“Bring It On” by The Gaslight Anthem

Found these guys through Joe Hill. Amazing.

Ruminating On: Technology

Author’s Note: I will be out of town from the 24th to the 28th of May. This means I will miss Friday’s Ruminating On. To appease those of you that care, I figured I would post to the blog now, instead of completely skipping it. You know I love your mugs. Yes, even the ugly ones. So, here we go…

Ruminating On: Technology

I’m a big fan of gizmos, video games, cell phones, laptops, tablets, ereaders, and things with blinking lights that attract my ADD, but I couldn’t care less for technology. Now, before you scream at your computer screen, “Wait! What’re you rambling on about? They’re the same thing!”, let me explain.

I love toys—dirty minded folks, please leave through the side door. I am, pretty much, a big kid. New tablets and cell phones are all shiny and pretty, with crisp graphics and easy to use interfaces. I’m a man that loves to use his fingers, so sliding them around and actually getting a reaction is just awesome to me. Wow, this blog is going to appeal to all my gutter-minded readers. Oh well, moving on.

What I don’t enjoy is the technology these electronics carry installed upon them. You have Facebook apps, Twitter apps, LinkedIn, Tumblr—the list goes on and on. This means that no matter where you are in the world, at any moment in time, if you can find an internet connection, you can contact whoever you want. That poses a great dilemma to the traditional horror scribe. In a world of ever expanding connectability, my job is getting harder and harder. I have to account for all these new devices and connection options when writing my fiction. Several cheats can be used, but I don’t want to use them. I’m sure at some point I will, but then I’ll get emails to the tune of, “Thought you weren’t going to use that copout?” and then I’ll end up having to cyber-hunt someone down and eMurder them.

Some examples of what I consider cheats, are:

#1. The battery’s dead: No one has a charger? Really? Which leads me to sub-cheat a) The power is out! Oh no!

#2. Even in this day and age (Stephen King I’m talking to you, too. Seriously, why don’t you own a cell phone?) your character just chooses not to have a mobile device. Funding isn’t really an issue anymore, as most companies will give you a free phone, or charge you for whatever you pick out, on your first bill. As a man who used to hop from one company to another every two months without paying his bill, trust me on this. I know, I’m an jerk. But I’ve changed, Ma, really I have. I’ve seen the error in my ways, and all that 12 step stuff bad-people-who-want-to-be-good-people say. I was homeless for a little while, too. But that story is for another time.

#3. For some unexplained reason, no one’s cell phone works. Now, unless your characters are out in the mountains, the desert, or the wilderness, there’s probably no reason for them to not have service. Even then, they probably will. I would much rather read about a lack of signal because of the absence of towers, than I would some supernatural reason. It just seems all too convenient. “Oh Lordy, we’re stuck in this apartment complex, and a demon is after us, and does anyone have a cell phone, and what do you mean you don’t have a signal! We’re in downtown Los Angeles!” I realize, that in Dastardly Bastard, no one has a signal, but that’s because of the location, not the monster. So shuddup!

Horror—for me anyway—is about atmosphere and isolation. My chore is over coming the fact that, nowadays, people always have a way of calling for help. There are simple answers that are not cheats, but they become over used, as well—e.g. even though your character can call for help, they still have to wait for help to arrive. But, unless you want to end your story when the authorities respond, you’re going to have to explain why they can’t get to, or help, your character. Some people believe 911 is a joke (thank you, Flavor Flav and Chuck D) but it is a thing and for the most part, it does work.

Then we have 3G and 4G. This irks me to no end. If your character finds a mysterious item, substance, bit of text, or a strange science experiment, they can do an internet search on the fly. Yep, I believe Google’s killing the mystery star, just like video committed radio-cide. A writer used to be able to tell their reader something and said reader would just follow along without too much protest, as long as the writer was competent in his delivery (Michael Crichton was famous for that), but now, with devices like Kindle Fire and Nook, information is just a swipe and type away. You can go directly from your ebook, to Google, and find out whether or not it’s actually possible to clone a dinosaur using a frog and a friggin’ mosquito. It makes me want to slam my head into a wall, really. Talking about technology, not asexual dinos.

Of course, I see the other side of this, as well. Technology is making writers tell better stories. We’re having to up our game and explain more. We’re required to ditch the simplistic and focus in on what we should have been doing in the first place—suspending disbelief in a logical fashion. Just because cell phone tech and internet search engines exist, does not give writers the right to cheat. Authors must make note of their content issues and overcome. If not, they risk losing readers.

So, if I ever cheat, let this diatribe be my formal apology. But also know that, at one point in time, I felt the same way you did. Hopefully, that day never comes, and I remain a reliable storyteller.

Yeah, technology sucks. That’s just my opinion. One lowly horror writer’s attempt to describe why he has it so rough in this day and age. Forget the fact that I’m doing what I love.

I know, you feel so sorry for me; right?

E.

“Me and Mr. Jones” (Explicit) by Amy Winehouse

Writing Under The Influence

Win A Signed Copy of Bay’s End!

Below you will find ten questions regarding people and items located in my novel, Bay’s End.

The rules are simple: First person to email the correct answers to edwardlorn@gmail.com, wins a signed copy of Bay’s End. Make sure to add your physical address to the email, or I won’t be able to send you your copy.

Please, number your answers!

And away we go!

1. What is Officer Mack Larson’s sister’s name?

2. Two men got in a fight at Hap’s retirement party. What were their names?

3. While the boys are playing hide and seek, what falls out of Jude Lance’s closest that Trey find so repugnant?

4. Danny, Trey’s father, used to work for Minnow. What was the name of Minnow’s company?

5. What movie does Jenna Wales quote towards the end of the book?

6. What’s the make, model, and color of Hap’s cruiser?

7. Jamie doesn’t pronounce words too well. What was it he called butterflies?

8. What two arcade games are ready to play at Chapman’s Laundromat?

9. The Westerns were once a logging company. What was the name of that company?

10. There’s Bachman High, but what’s the name of Bay’s End’s middle school?

Good Luck!!!

E.

A Grammatical Tale of Terror!

Feel free to steal this. Just try and give me credit when possible

Grammatical Horror

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Vague Antecedent began. “They were going there, expecting it.”

“You’ve peeked my interest. There not going two make it; are they?” Homophone asked.

“Whats going to happen, to them.” Bad Punctuation inquired.

Dangling Participle smiled. “By reading your expression, this story is boring you.”

“U sey its derk n stormee, butt I dunt see ne rayn.” Miss Spelling argued.

“Glaringly big holes are arguably what’s wrong with this horrendously told tale.” Unneeded Adverb grinned mischievously.

“I don’t see no point in continuing.” Double Negative sighed.

“Anyone tried. I tired to go to sleep.” Typo stretched.

“Every time he told this story. Everyone is getting bored!” Tense Issue blurted.

“i’m done. the End. all right? i don’t want To hear another word From you. everyone get OUT of my house!” Improper Capitalization demanded.

Teh end…

Introducing Camp WannaBastard!

Tell us, what are some of your most cherished, or tarnished memories?

I’d like to invite everyone to Camp WannaBastard, a Facebook community that focuses on the strength of our memories.

Share a story, upload a picture, or just like the page so you can follow the thread. 

Enroll in Camp WannaBastard Today!

Ruminating On: Porn

Ruminating On: Porn

Jesus! What won’t I talk about?

(Insert eye roll here)

Dictionary.com says.

No, really, go check out Dictionary.com’s definition. I’ll wait here.

Back? Good. Now we can continue. To all the pornography aficionados out there, I must apologize. We will not be discussing, showing, or promoting adult films here today. We will be going over the mentality of different kinds of porn. The type of media that caters to a specific clientele’s desires. If I have broken your little heart, just Google “porn” and you will be sated. There are plenty of free YouTube-style adult sites around to tickle your pickle, or, for the ladies, to double click your mouse to.

Food Porn: I love this one. Being a fat fuck makes me an expert on this topic. I’m not fat because of some glandular problem, or thyroid issue. I’m obese because I love food. I enjoy the taste, the smell, even the feel of food. In a way, yes, it gets me off. Just thinking about food gives me a chubby. Food Network is just as fascinating to me as Big Bootie Bitches Part Umpteen-Thousand. It’s all about satisfying a craving without actually partaking in the deed. Whether I’m pumping my love muscle, or stuffing my pie-hole, the end result is the same: I’m a happy bastard, and a little messy to boot. It does confuse me a little when Guy Fieri or Bobby Flay come on brandishing succulent treats and I feel that familiar stirring in my loins. I guess when it comes to my food porn, I’m bi-feastual.

Torture or Gore Porn: Either, or, you decide. But there is a difference. Gore porn is for those craving as much blood and viscera as one director and special FX department can muster. Gore hounds require neck stumps pumping arterial spray into the heavens and entrails trailing behind their owners like fat worms, whereas torture porn addicts need to see genitalia nailed to a chair, or a set of fingernails being removed with pliers. The difference is: action versus aftermath. Movies like Saw and Hostel are among my favorite, but I fail to see why. The reasoning behind enjoying a human being’s suffering, is beyond me. I don’t have a lot of faith in humanity, and hate most people in general, so that may have a little to do with it, but that doesn’t mean I like torturing people. Just because I love Food Network, doesn’t mean I want to be a chef, I only like watching chefs at work. It’s voyeuristic, really. By watching torture porn, I think I am living vicariously through the evil doers on the screen. Maybe it keeps me from hunting down that dingle-berry on a certain social networking site, dragging him to my home and ripping his bleeding heart from his urethra. Or, maybe, those movies give me those ideas in the first place. I’m not of the mindset that violent media creates antisocial behavior, but it has sure given me a couple good ideas.

Luxury Porn: If you have never heard this term, it could be because I just made it up. Maybe not. I’m too lazy to Google the term, so you’ll just have to do it yourself when you’re done reading this. Before MTV Cribs, there was a show called Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. The host was known for sounding like a pompous douchebag, dragging out every word, as if his syllables were weighed down by gold encrusted vowels and consonants. Everyday people have always been curious about the better off of society. To this day, we are drawn to reality shows about people living more extravagant lives than ourselves. Kim Kardashian went from one style of porn to another. In one, she gets about nine inches of Ray-J to the tune of “I love you so much” while a camera captures everything from a dresser. Love isn’t quite the word I would use for what he’s doing to her, but whatever floats your apple-shaped ass, is fine with me. In the other, she moans about her failed relationships, business ventures, and how terrible it is to get everything she wants, while Bruce Jenner does his best Joan Rivers impersonation. Am I hating on Kim because she has more money than I will probably ever see in my lifetime? No. I’m pissed off that she’s famous for being famous. Like Paris Hilton, she has a body to be looked upon, and a brain to be ignored. If you think she’s a smart business woman, you’re just as incompetent as she is. It’s called an accountant. You just have to know how to hire one. And all that takes is an internet search.

So, if you get your jollies from food, pain, rich people, or good, old fashion hole violation, porn may very well be your thing. But remember, when you substitute media for real life, there are bound to be people looking at you funny. Porn is best enjoyed in private, or with a loved one you trust. Parents may find it hard to talk about and spouses may think you’re just trying to replace them with it, but in reality, you’re only trying to fill a hole without making an effort.

Hehehehehe…

I said, “Fill a hole.”

E.

Scare E. Winner!

I am proud to announce that the winner of “Scare E. – A Contest of Horrors” is none other than Dead Robots’ Society co-host, Justin R. Macumber. Going into this contest, I knew the winner’s piece would have to stay with me –  that it would have to haunt my nightmares. That is the reason I decided to wait until 15 days after closing the event to announce the winner. Justin’s piece terrified me to no end, both while reading, and long after the final page turned. This is what scares E. Blood and guts and acts of violence during intimate moments, are all well and good, and I enjoy them on a regular basis, but when you can create atmosphere, then you have a winner.

Enough reading my nonsense, I’m sure you want to read the title that bested the rest of you. Without further ado…

In The Deep Dark

By Justin R Macumber

The mine was cursed. Burly hated thinking that way — he wasn’t usually a superstitious kind of person — but there seemed no other explanation for it. Every ounce of coal they managed to dig out brought everyone involved that much closer to ruin. The night shifts were getting harder and harder for him to supervise, but as his eyes drifted up to the picture of his wife and daughters he’d taped to the sunvisor of his old Ford pickup, he remembered why he did it. Curse or no, coal meant money, and he had a family to feed.

The sun was nearly down by the time Burly turned off Sewell Road and drove up the rocky path leading to the mine’s office and parking lot. As he crested the final rise that led down to the gravel covered parking area, the sight of a dozen men crowded together in a rowdy mod said his workday was starting off worse than usual. He quickly steered for the nearest open slot, slammed the transmission into PARK, and climbed out of the cab.

Angry voices and fists filled the air as Burly stomped across gravel. No one looked his way as he approached, but they knew he was there when he parted them with a broad shouldered shove he’d learned during his varsity football days. “What the hell is going on here?” he yelled once he was on the other side of the furious throng.

To his surprise he found his boss, Badger Coal CEO Ted Newman, cowering against the mine’s low-slung electric cart with his arms held up in front of him. Normally the corporate officer was a man defined by his calm demeanor and tidy appearance, yet today he was anything but. His light grey shirt was covered in coal dust and ragged black handprints, as was the blue paisley tie that hung half-torn from his neck. Bright red spots bloomed like carnations on his left cheek and jaw, the beginnings of ugly bruises. The final touch on the surreal scene was the blood that dripped from his split lower lip. If Burly hadn’t seen it for himself, he wasn’t sure he’d have believed such a sight was possible.

Standing in front of the CEO like a mother bear defending one of her cubs was Ray Dennings, the mining company’s President and temporary Day Shift Supervisor. Unlike Mr. Newman, Ray was perpetually covered in coal dust, so nothing was unusual there, but the jagged wound over his right eye was new, as was the look of desperation in his eyes, which stood out like twin moons in a twilight sky. Ray’s hands were curled into fists, and despite his fear he looked ready to go another round if that’s what he had to do. When Burly appeared, he heaved a massive sigh of relief.

“Ah, thank Christ,” Ray said, huffing air. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see your ugly face.”

“Don’t defend him, Burly!” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd. More shouts went up behind him, their angry words overlapping each other like storm clouds, and hands pushed and pulled at his back.

“Yeah! Don’t get in the way!”

“Goddam suit’s stealin’ from us!”

“I won’t stand for it!”

Sick of the noise and jostling, Burly whipped around and said, “Shut the fuck up!” The command rolled over the angry crowd like a blast of thunder, bringing everything to a standstill. Taking advantage of the brief moment of quiet, Burly turned back to Ray and Mr. Newman. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve gone insane!” Mr. Newman said, his arms still held up in front of him.

Ray lowered his fists, but his stern gaze settled on every man before him. “Y’all better be glad I don’t have the police here arresting the whole lot of ya!”

“We ain’t the criminals here!” someone said.

Ray cast around for the man who’d spoken out, but after a moment he shook his head and said, “Yeah, well I’ve got a cut here that says otherwise. I know you’re all angry! I’m angry too, but Mr. Newman can’t grow money on trees, dammit, and he can’t make coal throw itself out the mine just by wishing it. You wanna be mad? Then get mad at your co-workers who haven’t been showing up, who’ve called in sick day after day! Every man we’re down means that much less coal gets cut. Less coal means less money, simple as that.”

“I don’t blame ‘em,” an older man said as he stepped forward. From the corner of his eye Burly saw it was Hank Stafford, one of the day shifters responsible for bolting the cave ceiling after a section of coal was cut into the mountain. “This place ain’t right, Ray. You’ve been down there. You’ve felt it. This whole mountain is… it just ain’t right.”

Encouraged by his words, the intensity of the crowd picked up again. It crackled against Burly’s skin like static electricity. Hank wasn’t the first person to talk about the Bluestone Mine like it was haunted. Almost from the beginning there’d been whispers among the men, talk of strange sounds and shadows that didn’t move right. Burly hadn’t ever seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, so he’d blown it off as idle chatter from grown men who ought to know better, but idle or not he wasn’t about to let the day shift crew use it as an excuse to riot.

“Come on now, Hank,” he said, forcing his tone to be steady and neutral. “We’re all reasonable men here, so let’s be reasonable.”

Hank turned to look at him, and a shadow passed over the old miner’s eyes that sent a shiver down Burly’s spine. It only lasted a second, but the sense of… of otherness… lingered. “Don’t talk down to me, Burl,” Hank replied. “You’ve been in that darkness. Tell me you ain’t felt it down there, in the places we don’t –”

“Enough!” Ray yelled, his voice like a grenade exploding in their midst.

Burly was thankful for the distraction. He didn’t want to hear the bolter say another word, didn’t want to look at him or see the mountain’s shadow in his eyes.

“Yes, that’s quite enough,” Mr. Newman said as he pushed away from the mine cart and stood up. He straightened his tie as best he could and smoothed the rumpled material of his shirt. “Though I doubt you want to hear the ‘suit’ complain about how much money he’s lost in this place, we are all hurting, and it won’t get better until we get coal production up. If you want to quit because some animal wandered into the mine and hissed at you from the dark, fine. Come back tomorrow and I’ll cut your final check. Understand, though, that as soon as you’re out the door I’ll be hiring your brother and your best friend, and they’ll be the one with a job while you’re looking for your last penny at the bottom of a beer bottle.”

Without waiting to see how the men would react, Mr. Newman pushed his shoulders back and walked toward the office trailer. The mob parted like the Red Sea, some still angry, but most casting their gaze around like they weren’t sure where they were or what was going on.

After the CEO was out of sight, a few chuckles dropped from the day crew, but most of them grumbled and walked to their waiting vehicles. Hank, though, remained where he was, alone as he stared at the mine entrance. Burly couldn’t tell from the older man’s expression if he was glad to be out of it, or if he wanted to go back in, but after a moment Hank shifted his gaze to him, and again a darkness flittered across his eyes like a crow flying past the sun. The two men stared at one another for several eternal seconds before Hank sighed and ambled away toward his dirty brown pickup. As the parking lot emptied, Burly felt like he should be relieved, but he wasn’t.

“Well that was a clusterfuck,” Ray said. Gravel crunched like broken glass under his boots as he walked over.

“I’ve never seen the men act like that,” Burly said as he watched Hank’s taillights disappear over He nHe

the rise he’d driven over just minutes before. “I know money’s tight and we’re all worried about our jobs, but to have them start throwing punches? That mine must really be getting to them. Makes you wonder if…” Burly didn’t finish the sentence, a small part of him fearful that giving voice to the unnatural thoughts creeping through his mind would give them life.

“Wonder if what?” Ray asked, tilting his head and staring deep into Burly’s eyes. “If the mine’s haunted? Don’t give me that shit. I’ll admit, this operation’s seen more than its fair share of problems, but I am not about to go call in some damn psychic or… or priest. Bad luck is bad luck, plain and simple. The sooner we start dealing with it instead of looking for bogeymen to blame it on, the better off we’ll be. So please, for the love of God Almighty, keep that kind of talk to yourself. The men don’t need to hear their supervisor talking that shit.”

Ray was the rational angel sitting on one of Burly’s shoulders, while the devil of his Sunday School youth sat on the other, and between them he didn’t know which way was up anymore. “You’ve never… you know, seen anything? Or heard something? I haven’t, but –”

“The only thing I see and hear is a bunch of pissing and moaning from grown ass men,” Ray replied. His words were shot out of his mouth like buckshot meant to kill any and all superstitious notions, but for a brief moment Burly saw a strain in the company president’s eyes. It was a fleeting thing, barely there, but Burly still saw it. After a moment Ray shook his head and pointed over Burly’s shoulder. “Now, I suggest you drop this crap and get ready to deal with your own world of hurt that’s coming.”

Two sets of headlights appeared over the driveway as Burly turned his head. A third followed soon after. The night shift was on its way, crawling across shadows that grew longer by the moment.

“Tyler and Wilbur called in sick, so you’re running light tonight,” Ray said, disgust thick in his voice. “Push the guys you’ve got as hard as you can. Dig, dig, dig. Get that coal out, and tomorrow we should have some new guys here to help. They’re from Kentucky, but we won’t hold that against them.”

“Not much anyway,” Burly said, glad to have something to smile at. Taking a deep breath, he hitched up his pants and went over to the sign-in board to await his crew. He didn’t wait long.

“Okay, guys, listen up,” he said. “Wil and Tyler called in sick. I need all y’all working hard and working smart, all right? The more cuts we make, the more money we make. If you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, get moving.”

The gathering drifted apart like bits of wreckage floating on the ocean, but they all moved in the same general direction toward the sign-in board. As soon as enough were signed in, the electric cart was turned on and one of the men got behind the wheel while others took a seat and leaned back. The cart sat only a few inches off the ground, so it was a pain to get in and out of if you had bad knees or a sore back, but if it was any higher you’d lose your head as it drove into the four foot high mine entrance.

As Burly walked over to double check the sign-in board, a young man wearing a red hardhat approached. Even from the corner of his eye Burly could tell he was nervous. Red hardhats were only worn by apprentice miners, and the boy beneath it looked like he wished he was anywhere other than where he was right then.

“Evenin’, Boss,” the young man said. A piece of tape was stretched across the front of his hardhat, and BUD was written on it in fat Magic Marker strokes. “Can I have a word with you?”

“Only if those words are ‘I can’t wait to get to work, Boss’,” Burly replied, turning only slightly to give the new man on the shift a glare.

“Not exactly. I… uh… I hate to do this, but… I’m quitting.”

The urge to choke the young man filled Burly like a fire, but he clinched his jaw and held himself in check. “I’m really disappointed to hear you say that, Bud. You’ve got good instincts, and I think you’d make a hell of a miner. Can I ask why?”

“I guess so,” Bud replied. He kicked at the gravel at his feet and looked everywhere but at Burly’s face. “I thought diggin’ through mountains and workin’ with a bunch of guys would be fun and all, but… it ain’t fun. Not one bit. I…”

Bud’s hesitations and dour tone said more than his mouth did to Burly. “Don’t feed me a bunch of shit and tell me it’s a ham sandwich, son. Be a man and say it.”

The skin on Bud’s youthful face went tight and pale, and his hands dove into his pockets so deep he could have tied his shoes. “Dammit, boss, I feel like a right idjit, but… that mine scares me. It’s the dark. It ain’t normal. It… moves. I’ve seen it, out of the corner of my eyes. The other guys, they play it off, make excuses, but they seen the shadows too. People don’t go into that darkness alone if they can help it, and those that do… they don’t come back right.” The skin around Bud’s eyes was red, and a faint shimmer of tears sat on his lower eyelids.

“That’s just nonse –” Burly started to say before Bud pulled his hands from his pockets and pointed a finger at Burly’s chest.

“It’s true! Last night Wilber went off on his own to check a ceiling bolt, and later on when we took lunch Tyler left early to get an extra smoke in. When we signed out this morning, neither of ‘em said a word to us. Not one. They both had this… this glassy stare to ‘em. I knew when I pulled up tonight they wouldn’t be here. There’s something down in that mountain, boss. These guys need the paycheck, got families to support, but I don’t. If you’re smart, you’ll leave this place too. It’s goddam cursed.”

Hearing the word said aloud that he’d been thinking about just minutes before jolted Burly to his core, but when Bud lowed his head and walked away, all Burly saw was one less body to do a job that was already too hard. As Bud passed the sign-in board he took his red hardhat and hung it from the top right corner, then waved over his shoulder and went to his motorcycle. He gunned the engine and left as quickly as he could without sending gravel flying into the air like a rooster tail. For that small mercy, Burly was grateful.

“Well shit,” he said to himself. Knowing he had to do it, he went to the office trailer to let his employers know the good news. Mr. Newman was in his back office with the door locked, but Ray was at his desk, and as Burly relayed what had just happened, the President’s already drooping eyes went a notch lower. When Burly left the trailer a minute later, he felt like he was leaving the hospital room of a patient who’d been told they only had hours left to live.

“Yo, boss!” a voice shouted. “You ready to get dirty?”

Burly turned and saw Sam Wellers sitting down in one of the passenger seats of the mine cart. All the other seats were empty, which meant everyone else was in the mine and this was the cart’s last run. He waved and dashed over to his truck to get his lunch pail and bright white hardhat. After scooping it up and jogging to the cart he tested the hardhat’s forward-facing light to make sure it worked. He’d put fresh batteries in it the day before, but you couldn’t be too sure of those sorts of things when hundreds of tons of mountain were waiting to crush you amidst miles of tunnel as dark as deepest space. The headlamp shone bright and steady.

“Thanks for waiting,” he said as he took the seat opposite Sam. In the driver’s seat, Dean Cotton nodded and pressed the acceleration pedal. Overhead, the dark clouds began to break open, and heavy raindrops splattered to the ground. The men in the cart barely had a chance to get wet as they slipped into the mountain seconds later.

Inches above Burly’s head was rough-hewn cave ceiling. The way ahead was lit by the cart’s headlights, with more light thrown by the hardhats each man wore. It made for a fairly bright scene, but Burly wasn’t fooled. The dark was ravenous, capable of consuming all the light you wanted to give it, and when you didn’t have any more it would reach out and swallow you in one lunging bite.

After a few minutes of rolling over broken earth and bits of rock, Dean turned the cart to the right, kept things steady for a moment, and then made a left. A rumbling sound began vibrating the air, and soon it was joined by a tumbling wave of dust and coal soot. When the cart’s headlight turned right a second time, it lit up the hard working night shift crew of miners.

“Digger’s really givin’ her hell!” Sam yelled once the cart was stopped next to the roofbolting rig. His partner, Billy Simms, was already prepping the machine and locking yard long drill bits into place. “We’re gonna be racing to keep up!”

Dean nodded at him, his face as humorless as usual. “You and me both.” He then backed the cart up, turned left, and pulled forward until he and Burly were stopped next to the scooper, which was Dean’s duty to operate.

After getting out of the cart, Burly headed toward a group of men kneeling together talking while Doug “Digger” Renfro sat with his control panel and operated the continuous miner from a safe distance. The mechanical beast chugged along, scrapping out coal with its rolling drum of tungsten carbide teeth. Despite Bud’s hasty departure and Tyler and Wil calling in sick, work was off to a good start.

An hour into the shift coal rolled its way out the mine, and Digger was into his second cut. Ready to do his job and make the way forward safe for everyone, Sam drove the roofbolter from controls at the back while Billy guided from the front. Two young guys, their former red hardhats so recently off their heads it made their new white ones look pink, lugged the continuous miner’s electrical cable by hand, making sure it didn’t get crimped against a wall or drug under the machine’s treads. They looked to be doing a good job, but suddenly the miner’s lights went dark and it ground to a stop. As Burly looked around to see what had gone wrong, he noted that the conveyer belt wasn’t rolling and the distant hum of ventilator fans was gone.

Something had cut their power.

From his belt Burly grabbed his walkie-talkie, and his grimy thumb depressed the TALK button. “Chester? We’ve lost power! What’s going on out there?”

The walkie-talkie’s speaker spat out a blast of noise that made Burly’s teeth ache. Through the squealing static he though he heard the outside man say, “This rain… crazy! Like… -nd times! … check- … right back!” Mercifully the noise cut out as Chester closed his end of the radio channel, but Burly was aggravated at how spotty the communication had been.

“Dean,” he said to the scoop operator sitting idle a few yards down the mine. “Head out there and see what’s going on.”

Turning the scoop on, Dean nodded and backed down the tunnel, his headlights chasing after him. Once he was turned, the darkness of the mine seemed to creep in a bit.

As the men stood around waiting to hear news, Burly glanced over at his lunch pail and wondered if it wasn’t too early for a bite. He wasn’t all that hungry, but if the generator was having a problem, then their schedule was about to get screwed, and who knew when they’d be able to stop and eat. He told them to start their lunch break early, and low cheers tumbled weakly through the mine.

Several minutes later words blasted from Burly’s walkie-talkie like cannon fire “Boss? You there?”

“Of course I’m here, Chester. What’s going on?”

Rain and wind hit the microphone like a hurricane. “Hell if I know! The genny looks fin, so I’m gonna need to open her up and take a deeper look! Can you send somebody to help?”

Burly looked at his handheld like it was an alien artifact dug out of the ground at his feet. “What? I already sent Dean up there. Ain’t he with you?”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Dean. He ain’t there yet?”

“No.”

“He should be. Go check the entrance. We’re getting some water down here, so maybe the scooper’s wheels got stuck in some wet grit.”

“Okay, boss. Be right back.”

Standing around waiting was not one of Burly’s strong suits, but at that moment it was for the best. The men sat together, eating and chatting in low voices. Some made jokes, but the laughter that followed was forced. Burly opened his mouth to offer a few reassuring words for his crew, but his walkie-talkie squawked, interrupting him.

“Boss!” Chester said. “There ain’t no sign of Dean! I looked as far into the mine as I could from the outside, but I don’t see him or the scooper! He must’ve got turned around somewhere!”

Burly didn’t believe that for a second. Between the scooper and the mine cart, Dean knew his way through the mountain like a mole knew its own den. But, if he wasn’t lost, then where was he?

“All right,” Burly said. “Get back to the genny. I’ll send a couple more guys out to help. Hopefully they’ll find Dean along the way, and then y’all can get this problem sorted out.”

A squall of noise blasted from the handset, but then Chester said, “Sounds like a plan, boss!”

Burly clipped the walkie-talkie back on his belt and turned to the two young cable carriers. “Either of you know how to operate a mine cart?” he asked.

Both boyish faces nodded.

“Like drivin’ a go-cart, sir,” one of them said, a blonde with a too-easy smile. His name was Dale. The lanky brunette next to him was Ricky. They’d been hired as a pair right out of high school.

Wishing his confidence level was higher, Burly said, “Well, head on out then to help Chester. When you see Dean, pick him up too. Think you two can manage that?”

Dale and Ricky nodded their heads like frogs bobbing on a pond.

“Then get going. You help Chester get that genny running in the next thirty minutes, and I’ll buy you both a pizza when we get out of here.”

Needing no more encouragement than that, the two kids bumped fists and walked to the mine cart. The electric engine sounded like a cat getting kicked off the back porch as they spun the wheels and took off.

“Okay, y’all,” Burly said to the rest of his men. “Hopefully we’ll get this fixed up shortly.”

The night shift crew nodded over their meals. Out of habit, Burly did a quick head count. When he came up one short, he blinked. Scanning through the gritty faces wasn’t easy, so it took a moment to see who wasn’t there.

“Billy, where’s Sam?” he asked the second bolter who was chomping into a strikingly white sandwich. His fingers were covered by a plastic bag to keep the coal dust off the bread.

After gulping down a big swallow of sliced ham, Billy said, “I think he went to go take a piss.”

There wasn’t anything unusual about that, but a small chip of ice dropped into Burly’s stomach.

“Wasn’t that like six minutes ago?” Digger asked over the lip of his thermos.

Billy looked at the miner operator, and then at Burly, his eyes round. “I guess. I didn’t think about it. Sorry, boss.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Burly replied, his voice hard. “Be fucking smart.” He then tilted his head up and shouted, “Sam? Where you at? You better not be taking a shit!” His words echoed through the lengthy system of coal cuts, the sound reflecting at odd times and strange pitches. No other noise came back but the dwindling whine of the mine cart. When several seconds went by without an answer, Burly pointed a thick finger at Billy and said, “All right, numbnuts, he’s your buddy, so you better go find him.”

“What?” Billy asked, his eyes going wide and round. “But… I…” Words tumbled over themselves in the back of Billy’s mouth, all of them afraid to get too close and accidentally come out. “You can’t –”

“I sure as shit can.” The chill in Burly’s stomach was all but gone in the heat of his building anger.

“I’ll be alone though,” Billy said.

Getting more irate by the second, Burly’s nostrils flared. “Yeah, and right now so is Sam. Now get off your lazy ass and –”

The earth suddenly rumbled beneath Burly’s feet, and a roar filled the mine with horrendous noise. Rocks ground together, metal squealed, and beneath that was the faint high-pitched warble of human voices screaming in agony. Coal dust billowed toward the miners like a hellish fog from the direction the cart had gone.

“Come on!” Burly said as he took off at a stooped run.

The men ran, their heavy breathing loud in the tunnel. Half a dozen beams of light bounced crazily off the tunnel walls, jittering so much they were nearly useless. A minute later red and white reflective tape flashed ahead of them.

“Hurry!” Burly urged, pumping his arms and legs. He barely had enough breath in him to shout. By the time he made it to the cart he was ready to pass out. Considering what he saw, that might have been preferable.

Buried beneath a massive slab of shale was the crumpled remains of the mine cart, its orange paint and metal frame barely recognizable under the dust and loose bits of rock. It had fared much better than the two men in it, however. One body was lying half out like he’d tried throwing himself out of the way, his face beaten to an unrecognizable bloody pulp, while all that could be seen of the other was a purple-shaded hand peeking out from the left side of the cart. Burly rushed to the rock and started lifting.

I think that’s Dale, he said to himself as his helmet light swept across exposed dirty blonde hair. He couldn’t remember which kid had sat on which side of the cart, but Dale’s hardhat — while doing nothing to save his face from being mangled — had protected his skull enough to make identifying him possible.

“Hurry!” Digger shouted as he leapt in next to Burly. “I think this un’s still alive!”

Burly’s arms and legs strained to move the block of shale mashed into the cart, but his eyes never left Dale’s ruined face. Deep cuts ran down his forehead and cheeks, and blood dribbled off his chin in thick drops. His left eye was destroyed, leaving the socket behind it a vacant dark red hole, but his other eye seemed okay as it moved in small, jittery motions. A deep gouge tore through the soft tissue of his nose, flaying open his left nostril like a butterfly shrimp. Below it, his lips were battered strips of flesh that couldn’t hide his shattered teeth and bloody gums. A sound bubbled up from his throat.

Every available fiber of muscle was put against the shale slab, every hand and shoulder, and the mine was filled with grunts. But, try as the men did, there was nothing they could do to shift the stone off the cart. It weighed an easy thousand pounds, and it was so broad and flat it was impossible for the men to get leverage and lift it or shift it off the cart’s frame. They were going to need help to save Dale’s life.

Stepping away from the devastation, Burly unclipped his walkie-talkie and hammered the transmit button down. “Chester? You still out there?”

Static boiled the air for a moment, but then was replaced with the sound of rain and wind. “Yeah, boss! What’s going on in there?”

Burly hardly knew where to being. “There’s been an accident! The ceiling… some shale came loose! It looks like Ricky’s dead, and Dale’s in bad shape. Real bad. I need you to call emergency services. Tell them to bring some lifting and cutting equipment. Then I need you to call Ray and Mr. Newman and tell ‘em to get their asses out here. Got that?”

“I… I got it,” Chester replied. The outside man sounded shell-shocked. “I’ll be down there with you as soon as I’m done.”

Burly shook his head at the walkie-talkie. “No, don’t. We need someone out there in case something else happens. Besides, one more person ain’t gonna make a difference lifting this thing.”

“But –”

“No buts,” Burly said quickly, adding a harsh edge to his voice. “Just make the calls and stay put. You hear me, Chester?”

The walkie-talkie was silent for several long heartbeats, but eventually the outside storm broke through the tiny speaker again. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m making the calls right now. I’ll be back with you as quick as I can.”

Burly nodded to himself and returned the walkie-talkie to his belt. In front of him, the miners strained against the rock. They knew it could have easily been them under that shale, dead or dying, and if it had they’d want their friends and coworkers to do all they could to save them. So they did, grunting and crying and cursing all the while.

A sound in the darkness behind Burly made him turn. Afraid he was about to see more cave ceiling fall, his hardhat light swept the black like a hand feeling around in midnight waters for something to hold onto. All he saw down either direction was endless stretches of black. As he took one final look behind him, his light hit on a pair of brown work boots. The uneven wall hid who wore them, and panicked that someone else was hurt he scrambled to turn and run toward the boots. When he rounded the stony obstruction he saw Sam standing in the dark. His face was calm, his eyes still and unblinking.

“Sam!” Burly said, a wave of relief washing over him so powerfully he nearly fell over. “Oh, thank God! Come on, we need your help!”

Sam didn’t move, didn’t say a word. All he did was stare.

“Did you hear me?” Burley asked. “We’ve got people hurt over here, so snap out of it and let’s go.”

But Sam didn’t snap out of it, or move, or speak. His eyes were immovable as they bored into Burly. The night shift supervisor had thought the bolter wasn’t hurt, that he looked fine, but the more Burly stared, the more he thought that wasn’t so. Sam wasn’t bleeding or bruised, but his skin — where it could be seen past clothing and coal dust — was porcelain white, while his lips and the skin beneath his eyes was dark, like cave shadows had settled on his face and didn’t want to leave. And his eyes, which Burly could have sworn were blue, seemed as black as the cave around them. He looked sick, cold. Gooseflesh broke out on Burly’s arms and back.

“Sam, talk to me,” he said, taking a small step forward.

Sam moved backward. His feet never left the ground, and his legs stayed stiff, but he somehow still moved. Burly’s eyes watered as they tried to make sense of what they saw. Then Sam’s lips parted, the graying bits of flesh forming words in a pantomime of speaking, yet no words or air left his throat. Burly felt like he was watching a television with the sound turned off. But then words hit his ears with the closeness of someone whispering to him from just behind his neck.

“I’ve seen it,” Sam said, his voice soft, close, and out of time with his face. “I’ve seen the heart of the mountain, Burl, and it’s so beautiful.”

Pain lanced through the center of Burly’s head, making him wince. He suddenly felt loose, untethered. Nothing made sense. He saw movement without motion, heard words that had no voice. Behind him was death, and ahead of him was something other, perhaps worse, or perhaps better. His thoughts became hard to control, keep order of. Desperate to feel something real, he curled up his right hand and punched the stone wall near him. The pain was intense, but clarifying.

“Sam, I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, meaning every word, “but we’re getting out of here. When the sun comes up we’ll get this mess sorted.”

Instead of doing as he was told, Sam smiled, his dark lips bowing in a way that made Burly nauseous. “No more,” Sam said, his words and mouth once again out of sync, his distant voice as close as a lover whispering goodbyes over a grave. As the words were said, Sam glided backward into the darkness as smoothly as fog drifting from an October lake to blanket the shore in wet silence. “No more sun for you, Burl. We’re beyond all light now, and we’ll fall into it forever.”

A new jolt of pain hit Burly’s head, striking through his forehead like a spike. He clenched his teeth and howled, but the sound was lost as the mine trembled under the falling of more stone.

The miners screamed, the mountain screamed, and Burly couldn’t tell one from the other as dark rock tumbled from the ceiling and pounded the cave floor. Movement was everywhere, legs and arms and rock, dust washing over everything like nuclear ash. Burly ducked his head and ran without knowing where he was going. His hardhat light swung through the choking air like a fist, lighting up everything yet revealing nothing. He was blind, confused, chasing shadows into insanity.

“Stop running,” Sam’s voice whispered at the nape of his neck.

Burly spun around and swung his hands out to push Sam away, but no one was there, and he tripped over his own stumbling feet. His elbows crashed into the ground.

“Digger!” he yelled. “You out there? Digger! Billy! Anyone!” The only replies were distant screams. He reached for his belt and grabbed the walkie-talkie. His hands were shaking so much he could barely keep it in his hand. “Chester, talk to me!”

Static droned out of the walkie-talkie, but it quickly became an electronic whine that built and built until it was a constant screech. Burly thought his ears would burst from the sound of it, but then the tiny speaker popped. He grunted at the useless object before throwing it against a wall and stumbling as fast as he could from the sound of falling rocks.

As he ran past a cave junction, Burly’s light swung past a pile of loose shale and lit on a face that shone like the moon, a face that shouldn’t have been there.

“Tyler?” he asked. “I thought you –”

“It’s wonderful in the dark,” the ghastly white face said. Arms rose up and hands reached for him.

“Join us,” a voice said behind him.

Burly turned so fast that his neck popped and a jolt of pain raged up his neck like he’d grabbed a live wire. In the opposite cave was Wilber, his face just as white, his eyes just as black.

“Let the shadows have you,” Wilber said.

Hands like ice settled on Burly’s shoulders. He craned his neck and saw Tyler standing behind him, his mouth opening. For a split second Burly expected needle-sharp teeth to glitter in the light, but they didn’t. He didn’t see anything. Tyler’s mouth was blackness, a void, a bottomless emptiness, and it hungered for him. He felt himself falling upward into the black. Using all his strength he twisted his shoulders and threw an elbow into Tyler’s chest. The younger man flew backward, the darkness of the cave swallowing him whole. When he turned back to Wilbur, the miner was nearly on him, his dark mouth open and his bone-white fingers grasping.

Dipping forward, Burly hit the man with a lowered shoulder, knocking him to the ground, then kept going. Rocks and dust fell all around him, the cave a constant roar of noise. He dodged the rocks that he could, bounced off the ones he couldn’t, and hoped that his feet were leading him somewhere safe. As he crossed a passage he thought his light passed over the shadowy face of Hank, the day shift bolter, but the vision was so fleeting he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t go back to look again.

As he turned down one cut section of mountain and then another, the sound of roaring changed. It was hard to tell at first, as it seemed like one long grinding noise, but after a few seconds he heard a mechanical sound beneath it. That was when he noticed that the rocks had stopped falling.

The miner, he thought. The continuous miner’s on! We have power!

Latching onto that thought like a man reaching for a branch as he careened down a raging river, Burly stopped to gauge where he was. With practiced ears he turned left and right, noted a slight change in the noise to his right, and ran that direction. He felt shadows pulling at him as he ran, inky fingers grasping for his clothes, his arms, his legs. His light crossed from rocky wall to floor to ceiling, but the center of his vision was dark, a hole that had no end. All he could do was run.

Eventually lights appeared in the far distance. They were dim, like the first stars at dusk, but to Burly they were the most beautiful things in the world. As he got closer he saw they were the safety lights on the back of the continuous miner. At the front of it was the rolling drum of metal teeth as it churned deeper into the mountain. In confusion Burly looked around to see how or why the metal beast was operating, and as his hardhat light swept to the right what he saw hit him like a punch to the gut and dropped him to his knees.

Bodies littered the ground like empty fast food containers. Some were crushed by rocks, their heads reduced to leaking pulp or their chests caved in so hard and fast that internal organs had erupted from their mouths. Others looked normal save for the vacant spaces where their eyes should have been. Nearby was Billy, his body laid out like he was waiting to be put in a coffin, his skin milky white and his eyes burnt pits. The rest where dead by the hands of those around them. Long drill bits poked up from the chests of some, and others had had their brains bashed out with heavy wrenches or hammers.

The worst of it was Digger. The miner operator sat on the floor, his legs crossed and his hands on the continuous miner’s control panel that sat in his lap. The dead were arrayed around him like the spokes of a wheel. He faced away from Burly, and Burly was glad for that. He didn’t want to see the miner, didn’t need to.  The Bluestone Mine was filled with the stench of the dead, and shadows crept over it all, even him.

As cold fingers caressed the back of Burly’s neck, the continuous miner emitted a horrific sound. In it he heard dogs barking, rotted trees crashing in deep woods, glaciers cracking in half, meteors screaming to the ground. It was a noise like the end of the world. The digging drum rolled and rolled until the mountain in front of it gave way, revealing a cavern so black it defied sight. As the stone wall crumbled, the continuous miner shut down. In the sudden silence Burly heard a new sound enter the cave. It was a wet sound, and as his light turned on the cavern opening, tendrils of darkness inched out of it. In a sudden rush of panic he tried to get to his feet and run, but cold hands pressed him down. Above him was Tyler and Hank and Wilbur, their dark eyes and mouths echoes of the cavern beyond. He tried to push them off, but their strength was that of the mountain, and their fingers dug in harder, sending ice into his veins.

One by one the dead rose up around him, their blood and brains and organs clothing them in colors he didn’t want to see. Behind them, the darkness reached out, hunting, so hungry, and his light disappeared into it as though it had never existed. With it he felt his sanity slip away little by little until all he could do was cry and wail into the blackness. When his hardhat light finally went out and the darkness overtook him, he was glad. He didn’t want to see the shadows as they swallowed him up. It was enough to feel their cold, moist tentacles pulse and slide across his body. He was alone, flailing in the deep dark, falling into a midnight that had no end, one shadow amongst thousands buried in the heart of the mountain.

The End

About The Author:

Justin is the author of HAYWIRE and the forthcoming A MINOR MAGIC. When not hard at work on his next story he is one of the co-hosts of the popular Dead Robots’ Society podcast. He and his lovely wife live in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex along with a motley pack of dogs and cats. Justin is also a co-host on The Hollywood Outsider, a weekly podcast about movies and television.

Buy HAYWIRE on Amazon.com

Closing Time

My time on writing.com has come to a close.

I hold no anger towards WDC, or the creator of the website. This is my opinion, and nothing more. Writing.com is a great place to meet new people and make friends. In that regard, the website succeeds. The site can also serve to inflate, or deflate, your ego rather quickly. In my case, my ego swelled up to roughly the size of the moon. This isn’t such a bad thing, as it boosted my confidence, but that was not what I signed up for. I joined WDC to learn. And therein lies writing.com’s biggest problems.

This has been coming for some time. The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, happened today around 3pm. I received a review of one of my old pieces that I wrote almost a year ago. Mind you, the story had several problems (hell, I even forgot I had the thing public, and was embarrassed to see someone had found it) but the reviewer found none of them. What they did mention, made me chuckle, but also served as a prime example of the types of “edits” you get while working on WDC.

Here are a few suggestions I received from this person who shall remain nameless:

When you have a dialogue tag at the end of a question, there is absolutely no need for a question mark. “Are you kidding me,” he asked. The dialogue tag “he asked” serves as the question mark.

I just had to sigh. But that’s not all.

“Their” is a conjunction of “they are”. “They’re” would be used if you meant “they were.”

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

This person went on to tell me they had a “master’s in english” – yes, “master’s” with the apostrophe – and planned on going for a “doctorage in human letters.”

Now, all of this could be a pile of bullshit, but I’ve received reviews like this before. The thing that bothers me, is the hierarchy of writing.com. I won’t go into a great amount of detail, but they have a system that purposes certain authors are more valuable to the site than others. This is shown by the color, or lack thereof, of your portfolio case. This nameless soul of which I speak, had a shiny blue case which identified her as a “moderator” for the site. They had a community recognition score of over 200, whereas mine is a lowly 49.

I do not believe this person meant to play a game on me. I believe that they were, seriously, only trying to help.

My reviewer did have the courtesy to rate it five out of five stars, but that is also part of the problem with the website. There are a handful of honest, intelligent reviewers out there roaming the halls of WDC, but they are few and far between. More often than not, you will find people reviewing you just so that you will review them back. Then you have the people that seem hellbent on crushing your hopes and dreams by belittling your hard work any way they can.

To me, writing.com has become nothing more than a social networking site for writing enthusiasts. If that’s what you’re looking for, then it’s the perfect place for you. But like wikipedia, be forewarned. Every review you get, is not gospel. Not every review is worthless either. But if you didn’t know what was wrong with your piece to begin with, and signed up just for the help of others, you’re not going to know when someone gives you bad information.

To those of you I met during my time on WDC, we’ll keep in touch some other way. It’s been real, and it’s been fun. But I’m done.

E.

Sissy

Sissy likes pie. Can’t live without it.

Sissy sits in her highchair, cooing, licking red from the tips of her pudgy little fingers. She’s only a year old, and doesn’t know many words. If she did, she might ask for more pie. Maybe for every single meal. But Sissy doesn’t like the crust. The crust is bad. Chewy.

Sissy devours the filling, and smiles, crimson tracing her mouth like ruby lipstick. Her pink tongue flicks out and laps at the leftovers. She’s quite happy.

Mother thinks Sissy has eaten her fill, but Sissy has another idea. When Mother reaches in to clean her fat cheeks, Sissy bites Mother, just so, right on the tip of her finger, and it bleeds something horrible. Mother is at the sink, running cold water over her wound. The two holes seep pink as the blood dilutes. Mother doesn’t look back at Sissy. She knows Sissy enjoyed the taste of her.

Father left a long time ago—the men on the other side of the cameras let him leave. He couldn’t stand the sight of Sissy. Said she was too “wrong” looking. She was born with those teeth, and babies aren’t supposed to be born with teeth.

Sissy is trying to get out of her highchair, but the duct tape holds. Her screams are not pleasant, but the look in her eyes is. Like someone yelling on a rollercoaster. Thrilled, but terrified. Sissy caterwauls, then hisses, and Mother has no choice but to look back.

Because Sissy sounds close.

The tape did hold, but the highchair is on its side, and Sissy’s chubby arms are pulling her across the kitchen floor. Her nails are catching tile, and she’s making progress.

Mother forgets about the holes in her finger, and red dribbles to the floor. She takes a step back, not knowing what else to do. She trembles.

Sissy’s made it to the drops of blood on the tile. Her head is cocked sideways, and she looks like a cow chewing its cud. Her tongue snaps from her mouth and laps at the blood. Mother sees the recognition in Sissy’s eyes. Mother knows that Sissy has realized that the same stuff that’s in her pie, is also inside Mother.

Sissy’s claws find the duct tape weak. She’s become so very smart since she started eating pie. Mother knew this was bound to happen. There are far too many memories hidden away under the crust.

Sissy’s freed herself of her bonds, and Mother’s running away. Even though she knows it’s pointless, Mother still tries to flee. She knows the doors are locked. She understands that the people watching the cameras in the ceiling are not going to help. Because Sissy is one of a kind. And Sissy likes pie.

Mother’s banging on the door, pleading to be let out, when the metal slat slides open, and another pie flops out of it onto the floor. This pie is still throbbing.

“Help!” Mother screams. She wails because she can hear Sissy coming. Sissy with her talons clicking tile, her cooing hurting Mother’s ears.

Mother backs into a corner, and cowers, waiting. She’s watching Sissy eat the new pie. Mother is crying and crying and crying and cannot stop until Sissy stops eating the pie. The look in Sissy’s eyes tells Mother that her finger tasted better. Fresher.

The pie is left alone. Forgotten.

Mother wraps her arms around her shins and begs for it to be over. Sissy is coming, and Sissy looks hungry.

Sissy doesn’t like pie anymore. She can live without it.

Mother, on the other hand, Sissy finds delicious.

The End