Tall Tale Tuesday
Things are (finally) beginning to settle down a bit around the ol’ home front. It’s been a rocky start to the new year. Art and I had some money woes and arguments, and MrJames moving in due to his circumstances, plus a heaping dose of drama at work . . . it’s been an exhaustive two months. I’ll be happy to see the end of February.
Meanwhile, I’ve taken on the challenge of Just Write, issued by my friend DrCelestine. The purpose of Just Write (convenient linkie over there to the left) is to simply produce fiction twice a week. It doesn’t even have to be good fiction. It’s harder than it sounds. I’m afraid I’ve gotten out of the habit — which is why the challenge was put forth. As I tell myself when I sit down in front of the computer, “Just tell the fucking story. Just write it.” Easier said than done, lately.
In honor of Just Write, I present a snippet of what I’ll be doing for the challenge, for Tall Tale Tuesday. The story is based on my Requiem game, the One Night Stand, which I ran for Art, DrCelestine, and the Doc’s friend, and then again for them, and Adamczykon and MrJames.
It’s a horror story. Be forewarned, there is ickiness. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.
The first time Jacob saw her, she was standing alone in a park. She was standing under a large, sweeping oak tree. She was wearing a blue dress with fraying lace ruffles, and her pale blonde hair was rumpled. She wore black mary janes, which were scuffed, and white tights with dirt marks on the knees. She had a beautiful heart-shaped face with large blue eyes and a pink Cupid’s bow mouth, and she clutched a Raggedy-Ann doll in the crook of her elbow.
It was dark, and Jacob could saw her in the unforgiving glare of a nearby street lamp. She was simply standing, looking around. She didn’t seem lost, or frightened. Jacob thought she might be about seven years old. A seven year old angel.
He studied the little girl from under his eye lashes as he ate his lunch. It was about nine o’clock at night, and Jacob was on his lunch break. As was his habit, he had walked from the university where he worked as a janitor, to this near-by park, to eat his lunch. It was usually quite nice, quiet, maybe a few young folks walking hand-in-hand or playing Frisbee or such. That night, the park had been empty, save himself, a jogger, and this lone little girl.
It was a brisk October night. Not quite cold, yet, but there was a warning nip of winter in the air. Jacob noted that the little girl wore no coat. She didn’t seem cold, though. She couldn’t possibly live in the area. There were no residential homes for blocks and blocks. She didn’t seem to belong to the jogger, either. She was just there, standing.
As Jacob finished his baloney sandwich, she began chatting amiably with her doll. He couldn’t make out her words, but he could just hear her voice, a high, sweet bird voice. He munched his little bag of chips, sipping a Mountain Dew from his lunch box, watching her from the corner of his eye. He was a bit concerned, thinking of perhaps approaching her, asking her where she belonged.
He finished his lunch, and began stuffing wrappers back into his lunch box, deciding that he would ask the little girl if she were lost. He glanced at her, and she suddenly met his eyes. He saw that her eyes were a lovely cornflower blue, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He bent over to scoop up his lunch box, and when he stood up, the girl was gone.
Jacob Stills had been a big, broad man. He’d been in his forties, balding somewhat, but barrel-chested and thick of arms, from lifting weights in prison. He’d been a quiet sort – still was, to tell the truth, and the combination of size and silence had led many to believe he was stupid, as well. That wasn’t true. Before prison, he’d been a teacher.
Jacob had liked the ladies, and he’d liked them younger than himself. He had a weakness for women. Young women. He liked dating college girls. He thought that was a fine age, early twenties, until the seventeen-year-old cheerleader in his sixth period trigonometry class had offered him a blow job in exchange for a passing grade on the mid-term exams. In a fit of brilliant stupidity and lust, he’d accepted the offer.
The cheerleader, Deana, gave great head.
That was the defense he had for his actions, when he woke in a cold, guilty sweat in the dead of the night, stomach bunched up in a knot, sheets tangled around his legs, from the nightmares. The one-shot thrill had become a regular event, proceeding blithely from blow jobs to sex, in return for passing grades. Jacob knew it was wrong. Every time he watched her gobbling him down, the fluorescent lighting in his class room shining off her brilliant, beautiful black hair, his stomach would wind itself full of anxious butterflies, and he was never quite sure when the climax approached if he was going to come, or throw up. She was a child. Young enough to be his daughter! And yet, he couldn’t stop.
The nightmares were always the same. He would be in his chair, in his classroom, during lunch hour, with the shades drawn, as always. Deana’s head would be in his lap, his slacks bunched around his knees, her generous red mouth working him, soft moans escaping his clenched teeth into the silence of the empty room. As he approached his orgasm, the door to his class room would burst open, and there would be the principal, and the other teachers, and behind them, the students, horror-stricken, pointing, accusing, as she worked him. Deana never stopped. The principal would stride towards him, one finger pointing, face carved with righteous rage, screaming, “You’re fired! You’re fired! You’re FIRED!†He would burst awake, gasping, heart slamming, drenched in ice-cold sweat and sticky hot jizz, swearing it would end tomorrow.
But it never did.
The best sex had been on the last day of the school year, when Deana had fucked him six ways to Sunday. He wasn’t sure if it had been the sex that was so great, or the relief that it was finally over, and he hadn’t been caught.
During the summer break, he’d done his rounds at the bars, looking for his college girls, but hadn’t quite found any that caught his eye. There were lots of pretty girls, sure, and some that were interested in him – he wasn’t a bad-looking guy — but they just didn’t seem to have what he was looking for.
When school came back into session, though, he found what he was looking for. Before he knew it, there was another pretty young girl with bad grades and a willing body, responding to a rumor she’d heard. Trisha wasn’t a cheerleader, but she was willing to dress up like one if that made him give her good grades.
Trisha was sixteen.
It had finally ended two years later. He was thirty-eight with a constant hard-on and a bevy of pretty little freshman girls willing to work a little extra to get those A grades, when he’d caught himself eye-balling a little junior high cutie.
My God, he’d realized, horror clawing down his spine with frigid nails, she’s twelve!
He’d quit his teaching job with no notice, and of course, three months later, he was in court as one of his little freshman accused him of rape. When the rest of her friends joined her, and the scandal was screaming from the front page of the Boston Herald and mentioned in the news every night, he’d broke down in sobs in court, confessing.
Prison had been a blessing. There were no adorable little freshman girls in prison.
That had been almost ten long years ago, and now Jacob was a night janitor at the Boston University, and he stayed well away from the students. And playgrounds. And public schools.
Because at night, he still awoke in cold sweats from the same old nightmare, only Deana was getting younger all the time.
First Draft (Copyright, JavaElemental, 2-24-06)
The story, should you be interested, will be available at Just Write, to be updated twice a week starting in March.
