Monthly Archives: October 2011
One of the groups I belong to on Facebook posted a Writing Prompt on their page.
“For the last 10 years, kids have been festooning your home with toilet-paper sashes on Halloween night. Unfortunately for them, this is the year you finally decided to get even. Write about your night of retaliation.”
In the space of a few minutes, this is what I came up with.
I wait within the shadows of the old oak, the fuel tanks heavy on my back. Despite the chill in the air, I am sweating heavily, my clothes sticking to my skin. My finger slides restlessly over the trigger, eager for some action. It’s been awhile and just as I start to think this year they won’t come, I hear them, those little bastards. TP my house, will they? Well, not this year.
I hear their giggling first, then the crush of brittle leaves as they try to move quietly into my yard. I lick my lips in anticipation, taste the salt beads adorning my upper lip. I watch as they creep across the yard, stealthy as shadows, and approach the jack o’lantern on the porch. One steps forward and picks it up. My hatred for them burns like the candle within that orange head. I watch as he raises it high over his head. There’s only the slightest pause, a nervous glance over his shoulder toward my front door, before he smashes it to the ground. it shatters on the concrete, and oh, what I wouldn’t give to shatter his skull on the sidewalk.
They gather round the pulpy remains, stifling their laughter so as not to alert the man within, but little do they know. I continue to watch as from their backpacks they remove their paper grenades. My finger twitches, but I release the pressure just in time. I watch as they position themselves around the yard, taking up strategic positions. There’s a poetic beauty in the way the move, all in perfect sync. As one, their arms pulled back, preparing to launch their bombs. Now was the time.
I step from the shadows. “Not this year, you miserable punks.” I laugh as they all give a start, taken by surprise, and before they have a chance to recover, my finger tightens on the trigger. The flame erupts from the nozzle, leaping forward, hungry for the taste of flesh. The night is filled with the heavenly chorus of their screams, and soon the smell of their charred flesh rises on the breeze. They try to run, but the demon’s breath follows them. No one will escape this night.
Silence eventually returns, save for the occasional crackle of their fat while it burns.
Tomorrow is going to be a bitch, I’m thinking as I turn to climb the porch steps, having to bury their remains. At the door I stop and turn, my gaze shifting from one smoldering corpse to another, when another thought comes to me. Why waste it? There’s plenty of room in the freezer in the basement. Yeah, I’ll be eating good for awhile.
I’m never going to survive this, he thought, head hanging over the porcelain surface of the toilet in the ship’s cabin. He fumbled for the lever, letting the weight of his hand pull it down. The sudden rush of water around the bowl was a blessed cool relief against his face, feverish, pale, and dripping with sweat. He watched the water circle around, sending his vomit swirling, swirling, then gone. Too weak to get to his feet and rinse his face and mouth in the sink, he dipped his hand in the now-clear water of the toilet bowl and wiped his face before collapsing against the wall of the small tiled room. The coolness of the cream-colored tiles against his heated flesh made him shiver. “How did I ever let her talk me into this,” he asked of the porcelain princess. He didn’t get a response, nor did he expect one. Resting his head against the wall, he closed his eyes and sent up a prayer to the deaf gods for this sickness to pass. They hadn’t answered his prayers yet and it had been three days, so did he expect today to be any different? Not really, but he had nothing better to do while he waited for the next urge to purge.
He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, she was calling his name softly and gently shaking him. “Brad? Brad, sweetie. Wake up.”
Eyelids fluttering, squinting against the harsh glare of the bathroom light, he could barely make out her blurred form leaning over him. “Wha. . .” But now that he was awake, his stomach heaved, and he tossed his head over the toilet, the rush of vomit rising up his throat cutting off anything else he might have said. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he collapsed against the wall and looked up at his wife. “Sorry, babe.”
“For what?” She grabbed a face cloth from the chrome shelf over the sink and started to run it under cold water.
“Not exactly how I wanted to spend our honeymoon.”
She knelt beside him and wiped his face with the cool, damp cloth. “It’s not your fault. If I had known you got seasick this bad, I never would have suggested this.” She got up, ran some water in one of the plastic cups and gave it to him to rinse his mouth. “The pills the doctor gave you aren’t working?”
He sipped the water, swished it around in his mouth, then spit it in the toilet. With a shake of his head, he said, “Can’t keep them down long enough to do any good.” He pushed away from the wall, feeling the stiffness in his back, shoulders, and legs. He needed to get out of this God-forsaken room, needed to stretch out on the bed, but he was afraid to, afraid that the slightest roll of the ship would trigger another bout of nausea. He needed to take the chance, though; he would be damned if he was going to spend this entire voyage locked in the john. She moved to help him, thinking he was going to try and stand, but his legs were too shaky and too cramped to even attempt it. He waved her off. “I can do it myself.” She stood by helpless as he made his way ever so slowly out of the bathroom and across the floor. She followed along behind, and once he reached the bed, only then did he allow her to help him up. No sooner did he gain his feet when his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bed. He managed to straighten himself out and roll over so he lay on his back before closing his eyes. His heart was racing from the effort, but at least his stomach was calm.
The next thing he knew, a cool cloth was placed on his forehead and over his eyes. She sat on the bed and the gentle sag of the mattress caused a flipping sensation deep in his gut. Please, he prayed, holding his breath and waiting. “What time is it,” he asked when it felt safe enough to speak without spewing.
“Almost six,” she replied. “I was coming down to see if you felt like going to dinner.”
The thought of food made him feel sick all over again. He groaned in response.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He forced a smile. “You go. Enjoy.”
“It’s not right,” she protested.
“That you want me to go out and enjoy myself when I should be here taking care of you.”
“There’s nothing you can do. This just has to run its course. We paid enough for this cruise, so somebody might as well enjoy it.” The effort to talk left him feeling dizzy.
“I guess.” She sounded uncertain, but that didn’t keep her from getting up to leave. “You want me to bring you back something?”
He shook his head slowly. “Can’t keep it down.”
“Some soup and crackers,” she said, insisting.
“I’ll try.” He closed his eyes again now that the dizziness had passed, and he heard the door close. Minutes after she had gone, he drifted off to sleep.
The soft rush of the white-capped waves, the cry of the sea birds overhead, the playful barking of the sea lions frolicking in the water, the high-pitched call of the bottle-nosed dolphins, and the mournful base tones of the whales combined in a natural symphony that left him feeling completely at peace. Weaving through nature’s orchestra was something out of place, yet strangely “right” amongst the calls of the wild, a rising and falling melody that could only be produced by a human voice, but the source of the melody went beyond human, bordered on the Divine, and it tied everything together in a seductive call that he found impossible to resist. It slipped through the darkness of his subconscious with the ease and grace of a manta ray. It brushed his mind with a feathery touch and he grabbed onto it, allowing it to drag him gently towards waking.
When he broke the surface of the dream, a chill breeze embraced him, and he thought he was actually adrift in the ocean. The room was awash with a mystical blue light that he quickly realized were the rays of the moon breaking through the thick window glass. The cold in the air came from the air conditioner, the hum of which did nothing to drown out the seductive melody that had pulled him from a sound sleep and still called to him. As he threw back the blankets, he noticed the cardboard container on the nightstand next to the bed, and on top of the plastic lid were several packages of wrapped saltines. The thought of the soup caused his stomach to rumble, but in a good way, indicating that he was hungry. Had the sickness passed? He looked atSharon, wrapped cocoon-like in the blankets. He had no idea what time it was when she had come back, nor did he care. As he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the only thing that mattered was that haunting melody. It caressed his skin like the finest silk, teasing and full of promise, and he shivered in anticipation.
He got out of bed and took a tentative step forward, afraid that his legs might still not be steady enough to support him, but the music seemed to give him strength. He could feel it like a physical presence pressing intimately against his body, working its way into his pores, seeping its way into his blood. There was an implied sensuality woven within the strains of music; it stirred feelings within him, a desire that manifested itself physically in his arousal, and he gave himself up to it, allowing it to lead him where it would.
He left the cabin and made his way through the deserted hallways. The ship was eerily silent, and for a fleeting moment, he felt as if he might be the only one onboard. It was ridiculous, but the complete absence of sound — no televisions, no music, no laughter — save for that divine voice and the soft wash of the waves against the hull of the ship, which he shouldn’t have been able to hear, left him feeling like the last man on earth.
As he made his way for the stairs, he heard the hum of an elevator off in the distance. It was not something he would normally have noticed, but in the tomb-like silence that had engulfed the ship, it was a comforting sound that meant he was not alone. Topside, he pushed through a set of double glass doors and stepped out onto the deck. The moonlit sky was clear of clouds, and the stars twinkled brightly against the velveteen blackness. This should have troubled him, but he accepted it without question. The summer nights inAlaskawere supposed to be as bright as the day, or so he’d been told, but it was a perfect moonlit night. The air was still, with not even a hint of a breeze to ruffle his shaggy brown hair. This, too, was strange. Shouldn’t there have been some movement to the air as the ship pushed its way through the waters?
Barefoot, he walked along the deck, absent-mindedly undoing the drawstring of his board shorts and allowing them to fall unheeded around his ankles. Without breaking his stride, he stepped out of them, leaving them where they fell, and he continued unashamedly along the deck, his erection leading the way like a divining rod. He rounded the stern of the ship and stopped when she came into view.
She was leaning casually against the port side railing in a typical Hollywood-esque pose. Her face was turned to look out over the water, her long, straight, white hair billowing behind her, stirred by an invisible wind that only touched her. Her arms were stretched to either side, offering an unobstructed view of her nakedness, her hands resting gently on the railing. Her skin was washed out under the moonlight and was as pure white as her hair. She turned her head to face him and her beauty astounded him. There was an Asian caste to her features that only served to stoke the fires of his passion. Her neck was disproportionately thick — the only flaw in her delicate porcelain beauty — and his gaze continued down to her small, almost nonexistent breasts that showed only the barest trace of nipple, to her firm, flat stomach, smooth pelvis, and slim, girlish hips.
“Come to me.”
Those three words were full of sexual promise, uttered with a sensuality that could not be denied. They came to him on the strains of song, and it didn’t fully register with him that her lips had not moved. He continued to move towards her even as a man’s solemn voice whispered in the back of his mind, Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon her your heart’s deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her as long as you both shall live?, immediately followed by his own voice saying, I will. Those words were spoken less than a week ago, but they sounded to him like they were from another place and time, a distant memory from another life. In the present, there was only this beautiful, mysterious woman and nothing else.
When he came to stand before her, she brought her arms up and held them out invitingly. He placed his hands within hers and allowed himself to be pulled forward until their bodies barely touched. The head of his cock brushed lightly against her stomach and he realized that her flesh was not flesh, but fur, sleek white fur that was soaked as if she had taken a dip in one of the ship’s pools. He looked into her eyes, dark, hypnotic pools of onyx that drew him in. He stepped even closer, the feel of her fur against the length of his shaft indescribable. Shivering in anticipation, he brought his hand up to touch her cheek, feeling the same sleek fur, then turned her face up to greet his. Her teeth, he could see through half-parted lips, were sharp, but that did not stop him from pressing his lips to hers.
She tasted of the sea, tangy, salty, with a trace of grit on her lips. She returned the kiss with a passion born of the starved, ravenous with a desire to be sated. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and he could feel the course texture of it. His hands slipped around her waist, and he was surprised to find the fur covered her entire body. As he let his hands slip down to grab her ass, he came up empty handed. Where there should have been twin globes of flesh he found only a smooth expanse of fur-covered flesh. He could feel the finely toned muscles moving beneath the surface. He started to pull back, but she mirrored his actions and grabbed his ass, pulling him closer. Claws punctured his flesh as she sought to pull him still closer. Through the fog that was filling his mind, he was barely aware of the pain, and even as trickles of blood flood from the wounds and ran down his legs, he gasped as he was suddenly engulfed in silky warmth. The angle was all wrong for penetration, but he was in her. Her hands were kneading his buttocks, the needle-sharp claws digging deeper, spurring him to find a rhythm, and soon he was thrusting into her. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, the silken heat sucking at his shaft like it was a mouth, pulsating, trying to draw him deeper. Each withdrawal bordered on exquisite pain, and with each thrust she threatened to consume him entirely. He threw his head back and released a groan that was half agony, half divine pleasure. Throat exposed, she ran her tongue from collar bone to the bold line of his jaw before clamping onto the stretched skin. Her sharp teeth pierced the flesh easily. He forced himself to stay calm for fear that she would tear out his throat. He expected to feel a sucking sensation; instead, he felt a burning that quickly spread from where she had secured herself like a leech, up to his head and down throughout the rest of his body. The scorching pain settled in his brain, where it felt like acid eating into his gray matter. His thrusts became more frenzied until he was grinding into her with animalistic abandon.
Whatever toxin she had pumped into him with her bite finally reached his groin. His nerve endings ignited in a flare of exquisite agony and he was almost overcome with the pleasurable pain. His cock felt as if it had become engorged with ground glass and each thrust became torturous. A scream ripped from his throat, giving voice to the warring sensations, the intense pleasure that played along his shaft and head externally versus the cruel flesh-rending sensation from within. Terror gripped him, making his heart seize up as a certainty settled over him like a cold, damp blanket that she wouldn’t let him go until he had emptied himself into her. He needed to concentrate, to block out the feeling of his dick being flayed and focus on the more pleasurable sensation that played along his sensitive skin, but it was so hard when his entire body felt like an open wound bathed in salt. He tried to think of his wife, but it was as if his memories had been burned away. He knew he was married, but he couldn’t remember her name or what she looked like. His renewed thrusts were stilted, borne of panic, and he struggled to regain his rhythm. Her lips on his throat were a constant reminder that she could end it all now if she so desired, that she could rip away a mouthful of flesh and allow him to bleed out on the deck, to be found by the ship’s crew in the morning. He continued to fuck her with a renewed urgency, as if his life depended on it, and before too long he felt that tingling sensation deep within his balls. It quickly traveled up the length of his shaft, and with a throbbing pulse, he was there.
With the first pleasurable spasm, the pressure disappeared from this throat. His eyelids fluttered open as another pulse seized him and he found himself staring into the inky darkness of the black-soaked horizon. She was gone, but how was that possible? There was only one way to go. He was seized by another wave of pleasure and he stumbled forward, falling into the void.
Arms flailing, he managed to grab hold of the railing before plummeting over the side. He stared into the depths below, watching the white caps lapping against the sides of the ship. As another spasm seized him, he collapsed weakly to his knees, eyes still scanning the surface of the water for any sign of her, but there was nothing.
As yet another wave of pleasure caused his hips to involuntarily thrust forward, a movement immediately below caught his attention and he watched as a thick white thread of his ejaculate fell towards the roiling waters. It should have been impossible to see, but as he watched, the creamy white strand grew, took on shape and coloration, and by the time it hit the turbulent surface, it had taken on a life of its own. He watched in wonder as the newly formed sea otter splashed about before disappearing into the ocean’s depths.
* * *
He awoke in bed, feeling nauseous and weak. The events of the previous evening had already faded from his memory like an elusive dream. The curtains were open and the sun brightened the room, sending ice picks of pain into his skull. I didn’t have anything to drink last night. . . Shit, couldn’t even keep food down. . . So why do I feel like I’ve got a fucking hangover? Shielding his eyes from the harsh glare, he rolled over to find the bed empty, the spot occupied by his wife cold. He forced himself to sit up. There was a pain in his buttocks he couldn’t explain. He glanced around the room and found Sharon curled up on the loveseat. Wrapped in a blanket, she didn’t look comfortable on the small seat. What the hell is she doing over there?
The mattress springs squeaked as he made to get out of bed. While not loud, the sound was enough to wake his wife.
“Where the hell did you disappear to last night?” Though clouded with sleep, there was a chilly accusation in her words that froze him in mid-motion. Slowly, he lowered himself to the bed.
“What do you mean? I’ve been here.”
“Did you fuck her?”
Whoa! Where is this coming from? “Babe, how much did you have to drink last night?”
Angrily, she threw the blanket aside and got to her feet. “Don’t try to make this about me. I didn’t have anything to drink. But you. . .” She approached the bed. “Christ! You fucking stink!”
He lifted his arm and smelled his pit. While he hadn’t showered yesterday, or the day before, the smell wasn’t as bad as she was making it out to be. He looked at her, confused and scared. He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. She had implied that he had sneaked out sometime during the night, but if he had, he couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t see how he could have left the room, not with the way he was feeling, but something must have happened, otherwise she wouldn’t be acting this way.
“Who was she?”
“Shar. . . There was nobody. I swear.”
“Then where did you get all those scratches?”
“Wha. . . What scratches?” He looked down the length of his body and was surprised to find he was naked. He had fallen into bed with his shorts on. That much he remembered. He glanced around the room, searching the floor for his shorts, but they were nowhere to be seen. He made a move to search the bed, wondering if it was possible that he had slipped them off during the night, but the movement reawakened the pain in his buttocks. He took a closer look at his body and noticed for the first time the scratches that marred his flesh. There were all over his arms and legs and his dick looked like he had jerked off with coarse-grade sandpaper.
He stumbled from the bed and staggered towards the bathroom, where he examined his body in closer detail in the mirror over the sink. On his neck was an ugly bruise that could easily be mistaken for a love bite. God, I haven’t had one of those in years. Long red welts ran from his shoulders to his stomach and a red rash covered his chest, stomach, and the insides of his arms. He hadn’t seen an outbreak of hives like this since he was a kid and had rough-housed with his grandfather’s boxer. The dog’s short, sharp fur had been like fiberglass, leaving him scratching for days.
He turned and did his best to examine his back. The same red welts streaked down his back and his ass cheeks were mottled black and blue. It looked as if somebody had grabbed each mound of flesh in a vice-like grip. Where the finger-like pattern ended, deep gouges ripped into his flesh. They had scabbed over but were now bleeding anew, having been reopened by his sudden movements. Fear enveloped him. What the fuck happened to me last night?
A movement at the door caught his attention and he metSharon’s accusatory gaze in the mirror. He could see the change in her expression as she realized what she was seeing in his face was raw terror.
“What happened last night,” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”