Sunday, February 16, 2014

The Morning After (Grey Matter Press St. Valentine's Week Massacre Entry)

Rachael’s mouth ached. She wore a beard of dried blood that extended down her front, expanding into a ragged bib, an artifact of the previous night’s violence. It was her own fault, of course. She knew better than to interrupt Boy’s Night, but it was Valentine’s Day and she couldn’t wait to share the good news.

She tiptoed up the stairs. There was doubtless a mess in need of cleaning. Best to just get it over with. Rachael straightened up, tossing beer bottles, emptying overfilled ashtrays and righting an obstacle course of overturned chairs. Then she turned her attention to the bodies. What was left of them.

The kitchen was littered with limbs and viscera that had been torn apart and cast asunder such that if she hadn’t previously seen them in working order, she’d have no idea they represented the remains of only three men. Rachael set to cleaning again. When she’d finished, she showered and then hauled the remaining trash—double bagged—to the curb. That done, she started for home. Her belly rumbled. Rachael was mildly shocked, considering what a pig she’d made of herself last night, but then again, she was eating for two.

Friday, February 14, 2014

Gravid (Flash! Friday 2.10 entry)

Kolmanskop. CC photo by Damien du Toit.

Abigail hadn’t set foot in the desert town for years. From the looks of it, neither had anyone else. Just as well. Shifting dunes lumbered up and down the solitary street like herds of wandering bison. They’d bullied their way through doors and windows, filling bedrooms, kitchens and hallways alike with their spawn.

Abigail wound her way carefully through the labyrinth of living sands. She identified her destination—her birthplace—with the ease and assuredness of a wild salmon. She entered the abandoned home, moving slowly toward the nursery. Inside, a half-buried cradle peeked from the dusty lawn like a tombstone. She clutched her belly; concealed within her womb was a mass of rapidly dividing cells—not the child she’d hoped and prayed for, but a hideous would-be child turned malignancy that was eroding her tissues with deliberate patience.

Abigail was patient too. She settled in next to the cradle. Humming a lullaby, she closed her eyes and waited to be born again.