wilderness
New Member
sirmyk...you never answered my previous question!!
is there a rating on what we can post? Is there an extent?
lani
is there a rating on what we can post? Is there an extent?
lani
-
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Short story contest!
- Thread starter sirmyk
- Start date
novella
Active Member
smirky, whilst I admire your ambition, reading a lot of 4000-word stories sounds to me like real work. You sure you want to go that high?
The shorter length forces people to do a little self-editing I think, which is usually most necessary. Then again, maybe full-length stories are preferrable, giving people more time to develop some real plot.
The shorter length forces people to do a little self-editing I think, which is usually most necessary. Then again, maybe full-length stories are preferrable, giving people more time to develop some real plot.
sirmyk
New Member
What 4000 word limit? I don't see no stinkin' 4000 word limit... just kidding. After much debate, the limit is back down to 1500. While I don't mind reading a bunch of 4000 word short stories, I do mind having these stories split up into two or three sections on this thread (I think there's a limit on characters; my "Defenestrate" story was about 4000 words and took three separate posts to display). And this contest only runs two weeks, so us busy folk may not find the time to write a longer piece. Have fun.
Endymion
You know this place, a road stretching forever in strict one point perspective, the merciless grid of crops; corn, soybeans, weeds, white gravel roads and dust that hangs in the air forever. Then the bruised sky turning and rolling, the distant scream of a train and the day dying, the rain slashing the earth into a sodden morass. Crackle of ozone and a sky alien and green, the flat land seeming, for a moment, tropical.
Remember the one lane road of white gravel, forever sinking into grey mud, the hedgerow trees too lush and running riot. Remember so much life that it is redolent of death, the cloying scent of overripe fruit, brown pears that smell of wine, that crawl with wasps in the returning heat, as the last of the rain is swallowed by the cracked and parched fields. Peeling fence posts, a tangle of briars that admits one entrance, easily overlooked except for the mailbox, speckled with rust and slightly askew, and the cracked paving that leads to the house.
The house stripped by weather and years of neglect, grey wood the color of the surrounding earth, the outbuildings fallen into ruin, moss on bright blue shingles and blank gaps in walls and roofs, the skeletal form of a dead tree reaching through a smokehouse’s collapsing form, a hive of bees in an ancient stove, barn swallows arcing through sheds filled with tractors and plows slowly collapsing into red dust, buckets of rainwater the color of whiskey under the rotting eaves
I am coming to rest here, after long flight. The car is hurtling across the endless plain, past the somnambulant Aztec giants of power lines, past the lone trees surrounding by the raked earth, past the whirling green mechanical spiders spitting their artificial and chemical laden rain, past every attempt to break up that endless horizon, rolling on into the limitless expanse of space. At night the stars seem an endless sea above which we hang, head downward, the car clinging beetle-like to the smooth surface of the darkened earth, the isolated houses seeming just another fallen star, and the fields more emptiness.
Before I came for you I would walk in these fields and imagine myself the sole living thing on an empty earth after some great purifying catastrophe, or a man on the moon without a means of return, looking out into the endless night of space and waiting for it to claim me as well, to lie down in the grey dust and sleep. I have forgotten what it means to sleep.
This is my place. The house creaks when the wind whips against it, strains like a ship at sea. How could I sleep with all that groaning? I would just look out over the fields, staring up into that empty heaven, and waiting for the sun to rise so I could work again. After night after night of my long insomnia I decided to flee. I drove for days, watching my white gravel roads turn to night black tarmac and the grey earth turn red, like blood. Still the terror of that sky hung over me, the new moon like a hole cut out of blackness hanging over my head. Black sky and isolated stars, like farmhouses on the plain, lonely encampments in the dark, such endless sleeplessness. Though you didn't know it, you were with me then; your fading photograph pinned to the dash, that recurring reel of your voice on tape. I spoke to you for hours, explaining, arguing, describing the empty sky, watching the lines of the highway flicker, watching the other sleepless ones cutting through the heart of that dry country
The days burned as white as an arc welder, the sun glinting off of steel and chrome, or smoldering on red rock, the air motionless, hot, and dry. I stopped once at a roadside attraction called meteor crater, where an impact had left a great blasted hole in the earth. The fat tourists milled around and bought postcards, teetered on the lip of that great scabbed wound. I thought of my dreams of the moon, of being the last. I thought of the fireball that must have happened, something so clean and pure, a fallen piece of heaven itself come to rest on the earth. So much beauty in that one act, and the earth changed forever because of a few seconds. .The buzzards circled above it, wheeling in that expressionless blue sky, waiting for one of the fat bastards to drop in the heat, to provide a bit of sustenance in that hateful place, and to be slowly scoured by the sands to clean white bone.
Nature is always pure. The constant cycle of dominance and submission, all that innocent murderousness, the eternal faithfulness of animals that bond for life, the astonishing violence of what the insurance people call “acts of god ”, they are all part of a seamless whole. Only we corrupt that purity with law and regulations, covering over with words what should be so simple. In my fields, walking, looking at the ancient old skull of the moon grinning down on me, I had a lot of time to think of these things, and of you.
I stopped at a flea market in Tucson, to buy some rope. I wandered through that babble of Spanish, and English, both screeching out of a tinny public address speaker by the barns. The locals bid on chickens for the pot or for the fights, the auctioneer held up the flapping bird with its feet bound and the wings carved the air pointlessly. A donkey toiled endlessly, tied to a post and dragging children in Sisyphean torment, wearing a channel in the dust. The booths displayed ancient weathered wooden crates filled with old photographs, straight razors, broken watches, harnesses, traps, and crucifixes. A giant mausoleum of dead lives, broken pieces of people. For a moment in the heat it almost seemed that the weathered crates were filled with bones. I shook it off and bought something to drink from a stand were the flies buzzed and crawled over everything. Hanging outside one of the booths was a portrait of Christ in a gilt plastic frame, all lurid Technicolor and soap opera star looks, milk white and soft in that hard brown place. Underneath it there was a hand lettered sign that read, “no refunds, no exchanges”.
I walked through that market like I was in a dream, your voice from the tape still ringing in my head. All that nonsense about moving on, becoming a different person, starting your life over, about hoping with time we could be friends, hoping that I would understand. And thinking “how could I have slept that long? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have done the work that needed to be done, counting the flock, tilling all that grey earth year after year, and been asleep? I am awake now, Diana, I have been awake since I woke that morning and you were gone, and I have had a lot of time to work all of this out.
I came up to the end of a row of booths and I saw tattered flags and an old stained tent, “MUSEUM OF MONSTERS” it said. There were some garish signs; old ads for a circus sideshow propped against posts outside, and a seedy looking guy leaned against a podium that said “75 cents” and smoked. He looked like an old scarecrow, his clothes worn and tattered, and he gazed at me blankly, as if he could care less whether or not I went inside. I paid my 75 cents and went in. It was dark in there, and quiet. The breeze lightly making the walls of the tent ripple. It was like being inside a giant sleeping animal. The first thing I saw was an old blind boa constrictor, still bulged in the middle from whatever soft squealing thing it had last eaten and dozing in an old tank, smeared with children's handprints. There was a forlorn looking hairless dog, staked securely into the ground. On the walls there were pictures of the wild woman in her skins, of Jo-Jo the dog faced boy and Grace McDaniels the mule faced woman, of midgets and fat women and conjoined twins and the Rubber Man and the Living Skeleton and the Pinhead. In a wire cage Lucky, the four-legged duck and his companion clucked amiably to each other. Lucky stood on regular duck feet, but curving up and resting on his back was a set of chicken-like claws. The whole place smelled of dust and feathers and fur and a faint red light lit everything, the burning sun filtered through the thin membrane of the tent. Did you know that monster comes from the Latin monstrum and that it means a divine omen, Diana? Did you know that the birth of deformed livestock and children was taken as a sign from god, portending war, or ruin? I don’t suppose you would, but I know, and that’s why I knew when I saw the final exhibit in that museum
The tank it was in was inside of a glass case. The case also housed a two-headed lizard, and mimeographed copies of old medical records, yellowed newspaper clippings and a card which said “Two headed child (male monster) delivered by caesarian section displayed for educational purposes” and I was educated, my darling because it was then that I knew why I had driven all that way. All the sleeplessness had made it clear, you see... it brought everything to this sharp focus, standing in front of the tank, where it floated in formaldehyde. At first I wasn't sure if it was real, but I leaned in close and I could see an open mouth, and tiny sharp teeth, two heads facing away from each other, but one flesh, one body. They were no more capable of being separated than we are dear, and there is only one thing that can part them “till death do us part “ you swore it just like I did Diana, and don’t you fucking think for a minute that running off to Arizona with that bastard is going to change anything. ‘Flesh of my flesh” Diana and just like the message god sent me there is only one thing that can separate us, and that is this knife. You bitch I loved you, you fucking bitch now shut up and quit struggling
You remember the farm, darling, miles away from everyone, all our land stretching away for miles into space and nothingness. We’ll be home soon, and you can scream all you like, then
You know this place, a road stretching forever in strict one point perspective, the merciless grid of crops; corn, soybeans, weeds, white gravel roads and dust that hangs in the air forever. Then the bruised sky turning and rolling, the distant scream of a train and the day dying, the rain slashing the earth into a sodden morass. Crackle of ozone and a sky alien and green, the flat land seeming, for a moment, tropical.
Remember the one lane road of white gravel, forever sinking into grey mud, the hedgerow trees too lush and running riot. Remember so much life that it is redolent of death, the cloying scent of overripe fruit, brown pears that smell of wine, that crawl with wasps in the returning heat, as the last of the rain is swallowed by the cracked and parched fields. Peeling fence posts, a tangle of briars that admits one entrance, easily overlooked except for the mailbox, speckled with rust and slightly askew, and the cracked paving that leads to the house.
The house stripped by weather and years of neglect, grey wood the color of the surrounding earth, the outbuildings fallen into ruin, moss on bright blue shingles and blank gaps in walls and roofs, the skeletal form of a dead tree reaching through a smokehouse’s collapsing form, a hive of bees in an ancient stove, barn swallows arcing through sheds filled with tractors and plows slowly collapsing into red dust, buckets of rainwater the color of whiskey under the rotting eaves
I am coming to rest here, after long flight. The car is hurtling across the endless plain, past the somnambulant Aztec giants of power lines, past the lone trees surrounding by the raked earth, past the whirling green mechanical spiders spitting their artificial and chemical laden rain, past every attempt to break up that endless horizon, rolling on into the limitless expanse of space. At night the stars seem an endless sea above which we hang, head downward, the car clinging beetle-like to the smooth surface of the darkened earth, the isolated houses seeming just another fallen star, and the fields more emptiness.
Before I came for you I would walk in these fields and imagine myself the sole living thing on an empty earth after some great purifying catastrophe, or a man on the moon without a means of return, looking out into the endless night of space and waiting for it to claim me as well, to lie down in the grey dust and sleep. I have forgotten what it means to sleep.
This is my place. The house creaks when the wind whips against it, strains like a ship at sea. How could I sleep with all that groaning? I would just look out over the fields, staring up into that empty heaven, and waiting for the sun to rise so I could work again. After night after night of my long insomnia I decided to flee. I drove for days, watching my white gravel roads turn to night black tarmac and the grey earth turn red, like blood. Still the terror of that sky hung over me, the new moon like a hole cut out of blackness hanging over my head. Black sky and isolated stars, like farmhouses on the plain, lonely encampments in the dark, such endless sleeplessness. Though you didn't know it, you were with me then; your fading photograph pinned to the dash, that recurring reel of your voice on tape. I spoke to you for hours, explaining, arguing, describing the empty sky, watching the lines of the highway flicker, watching the other sleepless ones cutting through the heart of that dry country
The days burned as white as an arc welder, the sun glinting off of steel and chrome, or smoldering on red rock, the air motionless, hot, and dry. I stopped once at a roadside attraction called meteor crater, where an impact had left a great blasted hole in the earth. The fat tourists milled around and bought postcards, teetered on the lip of that great scabbed wound. I thought of my dreams of the moon, of being the last. I thought of the fireball that must have happened, something so clean and pure, a fallen piece of heaven itself come to rest on the earth. So much beauty in that one act, and the earth changed forever because of a few seconds. .The buzzards circled above it, wheeling in that expressionless blue sky, waiting for one of the fat bastards to drop in the heat, to provide a bit of sustenance in that hateful place, and to be slowly scoured by the sands to clean white bone.
Nature is always pure. The constant cycle of dominance and submission, all that innocent murderousness, the eternal faithfulness of animals that bond for life, the astonishing violence of what the insurance people call “acts of god ”, they are all part of a seamless whole. Only we corrupt that purity with law and regulations, covering over with words what should be so simple. In my fields, walking, looking at the ancient old skull of the moon grinning down on me, I had a lot of time to think of these things, and of you.
I stopped at a flea market in Tucson, to buy some rope. I wandered through that babble of Spanish, and English, both screeching out of a tinny public address speaker by the barns. The locals bid on chickens for the pot or for the fights, the auctioneer held up the flapping bird with its feet bound and the wings carved the air pointlessly. A donkey toiled endlessly, tied to a post and dragging children in Sisyphean torment, wearing a channel in the dust. The booths displayed ancient weathered wooden crates filled with old photographs, straight razors, broken watches, harnesses, traps, and crucifixes. A giant mausoleum of dead lives, broken pieces of people. For a moment in the heat it almost seemed that the weathered crates were filled with bones. I shook it off and bought something to drink from a stand were the flies buzzed and crawled over everything. Hanging outside one of the booths was a portrait of Christ in a gilt plastic frame, all lurid Technicolor and soap opera star looks, milk white and soft in that hard brown place. Underneath it there was a hand lettered sign that read, “no refunds, no exchanges”.
I walked through that market like I was in a dream, your voice from the tape still ringing in my head. All that nonsense about moving on, becoming a different person, starting your life over, about hoping with time we could be friends, hoping that I would understand. And thinking “how could I have slept that long? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have done the work that needed to be done, counting the flock, tilling all that grey earth year after year, and been asleep? I am awake now, Diana, I have been awake since I woke that morning and you were gone, and I have had a lot of time to work all of this out.
I came up to the end of a row of booths and I saw tattered flags and an old stained tent, “MUSEUM OF MONSTERS” it said. There were some garish signs; old ads for a circus sideshow propped against posts outside, and a seedy looking guy leaned against a podium that said “75 cents” and smoked. He looked like an old scarecrow, his clothes worn and tattered, and he gazed at me blankly, as if he could care less whether or not I went inside. I paid my 75 cents and went in. It was dark in there, and quiet. The breeze lightly making the walls of the tent ripple. It was like being inside a giant sleeping animal. The first thing I saw was an old blind boa constrictor, still bulged in the middle from whatever soft squealing thing it had last eaten and dozing in an old tank, smeared with children's handprints. There was a forlorn looking hairless dog, staked securely into the ground. On the walls there were pictures of the wild woman in her skins, of Jo-Jo the dog faced boy and Grace McDaniels the mule faced woman, of midgets and fat women and conjoined twins and the Rubber Man and the Living Skeleton and the Pinhead. In a wire cage Lucky, the four-legged duck and his companion clucked amiably to each other. Lucky stood on regular duck feet, but curving up and resting on his back was a set of chicken-like claws. The whole place smelled of dust and feathers and fur and a faint red light lit everything, the burning sun filtered through the thin membrane of the tent. Did you know that monster comes from the Latin monstrum and that it means a divine omen, Diana? Did you know that the birth of deformed livestock and children was taken as a sign from god, portending war, or ruin? I don’t suppose you would, but I know, and that’s why I knew when I saw the final exhibit in that museum
The tank it was in was inside of a glass case. The case also housed a two-headed lizard, and mimeographed copies of old medical records, yellowed newspaper clippings and a card which said “Two headed child (male monster) delivered by caesarian section displayed for educational purposes” and I was educated, my darling because it was then that I knew why I had driven all that way. All the sleeplessness had made it clear, you see... it brought everything to this sharp focus, standing in front of the tank, where it floated in formaldehyde. At first I wasn't sure if it was real, but I leaned in close and I could see an open mouth, and tiny sharp teeth, two heads facing away from each other, but one flesh, one body. They were no more capable of being separated than we are dear, and there is only one thing that can part them “till death do us part “ you swore it just like I did Diana, and don’t you fucking think for a minute that running off to Arizona with that bastard is going to change anything. ‘Flesh of my flesh” Diana and just like the message god sent me there is only one thing that can separate us, and that is this knife. You bitch I loved you, you fucking bitch now shut up and quit struggling
You remember the farm, darling, miles away from everyone, all our land stretching away for miles into space and nothingness. We’ll be home soon, and you can scream all you like, then
clueless
New Member
I've never written horror before and I'm not sure this can be classed as such. If it's not, tell me and I'll withdraw it. Please send me your comments. It might be better to open another thread for comments on the stories. Be ruthless with mine. I really need to see my mistakes. If you think it's a turd, say so. I never heard of anyone dying from a punch below the belt; needle prickling, on the contrary, can be extremely dangerous even though the needle is coated in sugar.
It was Ross, my favourite, although I had tried not to show it. I succeeded with Sean but Louise was always watching me. The first time she saw him, she had said: ‘Another boy. Didn’t I tell you I wanted a girl?"
They took me to a waiting room. He was dead and the doctor was going to ask for an autopsy. They did not let us see him.
In the evening, visitors started coming. I think I was rude to them; I didn’t want their condolence or their hand on my shoulder.
The hospital had not ordered an autopsy, so I did. When the results came, the pathologist’s words were the only comforting ones I had heard yet: ‘If he had not died, he would have been like a vegetable for the rest of his life’. He added, ‘He suffocated in his own vomit. He was not breathing when he arrived at casualties. They did all they could.’ The battle was over. All the pain I had kept locked away rushed out when I could not turn it into anger.
I kept thinking how. He was so strong for his age and he never slept on his tummy. He would have rolled away when he was sick. My husband said that a neighbour had called him. The baby was crying in the bedroom; it was time to feed him. He left Louise and Sean watching cartoons in the front room. Five minutes later he came back to find him purple.
The funeral was a farce. That old couple – why were they crying? They hadn’t even met him; and my grandmother saying ‘This is the last one to come into this grave. There is only one more place and that’s mine’.
Being back home was a relief until Louise said, ‘I don’t know why you are sad. You can have another one. And have a girl this time.’
She went to stay with her grandparents for a while. I could not help thinking…
CATHARSIS
My husband phoned me at work. He was only able to mumble ‘the boy’ and ‘come to the hospital’. I thought it was Sean, who had needed a few stitches a couple of months before.It was Ross, my favourite, although I had tried not to show it. I succeeded with Sean but Louise was always watching me. The first time she saw him, she had said: ‘Another boy. Didn’t I tell you I wanted a girl?"
They took me to a waiting room. He was dead and the doctor was going to ask for an autopsy. They did not let us see him.
In the evening, visitors started coming. I think I was rude to them; I didn’t want their condolence or their hand on my shoulder.
The hospital had not ordered an autopsy, so I did. When the results came, the pathologist’s words were the only comforting ones I had heard yet: ‘If he had not died, he would have been like a vegetable for the rest of his life’. He added, ‘He suffocated in his own vomit. He was not breathing when he arrived at casualties. They did all they could.’ The battle was over. All the pain I had kept locked away rushed out when I could not turn it into anger.
I kept thinking how. He was so strong for his age and he never slept on his tummy. He would have rolled away when he was sick. My husband said that a neighbour had called him. The baby was crying in the bedroom; it was time to feed him. He left Louise and Sean watching cartoons in the front room. Five minutes later he came back to find him purple.
The funeral was a farce. That old couple – why were they crying? They hadn’t even met him; and my grandmother saying ‘This is the last one to come into this grave. There is only one more place and that’s mine’.
Being back home was a relief until Louise said, ‘I don’t know why you are sad. You can have another one. And have a girl this time.’
She went to stay with her grandparents for a while. I could not help thinking…
Gem
kickbox
Ok i'm going to be brave (or stupid) and enter my story. Its not straight forward horror more horror/?
Warning: Contains swearing (I know naughty. sorry!)
I’ve travelled long and hard.
With burning feet and blazing eyes I stand in front of the house I once called home. Home, a safe cocoon framed by the ocean, mountains and forest. Built by the sweat of my brow, built just for her.
A man doesn’t knock on his own door, so I enter confidently ready to surprise her and see the joy in her face. How on earth did my little mouse manage to survive all these years without me? I can see it now, tears will stream down her face and she’ll hug me tight, I’ll tell her “Honey I’m home – the devil couldn’t break me” and she’ll lead me into the kitchen and serve me up some of her fine pumpkin pie.
What’s this, She has changed things. Who told her she could paint the walls cream, she knew I wanted them dark. That bookshelf is filled with books, books? No doubt she’s been filling her head with nonsense again. This is just the hallway, what has she done to the rest of it?
Repainted everywhere for a start, changed the furniture and turned my damn den into some kind of meditation room complete with crap new age hocus pocus paintings and statues - she’ll have to answer for this. My house is filled with candles and cushions, it smells of citrus and roses, she obviously hasn’t been baking my favourite meats and pies. Never mind Jenny my love. I’m back now and we’ll soon put an end to all this nonsense.
There she is, in the backyard lying on a wooden deckchair by the pool. Her closed eyes do not so much as flicker at my approach. She is unaware of my presence, so I sit in the chair opposite and study the face that I left behind five years ago. The bright sun caresses her bare skin, and boy, is there a great deal of skin being caressed – when had my little mouse ever worn a bikini, especially one so small and flimsy?
Her brown hair tumbling lazily around her soft alabaster face shines brightly, vibrant as mahogany. Was this the girl I had left behind? This lazy lush woman with pouty lips that looked as if they had just been thoroughly kissed, this couldn’t be my little mouse.
Breathe Nathaniel breathe, its okay, she just lost her way without you by her side, don’t you remember? She could never even go to the store by herself – her hands would start shaking. She always relied on you – to pay the bills, to make the decisions, to be the man.
That’s right, I just have to take her in hand again. She won’t have to be strong anymore, won’t have to make any more decisions especially wrong ones. I can’t help but smile – see, when a woman is left to make decisions what happens? – Bikinis, meditation and candles is what.
She sits up suddenly, rubs her eyes, tosses her hair back and looks right at me. For a second there I thought she hadn’t seen me, but her eyes brighten and she’s smiling that smile of hers. The smile; I haven’t seen that smile since we first got married. Her eyes have never lit up so bright before, she’s so happy to see me I grin in response, can’t help it. “Come here my little mouse and give your old man a hug”, she stands up but she’s walked past me, what? There’s a man standing there by the kitchen door, my kitchen door and my whore of a wife is kissing him. She didn’t even see me.
“Get your dirty fucking lips off of my wife you scum!” I scream at him. Why are they ignoring me? Its not like they can’t hear me I’m standing right here behind them. She knows I don’t like to be ignored; she knows what happens, “damn you Jenny what are you playing at?”
My fist flies to his face, I’m itching to feel his skin break, itching to make him scream in pain. My fist connects with his face, nothings happened; he’s not screaming, just standing there talking to Jenny. He didn’t feel a thing. Oh shit, they can’t see, feel or hear me. **** **** ****.
What the **** is going on?
I storm into the kitchen after them, they’re talking and laughing, “How dare you, how dare you Jenny I’ll fucking kill you” I shout out. But my hand can’t pick up the goddamn knife, what’s the use of being here if I can’t knock any sense into her or kill that bastard for laying his hands on her
The front door won’t open, I can’t even make the handle turn. The windows, try the windows their open – damn it my hand won’t go through its like there’s an invisible wall not letting me through, well try the fucking garden then, yes yes the garden. I can’t get over the fences something just keeps pushing me back. I think I’m trapped.
While I’ve been rushing around, the whore and her dickhead have cosied up on the sofa and are feeding each other. I sink into a chair. Pumpkin Pie. They’re eating pumpkin pie.
She speaks. “Matt, I just want to say thank you, no don’t stop me. You’ve made me love this house, and I had never thought I would. It always felt like prison to me as if Nate had built it here on purpose with the ocean and mountains and the forest acting like guards and blocking me from the rest of the world, blocking me from escape” The Matt bloke just shakes his head and kisses her, tells her not to remember the bad times.
Bad times? What fucking bad times, didn’t I feed her and look after her? I fucking did everything; she was lucky I kept her even though she was useless, always skulking about, eyes cast down, jumping every time the clock struck the hour. Boy did that bug the hell out of me if you knew the damn thing was gonna chime every hour then how the **** did you let it spook you every time?
She smiles, curls up against lover boy, putting her head on his shoulder as they sit watching a movie. But she’s not watching the movie, oh no, she’s thinking and I can see her thoughts as clearly as if they were the movie. She’s thinking about me.
Our wedding day, the smiles and the dancing, that’s the wedding night now – I’m still smiling but she’s not. There’s a purplish bruise on her left eye, she’s crying “don’t ever hit me again Nate, that was the first and last time promise me Nate” I promise her tell her I’m sorry but she shouldn’t have provoked me.
Her memories move on swiftly, we’ve moved into the house this beautiful house I’ve built for her in the most beautiful corner of the world but does she appreciate it? No, instead She’s thinking of the time she came home from the store an hour late, she had met a friend and time had wandered. I wasn’t having that, she knew not to meet anyone without me there, she knew the penalty – she received a broken rib. Countless other memories flickered by, I was in the right in each one – it’s not my fault that she learned by the fist. I should have married a cleverer woman.
Her memory rests on a dark night. I was driving us home, a deer stood in the middle of the road I was gonna run the fucker over but she screamed at me “No!” and tried to grab the steering wheel, the deer bolted but the car zig zagged off the beaten track and crashed straight into a large tree. I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.
The memory just reminded me that it was her fault I died. The bitch. She gets up of the sofa and says “Matt, sorry love I can’t concentrate on the movie. I’m going to bed” he gets up to go with her telling her once again not to let the past worry her. She smiles at him and says “that bastard can’t hurt me anymore, you know what? I bet that if he could see me now, how happy I was he’d burn like hell.” They both leave the room arm in arm.
I get it now. In the five years I had stayed down there They tried everything. I laughed in their faces. The heat and torture just soothed my soul. Then He came to see me himself “You’re a tough one Nathaniel Harwood, we can’t break you down here. Go home”.
Home. Trapped in a house that smelt of flowers. Trapped in a house having to watch Jenny beaming like a sunflower at her bastard lover. Trapped in a house watching them be happy together. You win you win, you’ve broken me, now “GET ME THE **** OUT OF THIS HELL.”
Warning: Contains swearing (I know naughty. sorry!)
The Very Last Circle of Hell.
I’ve travelled long and hard.
With burning feet and blazing eyes I stand in front of the house I once called home. Home, a safe cocoon framed by the ocean, mountains and forest. Built by the sweat of my brow, built just for her.
A man doesn’t knock on his own door, so I enter confidently ready to surprise her and see the joy in her face. How on earth did my little mouse manage to survive all these years without me? I can see it now, tears will stream down her face and she’ll hug me tight, I’ll tell her “Honey I’m home – the devil couldn’t break me” and she’ll lead me into the kitchen and serve me up some of her fine pumpkin pie.
What’s this, She has changed things. Who told her she could paint the walls cream, she knew I wanted them dark. That bookshelf is filled with books, books? No doubt she’s been filling her head with nonsense again. This is just the hallway, what has she done to the rest of it?
Repainted everywhere for a start, changed the furniture and turned my damn den into some kind of meditation room complete with crap new age hocus pocus paintings and statues - she’ll have to answer for this. My house is filled with candles and cushions, it smells of citrus and roses, she obviously hasn’t been baking my favourite meats and pies. Never mind Jenny my love. I’m back now and we’ll soon put an end to all this nonsense.
There she is, in the backyard lying on a wooden deckchair by the pool. Her closed eyes do not so much as flicker at my approach. She is unaware of my presence, so I sit in the chair opposite and study the face that I left behind five years ago. The bright sun caresses her bare skin, and boy, is there a great deal of skin being caressed – when had my little mouse ever worn a bikini, especially one so small and flimsy?
Her brown hair tumbling lazily around her soft alabaster face shines brightly, vibrant as mahogany. Was this the girl I had left behind? This lazy lush woman with pouty lips that looked as if they had just been thoroughly kissed, this couldn’t be my little mouse.
Breathe Nathaniel breathe, its okay, she just lost her way without you by her side, don’t you remember? She could never even go to the store by herself – her hands would start shaking. She always relied on you – to pay the bills, to make the decisions, to be the man.
That’s right, I just have to take her in hand again. She won’t have to be strong anymore, won’t have to make any more decisions especially wrong ones. I can’t help but smile – see, when a woman is left to make decisions what happens? – Bikinis, meditation and candles is what.
She sits up suddenly, rubs her eyes, tosses her hair back and looks right at me. For a second there I thought she hadn’t seen me, but her eyes brighten and she’s smiling that smile of hers. The smile; I haven’t seen that smile since we first got married. Her eyes have never lit up so bright before, she’s so happy to see me I grin in response, can’t help it. “Come here my little mouse and give your old man a hug”, she stands up but she’s walked past me, what? There’s a man standing there by the kitchen door, my kitchen door and my whore of a wife is kissing him. She didn’t even see me.
“Get your dirty fucking lips off of my wife you scum!” I scream at him. Why are they ignoring me? Its not like they can’t hear me I’m standing right here behind them. She knows I don’t like to be ignored; she knows what happens, “damn you Jenny what are you playing at?”
My fist flies to his face, I’m itching to feel his skin break, itching to make him scream in pain. My fist connects with his face, nothings happened; he’s not screaming, just standing there talking to Jenny. He didn’t feel a thing. Oh shit, they can’t see, feel or hear me. **** **** ****.
What the **** is going on?
I storm into the kitchen after them, they’re talking and laughing, “How dare you, how dare you Jenny I’ll fucking kill you” I shout out. But my hand can’t pick up the goddamn knife, what’s the use of being here if I can’t knock any sense into her or kill that bastard for laying his hands on her
The front door won’t open, I can’t even make the handle turn. The windows, try the windows their open – damn it my hand won’t go through its like there’s an invisible wall not letting me through, well try the fucking garden then, yes yes the garden. I can’t get over the fences something just keeps pushing me back. I think I’m trapped.
While I’ve been rushing around, the whore and her dickhead have cosied up on the sofa and are feeding each other. I sink into a chair. Pumpkin Pie. They’re eating pumpkin pie.
She speaks. “Matt, I just want to say thank you, no don’t stop me. You’ve made me love this house, and I had never thought I would. It always felt like prison to me as if Nate had built it here on purpose with the ocean and mountains and the forest acting like guards and blocking me from the rest of the world, blocking me from escape” The Matt bloke just shakes his head and kisses her, tells her not to remember the bad times.
Bad times? What fucking bad times, didn’t I feed her and look after her? I fucking did everything; she was lucky I kept her even though she was useless, always skulking about, eyes cast down, jumping every time the clock struck the hour. Boy did that bug the hell out of me if you knew the damn thing was gonna chime every hour then how the **** did you let it spook you every time?
She smiles, curls up against lover boy, putting her head on his shoulder as they sit watching a movie. But she’s not watching the movie, oh no, she’s thinking and I can see her thoughts as clearly as if they were the movie. She’s thinking about me.
Our wedding day, the smiles and the dancing, that’s the wedding night now – I’m still smiling but she’s not. There’s a purplish bruise on her left eye, she’s crying “don’t ever hit me again Nate, that was the first and last time promise me Nate” I promise her tell her I’m sorry but she shouldn’t have provoked me.
Her memories move on swiftly, we’ve moved into the house this beautiful house I’ve built for her in the most beautiful corner of the world but does she appreciate it? No, instead She’s thinking of the time she came home from the store an hour late, she had met a friend and time had wandered. I wasn’t having that, she knew not to meet anyone without me there, she knew the penalty – she received a broken rib. Countless other memories flickered by, I was in the right in each one – it’s not my fault that she learned by the fist. I should have married a cleverer woman.
Her memory rests on a dark night. I was driving us home, a deer stood in the middle of the road I was gonna run the fucker over but she screamed at me “No!” and tried to grab the steering wheel, the deer bolted but the car zig zagged off the beaten track and crashed straight into a large tree. I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.
The memory just reminded me that it was her fault I died. The bitch. She gets up of the sofa and says “Matt, sorry love I can’t concentrate on the movie. I’m going to bed” he gets up to go with her telling her once again not to let the past worry her. She smiles at him and says “that bastard can’t hurt me anymore, you know what? I bet that if he could see me now, how happy I was he’d burn like hell.” They both leave the room arm in arm.
I get it now. In the five years I had stayed down there They tried everything. I laughed in their faces. The heat and torture just soothed my soul. Then He came to see me himself “You’re a tough one Nathaniel Harwood, we can’t break you down here. Go home”.
Home. Trapped in a house that smelt of flowers. Trapped in a house having to watch Jenny beaming like a sunflower at her bastard lover. Trapped in a house watching them be happy together. You win you win, you’ve broken me, now “GET ME THE **** OUT OF THIS HELL.”
Occam's Razor
New Member
The Sacrifice
It's exactly 1500 words, not including the title.
Warning: Mild swearing.
The Sacrifice
Coda Manning was in another dimension “Ughh…” she moaned. “Where the hell am I?”
As the nerves in Coda’s cheeks became increasingly aroused with feeling, she could tell that a film of cold drool had caked her stiff lips. A dim lance of light pierced the crack of her heavy eyelids and slowly heaved them open. Her vision was cloaked in a blanket of blurriness, and she could faintly recognize the sounds of many voices…chanting, haunting voices that slowly increased in volume. The voices penetrated her blurry world like a cicada’s droning pitch, muffled as her consciousness strained to attain lucidity.
“It’s so cold,” Coda thought, “am I…naked?”
As Coda strained to move her neck, she felt paralyzed. Suddenly, her vision and hearing swiftly returned. Coda quickly found herself staring at the sharp end of a basket-hilted rapier sword, hovering above her nude body with the stalking gaze of a leopard. The hands that gripped the sword belonged to a shrouded figure, barely visible in the dim lighting. As Coda trembled beneath the psychological weight of the foreboding sword, she retained her posture and strained her eyes to see the figure better. An abnormally tall, cloaked man stood rigidly over Coda. Covering the man’s face was an elaborate mask in the form of an antelope skull with spiral horns that jutted out of the top.
Coda flinched as the man unexpectedly began to loudly bark a chant. His voice seemed otherworldly, with a deep, throaty bellow that gave her gooseflesh. “Torzu! Zacar! Od zamran aspt sibsi butmona ds surzas tia baltan!”
A rush of intense, stinging fear gripped Coda as a deluge of voices roared from the darkness to her left, reiterating the man’s words with robotic accuracy. Coda was surrounded by at least twenty other people, all cloaked in heavy layers of veils and shawls.
The man began to speak again. “Odo cicle qaa od ozozma plapli iadnamad!”
As the crowd once again repeated the man’s words, the man suddenly stared down at Coda and raised the rapier high in the air. In a flash of urgency, Coda rolled her body to the left just as the rapier struck the ground with a thunderous shrill. She fell off what seemed to be a mini-stage and onto the cold floor, where she could hear the wobbling and warping of the thin sword as it vibrated violently in the man’s hands.
A flood of gasps filled the room. As Coda stood up she finally looked down at herself and saw her nude body, which was reassuringly unharmed. “What the hell are you doing to me?!” she shrieked, staring into the faceless shrouds of the audience.
The masked man reeled from Coda’s retreat. “The sacrifice has been interrupted,” he yawped with an unnervingly low tone, “Obtain her now!”
The crowd suddenly began producing blades which glittered in the light. Coda noticed two very large torches filled with pools of blazing gasoline which flanked her on each side. As the crowd slowly moved in on her, she quickly grabbed the shaft of one of the torches and flung it at her nearest predators. “Get the **** away from me!”
The hooded figures were instantly engulfed in excruciating flames that prompted unholy screams from the inside of their cloth veils. Coda bolted from her captors as they rolled in the conflagration, followed quickly by the remaining villains and their bloodthirsty knives.
Coda was running blind. Only the faint glimmer of objects in the darkness allowed her to avoid them before she tripped. The flailing drapery of her stalkers ripped through the silent darkness with a billowing hum. As Coda continued to run through the emptiness, she suddenly crashed violently into a flat wall.
“Aww...my arm…” Coda lay on the ground in pain after bouncing off the seemingly invisible wall. Hearing the clamoring of the crowd’s footsteps, she quickly jumped to her feet and began to caress the wall.
“What the hell…a knob!” Coda grasped the cold sphere on the wall and turned, opening up a door and welcoming a pregnant effulgence of light. Flying through the door, Coda slammed it behind her and began searching for something to bar it with. As her pupils shrunk to the width of needles, she spotted a pile of rusty rebar and hastily began shoving them through the handles. As she inserted the last stick of rebar the door bulged and undulated as her captors pounced against it. Coda spun away and began to sprint through the empty space. She had wandered into a large, expansive warehouse that was essentially empty, with the exception of some metal sheets, bars, tools, and antediluvian pools of a dark red substance that caked the floor.
“I hope to God that’s not blood,” Coda thought as she sprinted across the soiled floor, staring at the stains on the ground. The industrial-sized lamps hanging from the high ceiling cast shadows of the metal skeleton that dressed the inside of the building. Lining the walls of the interior were various chains, handcuffs and blemishes that resembled the outlines of crucified figures.
As Coda reached the other end, she heard a faint ringing noise. Turning back towards the door she came in through which seemed tiny in the distance, the bars of metal were clanging against the hard floor as they released their rusty grip on the handles. Bursting the door open, the masked man barged through, the hollow eyes of his antelope skull mask burning holes in Coda. His minions followed soon after, allowing Coda to see the remarkable height of the masked man compared to that of a normal human.
Coda made haste and opened the double doors in front of her. What she saw befuddled her. “Where am I?”
Standing on top of a luxurious Goravan rug, Coda soaked in the lavish surroundings of the grand hallway she had just entered. Highly elaborate chairs with ornate gilt and auburn-painted Chinoiserie lined the red damask walls. A crystal chandelier spangled with burning candles hung ominously in the middle of the hallway. Wasting no time, Coda darted down the hallway. As she was running past the grandiose doors that decorated the hallway, she could hear mysterious hums, moans, cries, and wails reverberating just past the cracking wood. Picking up speed, she heard the crashing sound of the double doors she had used to enter the grand hallway. A deafening roar gushed throughout the hall and caught up with Coda, sending shrills of fear down her spine and reminding her of the horror that was hunting her.
Coda eventually reached a large lobby where two sets of stairs curled around a monumental door that stood triumphantly in the center. “Is this some kind of mansion?”
Running up to the door, Coda pressed all of her weight onto it, slowly producing a crack which introduced a biting wind.
“It’s outside!” Coda cheered, stumbling into a blizzard which quickly drenched her body with solid pimples. Her enthusiasm was quickly drained as she marched through the forest of dead trees that lay outside the mansion. A milky wash of moonlight bathed the snow-laden landscape, and as Coda continued to walk as far away from the mansion as possible, her feet became numb. With chattering teeth, Coda collapsed into a plot of wet grass and lost conciousness.
Coda Manning was in another dimension “Ughh…” she moaned. “Where the hell am I?”
“You awake?” a tender voice inquired. “You’re lucky you didn’t die out there in the cold. Damn party animal teenagers.”
“Who…who are you?” Coda asked in a hoarse, whispery voice.
“Don’t speak honey, just rest. I found you out in the snow, just as naked as a jay bird.” The woman was short and stocky, exuding the warmth of a grandmother figure. She hobbled back to her kitchen where she was making some Campbell’s soup. “Breakfast will be done in a minute, sweetie.”
Coda’s body was weak, she could barely keep her eyes agape. She thought about the night before. “Was last night just…a nightmare?”
Suddenly, a knock on the front door startled the woman. “It’s me, Carl,” the man said in a monotonous, deep voice.
“Oh, hey Carl!” The woman shouted, obviously excited by the presence of the stranger. “Well come on in.”
Carl stepped in through the squeaky screen door. “That sure does smell good! Hey listen, I just stopped by to drop off those stilts I borrowed from you the other day.”
“Oh, thank you honey. Just set em’ in that room over there.”
The man bowed his head and shuffled into the room where Coda slept. As the man was placing the stilts in a chair, he began staring at Coda with utter beguilement. “Well I’ll be damned…”
As Coda tilted her exhausted head up off the pillow, she saw the man. A bolt of fear crept up her spine like a kundalini serpent. As she strained to look into his eyes, she could feel the holes being burnt into her. It was him.
It's exactly 1500 words, not including the title.
Warning: Mild swearing.
The Sacrifice
Coda Manning was in another dimension “Ughh…” she moaned. “Where the hell am I?”
As the nerves in Coda’s cheeks became increasingly aroused with feeling, she could tell that a film of cold drool had caked her stiff lips. A dim lance of light pierced the crack of her heavy eyelids and slowly heaved them open. Her vision was cloaked in a blanket of blurriness, and she could faintly recognize the sounds of many voices…chanting, haunting voices that slowly increased in volume. The voices penetrated her blurry world like a cicada’s droning pitch, muffled as her consciousness strained to attain lucidity.
“It’s so cold,” Coda thought, “am I…naked?”
As Coda strained to move her neck, she felt paralyzed. Suddenly, her vision and hearing swiftly returned. Coda quickly found herself staring at the sharp end of a basket-hilted rapier sword, hovering above her nude body with the stalking gaze of a leopard. The hands that gripped the sword belonged to a shrouded figure, barely visible in the dim lighting. As Coda trembled beneath the psychological weight of the foreboding sword, she retained her posture and strained her eyes to see the figure better. An abnormally tall, cloaked man stood rigidly over Coda. Covering the man’s face was an elaborate mask in the form of an antelope skull with spiral horns that jutted out of the top.
Coda flinched as the man unexpectedly began to loudly bark a chant. His voice seemed otherworldly, with a deep, throaty bellow that gave her gooseflesh. “Torzu! Zacar! Od zamran aspt sibsi butmona ds surzas tia baltan!”
A rush of intense, stinging fear gripped Coda as a deluge of voices roared from the darkness to her left, reiterating the man’s words with robotic accuracy. Coda was surrounded by at least twenty other people, all cloaked in heavy layers of veils and shawls.
The man began to speak again. “Odo cicle qaa od ozozma plapli iadnamad!”
As the crowd once again repeated the man’s words, the man suddenly stared down at Coda and raised the rapier high in the air. In a flash of urgency, Coda rolled her body to the left just as the rapier struck the ground with a thunderous shrill. She fell off what seemed to be a mini-stage and onto the cold floor, where she could hear the wobbling and warping of the thin sword as it vibrated violently in the man’s hands.
A flood of gasps filled the room. As Coda stood up she finally looked down at herself and saw her nude body, which was reassuringly unharmed. “What the hell are you doing to me?!” she shrieked, staring into the faceless shrouds of the audience.
The masked man reeled from Coda’s retreat. “The sacrifice has been interrupted,” he yawped with an unnervingly low tone, “Obtain her now!”
The crowd suddenly began producing blades which glittered in the light. Coda noticed two very large torches filled with pools of blazing gasoline which flanked her on each side. As the crowd slowly moved in on her, she quickly grabbed the shaft of one of the torches and flung it at her nearest predators. “Get the **** away from me!”
The hooded figures were instantly engulfed in excruciating flames that prompted unholy screams from the inside of their cloth veils. Coda bolted from her captors as they rolled in the conflagration, followed quickly by the remaining villains and their bloodthirsty knives.
Coda was running blind. Only the faint glimmer of objects in the darkness allowed her to avoid them before she tripped. The flailing drapery of her stalkers ripped through the silent darkness with a billowing hum. As Coda continued to run through the emptiness, she suddenly crashed violently into a flat wall.
“Aww...my arm…” Coda lay on the ground in pain after bouncing off the seemingly invisible wall. Hearing the clamoring of the crowd’s footsteps, she quickly jumped to her feet and began to caress the wall.
“What the hell…a knob!” Coda grasped the cold sphere on the wall and turned, opening up a door and welcoming a pregnant effulgence of light. Flying through the door, Coda slammed it behind her and began searching for something to bar it with. As her pupils shrunk to the width of needles, she spotted a pile of rusty rebar and hastily began shoving them through the handles. As she inserted the last stick of rebar the door bulged and undulated as her captors pounced against it. Coda spun away and began to sprint through the empty space. She had wandered into a large, expansive warehouse that was essentially empty, with the exception of some metal sheets, bars, tools, and antediluvian pools of a dark red substance that caked the floor.
“I hope to God that’s not blood,” Coda thought as she sprinted across the soiled floor, staring at the stains on the ground. The industrial-sized lamps hanging from the high ceiling cast shadows of the metal skeleton that dressed the inside of the building. Lining the walls of the interior were various chains, handcuffs and blemishes that resembled the outlines of crucified figures.
As Coda reached the other end, she heard a faint ringing noise. Turning back towards the door she came in through which seemed tiny in the distance, the bars of metal were clanging against the hard floor as they released their rusty grip on the handles. Bursting the door open, the masked man barged through, the hollow eyes of his antelope skull mask burning holes in Coda. His minions followed soon after, allowing Coda to see the remarkable height of the masked man compared to that of a normal human.
Coda made haste and opened the double doors in front of her. What she saw befuddled her. “Where am I?”
Standing on top of a luxurious Goravan rug, Coda soaked in the lavish surroundings of the grand hallway she had just entered. Highly elaborate chairs with ornate gilt and auburn-painted Chinoiserie lined the red damask walls. A crystal chandelier spangled with burning candles hung ominously in the middle of the hallway. Wasting no time, Coda darted down the hallway. As she was running past the grandiose doors that decorated the hallway, she could hear mysterious hums, moans, cries, and wails reverberating just past the cracking wood. Picking up speed, she heard the crashing sound of the double doors she had used to enter the grand hallway. A deafening roar gushed throughout the hall and caught up with Coda, sending shrills of fear down her spine and reminding her of the horror that was hunting her.
Coda eventually reached a large lobby where two sets of stairs curled around a monumental door that stood triumphantly in the center. “Is this some kind of mansion?”
Running up to the door, Coda pressed all of her weight onto it, slowly producing a crack which introduced a biting wind.
“It’s outside!” Coda cheered, stumbling into a blizzard which quickly drenched her body with solid pimples. Her enthusiasm was quickly drained as she marched through the forest of dead trees that lay outside the mansion. A milky wash of moonlight bathed the snow-laden landscape, and as Coda continued to walk as far away from the mansion as possible, her feet became numb. With chattering teeth, Coda collapsed into a plot of wet grass and lost conciousness.
Coda Manning was in another dimension “Ughh…” she moaned. “Where the hell am I?”
“You awake?” a tender voice inquired. “You’re lucky you didn’t die out there in the cold. Damn party animal teenagers.”
“Who…who are you?” Coda asked in a hoarse, whispery voice.
“Don’t speak honey, just rest. I found you out in the snow, just as naked as a jay bird.” The woman was short and stocky, exuding the warmth of a grandmother figure. She hobbled back to her kitchen where she was making some Campbell’s soup. “Breakfast will be done in a minute, sweetie.”
Coda’s body was weak, she could barely keep her eyes agape. She thought about the night before. “Was last night just…a nightmare?”
Suddenly, a knock on the front door startled the woman. “It’s me, Carl,” the man said in a monotonous, deep voice.
“Oh, hey Carl!” The woman shouted, obviously excited by the presence of the stranger. “Well come on in.”
Carl stepped in through the squeaky screen door. “That sure does smell good! Hey listen, I just stopped by to drop off those stilts I borrowed from you the other day.”
“Oh, thank you honey. Just set em’ in that room over there.”
The man bowed his head and shuffled into the room where Coda slept. As the man was placing the stilts in a chair, he began staring at Coda with utter beguilement. “Well I’ll be damned…”
As Coda tilted her exhausted head up off the pillow, she saw the man. A bolt of fear crept up her spine like a kundalini serpent. As she strained to look into his eyes, she could feel the holes being burnt into her. It was him.
novella
Active Member
Avoiding the Doctor: Reason Number 26
The goiter had grown at an incredible rate. After only two weeks, Tim could barely turn his head, and there was a lump the size of a grapefruit under his left ear. He felt okay, but the damn thing looked so ugly. He thought it was a goiter, but he wasn't quite sure what a goiter was, so he couldn't be sure. He would have to see a doctor. Ugh.
Tim avoided doctors at almost any cost. They invariably made you sicker, with all their office germs and antibiotics, their probing fingers and little metal tools to poke you with. At 29, Tim hadn't seen a doctor in about 15 years, and that would have been fine, except for the goiter. It was so big he was having trouble tying his shoes and his ability to drive safely was becoming impaired. Turning the head, you see. He had to turn his whole torso.
The doctor's office was on the second floor of a mini-mall, over a video store. That couldn't be good. Doctor Rabadi was listed as his Primary Care Physician in his health insurance plan, but Tim had never laid eyes on the man. He parked outside and went up the dirty carpeted stairs, carefully keeping his hands off the railing. Who knows who had touched it or when it had last been cleaned.
The waiting room was done in late-70s brown, with yellow walls. Well-thumbed issues of Parenting, Reader's Digest, and Motor Trends were piled on a cheesy coffee table. Tim went to the receptionists bulletproof window. The girl slid it open. She was eating Chinese food over her keyboard.
"Huh?" she said, swallowing a big bite of greasy lo mein. She stared at the goiter.
"Tim Shea to see Doctor Rabadi."
"Please fill this out and have a seat," she said, passing him a clipboard with a form.
As she slid the bulletproof window back, Time heard her say, "Oh my gawd, did you see that guy?" to the filing clerk working next to her.
Maybe ten minutes later he was shown into the doctor's examining room. He sat up on the examination table, his legs swinging in the air like a kid. He hoped nothing would hurt. Finally a brown-skinned man in a white coat came in.
"Well, Mr. Shea. I bet I can guess why you're here," the doctor said, laughing as if they were old friends sharing a joke.
"Hello, Doctor Rabadi. As you can see, I've developed a problem in my neck. I'm not sure what it is."
"Well, let's have a look." The doctor tilted Tim's head in order to get a closer look at the growth. "Interesting . . I haven't seen one of these in quite some time. When did it start?"
"I think it was around the fourth of July, just after my birthday. I remember because at first I thought I must have caught something at my Aunt Ethel's house. She had a barbeque and a buffet, and you know how unsanitary those things can be."
"I see. Yes, well, this is something different, I'm afraid. How have you been feeling other than that."
"Well, to tell you the truth, doctor, I've been very tired. Also, I seem unable to make a decision. I thought maybe this was a virus that is wearing me down."
"Indecisive. Tired." The doctor made a note in a file. "Any feelings of pain or confusion?"
"Pain, yes. As you can see, my neck is very uncomfortable. And I have been forgetting things, just little things."
"Well, Mr. Shea. This is quite unusual, but not the first case I've seen. I can help you release this pressure with a little in-office procedure, but you must be prepared for the outcome." At this last word, the doctor smiled, as if enjoying a private joke.
"Don't you think I should go to a hospital?" Tim said, eyeing the tray of metal knives and tools the doctor brought over.
"Only if you want to. But that might take several weeks. And by then, this problem might be very serious indeed."
Tim agree to let the doctor proceed, grimacing in disgust and anticipated pain when Rabadi administered a local anesthesia with a long, fat needle. He was unable to see what the doctor was doing, but a few minutes later, he felt a great release of pressure. There seemed to be a lot of fluid, which the doctor mopped up with a towel and sponge. Tim was glad to see that he washed the spot thoroughly with antiseptic.
As the anesthesia wore off, Tim was conscious of a warm feeling next to his ear and the tickle of hair. He struggle to turn his head to see what it was, but he could not. The doctor was tidying up near the sink.
"Doctor, may I have a mirror?" Tim asked.
"Certainly, Mr. Shea, but you should prepare yourself for a tiny shock." The doctor pulled a vanity mirror out of a shallow drawer and handed it to Tim.
Tim held his breath as he lifted the mirror up. There beside his head was the top of another head, a full head of brown hair still moist with juices. Eyebrows were just visible under the pale brow. The entire thing seemed to be slowly moving upward.
"It will take a few more days for the head to fully emerge," the doctor explained matter-of-factly. "All indications are that it is healthy. When the mouth is free make sure to clear the phlegm and cough."
Tim stared at the mirror, speechless. He was forced to tilt his head at a very awkward angle.
"You see, you have an unusual genetic condition called Second Head Syndrome, passed down to every third generation in the maternal line," explained the doctor. "It's only seen in the northeast of India and certain remote provinces of Ireland."
"Can you just chop it off or something?" Tim asked, dismayed at the prospect of another mouth to feed. Another chin to shave. "I only have two arms. This is not going to work." This is going to suck, he thought. I definitely should have stayed home and dealt with this myself.
After paying his $10 copayment and getting stared at by the rude receptionist, Tim stomped out to his Datsun wondering how much extra a two-hooded sweatshirt was going to cost.
"Bugger!" he said, to no one in particular.
The goiter had grown at an incredible rate. After only two weeks, Tim could barely turn his head, and there was a lump the size of a grapefruit under his left ear. He felt okay, but the damn thing looked so ugly. He thought it was a goiter, but he wasn't quite sure what a goiter was, so he couldn't be sure. He would have to see a doctor. Ugh.
Tim avoided doctors at almost any cost. They invariably made you sicker, with all their office germs and antibiotics, their probing fingers and little metal tools to poke you with. At 29, Tim hadn't seen a doctor in about 15 years, and that would have been fine, except for the goiter. It was so big he was having trouble tying his shoes and his ability to drive safely was becoming impaired. Turning the head, you see. He had to turn his whole torso.
The doctor's office was on the second floor of a mini-mall, over a video store. That couldn't be good. Doctor Rabadi was listed as his Primary Care Physician in his health insurance plan, but Tim had never laid eyes on the man. He parked outside and went up the dirty carpeted stairs, carefully keeping his hands off the railing. Who knows who had touched it or when it had last been cleaned.
The waiting room was done in late-70s brown, with yellow walls. Well-thumbed issues of Parenting, Reader's Digest, and Motor Trends were piled on a cheesy coffee table. Tim went to the receptionists bulletproof window. The girl slid it open. She was eating Chinese food over her keyboard.
"Huh?" she said, swallowing a big bite of greasy lo mein. She stared at the goiter.
"Tim Shea to see Doctor Rabadi."
"Please fill this out and have a seat," she said, passing him a clipboard with a form.
As she slid the bulletproof window back, Time heard her say, "Oh my gawd, did you see that guy?" to the filing clerk working next to her.
Maybe ten minutes later he was shown into the doctor's examining room. He sat up on the examination table, his legs swinging in the air like a kid. He hoped nothing would hurt. Finally a brown-skinned man in a white coat came in.
"Well, Mr. Shea. I bet I can guess why you're here," the doctor said, laughing as if they were old friends sharing a joke.
"Hello, Doctor Rabadi. As you can see, I've developed a problem in my neck. I'm not sure what it is."
"Well, let's have a look." The doctor tilted Tim's head in order to get a closer look at the growth. "Interesting . . I haven't seen one of these in quite some time. When did it start?"
"I think it was around the fourth of July, just after my birthday. I remember because at first I thought I must have caught something at my Aunt Ethel's house. She had a barbeque and a buffet, and you know how unsanitary those things can be."
"I see. Yes, well, this is something different, I'm afraid. How have you been feeling other than that."
"Well, to tell you the truth, doctor, I've been very tired. Also, I seem unable to make a decision. I thought maybe this was a virus that is wearing me down."
"Indecisive. Tired." The doctor made a note in a file. "Any feelings of pain or confusion?"
"Pain, yes. As you can see, my neck is very uncomfortable. And I have been forgetting things, just little things."
"Well, Mr. Shea. This is quite unusual, but not the first case I've seen. I can help you release this pressure with a little in-office procedure, but you must be prepared for the outcome." At this last word, the doctor smiled, as if enjoying a private joke.
"Don't you think I should go to a hospital?" Tim said, eyeing the tray of metal knives and tools the doctor brought over.
"Only if you want to. But that might take several weeks. And by then, this problem might be very serious indeed."
Tim agree to let the doctor proceed, grimacing in disgust and anticipated pain when Rabadi administered a local anesthesia with a long, fat needle. He was unable to see what the doctor was doing, but a few minutes later, he felt a great release of pressure. There seemed to be a lot of fluid, which the doctor mopped up with a towel and sponge. Tim was glad to see that he washed the spot thoroughly with antiseptic.
As the anesthesia wore off, Tim was conscious of a warm feeling next to his ear and the tickle of hair. He struggle to turn his head to see what it was, but he could not. The doctor was tidying up near the sink.
"Doctor, may I have a mirror?" Tim asked.
"Certainly, Mr. Shea, but you should prepare yourself for a tiny shock." The doctor pulled a vanity mirror out of a shallow drawer and handed it to Tim.
Tim held his breath as he lifted the mirror up. There beside his head was the top of another head, a full head of brown hair still moist with juices. Eyebrows were just visible under the pale brow. The entire thing seemed to be slowly moving upward.
"It will take a few more days for the head to fully emerge," the doctor explained matter-of-factly. "All indications are that it is healthy. When the mouth is free make sure to clear the phlegm and cough."
Tim stared at the mirror, speechless. He was forced to tilt his head at a very awkward angle.
"You see, you have an unusual genetic condition called Second Head Syndrome, passed down to every third generation in the maternal line," explained the doctor. "It's only seen in the northeast of India and certain remote provinces of Ireland."
"Can you just chop it off or something?" Tim asked, dismayed at the prospect of another mouth to feed. Another chin to shave. "I only have two arms. This is not going to work." This is going to suck, he thought. I definitely should have stayed home and dealt with this myself.
After paying his $10 copayment and getting stared at by the rude receptionist, Tim stomped out to his Datsun wondering how much extra a two-hooded sweatshirt was going to cost.
"Bugger!" he said, to no one in particular.
