap. He turned toward the sound, but saw nothing.
The angel was very tall, almost ten feet. Very humanoid in form, yet anything put human. Far from the Aryan stereotype so often associated with angelic beings. If anything, this angel looked Arabic, with dark skin and brown eyes. He had wings like a golden eagle, brown and gold feathers gleaming in the firelight. He stood near the window, observing everything Redgrove did with watchful eyes.
The angel knew that Ophelia and Gregory were a threat, and he needed them dead. According to his sources, Redgrove was the perfect tool for the job.
***
Complete Transparency, A Journal
YOU'VE BEEN WARNED this post contains cussing and general grumpiness in an effort to be completely transparent about my writing experiment for the day. Also, I'm naked for part of it, so read at your own risk.
***
My day started with sleepy, awkward sex and moved into procrastination. Lying in bed, taking pictures of my wife with my iPod. Then just dreading going out for the day.
I fear failure like a poodle fears thunder. I compensate by dressing fancy and dragging my feet. I spend 30 minutes browsing pretentious art online. I'm fat in the mirror, a bag of water lopsided and covered in hair.
I had promised my 30+ twitter followers and all 89 of my Facebook friends that I would spend at least 8 hours writing today. A kind of self-experimentation of how things might go if I were to make writing a full-time job.
How many hours do professional novelists actually spend typing away at a story?
I have no idea. I head over to the Chef and order an Irish coffee. (Whiskey and Baileys). The sounds are a mixture of pleasant conversation and clinking silverware. Journaling counts as writing, right?
My omelet is amazing. Everybody is happy here. Food makes people happy.
I'm going to have to walk to the Library, because I'm not sure how much booze is in this coffee.
My wife told me ten pages would be success. I very much doubt she would be impressed by this stream of consciousness crap.
***
I hop in my sad-faced Miata and drive to the library. I shouldn’t, but I do. And what’s more is I don’t wear a seat belt. It’s very warm here, but I can’t tell if that’s the atmosphere or the whiskey talking. I sweat profusely when I drink.
I’m not welcome at the library anyway, I owe them too much money for borrowing books like they should be; taking them home, forgetting you have them, and only taking them back when the person who loaned them asks very nicely. Then rifling all your books until you find it (them) and hastily dropping them off without making eye contact. A year or two later.
I think a nice change of pace, or a change in scenery can shake loose some mental cob-webs and reunite you with artistic creativity. Plus, I'm hoping that by simply spending time in a place like this, I can absorb some of the past genius from long-dead authors by osmosis.
I guess we'll see how it goes...
***
Now at bluestem. More coffee. Not feeling particularly inspired or motivated. Whoever decided that hazelnut and coffee should be a thing deserves 40 virgins of the gender of their choice. Have written some. About five pages. 23 if I make the font really huge. I like what I've written, but I feel like I've spent too long with a habit of only writing when the planets along just so, that now it feels impossible to just sit down and make good art.
So while not a complete failure, definitely a learning experience. I think I should have done some research about the writing habits of full-time novelists to find out when, how, where, and for how long they spend writing. I suspect this was never meant to be a 9-5 thing. Maybe I'll have more luck late tonight... But I sincerely doubt it.
Creativity is a demanding bitch, and if you don't service her on a regular basis, she doesn't do your bidding when you want her to.
***
***
My day started with sleepy, awkward sex and moved into procrastination. Lying in bed, taking pictures of my wife with my iPod. Then just dreading going out for the day.
I fear failure like a poodle fears thunder. I compensate by dressing fancy and dragging my feet. I spend 30 minutes browsing pretentious art online. I'm fat in the mirror, a bag of water lopsided and covered in hair.
I had promised my 30+ twitter followers and all 89 of my Facebook friends that I would spend at least 8 hours writing today. A kind of self-experimentation of how things might go if I were to make writing a full-time job.
How many hours do professional novelists actually spend typing away at a story?
I have no idea. I head over to the Chef and order an Irish coffee. (Whiskey and Baileys). The sounds are a mixture of pleasant conversation and clinking silverware. Journaling counts as writing, right?
My omelet is amazing. Everybody is happy here. Food makes people happy.
I'm going to have to walk to the Library, because I'm not sure how much booze is in this coffee.
My wife told me ten pages would be success. I very much doubt she would be impressed by this stream of consciousness crap.
***
I hop in my sad-faced Miata and drive to the library. I shouldn’t, but I do. And what’s more is I don’t wear a seat belt. It’s very warm here, but I can’t tell if that’s the atmosphere or the whiskey talking. I sweat profusely when I drink.
I’m not welcome at the library anyway, I owe them too much money for borrowing books like they should be; taking them home, forgetting you have them, and only taking them back when the person who loaned them asks very nicely. Then rifling all your books until you find it (them) and hastily dropping them off without making eye contact. A year or two later.
I think a nice change of pace, or a change in scenery can shake loose some mental cob-webs and reunite you with artistic creativity. Plus, I'm hoping that by simply spending time in a place like this, I can absorb some of the past genius from long-dead authors by osmosis.
I guess we'll see how it goes...
***
Now at bluestem. More coffee. Not feeling particularly inspired or motivated. Whoever decided that hazelnut and coffee should be a thing deserves 40 virgins of the gender of their choice. Have written some. About five pages. 23 if I make the font really huge. I like what I've written, but I feel like I've spent too long with a habit of only writing when the planets along just so, that now it feels impossible to just sit down and make good art.
So while not a complete failure, definitely a learning experience. I think I should have done some research about the writing habits of full-time novelists to find out when, how, where, and for how long they spend writing. I suspect this was never meant to be a 9-5 thing. Maybe I'll have more luck late tonight... But I sincerely doubt it.
Creativity is a demanding bitch, and if you don't service her on a regular basis, she doesn't do your bidding when you want her to.
***
Friday, June 7, 2013
"A Rude Awakening" or "Vallery, the Volcano, and the Withered Hags" Cont.
She held a wine glass in her spidery hand, swirling the black liquid it contained nonchalantly. She was completely naked, however, it wasn't a pretty sight. She was all bones, with pale white skin stretched like a latex glove over her skeleton. Her breasts sagged unattractively.
Ted remembered being hit over the head at the gas station, and a foggy semiconscious ride in the backseat of an Oldsmobile. The smell of cracking leather upholstery.
He resurfaced to the bright beam of a flashlight in his eyes; but wasn't really awake enough to fight back as they half dragged him down the long corridor with the marble floors. As the fog over his mind slowly lifted, he became more aware of how strange this evening was turning out to be. A dull, throbbing pain was beginning to grow from the lump on the back of his head.
Everything was too bright.
When she spoke, her voice was like a creaking door, covered in cobwebs. Her lips were dry, and cracked with each syllable they formed. The sounds reached his ears like they were underwater, all muted and distorted. Her nipples rose to the occasion like tiny withered prunes.
Ted wished he were at home in bed, tucked warmly beneath his down comforter. He really had no idea what the fuck was going on... but for that matter, neither did the naked hag sipping mystery goo from a wine glass and looking smug.
The words reached his ears like feather pillows dipped in mud, and squished their way into his brain.
“Do. You. Know. Why. You. Are. Here.”
“Not in the foggiest.” He heard his voice reply like a faraway memory.
The pupil-smashingly bright lighting stung his rods and cones. Slowly, things became more coherent.
“You have been brought before the sisterhood of the black wine in order to be tried for your crimes against our order.”
“I, uh.” Is all he could manage.
“Are you or are you not Theodore Vallary Stonehouse?”
“No, actually. I’m Theodore Felicity Stonehouse, Vallary is my twin brother. My parents wanted girls.”
Her oily, black eyes narrowed in anger and surprise. The cup of wine crashed to the floor, spilling its contents on the stone. “You unfortunate bastards.” She rose from her throne, pointing a long, gnarled finger at her henchmen. Everything sagged. He puckered vagina was mercifully hidden from sight by a thick, curly, pubic beard. “The Mistress will have your gonads crushed into wine.” Further narrowing her eyes, she focused them on Ted. “Are you aware of the current location of your brother Vallary?”
There was no room in that question for thoughts about whether or not betraying your blood brother was the right thing to do. For better or for worse, however, Theodore had no idea.
“Er, actually, no.”
“WHAT?” She howled.
“Last I heard, he was studying for his graduate program near a volcano in the Indian Ocean somewhere...”
The brilliant lighting began to darken as her rage continued to build. His head welcomed the relief.
Ted remembered being hit over the head at the gas station, and a foggy semiconscious ride in the backseat of an Oldsmobile. The smell of cracking leather upholstery.
He resurfaced to the bright beam of a flashlight in his eyes; but wasn't really awake enough to fight back as they half dragged him down the long corridor with the marble floors. As the fog over his mind slowly lifted, he became more aware of how strange this evening was turning out to be. A dull, throbbing pain was beginning to grow from the lump on the back of his head.
Everything was too bright.
When she spoke, her voice was like a creaking door, covered in cobwebs. Her lips were dry, and cracked with each syllable they formed. The sounds reached his ears like they were underwater, all muted and distorted. Her nipples rose to the occasion like tiny withered prunes.
Ted wished he were at home in bed, tucked warmly beneath his down comforter. He really had no idea what the fuck was going on... but for that matter, neither did the naked hag sipping mystery goo from a wine glass and looking smug.
The words reached his ears like feather pillows dipped in mud, and squished their way into his brain.
“Do. You. Know. Why. You. Are. Here.”
“Not in the foggiest.” He heard his voice reply like a faraway memory.
The pupil-smashingly bright lighting stung his rods and cones. Slowly, things became more coherent.
“You have been brought before the sisterhood of the black wine in order to be tried for your crimes against our order.”
“I, uh.” Is all he could manage.
“Are you or are you not Theodore Vallary Stonehouse?”
“No, actually. I’m Theodore Felicity Stonehouse, Vallary is my twin brother. My parents wanted girls.”
Her oily, black eyes narrowed in anger and surprise. The cup of wine crashed to the floor, spilling its contents on the stone. “You unfortunate bastards.” She rose from her throne, pointing a long, gnarled finger at her henchmen. Everything sagged. He puckered vagina was mercifully hidden from sight by a thick, curly, pubic beard. “The Mistress will have your gonads crushed into wine.” Further narrowing her eyes, she focused them on Ted. “Are you aware of the current location of your brother Vallary?”
There was no room in that question for thoughts about whether or not betraying your blood brother was the right thing to do. For better or for worse, however, Theodore had no idea.
“Er, actually, no.”
“WHAT?” She howled.
“Last I heard, he was studying for his graduate program near a volcano in the Indian Ocean somewhere...”
The brilliant lighting began to darken as her rage continued to build. His head welcomed the relief.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
For Deb, What's Three Months?, 'Project 157'
Jen sighed. “Yeah, I mean, Melissa had one after her last pregnancy, and they seem really happy.”
Terry frowned. “I don’t know, Tim and I have three kids of our own, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Besides, it’s a little far fetched to say that they’re still a part of the mother’s body after birth...”
Jen fired back, “Ha ha, that’s because you didn’t breastfeed. I mean, they just suck up so much of who you are, and they can’t really survive without you. And the sleepless nights?”
Terry thought for a little bit.
The baby monitor next to the porch swing began emitting muffled cries. Jen got up and walked toward the front door. “Anyway, Brad and I have talked, and we just don’t think we be parents right now, despite what we thought before.”
Terry looked up at her, smiling again, “Yeah, and I guess there’s a lot less risk involved after birth.”
For Vickie, Container, 'Project 157'
It smelled of rust, urine, and mold.
Thirteen girls were trapped inside... in the dark, in the cold.
Sometimes voices would call to each other outside.
For the first three days, they screamed and banged on the walls trying to get someone’s attention.
They screamed until their throats burned. They screamed until they slid to the floor and drifted into fitful slumber. The grime on the floor and the walls, the rags, and the half-eaten mattresses offered no comfort.
The youngest was nine years old. She’d been in the container for a week, watching the other girls come and go, but she had no way of knowing this. It seemed like forever.
Choking down bits of moldy food. Hiding in the shadowy corners whenever the big metal doors were pulled open and the blinding sunlight flooded in.
The authorities never came, even though a thousand cars passed by every day.
Even though she was my little sister.
End
Thirteen girls were trapped inside... in the dark, in the cold.
Sometimes voices would call to each other outside.
For the first three days, they screamed and banged on the walls trying to get someone’s attention.
They screamed until their throats burned. They screamed until they slid to the floor and drifted into fitful slumber. The grime on the floor and the walls, the rags, and the half-eaten mattresses offered no comfort.
The youngest was nine years old. She’d been in the container for a week, watching the other girls come and go, but she had no way of knowing this. It seemed like forever.
Choking down bits of moldy food. Hiding in the shadowy corners whenever the big metal doors were pulled open and the blinding sunlight flooded in.
The authorities never came, even though a thousand cars passed by every day.
Even though she was my little sister.
End
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