But Mommy
It was a clear dawn sky to which Nathaniel opened his dreary eyes. His fragile pupils dilated and contracted, his breathing stretching the atrophied muscles in his chest. He rose from his bed and moved his arms high above his head, fighting dizziness and temptation to stay erect. A deep, deep yawn consumed his whole body, the end of which was punctuated with a scratching of his stomach and a swallow. The spit caught in his throat, choking him. Something was amiss, his throat burned and his brain shut down to the messages that were coming in the thousands. He recognized that taste, lodged in his throat and burning him through his entirety: gin. This was not any particular gin, mind you, but a rare breed of Cylligan’s Private Chinese Stock, produced in one batch only in the year 1941. This rare and highly potent gin was stuck in Nathaniel’s esophagus and he was too sleepy to get it out. He did not run about, nor really reflect the urgency of the situation in any way; he was frozen in mid stomach scratch with his hair a tussle and his eyes set on the mirror in front of him, literally acting as the reflection of his terror.
After a brief spell, no more than a few moments or minutes, Nathaniel came to his senses and coughed. It was a mighty cough, one that encapsulated all the need for air and sleep and breakfast that had been welling up in Nathaniel for several hours now. The gin spewed from his lips, accompanied by a thick, rich smoke. It poured from his o’ed mouth in such abundance that it filled the pale bedroom. What marvelous smoke this was, creamier than anything Nathaniel had ever tasted. As the fog cleared his bedroom clamored with traffic, boisterous conversation, full bellied laughter and good natured ribbing. Nathaniel was sitting in the middle of the Burmese National’s Gentlemen’s Club in Yangon, surrounded by white haired men of all creeds and builds.
Nathaniel examined himself, noting his immaculate dress. A coat of almost perfect cut graced his well ironed shirt. Heavily starched, slightly tapered navy blue pantaloons hugged his legs, yet breathed just so that he felt he was wearing nothing. Only his grooming was undesirable, still maintaining the chalk outline of drool across his face and hair that went catawampus as if he were of some cannibal descent. He quickly combined the two detractors, drying his nocturnal lake-ettes with his unkept mop and emerging as debonair as the general standing just to his left.
Nathaniel mingled with the crowd, these were in fact his people, and made small jokes to the mistresses that he fancied. He picked up a chilled whiskey, noted its rich chocolate, firm nuttiness, and Belgian yeasty flavors and moved to have a seat next to a particularly suave looking Spaniard. Presuming him to be royalty, and thus have more than accommodating lodgings for the night, Nathaniel began to weave his tale of mystery.
“Pardon me my most gracious sir but I’ve…” he began, but was met with a hand covering his mouth. In front of him stood a massive woman, balancing plates on her forehead to the fascination of nearly a score of eyes. Nathaniel concluded she was a circus freak on display and he tried to begin again. He was met, this time with a chorus of “Gee-gee-gee-gee” which was of course, the popular replacement of “shh” at the time and place. Nathaniel recoiled in horror, his boisterous story of adventure and poverty was a guaranteed place to stay for the night and usually multiple female accompaniments. He transposed his attention of the freak and waited, waited for her to fail so that he could succeed.
It was curious, but the longer he stared at her misshaped body and face, her long head and small hands, the longer he gazed at her mouth agape with no chance of closing, the more he grew to like the woman more and more. He stared for several minutes, joining the shockwave of awe that spread through the party. It was when she produced a violin from some unknown fold of skin that the crowd truly gasped with delight. Her fingers, tiny and numbering more than thirteen, began to cry out to the crowd. They were begging each and every person in the room to commit suicide, to rip out their neighbors’ hair, follicle by follicle and until all were bald and could be equals once again. Her fingers told Nathaniel to swallow his drink and have another, and another, and another; perhaps even to drink them two at a time. Her fingers boldly announced the end of the world was coming, coming from the sky above and rumbling the whole way. Nathaniel felt this rumbling and ducked under his chair with a cry of fright, gripping the legs gasping with terror.
His eyes were sewn shut against the outside world, the violin fading into a cello, mixed with viola. Soon the violin returned and all three sang together and as Nathaniel opened his eyes he realized he was upside down, on a chair big enough to sleep on. There were hundreds of people, facing Nathaniel and looking past him. He straightened himself and looked, he saw a glorious orchestra, blooming with sound in a way that makes one think of the cycle of life, the bloom from the dead, the tide’s continuous lapping of the shore. Nathaniel turned and saw his mother and father, tight lipped and reservedly enjoying moderate entertainment at their most vivacious.
Nathaniel felt himself, namely his chest and genitals. It all made sense to him now, he was seven again. “Ahhhhh,” Nathaniel thought, “to be seven again as I am now! What glory!” Nathaniel basked in his own self satisfaction at defeating time and returning to his youth until he felt an ungodly pressure in his abdomen. The pressure was not of nerves but of lamb and rice, chocolate pudding (three servings) and chocolate milk that was occasionally spilt out of the nose. All of those decadent items, eaten much too fast and with awful manners, were now punishing Nathaniel. He turned to his frigid mother, begging her for pity, to be led to the lavatory. She hissed at him, her priorities were to the arts! He turned to his father and pleaded, leniency and decency prevail and lead him to the lavatory! His father barked at him, told him that a man can hold anything in his gut for at least five hours and this show would end in a paltry three. Nathaniel screamed, drawing the attention of nearly everyone of his future teachers, doctors, policemen and potential in laws, practically the entire social elite of Bruxelles towards him as he relieved himself on the floor of the Royal Cloak Opera Hall; which was until then most untarnished and unsullied musical venue in all of the world.
Nathaniel’s eyes were alight with jubilation as he looked around him in the Burmese Nationals Gentlemen’s Club and saw the audience all looking in his direction. The music had stopped, the freak staring at him with such confused longing that Nathaniel was forced to make a speech.
“Brothers and Sisters, allow me the good graciousness of your ears and eyes! I am free! All will be alright! I have found the key to my disorder and alas! never again shall a pain debilitate me, nor an ache paralyze me in my tracks! I am free from the reign of my body and shall never again play slave to its master! Observe.” To which he removed his pants, filling the room with the vile stench of a lifetime of repressed salmon filets, pasta dishes from around the world and, naturally, chocolate milk
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
one of my highlights
Private Time
Closely trimmed fingernails rounded the edge of his mouth. Another hand passed slowly over each ridge of his head, gently pulling his hair by the roots, giving soft tugs at the ends. Two opposing figures stood in perfect image of each other, rising and falling in complete unison. It was perfect. The only sound in the room with flickering light was the soft drizzle of the faucet, giving off tiny clouds of steam. An arm fell lightly on his shoulder and he turned to kiss it.
The front door slammed shut. It was easily an hour and a half too early. The closet was the only reasonable escape; there would be time to clean up any evidence if he could only distract her for a little while. He pulled a towel on and stepped out into the arms of his wife Louise.
Their routine was set in stone before they had ever met each other: Louise was the particular brand of specific that made each and every purchase or decision a painful, drawn out process. Phillip had the spine of an old, used book. When they met they took to each other instantly, holding tiny hands in the back of the stationary store that was hosting the birthday party. They were eight years old.
"Why is your hair all wet?" Louise asked, pulling back from Phillip's face. He felt warm, she wondered if he'd gone running.
"I was just, you know. I wanted to try something new. Then I heard you come home and…"
"Well, I like your hair just the way it is," she called behind her as she moved towards their bedroom. Philip ran to the bathroom and got rid of the proof. He pulled the door closed, too hard.
"What are you doing back there?" A tinge of unease creeping around her voice, before the growl of her belly brought her back towards the groceries in the kitchen that needed unpacking to make dinner.
All through school they had the same classes. They would sit next to each other, prepare projects in tandem, speaking for each other at the lunch table when the other one was chewing the boring sandwich Louise packed away the night before. She started making both their lunches in sixth grade. Once Phillip was getting bullied and Louise stood in the way of a punch for him. The stress caused Phillip to stay home for a couple of days while the other boy got expelled.
They never won an award for cutest couple, never got much recognition at all for being such a solid pair. People just took their relationship as a given, expecting them to show moderate affection for each other, but never force their love onto others in the room. It was always gentle hand holding, pecks on the nose or, before she headed to PE and he went to the computer lab, a quick joining of their lips. They waited until they were out of high school to have sex. The first time was natural, smooth. Despite their hormones and the ease of their companionship, they didn't join together again for another few months. Imaginary walls of restriction surrounded both of them, but they made themselves comfortable within the barriers. They'd married in a quiet ceremony, waiting until they were in their early twenties, waiting to prove their maturity.
"Oh do you know who I saw today?" Louise looked up from her plate of tofu yakisoba, part of her new heart-healthy diet. She weighed just under a hundred and ten pounds.
"I really don't know, who?" Phillip stared at the brown noodles and crumbling bean curd, stirred them around with his chopsticks. They were polished, maybe had some varnish on them. They would never give you splinters. He liked them.
"Donna. You remember Donna. She was in our English class at Whitman. She was really bubbly. We did that big project with her." Phillip kept looking at his noodles, letting them slide back and forth, leaving small trails of oil all over his oval plate: lotus flowers and made up kanji writing underneath the food. Louise had bought them to match the new meals she'd be making, for the diet.
"Well, she has been really good. She works just down the block at the pharmacist. Makes pretty good money I hear." There wasn't any shine to these plates, just a dull mat. They looked like unfired clay. They weren't very appetizing.
They moved in pairs after high school, but Louise didn't care for college. After she allowed herself festering guilt for a quarter she brought it up to Philip. He was alright with it; her quitting school didn't constitute the break in their relationship she imagined it would. He gave her his blessing. She gleefully quit and began working as a receptionist at a chiropractic clinic her uncle owned. Phillip got his bachelor's degree in anthropology. They didn't travel, Louise got carsick.
After the noodles had settled they sat and watched Jeopardy. He mouthed the answers, got at least half of them right. She sat and did the crossword puzzle. She always kept the pen in her mouth, moving it back and forth, from one side to the other. She got about half right. As the show ended Phillip rose. He moved over to Louise and kissed her softly on the forehead.
"Goodnight," he whispered as his lips fell away from her head. If he had looked down he would have seen the longing in her eyes, the struggle she was waging not to talk to him.
"Could we," she started, confused and embarrassed. He'd stopped and turned back to her on the fifth stair, the waiting stage before the left turn and the second floor. "Could we make love tonight sweetie?"
Phil cleared his throat and wished he could simply shake his head.
"I don't think so, my stomach isn't feeling very well. How about tomorrow?" He moved the rest of the way up the stairs before she had a chance to do anything but murmur to herself, slumping down as the TV flickered on. She held her arms crisscrossed over her belly, resigning herself to just fall asleep on the couch instead of putting forth the effort of moving up the stairs. She remembered when they first moved into the house, how they would kiss on the couch stationed in front of an empty entertainment center. How Philip would initiate sleeping together by humming on her stomach, how good it felt when they breathed into each other's ears.
They'd once made plans to cross the state and visit his grandparents in Chicago, but only made it a couple of hours out of Green Bay. Louise began to gag in the car and as soon as he pulled over she vomited down her purple top. He wanted to run around and help her out the door, but it was all over before he could take off his seatbelt. She peeled the shirt off, taking his sweatshirt to cover herself. She climbed over the seat and fell asleep in the back while he drove, afraid to even whistle so as not to wake her. When the car jerked into their parking spot and he turned to wake her up, he reeled back. She was upright, silent, staring at him.
The sun showed seven AM, early fall as Phillip lay in bed and watched while Louise moved around their room, assembling her outfit for the day. She'd slept in the living room for a while, before finishing the night next to him. Neither spoke, neither made a move towards the other. There was an argument waiting to start between both of them and they sensed it: Philip was ambivalent and Louise was just too worried about work to deal with it now. She almost didn't say I love you as she walked out the front door, but paused, felt the wave of nausea go through her and turned to call out the daily slogan. Phillip repeated it back to her and, as the door pulled shut, jumped out of bed.
It felt good to feel skin on skin, the pointer finger tracing around the taught nipple. He was almost squeamish to be so close. His erection was standing straight, hard. The hands flattened against his chest and moved down, over quivering stomach, playing with the little tufts of hair, lost in the soft flesh of complacency. It reached his penis and as the fingers wrapped around the shaft the slam of the front door shook the bathroom.
Louise set her things by the door and sighed, home from work two hours into her day.
"Phillip we need to talk. I can't make it through the day feeling... apprehensive. I'm sick to my stomach." Something felt off, uneasy in the house. "Phillip?" He couldn't still be in bed, but his car was in the driveway. Maybe he was biking to the store, picking up things to make dinner. His voice rattled down the stairs, wobbled in the foyer as it reached her ears.
"Go away, I'm, I'm throwing up. I think dinner last night made me sick," he paused, licking his lips. "Just go back to work, we can talk later."
Louise climbed the stairs, approached the bathroom door, rested her head against it and sighed. He was going to resist. The churning burn in her stomach had amplified since she had gotten home.
"Oh sweetie, can I get you some water?"
"No, no I've got plenty here. Just go back to work, don't worry about me."
"Well I can take the day off! Come on, let me take care of you." She trailed off as she went into the kitchen to fill a cup of water. He'd want it eventually.
When she came back from the kitchen she heard tugging grunts and heavy breath on the other side of the corkboard door. She laid her face against it, feeling the sound through the wood. She tried to work the handle and couldn't, pushed with her shoulder as she stamped her foot.
"Phillip please open this door, I feel ridiculous talking to you through it."
"Please just go back to work Louise!"
"Phil what's going on? Let me in there!" The door felt weak, gave when she pushed her hand against it. She lost patience and threw her weight at it and heard the cheap hinges creak. "Phillip this is insane. Open the god damn door!"
Another charge against it and the lock unlatched, sent the view of the room in a careening arc in front of Louise. Phillip was standing, cowed over, body dripping wet, hair pulled back with his face painted. Around his throat was a short rope, connecting down to the head of his erect penis, facing him, the two eye to eye like two teenagers in a knife fight. The head of his penis was purple and bulging as the noose tightened, his body trying to jerk up and face her with a straight back. As he rose, the handle of the plunger slowly slipped from his anus, making a soft, punctuated plop as it, and ounces upon ounces of lubrication gel, fell to the floor. He wrestled the rope and removed it from his neck, left it dangling from his penis. His twitching body slowly straightened out, laid bare in front of her, all that he had hidden and repressed and swallowed back down swirling like the steam in the red tinted room.
"I'm not ashamed of this," he tried to sound confident, but shrinking with each word.
It barely sounded human coming out of his chapped mouth, circled with loose orbits of lipstick. The new tall mirrors they had just bought showed his quivering cheeks, still drip dripping onto the plunger, tiny drops of oily liquid bouncing off and landing on dirty towels strewn about on the slippery black linoleum. His eyes were highlighted with light blue; it wasn't her makeup. His kit was unrolled like a surgeon's tools on the counter top, pushing all of the guest soaps and cotton swabs against the corner. She was still trying to muster words, but the sharp intakes of breath moving down her convulsing throat couldn't produce sounds. His weapons were his toys and her weapons her words, both waiting to be drawn. Phillip bent over, retched into the toilet.
The quick doubling over and heave shocked Louise, and her first instincts of taking care of him propelled her through the doorway, across the threshold and into his world. When she entered she stumbled back from the thick, tangy stench of human insides. Despite being just a few feet closer the change was drastic, crippling. She fell to her knees and coughed up the coffee and half a bagel she'd forced down earlier, sitting in her Volkswagen Passat, fighting the urge to come home. She had longed for him today, something that hadn't happened in months. Her body had ached to be near him, to have his touch all over her. It was painful, the way she wanted him inside of her.
They didn't speak after their simultaneous sick. Only the fan made noise, rumbling and turning the air that poisoned them both around in circles. Phillip was sitting against the toilet, his knees pulled to his chest and a washcloth covering his crotch. He'd tried to wipe off the makeup but had only been able to smear it across his sallow, haunted face. She hadn't looked at him like this for a long time, her eyes reviewing each pore, each eyelash. She was looking beyond the cosmetic abomination, beyond the self abuse; she was looking to see if she still recognized the man she loved. Phillip sat, insolent in his found out private rebellion.
When Louise had stared into his eyes, so pristine and gray, without a single tinge of emotion, she shook her head and stood up, and walked to the kitchen. She sat in the soft wicker chairs they had just bought and let the breath slowly flow out of her. Phillip closed the bathroom door again and Louise could hear the shower begin to spray. She wanted to go to their room but was weary: what else was amiss in this place? What else would she find? Tears cleared paths down her face, clammy from sweat and shock. She decided to pack a bag, but couldn't decide between making one for herself or one for Phillip. As she rose to walk up the stairs to her bedroom, she sank to her knees and let loose a wail, erupting deep in her stomach. It burned in her throat; the sound of loss, the sound of anger. The room spun around and she felt her legs go to rubber underneath her.
Louise pushed herself to make it up the stairs and once at the top felt her eyes growing heavy and her head begin to reel. Life was draining out of her, blood and thought and love and hate all slid out from her, disappearing into a vacuum of humanity. Tiny aches and pains rushed from all over, her body failing. She climbed onto the foot of her bed and let darkness wash over her, falling asleep as her head touched the fabric of her sheets.
"I want you to know that I still love you,"
Her eyes eased open, adjusting to the light. Phillip had his hand over her leg, almost putting it down but backing off whenever he felt the slightest contact. He looked like he had Alzheimer's, looked old and weathered. "None of this is about you, it's about…" she turned over and put her arm over her ear. She could easily still hear him, but the action made him nervous and he gave up on his sentence. He also pulled his arm back, stopping the attempt at comforting her. It was afternoon now; the sun was shining into their western windows. It got dark here early these days, she must have slept for hours.
She heard him pull in a big breath and lie down, trying to mirror her shape behind her. Quiet resistance built in her until she was confident enough to swing her arms, batting him off of her. She sat up, crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Her words were venomous, burning him. He winced, wanted to go back downstairs and wait for her to make some decision as to what to do about him.
He bit his lower lip and hid his eyes away. He was retreating within himself. Louise rolled over and sat, staring face to face with him again. "Answer my question Phillip, what are you thinking?" His eyes were calling to her, but he could only manage to whimper to himself. Louise sat up and couldn't stop herself as she pulled her arm back and threw a punch into the soft flesh of her beloved husband's stomach. He lay back, not making noise, letting the pain disperse across his torso. On his back, he started to speak, barely a whisper.
"I love you Louise, I really do. I never want to hurt you, never want you to have to look at me with pain or anger or resentment. But this is all just make believe, this doesn't really exist. You and I aren't together. We've always just been around each other. When I got done with school I tried to keep busy, but I haven't worked in three years. I've had nothing to do Louise. Nothing. I needed something and you were gone, working all day, coming home tired and expecting and busy. You were always busy and I wasn't."
"Phillip I've always made time for…"
"Shut up! Just stop sticking your words wherever they fit!" He had surprised himself, venturing into some self reliance that he had never really known. "I needed something Louise, I needed to feel something real. This…" he reached towards her, "isn't real. We've never been a couple; we're just a pair. I love you with all my heart, but we're a combination."
Little veins had isolated themselves off of his neck. He had pulled himself up as he spoke, propped himself up to stare into her eyes. He looked more like a man than he had ever before been. Louise caught herself staring into his mouth.
"Well what do you want? Do you want me gone Phillip? Should I leave you here to abuse yourself all day, shoving god knows what up…" She couldn't finish, the image of what she had seen reappeared, vivid, fresh. She choked trying to swallow, felt tears begin to slide down her face. "What is wrong with you Philip?"
In what would be one of the only moments of bravery in his life he moved onto his knees and grabbed Louise by the shoulders, pushing her back against the head of the bed. She let out a small moan as her head bounced off of the wood; Phillip slid his hands up and down her body. Her shirt was off as she looked into his face, aching for him to keep going. Her head was swimming with complaints, reasons why she could never let this happen, things that he would have to fix before she would let him near her again, but all fell silent as he put his lips against hers, pushed his tongue into her mouth with force that she had never felt before. Her body quaked with orgasm before he could even take her pants off.
Phillip was nude before she was, circled her body with kisses and soft, ginger touches. As she too became naked Phillip pleasured her in ways that they had never before explored. Her body was quivering, grinding against his, stretched muscles that are reserved only for making love.
As he entered her, their eyes were locked into each other. He thrust in rhythm to the silent words she mouthed to him. It was silent, save the breaths passing through their lungs and into each other's faces. His hands moved up, stopping at her breasts. They were small but full, never tiring since puberty. He pinched, hard. There was a moment of hurt, of shock, in her eyes. As they glassed she gulped down, began to nod her head. Another pinch, a pull. The tiny movements of a blossoming orgasm began to ripple through her body as she let out a scream. She'd never felt anything resembling one before. His hands moved up, slowly closing around her throat.
As his grip tightened a look of fear smoldered in her eyes. She put her hand up, on top of his and began to pull away. Phillip grunted, a sound unfamiliar to her ears. She released her hand. As he continued to plunge into her she allowed her body to go limp, allow the man she loved to control her. His hand put pressure on her throat. As the well of pleasure grew in her once again she pulled herself up, put herself up on the pillow in a crouching position. Philip raised himself fully on his knees, pressing himself against her. When the bliss of sexual feeling had almost peaked again she put her hands on his throat, tightened her grip. A glimmer of recognition spread across Phillips face as he gave his all in a blur of grunts and wheezing effort. They came together, all at once bonding into a fusion of themselves. Phillip let out a shuddering sigh as he pulled back, allowing himself to gently fall out of her, but maintaining his close proximity. They were silent, wordless in their exhaustion.
In the morning, as light poured in through the windows, Louise rose and crossed the room, free in her nudity. Gone was the hidden shame she'd felt for years, the binding of her flesh inside of her decorative house coats, comfy pants, old t-shirts. Phillip looked up from his pillow, smiled at her, sent warmth into her as he laid his head back against the pillow. They'd made love three times the night before, more than they had in the last two months. Their bodies had intertwined, poured sweat against each other. The unasked questions of yesterday felt lost in the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.
As she moved from the bathroom Louise looked out the window, stared at the gray sky as it filtered the would-be sun into her bedroom. It was finally hers. Some long lost feeling of ownership had returned to her, through the vessel of deceit and betrayal. She wanted to probe Phillip, find out all of the little things he had collected about himself in the who-knows-how-long he'd been exploring, but sacrificed the conversation for something simpler.
"I'm hungry, what should we have?"
"Let's go out, I want to get out of the house," He rose, moved towards her. His body seemed so much more than it had the day before. The muscles seemed to stand out, his bony body now svelte. They felt natural together, all of the revulsion that had exploded into her body the day before had fermented to lust, an unyielding force that pushed her towards him. They held each other differently this morning, kissed each other instead of repeating their weary lines. She was dressed in ten minutes, ready to leave the house.
They took her Passat over his tired Volvo, sitting dormant in the driveway. She threw him the keys, and he stumbled, realizing for the first time that morning that things were not moving in the natural order for him. He embraced the feelings of hesitation that washed over him and stepped forward, unwilling to cower out of the situation. It was the second time she had ever let him drive her car in the four years she'd had it.
As he sat in the driver's seat they looked at each other and smiled.
Closely trimmed fingernails rounded the edge of his mouth. Another hand passed slowly over each ridge of his head, gently pulling his hair by the roots, giving soft tugs at the ends. Two opposing figures stood in perfect image of each other, rising and falling in complete unison. It was perfect. The only sound in the room with flickering light was the soft drizzle of the faucet, giving off tiny clouds of steam. An arm fell lightly on his shoulder and he turned to kiss it.
The front door slammed shut. It was easily an hour and a half too early. The closet was the only reasonable escape; there would be time to clean up any evidence if he could only distract her for a little while. He pulled a towel on and stepped out into the arms of his wife Louise.
Their routine was set in stone before they had ever met each other: Louise was the particular brand of specific that made each and every purchase or decision a painful, drawn out process. Phillip had the spine of an old, used book. When they met they took to each other instantly, holding tiny hands in the back of the stationary store that was hosting the birthday party. They were eight years old.
"Why is your hair all wet?" Louise asked, pulling back from Phillip's face. He felt warm, she wondered if he'd gone running.
"I was just, you know. I wanted to try something new. Then I heard you come home and…"
"Well, I like your hair just the way it is," she called behind her as she moved towards their bedroom. Philip ran to the bathroom and got rid of the proof. He pulled the door closed, too hard.
"What are you doing back there?" A tinge of unease creeping around her voice, before the growl of her belly brought her back towards the groceries in the kitchen that needed unpacking to make dinner.
All through school they had the same classes. They would sit next to each other, prepare projects in tandem, speaking for each other at the lunch table when the other one was chewing the boring sandwich Louise packed away the night before. She started making both their lunches in sixth grade. Once Phillip was getting bullied and Louise stood in the way of a punch for him. The stress caused Phillip to stay home for a couple of days while the other boy got expelled.
They never won an award for cutest couple, never got much recognition at all for being such a solid pair. People just took their relationship as a given, expecting them to show moderate affection for each other, but never force their love onto others in the room. It was always gentle hand holding, pecks on the nose or, before she headed to PE and he went to the computer lab, a quick joining of their lips. They waited until they were out of high school to have sex. The first time was natural, smooth. Despite their hormones and the ease of their companionship, they didn't join together again for another few months. Imaginary walls of restriction surrounded both of them, but they made themselves comfortable within the barriers. They'd married in a quiet ceremony, waiting until they were in their early twenties, waiting to prove their maturity.
"Oh do you know who I saw today?" Louise looked up from her plate of tofu yakisoba, part of her new heart-healthy diet. She weighed just under a hundred and ten pounds.
"I really don't know, who?" Phillip stared at the brown noodles and crumbling bean curd, stirred them around with his chopsticks. They were polished, maybe had some varnish on them. They would never give you splinters. He liked them.
"Donna. You remember Donna. She was in our English class at Whitman. She was really bubbly. We did that big project with her." Phillip kept looking at his noodles, letting them slide back and forth, leaving small trails of oil all over his oval plate: lotus flowers and made up kanji writing underneath the food. Louise had bought them to match the new meals she'd be making, for the diet.
"Well, she has been really good. She works just down the block at the pharmacist. Makes pretty good money I hear." There wasn't any shine to these plates, just a dull mat. They looked like unfired clay. They weren't very appetizing.
They moved in pairs after high school, but Louise didn't care for college. After she allowed herself festering guilt for a quarter she brought it up to Philip. He was alright with it; her quitting school didn't constitute the break in their relationship she imagined it would. He gave her his blessing. She gleefully quit and began working as a receptionist at a chiropractic clinic her uncle owned. Phillip got his bachelor's degree in anthropology. They didn't travel, Louise got carsick.
After the noodles had settled they sat and watched Jeopardy. He mouthed the answers, got at least half of them right. She sat and did the crossword puzzle. She always kept the pen in her mouth, moving it back and forth, from one side to the other. She got about half right. As the show ended Phillip rose. He moved over to Louise and kissed her softly on the forehead.
"Goodnight," he whispered as his lips fell away from her head. If he had looked down he would have seen the longing in her eyes, the struggle she was waging not to talk to him.
"Could we," she started, confused and embarrassed. He'd stopped and turned back to her on the fifth stair, the waiting stage before the left turn and the second floor. "Could we make love tonight sweetie?"
Phil cleared his throat and wished he could simply shake his head.
"I don't think so, my stomach isn't feeling very well. How about tomorrow?" He moved the rest of the way up the stairs before she had a chance to do anything but murmur to herself, slumping down as the TV flickered on. She held her arms crisscrossed over her belly, resigning herself to just fall asleep on the couch instead of putting forth the effort of moving up the stairs. She remembered when they first moved into the house, how they would kiss on the couch stationed in front of an empty entertainment center. How Philip would initiate sleeping together by humming on her stomach, how good it felt when they breathed into each other's ears.
They'd once made plans to cross the state and visit his grandparents in Chicago, but only made it a couple of hours out of Green Bay. Louise began to gag in the car and as soon as he pulled over she vomited down her purple top. He wanted to run around and help her out the door, but it was all over before he could take off his seatbelt. She peeled the shirt off, taking his sweatshirt to cover herself. She climbed over the seat and fell asleep in the back while he drove, afraid to even whistle so as not to wake her. When the car jerked into their parking spot and he turned to wake her up, he reeled back. She was upright, silent, staring at him.
The sun showed seven AM, early fall as Phillip lay in bed and watched while Louise moved around their room, assembling her outfit for the day. She'd slept in the living room for a while, before finishing the night next to him. Neither spoke, neither made a move towards the other. There was an argument waiting to start between both of them and they sensed it: Philip was ambivalent and Louise was just too worried about work to deal with it now. She almost didn't say I love you as she walked out the front door, but paused, felt the wave of nausea go through her and turned to call out the daily slogan. Phillip repeated it back to her and, as the door pulled shut, jumped out of bed.
It felt good to feel skin on skin, the pointer finger tracing around the taught nipple. He was almost squeamish to be so close. His erection was standing straight, hard. The hands flattened against his chest and moved down, over quivering stomach, playing with the little tufts of hair, lost in the soft flesh of complacency. It reached his penis and as the fingers wrapped around the shaft the slam of the front door shook the bathroom.
Louise set her things by the door and sighed, home from work two hours into her day.
"Phillip we need to talk. I can't make it through the day feeling... apprehensive. I'm sick to my stomach." Something felt off, uneasy in the house. "Phillip?" He couldn't still be in bed, but his car was in the driveway. Maybe he was biking to the store, picking up things to make dinner. His voice rattled down the stairs, wobbled in the foyer as it reached her ears.
"Go away, I'm, I'm throwing up. I think dinner last night made me sick," he paused, licking his lips. "Just go back to work, we can talk later."
Louise climbed the stairs, approached the bathroom door, rested her head against it and sighed. He was going to resist. The churning burn in her stomach had amplified since she had gotten home.
"Oh sweetie, can I get you some water?"
"No, no I've got plenty here. Just go back to work, don't worry about me."
"Well I can take the day off! Come on, let me take care of you." She trailed off as she went into the kitchen to fill a cup of water. He'd want it eventually.
When she came back from the kitchen she heard tugging grunts and heavy breath on the other side of the corkboard door. She laid her face against it, feeling the sound through the wood. She tried to work the handle and couldn't, pushed with her shoulder as she stamped her foot.
"Phillip please open this door, I feel ridiculous talking to you through it."
"Please just go back to work Louise!"
"Phil what's going on? Let me in there!" The door felt weak, gave when she pushed her hand against it. She lost patience and threw her weight at it and heard the cheap hinges creak. "Phillip this is insane. Open the god damn door!"
Another charge against it and the lock unlatched, sent the view of the room in a careening arc in front of Louise. Phillip was standing, cowed over, body dripping wet, hair pulled back with his face painted. Around his throat was a short rope, connecting down to the head of his erect penis, facing him, the two eye to eye like two teenagers in a knife fight. The head of his penis was purple and bulging as the noose tightened, his body trying to jerk up and face her with a straight back. As he rose, the handle of the plunger slowly slipped from his anus, making a soft, punctuated plop as it, and ounces upon ounces of lubrication gel, fell to the floor. He wrestled the rope and removed it from his neck, left it dangling from his penis. His twitching body slowly straightened out, laid bare in front of her, all that he had hidden and repressed and swallowed back down swirling like the steam in the red tinted room.
"I'm not ashamed of this," he tried to sound confident, but shrinking with each word.
It barely sounded human coming out of his chapped mouth, circled with loose orbits of lipstick. The new tall mirrors they had just bought showed his quivering cheeks, still drip dripping onto the plunger, tiny drops of oily liquid bouncing off and landing on dirty towels strewn about on the slippery black linoleum. His eyes were highlighted with light blue; it wasn't her makeup. His kit was unrolled like a surgeon's tools on the counter top, pushing all of the guest soaps and cotton swabs against the corner. She was still trying to muster words, but the sharp intakes of breath moving down her convulsing throat couldn't produce sounds. His weapons were his toys and her weapons her words, both waiting to be drawn. Phillip bent over, retched into the toilet.
The quick doubling over and heave shocked Louise, and her first instincts of taking care of him propelled her through the doorway, across the threshold and into his world. When she entered she stumbled back from the thick, tangy stench of human insides. Despite being just a few feet closer the change was drastic, crippling. She fell to her knees and coughed up the coffee and half a bagel she'd forced down earlier, sitting in her Volkswagen Passat, fighting the urge to come home. She had longed for him today, something that hadn't happened in months. Her body had ached to be near him, to have his touch all over her. It was painful, the way she wanted him inside of her.
They didn't speak after their simultaneous sick. Only the fan made noise, rumbling and turning the air that poisoned them both around in circles. Phillip was sitting against the toilet, his knees pulled to his chest and a washcloth covering his crotch. He'd tried to wipe off the makeup but had only been able to smear it across his sallow, haunted face. She hadn't looked at him like this for a long time, her eyes reviewing each pore, each eyelash. She was looking beyond the cosmetic abomination, beyond the self abuse; she was looking to see if she still recognized the man she loved. Phillip sat, insolent in his found out private rebellion.
When Louise had stared into his eyes, so pristine and gray, without a single tinge of emotion, she shook her head and stood up, and walked to the kitchen. She sat in the soft wicker chairs they had just bought and let the breath slowly flow out of her. Phillip closed the bathroom door again and Louise could hear the shower begin to spray. She wanted to go to their room but was weary: what else was amiss in this place? What else would she find? Tears cleared paths down her face, clammy from sweat and shock. She decided to pack a bag, but couldn't decide between making one for herself or one for Phillip. As she rose to walk up the stairs to her bedroom, she sank to her knees and let loose a wail, erupting deep in her stomach. It burned in her throat; the sound of loss, the sound of anger. The room spun around and she felt her legs go to rubber underneath her.
Louise pushed herself to make it up the stairs and once at the top felt her eyes growing heavy and her head begin to reel. Life was draining out of her, blood and thought and love and hate all slid out from her, disappearing into a vacuum of humanity. Tiny aches and pains rushed from all over, her body failing. She climbed onto the foot of her bed and let darkness wash over her, falling asleep as her head touched the fabric of her sheets.
"I want you to know that I still love you,"
Her eyes eased open, adjusting to the light. Phillip had his hand over her leg, almost putting it down but backing off whenever he felt the slightest contact. He looked like he had Alzheimer's, looked old and weathered. "None of this is about you, it's about…" she turned over and put her arm over her ear. She could easily still hear him, but the action made him nervous and he gave up on his sentence. He also pulled his arm back, stopping the attempt at comforting her. It was afternoon now; the sun was shining into their western windows. It got dark here early these days, she must have slept for hours.
She heard him pull in a big breath and lie down, trying to mirror her shape behind her. Quiet resistance built in her until she was confident enough to swing her arms, batting him off of her. She sat up, crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.
"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Her words were venomous, burning him. He winced, wanted to go back downstairs and wait for her to make some decision as to what to do about him.
He bit his lower lip and hid his eyes away. He was retreating within himself. Louise rolled over and sat, staring face to face with him again. "Answer my question Phillip, what are you thinking?" His eyes were calling to her, but he could only manage to whimper to himself. Louise sat up and couldn't stop herself as she pulled her arm back and threw a punch into the soft flesh of her beloved husband's stomach. He lay back, not making noise, letting the pain disperse across his torso. On his back, he started to speak, barely a whisper.
"I love you Louise, I really do. I never want to hurt you, never want you to have to look at me with pain or anger or resentment. But this is all just make believe, this doesn't really exist. You and I aren't together. We've always just been around each other. When I got done with school I tried to keep busy, but I haven't worked in three years. I've had nothing to do Louise. Nothing. I needed something and you were gone, working all day, coming home tired and expecting and busy. You were always busy and I wasn't."
"Phillip I've always made time for…"
"Shut up! Just stop sticking your words wherever they fit!" He had surprised himself, venturing into some self reliance that he had never really known. "I needed something Louise, I needed to feel something real. This…" he reached towards her, "isn't real. We've never been a couple; we're just a pair. I love you with all my heart, but we're a combination."
Little veins had isolated themselves off of his neck. He had pulled himself up as he spoke, propped himself up to stare into her eyes. He looked more like a man than he had ever before been. Louise caught herself staring into his mouth.
"Well what do you want? Do you want me gone Phillip? Should I leave you here to abuse yourself all day, shoving god knows what up…" She couldn't finish, the image of what she had seen reappeared, vivid, fresh. She choked trying to swallow, felt tears begin to slide down her face. "What is wrong with you Philip?"
In what would be one of the only moments of bravery in his life he moved onto his knees and grabbed Louise by the shoulders, pushing her back against the head of the bed. She let out a small moan as her head bounced off of the wood; Phillip slid his hands up and down her body. Her shirt was off as she looked into his face, aching for him to keep going. Her head was swimming with complaints, reasons why she could never let this happen, things that he would have to fix before she would let him near her again, but all fell silent as he put his lips against hers, pushed his tongue into her mouth with force that she had never felt before. Her body quaked with orgasm before he could even take her pants off.
Phillip was nude before she was, circled her body with kisses and soft, ginger touches. As she too became naked Phillip pleasured her in ways that they had never before explored. Her body was quivering, grinding against his, stretched muscles that are reserved only for making love.
As he entered her, their eyes were locked into each other. He thrust in rhythm to the silent words she mouthed to him. It was silent, save the breaths passing through their lungs and into each other's faces. His hands moved up, stopping at her breasts. They were small but full, never tiring since puberty. He pinched, hard. There was a moment of hurt, of shock, in her eyes. As they glassed she gulped down, began to nod her head. Another pinch, a pull. The tiny movements of a blossoming orgasm began to ripple through her body as she let out a scream. She'd never felt anything resembling one before. His hands moved up, slowly closing around her throat.
As his grip tightened a look of fear smoldered in her eyes. She put her hand up, on top of his and began to pull away. Phillip grunted, a sound unfamiliar to her ears. She released her hand. As he continued to plunge into her she allowed her body to go limp, allow the man she loved to control her. His hand put pressure on her throat. As the well of pleasure grew in her once again she pulled herself up, put herself up on the pillow in a crouching position. Philip raised himself fully on his knees, pressing himself against her. When the bliss of sexual feeling had almost peaked again she put her hands on his throat, tightened her grip. A glimmer of recognition spread across Phillips face as he gave his all in a blur of grunts and wheezing effort. They came together, all at once bonding into a fusion of themselves. Phillip let out a shuddering sigh as he pulled back, allowing himself to gently fall out of her, but maintaining his close proximity. They were silent, wordless in their exhaustion.
In the morning, as light poured in through the windows, Louise rose and crossed the room, free in her nudity. Gone was the hidden shame she'd felt for years, the binding of her flesh inside of her decorative house coats, comfy pants, old t-shirts. Phillip looked up from his pillow, smiled at her, sent warmth into her as he laid his head back against the pillow. They'd made love three times the night before, more than they had in the last two months. Their bodies had intertwined, poured sweat against each other. The unasked questions of yesterday felt lost in the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed.
As she moved from the bathroom Louise looked out the window, stared at the gray sky as it filtered the would-be sun into her bedroom. It was finally hers. Some long lost feeling of ownership had returned to her, through the vessel of deceit and betrayal. She wanted to probe Phillip, find out all of the little things he had collected about himself in the who-knows-how-long he'd been exploring, but sacrificed the conversation for something simpler.
"I'm hungry, what should we have?"
"Let's go out, I want to get out of the house," He rose, moved towards her. His body seemed so much more than it had the day before. The muscles seemed to stand out, his bony body now svelte. They felt natural together, all of the revulsion that had exploded into her body the day before had fermented to lust, an unyielding force that pushed her towards him. They held each other differently this morning, kissed each other instead of repeating their weary lines. She was dressed in ten minutes, ready to leave the house.
They took her Passat over his tired Volvo, sitting dormant in the driveway. She threw him the keys, and he stumbled, realizing for the first time that morning that things were not moving in the natural order for him. He embraced the feelings of hesitation that washed over him and stepped forward, unwilling to cower out of the situation. It was the second time she had ever let him drive her car in the four years she'd had it.
As he sat in the driver's seat they looked at each other and smiled.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
next up
well, the first zine is all done with a second one coming up soon. i would like more material coming in for the ideas, but it is causing me to wrack my brain a little bit, which is good. i am beginning my extended draft for my sex and death fiction class, hopefully it takes a good turn. if anyone reading this is interested in a copy of the zine please give me your address. hell, if you live far away i'll probably make you some other stuff too.
also, almost done with god emperor of dune, which has been the best reread out of the whole series so far.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
another wednesday has approached, this one with just a touch more lethargy than usual. i got called into d'anna's to make sausage yesterday, on top of loads of homework and band practice. today i make the trek out to the reservation for class. what i look forward to most: convincing my driver to stop at the gas station so i can buy a carton of smokes. it's the little things in life. at the suggestion of stefanie i am going to post some stories i have been working on. today's installment will be the story i am going to be using in my upcoming dirtbag zine "mangle on". i haven't really proofread it yet, but whatever. this is also the story i read at the cabin a couple months ago, along with my other zine 'high atop a tree at night'. if you like this, stick around for future...stuff.
How I got my Severed Toe (title to be reworked)
The wood floors in the gym echoed hollow in the vacancy of a sunny day; the cavernous space looked huge when only five pint sized people were in it. Carl was engaged in a small-time playground rivalry and his team was being trounced. His partner Bret was big and slow, standing just over six foot and boasting a stomach that gave him an almost perfect pear shape; a good wall to run around but a poor imitation of a point guard. Their opponents weaved past him, executing what could actually be called a play by middle school standards. Ryland tossed up a toilet bowl lay in, turned and walked towards Carl.
“Looks like you lose again fags. Sucks to be you.”
“It’s not over yet! Takes a fag to know one you choad nugget.” Carl grabbed his partner and tried to confer some sort of plan of action, but didn’t know any common terminology. They settled on a charge towards the basket and as they turned around Carl made a break for the hoop. As he moved closer and closer to the rim Ryland’s cousin Rymer swooped in for the kill. He rushed at Carl and knocked him to the ground. Carl dropped square onto his knee. The crack in his leg echoed off of the walls, reverberating around the room ominous in the silence. Carl ground his face into the floor boards screaming as Bret stood in horror behind him. The husky partner looked at Ryland and shouted for him to get some help.
When he saw the slow smile creep across his lips Bret closed his eyes in acceptance of his fate. Roland, the third cousin and all-time referee for the games, hit him across the head with an aluminum bat retrieved from the utility closet. He crashed to the ground, chunks of his high and tight floating across the room. The three cousins stood above the body, waiting until Ryland pulled out a screw driver and drove it into Bret’s overlapping throat. They all began stomping the body, crushing the bones into the organs, tearing at his limbs until they broke free.
It took about four minutes of beating before the corpse began leaking smells; thick, clinging, acidic and pungent blends of feces and bile from his broken orifices. His portly face grew bloated and bruised from repeated hits, lacerations letting fat swollen blood ooze from him like a microwaved sponge.
Carl pulled himself against a wall and watched as his friend was beaten. He tried standing but as soon as weight was shifted to his right leg he collapsed. The room spun, the color of his skin went pale except for around the knee where capillaries pumping blood into the swelling reservoir of fluid had turned purple. His voice eluded him, blocked by the lump wobbling in his throat.
The cousins turned and grabbed Carl’s arms and broken leg, carrying him to the torture wracked screams and slow grinding of his leg shards rubbing against each other. A door in the far back corner, adjacent to the gear room was unlocked by Roland. As Carl looked around, he strained to see through darkness as he was led down a steep slope, surrounded by cool, damp walls marked faintly with crayon and water-based paint. Carl’s eyes closed as the pain dulled into unconsciousness.
When they came to a landing Carl felt himself being secured to a table. A burst of light roused him, turned his eyelids from black to red. Above him stood a woman wrapped in grey, plastic apron and gloves tight against her bulging flesh. Metal objects lay on a table next to him: a long thin piece of iron with jagged barbs hooking every few of inches on both sides, a pair of rusted scissors, a small hammer with a solid, forked head.
“How you doin’ sugar? Need a Tums or a Tylenol?” Her voice was a bit above a whisper, sounding aerated as if she was afflicted with a cleft pallet at birth, or perhaps the carry over of a lifelong lisp.
She lingered for a while around his right leg, fingering the top of his worn converse. The shoe flopped off with hardly any effort. The sock stunk, he could smell it from the five foot seven he stretched.
“How you feelin’? Hurtin’ pretty bad bub? You should really get some medical attention for this, it could really get infected.” As she spoke she grabbed his knee and slammed it down, jostling the broken shards against each other. Carl screamed, high in his throat, its resonance flimsy against the stone walls.
“You should have worn some clean socks. A stinky foot is a terrible thing,” She said, her voice made her sound like a character on Sesame street, but the humor of the situation was lost, buried deep inside his stomach under layers of stress and tension. “Perhaps we can fix this.” She softly touched his big toe, beginning to run her fingers in between the tiny wiggling nubs. She started using both hands, rubbing vigorously, contorting the foot’s shape slightly as she pressed and stretched. Low cracks and pops began, vaguely hurting over the blistering heat of his knee. She leant over the foot; her mouth hovered above that big toe, her breath warming it. She was drinking in the essence of that rotten foot, forcing her nose against each toe in turn. She moaned, licked, caressed. Carl looked to the ceiling, praying that this sick worship would mark the end of the ordeal. His ears began to ring before he felt it, he looked down and his big toe was rolling around in her mouth, severed in sinking into her throat. A bitter scream crawled from his bowels but lost force by the time it reached his throat; all he could manage was a whimper and slow, shaky jitters.
“Oh pup, you feel good to me.” He looked up at her, fighting the burn of the bright lights, searching for the face behind the pain. The watery eyes, the hairy upper lip, the slight gap in the teeth: she was the assistant lunch lady; she made his sub sandwiches every other day, always making them just as he asked. She bent down to feed again.
He opened his mouth, trying to scream at her but was muffled as a hand plunged into his mouth. The fist was just a bit too big to bite down on, so his jaw contorted and stretched as she wiggled her hand back and forth. He choked, eyes watering, just before he began vomiting. It stuck in his throat until she pulled her hand out, pushing his face to the side to drain the half digested nachos and chocolate milk.
What he needed now was her name, if only he could place it there was a chance he could evoke a shred of humanity in her. It danced on the tip of his tongue but would not come forth; the tears were streaming down from the corners of his eyes and he could feel them welling in his ears.
“Ms Pappadopoulos, please, god why are you doing this?”
“Don’t give yourself any headaches sug, it will all work out,” She pulled a long syringe from her coat and plunged it into the soft flesh above the wound, into the juicy swelling, squeezing the liquid in with carnal satisfaction. Carl’s eyes rolled back as darkness took him once more.
***
His eyes creaked open, several torches had been lit in the cavern and he could see the walls for the first time. The high, lumpy cement slabs were covered in blood, chunks of flesh, bits of hair. The cousins had returned, scurrying about on the floor like rats. He couldn’t find Ms P, but knew she couldn’t be far away; he smelled the thick acrid stench that followed her. Roland pulled Carl’s head up, breathing thick clouds of candy bar colored rotting teeth stench into his face and eyes.
“You’re fucked. I’m the pimp, you’re the ho,” he stuffed a moist rag into Carl’s mouth, stretching his jaw once again. The taste was bitter and mildew-y. Roland signaled and his cousins disappeared, moving into small nooks in the walls, vanishing into the narrow grey slots.
The seeping moistness of the rag was choking Carl, but little could be done as restrained as he was. He lay on the table, bouncing the back of his head against the hard surface.
“Come on down,” Carl strained his ears, he heard something incredibly faint, but there. It sounded like a male voice. The funk of Ms Pappadopoulos’ slurring voice came wafting next.
“I’ll have you know we are taking the upmost care of little Carl here,” The voice crept to him like corn syrup, bitingly sweet. When the door opened and they entered the room Carl saw the look of horror on his father’s face. His father, so strong, so worshipped. He stood six foot six, blonde and bronzed, a professional wrestler for nearly a decade now. His arms were thick as trees, his legs like stacks of tires, yet at the sight of his son so injured he staggered: it was all the weakness the cousins needed. Roland was the first to move, diving from above with a hammer to the back of Don Smitherson’s (stage name Lord Freyr) blonde head.
A cough of spit flew from his mouth as he fell to his knees. Roland stood in front of him, driving the hammer down onto the crown of his skull. Rhymer took out several four inch nails and quickly placed them on top of Don’s foot while Roland hammered it in. Ryland placed a 600,000 watt short range taser to the hulking man’s ribs. Carl tried to look away as he saw his father vomiting the thick whole wheat bread, fried eggs, and the bacon they had shared together this morning while his body convulsed and quivered. He lost control of his bladder and bowels after thirty seconds, filling the room with a stink almost as vile as Ms Pappadopoulos’ searing breath. She stood in the corner, slowly fondling her breasts, hair frayed out of her industrial hair net.
The shell of his father lay on the ground, shuddering with the final firing of neurons that gives the dead such a terrifying exit from life. The cousins set to work, stripping the clothing off of Don. The muscles that cascaded his body were now limp, they looked much more fat than brawn. Ms Pappadopoulos slowly approached Carl, blocking his view of his father. She held a hideous smirk, peering into his face. “It’s going to be glorious, perfect for all of time,” She stepped back and twirled with surprising grace, raising her hands above her head and unleashing a pungent, onion odor into the room. The look on her face was orgasmic, her mind racing back to the day she had first seen him.
April 20th, the Jamba Juice Sports Center, his arms so brawny. The sweat that hit me that day smelt of lilacs. Freyr beat up that awful man, made all the crowd laugh at his public humiliation. He was meant for me, destined to hold me in his arms while I sleep.
The three hyenas were halfway through skinning him, their faces covered in small, scrap pieces of skin and blood. The work seemed effortless to them, as if they relished doing such horrible deeds. Their overlord stood in the corner, twirling around slowly and murmuring to herself.
All those fan letters but no answer. When the soul is corrupted, unavailable to the needy, the flesh must do. The skin shall suffice.
The air seemed to be pouring out of Carl, his head grew light and dropped suddenly, as if a dream had suddenly plucked him from his waking nightmare. The images he saw were beautiful, sprawling, and never-ending. He did not even try and touch them, but merely float through them and breathe them in. There was a cloud, just in front of him that he pushed past and as he made his way through it his eyes opened. Shaking him awake was his father, towering above him in the dungeon.
Carl screamed into the rag in his mouth, screaming for joy and for mercy, for an escape with his beloved father. But Ms Pappadopoulos was behind him, a large remote control in her hand. She laughed at Carl’s face, it contorted with such animation as to be a cartoon. She moved a control and his father slapped him, moved another and he picked Carl up, breaking the restraints, and throwing him to the floor. Next to him lay his father’s corpse, skinned and mutilated, intestines pulled out and half eaten. She had created a monster out of his father’s image, Carl gasped and choked on blood drawn from the slap. He could only think of his father’s warm embrace as the monster picked him up above his head and began stretching him. The sound of Ms Pappadopoulos’ hideous, guttural braying rang out as Carl’s skin stretched, muscles tore. He screamed as he ripped in half. The monster dropped his legs to the floor where the three cousins lie dead, their heads twisted counter clockwise and full circle. He bled out high above his father’s head as he heard the wench whisper, “Come to me my sweet, let’s make love on the pyre of our romance,”
How I got my Severed Toe (title to be reworked)
The wood floors in the gym echoed hollow in the vacancy of a sunny day; the cavernous space looked huge when only five pint sized people were in it. Carl was engaged in a small-time playground rivalry and his team was being trounced. His partner Bret was big and slow, standing just over six foot and boasting a stomach that gave him an almost perfect pear shape; a good wall to run around but a poor imitation of a point guard. Their opponents weaved past him, executing what could actually be called a play by middle school standards. Ryland tossed up a toilet bowl lay in, turned and walked towards Carl.
“Looks like you lose again fags. Sucks to be you.”
“It’s not over yet! Takes a fag to know one you choad nugget.” Carl grabbed his partner and tried to confer some sort of plan of action, but didn’t know any common terminology. They settled on a charge towards the basket and as they turned around Carl made a break for the hoop. As he moved closer and closer to the rim Ryland’s cousin Rymer swooped in for the kill. He rushed at Carl and knocked him to the ground. Carl dropped square onto his knee. The crack in his leg echoed off of the walls, reverberating around the room ominous in the silence. Carl ground his face into the floor boards screaming as Bret stood in horror behind him. The husky partner looked at Ryland and shouted for him to get some help.
When he saw the slow smile creep across his lips Bret closed his eyes in acceptance of his fate. Roland, the third cousin and all-time referee for the games, hit him across the head with an aluminum bat retrieved from the utility closet. He crashed to the ground, chunks of his high and tight floating across the room. The three cousins stood above the body, waiting until Ryland pulled out a screw driver and drove it into Bret’s overlapping throat. They all began stomping the body, crushing the bones into the organs, tearing at his limbs until they broke free.
It took about four minutes of beating before the corpse began leaking smells; thick, clinging, acidic and pungent blends of feces and bile from his broken orifices. His portly face grew bloated and bruised from repeated hits, lacerations letting fat swollen blood ooze from him like a microwaved sponge.
Carl pulled himself against a wall and watched as his friend was beaten. He tried standing but as soon as weight was shifted to his right leg he collapsed. The room spun, the color of his skin went pale except for around the knee where capillaries pumping blood into the swelling reservoir of fluid had turned purple. His voice eluded him, blocked by the lump wobbling in his throat.
The cousins turned and grabbed Carl’s arms and broken leg, carrying him to the torture wracked screams and slow grinding of his leg shards rubbing against each other. A door in the far back corner, adjacent to the gear room was unlocked by Roland. As Carl looked around, he strained to see through darkness as he was led down a steep slope, surrounded by cool, damp walls marked faintly with crayon and water-based paint. Carl’s eyes closed as the pain dulled into unconsciousness.
When they came to a landing Carl felt himself being secured to a table. A burst of light roused him, turned his eyelids from black to red. Above him stood a woman wrapped in grey, plastic apron and gloves tight against her bulging flesh. Metal objects lay on a table next to him: a long thin piece of iron with jagged barbs hooking every few of inches on both sides, a pair of rusted scissors, a small hammer with a solid, forked head.
“How you doin’ sugar? Need a Tums or a Tylenol?” Her voice was a bit above a whisper, sounding aerated as if she was afflicted with a cleft pallet at birth, or perhaps the carry over of a lifelong lisp.
She lingered for a while around his right leg, fingering the top of his worn converse. The shoe flopped off with hardly any effort. The sock stunk, he could smell it from the five foot seven he stretched.
“How you feelin’? Hurtin’ pretty bad bub? You should really get some medical attention for this, it could really get infected.” As she spoke she grabbed his knee and slammed it down, jostling the broken shards against each other. Carl screamed, high in his throat, its resonance flimsy against the stone walls.
“You should have worn some clean socks. A stinky foot is a terrible thing,” She said, her voice made her sound like a character on Sesame street, but the humor of the situation was lost, buried deep inside his stomach under layers of stress and tension. “Perhaps we can fix this.” She softly touched his big toe, beginning to run her fingers in between the tiny wiggling nubs. She started using both hands, rubbing vigorously, contorting the foot’s shape slightly as she pressed and stretched. Low cracks and pops began, vaguely hurting over the blistering heat of his knee. She leant over the foot; her mouth hovered above that big toe, her breath warming it. She was drinking in the essence of that rotten foot, forcing her nose against each toe in turn. She moaned, licked, caressed. Carl looked to the ceiling, praying that this sick worship would mark the end of the ordeal. His ears began to ring before he felt it, he looked down and his big toe was rolling around in her mouth, severed in sinking into her throat. A bitter scream crawled from his bowels but lost force by the time it reached his throat; all he could manage was a whimper and slow, shaky jitters.
“Oh pup, you feel good to me.” He looked up at her, fighting the burn of the bright lights, searching for the face behind the pain. The watery eyes, the hairy upper lip, the slight gap in the teeth: she was the assistant lunch lady; she made his sub sandwiches every other day, always making them just as he asked. She bent down to feed again.
He opened his mouth, trying to scream at her but was muffled as a hand plunged into his mouth. The fist was just a bit too big to bite down on, so his jaw contorted and stretched as she wiggled her hand back and forth. He choked, eyes watering, just before he began vomiting. It stuck in his throat until she pulled her hand out, pushing his face to the side to drain the half digested nachos and chocolate milk.
What he needed now was her name, if only he could place it there was a chance he could evoke a shred of humanity in her. It danced on the tip of his tongue but would not come forth; the tears were streaming down from the corners of his eyes and he could feel them welling in his ears.
“Ms Pappadopoulos, please, god why are you doing this?”
“Don’t give yourself any headaches sug, it will all work out,” She pulled a long syringe from her coat and plunged it into the soft flesh above the wound, into the juicy swelling, squeezing the liquid in with carnal satisfaction. Carl’s eyes rolled back as darkness took him once more.
***
His eyes creaked open, several torches had been lit in the cavern and he could see the walls for the first time. The high, lumpy cement slabs were covered in blood, chunks of flesh, bits of hair. The cousins had returned, scurrying about on the floor like rats. He couldn’t find Ms P, but knew she couldn’t be far away; he smelled the thick acrid stench that followed her. Roland pulled Carl’s head up, breathing thick clouds of candy bar colored rotting teeth stench into his face and eyes.
“You’re fucked. I’m the pimp, you’re the ho,” he stuffed a moist rag into Carl’s mouth, stretching his jaw once again. The taste was bitter and mildew-y. Roland signaled and his cousins disappeared, moving into small nooks in the walls, vanishing into the narrow grey slots.
The seeping moistness of the rag was choking Carl, but little could be done as restrained as he was. He lay on the table, bouncing the back of his head against the hard surface.
“Come on down,” Carl strained his ears, he heard something incredibly faint, but there. It sounded like a male voice. The funk of Ms Pappadopoulos’ slurring voice came wafting next.
“I’ll have you know we are taking the upmost care of little Carl here,” The voice crept to him like corn syrup, bitingly sweet. When the door opened and they entered the room Carl saw the look of horror on his father’s face. His father, so strong, so worshipped. He stood six foot six, blonde and bronzed, a professional wrestler for nearly a decade now. His arms were thick as trees, his legs like stacks of tires, yet at the sight of his son so injured he staggered: it was all the weakness the cousins needed. Roland was the first to move, diving from above with a hammer to the back of Don Smitherson’s (stage name Lord Freyr) blonde head.
A cough of spit flew from his mouth as he fell to his knees. Roland stood in front of him, driving the hammer down onto the crown of his skull. Rhymer took out several four inch nails and quickly placed them on top of Don’s foot while Roland hammered it in. Ryland placed a 600,000 watt short range taser to the hulking man’s ribs. Carl tried to look away as he saw his father vomiting the thick whole wheat bread, fried eggs, and the bacon they had shared together this morning while his body convulsed and quivered. He lost control of his bladder and bowels after thirty seconds, filling the room with a stink almost as vile as Ms Pappadopoulos’ searing breath. She stood in the corner, slowly fondling her breasts, hair frayed out of her industrial hair net.
The shell of his father lay on the ground, shuddering with the final firing of neurons that gives the dead such a terrifying exit from life. The cousins set to work, stripping the clothing off of Don. The muscles that cascaded his body were now limp, they looked much more fat than brawn. Ms Pappadopoulos slowly approached Carl, blocking his view of his father. She held a hideous smirk, peering into his face. “It’s going to be glorious, perfect for all of time,” She stepped back and twirled with surprising grace, raising her hands above her head and unleashing a pungent, onion odor into the room. The look on her face was orgasmic, her mind racing back to the day she had first seen him.
April 20th, the Jamba Juice Sports Center, his arms so brawny. The sweat that hit me that day smelt of lilacs. Freyr beat up that awful man, made all the crowd laugh at his public humiliation. He was meant for me, destined to hold me in his arms while I sleep.
The three hyenas were halfway through skinning him, their faces covered in small, scrap pieces of skin and blood. The work seemed effortless to them, as if they relished doing such horrible deeds. Their overlord stood in the corner, twirling around slowly and murmuring to herself.
All those fan letters but no answer. When the soul is corrupted, unavailable to the needy, the flesh must do. The skin shall suffice.
The air seemed to be pouring out of Carl, his head grew light and dropped suddenly, as if a dream had suddenly plucked him from his waking nightmare. The images he saw were beautiful, sprawling, and never-ending. He did not even try and touch them, but merely float through them and breathe them in. There was a cloud, just in front of him that he pushed past and as he made his way through it his eyes opened. Shaking him awake was his father, towering above him in the dungeon.
Carl screamed into the rag in his mouth, screaming for joy and for mercy, for an escape with his beloved father. But Ms Pappadopoulos was behind him, a large remote control in her hand. She laughed at Carl’s face, it contorted with such animation as to be a cartoon. She moved a control and his father slapped him, moved another and he picked Carl up, breaking the restraints, and throwing him to the floor. Next to him lay his father’s corpse, skinned and mutilated, intestines pulled out and half eaten. She had created a monster out of his father’s image, Carl gasped and choked on blood drawn from the slap. He could only think of his father’s warm embrace as the monster picked him up above his head and began stretching him. The sound of Ms Pappadopoulos’ hideous, guttural braying rang out as Carl’s skin stretched, muscles tore. He screamed as he ripped in half. The monster dropped his legs to the floor where the three cousins lie dead, their heads twisted counter clockwise and full circle. He bled out high above his father’s head as he heard the wench whisper, “Come to me my sweet, let’s make love on the pyre of our romance,”
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
wednesdays
here it is again, the dreaded wednesday. today it comes with a lovely armload of 11 hours on campus, four of which are sitting around waiting to go to class; this translates into me looking for the stupidest things I can waste money on through ebay (just ask me how close I came to buying a lifesize cardboard cut out of a character from Buffy for like sixty bucks). one would think that this much time would propel me into a productive frenzie, but really it just sort of zaps me of my will to do anything.
when nine o clock rolls around and I can finally leave this place, I am headed right home to do some homework. luckily I don't have school tomorrow, but still.
the past few weeks have been full of subdued excitement, documentaries (some of them about raves...blech) and shitty movies (shroomz: high tension wrought through a college freshmen's stool). overall I am feeling strong about everything, but lacking in some hidden compartment that won't show its ugly head. maybe I need to move?
when nine o clock rolls around and I can finally leave this place, I am headed right home to do some homework. luckily I don't have school tomorrow, but still.
the past few weeks have been full of subdued excitement, documentaries (some of them about raves...blech) and shitty movies (shroomz: high tension wrought through a college freshmen's stool). overall I am feeling strong about everything, but lacking in some hidden compartment that won't show its ugly head. maybe I need to move?
Friday, September 26, 2008
the baby
this weekend marks the debut of 'the baby' a conceptual band consisting of two of everything. it also marks the final horrah of having fun before school completely sucks the soul out of me, possibly in a good way. i signed up for a creative writing class that i have come to find out is subtitled 'sex and death' which is particularly up my alley.
if you are ever looking for a hard to watch movie (and this is coming from me) i recommend 'bad boy bubby'. it is a delightful picture out of Australia circa the early nineties and is painful.
also, you can't stop joss whedon. angel keeps getting better and better.
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