This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Open the Door
By Plot Roach
I sat in the closet, my back to the locked door. I could feel the vibrations through the wood. They had gone from pounding upon it to scratching lightly on its surface. I had been that tiny little space for six hours already and didn’t know if I could hold out much longer. Thirst and hunger were battling logic for control of my body. And I didn’t know when the appeal of a hot meal would overcome my urge to live.
Six hours before this I had been a happy mother, wife and helpful neighbor. My husband, Desmond, and I were busy setting out the picnic table and chairs, starting up the barbeque and chasing the kids around the kitchen as we were preparing for the block party that our neighborhood had every summer. It was the last weekend before the kids started off the new school year. A final hurrah of sorts for tired parents to celebrate the beginning of months worth of quiet time and give the kids chance to mourn the months of homework, pop quizzes and boring lectures to come.
We had the radio blaring some sappy pop song about love in the summertime when an announcement broke through declaring a state of emergency. At first we didn’t believe it. I mean, aren’t they supposed to lead off with that emergency signal tone. You know, the one that sounds peculiarly like when your ear ’goes out’ if you suffer from tinnitus.
There was nothing, no signal. Just some man hurriedly spewing information about ’dirty bombs’, viral infections and how to keep safe. We thought it was a joke. When the message didn’t change after about five minutes, we knew that it wasn’t. The man spoke of a contagion that had spread throughout the country, hitting every major city. No terrorist group had come forward claiming responsibility for the attack as of yet, and it was theorized that none would. The bigwigs in the government had stated that the attacks were too well planned, all of them hitting their targets precisely and all at the same time. No small political group could have executed that feat without major technology and funds, which small terrorist groups rarely had. And there was one more thing: ours wasn’t the only country being hit. It seemed that any largely populated area was a target, regardless religion, political persuasion or financial well being.
Through the radio, we heard the man chatter away at the state of the world around us. He only stopped when we heard the glass of his booth shatter. It was followed shortly by his dying screams. We looked to our neighbors for opinions on the matter. Hal, our neighbor who lived behind us, said that it must have been just a hoax. Though when we turned on the television or tried a different radio station, all we received was static.
Desmond and I told the kids to get inside while we went to the garage to pull out the emergency gear we had stored. I doubted that plastic and duct tape over the windows and air vents could stop whatever took out the man on the radio, but it made us feel as though we had some say in our fate.
About midway through this project, as Desmond was bringing in a box of emergency food and medical supplies, I saw Hal again. I waved and asked him if he had heard anything from Mary, his wife, or his kids. He merely growled and launched himself at me like a wild dog. I saw, too late, that he was bleeding from the ears and eyes. It was one of the symptoms that had been listed as signs of infection by the now deceased man from the radio. Desmond knocked Hal off his feet before he could reach me, but then the madman turned upon my husband. Desmond shouted at me to run and save the kids. Once inside the house I locked the doors, thinking us safe.
I pulled the children close and told them to stay quiet. We heard screaming all around us as other neighbors fell prey to Hal, and I assumed, the others infected like him. “But where’s Daddy?” my youngest asked, tears in her eyes.
“He can’t be with us now.” I said. I couldn’t admit to them, much less to myself, that he might be dead. I held them as they cried and tried to be strong for them as I knew that I should. Yet I could feel everything slipping away, even before it happened. We heard a crash from the living room. I had thought us safe from attack, but our windows had yet to be boarded up.
“Jen?” asked a voice from the other side of the locked master bedroom door. “Are you in there?” it sounded like Desmond. But if he had been infected…
“Daddy! It’s Daddy!” The girls yelled and ran to the door, throwing it open to reveal a very bloody man who used to be their father. I knew instinctively that it was already too late to save them as his arm swept them closer to him as he attacked. I turned an ran through the back door of the master bedroom and into the hallway closet, locking myself in. I knew that if I ran out of the house I might run into things much worse than my husband, but it might have been a quicker death.
Less than twenty minutes of being trapped, my daughters joined in with their father, trying to talk me into opening the closet door to join them. First they pleaded, with voices thick like honey. Then they shrieked as the pounded at the door in a frenzy of hate. Then they sat patiently, with someone’s nails tracing the woodwork pattern of a bundle of wheat that had been carved into our hall closet door.
Two hours ago I chewed the last stick of gum that I had hidden in an old coat pocket. I peed in a rubber boot and I’m wondering how long it will be until I’m forced to drink my own urine to survive. Because we had two young daughters, Desmond and I decided to keep the guns in a safe in the master bedroom closet -fifteen feet from where I am now. I feel the vibrations through the closet door and wonder when I’ll be forced to flee my hiding place. Will I be forced to out of starvation or will I choose to in order to try and make a run for safety. Or will I take a deep breath, accept my fate, and open the door.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Sanctuary at Iron Mountain
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Sanctuary at Iron Mountain
By Plot Roach
The young girl raced through the woods, egged on by the calls of the men who hunted her. She ducked under a tree branch just in time to avoid knocking herself unconscious, though the limb scratched her across the face and scattered leaves across her path. Her breath came in short gasps and she was forced to pause in the shade of a giant pine in order to regain her bearings.
A snap of a fallen tree limb and the calls of their dogs lead her to believe that they came closer to her with every heartbeat. She scanned the horizon through the trees and glimpsed Iron Mountain. If she could only get there before the men caught up with her, she could hide with her mother’s family. But the mountain seemed so far away and the men so close.
The sun pulled itself behind the mountain where she sought sanctuary. She could no continue running in the dark, but surely the men following her would not let a thing like the darkness keep them from their quarry. Choking back a sob, the girl smelled wood smoke. There, just thirty feet away and tucked into the side of a hill like some fairy tale cottage, was a home. She had not seen it at first because of how well it blended into the surrounding landscape. Perhaps she could persuade the owner to give her asylum from her hunters.
She dashed across the forest and pounded upon the door, wishing with all of her heart to be spared from the hunters’ wrath. When the door swung open, an old woman stepped aside, bidding her to enter the dwelling with the motion of one hand.
Once inside, the girl braced herself against one earthen wall while the old woman locked the door behind them. “Now, my dear.” the old woman cackled. “What is it that has sent you like a chased deer to my little home?”
“The men” the girl panted. “The church sent them… To look for witches… To exterminate them… And I…”
“They think that you are one of the godless ones and seek to redeem you in the eyes of God?” the old woman asked, a steely sharpness entered her eyes, yet her smile never faded. The girl merely nodded, still trying to catch her breath.
“Do you have someone to go to, my little dear?”
“If I can get away from them and get to Iron Mountain.”
“Good.” the woman said, and then pointed to the back door. “Go out the back way and I will keep them busy while you flee.”
“But they’ll hurt you as well, if they suspect that you aided me.”
“Oh, I’ve been known to handle a hunter or two in my day. And I’m not too old to defend myself in my own den.” the old woman said as she handed a bag to the girl. “Now here are enough provisions to get you to your kin, my lovely. And do not tarry, for I expect the men shall be here shortly.”
And with that, the old woman ushered her out the back door and onto the path of the girl’s freedom. Once inside her home, the old woman stoked the fire of her hearth and waited for the hunters. She did not have to wait long, and had barely unlocked the door before the men barged past her looking for the child.
“Where is she, old woman? We tracked her here.” said the leader. He was dressed in the fine robes of his religious station. He looked about her home with obvious distaste tattooing his features. And the old woman knew that he considered it beneath himself to dirty the hem of his robes by chasing after some filthy peasant child through the pagan woods. The rest of his men stood idly by, the chase had winded them and they wished for nothing more than warm food and soft beds.
“Where is the witch, wench?!” the priest demanded.
That was when the rest of his men noticed that something was amiss. The hounds that they had used to track the girl did not enter the old woman’s hut, but paused at the threshold. They whined and whimpered, their eyes rolling in their heads as if in pain or madness. The woman waved a hand at them and turned them into a flock of sparrows which raced off into the gathering darkness. The door slammed shut, locking the men in, as the hearth fire swelled in size behind the shadowed form of the old woman. At last her smile faded as she regarded the priest in his stained finery. “I’m so glad you could join me.” she whispered. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone over for dinner.”
The girl, who had been racing through the darkened wood, heard the screams of the men and offered a prayer for the safety of the old woman. The path before her was lit by the full moon and the bag weighted heavily upon her back as she made her way to sanctuary.
Sanctuary at Iron Mountain
By Plot Roach
The young girl raced through the woods, egged on by the calls of the men who hunted her. She ducked under a tree branch just in time to avoid knocking herself unconscious, though the limb scratched her across the face and scattered leaves across her path. Her breath came in short gasps and she was forced to pause in the shade of a giant pine in order to regain her bearings.
A snap of a fallen tree limb and the calls of their dogs lead her to believe that they came closer to her with every heartbeat. She scanned the horizon through the trees and glimpsed Iron Mountain. If she could only get there before the men caught up with her, she could hide with her mother’s family. But the mountain seemed so far away and the men so close.
The sun pulled itself behind the mountain where she sought sanctuary. She could no continue running in the dark, but surely the men following her would not let a thing like the darkness keep them from their quarry. Choking back a sob, the girl smelled wood smoke. There, just thirty feet away and tucked into the side of a hill like some fairy tale cottage, was a home. She had not seen it at first because of how well it blended into the surrounding landscape. Perhaps she could persuade the owner to give her asylum from her hunters.
She dashed across the forest and pounded upon the door, wishing with all of her heart to be spared from the hunters’ wrath. When the door swung open, an old woman stepped aside, bidding her to enter the dwelling with the motion of one hand.
Once inside, the girl braced herself against one earthen wall while the old woman locked the door behind them. “Now, my dear.” the old woman cackled. “What is it that has sent you like a chased deer to my little home?”
“The men” the girl panted. “The church sent them… To look for witches… To exterminate them… And I…”
“They think that you are one of the godless ones and seek to redeem you in the eyes of God?” the old woman asked, a steely sharpness entered her eyes, yet her smile never faded. The girl merely nodded, still trying to catch her breath.
“Do you have someone to go to, my little dear?”
“If I can get away from them and get to Iron Mountain.”
“Good.” the woman said, and then pointed to the back door. “Go out the back way and I will keep them busy while you flee.”
“But they’ll hurt you as well, if they suspect that you aided me.”
“Oh, I’ve been known to handle a hunter or two in my day. And I’m not too old to defend myself in my own den.” the old woman said as she handed a bag to the girl. “Now here are enough provisions to get you to your kin, my lovely. And do not tarry, for I expect the men shall be here shortly.”
And with that, the old woman ushered her out the back door and onto the path of the girl’s freedom. Once inside her home, the old woman stoked the fire of her hearth and waited for the hunters. She did not have to wait long, and had barely unlocked the door before the men barged past her looking for the child.
“Where is she, old woman? We tracked her here.” said the leader. He was dressed in the fine robes of his religious station. He looked about her home with obvious distaste tattooing his features. And the old woman knew that he considered it beneath himself to dirty the hem of his robes by chasing after some filthy peasant child through the pagan woods. The rest of his men stood idly by, the chase had winded them and they wished for nothing more than warm food and soft beds.
“Where is the witch, wench?!” the priest demanded.
That was when the rest of his men noticed that something was amiss. The hounds that they had used to track the girl did not enter the old woman’s hut, but paused at the threshold. They whined and whimpered, their eyes rolling in their heads as if in pain or madness. The woman waved a hand at them and turned them into a flock of sparrows which raced off into the gathering darkness. The door slammed shut, locking the men in, as the hearth fire swelled in size behind the shadowed form of the old woman. At last her smile faded as she regarded the priest in his stained finery. “I’m so glad you could join me.” she whispered. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had someone over for dinner.”
The girl, who had been racing through the darkened wood, heard the screams of the men and offered a prayer for the safety of the old woman. The path before her was lit by the full moon and the bag weighted heavily upon her back as she made her way to sanctuary.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
A New Breed
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
A New Breed
By Plot Roach
I finally agreed to go to the hospital when the pains were so fierce that I had to brace myself against the bed in a squatting position to keep from passing out. Larry, my husband, bundled up the kids and put them in the car while I pulled out my emergency bag from the hall closet. Having two kids means being ready for any emergency. We’ve had to use the bag three times since the birth of my first son, and I’m glad we keep it stocked and ready. Larry came back for me, shouldering the back and leading me down the stairs of our home like an invalid.
Once at the hospital, Larry had to wait with the kids in the main waiting room because children are not allowed in the emergency room. And I understood this and was a little grateful, since I didn’t want my kids scarred by this, should anything go wrong. But I was more than a bit nervous since I didn’t have Larry by my side.
Once behind the flimsy curtain, the staff were all business: change into this, pee into that, does it hurt when I press here, open up wide and other phrases those in a hospital have long since learned when placed into any emergency situation.
While they were running their tests, the pains got worse. The nurse ordered an ibuprofen and told me that it was the strongest thing that she could give me until they knew what was wrong with me. That little pill was like midget trying to put out a forest fire by pissing on it. The pain wracked my body and felt oddly familiar. But no, it couldn’t be, I told myself. The last time I had felt those pains was when I was giving birth to my youngest son.
The doctors scratched their heads and the nurses flitted about like demonic hummingbirds, everyone acting like they were doing the best that they could and that I was the unreasonable one for being sick with something that they couldn’t pinpoint.
When another wave of pain flowed through me I screamed for the nurse. “I think I’m pregnant and giving birth!”
“How far long are you?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “I didn’t even know that I was pregnant.”
“How can you not know something like that?” she asked.
“Ever see that show about women who didn’t know that they were going to have a baby?” I asked. And while I’m not one of those women who are built like a loveseat, I am a bit husky. But I had had no period to speak of, much less random spotting, since the birth of my youngest son.
“Then how do you know that you’re giving birth?”
“I’ve done it twice in the past two and a half months. I think I know what labor feels like!”
“I think its something else… you’re just dehydrated or something.”
I felt something trickling from between my legs and reached down feel it with my hands. I raised a bloody palm and asked: “Does dehydration do this?” she at least had the decency to run and grab a doctor. But by the time that they returned, the baby’s head was already out. The rest of the birth was relatively swift. My third son weighed in at nine pounds six ounces and had red hair.
Both my husband and I have dark hair. Our first son was born with brown hair, the second with blonde. And now there was a redhead in the family. Now we have a full set, I thought hazily.
A few hours later the doctors came to my bedside with the results of the tests. They were as curious as I had been about my surprise pregnancy. “When was the last time you had sex?” one of them asked.
“I don’t remember.” I said. I was being honest, I really didn’t remember. When you have two kids under the age of three, you’re lucky that you can remember your name, much less the last time you were intimate with someone. As it turns out, they asked Larry the same question. And his answer? We hadn’t, not since our last son had been born. There had been complications from the birth that needed healing. Then, after working full time and chasing after two kids, we were simply too tired for any hanky panky.
So how had I gotten pregnant?
It turns out that the doctors had an answer in the tests that I had undergone: I had an interesting new organ never before seen in human history. A little exploratory surgery proved what they had suspected: I was a “sperm vault”. Much like some insects, I could mate once with my husband and store up his sperm until it was needed to produce further pregnancies without needing to do the deed ever again. I could also somehow alter the DNA in such a way as to provide the maximum variation of my children (thus the different hair colors).
“You’re like a whole new breed of human.” one f the doctors said, his eyes bright with the possibilities.
“Or maybe you’re the next step inhuman evolution.” said another doctor.
My head was still spinning from the news. I would be pregnant for the rest of my child bearing days, having a baby every nine months with one month for the body to recover before becoming pregnant with the next child. Since I was only twenty, this left me with quite a few years left of baby making. And it occurred to me that we were going to need a bigger house -hell, maybe even our own city. Especially if I started having twins.
A New Breed
By Plot Roach
I finally agreed to go to the hospital when the pains were so fierce that I had to brace myself against the bed in a squatting position to keep from passing out. Larry, my husband, bundled up the kids and put them in the car while I pulled out my emergency bag from the hall closet. Having two kids means being ready for any emergency. We’ve had to use the bag three times since the birth of my first son, and I’m glad we keep it stocked and ready. Larry came back for me, shouldering the back and leading me down the stairs of our home like an invalid.
Once at the hospital, Larry had to wait with the kids in the main waiting room because children are not allowed in the emergency room. And I understood this and was a little grateful, since I didn’t want my kids scarred by this, should anything go wrong. But I was more than a bit nervous since I didn’t have Larry by my side.
Once behind the flimsy curtain, the staff were all business: change into this, pee into that, does it hurt when I press here, open up wide and other phrases those in a hospital have long since learned when placed into any emergency situation.
While they were running their tests, the pains got worse. The nurse ordered an ibuprofen and told me that it was the strongest thing that she could give me until they knew what was wrong with me. That little pill was like midget trying to put out a forest fire by pissing on it. The pain wracked my body and felt oddly familiar. But no, it couldn’t be, I told myself. The last time I had felt those pains was when I was giving birth to my youngest son.
The doctors scratched their heads and the nurses flitted about like demonic hummingbirds, everyone acting like they were doing the best that they could and that I was the unreasonable one for being sick with something that they couldn’t pinpoint.
When another wave of pain flowed through me I screamed for the nurse. “I think I’m pregnant and giving birth!”
“How far long are you?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “I didn’t even know that I was pregnant.”
“How can you not know something like that?” she asked.
“Ever see that show about women who didn’t know that they were going to have a baby?” I asked. And while I’m not one of those women who are built like a loveseat, I am a bit husky. But I had had no period to speak of, much less random spotting, since the birth of my youngest son.
“Then how do you know that you’re giving birth?”
“I’ve done it twice in the past two and a half months. I think I know what labor feels like!”
“I think its something else… you’re just dehydrated or something.”
I felt something trickling from between my legs and reached down feel it with my hands. I raised a bloody palm and asked: “Does dehydration do this?” she at least had the decency to run and grab a doctor. But by the time that they returned, the baby’s head was already out. The rest of the birth was relatively swift. My third son weighed in at nine pounds six ounces and had red hair.
Both my husband and I have dark hair. Our first son was born with brown hair, the second with blonde. And now there was a redhead in the family. Now we have a full set, I thought hazily.
A few hours later the doctors came to my bedside with the results of the tests. They were as curious as I had been about my surprise pregnancy. “When was the last time you had sex?” one of them asked.
“I don’t remember.” I said. I was being honest, I really didn’t remember. When you have two kids under the age of three, you’re lucky that you can remember your name, much less the last time you were intimate with someone. As it turns out, they asked Larry the same question. And his answer? We hadn’t, not since our last son had been born. There had been complications from the birth that needed healing. Then, after working full time and chasing after two kids, we were simply too tired for any hanky panky.
So how had I gotten pregnant?
It turns out that the doctors had an answer in the tests that I had undergone: I had an interesting new organ never before seen in human history. A little exploratory surgery proved what they had suspected: I was a “sperm vault”. Much like some insects, I could mate once with my husband and store up his sperm until it was needed to produce further pregnancies without needing to do the deed ever again. I could also somehow alter the DNA in such a way as to provide the maximum variation of my children (thus the different hair colors).
“You’re like a whole new breed of human.” one f the doctors said, his eyes bright with the possibilities.
“Or maybe you’re the next step inhuman evolution.” said another doctor.
My head was still spinning from the news. I would be pregnant for the rest of my child bearing days, having a baby every nine months with one month for the body to recover before becoming pregnant with the next child. Since I was only twenty, this left me with quite a few years left of baby making. And it occurred to me that we were going to need a bigger house -hell, maybe even our own city. Especially if I started having twins.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 7)
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 7)
By Plot Roach
Here is my excuse for not writing today:
I had a creative writing prompt picked out and ready to go. The story was really going to be something awesome, outlandish and just a little bit heartwarming.
And the I was kidnapped by a balloon stomping, cleat wearing lumberjack.
I can explain, really.
You see, I went with a friend to the opening of the Super Cheap Mega Gift Mall here in town and things got a little out of hand. But let me start from the beginning…
My friend, Lisa, loves to enter contests. She enters as many she can, even when it costs her more to play the game than the prize is worth. So it came as no surprise that she won tickets to the opening of the mall.
We got there early, to enter yet another contest: the ever-coveted door prize. This one was a chance to win a vacation for two to any one of three vacation prizes. The winner would get first choice, then the second prize winner would get the second pick and the last winner would get whatever vacation was leftover.
So we got our hands stamped, waited in line and filled out information cards with our telephone numbers and emails. I just knew that it would come back to haunt me later on in the form of a telemarketer calling me at seven am on a Sunday morning (while I’m trying to catch up on sleep) to ask me if I want to buy a timeshare for a condominium in the middle of a place I’ve never heard of.
So Lisa waited with baited breath as they announced the three contestants and I stood off to the side, not really caring either way. I never win anything. Ever. I’ve tried to live like Lisa, and I’ve gotten burned every time. So I just took it for granted that I wouldn’t win.
Then they called my name. I had won, but had an instant sinking feeling in my gut. Nothing good would come of this, I was sure of it. I tried to give my place to Lisa, but was told that it was non-transferable and if I didn’t play, I would not get a thing from them. So, grudgingly, I played.
They lined us up with mall staff “partners”, dressed in crazy outfits. I got the biggest, hairiest guy they had, dressed as -you guessed it- a lumberjack. But as an added accessory to his outfit, they gave him a pink tutu.
The rules of the game were that I had to ride on his back as he stomped balloons with the cleats on his boots. I was to direct him where to go, seeing as he would be blindfolded all the while. And the more balloons of a specific color, the more points we got, and so on and so forth.
The other contestants ended up riding a man dressed as an ostrich and another man dressed as a clown. How they picked these outfits, I’ll never know. But my guess was that the crazier the costume, to more of a crowd that they would draw.
In any case, they signaled the start of the race, and all of the riders were shouting orders -or trying to, over the noise of the crowd. Finally I got some sense and started “steering” the lumberjack in the direction that I wanted him to go. We ended up winning, but by the end of the ride, my “mount” was cranky from having his hair pulled in all directions like reins.
I was given a choice of vacations from Hawaii paradise, to mountain climbing or a trip to Disneyworld. Chilling out on a Hawaiian beach sounded great and I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyworld, but Lisa kept pushing for the mountain climbing thing. So I gave it to her, figuring that she could take whomever she wanted and leave me at home curled up with a good book and no frostbite or broken bones.
I signed the papers, chose the destination and handed the tickets to Lisa who cried with happiness. The problem was, no one told my partner, the lumberjack, that I wasn’t the one going.
He showed up on my front porch the day of the trip, all outfitted for snow and a steep climb, pounding on my door. At seven am on a Sunday morning. It was okay, though, I had already been woken up by the telemarketer asking me if I wanted to buy into a timeshare in butt-crack-Oklahoma.
I tried to explain to him that it was my friend, Lisa, who would be going with him. And then he told me that the people who were running the contest would be filming the vacation and that I was the only one that could go there with him. If I didn’t go mountain climbing, he couldn’t either. And he loved mountain climbing! So with little warning, he threw me over his shoulder, tossed me like a sack of potatoes into the back of his truck and away we went to the airport where camera crew and tickets were awaiting us for our “dream vacation”.
About ten feet up the mountain I would have given anything to wake up from this nightmare of a “dream”. But instead the idiot lumberjack (now minus the tutu) keep tugging at the line that attaches us to one another, telling me to hurry up, that I’m holding him back. And to top it all off, I wasted all my time in this little fiasco. So now I can’t write on my creative writing prompt.
Sigh.
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 7)
By Plot Roach
Here is my excuse for not writing today:
I had a creative writing prompt picked out and ready to go. The story was really going to be something awesome, outlandish and just a little bit heartwarming.
And the I was kidnapped by a balloon stomping, cleat wearing lumberjack.
I can explain, really.
You see, I went with a friend to the opening of the Super Cheap Mega Gift Mall here in town and things got a little out of hand. But let me start from the beginning…
My friend, Lisa, loves to enter contests. She enters as many she can, even when it costs her more to play the game than the prize is worth. So it came as no surprise that she won tickets to the opening of the mall.
We got there early, to enter yet another contest: the ever-coveted door prize. This one was a chance to win a vacation for two to any one of three vacation prizes. The winner would get first choice, then the second prize winner would get the second pick and the last winner would get whatever vacation was leftover.
So we got our hands stamped, waited in line and filled out information cards with our telephone numbers and emails. I just knew that it would come back to haunt me later on in the form of a telemarketer calling me at seven am on a Sunday morning (while I’m trying to catch up on sleep) to ask me if I want to buy a timeshare for a condominium in the middle of a place I’ve never heard of.
So Lisa waited with baited breath as they announced the three contestants and I stood off to the side, not really caring either way. I never win anything. Ever. I’ve tried to live like Lisa, and I’ve gotten burned every time. So I just took it for granted that I wouldn’t win.
Then they called my name. I had won, but had an instant sinking feeling in my gut. Nothing good would come of this, I was sure of it. I tried to give my place to Lisa, but was told that it was non-transferable and if I didn’t play, I would not get a thing from them. So, grudgingly, I played.
They lined us up with mall staff “partners”, dressed in crazy outfits. I got the biggest, hairiest guy they had, dressed as -you guessed it- a lumberjack. But as an added accessory to his outfit, they gave him a pink tutu.
The rules of the game were that I had to ride on his back as he stomped balloons with the cleats on his boots. I was to direct him where to go, seeing as he would be blindfolded all the while. And the more balloons of a specific color, the more points we got, and so on and so forth.
The other contestants ended up riding a man dressed as an ostrich and another man dressed as a clown. How they picked these outfits, I’ll never know. But my guess was that the crazier the costume, to more of a crowd that they would draw.
In any case, they signaled the start of the race, and all of the riders were shouting orders -or trying to, over the noise of the crowd. Finally I got some sense and started “steering” the lumberjack in the direction that I wanted him to go. We ended up winning, but by the end of the ride, my “mount” was cranky from having his hair pulled in all directions like reins.
I was given a choice of vacations from Hawaii paradise, to mountain climbing or a trip to Disneyworld. Chilling out on a Hawaiian beach sounded great and I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyworld, but Lisa kept pushing for the mountain climbing thing. So I gave it to her, figuring that she could take whomever she wanted and leave me at home curled up with a good book and no frostbite or broken bones.
I signed the papers, chose the destination and handed the tickets to Lisa who cried with happiness. The problem was, no one told my partner, the lumberjack, that I wasn’t the one going.
He showed up on my front porch the day of the trip, all outfitted for snow and a steep climb, pounding on my door. At seven am on a Sunday morning. It was okay, though, I had already been woken up by the telemarketer asking me if I wanted to buy into a timeshare in butt-crack-Oklahoma.
I tried to explain to him that it was my friend, Lisa, who would be going with him. And then he told me that the people who were running the contest would be filming the vacation and that I was the only one that could go there with him. If I didn’t go mountain climbing, he couldn’t either. And he loved mountain climbing! So with little warning, he threw me over his shoulder, tossed me like a sack of potatoes into the back of his truck and away we went to the airport where camera crew and tickets were awaiting us for our “dream vacation”.
About ten feet up the mountain I would have given anything to wake up from this nightmare of a “dream”. But instead the idiot lumberjack (now minus the tutu) keep tugging at the line that attaches us to one another, telling me to hurry up, that I’m holding him back. And to top it all off, I wasted all my time in this little fiasco. So now I can’t write on my creative writing prompt.
Sigh.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Denmark Come Home!
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
Denmark Come Home!
By Plot Roach
“So what do you do?” The man next to me asked.
“I’m a writer of sorts.” I answered.
“Of sorts? What kind of genre is that?”
“The one that isn’t widely read, I’m afraid. At least, not so much in the U. S.”
“Now this I have to hear.” he said, leaning closer. “Please start from the beginning.”
“Well…” I said, winding myself up for a good story. “When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they have a special hug…”
“Yeah, yeah. Fast forward a bit, if you would, to your ‘writing’.”
“Well, as a kid I would always make up stories. I guess all kids do when they play, but they kind of lose the love of it when they grow up, I guess.”
“But you didn’t?” he asked.
“I didn’t have many friends growing up, we moved around a lot.” I said, ducking my head in embarrassment. I was always embarrassed about my past, not that I was responsible for the multiple moves, that was my parents’ doing. But I always feel like a freak when I explain that I had thirteen different homes in seven years as a child. “Books were easier to keep track of than friends. So I ended up reading a lot.”
“Thus your love of words.” he said.
I nodded. “So I made up stories about each of the places where I lived. When I got to college, I realized that I was rather good at it.”
“So you went into a writing program?” he asked.
“No, my parents wouldn’t allow that, so I went into the teaching program.”
“So you’re a teacher?”
“No. It’s turns out that I hated it with a passion. It made me so miserable that I never continued with the program.”
“So you’re a paid writer? Using your talents to their fullest?”
“Not quite.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“I’m homeless.” I said, looking down and trying not to blush. “I do it when I have the time, which I currently have plenty of. And when I have the resources. I write what I can longhand and then type it up on the public computers at the local library, posting it on my blog when I can get access to the internet.”
“Wow.”
“Sorry if I make you feel weird. Most people just make polite conversation with me when they find out that I’m a ‘bum’, then they find an excuse to leave. You can if you want to. I won’t mind.”
“No, it wasn’t the homeless thing that bothered me. It’s just that you don’t look it -homeless, I mean. I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but you are very clean and you’re not carrying…”
“A ton of stuff?” I asked. He nodded. “It’s because I’ve learned how to take quick baths in public restrooms and sneak into the showers at the gym down the street. And as for my stuff, there’s a few safe places to hide your bags, if you know where to find them. This doesn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least. In fact, I find it rather interesting. So what do you write?”
“Anything that pops into my head. But mostly science fiction, fantasy and horror. The kind of stuff that you’d find on the “Twilight Zone” or “Outer Limits“. Weird kind of stuff.”
“Do you have a specific audience in mind?”
“Yeah,” I said “anyone who will read it. I have a following on my blog, but I’m afraid I lost a few folks along the way.”
“Did they get offended by something that you wrote? That happens from time to time.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I said. “There were a few days that the site I use for my blog was down. And then there were ten days in a row where I couldn’t post anything.”
“What happened?”
“The library’s computers got a major virus running through them and had to be shut down and worked on by a specialist to get them up and running again. By the time I could post my stories again, I lost a lot of my audience.”
“Kind of fickle if they abandoned you after ten days.”
“Not really.” I said. “I had been posting daily before this happened. I lost a lot of my U.S. following and all of Denmark. And I really miss Denmark.”
“You miss Denmark?”
“There were others, too. But Denmark sticks in my head the most. I kind of feel like a kid in an old fashioned movie, like “Lassie” or something. I want to look out into the horizon and yell: ‘Denmark come home!’ Like it’s a lost dog or something.”
“You really love your writing.”
“It’s all I know, really. Though there have been some people over the years who have tried to get me to quit.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Maybe because they gave up on their dreams, they wanted me to as well. There are some people who can’t stand to see people around them happy at what they like to do and want to ruin it for them. Or maybe I’m not really good after all… but people keep visiting the site, so I must be doing something right. And I have this theory.”
“I’m all ears.” he said, smiling.
“Sometimes I feel like giving up on my writing, but I know it would be a mistake. The ideas in my head and the words from my heart are there for a reason. And to turn away from them would be to snub my nose at God/ the Universe/ the Muse/ etc. or whatever/whoever it was who brought me here to do the things my heart tells me to do. And I don’t want to waste that. I’m not the best writer on earth, but I’m not the worst.”
“And?” he asked.
“I know that there’s someone out there who makes really ugly art, just as there is someone out there who loves to collect it. So there has to be a reason for doing what I do. Even if it’s only for people in Malaysia to read it and scratch their heads. But enough of my pity party, what’s your story?”
“I was waiting for the bus, much like you are, and thinking about the small publishing company that I and a friend are starting up. I was wondering where we were going to find some talent. And I think I just found our first writer.”
“Really?”
“Only if you’re interested.” he said.
“Can we advertise my books in Denmark?”
Denmark Come Home!
By Plot Roach
“So what do you do?” The man next to me asked.
“I’m a writer of sorts.” I answered.
“Of sorts? What kind of genre is that?”
“The one that isn’t widely read, I’m afraid. At least, not so much in the U. S.”
“Now this I have to hear.” he said, leaning closer. “Please start from the beginning.”
“Well…” I said, winding myself up for a good story. “When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they have a special hug…”
“Yeah, yeah. Fast forward a bit, if you would, to your ‘writing’.”
“Well, as a kid I would always make up stories. I guess all kids do when they play, but they kind of lose the love of it when they grow up, I guess.”
“But you didn’t?” he asked.
“I didn’t have many friends growing up, we moved around a lot.” I said, ducking my head in embarrassment. I was always embarrassed about my past, not that I was responsible for the multiple moves, that was my parents’ doing. But I always feel like a freak when I explain that I had thirteen different homes in seven years as a child. “Books were easier to keep track of than friends. So I ended up reading a lot.”
“Thus your love of words.” he said.
I nodded. “So I made up stories about each of the places where I lived. When I got to college, I realized that I was rather good at it.”
“So you went into a writing program?” he asked.
“No, my parents wouldn’t allow that, so I went into the teaching program.”
“So you’re a teacher?”
“No. It’s turns out that I hated it with a passion. It made me so miserable that I never continued with the program.”
“So you’re a paid writer? Using your talents to their fullest?”
“Not quite.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“I’m homeless.” I said, looking down and trying not to blush. “I do it when I have the time, which I currently have plenty of. And when I have the resources. I write what I can longhand and then type it up on the public computers at the local library, posting it on my blog when I can get access to the internet.”
“Wow.”
“Sorry if I make you feel weird. Most people just make polite conversation with me when they find out that I’m a ‘bum’, then they find an excuse to leave. You can if you want to. I won’t mind.”
“No, it wasn’t the homeless thing that bothered me. It’s just that you don’t look it -homeless, I mean. I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but you are very clean and you’re not carrying…”
“A ton of stuff?” I asked. He nodded. “It’s because I’ve learned how to take quick baths in public restrooms and sneak into the showers at the gym down the street. And as for my stuff, there’s a few safe places to hide your bags, if you know where to find them. This doesn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least. In fact, I find it rather interesting. So what do you write?”
“Anything that pops into my head. But mostly science fiction, fantasy and horror. The kind of stuff that you’d find on the “Twilight Zone” or “Outer Limits“. Weird kind of stuff.”
“Do you have a specific audience in mind?”
“Yeah,” I said “anyone who will read it. I have a following on my blog, but I’m afraid I lost a few folks along the way.”
“Did they get offended by something that you wrote? That happens from time to time.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I said. “There were a few days that the site I use for my blog was down. And then there were ten days in a row where I couldn’t post anything.”
“What happened?”
“The library’s computers got a major virus running through them and had to be shut down and worked on by a specialist to get them up and running again. By the time I could post my stories again, I lost a lot of my audience.”
“Kind of fickle if they abandoned you after ten days.”
“Not really.” I said. “I had been posting daily before this happened. I lost a lot of my U.S. following and all of Denmark. And I really miss Denmark.”
“You miss Denmark?”
“There were others, too. But Denmark sticks in my head the most. I kind of feel like a kid in an old fashioned movie, like “Lassie” or something. I want to look out into the horizon and yell: ‘Denmark come home!’ Like it’s a lost dog or something.”
“You really love your writing.”
“It’s all I know, really. Though there have been some people over the years who have tried to get me to quit.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Maybe because they gave up on their dreams, they wanted me to as well. There are some people who can’t stand to see people around them happy at what they like to do and want to ruin it for them. Or maybe I’m not really good after all… but people keep visiting the site, so I must be doing something right. And I have this theory.”
“I’m all ears.” he said, smiling.
“Sometimes I feel like giving up on my writing, but I know it would be a mistake. The ideas in my head and the words from my heart are there for a reason. And to turn away from them would be to snub my nose at God/ the Universe/ the Muse/ etc. or whatever/whoever it was who brought me here to do the things my heart tells me to do. And I don’t want to waste that. I’m not the best writer on earth, but I’m not the worst.”
“And?” he asked.
“I know that there’s someone out there who makes really ugly art, just as there is someone out there who loves to collect it. So there has to be a reason for doing what I do. Even if it’s only for people in Malaysia to read it and scratch their heads. But enough of my pity party, what’s your story?”
“I was waiting for the bus, much like you are, and thinking about the small publishing company that I and a friend are starting up. I was wondering where we were going to find some talent. And I think I just found our first writer.”
“Really?”
“Only if you’re interested.” he said.
“Can we advertise my books in Denmark?”
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Woman In The Red Gauze Dress
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Woman In The Red Gauze Dress
By Plot Roach
The woman in the red gauze dress faced away from the camera and out into the ocean as the waves came crashing in at her feet. "That's good, Hilda. Now walk into it, let the waves lap at your feet." called the photographer. Though he had been told to bring back the dress in pristine condition, he doubted that a little ocean spray at the hemline would cause much trouble. The designer was, after all, paying him to create one of kind photographs to be used in advertising his new line.
He liked the red dress, but not the model who was in it. She was a tall, thin creature, androgynous and alien looking at best. She seemed to have no personality. Maybe it went with the body type, the photographer asked himself. Maybe if you were that thin, the brain had no place to thrive, if all the fat cells were forced up into the head.
For the three hour drive it took to get to the coast, he had tried to engage her in conversation. Stopping when she refused to answer his questions with little more than monosyllabic responses or a slight movement of her head. He had never before worked with such a disagreeable subject, even when he was forced to photograph wild animals and children for a local zoo.
When he asked how she preferred to pose for other photographers, she merely shrugged and turned away from him to face the raging sea. So he used her indifference to his advantage, snapping shots of her as she looked out into the wrath of the water. As dark and as foreboding as the ocean had become, her dress was as bright and as passionate. The red frock was pulled taught against her as the wind pushed past them. He could see every outline of her form, and though it should move him in some way -even physically, he felt nothing. The pounding waves were more loving than this alabaster whore before him.
Her white face, devoid of makeup by request of the designer, stood out like the barren moon against the red dress. It was utterly bizarre, the passive model, the red dress and the dark waves of the ocean. He felt himself be pulled in deeper to his subject than he wished.
Just take the pictures and be done with it, he told himself. The sooner you get this over with, the sooner you can get her out of your life and out of your head forever.
He snapped more pictures, moving around her as she gazed out into the sea. She never moved unless he asked her to, but her eyes shifted along the horizon. What can she be looking for? he asked himself, turning to see what had caught the eye of the ice queen (a name he now secretly called her). He scanned the horizon, but saw nothing amongst the cloudy sky and the churning waves. "Just what are you looking at?" he asked. The only response was the sound of the breaking waves. When he turned his attention back to his subject, she was already thigh deep into the water.
"Hey, get back here!" he called. "If you ruin that dress, they'll fire us both." But she either did not hear or else did not care as she continued to fight the waves as they pushed her back onto the unforgiving shore. "The dress!" the photographer called. "You'll ruin it."
But she continued to battle the ocean, even after being knocked down and nearly dragged to shore from the force of the last wave. She tore the dress from her, and threw it upon the shore where it stood out like fresh blood on the slick rocks. He watched her go, a white form knifing through the dark waves, no longer held back by the flimsy fabric of the red dress. He snapped picture after picture until he could no longer see her, knowing at once that he would never forget this moment if he lived a thousand more years.
The Woman In The Red Gauze Dress
By Plot Roach
The woman in the red gauze dress faced away from the camera and out into the ocean as the waves came crashing in at her feet. "That's good, Hilda. Now walk into it, let the waves lap at your feet." called the photographer. Though he had been told to bring back the dress in pristine condition, he doubted that a little ocean spray at the hemline would cause much trouble. The designer was, after all, paying him to create one of kind photographs to be used in advertising his new line.
He liked the red dress, but not the model who was in it. She was a tall, thin creature, androgynous and alien looking at best. She seemed to have no personality. Maybe it went with the body type, the photographer asked himself. Maybe if you were that thin, the brain had no place to thrive, if all the fat cells were forced up into the head.
For the three hour drive it took to get to the coast, he had tried to engage her in conversation. Stopping when she refused to answer his questions with little more than monosyllabic responses or a slight movement of her head. He had never before worked with such a disagreeable subject, even when he was forced to photograph wild animals and children for a local zoo.
When he asked how she preferred to pose for other photographers, she merely shrugged and turned away from him to face the raging sea. So he used her indifference to his advantage, snapping shots of her as she looked out into the wrath of the water. As dark and as foreboding as the ocean had become, her dress was as bright and as passionate. The red frock was pulled taught against her as the wind pushed past them. He could see every outline of her form, and though it should move him in some way -even physically, he felt nothing. The pounding waves were more loving than this alabaster whore before him.
Her white face, devoid of makeup by request of the designer, stood out like the barren moon against the red dress. It was utterly bizarre, the passive model, the red dress and the dark waves of the ocean. He felt himself be pulled in deeper to his subject than he wished.
Just take the pictures and be done with it, he told himself. The sooner you get this over with, the sooner you can get her out of your life and out of your head forever.
He snapped more pictures, moving around her as she gazed out into the sea. She never moved unless he asked her to, but her eyes shifted along the horizon. What can she be looking for? he asked himself, turning to see what had caught the eye of the ice queen (a name he now secretly called her). He scanned the horizon, but saw nothing amongst the cloudy sky and the churning waves. "Just what are you looking at?" he asked. The only response was the sound of the breaking waves. When he turned his attention back to his subject, she was already thigh deep into the water.
"Hey, get back here!" he called. "If you ruin that dress, they'll fire us both." But she either did not hear or else did not care as she continued to fight the waves as they pushed her back onto the unforgiving shore. "The dress!" the photographer called. "You'll ruin it."
But she continued to battle the ocean, even after being knocked down and nearly dragged to shore from the force of the last wave. She tore the dress from her, and threw it upon the shore where it stood out like fresh blood on the slick rocks. He watched her go, a white form knifing through the dark waves, no longer held back by the flimsy fabric of the red dress. He snapped picture after picture until he could no longer see her, knowing at once that he would never forget this moment if he lived a thousand more years.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 6)
This is a work of fiction. No real people, places or events were used. Copyright ã 2011 Plot Roach.
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 6)
By Plot Roach
Here is my excuse for not writing today:
I had a creative writing prompt picked out and ready to go. The story was really going to be something awesome, outlandish and just a little bit heartwarming.
And the I got mummified in spider silk.
I can explain, really.
You see, I have this friend (Mary) who is a neat freak when she’s stressed, but is a slob when she is not. And as it turns out, today was one of her ‘stress’ days. And this comes on the tail end of one of her spending sprees (she’s a shopaholic too, poor dear). Now this might not seem like much, but her idea of cleaning is to throw everything that she isn’t nailed down out into the nearest dumpster. If I’m there when it happens, then I get the first pick of clothing, books, DVDs, electronics and food. I’m not picky, if it’s free, it’s mine. And if I can’t use it, I’ve got plenty of humble neighbors around me. Heck, in this economy, I can use all the help I can get. Or at least all the help that Mary can send my way.
She when I knew that she had just dropped a paycheck worth of clothing out of her front door, I was there in a flash. After years of being friends, we had developed almost the same figure. She has bigger boobs by far, but I have the better butt. So I had plans for those designer jeans, short skirts and slacks.
I got to her apartment before she could do much damage, brining a handful of chocolate bars, a six pack of diet Coke (under the theory that if you drink diet sodas, you can eat more candy), and a roll full of garbage bags. I had made sure to empty out the back of the car before coming over since I knew that this would be a massive purge. She had just been dumped by her boyfriend for the fourth (yes fourth) time. I don’t know why she keeps going back to the idiot, except that maybe she’s got this death wish for her self esteem…
In any case, she was already throwing out handfuls of stuff onto her front lawn, with some jogger and her dog just standing there, on the sidewalk, watching her like she’s the latest contestant on American Idol.
“Get outta here, you idiot.” I said as I stalked past them. I hate it when people just stop and stare at you when you are in the middle of falling apart. Makes me feel like I can’t have a breakdown in public anymore. So I got inside Mary’s apartment and she’s too busy yelling at something in her closet to notice me walk in. I cleared my throat with a little cough and she jumped for the ceiling.
“You could have told me that you were here!” She screamed.
“That’s why I cleared my throat.” I said.
“Well, now that you’re here. You can get this thing in the back of the closet for me.” she said, before turning away and making a beeline for the kitchen.
“Don’t throw the stuff out in the yard.” I called out. “Just put it in bags and set it in the living room. I’ll get it from there!”
“I know you will.” she said back, her head already deep in the refrigerator.
I started to rummage through the back of the closet, one hand o the thing she was talking about, the other pawing through fallen bathrobes, bags of suits still covered in plastic from the drycleaner, and various bits I can’t quite identify in the half dark of the room. “What the hell is this thing, anyway?” I ask.
“It’s something Steve brought over. He said it was important to him and that he wanted to hide it here from his family, but I want it gone.”
“Won’t he miss it?” I ask.
“I don’t really care, I want it out of my apartment.”
“And what do you mean ‘he hid it from his family’?” I asked, still trying to lug the thing out of the closet.
“He’s married with a baby.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, he didn’t bother to tell me because he thought that it would ‘upset our relationship.’”
“Married? And with a kid? When in the hell did this happen?” I asked.
“Something in the last year, when we were broken up. He rebounded with a showgirl from Las Vegas and they conceived on the first night.”
I sighed, and backed away from the thing in the closet to get a handle on the situation, both the bundle I was trying to extricate from my friend’s apartment and the mental bombshell she just dropped on me. She had been trying to get pregnant with Steve’s kid off and on for the last six years of their hot and cold relationship, thinking that it would finally cement their bond. But she had been told last year that she was barren. That was part of the reason why he dumped her the last time. The rest of the reason was that he was a selfish jerk.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mary.”
“I’m not. I hope he’s happy with the whore and her brat. All I want now is for him and his things to be out of my life forever. -including the thing in the closet.”
“I’m working on it.” I said, throwing myself back into my task at hand. I managed to nudge it closer to the door way, almost throwing my back out I the process. I worked an old belt around it, closing it with the buckle and using it as a carry strap. I felt something inside it shift as I got it out into the light. It was a big bundle wrapped in a type of raw silk that I had never seen before.
“You should get together with his other ex-girlfriend and have an ‘I hate Steve’ party.”
“I haven’t heard from her since before Steve moved in.” Mary called out. From the heavy ‘thunk-thunk-thunk’ sounds, I knew that she was now working on the contents of the pantry.
I pulled the silk bundle outside, laying it down on some empty plastic bags as I prepared to cut it open to view its contents. “So what’s inside of it?” Mary asked from the doorway.
“I don’t know yet.” I said. “But I would like to find out.” I pulled the pocketknife out of my purse and began sawing through the fabric. I had been hoping to save some of it for a crafting project at a later date, but it kept coming away in chunks and strings, sticking to my clothes an flesh like it was made of adhesive. After ten minutes of this, we could finally see Steve’s treasure. And immediately wished we hadn’t.
We found Steve’s ex, along with several other unfortunate souls. All of the looked as if they had been thrown into a food dehydrator, paper like flash on yellowed bones. Mary threw up while I wiped off the stick strings from my hands enough to dial 9-1-1.
Moments later the cops came, bagged the evidence and questioned us both. They brought in an entomologist who said that the sticky stuff was spider silk, some hybrid of a wolf spider and a black widow with something he had never seen before. Both corpses had been entirely drained of their blood, and the DNA that had been left behind was a cross between a spider and a human.
If you ask me, Mary was lucky to get out of her relationship with Steven when she had. I’m afraid to think of what the Las Vegas showgirl and her offspring are going through right now…
I spent the rest of the afternoon filling up my car and holding Mary’s hand. I got some good food, a bunch of new clothes and an image of desiccated bodies that I will never get out of my head for as long as I live. And to top it all off, I wasted all my time in this little fiasco. So now I can’t write on my creative writing prompt.
Sigh.
The Excuse for Not Writing (Number 6)
By Plot Roach
Here is my excuse for not writing today:
I had a creative writing prompt picked out and ready to go. The story was really going to be something awesome, outlandish and just a little bit heartwarming.
And the I got mummified in spider silk.
I can explain, really.
You see, I have this friend (Mary) who is a neat freak when she’s stressed, but is a slob when she is not. And as it turns out, today was one of her ‘stress’ days. And this comes on the tail end of one of her spending sprees (she’s a shopaholic too, poor dear). Now this might not seem like much, but her idea of cleaning is to throw everything that she isn’t nailed down out into the nearest dumpster. If I’m there when it happens, then I get the first pick of clothing, books, DVDs, electronics and food. I’m not picky, if it’s free, it’s mine. And if I can’t use it, I’ve got plenty of humble neighbors around me. Heck, in this economy, I can use all the help I can get. Or at least all the help that Mary can send my way.
She when I knew that she had just dropped a paycheck worth of clothing out of her front door, I was there in a flash. After years of being friends, we had developed almost the same figure. She has bigger boobs by far, but I have the better butt. So I had plans for those designer jeans, short skirts and slacks.
I got to her apartment before she could do much damage, brining a handful of chocolate bars, a six pack of diet Coke (under the theory that if you drink diet sodas, you can eat more candy), and a roll full of garbage bags. I had made sure to empty out the back of the car before coming over since I knew that this would be a massive purge. She had just been dumped by her boyfriend for the fourth (yes fourth) time. I don’t know why she keeps going back to the idiot, except that maybe she’s got this death wish for her self esteem…
In any case, she was already throwing out handfuls of stuff onto her front lawn, with some jogger and her dog just standing there, on the sidewalk, watching her like she’s the latest contestant on American Idol.
“Get outta here, you idiot.” I said as I stalked past them. I hate it when people just stop and stare at you when you are in the middle of falling apart. Makes me feel like I can’t have a breakdown in public anymore. So I got inside Mary’s apartment and she’s too busy yelling at something in her closet to notice me walk in. I cleared my throat with a little cough and she jumped for the ceiling.
“You could have told me that you were here!” She screamed.
“That’s why I cleared my throat.” I said.
“Well, now that you’re here. You can get this thing in the back of the closet for me.” she said, before turning away and making a beeline for the kitchen.
“Don’t throw the stuff out in the yard.” I called out. “Just put it in bags and set it in the living room. I’ll get it from there!”
“I know you will.” she said back, her head already deep in the refrigerator.
I started to rummage through the back of the closet, one hand o the thing she was talking about, the other pawing through fallen bathrobes, bags of suits still covered in plastic from the drycleaner, and various bits I can’t quite identify in the half dark of the room. “What the hell is this thing, anyway?” I ask.
“It’s something Steve brought over. He said it was important to him and that he wanted to hide it here from his family, but I want it gone.”
“Won’t he miss it?” I ask.
“I don’t really care, I want it out of my apartment.”
“And what do you mean ‘he hid it from his family’?” I asked, still trying to lug the thing out of the closet.
“He’s married with a baby.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, he didn’t bother to tell me because he thought that it would ‘upset our relationship.’”
“Married? And with a kid? When in the hell did this happen?” I asked.
“Something in the last year, when we were broken up. He rebounded with a showgirl from Las Vegas and they conceived on the first night.”
I sighed, and backed away from the thing in the closet to get a handle on the situation, both the bundle I was trying to extricate from my friend’s apartment and the mental bombshell she just dropped on me. She had been trying to get pregnant with Steve’s kid off and on for the last six years of their hot and cold relationship, thinking that it would finally cement their bond. But she had been told last year that she was barren. That was part of the reason why he dumped her the last time. The rest of the reason was that he was a selfish jerk.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mary.”
“I’m not. I hope he’s happy with the whore and her brat. All I want now is for him and his things to be out of my life forever. -including the thing in the closet.”
“I’m working on it.” I said, throwing myself back into my task at hand. I managed to nudge it closer to the door way, almost throwing my back out I the process. I worked an old belt around it, closing it with the buckle and using it as a carry strap. I felt something inside it shift as I got it out into the light. It was a big bundle wrapped in a type of raw silk that I had never seen before.
“You should get together with his other ex-girlfriend and have an ‘I hate Steve’ party.”
“I haven’t heard from her since before Steve moved in.” Mary called out. From the heavy ‘thunk-thunk-thunk’ sounds, I knew that she was now working on the contents of the pantry.
I pulled the silk bundle outside, laying it down on some empty plastic bags as I prepared to cut it open to view its contents. “So what’s inside of it?” Mary asked from the doorway.
“I don’t know yet.” I said. “But I would like to find out.” I pulled the pocketknife out of my purse and began sawing through the fabric. I had been hoping to save some of it for a crafting project at a later date, but it kept coming away in chunks and strings, sticking to my clothes an flesh like it was made of adhesive. After ten minutes of this, we could finally see Steve’s treasure. And immediately wished we hadn’t.
We found Steve’s ex, along with several other unfortunate souls. All of the looked as if they had been thrown into a food dehydrator, paper like flash on yellowed bones. Mary threw up while I wiped off the stick strings from my hands enough to dial 9-1-1.
Moments later the cops came, bagged the evidence and questioned us both. They brought in an entomologist who said that the sticky stuff was spider silk, some hybrid of a wolf spider and a black widow with something he had never seen before. Both corpses had been entirely drained of their blood, and the DNA that had been left behind was a cross between a spider and a human.
If you ask me, Mary was lucky to get out of her relationship with Steven when she had. I’m afraid to think of what the Las Vegas showgirl and her offspring are going through right now…
I spent the rest of the afternoon filling up my car and holding Mary’s hand. I got some good food, a bunch of new clothes and an image of desiccated bodies that I will never get out of my head for as long as I live. And to top it all off, I wasted all my time in this little fiasco. So now I can’t write on my creative writing prompt.
Sigh.
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