| "The Scarmaker" (the fifteenth ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Scarmaker" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), November 15, 2002 |
| The Scarmaker By Raye sweetteasutlery@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Turning the Colt
Navy 1851 over in his hands, he carefully tested the weight. It seemed
perfectly balanced, well crafted... the best. Thomas "Kid" Halloran set the gun
back on the counter, sliding his fingers reluctantly over the butt. "You want it?" asked the shop keep. "Yeah, I want it!" Kid fairly barked the words out. He stared up at the rotund man behind the counter. "How much?" "Fifteen dollars." The man wiped at his face, leaving behind barely discernable black powder streaks in the sweaty sheen of his skin. Kid nodded, seeming to consider the price. It only took a moment for the expression to sour. Slamming his hand down on the counter, he wanted to laugh when the shop keep jumped at the sound. "What's wrong with it?" If the older man had shaken his head any harder, his neck would've snapped. "Nothin', Kid, nothin's wrong with it." "It shoot straight?" "Uh-huh." "So why the price?" Kid's eyes narrowed on the older man, carefully studying the beads of sweat peppering the man's forehead. "They call it the 'Scarmaker'." "Scarmaker?" Kid scoffed, "What the hell does that mean, Barker?" Clearing his throat, Barker mopped at his face with the end of his apron. "That's what it's called. The man that sold it to me knew more of the history than I do. But I'd heard of it before. Heard about what it can do." There was a tremor in the man's voice, one that Kid took as grudging respect. The Kid felt an itch in his hand. The feel of the pearl grips still shivered in his mind. 'Scarmaker,' the name whispered in his ears with the deep reverent sound of a eulogy. The scent of fame clung to him and pulled on his thoughts. "I'll take it." Barker wrapped up the gun, carefully tucking the edges of velvet around the long blued barrel. Tossing the money on the counter, Kid watched the keep carefully. "I'm takin' it, old man, but if there's something wrong with it.. I'm gonna bring it back and break your fingers just for fun." Satisfied at the look of fear in Barker's eyes, Kid grabbed up the wrapped package and shoved it in his saddle bag. He never looked back when he left the shop. ************** A half finished steak lay on the forgotten plate next to an empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Kid leaned back in his chair, his boots propped up on the bed. The rowels of his spurs cut into the thin cloth of the bedspread but he made no notice. They'd thank him for staying there. He'd make them famous. The barrel of the Colt felt cool to the touch, grazing against his skin like the soft brush of a woman's fingers. His mouth curved in an anticipatory smile. He'd make a name with this gun, a name no one would laugh at. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and raised his ire. "Go away." "Come on, Kid... it's Fay." Her silky, sensual voice could distract him from anything, almost. "I said go away." There was silence on the other side of the door, but there was no sound of angry footsteps and no words blistering his ears. But Kid could spend little time worrying about Fay. He had plans to make. He'd start the next morning when he robbed the Carnahan Bank. Just the thought of all the money they kept locked away made his hands shake with anticipation. He'd make Fay forgive him. He'd give her everything she wanted. A house, fancy clothes.. a life away from this hole in the wall little spit-bucket of a town. "Let me in, Kid." The walls of his chest heaved in and out. "I said.. leave me alone!" She was persistent. "I ain't leavin'... not until you tell me what you're doin'." Kid slid his palm over the metal, reveling in the catch of metal against the groove of his hand. With a look in his eye that promised pain, he set it on the bed and stalked to the door. He yanked it open and into the room. Staring at her waiting face he felt anger growing behind his eyes. "I ain't gonna talk to you, Fay. Git!" She pushed her way in and looked around the room. "You got another woman stashed away in here?" "Woman?" Kid shook his head, feeling heated air rush into his lungs. "What the hell?" Fay moved to the bed. "Don't think you can run around on me in my own town." She reached out a hand to touch the gun. "Don't." The warning was little more than a growl. "Leave it.. leave me alone, Fay." "This?" Fay picked the gun up off the bed and held it on her palm. "You would rather spend your time with this than me?" Her eyes were mirrors, reflecting his anger. Kid turned away. "Put it down and get out." Huffing out a breath, Fay dropped the gun on the worn spread. "You don't make any sense, Kid." She walked toward the door, pausing at the mirror nailed to the wall. She slid her fingers through the tangled mop of curls surrounding her face. "You don't make any sense at all." Perhaps it was the laughing tone of her voice or the hissing in his ears... Kid reached across the bed and picked up the gun in his hand. "Shut up." Fay acted like she didn't hear the whisper. "Don't think that I'll be back later to warm your bed." "I said, shut up." She looked at him in the mirror, her eyes cold with hurt, "You'll never touch me again, Kid... never..." The hiss in his mind was blinding him, turning his pain into burning fire. "Fay..." The warning was plain but there was too much at stake. "Never." His hand itched, closing around the butt of the gun reflexively. "Stop." She stared at him in the glass, the surface wavering from age and rust. "I'll find another man. Just you wait." "No.." His arm raised. The site on the gun pointed blindly toward the wall. "You'll see," she taunted him, "you'll see." His hand shook and his eyes narrowed in anger. "Fay." She stared at him with ice blue eyes. "You'll see." His finger twitched and the mirror on the wall splintered. There was a shriek of hideous pain and Fay crumpled to the floor. Kid looked down at the smoking gun in his hand and felt his world split apart. Fay rolled in pain, her hands trying to shield her face as she cried out in agony. Her voice called out to him, garbled by the blood in her mouth, "Kid!" He could feel hate, pain...even fear, but the only thing that made any sense was guilt. It surged through him and flayed him raw. Guilt...he'd ruined Fay. He ruined his life. The muscles in his legs contracted as the self-loathing coursed through his veins. "No... it wasn't supposed to be like this!" Fay was crying, soft keening cries of abject fear. "Kid?" "NO..." Kid clutched the gun to his chest, "no..." he felt the warm metal burning through his clothes. "Yes..." echoed the voice in his mind. Kid looked around the room and heard the voice no more. 'Barker,' the thought of that old man at the gun store made anger burn inside him again. "Barker!" Kid hurled the word like a battle cry and ran out the door. ******** The shop keep backed up against the wall, his large gut providing him little protection from the crazed anger in Kid's eyes. "I told you... tried to warn you-" Kid shook the gun in the air. "Liar!" Barker's hands reached up and tried to block his face. "I.. I told you what they called it." "That's not good enough!" The image of Fay laying across the dirty wooden floor sliced into his thoughts. "That's not nearly good enough!" He threw the gun and watched it hit the ground, sliding across the uneven floor, before coming to rest at Barker's feet. "Take it.. I don't want it... I don't-" Kid stumbled for the door, his feet weaving beneath him. There was nothing left of the whiskey he'd imbibed that evening; his grief destroyed his mind with each numbing step. The room spun around in circles, the glint off the weapons chased along the walls like spikes driving into his eyes. "Fay... beautiful Fay." "Kid-" "Don't talk to me!" Kid put his hands over his ears to drown out the echoes attacking him. "No more... no more!" Kid tried to find something to look at that didn't burn his mind like a brush fire, but everywhere he looked, there was Fay, her face sliced to pieces by the glass of the mirror. Kid fell into the dust of the street, his knees cracking and groaning with the impact. Townsfolk backed away in fear as he staggered to his feet. "Fay!" His voice was torn from his throat with a sobbing cry. He had no idea if she was alive... but her life was just as good as over. The damage he'd done to her face was complete. She'd never make a living now... she was as good as dead.. and he'd done it to her. Hot, he felt hot, guilt burned through him, strafing his lungs with heat. "God!" Kid heard no answer from above, but there was laughter ringing in his ears and the feeling of flames licking at his feet. "No!" He ran. He ran to the livery, leaving his belongs at the hotel. He ran through the gate and grabbed at the stall door. He ran his horse into the yard, pulling the frightened mare with her halter. Swinging up onto her back he dug his spurs into her heaving sides and knew he'd drawn blood. Looking over her head, the mare's ears plastered against her head in anger, he headed out into the desert. Her ran for days.. trying to escape the hell he'd fallen into. The sound of laughter in his ears was deafening, drowning out all reason. The soft sinister sound of triumphant laughter from the devil himself promised a never ending torment. He ran. ********* Barker took nearly an hour to recover. He got up from the floor for one reason only. It was his job. Clean the gun. Sell the gun. Save his soul for another month, leaning against the counter and he cleaned the gun with automatic movements. "Save my soul," he scoffed. "I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it." "Tired of living, old man?" He felt the cold fingers of fear climb up his spine. "I never said that, no sir." The doorway was black, filled with the broad shoulders of the shadow before him. The hat on his head tilted back and his slashing eyes fixed on Barker. "Then what, Barker? I can get someone else to do this job for me. Would you like that?" The old man shook with abject fear. "No... No.. I can do it." The brim of the hat dipped low, covering the eyes of death. "Just make sure you do it well. I can always replace you." With the tug of a southern wind he was gone. Barker ran to the door and leaned out, his immense weight barely supported by his death-grip on the door frame. "I'll do my job, you'll see! I'll do it... I swear I will... I will!" The gun called to him, teased his mind with promises of freedom. It made him a slave. It took away his ability to fight its power. It consumed him like it did everyone else. It laughed at him, knowing its hold on him was complete. There, laying on the counter, pillowed on the soft blood red velvet cloth, was the Scarmaker: waiting for its next victim. |
| The Scarmaker By LenLundh@aol.com (Entry #9) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| He stopped under
a streetlight several blocks away. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed
the pencil and slip of paper that lay under the knife. About halfway down the
scribbled list the voice had dictated, he made a neat tick mark next to an
item. One more task done. He was still wet down there, his own fluids because
she'd been frightened to a desert dryness. He wondered if he'd impregnated her,
if she would carry such a child, if they would ever meet and become a family.
He didn't think it likely, any of it. Time to shower and get some sleep before
starting the next mission. She was late-twenty-something. Her hair was perfect, makeup just right. The jewelry and clothes she wore were so simple looking they screamed money. Obviously a high maintenance woman. Obviously very far along in her pregnancy, too. A middle-class husband would have teased her about waddling like a duck as she balanced her belly. Her rich man would say -- Well, he didn't know what a rich husband would say. He'd never been rich, never would be. Would never, under ordinary circumstances, get a second look from a woman like her. A first look would be surprising. The idea of fathering her children, of planting himself and then his seed deep inside any woman like her, was so farfetched that Elvis stood a better chance. And Elvis was either dead or working at a fast-food place in another city. After she passed the alley in which he stood, he checked the time. Good. Just like every Thursday. The pattern, hers and that of the world around the two of them, was consistent. Oh, there was always the chance of a joker being dealt. He knew it would happen sooner or later; that was part of the thrill of doing what the voice demanded. The following Thursday evening. He pulled her into the darkness of the alley so fast, so unexpectedly, she didn't get a chance to even think about screaming. Her back was against the rough brick and his hand on her clavicle kept her there. "Not a sound." He could see in her eyes that she felt the knife against her swollen belly. "The baby will die before you. I'll make sure you know it. Understood?" She nodded. The knife swept upward in a fluid, practiced motion. Her blouse hung loose, cut open without leaving a scratch on her wealthy skin. The knife moved again. Her bra fell open. The knife was back against her belly. It might have been magic. It happened so fast. Later, they would both think it took forever. Damn, he was good at this. The voice would be proud. He felt himself hardening at the sight of her breasts, stretched in preparation for maternity. Not this time. No rape. The mission was different this time. Focus on the job. The voice would be angry. He would have to hurt himself, like that one time, when he'd needed money and taken the wallet. "Take them off." He let her move a small distance away from the wall. She shrugged the slashed clothing off. He caught the rags before they could fall to the ground. "You know how fast I am. No sound. No foolish movement. Remember the baby." She nodded. The knife gave her no instant option, no chance to search for one. He slashed her designer bra, her tailored blouse, into worthless, unwearable pieces that littered the alley. Growing harder still. Focusing, her skin meaningless. Still, harder and harder. It would be so good. Remember the voice. "Take the rest of your clothes off." Still no choice. Again more tattered cloth on the filthy alley floor. "Questions?" The presence of the knife was still in her eyes. "Quietly." "Are you going to --" "Rape you? Rob you? I'm not allowed. Hurt the baby? That's up to you. Or hurt you, maybe? Not physically. It's not on the list. But that's your call, too." "Then what --" "You're going to leave this alley. You're going to stand on the sidewalk, naked as the day you were born. Waiting for someone to help you, to cover you. Hoping nobody will stare. You will be humiliated. And that will never go away." He thought his own skin would burst. End this now. Finish what the voice had sent him for. Her pubic hair was dark against her pale skin. Focus. Focus. End this now. "Now go away." When he got home, the voice gave him permission to relieve the swelling. He cleaned himself, then took out the list. Another item to check off. Another wound that, in healing, would leave a permanent scar. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Scarmaker By Tom topcat@spiritone.com |
#1 of 21 |
| 806 words | |
| Nathaniel Solomon was sitting in his room at his
computer chair, pondering his 7th grade writing assignment and looking up at
the ceiling for inspiration. The room was normal for a 12 year old boy in that
there were shelves of books and toys, models of battleships and fighters planes
he had built, a little TV, and a large poster of Britney Spears which his stern
parents had looked a little askance at at first, but he didn't care; Britney
not only was hot but she had star quality. He had dreams of being a star
himself but knew it wasn't likely for a skinny kid named Nathaniel who had a
big nose, wore glasses, and was usually picked on by the other kids. More
realistic, he knew, was to make it in Hollywood as an accountant or agent or
even a producer. His bedroom was a bit abnormal for a 12 year old in that it
was obsessively neat, not a single thing out of place. His father taught
mathematics at the university so he had grown up with that type of linear
logic, was an avid reader, and was well acquainted with Bach, Beethoven, and
Mozart. He turned to his computer, his font of infinite knowledge, knowing that all the .edu informational sites he had carefully listed in his Favorites folder wouldn't be of much use on this project, and neither would the sparse school library. He needed biographies, fiction, real life stories of how someone made it big in the entertainment business, so big that they only needed one name - Cher, Madonna, Britney. He was familiar with movies, saw almost everything that came out, and while he could download them for home viewing, he generally preferred to go to the theater where he treated himself to a bucket of greasy popcorn that he wouldn't allow himself to eat until the previews were over and the actual feature began. Placing the plain Hersheys chocolate bar that he had brought with him on the arm of his chair so that it wouldn't melt from his body heat, he would sit anonymously in the dark and lose himself in the story of the film, listening to his fellow moviegoers ooh and aah and laugh and cry with him. Yes he knew all the stars as if they were his best friends but he had never known how they got there. What breaks did they catch, how many auditions did it take, how do you pick the right agent? Now he was going to find out. It took most of Saturday to assemble the books and articles he needed which he devoured voraciously and then the fun part began. He used his private cluster system in which he wrote down the word of a location or situation and then circled it round with the various tangents related to it. As it all began to get clear in his orderly mind, he commenced writing as rapidly as he could as the ideas began flowing through him like water through a Mexican tourist. Sunday night was spent reviewing his work, sensitizing a sentence, polishing his punctuation, adding an adjective here and there as he searched for le mot juste. Finally satisfied, he donned his Calvin and Hobbes pajamas and flopped into his little bed, dreaming of the time when he would be rich and famous, in demand, sycophants hanging on his every word, and beloved by all. Monday morning dawned crisp and clear as he trudged off to school amid the fall colors with his story carefully placed in a plastic binder. A story which had consumed most of his weekend as his research had merged with his imagination to create the gripping tale of Tony Martini (the name he wanted to change his to as soon as he turned 18), Hollywood Agent. A tale of the unseen tinseltown with it's off camera intrigue, backstage backstabbing, casting couch, and surreptitious cell phone deals. Nathaniel was a little nervous as he stood before the class to read his new creation but as he got into it and lost himself in the rags-to riches tale of success (his own secret dream), he read more confidently. After all he was an A student and this was the only opportunity afforded him to show the other kids that he was a real person with real feelings. The kids in the class looked a little confused and giggled some but of course a 7th grade class is never an ideal audience. There was outright laughter when he finished his story until his snotty little classmates were finally silenced by Miss Wentworth, his teacher. "That was a very nice story, Nathaniel, but I'm afraid I can't give you a passing grade. The fiction assignment was not to write about the Starmaker, but the Scarmaker." |
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| The Scarmaker By thepoetskiss@yahoo.com |
#2 of 21 |
| 403 words | |
| I'VE HEARD IT SAID IN OUR SMALL TOWN YEARS AGO BEFORE I CAME AROUND THERE WAS THIS GIANT OF A HEATHEN MAN ABOUT TALL AS ME HE DID STAND AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD HE HAD ONE GOOD EYE IN HIS GREAT BIG HEAD AND SMELLED LIKE SOMETHING THAT WOKE UP DEAD MISSING TEETH AND KNOTTED HAIR HE DIDN'T GIVE A DAMN OR A CARE AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD HE COULD STAND A PIANO ON IT'S END TWIST HIS WRIST AND GIVE IT A SPIN AND JUST AS PRETTY AS YOU PLEASE HE BEAT OUT A TUNE ON THOSE 88 KEYS AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD AT THE SAME TIME SPIT ACROSS THE ROOM AND NEVER ONCE MISS THAT OLD SPITOON TOBACCO JUICE RUNNING DOWN HIS JAW THERE WAS NO DOUBT HE WAS A MEAN OUTLAW AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD HIS MOST FAVORITE AUDACIOUS THING WAS TO CAUSE HURT AND GIVE FOLK PAIN TO PULL OUT A KNIFE WAS OFTEN HIS CHOICE AND CREATE ANOTHER SMILE BENEATH THE CHIN'S VOICE AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD THERE'S A SCAR FROM HIS HEAD TO HIS CLEFTED CHIN WHERE ANOTHER CRAZY DUDE DID ALMOST WIN BUT THAT GIANT LET OUT WITH A SCREAMING HOWL AND BROUGHT THAT DUDE TO A PRAYERFUL BOW AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD WITH HANDS AS QUICK AS A LIGHTNING FLASH AND THE KNIFE HE HELD FELL WITH A CRASH AND WIDENED OLD DUDE'S SILLY GRIN FROM EAR TO EAR, FOR HIM, THE END AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD THEN THAT OLD GIANT UPRIGHT STOOD AND TIPPED UP THE DEAD MAN AND DRANK HIS BLOOD LIKE FROM A CUP OR A CREAM SHAKER AND SOMEONE YELLED, "FUCK YOU SCARMAKER!" AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD THEN EVERYBODY RAN AND TO THIS DAY WHERE OLD SCARMAKER WENT NO ONE WILL SAY BUT ONE THING THEY LOVE TO TELL THAT OLD SCARMAKER WAS NAMED RIGHT WELL. AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY WAS TOLD IT WAS FOR A FACT AS I TOUCH MY FACE AND MY FINGERS IN MEMORY LIGHTLY RETRACE THE PRINT OF A KNIFE THAT CUT ME WELL AND I BURIED THE SCARMAKER I'M PROUD TO TELL AT LEAST THAT'S THE WAY THE STORY CAN NOW BE TOLD COPYRIGHT © 2002 THEPOETSKISS |
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| The Scarmaker By Meghan Warner nirvana_korn_85@yahoo.com |
#3 of 21 |
| 222 words | |
| The little girl sat in her mother’s room
Playing with her doll, making her dance Her mother was holding the phone to her ear She was screaming into it. The person on the other side was the little girl’s father. The parents had fought many times before, Usually in the downstairs of the house, But tonight It was over the phone. The little girl made a quick look at her mother, Her mother looked at her and turned away. She continued to yell fighting words Into the non-make-believe phone. The little girl went back to her doll, Making it dance more Until her mother took her to the car. She had been near tears, But would not say why. They arrived at the little girl’s father’s apartment. The door was open, Her mother went in and made her stay out on the porch. The moon was red and full, It kept her occupied while she heard her parents fight. Curiosity got the best of her And she took a peek inside. Her mother was thrown up against the wall, Where she stood, frightened, Then her father’s hands wrapped around her throat And they both disappeared. The little girl turned away And looked back at the moon. She would never forget that night It would forever be a scar made on her mind. |
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| The Scarmaker By L.L. Rucker ruck9085@bellsouth.net |
#4 of 21 |
| 1113 words | |
| I walk around now wearing the title of The Scarmaker. I
never intended to be so notorious, but fate never did ask me if I wanted the
title; she just saw fit to bestow it on me. How it all came about was really
very innocent. Really. A bunch of us were out drinking one night, and being
just generally stupid, the way drunks can be. We went out to try our luck
against the Widowmaker: a stupid thing to do when you’re sober, but drunk?
Man that was asking for trouble, or worse. Me and Billy Peak were paired up against Tom Sharrod and Bobby Portman. My ride was the faster of the two, but Tom wanted a piece of me after I made a play for his girl at the football game last Friday night, so there we were. I had never lost a race. The title of the Scarmaker had never been bestowed on me. Tonight, drunk or sober, the results would be the same. Somebody would wear the title, but not me. We lined up at the line, and revved up the engines. Man they were screaming! It was a rush to hear the motor roar like it did. My hands were slick with sweat on the steering wheel, and I knew that Tom’s were too. Whoever lost this run had to do the deed to his partner. I nodded once to Tom who flipped me off, then turned his head. I had my right foot on the gas, revving the engine hard, my left foot jammed down on the brake pedal. I could feel the car as it lurched against the brakes, trying to break free. When Marty dropped the flag, I jerked my foot off the brakes, and the car lurched forward, the tires screaming in joy at finally being free. I kept one eye on the road, and the other on Tom as we ran neck and neck down the track: me in front, then Tom easing up alongside, and then past me. We performed this macabre dance for the whole quarter mile. Just a few yards from the finish I pulled away, and like a fool I eased off of it. I had won! You can just about imagine how I felt when Tom’s car screamed past mine to cross the finish line first. Me and Bobby rolled to a stop, and I just sat there, feeling like the biggest ass on the planet. I knew better than to ease off like I had, but hey I was drunk ya know? Billy, he was real pissed. He sat in that seat, and looked at me like I had totally lost my mind. “Why in the blue hell did you ease off it, man?” He asked me, his face a mask of fury. I could tell he wanted to punch my face in, and really I didn’t blame him. I tried to say something, but he shook his head and crawled out of the car, barely able to stand. As I sat in the car, a crowd began to gather, and I could see Tom and Bobby laughing their asses off and pointing at me. With as much dignity as I could muster, I crawled out of my car and stood swaying, trying to focus on the ground that was beginning to gain speed in its rotations. I could feel my stomach lurch, and I swallowed hard to keep from spewing in front of everybody there. Billy walked over to me, disgust written all over his face, and I tried to apologize for what I was about to have to do, but he wasn’t having any. I tried to focus on the crowd of onlookers. There were dozens of spinning faces leering at me, laughing at me and Billy. This was gonna be bad, and not only would Billy have to pay for it, but I would have to wear the title of The Scarmaker until someone else lost to Tom. This was a time honored tradition in our town, had been for years. Before Tom, way before Tom, my Dad was the one to beat, and I was determined to follow in his footsteps. He had never lost a race and neither had I, until tonight that is. Dad had told me a hundred times, “never run the race drunk boy, you’ll lose if you do.” Well I, Mr. Know It All, had not listened. I had raced drunk plenty of times, and never got beat, but tonight my luck ran out. Now I would tarnish the family tradition by wearing the title of The Scarmaker. My Dad was gonna freak. I could hear him giving me hell, and I knew I deserved it, but damn man, Billy didn’t. “I should never have ridden with you Bo,” Billy told me with a disgusted look on his face. “What an asshole.” I focused my bleary eyes on him, and felt the anger begin to surface. “Look asshole, you think I lost this on purpose?” I pulled myself up, and tried to stand straight without swaying. “Don’t matter man, you lost. On purpose or not, the results are still the same.” He retorted. “Let’s get this shit over with man. I need to get home and try to explain to my Ma what the hell happened.” There was a murmur of assent from the gathered crowd, and Tom and Bobby walked over grinning. Tom held out the Scarmaker, and I took it in a hand that was shaking and sweaty. “There ya go Scarmaker’s Bitch, do it,” Tom smirked at me, and at that moment all I wanted to do was cut that smirk off his face. I looked at the crowd, and then taking a deep breath I turned and faced Billy. “Give me your hand,” I told him. He hesitated for a split second then held his hand out, and closed his eyes. I took hold of his hand and turned it palm up. There was an expectant hush as the crowd surged forward to get a better look. I took a deep breath, then drew the Scarmaker, a worn and old Bowie knife, across Billy’s palm. He sucked in his breath, and his face crumpled in pain as the blood spewed from his sliced palm. As one the crowd began to chant, “Who is the Scarmaker? What’s his name?” With a cracked voice I replied, “ I am the Scarmaker, Bo’s my name.” The crowd roared its approval, and began to disperse. This was my title, and this was my shame; I am the Scarmaker, Bo is my name. At least till next week. |
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| The Scarmaker By jen100@starmail.co.za |
#5 of 21 |
| 1784 words | |
| Daddy strides towards me with that purposeful look on
his face I know so well. I want to run and hide but my legs won’t move.
Even if I had the courage to escape I know he’ll find me eventually and
then it’ll be far worse. Even before he touches me I loose control of my
bladder and feel the warmth seeping down my legs. It’s embarrassing
because I’m a big girl, almost four years old and almost-four-year-olds
shouldn’t wet their panties anymore. Daddy lifts his big hand and I beg for mercy even though I know how futile it is. ‘Please Daddy!’ ‘Shut up!’ he says through clenched teeth and tight lips. I bow my head because I’m afraid to look into his cold eyes. ‘Sorry Daddy, sorry Daddy, sorry Daddy!’ Actually I don’t know what I’m sorry for because I can’t remember doing anything wrong. All I know is that Daddy’s mad with me so I must have done something bad. I just wish I knew what it was so I could never do it again. I feel the heat and searing pain as his big hand connects my face. I fall backwards and hit the floor with a thud. I put my hands up to shield my head from the unrelenting blows. All the time I keep apologizing for whatever it was I’d done. “Sorry Daddy!” He is looming over me, hitting me again and again, through my face, on my head, everywhere. I feel a gusher of urine escape once more and he steps back. I lie cowering and whimpering like a wet puppy at his feet. I think it’s over but he hasn’t finished yet. This time his flat hand catches me squarely over my ear. A searing pain explodes deep in my eardrum. Suddenly, I’m sailing through the air as he grabs the front of my dress and lifts me off the floor. He shakes me violently a few times and puts me roughly down on my feet. My little body is convulsing with sobs but I know I’m not allowed to cry because he keeps telling me to shut up and if I don’t shut up he will just keep on hitting me until I do shut up. Even though I’ve received a beating that would’ve made a grown man cry, I’m not allowed to cry. I don’t know if it’s because he can see that I’m trying hard to shut up or if it’s because he’s tired now and breathing heavily that he tells me to go to my bedroom.I stagger towards my bedroom because the world is spinning around me and I feel like falling down just as I do when we spin around when we play, except that it’s fun then and I laugh, but I can’t laugh now because I’m trying too hard to shut up. I fall onto my bed and my body won’t keep still because it keeps shuddering every few seconds. I try to cry quietly so that Daddy won’t hear me because then he’ll come in and hit me again but the sounds keep escaping my tightly pursed lips. Some of the sounds come through my nose and they sound really rude; like when you make a fart. I sit up because I can’t breathe with all the mucus in my nose and I see that it’s all over the bed and I wipe my hand across my face and now it’s all over my hands but I’m too scared to go and fetch a handkerchief. Mommy comes into the room and hands me a handkerchief and tells me to blow my nose and ‘look now you’ve messed on the bed.’ I wish she would take me in her arms and comfort me but I know she never does that when Daddy hits me. I ask her why he hit me and she tells me ‘because.’ After she says because, I wait for her to say something else but she doesn’t, she just stops after because. She opens the drawer and throws a dry pair of panties at me and tells me to ‘get those wet pants off and take that thumb out of your mouth.’ I get up and change willingly because I’m uncomfortable and I’m beginning to itch. Tonight I know I’ll have the itch again and then Mommy will tell me to put Vaseline on but it won’t help and I’ll have to scratch the itch and then it’ll burn. She tells me to go to the bathroom and wash my face and comb my hair but I’m afraid to leave the room in case Daddy sees me and hits me again. I say, ‘I’m scared Daddy will see me,’ and she says, ‘he’s in the lounge reading his paper,’ so I sneak down the passage as quickly as I can, wash my face and return to the bedroom. I try brushing my hair but it’s too long and curly and the brush gets stuck. Mommy grabs the brush and yanks it through my hair with a sigh. I ask her if I can go outside. She says yes but I’m still afraid to go because Daddy might see me outside when I’m supposed to be in my bedroom. Mommy says, ‘Go. He won’t hit you again.’ Today. Mommy goes out the room and shuts the door leaving me sitting on the bed too afraid to go out. My ear is hurting but it’s the feeling in my heart, like a steel ball trapped that makes me cry again. I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle my crying and then the door opens. I catch my breath but it’s okay because it’s only Gran. She sits beside me on the bed and takes me in her arms and I suck my thumb. She doesn’t like it when I suck my thumb but she doesn’t tell me to take it out now because I know she feels sorry for me. Her gentle crooning and the warmth of my head against her thin body makes me cry even more. Gran is the only person who ever cuddles my brothers or me after Daddy hits us and sometimes she cries with us. I also cry when Daddy hits Mark or Luke because they are smaller than me. Mark is two and Luke is only a baby. Daddy hates it when Luke cries so he hits him and tells him to shut up. I don’t know why Daddy tells Luke to shut up because babies can’t understand what shut up means. I look up at my Gran as she wearily runs her hand through her gray hair streaked with remnants of black. Her green eyes look sad and tired. She tells me that my parents have gone out and taken my brothers with them. I have all these strange feelings inside me. I want to hate Daddy but I also want to love him. I want him to be nice to us and not be angry all the time. I want him to pick me up and cuddle me. I want to climb on his lap and I want him to put his arm around me but I’m always too afraid to go near him because I never know if he’s mad or not. Sometimes he can be nice when he drinks some of the stuff he brings home wrapped in brown paper and mixes with coca-cola. The coca-cola is only for Daddy. Mark and I are not allowed to have any and Luke doesn’t want any because he’s too small. When I watch Daddy pour the coca-cola into his glass it makes my mouth water because I know what it tastes like. Once, I had a sip straight out of the bottle when Daddy was at work and Mommy was outside. I told Mark about it and he also wanted to take a sip so I let him. I won’t do that again because Mark can’t keep a secret and he told Daddy when he came home and Daddy said ‘bloody kids’ and gave us each a swipe. Gran spits on her lacy handkerchief that smells like lavender and wipes my face. She tells me to stop crying and her bony fingers dig into the pocket of her apron. She takes out a sixpence and gives it to me. I look at the shiny sixpence in my hand and I smile at Gran. She pats the top of my head and says I must come and help her with the dishes. As she stands up I hear her bones creak and I follow her bent frame into the kitchen. She asks me if I would like a cup of milk and I say, ‘yes please Gran.’ She opens the fridge and I eye the coca-cola wickedly even though I know I’m only allowed milk in a plastic cup. When I grow up I’m never going to drink milk in my life. I’ll always drink coca-cola out of a real glass and not a plastic cup that smells funny. I take a long sip of milk and look at the reflection of the white moustache left on my upper lip in the kettle and I’m oblivious of the future. I don’t know that Daddy will continue to beat my brothers and me until we are grown up. I don’t know that my beloved Gran will die one evening. Suddenly, a thrombosis will shoot through her brain and she will leave me. All the pent up anger towards Daddy and the way he beats us will finally erupt and explode within her. I will be left with a void in my heart and in my life that will never be filled. My brothers and I will grow up believing that beatings are a natural part of life. Daddy will beat me for the last time when I am sixteen. Then I will run away and marry the first man who is kind to me. My scars are not visible but they are deep. Daddy doesn’t know that I will carry them for the rest of my life. He doesn’t know that I will forever feel inferior and worthless. He doesn’t know that I will try to recompense when I have my own children by lavishing them with all the love and physical affection I never received. He will never know why I will suck my thumb until the day I die. Daddy will never know how much he scarred me because the disfigurement will be well hidden behind my smiling façade. It is not for us to judge, but one day, my Scarmaker will have to meet his Maker! |
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| The Scarmaker By Raye sweetteasutlery@yahoo.com |
#6 of 21 Winning Entry |
| 1983 words | |
| Turning the Colt Navy 1851 over in his hands, he
carefully tested the weight. It seemed perfectly balanced, well crafted... the
best. Thomas "Kid" Halloran set the gun back on the counter, sliding his
fingers reluctantly over the butt. "You want it?" asked the shop keep. "Yeah, I want it!" Kid fairly barked the words out. He stared up at the rotund man behind the counter. "How much?" "Fifteen dollars." The man wiped at his face, leaving behind barely discernable black powder streaks in the sweaty sheen of his skin. Kid nodded, seeming to consider the price. It only took a moment for the expression to sour. Slamming his hand down on the counter, he wanted to laugh when the shop keep jumped at the sound. "What's wrong with it?" If the older man had shaken his head any harder, his neck would've snapped. "Nothin', Kid, nothin's wrong with it." "It shoot straight?" "Uh-huh." "So why the price?" Kid's eyes narrowed on the older man, carefully studying the beads of sweat peppering the man's forehead. "They call it the 'Scarmaker'." "Scarmaker?" Kid scoffed, "What the hell does that mean, Barker?" Clearing his throat, Barker mopped at his face with the end of his apron. "That's what it's called. The man that sold it to me knew more of the history than I do. But I'd heard of it before. Heard about what it can do." There was a tremor in the man's voice, one that Kid took as grudging respect. The Kid felt an itch in his hand. The feel of the pearl grips still shivered in his mind. 'Scarmaker,' the name whispered in his ears with the deep reverent sound of a eulogy. The scent of fame clung to him and pulled on his thoughts. "I'll take it." Barker wrapped up the gun, carefully tucking the edges of velvet around the long blued barrel. Tossing the money on the counter, Kid watched the keep carefully. "I'm takin' it, old man, but if there's something wrong with it.. I'm gonna bring it back and break your fingers just for fun." Satisfied at the look of fear in Barker's eyes, Kid grabbed up the wrapped package and shoved it in his saddle bag. He never looked back when he left the shop. ************** A half finished steak lay on the forgotten plate next to an empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Kid leaned back in his chair, his boots propped up on the bed. The rowels of his spurs cut into the thin cloth of the bedspread but he made no notice. They'd thank him for staying there. He'd make them famous. The barrel of the Colt felt cool to the touch, grazing against his skin like the soft brush of a woman's fingers. His mouth curved in an anticipatory smile. He'd make a name with this gun, a name no one would laugh at. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and raised his ire. "Go away." "Come on, Kid... it's Fay." Her silky, sensual voice could distract him from anything, almost. "I said go away." There was silence on the other side of the door, but there was no sound of angry footsteps and no words blistering his ears. But Kid could spend little time worrying about Fay. He had plans to make. He'd start the next morning when he robbed the Carnahan Bank. Just the thought of all the money they kept locked away made his hands shake with anticipation. He'd make Fay forgive him. He'd give her everything she wanted. A house, fancy clothes.. a life away from this hole in the wall little spit-bucket of a town. "Let me in, Kid." The walls of his chest heaved in and out. "I said.. leave me alone!" She was persistent. "I ain't leavin'... not until you tell me what you're doin'." Kid slid his palm over the metal, reveling in the catch of metal against the groove of his hand. With a look in his eye that promised pain, he set it on the bed and stalked to the door. He yanked it open and into the room. Staring at her waiting face he felt anger growing behind his eyes. "I ain't gonna talk to you, Fay. Git!" She pushed her way in and looked around the room. "You got another woman stashed away in here?" "Woman?" Kid shook his head, feeling heated air rush into his lungs. "What the hell?" Fay moved to the bed. "Don't think you can run around on me in my own town." She reached out a hand to touch the gun. "Don't." The warning was little more than a growl. "Leave it.. leave me alone, Fay." "This?" Fay picked the gun up off the bed and held it on her palm. "You would rather spend your time with this than me?" Her eyes were mirrors, reflecting his anger. Kid turned away. "Put it down and get out." Huffing out a breath, Fay dropped the gun on the worn spread. "You don't make any sense, Kid." She walked toward the door, pausing at the mirror nailed to the wall. She slid her fingers through the tangled mop of curls surrounding her face. "You don't make any sense at all." Perhaps it was the laughing tone of her voice or the hissing in his ears... Kid reached across the bed and picked up the gun in his hand. "Shut up." Fay acted like she didn't hear the whisper. "Don't think that I'll be back later to warm your bed." "I said, shut up." She looked at him in the mirror, her eyes cold with hurt, "You'll never touch me again, Kid... never..." The hiss in his mind was blinding him, turning his pain into burning fire. "Fay..." The warning was plain but there was too much at stake. "Never." His hand itched, closing around the butt of the gun reflexively. "Stop." She stared at him in the glass, the surface wavering from age and rust. "I'll find another man. Just you wait." "No.." His arm raised. The site on the gun pointed blindly toward the wall. "You'll see," she taunted him, "you'll see." His hand shook and his eyes narrowed in anger. "Fay." She stared at him with ice blue eyes. "You'll see." His finger twitched and the mirror on the wall splintered. There was a shriek of hideous pain and Fay crumpled to the floor. Kid looked down at the smoking gun in his hand and felt his world split apart. Fay rolled in pain, her hands trying to shield her face as she cried out in agony. Her voice called out to him, garbled by the blood in her mouth, "Kid!" He could feel hate, pain...even fear, but the only thing that made any sense was guilt. It surged through him and flayed him raw. Guilt...he'd ruined Fay. He ruined his life. The muscles in his legs contracted as the self-loathing coursed through his veins. "No... it wasn't supposed to be like this!" Fay was crying, soft keening cries of abject fear. "Kid?" "NO..." Kid clutched the gun to his chest, "no..." he felt the warm metal burning through his clothes. "Yes..." echoed the voice in his mind. Kid looked around the room and heard the voice no more. 'Barker,' the thought of that old man at the gun store made anger burn inside him again. "Barker!" Kid hurled the word like a battle cry and ran out the door. ******** The shop keep backed up against the wall, his large gut providing him little protection from the crazed anger in Kid's eyes. "I told you... tried to warn you-" Kid shook the gun in the air. "Liar!" Barker's hands reached up and tried to block his face. "I.. I told you what they called it." "That's not good enough!" The image of Fay laying across the dirty wooden floor sliced into his thoughts. "That's not nearly good enough!" He threw the gun and watched it hit the ground, sliding across the uneven floor, before coming to rest at Barker's feet. "Take it.. I don't want it... I don't-" Kid stumbled for the door, his feet weaving beneath him. There was nothing left of the whiskey he'd imbibed that evening; his grief destroyed his mind with each numbing step. The room spun around in circles, the glint off the weapons chased along the walls like spikes driving into his eyes. "Fay... beautiful Fay." "Kid-" "Don't talk to me!" Kid put his hands over his ears to drown out the echoes attacking him. "No more... no more!" Kid tried to find something to look at that didn't burn his mind like a brush fire, but everywhere he looked, there was Fay, her face sliced to pieces by the glass of the mirror. Kid fell into the dust of the street, his knees cracking and groaning with the impact. Townsfolk backed away in fear as he staggered to his feet. "Fay!" His voice was torn from his throat with a sobbing cry. He had no idea if she was alive... but her life was just as good as over. The damage he'd done to her face was complete. She'd never make a living now... she was as good as dead.. and he'd done it to her. Hot, he felt hot, guilt burned through him, strafing his lungs with heat. "God!" Kid heard no answer from above, but there was laughter ringing in his ears and the feeling of flames licking at his feet. "No!" He ran. He ran to the livery, leaving his belongs at the hotel. He ran through the gate and grabbed at the stall door. He ran his horse into the yard, pulling the frightened mare with her halter. Swinging up onto her back he dug his spurs into her heaving sides and knew he'd drawn blood. Looking over her head, the mare's ears plastered against her head in anger, he headed out into the desert. Her ran for days.. trying to escape the hell he'd fallen into. The sound of laughter in his ears was deafening, drowning out all reason. The soft sinister sound of triumphant laughter from the devil himself promised a never ending torment. He ran. ********* Barker took nearly an hour to recover. He got up from the floor for one reason only. It was his job. Clean the gun. Sell the gun. Save his soul for another month, leaning against the counter and he cleaned the gun with automatic movements. "Save my soul," he scoffed. "I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it." "Tired of living, old man?" He felt the cold fingers of fear climb up his spine. "I never said that, no sir." The doorway was black, filled with the broad shoulders of the shadow before him. The hat on his head tilted back and his slashing eyes fixed on Barker. "Then what, Barker? I can get someone else to do this job for me. Would you like that?" The old man shook with abject fear. "No... No.. I can do it." The brim of the hat dipped low, covering the eyes of death. "Just make sure you do it well. I can always replace you." With the tug of a southern wind he was gone. Barker ran to the door and leaned out, his immense weight barely supported by his death-grip on the door frame. "I'll do my job, you'll see! I'll do it... I swear I will... I will!" The gun called to him, teased his mind with promises of freedom. It made him a slave. It took away his ability to fight its power. It consumed him like it did everyone else. It laughed at him, knowing its hold on him was complete. There, laying on the counter, pillowed on the soft blood red velvet cloth, was the Scarmaker: waiting for its next victim. |
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| The Scarmaker By Pam Quick pamy50@amserve.com |
#7 of 21 |
| 364 words | |
| Penny's emotional scars had been ingrained in her since
her childhood. She had had a particularly stressful time of it due to being
raised by parents of dual nationality. Her father English, having met her
mother shortly after the second world war when she came to England for a visit.
Her mother, Marie-louise, Belgian born and bred through and through,
experienced Nazi occupation first hand. It was due to the war that both parents were nervous and she grew up to be the same. The real scarmaker in the family was Penny's father whose bark was worse than his bite but all the same had turned his daughter into someone fearful and nervous of talking to men. Now in her fifties she was still single because of the internal scars caused by him, emotional scars that would never seem to heal or so it seemed to Penny. They were also responsible for her lack of confidence and her ability to take care of herself. In her childhood days she took piano lessons. "You've been playing that same music for months now," he would say, "surely it is about time you knew how to play the darn piece properly!" he'd finished. He was like that with everything she tried, it was never good enough for him. There were times he made her cry, in the end she just gave up trying hence the reason for her being alone now, not being able to cope. She turned to social services for help and advice which was very slow in coming. She was resigned to the fact she would not see old age as her health slowly deteriorated and she had no-one to demand that the local GPs take more notice of her. She wasn't the type of person to push herself forward. The only friend she had, had her own problems and worries to deal with, so did less and less for her over the years. Gradually Penny became housebound, eventually going into a home and shortly after passed away. She was right, she did not see her old age and all because of the emotional scars suffered at the hands of her father, The Scarmaker. Copyright © 2002 P Y Quick |
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| The Scarmaker By mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#8 of 21 |
| 1256 words | |
| So far the evening was turning out pretty good. At
twenty-five dollars a pop plus the tip Russell got from the first guy that was
60 bucks already. Plus at Michelle’s spa, located on the first floor of
the twenty five-story hotel, Russell felt more comfortable by two reasons.
First no running around with the massage table to client rooms - have some rest
between the sessions. Second here in the spa the atmosphere was more
professional. Clients felt restricted; this is massage and nothing else. There
was several occasions in Russell’s practice when clients wanted to
undrape; men or women: “Oh don’t worry… I feel comfortable with
you”. ‘You maybe, but I don’t’, Russell
thought. “Michelle, is it an our or half an hour?” he inquired. “It’s an hour, and it’s a lady. Is it OK?” “Makes no difference to me”. ‘Cool, that’s another twenty five at least’. Russell didn’t like wimpy half an hour. To accomplish a full body massage in half an hour effleurage, petrissage, friction, percussion one needs to run like conveyer and then it’s only half the money. He entered the curtained station. A lady sat on the chair and waited. “Hi”, Russell smiled. “My name is Russell. I’ll be your massage therapist for today”. “Donna” she introduced herself smiling back. “ Please undress, lie down on your back and cover yourself with the sheet all the way to your chin. I will be standing right outside. Let me know when you’re ready. OK? ” The lady nodded. ‘Nice girl’, flickered in his head, ‘so young’. When Russell walked back and took a look at the client. ‘That’s some fine stuff she’s got there’ ran through his mind. The white sheet curved around her body revealing more than it could conceal. For a split second Russell felt himself hardening. Having realized this he mentally slapped himself. ‘Stop it! You dirty bastard! You are professional, remember! You are there to help. There is no woman here. There are only muscles, tissues and a person who is hurting!’ Russell spent couple of minutes accessing the body. Nothing special: a lot of tension in the neck and shoulder area, skin doesn’t move freely on temples, right side of the back seemed more tense than the left side especially around lower back area - the third lumbar vertebrae. ‘I wonder what could cause that?’ Russell thought enjoying his interest in her as a patient rather than a female. He started with the effleurage movement that usually relieved most stress right away. His hands went underneath her neck and further to the fourth thoracic vertebrae and lifting her body with his fingers moved his hands along the spinal cord towards her head. Russell's experience showed that old Mueller was right. He couldn't change much. But despite obvious, Russell always tried. The naïve dream of making the difference still lived in him. He painfully realized that in his life he didn't become anybody big and couldn't change the world to his liking. That said, the only way for him to affect the outside world was through his work and therefore he tried; every time, one person at a time. *** Still after going through the entire upper part of her body Russell didn’t understand the reason why she came here and what she was looking for. He asked her to turn over implementing the draping procedure exactly by the book, so that there was no moment in time when he saw her body exposed. While working on her back Russell reflected: “You have lots of tension right her and right here”, he was showing with his fingers. “What do you do?” “I work for a travel agency”. “Travel agent”, he responded hanging to this word as if tasting it. “Is it a very stressful job?” “Sometimes”. That still didn’t explained Russell the genesis of her tightness. Why despite the normal body temperature he had the feeling that she was all stiff, as if frozen inside like a show flake. He knew that technically his movements were correct, that he put enough pressure and applied enough lubrication, but he was missing something main, something very important - he couldn’t connect. He kept on asking her questions, but clearly was missing the mark. As if they played the Blind Man's Bluff in which he couldn’t get any warmer. **** His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the aircraft passing by somewhere very close, perhaps landing. When the last overtones of the sound were gone Russell realized that Donna is crying. She cried silently, attempting apparently not to reveal her emotional state. “Are you OK?” asked Russell worriedly. “My husband”, Donna said, “he died in the plain crash”. “Oh, I am very sorry” He stopped petrissaging her back. His hand was left resting on her shoulder giving his commiserating enough time to sink in. “Cry”, said Russell, “Cry. Don’t hold yourself. It’s ok to cry about it”. Everything fell into place now. Her husband perhaps also had strong and gentle hands and the two memories: massage and the sound of the aircraft put together made her cry. ‘Who knew what happen? Plane crash? He might have been a pilot flying on a secret mission, or an unlucky passenger, or a person in the building where plane crashed. Regardless. He was someone she loved, wanted and waited for while he didn’t come back. The plane crash was apparently recent - the emotional wound was fresh. The horrible event apparently left painful, scattered and yet permanent traces in her memory like imprints of the dogs’ feet on a once wet concrete. Russell felt himself hardening inside, as if a metal bar went through his body from his stomach to his throat and was holding himself from crying. His movements now were automatical. It was still basic massage movements: effleurage, petrissage, friction, percussion, but now the meaning of these movements was different. His frustrations with his inability to affect life concentrated in his compassion and poured through his fingertips into Donna’s body. When Russell was finishing her right foot he, until that moment occupied with his own thoughts, realized she slept. Her face looked relaxed and relieved. A little pointless smile rested on her face like a tired pedestrian who just caught a taxi. Russell looked at the clock - ten minutes till the rest of the hour. He didn’t wake her up. Her sleep has become as if a rare expression that no one knew about and didn’t think possible and he wanted to savor this moments as long as possible. Only when two minutes of the allotted hour remained Russell tapped her on a shoulder. “Donna, Donna? It’s time to get up”. Donna woke up first moment not understanding where she was. The memory quickly came back to her as Russell helped her to seat up on the massage table and was tapping on her back with the ribs of his palms. “Thank you”, she smiled. “My pleasure”, Russell answered, smiled back and left the station. *** Russell approached the attendant girl returning from the bathroom where he washed his hands after each massage. She waived the envelop with the tip in front of his face. “Twenty five bucks!” she whistled. “I wonder what she gave it to you for?” “For building a scar tissue”, Russell responded absent-mindedly but with the sense of inner clarity, more to himself than to a girl. “Yeah, right”, said the girl holding on to the icicle of skepticism that quickly melted after Russell’s answer. |
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| The Scarmaker By LenLundh@aol.com |
#9 of 21 Runner-up |
| 784 words | |
| He stopped under a streetlight several blocks away.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed the pencil and slip of paper that
lay under the knife. About halfway down the scribbled list the voice had
dictated, he made a neat tick mark next to an item. One more task done. He was
still wet down there, his own fluids because she'd been frightened to a desert
dryness. He wondered if he'd impregnated her, if she would carry such a child,
if they would ever meet and become a family. He didn't think it likely, any of
it. Time to shower and get some sleep before starting the next
mission. She was late-twenty-something. Her hair was perfect, makeup just right. The jewelry and clothes she wore were so simple looking they screamed money. Obviously a high maintenance woman. Obviously very far along in her pregnancy, too. A middle-class husband would have teased her about waddling like a duck as she balanced her belly. Her rich man would say -- Well, he didn't know what a rich husband would say. He'd never been rich, never would be. Would never, under ordinary circumstances, get a second look from a woman like her. A first look would be surprising. The idea of fathering her children, of planting himself and then his seed deep inside any woman like her, was so farfetched that Elvis stood a better chance. And Elvis was either dead or working at a fast-food place in another city. After she passed the alley in which he stood, he checked the time. Good. Just like every Thursday. The pattern, hers and that of the world around the two of them, was consistent. Oh, there was always the chance of a joker being dealt. He knew it would happen sooner or later; that was part of the thrill of doing what the voice demanded. The following Thursday evening. He pulled her into the darkness of the alley so fast, so unexpectedly, she didn't get a chance to even think about screaming. Her back was against the rough brick and his hand on her clavicle kept her there. "Not a sound." He could see in her eyes that she felt the knife against her swollen belly. "The baby will die before you. I'll make sure you know it. Understood?" She nodded. The knife swept upward in a fluid, practiced motion. Her blouse hung loose, cut open without leaving a scratch on her wealthy skin. The knife moved again. Her bra fell open. The knife was back against her belly. It might have been magic. It happened so fast. Later, they would both think it took forever. Damn, he was good at this. The voice would be proud. He felt himself hardening at the sight of her breasts, stretched in preparation for maternity. Not this time. No rape. The mission was different this time. Focus on the job. The voice would be angry. He would have to hurt himself, like that one time, when he'd needed money and taken the wallet. "Take them off." He let her move a small distance away from the wall. She shrugged the slashed clothing off. He caught the rags before they could fall to the ground. "You know how fast I am. No sound. No foolish movement. Remember the baby." She nodded. The knife gave her no instant option, no chance to search for one. He slashed her designer bra, her tailored blouse, into worthless, unwearable pieces that littered the alley. Growing harder still. Focusing, her skin meaningless. Still, harder and harder. It would be so good. Remember the voice. "Take the rest of your clothes off." Still no choice. Again more tattered cloth on the filthy alley floor. "Questions?" The presence of the knife was still in her eyes. "Quietly." "Are you going to --" "Rape you? Rob you? I'm not allowed. Hurt the baby? That's up to you. Or hurt you, maybe? Not physically. It's not on the list. But that's your call, too." "Then what --" "You're going to leave this alley. You're going to stand on the sidewalk, naked as the day you were born. Waiting for someone to help you, to cover you. Hoping nobody will stare. You will be humiliated. And that will never go away." He thought his own skin would burst. End this now. Finish what the voice had sent him for. Her pubic hair was dark against her pale skin. Focus. Focus. End this now. "Now go away." When he got home, the voice gave him permission to relieve the swelling. He cleaned himself, then took out the list. Another item to check off. Another wound that, in healing, would leave a permanent scar. |
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| The Scarmaker By Lyn Hamer Cook ecook@triad.rr.com http://www.petart.net http://www.outsiderartstudio.com http://www.greatdanes-collectible.com http://members.ebay.com/aboutme/ladyartista/ |
#10 of 21 |
| 490 words | |
| The scars on his body belied the beauty of his
spirit. In the beginning, he spent his days near the front of the door, where he could look the people in their eyes. He didn't know exactly why he was trying to make contact, but there was some deep seated yearning for their company. The children sometimes laughed at him, their little fingers trying to grab a part of his body as they passed him by. He would see the eyes of the children's parents pass over him quickly as they reprimanded their children by saying that he might bite; besides, his scars made them feel uncomfortable. As the days passed, he became depressed, and began to spend his days in the back of his area. When he heard the voices of the people as they made their way down the corridor towards him, he no longer bothered to approach the door. He had learned to expect rejection. In the darkness of his prison, the days and nights melded into one. The din of the voices around him, constant and at times jolting, no longer frightened him. Instead, they made him weary, and in need of rest. But he found little comfort on the cold hardness of the concrete floor. There were a few times during the day when one person came to give him food and water. He was grateful and tried to show his appreciation by wagging his tail, longing for a pat on the head. But the person didn't have time to touch him; there were many more prisoners to feed and water; many more who did not have scars and were still young and more desirable than him. His sleep was fitfull at best, and his dreams were shaped with distant memories of a lifetime of beatings and neglect by the man he called Scarmaker. But even so, a residing faith had led him to hope there could be a better life. And so it was on the last day that he greeted his caretaker with a wag. But this time the caretaker slipped a lead over his head. Was he going home with this person? He was led down the corridor, where he had seen many of his kind walk and never return. Did they find people who would pet and talk to them? His excitement grew that in spite of the scars he carried on his body, someone wanted him. As he was led into a brightly lit room, he saw a person approaching him. Speaking in a kind voice, she said "Good Boy, good dog". His brown eyes smiled up at the person as he weakly wagged his tail. Had he at last found his heart's yearning? "Good dog, the voice said soothingly, "I am so sorry”. The needle, expertly wielded from too much experience, found its mark quickly; his eyes closed, and he dreamed he had found a real home at last. Copyright © 2002 Lyn Hamer Cook |
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| The Scarmaker By Lisa Adams crazed_author@yahoo.com |
#11 of 21 |
| 2485 words | |
| I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the
mirror. I smiled, at least I didn’t look over dressy and I wouldn’t
give the wrong impression. My best friend, Jane, had organised for me to go on
a blind date. Why I agreed I’ll never know but I did. Maybe I was lonelier
then what I thought. So when Jane asked me I didn’t even think about it, I
didn’t have time to, my mouth answered yes for me. Now I was beginning to
regret it. To make myself feel better I decided to dress casually but neat. I
wasn’t going to give this mystery guy the wrong impression by dressing up
and making myself look drop dead gorgeous. I was quite happy with what I chose,
black dress pants with a purple short-sleeved turtleneck top. It looked
nice. The only thing I knew about this guy was his name. John. I didn’t know what he looked like what his history was, whether he was decent or had a police record. Before I could think anymore bad thoughts the doorbell rang. Suddenly it felt like my stomach was full of trapeze artists. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to make it to the door without throwing up. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best. I reached the door in one peace but that wasn’t the end of it, I still had to open the door. Before opening it I smoothed my hair, my clothing and hoped for the best that who I was about to meet wasn’t a maniac. The first thing I thought when I saw John was am I seeing things or is this guy gorgeous? Don’t get me wrong, I never go on first impressions. I personally feel that it’s the personality that counts, not the looks. But this time I just couldn’t help myself there was something about him that just caught my eye. I don’t know whether it was his smile, his eyes or the way his hair was styled. Whatever it was it certainly tickled my fancy. John smiled and I hoped I didn’t have a look of pure shock on my face. “Hi.” John said politely, “I’m John. You must be Rachel?” I shook John’s extended hand and smiled back. “You’re right. Nice to meet you John. Shall we get going?” John led me to his car and even opened the door for me. A plus in my books. You don’t see many guys today who do that. “So where’s our destination?” John asked as he was driving. I looked at him shocked, he hadn’t organised anything? “Uh, I’m not too sure to be honest.” I said vowing to give Jane a piece of my mind when I spoke to her next, “I thought that was all organised.” “So did I. Well never mind, I’ve got an idea which I know you’ll love.” “Oh? And you know me that well?” John laughed, “No of course not. But I don’t know any girl that doesn’t like this.” “Well what is it?” John looked at me and winked, “You’ll find out.” I should’ve listened to the warning bells going off in my head but I didn’t, I just thought he was a typical romantic. It couldn’t have been far from the truth! After driving for at least half an hour John pulled up somewhere. I didn’t know where we were but when I looked out the window I saw all the city lights, it was beautiful. “Wow, this is beautiful.” I said, “What made you think of this?” “Oh just an inkling in the back of my mind. This is a spot I go to by myself a lot. I guess it gives me time to think clearly and maybe come up with solutions to my latest problem.” I smiled, “Does it work?” “All the time. So anyway since there was nothing prepared, what do you want to do? I’ve got no food on me but if you like we could just sit here for a while and maybe grab something to eat later.” “Well to be honest, I really don’t mind. I’m not that hungry.” “Me either.” For the next couple of hours we sat on the edge of the cliff in the car just talking and getting to know each other. I couldn’t believe how much we had in common! It started off just to liking the same type of music but what shocked me was the fact that he even liked the same movies! That was the one thing that drew me to him, you don’t find many guys who like sappy romantic movies made back in the 60’s. But John did and he related so many movies and we had a great time talking about our favourite movie and actor back in the older times. When we left it was a bit after 9pm, still early but I felt I’d better go home as I would have to be up early in the morning for work. John was fine with that and when we pulled up out the front of my house he jumped out, opened the car door for me and walked me to the front door. I was impressed. When he lent down to kiss me goodnight I didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a serious kiss, just nice. I never allowed myself to go that far with someone I barely knew but for some reason there was something about John that drew me to him. I’m usually very fussy when it comes to guys and I don’t go for just anyone. I couldn’t put my finger on it but John was different. “I’m sorry things didn’t really work out as I thought.” John said before leaving. “You don’t have to apologise, I guess we both didn’t know.” I replied, “I enjoyed myself as it was anyway.” “Me too.” “Thanks heaps for a great night, John.” “No, thank you.” John gave my hand a squeeze and walked off. I went inside, locked the doors and windows and got ready for bed. As I was lying in bed that night I got thinking about the nights events and as I reflected on things that happened I regretted letting John kiss me. I should’ve pulled away but at the time it felt so right. I just wasn’t that sort of person so why did I suddenly change tonight? Maybe it had to do with the Bali attacks. Mum and Dad were killed in those attacks. They were on their second honeymoon and were in the wrong spot at the wrong time. I still missed them so much, maybe I kissed John for comfort. That still didn’t make sense though. Those thoughts bugged me all night and I barely got any sleep. By the time morning came I felt like a zombie and I was tempted to call in sick for work but decided against it. It would keep my mind off things. As the end of the day drew near I got a phone call. It was from the local police. My heart stopped, had something happened? Had I done something wrong? Taking a deep breath I picked up the phone. “Hello Rachel speaking.” I said. “Rachel Muller?” A gruff voice asked on the other end. “Yes that’s me” I replied. “Rachel this is Sargent Jones from the police station, I was hoping you could come down to the station as soon as possible. We need to ask you a few questions.” My heart stopped again and I found myself reflecting on the bad things I did, there was nothing bad enough to be reported! “Miss Muller? Did you hear me?” The gruff voice said. “Uh, yes I heard you.” I said softly, “What’s going on?” “Just come down as soon as you can.” At that he hung up with nothing else to say. I didn’t know what was going on so I got the rest of the day off work and headed down to the police station. As soon as Sargent Jones saw me he muttered something under his breath and told me to follow him. When we reached his desk I sat down across from him and he looked at me sternly, was he accusing me of something? “Look, what’s going on?” I asked, “If you’re thinking I’ve done something wrong then you’ve got the wrong girl.” Sargent Jones kept looking at me, his expression not changing one bit. He took a photo out of the file in front of him and dropped it in front of me. It was a photo of Jane. I was getting scared now, what was going on? “Do you know this girl?” He asked. “Yes.” I replied, “That’s Jane Nunan, she’s my best friend.” He took out another photo and dropped it in front of me again, this time it was a photo of John. I looked at him, I was becoming tense. Where was this leading? “Do you know him?” I nodded slightly, “What’s going on?” “Just answer the question.” I sighed, “Jane had organised for me to go out on a blind date with John, that was last night. That’s the only time I met him.” “John?” “Yes, that’s his name.” “No it’s not, Miss. His name is Simon McCurry. He’s a wanted man, Rachel.” I could feel myself growing faint, “What exactly are you getting at Sargent?” “He’s a wanted man, Rachel.” Sargent Jones repeated, “ In other words, he’s a murderer. And not just any murderer, he’s a premeditated first-degree murderer. He’s known as The Scarmaker.” Hearing the words murderer made my skin crawl, I went on a blind date with a premeditated first-degree murderer?? I think Sargent Jones could see me going pale as he jumped up and got me a glass of water. He handed it to me and I took a drink, it made me feel a little bit better. “What’s this got to do with Jane?” As soon as I asked it and saw Sargent’s Jones’ face, I wished immediately I hadn’t asked. “Rachel, Jane Nunan was murdered last night in her apartment at midnight. By Simon McCurry.” For a second I thought I was in a bad nightmare but then as I looked at Sargent Jones and his expression I knew it wasn’t a joke or a nightmare for that matter. I didn’t know how to react or what to say, what could I say? Suddenly the tears came and I couldn’t control my emotions and I felt like screaming. First Mum and Dad’s death, now this. Was this a permanent routine in my life? “I understand that you have just recently lost your parents.” Sargent Jones said as if he could read my mind, “And I don’t want to make this any harder for you but you had a right to know. We also need some information from you regarding Simon, or who you know as John.” I don’t know how I did it but I managed to focus on what I had to do and I told him everything that happened last night. I told him about my strange emotions and how I couldn’t understand why I felt like I did. It was all falling into place now, if only I knew then. When I finished talking he informed me of Simon’s actions and how he went for his victims. I didn’t want to hear it but at the same time I wanted to know and I wanted an answer as to why he picked Jane. Why did he let me go last night? Was it too early? Was it just a way to get in contact with Jane? I wish I knew and I had a feeling I would never know, even the police couldn’t help with this situation. By the end of it all I came out with a few answers. Simon was one of those killers with no conscience. He planned everything from who it would be to how he would go about it. Somehow he did research on me and found out what I liked and disliked, thus the example of how much we had in common. That thought scared me, to know there are people out there who can find out whatever they want on you. “What’s going to happen?” I asked softly, “Has Simon been caught?” Sargent Jones cleared his throat, a sign of guilt. “No.” “No? What do you mean no? You mean to tell me he’s still out there? What if he’s after me??” “That’s why you’re here, Rachel. He is after you.” The words came out so slowly and they kept on repeating and repeating like a broken record. Someone wants me killed? I suddenly felt hysterical and I started laughing, not able to stop. If only it was a cruel joke. Finally the laughter turned into tears and I felt like I was going to have a nervous break down there and then. “Listen to me Rachel.” Sargent Jones said sternly, “We’re going to look after you. You are going to have to move away to a private place where no one knows you or where no one can find you. Only until Simon is found and his persecution takes place. Now what’s going to happen is this….” The rest of the conversation was a daze, I don’t remember anything at all. The only thing I remember is being led out by another officer who took me home and I had to pack my belongings. It felt like my life was over. The next two weeks were spent in this private home in the middle of nowhere but the people were nice. I suffered severe depression for a while but I was slowly starting to pick myself out of it with the appropriate counselling. I knew this wasn’t over yet, I knew there was more to come but my sadness is now turning to anger. How can people like Simon get away with such awful things? I didn’t have revenge on my mind at all, I’m not that sort of person. Rather I just wanted to see him suffer what he deserved to suffer. A taste of his own medicine. I realised something last night. Simon McCurry is know as The Scarmaker, now that I think about it, it makes sense. He has made so many people, including me, suffer emotionally and mentally. Those scars are the ones that will never go away, no matter how much counselling we have, they will always be there to haunt us. He’s succeeded in making a new scar in my emotional and mental frame of mind. To be quite frank The Scarmaker suits him well. I just look forward to the day when Simon McCurry is gone. And yes, he will be gone for good but his reputation will stay with us victims forever. |
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| The Scarmaker by Julie Thomas-Zucker dkmerlin61@juno.com www. juliesworkshop.netfirms.com |
#12 of 21 |
| 778 words | |
| Rising from her bed, Judy hurried to get dressed.
Looking in the mirror, she saw more scars. Why? Why? Why did all the scars have
to show? Whenever she had any bad dreams, she'd wake up and Scarmaker put more
scars on her 10-year-old body. She wanted to go to the playground, but feared
the other children. They always laughed at her. She thought Today I will dress
up; it will soon be Halloween and everyone will wear costumes and makeup. So
she worked hard on making herself up. Her mother asked, "Didn't you put too
much on now you could pass for a much older woman." "Oh, mom. I have to put this much on or the scars will show. I don't want the kids at the playground to laugh at me. I want to look like a princess anyway." But instead of the others embracing her, as usual they laughed at her. Some asked, "Did you get beaten some more? You must be a very bad little girl." One girl smeared some of the foundation exposing the new scar. Rushing away, Judy noticed a vacant swing. Judy thought I'll just have to have fun alone. Swings always make me free. I feel like I'm flying without any cares in the world. Soon other children came to the swings and her turn ended. She also saw her chance to slide down the slide. So she climbed to the top, but then one of her tormentors called, "Look at the would-be princess. She really looks awful in that costume." This time Judy could stop them; the tears began flowing like rivers down her cheeks uncovering more of the ugly scars. When she reached the bottom, she noticed an empty swing so she hurried to get it, but as she sat down another child shoved her out of the swing. He then kicked and she began crying again. Becoming more and more embarrassed, she runs away. Judy hurried to the mall. Maybe there someone would accept her. But some of the children follow her throwing stones at her. Wanting to escape and be alone, she headed to her private hideout. She looked behind her when she made her turns and felt somewhat safe though an eerie feeling followed her. When she got there, she let go of her emotions and tears poured down her cheeks. She wanted to have friends, but no one would overlook her appearance even when she tried so hard to improve it. Now she knew Scarmaker would appear and give her more scars. Then she heard them. "What a neat old shed this is. We can make it our own" Judy moved behind some old boxes. They began rearranging the room. Judy liked the natural surrounding: the cobwebs, the dirt, and the mess. They reminded her of her life. This hideout was the picture of her life. While she daydreamed, they removed the box she hid behind. "So now we found you. Is this your castle, Princess of darkness?" Judy thought where can I get away from these tormentors? I know. I'll run to the cemetery. They won't follow me there; they get scared too easily. They want me dead so that's where I'll go. At least I'll get some relief. I wish I could go home but they will follow me there. Judy walked around through the cemetery. She came to an old tombstone. "Here lies Melody Miller age 10. We miss her very much. Mom and Dad" Judy began to feel a little safe. She daydreamed about having Melody for a friend. Just then, Judy thought she heard voices. "Oh, no. I don't want anymore scars today please go away." When Judy looked up, Scarmaker stood in front of her. Judy ran so fast as she could. She knew if he touched her she would receive more scars. She never could outrun Scarmaker. He grabbed her. She screamed. Then she became quiet. "Oh, child why do you resist me so much? Don't you know that the scars show how much I love you? Let's just look at one. The new one. You received the scar because you worked so hard to change your appearance. Without the scar no one would ever know of your hard work. If you didn't receive the scar, those boys would make you do things as cruel as the ones they do to you." "Your scars make you look beautiful and they show how perfectly you fit into your future life as a princess. I hope someday you will accept them." Though Judy must live with the disgusting scars, she now has hope of one day becoming a princess. |
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| The Scarmaker By H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com |
#13 of 21 |
| 25 words | |
| His silver finger draws an opening across my pelvis, offering life where darkness had awaited its final irony. Pink and tender we are both thankful. |
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| The Scarmaker By Jessica Powell WriteGirl33@aol.com |
#14 of 21 |
| 238 words | |
| The dewy mist hangs on shutters, Clinging to hazy night, Abhorring coming morn. As cold inside as outer wind, House-not home-sways, Crumpled, Forgotten, Forlorn. Inside this framework- all alone- And sitting on the bottom stair, Our tiny girl, in ragged nightgown Clutches-not holds-close a Small, Worn, Bear. Tears stain her dirty face, Shattered and alone left to her agony; Black-and-blue clings to her eye. Rocking back and forth in fear You-not I-have left her there to whimper to Plead, to Cry. Where I have gone, I can not help My hands are like the mist, I can not comfort wrenching pain. And this to you I thank as I watch Rivers-not merely tears-on her face Dripping, Softly, like Rain. Like her, I have no comfort, I’m alone from dawn to dusk. There’s ‘Brother Johnny’ on my left ‘Uncle Bill’ at right, No one-not a soul-keeps me Safe, Protected at Night. My name is etched in stone- A monotony of lies- The words below, nicely placed, And yet they are unread… Forbidden-not allowed-so lonely and in Dust my Name is Traced. You’ve won it all- I am gone, and daughter cries- But you drink away what she may implore, Oh! What would I not do for love that you Cast off-not cherish-and Hate, Despise, Ignore. I can not see her face, Or comfort flowing tears- But I know, one day, Scarmaker, I will cleanse her of all her fears. |
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| The Scarmaker By paul.kopal@ntlworld.com |
#15 of 21 |
| 2267 words | |
| The room was dedicated to pain. It had a 'couch of shiny leather and no carpet that would stain with blood and thus require continual cleaning.' Gaeshor had always followed the recommendations of 'A Scar Surgeons Primer and Manual' and also wore 'a leather tunic with no sleeves but many pockets in which to store tools'. And beneath it 'a red blouse beneath this to obviate the need for frequent changes of attire.' "And what do we have here?" asked Gaeshor, clearing away some of the dried brown blood. "Ah, excellent, a fine mark. Good clear long stroke. very fine. May I ask? Who is the deceased?" "A fine swordsman. I merely bested him by luck." "Ah well said Master Lade, well said indeed." Gaeshor face seemed to register two contrary ages simultaneously - everything above the lobes of his enormous ears might have been transplanted from a far younger individual. His pate and forehead were smooth and shiny, the flesh pink, yet the narrow mouth and neck were crabbed by wrinkles. A crevice like scar ran from crown to eyebrow upon the right hand side of his head and a sprig of brown hair had been allowed to sprout from the crown of his head, in contrast to the rigorous shaving of the rest. He dipped a towel into the bowl and the limpid water slopped against the sides. He then leaned toward Lade and began to dab around a scarlet slit, a rent that ran from bridge of nose to upper jaw like a red mouth. Inside the wound a few knobs of white bone lay amid shiny violet muscle. Lade winced but did not draw back. "Hold still Master Lade, or I shall ruin a fine mark." chided Gaeshor. "My old fingers are not as nimble as they were." "Of course Surgeon Gaeshor, my apologies." "Hmmm? I must say again, it really is quite a beautiful mark, I must do my best work for you Master Lade. What were the weapons?" "Kitane and scimarda." "Ah, elegant tools. Your opponent, did he have a name?" "I am sorry to say that he did." Gaeshor turned to dip the towel again. "Surgeon Gaeshor. I have to speak. Honour dictates. I must tell you. but..." Gaeshor's knee boots creaked as he reached over for a fresh towel. "Come Master Lade." he upbraided gently. "I am strong enough to bear it." "He was your son." gabbled Lade. Then adding, as if further detail could possibly be necessary. "He was the one who dealt this blow." "I see." replied Gaeshor. Hanging the now red towel over the side of the bowl. "Is that all you have to say?" asked Lade. "It was done with honour, the whole thing, from start to finish. he fought well. You should be proud." For a moment it seemed that the old man had not understood what was said and he gaped at the duellist like a dotard. Then he nodded and promised, "I'm sure I shall be." Lade shifted, uncomfortable to be bedded beneath a white sheet at such a moment. He asked, "Do you wish me to send for another Surgeon?" "No." The old man seemed to be preoccupied. "Sir, I must ask. Do you wish to... will you challenge me yourself, as is your right?" The old man considered. His gaze tracked a new flow of blood as it overspilled the straight lip of the new scar and coursed the curve of his patients jaw. "No." he rumbled, apparently fascinated by the sanguine beads dissolving amid the wetness. "I rather think not." Then he reached into a pocket of his garment and fetched forth a coarse woven bandage, the weft and warp of which stretched as he pulled it taught. He examined the material with idle intensity, like one who had seen a particular wondrous thing rather too often. " <Ahem> You are lucky that the blow missed the eye, another... I mean, if it had, oh, excuse me." Gaeshor turned away. There was a slight tremor to the old mans shoulders that led Lade to suspicion him of battling tears. It brought him sharp sorrow to see the pride of Gaeshor assailed in that way. He mumbled, "I am sorry." "What?" bellowed Gaeshor incredulously, spinning back to face his patient with an expression of ungovernable wrath. "In the name of all the blood in the Yards! Don't tell me you are sorry! Why don't you go and just spit on my son's corpse rather than that? Go on! Spit on the dead body of the fine man that honoured you! What do you mean 'sorry'? Did they teach you nothing at City Academy?" He began to worry at the bandage once more, stretching it repeatedly as if testing its strength. Lade ejaculated, "Oh, they taught us." but just what lesson the Duellist was thinking of went unremarked, his assertion dwindling onto a rather feeble parenthesis. "They taught us well!" "I am glad to hear it." remarked the old man. "Now lean back and let me work." Having assured himself that Lade was suitably quiescent, Gaeshor now heaped the bandage with salt and applied the object so that it covered the entire area of the wound. The duellist ground his teeth and suffered hot tears to spill from the corners of his eyes. His body vibrated and his heels danced a little gavotte beneath the white sheet. "There." observed the old man, "Leave that on for a day and then change it. The scar will be a thing of beauty. I can always tell. How the ladies will turn to you, eager to hear the story of its making! My own is such a poor thing, more a medical procedure than a mark of honour." Although temporarily rendered speechless by anguish, Lade now gasped, "I shall always tell, any who ask, of the valour shown by your son." Once more the expression of the elderly gentleman was transfigured by wrath, "So," he spat, "My son is to be dishonoured upon every occasion of your telling the tale? Lade mopped some hot sweat with the back of his hand as he bowed his head so far as was practicable, given his current recumbence beneath the sheet. His voice was mournful as he assumed, "I vex you with every clumsy word." "Then forsake all mention of my son! Let him be bested and dead and nameless. That will be the better honour for him." "Of course, forgive me." "My son." began Gaeoshar, as if attempting to recall details of a dimly recalled slight acquaintance, "He delivered the blow to your cheek in a manner thus?" The old man abbed at Lades face with his hand. Lade looked at the stiff wrinkled fingers with trepidation. "With just such a blow," he conceded, "I parried his Kitane but the Scimarda caught me." "And yet." observed Gaeshor, "He contrived to open your right cheek without at all striking the intervening nose?" Lade fingered that miraculously preserved organ. "Only by some freak of battle. Many such strange things may occur in the Yards, you know that if anyone does!" There was a shrill quality in this protest that caused Gaeoshor to slightly raise his eyebrows. A slight dew of sweat beaded Lades brow as he added, "Bizarre survivals, flukes and suchlike caprices of fate. Even the serfs read of them in the Yard Sheets." "Gah!" spat Gaeshor, "What do the lower orders know of honour?" Lade coloured at this remark but bit back a hasty word that had trembled upon his lips. The sensations emanating from the salted bandage had now subsided into a mere anguish and, as Lade rose. First he threw off the gore stained robe revealing that beneath it he was still garbed for battle in the duelling yards. Gaeshor turned away from his newly risen patient. Lade stared at the back of the little man as he took up a pestle and began to grind a grey paste in a ceramic bowl. During the performance of this task the old man turned slowly back. "What is that stain upon your blouse?" he asked. Lade issued a vaguely interrogative grunt and looked down at the blue material of his front. Amid the swatches of brown was a dark grey discoloration. "Nothing." he averred. "Just blood from the wound." The grinding of mortar against pestle ceased. Lade sighed. "I am grinding the fixing lotion." remarked Gaeshor mildly, looking down into the little bowl. "Excellent." chimed Lade. "It looks like a powder burn." "Eh? What does?" "The mark on your blouse? It looks like a powder burn." Lade brushed at the smirch with an idle gesture. "It is dirt from the floor of the Duelling Yards, just grey dust." "And yet." intoned Gaeosha, leaning forward, his rheumy eyes just so unblinking as a hunting creature intent upon prey and inhaled slightly. "It smells burned?" Wriggling out from under the staring gaze of Gaeosha, Lade sprang from the leather chair and narrowly avoided barging into the older man as he gained the centre of the room. From there he looked back. He inquired angrily, "How should I know what is laying on the floor of the Yards?" "Well." said Gaeosha, his face an ineffable mask. "Certainly not burned gunpowder. For firearms are forbidden in the yards, as unmanly, as cowardly, as the weapon of recreants. No man would insult himself by firing. No real man." Face red with wrath and shame, Lade stammered an agreement, "Indeed, indeed, now, if we are done?" "You are not done here." said the old man. "What? What do you mean?" asked Lade, retreating a pace, "I'll walk out of here when I please!" He glanced towards the door, which to him seemed situated worlds away. "Where are your weapons? Where is your proof?" Gaeosha's unchanging expression seemed to be hiding the faintest of smiles. "I meant, that I have yet to apply the lotion." he raised the bowl and mortar by way of illustration. "Good, get on with it then." snorted Lade. "I have to be leaving, I have to be somewhere." The old man came forward and proceeded to smear the fragrant paste onto the bandage. He bent his head from side to side in studying the finished effect and then. "What did you mean? 'Proof'?" "Huh? I never said any such thing! You must have misheard me." "Of course, of course." Lade made a move towards the door but was arrested by further soft words. "And yet..." "What is it now?" flared the duellist. "Spit it out damn you!" In the face of only a silent advance by way of reply Lade fumed, "What is wrong with you and your family? Why won't you leave a man in peace?" "The duel with my son. May I ask what occasioned it? Unwanted attention? Given perhaps to his sworn wife to be?" Provoked by shame and ire to high dudgeon, Lade raged, "Boden was like you! He couldn't just forgive, or forget, he had to keep on! Keep on! Keep on 'til a man was mad with it!" "Indeed. He was a man of honour." "As am I!" shrieked Lade, "How do you think I got this?" he gestured towards the wound. "The mark upon my face is the visible sign of honour!" Lades features were set into a weird grimace, somewhat pain and somewhat emotion. "No one will question such a mark. The duellist rolled his eyes in search of the word he required, "It supersedes the wearer!" "Nonsense!" roared Gaeshor, "Nonsense! The scar, is no more than a scratch without the justification of noble combat! Otherwise every serf who cuts himself on his spade is a hero." The duellist dismissed this cavil with a writhing of his neck and an exasperated bleat, "At any rate, You shall not relate that I came by my mark without honour." He reached down and began to fumble with his right boot, reaching his fingers behind the blue stained leather in search of something therein. "Will you shoot me too? And call that honourable?" The surgeon spread his arms and grinned with mad intensity. "Your lie will grow to fill the world!" Gaeshor lunged forward and caromed his skull into the face of the younger and stooping man. Under normal circumstances this blow would have meant no worse than a bruise to the duellist, but the scar of Gaeshor hid a secret. This was that a length of steel plate ran the length of his forehead to shore the place of shattered bone, which presence caused the youthful smoothness of the flesh. The impact of this shattered fragile cartilage and thrust a spear of the same up into the brain of Lade, who wore the stunned aspect of one who could not credit the evidence of his fading senses. Thin streams of black blood leaked from both his nostrils as he reeled back, hands shuddering and jaw slack. A gurgling congestion, broken like words but incomprehensible as language escaped his gaping mouth. Then his eyes rolled up and body fell backwards into the leather chair, which skidded across the polished boards at the impact. Thereupon he lay, limp as a thrown blanket, an expression of dullard incomprehension latched upon his red-dribbled face. Gaeshora smiled down at the corpse and then began to assemble his various implements, nudging them into particular positions with trite little gestures, as if merely culminating a routine appointment. He rubbed the deep scar upon his forehead with the smallest finger of his right hand, and advised, "Beware of outward signs." |
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| The Scarmaker By walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#16 of 21 |
| 1311 words | |
| Mike had no idea where he was, but it was crowded. So
crowded, he was unable to even turn to look around. There were other men,
dozens of them, pressed shoulder to shoulder in what appeared to be a narrow
corridor of some sort. He could hear a collective murmur among the throng, but
couldn’t make out any of the words. Occasionally, they would all surged
forward, their collective strength irresistible, and Mike could do nothing but
move forward too. “What’s going on?” he asked, just loud enough that the man in front of him could hear. “I don’t know,” the man shouted back. “Where are we going?” Mike called out, louder, to no one in particular. “I don’t know,” the man in front of him answered. “We’re going in there,” another voice shouted above the din. It was a familiar voice, coming from over Mike’s left shoulder. He tried to turn to see, but was still physically unable to turn himself enough to do so. “Charlie? That you?” he called out. “Yep, it’s me, Mike.” “What the hell’s going on? Why are we going in there? What is this place?” “We gotta go. That’s what they told me. Don’t know why, but we gotta...” “Who told you? What happens in there?” Panic started to build, and Mike thought he could feel a pounding in his chest, though it may have been one of the other men he was pressed so tight against. “We gotta go meet the ‘scar-maker’,” Charlie’s voice shouted back. “Some of the old-timers told me about it. They said it was our turn. We gotta go...” The murmur of the crowd suddenly increased to an indecipherable roar, as if Charlie’s word’s had stricken fear in a wave of panic that began to radiate from his position in horde. There was another sudden, violent surge forward, and Mike was able to raise his head just a little higher in an attempt to see what lie ahead. He could see that the corridor became more and more narrow, right to the point of a doorway through which it seemed only a single man could pass at once. He could not see what was beyond the door, and this frightened him with immediate clarity. “Charlie, what, or who is the ‘scar-maker’?” he shouted. The invoking of the name caused an even more violent shift in the tightly packed mob. “Charlie..?” he called out again, louder, desperation in his tone. If there was a response, he could not hear it over the clamor of the others. He hung his head in resignation, moving when the throng gave him no choice but to do so. Mike didn’t know how long it took before he found himself standing alone in the dark passageway he had earlier spied at the end of the bottle-necking corridor. There were still men lined up behind him, falling in single file as the narrower space dictated, but for the first time in hours, he was not staring at somebody else’s back, and this was not as comforting as he would have hoped it would be. The man in front of him had gone through the dark wall he now faced, slipped through an opening that revealed itself and disappeared with equal suddenness. A few seconds after he had gone, Mike could hear sounds of movement, a struggle perhaps. Before he could ponder this any further, the sound of the man’s screams, shattering and sharp came from the other side, and then seemed to fade. The passage opened again, like a curtain pulled aside, and before he could react, he was forced through it. He found himself standing in a small, cubicle-like space, it’s sides resembling some sort of cage or animal pen. He suddenly realized that he was completely naked, and he turned awkwardly as he tried to conceal himself and assess his surroundings. Bright lights from above made it difficult for him to see, but he was certain he was not alone. There was somebody- at least two somebody’s outside the slatted walls of his confines. As he was straining to see them through the glare, he was driven to the ground with overwhelming force. “Take it easy, fella,” a voice said from the brightness. “this will be over in just a second...” Mike realized that he had been brought down and was being held there by a hand reaching through the bars of the enclosure. He struggle briefly, but was astounded at the strength of his captor. “Hurry up,” the voice said; “this one’s kind of antsy...” Mike could sense the presence of someone else on the opposite side from where the hand had reached in from, and he shielded his eyes with his hands in hopes of seeing at least one of his mysterious assailants. Through the bars, he could make out the silhouette of a Stetson hat. Was this guy another ranch hand? he wondered. Maybe this was some sort of hazing ritual, or a prank, he thought. Maybe that’s why Charlie knew about it. He opened his mouth to call out to the man in the cowboy hat, but strangely, nothing seemed to come out. “It’s ready; hold him still,” Cowboy hat-man said. His partner responded by strengthening hold on Mike. The Cowboy hat-man came to the side of the cage and began to reach between the bars, and Mike kept his gaze fixed desperately on the man’s face. There was something wrong with it, something not right. It was long, with a big, loose-lipped mouth at the bottom, large, wet nostrils above it, and two large brown eyes studying him from beneath the brim of the hat. Instead of ears, the hat rested on two horns that protruded from his head, then turned upward just beyond the brim. The terror of realization forced Mike to look away, but when he did, his eyes fell on the object that the cow-cowboy held as he reached into the pen. It was the reverse image of the ‘double J’ logo of the ranch, coming at him in the form of blazing hot metal. It was a branding iron. It was the ‘scar-maker’. As the scorching metal pressed into his right buttock with a searing hiss, Mike screamed, but instead of his normal voice, all he could hear escaping his lips was a deafening “Moooooo!” ************************************* Mike bolted upright in the bed, nearly falling to the floor as he did so. The lights came on in a blinding instant, and he realized he was in the bunkhouse at the Double J Ranch. Charlie was standing next to the light switch, staring at him with a concerned look. “What the hell was that about?” he asked. “What happened?” Mike responded, still groggy. “Beat’s me. I was sleepin’ soundly when all of the sudden you’re yelling “moo” in your sleep. Scared the shit outta me...” “I had the weirdest dream,” Mike said, even as it began to fade from his mind. He got out of the bed and began to put his clothes on. “I’m going to step outside for a smoke,” he announced to his bunk mate’s curious eyes. “What was the dream about?” Charlie asked. “I dreamt that we were all cattle. We were herded, and branded like we were all a bunch of steer,” Mike responded as he pulled on his Calvin Klein brand jeans, and buttoned up his Ralph Lauren brand denim shirt. He double checked the shirt pocket to make sure his Marlboro brand cigarettes were still there. He slipped his feet into his Durango brand boots and headed for the door. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of,” Charlie mumbled as he turned out the light, and slipped back into the comfort of his 250 thread count Martha Stewart brand sheets on his Sealy Posturepedic mattress. “Stupidest thing I ever heard...” |
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| The Scarmaker By Sara Richards Sarapiano@musician.org |
#17 of 21 |
| 172 words | |
| Thin lips, neat hands folded like crows wings behind a slight and narrow back. Grey hair parted to reveal a tight skull while a humourless thin grin plays about his face. He carries the tools of his trade cruelty, lack of pity, no compassion. He delights in pain. A small knife is his weapon of choice. He can cut, he can mark, he can wound without touching, sheer terror the hurt imagined being, sometimes, greater than that received. He stalks the streets he is free he comes and goes the shadow that haunts us, our bogeyman the very devil, the face pure evil. If he cuts you you will scream but no-one will hear you. If he scars you, you may beg for mercy but no-one will come. He is the scarmaker. His secret work dark, nysterious, fascinates us, draws us in, We must observe we are voyeurs at his feast. He scars us as we too fall victim to his lure. He is the scarmaker and we his willing, powerless accomplices. |
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| The Scarmaker by Jennifer Turner jturner4@charter.net |
#18 of 21 |
| 2468 words | |
| Steven Grimes snapped the paper open over his
cornflakes. WITNESS GIVES POLICE FIRST CLUES IN SERIAL KILLER’S IDENTITY.
He read, fascinated by the details since they’d first appeared in July.
Victim number eight resembled the rest, a young blonde woman. The sketch, designed from the account of an elderly lady, was a simple drawing over a caption that declared the suspect was a white male, in his early thirties, with brownish hair and a pale complexion. Any of the guys he worked with fit that description. The drawing reminded him of Shaggy from the old Scooby-Doo cartoons-complete with soul patch. He fingered his freshly shaven jaw. Twenty minutes later, Steve boarded the packed downtown bus and stood in the aisle, holding the overhead bar. "It’s just horrible." A woman dressed in as suit declared. "All those girls. It’s just not safe in the city anymore." "I know." Another woman, wearing the white shoes of a nurse chimed in. "I hope they catch him soon." A dark, Hispanic man spoke, "He come around my family, no one have to worry about him no more." Steve marveled at how quickly a frightened society could reconcile themselves to murder. "I wouldn’t worry so much, if I were you." The nurse-looking woman snorted. "You wouldn’t say that if you were a woman." "True," Steve granted. "But the paper said he likes blond women." "I bet you think we should do what they did with that other guy," suit-woman frowned. "You know the one who liked brunettes? All those girls colored their hair, just to be safe." "I think you’re talking about the Son of Sam," Steve offered. "Yeah, that’s the guy. He was a real sick-o." She nodded. "Thought Satan lived in a hole in his wal | |