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Showing posts with label horror fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horror fiction. Show all posts
Monday, February 27, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 28, 2011
He found new strength in hate
He found new strength in hate.
He’d born to absent parents who’d been too busy with the careers to give a shit about him. He’d grown up bullied and beaten on playgrounds and in classrooms. And then, as an adult, he’d gone from the failure to failure. He’d had no friends, no family . . . known no gentle touch. And then . . . the dissertation committee.
Bastards! Stinking pompous bastards.
And finally . . . finally . . . he was Here.
That’s quite enough, thank you very much.
The hate grew in him. The hate saved him. It filled him. It gave him new energy.
He would be avenged. He would find out who put him here. He would track them down and destroy them.
He’d born to absent parents who’d been too busy with the careers to give a shit about him. He’d grown up bullied and beaten on playgrounds and in classrooms. And then, as an adult, he’d gone from the failure to failure. He’d had no friends, no family . . . known no gentle touch. And then . . . the dissertation committee.
Bastards! Stinking pompous bastards.
And finally . . . finally . . . he was Here.
That’s quite enough, thank you very much.
The hate grew in him. The hate saved him. It filled him. It gave him new energy.
He would be avenged. He would find out who put him here. He would track them down and destroy them.
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