Excerpts
I've been working on this little project for over a year now.
It's not much but I wanted to post a couple of the better excerpts.
When you singe off your eyebrows with a Homescents Candle you bought for your mom as a Mother's Day present, after a night of binge drinking and crystal meth, there are undoubtedly going to be some questions in need of answering. But it's kind of funny what parents are willing to swallow and accept without too much resistance. They'll accept your story about the cookies burning and one catching on fire and that somehow causing your eyebrows to burst into flames. Oh well, I suppose these things happen.
See, when you're addicted to something that isn't FDA approved, you never know what kind of crazy shit you'll end up doing. One time my friend Andy skewered his neighbor's cat with one of those shish kebab pokers, straight through the thing's fucking neck and out the other end. The cat freaked out and rain in a zig zag until it collapsed near the mailbox. I remember the look on that old lady's wrinkled face, looked as if someone had just taken every crease and smushed it together until her whole face got devoured by them.
**
Walker liked to watch others bleed-it was the second best thing to actually experiencing the pain he so desperately wished to feel. Better than writing sad poetry or acts of self-mutilation, Walker preferred to invent sick ways in which to torture those he chose to allow him to vicariously live out his fantasies of pain. Mild attacks and superficial cuts paved the way for his eventual fascination with severe head trauma, massive internal bleeding, and the ever-lingering presence of death. Walker didn't like to see his victims squirm, he liked to see them scream and beg and claw at whatever or whoever was closest, and hear their desperate cries for mercy.
**
Coach Ruetale's eyes widened in surprise as he heard the crunching sound that was a result of his teeth chomping on dough, jelly, and glass. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and he reached up a meaty finger to assure himself of its presence. And then he opened his mouth and screamed. Glass and blood and jelly sprayed over his desk and onto the already stained carpet as Coach Ruetale howled in pain. Chunks of glass had imbedded themselves in his tongue and inner cheeks. The inside of his mouth looked like a sea of red ocean, and his tongue a whale harpooned. One of the edges had gone straight through his tongue, and now it appeared as though he had a tongue ring.
Coach Ruetale stumbled out of the office, cupping his hand underneath his chin to catch the dripping blood, and was soon apprehended by a throng of off-duty teachers. Walker heard them yelling commands, "Call 911!" was the one that made him laugh the hardest. He dropped the remaining shards onto the floor and headed toward the offending donut. The coach had dropped it as he had ran to the door. He picked it up off the floor and grinned at his handiwork. There still remained shards, glinting maliciously in the chunky fruit substitute. He chuckled once before mimicking the coach, and taking a bite almost large enough to polish off the remaining pastry.
"Walker, what happened to Coach Ruetale?" The elderly secretary, Mrs. O'Conner had appeared behind him. He chewed once before turning to face her. When he grinned, revealing his blood-stained teeth, she gasped.
"I haf no idea, Mrs. O'Conner." The muffled words came out.
**
He first noticed her in the portraits of the school's founders as he walked through the old brick building to classes. He found her lingering on the park benches where they used to share a cigarette when they cut their Biology class together. He even found her in the boys' bathroom once, staring coldly at him from his reflection in the mirror. She was everywhere he went, and she silently observed as he preformed daily routine after daily routine. As he showered he heard her pacing the linoleum floors-always her bright, red converses squished on the perpetual wetness that formed in random puddles about the tiny room. When he ate in the cafeteria she would plop into an empty seat at his table and bore holes into him. She would never have a tray in front of her-and he often found himself wondering if she was hungry.
That's all I feel like showing.
It's not much but I wanted to post a couple of the better excerpts.
When you singe off your eyebrows with a Homescents Candle you bought for your mom as a Mother's Day present, after a night of binge drinking and crystal meth, there are undoubtedly going to be some questions in need of answering. But it's kind of funny what parents are willing to swallow and accept without too much resistance. They'll accept your story about the cookies burning and one catching on fire and that somehow causing your eyebrows to burst into flames. Oh well, I suppose these things happen.
See, when you're addicted to something that isn't FDA approved, you never know what kind of crazy shit you'll end up doing. One time my friend Andy skewered his neighbor's cat with one of those shish kebab pokers, straight through the thing's fucking neck and out the other end. The cat freaked out and rain in a zig zag until it collapsed near the mailbox. I remember the look on that old lady's wrinkled face, looked as if someone had just taken every crease and smushed it together until her whole face got devoured by them.
**
Walker liked to watch others bleed-it was the second best thing to actually experiencing the pain he so desperately wished to feel. Better than writing sad poetry or acts of self-mutilation, Walker preferred to invent sick ways in which to torture those he chose to allow him to vicariously live out his fantasies of pain. Mild attacks and superficial cuts paved the way for his eventual fascination with severe head trauma, massive internal bleeding, and the ever-lingering presence of death. Walker didn't like to see his victims squirm, he liked to see them scream and beg and claw at whatever or whoever was closest, and hear their desperate cries for mercy.
**
Coach Ruetale's eyes widened in surprise as he heard the crunching sound that was a result of his teeth chomping on dough, jelly, and glass. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and he reached up a meaty finger to assure himself of its presence. And then he opened his mouth and screamed. Glass and blood and jelly sprayed over his desk and onto the already stained carpet as Coach Ruetale howled in pain. Chunks of glass had imbedded themselves in his tongue and inner cheeks. The inside of his mouth looked like a sea of red ocean, and his tongue a whale harpooned. One of the edges had gone straight through his tongue, and now it appeared as though he had a tongue ring.
Coach Ruetale stumbled out of the office, cupping his hand underneath his chin to catch the dripping blood, and was soon apprehended by a throng of off-duty teachers. Walker heard them yelling commands, "Call 911!" was the one that made him laugh the hardest. He dropped the remaining shards onto the floor and headed toward the offending donut. The coach had dropped it as he had ran to the door. He picked it up off the floor and grinned at his handiwork. There still remained shards, glinting maliciously in the chunky fruit substitute. He chuckled once before mimicking the coach, and taking a bite almost large enough to polish off the remaining pastry.
"Walker, what happened to Coach Ruetale?" The elderly secretary, Mrs. O'Conner had appeared behind him. He chewed once before turning to face her. When he grinned, revealing his blood-stained teeth, she gasped.
"I haf no idea, Mrs. O'Conner." The muffled words came out.
**
He first noticed her in the portraits of the school's founders as he walked through the old brick building to classes. He found her lingering on the park benches where they used to share a cigarette when they cut their Biology class together. He even found her in the boys' bathroom once, staring coldly at him from his reflection in the mirror. She was everywhere he went, and she silently observed as he preformed daily routine after daily routine. As he showered he heard her pacing the linoleum floors-always her bright, red converses squished on the perpetual wetness that formed in random puddles about the tiny room. When he ate in the cafeteria she would plop into an empty seat at his table and bore holes into him. She would never have a tray in front of her-and he often found himself wondering if she was hungry.
That's all I feel like showing.