Cutter Slagle's Blog, page 5

Taken

“We’re running out of time, Michael.” Terri entered her office, leaving a trail of heavy snow behind her. She peeled off her wet gloves, tossed them onto her desk, and quickly began rubbing her hands together. The weather outside was frightful; but, unfortunately, there was no delightful fire. In fact, nothing that had happened in the past month had been delightful.

“We’ve still got time, Terri,” Detective Michael Burdine said as he walked into the cramped space behind her. He slowly sank into the cloth chair in front of her desk.

“Not much,” she argued. The gesture wasn’t working, not even a little. Terri’s bones felt as if they had been dipped in ice water and then left outside in the single digit degree weather to freeze.

She lowered herself down into the leather chair behind her desk, shrugged out of her bulky coat, and looked down at her gold watch. It had been the only piece of jewelry that Jacob had ever given her.

“Erin was taken sometime late Friday night,” she said. “It’s now Monday—almost four. At best, we’ve got six hours to find her.”

“We will find her,” Michael assured, crossing one leg over the other.

“Well, we’ve got to!” she barked. Terri rose to her feet and promptly crossed her arms over her chest. “This isn’t just any other girl, Michael. This is my daughter and—” she took a deep breath. “You know what happened to Judy Hall and Brooke Hines on the third day they were missing.”

Michael sat up and nodded. “I know, Terri. But Detectives Scott and Clark are out there right now with the volunteers; they’re searching for her.”

“I should be out there too,” she protested. “I could be—”

“You need a break,” he said. “Have you slept or eaten in the past two days?”

She bit down on her lip. She refused to answer the question.

“That’s what I thought,” he said and shook his head.

“Look,” Terri started, “I’m your boss and—”

“And like you said,” Michael interrupted, “we still have six hours to find Erin. Take a half an hour to regroup. We’ll get back out there soon.”

“But—”

“Nothing,” he commanded. “I’m going to make some coffee. Try to relax a little bit.”

Easy for him, she thought, as Michael exited the office and turned left toward the break room. He didn’t have children; he didn’t understand what it was like to be a parent. Frustration was beginning to boil inside of her. It had started down at her feet—burning. Now, it was slowly starting to rise, building throughout her entire body, dangerously closer to the point of eruption.

Terri reached for the first thing she could grab: a round glass jar housing pens and pencils that sat perfectly in the center of her desk. Clutching the jar, she launched her right arm back and threw it forward. It shattered against the wall.

Six hours, she thought. Six unbelievably short hours was all she had left.

Weakness overtook Terri. Suddenly, she no longer had the strength to stand. She fell into the comfort of the leather chair once again. She brought up her hands and raked them through her thick, dark hair. Terri could feel the dirt and grime of the past two days. She now wished she’d taken the time to shower.

She angled her head down toward her petite lap. Though she’d often thought of tears as a sign of weakness, Terri gave into temptation and let herself weep. The release felt surprisingly nice, as if this was exactly what she needed. But fearing that Detective Burdine could return at any moment, she wiped at her green eyes, hoping to somewhat conceal her unusual emotion. At forty-two, the last thing she wanted to be considered was a crybaby.

Terri looked down at her hands. Seeing that they were smeared with mascara, she rapidly brushed them against the sides of her black pants to rid herself of the mess.

“Everything alright in here?” Michael stood in the doorway. He was holding two yellow coffee mugs.

“Fine,” she answered, choosing not to explain the shards of broken glass on the hardwood floor. “How’s the coffee?”

He shrugged. “You’ve had the station’s coffee before.” Michael handed her a mug.

Terri accepted it, not expecting much. She did know what the coffee was like—dull and usually stale, but at least it was hot. And at the moment, she’d gladly welcome any liquid that had a temperature above freezing. Besides, she thought, reaching for the top center drawer of her desk, she had something to add to it.

“What are you doing, Terri?”

“Sorry,” she said, screwing off the cap to the thin, black bottle. The heavy, rich scent of Irish cream gradually flooded the room. “Do you want a shot?”

“No,” Michael said with a tight frown. “Do you really think it’s wise to be…”

“Don’t,” she ordered, immediately stopping him. She added a few drops of the liqueur to her drink, replaced the cap, and then put the bottle away. “It’s Bailey’s, not Patron. And you were the one that wanted me to relax.” Terri took a sip, lavishing the sweet warmth the beverage provided.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Michael said.

She looked up at the thirty-something-year-old detective. Terri hated to admit it, but she actually envied him. Detective Michael Burdine stood so tall and confident. He was together. He was dressed in neatly pressed, dark pants and a matching sweater. His blonde hair was slicked back, and his blue eyes seemed to sparkle. The man had no signs of stress present on him anywhere. He was smart, strong, and as Terri had seen demonstrated numerous times, an excellent detective.

“Terri, you still with me?”

“Right,” she answered. She shook her head to snap herself out of her reverie. “What is it that you wanted to ask me?”

“Well,” he started as he resumed his seat. “I know that we’ve discussed this ever since Judy Hall was found strangled to death, but I still can’t wrap my brain around this three-day deadline.”

“That’s the million dollar question,” Terri said.

“Both girls were strangled three days after being taken. But why?” Michael repeated.

Terri released a heavy sigh; she was losing concentration. Her focus immediately shifted to December 6th when she had received the first phone call. She’d been at home, slowly letting the shower water heat up, when her cell phone rang, causing her to jolt.

“This is Detective Carpenter,” she’d hesitantly answered as she’d flipped open her cell.

“Carpenter, it’s Detective Clark.” The raspy voice on the other end sounded exhausted. “We found her, Boss—Judy Hall. She’s dead.”

“Where are you, Detective?”

“Right off of Hamilton Road. It appears the girl was strangled to death and then dropped in the ditch like some piece of garbage.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes. Don’t move anything.”

Terri recalled trekking through the inches of solid white snow to get to the dead girl. It had been a cold walk in which she’d clearly been able to make out her own, frost-stained breath.

Upon reaching the body, Terri had registered a couple of things: the recent flakes that littered the girl from head to toe, and the angry wind chill that had fiercely began picking up. Terri had known then that Mother Nature wasn’t going to be an aid in solving this murder.

Circumstances had been quite similar when finding the second victim. That night was also vivid in Terri’s mind.

She’d known instantly when hearing the jingle of her phone that her efforts of finding therapy in a bubble bath and glass of red wine were going to be useless.

“This is Detective Carpenter,” she’d answered with her usual greeting.

The monotone voice of Detective Scott had filled her ear. “I just got a call at the station, Boss. Brooke Hines was found.” Scott had stopped for a moment. “She was strangled, too.”

“Where?”

“Her body was dumped close to Hamilton Road, just like the last one.”

The three-day pattern had then been brought to light. Michael had been the first detective to utter those two words that had sent rapid chills up and down Terri’s spine: serial killer.

And now, Erin was the latest female to be taken; the three-day deadline was inching closer and closer to an end.

A clock seemed to be ticking somewhere deep within Terri. Every minute—no, every second—she spent inside talking to Detective Burdine was just time that was being wasted. Terri checked her wristwatch again: five and a half hours now remained. The end was hastily approaching. But what that end entailed exactly, well, Terri wasn’t completely sure that she knew. She was no longer positive how it would all play out.

“Terri, are you going to answer that?”

She quickly blinked her eyes. She tried to gain focus and absorb her surroundings. That high-pitched, nauseating Christmas jingle—her cell phone was ringing.

“This is Detective Carpenter,” she answered.

She instantly recognized the deep voice on the other end of the phone: “Terri, it’s Dean.”

“Oh, Dean,” she sighed and collapsed back into her chair. “It’s my brother,” she said, looking at Michael.

“What?”

“I was talking to Detective Burdine. We’re at the station, but we’re getting ready to rejoin the search party.”

“Christy’s out there now,” Dean said. “I came home to get some dry clothes. Blake and I are heading back out in a little bit.”

Terri felt herself frown; confusion flooded her. “Blake?” she asked. “What’s he doing home? I thought he had classes.”

“No,” Dean answered. “He’s been home about a month now for Christmas break.”

“Right,” she said and nodded. “Christmas break.” The most wonderful time of the year, yet she couldn’t bring herself to smile about one damn thing. Not even a single Christmas card or piece of candy could be found in her office—or her house, for that matter. Terri had more to worry about than the upcoming holiday.

“Tell Blake and Christy that I appreciate their help. And, of course, you too, Dean—thanks for all you’ve done.”

“We’re family,” he said. “Erin is our only niece, Blake’s only cousin. We’re going to find her.”

“I know,” Terri affirmed weakly. Doubt suddenly began overwhelming her. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, trying to hold herself together. “I was actually just thinking about Blake and that university sweatshirt he gave to Erin last Christmas.”

“Terri, you need to be strong—”

“Did you know that she applied to that college, Dean? She wears that damn sweatshirt all the time. She even had it on the night she went—”

“Terri, hold yourself together,” Dean ordered. “Do not break now; there isn’t time. We will find Erin,” he repeated.

“Right,” she said and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t call to upset you. I just wanted to check in.”

“Nothing’s really changed; the search parties haven’t come up with anything just yet.”

“They will,” Dean assured. “There’s still plenty of time.”

Terri swore to herself that if Dean said the word “time” just once more, she would unravel. There wasn’t plenty of time, not anymore.

“Dean, I need to go. I have to—”

“Wait,” he said.

“What?” The harsh, irritated tone of her own voice surprised her.

“I wanted to ask you if you’ve called Jacob yet? Does he know what’s happened?”

Tears immediately stung the corners of her eyes. Terri let them build up. When they began cascading down her silky cheeks, she didn’t bother to try and hide them.

“Terri, you still—”

“How dare you, Dean! You know how I feel about Jacob.”

“He has a right to know,” Dean argued.

“And why is that?”

“He’s Erin’s father!”

“Some father,” she said, exploding. “Jacob left me before Erin was even a week old. He doesn’t care about her; he doesn’t even know her.”

“I still think you should call him,” he tried.

“And say what?” she asked. “He’s got a new woman in his life now—Liz, remember? He doesn’t care about me, and he sure as hell doesn’t care about Erin. He never has.”

“But—”

“I don’t have time for this, Dean. Not today. Please thank Blake and Christy for all of their help.” Terri flipped her phone shut and threw it down onto the hard surface of her desk.

“What was that all about?” Michael asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “That was just my brother being, well, my brother.”

“I think it’s more than that, Terri. You’re shaking.”

“He brought up my ex,” she shouted. “Dean thinks Jacob has a right to know what’s happened with Erin, but I know for a fact that Jacob won’t care. He’s remarried to Liz,” she said, putting a hard emphasis on the other woman’s name. “And—”

A loud beeping sound interrupted her.

“Sorry,” Michael said. “That’s my phone.” Terri saw him glance down at the caller ID. “It’s Detective Clark.”

“Answer it, please,” she commanded. “Maybe they’ve found something.

“Detective Clark,” Michael answered. “Anything new?”

Terri reached for her coffee mug, but figuring that the brew was now cold, retracted her arm and folded her hands into her lap.

She desperately tried to avoid the large, rectangular clock that hung on the wall in front of her. Time was dwindling away, she knew. Night would be settling in all too soon, and temperatures would lower even further, creating an unbearable winter wonderland. Terri felt her legs beginning to shake; her inner core was rattled with anxiety. She had to get out there.

“Anything?” she asked as soon as she saw Michael flip his phone shut.

He looked down and then shook his head. “Sorry, not yet.”

Terri nodded and then took a moment to let his words sink in. “Where are Detectives Clark and Scott now? We should get out there and join them.”

“They’re finishing up Hamilton Street. They’re checking out that small wooded area, and then they have a few more houses to canvas.”

“Good,” Terri said. “Where’s the search party headed next?”

“Clark said that they’ll hit Steven Street in about an hour.”

“Steven Street?” she repeated. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Michael confirmed. “There’s not much to check out on Steven Street. But there’s that rundown apartment building and old warehouse. They’re places that haven’t been cleared yet. Steven Street is close to Hamilton.”

“Great,” she said and stood up. She grabbed for her coat and swiftly wrapped herself in it. “We should join the guys over on Hamilton Street, then.”

“Sounds good,” Michael agreed and then stood.

“Do you want to drive? Or should I?” Terri asked. Out of habit, she began reaching for her coffee mug again. But then recalling that it was cold, she pulled her arm back. But Terri hadn’t been paying close enough attention; her hand smacked the mug, causing the liquid to spill completely down the front of her.

“Dammit!” she screamed.

“Do you have a change of clothes here?” Michael asked as he offered her a napkin from her desk.

“No,” she said. She took the napkin and tried to clean up her mess. But the task wasn’t working; the thin material wasn’t absorbing any of the dampness.

“Do you want me to see if anyone else might have something here that you could use?”

“I’m soaked!” Terri hollered. She took a deep breath, trying to think fast. “You go to Hamilton Street and meet Detectives Clark and Scott. I’ll go home and meet you back in the field in fifteen minutes.”

“What? Are you sure? I can go with—”

“No,” she cut him off. “I want you out there. I need you out there.”

“Okay,” he said and headed for the door. “I’ll see you soon. And Terri?”

“Yes,” she asked and stared up at him.

“I’ll find Erin, no matter what it takes. I promise.” Michael pivoted and then left the room.

She heard the clicking of his boots as he walked down the hallway. Terri reached for her bag on the floor, flung it over her shoulder, and then grabbed her cell from her desk.

Exiting her office, she couldn’t help but glance at the clock on the wall. Just the slight sight of it frightened her. Her whole body instantly broke out into a cold sweat. Only five hours remained.

Terri rushed through the back door of the building and let it slam shut behind her. She braved the brutal cold, shoving her bare hands into the depths of her coat pockets for warmth. Her boots crushed down onto the stiff snow. As she began picking up the pace, running for her jeep, her hair whipped around her face, painfully stinging her skin.

Terri welcomed the protection of her vehicle. She immediately started it and let the heat fully blast out. She didn’t bother with the radio, preferring the eerie yet peaceful silence. After all, her overworked mind was already amped enough—she didn’t need the addition of cheesy, holiday music.

She was on her way now, pulling out of her parking spot and cruising down the long stretch of open road. Her wiper blades were working double time to keep the windshield clean. The strong scent of cinnamon coming from the air freshener that was loosely hanging off her rearview mirror was overpowering; the stench was almost making her gag. But Terri tried to ignore all of the distractions. She had to keep moving.

Terri quickly made a hard right. As soon as she turned onto the street, her jeep began sliding. She felt her body immediately stiffen and tense up. Her vehicle was fishtailing to the side. The wheel frantically spun round out of her control; her tires began screeching loudly and pierced her eardrums. She panicked and swiftly reacted by smashing her foot down onto the break.

The movement didn’t help; her jeep was acting on its own accord. It was spinning forward—unstoppable. Terri looked up. She was only a few feet from the large building. She was going to crash into it; there was no mistaking that.

She frantically reached for her seatbelt. Tugging, Terri prayed she’d avoid a collision with the windshield and the jagged edges it would undeniably become on impact. She tried the break again. She pressed down harder this time, needing a miracle.

And finally, almost as soon as the danger had started, it ended. The jeep skidded to a complete halt, the passenger side of the vehicle just inches away from touching the building. Terri let out a long exhale. She realized for the first time that she’d been holding her breath. A throaty cough escaped her lips; tears painfully stung her eyes. An accident, she knew, would have ruined everything.

She shifted into park, making sure the jeep was stationary. Terri didn’t want the vehicle going anywhere. She slowly reached out for the door handle. But before she could get a good grip on it, she heard movement against leather. Her eyes widened; her heartbeat began wildly increasing. Her nightmare was far from over.

Someone was in her backseat!

Terri racked her brain; she tried to think swiftly. She had two options. Her gun was in the glove box. She could attempt to seize it, but would she be fast enough? She didn’t know exactly what she was up against. Running was always a choice, too. She could throw open the door and dart out into the early evening cold. But where would she go? Was there someplace to hide?

Fight or flight, she contemplated. Her head was plagued with questions, but only one blatantly stuck out: who was doing this?

Trembling, she slowly let her arm stretch out. As if her mind had been read, a deep monotone voice rang out from the backseat and filled the small space of her jeep.

“Don’t even think about it, Terri.”

Confusion promptly flooded her. She let her arm drop. Had she heard correctly? Could it really be him? Suddenly, she felt the hard metal barrel of a gun as it was tightly pressed up against the back of her head. Was he really doing this? Nothing no longer made sense.

“Step out of the jeep. Now!” The deep voice ordered.

Terri didn’t bother arguing; she did as she was told. She opened the driver’s side door and stepped out of the jeep. She was immediately met by the bitter temperature. Terri tried desperately to zip her coat.

“Don’t bother with that,” he said. “Get inside, now!”

“But I—”

“Now!” he repeated, lowering the gun’s aim to the base of her neck.

“Please,” Terri begged. “Don’t do this.”

“Then do what I tell you to.”

Terri obeyed, again, and then moved forward with him tight on her heels. She reached out for the round knob and turned it. She pulled the heavy metal door toward her and entered the building; the stench of spoiled fish instantly overwhelmed her. There was barely enough light to take in her surroundings. She was in an empty room. The walls were basic—plain plaster. The floor was cement. There was a small pile of two by four pieces of wood in one corner, not much else.

The door slammed shut and Terri turned around to face her assailant. The aim of the gun was now pointed at her face, directly between her eyes. The man was sweating badly, causing dirty streaks to run the course of his face. Terri had no trouble placing his nerves, as the hand holding the gun was slightly shaking. Maybe there was still a way out of this.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Funny,” he said. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

“Excuse me?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Terri.” His voice echoed throughout the barren room. “At least give me more credit than that.”

“Please, I—”

“Stop!” he shouted. He spun around and threw his hands into the air. He began laughing. “Just stop! We’re here on Steven Street because—”

Terri made her move—she dove for the pile of two by fours. She frantically reached out to grasp one of the boards, but a shot rang out. The bullet exploded into the wall in front of her, just feet above her head. Terri stood, turned, and stared at the gun.

“Are you trying to kill me, Michael?”

“Maybe,” he answered. “If it comes to that.”

“I’m your boss,” she roared. “Put your weapon down—that’s an order.”

“I know it’s you, Terri.”

“What are you taking about, Michael?”

“I know you kidnapped Judy Hall and Brooke Hines. I know you killed them. And I know you kidnapped Erin, your own daughter.”

“You’ve gone crazy!” she screamed. “How could you possibly—”

He pointed the gun to the ceiling and fired it again. A loud crack exploded into the room. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine,” she said. She threw up her hands to show that she was surrendering. “Fine! You caught me, Michael. I admit it: I’m the person you’ve been looking for this past month. Happy?”

“Happy?” he repeated. “You’re my boss, my mentor. I’ve looked up to you! How could I be happy?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said and revealed a sly smile. “I am impressed with your work, though.” Terri began clapping. “Bravo, Detective Burdine.”

“Stop it!”

“What made you finally catch on?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “What was the big tip off that you were working with a coldblooded killer?”

“Today, in your office,” Michael said. “You told your brother exactly what Erin had been wearing the night she had been taken. I realized you could have only known that information if you had been the one to have taken her.”

“Nice catch,” she said.

“It wasn’t the only one,” he revealed. “You were on edge the whole day today. Never once did you show excitement about the search party’s progress. You were drinking alcohol. You even got upset when I mentioned that the search was spreading to Steven Street. I put it all together.”

“And what?” she asked. “Hopped in the back of my jeep to catch me in the act?”

“I knew you were coming here. You spilled that coffee on purpose. You had to move Erin before the other detectives got here.”

“It only took you a month to piece it all together,” she mocked. “And if I would have just kept my big mouth shut, I probably would have gotten away with all of it.”

“You need help,” he said.

“I’m getting help,” she admitted. “Well, I was. You wouldn’t believe how it feels to strangle the life out of someone.”

“You’re sick,” he said and slowly shook his head.

“No,” she corrected with a strong glare. “I’ve just been pushed over the edge.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“See,” Terri said and took a step back. “You don’t even know. You stand there, pointing that gun at me, judging me. You don’t even know why we’re here.”

“I know why,” he argued. “You’re crazy!”

“Oh, Michael,” she smirked. “It goes deeper than that.”

“Fine,” Michael said. “What’s your great excuse for committing murder?”

Terri leaned her head back and released a thick laugh. “You must not have been listening too closely today in my office. Jacob,” she informed him. “This is all because of Jacob.”

“Your ex-husband?” he asked with a frown. “But what does—”

“He left me eighteen years ago this month!” Terri yelled and instantly balled her hands into fists. “Erin was only three days old and . . .” she took a deep breath. “He left me.”

“What does that have to do with your daughter?”

“It has everything to do with Erin! This is all her fault!”

“Do you hear what you’re saying?”

“Jacob left me because of her! He never wanted kids! And then, three days after—he just left!”

“You blame your daughter?” Michael asked. “This has nothing to do with those other girls? They were just a cover so you could get away with killing Erin?”

Terri shrugged. “Maybe it was the approaching anniversary of my divorce? Or perhaps the upcoming holiday? Regardless, I finally just snapped.”

“And now what? You think Jacob will just take you back after Erin is officially out of the picture?”

“No,” Terri said and hastily shook her head. “He’s got a new girl now—Liz. Remember? But my daughter still needs to be punished.”

“That’s not going to happen, Terri.” Michael aimed the gun.

“Yes,” she said, bending down. “Well, we do seem to have a small problem.” Quickly reaching behind her, she grabbed for a block of wood. Terri swiftly brought it up, hitting Michael in the arm and chest. He fell to the floor and dropped the gun. She started running.

Terri ran down the narrow hallway, turned right, and started up the concrete stairs. She made a left and charged into the room. She was well aware of the fact that time was not on her side. But she would adjust. No matter what happened, whatever the consequences were, Erin was going to get hers. Terri would squeeze the life out of the girl, just like Erin had done to her eighteen years ago.

Terri scanned the room. It was empty. And suddenly, she felt pressure on the back of her head as something came crashing down onto her. She became dizzy. White, hot pain overtook her—she couldn’t see for a moment. Terri fell to the floor and clutched at her wound.

“I told you that I knew you were headed here,” Michael said. “I had Detectives Clark and Scott come here; they took Erin to safety.”

“You ruined everything!” she screamed. “You. . .” she couldn’t finish. Michael was becoming a blur; she knew that she was losing consciousness and would fully pass out in a moment. She squinted and was just barely able to see him retrieve a pair of handcuffs.

“Terri Carpenter,” he started, “you are under arrest.”

[Author’s Note: This short story originally appeared in the horror anthology Unholy Night: Christmas Fears 2, published by Static Movement in 2012 (currently out of print). It then appeared in the e-book, Another Motive for Murder, published in 2015.]

Spook

Teddy placed one Nike-clad foot in front of the other. She was trembling. The ground beneath her felt rough and solid. But for a moment, she thought that it might be slightly moving underneath her. Teddy slammed her eyes shut, inhaled, and then exhaled slowly. She hated being alone and she hated being scared.

“Why are you here?” she asked herself in a barely audible whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

Of course, no one answered her questions. Her friends were long gone, undoubtedly having already found the end to the frightening Carnival of Fear. Or maybe they had just given up and found an off-the-path exit somewhere? Or even worse, they could be hiding in the shadows, trying to only further terrify her.

“Screw you,” she muttered under her breath. Some friends they were.You can do this, Teddy told herself. Be strong; be brave—it’s all pretend.

“What’s the matter, little girl? Are you afraid?”

She jumped at the unrecognizable, high-pitched voice. Teddy rapidly turned toward the sound. Her feet got caught together and twisted, almost knocking her down. She managed to catch her balance mid-fall, straightened up, and immediately found herself starring into the painted blue eyes of a clown.

“You know it’s not safe to be by yourself,” he jeered.

“Leave me alone! You’re not real!” Teddy screamed and promptly hurried forward. She quickly put distance between herself and the six-foot plus man who sported a sparkling white face, curly red wig, and black lips that appeared to be bleeding.

The clown began laughing and then broke out into an ear-splitting tune.“Only go forward if you dare; monsters and traps await. Beware!”

“No!” Teddy thrust her small, shaking hands over her ears to block out the sound. She picked up her pace.

Seconds later, she rounded the corner. Darkness greeted her. A smoky fog filled the already thick air. For a moment, Teddy thought that she might get sick. Keep moving, she told herself. She knew that above all else, she had to keep moving.

But something suddenly popped into her head, puzzling her. What had that clown said? That bit about being safe? Was it safe to be alone? Teddy wondered. She had seen the news stories, knew about the awful events that had taken place over the past couple of weeks. The way the front page paper had recently depicted the tragic episodes instantly caused Teddy to assume that there really wasn’t a safe place to be anymore.

A cold sweat began forming. It started at her temple and then moved down the left side of her face. Her thick blonde hair was becoming frizzy; she wished that she had some sort of band or tie to sweep up the loose ends. And just as her heartbeat finally began slowing down to a normal rate, her path was promptly blocked by a brick wall, causing her to come to an abrupt halt.

“What now?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Teddy brought her hands up. She placed them on the wall and quickly shuddered, feeling the thick tangles of cobwebs. She rolled her shoulders back and tried to relax; she attempted to rid herself of all the stiff tension that filled her. She pushed on the wall, but nothing happened. She tried again, but with more force this time. She grunted and could feel her feet slide on the floor. Still, the enclosure wouldn’t budge.

Did I take a wrong turn? She asked herself. Teddy contemplated going back the way she had come, but then quickly dismissed the idea. There was no way that she was taking the risk of running into that annoying clown again.

She knew that she could always ask for help. Didn’t everyone need help in their lives at some point? Maybe if she screamed loud enough or cried desperately enough, someone would come to her aid?

No! She shook her head, ridding herself of the ridiculous thought. She was an independent, capable, 16-year-old girl; the last thing she needed was help from someone else, especially from some macho guy who would think she was weak or unable to take care of herself. She didn’t need to be treated like a baby; she could do this!

Teddy turned, put her back against the wall, and slid down. With her knees drawn up to her chest, she cradled herself. She let her forehead rest on the cool flesh that protruded from her ripped jeans. She needed a minute to think, to rationalize. This wasn’t some survival of the fittest test; it was just a haunted carnival. It came to town every year. And every year throughout the month of October, people of all ages made it through safe, sound, and alive. She would, too.

She brought her head up, craned her neck to the right, and then saw it. It was the way out. Or it was the way to the next chamber, at least. Teddy shuddered, thinking about crawling through the large, rusty tunnel that reeked of mildew. But she would do it; she had to it.

On all fours now, she was able to feel the grainy sensation of the dirt. Teddy brought herself forward and entered the circular passage. A dim, yellowish light led the way. If she listened close enough, she could make out some sort of scraping sound. There seemed to be metal on either side of her; something was rustling up against it.

Working up the courage to look, she swallowed hard and peered into the darkness. Rats! Large, dark gray, hairy rats stared back at her with beady eyes. Their teeth were sharp and long; their pink tails were swaying back and forth in the rectangular cages that bound them.

Teddy’s loud shriek echoed throughout the tunnel. She instantly picked up speed and scrambled to escape the disgusting rodents.

Finally, coming to an opening, Teddy all but jumped out of the entrapment and landed on broken glass. Well, the illusion of broken glass, as she soon realized—not finding any cuts, scrapes, or fresh wounds on her body. As she shuffled gingerly across the floor, she realized the “glass” was shredded plastic particles.

“Boo!”

Teddy jumped back. Approaching her was a heavy, dark figure. As he stepped into the neon light, she could see that his face, like the clown’s, had been painted white. However, this man had trails of yellow cascading down his face, creating a puss-like appearance. His body was completely wrapped in silver chains and they made a nails-down-a-chalkboard sound as he struggled with the challenge of moving forward.

“Go away!” Teddy ordered. She sidestepped the creature and did her best to avoid eye contact.

“You know it’s not safe to be by yourself,” he taunted.

There it was again, Teddy noted, putting distance between herself and the monster. It was the exact same warning that the clown had given her only moments before. But did she really need to be warned?

She kept going. She passed ripped flags and a lone Ferris wheel seat splattered with scarlet blood and chunky gore that implied a gruesome murder had taken place at this outrageous, over the top, Carnival of Fear.

Murder. Murder. She couldn’t help but dwell on the idea of murder. And then on its own accord, Teddy’s memory was taking her back to the dreadful news clippings and shocking tragedies that had recently rocked her small hometown.

Three had now died, Teddy vividly remembered. All of the victims had been teenagers, ranging in age from 15 to 18. They’d all been blonde and attractive. Their throats had been slit from behind —ear to ear. The bodies had been found on the side of the road, each discarded like old garbage. The work of a serial killer, perhaps?

Teddy rolled her eyes at the weakness of the local police and reporters. They knew nothing, had nothing. Anyone could be the killer and everyone who fit the description of the victims could be next. Teddy couldn’t help but think about her own blonde hair, age, and the fact that she had been told a time or two that she was very pretty.

“You’re close to the exit,” she reassured herself. “Keep going.”

Teddy wasn’t sure why she had agreed to attend this nightmare in the first place. She wasn’t an idiot; and though it had never been stated in black and white, she had been able to determine that the killings had only started when the Carnival of Fear had come to town. So what was the carnival’s connection to the crimes that had been committed? What did it all mean?

She let out a low sigh and scratched at the tedious itch on the back of her neck. Her muscles felt tense and awkward. She hastily wondered that if she sprinted straight forward, if the trail would take her out into the open and safe atmosphere where her friends were likely waiting. Teddy needed to get away from the rapid sense of danger that had wrapped itself around her entire body like a tight, suffocating blanket.

“You need help?”

She looked behind her, wondering who had asked the question. Another ghoul trying to scare her? Or maybe it was just one of her friends, checking to see what was taking her so long to get through the place.

No, the guy standing in front of her wasn’t one of her friends, but he wasn’t in costume either. She knew him though, from school. Jimmy? Jake? Joey? Something like that. Teddy knew he looked familiar; they had a couple of classes together.

“Are you okay?” he asked, coming to a stop beside her.

“I’m f-f-fine,” she nodded.

“Why are you by yourself? You know it’s not safe.”

Of course, she thought to herself—the boy in front of her was Jacob Owens. He was the quarterback for the football team, homecoming king, and the most popular senior in school. His shaggy blonde hair was a hit with all of the girls. Teddy couldn’t believe it: he was talking to her! Had he come to rescue her?

“Hello?” he tried again. “I don’t think you’re fine.”

“No, sorry,” Teddy said and quickly waved off his suggestion. “My friends left me and I think that I may have gotten turned around. I can’t find the exit anywhere.”

“Sure. It’s just forward a little bit more,” he said and pointed. “It’s past the room full of mirrors. Let me help you.”

“Oh, that’s really not—”

“Come on,” he encouraged. He placed one hand around her shoulder and pulled her toward him. “I want to.”

“Thanks, but—”

“But nothing. I’m here.” His grip was getting more forceful, even painful. His fingertips dug through her sweater and into skin.

“Please stop!” she begged.

He finally let go. “Look, do you want help or not?”

Teddy shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose, and thought for a moment. “Just lead the way and I will follow you.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled and walked past her. She heard him whisper something about a “stupid, crazy girl.”

She kept stride with him. She was just a few feet behind him and let him enter the next room first. That was when she felt the weight of something in her back pocket. Teddy reached for the object that had been concealed by her long jacket.

Yes, she thought, as she brought the tool around to her front and removed the large, plastic covering. The three victims all had had something else in common, too: they’d all been male.

“Are you still with me?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she said and smiled. “I’m right here.” Teddy didn’t need the help of some arrogant, testosterone-filled boy who was undoubtedly trying to save the day. She could take care of herself. She always had. And the guys, well, they were always the same. Trying to swoop in and grope her, actually believing that they were needed in order for her to survive. She didn’t need a man to survive; after all, she had proven that multiple times now and would continue to prove it.

“Wait! I can’t see you,” she yelled out.

“I’m right here,” he answered irritably. He never turned around. His back was still toward her.

Teddy tiptoed forward, making sure to move silently. She raised the knife and instantly noticed the rusty stain that was still caked on the serrated blade from the last time she had used it.

Teddy turned to her right. In the mirror—a serial killer stared back at her. Winking, she brought the blade down.

 

[Author’s Note: This short story originally appeared in the horror anthology Carnival, published by Static Movement in 2012 (currently out of print). It then appeared in the e-book, A Motive for Murder, published in 2015.]

Bi Bi, Love

Before we get started down this yellow brick road of a discussion, where I’ll (hopefully) find a brain — and a heart — I feel it necessary to preface my latest blog with a warning: It may piss someone off.

Now, if you know me, not only should you consider yourself very lucky, but you’re well aware of the fact that when it comes to caring what people think, I don’t. That’s right: If I happen to piss you off for any given reason, I don’t give a fuck.

Except, I kind of do.

Fine, that’s not exactly true, either. What I’m trying to get across, and maybe not so well, is that I’m not a malicious person. I never go out of my way to offend someone or hurt their feelings. However, if a person gets upset due to the fact that I’m just being me — that’s on them. I’m not trying to impress or please anyone.

And I’m pretty sure I’m succeeding.

Okay, back on track — I think. Bottom line: I’m an extremely nice person, and I’m not writing this to start a war. These are simply my thoughts (yes, I do have some from time to time), and I’d like to explore them further.

First, let’s chat about one of my favorite hobbies: eating.

Now, when you go to McDonald’s (as you all should), do you tend to order nuggets? Or, do you go of the warm apple pie? Maybe you enjoy both. Me, I’m a two double cheeseburgers, chicken sandwich, large fry, hot fudge sundae kinda guy. Perhaps you don’t even like Mcdonald’s. Maybe you prefer Burger King?

Now, let’s talk about sex . . . baby. (Sorry, I had to). When it comes to sex, who would you rather sleep with: a man or a woman? Perhaps it depends on your mood, the day, what kind of underwear you’re wearing (for those of you who wear it), or the person in question. Because, yes, for some, sex has nothing to with a man or a woman.

I don’t understand these people.

Don’t freak out — allow me to explain. Hmmm . . . I don’t understand these people. That’s all I got.

Not really. I’ll continue.

Yes, bisexuality exists — it’s a thing. In fact, several types of sexuality exist. Today, we have choices. From McDonald’s and Burger King, to hot dogs and biscuits, we live during a time where we can pretty much do what we want, when we want.

And how wonderful that notion is, right? After all, food cravings change regularly, but does that also mean sexual cravings can change, too? Is it possible to want to spend Friday night with a female companion, only to hunger for a little bit of male company on Saturday? Dare I even say that in a world where “hot” is often defined as “big boobs” or “six-pack abs,” are there trendsetters out there who couldn’t care less about perfect teeth, dick size, or slim figures?

Simply put, can you solely be attracted to a person’s personality . . . and nothing else?

I do have to admit (yes, this is my opinion and a gross generalization, but how I feel on the matter): I believe some men consider themselves bisexual to avoid accepting that they’re really gay. As for bisexual girls? Well, beats me. You’re on your own. Of course, if you’re not comfortable or ready to reveal you’re gay, then you shouldn’t. Everyone is on their own, individual path. Yet, personally, I struggle to understand — this is going to get vulgar-ish, and I apologize in advance — how a man (or woman) can want penis one night, and a vagina the next.

I took Human Anatomy and Physiology my senior year of high school. And while I didn’t pass the class with flying colors (it’s actually safe to say I outright failed it), I did happen to grasp the simple concept that boys and girls are born with two very different body parts.

There is a slight chance that when it comes to bisexuality, I’m biased. You see, I’ve been burned by the guy who claims to like both men and women . . . more than once.

A few years back, I went on several dates with this guy — we’ll just call him “Green Eggs and Ham.” He was nice, fun to be around, and just okay in bed. Yet, things between us came to a screeching halt after he told me he was a “bi guy.” In all honesty, he may have been turned off by the fact that I’d lost myself in too many Fireball shots and several craft beers, slipped off my barstool, and had to be carried to my Uber. I doubt it, though. And, in my defense, I’d only decided to drink my dinner that night after he’d shared his news.

But I digress.

For me, the main issue or complication seems to be as clear as day (not the day I was chugging Fireball straight from the bottle and double-fisting large craft beers): How can I compete with a woman? I can’t. If a man is attracted to both men and women, he’s always going to want or be tempted by something I don’t have; he’ll never be content. Specifically, what’s to stop him from seeing a woman with three tits, before suddenly coming to the conclusion that he’s off “D” and wants the “V?”

When Green Eggs and Ham admitted to being interested in both sexes, I took it as him wanting to have his cake and eat it, too. It just so happens that I’m particularly careful who I share my cake with. Well, for the most part. And, by the way, I never saw Green Eggs and Ham again.

It’s not as simple as choosing nuggets or pie — not to me, anyway. So, I’ll repeat: I don’t understand those people who say sex has nothing to do with a man or a woman. But, recently, a good friend of mine reminded me of a small detail I hadn’t yet considered: I don’t have to understand these people.

My friend was completely correct.

After all, how many people out there don’t understand that I’d prefer to sleep with Mario Lopez over Jennifer Lopez? Actually, it’s a hard pass on both, but you get the big picture. In this world, we get to make our own rules. There is no right or wrong. When it comes to our bodies, our needs, our desires . . . we are in control, and we don’t have to explain ourselves or our decisions.

Though I have personally chosen to avoid bisexual men about as much as I avoid going to the gym, I can’t help but wonder: Perhaps I’m cutting myself off to what could be a great experience. In the end, regardless of the context (sex, politics, a vegan lifestyle), maybe we could all learn a thing or two by broadening our horizons.

 

Does the Act of Quitting Make Us Quitters?

When did the act of quitting gain such a negative connotation? Think about it. We’re often praised when we quit smoking, drinking, or eating carbs. I haven’t done that, of course. I had a small (yes, large) pizza for lunch, and I chased it with a box of Ding Dongs.

You’re nasty! I’m talking about the Hostess kind. Well . . . What can I say? Another new year, but I’m the same hot mess. And you’re welcome, by the way!

You know what I mean, right? Being called a “quitter” is rarely considered a compliment. Perhaps it should be, though. Maybe a little more approval for quitting a job, toxic relationship, or unfulfilling crush is not only necessary, but even appropriate to help verify that we’ve made the right — albeit, difficult — decision.

Unfortunately, there are things in life we don’t want to do, but have to. For example, we have to co-exist in this city with children. We have to accept that Kim Kardashian has her own television show (though, we definitely don’t have to watch it). And, to add insult to injury — for me, anyway, — we have to live in a world where people like Snooki and Pam Anderson “write” best-selling novels. Or, write books that people actually buy.

Side note: You know who you are, and you should be ashamed of yourself!

That being said, when or where do we draw the line? Specifically, how do we know when it’s okay to quit something? Whether it be  a reality star, a significant other that family and friends just happen to love, or a career that no longer makes us smile. And, more importantly, praised quitting versus disgraced quitting: What’s the difference?

Being in my mid-twenties, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to quit many different things in life — and I have! From sports and jobs, to friendships and Grey’s Anatomy, I often don’t have trouble walking away from any sort of activity that no longer fulfills me. Ironically, on the flip side, I do struggle when it comes time to quitting certain other things . . . like Sour Patch Kids, boys who have zero interest in me, and Britney Spears.

And, like with anything in life, the consequences have followed.

I remember quitting my first year of t-ball before the season ended. The team eventually went on to win the championship, and every player got a trophy — except me, of course. I’d been dubbed “the quitter.” Years later, I refused to quit Ms. Spears. As a result, I still have her shitty eighth studio album taking up space on my iPod. And yes, I still have an iPod.

Quitting can definitely have its rewards, though.

When I moved to San Diego, one of my first jobs was working as a host at Joe’s Crab Shack. What seemed like a fun, easy way to make money on the outside, was merely a disguise for a not so great opportunity to prove that I didn’t belong in the restaurant industry.

For starters, I had to take a menu test, which I failed — twice. I didn’t even study in college, like I was really going to try and learn the different types of crab for $9.50 an hour. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure that test was rigged. After all, isn’t the main ingredient in calamari . . . umm, calamari? I thought so.

But even more humiliating, was the fact that the required uniform for the job was a tie dyed shirt. No one looks good in tie dyed. No one. I said, “No fuckin’ thanks” to Joe’s Crab Shack after three short weeks. However, as a result of my failed attempt to work with the public (which is downright brutal), I do have newfound respect for anyone who can hack it in the food industry.

Interestingly enough, after I left Joe, his crabs, and the shitty shack behind, I was able to land my first paid writing gig. It wasn’t a dream job by any stretch, but it was definitely a start. I’d wanted to be a writer since middle school, and finally, I was getting the chance to earn money by writing instead of hooking   . . . I mean waiting tables. And while it wasn’t fiction writing, it was still writing.

It’s like my best friend always says, “You asked the universe for something, and the universe gave it to you. You must not have been specific enough.”

Ugh! I really hate when that bitch is right, because she’s always right . . . about everything!

But, maybe it’s true. Maybe I did get what I asked for. Though, that being said, I think it’s perfectly all right to A) Change your mind B) Reject things you don’t ask for or want, but still get, and C) Quit.

I don’t believe the act of quitting can simply be defined as “good” or “bad.” There’s a gray area. It’s kind of like smoking the pot, or taking a nightcap Xanax: Only you can determine what’s best for you and your needs.

However, being called a “quitter” should not automatically produce a negative reaction. Though there are certainly different types of quitting, sometimes, for sanity purposes, we have no choice but to quit.

We may want — or ask for — the perfect job, boss, relationship, or shoes (I’m still patiently waiting for someone to buy me those Christian Louboutin boots), and if we don’t happen to get it, it’s okay to quit whatever it is we do get in its place.

Every time you do something you don’t like or enjoy, or participate in an activity of some sort that isn’t really you, per se, a piece of you dies. Small, yes, but a piece, nonetheless. How many pieces can we spare before we’re gone . . . before we lose ourselves completely?

Remember: Quitting is not a sign of giving up or giving in, but the opposite, actually. Quitting means you know who you are, you know what you like — you know yourself inside and out, and you refuse to be anything but loyal to yourself. Quitting means you won’t sacrifice your own happiness for anything. And, we all deserve to be happy, and get everything we want. We’re worth it.

‘Twas the Nightmare on Christmas

‘Twas the night of Christmas; the man crept up to the house.

He had killed before; he would kill again; yet, he kept this hidden from his spouse.

He walked up to the front door, and turned the handle;

The only light was that coming from a burning candle.

He quietly entered the home clad only in black,

With a butcher’s knife concealed he would later use to hack.

Scanning the first floor, he knew the routine;

He had been there before to scope out the scene.

The man was known as Frost, the Holiday Killer.

He was responsible for giving the small town a bit of a chiller.

He dashed to the stairs, but without a sound.

Frost was excited, yet sweating with nerves: a family of four he had found.

The moon peeked through the window and glowed bright;

The snow eased down, creating a dreadful Christmas fright.

He reached the second story, spotted the first room;

No one could have predicted this fearsome, December doom.

Frost opened the barrier with a quiet squeak;

Both teenage boys jolted awake with freak.

He sprang to the bed, revealing his stabbing tool.

Thick dark gloves to conceal prints: his biggest rule.

Frost began slashing and cutting, not looking at a face.

And soon, sticky red blood was flowing all over the place.

Finished with the two, Frost moved down the hall in a flash.

Raising his weapon again, he brought it down in a smash.

The woman screamed; her husband tried to fight;

No more peace on Earth; nothing was all right.

Pools of scarlet gushed to the floor.

Frost enjoyed every moment, right down to the dirty core.

His work was almost complete now; his murdering done.

Who knew taking innocent lives could be this much fun?

Time for the finishing touch, one last part.

He picked up a body and started to cart.

He placed all four bodies in the snow; freezing them was his calling.

Admiring his skill, he left, not realizing his falling.

The police soon arrived; the lead detective was Ned.

The big surprise, however, the man of the house wasn’t quite dead.

The father of two and widower of one,

Looked at the detective and knew what he had done.

Ned was recognized and proven to be Frost.

And at that moment, the killer knew he had lost.

Medics came, reporters, too.

And many more men, all dressed in blue.

Frost, the Holiday Killer, was taken away;

He would no longer ruin another joyous day.

The cruisers were packed up and driven out of sight,

Giving a Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

 

Nice Guys Get Shit On

A friend once told me that when you wrong someone, you must apologize, and then move on. Well, depending on how “wrong” you actually were to the person in question, this task can be a lot easier said than done. It can also be particularly difficult when you’re the villain in the story.

And, kids, it just so happens that in this story, I am the villain.

Out of the two, what’s more upsetting: Intentionally or unintentionally hurting someone? Sure, you’re obviously a piece of dog shit if you seek out to hurt a person, if that’s your true goal or agenda. But what does it say about me if I was hurting someone, and didn’t even realize it at the time? Does that mean I’m oblivious? Self-centered? Too self-involved to function? All of the above, perhaps?

In case you haven’t figured it out, I recently hurt someone. Yes, it was unintentional, but that doesn’t make it any easier knowing that someone is out there suffering because of me — especially when I’ve been on the other side of the equation . . . more times than I care to admit. But, simply put, this guy wanted a relationship, and I didn’t.

God must have a sense of humor. That’s the only explanation I can come up with, because, oddly enough, I do want a relationship — or, at least I thought I did. A year ago, I tried to form a bond with every Tom, Dick, and Harry (and Mike, Peter, Sam, Tony, Aaron) that came my way. Seriously, I was like Sherlock fuckin’ Holmes, desperately searching for any sort of clue that would help lead me to a lasting commitment of some sort. I can honestly say that I worked my way through a lot of dicks (pun intended). But, then again, a guy’s gotta eat.

But how do you know when it’s the right one? Or, in this case, the right guy? When do you take that chance, that leap of faith, and give it your all? How do you know that you’re not settling, but have actually found Mr. Perfect?

They say when it’s right, you just know . . . like a shooting star, or a urinary tract infection. Well, I have a question: Who the fuck is “they?” Definitely not my friends. Their track records read like the obituaries. They also say that when you least expect it, that’s when it happens: You get hit by a bus. And, also, you meet someone.

By the way, “they” can go fuck themselves.

That’s how it happened for me. A typical Wednesday night out: Pre-game with wine, followed by a few craft beers, a shot or two, a Coors Light chaser, and then some mild dancing. Nothing too crazy. Like I said, it was a Wednesday.

Anywho, the only justification I can give is that when I met this guy, I wasn’t fully prepared for it. Two weeks went by in a blur, a blur in which I now feel like I somewhat lost myself. And while it’s perfectly okay to lose yourself — refreshing, even — I think it’s imperative to find a balance. Going from zero to sixty may seem like a great ride, but what happens when the car runs out of gas?

Now would be a good time to mention that this guy, this extremely nice guy, did absolutely nothing wrong. Hell, he even sent cheesecake to my house — twice. Like I said, I’m the villain in this story. The only other thing I’ve ever had a guy deliver to me was, well, never mind. My point is that we were having fun, and somewhere amongst all that fun, I unintentionally led this guy on. I never had a plan to form a partnership with him (other than a friendly one), yet we continued to spend time together, and get to know each other. In the process, unfortunately, one of us fell, and one of us didn’t.

I’ll admit that it’s quite possible I’m too immature for a romantic relationship right now. I mean, I’m only twenty-one years old. Okay, fine! I rounded down. But be it age, timing, issues with commitment, or whatever, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not ready to be a grown up. Therefore, I’m not ready to be in a grown-up relationship. As cliched (and gay) as it may sound, being single is fabulous. I’m not ready to give that up, and I’m not ready to consider someone else’s needs or wants before my own.

So, it looks like we’re back at square one. Maybe I’m too self-centered or self-involved. Maybe I have trouble showing affection, or letting others know that I care about them. Or, maybe I just don’t know what I want, or what I’m looking for exactly, and need to be alone until I figure it out.

But I can’t help but wonder: If nice guys really do finish last (i.e. get shit on), then who finishes first? And if finishing first is at the expense of someone else’s feelings, is being in first place really worth it? After all, relationships are hard, and someone is bound to get hurt at some point. But should that frightening fact stop us in our tracks? Or should it propel us forward, knowing that we could meet Mr. Perfect next week, next month, next year . . . or even tomorrow?

This blog is my apology. I can admit when I’m wrong, and I was wrong. I should have been more upfront from the very beginning. I guess I got caught up in all of the “fun.” It’s hard to judge these gray areas. I mean, how soon is too soon to say, “I’m not looking for anything serious?” After one night together? Maybe two?

Regardless, never give up on what you’re looking for — a partner, career, the perfect apartment . . . a dream — whatever it may be. Like they say, it happens when you least expect it.

 

How to Tell if a Guy Is a Douche

Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Simply put, if he has a “hang-low,” he’s most likely a douche. Yours truly excluded, of course.

Okay, back up. I’m not one of those “I’ve been done wrong by a man, so now I’m forever scorned and jaded” type of guys. Well . . .

In all reality, women can be just as bad or douche-y as those of us with a penis, right? Right! However, it would appear that men are less shy about showing off the infamous quality.

For example, this doctor I once went on a coffee date with was completely shameless about being a large, Grade A douchebag. In short, he was a jackass from head to toe — yes, all five feet of him!

We originally met online, which is more times than not code for we met on a sleazy hookup dating app . . . So, like I was saying, we met online. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure what his name is anymore. I want to say I’m working with a Lance, perhaps? Okay, fine! His name was Lance – Lance, M.D.

When Lance, M.D. first messaged me, I was sick, trying desperately to get over that dangerous “Vegas” flu. Interestingly enough, and some of you slash most of you (I know my audience) will think I’m an idiot for not accepting the offer, he volunteered to write me a prescription for my cold – no questions asked. Yep! No doctor’s visit, no co-pay, no need to pass Go. It would have been an easy, “Here’s your authorization for Vicodin, or whatever. Please come again.”

If you think about it, it really was a nice gesture, and one I probably should have pursued. I mean, how wonderful to have someone around who has a legit prescription pad in their back pocket? But, I’d ultimately declined.

We’ll just call it an “oopsie whoopsie” on my part. Live and learn . . . or some shit like that.

When the good Doc and I did officially meet, he was ten minutes late. No, he wasn’t saving someone’s life, or anything that important. Come to think of it, to this day, I’m still not exactly sure what type of medicine Lance practices. Hmm. Maybe my best friend is right, and I do need to actually listen when other people talk.

Anywho, Doc just must have been bad at being on time. Not a huge issue for me, considering that San Diego traffic is a real pain in the dick, and he’d even texted me to say that he was running late. Problem solved.

However, cut to the fact that Lance made me pay for his coffee. I honestly didn’t expect him to pick up the $8 tab just because of his profession, except I truly did. Therefore, I was a little thrown. When the bill came, Doc kind of looked at me with a raised eyebrow, so I ponied up. No wonder the rich stay rich.

Next, we got into Lance’s SUV and started for the dog park. He had two large canines in the back (I couldn’t tell you the breed), and thought it would be nice to walk around with the pets and coffee as we got to know each other. Again, nice gesture, except, he then showed me a half naked picture of himself, and for the second time in his presence, I found myself thrown.

I’m not exactly sure what Lance’s motives were for showing me his tanned and toned body. Sure, he had every right to be proud of his six-pack abs. Maybe he was not-so-subtly hinting at the fact that he was out of my league, as my lips were probably still coated with powered sugar from the donuts I’d undoubtedly consumed earlier that day. No matter what he was trying to do, I was immediately turned off. So, perhaps his mission was accomplished.

Things went from bad to shit — literally — when we arrived at the park, and I promptly stepped into dog shit with my Christian Louboutin boots. Fine, that’s a lie. I don’t own Christian Louboutin boots, but I could. Yes, that’s another lie. I can’t afford Christian Louboutin boots. After all, I’m a writer, not a drug dealer.

Finally, we started walking and talking, but the entire conversation seemed to revolve around Doc’s ex-boyfriend. I definitely get it, though. He was clearly still suffering, and most likely using me to try and get over the breakup. I can relate. But, maybe he wasn’t ready to go on a date. Or, perhaps he should have more accurately advertised what he wanted/needed: a one night stand.

Either way, we both knew we weren’t a match for one another, and the “date” ended just as quickly as it had started. This was particularly troubling for two reasons. A) Lance told me that he was getting ready to go to Paris for Christmas, which had originally been his gift to his ex-boyfriend (if I’d played my cards right, could that have eventually been me?) and B) Doc had to drive me all the way back to my car, making for an awkward and silent ride.

Moral of the story, kids: When it comes to dating, always have an exit strategy planned.

As I reflect on this experience, maybe the M.D. wasn’t a douche. Dating is, in a word, difficult. And even though Lance has since found happiness with someone else (I’m pretty good at Facebook stalking) and I’m as single as a dollar bill, I can’t help but wonder if he employed new tactics to win this other guy over.

Oh, hell! I’m not fooling anyone . . . I’m really wondering if I could have made it to Paris! Damn!

Oh, well. I repeat: Live and learn . . . or some shit like that.

 

 

It’s Time to Open Up Your Fucking Pie Hole!

You’ve probably been in a situation where you bit down on your lower lip, and didn’t say a word in fear of, I don’t know, causing a scene. And while there may be times where it’s appropriate to stay quiet and address the issue at a later date, there are also times where you need to open your fucking mouth and stick up for yourself.

A little while ago, I went on a date with this guy. Now, I don’t want to name drop; I feel like that would be a little too Taylor Swift-y. So, I went on this date with Jay T. in Hillcrest (oops!), and while it was fun in the beginning, the evening ended much like the finale of Dexter: I was left feeling confused, disappointed, and just plain pissed off.

Let me start by giving you a little bit of the backstory. Grab a beer; this may take a while. We met on Tinder. Oh, wow! I guess that didn’t take as long as I thought it would. You’re up to speed!

Seriously speaking, Tinder can go one of two ways. Well, it can go a lot of ways, but to save time and energy, let’s discuss the two most popular types of people on Tinder. There are those who are genuinely looking for a relationship, and those who just want to screw. And don’t try to say that there’s a gray area in which people are actually looking for friends and buddies to “hangout with.” Bitch, please. Tinder is pretty cut and dry; after all, you’re initially judging someone off of their looks. Don’t tell me you swiped right on a girl that makes Shrek look like Ms. America all because you thought she’d be fun to go to the movies with, or meet for a kayaking adventure. Now, there’s nothing wrong with just wanting sex; that’s your prerogative. However, own it, and be truthful about your intentions.

Anyway, back to Jay T. in Hillcrest. We matched on Tinder and started talking. In the beginning, I was a little apprehensive. From his pictures, his body was damn near perfect (we’re talking abs for days, and that infamous “V” line), and his face was quite attractive, too. Maybe that should have been the first clue. If someone has posted a half-naked picture of themselves on the Tind, they’re either looking for a hookup, or they are a complete douche.

After exchanging numbers and texting for a week, we decided to meet for a drink one Friday night. Now, you can never be sure how these “meetings” are going to go, so I was feeling a bit nervous throughout the day. I wasn’t hiding anything; he knew what I looked like. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if he’d be disappointed once we were actually talking face-to-face.

Fast forward through the boring work day, and me gelling my hair and brushing my teeth in a Wal-Mart parking lot (I didn’t have time to go home in between work and the date to get ready), to when we met at a bar in Hillcrest and sort of, kind of hit it off — or so I’d thought.

When he ordered a second drink instead of asking for the check, I assumed that he was into me (no pun intended). Or, in the least, he liked my company and enjoyed talking to me. After all, if he didn’t like me or wanted to get away from me, why order another drink? Jay T. could have politely asked for the check, and the two of us could have gone our separate ways.

More conversation followed with the second drink, which led to us deciding to bar hop. Again, and maybe this is my English degree causing some dismay (I’m trained to read into things), I figured he liked me. After all, this would have been yet another opportunity to flee.

To make a long story short (I know — too late), we ended up going to four or five bars throughout the evening. It was at the third bar that Jay T. started talking to another guy, and then accepted this other guy’s phone number right in front of me. Now, if your jaw is hanging open, thank you. If you didn’t flinch after reading that revelation, then you’re an ass who is clearly on Tinder just to increase your number of sexual partners.

And, one other thing . . . Go fuck yourself.

You’re most likely wondering why I continued to stay out with Jay T. after he proved to be, you know, a big bag of shit. Here’s why: I didn’t open my fucking pie hole and tell him to go kick rocks.

I had a great childhood: supportive parents, safe neighborhood, an overall wonderful family, and the “F” word was always welcomed and a part of my upbringing. I didn’t tell Jay T. to “fuck off,” because I’d been caught off guard. This rarely happens to me, but it did that night. Instead of having dignity and sticking up for myself, I completely shut down. I didn’t say a word. We went to two other bars in utter silence; my hurt and confused feelings were masked by a somber face.

I try not to regret anything in life. Everything happens for a reason, right? But I’m still so angry at myself (even more than I am at Jay T.) for not speaking up. I’m a person with a voice; he should have been told that what he did was not okay.

Needless to say, I haven’t heard from him, and I probably never will. But, not only am I angry, I’m also disappointed. After all, this man is saved in my phone as “Jay Hot as Fuck Tinder.” As well, I’m upset that he’ll never know how little he made me feel. I mean, that’s the worst: someone does something wrong, but doesn’t even realize it.

So, here’s my advice in case something like this happens to you: open your mouth! Say how you feel! People aren’t mind readers. Everyone has a voice — use it! Though I’m tired of giving guys the benefit of the doubt (because, let’s face it: fuck the benefit; I have doubt), perhaps Jay “I’m a Big Tool” T. didn’t realize he had done anything wrong. Maybe he didn’t realize he’d hurt my feelings. If he had, maybe that evening would have gone differently. And now, well, now I guess I’ll never know.

Stick up for yourself, people, because no one else is going to do it for you!

Write What You Know . . . But What if You Don’t Know Anything?

I started writing fiction when I was in middle school. Since then, I’ve consistently heard one piece of advice, often stated from those who don’t even write: write what you know. Well, if you’ve read any of my fiction, as in my debut novel, The Next Victim (wink, wink), you’re most likely praying that I don’t write what I know, as I tend to kill off a lot of people in my stories, and in a lot of grisly ways.

When toying with the idea of writing this blog, I couldn’t help but wonder what the focal point would be. I mean, I knew that it wasn’t going to revolve around fiction — I do that already. I also didn’t want my blog to read like a review. After all, does anyone really give a rat’s ass what Cutter Slagle thinks of the latest episode of How to Get Away with Murder, or the newest J.Lo thriller? Both guilty pleasures, and both ah-mazing! And that sex scene from the latter . . . Hmm! Ryan Guzman can guz my . . . (Damn! I really need to update my references!)

Anyway, since I live in the city, I contemplated creating a Sex and the City-like column. Between my friends and myself, let’s just say that I have plenty of material filed away, and that file continues to grow on a daily basis. But, again, would anyone really be interested in reading that?

And then, that menacing voice crept back into my head . . . Write what you know. So, after I chased three melatonin with a half a bottle of merlot (kidding . . . I drank the whole thing), I decided I would have to cave; if I wanted to write a (realistic) blog, then I would need to write what I know. Clearly, that leaves me with the following subjects: sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. Well, okay . . . Two out of three.

I could offer advice. Let’s see: never wear white after Labor Day; always be the “hot one” in the relationship; never let condoms expire . . . You know, important stuff that they just don’t teach you in school.

I could offer my viewpoint of what’s going on in the world, and risk pissing off the three people reading this. I could even use this as a platform to talk about writing. I could talk about the different types of fiction, the differences between first person and third person narratives, the authors I enjoy reading, and blah, blah, blah. If I did that, you would probably end up banging your head against the keyboard. Or, worse, you’d most likely just find a new blog to read.

Truth be told: I’m random. I have a lot of different thoughts that usually run rapid in a lot of different directions. Granted, these thoughts usually center around cake and another “C” word. However, I do find it interesting that while I can create an intense murder mystery that leaves readers guessing in suspense, I can also write this fun, truthful blog about my (sometimes) comical life.

What I’m trying to say is that my novel audience is probably going to be much different than that of my blog audience. Yes, that was your friendly warning mom, dad, elementary school teacher, and church goer — RUN!

Actually, the more the merrier. In all honesty, I hope readers enjoy both my fiction and my blog. I’m simply just stating that you’re going to see two very different sides of me. Think of it as Jennifer Aniston in Friends and Jennifer Aniston in Horrible Bosses. Are you with me? Fantastic!

Just remember: prepare yourself when reading this blog, because I’m not holding back. From here on out, consider this your disclaimer. I’m writing what I know, and lots of what I haven’t yet learned. I have no regrets, and nothing is off limits. Okay, maybe I do regret that one night at the Big Surf Motel in Carlsbad Village . . . But we can get into that at a later date. There’s no sense in scaring (or scarring) you just yet.

To Blog or Not to Blog? That is the Question

Okay, listen. Well, I suppose “read” would be more appropriate. Anyway, yes — I’ve decided to start blogging (regularly) again. Now, if you happened to be one of my two and half loyal fans (Did I just say that? Do I really think I have fans?), then you may remember my previous blog — Cutter’s Corner. Cutter’s Corner started and ended four years ago. Why? Well, the answer to that question is quite simple: I got lazy.

If you want to have a blog (a successful blog), then you have to be committed. Go ahead and insert some joke about a man having commitment issues — I’ll hold.

But, seriously, having a blog takes work. Technically, you should post a new article at least once a week (AT LEAST!); articles should also be no less than 300 words. If I wanted to work that hard at something without getting a paycheck, I’d have children. Not really. You can catch your breath, because that won’t be happening anytime soon slash ever.

In reality, I quit writing my original blog because it was time consuming, and I wasn’t necessarily getting anything out of it. But, perhaps I was getting something out it, because cut-to-me blogging again! I mean, I do need another avenue other than Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and word-of-mouth to shamelessly plug my new novel (‘Til Death is now available in all formats). And, maybe blogging will help me get something that I’m currently lacking from my yet to be established fiction writing career, and the daily routine of my web copywriting career. That is IF I can — what’s the word I’m looking for? — be committed enough to blog on the reg. I guess time will tell. And if this happens to be the first and last entry of Cutter’s Corner 2.0, then thanks for stopping by; it was nice knowing you!

Okay, it’s time for some ground rules. First of all, if you’re looking for one of those blogs to help you become a better person and learn how to see the “good” in everything, then find the nearest exit — this blog ain’t for you! Just as well, if you’re searching for something cheap and trashy, discussing the latest trends in pop culture, like Kim K’s fat ass, then I’m probably still not your guy.

I’d actually like to think that this blog will combine elements of everything: class, a little trash, entertainment, world events, and, maybe, even something with a little bit of meaning. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even offer you some advice along the way? “Good luck,” he said with a sly smile and subtle wink.

So, in signing off, I’m going to give a quick warning to the wise: If you’re in my life, then chances are you’ll be making a cameo in my blog. Sure, names will be changed to protect the guilty, but blogs (in my opinion) are supposed to be real, raw, and tell the truth — not encounters of fiction. Therefore, friends, family, acquaintances past and present (specifically those who’ve wronged me), and any other rando I may come into contact with along the way: all bets are off!