true love

Jan. 28th, 2007 12:52 pm
escapewindow: escape window (escape(window) typewriter)

Rhea looked up at me, hunger in her eyes.

"I want to swallow your babies," she breathed. She had grown insatiable as of late.

I stroked her hair and watched her, entranced. She was so beautiful. She knew I couldn't deny her anything. Not when she looked at me that way. I nodded.

Her jaw unhinged as her mouth grew larger than her face had been. Francie and Joey were crying, and I tried to hush them. Then they disappeared down Rhea's throat and were only large misshapen lumps in her abdomen.

"Ok, now let them back out," I said after a few moments.

"Wait. Just a little bit longer," Rhea whispered, a look of bliss on her face. I sat next to her and kissed her hair.

(Inspired by this post and my comments here.)

And this post says the 3rd annual Rabbit Hole Day is a weekend. So nyah.


Jan. 27th, 2007 12:04 am
escapewindow: escape window (escape(window) typewriter)

I froze. The sound from outside wasn't anything human.

Don't ask me how I knew. You would have known, if you had heard that sound. Monstrous. Hungry. Savage. Lurking. Whatever it was was hunting for its own dinner even as I was preparing ours.

I put the skillet down and grabbed my good knife... still inadequate, but maybe I could hurt it, convince it to go after easier prey. Jud was still crying to himself at the kitchen table, tears disappearing into his beard. I shot him an angry look and put a finger to my lips. This wasn't the time for that. He shut right up.

I turned down the heat so the meat wouldn't burn, and tiptoed to the doorway to the living room. The linoleum was cold under my bare feet. I looked at Jud and put my finger to my lips again, then pointed to myself, then the doorway. I looked down at the knife, shook free a bit of clinging parsley and onion, gripped it tighter.

Breathe. Now go.

I nearly tripped over the rug in my rush to the far window. I crouched, peered through the blinds. Nothing on the lawn. Nothing on the driveway. Nothing on the street but some parked cars down the block. It was dark out, but not dark enough to hide anything that big. That fast. That ravenously hungry for our flesh.

I stepped to the peephole in the front door. A car drove by. Moments passed. Nothing.

I moved to the blinds on the other side of the door. My breath fogged the window as I waited, knife in hand, watching.

The monster wasn't out front.

I checked the kids' bedroom, my heart pounding. Silence. An undisturbed rest. The nightlight showed nothing but the quiet shapes of the children in their blankets, a spaceship mobile revolving lazily above them. I checked the windows; all was peaceful. Bathroom. Just a slightly leaky faucet. Drip. Drip.

I eased open the master bedroom door and poked my head in. Jud's wife lay there peacefully on the red coverlet of the bed. No monster in here. I closed the door. Deep, calming breath. Everything's ok.

There was a loud crash in the kitchen. I raced back and found Jud had fallen to the floor in his chair, and was desperately kicking his way across the floor to the back door with his one leg. I jumped on him.

"Jud! Stop! There's no monster." He was wailing, kicking, fighting me. "Stop! There's no monster here, Jud!" I held him down.

He finally stopped, looked up at me. "It's Jude," he said, his voice cracking. "Jude Minter."

"Jude. There's no monster here, Jude."

"My name is Jude Minter," he repeated, as I pulled him back upright, checked his arm restraints. I had accidentally cut his arm in the fray, deep. And the bandages on his leg stump were soaked through. I'd have to patch him up again. After we ate.

I fed him some more painkillers. His voice grew weak. "My name is Jude Minter. Please. I have a wife. And two boys."

I gagged him and went back to sautéeing the rest of his leg for our dinner.

(Idea shamelessly stolen from Rachel Drummond's One in the AM in Borderlands 4)

Midsummer is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Märchen/Contes de Fées Day!

Quest for a heart in a golden box. Open the forbidden door. Break a deal with the devil. Ride the north wind to reunite with your love.

January 19th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Cask of Amontillado Day!

Carry out the perfect murder. Deal with overwhelming guilt or fear. Break an ancient cypher. Steal a cursed manuscript.

January 27th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Rabbit Hole Day!

Fall down the Rabbit Hole for 24 hours and see what's there. It will be beautiful.

Follow along: [ profile] rabbitholeday

escapewindow: escape window (escape(window) typewriter)

I was up the coast waiting for sunset when I first saw her. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, a fog-mirage, a reflection of something further away. Until I saw it again, for the briefest of moments. Then gone.

I made my way over the rocky terrain as quickly as I could manage without risking an inadvertent slip over the edge to the pounding surf below, one arm out for balance, the other hand gripping my camera. I approached the dead tree perched at a precarious angle on the edge of the cliff, where I paused, watching the fog intently.

Moments passed. Nothing. I turned back towards the horizon, which was quickly disappearing through the advancing haze; I fired off a few shots, knowing the images would probably turn out poorly. (They did.)

A footfall behind. I spun and stared as she hobbled towards me, eyes downcast, her right side trailing and hidden by her left. Her ragged clothes and uneven hair seemed to smolder with rising steam.

I rarely photograph people. I wanted to photograph her.

"Hey," I said when she limped close enough to say hey to in a not-too-loud voice. She raised her head. Her left eye met mine. The right was just three lines of inflamed scar tissue, a claw scratch down the side of her face that must have been severely burnt at one point.

She studied me for a moment, gave two awkward bobs of her head, then pushed forward again. Straight at me; I sidestepped and she was clambering up the tree on three limbs, her shrunken right arm twitching uselessly at her side.

"That doesn't look safe," I said, trying to think of some way to ask to take her picture without making it seem like she were some sort of sideshow oddity, but nothing came to mind. She looked back over her shoulder, steam still rising from her, her eyes piercing deep into mine.

"Safe?" she rasped, her voice grating on my nerves. "Coming from one such as you, who should be concerned for your own safety?"

I stared at her, too scared to turn away, my mouth stammering some sort of apology. She was looking past me. I turned. Lights in the haze... make that headlights, large, boxy, probably an SUV, then another coming from the opposite direction. The sound of horns, tires skidding on asphault. Shouting. Then they drove off, leaving us in the quiet of the surf below us.

But she was gone. I looked around but saw no sign of her, and there was no way she could have moved fast enough to disappear from sight in such a short span of time. I peered over the edge but saw no red bloom on the rocks, no ripples in the water that didn't look a part of the waves. I knelt, then lay on my stomach for a closer look at the cliffside, right, left, nothing but rocks and the occasional sapling rustling in the wind.

"Everything ok?" Footfalls behind me. I scrambled to my feet, brushing dirt and small rocks from my clothes. A couple who had stopped at the scenic overlook. They hadn't seen anything, or anyone. When I left them, they were peering over the edge, curious as to what I was looking for.

I wandered a bit, searching, before I gave up and made my way back to the car, driving slowly as the highway twisted through the dense fog.

(probably the mildest of the three; the main character is the most "me".)

July 3rd is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Metamorphosis Day!

Stand trial for an unspecified crime. Deal with soul-crushing bureacracy. Manifest your mental failings in physical form. Perform a unique, unappreciated artform.

March 17th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Chiba City Day!

Visit a Chiba City black clinic. Sabotage a multinational. Cross the Yakuza. Encounter a disembodied consciousness.

January 27th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Rabbit Hole Day!

Conquer Greenland. Sprout some extra limbs. Walk on water. Marry an insect.

Follow along: [ profile] rabbitholeday

escapewindow: escape window (escape(window) typewriter)

Once upon a time, should I have been traveling by rail (as I currently am), wishing to communicate with others over great distances (as I currently do), I might, perhaps, have extracted a pen and ink and a sheaf of paper from my luggage, and meticulously composed a letter longhand, to be dispatched in a padlocked saddlebag via long-distance horseback relays once the train stopped at a station.

Or, perhaps, should I have been so prepared as to be in the possession of thin, lightweight paper and a specially trained and bred Columba livia raised in or around my message's destination, perhaps my message would have flown cross-country on the wings of birds.

Or I might have condensed my message to the bare minimum of words, for later transmittal via wire:


However, sans a highly improbable helping of Verneian imagination, the 19th century me probably would not have foreseen a mechanical device small enough to carry in my waistcoat pocket, yet powerful enough to relay messages from my hand to the stars and back down again to elsewhere on earth. Or that the message in question could contain an exact replica of the sound of my voice, captured images of my surroundings, or even moving pictures. Let alone the near instantaneous nature of said phantastic device.

Had I but known, the 19th century me, trapped in the same predicament as I am, today (perhaps I could have dreamt the device in some feverish moment of clarity, perchance brought on by the onset of shock or blood loss), lying motionless under my seat, one hand pressed to my side to staunch the worst of my gunshot wounds, hoping the hijackers stay too busy shooting the other passengers and spouting off about the rapture to notice I'm still alive.

I could possibly have taken some comfort in knowing that such a device was only a couple dozen decades away. That I would be able to dispatch warnings to the authorities quickly, quietly (the keys slick with blood under my thumb), informing them of the nature and disposition of the attack. And that afterwards, as I felt myself bleeding out, and as the gunmen readied their own, much more sinister Device, I would be able to publish my final, dying words in a venue where potentially millions of people would be able to read them.

The sheer wonder of the modern world.

And yet.

I find I have nothing to say.

December 16th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Second Variety Day!

Have selective memories erased. Run from precognitives. Fight organized sentient machines. Hallucinate the truth.

August 20th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Cthulhu Fhtagn Day!

Skirt the edges of madness. Flee a nameless horror. Encounter an eldritch artifact. Pay for the crimes of a distant relative.

January 27th is the Third Annual

LiveJournal Rabbit Hole Day!

Travel through time. Turn into an animal. Flee from assassins. Talk to your goldfish.

Follow along: [ profile] rabbitholeday

escapewindow: escape window (escape(window) typewriter)

Today I found a notice in the mail. Paternity suit. The hell? I don't think I've ever even met this girl.

I mean, sure. There remained some infinitesimal chance that I could have impregnated her, whoever she was, somewhere, at some point in the past, without my knowledge. But wouldn't she have mentioned something to me early on in the pregnancy? Attempted to contact me in some other way about the baby before bringing a lawsuit against me? Common courtesy, one might think.

I called the number on the notice: shunted straight to voicemail. Then I called my lawyer.

"Do you own a dermasuit, or have you gone through dna encryption?" she asked, after I hurriedly explained my situation.

"I have a dermasuit," I replied. "DEO is a little pricy for my blood. And the idea of it gives me the jibblies."

"Have you gone out without your dermasuit recently?"

"No," I said. "I'm not *that* crazy."

"Any leaks or loose fittings?

"Lemme check."

I was trembling slightly as I examined the surface of my dermasuit carefully. I had only partially removed it before sitting down with the phone; I had to twist to examine the back of the ultrathin transparent material. The fluid catchers and tubes were screwed on tightly. I found no leaks or cuts.

"It looks fine from here." I agreed to call back after checking the house seals since she had to take another call.

The shower drain catch was pretty gunky... I dug out a gob of slimy hair and scraped some old skin cells off the side, dumping each into the dermashredder. Zzzt. The toilet waste processor was pretty solid, but the house is old, you know? Who knows if there's a slight leak.

Phone. Lawyer. I picked up.

"I've checked, but I've gotten all paranoid," I said, skipping the hello. "I mean, something coulda slipped through when I was changing a filter."

"I've got the number of a good dna seal inspector. He can answer your questions. Got a pen?"

There wasn't much more I could do til morning, so I googled some stuff. Dna identity theft. Organ reconstruction. Paternity suit scams.

The tech had advanced quite a bit; where they had once only been able to reconstruct smaller, unsightly skin grafts, now they were building entire functioning organs for transplants and customizing results. Bigger. Faster. Stronger. Healthier. All while the prices were dropping, more from competition than any sort of magnanimity.

Eye transplants with perfect vision. Heart and kidney transplants. A full blood change, much like flushing a car's transmission, to treat blood-borne diseases. Missing limb replacement. New tendons and cartilage for athletes, custom designed to withstand even greater strain. Full facial replacements were costlier but more effective than plastic surgery.

The body mod communities had taken this in a different direction, of course. Additional functional phylanges and limbs. Transparent skin for that muscular system look. Cartilage puzzlebox appendices that protruded through the skin, holding your keys or other valuables. Fangs for the antisocial. Pain-free (or even pleasure center) hymens that regrew in a matter of hours. And the obligatory penis enlargement transplants, with customized nerve endings, shapes, and colors. Though the attempts at making them prehensile were as yet a failure.

But it was easy to listen to the protesters, the nay sayers, the bible thumpers and the technophobes. Forensics have been compromised due to the availability of reconstructed fingers complete with prints; matching dna samples; blood; and so forth. A dna match no longer was considered incontrovertible proof; only a sign of possible involvement or an expensive attempt to frame the dna owner. And there was a rise in identity theft. And paternity suits as dna splicing and sperm reconstruction became more publicly available. From as little as a drop of saliva, a tear, a loose hair.

I grimaced and pulled my dermasuit back on. As uncomfortable as it might be, I was going to sleep in the damn thing.

rabbit hole day )
escapewindow: escape window (Default)
January 27th is the Second Annual

LiveJournal Rabbit Hole Day!

Conquer Greenland. Sprout some extra limbs. Walk on water. Marry an insect.

July 2014

2021222324 2526


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jan. 26th, 2015 10:20 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios