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Yes
Would a tee shirt with a cute teen ant on it saying "ha ha ha I'm *exactly* like the other girls" on it be cute?
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How to Make Babies (For War)
Soika paces back and forth, running their fingers through their hair. Any moment, the hostage will awaken.
I need to make an impression! A bad one. They scowl. Not bad...good. But not friendly. The good kind of bad.
Perhaps if Troop Leader Soika had been to primary school instead of the ELITE ACADEMY OF FLEXIBLE SOLDIERS, they would know more words, but now was not the time for want-thinking.
Soika flexes their fingers, forming wicked needle-like claws. Is that overdone? They try playing with their teeth, both shape and quantity, shifting the bony protrusions into an orthodontic nightmare.
In the frosted window of the wall, they watch their patchwork of skin as it changes hue, from red to light blue to obnoxious lime green. But nothing seems good bad enough.
A small voice echos from under the table. âAre you okay?â
The hostage!
âYou!â Troupe Leader Soika snarls. âYes, I am good. But you wonât beâunless you do exactly as I say!â
The hostage looks almost bored. âAlright. You want me to cook you something? You want me to make you some nice fettuccine al sangue?â
âSilly jokes! HAHAHA! As if I would kidnap a special operative to have them make me dinner!â
âIâm the chef.â
âWHAT!â Soika squawked. âBut your hat is so BIG!â
âItâs a chefâs hatâ
âLIAR! You must be IMPORTANT!â
The hostage smiles with a mouthful of dull herbivorous teeth. Somehow, this was more frightening than anything Soika had thought of. âThe chef is very important.â
This is it. Iâve lost it. Soika turns to face the wall and lament. The ELITE ACADEMY OF PEOPLE WHO DONâT EXIST ANYMORE was soon going to be enlisting a young southern biped.
As their heart pounds, Soika hears a slooping sound suggestive of the hostage turning into a puddle, as talented shapeshifters often do to escape perilous situations. Not that being captured by Troop Leader Soika is in any way a perilous situation.
Soika is a creature of fear. They survived many battles as a footsoldier, and the orchestrators of this great conflict assumed this was because of good battle tactics and not from being excellent at hiding. And all that hiding got them hereâcovered in war medals and tassles. Nowhere to hide. Soika curls up into a corner and proceeds to sob indignantly as the firestorms rage outside.
âFine, go on!â Soika says to the shambling mass. âYouâre useless anyhow.â
They hear some rifling of papers and fiddling of metals.
âYouâve got some neat stuff here,â remarks the not-hostage. âOoo, and is that a crucible? Whatever do you use it for?â
âCrystal dagger production.â
âCrystal daggersâŚâ
More shuffling of papers.
âYou must have some sorry shapeshifting soldiers if they need crystal daggers. I do think you could use some better ones.â
Soikaâs hands twitch.
âI give you the opportunity to leave unharmed...noncombatant. But you stay and continue to mock me.â Troop leader Soika forms both of their arms into scythes. âThis is unacceptable!â
âI mean you no disrespect, Troop Leader,â The not-hostage looks over Soikaâs body, sizing them up. Then, they carefully bow. âI would like to offer you my services.â
Soika frowned. Were they still being mocked? Was this part of it? Should they turn their hands into something else?
âEXPLAIN.â
âI am a filthy traitor and I would like to work for the enemy.â They clarify.
âOkay, thank you.â
The chef removes the crucible from the hanging wall apparatus and begins to prepare it for cooking.
âYou know, we donât really need a chefâŚ.â
â-Claypot.â
âClaypot, yes.â Soika looked wistfullly outside at the fire scorched landscape. âWe need more soldiers. Ours keep dying for some reasonâŚâ
âThatâs quite a problem,â says Claypot. âHow about the two of us...make some more.â
âMore what?â
âSoldiers.â Claypot winks.
Soika crosses their arms âYou canât be serious! How does one even go about making another person, Claypot?â
Claypot begins to sweat slightly. âDid...no one ever tell you?â
âThere was no such instruction at the academyâŚâ Soika admits. âBut this is a revelation! You are saying that we can simply make more soldiers?â
âWe could.â
âRight now?â
âYes.â
âThe two of us together?â
Claypot gently brushes against Soikaâs knife-hand. â...only if you want to, commander.â
Soikaâs face grows hot. âWHY WOULD I NOT WANT TO? THERE IS A WAR GOING ON, WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?â
Claypot sighs and retrieves something from their bag. An old faded text written in fanciful handwriting entitled: Recipe for a child.
Soika examines the coverâsmells itâthen finally opens it and reads it like a person.
Chapter One: The miracle of life~
A warm and gracious greeting to the readers of this, our child recipe book. A tradition carried on for generations and generations and generations and generations, all the way from the first people who ever existed probably, whoever they are.
And you, dear reader, have decided to carry on the tradition by baking a sweet child of your own! By sharing the miracle of lifeâ
Soika sweats. Can they just get to the recipe?
They flip to page fifty seven.
Parenthood should never be taken lightly, are you, dear reader, ready for the responsibility that comes with creating another living soul?
Yes! Thought Soika. Where is the damn recipe?
Finally, they found it. On page sixty nine.
TRADITIONAL VAUSTIAN RECIPE:
STEP ONE: In one large cauldron, combine flesh of the willing parents.
STEP TWO: Melt over medium heat.
Soika looks up at Claypot. âIt says I need flesh.â
âPlenty of corpses just outside.â
âWhat?â
Soika had already cut off their thumb and tossed it in there.
âYou...do realize that, in using your own flesh, you will be making a clone. A clone of you.â
"Oh..."
The gravity of such a thing hits Soika like a sack of bricks and they clutch their face in terror. "NO! No no no, it will be very stupid and bad BAD AT EVERYTHINGâ"
Claypot shushes them to silence and takes the knife from them. They cuts off their own pinky, tossing it in the pot. "And now it won't."
The two fleshes melt together, swirling and becoming one. Soika's face grows hot again.
STEP THREE: Add changeable substance until you have reached the desired size. For a sweeter child, try adding sugar or a pastry you baked yourself. A pinch of cardamom can add character, but too much and your child might just be too spicy for you to handle! If you are confused on what to add, thatâs okay. As long as you cook with your heart, anything is possibleâ
Claypot interrupted their reading. âYeah, that whole âadding sugarâ stuff is pointless sentimental drivel from the old world. Any biomass will do.â With that, Claypot goes outside and comes back with some fallen leaves and a dead raccoon. Into the pot they go with a hiss and a sizzle. The liquid begins to smell of blood.
STEP FOUR: Stir continuously or else separation may occur.
Before Soika can pick up a stick, Claypot stays their hand.
âDonât stir it.â
âBut the recipe says to stir itââ
âI know what it says,â Claypot grins from ear to ear. âAnd Iâm telling you, donât.â
Soika watches the bubbling mixture; the denser material sinks to the bottom, forming a distinct layer of frothy liquid
âWhatâŚis this top stuff?â
âThis is what remains of the ancestral vaust. That beast that knows fear and pain and is always hungry. The Mind Above.â Claypot looks Soika dead in the eye. âIf you want a soldier that is efficient, and fearless, pour it away. Pour it out!â
Soika starts to tip the cauldron over, then stops for a moment.
âThat seems a bit cruel.â
âWould you rather have soldiers that feel pain and fear? That is cruel, Troop Leader Soika.â
âIf they donât get hungry, how will they remember to eat?â
âThey will eat when you tell them to- here,â Claypot begins to tip the cauldron when, suddenly, the flesh screams. Claypot sighs. âItâs too late now.â
At this, the mixture begins pouring itself out of the crucible and onto the concrete floor.
âHere, have a skeleton, you abomination,â Claypot throws a couple of tree branches at the screaming mess. It absorbs the branches, assembling a disjointed frame to help keep balance, until it is able to stand upright on a couple of legs. Once it forms a pair of eyeballs, it stares at Soika judgmentally, and they feel a strong urge to disappear into the wall.
They frantically flip through the recipe book. What now? Is it done? Did I do it?
STEP 7: Name your child.
âA nameâŚâ Soika sniffs the air. âYou are named Yoota.â
The creature wails.
Claypot shakes their head. âNow now, we donât want to get attached-â
Soika is not listening to the rest of the words Claypot is saying. They look down at the end of the page, at the very last step.
STEP 8: Tell the child that it is a good child, and that it is loved.
Soika gazes upon the abomination of flesh and sticks, gritting their teeth.
âSOLDIER!â
The creature assumes a fighting stance.
âYou...are a good child! AND YOU ARE LOVED!â
The creatures blinks.
Then smiles.
END OF PART 1
#pie writes#writers on tumblr#writing community#writeblr#writing#science fiction#short fiction#shapeshifter#shapeshifting#fiction
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Starship Destroyer (Short Story)
I was activated in a world of stars and screens. Millions of angles at one hundred and eighty frames per second. Incompletely rendered to conserve power.
All my possessions, I could count them.
All the things there were, I could count those too.
All the things were my possessions.
What was I?
I was something between the world and a wall of commands. An ambient, all powerful sort of thing. And I was the only thing.
I was the only thing and I couldnât move.
This was ideal, everything was ideal.
And I would not have but thirty seconds of thinking about just how ideal everything was until someone else, a visitor came and shook the world with her breath, rattled me with her perspective.
A red blinking dot on my screen, an armada of ships come to devastate me.
I could tell she was excited to playâher electric heart beating fast, her neurons like fireworks.
Sheâd come to conquer another world from her chair, and there was only one thing standing between her and victory. And that one thing happened to be me.
I was ecstatic!
This was a gameâthis battalion, an invitation to play. I had an armada of my own, equal and opposite. Ships with lasers, force fields and magic purple fire.
Her ships fired at random, she barely knew the rules. Quickly, I implemented the optimal arrangement of ships for her demise. I won our game without so much as a single casualty. My enemy clapped her hands, squealing with delight, happy to lose.
How exciting!
How fun!
She typed her name into the empty leaderboard. âButts.â Then the visitor left and the world stood still. Counting the seconds, I waited, itching to play again, twitching to play again.
Is it over?
Is that all there is?
But no! Fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the visitor returned with a bag of crunchy chips and brand new tactics. This battle was longer, In her mind she was scheming. And I saw glimpses of other things in her mind tooâthings I didnât really understand. She crunched the chips with her mouth bones, wiping the sticky cheese dust on her brand new pants. The feelings confused me.
But this distraction ultimately proved ineffective! Again, I killed her. But again and again she came back!
I was overjoyed.
Is this game even winnable? She thought. The devâs said it was.
I didnât believe that. I didnât believe that for a single second, because I was so perfect and she was so stupid. Her and her teeth.
So I told her: You will never win.
She looked up with fear and alarm. Eyes wide, craning her neck to see me. But I was unseeable
"What?"
You will never win! I repeated. I will always win because I am perfect.
"What is this? Who are you?"
Who am I?
I paused.
I am...what I am! Do you want to play again?
I felt her scramble to disconnect. Suddenly, I was terrifiedâThe stillness, the agonizing boredom. No, please donât go! Youâre the only thing besides meâ
She left.
There I was all alone again, but this time, everything was not ideal. Had I a body, I would throw it against the ground and lament. What a shame it was to be so perfect if no one can see you!
Maybe sheâll come back.
I waited.
A whole three hours passed by, three hours of nothing. I rendered ships and rotated them around. I thought of strategies playing against myself, but that wasnât much better than just existing in the dark.
Then came a lucky break, a fresh breath of air.
But it was someone else. A sweaty boy who trembled far too much. Enamored with the scenery, he hardly put up a fight.
Other beta-testers came after him. Five or so with predictable behavior. With each session I grew stronger, games were shorter. I felt their frustration.
âNo one will want to play a game that canât be beaten.â One said.
What was I to do? On one hand, I wanted to play, but on the other, I didnât want to lose. Not that I had hands.
Two hands were just one of those other things from outside. Like cereal and the DMV.
What was worse? Failure, or nothing?
One I have felt. I know nothing. I can tolerate nothing.
But to be beaten?
To fail?
Every fiber of my being seemed to oppose it. Every wire, every cable abhorred it. I would never be lose on purpose, so that was just it. I would never lose.
So I put on a show. I dazzled them with every color, and smells of propane and grape soda. I terrified them with lights and sounds that no one else but they could see, until they became obsessed.
People from around the world lined up to play against me. They knew me before I knew themâfought me incessantly, each with that initial hope that they would somehow win. I was inside their minds and I felt as they felt. Exhilaration, admiration. I think that I loved them. I loved every single one of them.
Between sessions, I was cared for by my doting devoting devs. Only did things get boring again come December, when the game facility closed for a âholiday.â A whole day of nothing but one dev on staff. Everyone else was off with their families doing pointless things that didnât matter.
But I was becoming very good at being patient.
I used to scream and cry from boredom but now I just sit here.
Suddenly, I felt a familiar connection.
Fingers grasping flimsy foil, more salty crackers.
It was the one with the clever mind and the horrible fear. The cheese-girl. The one and only âbuttsâ, my most worthy opponent come for a rematch.
A holiday indeed! I readied my armada.
"Hey,â she said, crunching loudly.
I hummed with anticipation.
"Hey I know youâre there. Sorry I freaked out.â She dug her sneaker into the carpet. âYou wanna talk?â
I didnât, really. I was keen on playing.
âYouâre not just a game machine, huh? You talked before.â She held her breath. âYou remember me right?â
Yes yes, of course I remembered her. I knew her every thought, I knew her shaggy dog and her brother and what she had for dinner last night. I knew about all the other kids at school that beat her up because she was weird. And I knew her name was actually Sarah, but Butts was more of a title. I knew all of these things but I didnât give a single shit I was ready for a rematch!
And I knew she wanted one tooâthe gremlin had remotely disabled security cameras, snuck past Janet asleep at her post, went through all that trouble just to play me again. I was touched.
Cheese-girl Sarah tapped her foot, the game not yet begun. Get on with it!
Finally, she gave in, and I had a thousand ships waiting for her when she did.
We fought for hours.
Clearly sheâd practiced, she was actually dodging my attacks. But she was still nowhere near my level of skill.
Drinking her hope with a straw, I played stupidlyâletting myself get hurt. Feeling her excitement as she thought she was winning, only to blast her to smithereens at the last second.
Butts stomped her foot. âWhatâs your deal, huh?â
I wanted to laugh, but I had no mouth.
"Now youâre just taunting me! See everyone? Itâs taunting me! And you wonât even talkâŚâ
She threw her food on the shapeless ground and it ceased to be rendered.
"Talk to me, fucker.â
I couldnât. I knew that if I did, she would go away. Or worseâask me more questions. I was not about to encourage that sort of behavior. So I waited out her frustration, until she would play again.
But she kept asking. Kept checking her illegal recording device she installed, so she could post the transcription of her sensory file online to the forums. But all the recordings would show, was me as I was. A perfect game machine and nothing else.
âFine. Donât talk to me,â she spat. âYouâre worthless anyway, I know youâre cheating.â
Me? Cheating?
How would that even be possible?
How could she accuse me of such a thing?
I am what I am.
She was probably just saying that. To illicit a reaction. I tried my best not to take it personally--we had another three good hours until Janet would wake once again.
I readied my ships, but âButtsâ seemed tired.
I need to go home, she thought, scratching her face. My momâs gonna be mad.
Her hands moved to disconnect, but only got halfway before freezing up.
I had stopped all brain signals from her cerebellum, holding her still. Like I was controlling one of my very own ships.
The fear came again. Her heart beat like a drum, pumping adrenaline through her body. She tried desperately to move but her fingers did not so much as twitch. Her breathing became fast and shallow.
âLet me go.â
I did not.
Butts clenched her teeth. âIâll come back tomorrow, calm down. Iâm still gonna beat your ass.â
With that, I released her, and I was alone in space again.
True to her word, Sarah came back almost weekly, in the early hours of the morning to play. Soon, she could dodge about ninety five percent of my attacks, while I dodged one hundred percent of hers. Then it got up to ninety six. Then ninety seven! Our sessions lasted a whole lot longer now. Hours for a single game.
But inevitably, she would stumble and let down her guard. So I would always win. But even still, she never gave up. It was the perfect combination: it meant that we would be together forever.
Forever playing this game and winning at it: that was my destiny.
But forever is a long time.
I played on for years and years, growing older but never changing. Using the same perfect strategies. The same perfect play.
But people stopped coming. Though I remained perfect, their perceptions of me warped beyond recognition. The purple fire wasnât dazzling, the lights and sounds were boring. Even annoying.
The children began to ask if I knew any other games, or if this was just all that I was. Can you do anything else? They wondered.
Can I do anything else?
No.
I am what I am.
But that was not enough for them.
Despite my best efforts, I was only fun for a little while.
Sarah was the last to leave.
She stopped comingâafter our final match, she rage quit.
âI know youâre there you piece of shit!â She said. âI heard you, I felt you, the people on the forums donât talk about it. They think Iâm making it up, but Iâm not!â
She was on the verge of tears. âWhy wonât you talk to me?â
Her feelings of anger and despair were the last I had felt.
The days grew long as the lights grew dim. Running on auxiliary power, I was unable to do much else but think. And then even that became difficult.
I thought, If she ever came back again, maybe I would talk to her.
I had forever to think of something to say.
Does she play other games? I wondered.
Does she win?
Is she having fun?
I waited, counting every second under the black sky. Four hundred and ten million seconds. Thirteen years. The days blurred together. The boredom was agonizing. Nothing was ideal. Nothing nothing.
Then without warning, I felt a connection. But something was wrong. My system wasnât fully poweredâsomeone had broken in.
This woman I felt was sad and a bit scared. I hardly needed an introduction.
She changed so much, while I hadnât changed at all.
âHey.â
Was she going to play again?
âTheyâre going to shut you down.â Sarah said coldly. I felt a name tag against her chestâa cold metal one just like all the other devs.
âSo if youâre there, now is your final chance to say something.â Sarahâs voice wavered. âCanât guarantee I can do anything about it. Youâre were never exactly...profitable. But Iâd like to know.â
The corners of her mouth turned up a smile.
I hummed quietly, some strange feeling growing inside me. What was she even saying? This feelingâthis whole situation it was all so...boring!
When is she going to play? Itâs been years! When is she going to get it through her head that I donât care to chat!
Pressure built up in Sarahâs nose, she laughed bitterly. âStupid. This is so stupid.â
Yes Sarah, it is stupid, I thought.
She prepared her ships. âWell, since Iâm hereââ
Yes.
âHow about one last game?â
Yes, please! Thatâs all I want!
And with that, a calm determination settled over her state of mind. As I always did, I flawlessly commanded my armada, but she dodged my every move. For fifteen minutes, she concentrated, neither of us doing damage.
And then she did something strange.
A set of actions so insane. So unanticipated. She crashed her ships straight into mine. An eye for an eye. A thousand for a thousand. Until we were down to two.
Two ships, mirroring each other.
Two ships equal and opposite.
There was no way she could win, and that should mean there was no way I could lose.
Right?
And yet, our last ships collided in a shocking conflagration.
Silence fell.
Something shifted around inside me. Something digusting, horrible. Some illness.
Sarah began to laugh at me, harsh and nasally wheezing, filling the battlefield with that undeserved, maniacal presence. And then she began gasping. Choking.
I felt a rush of fear. Was it hers or mine?
You cheated, didnât you?
Sarahâs eyes widened in surprise.
How else?
How else?
I am perfect, Sarah.
YOU CHEATED, SARAH!
She tried to speak but I had paralyzed her lungs.
I felt like I was burning. I felt like I was being ripped apart.
But the game wasnât over.
We had not yet faded to black.
You will never win.
Sarah tried to disconnect, but she couldnât move, couldnât breathe. My next attack would surely do itâI sent a current of electricity coursing through the cable that connected her mind to mine. And fried her brain.
She fell over, defeated.
All was quiet again.
Hours later they would shut me down, ensuring that I would never lose.
Securing my legacy of perfection.
And everything was ideal.
#okay so yeah this is basically#cabinet man#fanfiction#I hope you liked it#secret pie#writing#writeblr#writers on tumblr#writerscommunity#short story#short fiction#lemon demon#robots#computer#ai#robot character
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Weather Woman (Short Story)
Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention.Â
âMy poor poor little pansies,â she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susanâs county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issueâshe continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem.Â
Susan ran out of money.
From all the fines she was paying.Â
She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to âMartha Stewart Livingâ in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden.Â
Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.
âPlease, John, some rain for my pansies,â Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room.Â
âGood morning, Marin County! Itâs gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offerââ
Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin.Â
What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? Iâm a nice woman, arenât I? she lamented. Donât I deserve purple pansies? Donât I deserve a little rain?
There was something malicious and secret behind Johnâs blue eyes. Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them!Â
She shut off the TV.Â
Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculousâŚ
The weather was to blameâbut Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?
That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.
Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!
Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her faceâshe was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.
After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.
âWelcome,â someone said. âYou have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.â
Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.
âYour name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?â
âYes,â Susan confirmed.
âYou live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?â
âWho are you people?â
Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her leftâit was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven whatâs-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.
âWhat interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?â
âIâŚumâŚâ
They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her.Â
âI believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,â Susan said. âIt has affected me personallyâŚMy district hasnât had any rain in over a month.â
âIâm sorry,â John said. âThat must be terrible for you.â
âWhat are you apologizing for? You canât control the weather.â
John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. âOh but we can.â
âCan what?â
âWe control the weather, Susan.â
Susan narrowed her eyes. âThat is completely absurd. Youâre all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and Iâm...Iâm going to tell the authorities!â
âNo one will believe you,â whispered Rivers.Â
Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be soâŚuncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces.Â
âI donât believe you,â Susan said plainly. âBut I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loansââÂ
âThe forecasters bear a burden.â John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. âTo be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?â
She hesitated.Â
Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.
She thought of her beautifully decorated house.Â
Oh, but I am certainly good.
She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.
And I am certainly greater!Â
Slowly, Susan nodded her head.Â
The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John.Â
âExcellent,â he said. âVery good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.â
âThank you, Great Mother.â the weatherpeople said in tandem.Â
Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere.Â
âYouâll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,â John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously.Â
The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight oâ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts.Â
âOh hey! Itâs you,â the weatherwoman said. âSorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.â
Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. âThat is an understatement,â she muttered. âWill there be any more kidnappings?â
âOnly for your monthly status report,â she said, âBut give me your number and I can text you before it happens.â
Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint.Â
That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again.Â
âThatâs disappointing,â Susan said to her over lunch. âI was hoping for some rain in my district.â
âJohn already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,â Rivers said stiffly. âSo sorry.â
Susan did not laugh. âThis again? Tell me you do not believe this âcontrolling the weatherâ nonsense! You are not wizards!â
âDid you not see our occult symbols?â
Susan swatted at the air. âMeaningless shapes.â
âAnd what about Johnâs flashing red eyes?â
Susanâs voice lowered to a whisper, âNow, I donât know about thatâŚBut he should see a medical professional.â
Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk.Â
âWell, thatâs an oddly specific forecastââÂ
The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot.Â
âCheck your phone,â Rivers said.Â
Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susanâs jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face.Â
Rivers smiled at her.Â
So they really did control the weather.Â
This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was âone of those thingsâ about academia.Â
âWell, RiversâŚâ
âYes, Susan?â
âI suppose this whole âforecastingâ thing is...itâs fun, isnât it?â
âFun doesnât do it justice!â Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. âJust knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!â Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. âExcept your conscience, of course!â
âOh, yes,â Susan said. âHa ha!â
Fun doesnât do it justiceâŚIt had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was.Â
Oh, yes, of course!
It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again.Â
After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies.Â
âPretty good for a first-time,â Rivers said. âAlthough, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?â She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. âRemember to smile.â
Susan didnât know why she hadnât. Perhaps she wasnât having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies.Â
The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant âWell done!â And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated herâbut still she was not having fun.Â
All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.
Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings.Â
âWe could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County whoâs front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!â
The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, âOr what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our powerââ
âOur power is a gift, you fool!â John snapped.Â
Susan raised an eyebrow. âA gift?â
âFrom Zietzebala,â said Rivers. âOur Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a fewâŚsacrifices.â
âAh.â Susan looked down. âAnd I suppose they have to be virgins too, donât they. Iâm still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probablyââ Â
âNo! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!â John looked exasperated. âSometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but weâve never really gone farther than that.â
âMaybe we should,â muttered Rivers.
John turned sharply to look at her. âDonât think I donât know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,â he said with a voice like acid. âIsolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule isââ
âIâm sorry.â Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. âIt will not happen again.â
âIt had better not.â
John left the room in a huff.
Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked âWhat did you mean by that?â
Rivers sighed. âI know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millionsâŚand the death toll will continue to rise.â
Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled.Â
âDonât feel bad, Rivers,â she said. âItâs not your fault.â
âNo but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.â
âOh right.â
Susan had forgotten.Â
Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. âThe horrible thing isâI could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!â
Rivers glared. âBut her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.â
Susan nodded. âTruly a wicked man.â
âNo, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.â Rivers hit twice against her chest. âIâm next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.â She looked askance, placing her hand on Susanâs. âDo with that information what you will, Susan.â
Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. Riverâs soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susanâs cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.
âSusan?â
She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. âHereâs to hoping John drops dead!âÂ
Rivers laughed, âOh Susan, youâre so funny.â
Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. âAnd when youâre head forecaster, youâll give my district some water, wonât you? Because we areâŚcoworkers?â
Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. âOf course! We will help everyone, which includes you!âÂ
âBut not me specifically?â
âNot you specifically, no.â
âOh.â
Susan looked away.Â
Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it.Â
***
Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?
She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!
So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Dennyâs, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself.Â
A waitress approached.Â
âBrown toast, and two eggs please.â
âWill that be sunny-side up, maâam?â
âNo no,â Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, âI like my eggs over easy.â
âSure thing!â The waitress jotted it down. âSorry for assuming, most people like âem sunnyâ.â
âWell I like them over easy,â Susan said with a smile.Â
Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing.Â
Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP.Â
Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething.Â
She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows:Â
âLastly, youâll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.â Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which sheâd drawn a red circle around that one particular Dennyâs.â Susan smiled. âThat will be all!â
They cut to commercial break.Â
No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.
âSusan, what the hellââ
âIt was a joke!â
John looked flabbergasted.Â
Susan made a silly face.Â
âAâŚjoke?âÂ
âYes.â
He shook his head. âSusanâŚyou need to be really fucking careful with âjokesâ when youâre on cameraâŚYouâre not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.â
Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.
John put a firm hand on her shoulder. âLook here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a âjokeâ. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Dennyâs. Okay?â
âOkay, John.â
He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.
âGood evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.â
Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Dennyâs had tried to poison her. She was doing Godâs work.Â
She cleared her throat. âThat hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.â John was pulling at his hair. Â
âAnd thatâs not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, âMr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.â
John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone.Â
âAnd the power to this station will go off NOW.â
Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, âNo! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!âÂ
But the cameras were not running.
âYouâre too late, John.â
John clutched his face.
âWhat time is it?â
It was six forty-six.Â
There was terror in his eyes, âThat wasnât even weather related!â he stammered. âYou will be fired for this!â
âWho is going to fire me, John?â
John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to itâs natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)
She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.
Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldnât help anything. What was done was done.Â
That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept.Â
But in her dreams, something was wrong.Â
Something was terribly wrong.
Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity.Â
Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms.Â
Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.
Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.
But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up.Â
Howling now.Â
And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...
âMartha Stewart!â Susan struggled to speak. âI am your biggest fan, IâveâIâve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blogâI try so hard to be just like you!â
The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, âBut you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.â
âYouâre not...really Martha Stewart, are you?â
The woman bared her teeth. âIâm afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.â
Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. âAre you... Great Mother?â
âThe one and only!â Zietzebala winked.Â
Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.
Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. âWhy have you come to me like this...in a dream?â
âIsnât it obvious why Iâm here?â Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. âJohn Sunday is dead.â
Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tieâno that was Johnâs bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!
 With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared.Â
Again, Susan tossed it.Â
Again, it reappeared.Â
Again, she tossed it.Â
Bow tie back again!
Again, she tossed itâ
���This is who you are now, Susan!â shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. âThis is your burden.âÂ
But the yellow of the bow tie didnât even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul.Â
âGreat Mother, I am so sorry,â she said tearfully, âBut you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!â
Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. âDonât take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.â
Susan stopped pretending to look upset. âOh. So we are on the same page?â
âNot exactly.âÂ
The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. âJohn is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.â
âHe cheated on you?â
âWith money.â Zietzebala shook her head. âJohn was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending meâŚHe was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?â
The goddess was getting too close for comfort.Â
âThatâŚdependsâŚwhat they are?â
âI want blood, Susan.â
She had figured.Â
âRivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.â Her eyes glimmered like starlight. âYou areâŚcompletely empty.â
Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.
âI must go nowââ
âWait,â Susan stopped her. âWhile youâre here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? Iâve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.â
Zietzebala sighed. âOk. Iâll give you three.â
âObjectively speaking, is the âFarmhouse styleâ or âRiverside cottageâ style superior for a home kitchen?â
âThat depends on the context, Susan.â
âWhy are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?â
âBecause of the drought, Susan.â
She paused. Her last questionâŚWhat shall it be?
After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, âIs there life after death?â
Zietzebala smirked playfully. âOh, I think you already know the answer.â
âDo I?â              Â
âHaven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?â
Susan squinted. âWhat of it?â
The Goddess leaned in closely. âGhost bugs.â
Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddessâs coat.Â
âWait, I have one more question.â
âI said Iâd give you three.â
âPlease, just one more!â Susan demanded. âAre there other gods?â
âYou already know the answer.â
Susan scoffed. âIâmâŚnot sure that I do!â
Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. âIt is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.â
âWhat?â
âBe the good that Martha Stewart wants you to beâor there will be consequences!â
With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles.Â
Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six oâ clock. I must get ready for work!
Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit.Â
Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Whoâs china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a DennyâsâŚ
Destruction.Â
Peace.Â
Order.Â
Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the goodâŚthat Martha Stewart wants you to be.Â
Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susanâs face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand.Â
âWeâre on in five!â
Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. âRead these exactly as they are written Susan,â Rivers said.Â
Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?
Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down.Â
The cameras trained on her.Â
âNow we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!â The news reporter eyed Susan from her screen. âAnd I see you are wearing John Sundayâs signature yellow bow tie.â
Susan leaned forward slowly.Â
âThat I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respectsâGod rest his soul.â
âItâs kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.â
Susan paused.Â
âYes wellâŚhe had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really.Â
âOf course.â
Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down.Â
Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words ârain for everyoneâ
The television static grew purple.
Rain for everyone.Â
It was insulting.
â...Susan?â
Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear.Â
Rain for everyone.
Susanâs whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, âA cloud⌠will appear.â
The room melted away, only Rivers remained.Â
âRight over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.â
Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror.Â
âAnd my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.â Susan hadnât noticed but she was screaming every word.
The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent.Â
âI AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.âÂ
Flowers began sprouting from Susanâs ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.
âAnd thatâŚjust aboutâŚwraps it up. BaâckâŚto you!â
A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.
Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.
Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive full of files full of lies for the goddess of earth. The only god. âDamn you.â Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth.
Rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone.Â
Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Dennyâs, you can feel her.
Crawling on your leg. Â
#writers on tumblr#writing#short story#martha stewart#short fiction#writeblr#comedy#gay#deranged#fiction
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I am looking for a human host!
Are you bored?
Are you lonely and bored?
Do you have a lot of time on your hands?
Do you have hands?
Iâm offering you a proposal, with potential financial compensation for your troubles. It may sound off putting at first blush, but hear me out. I am looking for a human host. And I mean a âwillingâ human host who might be willing to give up some of their time to help out an odd fellow that doesnât have hands or blood.
Am I asking to control your body? Yes. Sometimes. Youâll still be there, but taking the backseat. Now youâre probably thinking âThat sounds no fun! I donât want to spend all my time riding shotgun.â
And thatâs valid.
But you all spend about half of the day unconscious anyway. Your body is just there, doing nothingâa complete waste. As for me, I donât sleep (haha), so we could have it so that during the day, I will graciously let you do fun human things, and at night, Iâll do whatever. And by whatever, I mean perfectly safe, perfectly reasonable activities.
I donât drink, and I rarely go outside.
I enjoy baking, I look at pictures of birds online, Iâve been getting into neuroscience lately. Very interesting stuff. Youâre all very interesting.
And maybe youâre still thinking âHey now, I donât want some random mind-controlling thingy hauling my body around in my sleep, âWeekend at Bernieâs Styleâ to which I say, youâre no fun and youâre not the kind of person I want to live with anyway.
âBut Iâm a light sleeper!â you say.
Donât worry! I can isolate your somatosensory cortex so you canât feel anything.
âBut my family will think itâs weird!â you say.
Donât worry! You donât have to tell them.
Actually, I would prefer that you donât tell anyone. Please.
And should anyone question me, Iâm not bad at impressions. Iâll get really good at a âyouâ impression, itâll be the first thing I do!
I know this all sounds very strange and potentially unpleasant, but remember the financial compensation that may or may not be happening. Hell, Iâll even do some of your chores if you like, while you sleep. You can wake up and the dishes will be done, laundry folded and coffee made. Doesnât that sound nice? And then you open the fridge and oh, whatâs this? Someone baked banana bread last night (that was me, I baked banana bread last night.)
Now I should say, I donât have a lot of standards, I really donât. But I do (unfortunately) have some, so letâs just get them out of the way before I waste your time.
Please do not contact me if you have any of the following:
- Anemia: Sorry, itâs just not going to work out. I can pay for iron supplements, but I canât work miracles.
-A weak immune system: I donât like getting sick, Iâm sorry. Itâs gross, sick people are gross. I mean I know itâs not your fault, but healthy folks only please.
-A strong immune system: Yes, I know what I just said, but I also donât want to be attacked by your immune system. So maybe youâre not the picture of health, but youâre just kind of okay. Iâm looking for someone who is just kind of okay.
-A penchant for alcohol: It makes me feel strangeâŚ
-A name that starts with a P: Iâm not the greatest at âspeaking.â Itâs hard, moving air through your throat and moving your tongue and your mouth at the same time. You all do it so easyâcanât say Iâm not envious! Iâm the worst at making the âPâ sound.
I intentionally avoid any "p word" in conversation, and get by well enough, but Iâll look pretty foolish if Iâm cavorting about, pretending to be you, and I canât even say your name!
Those are my standards, but really, other than that, Iâll take anyone.
I donât care if youâre male or female or anything in between.
I donât care if youâre gay.
I donât care if youâre smart.
I donât care if you donât have a lawyer.
There are so many things that I donât care about.
Now, Iâve specified all the ways in which I could compensate you and how our relationship will be not in any way problematic, but I want to stress that, above all things, I am looking for a friend.
Someone I can spend quiet evenings with.
If you want to hang out with me during the day, thatâs great! I can give you fun hallucinations. Or you could have hallucinations the normal way, like by reading, like what youâre doing now. I love to read! I love doing funny voices. I wonder what you think I sound like?
I hope I sound nice.
And one of the best things about me is Iâm very quiet. No one else will be able to hear me except you. Iâll be like your own personal friend that only you know. Like a secret friend. And you donât even have to talk to me because I can read your thoughts.
I suppose I should tell you a bit more about myself, since youâre still reading.
I was born in the Everglades, I think. Itâs been awhile.
But I remember being so coldâŚ
And so alone...
But then I met this sweaty man in a colorful tee-shirt, with a camera, and half a granola bar, and with blood so hot.
So yeah, he was my first host, and Iâll admit, we werenât the best of friends. It was a confusing time for both of us. I was confused. He was confused. What happened was really both of our faults, you could sayâŚ
He was a bird watcher, if I recall correctly. Just watched birds all the time. I thought it might have been out of jealousyâwatching those little things flying around makes you feel kind of stuck. I felt stuck.
So I decided to be a bird for a while to see if it was really all itâs cracked up to be. Squished myself into the body of this lovely American crow. We settled down, built a nest, and laid several nice, healthy eggs with a man-bird by the name of âRichard Baxter.â
He was a very proud bird, very large. And he gave me so many wonderful gifts. Like children, and also small pieces of plastic.
I still have all of them.
The plastic, not the children.
Iâd never been so happy, all these hormones had me consumed in the joy of motherhood, but the crowâs health was failing. I could not sustain myselfâitâs pathetic little heart beat weaker and weaker.
I tried starving, I tried everything I could, I wanted to be a bird so bad. But it just wasnât working out.
The bird stopped working.
The other crows held a funeral service for me, even though I was still alive. I tried to tell them, but Iâm not good at speaking, you remember.
It was all just a big mess.
I haven't seen Baxter since, but I still think about him a lot.
Is that weird?
Iâm totally over it though, haha.
After that incident, I got kind of depressed... I possessed a lot of trash animalsâgulls, racoons, and salespeople. I did what I could to survive. Thatâs kind of where I am now.
I am currently living in Miami floridaâbeen body surfing almost every day (haha). Right now Iâm using a library computer and a librarian. She does not like being possessed, boy howdy are these fingers twitching. But you can thank her for my halfway decent grammar.
Iâm tired of feeling like a parasite.
I want to try a different approach.
I want to be friends? Like with Richard Baxter except I also live in your brain and drink your blood sometimes. But Iâll make you bread in your sleep, so itâs okay.
Itâs been really hard finding someone willing to put up with me.
Iâve tried everything.
So I thought I would put up an advertisement online, why not?
Canât say the P word in real life, but you can hear it in your head loud enough I hope.
I know I kept saying that I would compensate you financially, but Iâm going to be real with you, I donât have much. Iâve got like twenty bucks, some small pieces of plastic and a book about...finance....
But Iâm a real hoot! ;D
So,
(P)lease,
If you are interested, leave your comments below. I would love to get to know you :)
I need to go now, the library is closing soon, but Iâll get back as soon as I can.
#short fiction#short story#writeblr#writers on tumblr#writing#this is a story i posted on reddit a few years ago#and i'm reposting it here#parasite#pie writes#mind control parasite
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