dreadcrumbs

Microstory Monday

Haberdasher
That man with the long black hair who worked at the record store was murdered last night. Poor guy. The entire top of his head was removed, and he was left to rot in a ditch. So sad. In happier news, I have a cool new hat.

The Lament of the Ogrish Man

When I was in college, after witnessing a particularly zealous undertaking of "Take Back the Night" involving roving gangs of women with torches and baseball bats, I resolved to make an effort to minimize any fear or anxiety I might unknowingly inflict on the fairer sex.

Walking about campus, I noticed that if ever I happened to be going the same direction as a young woman, especially if she was alone, her body language and expression indicated to me that she felt she was being pursued. In such a circumstance, I would usually change my speed to an uncomfortably slow walk so that she could outdistance me easily. Often, I would take roundabout lengthy paths to my destination in an effort to avoid "following" someone.

Now I was never sure exactly why I received a default label of "creepy" or "dangerous." I feel like a nice, friendly guy. I've always been larger than most people, but not "Aieee! A giant!" big. I even thought that getting a little older, pudgier, and balder would give me a more "lived-in" look, and would thus be more comfortable. No luck.

I work on the third floor of a building, and when I leave for lunch, I must pass the elevators to get to the stairs (which I diligently favor in hopes of reining in the pudginess). Quite often, there will be a woman (not anyone in particular, this happens with everyone) waiting for the elevator, and I smile meekly as I pass her on the way to the stairs. Without fail, she responds with an expression of thinly veiled horror at the thought I might actually take the elevator with her. Or grab her and throw her down the stairs or something. I'm not kidding. I mean, it could be just a reaction to my hideousness. I'm sure I might act the same if someone with seeping open sores all over their face approached me. But I really don't think I'm scream-out-loud hideous. Plain, at worst. Is there such a thing as Anti-Charisma? Maybe I have that.

Now, as I decide whether to seriously consider a healthier diet, I need to determine which is scarier: A 280 pound slightly unhealthy monster, or a 240 pound healthy one. I don't want to give up my Grilled Stuft Burritos if it will only serve to make me more terrifying.

In Our Midst

We're in the preliminary stages of integrating two teams at my work, and so I am beginning to see unfamiliar interlopers in our meetings. This isn't really a problem, and it seems like a good business decision, but here's the thing: one of the new people creeps me out. This isn't because of an awkward personality (which seems to be the most common workplace horror), but because of the way It looks and moves. The visiting fiend might appear to be a regular person, but I think it's Something Else wearing a skin suit. A skin suit two sizes too big. So not fat, exactly. Baggy.

But that isn't all.

There are probably a lot of people whose flesh is over-affected by the Earth's gravity. You know, like old people (this Thing appears to be about 35). But our Visitor also looks to have absolutely no natural muscular tension. Limbs move, but when they reach their intended destination, all effort appears to cease, and the structure collapses. The movements aren't slow or lazy, just, I don't know, rubbery. Like the way you might imagine something without a spine might move. I know I would prefer lazy movement, rather than the twitchy flopping that It passes off as motility.

And nobody seems to notice this but me.

For the sake of decorum, I try to avert my eyes and wipe the expression of horror from my face, but I am not completely successful. Until I have proof, I will have to behave as if all is as it should be, keeping my eyes open for anything strikingly grotesque or uncanny. Only then I will be able to expose It to all with a pointed finger and a stout call of "Behold!"

It's Not About the Corpse

As a child, I used to like to go to the meat section of the grocery store and poke the plastic-wrapped fish in the eye. I think it was the "squishability" I enjoyed. There wasn't really anything else (especially in the grocery store) that offered the same tactile experience.

I imagine poking anything in the eye might offer a similar feeling, but people and beasts alike aren't particularly willing to let you stick your finger in their eye for fun. And conventional western morality being what it is, fish are about the only dead-things-with-a-head that a young boy might encounter.

Once I approached my teen years, I began to notice how uncomfortable my eye-poking tended to make those who observed it, which I found particularly funny. I started to have staring contests with the fish, and would punish their inevitable victory with a poke in the eye. 

It's been a while since my last eye-poke. I'm not even sure they have fish heads in my local market anymore. Maybe the world has moved on.

We can't really change who we are, though. There is a large dead bird, a pigeon I think, in the parking lot at my workplace that has been there since Monday. If I can find the right stick, I may make subtle chirping noises while I poke at it.

If anyone's watching. People have to be watching.

Foiled Again

A little loo lady update...today I attempted to foil Their insidious plans and go to the bathroom at an irregular time (the time being *all* that was irregular, at least for today). So there I was, settling in, reading a scanned Batman comic from 1993 that I somehow happened upon through perfectly legitimate means, when...

KnockKnock. Was that what I think it was? KnockKnock. No. It couldn't be! "Somebady Hier?"

Yes, a full two hours early, the Lurker was at the threshold. So I finished up quickly. I swear, They're watching me.

Microstory Monday

My goal is to produce a bit of fiction every week, though not for any particular reason beyond my own edification. I don't have a whole lot of patience, so I'll be keeping it between 3 and 8 sentences.

The Natural Enemy of the Butterfly
I feel a hot sting in my abdomen as the anesthesia begins to fade.
"Did it work?" I ask. "Is it in?"
The surgeon furrows his brow and glances downward.
"We got it in, Mr. Jacobs," he says, pulling off his facemask.
"But it isn't going to be happy when it wakes up."

Be The Spoon

I have long been plagued (blessed) with the tendency (compulsion) to mentally prepare myself for horrible event turnings. Which is to say, I already have relevant jokes in place to tell in the years following the accidental severing of my left hand.

In any case, my wife seems to believe this tendency is some sort of handicap, since I don't appear to fully enjoy, say, the simple pleasures of a friendly party when I am spending my time thinking about what to do if I find chips of human bone in the cake or if the host suddenly pulls a gun.

In any case, I mostly just wrote this because I found a quote from William Barrett I wanted to post:

"Anxiety is not fear, being afraid of this or that definite object, but the uncanny feeling of being afraid of nothing at all. It is precisely Nothingness that makes itself present and felt as the object of our dread."

So there. I fear Nothing.

The Power to Control

Okay, so I changed the name and address of the blog. "Meatscape," while vaguely disturbing (a plus!), was more of an accidental choice as I explored what was available.

I was afraid, by virtue of the title, I would be compelled to discuss the current state of the pork industry, which, of course, I know nothing about.
Another option had been "Shaved Meat," which, while also disturbing, seemed to cant in meaning more toward something bizarrely sexual than would be my intention. And what I might be compelled to discuss in that case is also something I know nothing about. Of course.

Other options included "D" and "DCH" (not very interesting), "Dross" (too self-disparaging, if that's possible), "Ur" (meaningless, unless your name happens to be Gilgamesh), "Spudclot" (unnecessary exaltation of the potato), "Deuterium" and "Carbon" (yeah, I don't know what I was thinking), and, had I been of Mongolian descent, "One Hun Dread."

Lurking Loo Lady

Apparently my scatological clock is in sync with the cleaning lady's schedule at work. I am amazed at how often, whilst sitting comfortably in the stall, I am disturbed by a knock at the door, followed by a strangely accented "Somebady Hier?" There is always a follow-up reply after I respond in the affirmative, but I've never been able to figure out exactly what words it contains.

While I am pleased by the staff's dilligence, doesn't mid-day seem like an odd time to do the rounds? And I don't even think that real cleaning is undertaken. I only think the garbage is emptied. And given that fact (that the visit shouldn't really take that long), it's all the more remarkable how often our schedules collide.

I am considering the idea that it is all a management plot. I often bring my handheld on such extended bathroom jaunts, and read whilst "in-process." This usually extends the time I spend away from my desk. When interrupted by our possibly-bosnian, possibly-cuban bathroom raider, I feel uncomfortable finishing the chapter I'm on when I know she's camped outside the door with her plastic bags and bright yellow triangular floor-sign, so I end up going back to my desk sooner.

Only to spend ten more minutes making a blog entry.