The Bad Places (Short Story 2)

Rumor goes that something bad happened in those woods, and if enough bad things happen in a place, if enough blood gets spilled, or a bad enough thing happens in a place, they say the land itself gets a taste for it. Animals won't go near the place, and nothing can grow in such a blood-thirsty place. You find a patch of forest where there ain't nothing but sand, you get the hell outta there and you don't take no souvenirs. Kids on dares go into the woods, desperate to prove themselves; prove their bravery. Most of them come out the next morning; a bit shook up, sure, but still breathing. Still untouched and alive. But there are always a few, I'd guess about one in fifteen, that go into those woods and find that place where the bad things happened and they never come out again. Cops go into their sniffer-dogs each time a distressed parents call them, but they never find hide nor hair of them missin' kids. Most of those cops are the kids who got out of those woods, and them that didn't go on to be law-folk went on the be preacher-men, or nuns.
Me? Oh, I was one of them kids, right enough. I never did get a shiny badge or fancy hat though; couldn't stand all those rules to be a deputy and I sure as hell couldn't stand all the hypocrisy in the churches. No, I'm one of the odd ones out. There are a few of those kids that go into those woods, they don't go missin', but they never really come outta those woods. They live right up next to it; some of the wilder ones even live within its borders. We warn away the tourists that come to see out woods that folk never get come out of; and when the damn fools still want to press on, we lead them around the forest's edges, far away from the Bad Place. We help the cops look for the kids, though both parties know they have a snowball's chance in hell of finding them.
I've heard them in the town, you know. They've started talk about building a monument in the cemetery, a monument to the Lost Ones, all them little kids that went into those woods and never got a chance at havin' a real go at life. That is beside the point, though. You're not here to hear about a monument, though, you're here to learn about the Lost Ones. You're hear to chronicle their stories, the story of our forest; you're here to learn their stories, aren't you Mr. Riddell? Yes, I know about you and your books. There ain't much to do but read out here in the boonies. But it's getting late, and I'm getting old, so I'd best start telling you this story.
The folk that were here before us, the Native Americans, told stories of a creature called a 'wendigo'. The Wendigo was an evil creature that used to be human, before starvation drove it to cannibalism. Now, no matter how much flesh it consumes, it is always hungry, always looking for more food to quench that all-consuming fire in its gut. They say that children give it the most reprieve for that pain, because life has not robbed them of the joy of life, their imaginations, which give their little bodies more life. I've heard a better explanation somewhere, I can't remember where, but it goes that the energy of unspent days is higher in them, and the younger the child, the higher the energy. The higher the energy, the longer the fires of hell burning in their stomachs are banked.
The preacher-men tell us different, as they usually do when faced with pagan worship. They tell us of wingless angels; mean, ugly bastards who can sing sweeter than anything you'd ever heard, who sided on the wrong side of Heaven's war and got tossed down with the Lightbringer. They tell us that if you make and break a deal with the Devil, it'll be them wingless angels that come tear you limb from limb and drag your soul to hell. Most folk stop believing in those tales when they stop believin' in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Their mistake. There's some things in this world that can't be explained by anything except those old tales.
When I took that dare, I was about thirteen years old, just moved into town with my folks and desperate to find friends. I fell in with a couple of girls who liked to party, even then; their names were Lula and Kadie. Lula grew up fast and moved to the city even faster; Kadie settled down with a husband and a couple of ankle biters soon as she graduate high school. They invited me along to a few of their parties when I first got in, and I went along. A couple of guys at a party I tagged along to, must've been the fourth or fifth one, thought it'd be some fun to spook the new girl. They got me pretty buzzed off some 'shine and took me to the forest. Told me there was a big patch of weed growin' somewhere beyond the treeline, told me to run in and grab some. I didn't want to go in, the forest was wicked dark, the trees all grown in close together so no light from the full moon overhead got through, not to mention Lula and Kadie had thought it hilarious to tell me some of the forest's tales before getting here. I'd grown past all the folktales and fairytales and myths I'd lived off of before we'd come here, but those deep, dark woods made me feel like that small child again, curled up in a corner reading away all of her day's problems. Those guys kept goadin', laughin' at how I was too afraid to go in, laughin' at the stupid little city girl. Anger burned away fear and I walked into the forest. Stupid little kid.
I walked straight, straight as anyone could in almost complete darkness. Anything leafy that brushed against me I felt for the distinct shape of the marijuana leaf so I could get the hell outta there.
It felt like an eternity before I saw light. I figured I'd walked out the other side of the forest. I almost tripped in the sand, almost cracked my head open on a gnarled, twisted tree. The moon was bright overhead, everything washed monochrome. White sand, black trees, black shadows. I didn't know where the hell I was, a lost and terrified little girl. I almost screamed when something moved. A black shape rose from the blacker shadows, it's eyes glinting white in the moonlight. Twice as tall as me, arms that hung past its knees, it was covered in short, shaggy fur that obscured its painfully thin frame. Its mouth was too wide, looking like the Joker's scarred mouth, like the Cheshire Cat's grin, stretching from ear to ear, with far too many needle-like teeth crammed in. It moved towards me and I was petrified with fear, as able to move as the redwood trees in California.
It was almost on me when I regained my voice and started to sing, as I did in nightmares. I started with 'Somewhere I Belong', which turned into 'Spanish Ladies', which turned into '21st Century Cure'. Through all these songs it stood there, watching me, listening to me, with moonlight glinting in its eyes and from its finger-long fangs, giving the shaggy fur silver highlights. It was when I started in on 'My Ain' True Love' that it began to sing with me. It tilted it's face to the sky, closed it's moon-silvered eyes, and it began to sing, with it's fangs glinting like diamonds with each silvery note. My voice faded as its voice eclipsed mine. It sounded like everything good and bad in life; love, sunshine on your face, funeral bells, the sound of a knife grating on bone and squelching in blood, rain on your windows as you curl up under a quilt, pages turning in a good book. Moonlight was turning the tears on both our faces into quicksilver when I finally regained control of my limbs and ran away as quickly as I could, breaking free of the spell of it's voice.
I got outta that forest quicker than anyone woulda thought, almost brained myself on a few of them trees, that creature's haunting melody following me the whole way. Took years before I could forget that sound. Now I live here, helpin' the others look for the Lost Ones. Sometimes I'll catch a fragment of song coming from the Bad Place, the place where nothing grows but black trees and blacker shadows, where the ground hasn't known anything but white sand and crimson blood and quicksilver tears for many decades. I've had to stop myself many times; each time I catch that fragment of song, or when the moon is full overhead and the night is somehow darker than a witch's bra. I haven't gone back to that circle of white sand and twisted black trees. It ain't in the cards just yet, but I know I'll sing with it once more before I die. Just like the others.
((A/N: Mr. Riddell is based off of Christie Riddell, a character from some of Charles de Lint's stories. I would highly suggest reading some of them.))

Ladders Up My Back

Somethings that people who don't will never know: A shallow cut across your shoulder feels like a sunburn when a backpack strap rubs across it, that scratchy almost-pain of tender skin. Another across you palm feels like the sticky slice of a paper cut. That when you make a new cut, you map it's location as carefully as any navigator. Will it show when I wear my favorite T-shirt? What about if I wear shorts? Or if my shirt rides up, will people be able to see lines as sharp and white as the lines on a coke-heads dresser? You start to get a feeling for how deep you can go before the scars will be noticeable, how much pressure to put on the blade, how quickly you should drag the sharpened edge across your skin. You learn where to cut. You make sure you have whatever you need to clean up, ointments and bandages at the ready. You take care of your razor-edges weapons. You learn all these things quickly, because if you don't you might bleed out if you cut too deep in the wrong place, or a serious infection might tell the whole world your secret, or if something tears the healing skin then the scar could become as visible as the Grand Fucking Canyon rending flesh apart. You learn very quickly who will look at you like some kind of freak. Those are the ones with the pristine skin, the ones who don't know how good it feels to open yourself up and feel that heated blood slide across your skin like affirmation that you are ALIVE, more alive than you have felt in years.
Then you get turned in by your roommate who came back from class early and as soon as the door opened you know you've made a huge fucking mistake, because they're booking it to the nurse's office and all of a sudden there's a very somber nurse in your doorway and you want to scream that there is nothing wrong with you and any concerns they have are invalid because you are so fucking careful it would shock them. You aren't looking to die, you just want to know that you're alive and that you have control over this body that suddenly seemed so foreign not even a year ago. Then comes the whirlwind of you mother crying as she drives you to the nearest psych ward, people asking you why you've marked your body in all these ways.
Years go by and you're healthy and cured and don't worry, I'm better now. Your memory is going and you're only twenty-five. People don't listen when you tell them that your greatest fear is coming true, that one day you'll look in the mirror and not recognize the face staring back at you. The doctor says it's just your ADD, because you don't concentrate enough to make memories. You know that's not true because you've done your job perfectly for almost a year and now you're forgetting to lock the safe and finish your closing paperwork. Things that once came easily to you slide out of your head like your mind is slicked with Crisco. Moon-silvered edges shine in your mind, blood turning black in the cold light. The pain is exquisite after so long, a warm blanket on a cold day. You turn your fingers into rulers, red angry hash marks that give you a checklist in your mind when you run your unmarked thumbs along them. Colors snap back into focus, and you can feel yourself breath air into non-foreign lungs. You feel your heartbeat for the first time in forever.
((Author's Note: I do not condone self-harm, especially since there are so many things that can go wrong, even if you are careful. Talk to someone who will listen and go find help. You are not worthless.))

Journal Entry 1

I'm finding it hard to get outta bed these days. I dig that whoever eventually reads what I write on here doesn't want to hear a bunch of whiny shit on how hard my life is or some crap like that. Truth is, my life is pretty damn sweet. The only thing I really can complain about is how hard my parents ride me, how they don't approve of... well... anything I do, but it's trivial. I get why they want me to finish college, get a career, not sit around all day reading with my head in the clouds; but they don't get that becoming the workaholic daughter they've always wanted would kill whatever makes me who I am. I don't know. Most of the time I feel like a parasite, and the rest of it I'm writing stories in my head. Anyway, I guess that's enough whining for the night.
Good night dear readers.

Murderess (Short Story 1)

It is the eighteenth of October and she is watching as he breathes on his hands, keeping them warm. The warm exhalation is visible in the late night air, it looks like smoke curling around his fingers. She watches as he idly scratches behind his left ear, watching for a cab. He shuffles his feet, the soles of his black leather dress shoes click against the pavement of the sidewalk. He roughly pulls the collar of his long black over coat up before shoving his hands into the pockets. He is irritable, she can see that in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyebrows draw closer together. She wonders if he is regretting cutting his light brown hair so close to his scalp, if it had been longer it might've offered his ears a bit of warmth. She watches as he starts walking toward where she is hidden in the shadows.
She can't wait, excitement bubbling in her veins, but she forces herself to remain still. She forces the giggle back down her throat and hitches her shoulders higher so the collar of her coat covers more of her neck from the chill breeze that has been caressing her since she started watching him, almost fifteen minutes ago.
'Has it already been that long?' She muses to herself. My, my, my, how time does fly. This time there is no stopping the giggle. It bursts from her throat like a breaking dam, making the man coming towards her jump. There's no helping it now. Quickly, now; no cars coming, no witnesses. Perfect. High heels clicking as she comes out of the side street she has been hiding on, heading towards him. Now! GO! The man is starting to smile as he sees her, a beautiful, well-dressed woman alone at night. He starts to say something until he sees the look on her face.
She has twisted it into a slightly drunken seductive look, the kind that any man looking for a one-night stand loves to see. She purrs something into his ear and he nods eagerly. She grabs his hand and leads him to a place she knows. The knife is hidden, the steel of the blade cold against her skin. It scrapes gently across her skin, like a lover's teeth. This man will be her third, and that alone is enough to make her smile.

Opening Lines

There's something almost terrifying about this. Well, maybe not terrifying. Perhaps unnerving would be a better word. Putting so many thoughts out where anyone can read them on a whim, before spinning on to someone else's words. Who knows? Maybe I'll be the only one reading this.

Anyway, enough of that. Time for a little bit of what to expect from this drivel.

-There will be language and content of an offensive nature. I am not a saint, nor do I pretend to be, and I will try to keep things as clean as possible. It will not be a contest to see how many times I can swear in a sentence, and there will be a warning at the top of a post containing more than... let's say three mild swear words.

-I'm starting this blog as a way to keep writing while I am blocked on the few stories I have going. I will try to post at least once a day, it may be a post on what happened to me that day or it may be some writing of a fictional nature. I will try to keep these separate, but sometimes the lines will blur. I will try my best not to ramble during journal entries.

-I'm not the most organized of people (in fact organization and I are engaged in a 21-year long battle of sorts), but I will try to label things according to content.

-Anything that's posted be me is mine. Please do not copy it and write it off as your own. It may not be the best of writing, but it is mine.

-If you like something I write, review it!

-If you hate something I write, review it! This blog will also be a learning process for me.

-The title of this blog is a play on a short story called "My Life as a Bird" by the fabulous author Charles de Lint. If you haven't read something by him, I highly recommend it!

And I think that's enough for today. See you tomorrow!