Saturday, March 26, 2011
to Feed
Then, she was walking again. She had no idea what her direction was. She had no goal. She had no memory of her return.
But, just as twilight merged into night . . . she was back at the campus. She found herself in her car in the parking lot down the hill from the library.
She discovered that she was sitting at wheel, motionless, staring though the windshield into the dark of the lot, and trembling . . . shaking uncontrollable . . . unable to move.
It was not fear that made her tremble. Not terror. Not weakness. Not horror at having seen the dead man.
It was desire. An intense, fierce, utterly insatiable, desire. A desire that beyond the merely sexual, beyond the longing for family and success, even beyond her furious need for the approval of her mother and her professors.
Desire.
The desire to be at the gray car of the crime scene, to walk past the cop who had tried to stop her, to lift the tarp, to open the passenger side door, to reveal the gristly corpse, to open her mouth…
And feed.
But, just as twilight merged into night . . . she was back at the campus. She found herself in her car in the parking lot down the hill from the library.
She discovered that she was sitting at wheel, motionless, staring though the windshield into the dark of the lot, and trembling . . . shaking uncontrollable . . . unable to move.
It was not fear that made her tremble. Not terror. Not weakness. Not horror at having seen the dead man.
It was desire. An intense, fierce, utterly insatiable, desire. A desire that beyond the merely sexual, beyond the longing for family and success, even beyond her furious need for the approval of her mother and her professors.
Desire.
The desire to be at the gray car of the crime scene, to walk past the cop who had tried to stop her, to lift the tarp, to open the passenger side door, to reveal the gristly corpse, to open her mouth…
And feed.
Monday, March 21, 2011
...like gaping wounds in their brick skins.
Somehow she found herself walking away from the campus. The street grew increasingly tough. Where before there had been some shops and open stores, now it was all empty buildings, broken glass, and boarded up windows. Small groups of dangerous-looking men lounged at corners and along curbs.
Once, two thuggish teenagers detached themselves from such a group and followed. They called out after her. She continued walking without hearing them. They rushed after her and one reached out to catch her shoulder. “I’m talking to you, bitch…” But, then, at the sight of her face, her blank expression and great staring eyes, they fell back, fearing her for reasons they could not explain.
She went on her way.
The streets more empty still. Finally, even the loungers, the thugs, and the street people mumbling to themselves were gone. She was now among the abandoned mills and shuttered factories down by the river. Around her, they loomed empty and terrible, with black windows and vanished door like gaping wounds in their brick skins.
She could hear the water of the river. The river itself had been long ago covered over. It flowed now through a tunnel under the city, only emerging polluted and lifeless a dozen miles to the east. She could feel it! Cold, wet, black . . . dead. Under the streets. Under her feet. At the roots of the factories that had, long ago, channeled its energies into wheels and rotors, turning machines that produced rifles and pounded the skins of slaughtered pigs into shoes.
I’m home. The words came to her. I’m home.
Once, two thuggish teenagers detached themselves from such a group and followed. They called out after her. She continued walking without hearing them. They rushed after her and one reached out to catch her shoulder. “I’m talking to you, bitch…” But, then, at the sight of her face, her blank expression and great staring eyes, they fell back, fearing her for reasons they could not explain.
She went on her way.
The streets more empty still. Finally, even the loungers, the thugs, and the street people mumbling to themselves were gone. She was now among the abandoned mills and shuttered factories down by the river. Around her, they loomed empty and terrible, with black windows and vanished door like gaping wounds in their brick skins.
She could hear the water of the river. The river itself had been long ago covered over. It flowed now through a tunnel under the city, only emerging polluted and lifeless a dozen miles to the east. She could feel it! Cold, wet, black . . . dead. Under the streets. Under her feet. At the roots of the factories that had, long ago, channeled its energies into wheels and rotors, turning machines that produced rifles and pounded the skins of slaughtered pigs into shoes.
I’m home. The words came to her. I’m home.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Butchered Meat
She started. “What?”
“There’s been an . . . an accident.”
She glanced at the street behind him. There was a parked car. Police were swarming over it. Paramedics had draped it with a white tarpaulin as if they were trying to shield the street from whatever was inside it.
For a moment she bristled. How dare they try to prevent her from …
There was a gust of wind from behind her. It was hot, and odd, and unexpected. The tarp on the car fluttered, then fell.
And she saw.
The rear passenger’s side was open. On the seat inside was . . . blood, and a body. A body so mutilated that at first she thought it was butchered meat. Then, she realized that that was a leg, that was a torso, that was a human head, skinned like an animal brought to slaughter.
“Oh, Christ!” the cop said, and hurried away to help wrestle the tarp back into place.
For a moment, she stood where she was. Then she turned and walked away . . . hurriedly . . .unthinkingly. She had no idea where she was going.
“There’s been an . . . an accident.”
She glanced at the street behind him. There was a parked car. Police were swarming over it. Paramedics had draped it with a white tarpaulin as if they were trying to shield the street from whatever was inside it.
For a moment she bristled. How dare they try to prevent her from …
There was a gust of wind from behind her. It was hot, and odd, and unexpected. The tarp on the car fluttered, then fell.
And she saw.
The rear passenger’s side was open. On the seat inside was . . . blood, and a body. A body so mutilated that at first she thought it was butchered meat. Then, she realized that that was a leg, that was a torso, that was a human head, skinned like an animal brought to slaughter.
“Oh, Christ!” the cop said, and hurried away to help wrestle the tarp back into place.
For a moment, she stood where she was. Then she turned and walked away . . . hurriedly . . .unthinkingly. She had no idea where she was going.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Standards Of Genuine Scholarship
Well, time to go. She collected her possessions, locked the door of her office, and headed down the stairs. She continued her meditations as she walked. Yes, it was best that Lester left. Indeed, she had wondered if he ever was going to get the message that he wasn’t wanted. She had sent his dissertation back a dozen times, now. And he still kept turning in re-writes. Was he really so dense as to not get the message? At least, not until now?
Apparently. He was a dim sort of a man, it seemed. She made the inevitable Women’s Studies joke about all men being dim. But, then, there was still something . . . troubling … about the whole affair.
She felt no guilt about her role in the business. If anything, she was proud. It was the distasteful but necessary duty of a genuine scholar to Maintain The Standards Of Genuine Scholarship.
But, still, she felt a little bewildered by Lester’s failure to submit to her directives, and to understand her . . . well . . . her intellectual dominance. She had explained to him, again and again, that his work wasn’t good. That he did things wrong. That “We Don’t Do Things That Way In the Academy.”
It never occurred that her that what she actually meant was We didn’t do things that way at my college back in New York. It never occurred to her that anyone existed outside the tiny circle around Spitter-Cane, a few of her colleagues, and the group of privileged graduate students who fought (ruthlessly) for her attention. It was a war that Putridrine had, herself, consistently won. No one was more grimly determined, more energetic, more willing to use any means to gain her professor’s approval. Even if, as it frequently did, it meant sabotaging the efforts . . . destroying the careers! . . . of others.
But . . . Lester . . .
She walked along the sidewalk to where she’d parked her car. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the police cars and the ambulance until she was almost on them. Then, abruptly, she was facing the yellow tape and the brown uniforms of the police. What the hell?
A policeman was standing in front of her. “Please, ma’am, go back around the other way.”
Apparently. He was a dim sort of a man, it seemed. She made the inevitable Women’s Studies joke about all men being dim. But, then, there was still something . . . troubling … about the whole affair.
She felt no guilt about her role in the business. If anything, she was proud. It was the distasteful but necessary duty of a genuine scholar to Maintain The Standards Of Genuine Scholarship.
But, still, she felt a little bewildered by Lester’s failure to submit to her directives, and to understand her . . . well . . . her intellectual dominance. She had explained to him, again and again, that his work wasn’t good. That he did things wrong. That “We Don’t Do Things That Way In the Academy.”
It never occurred that her that what she actually meant was We didn’t do things that way at my college back in New York. It never occurred to her that anyone existed outside the tiny circle around Spitter-Cane, a few of her colleagues, and the group of privileged graduate students who fought (ruthlessly) for her attention. It was a war that Putridrine had, herself, consistently won. No one was more grimly determined, more energetic, more willing to use any means to gain her professor’s approval. Even if, as it frequently did, it meant sabotaging the efforts . . . destroying the careers! . . . of others.
But . . . Lester . . .
She walked along the sidewalk to where she’d parked her car. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the police cars and the ambulance until she was almost on them. Then, abruptly, she was facing the yellow tape and the brown uniforms of the police. What the hell?
A policeman was standing in front of her. “Please, ma’am, go back around the other way.”
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
her intellectual superiority
Linda Putridrine, Ph.D., associate professor (tenure track), winner of the Dickens-Luz Prize for Advanced Scholarship, and The Darling of the Department, was in the women’s toilet on the third floor. The Faculty Only one. That locked. So students wouldn’t go in.
She finished, listening to the rush of urine into the bowl. For some reason, that sound had always pleased her. It made her feel she had Done Something. If she had thought about it—which she hadn’t—she might have wondered at the satisfaction she felt at such moments. She might have realized that her pleasure came from the days of her extreme youth, from when her mother would glow with pride and sing her praises for having tinkled in the little pot rather than in her pants.
She finished and cleaned herself, using the last of the paper to do so. It never occurred to her to replace the roll with a fresh one from the cabinet under the sink. Such things were for lesser people. When she left, too, she declined to wash her hands. If her son had done the same, she would have punished him without mercy. But, her own flesh . . . that was inevitably pure.
Returning to her office, she sat behind her desk and wondered. What a bizarre day! With Lester Graham, she meant. That weird, weird confrontation at the defense . . . the way he’d walked out like that . . . the bizarre offer of “help.”
On some level, if course, it was a good thing. She had long ago decided that he was not intelligent enough to be a real academic. He didn’t deserve a Ph.D. He didn’t have the driving, burning, critical intelligence necessary to be a rigorous scholar. Not like herself, for instance. Why, during her own stint at graduate school, her major professor . . . Dr. Grace Sptter-Cane … had said, “You know, you are the sharpest graduate student I’ve ever had.” She felt warm and pleased at the memory. Dear, dear professor Spitter-Cane.
She gathered up books and papers, her laptop, and prepared to leave. Yet, if it was best that Lester had elected to leave the program, what a strange way to do it. That costume! Those contact lenses! The seeming indifference to his committee’s intellectual superiority. Well, to her intellectual superiority.
That was the important part.
She finished, listening to the rush of urine into the bowl. For some reason, that sound had always pleased her. It made her feel she had Done Something. If she had thought about it—which she hadn’t—she might have wondered at the satisfaction she felt at such moments. She might have realized that her pleasure came from the days of her extreme youth, from when her mother would glow with pride and sing her praises for having tinkled in the little pot rather than in her pants.
She finished and cleaned herself, using the last of the paper to do so. It never occurred to her to replace the roll with a fresh one from the cabinet under the sink. Such things were for lesser people. When she left, too, she declined to wash her hands. If her son had done the same, she would have punished him without mercy. But, her own flesh . . . that was inevitably pure.
Returning to her office, she sat behind her desk and wondered. What a bizarre day! With Lester Graham, she meant. That weird, weird confrontation at the defense . . . the way he’d walked out like that . . . the bizarre offer of “help.”
On some level, if course, it was a good thing. She had long ago decided that he was not intelligent enough to be a real academic. He didn’t deserve a Ph.D. He didn’t have the driving, burning, critical intelligence necessary to be a rigorous scholar. Not like herself, for instance. Why, during her own stint at graduate school, her major professor . . . Dr. Grace Sptter-Cane … had said, “You know, you are the sharpest graduate student I’ve ever had.” She felt warm and pleased at the memory. Dear, dear professor Spitter-Cane.
She gathered up books and papers, her laptop, and prepared to leave. Yet, if it was best that Lester had elected to leave the program, what a strange way to do it. That costume! Those contact lenses! The seeming indifference to his committee’s intellectual superiority. Well, to her intellectual superiority.
That was the important part.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
A Blood Red Sky
There was another quake. The infinite weight that crushed him into the mass was . . . less! He could squirm about! He could use one hand to free the other!
And . . . there! He heard something! A deep rumbling . . . a cranking sound. A machine?
Another quake . . . and light!
There was a crack in the mass of corpses above him, and a tiny, glorious spark of red light.
He threw himself into action. He clawed at the bodies around him. He felt their blood streaming beneath his nails.
And . . . then . . .
He burst to the surface!
He forced himself out of the blackness, out from the blood and bodies, between the skulls and the rotting flesh.
He stood on a mountain of the dead.
But he didn’t look at them. He only stared upward, into a blood red sky, and felt the icy air fill his desperately working lungs…
He was free.
And . . . there! He heard something! A deep rumbling . . . a cranking sound. A machine?
Another quake . . . and light!
There was a crack in the mass of corpses above him, and a tiny, glorious spark of red light.
He threw himself into action. He clawed at the bodies around him. He felt their blood streaming beneath his nails.
And . . . then . . .
He burst to the surface!
He forced himself out of the blackness, out from the blood and bodies, between the skulls and the rotting flesh.
He stood on a mountain of the dead.
But he didn’t look at them. He only stared upward, into a blood red sky, and felt the icy air fill his desperately working lungs…
He was free.
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