You'll regret that pony in the morning

her heaven

marithegreater@gmail.com — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 20:55:41 GMT

And this is the Yumiko fiction

This building was his haven, her heaven, his headquarters, her home. Red brick walls standing against wolves that hungered to huff and puff and blow him down. White doors, creamy pillars, windows made to reflect his God's creation, clean and kept that way by the power of Faith and Windex.

She twisted her hands, waiting for the wrought iron gates to welcome her. Cold disapproval emanated from the entrance, from the black spikes daring, daring, double-daring sin to climb over. "Necessity," he once said and brushed escaped strands of white-gold hair out of his eyes, behind his ears, perfect. "Even Heaven is a gated community."

Carefully, the young woman took a step back to maintain respectful distance between her and the unrelenting barricade separating her from unmarred perfection.

Her weight shifted from foot to combat-booted foot. Boots too big for her slender body - but a build she was none too proud of, considering her profession. Delicate arms merely a guise for someone else’s lean muscle; trembling legs whose toned appearance hid beneath her heavy skirt; she knew they weren't 'really' hers. Only the glasses perching precariously on the tip of her nose felt like her own, the rest was rental.

Becoming aware of her own body worried her philosophically as she turned her gaze away from heaven. Chicken or egg? Human or demon? She couldn't remember a time before Yumie – was she being taken over completely?

Now her hands wrung in perpetual wariness. Head hung low in an undecipherable mixture of shyness and shame - neither of which seemed provoked by outside influence. Her eyes intently followed invisible specters of dust swirling about her feet.

Her posture betrayed the confidence her form ought to radiate.

At last - at last a sudden creak alerted her presence, and Yumiko was invisible no longer.

--

Yumiko had little memory of walking the seventy-three paces to the entrance; she barely remembered climbing the fifteen steps to the door; she had no recollection of ascending twenty-five up one spiral staircase (mahogany rails, she thought), nor did she realize until it was too late that she had entered the third room on the right and closed the embossed double doors behind her.

Fear controlled her, signaling to her fingers and hands a frantic message to shake uncontrollably, numbing her toes, freezing her feet to the floor as she faced him. Her backbone was not her forte.

The silence between the two was infinite, lasting seconds or minutes or centuries. Yumiko lost count, staring at the back of his head, focused on the smoothness of his hair; blonde ripples down his back from its tie at the base of his neck.

Pristine. He was Pristine. The word floated to her mind in a suddenly angry snarl that was also not her own, snapping her head up with a pathetic whimper.

At this, the man finally turned, expressionless save for a raised eyebrow - could mean anything. Concern? Hardly.

It wreaked havoc on Yumiko's stomach as she pursed her lips to keep from staining the (no doubt expensive) carpet at her feet with the remnants of her lunch.

By some stroke of luck, Father Enrico Maxwell chose this moment to take pity on the young woman.

"Your mission was a failure." Unorthodox pity, but the torturous silence broke.

Yumiko's head fell forward, an unenthusiastic half-nod Maxwell gathered as assent.

"Your sheer presence caused destruction," he continued, "Not only did you blatantly disobey orders to stand down, you killed the target and destroyed the church." She flinched with each accusation, avoiding his gaze, bespectacled eyes focused on all but him. She whispered something about an accident, though clearly had not meant for the words to be heard.

Cold and calm, Maxwell spoke through his teeth. "Accident?" Yumiko decided she liked it better when he was yelling. "You strangled a nun and lit the church on fire." Yumiko realized her lips tasted like salt.

In another bout of silence, Maxwell tugged roughly at his vest, pinched the bridge of his nose and, sighing, sat behind his desk. His frustration hung palpable in the air, coupled with the scent of sleepless exhaustion, fleeting worry, and Italian cologne. He understood as he watched her that this was not the same murderer who brought Hell into that church ten hours ago. He knew her body was not her own, and was well acquainted with the demon within. The ridiculous interrogation and admonishment was a show - a ruse to assert his power over his proverbial pack, made even sillier by her obvious weakness.

He realized not a touch too late her fragility. The shocked look in her eyes as she suddenly realized why her mouth tasted like salt. The trembling fingertips she could barely bring to her cheeks. Her soft terror. Where others succumbed to obedience through fearful respect, all this child needed was compassion and a kind word with which she would follow him into the deepest Hell.

"Your behavior was so atrocious - " A smile spread his lips, half the selfish demon he was and half the loving father he could be.

Yumiko's eyes expected the punishing blow. She considered where her life would go if Maxwell left her - tried not to think about who else could want a half-demonic berserker, not useful for anything beyond murder and carnage. Already, she could smell the copper staining her hands each day, waking in places she had never slept in, meeting strangers, introducing her to strangers that already knew her face. Two lives for the price of one - a terrible bargain for the consumer.

" - I have seen it fitting for you to receive a partner."

So lost in her own head, Yumiko finally registered the words with confusion. "Sir?" The word cracked her lips.

Maxwell either ignored her or had not heard, instead lifting the archaic phonepiece to his ear and murmuring something like, "please send her in" before lifting a hand in a motion to the door. Yumiko leapt aside, suppressing a yelp as she pressed her hands over her fluttering heart.

The woman who entered cared not for upsetting the skittish girl, nor for the respect of the priest sitting at the end of the room. She did not close the door, nor did she put out the half-burnt cigarette smoldering in her hand, and did not remove the heavy coat sitting on her capable shoulders. It became clear she did not have Yumiko's dutiful respect to the Persian rug, dropping the object between her fingers and crushing it beneath powerful boots.

Had Yumiko not been standing so close (close enough to smell the smoke and the gunpowder clinging to the leather) she would have mistaken her for a male. Unevenly boyish, her blonde hair had been cut haphazardly close to her scalp, framing an otherwise attractive face. It teased at the corners of her opaque sunglasses.

Her presence would have been entirely intimidating if not for the silver crucifix that glimmered upon her breast, catching the light as she breathed. A grin pulled gently at Yumiko's lips.

She noted that, while Maxwell was smiling as well, it was for an entirely different reason. His was one of bare tolerance.

"Sister Takagi," he said to the young woman, "I would like you to meet Heinkel Wolfe. She will be...assisting you...from now on." Heinkel's lackluster expression read "boredom" as she cocked her head towards Yumiko.

"Vat? As babysitter?" The corner of her mouth turned up into a distasteful sneer. She joined Iscariot to be a soldier of God, not an escort to some pathetic Asian nun, an opinion she voiced moments later.

Yumiko shrank back, faint smile vanished. This new woman intimidated her. Her look, her voice, her terrifying accent (German? she thought.) Hardship outside of Iscariot's walls seemed now a better alternative to working in constant fear of her partner. 'She'll eat you alive!' piped the voice of irrationality.

She stood quietly as they argued. Hands clasped, feet together, head down. She heard nothing - she wanted to hear nothing.

Only a hand on her forearm pulled her out from the veil of shyness, and Yumiko blinked, staring at the foreign object. The hand belonged to the German (Wolfe...how appropriate). Small, short fingers, callous and cold to the touch. They gripped her arm firmly and with purpose, but lacked the cruelty she had expected. Yumiko's lips turned up again. Capable hands.

"You are coming, no?" Her voice just as impatient, just as callous, but Yumiko obeyed it with a silent nod and a tentative smile. It was not returned, but she did not expect it to be.

"Father Maxwell has made you my burden." The Wolfe pulled Yumiko from the chamber without allowing her as much as a parting glance to the priest, "And my burden you shall stay."

Yumiko's short legs struggled to keep Heinkel's brisk pace, stumbling and tripping in a wildly uncoordinated jig down the corridor. Heinkel fell silent, her pace unbreaking and unaffected by the clumsy weight.

She struggled to right herself. "Um - I'm Yumiko."

"I know."

She finally caught up. "Um - there's kind of two of me in my head."

"I know."

She slowed. Stopped. "The other one of me hurts people."

When the German turned around, she did not stop, nor did she ease her pace. Instead, she grinned, shrugged, and chimed, "As do I."

That was when Yumiko allowed the real smile to cross her face and she jogged to catch her new friend. It would only be a week before she realized Heinkel was not joking.

creative

marithegreater@gmail.com — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 20:46:05 GMT

this is my creative writing story that I turned in last week to class.

I’m afraid of shredders.

More specifically, I am afraid of those small, knee-high, paper shredders you would most likely find in an office building. They usually sit behind the desk of a high-ranking public official or manager – for easy access and disposal of questionable materials, of course. They are out of sight and well-used, but always clean and in pristine condition.

Everyone has, or will at some point in their life have, a shredder; although they may not admit it. People are ashamed to own one, keeping it hidden away like they would a deformed child in the attic. You never hear about someone’s new, state-of-the-art shredder at the awkward water cooler convergence.

“Hiya, Bob. I just got a new wireless desktop printer for my MacBook.”

“Really, Tom? Why, I bought the GBC Shredmaster 950S just last Monday.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Okay, I guess. I actually wanted the 750D model. It can shred a full magazine in five seconds.”

“Goshdarnit…you’ll get it someday!”

-- now, that doesn’t happen. Nobody wants you to know that they have something as shady or potentially incriminating as a shredder, even if your use of it is for something as innocent as destroying unwanted memories. The convenience of having something forcibly destroy hard evidence of memories makes it infinitely easier to forget them.

I own such a machine, as do you. The Fellowes PS-80C-2 is twenty-two inches tall, has a nine inch feed slot, and can shred up to 14 feet a minute. It’s fairly inexpensive, but has a sleek and classy design. A long, black body capped by a silver lid, atop which are two LED lights. The first is flashing green for “all clear, folks!” while the second is a dormant red, signifying “whoa! something’s wrong!”

But this doesn’t explain why I’m afraid of shredders.

I never used to be. For over a year, I worked in the office with it by my side, right next to the door. Occasionally, when I had to restart my modem, I would unplug the power strip and re-plug it into the wall, only to jump seconds later as the shredder beside me growled to life, a waking bear.

Yet this also is not why I am afraid of shredders.

In fact, I used mine for the first time just a few minutes ago. And as I held the paper, feeding it through the convenient nine inch slot, I realized what a terrifying creature the common paper shredder was.

The paper was pulled from my hands into its gaping maw, and I felt its mechanical teeth greedily chewing the notes right out of my fingers. I watched through the little window as the stripped entrails of what had only moments ago been a whole sheet fell into its empty stomach. I numbly fed the beast another, more out of compulsion than actual desire, shuddering as it felt its teeth tear the paper to shreds.

Now as I cower here in this fine, comfortable corner, I dare not allow the monster to take another life. Its beady green eyes blink rhythmically at me, taunt me, dare me to move past it for the door. But I will not accept this dare.

How ironic, my friends would say, that I would refuse a dare so readily. I am, after all, a truth, dare, double dare champion, the winner of the Victor’s Trophy at my fifth birthday party. It was actually just a trio of unwrapped Reese’s peanut butter cups stacked atop one another, but I consumed each one with the arrogant winner’s smile plastered on my face. Back then, I thought myself king in my world.

But back then, my life was not threatened by the paper shredder sitting at the door.

It growls at me again, and this time, I feel the rumble through the floor beneath me. I bite my lip as my eyes dart to the phone sitting on the table. But who would I call? 911?

“911 emergency,” the operator would say. The boredom in her voice would be obvious, as she had been filing her nails, the epitome of clichéd receptionist. How many prank calls has she received? (“No, my refrigerator is not running.”) How many desperate “pleasedearGodHELP ME!” calls has she answered? Does she ever wonder if the police, or the ambulance, or the fire department will get there in time? Or is she so desensitized that it doesn’t even faze her? After all, everyone knows looking away from train wrecks isn’t so bad when you think it’s funny.

No, I refuse to think of her that way. In my world, she will be caring and kind. She will know exactly how to help me and I will be saved!

“Please help me, miss,” I’d say, “I seem to be in grave danger. You see, there’s this shredder in my office that looks like it wants to eat me.”

And she would answer, “of course, ma’am. Could you please tell me what model it is?” In my world, shredders turning into ravenous beasts are as commonplace as murder.

“A Fellowes PS-80C-2,” I would reply.

“We have our Shredmaster team deployed in the area, miss, and they will be there shortly. Have a pleasant day.” And she would hang up the phone and go back to filing her nails.

I wish. And if wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak, she’d say as she puts her arm around my shoulder. No, no -- not the receptionist. This is someone else. Someone who lives in my world, but not yours.

Another rumble breaks my daze and I push myself further into the corner. Why had I chosen this place? It was the farthest from the window, which looked to be my only other viable option of escape from the monster. (It’s inching closer.)

As I glance outside I see the trees in my front yard, past which stands my neighbor’s home. The lack of snow makes everything look like autumn again but I’m not falling for winter’s little game of charades. Autumn trees are out of fashion – the smell isn’t the same.

Looking back, I’m positive that – It – has gotten closer since my last daydream. Don’t daydream, Anna! I tell her not to tease me. I hate my middle name. Then don’t daydream and I won’t call you Anna!

I’m confusing myself. Maybe I’m tired. (She always did say idleness was exhaustion.) And the dead end streets that keep cropping up behind my eyes leave me with nothing…nothing but tired dreams and memories. She was right saying I always stared blankly into space, dreaming, drifting, doing nothing. But these days, there’s nothing to do but – dream – and

-- I waste time --

And as time wastes me, the creature inches closer; its sleek body is covered in finest fur, I can see that now. Why wasn’t it obvious before? Its silver head is hungry - I should have kept feeding it, it says not moving its great jaw (nine inches, I remember). I woke it up. I fed it. It’s my fault, so don’t blame anyone but yourself, Anna, it’s your fault. You’re thirty-five and what happened is still your fault.

Her bitterness burns my throat like bile.

*

I start seeing it everywhere, coming towards me, launching itself at me with undeveloped legs - that’s when I make a run for that window. The thought itself is unconscious and instinctive; I go back to the animal roots in us all. The ones that move my body without thinking about it, powered by adrenaline and nothing else.

-- then it disappears as my world explodes in flurries of glass and damp leaves. They do their best to mimic the snow that should cover the ground at this point, but as I’ve said – it isn’t the same. The copper dripping from my fingers doesn’t smell like winter.

As those fingers press themselves to my warm skin – my rosy cheeks (don’t call me Rose, she said) turn pale and red. It contrasts; heats and colds aftermath into white spots beneath my eyes.

This is when the realization sinks in and I realize I am no longer inside my office. My life is no longer threatened by the beastlike contraption that once sat harmlessly by the door. I stand to assess the damage, noting the cuts dotting my arms, my legs, my face, but I am intact.

Never look back, I hear her say in my memory.

Will I turn to salt? imaginary me replies.

Worse, she teases, I’ll disappear.

Of course, I turn back. And she disappears.

But it never happened like that. I never said I’d turn my back to her. She never said she’d do it. We never agreed to destroy our minds in her never-ending battle I never had a chance at winning. It didn’t happen like that.

Then how did it happen? she asks. Whose fault was it that I died?

I take my memories – warped as they are at first glance – and I don’t remember. Still the imprints of footprints of your words like gunshots (that never happened) imprint me.

“I don’t remember…” I whisper this aloud and am startled by the sound of my own voice. Taking the best course of action, I push her memory out of my world and brush the imitation-autumn leaves off my chest.

Of course, I turn back. But it doesn’t disappear.

*

I almost don’t see it. I hear the cracking of glass and wood as it attempts to climb over the windowsill, mechanical limbs still frozen and stiff. I taste salt in my mouth, coupled with the tang of old pennies. I feel the paralyzing warmth run down my arms and face in bloody rivulets as my head screams to run, and I feel a freezing illness take over.

I am never at my best, but I constrain myself even now with excuses and limitations because my body no longer wishes to comply – and when I finally see it –

Its furred form is longer now, reshaped, looking more animal than machine as its eyes blink red-green orbs like Christmas lights in Hell. They’re hungry – furious – oh god, why did I feed it? The silver eyelids blink once, break the connection, and my body leaves my screaming mind on the faux-Autumn grass.

Somehow, I am not struck by the absurdity of the situation as I pump my arms and legs away from the monstrosity. Somehow, it seems perfectly normal for my shredder to have grown legs and a body that no longer resembles a Fellowes PS-80C-2.

So I run, straight down the street, forgetting all of the tips and tricks I learned about evading predators in National Geographic. Behind me, the sound of metal grinding on pavement turns too-quickly into echoes of claws on stone; screeching gears, metallic screams blending into shrieks and pants of an animal too big and too fast to escape.

This is my reality.

I don’t run much longer, and I barely make it past the Davidson’s front yard when it tackles me. Scalding breath stings the back of my neck in ragged gasps, each noise creaking with the sound of metal-on-metal at the back of its throat. I should be crying or screaming for help, but my voice is hidden from me.

Obsidian claws dig into my back, and I consider the possibility of death as our waiting game begins.

My body is still except for the shallow breaths moving my chest. Up and down, I breathe. It makes no move to strike. No move to shred me or destroy me – just stands there on my back – and breathes with me. I don’t want to look, but when it flips me over, when it tosses me down, I have few other options.

Opening my eyes, I feel my lungs constrict and my heart seize in panic.

I hate shredders.

Its body reminds me now of my old Doberman, Keith: sleek, thin, “careful! He bites.” But the silver head is a far cry from animal. Still raw and robotic – as if it could not decide what to look like – leaving the head square, protruding, with a nine-inch mouth lined in shark’s rows of mechanical teeth. Glowing eyes lock onto mine, and freeze me as its mouth smiles a toothy growl.

The closer it leans, the stronger the smell of burning paper, hot iron, and pain fills my nostrils.

Rememberher. I hear it as one sound, insistent, commanding my mind to open the Pandora’s Box of false memories (false as the air we’re breathing, it’s not autumn) created in worlds of frustration and guilt.

For the first time, I close my eyes and comply.

*

They found her in October. The general consensus had been murder, at first, as Ellen Rose Carter had no prior history of mental illness. No familial problems. No troubles with boyfriends or co-workers at the firm.

Successful suburban princess; she was beautiful. Her hair did that curly thing across her forehead that I tried to imitate so many times without success. I could never get the hairspray to hold it in place and it fell into my eyes each time I tried.

Saying it came as a shock to the community when they found her with a hole in her head and a gun at her feet was an understatement. I remember the police saying, “It’s always the ones you least expect,” when they thought I was out of earshot.

When all signs pointed to the “s” word, it became my fault. No one had to say it, it was spelled on their faces as they looked away from me, at their shoes, at their plates, adjusted their sleeves, all thinking those same four words.

You should have known.

But I didn’t. So it was my fault, they thought, because I was her best friend, I should have stopped this.

There finally was a point where I came to believe them.

I created my world on that day. The world where she lives on and reminds me – day in and day out – of my mistake. I let her down, let her die, she tells me, giving me no choice but to listen.

I don’t want to remember her anymore.

*

The machine/animal doesn’t seem to give me any other choice, however, and pushes itself into my mind. The pressure builds and builds until I can’t

tolerate

It’s elephants and falling rocks and I collapse and I fold in, the rickety walls of my shed fall apart and crush me down and every second every minute is crushed and folded over – can’t breathe to save my life -- !

*

I feel no longer on the ground, no longer pinned by the weight of a machine/animal. In my world, I am standing, facing East. My hand holds another, and I look to my right to see her.

She’s still beautiful. Her hands still perfect; her hair still curling across her forehead the way I remembered it. Now she’s telling me that she forgives me for letting her die, that pink crescent splitting her lips. I never did forget her smile…

Her parasitic smile.

And I realize that it isn’t Ellen Rose Carter holding my hand, with the sweet little curl on her forehead that doesn’t quite cover up the bullet hole. I call her a word my mother would be ashamed to hear and drop her hand. I tell her it wasn’t my fault – that she made the mistake, not I.

“I refuse your existence.”

She feigns confusion and approaches me, the red now staining her eye, her cheeks, her neck. For a moment, the pang of sorrow and guilt takes over and I take a step towards her. The parasite that held onto my mind grins, exposing too many teeth.

The realization of my mistake pushes me back, but not before I am forcibly yanked out of the way by a black-furred, silver-headed animal that shoves past me to launch onto her.

I don’t have the heart to look at what happens next. The sounds it made were enough.

*

My eyes open to the sound of sirens and a cacophony of unfamiliar voices, all asking me what happened and if I’m okay. “Can you hear me?!” they cry.

I blink slowly and search for her voice’s bitter retort. Instead I am met with a foggy silence. This brings a pained smile to my lips as I realize that I am still very much alive.

There are bruises on my chest, cuts on my arms and an oozing scrape over my left eye. Claw marks cover my back. (Attacked by a dog, they say.) And none of it matters! I look to my right and see a shattered machine that was once an animal once a shredder. The white coats give me puzzled looks as a laugh escapes my throat.

The fog in my head is clear. The parasite eliminated and the leech gone. Guilt is not worth sacrificing your liberation and memories are worth nothing if they tie you down. When she became my parasite, she became truly dead and the voice I kept in my head was a speaking corpse. Hear the real world, not your memories. Forget what you need to.

“I can hear you,” my voice replies.