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"The Habit" (the sixty-sixth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Habit" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), March 15, 2007 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| THE HABIT By lee10@host365.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Eppy was determined that this year
would be different. Something had to change. She was at the end of her tether
and her pension would no longer stretch to paying off a blackmailer. Marcie Evans, the village post-mistress, hadn’t gossiped about Eppy’s little weakness yet but she was a busy person and might just let it slip at any time. She was the Chairman of the Parish Council, the Chair of the W.I., a Church Warden and the Women’s Bowls Captain. There were no pies in the village in which she didn’t poke a finger. At church on Sunday, when Marcie handed the collection plate down the row, Eppy was careful to put in an amount equal to what her little weakness had cost during the last seven days. She hoped it would go some way towards balancing the books. Marcie’s supercilious smile told her it didn’t. Eppy and Marcie had lived in the same village all their lives. Eppy had been an ordinary child but she had a pleasant nature and a ready smile, which had made her many friends, who had stood between Eppy and life’s bullies. Now Eppy was a widow and most of her friends were either dead or moved away. But despite that, she didn’t want the village to learn all about her little secret. Everybody does it, she reasoned. It’s not so outrageous. If it were they’d ban it! So she tried to keep her grey, tightly permed head down and hugged this one little vice to herself. And that’s where Marcie came in. Marcie had been a playground bully. She was taller than average and from an early age delighted in picking on those smaller than herself. Which meant just about everyone. Even now, approaching her sixties, most of the villagers were afraid of her. She had a way of showing people up, or of getting even if she felt she’d been insulted; however small or unintentional the slight had been. She loved to see people squirm. She’d turned it into an art form. The more embarrassed she could make her adversaries, the better she liked it. And that dowdy woman who lived in one of the terraced houses off the High Street, with her petty, grimy urges, was fair game. Eppy knew this but the trouble was she had no idea what to do to divert Marcie’s attention away from her. Each Thursday, when Eppy collected her pension, Marcie would put that sanctimonious smirk on her face. And each Thursday, Eppy’s little weakness overcame her and she played right into Marcie’s hands. She couldn’t help it. The year turned and though she was no nearer to a solution, Eppy determined that 2007 would be different and on the first Thursday, she took her pension money and asked for two first class stamps. “And is that all, dear?” Marcie simpered. Eppy hesitated. “Yes!” she said firmly. Marcie raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Oh,yes? But I know you’ll be back!” And Eppy was back. On Friday her little weakness drove her back to the post office and a grinning Marcie who said, “My! What a good collection we’ll have in church this week.” Eppy slunk away, her face as red as the post-box outside. * At church, Eppy prayed praying for deliverance but in her heart she knew that she wanted deliverance from Marcie and not from the habit that had her in its exciting grip, so she didn’t think God would listen. The plate came down the row. Marcie watched Eppy intently, like a hovering hawk scouting the ground for a tasty morsel. Eppy felt like a timid, exposed mouse with nowhere to hide. She was so nervous that after the service, when she escaped from the church, she left her handbag under the pew. When she found she couldn’t get into her home because her keys were in her bag, she trudged back to the church but went the long way round so that she wouldn’t bump into Marcie. Eppy found her handbag and was about to leave the empty church when she heard voices. Eppy was very curious. It was her second vice. It was a very small, unimportant one, which did nobody any harm. But it drew her to the front of the church. The vestry door was ajar. She crept up to it and clearly heard a woman’s voice. A woman’s voice that was saying, “Now that you’ve got your cassock off Thomas, let’s count the collection, shall we?” The voice was Marcie’s, low and husky, sugar-sweet and syrupy. “What a fine collection you have, Thomas. My, you must be proud of it. Let’s see, that’s one, two…oops, I’ve dropped one in your lap…” Eppy crept away. Her smile was so broad it near split her face in half and it hadn’t even faded any by the time she reached home. * Eppy didn’t wait for pension day. She strode into the post office on Monday like a knight going into battle and plonked five one-pound coins onto the counter but she kept her hand over them. Except for Marcie behind the counter, the place was empty. Perfect. “That’s three pounds on today’s lottery and two scratch cards, please.” She tried to keep her face straight but that smile crept back and she stirred the coins with her finger. “What a fine collection I have. My, I am so proud of them. Let’s see, that’s one, two…” A deep flush started at Marcie’s cleavage and rose higher and higher as she stared in horror at this usually insignificant, little, old lady. She threw the scratch cards and the lottery tickets at Eppy. “Get out!” she snarled. “Oh, by the way,” Eppy said sweetly, enjoying the last word, delighted to note that Marcie’s ears by now were tingly-fluorescent pink, “I won’t be putting any money into the collection plate on Sunday. It’ll be so much easier for you and the vicar to count if the plate is emptier, won’t it?” |
| THE HABIT By Darlene Oakley djaro828@yahoo.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| His concentration was definite. All
his energies were trained on one thing. One person. The cacophony of the
traffic on a nearby freeway, barking dogs, screaming children—it all faded
away into nothingness as he stared at her through his crosshairs. She was his third target, numbers one and two having already been taken care of. Six weeks ago he had shot number one as she filled in her sudoku puzzle at a local coffee shop. Three weeks ago he had shot number two while she sunbathed on a lonely stretch of beach. A few days after number two he found number three and now stood poised to hunt for number four just as soon as the bullet left the barrel. His employer—who had hired him on terms of absolute anonymity—wouldn’t be happy, he supposed, at his hesitation now. His orders were very clear: find every woman on the list and put a bullet through her head. In his line of work he’d learned not to ask why. Yet, despite those orders and his desire to fulfill them, he now sat, finger on trigger, silencer in place, laser sight painting a red dot in the middle of her forehead, watching her, intrigued. He had set up in the master bedroom of the neighboring house that hadn’t been sold yet. He was actually kneeling, not sitting, rifle resting on his shoulder from the back and barrel resting on a small tripod in the open window sill. That her window was currently closed meant nothing to him. Not a problem. But, there was a problem. For the first time in 20 years, he was reluctant to pull the trigger. In the fortnight he’d spent following her he’d learned all about her and had just now come to wonder why anyone would want her dead. She spent three nights a week with a six-year-old girl as part of the Big Brother/Big Sister program. He’d watched the little girl’s face light up at her Big Sister, listened to her laugh and watched her little face fall when they parted at the end of the outing. He had never killed anyone who was responsible for the life and happiness of someone else. There was nothing remarkable about her day life either. She drove to work every morning, after having walked her dog, at a local bank where she advised people on their investments. That she had no boyfriend astounded him—which had also never happened before. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had sparkling blue eyes, perfectly symmetrical facial features and well-kept curls. She chose clothes that accented her lithe, athletic, but average body and walked with an air of true confidence. He watched her bend over, pick up the dog and begin to brush her with the care and thoroughness of a mother. That’s it! I can’t do this! He snatched his weapon from the window and laid it on the floor beside him. There’s something wrong here. If he followed his instinct now, he would give up the $2 million dollars he had been promised per kill and, likely, become someone else’s million-dollar habit. But, the compulsion to protect her rather than kill her overwhelmed him and before he knew it he was downstairs, out the door, and standing on her porch ringing her doorbell. He pictured her setting the dog down, mid-brushing, and the animal tracking behind her as she descended the stairs and traversed the hallway. The door opened and she stood before him shrouded in the hall light. “What can I do for you?” “Shayna Morris?” “Yes.” “My name is Caleb MacDonald. I was hired by someone to kill you.” He fully expected her to slam the door in his face and call 911. But, if his surveillance proved correct…. “Then why are you standing there telling me your name and telling me you are supposed to kill me?” He smiled, briefly, and then looked her square in the eye. “Because Shayna, I couldn’t go through with it. I want to help you find out who wants you dead and why.” “Come on in.” |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place (tie): #1, #8 Third place: #3 Fourth place: #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Habit Darlene Oakley djaro828@yahoo.com |
#1 of 9 Runner-up |
| 684 words | |
| His concentration was definite. All his energies were
trained on one thing. One person. The cacophony of the traffic on a nearby
freeway, barking dogs, screaming children—it all faded away into
nothingness as he stared at her through his crosshairs. She was his third target, numbers one and two having already been taken care of. Six weeks ago he had shot number one as she filled in her sudoku puzzle at a local coffee shop. Three weeks ago he had shot number two while she sunbathed on a lonely stretch of beach. A few days after number two he found number three and now stood poised to hunt for number four just as soon as the bullet left the barrel. His employer—who had hired him on terms of absolute anonymity—wouldn’t be happy, he supposed, at his hesitation now. His orders were very clear: find every woman on the list and put a bullet through her head. In his line of work he’d learned not to ask why. Yet, despite those orders and his desire to fulfill them, he now sat, finger on trigger, silencer in place, laser sight painting a red dot in the middle of her forehead, watching her, intrigued. He had set up in the master bedroom of the neighboring house that hadn’t been sold yet. He was actually kneeling, not sitting, rifle resting on his shoulder from the back and barrel resting on a small tripod in the open window sill. That her window was currently closed meant nothing to him. Not a problem. But, there was a problem. For the first time in 20 years, he was reluctant to pull the trigger. In the fortnight he’d spent following her he’d learned all about her and had just now come to wonder why anyone would want her dead. She spent three nights a week with a six-year-old girl as part of the Big Brother/Big Sister program. He’d watched the little girl’s face light up at her Big Sister, listened to her laugh and watched her little face fall when they parted at the end of the outing. He had never killed anyone who was responsible for the life and happiness of someone else. There was nothing remarkable about her day life either. She drove to work every morning, after having walked her dog, at a local bank where she advised people on their investments. That she had no boyfriend astounded him—which had also never happened before. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had sparkling blue eyes, perfectly symmetrical facial features and well-kept curls. She chose clothes that accented her lithe, athletic, but average body and walked with an air of true confidence. He watched her bend over, pick up the dog and begin to brush her with the care and thoroughness of a mother. That’s it! I can’t do this! He snatched his weapon from the window and laid it on the floor beside him. There’s something wrong here. If he followed his instinct now, he would give up the $2 million dollars he had been promised per kill and, likely, become someone else’s million-dollar habit. But, the compulsion to protect her rather than kill her overwhelmed him and before he knew it he was downstairs, out the door, and standing on her porch ringing her doorbell. He pictured her setting the dog down, mid-brushing, and the animal tracking behind her as she descended the stairs and traversed the hallway. The door opened and she stood before him shrouded in the hall light. “What can I do for you?” “Shayna Morris?” “Yes.” “My name is Caleb MacDonald. I was hired by someone to kill you.” He fully expected her to slam the door in his face and call 911. But, if his surveillance proved correct…. “Then why are you standing there telling me your name and telling me you are supposed to kill me?” He smiled, briefly, and then looked her square in the eye. “Because Shayna, I couldn’t go through with it. I want to help you find out who wants you dead and why.” “Come on in.” |
|
| The Habit Roger Haller roger@cowboylogic.net |
#2 of 9 |
| 1481 words | |
| It has always been my habit to relate my life to nature
as a whole. I was raised to be a hunter and fisherman and I prided myself with
the fact that I was a part of the overall plan. There are hunters and prey all
over nature and one life taken enables another to live. I was born a predator.
The habit consisted of living in harmony with my environment, understanding the implications of the food chain and nurturing, respecting and honoring my prey as a crucial part of my existence. I understood better than most that life was all about the path to my death. This was true for all life, animal or vegetation. To this end I was, from a very young age, a conservationist and my life patterns revolved around culturing my surroundings for optimal environment for all and ultimately a bountiful harvest. I had a great home many miles from the city rat race with a wife who understood me and children who were being raised in the traditions I had lived. Our house was on a high bank overlooking my favorite fishing stream. I had four horses that enjoyed the trips up the mountain as much as I did and my oldest two kids were already comfortable on overnight camping trips to harvest grouse and rabbits for the larder. My world changed. Uncle Sam called and I was shipped to a high mountain desert in a country around the world from my chosen routine. My habits were adjusted accordingly as I moved from lone hunter status to pack hunter. I had to switch gears and adjust my habits to this new reality but the routine I treasured was a most adequate springboard for this new way of life. The habit was evolving to keep me alive and thriving in the new environment. I became known as a natural leader because I could read the earth. My prey had changed, but natural laws had not. Even human nature is based on the rule book all things live by, so understanding the rules, I seemed to adjust well and perhaps I even excelled. Suddenly my whole thought process was flushed along with my habits. I was now alone, far inside the enemy turf with very little of my equipment and even less food or water. I had been sent ahead with only a sniper rifle and side arm to scout a rocky ledge that would give me a view of the forbidding valley bottle neck our unit had to go through. The Sergeant would carry my pack and I would rejoin the troop on the other side of the pinch point. From high on the cliff side, I watched my company below as a young girl clambered down a steep side trail to the North. They called out a warning to her but eased up when they saw her raise her hands over her head and two things became apparent. She was packing no arms and she looked about eleven months pregnant. Shit, she looked to be no more than fifteen through my field glasses. She made eating motions with her hands and mouth and before she even reached the troop, some were digging for rations in their packs. I searched the trail behind her and all seemed clear. Even over the ridge, I could see the lightly warn path wind up over another ridge and there was no sight of danger. I waved the all clear to the Lieutenant. As she entered the unit, she doubled up in pain and collapsed to her knees. Everyone rushed to her aid when a massive explosion removed all from my sight and the force dropped me to the ground behind my cover. I scrambled back to peek over the boulder in front of me to see no part of a human more than a 5 pound chunk. From a hidden trail almost in the valley pinch point came a screaming pack of rebels yelling in glee at the total destruction of the scene. They flowed into the melee kicking chunks of bodies and running long daggers through the remains. Quickly they pulled anything usable from packs, weapons and scattered debris and as quickly as they came, they left chatting happily down the path we had come up. Two separated and ran back up the path, past the devastation with arms at ease, obviously comfortable and safe in this area. My first instinct was to pick them off through my silent tears, but I held back because of course I would give up my presence. It took me a full ten minutes to understand what happened here. These people broke the laws of nature. Nowhere in my experience with any species had I seen a social element give up their young in such a way. I suspected the girl was not pregnant because of the size of the explosion, but she represented their future. What kind of thought pattern would encourage a young woman to give up her life for a troop of 7 enemy men? It seemed to me, she and her people lost far more than they gained. Already my former life was being savaged by Rough-legged buzzards that were holding off a lone Tawny eagle. Before I could react, another loosely formed group of rebels bobbed into view from up trail with the exited two that had run back leading the way and pointing out their handiwork. There was a celebratory atmosphere with a lot of back slapping and excited chatter. There was no care given to their surroundings. It was obvious this was their home and they felt protected. There were even women and children in the group. One woman was singing to her god with her arms raised and jubilant praise flowed like a flooding stream through her tears. They stopped to take in the sight for a few minutes then wandered slowly over the hill the girl had come down. As I sat back and cried silently grieving, I could not tell which I grieved more. My brothers in arms, the innocent girl or the broken laws of nature, I came to terms with the fact I had to choose whether to be hunter or prey. Through my reddened eyes, I checked my resources. I had a full clip, two spares in my waist pockets and a twenty count of rounds for my sidearm which also held a full clip. I had a breast pocket full of jerky and a pack of Wriggly’s gum. The foot traffic continued past the squawking carrion eaters for several hours. I was trapped on my ledge until I felt it quiet enough to move. I expected my safest route would be along the back of the ridge in the moonlight. Hopefully I would be blessed with some tonight because it would be suicide in the dark, even if it was just knocking rocks loose to roll down the barren slope. After an eternity, darkness fell and I did get enough moonlight to ease my way out of my nest. Slowly up the ridge, I crawled on all fours to keep a low profile. As I climbed, I began to here a jubilant crowd and upon reaching the ridge top, I found out why. I was at the back door to a major camp. A quick estimation suggested I was looking at over a hundred people of all ages. This was the home of a tribe. I also expected these high points to hold sentries. If I was to survive, I would need to run the gamut through them. I spent the better part of the night placing one careful foot ahead of the other and I slipped past three lookouts. I was just beginning to see a glimmer of dawn when I stepped on a loose boulder and slid scrambling down a slag slide to an undignified pile at the foot of four rolled sleeping robes. Four wide eyed boys of about 10 or 12 sat bold upright with shock and fear written across their faces. I held out my hands in a consoling manner and they scrambled to get free of their beds. One pulled a Russian automatic from his robe and I watched fire belch from its muzzle as I was knocked off my feet by four solid hits. I tried to sit up but couldn’t. I tried to plead with no breath. All I could do was look up at the excited kids who were breaking the rules of nature. My habit had been my undoing. Now as I die, throngs of people surround me and I am kicked and beaten but it does not matter. I feel none of it. I just study a young boy chewing my Wriggly’s Spearmint gum. I am going home. A saber is plunged into my chest and I close the door behind me. |
|
| The Habit lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 9 Winner |
| 1065 words | |
| Eppy was determined that this year would be different.
Something had to change. She was at the end of her tether and her pension would
no longer stretch to paying off a blackmailer. Marcie Evans, the village post-mistress, hadn’t gossiped about Eppy’s little weakness yet but she was a busy person and might just let it slip at any time. She was the Chairman of the Parish Council, the Chair of the W.I., a Church Warden and the Women’s Bowls Captain. There were no pies in the village in which she didn’t poke a finger. At church on Sunday, when Marcie handed the collection plate down the row, Eppy was careful to put in an amount equal to what her little weakness had cost during the last seven days. She hoped it would go some way towards balancing the books. Marcie’s supercilious smile told her it didn’t. Eppy and Marcie had lived in the same village all their lives. Eppy had been an ordinary child but she had a pleasant nature and a ready smile, which had made her many friends, who had stood between Eppy and life’s bullies. Now Eppy was a widow and most of her friends were either dead or moved away. But despite that, she didn’t want the village to learn all about her little secret. Everybody does it, she reasoned. It’s not so outrageous. If it were they’d ban it! So she tried to keep her grey, tightly permed head down and hugged this one little vice to herself. And that’s where Marcie came in. Marcie had been a playground bully. She was taller than average and from an early age delighted in picking on those smaller than herself. Which meant just about everyone. Even now, approaching her sixties, most of the villagers were afraid of her. She had a way of showing people up, or of getting even if she felt she’d been insulted; however small or unintentional the slight had been. She loved to see people squirm. She’d turned it into an art form. The more embarrassed she could make her adversaries, the better she liked it. And that dowdy woman who lived in one of the terraced houses off the High Street, with her petty, grimy urges, was fair game. Eppy knew this but the trouble was she had no idea what to do to divert Marcie’s attention away from her. Each Thursday, when Eppy collected her pension, Marcie would put that sanctimonious smirk on her face. And each Thursday, Eppy’s little weakness overcame her and she played right into Marcie’s hands. She couldn’t help it. The year turned and though she was no nearer to a solution, Eppy determined that 2007 would be different and on the first Thursday, she took her pension money and asked for two first class stamps. “And is that all, dear?” Marcie simpered. Eppy hesitated. “Yes!” she said firmly. Marcie raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Oh,yes? But I know you’ll be back!” And Eppy was back. On Friday her little weakness drove her back to the post office and a grinning Marcie who said, “My! What a good collection we’ll have in church this week.” Eppy slunk away, her face as red as the post-box outside. * At church, Eppy prayed praying for deliverance but in her heart she knew that she wanted deliverance from Marcie and not from the habit that had her in its exciting grip, so she didn’t think God would listen. The plate came down the row. Marcie watched Eppy intently, like a hovering hawk scouting the ground for a tasty morsel. Eppy felt like a timid, exposed mouse with nowhere to hide. She was so nervous that after the service, when she escaped from the church, she left her handbag under the pew. When she found she couldn’t get into her home because her keys were in her bag, she trudged back to the church but went the long way round so that she wouldn’t bump into Marcie. Eppy found her handbag and was about to leave the empty church when she heard voices. Eppy was very curious. It was her second vice. It was a very small, unimportant one, which did nobody any harm. But it drew her to the front of the church. The vestry door was ajar. She crept up to it and clearly heard a woman’s voice. A woman’s voice that was saying, “Now that you’ve got your cassock off Thomas, let’s count the collection, shall we?” The voice was Marcie’s, low and husky, sugar-sweet and syrupy. “What a fine collection you have, Thomas. My, you must be proud of it. Let’s see, that’s one, two…oops, I’ve dropped one in your lap…” Eppy crept away. Her smile was so broad it near split her face in half and it hadn’t even faded any by the time she reached home. * Eppy didn’t wait for pension day. She strode into the post office on Monday like a knight going into battle and plonked five one-pound coins onto the counter but she kept her hand over them. Except for Marcie behind the counter, the place was empty. Perfect. “That’s three pounds on today’s lottery and two scratch cards, please.” She tried to keep her face straight but that smile crept back and she stirred the coins with her finger. “What a fine collection I have. My, I am so proud of them. Let’s see, that’s one, two…” A deep flush started at Marcie’s cleavage and rose higher and higher as she stared in horror at this usually insignificant, little, old lady. She threw the scratch cards and the lottery tickets at Eppy. “Get out!” she snarled. “Oh, by the way,” Eppy said sweetly, enjoying the last word, delighted to note that Marcie’s ears by now were tingly-fluorescent pink, “I won’t be putting any money into the collection plate on Sunday. It’ll be so much easier for you and the vicar to count if the plate is emptier, won’t it?” |
|
| The Habit Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#4 of 9 |
| 2025 words | |
| Out in the woods near to where the fernwillies and the
gargle-oils grow, there lived a rabbit named Hoppity. Now the thing you need to
know about Hoppity was that he was the kind of rabbit who loved to hop. In
fact, he loved it more than anything else in the whole world. He loved it more
than carrots. He loved it more than baseball. He loved it more than watching
television. He even loved it more than eating carrots while watching a baseball
game on television, which is a lot to love a thing like hopping. Anyway, once upon a Tuesday, when he was sitting around the ol' rabbit hole munching on some carrots and enjoying the warmth of the late morning sunshine, Hoppity's mother called to him. "Hoppity," she said, "I need you to hop over to Farmer Jeff's and get some more carrots." "Okay, Mom," said Hoppity, for he was a good rabbit and liked to help his mother around the rabbit hole. Right away, without even being told twice, he started hopping over to Farmer Jeff's. "And be sure to come straight back home," his mother added. "You don't want the sigamafoose to get you, now do you?" Uh-oh. Hoppity was already too far away. He didn't hear his mother's warning about the sigamafoose. But that's okay because he'd heard that kind of warning from his mother before. He didn't need to hear it every time he went out for carrots. Farmer Jeff was sitting in the shade of his front porch drinking a nice tall glass of ice-cold lemonade when he saw Hoppity hop through the fence. "Hey there, Hoppity," he shouted. "Hey, Farmer Jeff," said Hoppity. He was happy to see his friend, Farmer Jeff. "My mom sent me over to get some carrots, okay?" "Why sure, Hoppity. Help yourself." "Great! Thanks, Farmer Jeff," said Hoppity, and he hopped on over to the back forty, which is where the carrots were. "Just be sure to watch out for the sigamafoose while you're back there, okay?" said Farmer Jeff. "It's a Tuesday, you know." Oops. Once again our hero had hopped away just a little bit too fast for his own good. He never heard Farmer Jeff's warning about the sigamafoose. Fortunately, like his mother's warning earlier, it was what people like to call a superfluous warning - the kind that wasn't really needed. Hoppity was always careful to keep a sharp eye out for a sigamafoose, even on days that weren't Tuesdays. And it was a good thing, too, because when Hoppity was digging up carrots over near the back forty, he thought he noticed something out of the corner of his eye - something thrashing around in the corn. He couldn't tell what it was exactly, except that it was big - very big - just like a sigamafoose. And noisy, too - which was also just like a sigamafoose. Hoppity set down his carrots and hunkered very close to the ground. keeping perfectly still the way rabbits do when they sense danger nearby. His nose twitched and his beady little bunny eyes darted back and forth as he peeked through the corn, trying to see what was out there. Was it a sigamafoose? Hoppity had never actually seen a sigamafoose before. He knew they were big and he knew they were mean and he knew they were ugly - and just the thought that there might be a sigamafoose in the cornfield made Hoppity start to tremble and sweat. His little rabbit heart beat puh-tuh-kuh, puh-tuh-kuh, puh-tuh-kuh, just as fast as it could. Then, all of a sudden, the thing made a sound. A snort of sorts - that kind of a sound - sort of a snort. Now there was only one thing Hoppity knew that made a snorting sort of sound like that - and it wasn't a sigamafoose - it was his good friend, Palmerton Pig. "Palmerton, is that you?" Hoppity whispered (just in case). The thing in the corn snorted again. Yep, Hoppity knew that snort, all right. "Palmerton!" shouted Hoppity, and he jumped into the corn. "Hoppity!" shouted Palmerton, and he jumped into the air. "Whew!" said Hoppity. "Am I glad to see you. You know, for a minute there, when I first saw you rutting around in the corn, I thought you might be a sigamafoose because I couldn't really see you very well, what with all the corn stalks in the way." Palmerton laughed. "Oh, Hoppity, I'm not a sigamafoose," he said. "I'm a pig. See?" And he turned around in a circle so Hoppity could see that he really was the pig he said he was. "Oh yes, I see that now," said Hoppity. "And I don't look anything like a sigamafoose, now do I?" "Oh no, not at all," said Hoppity. Although he didn't know exactly what a sigamafoose looked like because he'd never actually seen one before, he was pretty sure that, however a sigamafoose might look, it wouldn't look like a pig, because if it did, then people would call it a pig and not a sigamafoose. "Because, you know, Hoppity," Palmerton said, and here he lowered his voice to a whisper, "of all the things in all the world, I think the thing I would least like to look like would be a sigamafoose." "Me, too! Me, too!" said Hoppity. "I'm quite happy being a pig, you know," said Palmerton, standing up straight and tall. "Quite happy, indeed." "Me, too. Me, too," said Hoppity before he realized what he had said. "Uh, I mean that I'm happy you're happy being a pig, not that I'm a pig. I didn't mean that." "Well, of course not, Hoppity. I can see right off that you're not a pig. We pigs have very good eyesight, you know. And hearing, too. Like right now, I can hear that rumbling over there in the woods. My hearing is that good." "Rumbling?" said Hoppity. "Yes, it's coming from over there - in the woods - by that dust cloud sort of thing. Do you see it?" "Dust cloud?" said Hoppity. "Uh-huh. Yeah, that big, billowy thing - the one that's getting closer. And louder, too, I might add." "What - what do you think it is?" asked Hoppity. "Oh, I dunno. I suppose it might be an elephant," said Palmerton. And then, after a pause, he added, "except, of course, there aren't any elephants around here." "Oh," said Hoppity in a sad, little, disappointed, whimpery kind of voice. "Though it could, I suppose, be a rhinoceros," said Palmerton. "They're quite big, too, you know. Why, I bet a rhinoceros would kick up a lot of dust and make a great big rumbling noise just like that if it were walking through the woods. Don't you think so?" "Are - are - are there a lot of rhinoce-ce-ce-roses-ses around here?" asked Hoppity. He was finding it very difficult to get his jaw to move the way he wanted it to. "Well, no, I don't think so, Hoppity. Rhinoceroses live in Africa, and that's very far away. Of course, it could be a lost rhinoceros. You know, the kind that took a wrong turn near the equator or something like that. I would think a lost rhinoceros would make as much noise as the regular kind, wouldn't you?" "Do - do - do you think that's what it is? That it's one of them - one of them lost kinds?" Hoppity asked very hopefully. "Well, I don't know, Hoppity. Tell me, do lost rhinoceroses sing?" "Sing?" "Yes, it's singing." "Singing! What do you mean, singing?" "Singing, you know, like a song. That kind of signing - the song kind," said Palmerton. "Tell me, Palmerton, what song is it singing?" asked Hoppity, who didn't really want to know, but it seemed to be the kind of thing one might say in order to keep up one's side of the conversation while hunkered down among some corn stalks next to a pile of carrots. "Well, I'm not sure I have the tune quite right, but the words go something like this," said Palmerton, and then he began to sing: "I have a habit of eating rabbit on Tuesday, smothered in carrots and sauce. I have a habit of eating rabbit on Tuesday, served with a garnish of moss." "Oh, no!" shrieked Hoppity. "Palmerton, do you know what that is?" "Well no, not for sure, but as I said before, it might be a lost rhinoceros." "It's a sigamafoose!" screamed Hoppity. He needed to speak very loudly now in order to be heard over the rumbling noise, which was beginning to cause the ground to shake. "That's the song of the sigamafoose it's singing!" "But Hoppity, why would a lost rhinoceros be singing a sigamafoose song? I mean, why wouldn't it sing a rhinoceros song?" "Because it's not a rhinoceros, you stupid pig! It's a sigamafoose!" Hoppity looked around for a place to hide, but there was nothing, so he started to dig. He dug furiously. His little rabbit paws became a furry blur of motion. Dirt flew everywhere. And all the while he was digging the rumbling noise grew ever louder, ever closer. The ground began to tremble. The corn stalks shook and bristled one against the other. Finally, when he couldn't take it any more - when the corn stalks were shaking violently and the ground was heaving like thunder - Hoppity hopped into his little rabbit hole. He covered up his head and closed his little rabbit eyes just as tightly as he could, terrified of the fate that awaited him. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. No more rumbling. No more shaking, trembling ground. No more bristling corn stalks. Nothing. Nothing but silence. "Helloooooo, Hoppity," said a deep, deep voice. Hoppity wasn't positive, but he thought that voice sounded familiar. Very carefully, he opened one eye and peeked out the top of his rabbit hole. It was his friend, Billy Buffalo! "Hi-ya, Billy," said Hoppity, climbing out of the freshly-dug rabbit hole. He casually brushed the dirt and dust off his fur and pretended like nothing was the matter. "What are you doing here?" "Oh, just having a little fun," said Billy, and he began to laugh. Palmerton Pig began to laugh, too. And then Farmer Jeff peeked out from behind some corn stalks where he'd been hiding, and he began to laugh as well. Everyone was laughing. They rolled on the ground, holding their bellies with one hand and slapping their knees with the other, and they laughed until they started to cry. "What's so funny?" said Hoppity. "Oh, we played a little trick on you," said Billy. "That was me you heard rumbling through the woods and kicking up all that dust." "Yeah, I knew that," said Hoppity, and everyone started laughing and rolling on the ground all over again. Everyone except Hoppity, that is. The poor little rabbit slouched down low and shuffled slowly over to his pile of carrots. He picked them up, one by one, and brushed off the dirt he had just sprayed all over them back when he was digging his rabbit hole and trying to get away from the sigamafoose. "Oh, Hoppity," said Farmer Jeff when he was able to stop laughing long enough that he could speak. "Don't feel bad. You know we were just teasing." "Yeah," said Billy. "That's all it was. Just a tease, a tease among friends." "And a very good tease at that, I might add," said Palmerton, who was exceptionally proud of his role in the matter. "But I was scared," said Hoppity, and he slumped down next to the carrot pile, exhausted from all his digging and trembling. "Oh, come on, Hoppity. Don't take it so personally," said Farmer Jeff. "Let's all go on down to the pond and have a picnic. You know, sort of let by-gones be by-gones, as they say." "Oh, not right now," sighed Hoppity. "Maybe you could go on ahead without me. I'll catch up in a minute. Really, I will. I just want to take a little nap first, okay?" Palmerton and Billy didn't need to be asked twice when it came to going on a picnic. Soon the three of them - Palmerton, Billy and Farmer Jeff - were happily skipping down the trail that led to the pond. Hoppity leaned back against the carrot pile and closed his eyes. He listened to his friends laughing and chuckling as they made their way through the woods, their voices getting softer and softer as they moved farther and farther away. Soon everything was quiet again, and Hoppity dozed off to sleep. Stompin' Willie Sigamafoose couldn't believe the good fortune his eyes beheld when he looked upon the corn field. "Mmmmm, dinner!" he said to himself. And then, as he moved slowly toward the slumbering rabbit, he began to sing very softly: I have a habit of eating rabbit on Tuesday, smothered in carrots and sauce. I have a habit of eating rabbit on Tuesday, served with a garnish of moss. |
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| The Habit RUBY ASTARI author81@gmail.com |
#5 of 9 |
| 2033 words | |
| Every February 14, I dressed in all black and walked
alone in the crowd --- a minority in a coupledom. Last year, when you said you loved me too, I'd thought you'd have been the one to help me stop this typically cynic's strange habit. Before high-school graduation, I'd never really cared much about Valentine's Day. I started resenting it during college. My very first love was my own classmate, a tall hunk whom I called J.B. in my diary. My first college semester had been beautiful, with his presence lighting up my days. He'd been nice and sweet to me. But I knew that I'd been more like a little sister in his eyes. Unfortunately, I'd been afraid to let him know my real feelings for him. When J.B. finally had a girlfriend, I'd tried my hardest to bury the pain. I'd only cried one night. As a good friend, I knew that I should've been happy for him too. When my college campus was throwing a Valentine's Day event, I'd shown up wearing all black. It was the beginning of my constant effort to shield my fragile side from the world. Doesn't black identify a strong character --- instead of only as gloomy as a funeral outfit? Besides, I dislike pink. Pink's much more suitable for a sweet girly-girl. Sweet like a heart-shaped chocolate I love to eat. (By the way, that kind of chocolate is the only thing I love about Valentine's Day.) "Any sensible guy would always feel so lucky to have a sweet girl's love like yours." Really? Someone once told me the same thing. He was also the one I loved after J.B. Too bad, we live (too) far away from each other. He's in South Asia, while I'm in Southeast. His comment on one of my blog entries started our friendship. It took six months full of e-mails, messenger chats, and photo-exchange for me to finally trust him with my telephone numbers. His voice is warm and friendly. I've always loved hearing him laugh. He's also witty, although serious and mature as well. Was it my fault that I fell in love? Unfortunately, once again I was afraid that he'd have rejected me and stopped being my friend if I'd told him the truth. I was also afraid of the possible uncertainties, if he'd have positively responded to my real feelings for him. Don't you find lots of cynics who question the possibility of any long-distant relationship, especially when you never even meet each other in the real world yet? When an American girl told him online that she loved him, he asked my opinion. As a best friend, I gave him my most cliché advice: "Just follow your heart." And in the end, that's exactly what he's always done. It started from letting that love grow inside him and slowly consume him, like ivy hugging a stone pillar. He's still holding on to the uncertainties I still fear. He's always even forgiven her, through her constant infidelities and apologies after that. So easily. I thought that girl could've made him happier that I would have. Perhaps you --- like most of them --- might think of me as one big, fat hypocrite. Perhaps you might also doubt my rigidity, in case that girl had never hurt him. I can only stick to my honourable role as a best friend, someone he can always talk to whenever he feels sad. He's always respected me a lot. Even when I finally confessed to him about my real feelings for him, he was never angry and pushing me away like I'd feared he would have earlier. I knew it was too late. He said he'd always love her. All I know is that I just want him to be happy. Then why did I still feel sad? I'm sure you wondered about that too as you read my blog. "He's a fool. He can't see how special you are." Really? Well, he thinks I'm the greatest friend in the world. Doesn't that mean I'm considered special too in his eyes? Besides, don't you think that love can't be compelled? Two years ago on Valentine's Day, I wore all black again. I chose to watch a horror flick instead of romance. I preferred listening to hard rock, not those sickeningly romantic love songs on the radio. Even one of the teenlit series of "The Baby-Sitters' Club" by.Ann M.Martin called "Abby's Un-Valentine" has become my favourite book. I just love the way Abby Stevenson, a tomboyish sports-fanatic and a cynic in most people's eyes thinks. To me, she's very realistic. Perhaps that's what I feel whenever I see the random couples around me. They look picture-perfect happy, or is it just a play to make the lonely souls feel jealous and downright insecure? Probably, the husband actually likes to hit his wife at home. Or your prince charming of a boyfriend turns out to be a cheating kind. How long a fairy-tale can ever really last? Does "happily-ever-after" really exist, or is it only an illusion to help you sleep peacefully at night --- like a child heading for a sweet dream? I don't know. I'm tired of the social demands, especially for women. Is it true that you'll be considered prettier and far more precious when you have a boyfriend? Is it true that you're considered out-of-the-dating-market already, only because you're a 25-year-old woman and not married yet like your parents' expectation --- especially your dearest mother who doesn't (seem to) ever want to understand your point of view on this matter? Is it (supposed to be) that easy? No, I'm not that desperate. To me, love is not just a game nor even a test. A spouse isn't just merely a status, the one you can always show off to your colleagues like some trophy you've won. To me, a spouse is (supposed to be) a lover and a true best friend who can make me feel safe and give me comfort, and also will (still) allow me to be myself. Okay, I understand the meaning of compromise. But, will we ever want to sacrifice everything for love? Or is just my effort to deny my own loneliness? Eventhough I tend to feel lonely too sometimes, I don't want to be hasty. Don't be too picky, they say? This is my life. They don't make the rules. I also don't want to regret anything later on, just because I pick randomly as they always suggest. It's so damn easy for them to just say things like that! "You're too careful." Am I? Then how come I fell in love with you too? You, who also left me a comment on my blog entries. I don't know why, your blog entries always made me feel sad. I often cried reading them. You've been a lot more unhappy than I really am. I never thought that I'd have found someone desperately aching for one true love, even more than money. Your unhappy childhood has saddened me. You've grown up without confidence nor the feelings of security. You've even been a kleptomaniac once. Ironically, your family is financially secure. I mean, you could still attend a college in New York, although (I don't know why you believed) your family just wanted to see you fail. You had two girlfriends. But they ended up sticking together and hating you for no reasons. What had you done? You had no idea. You just wanted to survive from all your troubles in the world and find true love. I'm sure those who have been hurt (a lot) before will have serious trust issues with other people. Maybe I just wanted to help you heal all your pain inside. I wanted you to believe that you too deserved real love, despite your past and what you looked like. I couldn't believe you if you too were like that at first. But I'm sure, I did love you back then. It took a month since we met online for me to tell you how I'd really felt for you. Why? I just followed my intuitions as I continued reading your blog. Besides, what was I afraid of? Since you said you loved me too, I'd felt such extraordinary joy. I couldn't stand waiting for our next conversations --- full of laughter and your teasings, although we'd never even really met in real life. At first, you'd suggested that we should've celebrated Valentine's Day together in NY. But, since I couldn't afford the whole trip, we'd decided to chat online again. I'd even let you see me on a web-cam. "God, you are so beautiful!" Am I? Then why did you sound so sad in my earphone? "This is so unfair! Why are we so far away like this?" Damn it! I felt the same way too. Completely shattered inside, especially with the sad fact that we also weren't in the same religion. What was I supposed to do? I wanted to be with you, but having trouble with these obstacles. I knew you understood. I realised that I had to understand you as well. "I'm sorry, I can't do this," you finally said. "I can't hold you and kiss you, and it hurts. I can't do this anymore." "Then what do you want?" I asked. I quickly shut the web-cam off. I didn't want you to see me cry. "I don't know." "I'll tell you what," I suddenly suggested. "If you can find another girl over there who'll love you and you love in return, I'll be okay. As long as you're happy." Silence for a while. Your next reply on the screen saddened me even more: "Reva, I don't know what to say.:(" "Then don't say anything.:) It's okay," I typed back and clicked 'enter'. Sorry, I lied. But I decided to let you go anyway. I didn't want to make you suffer more in loneliness and uncertainties. So, we were finally back as just friends. For you, I'd tried my best. I still read your blog to the end. Your third girlfriend was rather cold and distant, so you two broke up really quick. As a friend, I'd tried consoling you as much as I could. You accused me as naïve, like a child who couldn't understand reality. Slowly, the distance grew between us. We started to argue a lot. When you read my blog entry about my cynicism in love, you accused me in denial of my own loneliness. You even implied that I had no idea about love. I was angry because you wouldn't (want to) see my point of view. You'd even accused me as easy, because we'd only known each other for a month and I'd already told you I loved you. Then why did you say you loved me too? Was I a fool, easily taken by that? You never really wanted to explain that to me. I thought that it had never meant a damn thing to you. But you were offended when I told you that. Did I find you easy as well? Maybe. I'd never found anyone so desperate in wanting love. Poor you. But I still loved you too much to say those mean things to you. Even when you accused me as the kind who overly-simplyfied matters, I was the one who gave in and apologized to you. Especially when I hadn't meant to hurt your feelings on your birthday. I didn't know that you despised your own birthday, although you insisted that you'd told me earlier. You didn't even want to explain why. You just accused me for being an unloyal friend, because good friends were supposed to understand and be there for one another. But how could I ever be able to be that kind of friend to you, when you never really wanted to open up to me? Didn't you once say, "Reva, sometimes I feel incredibly close to you I want to scream, because you're so far away" ? I don't know. After your last e-mail that told me you'd understood that I'd never meant to hurt you, I've never heard from you again. My last few e-mails remain unreplied. They say, you're just a name in the cyberworld. Forget it. I can't. To me, you're more than just a name. That's why I'll be wearing all black on Valentine's Day this year. You know why. |
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| The Habit PSGifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#6 of 9 |
| 3400 words (not eligible for judging) | |
| Julian Baxter squirmed as he sat upon the ebony leather
chaise lounge. His gaze focused on the impressive array of expensively framed
certificates that adorned the home office of famed psychiatrist, Doctor
Howard Andrews. His attention then switched to the perfectly manicured
middle-aged doctor perched in his black chair. Where the chaise lounge was
relatively low to the ground, the doctor's chair was unusually high. The
difference in seating heights meant that the doctor would always talk
down to those who sought his acclaimed counsel. “I suppose I should tell you about my childhood?” Julian said nonchalantly as he stretched his arms above his head. His expression revealed no sign of any emotion other than tedium. “Now, how far back should I go, Doc?” he added mockingly, all the time rubbing his chin with the thumb and index finger of his left gloved hand. He paused before continuing on. “Well, I suppose I was about thirteen when I developed my first bad habit. That is when I began to chew on my fingernails. Yes, age thirteen is the perfect place to begin. That's when things began to happen to me. Oh, I fully understood I was changing. I knew I wasn't going to be momma's little golden-haired boy anymore. I also knew that I was going to have to begin growing up…” He paused and closed his eyes while he replayed a rare and favorite saccharine-coated childhood memory, recalling a childhood summer's day. For a magical moment he was just eight years old again in a green, vast park with a glistening lake in its centre. Ducks swam merrily in single file around the lake, carefree and full of the simple joys of life. Brightly painted butterflies flitted and flirted overhead. His mother giggled affectionately as the two of them kicked a bright red football about. He remembered the flowing yellow dress she wore, the scent of her hair; the way she looked at him… Julian felt himself becoming aroused, and his jeans began to tighten. The memory slipped away as quickly as it had come as his eyes abruptly sprung open, and he felt ashamed. “I know what you are thinking, Doc. You are thinking that it is quite normal for a young boy to have mixed feelings for his mother. Yeah, I have discovered all about the Oedipus Complex over the years. This isn't my first psychiatric rodeo you know. So, anyhow, that is when I began practicing my, errmm…,”?he squinted as he searched for the precise phrasing? “…bad habits.” He chuckled at the word habits. “That year was a living hell for me. I did not grow as much as my classmates who all seemed to be over six-foot-tall by the Christmas holidays. I was just five-foot-two! “Hell, even most of the girls were taller than I was. I suppose my story is a common one, isn't it?” He studied the psychiatrist thoughtfully, admiring his expensive suit and exquisite Swiss-made gold watch. “I imagine that it is because of people like me, with their phobias, screwed-up lives, and vile, self-destructing habits that you can afford this flashy office in the most fashionable part of England?” He chuckled again, more menacingly this time. “Anyhow, that year I got really, really down on myself, and my mother became increasingly emotionally distant from me. Gone were the blissful days when she would snuggle on the couch with me as we watched the late movie show or hold my hand as we walked down to the local shops. “I suppose she sensed my maturing feelings towards her. I might have even repulsed her. So, I began biting my nails. I would nibble them down so far that my fingers would actually bleed, and still I would peck at them. So much so that my pinky on this hand became infected and I almost lost the damned thing.” He removed the glove and wiggled the scarred pinky of his left hand as he spoke. He looked at it himself and then slipped the glove back on. “It was over the Christmas holidays that I first attempted to take my own worthless life. Although they all said at the time?psychiatrists, counselors, therapists, general busy bodies?that I had not actually wanted to die. They self-righteously proclaimed I slit my puny wrists in the overflowing bathtub in a desperate cry out for help. They smugly informed my mother that my actions were unfortunate but understandable, and that it was fairly common for a teenager to act out in this way. But let me tell you, I did want to die. I was a screw-up at everything, and this proved it. I couldn't even bloody well kill myself.” The impassive face dissolved into sadness. A tear formed in his right eye, and he made no attempt to wipe it, content to allow it to slip slowly down his pock-marked cheek. “So what about my father you ask? What part did he play in all this? Well, to tell you the truth, I have only vague recollections of my father. Sure, he was about; I suppose he did all the things that he considered a caring father should do, except I always knew, deep down, that he didn't give a shit. I could sense his repugnance of me every moment that he was near. There was just something in his eyes?a cold, detached loathing lurking just below the surface. I did not hate him. In fact, I felt kind of sorry for him. After all what had he achieved in his life? Nothing of any significance?that's what. We lived in a run down council flat, and he worked 44 hours a week at a meat processing plant. Every night he would come home from work with the stench of rotting flesh permeated through his overalls, demanding a cold beer and a hot dinner. He did the same thing every day until he died at 47... The poor bastard. They said that he had suffered a fatal heart attack, but I think he just lost the will to live.” Julian glanced at the clock. “So, after my failed suicide attempt, I had to go and see this therapist twice a week, a Doctor Everson. He was ancient?must have been at least seventy. And as a thirteen-year-old boy I had guessed him to be at least a hundred. Everything about him was so damned wrinkled?wrinkled hands, wrinkled face, wrinkled smile?hell, even his old-fashioned, obnoxiously colored suits were always wrinkled! Those wrinkles unsettled me, screwed with my mind, and they became a sort of obsession: I yearned to straighten them all out.” Julian let out a quick, sinister chortle, and an eerie silence filled the office; he stared inquisitively at Doctor Andrews. “Oh, I can tell by that uncomfortable look on your face that I now have your undivided attention!” Julian looked as if he was about to smile again, and rubbed his gloved hands together. The smile faded before it completely materialized. “I have fond memories of what happened soon after. That is when I really got a taste for my bad habit. Everson wasn't a flash doctor like you; no, he worked for the local council. Visit after visit, month after month, I went from feeling sorry for him, to disliking him, to complete abhorrence of all that he was. This increasing revulsion motivated me into action. I discovered, as I observed his daily routine, that he did not drive but took the bus to and from his office. It was quite a simple process of trailing him on that Saturday evening. He failed to notice me as I watched. I discreetly followed him, climbing aboard the bus, I sat toward the rear, even walking past him without him noticing me. And as the bus bumped and bounced along; my thoughts bumped and bounced in a similar rhythm as a macabre thoughts formed in my young mind. “After three stops he got off, and at the last second I managed to exit also. I followed him the four blocks home, still unobserved. It was cool, clear evening, and I quite enjoyed the exercise as he walked much more quickly than I had expected. He came to a driveway, which I noticed with disgust was full of cracks, and vanished inside. I watched patiently, and I waited. I already knew that he lived alone, so it was going to be a relatively trouble-free process to complete my plan. “After several hours, all the lights in the house were extinguished. I glanced at my watch; it was only a little after ten. Oh, I know what you are thinking. Surely a thirteen-year-old boy would be missed if out so late. Well, I could have stayed out all night, and my mother would not have noticed or cared. The bastard therapists had her on so many antidepressants and other pills she did not even recognize me half the time. “You shrinks have a lot to answer for. Anyway, I saw a loose brick on the ground. I took off my sweatshirt and wrapped it around the brick, then I tapped gently on one of the small glass windows set into the front door. Nothing happened, so I held my breath and tapped a little harder; still nothing. Finally, I lost patience and thrust the brick as hard as I could against the pane. I was rewarded with the sound of shattering into hundreds of tiny slivers, and surely I would have been cut if not wearing my leather gloves. Aware that the noise might have alarmed Andrews, I quickly scurried back down the driveway. I hid within the shadows concealed by a tree in his neighbor's yard. I still had the brick in my hand at the ready. I watched for a light to come on. I must admit, the thrill was almost overwhelming. I tingled all over in glorious anticipation of what was about to follow. After five minutes, satisfied that the noise had not disturbed anyone, I casually tossed the brick onto the lawn. “I once more made my way up his cracked driveway and reached my hand through the broken pane to the door handle. It was easy to unlock it and pull it open “Once inside, my tingling amplified to trembling and I gently closed the door. I made my way across the carpeted hallway. The house smelled old and stale, and it made me gag. It took a few moments for my eyes to become accustomed to the dimness of the inside. I stood there motionless as I began to gradually discern the layout of the house. Directly in front of me was the kitchen, to my left a parlor, and to the rear of the house a third room that I took to be either a study or a dining room. On my right was a staircase covered in threadbare carpeting. I placed my left foot on the first step, and began to ascend. I approached each with caution, as if I was navigating through a mine field, knowing full well that any stair could emit an ominous screech when I placed my full weight upon it. “Finally I made it to the top of the landing and again surveyed the layout. There was a bathroom, a bedroom with its door ajar, and a second bedroom with the door closed. I made my way to the open bedroom and cautiously peered in. The room contained several bookcases stuffed with more books that I had ever believed possible for one man to own. The room also contained a bed, a wardrobe, and an ironing board. I wondered when the last time he had actually used the board as I made my way over to it. Sitting on top was an electric iron covered in thick dust. I ventured next into the bathroom, which was surprisingly clean. Above the bath were two cord lines with two old, wrinkled shirts and some socks, hanging to dry upon them. The cogs inside my brain began to turn in excitement as I took down the garment, tossing them to the ground, and removed the two lines. Satisfied with my find, I stuffed them into my sweatshirt's pouch-like pocket. “Then, on tip toe, I made my way back onto the landing and approached the closed door. I placed my still gloved hand on the handle and gently turned it. It released its grip with a loud click. I paused holding my breath. I could hear deep bellows of snoring from inside. Reassured, I entered. “The room contained nothing more than a chair, a wardrobe, and the bed on which Andrews lay, snoring obnoxiously. I watched as his wrinkled face shook and shimmied with every snort, his fatty jowls shaking as if made from pork jelly. “My trembling had ceased at this point, and I was overcome with a sense of serenity. I calmly examined the challenge in front of me. It was an old-fashioned bed with four pine bed posts on each corner of the bed. I pulled the twine from my pocket and made a loop in the end of the first piece. As I made my way toward him I shuddered with repulsion. His corpulent left wrist was dangling conveniently out of the bedcovers. In an instant I had secured it in the twine, and latched it to the rear left post. He began, as you might expect, to wake up, swearing and fumbling about. But before he could comprehend completely what was going on, his other wrist was now also bound securely in place. At this point he was fully awake, and I could see the anger and, indeed, shock apparent in his glaring eyes. He began to holler and scream. I had foolishly failed to consider such a notion, and looking about I soon spotted a pair of socks. It took some doing getting them into his toothless wrinkled mouth, but after a brief struggle he succumbed. “I next set about removing the bed clothes, and discovered to my horror that he was sleeping in just his boxers. It was perversely entertaining watching him attempt to wiggle free as I attached his legs to the footboard's bed posts. I studied him for a moment, writhing like a captured pig. I was sickened by his flaccid flesh and masses of wrinkles….those damned wrinkles. It was then that a creative notion came to me. “I left him to return moments later gleefully brandishing his electric iron. He watched on, helpless as I plugged it in. I wondered if the damn thing still worked. However, within moments, I was rewarded by the delicious smell of burning dust. I turned it up to the highest setting and waited a little longer. I could clearly discern the mounting fear in my captive's eyes at this point, for they glowered back at me furious and petrified. He attempted several times to cry out, but this only resulted in the socks embedding themselves even deeper into his mouth. For the very first time in my life, Doc, I felt in charge, powerful, in complete control of my destiny. “I began with the wrinkles on his belly. Golly, how he writhed and squirmed as I placed the glowing hot iron against the exposed, wrinkled, flabby white skin. He began wrenching furiously against the bindings. Yet my knots held admirably. I continued to move the iron along his belly, and was satisfied as the wrinkled skin, became scorched. I must confess I found the stench a little off-putting, but the satisfaction I was experiencing was truly euphoric. After his chest was completely singed and blistered, I turned my attention to his face. No need to share the delightful details. I am sure that you can imagine adequately enough how his facial tissue reacted to the intense heat of the iron. “After a while I noticed that he had passed out. This took all of the sport out of it for me. As I stood there, looking at his burned flesh I realized that I needed to make sure that he never awakened again. So, once more taking the iron, I smashed his head several times with it, and on the third time I was rewarded with a crack, as the tip of the iron embedded itself within his cranium. I checked his pulse rate, like I had seen them do on the television…Yes; I was convinced he was dead. “I left the house buzzing with adrenaline. I had to walk home for the last bus had long since gone. But with an energy rushing through me as I had never experienced before it did not bother me. I felt thoroughly elated by my night's actions, strangely cleansed, revitalized, and reborn as I made the ways along the deserted city streets back to my house. By the time I got to the sanctuary of my bed, at almost four in the morning, I understood I was a changed soul.” Julian sat upright. “I am sure that you remember that first murder. It was all over the television and newspapers. Everyone was shocked at the mindless brutality it. They even counseled me, feeling that I would be troubled by the murder of my beloved therapist at such an impressionable age. “So that is how it began…My bad habit. Over the last ten years, I have, as I am sure you now have figured out, killed seven other psychiatrists. I must confess it is quite addictive; the exaltation I am experiencing now is far more intense than anything else I have felt. But hell, you are the expert on such matters.” Julian eased himself out of the chaise lounge and over to a black tool bag. The psychiatrist's eyes opened peculiarly wide, absorbing every movement. Julian placed the bag in front of the chair. “So tonight I watched you. I watched as you said goodbye to your last high paying troubled soul. Then as you made your report, I came through the back door, I have since that first joyous time, mastered cutting through the glass. It attracts far less attention you know. Then I smashed you over the head with my trusty hammer. I thought you were never going to come to, and that would have surely taken all of the fun out of it now wouldn't it…I am sure that you of all people can see my point of view. It is all part of the thrill?watching as my newest victim listens to me talk and gradually realizes what I am about to do to him. “As you quickly noticed upon awakening, I had removed your tongue…I have to admit yours was quite a struggle…but eventually I got it out. And yes, yes, I did happen to use a nail gun to secure you in place. It was easy shooting those five-inch nails through the palms of your hands to your chair…But nailing your feet to the hardwood floor was far more difficult than I had expected it to be. Still it is far better than bindings, don't you think?” Julian reached down and pulled an electric drill from the bag. A large drill piece was already attached. As the psychiatrist desperately began pulling at his hands, trying to pull out the nails with out any success, Julian methodically turned on the drill. “You are always trying to get inside other folk's heads, Doc, aren't you? Now it's my turn…” He placed the tip of drill bit against the psychiatrist's sweat-covered brow. The doctor's eyes turned upwards, tinged with crimson, almost popped out of his head. Then Julian eased on the trigger and the drill began to rotate and dig. Splinters of bone and fragments of flesh began to fly as the drill easily penetrated the skull. Then as it made it through the bone it eased into the brain, and the drill bit disappeared inside of Andrews' head. Julian's face contorted into a sinister, twisted grin, and he extracted the drill from the skull. Next, he tapped firmly on Andrews' forehead with his index finger, as he gazed at it with bemusement. He saw no sign of life in the doctor's face, now permanently etched with fear. With that, Julian returned the drill to the bag and left the office through the rear, broken door, slipping discreetly into the still darkness of the early dawn. There was a vibrant bounce in his brisk stride, and when the euphoric feeling once more began to dissipate, in a year or so, he would have no concerns. After all, he considered there are thousands more psychiatrists in the world. |
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| The Habit wickedbillmcdonald@yahoo.co.uk |
#7 of 9 |
| 221 words | |
| Dick and Jane sat next to each other on the oversized
leather couch. Soft, hypnotic music was playing in the background. Dick shrugged his shoulders playfully. Jane smiled at him, overflowing with affectionate warmth, and giggled. “It has been one year today that we first did it,” she said. Then she nibbled her lower lip. Dick grinned. It was a cheesy boyish grin that revealed his perfect set of white teeth. “And now we have done it every Friday night for an entire year.” Jane looked intently at Dick. “You aren’t getting tired of it are you?” “Oh my, how could I? It has become our Friday night habit- I would miss it now.” “Well, let us go upstairs then.” Jane winked as she spoke, then giggled again. Dick grabbed Jane’s eager hand, and together they skipped up the grand wooden staircase. Minutes later there was more giggling accompanied with shrills of delight coming from the upstairs room. Moments later the door swung open unexpectedly. Dick and Jane froze gazing with alarm towards the doorway. “Look kids,” Mr. Jones said, half angry and half amused, I think it is great that you play fooz ball every Friday night together- but do you mind keeping the noise down. Your mother and I are trying to watch our favorite television show… |
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| The Habit Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#8 of 9 |
| 2351 words | |
| I guess you could say I had a pretty normal life. We
did Thanksgiving and Christmas and went to church every week. I did ok at
school, especially in Art, but I wasn't what you'd call real popular. I had a
few friends and I guess I'm like pretty, but most girls are. Pretty normal and
boring until one day my dad didn't pick me up from school. On the way there he
was in an accident and killed by a drunk driver. For some reason that made my mom start drinking a lot. I guess she didn't care a lot about me after that, though you think she would. She'd get mad about my grades and my friends and and a couple of times called me a little slut even though I was like still a virgin. It got worse when she got remarried to this like bum. He said he was a musician, though I never saw him play much, and he smoked pot. That didn't bother me because I used to snitch some cuz me and my friends smoked pot once in a while. I think he met my mom in a bar one night and turned on the charm cuz he saw a lonely fucked up woman who owned a house. He was real nice to me though I didn't like the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't looking. Then one night my mom was so drunk he had to carry her up to bed. I could hear him having sex with her though she must have been passed out so I just covered my ears and went to sleep. Later I felt a hand on my leg and it moved up to one of my little boobs. It was my stepfather. I wanted to scream but he had brought some duct tape with him and he shut my mouth. Then he raped me for a long time. It really hurt. He told me not to tell anyone or I'd be in big trouble. After he left I curled up in a corner of my bed and cried and cried. I couldn't tell anyone. My friends would hate me, my mom would say it was my fault somehow. The cops would just take me away if they even believed me. I put an old picture of me and my dad in my backpack, and my Ipod and as many clothes as I could stuff in there and left the house before dawn. There were a few kids I knew at the city square so I hung out with them and panhandled money for smokes and burgers. At night I slept under a highway underpass and I wished I had a blanket but I guess I wasn't like thinking ahead. Their were some gangs or "families" that stayed under the big bridge but I was smart enough not to have anything to do with them. Their initiation was stomping you. I mean like two weeks ago, one girl broke one of their "rules" and she was tortured for two hours, then taken down to the river, stabbed a bunch of times, and then they set her on fire. No way I was getting mixed up with them. Then one day I met Blackbeard. I guess they called him that cuz he had a beard and he was like real old, like 23 and he had done time for drugs and stuff. He was real nice to me, probably cuz I was new and scared, so I went with him over to his motel room cuz he said I could smoke some weed and have a hot shower and change clothes which I really needed. I felt a lot better after that and was kinda dreamy from the pot. We sat around and talked a lot and watched tv with his partner Jersey Joe, who I guess came out to the coast from New Jersey. He kept getting calls and making calls and sometimes people would come by and they'd send me to the bathroom but it was cool because I had my Ipod and would lay in the tub and listen to tunes. Around bedtime he gave Jersey Joe 40 bucks and told him to get his own room and I was thinking, uh oh, here it comes. But Blackbeard just put me in the twin bed, gave me a kiss on the forehead and a little hug and said "Sweet dreams, little one." I snuggled up in a real warm bed for the first time in days and it felt so good. ************************* "So what's with this little bitch?" Jersey Joe said. "The usual?" "Yeah, I checked her out. She doesn't even have a missing persons report. I'll fix her up with some heroin tonight, show her how to have sex and give good head, and we'll put her on the streets in a couple of days. Maybe do some escort though they're picky about underage." ************************** My first shot of heroin was like total bliss. The needle didn't even hurt much when it went in and I was instantly in dreamland. The rush was so nice. Then an hour later I had sex with Blackbeard. He was slow and gentle, not mean like my stepfather had been, and I was so high it didn't hurt that much. Later on that night he hit me up again and we had sex again. He even gave me a vibrator to practice on to loosen me up and be able to make myself cum. I was usually too high to make orgasm but I fooled around with it a few times, my own private fun. He taught me how to give a good blowjob, which was all most tricks wanted and told me all about working the streets. Then he sent me out, saying the free ride was over and if I wanted any more dope I'd have to have money and if I wanted a motel room I'd have to pay for it myself. I was hurt but it's only fair I guess. The first couple of nights were pretty easy. It was scary at first, getting into a car with a strange old man but they payed me up front, got what they wanted, and I got my dope and my motel room. Then the third night someone tried to strangle me. I kicked him where it hurt and fought my way out of there. One of the corner hoes said "Girlfriend, you gots to get you a big knife", so I did. I had to pull it out a few times but I still got raped once or twice a week. The motel where I stayed was pretty cool. They didn't ask any questions as long as you paid your rent on time. That would be 11am so sometimes I would be out looking for daytime johns at 10. If that didn't happen I'd pack up my shit, hang out at the square, and be back in there once I'd did the off work guys at 5 or 6. The motel was full of Mexicans, 6 or 7 to a room, to save money I guess. They'd always knock on my door and say: "Hey, you pretty lady. Come party with us. You have fun, we get you high." They were into coke, which was nice cuz it kept me awake, and they were perfect gentlmen. I'd end up having sex with a couple of them but it was because I wanted to and felt I like kinda owed them for the blow. Some were dealing on the streets but a lot would hand out on this one street corner where low level contractors and painters and stuff would come by in their pickups, put two or three of the guys in back for a days work at 5 bucks an hour. I guess it was a good way for the guys to make money, since they were all here illegally, and the employers would have to report it. I learned Spanish in just a few weeks. The Square was a good place to hang out during the day. I made a lot of friends. Someone said there were like 3,000 homeless teens in the city, and that didn't even include the 10 or twenty thousand alkys and other homeless. I had a pad in my backpack and would draw quick pictures of people for two bucks. They liked 'em and I was still pretty good at it. It was a little hard to do when I was high but Blackbeard had shown me how to do a speedball. You mix the coke with the horse in a spoon, cook it slowly over a lighter til it melts. Then you have a nice buzz with the mellowness of the horse and the zip of the coke. I'd learned how to fix up by myself long ago. You have to alternate arms to keep from blowing out your veins but even still I was running out of places. I was using my hands, which hurt more, my chest, which you have to do in a mirror, and my legs, which are harder to find the veins in. Maybe not so hard for me since I never felt like eating anymore and had gone from 110 to 90 pounds. I was getting real tired of all that and decided to go into detox. They had a free city one so I tried that. They take away your clothes and put you into some prison type of jumpsuit. There is no tv, no books, nuthin' to do but go to their classes or lie around in bed which is like a big dorm room with the beds about a foot apart and some new age crapola music playing all the time. It was a five day program, just to get you unhooked, and on the fourth day you had a session with a counnselor. She told me about some resources and said she could get me into a foster home. I didn't want to go back on the streets and start using again so I said ok. They found me a foster home, which seemed ok at first, and put me in school. It was like wierd being back at a school with normal kids who had no idea of what I'd been going through. There were 6 kids at the house, only one of them the real son of the couple, and the other 5 were street fuckups like me. The man was real sleazy as he would give me hugs but they weren't too fatherly as his hand slipped down to my ass a few times. A couple of the other girls said they had to have sex with him as I guess all he cared about was the monthly checks and fucking with teenagers. I slipped out late one night before that happened to me. I thought that was going to be a real chance, have a family, get through school. Oh well. Maybe in a few years I could take the GED and get a real job. I went back on the street to get some motel money and got caught by a gang. They pulled up right in front of me and started to get out. I knew better than to get in a car with more than one guy so I ran back away but they had dropped somebody off a block behind me so I was grabbed and tossed in the car. They drove me back to their crib which was a real pit. I mean like the bathroom wasn't working so they all just shit and pissed in the tub which was about 2/3rds full. Gag a maggot. They took me to a bedroom and took turns with me while the others watched. They were egging each other on like "Fuck that little whore", "Make it hurt," and it really did when they did my butt which I'd never done. "Make it look like a crime scene." Sometimes I had three guys at once. Some of them came back for seconds. Some of the girls made me go down on them and pulled my hair and slapped me. After 4 hours, they handed me my clothes, they stole everything else, and threw me out of the house. I didn't know where the hell I was, somewhere in the North end. Luckily I found a gas jockey who'd do a 5 minute blow job so I could get bus fare back downtown. I headed right for Blackbeard's motel. **************************** "Bitch! You know you have to have cash to get any dope here." You can't be soft on these hookers, they'll try to use you. Then she told me about her four hour gang rape so I decided to lighten up a little. "All right. Just this once. You have sex with us as a downpayment but you better come up with the money tomorrow. Now go easy on this shit, I haven't cut it yet. Half dose." She had to borrow a rig from me and I made her go into the bathroom. Stupid 13 year old girls. When I went in to check on her she was having seizures. I said you gotta go to the hospital girl. She didn't want to go. I went next door to get Jersey Joe and by the time we got back, she was dead. He said let's dump her in the park so we dragged her into the car, drove to a quiet park, and left her on a bench with her rig in her hand. Then some flashing lights hit us. The cops. "Oh shit! We got drugs on us and a dead girl with our dna inside her. They kill child molesters first week in prison." Jersey Joe said, "Why didn't the little bitch go to the hospital?" "She said 'This is between me and God.' " |
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| The Habit Ron McCandlish ron.mccandlish@sympatico.ca |
#9 of 9 |
| 894 words | |
| "He was one sick bastard." Morris said, slipping out of
his coat ,unhooking the worn, leather holster, the heavy, Smith and Wesson 38
nestled there, placing it on the desk and slipping into his chair. "Can you imagine doin' somethin' like that over a broad?" "Never thought about it." I answered, "She's something to look at though. He probably just cracked when she wanted to call it quits. Couldn't handle it. Some guys can't. When it’s over it's over I guess." "What're ya sayin' Ron? Plenty O fish in the sea? Plenty more where she came from? You sayin' you could handle it better?" I hung up my coat, sat down at the desk in front of him. "What are you talkin' about? "I'm talkin' `bout you. You an' Marilyn. The way you been drinkin' lately. It ain't goin' good with her and you is it? You gonna be able to handle it? Yer turnin' into a lush!" Morris was playing the "Dad" again. We'd worked together over three years. Counted on each other. Friends. No... More than friends. Morris was a brother to me. Family. This guy, sitting across from me now, had saved my life twice, once taking a slug in the chest during a takedown in a dope bust, when he pushed me out of the way, and once when a pimp tried to knife me in an alley off Third Avenue. "Aaah, Morris, Morris, I'm sorry. I talk too much. Cry on your shoulder. It'll work out. Things'll get better. She's just moody these days. It's the hours I put in. I'm cuttin' back. On the booze I mean." "Do it... Do it! Don't just say it. Do it! Your a good cop, Ron. You got a long way to go. Don't ruin it!" We started in on the paper work "What's her full name again?" I asked. "Velma. Velma Rainer." Morris answered, " I tried callin' her. Thought she'd sleep better tonight knowin' the guy did himself in. She won't be hearin' footsteps on the stair anymore. Her an' `ER new boyfriend'll cuddle better. She can get on with her life now." Velma Rainer. She'd come into the precinct a week ago. Wanted a restraining order. This guy she'd been seeing couldn't dig it, couldn't understand that their movie was over, the lights had dimmed, the curtain closed... The music had stopped. She was afraid. She had met and fallen in love with someone else. We'd gone out to hunt the guy. Found him. Told him he was history. We'd been nice about it though. Lied. Told him it'd happened to us once or twice. He'd get over it. Warned him not to do anything stupid. Never thinking he'd write her a letter, copy a poem he'd read, tuck them in his jacket pocket, the one right over his heart, and jump in front of a fucking subway train. We'd completed the work and I printed file copies. Made a copy of the poem for myself. Don't ask me why. "That's it, Morris, my man." I said, placing them on his desk, "Feel like coffee? Louie's still open. Was when we came in." "No. I'll stick around a bit. Take off. Go home. Ya look like shit. Get some sleep." I grabbed my coat. Headed for the door. "Ron." "Yea," I said, turning. " Go home. No bar tonight he?" " Right, pal," I lied, " home is the sailor... Home from the sea." I smiled. He didn't smile back. * * * I liked the name of the place. "The Dog House." The joint was empty. My friend George, the bartender had laughed once, saying, "It was a good name for a bar for guys who'd been tossed out with their tails between their legs. A place to lie down out of the rain." "A place to go when things get slow and you don’t have anywhere else to go." I'd quipped. We'd both laughed. I nursed my third or fourth scotch, listening to a sad Sinatra on the stereo system and thought about the poor bastard I'd watched them scrape off the subway tracks three hours ago. I felt less alone, more at home sitting here, than I did in my walk up second story apartment with the telephone that never seemed to ring. Thought about Marilyn, my Marilyn, how our road had run out. I'd told George about our break-up a month or two ago, a night I'd been so sloshed that the only thing moving was my mouth. George was good. A real bartender. Knew that sometimes, the only thing that got you through the night was one... one more drink before he dimmed the lights. Before it was over. Before it was time to go. * * * "Last call, pal." He poured. "Can I read you something George?" "Sure." he said, looking at me kind of funny. "Will I need one myself for this?" "Ya... maybe." I said. "On me George. It's a poem. A poem I copied tonight. Your a hep guy George. Maybe you can tell me what it means." He got himself a glass, draped his towel over his shoulder. "Shoot." I placed the poem on the bar. “For I have you fast in my fortress And I shall not let you depart I have locked you away in the dungeon In the round tower of my heart And here I shall keep you forever Forever and a day... Till these walls shall crumble in ruin And smoulder to dust away” "What do you think it means George?" "Well, Ron, " he answered, ... lifted his glass, killed it, looking at me in that same funny way, "I'm not sure, but like I told you once... making some dame a habit can be tough on a guy." |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club