Honey Due's Blog, page 2

Master #2

She was the sort of girl who would have bitten her nails, had the situation been different, but as it was, she was fearful. She was sitting there on borrowed time and it was clear to see she would not get much longer of it, not, at least, if she didn’t know how to tell her story properly. The master could not be bothered for a bad story. So, she resisted her habit and sat, docile, with her hands in her lap.

‘My father always said he’d kill me one day,’ she began, but she began wrong, for in the master’s eye, she could already see the boredom settle, like a thin layer of dust around his retina. Yet another abuse story, to be laid to rest beside the million he’d heard already.

‘He said that about my brother, too, plenty of times, but I know he never meant it. Jack was the apple of dad’s eye, you see, and whenever he’d say stuff like that, it was just ‘cause I’d gotten him all riled up. And Jacky, he never knew when to let go, always trying to protect me. I suppose it was a big sister thing.’

She watched, as the master arched one singular eyebrow in her direction and shook his head, ever so slightly, but just enough for a warning to get through – change the story or get out. This one, I’ve already heard and this one, I will not hear again.

‘But my father wasn’t there the day we died, I just thought it was…a weird coincidence. We were on a road trip. Jack and I, we used to love going on road trips.’

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Here, the bleach-blonde’s voice choked up, only a tiny bit, as was customary. In truth, she’d long since cried all the tears she was capable of and if you were to hold up a picture of her defunct Jack, right before he died, she probably wouldn’t shed a single tear. She’d cried them all and she’d be damned if she’d spend another minute crying here. And if she failed, it wouldn’t be a minute, it would be millions. If she failed, her best hope would be that the master forgot her quickly, for as long as your story lingered fresh in the master’s mind, you would not be allowed back in, to plead your case in. There were some who hadn’t been seen to for hundreds of years. They didn’t so much as mourn, nowadays, they just… stood. Always sort of leaning against the air, as if they might fall at any given moment. But they never did, and to her, that was the saddest thing of all.

‘We weren’t going somewhere in particular, just driving. But then we stopped at the motel. We should’ve never stopped by that motel.’

Just then, something seemed to flicker inside the master’s eye, something almost akin to interest.

She sat up a little straighter on her bench. She knew she should go on, grab this flitting interest while she still hadn’t, but somehow, she couldn’t find her words. It was as if everything, the whole length of the story in her mind seemed to pale and shiver in the face of that one motel, whose image was so clear now in her mind – the dirty front, the sign, only slightly falling off the side of the building, the rooms that seemed like something out of a ‘60s family movie. Gather up, children, it’s vacation time.

She could see herself, walking without so much as a care in the world, toward the door. Number 9, except a screw had fallen loose, and now it seemed to say number 6, and by the looks of it, this wasn’t the only place in the area that had more than one door marked six.

Most of the trip, come to think of it, looked wrong – not like a place where people ought to stop, under any circumstance. Like something unreal.

‘Perhaps it wasn’t.’ The master’s voice was steady, but his gaze betrayed him. She guessed, or at least, she thought she could guess the slightest trace of playfulness behind his eyes. He was testing her, toying with her story, as if it were made of cardboard, except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

‘But that’s the thing, it was. And that’s where my brother died.’

to be continued

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

Image: Pixabay

Master #1

Faster and faster, they crawled on their bellies. Whining, wheezing, begging for their master to let them up again. Once more, master, only once more. We won’t try to run…this time. In his ear, they whispered and wallowed, until the master grew weary of their voices and, with a snap of his fingers, discarded them.

The murky forms on the floor lay limply at his feet, as they had always done and would continue to do, into times out of remembrance. One squelched beneath a tight-strap boot and the master was ready to begin his day. Oblivious to the pleas that would continue to haunt his nightmares for a good while to come, he took his place in the rocking chair inside the parlor and beckoned open the door.

And like every morning, the crowds gasped and murmured as the doors slid open without a human hand in sight. Cheap tricks, but they kept the crowds entertained, always second-guessing, perennially on their toes, which in turn kept the master entertained.

He nodded his head, ever so lightly, for the first one to step forth. A girl, not much older than his daughter had been, at the time she was taken, but that had been so long ago. In another lifetime, one might say. He was not the master back then, just a regular straight-lace man, inching his way toward retirement. No, the girl before him was not his daughter. Her sins smelled different and her hair was less thick. It had been damaged with chemicals intended to make her look like someone she was not.

The master, in his rocking chair, watched the girl sit down fearfully, on the bench opposite. The mourners were not allowed more than a bench, certainly not a chair, for that would suggest comfort. And that, in turn, might suggest weakness in the master. There was none to be found and it would just be a waste of time for the mourners to try.

He preferred to keep things simple.

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‘I need to ask you something.’ The girl’s voice didn’t sound quite right, he knew as soon as she opened her mouth and he felt the stench of death tickle his nostrils. The girl with bleached hair spoke to him from a very long way down.

‘Don’t you all?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Ask your question, little one, I haven’t all eternity.’

It wasn’t, technically, a lie. While he did have the rest of eternity entirely at his disposal, it seemed the requests of the mourners were never-ending. There was always one more to get to, someone else’s wishes to comply with. If he saw fit to do so.

He noticed the girl’s lower lip trembling until she bit it hard enough to draw blood, but still, it wouldn’t stop. Only slightly, but enough for him to notice. He’d made it a habit of his to keep an eye on such…irregularities.

‘It’s about my brother,’ she said slowly, completely unaware of the way his eyes burrowed into her lip.

‘There are no returns.’ His voice took on that quality that let mourners know his words were final and that arguing, in this scenario, would be entirely pointless.

‘It’s not about a return, sir, it’s just…there’s been a mistake.’

And the girl was wrong, for there were never any mistakes, not here. There was no one alive to make the mistakes, and the absence of humanity seemed to cut down the chance for most error.

‘A mistake?’ The master’s voice was playful, he’d decided he would bind his time with this one, keep things interesting. ‘You dare come here and tell me there has been a mistake in my kingdom?’

He raised one thin eyebrow at the girl, but right at that moment, something seemed to shift inside her head. The eyebrow didn’t have its’ usual effect and the girl didn’t so much as flinch.

‘Yes,’ she went on, meeting his gaze head-on. ‘You see, I’m not supposed to be here, sir, my brother is.’

The master indulged her with a smile, but his patience grew thin. He’d gone through this dialogue many times in his eternity in the rocking chair.

‘I’m afraid that is not how it works. You are here because you were deemed responsible.’

He was getting ready to point a finger and have her removed. He could feel one of the shadows at his foot, lurking ready to lunge into attack. Yet the girl wouldn’t budge.

‘I know everyone says this, but I’m really not supposed to be here. The day my brother died, something went wrong, sir, it was supposed to be me instead of him.’

The master opened his mouth to tell her, for the last time, that she was just wasting his time and that she was no different from the millions stacked at the door behind her. But something stopped him. He recalled the stench that the girl seemed to emanate and with one smooth wave of his hand, he gestured for her to go on.

to be  continued

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

Image: Pixabay

Poppet

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Eyes burrow into the shallow edges

Of the people who might’ve been

I look through them and wish

Wish I could tell them.

What? I don’t know.

I don’t remember.

I lost my doll. My special, magic doll.

I can’t speak without my doll.

The words become messy in my head,

Like aliens, like something not my own.

A man in uniform changes his mind.

He would’ve liked to ask me,

What had gone wrong.

But suddenly, he doesn’t.

He understands there is no help to give,

No CPR, no glue that can bring my puppet back.

His stilts, broken, his eyes, made of glass.

I don’t know where I lost him,

I don’t remember what I broke,

But now, I tread solely on glass shards,

On him. On you. On the old police-man.

Nobody can help me.

So I sit in the dark, with my broken puppet,

I tried so hard to revive.

And the words catch in my throat,

And the syllables cloud in my mind,

Each letter a tomb. Each sound like a knife.

Oh, won’t you please bring my dolly back?

I’m scared, and it’s gone all dark now.

I sit back. My head glitches. My eyes start.

I will pass the night without my magic poppet,

And in the morning, I’ll die.

Mr Varney – Part II (fiction)

‘What is this? No really, what is this?’

The annoyingly high-pitched whine belonged to Morton Montgomery. Now, when he’d been a boy at school, Morton had been the chap whom everyone called ‘tattle-tale’, ‘teacher’s pet’ and other, indescribably more vile things. And he would’ve gladly carried on this role into his adult life, except Mr. Cameron made for a rather unpredictable teacher and it was rather difficult being on his side, when often enough, Mr. Cameron himself didn’t know which side he was on.

So, Morton, a staunch believer in the ‘adapt and improve’ ethos had cheerfully taken on the role of mascot/unofficial group leader.

Of course, in terms of distinction, that would have been Mr. Varney, being as he was, Mr. Cameron’s right hand man. Except Mr. Varney hadn’t really been a joiner sort of fellow. More of a ‘let’s get through this’ sort of fellow, preceded by an immense sigh. Sort of man who whenever asked was munching on a scone of some kind, yet remained for as long as he’d been with the company, rake-thin. You follow? Good. Good. Wouldn’t do to have you wondering off. Never know what…skeletons you might find.

And so it was that Mr. Varney begrudgingly tolerated Morton Montgomery’s…montgomeryness.

But now, the little man was getting on his nerves.

‘It is a crease,’ Mr. Varney enunciated, his face frozen in a killer grin.

‘Yes, I can see that. And so will Mr. Cameron. Are you insane? He’ll be here in less than twenty minutes. You know how he is Fridays.’

‘It’s Thursday.’

‘But he doesn’t know that.’

It was true. Mr. Cameron rarely took into account the day, the month or indeed, the season. Too often, they’d arrived at the office to find the big man playing golf in appropriate attire in the middle of December.

‘He won’t notice.’

‘Won’t notice?’ Morton mimicked. ‘When, in the seventeen years you’ve worked for this company, has he not noticed?’

‘Montgomery,’ said Mr. Varney, trying to signal the end of the conversation. ‘I do believe we have bigger fish to fry, so to speak. And that the crease in my pant leg is rather irrelevant to Mr. Cameron’s overall well-being.’

Montgomery, together with the rest of the small congregation, hesitated.

‘Here, take mine,’ he offered, already unzipping.

‘Are you insane?’

‘You stand up more, always prattling about. I won’t stand up at all, and he won’t even notice.’

He would’ve liked to snub the proposition, he really would have, but the truth was, he was far too worried about Mr. Cameron, and the crease had been giving him heart palpitations. As he watched Morton Montgomery unfasten his belt and reveal two stringy, white chicken-legs, Mr. Varney cast the die and made his choice.

‘But the jackets won’t match.’

It was purely a formality; he knew what Morton would say all along and before he knew it, they were both in various stages of undress, hurrying into each other’s suits. And it was at this moment, in typical Cameron fashion, that the boss chose to walk in. The first thing he noticed was the crease – now doubled in size by all this jostling – in Mr. Varney’s $400 pants.

‘Nasty,’ he remarked and winked at Mr. Varney, who, in his spare time, doubled as Mr. Cameron’s best friend. ‘You should really get yourself a new pair, Varn. Lord knows I pay you enough.’

Admittedly, it wasn’t the reaction they’d expected. The two men finished dressing in a hurry, content for the moment in each other’s shoes (quite literally, I’m afraid) and sat down at Mr. Cameron’s round table.

‘Right, gentlemen. What do we think about these markets?’

It must’ve been the pressure, or perhaps the unfamiliar waist band, but things seemed to have gone all screwy inside Morton Montgomery’s brain. There was an almost-gasp around the room – he should’ve known better than to ask that, he really should have.

‘For Lord’s sake, Montgomery,’ exclaimed Mr. Cameron. ‘You know the whole subject tires me.’

‘I do, sir, of course. I’m sorry.’

It was an understandable mistake – sometimes a man can’t hide what’s really worrying him, even when he knows he really should. Of course, with Montgomery’s little accident, their price went down another 3000. It wasn’t much, but what with the $7000 they’d lost last week when the new intern had taken Mr. Cameron’s parking spot (by mistake, the boy had later pleaded), they were out a good $10,000.

Mr. Varney checked discreetly, under the table, as he always did.

‘Right, then. Methinks it’s time for another joke contest,’ he announced to the room, forcing a smile. No, forcing himself not to look like he was forcing it. Mr. Cameron always knew when one of his employees was walking on egg-shells around him and if there was one thing Mr. Cameron disliked – and there were many things – it was being treated like an idiot.

He was not an idiot, he was in fact, remarkably sharp at times. He was just, sensitive.

And with the issue of that woman still unresolved, Mr. Varney didn’t want to see his friend in any more…distress.

‘What a capital idea, Varn. Since you’re the one came up with the idea…’

Well, there was the one about the man who really hated nicknames like ‘Varn’, but he wasn’t going to tell that. For the moment, Mr. Varney scrambled, thinking back to this morning, reading the paper, searching his mind for something funny. He was one of those old-school people who still bought the paper on actual paper. It didn’t show the markets, not the most updated ones, at least, so for all intents and purposes, it didn’t show any markets at all. Come to think of it, perhaps that’s why he preferred it old school.

‘Uhm, right. And the lord said unto John, “Come forth and you will receive eternal life”. John came fifth and won a toaster.’

‘A decent attempt,’ Mr. Cameron said, after a small chuckle. ‘Even though that was more of a pun, Varn, than an actual joke.’

Yes, it was a difference Mr. Varney never could quite remember, especially as the newspaper people seemed to only know puns.

‘My turn,’ said Mr Cameron.

And when it was Mr. Cameron’s turn, everyone laughed.

 

to be continued

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

Mr. Varney – Part I (fiction)

They would have to proceed with great care. If the meeting was to go according to plan, they would all have to act and look their very best. Which is why, if you were to knock on Mr. Varney’s door at 5:13 in the morning, you would find him not grumpy with sleep, but nervously ironing his left pant leg.

For the third time.

It wasn’t that he was bad at ironing; in this business, you learned pretty quick how to look crisp. Wasn’t that the pants were some cheap off-brand, either. No, he’d paid a good $400 on this pair alone and he’d specified the cleaners should wash them with care. He frequented the same cleaners’ as Mr. Cameron and while he hadn’t had the chance to bring it up so far, he was sure that should the opportunity ever arise, it would make for a pretty funny coincidence. Might give Mr. Cameron a laugh and they were all in favor of that, weren’t they?

Things were not… going great, to put it mildly. It was party his father’s heart attack in June. Mr. Cameron’s father, I mean. Mr. Varney’s dad was in the ground a good five years’ since, bless him. Never any trouble, that one. But now, Mr. Cameron’s father, he’d been feeling pretty rough for weeks before the “main event” which had caused Mr. Cameron a great deal of stress.

It was precisely this sort of volatility that kept Mr. Varney awake at night. As Mr. Cameron’s right hand man, it was his job to anticipate and prevent such irritants. But not even he had been able to stop the old man’s ticker from going. Stressful few weeks, those were, yet not the worst. I mean, the old man was alright now and with a bit of luck, he’d be around long enough for them to make a hefty profit.

Now, the day old Mr. Cameron died, that would be something to see and Mr. Varney could only hope he was far away from here when that happened.

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Still, it wasn’t the old man’s heart attack that was messing things up for Mr. Cameron and the company. It was that damn woman. An artist. Pah. Mr. Varney still didn’t understand what had been wrong with the model Cameron had been seeing before. Nice enough kid. Great legs. And she never gave him trouble over anything. Working late? Alrighty. Can’t make the holiday in Mallorca? It was alright, the girl went anyway without him. Two weeks basking in the sun while they were stuck here, fighting to prevent Cameron from having a hissy-fit.

But that was over now and ever since he’d met this painter chick, Mr. Cameron hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep. Needless to say, the company’s stock was plummeting. Mr. Varney was seriously considering having the girl shot. He weighed the pros and cons of it in his mind as he ironed.

5.29.

Still a good two hours to go until the ante-meeting. He’d have these pants looking sharp by then. He couldn’t very well waltz into the ante looking like he’d been sleeping rough for the past week, could he? He was there to soothe Cameron, not upset him and Cameron liked sharp-dressers.

The man hummed gently as he held the beige pants up to the fading moonlight.

And I don’t know where I’m going to…

He forgot how the rest went, but figured he didn’t need more anyway. Right about now, a trip to the middle of the dessert with ZZ Top didn’t sound quite so crazy. And besides, he could rack up some serious fun, burn through his funds. You know, live it up a little.

But no, he couldn’t kill the girl. Not because of some sympathy he might’ve felt for her, but who could tell how Cameron really felt about her? He would clearly suffer, should some unfortunate accident befall her. But would that be a temporary low, one they could hopefully recover from in a couple weeks’ time?

Could he afford to? What if things didn’t go as he hoped and Cameron took it badly? There was no telling what he could do and should the old man kick the bucket as well, they were positively screwed. On the other hand, this girl wouldn’t stop giving him lip and making his life a nightmare. It wouldn’t do to have someone else put Cameron on a leash, would it?

What to do?

Perhaps if he talked to the girl, paid her off? Trickier than killing her – Cameron might still be heartbroken, mope around for months. And if things went south and the boss heard of Varney’s little stunt, there was no telling what he would do.

Such were the thoughts that plagued Mr. Varney in the early hours of a Thursday morning. He ate in silence at the immense marble counter his ex-wife had picked out – ghastly looking thing – and then took one of his interminable showers. He pulled his pants on with great care and studied himself in the mirror. The crease was still noticeable. At least to him. But it would have to do.

to be continued…

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

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Diamond in the rough – a closer look at our romantic heroes

‘Honey, it works in books, it’s a nice story and all, but it just ain’t real.’

I was trying to get it out of my friend’s head that the jackass she was seeing was a diamond in the rough. I don’t know him, but I was quite skeptical to the idea. He could just be a jackass, but we never want to admit that, do we? We’re not content to see that and move on.

There are thousands of women on this planet who make it their life’s mission to save some poor innocent.

‘Oh, but he’s afraid to love’, ‘It’s his parents’ fault’, ‘The bad part is a defense mechanism’ – there are thousands of excuses for bad behavior. And thinking about it, what’s the big surprise?

I was just thinking about the classics we go back to, what we consider romance, you know, ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘Wuthering Heights’, ‘Pride and Prejudice’. 

And I was shocked to realize… they’re not really that romantic at all. Now, I know what you’re gonna say, I’m a fan as well. I read them as a child and loved them, but hear me out.

1. Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights)

Although it would be a bit difficult to classify Heathcliff as a Byronic hero, since he goes through so many changes and is such a strange character, he does fit a certain pattern – the passionate man who shuns humanity because he himself has been shunned and ostracized.

Heathcliff is a most peculiar character, throughout the book. He is an orphan boy, found and adopted by a rich man, Mr Earnshaw, who grows to love him more than his own son. He befriends the man’s daughter, Catherine, and is hated by the man’s son, Hindley. After Earnshaw dies, Hindley inherits the property and torments Heathcliff, cutting off his education and making him work in the field, like a servant.

This prompts most readers to pity Heathcliff and root for him. After all, who doesn’t love a good rags-to-riches story?

Heathcliff falls in love with Catherine and becomes obsessed with her. They have a strange relationship, she loves him, but marries someone else, due to Heathcliff’s low standing. Again, we pity Heathcliff for also losing the love of his life. When she marries, he runs off (thinking that Catherine looks down on him) and comes back a rich man. He starts seeing Catherine again, and he marries her sister-in-law only to hurt Catherine’s husband. Catherine eventually dies, giving birth to a daughter and he is left lost and despondent, mourning his lost love for the rest of his life.

And throughout the book, Heathcliff is a pitiable character. And yet, he’s not. To most of the other characters, he is cruel, appearing as the Devil himself. He abuses his wife, whom he only married out of spite. He hates his son, is cruel to him, uses him, and he even calls the boy’s mother a “wicked slut” to the boy’s face. He beats Hindley, who’s spiraled down into alcoholism.

Later on, he imprisons Catherine’s daughter, Cathy, in his home, and forces her to marry his own son. He only allows her to leave to go see her dying father and attend the funeral.

It’s a hard book to explain, especially in such short space, as it’s filled with story, with characters, with intrigue. But the point is that throughout, Heathcliff shows his evil time and again and as a result, he is hated by most of the other characters, except for Catherine and Hareton (Hindley’s son).

Again, this is a rags-to-riches story – the reader feels bad for Heathcliff, for being so abused and mocked due to his low standing. We pity him for losing his beloved Catherine and his vows of love and care for her win most readers over.

His undying love for Catherine and his struggle to prove his dignity as a human being are his two redeeming qualities. But he is, by and large, a bad man. Not the romantic hero, after all.

2. Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice)

Ah, the eternal Mr Darcy, the lovable bad boy. Although he’s cold and aloof from the get-go, we can’t help but fall in love with him, just like the protagonist of the book. In the beginning, he refuses to dance with Elizabeth (the main character), suggesting she is not pretty enough for him, which she finds funny.

Throughout the book, he is painted as a cruel man, who’s way too proud, and then the story is turned on its head only to reveal him as a good-hearted man, a bit too proud, yes, but in the end, one of the good guys. Besides, a match for Elizabeth, both in manner and intelligence. So, we grow to love him by the end.

He’s kind of the jerk with a heart of gold, you know?

Besides, he is ideal for Elizabeth, as they are both forthright, haughty and hasty to judge. But, unlike her, he is also obsessed with his high-standing or at least, he’s really aware of it. He even goes on to explain to her what a good match he would be for her and how lucky she’d be to have him.

Buuut this shouldn’t cloud our judgment or raise any red-flags, as he does truly love her, deep down. Apparently.

3. Mr. Rochester (Jane Eyre)

God, how I loved this guy when I was a kid. But then again, what reader didn’t?

It was actually Rochester that got me to write this whole thing. I was just thinking that although a seemingly romantic hero, his story is quite horrible.

Again, here is this cold, strict man, but with a good heart, and great intelligence. Again, despite his arrogance in the beginning, the two main characters seem to like each other a great deal and begin spending a lot of time together, eventually falling in love. But of course, things can never be simple.

After Jane saves Rochester’s life from a fire in his room, he runs off for a few days and brings home a wealthy and impossibly snotty woman, Blanche, whom he intends to marry. He even teases Jane that he will miss her once he is married.

A romantic hero, indeed.

At this point, the poor Jane can’t take it anymore, confesses her love, and he then proposes marriage to her, instead. Because why be forthright with your feelings? So out-dated.

The big day arrives, Jane is all ready to become a bride, despite some strange happenings (such as a mystery person ripping her veil in two in the middle of the night). But the ceremony is interrupted by the revelation that Mr Rochester cannot marry, as he is already married. We discover he was tricked into marrying a mad woman, whom he now keeps locked up in the attic.

He asks Jane to run away with him, but she doesn’t, because despite all of this, she is a good, moral woman. And she runs away, in the middle of the night, heartbroken.

Honestly, how is this guy a romantic idol? Just think of all the women who swoon after him.

In the end, Jane returns, only to find that the crazy woman has set the house on fire and died. Rochester’s alive, but he’s lost a hand and his sight in a brave attempt to save his wife. They agree to never part and have kids.

It’s the point where most readers go ‘awww’. It’s called karma, though, and he kind of deserves it.

4. Christian Grey (50 Shades of Grey)

Ha. Bet you didn’t expect to find this here. Me neither, but if you think about it, it is the modern equivalent to the books I’ve mentioned before, although a lot more erotic. But hey, the times they are a-changing, no?

I’m sure you all know the story. Here’s this good, honest girl (more or less) who falls in love with her rich, mysterious employer. It seems the attraction is mutual and they soon begin a relationship. Yes, it’s less ‘pretty-in-pink’ and more ‘whips and leather straps’ kinda thing, but at least, he doesn’t have a wife in the attic.

That we know of.

Well yeah, there is that. Again, this story has women all over the globe swooning over it. After all, who doesn’t want an ultra-rich, sexy, passionate dude who’s also a bit kinky? Come on…

And once again, we have the jerk type, more or less, who is painted as a romantic hero.

The ‘diamond in the rough’ we spoke about earlier.

We tend to be dismissive of books like the Grey trilogy, as cheap erotica. But that isn’t what has made it a phenomenon. Nope, what sells the books, what makes so many women want to be Anastasia Steele is is precisely this idea that Christian Grey is the bad boy with the heart of gold. The troubled, handsome stranger, just there for you to rescue.

And all these stories push an image that is totally inaccurate. With all these books, how can we be surprised that so many women are in bad relationships? The respective guy may be an a-hole, but so are all these other men I’ve spoken of here. The idea of the suffering bad boy is very popular and every woman wants to be Catherine Earnshaw, Anastasia Steele or Jane Eyre. Every woman wants to be the one who brings forth the best side in someone and manages the impossible – to save them.

And whenever some poor woman runs into some cruel guy, emotionally unavailable, maybe even married, full of issues, she falls madly in love because she’s probably read these books or seen the movies. There’s a soft inside to the guy, she is lead to believe, a big, loving heart . But often, there isn’t and he’s really just a jerk.

The 50 Shades meme above is applicable to all the stories I mentioned, in the sense that if this were some random guy you met on the street, behaving like these men above do, we’d all agree he’s an asshole. Seriously, if your daughter told you she’s madly in love with a man, who can be a jerk to her, constantly insults and tests her love, but has a heart of gold – and also a wife locked up in the attic – what would you say?

Wouldn’t be too pleased, would you?

 

Thank you for reading

Black Butterfly

She called it the black butterfly.

It was a little metal box that Uncle Jack had given her once, when she was five or six, she couldn’t really remember. It had been a present for no real reason. Uncle Jack never needed a reason to give people things. He was always coming up to the house with boxes – bigger and smaller boxes, some butterfly shaped, others not – and saying things like ‘here, you want it?’.

And the children always wanted it, not just because they didn’t get many presents otherwise, but because everything that came from Uncle Jack was special. No matter how impressive or insignificant, they just loved it. Like magpies, they would hone in on whatever their parents got, and sometimes what the other got also, and hoard it back to their room. The children lived in a shrine, dedicated in its entirety to their Uncle.

Their parents never seemed to mind, and of course, they never actually told them, because then, their mother’d be angry. Worshiping false gods and all that. Little would she understand that it wasn’t like that. Uncle Jack was real. He was better than any god, as far as the children were concerned.

And besides, their parents never noticed. Nobody ever bothered about those two little rascals much, and money was scarce as it was, without taking them into consideration. Whatever Uncle Jack brought was pretty much all they had.

Even their beds, Uncle Jack had carved himself. Took him about a week each, what with working a full time job down at the shop an’ all.

He’d even carved a big butterfly – only a little misshapen – over her bed. She was his little white butterfly, Uncle Jack always said.

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And now, a butterfly box for a butterfly girl. The box wasn’t empty either, though she didn’t show her brother that. She got the feeling she shouldn’t show anyone from the way Uncle Jack looked. Worried. Mistrustful. Perhaps a little sad.

The metal butterfly carried with it a small, silver bracelet with black stones. They were tiny, but they were more beautiful than anything the little girl had ever seen. And most important, they’d been a gift from him.

She wished she could place it atop the empty table that was reserved for extra-special-precious-things. But then, she was afraid that if their father found it, he’d sell it.

And she just knew, she’d rather go hungry than give up something from Uncle Jack.

She only ever showed her brother after both their parents were in the ground and money was no longer a problem. That night, after their mother’s funeral, she told her brother many things. She told him how she ran away once, but only for a day. It had been hot summer and she thought she might die if she had to endure one more day in the scorching heat.

Her and her brother, they always talked in the dead o’ night – how nice it’d be, to live wherever Uncle Jack lived, wherever he found all those things. It was their shared fantasy, their dream, for Uncle Jack to come up the steps once and in his arms, he’d have a couple empty boxes. And he’d tell them to pack up – but only their most valuables – and it would be hard, because they loved all his gifts dearly. And then, they’d get in his truck and go live with him instead, and never want for anything in their life.

Uncle Jack was never concerned with money, he never threatened the children or put the fear of God into them. Frankly, they didn’t think he had much of that to begin with. And their parents would be relieved to be rid of them, surely.

So, she ran away, even though they were meant to run away together. But her brother was eight then, a child, and she was eleven, not really a child anymore, but something infinitely more powerful. And she went through the house, without really knowing where she was going and she pumped out a flash of water and took the butterfly and a coat with her, ’cause it could get damn cold in the dead of night, and she left.

That night, many years later, she told her brother she was sorry, but he would’ve only slowed her down then and she didn’t want to stay there no longer.

An’ she walked for hours, except later, it turned out it had only been about a mile. And she would’ve died on the side of the road, even then, if Uncle Jack hadn’t found her. He ran out of his truck and scooped her up in his strong arms and first thing she said to him was ‘Uncle Jack, please take me with you.’

And Uncle Jack smiled, in that way he had. Worried. Mistrustful. Perhaps a little sad. And he drove her right back to her home, said he found her playing, though they both knew better. They never spoke about it and she never saw Uncle Jack after that. He just stopped coming up the driveway and the children would sit up at night, long after their folks had gone to sleep, and pray for Uncle Jack to come back to them.

‘I never knew what Uncle Jack saw in me that day, but I know it was my fault he never came again. I made him so sad.’

Her brother watches her, in silence, sitting out on the old porch, looking up at the night sky. And he doesn’t say nothing to contradict her, because really, he blames her, too. And he watches as a little black butterfly, almost invisible against the night sky, flies to her and sits on her outstretched hand.

‘He just comes to say hello sometimes.’

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

@ Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

The Importance of Little Scribbles

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I don’t actually know how I became a scribbler.

I remember several years ago, I was doing an online creative writing course and they kept saying how important it is to keep a journal of some kind. A notebook, preferably a cutesy one with smart sayings and quotes on. I mean, if you don’t like the look of the damn thing, how are you ever going to bring yourself to carry it everywhere (and gasp even write in it?).

So, I got a notebook. And then another and the next thing I knew my house was covered in all sorts of pretty little agendas, notebooks of various sizes and shapes, some lined, some with plain white paper, some with bookmarks, some with various sections like ‘Ideas’ and ‘Things to Do’.

Basically, a small army of notebooks was now at my disposal.

And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to actually…ahem write in them. I knew I was supposed to and I wanted to, but I just couldn’t get it out of my head that as soon as I wrote the idea down, it would stop appealing. I don’t know how I came to that conclusion and I see now how ludicrous it was. But…you know, kids…whatcha gonna do?

For years, my notebooks waited, littering the house and not actually doing anything useful for society. No ideas were jotted down and I hate to think how many were lost because of my carelessness. I just figured I wasn’t a journal type of person. I got my ideas in my head, I don’t need to put it down.

A lie, but one I was willing to believe.

And this went on until I developed a daily writing practice. That’s when I would get random ideas in my head and quickly write them down, not knowing if they would lead somewhere, but on the off-chance they might. And slowly, I developed into this things called a “writer” – a strange beast that lurks in semi-darkness, with an oversized coffee mug in their hand and a permanent ‘what am I doing’ expression on their face.

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As I started working on longer stories that stretched over multiple days and even weeks of continuous writing, my availability for new ideas diminished. It’s not that I wasn’t getting them. On the contrary, I’ve never been as productive as I am now. Something I’ve discovered is, the more you write, the more you want to write. The more you develop creatively, the more easier it will be to get ideas (and more importantly, to trust those ideas).

But the thing was, I was always caught up in a larger story and I couldn’t just drop everything to pursue another. Working two stories at the same time only works if one of them is really short. At least for me.

Enter my army of notebooks. I started writing down all the weird thoughts that popped up in my head, all the ones that might have a story hiding in them. I made lists and crazed 3 A.M. scribbles that later took me a week to figure out. I wrote down ideas that became great stories and thoughts that came to nothing.

Right now, I’ve lost count of how many ideas I have written down, just waiting for me to finish the story I’m currently working on. I don’t remember any of them and I often read through my notebooks with delight at these novel ideas. They’re not actually novel, I’ve thought them before. And the old me would have said ‘I’m going to remember that for sure, no need to write it down’.

I can’t even remember the ideas I had yesterday.

Basically because my mind is a forever-spinning mill of sorts, there’s always new stories coming in and going out. And the chances of actually remembering one are one in a million.

Now, I go on any trip, no matter how short or long, with at least a couple of notebooks with me. And of course, I have the ‘Notes’ app on my phone, in case of emergency. Now, I always have a notebook or (as it happens) a really hefty agenda right by my laptop.

And I go through them, periodically. Some are good ideas. Some not. At least now I understand what they meant about keeping a notebook with you at all times.

Who knows, maybe this ‘writer’ thing isn’t as bonkers as it sounds…

 Care to check some of those stories out? My book ‘Grimmest Things’ is available now on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback.
@ Photo Credits: 1. Photo by Chimene Gaspar on Unsplash; 2. Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash.

 

The Commission

‘Can I change the three big lies with seven smaller ones, d’you think?’

The man tutted. Ray hated it when other people did that, but since this wasn’t any ordinary man, he wisely decided he could make an exception. I mean, it wasn’t like he wanted to have to do four big lies now, was it?

‘’Fraid not. Awfully sorry about this. We normally have discounts on these things, but… you know, it’s August and all and business is bad enough as it is. Wish I could help you, I really do.’

‘’S alright… I just… could I have a bit of time to, you know, think about them?’

‘Oh sure, sure. Take your time, luv.’

Oh great, he was one of those people who said ‘luv’. Smashing. Really, it was just Ray’s luck.

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‘Just fill this out and wait over there. ‘S prolly going to be a little, so you have a bit of time to think things through.’

He smiled and the worst part was, it wasn’t even fake. Who smiled like that anymore? With all their bleedin’ teeth in it? Pearly-whites, like he was trying to prove something. Ray hated him already, but he couldn’t outright show it, could he? No, that might count towards his overall score and he didn’t want any more to pay. Bad enough as it was.

Wish I could help you, I really do… Wanker.

The man at the desk shot him a look and a tight-mouth, which beat the smile by quite a long shot, but probably also meant ‘I can hear you’. Shit. This was probably going on Ray’s file as well. Ray gave one of his most reassuring smiles – not pearly, not in the slightest. His mum said it was the nicotine, but he was convinced it was actually the air-conditioning. I mean, he didn’t use to have yellow teeth when he first moved into the building. That was seven years ago, sure, but you know how it is, they chip away at ya, little by little.

Anyway, didn’t matter. Wasn’t like he was going to die from lung cancer now, was it? Or air conditioning.

Let’s see.

Name. Well, should know that already, shouldn’t they? And he still had to think up some lies. Had to give them something. Suppose they’d know if he lied. I mean, it was what they did, wasn’t it?

‘Mr Young?’

Fuck, that little shit did this on purpose.

Ray held up the form, exasperated. ‘But I haven’t even had time to fill this in…’

‘I’m sorry, sir. But when your time is up, it’s up.’

Yeah well, I could make it your time pretty soon, how about it?

‘But what about the lies?’ Ray hissed, leaving the form on the desk.

‘Right through here, sir.’

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‘Next week, our daughter is moving, I am almost ready to admit defeat. I mean honestly, you’d think after fifteen years of living on her own she’d know better, wouldn’t ya? But she doesn’t. I’ve told her time and again, sweetie, if you’re gonna live there, you might as well slap on a price tag on your forehead and get your tits out. Always balks. Always claims I exaggerate, that I –’

The short man stopped suddenly and looked to where Raymond Young was standing.

‘I’m sorry, they told me to come in.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the short man waved a hand. It wasn’t his fault. He tried to seem benevolent. It was just, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

Ray knew from the get-go he’d be the hardest sell. The other two women – one with prim white hair and the other… well, it was looking at women like that other that got Ray in trouble with the Commission in the first place.

So, she was out and the second, Ray was fairly certain, was wearing a piece. After brief consideration, he turned back to the short fat man and beamed his most charming smile.

‘You talk to your daughter? That’s…uhm, remarkable.’

It was downright creepy, that’s what it was.

The short fat man who seemed by all accounts to be in charge of the Commission smiled, as if to say ‘well, you’re thick, aren’t you?’ and corrected him. He seemed like the sort of person who loves correcting people.

‘No. I used to tell Janine that. After all, ‘s not my fault she doesn’t listen. Anyway, no, I don’t communicate with my daughter, not since I was… appointed Head of the Commission.’

Yep, there it was. Fairly certain that this appointment included, at least at some point, the demise of the appointee, Ray mumbled an ‘I see’ and sat down on the only available chair.

It was hard. Chairs in Heaven were hard, fancy that. Suppose it was just for hearings, to cramp the sins outta ya.

‘So, Mr… Young, is it?’

‘Well, not anymore.’

The joke had always gone down a treat with the girls in Accounting. Not so much with Mr. Head, who just blinked twice and shook his head a little, as if he was really quite disappointed in Ray.

‘Right, Mr, uhm, Raymond. You are here today because…’

‘Because I’d like to get in, you know, up here instead of down there?’

‘Ah yes, Mr Young, but you were already sent,’ Mrs. Toupee hesitated, ‘down there. It is where you belong. So, why do you feel the Commission should overrule that?’

‘Right. I… I just feel I’d fit in better, up here.’

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‘Not in the slightest, Ray. Our data shows you’d do marvelously down there. Go down a treat, as they say. All your friends are there and I’m sure they’d all be positively thrilled to see you again.’

Ray – who very much doubted his friends would be positively anything – took a moment to look at the bombshell. Miss Tits, as he liked to think of her, whose voice had surprised him. He’d expected a sort-of luxurious-sultry tone, like the voices he sometimes phoned up late at night to sing him a lullaby. But she wasn’t like that. Tits was cold, almost… congenital.

Miss Tits cleared her throat. ‘I believe the word you’re thinking of is ‘congenial’ and it doesn’t mean what you think at all.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ray said, getting up towards her. ‘I hope you won’t write this down, or…’

‘No, it’s quite alright, Mr. Young. What with all your ingenious abuse of Percy out there, we have more than what we need,’ Toupee said, throwing him a cold grin.

‘Right, shall we begin?’ the short-fat-man asked. ‘I believe Percy informed you on the proceedings of your hearing. You must confess to three big lies that you told during your lifetime. If the Commission is content with your confessions, then you may or may not be granted entry into the “up there”. Ready?’

Ray nodded. It was a lie; he wasn’t.

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‘Well,’ Ray stuttered. ‘Boiling it all down, I did say one or two big ones, in my life.’

‘Three, Raymond. We need three big ones to consider granting you entry. Please carry on, we do not have all day.’

‘Well, technically, we do,’ Toupee murmured, but the short-fat-man made as if he hadn’t heard.

‘Right, the first one. Here goes.’

But before he could actually say it, he watched as Mrs Toupee’s toupee turned from white to a wispy black. Thinner, probably a lot closer to her actual hair. Strange, though, as it was not only growing on her head, but also on her jaw. And suddenly, it wasn’t Mrs Toupee at all, but Mr. Pew from second grade. Funny that, Ray hadn’t even settled on the first lie. It seemed something else would be choosing for him.

‘Yes, what is it, Young? I haven’t got all day.’

‘How’d you do that?’

‘Do what, Young? Is this another one of your little tricks? I warned both you and that Hedley boy, if I catch you messing around again.’

‘That’s really good, you know? You’re really quite like him. Well, I suppose you know, being who you are.’

Tits looked up absently from a stack of papers. ‘You’re wasting your time, Ray. You are, in fact, talking to Mr. Pew. Deceased 21.05.1983. And I’m sure you know better than I do that he does not enjoy wasting his time much.

‘Right. I’m sorry. Uhm, Mr Pew. I just… I wanted to tell you I lied. About the Carrolls boy. Vic. He didn’t throw your atlas out the window. I did.’

Well, him and Hedley really, but there was no point getting the old boy in trouble with the Commission as well, was it?

‘Actually, Mr Hedley passed earlier this year. Heart attack. 31.01.2019. And there’s not much trouble – he’s already down there. Didn’t even appeal. Frankly, I think he was glad.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Shut up. Focus now. ‘Anyway, Mr. Pew. I was always sorta sorry about that.’

‘Sorta?’

‘Sort of, sir. Sorry. You know, because you had his grandmother pay for the atlas. I felt bad about that, and I always said, if I could ever undo that, I would.’

Mr. Pew seemed to think about this for a second. ‘Thank you, Young.’

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‘That wasn’t so bad,’ Ray smiled, but didn’t have much time to gloat, because as soon as Mr Pew turned back into Mrs Toupee, the short fat man started looking… well, sorta like his Josie.

‘Joe…’

‘Don’t ‘Joe’ me.’

‘She’s dead?’ Ray asked, turning toward Miss Tits, who just shrugged.

‘I’m real sorry, Joe.’

‘What is this, Ray?’

‘Guess I gotta tell you something. Remember when I … well, when you thought… shit, this is harder than I thought.’

‘Ray,’ Miss Tits warned.

‘Right, sorry about that. Well, here’s the thing. Joe. Josie, baby. You know how I said, when you were…’

‘Pregnant,’ Miss Tits chimed in.

‘That. When you were pregnant and I said I wasn’t…’

‘Fucking other women?’

‘Yeah, that.’

‘You were.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry. And I was drinking. Most nights when I said I was late at work, I was down the pub. With a girl. Sometimes even two. Hell, Josie, I was at my fucking best. Shit, sorry. Again. Didn’t mean to. Please don’t mind that.’

‘I know. I always knew.’

‘You knew?’

‘Was that…?’

‘It was. What would’ve been the point having a baby with a man like you, Raymond Young?’

And before he could say anything else, she too disappeared and was replace by short-fat-man.

‘So, she came here, too?’ Ray asked, turning toward Tits. He’d grown a real easiness toward her, like they were partners in this. She was the good cop, or something.

‘No,’ Tits said simply. ‘She didn’t try either. Didn’t think she deserved to.’

But Ray was too busy to think about that, about his ex wife and her identity crises. Much like he’d been in life. He was struggling to figure out what the last one would be, sailing through all the mistakes and the little bits he sorta wished he’d done different.

Miss Tits stood up, smoothed her red skirt and smiled. She walked around the desk until she was face-to-face with Ray.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, as he recognized in her face features of his own.

‘What does it look like, Ray?’ she asked, her voice now more… masculine. Rougher. A voice he knew well. Perhaps too well.

‘This a joke?’

‘We don’t joke, Mr Young. The process shows what it shows. If it’s you that stands here, then perhaps you have something you need to admit to yourself.

At that moment, two things happened. At the exact time. One, Raymond Young knew exactly what he was meant to tell himself. Second, he understood how he’d come to be here.

‘This has all been a joke, hasn’t it? You were never going to let me pass. Because I don’t deserve to be up here.’

‘Not a joke, Raymond. Just a welcoming present. Welcome to hell, Mr. Young.’

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.

Image Credits: 1 ; 2 ; 3.

The Way Home

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘As have we all, my child. How long?’

The boy hesitates. His knees hurt, but he can’t get up now. Even if his father is not watching – which he doubts – the priest will tell him. The priest always tells, especially on naughty little boys like Rhys.

‘How long?’ the priest pushes.

‘Two moons, Father.’

‘Two whole moons, why, that in itself is a shame. A smart boy like you should know better than to anger our good Lord. But go on, we will get to that once I’ve heard the rest of your sins.’

Rhys looks up at Father Grant. An English Father, he’d never do well here, they said, except he had. The townsmen had taken to him almost as well as the townswomen. On Sunday, the pews were never empty and there was never a shortage of people looking to confess their darkest, deepest desires. It wasn’t that the people here were particularly sinful, not in the slightest. It was just something in Father Grant’s voice that compelled them back to the old, rickety church.

They could go a few days, the most vile of them perhaps even a whole week without coming in to pay their respects, but in the end, Father Grant always got the better of them. Perhaps they saw him walking in the early morning, right before dawn, making his rounds and tipping his hat. Or perhaps they heard him singing inside the church and each time, they would envision the old priest all alone inside this empty house of God.

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Of course, those who were truly blessed saw Father Grant in their dreams, if by chance, they’d been straying particularly far from Our Lord. And in their dreams, Father Grant did not sing. He opened his mouth and let out the most agonizing cry that had them waking in the middle of the night and crying out.

It wouldn’t be the first time a resident had been seen running down the road in the early hours and knocking on the priest’s door. And the priest always answered, because the priest never slept. Or so it seemed.

Certainly a possibility, judging by the hollow, dark circles under his gray eyes. Rhys loses himself each time inside those haunting circles, which is why he’s stopped coming to confession each week. Because during Mass, he can avoid looking straight at the Priest, but here, there is no one else. Just him and the old man. And sometimes the boy’s father, peering through the hole in the wall, to make sure the boy gets all his sins out. Wouldn’t want the evil lurking inside, would we now?

Rhys’ father has big dreams for the boy, who will not be a farmer like him. A field worker, toasting his brow from dawn till dusk in the merciless sun. His son will never go hungry or want for respect, like his father has. Because his son will be a clergyman. That’s why it’s crucial the boy be cleansed, that he be kept pure, because God would know otherwise, if any evil thoughts got into the boy’s mind.

Of course, the father does everything he can to watch over him, to make sure he does not stray from his path, but boys his age sometimes get funny ideas.

Inside the priest’s stuffy room, there is nowhere to hide and Rhys stares into the Father’s melting face and whispers his sins, all out at once, wishing, longing to be rid of this.

‘Are you forgetting anything?’ the priest fixes the boy with his cold eyes.

Rhys shakes his head, but it’s too late, he’s been here too long and his head’s starting to hurt. Like it does each time he comes back here. He hears her again, the voice of the woman, or rather, her screams. She’s here every week, screaming unintelligible words. Noises and terrible confusion.

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‘There’s a woman,’ Rhys says, surprising both the priest and himself.

‘A woman?’

Father Grant is wary of women. He knows who it is that led man into sin and he knows that this is how it begins.

‘What woman, child?’

‘She’s screaming here.’

‘Inside the church?’

‘No, here. In here, in this room. She’s always screaming when I come here,’ the boy slurs and it must be the heat. The insufferable heat that threatens to suffocate him. And he just wants the confession to end, but it doesn’t end. Father Grant stares at him for a long, long time, his cold eyes suddenly on fire.

From time to time, he shakes his head. He is conferring, in his mind, with the Lord himself about this most sinful little boy.

‘There is no woman screaming here.’

‘There is,’ the boy says and a distant part of him frets that his father will hear. And there will be hell to pay when he gets home. But his father is momentarily distracted, by his neighbor’s plump wife. He has no time to hear the boy and for now, it’s just him and the priest.

And the screaming woman.

‘It must be God then, son. Punishing you for your transgressions. You should ban such thoughts from your mind, boy. Even now, the Devil waits to snap up your soul and carry you into eternal damnation. You don’t want that, do you? I said, do you?’

The boy shakes his head. Shivers, as the priest’s voice grows louder for a second than the woman’s screams.

‘Good, now. Of course you don’t. You’re a good boy, at heart and you must strive to stay that way. You must trust in Our Lord, for he is merciful and he will always show you the way home, even when you’re lost. Even when you think you hear strange women inside your mind. You may go now.’

‘Don’t I get a punishment?’

‘It is not punishment, boy,’ Father Grant chides, ‘it’s your path to salvation.’

He shrugs, because the boy’s confession has unsettled him. ‘All I can tell you is pray. Whenever you hear this woman, you pray to Jesus to save your sinful soul.’

Rhys leaves, relieved. Now, he can go outside and feel the air on his skin and hear as the woman’s screams die away, because the woman never screams outside Father Grant’s little room. And he won’t have to do this for another week. Two, if he’s careful. He can get around his father, he thinks.

And as he walks through the empty church, thinking thoughts of trickery and deceit, he barely notices as the walls around him slowly turn from brown to red.

It is only when he’s standing in a pool of thick blood that he sees the carnage inside the church. In the distance, the woman is still screaming. The victim, he realizes.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name, thy kingdom come…’

And as he prays, cold realization sinks in and he understands, finally, that it is not Father Grant’s parish that he’s seeing, but his own.

 

Want more? My collection of stories, Grimmest Things, is available now on Amazon.