Mama's Boy and Other Dark Tales (29 page)

"I flung the car door open and started running—I ran and ran until I blacked out and found myself outside my house on Oak Street. I staggered in through the kitchen door and saw my mother crying at the table.

"'Oh, Henry. Thank god you're here. Your daddy's gonna send me to prison!’ She clawed at my shirt and pulled me to her.

"'You've gotta stop him!'

"I heard Daddy's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. I pulled away from Mama, watching around the corner of the kitchen door as Daddy sat down in his big chair. He was in his uniform, ready to go to the station. He laid his holster and gun on the table beside him and covered his face with his hands. Deep wrenching sobs poured out of him.

"Mama moved up behind me. Wrapping her arms around my chest, she pressed her soft body against my back. ‘You've gotta stop him, Henry. He's gonna take me away,’ she whispered, her hot breath against my neck. ‘Then you and me won't have no more special lovin'.’ Sliding her hand down from my chest to my crotch, she massaged until I was hard and aching for her, needing her. ‘There ain't nobody ever gonna love you like your mama,’ she said as she nudged me toward the living room. ‘Stop him,’ she hissed. ‘Please, Henry...'

"I moved like a zombie, I didn't think. In a few big steps, I came up beside my daddy. I grabbed his gun from the holster, and he looked up with his face all wet from tears. His eyes flickered with confusion as I clicked off the safety and pulled the trigger, shooting my daddy in the face. With the stink of the spent bullet in my nose, I dropped the gun on the floor and ran from the house. The next morning I woke up in the baseball dugout with my father's dried blood splattered on my face and hands.

"Right then, the movie in my mind went black, and my vision returned to the Rutt Family Chapel.

"
Oh, poor Henry's crying. He misses his daddy,
said the cackler.

"
No, I think he wants his mommy,
another voice whined from behind me.

"
Awwww, too bad,
said Keiko.
SHE'S DEAD! But we'll take care of you, won't we girls?

"Loud shouts of agreement followed. One of the fresher corpses stepped in front of me. She waved the buck knife in my face, and I recognized the high school ring dangling loose around her decaying finger. Wendy! I closed my eyes. With a sharp pain in my right hand, my eyes opened wide and I saw that my wrists were tied to the arms of the chair. Wendy was pressing the knife blade against my pinkie.

"
They say an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
She grinned, and the corners of her mouth cracked open.
But I say, an eye for an eye and a finger for a finger! How about it, Henry?

"I watched in terror as she raised her hand and brought it down hard on the back of the blade. Thwack! My pinkie tumbled to the floor. Black spots filled my vision.

"Someone slapped me to bring me around, then one by one the ladies took turns amputating my fingers. Some were quick, but others just hacked away until they got to the bone, then they hacked some more. When I passed out, they slid the knife across my throat to warn me to stay awake. I wasn't sure what was worse, death by slow amputation or a quick slit to the jugular. But I opened my eyes by instinct, forced to watch as my fingers dropped one by one to the floor. When they were gone, the girls moved on to my toes. My mind was fading, but I was jolted awake when Wendy shouted.

"
I get dibs on his prick!

"Someone chimed in,
Henry IS a prick.
They all laughed and cackled and coughed their agreement.

"
It's a pitiful little thing
, said Wendy,
but it'll make a nice MEMENTO. Huh, Henry?

"In agony, tears streamed down my face as my last toe tumbled to the floor with a quiet plop. Boney fingers untied me and lifted me from the chair. My head was spinning as they laid my naked body on the altar.

"A small corpse, unrecognizable from decay, came forward and stepped up beside me.

"
The honor is yours, Miss Lilly. You earned it
, said Wendy as she ceremoniously handed over the buck knife.

"With withered bone fingers, the corpse reached up and lifted my flaccid penis by the tip.

"
I was your first, Henry, but this is your last!

"With a quick slice of the blade, my severed penis came off in her hand."

Henry's story ended, but he continued to rock and stare with blind eyes. He was gone for good this time. Rebecca watched his rhythmic movements, confused by the mixture of feelings that surged through her. She got to her feet and paced the room with jagged tension building in her mind. The old rage welled inside her as she turned back to the silent head of clay, its twisted mouth mocking the pathetic man rocking catatonic in his chair.

Rebecca reached out, gripped the knife still embedded in the clay, and yanked it free. Feeling its slippery weight in the palm of her hand, her body trembled as she turned her hot gaze on Henry. She knew one swift slice of revenge would spill his blood, his evil draining away with his life.

She closed her eyes and envisioned a world without Henry Rutt, without the object of her life's purpose, her life's origin. She imagined him released and free from the torture of his silent purgatory, and she smiled.

"No,” she whispered. Instead, she let the knife fall from her hand, turning away from Henry's scarred face, the drool hanging elastic from his chin.

Before she called the orderly to take Henry away, she slipped the remaining vials of hallucinogenic from her desk into her pocket. Opening the spray bottle, she dumped the contents into a planter by the window. As she tossed the bottle in the trash, she let out a desperate cry for the orderly.

Mom: It's finally over. I love you.

Morning sun blazed through the windows as Becky sat at the empty desk, the packing boxes stacked around her ready to be taken away. There was a knock at the door just as she completed her letter.

"Come in."

Rob Silvani entered the room with a huge bouquet of pink roses. “I know they're your favorite, so I hope they cheer you up."

"Thanks, Rob,” she said, after inhaling their sweet scent.

"Look, Becky, I know we've had our problems, but I want you to know how sorry I am about your job. You've worked so hard. To lose it all over a knife? It's ridiculous."

"It's okay, Rob. With the disaster I made of Frank Doe's case, I don't deserve to stay."

"That wasn't your fault, Beck. Frankly, it's lucky you uncovered his violent behavior with that knife before he was transferred. I don't think even my father and his sacred budget would move him now."

"Well, I guess that's one good thing,” she said. “And Rob, I'm sorry about everything. If you still want to have that dinner with me, I'm free.” She gave him a weary smile.

"That's a deal."

"Oh, and could you please do something for me?"

"Of course, anything, Beck."

"It's my resignation letter. Give it to your father for me. He needs it for the files."

Rebecca turned back to her letter and signed it with a final flourish:

Sincerely Yours,

Rebecca Ann Lystner

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fine Print

Like a lot of my stories, the inspiration for “Fine Print” came in an unexpected image that flashed in my mind. I saw a man on wet pavement holding his critically injured wife, which became the opening scene for the story. Thanks to my sassy voyeur of a muse, this type of image acts like a window—if I look closely, a story unfolds in little clips or scenes, like a movie in my head.

"Fine Print” originally began (and failed) as a series for The Horror Library. Parts one and two were well received, with frequent inquiries about the missing conclusion. Well, life interfered and the story went cold. Although I hate to fail at anything—or worse, disappoint wonderful readers—I'm glad I let this story stew for a while.

Having the chance to revisit “Fine Print” for the collection, I've been a little self-indulgent with it in a couple of ways. I let the story wind out a bit and tried my hand at a slower pacing. When I read the work of master writers, I'm always amazed at their confidence to let a story breathe, like the space right after the arc in the last movement of a symphony. They don't race relentlessly from start to finish but rather they allow the reader time to breathe and sink more deeply into the story. At the risk of boring you, I gave this pacing thing a try in “Fine Print.” I fear it may have fallen into the yawn category, but a gal's got to take a chance now and again.

My second indulgence and the real fun of this story was inspired by Wendy, my online buddy from Australia. At the Shocklines message board she stated a burning desire to be “offed” in a story, so in a grand inspiration I granted her wish in the rewrite of
Mama's Boy
. When I posted a thread called “I Killed Wendy,” the floodgates opened and I discovered that a lot of folks wanted in on the action. Consequently, most of the characters in “Fine Print” are guest appearances by my beloved Shocklines friends and colleagues. I must confess that I had entirely too much fun killing them off ... in a literary sense, of course!

Gravy Pursuits

"Gravy Pursuits” was born in AJ Brown's flash fiction group with a prompt from Stephen Sommerville: food. The first line of the story popped in my head almost immediately, and Leonard Hogtire was born. It was one of those wonderful stories that basically wrote itself. Next time you have a little gravy on your mashed potatoes, be sure to remember Leonard and his “Gravy Pursuits."

Beach of Dreams

"Beach of Dreams” is set on a fictional Pacific island, and since I moved to the beach recently, my environment seems to be seeping into my stories.

BoD was an AJ Brown's flash fiction group inspiration from Dameion Becknell's simple prompt: monsters. The image of dead or sleeping giants on a beach popped into my mind and compelled me to write the story so
I
could find out what they were. I wrote a really rough first draft (sorry Tom!) for my submission to the Borderlands Press Boot Camp, and the Hawaiian names used were in honor of Tom Monteleone (Coma), F. Paul Wilson (Paulo) and Elizabeth Monteleone (Peka). These amazing instructors and my fellow “grunts” gave me a great deal of help with a very challenging story.

As an experiment, I let my imagination run amuck with this tale. Like I told my HWA mentor, Lisa Morton: going so deeply into that imagination-run-amuck zone felt like a loss of control, but it was also a great lesson in learning to ride the dragon without being eaten alive in the process.

Also, I'd like to apologize to the Hawaiian people for any mangling of their beautiful language in this story. I actually have a secret desire to be Hawaiian, but alas, I was born in Maryland.

Spider Love

This was yet another story born of the flash fiction group; this time the prompt was from AJ Brown. His subject was ... uh, spiders. I know, what a surprise, but as usual my mind did a twisted variation on a theme, and I must confess it was very satisfying story to write.

Orange and Golden

Like so many people, the Hurricane Katrina disaster was a wrenching experience to witness from a distance and unfathomable to imagine living through. There were many images that brought me to tears during the coverage of the aftermath, but one in particular left me sobbing: in the midst of the makeshift camp set up at an underpass in New Orleans, a young man was reunited with his dog. He was wracked with sobs, his face buried in the big dog's fur. It took me to the heart of the disaster—not just the physical disaster but the visceral emotional devastation. I wrote “Orange and Golden” with tears streaming down my face.

The Sea Orphan

"The Sea Orphan” was a failed attempt at writing a story for a pirate anthology—failed in that I totally missed the deadline. Why, you might ask? Because I became strangely obsessed with the whole pirate mythos—involuntarily, at first. I must confess I knew almost nothing about pirates, had never been very interested, but I was enticed by the money to give it a shot (oh yes, greed—the great literary motivator ... that and hunger). When my husband discovered my interest in pirates, he declared himself my personal concierge into the wonderful world of the high seas.

My hubby is a very laid back guy, but certain topics, like pirates, spark in him a kind of fiendish enthusiasm ... and I became the unwitting pupil of this fiend. First, there was the mandatory reading of
Treasure Island,
which I pooh-poohed. Turns out I loved it! Second was a week-long festival of pirate movies, ala such classics as
Captain Blood
and
The Sea Hawk
.

You're beginning see my husband's dastardly plan, aren't you? That's right, draw me in slowly with the entertainment angle, then
BAMM!
, number three hits home: hardcore research. He was a slave driver: pirates versus privateers, ships and weaponry, pirate language, global trade routes during the pirate's heyday, and on and on. You get the picture, and I suppose you can see why I missed the deadline for the anthology. I left the story unfinished figuring I'd never place a pirate tale, but when the opportunity to write the collection came around, I jumped at the chance to visit the pirates again. Even though I whined about it, I actually had a blast doing the research and now I'm a true blue blimey fan. Aaargh!

Close Shave

This nasty little ditty was written for the Insidious Reflections Magazine Gross Out contest. Inspired by challenging myself to think of “gross” from a cringingly feminine perspective, I was perversely proud to have won third place in the contest.

Connected at the Hip

I submitted Connected at the Hip for Wicked Karnival Magazine's 2006 Flash Fiction Calendar. Born in June, I chose the twins of Gemini as my subject matter, and I was thrilled to win a spot in the calendar amongst writers like Elizabeth Massie, James Newman, and Bob Freeman, along with Tom Moran's brilliant art that graced every page.