Pondering the Asshole
I never would have married you if I'd known you were an insidious little brain weevil.
I never would have married you if I'd known you were an insidious little brain weevil.
I have forgotten my dog's name, so I just call him Dog now. I'm surprised he actually responds to it. Maybe that was his name all along, I'm a little confused. Lately I've noticed subtle changes in him. His fur is thicker, he seems bigger and his bark is different; none of the whining anymore. Maybe it's my over imaginative mind or the constant dull weather.
The rain seems to be writing cryptic messages on my window panes. The drops slide down in crazy patterns. I can see alphabets appear, forming words I don't understand. I jot them down, maybe I'll use them in my song.
Dog has trotted up to me as I stand by the window, he's almost reaching my waist, he never was above my knee before. I scratch him behind his ear and he shuts his eyes. My nails are pointy again. I had clipped them really short till I had drawn blood. Was it yesterday– I try to remember.
My room is dark except for the little candle flickering on the table. I like the play of shadows on the walls and ceiling. And when a vehicle passes by, the shadows rush over the walls. I like it here, this little room seems to talk to me. I've written more songs in this past month since I shifted here, than in my whole career. Now I know why they call it the Alphabet street.
I slide open the window, sticking my hand out I catch the drops. They splatter in a brilliant array of purple. The rain is mingling with the night. Its raining ink. Purple, black, blue; I feel a song coming. I need to remember to buy a pair of shoes, my old ones don't fit me anymore.
I would never have married you if I had known you would one day shave off your magnificent beard without consulting me.
Could real life be any more unreal? Here I was on the road, during a record storm, after being betrayed by my shit-head Mom and Dad. Quite a frightening ordeal for a girl of fifteen! Bound hand and foot, I banged loosely on the floor of some horrible old trunk that stank of gasoline and nightmares. My wrists were tied with rope, and my head was blinded by sack cloth, until They found it appropriate to remove them. I struggled against the rope, until at last, we arrived at our awful destination. Once there, I was dragged from the van, into a dank room, where they unloaded us like potato sacks.
When unmasked, we were greeted by lightening from outside which bled in, allowing us to see the paisley room we were in was a nursery. When another thunderbolt flashed again, it revealed a room so badly neglected that the building must have been condemned. Wallpaper curled up walls, looking like it was black in spots from an old fire, and mold showed underneath. Out of the corner of my eye a rat scurried. While electricity painted our frightened faces, I waited with my tribe for the two nun statues to tell us what we were doing here. Instead the statues busied themselves by gaping at a clock on the wall behind us, their heads ducking back down and greedily sifting through a mysterious satchel that contained some nameless treasure.
The many night’s following were monotonous, with no questions answered, as we huddled in this godforsaken room. Occassionally we were given baked beans, and out-house trips, but the only difference that I detected in this time warp was our group of women thinning out. Each new night there was less of us. Thanks to the heavily veiled windows, night was the only point of reference we knew of now; when our hours grew darker, stretching on like an endless quilt. I was already shy, but the trend of missing women made me become even more remote, and cautious about connecting with the other scared girls.
One evening, I awoke peering into the eyes of a auburn chick of seventeen who had a pale, upraised scar that ran from her lip to her right ear. Her scar looked like a white tattoo. It was a piece of art on her face. She was mouthing something, and there didn’t appear to be anyone in the room but the three remaining women. Grabbing her shoulder, I drew her closer to the ground so I could hear her.
“…It’s a prostitution ring, I think. These ain’t nuns, it’s all a set-up! We gotta hustle!”
I gawked back in fright. I was at a loss. Luckily she took the reins.
“We don’t have time! C’mon, Jesse! That’s your name, right? …Read it on their roster your about to be sent to a Bolivian man named Mauricio. Let’s go!”
The girl with the scar gripped my hand, and led us through a window she had wedged open. Once alerted, our captors hollered as we ran down the trail towards a forest in the distance. They were all too stupid to catch us though. My brave friend squeezed my palm as she skillfully shepherded me through bramble and crops of trees in the blackness. When I reached a cliff where a clearing could be scanned from above I noticed the girl with the scar had vanished. I felt naked without her, but I sobered up fast. The last wheel of the journey had to be done alone. Finding a way down the hill, I discovered a vacant cabin. I settled into it, and it has become my sanctuary for many years. There was some silverware left behind from the previous owners, and an axe stuck in a block of wood at the back of the house. I've cut my own wood here, and lived a solitary life. I've learned to catch small game with some skillful traps I've been forced to invent. I cook a mean rabbit! Sometimes, in the evening, after I've cooked up a hot meal, I think about my parents and how much I hate them. The hate is wearing off though. I wonder about whether I should move back to the chaos of the city, where people are governed by their fanatic infatuations. The city is frightening but the country is much, much darker in more then a few ways. You never know what's going to happen out here in wilderness, or what will come sneaking out of the bramble. The bitter pill I've come to accept is that everyone must fend for themselves.
He helped his wife out of the wheelchair and into the passenger seat of their blue sedan. He took great care to hold the seatbelt away from her as he gently buckled her in and closed the door. The nurse stood like a sentinel as he slowly returned the wheelchair to her care. His eyes remained fixed on the ground as he walked to the rear of the car, popped the trunk open, and gently placed the empty car seat into the dark, cavernous space.
My hands are singed, still burning from his touch. The flashbacks keep getting worse and worse. I held him in my hands, trying, desperately searching for the source of the blood--lots and lots of it. I opened his shirt, tears streaming down my face, but nothing. Then, I saw: the bullet had gone into the back of his skull, like in those old horror movies. But this, this was real. My memories pound, they beat me to the ground, with sharp claws and raging eyes--my hands--a pile of hot ash on the floor.
Based on a true story.
The acrid smell of burnt copper and corrosive acids hung thickly in the air, and surges of magical power sizzled and sparked as they tunneled through the protector’s limbs. Its eyes whirred and flashed, then began to glow a steady red as the auto-focus function initiated. The register for cognitive storage powered up, and its memory banks began to hum with eldritch light.
“Begin the transfer!” Eldoren’s voice belied his great age. The wizard’s health was deteriorating, and his apprentice knew it.
The large vat of bubbling blue liquid was thick with foam and slimy clumps. Samal placed one end of a rubber hose into the pot, and the other he attached to a port on the protector’s chest. Eldoren began the incantation and as his words echoed and vibrated, the liquid climbed the tube and made its way into the iron body.
As the metal creation absorbed the potion, it slowly sat up on the table with a creaking of metal joints. It’s head rotated with the sound of nails on slate, and its eerie red eyes stared at Eldoren. “Information transfer complete.” The voice that came from the grill below the protectors eyes was flat, monotone and utterly devoid of warmth.
Samal looked over and as he watched, his master’s face went ashen and the old wizard fell to his side. The protector turned its gaze upon the frightened boy. “Eldoren Tremain has ceased to function. Awaiting your instructions.”
(c) 2016 - dustygrein
A piece of gum had stuck to Thaddeus's shoe; long strands trailed up as he lifted his foot, and disgust flashed across his face.
The crime scene was a mess. Chewed gum littered almost every surface, empty bottles rattled around corners that hadn't been cleaned in decades and the smell of rotten food rose from the sink.
The body was neatly laid-out on a clean table; it was dressed in a tuxedo, pocket square perfectly folded and tucked into the pocket in a way that infuriated Thaddeus. He had spent ages trying to get his own kerchief to fold in the same way. He had long ago given up in favour of the disorganised spill of cloth that now adorned his chest.
Looking at that kerchief Thaddeus knew they were dealing with a deranged mind.
“Wake up Tarlina.”
Mother’s voice roused me from a dream of flying – one of my favorites. The sun was just brightening the sky on the horizon, and the moons were both mere crescents in the early morning sky.
“Today is the day we meet with the Shatawni.” This was a very big day. Mother had formed a bond with the large female Shatawni many years before, and today I was being taken to meet her offspring. We would find out if that bond had been passed genetically down through our bloodlines.
“I’m excited mother,” I said, “but I’m also a little afraid.”
“Of course you are,” Mother assured me. “I promise that even if you do not form the bond with her offspring, you will be quite safe. The Shawtani pose no threat to us. We are their protectors, and they, in their own way, are ours.”
I trusted Mother completely, and we made our way to the hatching grounds beyond the forest.
I saw the Shatawni there, both the female and her offspring, as well as a male. The little one came forward, and I made my way cautiously across the sand to meet her. As we touched, our minds melded, and became intricately linked. Suddenly I was able to see through her eyes.
This promised to be the beginning of a wonderful adventure. “Mother,” I heard myself say. “We are so large to them … and they call themselves … humans!”
(c) 2016 - dustygrein
Furiously banging on my piano keys, I tried to force her spirit out. Her humming always seemed to grow louder as the days grew shorter and the nights wore on. Etude after etude I could feel her drawing nearer, the hair standing up on the back of my neck. Her disembodied voice hanging in the air, I refused to look around. Tick, tick, tick of the metronome. Faster, I must play faster. She cannot reach me while my hands are moving. Madman, they say. Haunted, I say. I feel her breath on my cheek. Fingers slip. Tick, tick, tick—silence.
(Note: This is my first attempt at flash fiction so it may not be up to par.)