I just love this so very hard.
"Just keep George Clooney out of my face."
What do you think comes next?
No, not that, you disgusting filth-pig. Shame on you.
This is a still from the movie Transfer. I’d recommend it if you have Netflix. Interesting concept, and nine minutes in has already raised some interesting and relevant questions about race, class etc. And of course, has me full of rage.
I’ve paused it to tell you about this thing I made!
Five minute chocolate cake! The recipe can be found here, but due to a lack of certain ingredients and not many fucks being given, I made a few substitutions.
I generally switch out white/refined sugar for brown or raw sugar when I can, unless I’m making cheesecake because, listen. You. Do not. Fuck. With cheesecake.
It’s pretty good, but the recipe could use some tweaking.
The texture varied from brownie-ish on top, to dense and dry in the middle, to moist and light at the bottom. The ice cream sprinkles were a nice addition, but I did miss the chocolate chips. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy the hell out of it though cause hey, it’s chocolate, and I’m on my period.
Another piece of flash, about being killed and returning for vengeance.
Only two f-bombs this time! Enjoy, kids.
“Rise, Vindicatio Evangeline, and may vengeance be your salvation.”
That’s what she’d said, the woman whose name I no longer remembered. Everything fades so fast after The Drop. It had been four years, I’d been told. The line for vengeance in heaven is a long one.
I could still hear Ramon over by the car, coughing and hacking, spraying the interior to hell with air freshener. The decomp started almost as soon as he’d hauled me out of the earth. I’d stained the passenger seat of his 1961 Ford Thunderbird with my “ghoul grease” - his words, not mine - and he’d gone from zero to conniption once he saw me ooze embalming fluid into his custom carpets with my cracked feet. He’d thrown me a too big nylon tracksuit and tied grocery bags around my feet, all the while muttering about “fucking ghouls”.
I didn’t talk back, mostly because I didn’t want my jaw to fall off. And nylon tracksuit or no, it was great to be out of that rotted funeral dress. I’d always hated it, couldn’t believe my mother had buried me in it. I thought of the still-smoking trash pile where Ramon had burned the hideous frock, and tried in vain not to grin.
“Something funny, Deadums?” I felt my lower lip split even as he said it, felt the sludge from the wound dribble down my chin. I shifted uneasily in my grocery bag booties, embarrassed of my ruined face. Ramon snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves, a snicker dancing across his lips. “No worries, you’re not any uglier than before.” I glared, as much as someone with sunken eyes can glare. So basically I just stared, sleepily.
He took hold of my bloated digits in his warm, purple-clad fingers, and looked at me genuinely for the first time. There was no hint of disgust, only an intense seriousness that demanded my attention as he placed a six shot revolver in my hand.
“Now, this is where most of you dirt creeps chicken out, and if you do, you gotta know I will put you down. Ghouls don’t roam, you understand? You either gotta live, or you gotta die - again. So I need you to remember why you’re here. You gotta feel it. In here.” He jabbed a finger at my chest for emphasis, recoiled just as emphatically at the sucking squish.
I nodded, closed my eyes, and thought of that night, crisp and chilly and peppered with the scent of autumn leaves. And the metallic stink of my blood. I remembered hearing my broken teeth clatter on the asphalt behind the school, each one tinkling free for every time Lucy Gilmore stomped on my head. She and her dumbass friend Linda had jumped me for mouthing off after they made fun of my clothes. Who the fuck did she think she was? I’d asked in the middle of the cafeteria. She was poor too, and anyway at least I was clean. Was that contouring or just dirt on her face? All the kids oooOOOOoooed, and I felt pretty big. I didn’t think I’d said anything that might get me killed. Well I learned, didn’t I? Lucy made sure. She had struck the killing blow and now I was back to return the favour, four years dead and haunting the bushes by her front door.
Ramon shivered, shook the vision from his head.
“Look.” He composed himself, his tone a little gentler. “Being Vindicatio ain’t shit. I know you think it’s some shit, it ain’t. You need to earn your life.”
I stumbled up the steps, pressed the doorbell with one trembling, yellowed finger, and waited. Not long. She came to the door, opened it with that same mean, entitled expression. She reeked of cigarettes and cheap beer.
I heard a man’s voice in the back, “Don’t worry about the money, Lucy. First hit’s always on me.” He laughed a dry, corn husk laugh, and the back door slammed. From the time she’d stood on the threshold facing me, Lucy hadn’t moved. Her eyes darted all over me. Maybe she couldn’t make sense of it, but instinctively she knew what I was.
I raised the revolver, cocked the hammer, made sure the gun pressed gently between her eyebrows.
“E-E-Evan-geline?!” She sputtered, finally. I heard the gentle piddle of urine hitting the floor, and as dead as my heart was, I felt pity. Did this make me better? Did it make me right?
Lucy’s eyes focused just over my shoulder as I heard Ramon pull back the hammer on his own pistol.
“You hesitating there, creeper?” I shook my head.
“Sure looks like it. You got three,” I was frozen, staring into Lucy’s eyes, crossed as she looked at the barrel of my gun.
“Two,” I couldn’t, could I? Should I? Was my life worth living if I became like Lucy?
“PLEASE!” She cried, splitting the air with a shriek so loud I didn’t hear the shot, but I smelled the gunpowder, like burning metal and earth erupting in my nostrils.
My head felt like it had been cut in two.
I opened my eyes to sunlight and warmth and some ghastly, wordless rockabilly tune. I was moving, feeling the bounce of the T-bird’s shocks under the cool leather of the back seat.
I gasped, checking myself, checking my head, more alarmed that I was alive rather than at the fact that I was stark naked. My skin was smooth, flush, normal. I tugged at my hair, none of it came out. I worked my jaw a couple times, satisfied by the soft click of muscle and tendon knit together.
Ramon looked at me in the rearview, grinning his slippery grin.
“You did good, kid.”
I smiled back, not ready to talk just yet. But as I felt the warmth of life blooming in my chest I wasn’t troubled about what I’d done.
Lucy owed, and so I’d collected. Vindicatio Evangeline.
[TW: Sexual Assault]
His lips crushed mine, stopping my protest. He kissed me angrily, roughly, his other hand gripping tight around the back of my neck, making escape impossible. I shoved against his chest with all my strength, but he didn’t even seem to notice. His mouth was soft, despite the anger, his lips molding to mine in a warm, unfamiliar way.
I grabbed at his face, trying to push it away, failing again. He seemed to notice this time, though, and it aggravated him. His lips forced mine open, and I could feel his hot breath in my mouth.
Acting on instinct, I let my hands drop to my side, and shut down. I opened my eyes and didn’t fight, didn’t feel… just waited for him to stop.
Twilight: Eclipse p. 331 (Bella and Jacob’s first kiss)
Young women are taught to think of this passage - which describes sexual assault - as erotic. Young men are taught to force their will on young women, regardless of any (non)verbal cues, because sex is conquest and women are objects - not something to be done between two consenting individuals because it’s pleasurable for both people.
The most frightening thing about this excerpt is that many survivors of sexual assault who have disclosed to me describe stories that sound exactly like this one.
tumblr user clockward submitted this to us. read at your leisure.
The lines before that:
He still had my chin—his fingers holding too tight, till it hurt—and I saw the resolve form abruptly in his eyes.
“N—-” I started to object, but it was too late.
And after he assaulted her she punched him in the face but due to his “super human strength” she broke her hand, said “Don’t touch me!” and then:
“Just let me drive you home,” Jacob insisted. Unbelievably, he had the nerve to wrap his arm around my waist.
I jerked away from him.
When he got in the driver’s side, he was whistling.
AND THEN while he was driving:
“…There is so much I can give you that he can’t. I’ll bet he couldn’t even kiss you like that—-because he would hurt you. I would never, never hurt you, Bella.”
I held up my injured hand.
He sighed. “That wasn’t my fault. You should have known better.”
He grinned over at me. “You kissed me back.”
I gasped, unthinkingly balling my hands up into fists again, hissing when my broken hand reacted.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I did not.”
“I think I can tell the difference.”
“Obviously you can’t——that was not kissing back, that was trying to get you the hell off me, you idiot.”
He laughed a low, throaty laugh. “Touchy. Almost overly defensive, I would say.
I took a deep breath. There was no point in arguing with him; he would twist anything I said.
Then when she gets home, to where her father, Charlie, the police officer, is:
“Why did she hit you?”
“Because I kissed her,” Jacob said, unashamed.
“Good for you, kid,” Charlie congratulated him.
I didn’t read the citation first. I read the quote. I thought I was reading a woman’s account of how she was about to be raped, not a fucking passage from a romance novel.
Yup, soooooo romantic.
This is a piece of flash fiction I started a while ago, and though I never loved it, I wanted to finish it. So here it is, naked and bashful but here just the same, for you to judge or enjoy. Or maybe both?
I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I just wanted to feel something that wasn’t dread or fear or a never ending sense of doom. Something like hope, maybe. She wasn’t even dirty or disheveled like the rest of them, and she walked like a normal kid. She stopped in front of the McDonald’s, staring at the menu with the wide-eyed gaze of someone who hadn’t eaten for days. She was so skinny and I thought, poor kid’s hungry as hell, maybe she’ll want these shitty gritty canned pears. So I said hello, put my hand on her shoulder, and God damn if she didn’t waste any time chomping those little milk teeth into my hand. To be fair, I should’ve known better. To be fair, I knocked her head clean off with my sledge hammer, opened that kid’s head like a smashed pumpkin.
“Take it back!” I screamed, in that moment of rage, crisp and white like fresh linen. I know it didn’t make any sense, but everyone deals with their sudden impending death differently I guess.
Just like that, I was fucked. I knew it, and I’m man enough to admit I cried a little. I mean, wouldn’t you? I just stood there blubbering, wondering who the fuck dressed their daughter in a pretty blue sundress for the apocalypse. Who had the nerve to brush her hair, and keep her so clean and so well loved that even when she was dead some dumb shitbird would walk up and try to save her from becoming what she’d already become? What am I supposed to tell my girl, when she looks at me with those eyes and sees my hand? “Oh, hey baby! I got bit, but it’s cool cause right after you cut my hand off we can pound this can of mushrooms”? I still had to get past all the ghouls and even if I made it back to camp with a heavy backpack and a dead hand, they would probably shoot me. Shit, I’d shoot me. And when you are a grown man crying in the city’s biggest shopping centre and your only company is a few shuffling corpses, those echos remind you just how pathetic you are. I take out a pad, scribble a note to Karen, stick it in my shirt pocket.
I’m hoping when I get back - if I get back - maybe someone’ll have the stones to chop off my hand. I pray it’s not my Karen. She was never good with change. Not before the world went to hell, and certainly not after. The hungry dead don’t give a hot buttered fart about your weekly itinerary, and the people who didn’t get that got ate in the first days. Until now, me and my mean right swing have been the only things between her and some dead man’s gullet. Yeah, all I have to do is get my hand lobbed off, and even as I think it I laugh, it’s too late for that shit.
So here I am, trudging through the Eaton Centre covered in zombie head cheese. Behind me, I hear the shuffling horde of hungry sloths as they follow me to the gate like I’m the pied piper of fucking doom. What am I gonna do, shoo them away? I rattle the gate, calling, hollering her name. It doesn’t sound like ‘Karen’. One by one the others peek out, gaunt, hungry, filthy - not so different from the ghouls. With their guns drawn, barrels pointed at my head and I know how fucked up I must look, how I can’t even form fucking words, standing there holding the backpack and grunting like some agitated ape. I see her, finally, and she pushes past them, shoves them out of the way. She looks pissed. Again I’m like “Uuugghhhn!”, and I’m just hoping she understands. She lifts the gate, just a foot, and I slide the backpack underneath. She reaches through the bars, plucks the note out of my pocket. I catch a whiff of her skin. Smells…good.
“Karen. I’m sorry. I tried. Love you.” She reads. She looks at me with those eyes. And when she pulls the pistol out of her waistband I nod, and she smiles, and she pulls the hammer back, and I am so proud, cause she’s lining up the shot just like I’d shown her, and I know she’ll make it clean.
Last night I dreamt I killed a man with a chainsaw.
I picked up the sputtering thing, light in the hand and vibrating with anticipation.
I severed his leg, grinding through thick muscle and bone, hands slick with blood in an instant.
I tore into his bloated belly and blended his guts.
I drove the whining blade into his neck, his eyes.
Bits of meat hit my face like hot, sticky Spackle and I realised only then that I was not so much trying to kill as to destroy this man.
And I did rather well.
They say you can’t kill people in your dreams.
He will be my second.
If it makes you feel any better, he started it.
Happy NaNoWriMo, kids!