Thursday, January 14, 2010

You're gonna need a body bag, I'll break bones you didn't know you had.

Hey guys, heres a little story I wrote a few weeks back. Just a quick little trip into my scary mind.

Also, I've started posting my short stories, fanfiction and drabbles over on Freedom Of Speech Fanfiction. Visit me!

Anyway, here's my story "Karma".


He watched her from across the street as she exited the club. His black 2001 Nissan Sentra was the perfect car for watching someone. It’s was low-key, and no one ever noticed it.

She was just as beautiful as ever. Her long, wavy brown hair blew gently in the night wind as she walked down the street to the parking garage where she had parked exactly 93 minutes before. She was wearing a bright red, strapless dress; it was cut above her knees and bunched slightly in the front, towards her breasts, causing several small but noticeable waves in the fabric.

He’d watched her buy it. Three weeks ago at a store called “Into the closet” it was a higher end-designer boutique downtown. Finding parking had been terrible, but eventually he managed to find a spot – two blocks up. So he’d parked and taken residence at one of the small cafĂ©’s across the street. He’s watched through the window as she picked up a long-sleeve black dress, and put it back. A Royal blue strapless met the same fate. But then he saw her pull the red dress off the rack, and immediately knew that she would purchase it. After all, red was her color.

He watched as she dug into her clutch for her car keys before walking into the parking garage. He turned the key and the Sentra’s engine gave a slight whine as it started. He waited for her red sports car to drive past him, and he waited until two cars were between them before he pulled out. He could never be too careful with this one.

He drove behind her for eight miles back to her apartment, where she parked in her usual space behind the four-story apartment building. She walked around to the front and held the railing down the stairs that led into her basement apartment from the sidewalk. He idled a few houses away until he saw her living room light click on, and with one last look towards the house, drove back to his own.

The next day was the first Sunday of the month, and he knew she wouldn’t leave her apartment until at least eight that night. She’d stop at Mediterraneo, a well-known restaurant on the other side of town. She’d have a cup of wine and purchase a bottle. From there she’d walk the streets of the city, doing nothing in particular. Talking to strangers, stopping into any shops or bakeries that were still open. She’d walk back to her car at nine thirty, and the drive to St Peter and Paul’s Cathedral.

He had plenty of time to fix himself a leisurely lunch and go over his plan a few more times. He picked the paper up from his front yard and gave a small wave to his next-door neighbor, Paula. She was in her sixties, and didn’t like him very much. Instead of returning the gesture she gave him a suspicious look and scurried back into her own house, forgetting about her own paper.

He shrugged, and wandered back into his own home, tossing the newspaper onto his kitchen table and pouring himself a cup of coffee. The headline today read “Police close to arrest in slicer murders”. The article went into all the gory details of the killer that had hunted had been preying on the city for almost a year, three young girls, all brutally raped and clinically sliced to pieces in their own apartments, their bodies then showered with love poems and photos and flowers. Sickening.

He couldn’t help but hum a little tune to himself as he read it.

Later, he read the instruction book to his digital camera. It had been working just fine this last year, but in the last four months any photo of his love he tried to take came out blurry and un-recognizable, as if he had been swinging it back and forth when the photo had been taken. Making several adjustments, he checked the battery one more time and pushed it into it’s case.

He took a shower and changed into a suit. He noted it was nearing seven thirty. He was running late.

She was wearing a black knee length skirt with a long sleeve flared cream top, and heels.
She sat at her normal spot on a stool at the bar and the bartender approached her with an order of red wine without being asked. He watched her from a booth, picking at his salad.
She sipped daintily and dabbed her lips after the first sip. She handed it back with a shake of her head. The bartended nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later he returned with a different bottle, and she smiled at him and nodded after sampling it.

She sat and talked to the man, who took his break to have a conversation with her that left them both laughing.

He glared harshly at the man; no one deserved her laugh but him. It belonged to him. He was the one working for it. He stabbed into a piece of chicken angrily, picturing the bartender in its place. He smiled a little.

The St Peter and Paul Cathedral was over 135 years old, and massive even by church standards. It took a full block on all sides, and was built entirely of old, browned bricks. A bell tower was built on each side of it, towering well over the roof; one large, circled stain glass window was built above the single arched door. She parked down the street in designated church parking, and then gracefully step up the stairs and through the door.

The first Sunday of every month the church held a ten-o’clock night mass. In the four months he’d been watching her, she had yet to miss one. There were never many people at the night mass, and he never had a trouble finding parking. He’d found in the months of following her that she was highly religious, and it made her even more delectable in his eyes. She attended confession every Saturday night at 5:00-5:45, but never attending the morning Masses.

He’d figured that she was a night owl, he seldom if ever watched her during the morning. He’d found with much research and online subscriptions that she was a historian, 25, originally from Connecticut. That was all he knew. He had found it quiet strange, after all, all of his previous loves had lots of information on the Internet. Profiling sites were a key to helping him learn their habits. He’d found their parents, their hobbies, even their dogs name in that way.

But not this one, he knew she owned a computer, because she’d brought it in to the store for maintenance a month or so back. He liked that she didn’t put everything out there though. It made her more interesting; everyday he’d learn another thing about her. Oh how quickly he fell in love.

He’d seen her first five months ago, after his last love, Stacy rejected him. He’s taught her a lesson, but it still left a horrible hole in his heart. He was still working at the college library when she’d come in, and asked about a book on French history. His eyes locked on her and he’d known he was in love. She had a perfect, sharp face, with light skin and blue eyes, she was only a few inches shorter then his six feet, and had a catish lithe body shape, her breast’s were a perfect handful, and her hair fell in thick waves well past her shoulders.

He’s asked her what time of French history she was looking for, and she’d told him the French wars of religion. He’d checked the computer and, ignoring the “On shelves” status of the books, told her that they were out and she would have to return the next week for them.

She clicked her tongue in an annoyed fashion and batted her eyes at him. “That’s a bit inconvenient for me at the moment” her voice was low and melodic. Beautiful. She’d reached for a piece of scrap paper next to the computer and asked for a pen. She’d taken it, brushing her fingers across his own slightly, and wrote something down.

“I know you aren’t really supposed to…” she pushed the small piece of paper towards him “ things like this” she pressed it to his hand, and when he looked down he saw an address written in beautiful flowing script “But maybe, you could make an exception and deliver them to me when they come in?” she smiled at him “It would help me a great deal”

He looked down at the paper and gulped, glancing back at her he nodded quickly, telling her there would be no problem and he knew exactly where she was.

She’d smiled once last time and left. He couldn’t believe his luck! The next day after work he’d delivered the books, hoping to tell her there was a problem with the card catalog and they were in after all. He’d had it all planned. She’d open the door, and smile at him in surprise. She’d thank him over and over for the favor and finally invite him in and offer him some coffee. That would be it.

It never occurred to him that she wouldn’t answer the door.

And that had been it. The time had never been right again, so he followed her. Watched her. Loved her from afar. But he knew his time with her was ending. He could feel it.

It was time. He was seething in anger as he parked his car a block for her house and pulled on a dark hoodie. She’d been to a club or to Mediterraneo’s every night that week, wearing low cut shirts and short skirts with out stockings, bearing herself to the world, and that bartender.

He’d even gone out of his way to see her, sitting himself at a bench facing the sidewalk, a place that she walked by every night and six o’clock on her nightly stroll. She’d walked right past him, giving him only a single glance before walking by without a word, or a smile.

He wondered what went wrong as he pulled his backpack onto his back, it held his camera, his love poems, his knives, a roll of duct tape, and a pack of condoms.

He had loved her, with everything he’d had, he’d done everything he could to show her that, and what did she do? Ignore him! Tease him! Use him!

He’d make her pay.

Oh, he’d teach her a lesson.

The apartment was dark when he approached, but he knew she was there. She’d come back from a club only an hour before. It was dark and he tripped twice on the stairs.

Finally, he came to her red-painted door and knocked. He heard movement inside, and her voice called from the other side, “Who is it?”

“It’s the delivery boy” he called in a mock happy tone. “From the Library, remember? Your books are overdue, I thought I’d come and pick them up for you”

“Oh.” He heard her say as the deadbolt clicked open. “Come on…” he pushed passed her, pushing her harshly into the living room, and slamming the door closed behind him.

“What are you doing?” she asked in an angry tone, and he noted that there weren’t any lights on.

“I loved you” he started, and she stared. “I loved you so much, but you were just like all the others, just a dirty little slut” she backed a way a step and he unzipped his backpack, rummaging for his duct tape. She ran from the room, down the hall, and he caught up with her before she reached the bathroom directly in front of them.

She spun on him and punched him, hard. Harder then he’d ever been hit in his life. He spun around and hit the ground, halfway in the hall and halfway in what looked like a bedroom.

He brought his hand up to his face, pulling it away and faintly being able to see blood in the candle lit room. He lifted his head and began to push himself to his feet when he noticed that there was no bed in the room. At least, not a normal bed. Instead, there was a dark wooden casket, laying atop a large table. He looked around the room, squinting in the dark, on a table to his right he saw a candle and several bottles and a glass full of red wine from Mediterraneo’s, except now, up close, the wine didn’t look so much like wine. It was thicker, with a richer color.

The walls were red. The candles were red. The rug was red. He looked down at his hands and wiped the blood on his jeans, feeling something –he wasn’t sure what- click into place somewhere in the back of his head.

He turned back into the hall, where she hadn’t moved “What the fuck is-“ he started loudly, but went silent when he looked a little closer at her. She was smiling at him, a sharp dangerous looking eyetooth pointing out from above her lip.

”What the fuck are-“ he began the question he already knew the answer to, but she hit him again, so hard this time that he fell backwards and banged his head against the edge of the casket. He slid to the floor in a crumble, and he gasped as the air was knocked out of him when she kicked him. The blow to the head had made everything a little hazy, and he was thankful that he couldn’t feel much.

She grabbed him from the back of his shirt, her claws grazing his back and causing him to bleed and began to drag him out of the room and down the hall with great ease.

And right before he blacked out for the final time in his miserable life, as he tried to claw his way out of her hold he heard her soft melodic voice pray,

“Bless us, oh Lord, and these gifts, for which we are about to receive…”

The hunter had become the hunted.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

I won't bother to write or phone you, I'll just rip the still beating heart from your chest.

Lets face it, whatever your gender, race or religion being attractive is tough.

Believe me, no matter how many people you see that pretty “popular” girl that you just love to hate surrounded by at that party you’re at with your friends, or how many numbers she gets, it isn’t all fun and games.

I, myself, have the confidence to admit I’m rather attractive. Most of us, if asked directly won’t admit being pretty. We’ll blow it off in a cute way that you really don’t mind.

Maybe it’s growing up in a society built on sex, or maybe it’s just something in our genes, but most reasonably good looking females with half a brain learn early what a gift it is to have a pretty face and a cute body. If you have more then half a brain, you figure out that charm counts for just as much.
Either way, we figure out that flirting is pretty much the best way to go in almost all situations, meeting new people, getting something you want, etc.

This doesn’t only work for boys of course. Whoever said that flirting is an art was dead on. If you do it right, say everything right, with enough laugh or enough softness, and with the proper body posture, subtle flirting works on girls too. No matter how straight they are. Eventually, to many of us pretty girls, flirting becomes second nature. It’s a part of us, and we don’t even think about it.

Both flirting and beauty alone can be trouble, mixed together they can be worse.

People naturally gravitate towards pretty people, maybe it’s a fascination or maybe it’s because people think if they surround themselves by pretty people, they themselves will feel better about their physical appearance.

In case you didn’t know it, I’ll be the first to vouche to the fact that girls hate pretty girls. They might even be best friends with the prettier girl, but deep down in side we all basically hate pretty girls.

So, on one hand, being a pretty girl is tough because other girls tend to hold beauty against one another. Like I said, fascination or self-esteem. And, seeing as self esteem doesn’t come from other people, you’re left with “friends” who are fascinated by you. But eventually, fascination runs out, and they realize that you’re pretty normal, with normal problems. You may even be a bit boring. For me any friendships with other females tend to not last very long due to barely hidden animosity. It could just start as as something joking on their part

“Oh gosh you are so hot”

“You’re freaking smoking”

When a female says this to another female, in a ‘friend’ like way there is no right answer.

You can go for the “Oh no, I’m really not”

Which will lead to more animosity down the road about what a bitch you are for not accepting compliments.

Or the second road is a polite “Thank you”.

Which will lead to more animosity down the road about what a self-centered bitch you are for agreeing with them.

Believe me, you can’t win.

So unless you can find a few close girlfriends who can see past pretty and care more about attitude, expect to be pretty alone on the gal-pal front.

Oh, but believe me, if you’re a pretty girl - You will never be fully lonely.
Because men are men, and men like pretty girls. Believe me, black, white, gay, straight, single, married, you’ll have a fan club. Or a collection, depending on how you handle them.

Growing up, and now especially, I find that I relate better (and have better friendships) with men.

Being a pretty girl with male-friends is an entirely different front. I’ve found that you meet a lot of guys because they want to get in your pants, or be your trophy boy and when they realize you don’t put out or aren’t interested, they lose interest pretty quickly as well.

There are other guys, who, while also at some point wanted to date/make-out/sex/cling/cuddle you, will stick around once they get to know you as a friend. Some will become the “Older Brother” type, while others will just be your best friend until they get a girlfriend, (you can’t be ‘just friends’ with a prettier girl then the one you’re currently dating, sorry boys) or lose interest.

It’s an interesting and rough scenario being pretty, and it leads to serious trust issues.

I have several male “best-friends”

There’s Luke, who I met through mutual friend. He had a crush on me, and we grew a friendship based on the sole fact that we hated all the same people. Go figure. We were super close for a couple of years, but he had some home problems and frankly and more important people and things to deal with then me. We still communicate everyday, and flirt a lot, but I would no longer call us close. Growing out of relationships sucks.

There’s Devin, who is probably one of the smartest kids you’d ever meet. He’s in boarding school now, and is only given one 10-minute phone call a month. He calls me every month, but the conversations (which make my month) go a lot like this:

“Hey Brianna, It’s Devin”

*lots of excited feminine noises and excited screeching”

After that he tells me about the hell they’re putting him through in school, and how he only have two or three more years left, and then his ten minutes are up.

There’s Jake, who I haven’t seen in a good two years. He lives about three hours away, and neither one of us have really pushed to go see each other. We talk online and make plans, but we never follow through.

And then there are the others, the numerous boys that text/call/IM me because they met me once and want to pushily “get to know me.” There’s the even more annoying group, a group of boys who decided at one point or the other that I was the love of their life and when they got turned down they took it personally and decided I was leading them on. Because I totally didn’t ignore every text/call/IM you sent me. Yes, I'm such a heartbreaker. Yeah. Right.

So where does that leave us?

The boys want to date you, and the girls all hate you.

No, I didn’t mean for that to rhyme. 

It’s tiring, and sickening. And at the end of the day, who do you really have to call? Who do you have to complain and gossip and cry too?

At the end of the day, all us pretty girls have are ourselves, our self-confidence, the hope we may find people that don’t suck, and whatever gift someone sent us that day.

Maybe being normal and overlooked seems easier then being pretty.

Maybe being pretty is a lot lonelier then it looks.

Maybe you’ll think about that next time you’re using one of us to make yourself look good.