Genre: Romance
Setting: A Laundromat
Object: A hammer
Stolen Love
SYNOPSIS: After several years a man has a chance encounter with a lost love. Destroyed by what he learns, he realizes that some things are better left unexplained.
Her eyes, pensive and hollow, were just as he remembered them: the palest blue rings strangling endless holes. He followed their path to the machine across from her. It rumbled and jittered wildly, sporadically giving way to squelching bursts. The wet garments slapped against the glass, smearing it with random bursts of color. Her hair was longer now and, despite obvious attempt to tame it, unruly strands curled in defiant directions. Charlie gaped through the open door in disbelief. He could only see her profile but it was unmistakable. He walked inside and sat in the empty chair beside her. She didn’t look at him.
*************************************
Charlie hadn’t seen Claire in over 7 years. Their relationship had lasted barely six months, less than any other he maintained before or since, yet she had affected him more than any other woman. She entranced him immediately, her breathy words besotting him. He remembered the way each syllable scratched its way up her throat before expelling from her mouth. He also remembered the constant compulsion to press his lips to hers and swallow every utterance. Strangely alluring and narcotic, she became his only vice. Despite Charlie’s affections and efforts, the relationship ended abruptly. One night they were tangled in a sweaty heaving mass, thrusting and moaning, and the next morning he awoke to see her standing over him, chewing on her fingers. A contorted frown manipulated her face and vagueness lingered in her eyes.
“Get the fuck out!” she shouted, ripping the duvet from atop his naked body. “I don’t want to look at you!”
Charlie rolled over lazily, squinting. “Claire, what the fuck?”
“Don’t you say my name! Get out!”
He begged for an explanation but she refused. He eventually left, demoralized and mystified.
*************************************
The rumbling stopped and Clair stood hurriedly. Her movements were shaky. Charlie watched with increasing bemusement as she pulled the saturated and twisted lumps of fabric from the washing machine and began flinging them into an open dryer. She pulled the lint trap from the machine’s innards and peeled a mass of speckled gray material from the screen. She performed the task meticulously, almost manically.
“Are you even going to acknowledge me, Claire? Jesus.”
Charlie’s voice rose sharply enough to gain an audience. A woman across the room looked up from a magazine and craned her neck to get a better view of the action. A small child sitting in the designated play area stared while clenching a toy hammer in a tiny, suspended fist. And, a college-aged girl gawked, a now frozen finger wedged in her nostril.
Claire jammed the apparatus back into its slot and slammed the dryer door. She punched and twisted at the buttons and dials and stepped back just as the appliance began to growl. She then turned her attention to Charlie.
“I thought I told you to leave me alone. Did you follow me here?”
“Follow you here? Claire, I haven’t seen you in 7 years. I was walking by and I saw you through the doorway. I came in to say…I mean, fuck.”
She seemed anxious now. “Why would I want to talk to you? What makes you think I could ever stand to look at you?”
“Claire, I just want an explanation. I think you owe me that.”
“I owe you? You have some nerve. You owe me!”
She rubbed her now moistened eyes and then crossed her arms over her stomach. The boy from the play area emerged from behind her and slipped his tiny hand into hers.
“Mom?” the child questioned, tilting his head back to glance up at her.
The toy hammer dangled from his other hand and he swayed nervously. He was only about 4-years-old but his staid look aged him.
“Is this your son?” Charlie asked, his voice suddenly less severe.
“No, he’s not. That’s none of your business, anyway.”
Claire shook her hand free from the child’s but he continued to stare up at her with eyes that were a miniature replication of her own. Charlie shook his head and walked toward the door.
“Unbelievable. You know what? I don’t need to rehash this. I should have just kept walking by!” he shouted as he exited the Laundromat. “Go to hell, Claire!”
Claire ran after him wailing, “I loved Charlie! I will always love Charlie!”
Charlie twirled around with incredulity.
“You ended it. I always wanted to be with you, you’re the one that didn’t want to be with me.”
“Why would I want to be with you?” Her eyes were protruding, pulsating with abhorrence.
Charlie’s frame surrendered now and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Claire, you love me one second, you hate me the next. Are you trying to torment me?”
An older woman exited the grocery store next to the Laundromat just in time to hear Charlie’s submission. She ran to Claire.
“Go inside, now. Robert needs you.” She asserted, nodding towards the boy inside.
Claire obediently reentered the store without looking back.
“What is wrong with her?” Charlie demanded.
The woman, obviously perplexed by the situation, snapped, “She’s very sick. She can’t help herself.”
“Sick how?”
“She has Capgras Syndrome.” The woman’s voice, now softened, offered, “I’m afraid she’ll never accept you for you again, Charlie. She doesn’t know you anymore. Please don’t ever go near her again.”
“What?!” Charlie managed.
A noise drew the woman’s attention to the interior of the Laundromat and she disappeared through the doorway.
That evening Charlie sat alone in his apartment with a half empty bottle of scotch. His distended, red eyes burned into a medical entry on the computer screen:
“Capgras Syndrome is a delusional disorder in which a cerebral lesion causes the sufferer to believe that someone has been replaced by an impostor, an exact double, despite recognition of familiarity in appearance and behavior. The double is usually the most intimate figure in the sufferer’s life. No recorded case has ever resulted in the reversal of symptoms.”
I became a Godmother this week and it was an amazing feeling. While driving to the event in Connecticut, however, I was overcome with a feeing of confusion. Here I was on the way to a baptism that was 2 hours away and my cousin had only called me the night before. When I arrived I was told that it was an "Emergency Baptism" at the hospital. There would be another one in the church later on.
I Wish We Could All Live in Snowglobes...I Bet The Economy Would Be Better
I'd like to preface this entry by stating that the title is totally random...I just wanted to insert the lovely picture of snowglobes that I took today.
I spent the majority of today watching people and waiting for them to do something interesting. Mind you, this wasn’t in a “crazy stalker” kind-of way, but more in an “I’m a forced voyeur because I have photography project due on Thursday” kind-of way. I walked all through the city of Boston for hours. The entire time I was praying for sun and someone with an interesting face (I came to the realization that most objects are more interesting than people around this city). Maybe I was just looking in the wrong places.
I started the morning walking through the Public Gardens and the Commons. There were a lot of pretty trees, a myriad of flowers, some cute dogs, and a shit ton of old people. Lovely as these findings are, they’re not the kind-of things that make for noteworthy photographs. I moved on and found coffee (shock-of-shocks). Leaving Starbucks I felt energized, yet uninspired. That is, until I came across mammoth bouquets of mouse-shaped balloons. Disney was having some kind of promotion at Downtown Crossing. Mickey enthusiasts were passing off the helium-filled advertisements to passer-byers everywhere. Within an hour I couldn’t walk anywhere without coming across one. And, people would leave them tied in random places. This made my day. What can I say? It’s the little things.
Genre: Horror
August wasn’t supposed to be born. His older sister, Georgette, had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. His parents created him as a source of umbilical blood and bone marrow. He was produced by means of preimplantation genetic diagnosis. When it was confirmed that he, over the other eggs, was the best stem cell match for Georgette, he was deposited into his mother’s womb. She didn’t survive the childbirth. His father, George, left the hospital without looking at him. The name August was written on his birth certificate in reference to the month in which he was born.
After years of transfusions, August’s marrow eventually failed Georgette and her frail corpse was buried next to her mother’s. George was left with only August and unmanageable debt. He sold the family house and bought an enormous used moving truck. He converted the vehicle into an RV. George and August moved inside the vehicle and began a life that consisted of traveling from trailer park to trailer park. George did odd jobs along the way making just enough to survive. August kept quiet, which was all George asked of him.
When August was 6 years old, the monster came for the first time. It appeared from the depths of the darkness. He could hear its heavy, clumsy footsteps first and then its manic breath. A dingy, faded blanket separated August’s “room” from the other areas of the truck. The weathered piece of fabric swayed slightly as the monster’s breath heaved against it. Its feet cast thick shadows across the floor. August stared in terror. The heaving stopped completely then, without warning, the animal burst through the barrier. It stood over the bed in careful speculation before grasping August in its calloused hands. August could feel its skin pressed against him. The skin was slick and wet, patched with intermittent tufts of hair. August gasped as the beast stabbed him in the back with a hard horn. It then threw him against the inner wall of the truck. August’s head hit the wall and he fell backward onto the cold metal floor. He rolled onto his stomach and covered his throbbing forehead with his hands. The beast lunged on him again. This time it didn’t let him go. It moved the horn lower and lower until it found a place to stab the boy. It tore into him again and again. Tears streamed down August’s face but he didn’t make a sound. He knew that he was always to be quiet. When August awoke the next morning there was blood on the floor and he writhed in pain. It hadn’t been a nightmare—not even close. The beast continued to haunt him on a nightly basis.
On a particularly hot day, August sat outside of the truck in the shade. A man walked by in a peculiar manner. August’s eyes followed as the man hobbled along. Something about his gait was off. Not knowing why, August trailed him around the corner. Eventually sensing the boy’s presence, the man turned to face him. August kept his gaze fixated on the leg. The man raised his trouser to reveal a prosthetic limb. He knocked it with his fist to demonstrate its falseness.
“Satisfied?” The man asked calmly.
A pang of envy shot through August’s being. “Yes sir.” He responded. “I am.”
**************
With each haunting, August’s feeling of worthlessness heightened. What did he have to live for? He had no misgivings about his original purpose in life—George had made it clear. He was to be a source of cells and nothing more. He was born with a single function: to give parts of himself to someone else in order to keep her alive. He had failed. He couldn’t help but feel that the portions that dangled from his core were not his own. Were they not hers? He wanted them gone. One afternoon he came across a pair of pliers. He sat on the floor in his room and pulled out his toenails one by one. The sensation was liberating. He bandaged his bleeding toes and placed the parasitic outgrowths in a lavender piggy bank on the dresser—a piggy bank that had belonged to Georgette.
In the following months August removed 6 teeth and his left thumbnail; he placed each one in the bank. Each time he removed something he felt relief and liberation. He then began using a small pocketknife to cut off tiny slivers of skin from his thighs and shins. The pieces fell off easily, like orange rinds. He collected and deposited each one.
On his 9th birthday, August doused a hatchet blade with rubbing alcohol. He sat in front of a tiny nightlight and wiggled his outstretched toes in the light. They looked particularly menacing in the orange blush of the tiny light. He took one last look at the strange, parasitic beasts before he swung the blade down. They were detached immediately, rolling forward like swollen, pink pill bugs. He then raised the hatchet again and slammed it down into his thigh. The skin split easily and the blade chipped into the bone. He raised his arm again and again, hacking at his appendage like a tree’s trunk. As the blood pooled around him, an unfamiliar sound rang out…it was his own voice. He howled and cried and then slumped back against the wall, propping himself up as the room spun around him. The monster must have heard him because it emerged suddenly, bolting towards August’s voice. It slid in the blood and fell to the floor. Illuminated by the nightlight, the boy was able to see the monster’s face for the first time. George’s eyes were wide and his mouth was agape.
“What have you done?”
“What have you done?” August whispered as he slung the blade one last time, catching George in the throat. August slid completely to the floor and collapsed.
Genre: Romance
After agreeing to a marriage solely to appease her father, a woman in 1919 Boston is drawn into a scrumptious affair.
Milton caught a glance of his wife from across the room but pretended not to notice. The young woman’s considerable frame barreled through the crowd. Her thick legs bobbled beneath her dress and he couldn’t help but think that they resembled two toddlers wrestling beneath a bed sheet. The pigeon bust of her gown squeezed her bosom in a manner that was less than appropriate. However, her neck was draped with enough beads and pearls to choke a walrus so concealing her breasts was not an effortful task. Milton, however, knew that they were there—the rotund and gelatinous monsters that haunted his nightmares. He turned away as Lottie poured herself through the doorway and out onto the street.
It was strangely warm for a January night in Boston, hot even. Lottie’s heels clicked on the cobblestones below them. She took a left onto a side street. As she turned the corner the smell of salt and hickory filled her nostrils. She began to quiver. She could see Enzo in the distance. He was sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette. The swirls of smoke rose towards the red awning above him that read “Vanzetti Butcher and Delicatessen.” A soft, butter-colored glow streamed through the open doorway, bathing him in light. Enzo looked up and his teeth seeped through his lips. “Il mio tesoro!”
********
Enzo Vanzetti’s family reached Boston in 1911. Eight years later, they ran the most recognized butcher shop in the North End. During holidays, the demand for Vanzetti sausage, prosciutto, and coppa was so uncontrollable that barricades had to be set up to manage the crowds. It was last year that Lottie was first drawn there. Whether it was a scent, a feeling, or providence, something had summoned her. Regardless of motive, she shoved into the queue and pressed herself amongst the other squirming bodies. Moments later an unfamiliar hand pulled her from the horde. A voice whispered, “Quello bello. Pezzetto dolce. This way.” She couldn’t understand most of his words but the man’s breath smelled of fresh sweetbreads. She followed eagerly. The hand yanked her through an alley and into a side door. Bristled pigs hung by their hinds from glittering hooks, livers and kidneys covered scarred countertops, and sheets of white paper dangled delicately from suspended rolls. It was the loveliest place Lottie had ever seen. Without a word, Enzo pressed his lips to hers and she devoured them with her own, sucking them in like meat pudding.
********
Lottie Brogan was an only child and her mother had passed during childbirth. When Lottie was a girl, her father, George, owned the Purity Distilling Company. Business was lucrative. Molasses was a valuable commodity; it had fueled the Slave Triangle and kept the local saloons in booze. George’s pride and joy, a titanic white tank, towered 50 feet above the city. Its 90-foot-wide belly bubbled with over 2,500,000 gallons of the fermenting liquid. George and Lottie would often climb to the rooftop of their building just before sunrise. As the sun spilled over the gleaming structure George would whisper, “Lottie, have you ever seen anything sweeter?” She was sure she had.
George took care in finding Lottie a “suitable partner.” He liked the idea that Milton’s family had money. He also noticed Milton’s “business sense.” Lottie only noticed the disgusted looks Milton shot her. Regardless, Milton pursued her hand ravenously. Lottie succumbed to her father’s wishes and George died only weeks after the union. Milton inherited everything and grew greedier by the day. His insatiable hunger for wealth led him to increase production. He filled the tank to capacity. Caramel drips started seeping from the seams. Instead of building an additional holding tank he painted the structure brown to hide the evidence.
********
Enzo stood up and motioned to Lottie excitedly. The shop was closed at such an hour and the two were left only with carcasses and appendages. Enzo ran his fingers over a slab of ham and Lottie inhaled the deep maple. He pulled a shiny butcher knife from his boot and held it out. Lottie seized it readily, grasping its smooth handle. Enzo stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing his hands to rest atop hers. Together they sliced the lump of pork into beautiful, pink wedges. Next, they moved into the attic. The ceiling of the awkward space was hung thickly with a myriad of salty, cured meats in various stages of dehydration. The hunks would dry for months, sometimes years. Enzo always reserved the best pieces for Lottie. On this warmest of winter nights, the two sweated contentedly amongst the brining barrels and the shriveled pork chandeliers. Staring adoringly at one another, they shared the private morsels.
Suddenly, a wail split the dawn. Enzo and Lottie fell still. It sang out again. The sound was distinctly human yet the syllables were unrecognizable. Lottie rushed down the stairs and out onto the stoop. A figure stumbled down the street.
“Sow! You shtoopid wh-hore.” It slurred. Milton emerged from the darkness. Lottie stood silently and Enzo stepped out beside her. Milton glanced at Enzo and began to laugh manically. “If you’re willing to take her without incentive, you deserve her. At least I got that.” He flailed his arm in the direction of the tank hovering above. Then, as if provoked, a series of pops rang out like machine gun fire. Milton dropped to the ground and covered his head. A few more pops echoed from above. Milton rolled onto his back in time to see the giant structure begin to groan and sway. Stripped bolts fell down like rain. Enzo pulled Lottie inside, up the narrow staircase, and back into the attic. Pressing their faces against the window they saw amber waves pouring from the sky and into the street. The liquid rolled fiercely across the cobblestone, swallowing everything in its path. Boston never smelled so sweet.
Speed Writing Assignment #1:
Soul Survivor
Of course she loved him. Isn't that how all of these stories are supposed to start? That didn't matter now. The sun slung low, melting into the ocean. The black liquid rolled across his furrowed brow and poured from his clenched fists. The lights flashed around him as they pulled him away. He didn't struggle. He didn't speak. He didn't blink. The whites of his eyes had been devoured now, soaked into the darkness of his pupils.
The police station was small and she sat in a back room. She analyzed the cracks in the weathered grout. "Are you listening to me, Eleanor?" The man's once composed voice was rising. She tried to remember how this all started.
Peter was always sweaty. He suffered from hyperhidrosis. His palms leaked wrathfully and uncontrollably. He had lived his entire life in Nebraska without seeing an ocean, yet he seemed to leak enough salt water to fill them all.
He changed after the marriage. He became overbearing and verbally abusive. He resented her for not finishing school. He resented her even more for relying on his financial support. They sought counseling and were led to the conclusion that a vacation away might help them gain appreciation for one another again. They booked a bungalow overlooking an ocean. Peter left at noon on the first day. He returned at dawn, soaked to the core. She heard the ocean as he opened the door. She sat up from a deep sleep.
Eleanor turned on the light next to the bed and stared at him. His eyes, once a hollow blue, now had large black hearts; she could see them pulsating. He crawled onto the bed, his face nearing hers. He grasped the sheets tightly, pulling himself forward. "Ella, I feel sorry for you. Your soul is dying." He smelled like salt and rotting plants. She inched back until she was pressed against the headboard. He let go of the sheets. Black handprints smeared the worn cotton.
The man picked up a document and began to read, "…a man was found face down in the water. He was pulled aboard the boat. Crewmembers started CPR. The man, identified as Peter Dubourg, was pronounced dead at 6:53 p.m. The body was transported to Mariners Hospital from where it was found to be missing at approximately 8:45 p.m. "
Eleanor stared blankly. He slid a photograph in front of her. It was an aerial image of a blob of black water tearing through a calm, blue ocean. Gelatinous webs of filaments consumed the shadowed surface. "This is what happened to the water where we found him. The patch began to form at the point from which they expelled his body. It now extends for over 700 miles."
The man grabbed an old metal ruler with a pointed tip and used it to draw a line on a sheet of paper. He scribbled words and numbers furiously along the line. He slid it in front of her. Eleanor stared at a hastily composed timeline. It started on what appeared to be a date—an unrecognizable date far before any point in history that she had ever seen recorded. The line ended on the present date. Three black dots, spaced even distances apart, sat below points on the line. The last dot was below today's date.
"Some people think that the oldest religions are Hinduism and Judaism. This is not true. Time is an endless loop, spanning further back than we are able to comprehend. A people, the Calusa, have been coursing this loop for eternity. They believe that two supernatural beings rule the world. Calusans have two souls, counterparts to the beings. Natural people only have one. A Calusan's souls can be seen in his reflection in water and his pupils. He cannot empower these souls until he has seen both. Once this occurs, he can continue on forever. If it doesn't, he remains a one-soul being."
"We all die." Eleanor whispered.
"Yes, natural beings die. Calusans don't. They can transfer their souls after death. If they successfully transfer both, they can live on. The first is easily passed. The one in the pupil is more difficult." His hand moved across the timeline and came to rest on the last dot—the current date. "These dots mark periods of renewal, days when one-soul beings are wiped out. The darkness will rise from the waters and swallow everything natural."
"What does this have to do with Peter…or me?"
"The cleansing is initiated by the Calusan with the strongest souls. Peter is this being. After his body's death, he passed on the first soul. Once he passes the second, we will all die. Calusans will start anew.
"What do you want me to do?"
"A Calusan will pass his first soul to a lesser animal with little effort. In order to obtain the second soul, however, the animal must penetrate the soul's heart. We found Peter before this could be done but we have to find this animal before it finds him. I need your help."
Eleanor sat quietly for many moments, motionless. She then sat up again, leaning over the table. "O.K., I'd like to see him first."
Peter's cell was but a cement room, completely sealed off with no windows or bars. She was let inside. Peter was slumped on the ground; a pool of murky blackness had formed beneath him. She could hear him breathing. As she neared she could see his face. His black eyes glistened like pieces of obsidian. They were fixed on her. She knelt before him, staring into them. She placed her left hand on his cheek. "I need to ask you something, Love." His eyes burned into her, unmoving. She raised her right arm in the air, sending the sharpened point of the ruler into Peter's unblinking eye.
"What ever made you think I was lesser than you?"
