She Turned Back to the Leech She Left Behind

Sitting inside the plunger, the handle is not attached. The place where the handle should meet the actual plunger has been sacrificed for a crude but brutal point. The broken tile that Charlotte used to sharpen the point still sits behind the toilet where Manny never thinks to look. Not that Manny would ever think that Charlotte could come against him. She so small and he’s quite more than her.

Mothers warn your children, don’t do what Charlotte has done. Don’t fall for big wide muscular men with smiles that reveal big white fangs. If a girl should meet a man such as Manny, she should run and if he should take her and if he should drink her, she should run again when she can. If she should run and stay gone, she should never turn back and think of how the next Charlotte might lose another four years this terrible creature. Since Charlotte already did, she had no choice but to go home.

He took her back with open arms and cut open a vein and drank her like she was a 5 gallon box of wine. A girl can learn to do with less and blood is no exception. With a wicked headache, she partook of orange juice and cookies. Snacks done, she got to making herself a stake. For two months she has slowly whittled and she has a point now, she’s getting up after another drain. She stronger than he thinks and he’s about to be a damn sight less eternal than he use to be.

Advertisements

Well After The Third Act

She is Queen Elizabeth and no man will ever have her. This is by far an improvement over Boudica, as now the children can at least come down for storytime on Saturdays without worrying about an ancient sky clad warrior chief with all her flopping bits. However, by and far, all the librarians really preferred that week when she was Elanor. She was so inspirational and interesting and well she wore really pretty hats, as was the custom at the time. She’s always someone, making it more sad that we don’t have a clue who she was.

We built a little stage, and painted a spot of white for a projector. Somewhere in the middle of Mary Poppins, there she was reprising the role of Bert as played by Dick Van Dyke. She was note for note and step for step: a triple threat. She would appear the next time during of all things Home Alone, a grief stricken mother that probably did more than the role really called for. Then near Halloween, during our mandatory recitation of that only famous James Whitcomb Riley poem, she was in the shadow smiling and hungrily pawing at the children. Ever since the goblin incident she’s been down here every time we turned on the light or had an audience.

She saw the spotlight and the stage, maybe she thought it heaven. Maybe thought, she’d have that last glory singing to the balconies. I think she knows better by now but she’s found admirers here and she’ll risk hellfire for that. We tried to make her leave but we can’t get a good hold on her; she can sort of fade from your touch. We were going to call our local experts but the head librarian quoted Harper Lee’s commandment. You know that bit aout mockingbirds right? No one could quite bring themselves to the point of eviction after that.

She’s still down there, waiting for the next performance.

A Post Mortem User and a Poor Host

I can’t, I’m sorry. I can’t just just dig you up and pull you out of there. I don’t even know if you have bones, muscles or anything. Judging by local customs, you’re probably ash. At best your an echo which is probably wishful thinking and even so, that’s a little depressing to me because it makes me think that when I end I’ll echo. Tell you the truth, I don’t think I know you. If I ever meet Tom, I’ll tell him you love him. Although I’m looking under your name and I’m seeing that you died in 1948 so there’s good money that Tom is buried somewhere too. I’m sorry, I’m not Tom and I can’t help you anyway.

All I can do is talk and I’m not too comfortable doing that really. Still, I have time before they pick me up, so here I am alone and talking to someone who’s not really here. I guess I feel obligated since I’m here and I’m listening to you scream “Help me Tom, I love you.” over and over again. You know actually, it occurs to me that maybe you don’t love Tom, maybe your just desperate. Maybe you just want Tom to help you and then you’d just leave.

I’m turning off the directional mic and I think I’m just going to wait for my ride in silence. I’m not about to keep talking to a ghost that I think is lying. Anyways, you might just be my imagination.

The Devil And The Straw Seller

The rules are simpler than you’d think. They don’t want your soul, it’s precious to you but they don’t have a use for it. They want you to do things for them, could be anything and you’ll probably never know their designs. You don’t want to know their designs. If you get curious back away from this, this type of deal isn’t for you.

My liaison was Harriet. She was tall, curvy and young with long red hair, although that means less when you can choose your form. I was a married man, so I wasn’t ever tempted, vows being set in stone. She stared out the window effecting a slightly obvious inorganic disinterest. She would do anything to keep her eyes off the bit of cloth and the black barrel protruding out from under.

“You just want me to sell it?”

“You can get $400 for it.”

“What do you get?”

“Nothing that effects you.”

For a moment I thought smoke was leaving her mouth but then I realized that was her breath. It’s apparently a lot warmer where she comes from. The waitress had already pointed out that this was a non smoking establishment. Seeing as though there was no cigarette and no lingering smell, the poor woman could only shrug and file it under strange shit unexplained. She simply left our meals and drink on the table. Overall, the service at the diner was exquisite.

I had a Mexican scramble, while Harriet had biscuits and gravy with quite a bit of Tabasco. We were both enjoying our meals and neither looking at the veiled nonregistered centerpiece. The food was good and the coffee was cheap but passable. The conversation sat on the table, awkwardly waiting for ingestion to finish. Five minutes later we were back to talking.

“Where do I sell it?”

“On the black market.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Where desperate men congregate.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“That’s all the answer you need.”

As Harriet reached for her wallet, I left with the gun quickly swept into my bag. I made sure to leave a tip as I was sure that Harriet wouldn’t. Not to say that Harriet was above stealing a tip but there are always risks. As far as I know she paid for the meal. I never went back to that Diner. The black market was easy enough to find. It was close by and very easy to use. Truth was, I had been a shopper there before but I didn’t know it. I came out of the deal with $415 profit, counting the breakfast.

That money did me a lot of good; I try not to think about what the gun did.