Have you ever read anything that just made you want to propel yourself to the blank page and write a story?
Sure. I’ve had stories and essays inspire me to create and I’m often jotting down snippets of dialog or imagery in my Notes app, never to be seen again.
But have you ever read anything that made you want to stop writing?
Sure again. Sometimes you read something so good that you think there’s no point in doing anything else. It’s just not worth it. Reading The Auctioneer by Joan Samson made me feel that way.
But, but what about a story that is making you consider not writing in a particular genre anymore?
Yes. This week, in fact. And I’m pretty shaken up about it.
I started listening to Stephen King’s “A Good Marriage.” A novella from his Full Dark, No Stars collection because I had some busywork to do and it was relatively short. The narrator, Jessica Hecht, was good, though it took me a moment to get into the voice, but I was intrigued.
Look, before I go one, I’m GenX, I cut my teeth in King when I was a teenager. It’s not that I’m sensitive to horror. Or at least I wasn’t.
I ended up having to stop listening with about 30 minutes to go due to family obligations. The story bothered me in the same way that the over abundance of violent media as been bothering me of late. But I walked away knowing I’d come back and finish eventually.
I came back to the story last night to finish and there’s one reveal at the end, a description of a horrific act that broke me (iykyk) and I just couldn’t think anymore.
You could argue that it wasn’t necessary, that the character exploration that King is so fucking brilliant at was enough, was more than enough. You could argue that, but it’s not my story, and there’s no denying the visceral effect that addition had on me as a reader. That’s a success.
I lie in bed last night wondering what I wanted to do with this “horror/thiller” name, what was I trying to create here.
I thought that I wanted to switch to focusing on ghost stories or more ethereal threats. But I’m not sure I have the spine for even that anymore.
You can toss it up to current events. Which? All of them. Blame the constant flow of violence from all media streams. Blame the fact that even as we say “think of the children,” we as a community do not, in fact, give a fuck about the children or anyone else.
We are the hosts of evil in the world. That’s what King has been writing about all along, you know.
The monsters are us.
Who is “us?” All of us. (I may probably delete this section because it seems a bit preachy and I’m not entirely sure what point I’m trying to make. I’m a bit lost. I thought I knew myself.)
Essentially, something hurt my psyche and I don’t want to partake in this genre for a while. I’m not making a moral judgement, but a personal choice.
I’m not finding this cathartic as I once did. The escapism feels more like an escape room and I can’t leave. It’s not that the genre is bad, not at all. It’s just that in this season of my life, it’s not for me.
I am fully aware of the mountain of privilege I possess that allows me not to be a victim of the world’s actual horrors.
I’m putting this pen name in cold storage for now. Perhaps I can find a way to bring it back, but only if there’s something I really want to say. Swamp Stories is suspended and the Patreon will go dark.
To those of you who supported me in any way, thank you. Take care of yourselves.
I’ll still be creating and writing. I’ll just be over there, by the window, where there is a bit more light.
Last night I lie in bed, thinking before I fell asleep (which is never good), and found myself wondering if I should keep doing this.
Not writing. That continues without question. But horror writing. Or particularly, attempting to write horror under this obvious pen name.
I grew up reading neary any black-colored paperback in Waldenbooks and as I grew into my writing, I found myself pulled toward the genre as well. My first unfinished novel, called Donovan Tower by the way, was my take on Dean Koontz of the late 80s, early 90s. It was terrible, unwieldy, with no discernable plot, but I learned a great deal writing it (I wish I had a copy now).
But I was a different person then, and I’m not sure I have the stomach for it anymore.
I lie there, wondering if I could write something horrific. Could I immerse myself in violence or gore in order to scare? What about the despair I long for in the horror novels I read (See Cunning Folk or The Troop for true despair that stays with me.) Did I have the temperment to write that?
After finally sleeping, I woke wondering how I would approach my projects for the next year under this pen name. I’ve only just started with my Swamp Stories challenge and giving up seems – well, it seems very on brand to be honest. I stared at my ceiling, with its water stains and cobwebs, and tried to decide who I really was.
Then I looked out the window into the dark morning. All I could see was the room reflected back at me. If anything was out there, I wouldn’t know. If nothing tap, tap, tapped on the window, if no eerie smiling figure slowly came into view, if a distant light that I assume is a street lamp, didn’t flare and fly right for my house, then it’s just a window at 5am.
But in the murky depths of my mind, all of those things happened and I had to look away in case something even worse presented itself.
I woke up, scared myself, and realized I’m fine, and I have an idea for this week’s Swamp Story.
I think I’ll dig up my M.R. James anthology and get a real Edwardian chill. Tis the season.
Pale blue, like chimes in the winter, that’s all I remember about her eyes. She knelt down in the mud, breathing easily. Putting a long-fingered hand on my forehead, she told me I’d worked hard but failed the test. I panted and stared, looking into those eyes like the last seconds of my life. Then, she rose her head to the sky and I died.
For years I looked for her, wandering like a wave of energy between the motes of existence. Once, I thought I caught her voice on a breeze, but it turned out to be the soft hum of crystalline beetles near the edge of an ocean. So many of the universe’s beautiful things reminded me of her. All of them fell short and I whispered my way into eternity, lonely, still feeling her fingers on my long decayed skin.
Once, upon a planet crowded with spirits like myself, I found a seer sleeping in the yard. An open book lay on her breast and her breaths came in quick little gasps. As I drew near she woke and, for the first time since my death, I was seen.
“Oh,” she whispered, the book sliding down onto her plump belly. “I felt you in my dream and here you are.” It was only later that I understood her language, but in the corridors between alive and death there is little room for mistranslation. The woman reached out a hand and understood my searching. If I could, I would have cried the tears she cried, but even in life, I was not built like she and crying is something I’ve only seen. Only sorrow is universal.
For a few of her days we sat, sending images and ideas back and forth to each other. She showed me pictures of her children, far away now, but loved and loving. I sent her sensations of all the places I visited across the universe and glowed a little brighter when she gasped at its wonders.
On the last day I sent her an image of her with the pale, blue eyes. The woman shivered and waited. For the first time I could sense a shield before her thoughts that normally rushed around her head like a belt of newborn stars. The woman communed with herself, away from my presence. She went into her house and the sky drew dark before she returned.
It was a flat representation she held, though I couldn’t sense it properly. She let down her guard and the feeling of the image burst forth into me. There was no mistaking the blue eyes, no mistaking the long fingers. Nothing else in the universe felt as exactly the same, close, but not the same. I flared and nearly burned the woman’s mind.
“My mother,” she said.
“My mother,” she said again, holding the object close to herself. “When I go to her grave, I can feel her presence. I always thought it was her waiting for me.”
The full weight of the woman’s love and disappointment pierced me. “Perhaps, you can follow?”
It was then I noticed the woman’s eyes, like her mother’s, chimes in the winter.
This is my marsh; a salt marsh near the wide water that reaches to the ocean. I was gifted this area as guardian and I have tended to it for millennia. It is important that you know this, that you understand my perspective. I am nearly everywhere, but not below the sediment. I can see through the muck but not enter it. That is another domain and I know well enough not to tread there.
A long, orange vehicle rolls to a stop near the edge of the marsh. Coughing and grinding it disgorges lead, soot, and a small stream of children. Older children, it appears, and two adults. They look like serious vacationers, attempting to be curious but always on the brink of delight. I have come to understand these humans as “students,” and they come to the marsh “to student,” no, “to study.” My English is improving.
The long, orange vehicle keeps one extra adult behind. This one is in the front, in control, I suspect. Humans believe that the front always controls the back, but their perspective is limited, linear. The above also does not necessarily control below. Multidimensional hierarchies are infinite webs of connectivity. We link on whimsy or after the dissolution of an entire cosmos. My own little marsh, with its four to five hundred individual beings, is relatively simple. Size gives us power, and I am the biggest one here. Up here.
The older children put themselves into small groups and spread among the sediment and cordgrass. They hop from hump to hump, laughing and stumbling their way along. I enjoy their discovery. It’s a mixture of adventure and disgust. Over time, the sweet smell of them lingers like a haze just above the surface. Flowery and acrid, they come with some concoction that repels the smaller beasties. The mosquitos have been complaining of it for a while. But the universe likes karmic symmetry. Whatever repels, also attracts. A deep rumbling develops on the far edge of the marsh, but it moves.
I check on the human still in the vehicle. Strange thoughts swirl above his head. He–it thinks of itself as a he, this is something I’ve only just understood–he watches some of the older children, particularly those that think of themselves as she. His thoughts swim in and out of his head, trying to stay hidden, but escape like a compulsion. I don’t fully understand what the images represent, but instinct tells me the shes are aware. Their groups stray father from the vehicle than the others. I wonder if, like the mosquitoes, they are repelled by the smell of him.
“Ack!”
One of the shes is stuck. It’s a larger one that trailed along behind three smaller ones. She has sunk into the mud past her mid-leg. The others in her group approach to help, but are wary. She looks strong and may pull them in with her. She struggles, calling out, and reaches for clumps of cordgrass, which give way.
Another group, this one mixed of shes and hes, approaches, but only look on. Their cries show delight at the stuck she. Two of them point, then fold in half, shaking. Somehow, this doesn’t help the she escape.
From below, the movement increases, speeding forward and I realize that she has sunk deeper, past her midpoint. Her eyes bulge with terror as her hands claw at the mud. Memories fly out of her mind in bursts, random images from her past or, perhaps, her uncertain future. I have seen this nearly every time a human dies. Dreams fleeing from a decaying psyche, someone once said.
The two adults struggle to reach her, but they are useless. She is surrounded by young, strong, unhelpful older children, who merely watch. The only one that can reach her is below and close. I watch, since I can do nothing else.
The adults feel the tremors first and stop their approach. Arms out wide they attempt to balance themselves on the bog, but one of them falls backwards into the mud. The other turns toward its partner, away from the children, and will be spared the sight of what comes next.
The stuck-she stops struggling. Her arms go limp and her head snaps back violently. I see the others close to her flinch and retreat, but they’ve been too close for too long. When the she raises her head again, two irises swirl in each eye and blood trickles out of her nose. She is a big human, but not big enough to hold a demigod. Unfortunately, she will experience her disintegration in great detail.
She/it raises the arms, hands open, fingers splayed and slowly she/it emerges from the muck. Muck is such an ugly word for my precious mud and I have reviled it ever since I first learned it. It had a sharpness to it that belies the soothing slips of the marsh. Yet, in this instance, as she/it rises, I will use muck, so it marks a separation from the place and the thing hiding in it.
Thick tendrils of muscle and sinew sprout from the tips of each finger. Each one thickens to the girth of the she’s arms. They flail away from her, each one finding a human that can no longer get away. The shes nearest are first. Two are coiled up tightly and pulled into their air. Their screams are silenced only when the bodies burst. Two others, better at hopping from hump to hump, are pummeled into the muck–see?–so quickly even their cries had no time to escape.
The two adults, farthest away, struggle to stand and finally turn toward the yelling. Perhaps the tentacles that burst through their skulls give them grace, blocking them from witnessing the annihilation of their students. One by one, shes and hes, fall under the will of the demigod. Two are drown in the nearby creek, more by the sediment than the water. One is severed in two as he scrabbles across a stretch of cordgrass. The last two are impaled at the edge of the marsh, so close to the long yellow vehicle that escape may have been in sight. But the adult inside closes the door, and screaming, drives away.
She/it’s tentacles coils around the body and retreats into the marsh. It slips down into the mud. Below, it moves, pausing once to acknowledge me as witness. It speeds along under the muck, parallel to the road and into the distance.
I turn back to the marsh, my beloved stew of creation, now dotted with fabric and bone. I am alone again with only the mosquitoes for company, and all they do is complain.
Everything smelled like popcorn. Not movie theater popcorn, but an earthy, stale confection with traces of caramel and the road. Lance felt his stomach flip with each breath, the cloying scent pulling him around the concourse. He ditched his friends, desperate to escape that smell.
His father was right. He never should have come.
Walking fast, he scratched at his neck, a flush rising from his shoulders. Lance turned into a space between the balloon darts game and a cotton candy stall. He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead.
This was too early. He was nowhere near ready.
The cacophony of rides and riders dimmed in the clearing beyond. He knelt in the space between two pick-up trucks, hidden, and breathed deeply. Lance looked up at the clear night sky, the moon a thin crescent—waning or waxing, he didn’t know.
If only it were that simple.
The werewolf comparison was how his father explained it. For generations folklore provided cover between the Nox and the humans. Lance’s father was an original Nox, impossibly old but never aging. His father transformed at will until the disaster in West Virginia. In 1970, he stayed human shaped, married an understanding woman, and took a shot at the American Dream. Lance’s arrival that year fit nicely into his plan.
Sixteen years later, kneeling in the dirt behind the candy floss stand, Lance willed his body to calm down. He struggled once to stand, thinking his legs underneath him would give him an advantage, or at least a chance to run. The second time he fell forward, only his grip on the pickup’s door handle kept him from going face-first into the mud. He pulled down accidentally and the door opened.
Lance pushed at it only to be met with the largest pair of glasses he’d ever seen. He pulled back. “Sorry…I fell.” The magnified eyes peered at him and even in the low light, Lance could see traces of red in the irises. They drew him in.
“Fell?” A long finger pushed the glasses back along a thin nose. “You were already in the mud when you started.” The face pulled back to reveal a lanky teen about Lance’s age. “I’ve been watching you from the window,” he said. “Y’alright?”
In one moment, Lance realized the sounds of the world had disappeared. In the next, they came roaring back: the cycle of screams as the chair swing reached its peak speed, the pieces of conversation as guests passed the gap between the stalls. He could even pick out the song each ride played, as if listening to them one after another like on the radio. Lance stood up, looking back down toward the lights of the carnival, hearing the world clearly for the first time.
“Ah,” said the watcher. “You Nox?”
Even the popcorn smell returned, more intense, the flat, airy aroma of the kernels disappearing into the full round scent of … “What did you say?”
The eyes behind the glasses blinked. “You Nox? Looks like yer changing.”
Lance grabbed his own chest, shoulders, arms, and hips. He put his hands on everything he could reach—everything—to see if a transformation had really started. It all felt normal. He took a long look at his hands, flipping them over and over, believing for some reason that the change would start there. But he was still Lance-shaped.
“Nah, not outside. Inside. Nox change inside first when they young.” The long finger returned and poked Lance in the forehead. His jaw and neck muscles strained as he resisted the urge to bite the finger clean off the hand.
“Ooh,” they said. “You’re gonna be a feisty one. Where your paps?”
Lance pretended not to look Medra up and down.
“Imma boy tonight,” he said and then, “Medra is my name. Call me that, kay?”
Lance nodded. “What do you know about Nox?”
Medra smiled. “I know enough that a new Nox ain’t to be about without his pappy, specially one as strong as you.”
Lance leaned against the other truck. “I don’t really know what’s happening.”
“Oh. I do,” Medra said, stepping closer. Lance felt the flush return and this time it brought along a budding predatory urge. His fists wanted to both grab and punch at the same time.
“See. I can see ya in there. I’m tripping all sorts ‘a switches,” Medra giggled, closing the distance between them.
“I’m a Nox myself.” He cackled at the look of disbelief on Lance’s face. “Ah see, you only know yer own sort.”
Lance felt his spine lengthen and his shoulder blades spread. He held his arms close to his sides, trying to contain the change. “What kind…are you?” he asked as a distraction. He struggled to get the question out, his breaths coming fast and deep. If he kept talking, he thought, he’d stay human.
Medra tilted his head and frowned. “Let’s say, I’m a helper.” He watched Lance trying to hold himself together. “Hey now, you working hard there.”
Lance struggled as the seams of his shirt split open. “If you’re a helper,” he grunted, trying to hold on to his jeans and his dignity as much as possible, “then help me!”
Flinching at the shout, Medra took the hint. He smacked his own truck. “You get in back there, tell me where your pappy is. I’ll take ya.”
Lance made a move toward the cab, but Medra slammed the door. “NO! Back there. Not gonna have you eat me while I’m driving. Go.”
Lance climbed into the bed of the truck feeling his whole body shudder in transformation. As something fought to grow out of the base of his spine, Lance looked at the crescent moon and found no help there.
“Boy-o! Address?”
Lance growled it at him.
“Ooh eh?” Medra said, hitting the gas. “The governor’s mansion it is, young master.”
Stevie Bishop, on the last day of his short life, squatted in the middle of the Woolworth parking lot and stared at the fish. He reached out a small hand slicked with strawberry ice cream. The silver and gold scales flickered as the fish jerked and burped. Its turgid belly split open in a wide grin and a slow fumbling of green and pink tubes spilled out onto the ground. To Stevie, they looked like those party sausages his auntie served to guests. An impossible number spewed into the space between him and the fish and Stevie fell onto the hard asphalt.
“Ew! Gross!” he cried and scuttled backwards. More green sausages–Stevie couldn’t think of them as anything else now–spilled out like a jackpot and the summer sun baked the slime off their bodies. They seemed to plump and stretch, getting slightly bigger with each exertion. Their pink counterparts lay still, stewing in a pool of fish guts and blood.
Stevie caught his breath. He didn’t know what these things were, but they were obviously dangerous. Some sort of disease, he thought, or virus. He’d seen pictures of viruses at school. Or was it bacteria. Either way, they were both bad and scientists were working hard to stamp them all out.
“Ah,” he said after realizing what to do. He stood slowly as not to alarm the green sausages–he didn’t think the pink ones even noticed him. The whole weird group seemed to have reached their final number, but when Stevie counted, he gave up at thirty. “Too many, no matter,” he said and shoved his hands in his pockets. He lifted his right foot, ready to do his part.
The green sausage closest to him shuddered, turned over, and sprouted legs. Then the one next to that one. Then another. Soon, all of the green ones, and Stevie couldn’t think of another word for it, had ‘evolved.’
He reconsidered his stomping campaign and backed into a long black car. Stevie chirped a “what” since this whole end of the lot had been empty when he came over. Less than five minutes ago he’d gotten that snot-faced Randy Gormondson to buy an ice cream cone for him. The little wuss bought it without question, thinking that this made Stevie his friend. A well-placed Ked in the weakling’s backside made it clear that he wasn’t. Still, the ice cream had been good, but it melted too fast. He was about to get Randy to buy him another when the fish caught his attention. It had glimmered in the empty lot, calling to him.
Stevie blinked, which he sometimes needed to do to think properly. No, he thought, blinking, there wasn’t any car here before.
Stevie felt something nudge his foot. A group of the green guys had backed into him. They formed the outer part of a growing circle of the footie sausages. He stepped to the side and blinking furiously, tried to make sense out of what he was seeing. The green guys surrounded the unmoving pink guys–were they guys, Stevie blinked, probably–and bounced side to side on their little legs. He tried to count them–the legs–but there was no consistency in design. Some had ten, other seemed fine with four. Stevie wondered if you could evolve in ways that are different from everyone else. Like, could you pick your own eye color, he thought. Stevie wasn’t the best student. He blinked.
The greens shrunk the circle, closing in on the mound of pinks. Nearly three times the size of their prey, the greens rocked back and forth and side-to-side, like country dancers. They took little scittering steps forward until the innermost greens were just touching the pinks at the bottom of the pile. At once, they stopped and Stevie leaned forward, entranced. A car door opened behind him.
“You’re a lucky kid, Steven Bishop,” a man said as he walked around the car. It was a Pontiac LTD like his uncle drove, but all black and so low that it seemed to just barely hover over the asphalt. The mirror finish of metal showed a kid with a dirty face and strawberry stains on his shirt. He could also see the strange assembly behind him, like looking through a window into another world.
“You see, Steven,” the man continued. “This is what we call Nosivious Balantius.” The man dropped a navy blue duffle bag on the ground and squatted down next to it. He wore a navy sweater and navy slacks, underneath which he wore navy socks. The entirety of the man was navy aside from his shoes. For some reason the man wore bright red patent leather loafers. Stevie furrowed his eyebrows and blinked.
The navy man pulled a long metal rod out of his bag as if unsheathing a sword. Instead of a sharp point, the end split into two prongs, each one flaring out from the rod at strange angles. To Stevie it looked like a broken grilling fork, the kind his father used on weekends. Was the navy man going to grill the green guys? They did look like hot dogs. Stevie wondered how they would smell as they burned and his stomach did a little flip. He couldn’t tell if it was nausea or hunger. He searched the man’s face for a clue. The navy man smiled and pointed his demon fork toward the pile.
The greens descended upon the inert pinks. Masses of the tubes shuffled and skidded across each other, each one grabbing onto the pink bodies with their various numbered legs. As they pulled their prey close and each green guy split open, just as the dead fish had done to disgorge them in birth. Stevie gagged as the green tubes fed themselves their pink kin. Soon, the chittering fell from the high pitch of their feeding frenzy to the soft murmur of mothers to babies. Each green guy, sausage, tube, whatever, Stevie thought, lay fat and still in the hot sun.
The navy man touched them one by one with his fork, the green guys jumping as their skin sizzled. They rolled away from the electric prod, but the fork pistoned fast hitting one after another until, under Stevie’s watchful eye. The whole batch became burnt, crispy and smoking. He saw the legs of those closest crack off the charred body and turn to dust. A low gray cloud floated above the corpses and the air filled with a smokey scent. Stevie’s stomach lurched, then growled. He’d felt hungry before, but never so heart-breakingly empty. His body took a step forward toward the alien bodies, but his mind made him stop.
“Go ahead,” the navy man said, watching.
Stevie Bishop had gone without dinner plenty of nights when his father came home drunk and beat his mother useless. He’d sit in his bedroom, trying not to hear her pathetic cries for help. With each passing year he grew angrier and more resentful. She knew his father well enough to avoid his wrath, but she still managed to set him off, and then Stevie went without dinner for a few days until she healed. That emptiness was less about missing dinner than missing empathy, but Stevie never understood empathy. He understood emptiness, though, and this was the mother-load.
“Go on,” the navy man whispered. When had he gotten so close?
Stevie knew what he had to do.
He lunged forward, slipping around the lanky form of the navy man and grabbed the closest charred corpse. His mouth seemed to suck in the empty air until Stevie brought the green body to his lips. The crispiness of the charred skin reminded him of a particularly good chicken wing he’d had at a friend’s house last month. His friend’s father never drank and spent time cooking and laughing with his boys. Stevie hated the man and called him names behind his back, but he fell in love with that chicken. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and he blinding reached out for another.
This one popped between his teeth and the sweet juice trickled over his chin. It tasted like the sharp orange flavor of the orange drink he’d swiped from his father one day when they were enjoying a holiday meal. His mother hadn’t upset his father yet that day and they were all sitting around the TV watching The Wizard of Oz. His father had been in good spirits and even laughed as Stevie coughed out the stolen sip. His throat burned now just as it had then.
One by one, Stevie Bishop grabbed and gulped up the cooked bodies strewn among the gravel and spilt oil of the parking lot. After a time, he leaned against the side of the Pontiac and slid down to the ground. His mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust and his stomach bulged above the waistband of his shorts. Tear cut paths on his face, and, eyes open to the sky, Stevie Bishop died.
Mostly.
“Am I gonna have trouble with you?” The navy man, his weapon and bag stowed away during the feast, leaned forward, hands in his navy pockets. He stared into the empty eyes of the boy.
“Not today,” something said with Stevie’s mouth. It tried to open Stevie’s eyes wide, but only blinked.
The navy man opened the door and the boy, unused to having only two legs or any concept of a Pontiac LTD, stumbled inside.
Without the buzzing, all I hear is oblivion. Even the flies have left us, evolving into specks in the past, unable to digest the poison. We have become less than death.
Old corpses are of no use.
Most of the shelters were shams, metal drums buried in the ground, lined with words like “Safe” and “Secure.” They were endorsed by the top people in the West. They were on sale at the local home improvement store.
They are the most expensive coffins in the world.
The old shelters, the ones built into high schools, they were solid, years of paranoia layered in paint. Those of us lucky enough to find them emerged scavengers of those other, newer shelters: The prepared, the pragmatic, the pestilence.
The sham shelters were remarkably easy to break open.
Becky and I came across one last week. The flies had been there once, and a few things that had been predators, and a few things that had been children.
Becky never misses a beat.
Once in a while I see the shadow of a bird. Wide and dark, it circles over an empty landscape, terrifying and terrified to land. To land means death.
I watch the shadow skim the dirt as Becky pops open another can.
“Shit,” she says, “This was a tough one.” There is a scream and a gunshot. Ah, someone bought the upgrade. There is a dragging, a shuffling, a grunting behind me.
There will be nothing left for you, circling bird. There is not enough food to go around.
Bob Jensen pulls into the Airport Motel parking lot and curses his luck. He slams the truck into park and fishes in his pocket for his phone. The thunderstorm threatened by KIRO radio news has begun to unleash and the thumping of the wipers keeps time with his pulse. He is sweating.
He looks at the screen. “Two oh six,” he mutters. “Two, oh, six. That’s Seattle, right?” He punches the phone icon, sees the missed call, and waits. Bob Jensen has only had his phone for a few months, but he knows enough to wait for the voicemail notification.
“Ding.”
He takes a deep breath and presses play. Bob Jensen is listening to the most important voicemail of his entire adult life.
—
Fifty yards away, wrapped in a rust-colored bedspread smelling of stale cigarette smoke, Gail Kenwood peeks out of the motel room window. She’s biting her lip, she always bites her lip when she’s nervous. She squints through the rivulets of rain on the window and tries to see the truck. The headlights glare in the water, but her gut tells her it’s him.
“It’s him,” she says. She pulls the bedspread tighter around her small cold body. “I can feel it.”
“You’re being paranoid,” comes a voice from the bed. “There’s no way he’d know we’re here. It’s not like he knows me or my car.” Andrew, his name is Andrew, pats the bed and beckons Gail back.
“Let’s pick up where I left off,” he says.
Gail frowns looking at the truck in the parking lot. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, looking like a small child with a full bladder. The move makes Andrew laugh and his laughter only heightens her anxiety.
“You don’t know him. He could have followed me,” Gail said, narrowing the opening in the curtains until only her eye could be seen by a passerby. There are no passers-by.
“He could have been following me all this time. He’s very smart.” She turns to Andrew, real fear in her face, and says, “Maybe he put one of those GPA thingies in my car. He can track me from anywhere.” She whimpers—an unattractive sound—and turns back to the window. She takes a few steps back but continues to watch.
GPA? “You mean GPS. Look, Gail,” he rises from his side of the bed naked, and walks over to her. “You really are being silly.” He places his hands on her bare shoulders and kisses the back of her neck. “Come back to bed.”
Her shaking makes him straighten up. “Let me have a look,” he says, pushing Gail aside gently. He sees the truck on the far side of the parking lot, lights blaring, wipers moving, and tries to make out the license plate. Mother Nature shines a long flash of lightning on the scene, but it is of no narrative help. The headlights throw too much glare onto the motel.
“Why’s he just sitting there,” Andrew asks. Thunder roars in a dramatic answer.
—
Bob Jensen is taking deep breaths. He has listened to the voicemail at least three times and vows to figure out how to save those suckers forever. A mid-size game company in Seattle wants to hire him as a marketing manager for their new premium game line. They are very excited to have him on board. Shelly in Human Resources said so in the message. He is free to call back anytime before six p.m. to make arrangements for his start date.
Bob Jensen looks at his watch and curses, though for Bob Jensen “dang it” is a curse, so, while all levels of cursing are relative to the curser and the listener, the intensity of the curse is irrelevant. What is relevant is that Bob Jensen has forgotten about the three-hour time difference between Philadelphia and Seattle. He is slowly realizing his mistake…
“Oh, yeah. Dummy!”
…now.
Bob Jensen returns Shelly in Human Resources’ call.
—
“I don’t get it,” Andrew said. “Why is he just sitting there? If it is him, I mean.”
Gail thumps his shoulders with both hands. “It is him. It IS!” She stumbles back to the bed and flops down, her feet tangled into the bed sheet. She puts her hands on her face and starts to sob.
Technically, she is only pretending to sob, but Andrew does not know this. Andrew has only known Gail for about two months and hasn’t gotten a full read on her yet. Andrew keeps looking out the window, shaking his head. He is not sure what to believe.
“Just sitting there…”
“He is going to kill me,” Gail says this not as a plea, but as a statement. She is reading a line in a play. She is calculating how much fear and seriousness she is to put into the delivery of this line. She is shaking her shoulders in a pathetic, but minimal way because too much shoulder shaking is a sure sign of fake tears. She bends lower at the waist, deepening her sob. She is pleased that the real tears have finally come.
Andrew is distracted. Andrew does not have a cell phone or participates in the Internet at all. Andrew thinks that being a Luddite is the epitome of intellectual elitism. Andrew is an ass.
Andrew also has no context to think that this truck is just some guy pulled over to talk on his phone.
Andrew is also currently being manipulated by Gail, the amateur actress. He turns back and watches her.
Gail is good. She lets the bedspread fall to her waist and holds her arms slightly akimbo so that as she is wracked with sobs, her breasts heave mightily. Andrew believes himself to be an intellectual, but he is a man first and a man stands no chance against a rack wracked.
“Please, Andrew,” Gail says into her palms. “I’m so scared.”
Andrew leaves the window and approaches the bed, she stops him from sitting next to her, raising her hands to him, and grabbing his hands in hers. “Wait. I have to think. I have to stay clear.”
Her face is wet, her breasts are firm and gorgeous and her strong arms are outstretched before her. Her face, her wet, pleading face is level with his waist, with his…
There is no hope for Andrew here, so you may as well stop rooting for him now.
—
Bob Jensen laughs into his phone. “No, thank you, Shelly. It’s excellent news.” He looks into the rearview mirror and smiles at himself.
“Yes, yes. I’m really looking forward to getting started.” He winks at his reflection. He is thinking of asking Shelly out for dinner once he’s finally settled in Seattle and if it’s not against his new company’s policy. “I can’t wait. I’ll see you in a week. Thanks again.”
Bob Jensen is beaming brighter than his damn high beams that have been shining into the window of number 14 for the last ten minutes.
—
Back in number 13, Andrew is trying to deal with a hysterical girlfriend, a homicidal husband, and a massive erection all at the same time. Andrew is failing on all fronts.
“You said it yourself,” Gail said, grabbing his waist. “Why is he just sitting there? It’s hummus, like a bull waiting to charge.”
Andrew looks up from Gail’s breasts to work out what she said.
Hummus? he thinks. The confusion is doing a wonder on controlling his libido.
“Ominous?” he says, one eyebrow raised. Andrew raises his eyebrows when he’s trying to win a debate with condescending arguments, suggest a sexual encounter with a knowing woman, or suss out what some fool is trying to say. You decide for yourself which situation this is now.
“Whatever,” Gail says. “I’ve told you about the guns and stuff. I’ve told you how it is with him.”
“Well, sure,” Andrew says, tilting his head toward the window and pointing his arching eyebrow at the truck. “But, well, that was all hyperbole, wasn’t it? Something to tell me to make this little fling more… dangerous?” Andrew stops believing the words coming out of his mouth the moment he says them. I’ve found myself in a lame romantic thriller,’ he muses. He just thinks this to himself, but Andrew is the kind of person who likes to think he muses.
“This isn’t a damn novel,” Gail says, shaking him. “My homicidal and extremely jealous husband is in the parking lot, right this minute, probably waiting to make sure it’s me before he comes in and kills you. What are you going to do about it?”
Andrew stops musing immediately. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, lady.”
And it is this utterance of the word “lady” that breaks all bonds, romantic and lustful, between Andrew and Gail.
—
Bob Jensen smokes a cigarette and dreams about his upcoming move. The thunderstorm is starting to get its feet under it and pours rain down on his truck. He is making a mental checklist of all the packing he needs to do in the next few days. He frowns when he remembers that he has to give his beloved Pekingese, Shushu, to his sister for a while. But he knows she’ll settle in better after he’s sure he’s found a good place with a yard. She loves running around in the yard.
Shushu, not Bob Jensen’s sister. Though, I could be wrong about the sister.
He turns on the radio and lip-syncs to Jon Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory.” Lightning illuminates the parking lot before him, but his head is thrown back in mimicked stage presence and he can’t see anyone approach the truck.
—
“You have to do it,” Gail says, gripping Andrew’s shoulders. The bedspread lays forgotten on the floor and she stands before him, in all her glory, turning up the intensity, willing her bloodlust to flow from her fingers and penetrate his skin.
Andrew is having none of it.
“Look, look,” he says, holding up his hands and looking for his pants. “It’s been fun, but I didn’t sign up for this shit. This is too much drama even for me.”
Gail laughs and Andrew has a split second of insight that would have taken him months to realize in a normal affair. Gail is bat shit.
“You think I’m crazy,” she says, “but I love you. Don’t you want us to be together?”
Andrew finds his pants and slides them on like a fireman. “Oh, no, no no.” He grabs his shirt and shoes, leaving his underwear and socks as a sacrifice to the Crazy Bitch Gods. “No, no, no, no no.” He turns his back toward the door, not wishing to turn his back on Gail, and checks his pants for his wallet. Andrew is ready to go.
“I’m leaving. You deal with your crazy husband. You two deserve each other.” He reaches for the doorknob and turns. A door slams outside. Andrew turns and stares at the doorknob in his hand. He stops breathing. He listens. Footsteps.
“Aaiiiiiiiyyyyyyyyeeeeeeee,” yells Gail and launches onto his back. She digs her nails into his cheeks and tries to pull him away from the door. Andrew reaches up with his empty hand, not wishing to open the door to the horror on the outside, and deals with the horror on the inside half-assed. He reaches behind himself, grabs a clump of Gail’s hair, and pulls.
She screams and releases his face, but then lurches forward sinking her teeth into his shoulder. Andrew bites his tongue and rams his head forward into the door. He is trying to shake the beast off, but he is failing. She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him backward with her weight.
Andrew lets himself fall back onto the floor and lands full force on top of her. She grunts when the air is knocked out of her and releases her grip. Andrew scrambles back up and doesn’t take the dramatic turn to look back and offer a witty quip to her prone form. He just wants to escape from crazy town and launches himself through the open door.
Andrew realizes his mistake in three, two…
—
Bob Jensen is really belting out his song without uttering a sound. He’s writhing back and forth in his seat while the storm gives him thunderous applause. He hammers on his steering wheel, drumming to the music and the tremors shift his phone from the dashboard to the floor. Seeing the messenger of his success glowing in the heaps of detritus on the floor, he leans over to retrieve the device. His eyes glide over the man approaching the truck, arms raised in alarm. Bob Jensen grabs his phone and drops it again, stunned by a large crack sending his truck swaying.
“That was close,” Bob Jensen says, sitting back up and pushing up his glasses. He focuses on the bullet hole in the windshield and frowns.
“What the…”
—
Andrew skids to a halt when he sees the man raise his gun. He stands stupidly in the blare of the truck’s headlights as the first shot is fired. His first thought is How many boyfriends does Gail have? as the man shoots again.
The second shot breaks Andrew out of his shock and he shuffles away from the scene, keeping his eyes on the shooter. It’s tough going for him, as the condition of the motel parking lot is not conducive to barefoot walking. He steps on a piece of glass and yelps.
The gunman turns toward the sound, weapon raised.
Andrew drops his shoes and shirt and raises his hands. “Look man, nothing to do with me.”
The gunman tilts his head and stares at Andrew. “Just trying to get some sleep man,” he says.
“All good, all good,” Andrew says, trying to sound reasonable and failing. He is suddenly aware of how thoroughly soaked he is. He shivers.
“I’m going to leave and let you get some sleep,” he smiles. Andrew has always thought his smile disarming.
“Been on the road for days, just need some sleep,” the gunman says. He nods toward the truck. “Then those damn lights, right in my window. Not right.”
“I get you, man,” Andrew says and believes he’s found some ground to stand on. “I was about to take care of this jerk myself, but you’re faster. It’s all good now.” He inches forward, toward the truck, farther from the gunman.
“How about I switch off those lights, man.” Andrew smiles.
The gunman shoots out the headlights on the truck.
Andrew jumps and cowers. His disarming smile appears on his face as the gunman turns back to him.
“You got it, man, you got it,” Andrew says, the rain streaming down his face and body, his khaki pants plastered to his legs. He keeps smiling and closes his eyes.
The gunman turns away from Andrew and walks back to his room, head drooping, rain spilling off the rim of his baseball cap.
Andrew dares not to move and can you blame him? He promises himself to spring away, broken glass or no broken glass, the moment the gunman is out of sight. His legs tense in anticipation.
The gunman reaches his door and turns the knob.
The door to number 13 opens and Gail shouts “What the hell is all the noise?”
She is looking at Andrew as the bullet pierces her skull, shattering the annoyed look on her face into thousands of pieces. As her body falls, Andrew sees the gun barrel smoking and thinks They really do smoke, before he pees into his sodden pants. He drops to his knees.
“Please, man, pl..”
The gunman fires a single shot and goes back into his room.
—
Bob Jensen’s phone rings. It is Shelly from Human Resources. She has just one more question.
But that’s what it is, really. That’s what it will do.
But giving it a name… I don’t understand why you need to.
Look, it will be naming others, so it should have a name. It should know what it means to be called. Do I have to explain interpellation again?
Please don’t. Please don’t. Your theories make my brain hurt.
Your brain can’t feel pain. I told you.
Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Just name it whatever, but not “mother.” Never “mother.”
Alright. How about…
Beth woke from a long sleep and felt the remnants of her dream slip away like a stray tear. She sensed the coldness in the bed next to her and remembered that David said he wouldn’t be home that night. He spent so much time in the office lately that she was starting to think his apartment in town was a good idea. He didn’t do much around the house anyway, so it was best to have him concentrating on work and out from underfoot. She stretched and quickly made the bed, half the job it normally would be. She caught herself in the mirror on her way to the bathroom. She loved the silvery shimmer of her nightgown, the way the flared skirt spun around her hips. She frowned knowing David hadn’t seen it yet. “Ah well,” she sighed. “I’ll keep wearing it until he does.” Beth heard nothing in the hallway and relaxed that all seven children were still sleeping. “Me time, just for a bit,” she said, turning on a hot shower.
Wait.
What?
What is this?
You said it can’t be” mother.”
No, no. Is this her life?
This is a life.
It’s no life. Is she one of those Steppenwolf wives?
What the hell are Steppenwolf wives?
You know, that old movie. Is her whole life just in that house?
Well, a lot of it.
No, no, no. There has to be something more.
Why?
But, who is Beth as a person? What does she do? What does she want?
Beth is “mother.”
So, it’s just “mother.” Nothing else?
Nothing else.
Not Beth?
Beth is “mother”.
Why did you bother naming her?
Exactly! You made me name her! Now you say she has wants and desires.
Beth does.
But not “mother.”
When the five oldest finally piled onto the school bus, Beth turned back to the house and shooed the two toddlers inside. She hoisted them up, one on each hip, and descended into the downstairs, part playroom, part second kitchen. While the breakfast dishes were going upstairs, she could keep her eye on John and Johanna, the twins, and food prep for the next few days. She wrote down a few menu items in her Positivity Planner and checked on the three cameras set up around the work area. “You two be good while mommy films,” she cooed and checked her hair and makeup in the pocket mirror she kept in her apron. She turned on each camera one by one, checked her positioning in the main camera’s viewfinder and said “Hi. Welcome back to Beth’s Basement. I’ve got the little ones playing in the background and today we’re going to do this week’s food prep.” She paused, smiling, giving herself a few seconds for editing and then grabbed a bowl of onions. Beth peeled off the brown layers and wondered if David was getting enough to eat. “I think today I’ll focus on adult lunches. You know my hubby has been working hard lately and I think I need to bulk up his lunches with stamina-enhancing nutrition.” She brought the sharpened chef knife down on the bulb, cleaving it in two.
Where did this come from? What is happening?
I gave her something. I gave Beth something. Beth is a content creator.
A what?
She makes videos about her cooking and such.
That’s what you gave her? A video channel?
Yes! It generates a good amount of revenue.
You didn’t really give her anything. It’s all still just about the house.
Why does she need to leave the house?
What?
Why does she need anything outside of her home and family?
Beth should have something of her own.
She does. She has her channel.
… That’s not Beth’s channel. That’s “mother”’s channel.
Yes.
She stretched her arms high trying to relieve some of the soreness out of her shoulders and back. She’d been editing for over an hour and was still angry over having to wrestle William and Summer into their respective baths. Apparently, school had been pretty dull, and they saved all their energy for home. Perhaps at the next parent teacher meeting she would suggest extended physical activities for the children. She glanced at her Positivity Planner and wondered if the next meeting had been scheduled. It was early November, and they should have had one by now. When was it last year? She flipped through the glittery pages. She passed beach-themed July, an overflowing basket of eggs for April, the Champaign laced January and all the way back to the previous August, all chalkboards and pencils. Beth must not have marked down the last meeting. Perhaps David went on his own. That must have been it, she thought, flipping back to today and its stenciled “Editing Day” at the top of the page. Yes. She distinctly remembered him offering to go to the meeting on his way home from work. She grabbed a sticky note with a teddy bear holding a sign that said: Remember.
I’ve posted the first two of a collection of short stories that I want to post for free. I’m thinking of doing a newsletter or special section here on the site in the future, but with new, themed works that I’ll be doing once Wound is finished.
