Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I Page 2

  8 – Bitch

  The baby cried out with a piercing shriek. Its mother's eyes welled up with tears. She set her newborn life down on the dusty step. He looked up at his mother, he could not speak, he could not even control his bowel movements, but he knew; he would be alone. As she stepped away tears left luminous lines on her face, and suddenly the baby was all alone.

  “COME INSIDE THIS INSTANT YOUNG MAN.” shrieked sister Mary, brandishing her favorite yardstick. He made his way, fearing sister Mary's inflexible rule. Back to the house, back to the school, back to the cruel, fly-ridden, orphanage. He vowed he would get himself out. He vowed he would leave the trap and make it. He vowed he'd go away.

  THUD. Joey fell to the ground, a violet lump started to grow and fill the shallow depression left by the orphan's fist. Nobody and that meant NOBODY, would disrespect him. He may have been unwanted, but would not be disrespected. Haters would pay most dearly, this much he knew already. The orphan pushed his sleeves up high, as he had seen so many tough men do in so many movies and approached Joey, ready for round 2.

  “Yo, she'll suck yo dick like a fucking elephant sucking on a peanut,” said the orphan, now a man. He continued his sick pitch “she's my bottom bitch for a reason, tennis ball through a garden hose yo.” The suit looked thrilled, and soon would be.

  “FUCK YOU FUCKING WHORE ILL FUCKING KILL YOU.” screamed the orphan at his bottom bitch. So she left. She ran while she still could. She did not know what she should do. She realized then that she meant nothing to him, that she was just another hooker that the lucky could forget. She knew nobody would care, it happened every day. She was afraid, but at least she was not alone anymore. Some months later a piercing shriek filled the air as she set her progeny down on that same dusty step.

  And life went on.

  9 – The Awkward Fumbler

  He was born, awkwardly he fumbled from his mother into the doctors latex covered claws.

  He was home, awkwardly he fumbled to place his lips around too tender teats.

  He was sitting, awkwardly he fumbled so much that the airplane could not land, but crashed instead, causing massive broccoli fatalities.

  He was walking, awkwardly he fumbled his way across the room, exploring the world for the first time.

  He was careful, awkwardly he fumbled with graphite filled wood to emulate the gentle slopes and sharp cliffs of the alphabet.

  He liked her, awkwardly he fumbled under thick coats on snowy hills to steal her innocent youthful kisses.

  He was mad, awkwardly he fumbled trying to hit, throwing fists and kicks with reckless abandon.

  He was in trouble; awkwardly he fumbled with his explanation.

  He failed, awkwardly he fumbled his way to summer school where he would fumble even more awkwardly, trying to catch up.

  He woke up, head pounding, eyes watering, awkwardly he fumbled to the bottle for a favored hirsute canine remedy.

  He was with her, awkwardly he fumbled with her body and his own.

  He was with him, awkwardly he fumbled with his body and his own.

  He graduated, awkwardly he fumbled to the job market, wanting nothing more than to be wanted.

  He was married, awkwardly he fumbled to juggle lust and responsibility.

  He had kids, awkwardly he fumbled every day between 9 and 5, trying to make sense of it all.

  His parents died, awkwardly he fumbled trying to hold back his tears while making sure their departure would be worthy of their existence.

  He was alone, awkwardly he fumbled with the pen as he tried to sign the papers, turning to his favorite remedy.

  He lay there, awkwardly fumbling with his memories. Alone and in agony. Human contact was a button's push away, awkwardly he fumbled, his crooked fingers could now not do what he willed them to. He tried to recollect the happiness & pride which had long left. He tried hard to remember, but the memories were gone, so instead he fumbled awkwardly with his own mind, his own thoughts, finding no string to guide him in his labyrinthine quest.

  He closed his eyes one last time. As awkwardly as he had fumbled through life, so too did he in death. His existence snuffed out, his cadaver rolled, egged on by his fumbles for the red button, it fell.

  THUD.

  As he; so we.

  10 – Society

  Who was she? Perhaps it didn't matter anymore. She was too old, too tired, and too beaten down to care anymore. She had known what she wanted when she was a child, not that it had mattered. As she'd grown, so had the expectations, it was not enough to be a good person, to be polite, nice, funny, or smart. She had to be pretty. She had to be skinny, and girly. So each time she saw a bug she screamed and she often shunned her food.

  And so, she grew. She knew then what she wanted, she was a teen; no-one listened. As she grew, so did the expectations, it was no longer enough to by polite, nice, funny, smart, skinny, girly or pretty. She had to be chaste, flirty, and submissive.

  And so, she grew. She knew what she wanted when she was in college; no-one listened, for she was too young. As she grew, so did the expectations, it was no longer enough, none of it was, a whole new world awaited her.

  And so, she grew. She now truly does know what she wants. But now there is nobody there to listen. Alone, she ventures through the days and nights, slaving at one thing or another, fighting for her bare survival. The dreams she holds close to her heart glow dimmer today as they have done each day before. She lives, days pass, and she survives. In most ways it is enough that she has become society’s dream, she embraces each stereotype to quiet her detractors and so embraces them, in each approval finding more comfort. She likes it, she cherishes the fun. The tropes which play out in front of her are better than any show. She knows what she wants to be, and she can well do it too, indeed she can pour a great gas can upon that flick'ring flame and turn the world alight. But the fire scares her. It makes her...hesitate. Society quietly confirms her fears and cradles her, it keeps her in a safe space where no flame is allowed, where none dared make an unsanctioned sound.

  And in that there is comfort. And so she survives, as she's done each day before.

  11 – The Third Horn

  Her babe screams as the train passed. Its horn blankets all other sounds with a lion's roar. The clickety-clack of the wheels beats out a metallic rhythm. She caresses her baby's wispy blond hair. She cradles him upon her hip and looks at him tenderly. She leans in and whispers, “Hush little baby, it’s just the choo choo". Each step she takes seems better than the last. She walks through the shallow waters of the local wading fountain. She likes feeling waters wet embrace about her feet. Her flowery green dress stretches out upon her high bones, they betray a history of labor. Her tanned skin glistens with droplets of spray, it pulls the eye, it was as though one watched a gazelle and her young. She swats at a fly which buzzes by her baby's head.

  She looks at her baby and hopes that this will last forever. She can not picture him growing. Yet deep down she knows he will.

  Her slender form paces back and forth through the water, the second train flies past with her babe on it, she listens to its blue and green cars roll by with frightening thunder, and she remembers, “Hush little baby, it's just the choo choo". But her baby is not there, her baby has grown up. Now he drives the very lion whose roar had frightened him so long ago. Her green dress is now loose and wrinkled, no longer does it caress her curves, now instead it hangs formlessly. What little skin peeks through shows many agèd spots. Tanned though it is, it no longer glistens, it no longer glows as it once had. She had known her babe would have to leave, but at least he came by each day.

  Her legs make their way through the shallow water once more. They moved slower than they had before. Like a wild herd's elder members she seems to trail a little behind, a queer protective prey. Finally, the third horn heralds its parent train. She is tired. She looks at the metal monster as it passes and knows it is all over. She can not imagine his voice. It's been years since last they'd spoken
, an eternity will pass until they could again. Deep down she knows that he will call eventually, she hopes, she wishes, she yearns once more. Her emerald green dress is ratty now, it hangs off her gaunt form revealing her age. Her once beautiful skin resembles a well-tanned piece of leather, it no longer glows. As the third horn ends, her babe races past in a blur, she too then ends.

  As the aneurysm bursts, the train conductor wonders why he never calls.

  12 – Goal

  He scored. He was sure of it. Seeing her in that hotel lobby had set his loins alight. She'd sat there in full view of all, twiddling away. Twas true she faced towards the wall but he still knew, and if he had so would the others. He walked up to her and saw even more clearly how her waistband pulsed up and down on top of her wrist. He could make out her knuckles oscillating beneath her skirt. She tried not to squirm in that too comfortable lobby chair, but it felt a little too good, so she did. He said “Hi” to her, she just kept going, she kept grinding. Warmth spread throughout her body as more tension built within with each passing second. He could tell she was a sex fiend.

  “How'd you like to waste some time?” She asked, he just couldn't resist. Off they went to her great stone abode. “Won’t you come up?” she'd queried on the step, in front of her carved mahogany gate. As if that question warranted an answer.

  “Of course”.

  Hand in hand, they went up to the door to her habitat. They walked through her castle, to her room. He couldn't believe his eyes. Devices dotted the walls, she had so many, everything that money could buy. They went to her bed, about to embrace each other in purely carnal passion. Pleasure would soon abound just as it had before. Just as they were about to jump onto each other she reached under her bed and brought out a great tome. She fluttered through tissue thin pages making quite the commotion. Finally, she stopped, right on a page whose only feature was a thinly dotted line. She signed first with tall & slender cursive letters. “Nikki”. Then it was John's turn to put his Hancock on her paper. Once he had Nikki clapped her hands, and it disappeared in a puff of mauve smoke. The lights went out, engulfing poor John in pitch black. She didn't matter, and he didn't care. He would be out of there by morning, she was just another notch, another hoe, another bitch which he'd not call. She would not even see him leave, even if she would most surely watch him come.

  The sun rose. He looked around, first calmly, then frantically. He was all alone in her immense room with her countless devices. Each fiber of his being ached. Her machines and machinations had drained him, he lay limply upon her bed, willing himself up. He gathered up his pile of clothes from the floor and sheepishly slipped into them. He stepped over to the room's door and made his way out. Was he alone? How could this be? How long had he slept? Why did he feel so hazy? All he found was a small note on the stairs, it said 'Thank you for a funky time, call me up whenever you want to grind, xxx' and a number – Nikki's. What exactly had she done to him? “COME BACK NIKKI” he cried and whined.

  13 – Chugga-Chugga

  It was on small child's 'train' that she had discovered her passion for conducting. It had not even been a real train but rather a golf cart plastered with thick grained false panels. Its wooden facade concealed the rubber wheels beneath quite well. Each car was open and no bigger than a cow. It wasn’t very fast, but it determined the direction of her life journey. Nearby a cargo train rushed its load onwards to new horizons. She looked at it as it zoomed by, its size and power were magnificent. She had never seen such a raucous, monstrous, thing. Sure, a T-Rex could eat you, but put a T-Rex in front of a train,(and give the train a big enough cow catcher) and you would soon be having a T-Rex t-bone. Unlike most kids she kept her dream alive, unlike most kids she became a train conductor.

  A week ago there happened to be a particularly fateful day. Bird strikes were not altogether unusual, neither was the occasional deer. She had trouble dealing with those but she managed somehow. If there had existed a diet which did not harm plants she would have been on it, so it saddened her to the core when her metal dinosaur snuffed out the lives of gentle woodland creatures. It saddened her more still when she hit other people. Every languishing body which no longer found value in a life. Every splattered fool who jumped but a moment too late in a too fatal game of chicken. Every wrecked unmoving lemon. All demolished by her mighty beast. Perhaps it was her pondering, perhaps it was her crying or her nearby empty bottle; whatever it was that day she did not see. She did not have time, not by when she'd realized. She couldn't stop quickly enough to avoid the stationary station wagon. Perhaps its owners assumed the track to be abandoned, or perhaps they'd simply not given it any thought, whatever the case they sat in the car waiting to be towed, with their young kids in tow. With a crash, a great cloud of red mist, and a heavy metal rain, her dinosaur was through.

  Once her beast had come to a halt she called “Mayday!” thrice. She stepped out of the locomotive whose face was now dyed red and black with tar, and blood, and engine oil, to survey the damage. The main compartment of the car was to the left, the other parts of the were miscellaneously strewn about on the ground, deposited violently in non-final resting places. She peered in through the window of the sole intact piece, against her better judgment. She had never done so before, she knew better than that. Maybe it was her wondering, maybe her horror widened eyes or maybe even the whiskey which did her vision mottle. She knew it could not be good, but she was compelled to see by some mysterious endogenous force.

  Therein she saw what had once been a little girl – her body bent by the impact into an impossible right angle, pieces of a man – a pulverized red and white mass of bone and flesh, a bloody bra next to a shattered window through which his bride had flown, and what could only be described as mincemeat in a baby seat. A fly was already busy depositing her eggs therein. She knew then what she had to do.

  Today all she hears are the birds chirping and singing, communicating their cheerful well wishes to all. All she can see is the wind tugging gently at tree branches like enamored children tug at one others' hair. And yet the horn fills the air around her, though it doth sound from afar. And yet, and yet that raucous monstrous beast approaches. As she waits for her true love to chug along just one last time, she whips out a silver flask so she herself can chug, chug, chug, along.

  14 – Zodiac

  Stormy days were his favorite, they were perfect. Just him, the rain, and the wind; nobody bothered him, nobody molested or got in his way. She lay unmoving on his table. It was cold and she was unable to speak; paralyzed by drugs and fear. She could not feel, but she was quite aware. He smiled at her then reached for his blade. On a day like this, even the police would be staying in. It was a perfect day and he was happy, a matter which in itself was no mean feat. As his blade began to slice through her perfect goosebumped skin his mind wandered elsewhere, it went to his favorite killer; Zodiac.

  How had he managed to elude capture? What did his code say? What could it possibly mean? How did he have the balls to taunt the police like he had? He supposed it didn't really matter. He tried to sneer his mask up his nose, the slippery devil had dropped, and he didn't want any blood getting into his mouth or nostrils. Slowly but surely it migrated back up his creased face. Grasping his fine handled blade, he cupped her naked breast and made his first incision, it was the cut which always excited him the most. Between the scratchy-tearing sound of skin and the nascent trickle of red, nothing was quite as pleasurable, nothing was as exquisite. He stared down upon her nudity with contempt. Such vanity. Such wasted resource, such stupidity! At least it would all be over soon. He cut deeper, past the fat which clung to his fingers like disgusting yellow jelly. He cut, and cut, and cut again, becoming more excited the closer he got to completing his masterpiece. He was almost panting as he painted with her blood. His adrenaline surged, helping him power through the last few stages. With scratchy paper towels, he wiped away the thin red film which covered her body like glaze covers pork chops. He could almost smell success,
or maybe that was her blood? She wasn't his first and by this point, it was clear to all, she wouldn't be his last. It was all the same though, was it not? When they were on his table he was their God, he held their lives in his hands, and did with them that which he pleased. He loved nothing more. He lusted for the sound of human skin being sliced open by his fine blade, he loved the smell and color of her life force, he loved his helpless sleeping subjects. But sadly he was nearly done. And then he was, and so was she.

  “Hello Mrs. Marlborough, how are you feeling?” asked the doctor.

  “Oh. My. God. I have never felt better!” she responded. She noticed a button on the doctor's coat emblazoned with a design of sorts. A circle with a cross through it. She supposed it represented some charitable organization or other. “I love them,” she continued, looking down at her new DDs, “Thank you”.

  On the windowsill, a solitary fly watched all.

  15 – So What?

  They met on a cold, miserable, winter's eve. Obscuring snow marred all beauty, all but hers. She was a curious creature, almost unfathomably attractive. She was more beautiful than the Kraken was mighty. Most would not be have been complemented by such a statement, but she would have been, for that was her nature. With feverish ambition he pursued her, stopping at nothing, so that he might catch a glimpse of her once more, on a more intimate, more personal level, of course. Perhaps his intent had not been entirely benign.

  That evening had been unlike any other, he liked winter but that night made the rest of the frigid season pale into a warm springtime insignificance by comparison. It wasn't as though they'd done anything particularly special, just the standard fare: pub grub, and a Guinness. Perhaps his dating skills were not those of noted lothario Adam Mohiruto, but he had some game still. It would help him, but it wouldn't be sufficient. Sadly he didn't know this, not then anyway.