Quite right, you insightful demon, you. (Can you tell I’ve had a bit of the vino tonight?) Any way, your take on the last line is exactly the slant i’ve had on it when grappling with it. It would sign better if I had a better lead-in or a more progressive build-up to it. Thanks for the reinforcements on this thread. By the by…what is your non-urbis email address? I’ve some news I’d like to share with you, and I think that what I have to proffer would benefit the both of us, in either our individual pursuits or in a collabortive effort. However, I don’t wish to publish the information here, as I don’t feel it appropros for this forum. Drop me a line at wesguptill@hotmail.com – I’m dying to share (hey that sounds like a great lead-in line for a new story…) Well got to go…the keyboard’s starting to talk to me and it’s not saying nice things…
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Short Story / Dismal Expectations
I dreaded the end of the work day. I began wincing at four, the elctric buzz of the time-clock humming louder and louder in my head. My scalp itched and would have screamed if it had a voice. The itch spread and ran down my neck and to my extrremities as the minutes sprinted by. Beads of sweat dotted my forehead, giving me the appearance of a malaria victim. My tonuge was plastered with a dry, bitter paste that tasted suspiciously like battery acid. My nails tapped out a feverish tattoo on the desk, trying to keep time with my jumping legs. I was consumed with thoughts of running out the door at five, shrieking for help. But no help would come. No, I would have to go home. There was no sense in putting it off, for procrastination would only delay the inevitable. The reception would be worse for me if I showed up late. Thirty seconds late would be deemed a transgression and I would surely suffer for it. I had no choice. I had to go straight home. Home to Mother. The accelerator was all too obedient as I sped home.
I glanced at my watch, nervously calculating my time of arrival at my house. It was with some relief that I realized that I would make it with ten minutes to spare. The evening’s encounter might be more tolerable, I hoped.
My house came into view and my body became, reflexively, rigid. It was a tragedy that my home, lovely in its design and form, should cause me grief. It had once been my trophy, the reward for years of hard work and determination. Once upon a time, before Mother came to stay, I had made a ritual of standing on the lawn admiring my castle. I had done this without fail every evening, but now I would make straight for the door, slinking in like a fox into a hen-house.
Inside, I draped my coat over a chair and set my attache softly on the table.
I removed my shoes in a vain effort to avoid alerting Mother to my presence. I tried to sit, but her raspy voice brought me to my feet again.
“Christopher, what are you doing?”
“Uh, nothing Mother. Just coming up to see you,” I meekly replied. “Do you need anything before I come?”
“You know what I want,” came the response I had anticipated fearfully.
I nervously scanned the room for a stalling measure. Seconds ticked by, panic welling me. Think, think, I told myself.
Mother would have none of my faltering. “Come here, boy,” she commanded in a tone that wilted my heart. My legs lost their blood and my hands shook with trepidation.
“I said now!” My body hurled itself up the stairs before my mind had a chance to argue. My pulse pounded and I felt asphyxiated by anguish.
I paused a step from her room. I enhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the last supply of fresh air I would have for quite some time. My chest filled like a bellows fit to burst and I crossed her threshold. The cold air emanating from her bed struck me like a weight. The air in my chest chilled and I could almost feel my shadow shiver.
Mother raised a hand slowly, beckoning me to approach. I obeyed, hesitantly. I tried to maintain a safe distance, but her scaly fingers found purchase on my shirt sleeve. I was pulled from my feet. Tumbling forward, I came to rest upon her bloated abdomen. Before I could roll away, her meaty arm encircled my head. Effortlessly, she pulled me to her side. Her stench elicited a gag, my eyes tearing. She ignored the commentary.”So, what did you bring Mother today? Something good I trust. I am famished.” Sandpaper grated my face, her hands pawing at me. I looked helplessly up at her, begging silently for release. Her eyes were clouded with thick cataracts, void of life. A thick stream of spittle crept down her chin, spreading east and west when it met her enormous second chin. My stomach twisted in disgust.
“I’ve brought you your favorites,” I offered. Her grip tightened, and my breathing became syncopated. “Please, Mother, you’re choking me.”
Mother loosened her hold only slightly. “I’m sorry, my child. I get so excited when you come home that it’s hard to restrain myself. Now, let’s have a peek at dinner.”
I tensed and squirmed, but she would not let go. Rather, Mother pulled my face to hers, her hands clasped on either side of my head. They were as a vise, and I felt my jaw pop at the hinge. My mouth opened and I smelled her rancid breath. I tensed in anxiety as her maw clamped over my lips. I gagged furiously struggling for air. Then the world took on that sickeningly surreal texture it always assumed when Mother fed.
I screamed soundlessly as my mind was turned inside-out. My thoughts became solid. Memories of the day’s events streamed from their hiding places. None could escape Mother’s ravenous appetite. I was helpless as she gobbled down over-heard gossip and chewed upon thick slabs of heated debate. All emotion- mine, my co-workers’, the little Pakistani man who ran the delicatessen where I ate my lunch- was wrenched from my body and fled into her thick, undulating gullet.
She fed for hours, my mind eventually drained of all but the most rudimentary recollections of the day. Having finally sated herself, she released her hold and cast me aside like a spent napkin.
As I lay upon the floor, wheezing and sobbing, Mother belched. She smacked her fleshy lips and sucked at her teeth. Thoroughly spent, I had only the strength to make my exit. I crawled to the door. She noted my exit with a burst of flatulence, adding, “Tomorrow, I think I’d like to try something a little spicier. You will do that for Mother, won’t you, Christopher?”
I fell mercifully into unconsiousness in the hall. As tears journeyed down my cheeks my last thought was, God, I hate bringing her takeout.
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I like how the metaphors and descriptions in this give a slightly humorous tone to it while continuing to share in the narrators discomfort. The writing is excellent, it gives plenty of details without getting too wordy. I’d like to offer something that you could change but I enjoy it the way it is. Perhaps just more of the same, more of what you have, is all that I can suggest.
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Top class work. Brilliant concept brilliantly written – I think this one strikes a happy balance between your ‘harder’ to read pieces such as ‘Last Wishes’ and your ‘easier’ reads such as ‘The Folly of Want’.
I’m quite looking forward to the prospect of you expanding this into ‘Blender’, and I think that contentious last line would work better, providing a taster for the avenues a longer work might explore. As a short piece that last phrase does seem to sit uncomfortably askew from the flow of the rest of it.
February 24, 2006
Deleted User
Ha! Well, if that isn’t a brilliant, disgusting, troubling piece of work! I’m still … disturbed by the images. Like being French kissed by Aunt Helen or something. Yummy.
My natural mother (I was adopted) is, truly, much like this creature you described above. A decayed soul; a ravenous, cannibalistic voyeurism defines her days, to the point that she keeps the television on at all hours just so she doesn’t miss the latest evil, the bloodiest happenings, the most depraved actions of the newsday.
Thanks again for this. (Even though I now have this terrible urgent desire to go … brush my teeth.)
Shawn
Hey Wes. I just read your story and the reviews that go along with it. Let me just first say, don’t you dare change the last line. I think it opens up a new dimension of the story. You should think of it more as he is going to bring her home somebody else to feed on. That is what I took “takeout” to mean. You don’t really think that Christopher would endure this hell all by himself. Maybe when his mother’s appetite wants something “spicier” it means that she wants somebody else’s memories to feed on besides her own son’s. Very, Very stunning visualiztions in the piece, particularly in regards to the mother. I like the idea the other reviewer had about “psychic vampire”, but try not to label the mother. Let her remain unique. This could be a great story about how much love can make a son do for his mother.
This is an absolutely wonderful story! I was drawn into your world (Christopher’s) and couldn’t have escaped even if I wanted to, which I didn’t! I’ve read stories on psychic vampires before, and I don’t know if you realize that it’s what you’ve got here, but this may be the BEST I’ve ever read. The thought of somebody feeding off of memories and feelings that you experience throughout the day is just plain gruesome. I LOVE IT! The only thing, and it doesn’t detract from the story at all, is the last line. What other kind of “food” could he give her but “takeout”? In all reality, you could end it with her line of “something spicier” (maybe as he collapsed to the floor). Again, it doesn’t detract anything, but I thought I’d just throw that out there. 10, 10, and more 10! If I could go higher, I would!
First and foremost… ”extrremities” is spelled wrong.
Okay, now that I got that done with, I got encaptured by your story. After the first paragraph or two, I was sucked too much into the story to pay any attention to grammar errors… If they are there. I like how you keep the reader guessing what is so horrible until the fourth to the last paragraph. I think you have a wonderful gift, keep at it!!!
I really liked the way you spun this story. Normally people want the end of the work day to come rather than dreading it. This was a refreshing point of veiw which was very interesting.
I just noticed this in the Gallery and read it and it’s brilliant! Right from the first sentence I was thinking what? what?!! I loved phrases like ‘Home to Mother.’ and ’... when Mother fed.’ My mouth was actually hanging wide open by the time I got to the end, it was so horrendous. I got such an incredible and awful image of the Mother feeding on her son’s memories, thoughts and emotions. I love too the image of her lying there afterwards belching and farting in appreciation and asking for something spicier.
I found the last phrase a bit jarring though – it seemed a bit flip after such stomach churning description.
I think it is perfect just as it is really. But if you expanded it I would love to read and know more – what does he have to do to get away from his mother?
Brilliant!
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