The sub-moronic ramblings of a semi-functioning illiterate

Mystery Writer

Have I got a treat for you all just in time for the holidays. It’s a hot, bubbling cauldron of awesome in the form of a mystery writer who has hijacked my blog for the day. Prepare to have your socks blown the f*ck off. I give you:


The house was exactly as she had described it to him. Standing in the entry, he controlled himself, his nervousness, his racing heart, his moist, shaking hands. Turning from hanging his coat, she smiled, hands demurely folded before her, hair just so, and completely at odds with her excitement as well. Only an imperceptible throb of a vein in her neck outwardly spoke of her tension. They had waited so very long.

“I like your place,” he said, his voice skipping.

“Oh, that is kind of you to say,” she replied, eyes lowering, lips curling so slightly at the corners.

They hugged awkwardly, an entirely shoulders and arms test of the waters. A brief silence turned awkward, and then stretched on some more. Brown eyes glanced up from under conservative eyeshadow. She watched him, clearly at odds with himself. His mind racing, all it seemed he could think of was how huge and how ungraceful his feet felt.

“I hope you like pork roast,” she said, taking the initiative, “I know we said dinner at the Terrace, but this felt a lot better when I had the idea.”

“I… well, uhm… but,” he stammered, now in mental ruin, all well-planned events for naught, yet somehow recovered, “Well, ok, and pork roast is one of my favorites.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had put so much effort into this. I feel bad, but you know,” she paused, making an equivocating hand movement, “The situation.”

The months of careful exchanges over their shared social network site buttressed her caution to him. The shy caution she showed initially blossoming into more exciting, revealing exchanges. Then came the whispered phone conversations from basements, the tearful ones detailing the deceptions, the disappointments, the betrayals. There was implied violence thinly veiled in conversations of another related in explanations. Then, finally, a business trip, a plan, and a hope.

“Yes! Right,” he breathed, “You should have – I mean, I should have thought of that. Really.”

“Relax, it’s okay,” she soothed, and he actually did.

She pointed in a reserved way at a large bag near his feet on the floor. It was the folded, flat-bottomed kind, with two semicircular paper-covered wire handles for carrying.

“Did you bring it?” She asked.

“Oh! Yes I did,” he said, and laughed, now completely relieved.

Picking up the bag, he held each handle in one hand, an offering. With an enigmatic cat’s smile, she glanced at him and reached into the bag. She took the contents in hand and maneuvered it out, flipping it around to finally view it.

Another awkward silence stretched into infinity. For him, he waited in tortured hope for an expression. For her, she racked her brain to comprehend this work. It was the work of months, arduous and perfectionist brushstrokes based on nervously-sent photos. It was her without question, rendered with the talent of a real artist, surrounded by death, glorious in her victory.

“No,” she gasped as tears erupted down her cheeks and she shoved the painting barely-caught into his hands. She vanished into the kitchen, her muffled sobs following her. His world spun, nearly tipping off the edge. He felt actual dizziness, and fought it, somehow willing his feet forward to shuffle uneasily after her.

She stood at the counter, shoulders racking in silent tears. She stirred a crock pot with a wooden spoon. He paused, just beyond arms’ reach of her. Something metal clinked. She froze when he spoke.

“I am so sorry. I… I thought after all we talked about, your amazing strength through this… this… shit,” he managed to choke out of a tight throat. Oddly, he fixed on a coppery and fleeting smell, possibly the roast. Only a few seconds passed this time, and she slammed the lid on the pot nearly hard enough to shatter it. The potholder clung tenaciously to the handle. She spun, bracing against the counter, her fist perched on her cocked hip. From under heavy brows, her eyes now shone with a different intensity through the remnants of the tears.

“No,” she said forcefully, “I meant that you’re not going to disappoint me, and I’m so very excited by that.”

“But, you just… so,” he struggled, somewhat dizzy again yet hopeful, “So you like it?”

“I think it captures the fire I feel inside me right now,” she answered, stalking toward him.

Laughter rushed from his lips as he coughed out, “Oh wow,” and caught her feminine form. This embrace, unlike the first, was heated, close, and natural. Hands wandered, and the only sound for some moments was the nasal exhalations over a deep kiss. Fingernails dug almost painfully into his chest.

“Oh yes,” she breathed, “This will be so liberating. Love me.”

“God, yes,” he replied, “Are you sure –“

“Yes, dammit, he’s gone I swear it,” she said more loudly, “Now, love me!”

He did, and with all his energy and longing. In his arms, she smiled a wicked and pleased smile. Behind them, the potholder slid silently off of the lid, while inside the wedding band fell from the boiling flesh, making a gentle clinking noise.


44 responses

  1. Ho-Lee-Schitt!@&%@!!!*%

    November 23, 2011 at 9:39 am

    • *&%^%#@##$%DAMN STRAIGHT!

      November 23, 2011 at 10:07 am

  2. kat

    Ha! Awesome! Great thing to read right before Thanksgiving. Love the clinking sound at the end.

    They do say that people taste like pork . . . whoever “they” are.

    November 23, 2011 at 10:00 am

    • Oh my God….who ARE they?!

      November 23, 2011 at 10:07 am

      • kat

        Cannibals? Jeffrey Dahmer?

        Seriously, no first-hand knowledge . . . as far as anyone knows.

        November 26, 2011 at 3:10 pm

  3. I know I’m a bit of a sick puppy at times, but that last line was perfect.

    November 23, 2011 at 10:05 am

    • Perfect in it’s simplicity, I agree.

      November 23, 2011 at 10:08 am

  4. Let’s see. You’ve got a mystery writer. You’re in New England. Some guy name Stephen is in New England. Hmmmm…..

    November 23, 2011 at 10:46 am

    • You figured it out so you win the prize! It’s a boiled bunny served in a charred jock strap! Should I send it or have it delivered personally?
      *John backs slowly away from the keyboard*

      November 23, 2011 at 11:13 am

      • Now I’m hungry.

        November 24, 2011 at 12:42 pm

  5. I love it. LOOOOOVVVVVE IT. Neurotic killers in love. Fits my mood perfectly. *begins boiling large pot of water and eyeing husband*

    November 23, 2011 at 10:48 am

    • Yeah, but take the ring off him first. Always good for a pawn.

      November 23, 2011 at 8:12 pm

  6. Ahaha “Love me.” … “God, yes,” … Genius 😉

    November 23, 2011 at 11:15 am

    • I know. How creepy was that?

      November 23, 2011 at 4:49 pm

  7. Awesome Job…whoever you are… Awesome! 🙂

    November 23, 2011 at 1:18 pm

    • I’m sure he/she says “thank you!”

      November 23, 2011 at 8:13 pm

  8. H.E., where did you get this shit? AWESOMESAUCE. Kind of ‘Fatal Attraction’ meets emotional bondage… this actually creeps me out. *shudders*

    November 23, 2011 at 1:22 pm

    • *agrees*

      November 23, 2011 at 8:13 pm

  9. The clink of the ring as it slides off the flesh… and the dialogue.
    Where’s the book?

    November 23, 2011 at 2:27 pm

    • I’ve been telling this person for ages to put one together. Maybe now he/she will listen!

      November 23, 2011 at 8:14 pm

  10. Naughty! 😉

    November 23, 2011 at 3:47 pm

    • Wicked naughty!

      November 23, 2011 at 8:14 pm

  11. I love a good hard boiled story. It’s too bad she dropped her ring in the soup. But she can get it once it cools off. I’m not big on the cheating, but sometimes people just find each other, I guess. She also should have kept her original plans. It’s not nice to change the dinner plans at the last second. That’s rude!

    November 23, 2011 at 6:11 pm

    • I love that you focus on the “rude.” Only you, Hotspur. 🙂

      November 23, 2011 at 8:16 pm

  12. Wow…I could see it all…vivid imagery, but I’d be cautious about getting involved with someone like that…what if she gets tired of this new guy? Hmm…scary!

    November 23, 2011 at 7:48 pm

    • I love the imagery as well. And yes, men do have something to fear from a woman like that. I certainly hope this one is fictional!

      November 23, 2011 at 8:17 pm

      • bwaahahaha….so much of our fiction is based on real life situations…bwaahahaha…evil laugh…who, besides the author, knows the truth?!

        November 23, 2011 at 8:22 pm

        • The truth. Now that is a scary thought.

          November 23, 2011 at 8:28 pm

  13. Creepy, yet so romantic!

    November 23, 2011 at 8:38 pm

    • Creepy, yes. But I’m not sure the husband would agree with “romantic.”

      November 23, 2011 at 8:44 pm

  14. savorthefolly

    Happy Thanksgiving my dear – hope it’s a good one!

    November 24, 2011 at 9:37 am

    • You too sista’!

      November 24, 2011 at 9:41 am

  15. I don’t really know what to say. That was kinda awesome.

    November 24, 2011 at 11:07 am

    • I agree….awesome and deeply disturbing.

      November 24, 2011 at 11:55 am

  16. Btw, I am thankful for you, H.E. XOXO

    November 24, 2011 at 3:50 pm

    • I’m beyond thankful for you too, Sparkle. We’re two in a million, you and I.

      November 24, 2011 at 6:10 pm

      • That fraction is way too large. You need a larger denominator. Just saying.

        November 25, 2011 at 4:03 pm

  17. savorthefolly

    So will you reveal the mystery writer?

    November 25, 2011 at 6:18 pm

    • I got this as an anonymous email requesting I post it. I thought it was you, actually. 🙂

      November 26, 2011 at 4:22 pm

  18. savorthefolly

    I think John Erickson wrote it. He’s got the smarts and a mind just crazy enough to cook this baby up. John E. START A FUCKING BLOG.

    November 26, 2011 at 4:53 pm

    • God I hope so! How awesome would THAT be? He seriously needs a blog.

      November 26, 2011 at 4:54 pm

      • savorthefolly

        Oh I just noticed you thought it was me. Nope. Wasn’t me. I’m not a writer – have no such aspirations. I’m just a reader. The blogging is just an outlet for all my crazy.

        November 26, 2011 at 6:01 pm

        • The fact that it was smart in addition to being well written is what made me think of you. It wasn’t the crazy. Honestly not the crazy….

          November 26, 2011 at 6:04 pm

          • savorthefolly

            Oh I wish I could claim this one – if I could write like this I think would consider becoming a writer. very compelling and very twisted. whoever you are mystery writer, that was some seriously good fiction – you might just have some of that really fucked up shit in your mind called talent.

            November 26, 2011 at 11:32 pm