Bad Story…

Okay, here it is. I may do separate posts, or just add to the end of it, according to my whim and my whimsy. Or I may just get sick of it and let it die.
This is raw, unedited writing. I (kinda) spellcheck as I write, but this is pure, unadulterated first draft. I may or may not tinker with it. I may or may not let you see it. I will print it out in its current form, and every so often, and send it to myself as a certified letter, and leave it unopened until such a time I get rich in court from some potential future thieving dumb-ass.

Have fun, and:

Do Not Read This…

I mean it. You have been warned…

She rocked there, in her chair, in the sunlight, the poor cooling thing held against her chest.

Rocking. Cooling. Her eyes empty.

The chair creaks, and groans, as if it, too, cannot bear this burden…

At some point, she realizes that instinct has taken over, and that she has opened her robe, and set it to suck, there, once warm, now cool against her breast. Which aches, full of milk. The nipple, bereft, yet eager, but little blue lips just refuse to take it, and the tiny moist sound they make as she tries, pulls her mind out of that special reverie mothers go into when they feed their young, and…

She begins to scream…

DO NOT READ THIS!!! (pt 2)

Her left heel drummed on the hardwood floor, for a bit. Then her right, for a bit more. Then both heels. Then her body bowed, pushing her up into a near perfect arch, then her buttocks, clad only in a nightie, smacked back down to the floor. She lay still, for a while.

Motes danced in the sunlight for a bit, and all was quiet. For a bit. And then her fingernails began to castanet on the floor, then her hands clawed, peeling up curls of wax, and then she awoke, and sat up, a whoop of air leaving her lungs…

Not to be replaced.

She was hungry. In another life, she might have described herself as being ‘a bit peckish’, because she was too much of a gentlewoman to ever have said she was starving, but she was…

Starving.

Her avid eyes scanned the room, and settled on a bundle, wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket, seemingly dropped there…abandoned. She flipped to her hands and knees in a trice, and scuttled across the floor, turned her head like a dog, snapped down, and began to…

____________

Pastor Hammis opened the door to his mini-van, and crunched his left loafer down into the white gravel of his driveway. After a pause, the right loafer joined it, and he stood up, outside of his vehicle.
Behind him he vaguely registered the side door sliding open, and more crunches as his other three children joined him there, in the afternoon sunlight.

The service had gone well, and things had proceeded swimmingly, until the after-service potluck began, and then the situation had become, as his Dear Old Dad, the previous Rector, would have observed, and labeled as ‘problematic’.

He reached back into the van, between the two front seats, and brought out the heavy aluminum pitcher, that had held smoothies not just an hour ago, and then been covered with blood and hair, for a bit, and then, because Little Sarah screamed and seemed to want to roll up into a ball when she looked at it, he had taken the box of Handi-Wipes from under the seat and wiped it down.
Still, it couldn’t cover up the round dents, here and there, on the outside of the casing. He sighed. Turned to the kids. “You coming?”

Todd looked a little pale, and he and Sarah sat down in the edge of the open cargo space. Millicent set her jaw, and stepped up beside him, and fished out her new house key, which she had only just newly been entrusted with at the beginning of this school year. She was a big girl, now. And brave.

Sam Hammis, Pastor of his flock, Priest of his home, sighed, looked toward the front door of his quiet house, and stepped forward…
_________________________

Don’t Read…Well, You Know The Drill…

…and glass sprayed outwards from the upstairs bedroom. The ‘Baby’s Room’, as they had all come to call it.

Pastor Sam’s wife came flying out and down, like a special effects shot gone terribly awry, but the snap of her forearms breaking, and the crunch of her kneecaps and forehead as they met the gravel was all too real.

As Mommy’s face raised up, her forehead embedded with chunks of white gravel, her lower face festooned with what looked like blackberry jam, and maybe small bits of pulled pork, Millicent hitched out a small cry, and dropped down to the drive, to sit for a while.
Behind Sam, he heard thumping as the other two sought refuge deeper in the van.

Pastor Sam brought the pitcher up, almost languidly and looked at his reflection in it. He noted that he had ‘missed a spot’. Had they been doing the dishes together, he could just hear his beloved wife chiding him. Gently. Sweetness was her hallmark.
He saw that in the spot he had missed, was a bit of dark matter, and some hairs. He nearly succumbed to hysteria when he asked himself the obvious question: “Which one of these is from the skull of my Dad?”

He noted that there were a couple of blond hairs there, amongst the silver, and a few short brown ones, and his reverie nearly killed him…

A stony scuttery sound brought him out of his fugue, and he saw his beautiful, loving wife crab-crawling across the white gravel towards him, mere feet away, her wrists flopping, like a rag doll’s, her legs akimbo and dragging, her eyes blazing, and her jaws snapping at his daughter, seated there, with a terrible purpose, and…

He brought the pitcher, up and over, and down, and smashed the base of it hard, onto the point where the nine bones of the skull of the woman who’s virginity he had taken…been given, on the night of their marriage when they were both nineteen years of age…

She cracked like a three-minute egg, and dropped as if all her strings had been cut, and her most secret sauce leaked out all over Millicent’s buckle shoes, and began to spread up her pale blue socks, threatening to go all the way to the frilly lace anklets.

His wife’s fingers clawed in the white gravel, weakly, and mercifully, briefly, then stopped, and he dropped to his knees, and as he began to vomit helplessly on the one true love of his life’s body, he could only hear his daughter choking back screams, and no sound at all from the van.

They all well knew, by now, that they were not alone…

Don’t Read This…

Pastor Sam looked down at the pitcher in his hand. Look Ma, more hair. Blood.

He looked up to Heaven, and saw nothing there. How much can one man take…

His gaze swirled back into the yard, and beyond, and whatever instinct that had kept him…them, alive up to now, targeted his vision on a man, just over there, standing in the shadows of a line of Cypress trees that his grandfather had planted along the drive long before he was born, into this terrible day.

He saw the man light a cigarette, the flash of the match, and then a hot finger dug into his chest and pulled him, staggering forward, then the color washed out of his world, and all became black and white, and…

His wife’s eyes were still open, though clouded. Nobody’s home…

Her hand was relaxed, now, the ring, signifying their love, and commitment, glinted in the afternoon sun, and he pushed his hand across, through the marinara that had spilt, and tried to take her hand in his, and…
…his head jumped up off of the gravel as the high-powered round, point blank and from just a few feet away shattered his brain and turned off all the lights in a spray of white powdered gravel and blood pudding…

A trail of smoke that was not cigarette smoke curled up from the fat cylinder screwed on to the front of the man’s big automatic, a man who did not, in fact, smoke cigarettes. And he was taking it all in. A girl whom he did not know at all, her legs spattered up to mid calf with a dead woman’s (her mother’s?) ocher, her eyes rolling like a calf, as well, he…

…took quick aim and phutted a round between her eyes and she arced back and crunched into the gravel, and vibrated for a bit, but she wouldn’t ‘come back’. And they tended to, when touched by the fluids of ‘the contaminated’, as he had come to think of them. He put the muzzle of the weapon to his own temple, and heard the fine hairs there sizzle and curl. After he was dead, no burn would form, he was confident of that, and…

…a choked cry from the mini-van made his hand target the open cargo door, and…

He strode forward, Death Incarnate, and did a proper search, and…

Two children. Covered in stains. Some from earlier. Some fresh. The eyes of the boy begging him. For. Something. The girl’s he couldn’t see, because her face was buried in the boys neck, and chewing like she just hadn’t been raised with any manners at all.

He took two steps back, and his gun spoke for him, twice. Gas sloshed in the tank for a bit, and then stilled, and the man absently dropped out the magazine into his hand, slid in a full one, dropped the slide forward with the press of a lever, and…

3 Responses to Bad Story…

  1. Michael Tim says:

    I love your site! :)

    _____________________
    Experiencing a slow PC recently? Fix it now!

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