May 13, 2005
When Evan was done, there was remorse. It lasted long enough for him to drag her body down to the lake; to cleanse the blood from her face and her hair; to dry her hair in the sun and comb the flecks of blood from it; for him to bury her in the dirt, whispering memorized lines about dust to dust.
By the time some wandering kid carved his own initials into the stone marker months later, Evan had forgotten what he did or who Elizabeth was or why there was a silk, white slip slung over his bedroom chair.
May 14, 2005
Michele : Mugged
Since Jen’s death her coffee mug has gone untouched. It’s like one of those roadside memorials, with the flowers and signs. Instead of roses, there’s mold.
On the third day, the mold has formed a circle the size of a Kennedy half dollar. It’s a small bruise; black and green with a crop of fuzzy pus around the edge.
By the fifth day a layer of dust has formed on the outside of the mug, and Garfield and Odie sport a five o’clock shadow of grime.
On the seventh day, a new girl takes Jen’s spot. The mug is gone.
May 15, 2005
Michele - Holler Back
"Eenie Meanie, Miney, Moe."
She plucked a medium sized lobster from the tank.
"If he hollers let him go."
She dropped the lobster into the roiling, scalding water. It let out a squeaky hiss; not nearly a holler. Alison thought it sounded more like a sigh. Either way, the creature was now at her mercy.
She used the tongs to pull her victim up. For a brief moment, the lobster thought it was escaping the steam bath. Then Alison dunked it into the pot once more.
"It is your destiny," she growled in a deep, affected voice. And she laughed.
May 16, 2005
Michele: More Than Words
"You are such an asshole."
The words rushed out of her mouth on their own. She tried to stop them, but before she could stuff them back down her throat, there they were, flying from her lips. They hung there in the air, practically prancing and preening, putting on a show for everyone at the table.
"You are such an asshole."
The words echoed off the china plates, bounced off the wine glasses and jumped straight into her father’s ears.
A forlorn sigh left her father’s throat, drifted across the table and settled around her like a veil of guilt.
May 17, 2005
Michele: The Cat Came Back
Twice he brought mice. Bloody, ragged stumps of rodent left on the doorstep.
Once he brought a bird, a beautiful blue jay torn to shreds by angry claws.
The duck was probably the worst. Splayed out on the doormat, bleeding into the flowered “welcome,” feathers everywhere. Or was it was the rabbit, its body ripped open, entrails hanging?
Finally, tired of cleaning up blood, Jeff took the cat to the woods and left him there.
When the cat’s head appeared on his doorstep the next night, dripping fresh blood, Jeff knew he had a bigger problem than a killer cat.
May 18, 2005
Michele: Worst. Breakup. Ever.
Every time Lizzie closed her eyes, the scene played out on the back of her eyelids like some cheap horror movie. The terrible cry of her own voice - “Nooooooooooooo!”- reverberated in her head in a long, slow drawl.
She had a burning hole inside her, something that felt like emptiness. Occasionally it would fill with vomit and she’d spill it onto the cold tile floor. Still she laid there, throat burning, hearing his angry threat echo in her head, “I’ll do it....”
Laughing maniacally, smiling, he ripped open the packaging of her original Kenner Han Solo figure.
May 19, 2005
Michele: Who You Gonna Call?
The frightful noises that came from that house could rattle one’s brain. Always the screams and wails and then the dead animals on the porch in the morning.
They held a town meeting and decided to burn the place down.
I told them to just leave it be, stay away. But nobody listens to a 98 year old man. Nobody.
They went in, all torches and pitchforks, like a gang of hillbilly Ghostbusters. Not a one came out. And now the only things left breathing in this town are that house and myself.
Me, I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.
May 20, 2005
Michele: This Bird Has Flown
"The face that launched a million readers."
That’s the title Time gave her when she made the cover. "Mallory’s School of Magic," her debut book, had spawned a new generation of young literature lovers.
Sequels were awaited. Movie rights secured. Steven Spielberg would direct!
And now one former flame, his confessional scrawled on motel stationary and copied to thousands of newspapers the world over, was going to launch a million gasps.
She absently tore her copy into small pieces and threw them on the ground, where the wind picked them up and rained them down on her like ironic confetti.
May 21, 2005
Michele: I Choose You
“I’m young, strong and fearless. You did right to stick with me.” For emphasis, he plucked an ammunition belt from a dead alien.
The old woman snarled, “You’re a foul mouthed punk. I wouldn’t follow you if you were the last man on earth!”
He was pretty damn close to being just that.
“I should have went with that nice man, Bob.”
He pointed a finger at her. “I’m your hero, lady.”
He looped the ammunition belt into his pants. His jeans immediately fell to the floor, revealing Pokemon briefs.
The old woman laughed. “I’m going to look for Bob.”
May 22, 2005
Michele: The Extent of My Sin
My bare knees dug into the wooden floor.
My own mother’s hands, cold and rough, gripped the back of my neck, pushing me downward so I was crouching instead of kneeling. Her ragged fingernails dug into my skin. “Confess,” she whispered.
“I don’t remember.”
The priest barked at me from behind the screen, “Liar!”
“He knocked me out...”
The screen between us slid open noisily. Father Tim was holding four nails and a hammer.
Mother grabbed a handful of hair and yanked, as if to jar a memory loose.
I was without choice.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned...”
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