We experience sexual tendencies far earlier than most people assume we do. How young, exactly, is too young to know about the birds and the bees? 10? 11? 12? How about 9? Bernadette was 9 when she discovered just exactly what sex was. Her teacher was her babysitter, Nathan, who raped her.
Bernadette’s therapist claims that this event was the key trigger in her deep, and strange, nymphomaniac behavior.
“Her lips are like cinnamon, so sweet, but so spicy,” Nathan exclaimed at the court hearing.
Bernadette, after hearing this said, gave herself a new nickname, “Cinnamon Lips”. A nickname that she never once shared with her mother and father.
One year passed, and Bernadette’s parents received countless calls from her principal about Bernadette’s promiscuous antics, her inability to sit still, and how she was once caught in the girl’s bathroom fingering herself.
Her parents sat Bernadette down, and asked her about all of these things she had done. As any kid would, she denied all of it, but she was very bad at lying.
Grounded, Bernadette stayed in her room for a week. She was suspended from school, so she really had absolutely nothing to do.
Margaret and Peter, Bernadette’s parents, were perplexed with the thought of Bernadette going back to that school, the names she would be called, and what the Parent-Teacher Association would think of the two of them.
There was only one solution that they could think up. Bernadette would be enrolled in a Catholic school. They figured that she couldn’t possibly be influenced to do something sexually explicit when a crucified Jesus looking at her.
“Yes,” Peter said, “Catholic school would be the best for her…”
The two of them were wrong.
Cosmopolitan magazine had a special section in its pages where the writers discussed the proper technique in delivering blow jobs. Bernadette had never heard of blow jobs before, but it sounded like something she would’ve loved to do.
December 11th approached quickly. This date had no significance to really anybody besides Bernadette and her parents. It was Bernadette’s birthday.
Her history teacher brought Bernadette a small cake, just for her. She ate it slowly, feeling the moist delectable pass through her cinnamon lips. The final bite she took, she took as slowly as she could as she eyed Ben King, one of her classmates. He was watching her with a dreamy expression.
She smiled, and thought about what she had read in her mother’s Cosmopolitan. She looked just under the desk, at the tent of fabric formed with Ben’s khakis. Bernadette’s mouth watered. A new desire filled her almost immediately.
After class, she followed Ben into the boys’ bathroom. She looked in on him as he sat on the toilet, through the bottom of the door, and smiled.
“This is the boys’ bathroom,” He said.
She just kept smiling.
“You’re really pretty,” He stated, shyly.
She opened the stall door and fell onto her knees.
“What’re you doing?” He asked.
She looked up at him and said,
“I read this in a magazine.”
Nothing more was said as she slid his preteen member into her mouth and began to suck on it.
One cannot really tell if this was either grotesque or beautiful. She was so young, as was he, but they were in the throws of oral sex. Personally, I find it disturbing knowing that Our Savior was watching them from above.
Father Millian retired, but before he did so, he introduced his replacement to the congregation of weary-eyed students. His replacement, Father Phillipe, was a pasty-skinned, red haired 27-year-old with a single pimple in the middle of his eye brows.
Bernadette vowed to have him in the way that Nathan did with her. As they all bowed their heads in prayer, Bernadette could only imagine what he could have underneath his robe, under his underwear.
A familiar itch began to grow.
Father Phillipe made his rounds from class to class, saying hello to the nun teachers and waving at the students. He stopped in my class and asked to see me in private.
My heart skipped a beat as I strode from my writing class to the office of the Father.
His office had barely anything in it besides a few books on the shelves and a small portrait of a terrier on his desk. He sat down and ushered Bernadette to sit across from him. She did so.
“I hear that you were transferred here because of a disciplinary problem at your old school,” Father Phillipe said. He had a very stern voice, which trembled slightly as he spoke.
“That’s true,” Bernadette said, looking down at her feet, but with her legs open. She almost felt ashamed, but not quite.
Rage swelled inside of the Father as he slammed a hand against his desk and barked, “Close your legs and sit like a lady!”
She jumped and crossed her legs, lazily.
“I’m not a lady,” she said, “I’m not.”
“Yes you are, you are a young lady and must act as such.”
“I’m a tramp.”
“A slut, trash, a harlot.”
“Stop this awful taste,” he snarled as he reached for a ruler.
“I’m a whore.”
SNAP! Father Phillipe had taken the ruler between his digits and smacked it against Bernadette’s hand. She pulled away, but it felt almost erotic, pleasing, exciting.
“Thank you, father.”
“Detention,” he said, under his breath, “for a week.”
“Okay, under who’s watch?”
He smirked, not a friendly smirk, but a malicious one,
There was only one other student in detention. He was a small child with freckles who kept snapping his fingers. He didn’t have any physical indication that he was slow or anything, he just couldn’t stop. It was a form of impulse. Bernadette discovered that was why he was in detention in the first place. I could’ve stopped what I was doing, which would’ve gotten me no detention at all, but I enjoyed looking at Father Phillipe as he read his ancient-looking bible.
Bernadette watched his fingers trail over words as he read them, and she imagined his fingers trailing over her skin, trying to find invisible holy words. Truth was, there was nothing holy about her.
The second detention night, a nun ran it. The Father, apparently, felt ill and couldn’t come into the school today. How Bernadette wished she were at his home, to make him feel better. Maybe to make him some soup, and then give him some young, fresh desert.
This nun kept a close eye on Bernadette’s movements. She must’ve known about her past. No “happy thoughts” for Bernadette tonight.
The final night, a friday night, was just spent between Bernadette and the Good Father. She sat directly in front of him, her legs crossed like the lady she was supposed to be. She kept smiling as her hand would travel about her body, unnoticed.
After a few moments of this, the Father noticed her. He glared for a moment and raised from his seat. He crossed in front of her and fell to her eye level.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked.
“Whatever it is you’d like me to.” Bernadette answered, glaring at the Good Father with lust-filled eyes. She licked her lips, her cinnamon lips, and went on, “What is it that you’d like to do?”
Without warning, Father Phillipe flipped over the desk in front of Bernadette, tossing it onto the floor beside them.
“You want to be treated like a slut? Fine then!” He yelled.
He grabbed her by the arms and lifted her onto the desk he was previously sitting at.
Berndatte began to grow frightened.
Her panties were tore off from her hips in one powerful tug. They were flung from her skin and onto the floor beside the desk.
He whispered in a growling voice,
“I will give you the lesson you deserve.”
Bernadette began to cry. She wanted him, but not like this.
He unzipped his pants and guided his penis into her small cavity. She cried out, but he gagged her with his rosary beads.
“Pray for your sins, brat.” He snarled.
His face contorted, making him look more like a demon than a saint. He was forcing himself into Bernadette more and more. She tried to resist, but couldn’t. The more he slammed into her, the more the Good Father vanished. All that was left was the Bad Father and the girl with those Cinnamon Lips.
Ted Morgan felt as though his family needed some bonding time and believed he had arrived at the perfect solution: a camping trip. He packed up the family minivan and made his way north, just outside of Alberta. He looked at his wife, Layla age 42, in the passenger seat next to him. She was too busy tidying up her nails to pay any acknowledgment to her husband’s gaze so he turned his eyes to the rear view mirror to take a look at his three children: Tomas age 8, Jean age 16, and Lindsey age 4. He beamed at his children all of them his pride and joy, but also all of them very different. Jean his oldest had dark green streaks running through her hair and enough metal in her face to piece together a small car engine, Lindsey the youngest was convinced she was a unicorn, and Tomas the middle child had a powerful obsession with artwork and sketching he was buried in his sketchbook drawing something his father didn’t understand. It’s not that Ted was unable to tell what his son was drawing, it was that his sons art was usually twisted like people hanging with hooks through their toes, or a baby clawing it’s way out of their mother’s womb. They’d been through countless psychiatrists, but all of them said it was perfectly natural for a child to express their imagination no matter how dark that imagination could be.
Even though his children were different he knew they all had one thing in common, they rarely spoke to their parents. Ted looked back at his wife who was now working on her other hand and slowly came to terms with this trip being less about his family and more about himself.
The maroon minivan pulled onto a dirt path leading to a campsite that hadn’t been used in over a decade. Ted starting to get excited and pressed his foot on the accelerator without thinking and the car lurched hard tossing his family around uncomfortably inside the cab.
“Dammit, Ted! You made me break a nail!” Layla hissed waving her hand in his face.
“Sorry honey I’m just really ready to get there,” he said frowning.
The minivan came to a halt in the center of a clearing after about a half hour drive down the path. Ted killed the engine and stepped out of his car followed by the rest of his family. As they emerged from the car, they stretched and yawned as the chilled air jabbed at their senses.
Except for the path leading into the clearing the area was completely surrounded by think foliage as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t very far because the forest was so thick the trees and leaves obscured anything past roughly ten feet.
Ted was the first to speak, “So who’s ready for this four days camping together?”
“This is gonna suck dad.”
“Careful with the language in front of Lindsey and Tomas, Jeany.”
“Don’t call me Jeany, I fucking hate that!,”
“Jean Lynn!!,” he shouted, but she was already around to the other side of the minivan.
After about an hour of hard labor without help Ted managed to get the two tents up and start a fire. The sun was setting as Jean, Lindsey, Ted, and Layla were sitting around the fire in silence. Lindsey and Ted were roasting marshmallows, Layla was staring off into the distance and Jean had her headphones over her ears.
Ted looked around to trying to find Tomas and noticed a light on in the kid’s tent.
“Layla, can you go and get Tom from out of the tent I want him to come and sit around the fire with us for a little while,” he asked with a smile.
She sighed heavily, trying to show her displeasure to fetching her son from the tent. Ted watched as she slowly rose from her fold out chair and begrudgingly made her way toward the tent.
He shook his head in disappointment knowing that sooner or later his wife would divorce him. He knew she had been seeing someone on the side and there was nothing left holding their marriage together; not even their children. She despised every baby she had squeezed out of her and hated what they had been growing up to be even more, there was nothing leaving her tied to her husband and he knew it.
Layla returned from the tent with Tomas who was clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest. She returned to her seat and Tomas sat next to his father near the fire and opened his sketchbook. His father watched him as he returned to drawing something else ugly and deformed.
Curiosity tugged at Ted’s mind as he watched his son sketch. He wanted to know what Tomas was drawing.
“Hey buddy can I have a look at what you’re drawing? I’ll trade you a s’more for it,” He offered holding the s’more out to his son.
Tomas looked at the s’more and took it from his father and then continued to sketch, “It’s not finished yet,” he said coldly.
Tomas looked away from his father and back to his sketchbook he knew his father didn’t like his drawings, he thought they were weird, evil even. He didn’t control why he thought up these things he just knew he wanted to draw them. There’s no harm in that.
Jean grabbed a marshmallow from the bag and took notice of Lindsey sitting by herself fighting to keep the marshmallow and chocolate inside the graham cracker. Watching as the innards of the s’more spilled out all over her and onto the ground she begin to pout. Jean took this as a time to speak up.
“Hey dad why don’t you tell a ghost story?” she asked hiding her motives.
Looking up at his daughter with a shocked look he shook his head, “No, I wouldn’t want to scare your brother and sister.”
Jean searched her brain for a retort, “You used to tell them to me when I was their age,” she smiled malevolently she knew she had him.
He looked at the ground and a smile slowly spread across his face, “Alright, if you really want one, then I’ll tell one. I’ll even let you pick,” he said looking at his daughter as he smiled widely.
“Tell the story about the Wendigo,” Jean requested.
Ted’s wife looked at Jean callously. She knew exactly what her daughter was up to, but she wasn’t going to do anything to stop it.
Lindsey stopped trying to pick the melted chocolate and marshmallow off of her and perked up beaming, “Yeah daddy tell the story!!,” she began to bounce up and down in her seat clapping her hands frantically.
Ted turned to his son who was already looking at his dad wild eyed and prepared to hear the story that had been proposed.
“Daddyyy, tell the Wenngo story!,” Lindsey demanded.
Ted looked at his wife who gave her approval with a scoff.
“Ok. You all had better listen up because I’m only going to tell you this once.”
His children looked on in fascination as his demeanor changed whenever he began a horror tale. “To start off,” he began, “I need to tell you who don’t know what a Wendigo actually is. A Wendigo is a creature that used to be a person, but after a certain amount of time it becomes something…less, a subhuman. You see in order for a person to become a Wendigo they need to be put in an extreme situation that would…encourage a sort of animalistic behavior. On top of that they need one other thing, something awful, something that is the most extreme taboo. The person needs to eat human flesh. A person needs to consume enough to almost enjoy it.”
Lindsey looked around in terror and began to cry. Her father looked to her saddened and tried to comfort her only to seem to make her cry harder. She then was picked up by her sister and comforted to a small sob.
“Good job dad,” Jean spat as Layla chuckled to her self at his misfortune.
The mood was broken, Jean took Lindsey back to her tent and Layla had returned to her’s as well leaving just Ted and his son who stood in front of his father holding out his sketchbook, “I finished it.”
Ted took the sketchbook from his son to see a detailed sketch of a human heart nailed to a wall with pins and needles sticking out from all over it. He handed the sketchbook back to his son who snatched it and rushed back to his tent.
* * * * * * * *
The next morning Ted woke up early and prepared for a hike with his family. Whether or not they wanted to go didn’t matter, if there was one thing he was determined to get right this weekend it would be this hike, or so he thought.
By the time the rest of his family had woken up and stopped protesting it was about noon. They started walking in a random direction into the thick forest that surrounded the campsite. After an hour of silent walking Layla started complaining about her feet, but everyone else was too tired to pay any attention to her nagging.
“I think we should start heading back now, it’s getting dark,” Jean finally said after hours of hiking.
Ted looked at his watch, then at the setting sun, and then around at the dense forest. He nodded to his daughter and hesitantly picked a direction.
The sun had long been gone by the time Layla finally spoke, “You have no idea where we are do you Theodore?,” she hissed at her husband as she turned to sit on a fallen tree. Her feet were killing her and she had enough of walking around in the woods, “We’ve been lost since we could no longer see the fucking car haven’t we?”
Ted looked through the bushes as Lindsey started to cry on her sister’s shoulder. They WERE lost and now they all knew it. This trip went from bad to a disaster, nothing could possibly get any worse.
Layla stood and slapped Ted hard across the face, he didn’t even flinch, there was no care left in his eyes. He was defeated.
“What are we going to do now you loser? This is why I’m leaving you, this is why I have been cheating on you with another man.”
Their kids looked on in horror at their mother.
“This is why I hate you, and these things that I birthed because they all have a part of you in them, you worthless fuck!,” she shoved him hard and Ted lost his balance and went tumbling down a hill that no one had noticed through the think foliage until now. The four of them listened to every crack and snap until the rustling of someone falling down a hill at break neck speed stopped. Then came the screaming.
“Help!!!,” Ted cried to his family standing at the top of the hill.
“Let’s go,” Layla said coldly. She turned her back on Ted’s calls for help. She never cared about him and she didn’t intend to start now. Layla turned to see Jean starting to head down the hill with Lindsey on her back and holding Tomas’ hand.
“What do you think you are doing?,” she spat.
“I’m going to help dad,”
“No you’re not you’re coming with me,” gabbing Jean’s arm she yanked hard, so hard that Jean lost her grip on Tomas who went falling down the hill losing his sketchbook during the fall.
“Let me go you bitch,” she yelled at her mother catching her with a hard punch to the right eye.
Layla released her grip on her daughter and watched as the rest of her family fell into the forest.
“Fine! You want to go with him? You can die with him too,” she called after them maliciously.
* * *
At the bottom of the hill Jean checking for any breaks on herself her hair was dirty and tattered from the fall, then in a panic she began calling for Lindsey. Searching frantically for her sister Jean began to hear sobbing from a nearby tree. Rushing over to the sobs Jean found Lindsey sobbing against a tree, and she was badly bleeding from her arm. Jean removed her jacket and tore a sleeve from it, then proceeded to wrap it around her sister’s arm tightly. She continued to sob as Jean looked around for any sign of her father or brother. The cries for help had stopped and she wondered if she had been unconscious after the fall. Reaching for the back of her head she could feel dried blood. She must have been knocked out for some time.
“Lindsey hey sweetheart I need you to be a big girl as we look for daddy ok? Can you do that for me?,” she asked in a childish voice wiping the tears from her sister’s eyes.
Jean picked up her sister and started in a direction through the forest looking for her father and brother. They couldn’t be that far and she was right they weren’t. She just started walking in the wrong direction.
After a short while it began to get dark and Jean put her sister down to start making a small camp area, no fire though in case it attracted wild animals. Jean never thought her life science class would pay off for anything until now. After a lot of hard work she had set up a camp site and had cocooned herself and Lindsey in a layer of twigs and leaves she drifted into a light sleep.
* * *
Two more days had passed and Jean was giving up hope, she had already eaten bark and drank water from the from a nasty creek. Her sister had been getting heavy on her back and was growing paler by the day. Her makeshift bandage had already been bled through, and she had been eating and drinking less. Hope was growing dimmer by the hour if Jean didn’t get her sister to some help she wasn’t going to make it another day.
After hours of trying to find some way out of the forest Jean lost hope and started to scream and cry damning her father and her mother and her life. That’s when it happened in some strange twist of fate in front of her stood her brother doused in blood.
“What are you crying about? You’re supposed to be the big sister,” he said monotone.
“What happened to you are you alright, she ran up to her brother trying to look for a wound, but to her confusion none of the blood was his.
“Where’s dad? Is he ok?,” she asked worriedly.
“What do you mean ‘no’?,”
“Dad is dead,” he continued in his monotone voice, “I ate him.”
Too dazed and hungry to grasp it immediately it took Jean a moment to piece together what she had just heard. Her face scrunched in confusion, “You what?,”
“I ATE him. I wasn’t going to starve to death,” he said.
Jean began showing signs of comprehension as her brother repeated himself for the second time. She started taking notice of her brother. There was no emotion on his face, no signs of life, of the child she once knew.
He took a step toward her and reached out for her embrace, and instinctively she did the same. She felt his face bury into her belly and she embraced him tight only to be greeted with a sharp pain. She pushed her brother from her and looked down to see blood pouring from her abdomen.
She coddled the wound and looked to see her brother chewing on the meat he had bitten from her torso.
Tomas chewed on his sister’s flesh and watched as her expression grew from panicked to hysterical. He then watched her scream and take off in the opposite direction. He watched as she got farther and farther off, but it didn’t matter he knew he could catch her. He was different now. Faster and stronger. He let Jean take off into the woods, the smell of blood strong on her. He’d be able to find her in an hour.
He turned his attention to his other sister Lindsey, and began helping himself.
* * *
Jean ran for her life crying and screaming through the woods. She hadn’t known how long she had been running, but it didn’t matter she needed to get out of the forest. Falling against a tree she looked at her hand. It was dripping a violent crimson from the wound her brother had left. She picked a direction and started running again, she could feel herself getting dizzy and collapsed. Then she heard it. The most horrifying sound she could have imagined. Lindsey’s voice pierced Jean’s soul. She forgot her sister. Jean ran hoping to get to her before it was too late. Then another scream she adjusted her course accordingly following the terrible sound.
A third scream echoed through the forest from a different direction and Jean was quickly became disoriented. She picked a direction, but was suddenly hit by a heavy object from above. She hit the ground hard and stared up in horror at her brother who was now covered in even more blood. He’d killed Lindsey and now he was here to kill her too. She reached up in vain to try and attack like a cornered animal, but he caught her hand. He’s too strong. He brought her hand to his mouth and took another bite out of her, this time from her wrist. She screamed as he continued to eat her. Piece by piece.
Tomas watched his sister’s fight fade until she no longer moved. She was cold and still, but he continued eating no longer taking notice of her lifelessness. He began tearing into her torso, her body flailing lightly as her insides were ripped apart by his childlike hands. He ate his fill and stalked off to his new life in the wild.
* * *
Layla had finally located the campsite and could see the van from her position in the woods. Letting out a breath of relief to be out of the woods and rid of her family she hobbled to the minivan leaning against the side.
“I’m never leaving the city again,” she whispered to herself. She crossed the campsite to the abandoned tent and grabbed the keys to the minivan, she unlocked the door with the remote keypad from inside the tent and began gathering her things. As she went to pack a voice came from behind, a voice she didn’t expect to hear. The voice of her son.
“Layla, why did you leave us in the woods? Why did you leave us to die?,” called Tomas.
She turned and saw something awful, something that was no longer a boy, no longer human, something less. She stared at what used to be her son with her mouth agape.
“Now you listen here you little shit,” she started, “I’m getting the hell out of here and not some crazy little abomination like you is going to stop me.”
She left the tent and started to pass the boy, but she was snagged by a sharp tug on her hair and then black.
Tomas had snapped his mother’s neck and began dragging her body back into the trees. He had become something of legend, something of myth. An abomination, a Wendigo. But none of that mattered to him now, because he was hungry.
I’m Ryan, and I’m the last writer for this month. I haven’t really been in the writing scene seriously that long so I’m not really that great, but I’m hoping to build on my creative writing abilities and crank out some good short stories in the future.
“I think the panting is what I remember the most. My thoughts about that night were so hazy that all I remembered was panting. I tasted beer and cigarettes, even though I’m not a smoker, but they didn’t feel as harsh as I would have thought. I had navigated the night on a heavy buzz. Too many Long Island Ice Teas. The colors of the night blended so well that it was hard to separate tinted car windows from the clear night sky, and the sky from the black lights flickering in the living room. That’s right, I was at a party. I was at a party somewhere near my apartment.”
“What else do you remember?”
“I remember tv. There was a game on in the front. Guys crowded around the small living room space near the corner where a tv blarred incoherently while the less sports-savvy folk danced under black lights. The party was incomplete.”
“Go on, do you remember how you felt? Were you hurt by this point?”
“No. I wasn’t hurt. I felt really good actually. That drunken kind of good. I felt like I could do anything. Anything, once I figured out what was going on around me.”
“Well, tell me more. What happened next?”
“There was a lot going on after that. I remember I drank more. I had punch. I had beer. I had shots. My mind was swirling. I had a girl. She was with another girl. We went upstairs, to an empty room. And we…”
“Well, you know…we did…it.”
“Okay, you had sex…with these girls?”
“Did they hurt you?”
“Sara…when did you start remembering all of this?”
“Last night. I was leaving work. I was in the parked car, changing my CDs. I wasn’t in the mood for country, so I switched to classical. I was having a difficult time choosing out of my collection, so I closed my eyes, and spun through my CD album. I stopped it, and placed my finger on Philip Glass. It hit me. Like a jolt. I felt the car swerve again. I was there again. The metal was mashing together, melting like candle wax. I remember trying to look out of the window, trying to see the bits and pieces of windshield glass, shattering, but being blocked by the airbag. Being knocked back, feeling a knot in the middle of my forehead. Then blank. I was lucid, sitting there with my finger on the Philip Glass CD. I loaded it, and I drove home, listening quietly. Feeling the memories flood my mind. Dr. Randall, it was surreal. It was pleasant really. It’s been years since the accident, and I could remember nothing of that night.”
“Well, now that you know, how do you feel?”
“That’s why I’m here Dr. Randall. I remember so many things now. So many terrible things that I did that night. Things I could never forgive myself for.”
“Like having sex with those girls?”
“That wasn’t the only thing.”
“Well, tell me more Sara.”
“The one girl, the first one, she was different. She had a scar on her cheek. It’s what started this whole thing. I walked up to her, and touched the scar. I asked where she’d gotten it. She told me it came from dancing in the dark. She laughed, told me she was just kidding. Then she asked if I wanted to fuck. I said yes. She nodded to another girl named Fran.”
“Do you remember the first girl’s name?”
“No. But I remember Fran. Fran was the type of girl you’d never recognize in a crowd. She was plain. Plain brown hair. Plain round face. Plain brown sandals. Plain name, Fran. No scars like the first girl.”
“This first girl seems interesting. Do you remember how she looked?”
“She looked like fame. She was tall, dark, and handsome. Short hair, green eyes. Boyish with beer. She grabbed my hand and we found a dark room. She sat on the side, watching, drinking her beer. She told Fran to undress me. Slowly. And like a puppet, Fran touched me, grabbed my shirt tails, and hoisted the shirt over my head.”
“Did you feel forced to do any of this?”
“No. But it went fast. Fran did as she was told while Fame walked in circles around us, leering, like she had a camera and was filming the event. Fran kissed my numb body, tickling my stomach with her tongue while Fame stood over us, directing. Telling Fran to touch me here and there. Whispering for Fran to slide my jeans over my ankles. Pushing Fran over the edge. I didn’t feel it, but my body did. Fran touched my wetness, and we panted softly. Louder while Fame encouraged us, egged us on until I blacked out.”
“How did you get to your car?”
“I walked. I simply came to in that dark room. I reached around me, grappling for something, anything as my vision blurred into focus. The moonlight peered through the curtainless window. Fran was gone. Fame stood over me. I was dressed again. Fame was smoking a cigarette. I asked where Fran was. She told me Fran had used up her service. She was gone. Fame stretched her hand out to me. ‘You wanna see?’ She asked. I nodded. I wasn’t really thinking clearly, just following a feeling. A feeling that lingered casually in the air around me. Around us. Fame had that appeal. A cliff hanger appeal, that kept you tip toeing on eggshells. That kept you continuously free falling, no thoughts. Just heart pounds and adrenalin. And so, I understood Fran finally. And I followed Fame, latching onto her hand. She lead me back downstairs and like a zombie I floated through the crowd and the boys watching the game. We stepped outside into night-time. Fame lifted her other hand and pointed over to the dumpster. She nodded. ‘Fran?’ I asked. She nodded again and we walked over to the smelly metal and rust. I lifted the lid and saw eyes wide open, staring lifeless at the black sky. Fran’s arms were crossed over her small breasts. Her fingers were white. Fame closed the lid. ‘See, Fran is done, let’s go.’ I wanted to be shocked, no I felt like I should be shocked. I felt the corners of my mouth curl under, bending slowly like wire. My face faked disgust, but I felt Fame’s apathy. Fran was done. Now it was my turn. I knew this and Fame knew as she led me over to my car. I fished my keys out of my jean’s pocket and we got inside. Once in the ignition, Fame changed the radio station. The static between the stations buzzed in my ears as Fame switched from rock to pop and pop to country. ‘You got any good CDs?” she asked, fingering the radio dial. I told her I did, but I had left them back home. I pulled out of the parking lot telling Fame of my favorites. We sped down the back road behind the complex. I rambled on about my country CD’s and how I was really getting into classical. ‘I like the oldies like Ludwig and Wagner. But lately I’ve been into some contemporary stuff like Philip Glass’…”
“That’s when it happened, right?”
“Wow. That’s everything? Is there anything else. Any other blank spots?”
“Dr. Randall. There are a lot of them. You see, I spent a lot of time in a coma. I heard people over me talking, speculating. No one explaining anything real. Just calling it a drunken episode. A horrendous accident. I spent months hearing these things, not being able to say to them. To tell them that Fame did it to me. I tried, and I tried, but my eyes wouldn’t open and my tongue wouldn’t work. And when I finally awoke, I asked the nurse if Fame was okay”
“Dr. Randall, she had no idea who I was talking about. And so I kept asking. I asked my doctors and my Mother when she came to visit. I wanted to know where the tall girl with the short hair was. Had she survived like me? Had she died? Dr. Randall, there was no girl. My mother told me that there was no one else in the car but me. It’s impossible, but everyone swore that it was only me. Just me. Only my blood everywhere. Only my shoes, and my body. Only me. And so I sat there, confused. I didn’t remember anything but Fame. Her face. Her scar. I didn’t even remember the accident, just knew that I had been in one. I eventually moved on. Thinking that Fame was maybe just a dream from my coma. Then I started to see you, Doctor and you made me feel great. I felt lucky. I was stupid for driving while drunk, but I survived. I had a new life. I never had to tell you about Fame, and she remained a distant thought. A memory. Just a dream, I told myself. And then last night, it all came crashing back. The Philip Glass CD. The party. The tv. The Game. The car. The crash. Fame. Fran. I remembered Fran. Her frail body in the dumpster. Surely that was just a dream. It had to be. Fame wasn’t real, so Fran couldn’t be either. But then her body was so real. And she followed Fame like I had. And when Fame was done with her, she killed her. And then when she was done with me, she tried to kill me too, but I survived. Fran hadn’t. Dr. Randall, I think I killed Fran. And then I think I tried to kill myself.”
Hello, My name is Culhane. I am second year at Florida State University, currently studying Theatre and Public Relations. I come from a small town in Florida named Venice. I come from a large family with three brothers, two parents, and over 40 aunts,uncles, and cousins. One of the best things about growing up with such a large family was the number of stories I heard growing and the number of people I got to meet. When I write I try to draw upon my experiences from where I live and the stories that have been passed around at the dinner table for years.
A solitary light flickered on, and a white glow filled the dark room. The light gave definition to the room and its contents that were once nothing more than undefined shadows in the dark. The light gave off the occasional quiet buzz that would be followed by a small annoying flicker, but that was normal.
The light had woken up the only living thing in the dark room. The girl blinked awake slowly and began shifting herself to sit up. She did this carefully and without haste because she knew that she had all the time in the world to get up. Every morning would consist of the girl trying desperately to remember better times. Memories of getting up on other days in other places were not lost, but they had been badly faded. The girl was glad she could still lose herself sometimes in memory, however foggy and rose-colored it may have been. The girl in the dark room counted her memories like gold. In a way, it was all that remained.
The room was exceedingly cold every time the girl woke up. Her fingers slid across the floor to position her hand in a place to take her weight. As she did this her hand felt the strange material that made up the dark room’s floor. Though she could not say for sure the floor felt like it was made of some kind of metal. The rough texture was felt as she lifted her body up into a sitting position. The floor on which she sat could have been stone or metal. There was no way to tell. It was a strange sort of cold as well. It was more the absence of warmth rather than actually being cold in that room. This made the girl feel strangely tired because of the lack of warmth. It was as if the floor was sapping more than just the heat from her body.
The girl sat up, after examining the floor, and began to survey the room to see if anything had changed. She had hoped in vain that something, no matter how small, would change. She wanted to know that something would be different. One of the worst things about this kind of captivity, along with the ignorance, the dark room, and the strange material that made it, was the monotony of it. Sometimes safety and comfort came with knowing the simple routine of things; however, the girl was human and monotony eats away at her in excess. Even when the routine breaks, it is usually predictable in some way that allows the person to compensate for it. This room followed none of those rules.
The girl stood up, putting her hand on the wall to steady herself. The walls were the same ebony color of the floor also sharing the same texture by sight. Though, the walls were completely smooth to the point where she didn’t know if she was touching the wall or some barrier that prevented their contact. She figured the texture on the ground was for traction after she shuffled her feet around slightly. Now fully standing, her hand still on the wall, the girl scanned the room with her blue eyes and found that the room had not changed. Even though she had spent many mornings (she assumed she woke up in the morning) finding nothing new, she, by human nature, could not help but hope.
The room was made up of the same four black, ebony colored walls that were smooth to the touch. They shared the indescribable, unexplainable ability to suck the heat out of anything that they came in contact with as the floor. The floor maintained its color, texture and coldness, just as it always had. The wall on the left of the girl housed the door, which was simply two black slabs that were almost indiscernible from the rest of room. Had the girl not spent hours possibly even days observing every detail of that room the doors would have gone unnoticed. On the side opposite from the door, there was the only non-black thing in the room. Housed high off the ground was a silver panel that seemed to almost glimmer in the flickering light. Upon the shining silver panel there were two buttons. One read “live” the other “die.” When she was place in the room she was told that the “live” button would set her free, if she could reach it. She needed no explanation for the other. She could tell she could not reach either one. The room was twice her size in height.
At first she reached for the “live” button like so many before her, but after a while she reached for the other with similar success.
She took three steps toward the middle of the room. Standing just off center she looked up at the light. It seemed to taunt her by giving the silver panel its shine, and by reminding her of her inability to reach it. The girl sat down in the middle of the dimly lit room that did not seem to be made of stone or metal. The girl thought to herself as she did every time she woke up. She thought of all the things that she didn’t realize were finite. She thought of all the things that she would never do again and the people she would never see, among them her family and the man who was about to become family, at least she hoped. She was stripped of all possibility of such experiences when she was put in this cell to die.
Even though the pain was almost too much, she could not help but think about how this all started. It was almost unbelievable, in the same cliché way that even if you experienced it, it would still be unbelievable. It was a normal day out of the 365 days that were allotted for the year of 2037.
They came to her and her people from their great, white castles in the sky.
They said they come in peace. The giant starships took home in the skies of man. They claimed to come with good tidings. Their people floated down to us. They were the creators of man they said. From their flying fortressing holding dominion of the sky they came with man’s reward. They were proud of what man had accomplished in their short time in the universe. The castles would become humankind’s way into the stars. The shimmering, silver sanctuaries would be the next step in the lives of many. They would flock to the stars.
Those of religion went first to have their faith deceived, but in the end they deceived all of us. They flocked in drones to the gates to their heavens. The Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Methodists, the Manni, the Buddhists seeking nirvana, all went to the skies in search of enlightenment, power, and reward; however, All that was allotted for them was a cell and the sweet release of death that would save them from their humiliation and their own dark rooms. At least this was what the girl thought as far as the dark room was concerned. She figured that her fate would be the norm for all people. There was no need to waste more than a dark room on the likes of man.
As she pondered the events leading up to all this, as she always did, still trying to believe what was going on, something happened. Something, whether out of heaven or hell, came to oppose the bone crushing, mind bending monotony that had beaten and broken her spirit. The doors opened.
It opened the doors and stepped through without so much as a pause for, what was too the girl, the most rare and terrifying thing to ever happen in that room, and to the alien the last time it would ever happen.
They looked like us, sort of, she thought. That made it worse in a way. They towered over them in height. Body wise they were essentially human like; however, this similarity was conflicted by their legs and arms, which are much longer. On average they stood about 9 feet tall. Their hands were much larger with long fingers as well. Freakishly lanky they stood with pale skin and heads held high. Their heads did not help the fear that was instilled in the girl. Hairless, leathery and with pale, sallow skin their heads lacked definition and diversity that was common among humans. Their eyes were small, cold, and blue. There was no nose to speak of and the mouth disappeared when closed. Their mouths were always closed; they spoke to humans through a metal collar that was strapped tightly to their long necks.
It spoke from its metal neck harness with a soft, kind and almost condescending tone of voice. It was not the type of tone that one would use on anyone else but their own child. The voice was high and reeked of the smugness that came with power.
At first the girl in the dark room didn’t know what to say. The myriad of questions that came to the mind of a prisoner presented with her captor was far too varied and plentiful. Also, finding the right question was made even more difficult since Lilith’s warden was this strange. She didn’t understand her captor, what it was, what it wanted, why it wanted it, or what it was going to do. She was lost for words, so she could only think of one thing to say.
“Why?” Lilith asked.
“Why?” the intruder replied in a tone of questioning amusement. “I could answer that question in a million different ways and I would still not give you the information you desire.” Again, the parent-to-child way of speaking was apparent in the voice coming from the metal neck microphone.
“Why are you here?” Lilith managed as she watched the tall figure slowly make its way in grand long strides across the dark room that even with the light flooding in from the outside she still could not see.
“I am here to carry out your sentence,” remarked the soft voice that made what it said sound like it was obvious.
“What sentence?” she asked, more so to keep talking rather than to gain information. She knew what sentence.
“They should have informed you, but if you have forgotten, I would be happy to remind you.” He/She/It said. Stopping mid-stride, the tall one turned to face her and leaned forward with its large hands behind its slender back. “You and your people have stepped too far out of line. We gave you a garden paradise of Earth, as you call it, and you proceeded to exploit it for all that it is worth. Your garden is gone. You constructed towers of Hubris and tools of Aries. To put it simply: You were a danger to yourself and everything around you.” The Tall one moved toward the silver panel and raised one had to rest upon both buttons. Lilith’s heart nearly stopped then. He continued “Now you must be purged so that the garden can begin again, and we, the makers, can learn from our misjudgments.” The maker paused for a moment slowly caressing the button marked “Die.” Lilith took this time to stand up, might as well. “Still, though I am duty bound and fully believe what I am doing is right and just and completely without reservation, I admit that watching you build your empire out of clay and ash made me feel “Proud” as you have come to call it.” Its hand stopped moving and rested upon the button to end Lilith’s life. “If it wasn’t for the fire…”
The tall one’s voice became soft during the declaration of admiration but then returned to the parent-like sternness. “Nevertheless, it affects me not to punish you for the greater good.” A long and almost awkward silence took over after the alien was finished speaking.
“Do you really believe what you’re doing is right?” asked Lilith.
“Yes, Lilith. Consider what would happen if you were allowed to continue,“ The tall one spoke, “You would destroy your world and become a plague upon the others. We, the makers, cannot allow that to happen.”
Lilith looked quizzically at the Maker, “You speak with such certainty.”
“I do not see a more likely outcome. This initiative has been calculated for decades and will do the most good.”
“You’ve done this before.” Lilith stated, hearing the reminiscence in the tall one’s electronic voice. “Haven’t y-“
The tall one hesitated slightly then pushed the button to cease its captive’s speech. It paused to watch Lilith fall to the ground. She rested there like so many before her, in tranquility.
Prometheus left Lilith to her rest and proceeded to walk through the veil of light into the warehouse. That was the last one, it thought. Prometheus walked swiftly away from the last dark room of the last cell block of the castle in the sky.
Hello my name is Gary Ertz and I’m the writer up for this week. I’m a High School graduate and I’m in my third year of college at Rowan university with aspirations of becoming an English teacher. I’ve been writing personally for a while now, and I have my own series on YouTube. My favorite genre is fiction and I’m really into Stephen King’s The Dark Tower right now. I also like Minecraft, comic books (mainly DC), movies, and…um…kittens.