Thursday, January 22, 2009

This Is Like the Brown Water After a Hydrant Flush

Bear with me, I realize this is neither exceptionally intriguing nor particularly skilled work here. I'm just trying to do the old "pump and dump" with my brain, although instead of liquor from breast milk, it's dead baby from imaginative cogs, but's the same basic principal. This goes nowhere and tells nothing, but it's my way of straining the lumps out of whatever creative juices I may have sloshing around in my head.

My thanks to Mr. Heinous St. James for the prompt (the first italicised paragraph)((yes, please blame him for this entire post)). I know it's painful to read, but this is better than nothing. Right? Anybody?


Jim: Jonesy was bored. Really fucking bored. He made an anagram of it: RFB. The body at his feet twitched. He nudged it with his foot. Nothing. Boredom washed back over him.


His neck itched, but he didn't bother reaching up to scratch at it. He was wearing a turtleneck, so it was inevitable that his neck would itch. It felt like he was being strangled, in fact. Whoever it was that decided turtlenecks were a good idea should be shot, he thought.

That reminded him of the girl on the floor, and he kicked her body again, just for shits. She moved, but only from the impact of his boot in her ribs. So very boring.

This part was always the biggest let down. He should be taking pleasure in a job well done, but instead he was sitting here wishing he’d saved her just a little bit longer. His erection was long gone, and now he was RFB.

Jonesy was like a cat: he liked to play with his toys while they still lived, liked to chase and torment them and see the fear in their eyes. Once they were dead, it was like the batteries had been removed from the toy, and they ceased to amuse him.

That's why he had to keep doing this over and over again; it was entirely out of his hands. He got no lasting pleasure from this dead girl, or any of those before her. There was no thrill for him in the finality of her death; it was her suffering that turned him on.

He wished he could keep just one girl forever, suspended in that razor thin place, always on the brink of death but never falling over its edge.

What Jonesy wanted was a modern-day Frankenstein, a girl who could be endlessly tormented.

What he had was this pile of dead girl.

He tried to focus, like he learned in yoga. He stared down at the girl's hand and really concentrated on remembering the details: the chipped, red polish; the milky skin, faintly blue now; the cut that ran from the tip of her middle finger down to where her thumb branched off; the stump where her pinkie had been. But nothing about these details of her hand excited him. There was no life here. His toy was dead.

He kicked her again, this time in the throat, before standing.

Time for dinner, he thought. He was hungry: RFH. Yes, he was definitely in the mood for some meatloaf.