Her first reaction was not thought.
It was, mostly, an absence of all thought; Elia Uunt's brain shut down completely, trying to block future memory of her husband kneeling on the bloodstained carpet of his den with his head pressed too firmly between his hands, as though he was trying to squeeze orange juice from it. There was something dripping from it, though; but the scarlet color of the drops indicated it would have a flat, coppery taste, not the sweet citrus of the orange.
He moved forward, putting his clawed, bloody hands on the carpet and digging in with his fingernails. Dark shreds of bloody fabric gathered in his hands as the carpet tore up under all his fingers but one: that one left its bloody nail embedded deep in the wood of the floor beneath. The thing which had been Aardn Uunt, loving husband and kind father looked up at his wife and screamed, and the shock expelled the air from her lungs in a shriek of terror. His face is gone, she thought, oh my god his face is gone...
It was, at least for the most part. The gentle features that had belonged to her husband had all but melted off, leaving a dripping, bloody mass of twisted muscle and teeth. She gasped as his eyes centered on her, their once pleasant violet hues now overlaid with a sinister, rotten green glow.
The monster rose.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
bit7-Forever
Just what do we mean by the word "forever"? Are we referring to time as our memories handle it? As in, "I've known him forever?" Or do we mean eternity? Because, in eternity, time has no meaning because it doesn't exist. If you promise to love somebody forever, are you promising eternity, which you cannot grasp, or just until you are dead, and memory is gone?
Plums Deify p.3
When I woke (came to is probably a better term), I was lying in a puddle of sweat on my own couch, in my own living room, in my own house, and I was thirsty as the rich man in hell. I sat up and winced as pain lanced through my brain. Thunderstorms today, as my mother liked to say when she was getting one of her frequent migraines. Only this was an all-out-balls-to-the-wall electrical storm, from the feel of it. I gasped for breath and made myself stand up.
A very bad idea.
Vertigo took me, and I waltzed drunkenly toward the kitchen, never quite falling but always almost, and slammed into the counter next to the sink. I fumbled in the dish drainer (can't stand those dishwashers, never seem to get anything clean, so I do it the old-fashioned way) and grabbed a glass. I splashed water from the tap into my face, and then, guessing it was cool enough, splashed some in the glass, too. I swallowed three gulps of the heavenly liquid, and promptly vomited all over the counter. Never mind, I'll get it later, I thought, and refilled the glass. Leaning back against the sink so as to avoid the mess on the counter, I wiped the hanging tendril of mucous from my lips and raised the glass.
"A little slower this time, if you want to keep it down."
Startled, I dropped the glass. It did not shatter, but instead slammed down on my (bare) left foot, drawing blood under the skin in a small arc that would later turn black, I knew.
"Damn!" I hissed, sucking in cold air through my teeth. I stumbled/hopped back towards the stove, away from my visitor. He looked like he was in his thousands; and old man, older than God, with long, matted yellow hair hanging almost to his sagging chest. Old muddy biballs and a rat-chewed t-shirt covered his nakedness, completing the definition of the word decrepit. His eyes were bright and black, though, like a crow's, and the way he tilted his head as he watched my antics furthered the impression. This intruder made me very uncomfortable indeed. I swallowed, grimacing at the sting of the bile still in my throat.
I stooped and picked up the now-empty glass with trembling fingers and turned back to the sink, starting to refill it once again.
"I suppose you're the one who found me," I said quietly, my voice level, for a wonder. I twisted off the flow of water from the tap and took a gulp- only one this time, and my stomach still flipped around like a freshly-caught catfish, but it seemed that I might be able to keep it down. "My name is Victor Cole. If you don't mind my asking, sir-"
"Gary Hess."
"What is your name?" I finished, startled.
The old man's answer cut so quickly in front of my question that I had had no time to stop. Now I wished I hadn't asked. Mean Man Gary had a reputation among farmers for being not quite right up top, and their kids, who I grew up with, expanded on that point until Mr. Cole became an evil insect-monster from outer space who not only shot anyone who came within a mile of his place, but actively sought out children in the deepest, darkest nights, dragging them to his barn where they would be butchered and eaten. Kids have wonderful imaginations.
Not an insect, I thought, approaching what I assume was a state of panic. Not an insect, a crow. A dead crow.
Something must have changed about me, because the old man chuckled happily.
"You don't have to worry about me, son," the Mean Man said. "It's true, I might be a little off my rocker since I got back from that mudhole in 'Nam, but I figger a little insanity never hurt nobody. In fact," he smiled at me in a strange avian fashion, "I'm just as friendly as the Baummiers down the hill." His smile widened until I was afraid his false teeth were going to pop right out of his mouth and drop to the floor, chattering away. In fact, the Baummiers had never been very friendly to me, still regarding me after the manner of Granny Clampett, as a "furriner"; I thought it wise not to contradict Mr. Hess on this matter, however, certainly not at the present time.
"Thanks for helping me out of there, Mr. Hess. I really appreciate it." I was looking at the steadily darkening crescent on my foot, the glass which caused it now forgotten in my hand. I looked up at the grinning bird-man, feeling sick and ashamed of myself for being rude. Hell, I had just insulted the man who saved my life!
"Don't be too hard on yourself, son," said the bird-man, startling me again at his apparent telepathic abilities. "How could you have known those stories weren't true? Oh yes, I've heard 'em spreading those lies about me behind my aching back. They're all just full of the Green Lady, they are."
"Green Lady?" My eyes could have popped from my skull. Was he talking about absinthe? No, that's supposed to be the green fairy... Maybe he really is crazy.
"Envy, boy, envy." His dark eyes had taken on a silver gleam that I didn't particularly care for. There was cold malice in that look. "I got something they can't have. That's why my crops'r better, why my cows'r fatter, why I make more money farming than they and their kids ever will." The gleam shattered and became a sparkle at this point, and I exhaled.
"Here son, I feel bad 'bout what happened when I was burnin' pasture today, so I brought you something special. Figured I'd give it to ya before I headed out."
"Huh? Sorry, woolgathering." I had actually started to doze off, but I wasn't about to tell him that, even though I had loosened up considerably since he introduced himself as the monster from my childhood.
"Take a look for yourself."
He turned and made an odd sort of shuffling hop towards the dining room, making me guess again at his age. Awfully sprightly for an old geezer, was Gary Hess. He had something in his right hand, and I just caught a glimpse of it before he disappeared into the other room; it appeared to be a wicker basket of considerable size, with a whitish towel laid over the top to cover something inside. The moving something inside...
A very bad idea.
Vertigo took me, and I waltzed drunkenly toward the kitchen, never quite falling but always almost, and slammed into the counter next to the sink. I fumbled in the dish drainer (can't stand those dishwashers, never seem to get anything clean, so I do it the old-fashioned way) and grabbed a glass. I splashed water from the tap into my face, and then, guessing it was cool enough, splashed some in the glass, too. I swallowed three gulps of the heavenly liquid, and promptly vomited all over the counter. Never mind, I'll get it later, I thought, and refilled the glass. Leaning back against the sink so as to avoid the mess on the counter, I wiped the hanging tendril of mucous from my lips and raised the glass.
"A little slower this time, if you want to keep it down."
Startled, I dropped the glass. It did not shatter, but instead slammed down on my (bare) left foot, drawing blood under the skin in a small arc that would later turn black, I knew.
"Damn!" I hissed, sucking in cold air through my teeth. I stumbled/hopped back towards the stove, away from my visitor. He looked like he was in his thousands; and old man, older than God, with long, matted yellow hair hanging almost to his sagging chest. Old muddy biballs and a rat-chewed t-shirt covered his nakedness, completing the definition of the word decrepit. His eyes were bright and black, though, like a crow's, and the way he tilted his head as he watched my antics furthered the impression. This intruder made me very uncomfortable indeed. I swallowed, grimacing at the sting of the bile still in my throat.
I stooped and picked up the now-empty glass with trembling fingers and turned back to the sink, starting to refill it once again.
"I suppose you're the one who found me," I said quietly, my voice level, for a wonder. I twisted off the flow of water from the tap and took a gulp- only one this time, and my stomach still flipped around like a freshly-caught catfish, but it seemed that I might be able to keep it down. "My name is Victor Cole. If you don't mind my asking, sir-"
"Gary Hess."
"What is your name?" I finished, startled.
The old man's answer cut so quickly in front of my question that I had had no time to stop. Now I wished I hadn't asked. Mean Man Gary had a reputation among farmers for being not quite right up top, and their kids, who I grew up with, expanded on that point until Mr. Cole became an evil insect-monster from outer space who not only shot anyone who came within a mile of his place, but actively sought out children in the deepest, darkest nights, dragging them to his barn where they would be butchered and eaten. Kids have wonderful imaginations.
Not an insect, I thought, approaching what I assume was a state of panic. Not an insect, a crow. A dead crow.
Something must have changed about me, because the old man chuckled happily.
"You don't have to worry about me, son," the Mean Man said. "It's true, I might be a little off my rocker since I got back from that mudhole in 'Nam, but I figger a little insanity never hurt nobody. In fact," he smiled at me in a strange avian fashion, "I'm just as friendly as the Baummiers down the hill." His smile widened until I was afraid his false teeth were going to pop right out of his mouth and drop to the floor, chattering away. In fact, the Baummiers had never been very friendly to me, still regarding me after the manner of Granny Clampett, as a "furriner"; I thought it wise not to contradict Mr. Hess on this matter, however, certainly not at the present time.
"Thanks for helping me out of there, Mr. Hess. I really appreciate it." I was looking at the steadily darkening crescent on my foot, the glass which caused it now forgotten in my hand. I looked up at the grinning bird-man, feeling sick and ashamed of myself for being rude. Hell, I had just insulted the man who saved my life!
"Don't be too hard on yourself, son," said the bird-man, startling me again at his apparent telepathic abilities. "How could you have known those stories weren't true? Oh yes, I've heard 'em spreading those lies about me behind my aching back. They're all just full of the Green Lady, they are."
"Green Lady?" My eyes could have popped from my skull. Was he talking about absinthe? No, that's supposed to be the green fairy... Maybe he really is crazy.
"Envy, boy, envy." His dark eyes had taken on a silver gleam that I didn't particularly care for. There was cold malice in that look. "I got something they can't have. That's why my crops'r better, why my cows'r fatter, why I make more money farming than they and their kids ever will." The gleam shattered and became a sparkle at this point, and I exhaled.
"Here son, I feel bad 'bout what happened when I was burnin' pasture today, so I brought you something special. Figured I'd give it to ya before I headed out."
"Huh? Sorry, woolgathering." I had actually started to doze off, but I wasn't about to tell him that, even though I had loosened up considerably since he introduced himself as the monster from my childhood.
"Take a look for yourself."
He turned and made an odd sort of shuffling hop towards the dining room, making me guess again at his age. Awfully sprightly for an old geezer, was Gary Hess. He had something in his right hand, and I just caught a glimpse of it before he disappeared into the other room; it appeared to be a wicker basket of considerable size, with a whitish towel laid over the top to cover something inside. The moving something inside...
Monday, May 17, 2010
Plums Deify p.2
I drove home over the dusty gravel that seems to define rural Kansas life, my mind occupied in an odd sort of circular thought pattern that went something like this: What do I need to do when I get home? It was so clear to me this morning, but then I hadn't seen the face of God yet, so of course I was clear. I know! I should let the chickens out, looks like it's cleared up a lot from this morning, clear enough to see the face of God, should probably put one of those microwave dinners in, not like I have any company to speak of, just me and the chickens, ha ha. Oh, and God, of course, but then He's always hanging around for some reason or other. Thankfully doesn't eat much, ha ha again, should be fine so long as I don't look at His face...
And on like that. I must have been really out of it, because those little faces kept creeping in to my thoughts almost unnoticed. When I did finally notice them leering out at me from around the corners of my mind, I had already gone several miles past my usual turn. Feeling a little uncomfortable at being in the car with my own thoughts, I eased to a stop off to the side of the road that had changed from gravel to soft dirt somewhere at least a mile back, and exited the vehicle. I broke into sweat immediately.
Je-ezus H. Christ it was hot out! I knew it was supposed to be unusually warm today, but this was ridiculous! It had to be... what? 100? 120? Impossible! Why, it only got that hot in August, and then only...
I never finished the thought. At that moment, one of the stumpy cedar trees in the pasture next to me burst into flame with a sharp CRACK! that made me duck. One by one, the dozen or so miniature trees burst into a vicious red flame with that same rifleshot sound.
"Damn high schoolers," I muttered, now incensed. "What the hell are they doing out here shooting this close to the road? And who in the face of God bought them tracers?"
I started to stand up, but stopped suddenly halfway there. Name! I thought. Who in the name of God, not face. Sorry buddy, but you're losing it, gone clean off your rocker. Faulty elevator, you know. No top-floor access and all that. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were-
"Shut up." I muttered under my breath, and raised myself to full height. The smoke from the blazing cedars choked the heavy air, creating the perfect backdrop for the rosy intensity of the flames. Have you been to Kansas lately folks? The trees are beautiful this time of year. I choked off the giggle rising in my throat and turned to get back in. I was getting a sunburn.
I reached out and grabbed the door handle of the Olds, but yanked my hand back almost immediately, staring in increasing shock at the pads of my fingers, left behind and now smoking on the chrome. I glanced back hurriedly at the line of dying trees beside the road, elm, cottonwood, mulberry, all smoking. No, not smoke, steam. The leaves were steaming off the trees, dropping with sickening little plops that sounded a lot like bird shit hitting blacktop.
Sorry, but I don't remember much of the next few minutes except looking up from the road with dry eyes, my face gritty with hot dust and seeing someone walking down the road towards me. In the smoke and shimmering heat, it looked like some barbarian god.
Or perhaps the devil.
I passed out.
And on like that. I must have been really out of it, because those little faces kept creeping in to my thoughts almost unnoticed. When I did finally notice them leering out at me from around the corners of my mind, I had already gone several miles past my usual turn. Feeling a little uncomfortable at being in the car with my own thoughts, I eased to a stop off to the side of the road that had changed from gravel to soft dirt somewhere at least a mile back, and exited the vehicle. I broke into sweat immediately.
Je-ezus H. Christ it was hot out! I knew it was supposed to be unusually warm today, but this was ridiculous! It had to be... what? 100? 120? Impossible! Why, it only got that hot in August, and then only...
I never finished the thought. At that moment, one of the stumpy cedar trees in the pasture next to me burst into flame with a sharp CRACK! that made me duck. One by one, the dozen or so miniature trees burst into a vicious red flame with that same rifleshot sound.
"Damn high schoolers," I muttered, now incensed. "What the hell are they doing out here shooting this close to the road? And who in the face of God bought them tracers?"
I started to stand up, but stopped suddenly halfway there. Name! I thought. Who in the name of God, not face. Sorry buddy, but you're losing it, gone clean off your rocker. Faulty elevator, you know. No top-floor access and all that. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were-
"Shut up." I muttered under my breath, and raised myself to full height. The smoke from the blazing cedars choked the heavy air, creating the perfect backdrop for the rosy intensity of the flames. Have you been to Kansas lately folks? The trees are beautiful this time of year. I choked off the giggle rising in my throat and turned to get back in. I was getting a sunburn.
I reached out and grabbed the door handle of the Olds, but yanked my hand back almost immediately, staring in increasing shock at the pads of my fingers, left behind and now smoking on the chrome. I glanced back hurriedly at the line of dying trees beside the road, elm, cottonwood, mulberry, all smoking. No, not smoke, steam. The leaves were steaming off the trees, dropping with sickening little plops that sounded a lot like bird shit hitting blacktop.
Sorry, but I don't remember much of the next few minutes except looking up from the road with dry eyes, my face gritty with hot dust and seeing someone walking down the road towards me. In the smoke and shimmering heat, it looked like some barbarian god.
Or perhaps the devil.
I passed out.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Plums Deify p.1
This story is not mine. I am only telling it because I seem to be the only one willing to tell it. Maybe I'm the only one capable. The story appeared in one or two editions of local newspapers, but no copy of those manuscripts remains for you to verify my words. This will have to be a matter of trust between us. Faith would probably be a better word for it, but I'll get to that soon enough.
I live a mile or two outside a small town in central Kansas. Have for most of my life. I am still young, and that frightens me greatly. I still have a long time to live with the memories of that bright, fiery summer in the year of our Lord, 2001. As long as I do live, I hope never to see man rise again to those destructive heights. I feel that I will.
It was May. The sun was still a pale yellow imprint over the eastern edge of sprouting fields and softly rolling hills. The shafts of light pierced through the peaked windows of the First Lutheran church, promising that the pleasant warmth of the morning would soon begin its change into the angry red heat of midday. I was sitting in the third pew from the back, feeling a little dozy with the heat. The words of the honorable Rev. Stein droned on into the gathering daylight like a squadron of bullflies over a pigsty. I conveniently tuned out the preacher's baritone buzzing and focused on the back of Laura's head, her long, soft auburn hair flashing red and gold whenever she shifted in the sunlight.
It was a hypnotic view.
She must have felt me watching her, because she turned to look over her shoulder at me. I hurriedly looked down and pretended to read from the passage the reverend was preaching on, but my Bible was closed, as usual, and I felt heat rise up in my cheeks. She couldn't have seen me... could she? I thought, trying to will the blood out of my face. I peered over the top of the pew in front of me. Her hair was now pulled forward over one shoulder, exposing the whiteness of her neck to the early morning rays. She had seen me and was making sure I got a really good look. I almost turned into a Pentecostal right then and there (can I get a hallelujah?), but I held my seat and my breath until I thought I would pass out. When I breathed again I was more or less under control. Then I was struck with a thought I couldn't get rid of; could I get her to look again? This could be difficult, I thought. What would happen if her father-
"No man can look on the face of God and live."
The preacher's deep voice cut through my thoughts like a chainsaw, sending a bolt of electricity into my gut. I looked up, startled into complete attention. The balding, overweight reverend leaned forward over the decrepit pulpit and continued in the same sleepy tones.
"The very sight of God is too great for the mind of man to take in. Even a miniscule part of Him, if glimpsed, even for the tiniest of moments, would be enough to drive the wisest man insane. God can not be comprehended in His entirety, so he has left us His Word, and has given us the holy injunction..."
His voice faded again to that lulling drone as my mind ran over those words again and again, looking for some significance that touched me deeper than the words themselves could do. No man can look on the face of God and live, huh? Why should those words sound to me like the tolling of so many death-knells? Actually, why would I even notice them at all, given my hypnotized state at the time...? Maybe it was the Spirit of God talking to me... maybe not. I'm not saying that I don't believe it's possible, but I think that (for the most part, anyway) mankind is incapable of hearing the voice of God, even if anyone was really listening anymore. I think we've lost that.
When Laura smiled over her shoulder at me again five minutes later, I hardly noticed.
I live a mile or two outside a small town in central Kansas. Have for most of my life. I am still young, and that frightens me greatly. I still have a long time to live with the memories of that bright, fiery summer in the year of our Lord, 2001. As long as I do live, I hope never to see man rise again to those destructive heights. I feel that I will.
It was May. The sun was still a pale yellow imprint over the eastern edge of sprouting fields and softly rolling hills. The shafts of light pierced through the peaked windows of the First Lutheran church, promising that the pleasant warmth of the morning would soon begin its change into the angry red heat of midday. I was sitting in the third pew from the back, feeling a little dozy with the heat. The words of the honorable Rev. Stein droned on into the gathering daylight like a squadron of bullflies over a pigsty. I conveniently tuned out the preacher's baritone buzzing and focused on the back of Laura's head, her long, soft auburn hair flashing red and gold whenever she shifted in the sunlight.
It was a hypnotic view.
She must have felt me watching her, because she turned to look over her shoulder at me. I hurriedly looked down and pretended to read from the passage the reverend was preaching on, but my Bible was closed, as usual, and I felt heat rise up in my cheeks. She couldn't have seen me... could she? I thought, trying to will the blood out of my face. I peered over the top of the pew in front of me. Her hair was now pulled forward over one shoulder, exposing the whiteness of her neck to the early morning rays. She had seen me and was making sure I got a really good look. I almost turned into a Pentecostal right then and there (can I get a hallelujah?), but I held my seat and my breath until I thought I would pass out. When I breathed again I was more or less under control. Then I was struck with a thought I couldn't get rid of; could I get her to look again? This could be difficult, I thought. What would happen if her father-
"No man can look on the face of God and live."
The preacher's deep voice cut through my thoughts like a chainsaw, sending a bolt of electricity into my gut. I looked up, startled into complete attention. The balding, overweight reverend leaned forward over the decrepit pulpit and continued in the same sleepy tones.
"The very sight of God is too great for the mind of man to take in. Even a miniscule part of Him, if glimpsed, even for the tiniest of moments, would be enough to drive the wisest man insane. God can not be comprehended in His entirety, so he has left us His Word, and has given us the holy injunction..."
His voice faded again to that lulling drone as my mind ran over those words again and again, looking for some significance that touched me deeper than the words themselves could do. No man can look on the face of God and live, huh? Why should those words sound to me like the tolling of so many death-knells? Actually, why would I even notice them at all, given my hypnotized state at the time...? Maybe it was the Spirit of God talking to me... maybe not. I'm not saying that I don't believe it's possible, but I think that (for the most part, anyway) mankind is incapable of hearing the voice of God, even if anyone was really listening anymore. I think we've lost that.
When Laura smiled over her shoulder at me again five minutes later, I hardly noticed.
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