Originally posted by Hand of HecateWhen are you going to stop wasting time on RHP and write a gloriously twisted book?
Loss:
Lost in the reverie of The Work I was startled by a flashing light on my security monitor. Not the perimeter alarm, just the phone. I put down my instruments and made my way upstairs to answer the call.
My wife. Ex-wife, I should remember this. “David, I want the bear and the pictures of Michelle.”
“I don’t have them Margaret. I haven ...[text shortened]... rs ran into its fur I imagined I could still detect the smell of my daughter on the little bear.
I Shan't Miss the Humming:
I looked at the hammer in my hand. So, it has come to this. Never could I imagine it ending this way. Despite myself, I started remembering all the good times we've had together, all the laughs and joys he brought me throughout the years. That one Saturday that I spent all day in bed with him. Sometimes, I would even watch him sleep, which admittedly is pretty weird. He was always there for me; whenever I had a question he had an answer. Tears started welling up inside me and one threatened to fall. No, I must be strong. This is the right thing to do. I've been forgiving of his errors for far too long. Tonight, I am going to serve cold revenge. Well, maybe more warm than cold – kind of like those leftovers that you try to microwave but can't really get too hot because your microwave is crappy. I started upstairs to my room, tripping a little on the way, but not even my clumsiness will stop my determination tonight. Unless of course I miss with the hammer, boy would that be awkward.
I tiptoe across the hall to my room. Quietly now, we wouldn’t want to alarm. I get to my door and open it slowly; it makes a creaking sound – I should probably get that fixed one of these days. Hammer behind my back I step inside.
“Hello,” I say, walking up closer, “fine night tonight, isn’t it?”
No reply. I stand there for a moment, It’s a Fine Day by Opus III going through my mind ‘It's going to be a fine night tonight, it's going to be a fine night tonight...’ damn, that’s going to be stuck in my head all week. I remember this one time I had Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head stuck in my head and all I could remember in my head was that one line, just over and over in my head – raindrops keep falling on my head, raindrops keep falling on my head...talk about been annoyed in your head. It was thanks to him I first heard these songs. It was thanks to him I first heard a lot of songs; he introduced me to so much music. Maybe I am wrong after all? Maybe there is still hope for us yet.
He starts to hum. A gentle if annoying sound. I know he is thinking hard about something, he always hums when thinking hard. What could he possibly be thinking about now, I think. I haven’t given him anything to think about. The humming suddenly stops and I watch him, just sitting there as if nothing is wrong. As if he hasn’t hurt me so badly that it hurts. He robbed me of two years of my life and I can never get that time back. No, there is no hope left, I decided. Just then the hammer slips out of my hand and falls with a clank to the floor. Oops. I pick it up quickly and before he has time to react I strike. Again and again...and again for good measure.
It is done. I look at the rubble I have created. Never again will he swallow a thesis paper I have been working two years on. Never again will I have to hear that hellish humming sound followed by an array of error messages. It is done. I go back downstairs and eat some warm leftovers. I should get a new microwave.
Originally posted by Hand of HecateI hate your short story it was discustingly horrible and the last paragraph was so bad it made me feel like crying. Take Ravens advice and get paid for writting this.
Loss:
Lost in the reverie of The Work I was startled by a flashing light on my security monitor. Not the perimeter alarm, just the phone. I put down my instruments and made my way upstairs to answer the call.
My wife. Ex-wife, I should remember this. “David, I want the bear and the pictures of Michelle.”
“I don’t have them Margaret. I haven ...[text shortened]... rs ran into its fur I imagined I could still detect the smell of my daughter on the little bear.
Viginity:
"And was it all it's cracked up to be, Tricia?" said Mrs Thurston.
A sudden surge of blood to her daughter's cheeks told her that she had just over-stepped the mark. The fight drained out of her. She felt weary suddenly, recalling her first time; the irritation, the fumbling, the embarrassment, the blood and the immense brevity of it all. A sticky, sweaty, painful mess.
As she reached for a cup, Trish stopped. She felt a trembling, volcanic eruption as her composure snapped. Her throat choked up and a well of tears spilled over. The woman she had been trying so desperately to be now crumbled into Mum's little girl; once more needing protection against the horrors to come. In a moment, they were in each other’s arms, hugging, comforting and crying.
"There dear, don't cry, love," said Gina, "and don't you be too disappointed neither. It's always a bit of a let-down first time round. It gets better, honest it does."
When the incongruous words sank through to Trish, she pushed away and sniffed hard to stem the tears, unable to believe her mother could have so misread her. Wiping her eyes with her dressing gown sleeve, she glared at Gina in crazed disbelief. A wide gulf opened up between them.
"No!" she said. "It was indescribable, Mum. I've never felt so... so much pleasure in all my life. It was heaven, Mum. It was pure magic."
Footsteps and the clatter of studs on concrete. The front door slammed shut. Colin raced into the room, kit bag over his shoulder.
"Five-nil. We slaughtered them." He beamed at Gina, who sat in an armchair, her feet upon a cushion. Her boy, a sprightly ten-year-old had the same good looks as Trish. Small nose, large eyes, smooth angular face and firm chin.
"That's nice, love," said Gina.
Colin hurled himself onto the couch, his arms still caught in the throes of action.
"I scored a beaut! A header in the top right corner. Their goalie didn't even see it."
She smiled weakly in response, mindful of the heavy footsteps that paused at the door.
"How's about a cuppa?" said Peter Thurston.
Colin flicked the TV on while Gina rose to her feet and approached her husband. He stopped her with an outstretched arm and gave her a peck on the cheek.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Gina studied Peter's face and the hard lines around his mouth. In his dark eyes she could see the troops lining up. An inner world of us and them, white and black, goodies and baddies. The rigid boundaries of right and wrong, each in his own domain, swords unsheathed and whetted for battle.
"In her room" she said unable to help herself.
The curtains were still drawn.
She was changing into her sweetest dress, an innocent floral creation that buttoned to the neck. One that wriggled its way down the length of her body. Made for a girl; a dress that clung more stubbornly to the curves of the woman she had become.
Outside her room the floorboards groaned. An approaching ripple of terror set her heart pounding, a blind panic from within. But never, never would she let him know. The door swung open. She saw the face of black thunder and braced herself.
"What's your excuse this time?"
None her face told him in silent defiance.
Then he lunged out, gripping her yielding arm and shaking her.
"I hate doing this, Girl."
And she wanted to scream "Then don't do it!" but was unable, knowing the folly of showing fear. How he would roar and pounce if knew he had won!
"Life's lessons are hard," he said. Smack! His right fist flew and she staggered back.
"I'm doing this for you, Trish." Hands tugged at chunks of silken hair, swinging, releasing, hurling her to the floor. Then she, backing away, slithered up the side of the bed, nails digging into the covers.
"You know what they're after, don't you, Trish?" Crunch! A polished shoe in her slender side. A gasp of escaping air. The oozing of a reluctant tear.
"They're dogs, girl. Sniff-sniff-sniffing for a bitch on heat." The chink of a belt buckle. A tongue of leather pulling free. She rolled over, head in arms.
"They don't care who they hurt." Crack! Across the sweet dress that buttoned to the neck.
"They use you, abuse you and throw you aside when they're done." Crack! And again, crack! More shackled tears breaking free. And his voice of steel nearing the precipice.
"Is that what you want?" She felt his weight on the bed beside her, lifting her head in his firm hands. "Is that what you want, Trish?"
Large glistening eyes looking up at him, holding their own. "No."
"I love you, girl. You're mother and I, both." Smack! His fist again, leaving a blood-drained patch below her eye and a cry that broke into a thin, tortuous moan.
"You'll thank me one day." Smack! And again, smack! Tears straining at the bit and blood rushing back to fill the vacuum left behind.
"Do you love your old man, Trish?"
A tiny, delicate utterance between the leaking sobs: "Yes."
Now the stale smell of him getting closer, the hard pressure of his lips on hers. The searching gaze of his eyes and the silent roar of a million marauding crusaders breaking down the gates of Hell. Then his weight shifting from the bed. His footfalls receding. The door slamming shut behind him. Just a distant creak on the staircase.
A shuddering sigh.
Now she could let go, open the floodgates on her treasured grief, delight in the velvet touch of hot, soothing tears. Blessed self-pity. To feel it wash away reality. To escape into the river that would gush tenderly down her bruised cheeks and melt away into the sweet dress that buttoned to the neck. To cry until she could cry no more.
Oh God, let the coming grief be sacrifice enough.
Originally posted by Hand of HecateIt was a stark and dormy night, there at Spooner Hall, on campus. I'm NAKED. No, really, it's my last name. All caps. Just call me stark. Lower case. I live in LA. I'm an actor. I park cars between gigs. I just need two gigs and that will be true.
I like to play with words and decided not to wait for the next prose competition (primarily because catfoodtim could organize a break out from a wet paper bag much less a competition).
This is an relatively open format, no deadline, entries are public, less than 1000 words, judged by your pears. The subject is "Loss" and must be done in with either a 'Film Noir' detective theme or told as a psychological/horror thriller.
She was waiting for me.
Her name was trouble, spelled way, way wrong.
The trouble was, no plot, no story, just us. There. With me. I had no idea what was going to happen next. We waited together for whatever keystrokes would come next. Out fate was utterly dependent on the random events in what could only be, an senile yet infantile mind.
A shared cigarette appeared out of nowhere, without even waiting for the sex scene. Then, she put the cigarette down and fianchettoed me. Like I'd never been fianchettoed before. Actually, I hadn't. I don't play chess. I let Fritz do the work.
We awaited our destiny, hoping someone would come along with more skill in plot development.
Originally posted by Hand of HecateAmazing.
Loss:
Lost in the reverie of The Work I was startled by a flashing light on my security monitor. Not the perimeter alarm, just the phone. I put down my instruments and made my way upstairs to answer the call.
My wife. Ex-wife, I should remember this. “David, I want the bear and the pictures of Michelle.”
“I don’t have them Margaret. I haven ...[text shortened]... rs ran into its fur I imagined I could still detect the smell of my daughter on the little bear.
