Tuesday, August 9, 2016

sentences 44-46

'Well,' she said, flicking at her bandaged ear in what had become a fairly-obvious nervous tic. 'Many thanks, and awesome job, and blah blah blah and all, but you'd better hit the road, yeah? Before . . . Ramekin?'

Monday, August 20, 2012

Sentences 26-43

Jeannette opened her mouth to retort and vomited all over the side of the house.  Fighting off the wretchedness brewing in her innards was completely pointless.  The alchemy behind Ramekin's predestidigestion is fairly straightforward and fairly dangerous, mostly because of the narcotic effects, but Jeannette had never seen it handled with such blatant, squeamish glee.

"And now," Ramekin sneered from the ground, gumming on one shriveled finger with a harrowing lust, "we are even."

"The way I talk does not make people barf."  

"As usual, we shall agree to disagree."  He extended his limp, greasy claw. "Give us a hand?"

"You know I can't.  I will not." 

He snorted, amused.

Gazing back through the doorway, Jeannette saw Meems rip into her lunch.  She hoped this would work.  Letting her boss' pet starve was not an option, but exactly how she would accomplish this was still a mystery.  Jeannette was tasked with discovering what, in fact, her charge could digest.  So far Meems had eaten and regurgitated rabbit, venison, cat, honeycomb, chicken curry, apples, peanutbutter and jelly, angelfish, racehorse, Grant's zebras (getting your hands on a Grevy's was risky), sea cucumbers, cornflowers, python, granola, lentil soup, pygmy elephant, and a rare species of herbivorous shark, all of which remained splattered around the entire house amidst bones and buckets of distilled seawater from the Bay of Bengal, which was the only liquid princess fucking Meems would drink.

The obvious answer was, of course, bird-eating tarantulas or goliath beetles or the hindquarters of another myrmecoleon. But Jeanette was terrified of bugs, and the idea of hunting a second myrmecoleon was quite daunting.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

"sentence" 25

It wasn’t his eyes that gave her pause, though they looked like the exhumed cuff-links of some aquamarine emperor, nor was it the harrowing motor-reflex of his gnashing teeth, for she knew that to be a consequence of Ramekin overextending himself. It was the guttural durrr that crawled from his voicebox in spasms that held her back; that prevented her from administering even the most casual of reassurances.

Durrr, draaa, daaarg: Jeanette tried to shake the image of a cretin anxiously choosing between menu items at a diner but couldn’t; instead, sadly, she looked at the roiling mass of black that sprawled like a thing alive in his palms—hideous tendrils of oily shadow that undulated to the tune of some unheard, serpentine melody—until her eyes locked into that out-of-focus stare known to those with the misfortune of having seen too much and understood too little.
“Daaaaaag?” he intoned suddenly, surprisingly controlled and with a hint of his former condescension. Jeanette snapped from her trance and watched Ramekin’s jaw reset itself, watched as comprehension washed away the idiocy that had clouded his eyes, watched as his knitted hands rose from their resting spot at his belt. “T-t-to think I, urrr, p-presumed to haaave cured you of . . .” Ramekin sputtered, breaking off the thought to pull his hands up further towards his face. “To have cured you of such . . . inappropriate slang fetishes, darling.” His eyes darted to hers, and she held his gaze for but a moment before his hands reached his mouth. Benign confusion gave way to sudden horror as Jeanette drew back from the sight of that gruesome, revolting black slithering from giving hands to proffered tongue, like a cluster of seared inchworms creeping into Ramekin’s throaty abyss. “Dag nurbbitt, my dear?" he said. "Tsk.”

Saturday, June 2, 2012

sentence 24

"Dag nurbbitt," she cursed.  She peeked inside the house to make sure Meems got her lunch, poor damned thing, and crouched to Ramekin's side, avoiding his blighted hands.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

sentence 23

"I?" he asked, teetering against the door with a wan smile; he managed but a feeble oh dear before collapsing to the ground in a heap, still clutching the torpid blackness he had extricated from the house in his atavistic talons.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Sentence 22

"Fishing season was a bitch this year," she half-joked, and as he neatly pared off the last of the shadowy fibers she reached into her bag and pulled out a monstrously-wrapped bloody shroud that was much larger than it had any right to be, nodded at Ramekin, jammed it through the door and breathed, "You?" 

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

sentence 21

She looked away so as not to interrupt his esoteric entryway manipulations, and had only just become reacquainted with the denizens of her happy place when a barrage of stippled light poked through her subconscious, awakening her to a transformed door: dozens of tiny perforations glowed harrowingly through the bored wood, a map of Ramekin’s fingered pattern as if charted by drill, and as his weathered claws pulled what appeared to be shadow-threads of inconsistent viscosity from those minute openings, he asked, "Please, Jeanette—do tell me how you’ve been getting on, won’t you?"