Kevin Lintner's Blog, page 9

The Splatter. House Rules by Jeff O'Brien

Who doesn't love a story about camp counselors getting slaughtered in the woods by hideous, tentacled creatures with a craving for human flesh? There's nothing so heartwarming like a story that includes a woman being fisted with her own severed arm, an axe-weilding ghost girl, and an abomination from the deep that dresses like it's in the KKK.  Throw in political commentary and lesbian sex and you've got one hell of a great read.

Bad Sunset, or A Fist Full of Eyeballs by Alex S. Johnson

The story begins with an historian visiting a small town named Malpuesta Del Sol with intent to prove the wild west isn't so wild after all. He awakes from a coma a month later with no memory and a tattoo on his forehead that read "I love to suck hard cock.". And that's just beginning. This story is ripe with excellently detailed characters, horrifically funny situations, and a man so strong he can literally knock someone into the middle of next week.  The pace of the story never falters; there's something to make you laugh out loud and recoil in horror on damned near every page.  Jeff Smith is my favorite character in the story and is by far one of the most fucked up people I've come across in a long time.  His penchant for opiates, wearing scalps he's personally carved off people he's met on his cross country trip, and taking part in orgies with Indian maidens that end in mass murder are just a small part of his lifestyle. Other characters include a 6,000 year old shaman who rides a salamander, zombies, and a cameo by Jesus Christ himself.  You can pick up a copy of this awesome tale at Amazon.  I highly suggest you do so.

Purchase Bad Sunset Here

Man, I am tired.Being a writer isn't easy. Writing ...

Man, I am tired.

Being a writer isn't easy.  Writing about being a writer is even more difficult.

It's hard to put into words the frustration that comes from not being able to get the words swimming around in your head out on paper.

The phone, the door, text messages, barking dogs, screaming kids all are literary cock-blockers.

After a while the constant interruptions cause the ideas to somehow become "stuck up there" and they no longer flow.

I guess this is writer's block.  It really sucks.

I hope to eventually be able to support myself and my family through my own creativity and not being that much maligned computer guy that everyone makes fun of, but isn't afraid to bother for advice.

Fuck...

The Bad Breakup

Dear Jessica:

Imagine taking everything in this world that terrifies you and wrapping them into one indescribable atrocity that walks on two legs. Can you picture that? I can, because they are outside our cabin and forcing their way inside. Boarding up the windows and blocking the doors was useless. They are squeezing in through the smallest cracks. One slithered through a mouse hole yet stood well over seven feet tall. They’re tracking my scent and are almost upon me.
I never liked you, Jessica.
Thank God this is goodbye.

Kiss My Ass,
Karl.

NanoWriMo

Total word count: 0 *sigh*

Honor Student

Owen Morrison hated waiting. He’s been alive for 15 years and, strangely enough, had been waiting just as long. He hated it more than his teachers. He hated it more than his fellow Freshman classmates at Sister Malarky of the Spontaneous Stigmata High School. But he didn’t hate it as much as Amanda Benning. He’d asked her to the dance and she laughed at him in front of everybody.  She told him she didn’t date “C students” and if her Honor Society/Black Belt boyfriend found out he would kick Owen’s head right off his shoulders.He had been sitting on a park bench for over an hour waiting to meet someone. Well not really someone, more like something, a demon actually. A demon he had summoned with a ritual from “The Big Black Book of Demon Conjuring and Secrets of the Illumunati’s Best Chicken Recipes.” The spell had to work. Owen was sure a book formatted for Kindle had to be factual. How else would it wind up on Amazon if it wasn’t real?He had followed its steps precisely. There was a bright flash followed by a thick, swirling black mass.  The mass enveloped his entire body and a voice from within the mass whispered in his ear.  It told him the time and place to make the deal. The mass slowly dissipated and left behind a lingering scent of cigarettes and mustard. He’d thought to himself that the Pete Townsend Recreational Center & Park was a strange place to meet a demon, but he had decided to do what the voice told him.Owen looked around the park. Early Autumn. Splashes of red and orange were speckled amid the green leaves of the trees. Children played on the slides and swings while their parents chatted. Owen imagined they were bragging about their kid’s accomplishments and how teachers were delighted with their progress. Owen knew his parents never talked about such things. They always complained about his lack of ambition, his bad grades, and how he’d never amount to a hill of beans.Owen noticed a very fat man with slicked back black hair walking toward him. He wore a navy blue track suit, a plain white t-shirt, and pointy toed snakeskin boots with metal tips. The fat man carried a hot dog in one hand and a large fountain drink in the other. A non-filtered cigarette dangled between his lips.“Hey,” the man said. “Are you Owen?”“Yes,” Owen replied. “Who are you?”“Here, take this a minute.” The bulbous man handed Owen his fountain drink. He took one last long drag off the cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and then crushed it out with his boot. He retrieved the fountain drink,  cocked his head to one side and looked at Owen much the way a dog does when it hears an unfamiliar noise.“You summoned me didn’t you?” the man asked. “You’re the one who chopped the head off a chicken, painted your face with its blood, and then said all of the mumbo jumbo that dragged me here. You want to make a deal with a demon, right?”“Um…yeah. I just didn’t expect..” Owen looked at the man from head to toe. “I just didn’t..”“Didn’t expect someone like me?”“No.”“What did you expect me to look like, kid? Should I have red skin, a pair of horns, a long tail, and a pitchfork? Is that what you think we all look like? You think demon and you picture some guy who buys his wardrobe at Party City? Look around, dummy. We’re in public. You think I’m in the business of attracting attention to myself? Maybe I should just leave, huh? I’m not what you expected. Sorry to disappoint you. I’ll be on my way.”“No, no, wait.  I’m sorry. I need help. Please stay.”“Eh, alright, since you said please.” The demon popped the last of the hot dog in his mouth and washed it down with the fountain drink. He dropped the cup and kicked it under the bench. “Slide your rear end over a bit,” he said. “I need to sit, these boots are killing my hooves.” He chuckled at his little joke and took a seat.“My name is Markus Horn. That’s Markus with a K and not a C. You’re Owen Morrison, right?”“Yes,” Owen said. “Is your name really Markus? That’s not very demon-like.”The fat man laughed with such force it sent him into a coughing fit. Markus’ eyes bulged and his face actually did turn bright red until he coughed up something that sounded thick and moist. Markus spit it out and Owen tried not to look at it because he swore it looked like things were squirming inside of the red tinted green ball of phlegm. “Would you prefer I call myself Beelzebub, or Lucifer, or maybe, Ol’ Soul? Would that be more demon like? Well I can’t. Those names are already taken and, yes, my name is Markus. I was alive once, just like you. Then I wasn’t alive anymore. I did my time in Hell, took my torment like a champ, and I got promoted to Negotiator. I make deals for souls and that’s why I’m here. I work on commission, so the faster we wrap this up, the faster I am off to make another deal. So let’s get down to business.”Owen looked puzzled. “What kind of commission? How do demons get paid?”“Cash, of course,” Markus replied. “How do you think I got that hot dog and soda? You think I walked up to him and said ‘Hey, I just flew out of Hell and boy are my arms tired, how about a free coney?’ Jeez, kid, you don’t think too much, do you? You probably stopped to think one day and never started again. Now what do you want?”“I want straight A’s in school,” Owen said. “I want to be an honor student.”“What?”Owen rolled his eyes impatiently and said again, “I want straight A’s in school. I want to be an honor student.”“That it?” Markus looked honestly confused. “You, young man,” he said. “You are willing to sell me your soul in exchange for good grades? You’re willing to endure eternal torment more horrible than you can ever imagine just so you don’t need to do extra credit? Tell me this is a joke. Did Erebos put you up to this? You’re one of his minions and you’re yanking my freakin’ chain right about now, am I right?”“No,” Owen said calmly. “I want straight A’s in all my classes for the next three years until I graduate.”“Maybe,” Markus replied. “Just maybe you should try, oh I dunno, reading a book for freaking sake! What’s wrong with you?”“Nothing,” Owen countered. “I just want a 4.0 average and I don’t want to study. I hate studying. I hate reading. I’d rather play video games and sleep. That’s it.”“You know,” Markus said. “When dudes make deals for their soul it’s usually for something big like fame, wealth, hot chicks hanging all over them. Women, now they do it to find their one true love or to be cured of a terminal illness. But you, you’re willing to sell me your soul for something so stupid?”“It’s not stupid to me,” Owen said. “That’s all I want. I want to be able to answer every question on a math test with ‘turtles’ and still get 100%. I want to turn in an essay that says “I pooped last night” and have it praised as brilliant.”“I can’t do that, kid,” Markus replied. “That’s a big negatory right there.”“Why?”“Well, I’ll tell you. You’re asking me to change the people around you. You want me to make them so incredibly stupid that you look like the second coming of Einstein. That’s not how this works. You’re making the deal. This has to be about you. I can’t negatively affect someone else to give you what you want. That’s against the rules.”“So, then, make me smart,” Owen shot back. “Make me the second coming of Einstein. Make me a genius.”“Now we’re cooking with gas!” Markus laughed and slugged Owen on his shoulder. “That’s the way we do things. How smart do you want to be?”“Hmmm,” Owen said. “I want to know everything.” He shot a big grin at Markus.“Everything?” Markus replied with a look of delighted disbelief on his face. “You want to know everything?”“Yes.”“You want me to make you omniscient?”“What’s that mean?”“Oh man,” Markus chuckled. “You are gonna fit right in the 5th circle, I tell you. I hope you like mud baths.”“Huh?”“Nothing,” Markus replied. “It’s not worth the trouble to explain it.” But, OK, if that’s what you want, I will agree to take your soul to Hell when you die in exchange for unlimited knowledge. Deal?”“Deal!” Owen exclaimed. “I’m ready when you are!”Markus extended his hand to Owen. “Well,” he said, “let’s shake on it, shall we?”“Do I have to sign anything?”“Nope. A handshake is all it takes to seal the deal. Now put her there, kid.”The two shook hands.“I don’t feel any smarter,” Owen said sounding rather disappointed.“Patience, patience. Tonight at midnight,” Markus said. “Go out to your back porch. There will be a vial there with a blue liquid. Drink it and you will get what you asked for.”“Why midnight?” Owen asked.“Because that’s when all deals are delivered. The King of Hell wants everything done at a certain time in a certain way or everyone hears about it for a millennium. He’s more of a drama queen then a king actually. Now, I’ve got to go. Don’t forget. Midnight tonight. I’ll see you again, kid. Trust me.”Owen watched as Markus walked away. The big man fished a cigarette from the pack and lit it. After the demon disappeared from sight, Owen grabbed his backpack and headed home.The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Dinner was as boring as ever. His mom served chopped up hot dogs stirred into boxed store brand mac and cheese. The kind with the nasty fake cheese powder that always clumped up. There was no dessert. He was given a glass of water to drink.The rest of the family went to bed around 10:00. Owen went to his room but made sure not to fall asleep. He fired up his console and played games aimlessly while he waited.Just as Owen had finished off the last of a Nazi Zombie horde, the clock ticked over to midnight. Owen dropped his controller and left his room quietly. He walked down the stairs and through the kitchen to the back door. He opened it and peeked his head outside. There it was, a small glass vial that contained a bright blue liquid that seemed to glow in the moonlight. It was sealed with a cork and rested on a sheet of paper. Owen walked to the vial and picked it up along with the paper. The paper only had three words written on it. “Drink me, stupid.”Without hesitation, Owen uncorked the vial and swallowed all of the liquid with one gulp. It tasted sweet. A little bit like honey, a whole lot like nothing he had ever tasted before.Owen’s mind began to race. His heart pounded. He felt a rush coming on that was both terrifying and delightful. So many things raced through his mind at once. Owen looked up at the sky and he knew the name of every star he could see. He knew the precise distance between every star and the names of all the constellations they formed. Owen looked around, he could identify every tree in sight. He knew how tall they were to the millimeter. He knew how many leaves were on each tree, how many nests birds had built in them and the kind of birds that did the building.“Owen, what are you doing outside?”It was his mother’s voice. He turned to her. He stared at her for a brief moment and then he knew everything about her. He knew the names of all her teachers. He knew what kind of dress she wore to the prom. He knew the name of the guy who took her virginity when she was 17. He knew that she was sleeping with Uncle David and he knew about the little mistake they had to get rid of because his dad had a vasectomy years ago. A mountainous rage boiled within him. Then another fact flashed into his mind’s eye. He knew that in 3 years, 7 months, 4 days and 32 seconds his mother would be struck by a taxi and die while crossing a downtown street,“Mom,” Owen said. “Mom. I’m smart. I’m smarter than Einstein, I’m more powerful than Jesus. I am all things at once.”Owen’s mother looked at him, her face a mix of horror, confusion, and anger.“Did you take something, Owen?” she asked. “What’s that in your hand?”“It’s God juice, Mom. It’s the greatest stuff in the world. Hell, it’s the greatest stuff in the universe!”Owen felt something trickle down his upper lip. He wiped it with his hand.“Owen, your nose is bleeding, his mother said. “Have you been snorting drugs or doing that huffing stuff I saw on TV?”“No, mother. That’s not it. I’m…I’ve…been…”Suddenly Owen knew what was happening to him. His brain was overloading. Humans were not meant to have so much knowledge. It was too much for his brain to handle. He was stroking out and there was no coming back from it. The vial slipped from his hand and shattered as it hit the porch.“Mom,” he said. “Mom, look out for taxis because they won’t look out for you.”Then Owen stopped being Owen. His lifeless body slumped to the ground. His mother screamed. His father called 911. The slothful damned and forgotten souls trapped under the mud of the river Styx got a new comrade.The coroner’s report listed the cause of death as a massive stroke. The toxin report came back clean and no trace materials were found on the broken glass. The case was closed and life went on without Owen Morrison just like it does with everyone else.His mother pondered for months what Owen meant by “watch out for taxis”. As time passed, she thought about it less and less and eventually she stopped thinking about it completely. Until, that is, the day she went downtown to shop at the farmer’s marker and stepped out into the street to cross to her car. She saw the taxi run the stop sign. She saw how the driver struggled to reach something on the floor and how how his eyes weren’t on the road. Owen’s final words came back to her and they froze her in her tracks.
“Owen,” she said as tears flowed down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and her world went dark forever.

Mobius

I’ve got this song stuck in my head.This little bit of melody is as anonymous as an obscene phone call and just as unsettling.  I don’t know the song. I don’t remember hearing it anywhere. It’s just there. A few short bars set on a Mobius strip of sound that never reaches a crescendo. It’s seriously fucking with my thought process.  I have a story due today; my editor is expecting it in his e-mail by midnight. If it's not there, I violate the terms of my contract. My editor is an asshole. He hates what I write, but publishes it anyway because it sells. He is a literary purist, hung up on sentence structure, proper punctuation, a “lucid flow of thoughts and action.” He once told me that if William S. Burroughs were mentally retarded, his crayon scribbling would still have been better than my best work.    I wouldn’t mind dousing that motherfucker in kerosene and lighting him up. But I don’t, partially because I’m a coward; mostly because my wife and daughter mean too much to lose them forever over the fleeting joy of listening to the screams of a corduroy wearing, pipe smoking, quasi-intellectual who just happens to be one of the most revered editors in the business.   We all put on the monkey suit and dance for treats in one way or the other, whether it be operating a punch press at a factory or toiling away at a keyboard trying to filter the words swimming in our heads into a vaguely recognizable sentence.  I need to get something done.  In just a few hours, my daughter will be home from morning kindergarten, and we will spend time together until my wife arrives home from work. I’m not complaining. I love my little girl's stories about how her day went; about the pictures she drew; about the snack she ate.  I particularly love how she rolls her eyes and makes a yucky face when she tells me about the boy named Jumbo who insists on hanging up her coat for her every morning and retrieving it for her when dismissal time arrives.    “But Daddy! He’s yucky! He doesn’t comb his hair, his teefs are yellow, and his breath smells like number two!” This is the argument I get whenever I tell her that he is just trying to be nice. If I told her that ‘Jumbo’ probably has a crush on her, she would run screaming to her room and refuse to come out until her mother came home.   Like I said, I need to get something done.  But the damned song won’t go away.  It was there when I woke up this morning.It was there when I ate a bowl of Lucky Charms with my daughter.It was there when I walked her to the bus stop.  It was still there when I slid back into bed with my wife.   It was there when I slid my hands up under her nightshirt and lightly stroked her breasts.   It was there when I slid inside of her and she wrapped her legs around my waist.   I didn’t mind it then as I was able to move in motion with the tune. My wife didn’t seem to mind it too much either. The motion I mean. I’m sure if I had started humming the tune it would have thrown off her rhythm and turned the whole thing into a carnal disaster.   It was still there when we showered together, as I washed her back and held her as the hot water rinsed away the soap from her body and any of last night’s dreams from her memory.  It didn’t do shit for the song…  It was still there when I waved to her as she pulled out of the driveway and made her way to work.  It’s still there now as I stare at a blank document on my computer screen.  Fuck…  Maybe some fresh air will help. Who knows? I’m getting nowhere just parking my aging, widening ass in this hard wooden chair.  I slide the patio door open and step outside. The sun is playing with the idea of breaking the horizon and warming the air. Morning birds assault my ears with songs so cheerful I have to wonder just what the fuck could bring so much happiness to a creature that lives in a tree. Clearly, there is something that I am missing. I would like to airdrop nets full of angry, hungry cats into the trees just to teach the birds a lesson in respect for other living creature’s choice to be other-than-pleasant.   My cigarette hangs from my mouth unimpressed with the sunshine and the goddamned birds. It wishes to only burn away slowly and feed my nicotine habit. It's a true friend; I will miss it when it's snuffed out. Thankfully, there are nineteen other mindless, subservient tobacco-filled paper cylinders just waiting to meet my needs before they burn to death. That's true unconditional love. That is why I give each of them a name before I light them and say a prayer for their soul to ride away on the last puff of smoke that leaves my lungs before I toss them to the ground and stamp the red, glowing light into ashes.   It’s still there…  I sit back in my lawn chair and close my eyes tightly as if trying to squeeze the song out of my head and out through my ear canals.   No luck.  Dammit.  I hear someone singing. It is far away, but I recognize it as a young girl’s voice. I can’t make out what she is singing and it drifts in and out on the breeze. I listen for it again. It's closer, but not enough to decipher the words.   “Car…” “…ine…”   With each syllable the songstress sounds a little bit closer. The words start to make sense . “Car-o-line! Car-o-line” It sounds as if she is teasingly calling a sibling or peer through song. It has that lilting, mocking tone that young children are so good at reaching.   “Car-o-line!”  It's really close now. Almost as if she's coming right up to me.    An icy small hand grabs my shoulder and I jump from my chair screaming. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears.  “HOLY SHIT!” I scream. “Where did you come from?”   Adrenaline rushes. Blood pressure surges. The world spins.   I grab my chair and sit down quickly. Everything is still spinning. I feel my breakfast trying to come back up on me. I’m gasping for air. I’m sure this is it;  death has come for me under the visage of a little girl singing a taunting anthem.  But I don’t die.Things stop spinning, my breakfast stays in place. My heartbeat and respiration slow down.  “Car-o-line!”  I look at the little girl. She has long dishwater blonde hair. It is matted, dirty, and littered with leaves. A huge chunk of hair is missing from her head and it looks like it was ripped out violently. The area of her scalp where the hair should be is scabbed over, a little trickle of fresh blood leaks out and slides slowly down her forehead.   “Car-o-line!”  She is wearing an orange tank top & short set. The top is adorned with the bedazzled face of Hello Kitty.  Both are filthy and blood-stained.She's wearing just one sneaker.   “Car-o-line!”“What happened to you,” I ask?  “Come inside, I’ll call for help.”  “Car-o-line!”  I fish my cell phone from its holster and bring up the phone app. She takes my hand…so cold…and looks at me. A small, weak smile lightly turns up the junctions of her mouth. She climbs into my lap. It feels as if some force is sucking all the warmth from my being.  “Car-o-line,” she sings, this time in a sad elegiac form. All the lamentations of the world seem to ride on those few syllables.   I am overwhelmed. I begin to cry. She places her head on my chest. I look down at her. Her hair is riddled with bugs. The pervasive smell of rot and dirt violates my nostrils. I want to shove her away, but there is no strength left inside of me.   A sudden rush of warmth floods my body from top to bottom. I taste blood in my mouth and feel wetness in my crotch. I can’t fight it, I drift away.  “Car-o-line…”  I wake up. I can tell from the shadows in my back yard that not much time has passed. The little girl is gone. There is no hint of her. No stench, no song. The coppery taste is gone from my mouth. My pants are dry.    The song in my head is gone too, replaced by a sweet nothingness. I could think clearly. My senses feel sharpened. Even the sound of the birds didn't piss me off as much.   Ha…just a crazy fucked up nightmare. I think I may just have my next story. It's better than what I could have come up with on my own.  I go back inside and check the clock. Only an hour has passed. I feel rejuvenated. I go to the fridge and grab a can of Coke. I pop the tab and take a quick gulp. I burp loudly, amused & impressed with my belching skills. I make my way to the computer and sit down.   Time to bang this shit out.  “Car-o-line!”  Every hair on my body is standing on end. It feels like I am standing near a huge static generator.  “Car-o-line!”  It sounds so close; I expect to be touched by those icy hands any second.  “Car-o-line!”  It is coming from inside of me.Not just in my head, but all of my. My body is singing out in a chorus of the darkest fear I have ever felt.  “Car-o-line!”  I grab my coal black hair in my hands and yank as if trying to rip the voice out through the roots. A large clump splits from my scalp and blood begins to flow down my face.  “Car-o-line!”  I begin punching myself in the head, hoping to the drive the fiendish voice out.  “Car-o-line!”  “STOP IT! GO AWAY!”  “Car-o-line!”  I collapse on the floor, draw my knees to my head, and begin to rock back & forth.  “Car-o-line!”  “Car-o-line!”   I’m still on the floor curled up into the fetal position when my daughter comes bounding in the front door.  “Daddy,” she calls out. “You forgot to pick me up at the bus stop & I had to walk home by myself! You know how mad mommy gets when you forget me!”  “Car-o-line!”  “Daddy?”  “Car-o-line!”   I pull myself up into a sitting position, my head is throbbing.     “I’m here,” I say. My little girl lets out a scream.   “Daddy! What happened? Did you fall? Are you okay?” “No…no to all the above,” I answer.   She takes my hand.   “Can I help you stand up, Daddy?”  “Car-o-line!”  I yank my hand away from her.The voice is no longer coming from inside of me, but from her.    “Car-o-line!”I struggle to my feet. The little girl standing in front of me is still my daughter. She's wearing the same outfit she had on when she left this morning.  “Car-o-line!”  A black, swirling mass is moving around inside the place where her eyes should be.   “Car-o-line!”The sound is coming from the hollows that once held the most disarming green eyes.  “Car-o-line!”  I grab her by the throat and lift her off the ground.  “Car-o-line!”  I squeeze tightly, choking the vile monstrosity that was once my pride & joy.  “Car-o-line!”  Her little body goes limp and I drop her.I check for a pulse, there is none. The hell hell-spawned bitch is dead. I roll her body over and I am greeted by fixed and lifeless eyes. She has the same emerald eyes that I remember. There is no sign of the beast that somehow managed to stare into my soul from the empty sockets."Car-o-line!”  The voice is back inside me. It must have passed into to my daughter when she took my hand and then back to me when I grabbed her.“Car-o-line!”I quickly snatch up my daughter and run with her to her bedroom. I place her in bed, place a pillow under her head and cover her with a blanket. I close her eyes with my fingers. She looks like a little angel, sound asleep and dreaming about all the wonderful things little girls dream about.  “Car-o-line!”  “Car-o-line!”  I gently close her bedroom door and make my way back to the living room and sit on the couch.  “Car-o-line!”  I grab two throw pillows and cover my ears. But it does no good.  “Car-o-line!”  I begin screaming in hopes of drowning out the voice.  “Car-o-line!”  I scream until my throat is throbbing in pain, until the only sound that comes out is a pitiful whisper. But the voice inside of me shows no sign of ebbing.  “Car-o-line!”  Sometime later, my wife returns home from her job.   “You look like shit,” she says to me. “What the hell happened to your head?”  “Car-o-line!”  “I went up into the crawlspace to look for some of my old journals. I stood up too quickly and whacked my head on a beam. Then I missed a step on the ladder and broke the fall with my face.”  “Car-o-line!”  She giggles at the mental image she formed in her mind. Somehow I managed to make her laugh while our only child lies dead in her bed.  “Car-o-line!”“Are you going to be ok,” she asks me?  “Car-o-line!”  “Yeah. I would have cleaned up, but Aubrey came home from school. So I decided to wait until you got home.”  “You walked to the bus stop looking like that,” she said with shocked amusement.  “Car-o-line!”  “No, I called ahead…”  “Car-o-line!”  “…and told the school to tell her…”  “Car-o-line!”  “… to come straight home because I couldn’t make it to the bus.”  “Car-o-line!”  “Oh. Where is our baby-girl anyway?”  “Car-o-line!”  “She is lying down…”  “Car-o-line!”  “…she said she had a headache…” “Car-o-line!”  “Car-o-line!”  “Car-o-line!”  “Car-o-line!”  “…I gave her some children’s Tylenol and sent her to bed.”  “Car-o-line!”  “I need to shower,” I stated.  “I’m going to check in on Aubrey,” my wife responded,  “Just let her sleep. She looked tired. Take a shower with me.”   “Again? Even bloody and bruised, you still think with your dick,” she laughed. “Let me check on her, and then I’ll join you.”  “Car-o-line!”  I want to stop her but I can’t. She will find out anyway. I let her walk to our daughter’s room. I overhear a few words and then the screaming starts.  “Car-o-line!”  Screaming from inside of me, screaming from my daughter’s room. All I know is screaming.   “Car-o-line!”  Before I know it, my wife is on top of me, slapping me, clawing at my face.  “What did you do to her?!? She has marks on her neck! What did you do?”   I stand up quickly and my wife falls to the ground.. She gets to her feet. She is looking at me with the same eyeless holes that Aubrey did. She parts her lips into a large, maniacal grin. Her teeth are crooked and razor sharp.   “Car-o-line!”  She has the voice now. It has taken my wife. She reaches out for me and I escape her grasp.I rush to the kitchen and grab a carving knife from the butcher block.  “Car-o-line!”  She slips into the kitchen. Her feet are dangling not more than an inch from the floor. Her arms are still outstretched, her mouth is gnashing at me wildly, desperate to rip away at my flesh.   “Car-o-line!”  I bring the knife up hard and fast, it pierces her throat. Blood splays in all directions. I pull the knife back and jab straight out into her chest.  “Car-o-line!”  She is still singing that awful song as she collapses to the floor. “Car-o-line!” “Car-o-line!”  I climb on top of her and hack at her, hitting her face, chest, & stomach. I have no idea how many wounds I have inflicted. I just keep stabbing until the voice has stopped.  The sun has gone down.Aubrey is still in her bed. My wife is on the kitchen floor.  But it is silent.No more singing.No interruptions.   I check the clock on my computer.   I still have three hours until deadline.   I just might make it after all.   I sit down at my computer desk and begin to type.  "There’s a song stuck in my head…"I already like the way this story is going.

Nanowrimo

Nanowrimo started today. I have no idea what to write about. I'm starting to think it's futile. Trying to map out ideas doesn't work anymore. I get these flashes, but by the time I get a chance to write them down, they're no longer fresh.

Bah...