Struggling Writers discussion
Critique Group-Writer's Workshop
>
Horror
date
newest »
newest »
“Mommy?”I smile down at the curious child. Her blue eyes are alight. Her hand is warm in mine. “Yes Candace? What is it?”
She trails behind me, struggling to keep up. One step at a time. Don’t trip. “…Where are we going?” she asks after a moment.
“Home.”
“Why?” Confusion dances in her beautiful eyes. “I thought we were going shopping.”
“We need to eat lunch, sweetie.”
She frowns. “Can’t we eat at that nice café?”
I laugh. Tighten my grip. “Mommy has something very special planned for lunch today.”
“Because Grandpa is coming over?”
“Yes.”
She smiles cutely, the gap between her teeth as clear as day. “Yay!”
We’re at the door now. I lead her inside. Go to the kitchen. “Because it’s a surprise, you’re not allowed to look,” I tell her. “So close your eyes, okay Candace?”
She nods eagerly, excited to see what the surprise is. She covers her eyes with both hands. Peeks between her fingers.
“No peeking!” I scold.
She giggles and closes her fingers again.
I reach for the knife on the counter. Examine it. Bring it over to the happy girl’s neck.
She feels the icy bite of the blade. Her smile fades, and concern settles in. “Mommy? What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. I just pull her close with my free hand. Press her to my bosom. “Mommy loves you, Candace. She loves you so very, very much.”
She begins to struggle against my grip. “What’s going on?” she asks, her voice faint and muffled, but vaguely scared.
I have to keep smile. My lips hurt now. But if I don’t smile, she’ll be scared. Grin harder. Wider.
They won’t take her away from me.
Never.
I’ll never let her go.
“Mommy?”
No more words. Just slice with the blade. Make the crimson slit, let the blood stream. Some of it arches, drenching my shirt. The rest of it splatters onto my shoes and pools across the kitchen floor. Hear her scream. Pay no attention to the tears now streaming down my face. Keep smiling. I have to keep smiling.
My baby. Mine. Nobody else can have her. I won’t let them take her away from me.
“MOMMY!”
Poor thing is scared. Comfort her. “It’s okay, darling. Everything is going to be okay.”
“St-Stop…. STOP IT!”
Don’t yell at me! I’m your mother. I know what’s best. “You’re mine, Candace,” I remind her.
Sobs shake my precious baby girl. “Mommy, please…!”
Hum the lullaby. Dig the blade in deeper and earn more red. Feel her thrash, hold her steady. Feel her finally stop moving, finally be still and silent, go limp. Whisper, “I love you, Candace.”
Bring the knife out of the neck. Pick her up – careful! careful! – and lay her along the counter. Don’t let the arm dangle! Bring it up to the counter, hold it in place, and begin to chop.
* * *
“Tantalus was the son of Zeus and was the king of Sipylos. He was uniquely favored among mortals since he was invited to share the food of the gods. However, he abused the guest-host relationship and was punished by being "tantalized" with hunger and thirst in Tartarus: he was immersed up to his neck in water, but when he bent to drink, it all drained away; luscious fruit hung on trees above him, but when he reached for it the winds blew the branches beyond his reach.
There are differing stories about what Tantalus' crime was. One account says that he tried to share the divine ambrosia with other mortals, and thus aroused the ire of the gods. A more famous account says that he invited the gods to a banquet and served them the dismembered body of his own son, Pelops; when the gods discovered the trick, they punished Tantalus and restored Pelops to life, replacing with ivory a part of the shoulder which had been eaten by Demeter.”
(Taken from Encyclopedia Mythica, online source.)
* * *
Hands white as snow. Beautiful locks of luxurious hair that is as golden as the sun when it raises high in the eastern sky. Eyes blue doors that are opened wide as if to show me a glimpse into her soul. And then there’s the scent of death of course; there’s always the scent. It’s a soothing sort of smell, like grave soil and iron. It helps add on to the memory of our last goodbye.
I smile at the vision of her lying there, so beautiful in her shimmering crimson pool of tears and acceptance. Yet those last words of hers still prod at me with their iron hot accusations and their heart-piercing judgments.
“Why Mommy?!” she had cried to me, voice catching in that adorable way that I loved. “Why? It hurts Mommy! It hurts! Why do you hate me Mommy?! Mommy!”
Oh my sweet little Candace, I wanted to croon, my darling little baby. I didn’t do this for hatred. Mommy loves you sweetie. That’s the reason I pulled that knife through the arteries of your pretty little neck. That’s why I ever so gently cut the veins in your tiny wrists. I did it carefully, this job of murdering you. And I did it because I love you.
But I never told you that, because the flesh must be cut right away after the blood has been drained, or it will become stale and hard. And nobody wants to eat meat like that, certainly not Father. That’s why I smile and smile until my lips hurt and I feel like they may burst.
I was so very, very careful with you Candace. And do you know what?
You were delicious.
* * *
I stare up at the white ceiling, and then roll my eyes downwards to look at the padded floor. I’m bored again. I get bored here a lot. I look from wall to wall until my head is turning round and round and I get dizzy. But I’m still bored, so I start trying to lick the tip of my nose. No good; I can’t reach. I start to hum to myself, but I already know that I can’t hold a tune so I get tired of that really easily. Now I start to rock back and forth, pale blonde hair dangling in front of my face like a sheet, and thinking of random topics like hands.
I like hands. People can’t do anything without hands. Hands are good, and they taste good too. Candace’s hands were scrumptious. But I can’t even see my hands, because they’re tied behind me in this white straightjacket. I think they’re lonely back there. They must be, because I am lonely too.
I have a lot of time to myself in this white padded cell of mine. In fact, there’s never been anyone to visit me; not even one. It’s lonely. But I don’t need people; I have Candace’s blood coursing through my body. That’s enough to keep me going. I’ve never been very social anyways.
The man in the lab-coat, although lots of men are dressed in those here, told me that I would spend a few years here to think about what I’ve done. “To think about what a horrible mother I was for doing something so brutal to my own flesh and blood” was what he really wanted me to do.
But I don’t think about that at all. Why should I? I never intended to torture my sweet little Candace; it was an act of love.
“Bored.”
Oh, did I say that out loud? I glance at the camera high up on the wall, and then at the door, but there’s no change.
“Bored.” I repeat, rocking back and forth again while I sweep my stone grey eyes across the room and then roll them up so if anybody was looking in all they would see was the whites of my eyes. “Bored. Boooooooo-red. Borrrrrrrrrr-ed. Bor-eeeeeeeed.” It’s an interesting word; it makes my tongue tingle no matter how I say it.
I puzzle over this a while longer, and then bite down on the tip of my tongue, my teeth gnashing into my bottom lip as well. Blood, beautiful and crystalline, runs down my chin in deliciously iron-tasting rivulets by the time men in long lab-coats burst in and drag me out into the hall. They try to shove something in my mouth though, and I panic. “Gih abay um eh!” I shriek, fending them off through a mouthful of my own blood. Two of the men in lab-coats grab a hold of me and pin me back, and another one tries to put the rubber piece in my mouth. I just dig my teeth in harder and refuse to open.
One of them says something to the other about sedating me, but before they can do anything of the sort I suddenly let my knees give out. While they fumble for me, I lunge to the side and leap for the, luckily enough, opening door. Another man who looked exactly the same as the other two lets out a shout of surprise as I shove past him. Behind me, I can hear their shouts of protest and the sound of heavy footfalls, but I just keep pounding the ground and chewing on the tip of my raw and bloody tongue.
I hesitate though, once I push my way through another crowd of doctors and guards. I hesitate and stare in surprise at the man who stands at the end of the long hallway.
It’s my father.
* * *
He looks a lot older since I last saw him. I just stare at this brown-haired man who has eyes that look just as haunted as Candace’s did before I carved her eyes out. The blood is running down my chin still, only now some of it is pouring back down my throat as well. Father is arguing with someone at the counter, but turns when I choke on the strong metallic taste. “Leah!” he exclaims, voice sliding into the first high-pitched octave of horror, just like it had before, when I had presented him with the honor of taking a taste of Candace’s cold and bloodied flesh.
I smile at him, my mouth seeming to crack against the pull of my dry lips. By the horror that is reflected in his eyes, perfect mirrors of my own despite their strong revulsion, I can tell that he has already noticed the dark red of my blood-stained teeth. “Hello Father,” I gurgle, choking and gagging once again as more globs of blood run down my throat. “I was just looking for you. Why did you leave me here? Why did you leave us here? Candace doesn’t like it in the room with the white walls. She wants out.”
But he’s just staring at me with a face as pale as Candace’s had been.
I try again, this time shimmying in place as I did. “It’s good to see you again. It’s been so long! How long do you suppose it’s been since you called the men with the black van and let them drive me away to be locked up for the rest of my life? A year? Two years? Certainly no more than that.” I pause to gag on the strong flavor of my blood mixed with my daughter’s as the straightjacket slides to the ground. Then I narrow my eyes and put on my stern voice. “Now don’t be rude Candace,” I scold, smacking myself on the wrist. “Say hello to your Grandfather. Sorry Mama. Don’t apologize to me, apologize to your Grandpa! I’m sorry Grandpa. There you go; see, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Yes mother. That’s a good girl.” I smile at my father again, eyes wide.
The receptionist at the desk has already gone running for the phone, as my father takes a hesitant step towards the door. Seeing the movement, something snaps inside of me. “Hey!” I spit, reaching over and grabbing a pen off of the counter. I jab my finger onto the little button at the end and point it at his throat. “Where do you think you’re going?! Do you think it was easy, getting out just so that I could see you again?! Well it wasn’t! It was very hard! And you’re still ungrateful, only thinking of going out the door when you haven’t seen your only child in over a year! How dare you?!”
The phone call has finally gone through. Or maybe the men from before have finally caught up to me. Either way, two lab-coat clad men grab me from behind. I struggle, my left arm pinned while my other one swings two and fro with the pen. I draw a long line along one of the arms of the men as I’m struggling. Then I scribble all over the suit of the other one. But my last attempt to get away ends with me jabbing the end of my weapon into the eye on the first man. Blood squirts my face, getting in my hair and my open mouth, as he howls in pain.
The lab-coated men were usually so composed, so it was funny seeing him freak out like this. I began to giggle hysterically, arm dropping to the side as my eyes rolled up. Then I began screaming at my father again, trying to pull my right arm out of the grip of the man who was swearing profusely and holding his eye with the other hand. “Join Candace! Join her! I can’t take care of her on my own! Don’t you know how hard it is to raise a child on your own?! Join her! Join her so that you can help me protect her! She wants to see you! Come see her, Father! Come on! What are you so scared of?! Join her! Join her! Candace doesn’t want to be alone anymore!”
Tears are running down my face now; I can’t control them. They mix with the blood and run down my chin. Salt combines with the metal taste that overwhelms my senses. I gag again, and scream out again. “Daddy!” I shriek, struggling harder now than ever. “Daddy! Daddy! Don’t leave me here! I’m so lonely here! Please Daddy! Candace keeps disappearing. I can’t find her sometimes! Why isn’t she always here?! I killed her so that we would always be together! That’s why I tore and swallowed every strip of pale flesh! That’s why I drank every drop of crimson blood! But she’s never here! We’ll talk and then she’ll leave! Why does she keep leaving me?! Doesn’t she love me?! Don’t you love me?!”
The men in lab-coats drag me back to the other hallway, the one that leads to my cell. “Daddy!” I shriek. “Daddy! Don’t let them do this! I don’t wanna be alone! Please Daddy, please! Please Daddy! Candace!”
But neither of them says a word as the door clicks shut and I’m immersed once again in my lonely white world. I’m alone again to cry out against the agony that is piercing my heart. But it still doesn’t go away. No matter what I do, Candace won’t come back. No matter what I do, my father won’t stay by my side. No matter what I do. I’ve always been alone, stuck between insanity and reality.
I know what I’ve done in moments such as this. That’s what makes my heart scream out for mercy, please god somebody have mercy! But it fades over time, leaving me to curl up in one corner of the room and talk to my deceased daughter in hushed tones.
No, I’m not insane. I just didn’t want to let her go and be alone again.
((By the way, I've already been told that I need to add more details. I'm working on that now. But I want to know about people's overall impressions, and if there's any errors that need to be fixed. Thanks!))
Mod
I could've sworn that three months ago I had replied to your posts----because that's when I had read your story and I was probably in a state of shock when I finished. You nailed the trident of horror. This is what it is supposed to represent. Clear-cut, and very grotesque. I loved it. A beautifully sick part on the mom's behalf.
Thank you very much for your comment! It really means a lot to me; I'm so glad you liked the story. :D
Think I posted this in the wrong place. I'll repost it here. Hope I got it right:Not sure if anyone's critiquing here, anymore, but I'll post a short sample of a chapter from a long short story (novelette or maybe novella) called "Bleed Lines" about an elderly man dealing with a tragic youthful past and the supernatural old woman (and her Dawg) who lives right next door. Anyway, I was only wondering if the chapter leads into an unexpected tragedy well and if it's described successfully. Also, I'd like to know if the characterization and dialogue are genuine. Thanks.
https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/...
Mod
Not sure if anyone's critiquing here, anymore, but I'll post a short sample of a chapter from a long short story (..."
Hi, Daniel! In the critique group, we like to give headfirst critique by reading stories that are directly in the post. In other words, links are only accepted in the "Your Writing Folder" but you are free to copy and paste your writing from the link into here.
Okeydoke. Didn't get that at first. Besides, don't have a story short enough to be posted here, only excerpts. When I write a short-short horror story I'll definitely copy and past it into a post here. I need a cririque on my overall writing skills, for sure. Until then. :-)
I only now read your post, Roxanne. Horrifyingly exquisite. I know this sounds a little crazy but I think you should turn this character into a kind of homicidal antihero for an installment serial for some horror ezine. Your protagonist is "horrible" but there's a bit of comedic lunacy about her and I'd love to more of her bloody antics served in dismemered portions. Maybe a graphic novel? :-)
P.S. Roxanne, I'd get more detailed but I'm always out running around and have to comment with this small (crappy) android cell of mine and I can never see or remember what I've written in the text box "above" the frame. I always screw something up - spelling - spelling, logic, even the whole reason I'm commenting in the first place. I'll just say I like your story, and it's good. :-)
OK. Here's a chapter from a novella I'm working on. Couldn't use italics so some words (particularly foreign ones) might throw you off. And there are standalone "Yeses" that are supposed to be italicized to indicate the boy is nodding. Needs some work but, well, here it goes:Sunday, December 16, 1973—The First Sacrifice…
…When Ernesto got home it was late and very dark and the door to his mother’s apartment was unlocked, as always. He opened the door as quietly as he could to make sure his mother wouldn’t hear. Before he stepped inside, Ernesto glanced up at that lonely crescent moon hanging low in the night sky. He was trying to muster up enough courage to actually go in.
When he finally did, his mother’s harsh voice rang out. “Aren’t you suppose’ to be at Margarita’s?” Extreme fright surged through him and shocked him into place.
Ernesto hesitated, uncertain how to respond. “Mami, it’s after 11 O’clock.” He said this as if she should understand.
His mother only scoffed. She was sprawled on the couch with her head on a pillow and vacantly watching an old Perry Mason rerun. “Jus’ go to bed and leave me alone, OK?” Her eyes didn’t leave the TV set screen.
He walked around the couch in a wide arc, cautiously eyeing his mother, expecting her to reach out and grab him, but she ignored him and Ernesto escaped into the stairway hall. His sneakers slapped the hardwood steps as he hastily climbed to the upper floor.
He didn’t expect her to remember. She never did. But Hector and Mamita remembered and had already wished him a Happy Birthday. They even planned a party for him. Ernesto was sure his mother knew nothing about it.
Ernesto was headed to the bathroom when he noticed the door to his mother’s bedroom was slightly ajar. He was afraid but somehow compelled to walk over to it. He pushed the door in a little and stuck his head through the opening to take a quick peek. In the room he saw a flickering light emanating from within the opened door of her closet. And although Ernesto knew entering his mother’s bedroom was something she has told him never to do, he continued deeper into this dark and forbidden space. He slowly edged over to the closet and the glow within grew brighter as more of the source began to reveal itself to Ernesto’s opened and widened sight.
Inside the closet was a high table covered with dark purple cloth that shined like silk or satin. There were two black candles burning on each end of the table. Centered on the table was a wooden statue of a man with over-sized white pupils, too large for any normal eye. The statue looked familiar to Ernesto, somewhat like the one he’d seen in Margarita’s living room, but much different. This one was painted black and naked and looked emaciated and sickly. It was carrying a crooked wooden staff and at its feet were two starving dogs carved in howling misery. Ernesto stared into that face, into those eyes, and the statue seemed to be looking right back at him with a blank emotionless gaze. Ernesto thought the statue was deepening its concentration on him, as if it were actually alive. He reached out with his hand and touched its cheek to make sure it was not flesh.
“Que tu hases aqui? I tole’ you never to come in here.” Ernesto’s head shot toward the bedroom door and he was consumed by terror when he saw his mother burst into the room. She rushed at him with a wild look of murderous rage. She violently grabbed him by the shoulders and raised her right hand high to slap him hard…
But then something caught her eye and she stopped her attack. It was the statue, the one Ernesto could no longer see, and she was eyeing it intently. Ernesto wanted to turn around and look at it, too, but he couldn’t because his mother still had him in a vice grip.
His mother’s eyes went from rage to calm attention. She seemed to be listening, as if the statue was somehow speaking to her, saying something only she could hear. A strange look of understanding and acceptance came over her. She slowly tilted her head to one side as her widened eyes slid down into his. A curious unsettling smile appeared on her face and she slowly bowed her head, giving Ernesto her full attention with that strange and frightening look.
“Come sit with me here on the bed,” she said in an almost childlike tone of friendship.
Ernesto’s mother gently took his hand. Leading Ernesto to the foot of her bed, she sat down on it, carefully guiding and impelling him to do the same. And Ernesto sat down right next to her, never once taking his eyes off hers, and he saw that she was doing the same—their eyes were locked.
She eyed him quietly for a moment with that strange smile still beaming.
“Do you want to know a secret, Ernesto?”
There was an insane twinkle in those eyes that darted wildly around the room and she wore a theatrical expression of worry on her face, as if afraid someone else in the room might overhear them, someone who doesn’t know and is not allowed to know the secret. She slid in closer and pressed her left cheek against his right one and whispered softly into his little ear, “I have a friend who is invisible.” And Ernesto could feel her hot breath ferrying the dark sounds of those words deep into his ears and down into his very soul. His mother leaned back and looked straight into his eyes, and she was nodding up and down and long and wide with mock sincerity, like a small child saying, Yep, it’s true! And she smiling brightly, almost lovingly. Ernesto was warmed because he now felt his mother was at last sharing something with him, something she valued deeply, something that would prove she did love him—a secret only they would know.
“You see that little statue in the closet? The one of the little black man?”
Yes, of course, he did. How could he forget? And he wondered why she kept it in her bedroom closet and he somehow understood the statue was something she hid from people, something she didn’t want people to see. But Ernesto has seen it and he has seen his mother kneeling in front of the opened closet door and praying in strange words he didn’t understand, and he’s seen this on many occasions, and he now realized she had been praying to that statue all those times.
“Well, tha’s suppose’ to be my friend but tha’s not really him. He dussen look like that because he’s invisible and no one can see him. Not you. Not anyone.” She finished with a quick intense shake of her head and paused for suspenseful effect before continuing. “But you can feel him, Ernesto. He’s here in this room right now. Can’t you feel him?” Her eyes widened with the question as she glanced eerily around the room, behind and above him, looking at something only she could see. Ernesto was afraid but his fear was numbed by the realization he did feel something. His little head darted left and right and all around the room in a panic but he saw no one else in there with them.
“I said you coulden’ see him, Ernesto—” Her tone had lowered. “— pendejo.”
His mother’s look was now one of anger and disgust and hate but she caught herself and began smiling again, almost happily, although she still seemed irritated. Then she sighed, a sadly pitiful sigh of hopeless and loving acceptance, and slowly shook her head like a silent film actress in a melodramatic show of repentance.
“You do know I love you, Ernesto, don’t you?”
Ernesto nodded, still uncertain.
His mother took the inside of her hand and slid it passionately across his forehead and forced back his long bangs between her fingers. Once back, she slid her hand around to the front of his face again and softly glided it across his cheek to finally cup his little chin in a gentle grip. She looked at him tenderly, only for a moment before lightly pressing her moist palm against his cheek and holding it there. It was a warm and deliriously sweet sensation that melted and seduced him. It wasn’t often Ernesto felt his mother’s affectionate touch.
“Good. Then I will tell you all about him.” She nodded once as if to begin a lesson. “His name is Babaluaye , but you can just call him Babalu , and he’s very old. And some say he dussen have a birthday because he was never born, even though he has always been around and always will be.”
Ernesto noticed the atmosphere in the room had changed. It now seemed filled with a dark luminous intensity that surrounded them, making everything in the room and all that was happening to him seem even more profound and ominous. The room became a desolate island in a vast realm of complete darkness that existed beyond the boundaries of the meager light inside. There was nothing out there like them. They were alone together. No one would interfere. Ernesto scanned the room again but he couldn’t stray from his mother’s concentrated stare for more than a brief moment.
“Ernesto, look at me,” she said, and continued. “They call him the owner of illness and disease because he can make people sick and he can make them die if he gets really mad enough.” His mother seemed excited for him to know this fact and to be excited with her, and Ernesto sensed this moment was somehow important to her, something more than simply a mother’s tuition, more than some dark induction into a mysterious world of secrets.
“So if he is your friend then he will protect you from all those bad diseases. And he will make people who are mean to you get sick and die, if that is what you want. Do you understand, Ernesto?”
Ernesto nodded with his mouth opened, now completely captive to his mother’s hypnotic voice.
“Do you remember when Tito got sick and had those ugly little bumps all over his arms and face?”
Yes, he did remember, and so he nodded.
“Well, that was Babalu.” She was beaming when she said this, almost overjoyed he was listening to her and responding, only Ernesto was disturbed by what she had revealed. He thought, Why Tito? He’s only a boy like me.
“Was Tito mean to you, mami?” He was afraid to hear her answer.
“No, no, Ernesto. You don’t have to do anything bad to get sick.” She closed her eyes tightly and let out a long frustrated sigh. And she was shaking her head, as if exasperated, and seemed to be struggling to continue her tuition despite her anger. “Besides, he dussen really care who gets sick. And that’s not important, anyway. The important thing is Babalu will protect you and hurt anyone who tries to hurt you.”
She studied him closely as if to make sure he understood, only to decide she should tell him more. “You remember Luis, right? I mean, he lived here long enough.”
Yes, he did remember Luis, his mom’s ex-boyfriend who lived in the apartment with them for over a year, taunting and beating him nearly all that time. Ernesto hated him.
“Well, you know I loved him very much—” she said. “—but he hurt me.” Her face was darkening. “He went over to that bitch’s house and fucked her behind my back.”
His mother seemed startled by her outburst of rage and it looked as if she had to pause a moment before remembering what she was doing, what she needed to do. She must have remembered, and relaxed. She continued.
“It was Sarita. You know little Chino’s mother who lives over on Tremont?”
Ernesto nodded before she even finished her question because he was so curious now he didn’t want her to stop talking at all.
“Anyway, I cried and I cried and I didden’ know what to do, but Babalu spoke to me and he tole’ me what to do. He tole’ me to kick Luis’ ass out and he would do the rest. And he did.” She gave him a reassuring nod of her own to let him know what she was saying was true. Then she hesitated and observed him thoughtfully. “Have you seen Luis over on the hot corner begging for some change? Or for beer or whiskey, and even drugs?” ...
...She laughed devilishly when he nodded to say he had. She seemed pleased to know this but when her laughter subsided, that face of malicious contentment reappeared with a stiff cold smile.“He can’t find any pendeja to take care of him, anymore. He’s got the disease in his bicho, you know. Tu’ sabes, Ernesto? In his little pecker?” She smiled lasciviously while reaching down and roughly pinching his penis through his trousers to make some disturbing point. Ernesto winced in pain.
“That was Babalu protecting me, Ernesto. Getting back at that sonofabitch.”
The anger on her face resurfaced for one brief moment before she gave him a serious look. “And you can have Babalu as your friend, too. And he will protect you like he does me. Would you like that, Ernesto?”
Ernesto was afraid but excited by the thought of such power in an environment that made him feel so powerless. And so he nodded.
Yes.
“And do you know what his name means, Ernesto?” She seemed excited to tell him, almost impatient. “It means father ...” Her eyes widened to emphasize the word. “…because he is like a father and he is my father and he can be your father, too. A much better father than that piece of shit who calls himself your father.”
Ernesto hadn’t seen his own father since he was little more than a baby and didn’t even remember him.
“Would you like to have a father, Ernesto?” She said this as if she were offering him something he so desperately wanted and needed, something she knew he would never refuse.
Yes.
“And do you want him to protect you from all the mean people?”
Yes.
“Good. Then Babalu will be glad to be your father and he will give you power to hurt anyone who dares to be mean to you...” She was smiling cheerfully and hesitated a moment before opening the deal. “…but there is something you must do.”
Ernesto nodded yes but he was worried about what that might be.
“You must say what I say and you must say the words exactly as I say them. They are special words so you can’t make any mistakes. Do you understand, Ernesto?”
Yes.
Only words. He was somewhat relieved but still uncertain.
“And you must believe in the words. You must believe Babalu is listening. Do you think you can do that, Ernesto?”
Yes.
“Good. I love you so much, Ernesto.” She flashed a bright joyful smile and gently cupped his hands in her own and sat herself closer. “Now, let’s begin…” She inhaled deeply as if taking something into her, and exhaled slowly as if releasing something else…
“… Mokibo temi okan …”
She said the words and Ernesto repeated them exactly as he heard them. And although he didn’t know what they meant, Ernesto still knew they were important. As the words poured from his lips, the room seemed to expand with an intense atmosphere of pure power and it sharpened Ernesto’s awareness of all that was happening to him in that moment. His mother’s eyes emitted a luminous eerie calm that devoured his soul. And the more he said the words, the more he was able to say them with profound meaning and belief. Nothing else existed but his mother, him and the unseen power that engulfed them both. His voice was soon joined by a multitude of loud whispering voices that spoke with him in unison. When Ernesto was able to tear his eyes away from his mother’s intense glare, he noticed moisture dripping from the sides of her mouth. She was drooling with anticipation. And after Ernesto said the final word, she sighed with almost sensuous relief.
After his mother’s breathing finally slowed, she gently caressed his cheek for the last time…
Then she went into her closet and brought him something wrapped in a black silk handkerchief. She told him it was important, a special gift only for him. It was a knife —a 5 inch dagger made of bone with a base wrapped in white linen and tarnished with blood. She said Babalu would someday tell him what to do with it. His mother was still smiling and breathing deeply, almost passionately, and as Ernesto studied his mother’s face, he somehow knew something had changed and that something now was terribly wrong…
Daniel wrote: "I know this sounds a little crazy but I think you should turn this character into a kind of homicidal antihero for an installment serial for some horror ezine. Your protagonist is "horrible" but there's a bit of comedic lunacy about her and I'd love to more of her bloody antics served in dismemered portions. Maybe a graphic novel?"That sounds exactly like the kind of stuff I like to read! And I agree, it'd be a lot of fun to see how she responds to other situations as well. Maybe someday there will be a graphic novel! That'd be awesome. :)
Also, thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it. ^w^
Daniel wrote: "OK. Here's a chapter from a novella I'm working on."Oh wow... this. Just... this.
Beautifully written, kept me hooked to the very end. Characters portrayed perfectly; you really got me caring about what would happen to Ernesto, and even to his mother as well. All in all, horror at its finest.
I loved it. ^w^
Here's what you need to add to create formatting when posting to Goodreads.Italics
< i > [what you want in italics] < /i >
(only without the spaces)
Bold
< b > [what you want bolded] < /b >
(only without the spaces)
Underline
< u > [what you want underlined] < /u >
(only without the spaces)
(view spoiler)
< spoiler > [what you want to hide] < /spoiler >
(only without the spaces)
Hope this helps! :)
Hey, Roxanne. Thanks again. This needs some work, too, but glad you liked. A diabolically zany female serial killer graphic novel is definitely my cup of tea. :-) And thanks for the HTML info.
Grateful for thoughts on this excerpt. Particularly around the very limited background/info I'm able to provide. I'm limited to around 1000 words. This scene occurs in the last half of my book, Bred For Life. Falon is retelling a childhood story used to scare him and the other street children, but it’s also a vivid retelling of a dream the protagonist (Eveleen) has been experiencing throughout her life. Neither party know the other knows the story. They also don’t know that the story/dream actually happened to Lola.
The start of the scene see’s Lola run away from home to follow her father to market. She comes across the broken cart and injured horse in a field.
~~~~
A pained whinny from Rufus spurred her forward. She crouched beside him, her hand stroking his sweaty hide. She watched as death crept over him, and his wide-open eyes grew glassy. She turned her face from his and noticed that his neck had been broken. She suppressed a whole body shudder, wiped away a tear, and as if she knew the importance of the next few minutes, decided she needed to keep searching the area for her father. She’d not seen an animal killed like that before, living on the farm, she’d been witness to people killing animals to eat them, but this seemed an awful waste.
Tucking her grief for Rufus away, she stood again and looked about the grassy field. A trail of trodden grass drew her attention. It was bent at odd angles, most lying flat, but some of the long blades of grass stuck up in a zigzag line towards the sky. She followed this crazy path away from the wreckage of the cart and towards the tall, dark sentinels of the forest. She peered into the motley light, the slivers of sunlight piercing through the foliage and forcing the misty darkness of the forest back. Lola squinted her eyes; she thought she could see something at the base of one of the trees further into the forest.
She glanced around, no other signs of her Pa. Perhaps she should call to him? She opened her mouth to do so, but stopped short. She felt a prickle of fear crawl up her spine as she realized that she couldn’t hear any bird calls, no insect noises, not even a breeze to rustle the grass or leaves.
It was silent.
Still, she crept towards the base of that tree, her other senses heightened, but her eyes never left the dark form at the base of the tree. As she drew closer, she could see that it was vibrating. Her eyes locked onto it and refused to move from it. The gentle pulsing soothed her, made her feel a little calmer and less afraid. She crept closer still, her eyes boring a hole into the back of the form in front of her. Her stealth forgotten, it’s pulse hypnotizing her, drawing her closer.
When she was almost close enough to reach out and touch the knobbly back of the being underneath the tree, the pulsing stopped. Lola could see the bent, curved spine of the person in front of her, two arms tending to something beneath it on the ground at the base of the tree, but blocking her view. She breathed in deeply, steadying herself to touch it, ready to ask what had happened to her father. The smell of decay flooded her nostrils, the pungent tang stripping all other thought from her brain. The being in front of her rose from its haunches. Her eyes followed one of the protruding spinal bones up as it went. It was tall, taller than her father, taller than the tallest person she’d ever met. It towered above her.
She took in the pallid green hue of its skin, the almost impossible thinness of its legs and arms and then she noticed the mushroom brown spots that adorned the slightly saggy skin; they peppered the flesh at infrequent intervals. She realized then that it was not wearing any clothes, where a bottom should have been, a small stub-like tail protruded. She sucked in a sharp breath and gagged.
The sound startled the being in front of her, it stood rigid. Lola’s eyes explored further, all other thoughts fled from her brain, she was encompassed by a sense of calm. She studied the hunched shoulders, and long thin neck supporting a large oval shaped head that lacked any hair. Deep red veins ran from the shoulders up the neck and covered the base of the skull, like a million tiny streaks of lightning. Her heart beat faster at counterbalance to the calmness she could feel; her eyes wide in awe and she began to shake.
The lack of other sounds meant that Lola could hear the soft crunch of leaves beneath its feet as it shifted its weight. The tail twitched and drew her gaze, it was a deep green colour, like a new bud in the springtime. She tilted her head to the right, unsure of what she was seeing.
A piercing scream startled her, forcing her to cover her ears. She kept her hands over her ears and dropped into a small ball. She squeezed her eyes shut and rocked on her feet. The screaming would not stop. She opened her eyes and stared at the ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Deep-green feet stepped into her view, the fleshy, stubby toes joined together with a thin flap of skin, like a frog’s. Her gaze moved from the feet, up the long legs and protruding knees, to pause momentarily on the smooth and genital-free area where the legs and body met. Her eyes travelled further still, up the hairless body taking in the gathering of mushroom coloured spots on the chest.
She would have looked further to the face, but the being moved closer. She clamped her eyes shut, expecting something to happen.
It didn’t.
Nothing.
She waited, feeling herself drawing closer to insanity as the screaming continued.
A sickly-sweet smell, mingled with something else that she couldn’t quite name, wafted into her face. She opened her eyes, cautiously at first, until they focused. She ripped her eyes open and thrust herself back, but struggled without the use of her hands.
Pressed close to her face was a huge open maw.
Rivulets of red tinged saliva dribbled over the thin lips that spread in an impossibly wide-open scream. Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, Lola absorbed the features of the face. It had no nose, no eyes and no ears. It was just a huge, gaping mouth that seemed to go on forever into a cavernous black hole. The single sharp canine tooth at the top of the mouth dripped more saliva down onto the other equally sharp canine tooth that rose from the black gums at the bottom of its mouth. Sickly threads of saliva dribbled over the pointed chin and down its neck, to drip to the forest ground in front of her. The gruesome sight scared her so intensely she wet herself, she felt the warmth spread down her legs as it soaked into her skirt.
She was petrified, yet she couldn’t look away.
Type Away!