i’m brushing my teath

getting ready for bed

when you appear

just like clockwork.

at first

i don’t see you

and i don’t hear you,

it’s the assumption that you’re there

that makes me check,

and every time I do,

I find you there.

you’re minding your own business

relaxed

poised

and looking at you brings me chills

from my shoulders

to my toes

back up to my head

and i suddenly feel lightheaded,

your presence made me inhale too quickly

and i choked on air.

i’m terrified to take my eyes off you.

slightly panicking

i tear myself away

reach under my bathroom cabinet

grab the Raid

and spray

until your hundredth leg

stops its agonizing wriggle.

the ingrained memory of your thrashing limbs

haunts my dreams,

i feel you all over me,

and the thought of having to see your friends tomorrow

has me petrified

but they’ll be there

just like clockwork.

My calloused fingers never played better than on this terrific night. In two months’ time, I would have been on a stage, performing with Ms. Baker. The lights would blind me, the cacophonous echo would ring, and the crowd would cheer. The performance was set for the day of my 21st birthday, it was going to be a joyous day.

I was a skilled cellist—the best in France, according to mamma. Through the years, my love for playing vanished before my eyes—inexplicably. My heart was not broken—it was lost.

That is what brought me to The Titanic. The promise of playing for a unique audience excited me. However, the dreary days passed and nothing. My seasickness was of no help, and the distance from my hometown was as agonizing as ever.

But in that moment, as I heard Hartley’s Violin crying in the brisk air, I felt my freezing fingers move and I came to the realization—my heart had never so passionately beaten, my fingers never so fluidly caressed these strings of mine; and as the silent tears fell, I fell in love with music once more.

#titanic #thetitanic #challenge #orchestra #cello #cellist #rogermariebricoux

Clay carelessly clones chained claustrophobic chickens

constrained in cheap crusty cages whilst fantasizing of

cheerfully chasing

chugg-worthy cognac with

costly chemise-covered company.

Sulking, I stepped out of my two-person tent and into the Andean wilderness. Wendy was still changing inside. Its the fourth day of our week-long hike and the sun, like usual, was torturously rising at sloth speed. The worst part about having to start our hikes this early are the below freezing temperatures that don’t relent until the sun is high in the sky.

“Babe! Do you have my water bottle?” Wendy yelled from inside the tent.

Sighing, I turned back to the tent. “It’s out here, Wen. You never brought it in last night.” I couldn’t hide my irritation anymore. I missed sleeping on my Purple Mattress, reading on my kindle, and my baby: Morty. Poor kitty, he must be bored in that cramped NYC apartment. I’m sure John—my neighbor—was taking good care of him, though.

I was absentmindedly gazing at the snow-covered mountain peaks, slowly being washed in sunlight, when Wendy’s arms suddenly wrapped around my waist. She dramatically inhaled the crisp air and I wondered how her nose wasn’t bleeding from the dryness—mine wouldn’t stop last night. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” I could tell she was trying to calm me down. “It is”, I acknowledged. No matter how painful, I had to give it to her, this place was breathtaking. I had never seen anything quite like it back in Mexico, much less in NYC. Ma’ flashed through my mind when I thought of home; hopefully NYC was treating her well this time of year—she was still recovering from her cataract surgery. One thing’s for sure, though, she would not have been able to get the surgery if she had stayed in Mexico; if she hadn’t moved in with me in NYC, she would probably not have had the surgery. I’m glad I was able to offer her that.

“Well… we have 9 hours ahead of us, so let’s pack the tent and start the hike”, I commanded. I was impatient to get this d*mn hike over with. “Only three more days” I silently reminded myself with an eye roll. I have no idea why I agreed to this; I need to stop letting Wendy get her way. Ever since we met at that New Years party last year, she’s been getting away with everything she’s wanted. This is the last time. After this trip, I’m not falling for her pleas again.

Six hours later, and the hike was coming to an end—we had just passed Cara-Cara, the strenuous mountain saddle we had to pass to get to the other valley where we would be camping for the night.

In the distance I could see tiny stone houses, but there were no people around.

“Where are all the people?” I asked Wendy

“You haven’t heard the stories?” Wendy chuckled and I knew she was going to mess with me.

“What stories?” I took the bait. I was curious.

“Of the PishtacoOoOO” Wendy elongated the oooo’s for effect.

“Fish taco?” I deadpanned. I was tired of her games.

“Hahahaha oh my god, babe, no. The Peesh-tah-koh. It’s a popular story here in the Andes. It’s a mythical creature, kinda like a vampire, but instead of sucking blood it eats all the fat off people.” Wendy explained. “It’s super creepy” she added after a silent moment of reflection.

In my mind I tried conjuring up an image of what that thing would look like. Spike, and then Edward, came to mind. Was it sparkly or was it ugly looking, like in Buffy: The Vampire Slayer? Or maybe it was a fusion between Spike and the smooth monster portrayed by MJ in Thriller? Wendy noticed my silence and laughed, “don’t think too hard about it, it’s just lore sh*t”.

“…and mother always told me, be careful who you love… Billie Jean is not my lover…hey hey hey…but the kid is not my son…” Wendy sang up ahead, her voice getting quieter and quieter as she left me behind—she had way better cardio than I, so I was often a good mile or so behind her. Her singing was nothing new either, she loved singing, and now that we had no signal, she was left to sing the lyrics she could remember. Her half-ass*d lyrics were going to be the death of me.

I took a deep sigh as her singing became even more distant; this was my favorite part: the moment she’s too far to hear. I am finally able to take in the birds’ chirping and the crunching sounds my steps make on the cactus-like grass.

Another hour of peaceful bliss passes and I spot the valley we agreed on camping at about two miles away. I was going downhill, so I could see everything between me and the valley—there was the little village, I could see it more clearly now. It consisted of a whopping max of two stone houses. The strange thing was I couldn’t spot Wendy. At this point I would usually see her setting up our tents up ahead.

Twenty minutes later, I was finally reaching the tiny village, “Hey, Wen!?”, I called out to her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she popped out from behind one of the abandoned homes. Her childishness, that can sometimes come off as cute, was infuriating during this trip. She knew I was cranky and wanted to go home, I don’t understand why she would pull another stunt like this. “Hee Hee”, I heard her terrible Michael Jackson impersonation coming from the house on my left. Rolling my eyes, I stomped off the path to go to the house. “Come On, Wen! I’m tired! Can you cut this sh*t out!?” I was planning on dragging her back to the path, my patience completely gone. But when I turned to the back of the stone house, she wasn’t there.

“She says I am the one… Hee Hee” came from the house to the right of the path.

“What the f*ck, Wen!?”, I yelled. “Can we just keep going? I’m tired and my feet hurt.” I whined.

She began humming, but unlike before, I couldn’t tell from where it was coming.

“Billie Jean is not my lover”

“Billie Jean is not my lover”

“Billie Jean is not my lover”

“Billie Jean is not my lover”

Her singing never stopped.

“Hee Hee.”

~3 DAYS LATER~

News Anchor: “Anoche, el cuerpo de una mujer mexicana de unos 20 años fue encontrado en el camino del Alpamayo. No se encontró grasa en su cuerpo.”

Advertencia de contenido: Los próximos imágenes pueden ser perturbadores pra algunos.

[English]: “Last night, the body of a Mexican woman in her late 20′s was found on the Alpamayo trek. No fat was found on her body.”

Content Warning: The upcoming images may be disturbing for some viewers.

...

END

Author’s Note:

The Pishtaco is a mythical creature originating from the Andean region of Peru and Bolivia. The Pishtaco is believed to be a Western or European looking person that roams around the Andes feeding off the fat of the indigenous peoples living in the area (or any visitors). The Pishtaco has also been seen as a reflection of the Indigenous view of colonizers—Westerners or Europeans who came and brought death upon indigenous peoples. In Quechua, the language spoken by the Incas and most widely spoken across the Andean region, the Pishtaco is known as “Pishtay”.

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/330854315_Pishtacos_Human_Fat_Murderers_Structural_Inequalities_and_Resistances_in_Peru

https://www.thenotsoinnocentsabroad.com/blog/the-pishtaco-of-peru

#Pishtaco #Andes #Peru #Pishtay #Halloween #ShortStory #Thriller