As mentioned in a previous post, my friends and I enjoy writing stories together. My dear friend Nic Brown and I decided to write one together at our typical spot, Scandals. Together, and with the influence of a few greyhounds, we created a very interesting story (with illustrations). Though it’s apparent when we may have had too many and the story doesn’t make much sense towards the end, it was still a lot of fun to make. Enjoy.
“Hail Satan!” She yelled.
Helen slammed the last of her flask down as she picked up her bible. With trembling fingers, Helen thumbled through the pages until she came to Leviticus.
“Fuck yer all! Satan never dun meh wrong! Cletus?! Where you at? Mama’s hungry.”
Sadly for Helen, “Mama” was gon’ be hungry for a long time. Unbeknownst to Helen and her southern drawl, Cletus was lying dead in the basement. She also failed to remember the events of the night before.
After watching her nightly episode of Wheel of Fortune, Helen entered what she referred to as her “umbrella stage.”
Helen. Helen. Helen. She repeated the name to herself to try and find some sort of familiarity in her surroundings. She set her bible down on the arm of her La-Z-Boy and looked out the window. She felt herself get dizzy as the remaining parts of the McDonald’s chicken nuggets fell, cascading from the velvet to the cold, hardwood floor.
–FLASHBACK– Knoxville, TN. 1864
Loretta licked her lips. Timothy had just made her the finest potato dinner a girl could ever hope to have.
“Who the fuck are you?” Helen screamed as she swung violently with her eyes closed. Loretta isn’t real. Neither is Timothy. Yet, she still thought of them as if they were family. They were the only family Helen had. She had lost her true, blood family in a terrible fishing accident in 1923. It wasn’t Helen’s fault at all, but she always blamed herself for letting the fishing line go. “Loretta,” “Timothy,” and the “umbrella stage” (the name of the fishing vessel that claimed the lives of her family) were the only comfort (albeit imaginary) that she had left. Except for Cletus.
What a fucking mistake. Cletus. He was never supposed to happen. Who would of thought that after a man got hit in the head with a 2×4, that he would of fucked that vilal cow. But none of that mattered now. Cletus was dead in the basement, and Helen was non the wiser. She was still passed out in a religion-and-Wheel-of-Fortune-and-self-denial coma when she woke to a knock on the door.
Ring. Ring. Ring. A small, sweet little girl rang the bell. Every fifteenth of a second, she knocked. Her name was Panther, or that’s what her foster parents called her. She was 8 years old and always sported a charming (if slightly out-of-fashion) gold-sequined hair bow. She was in the neighborhood going door-to-door to raise money for her foster mother Memphis’ Memphis Getaway Extravaganza.
All the mother’s were known for taking their tops off during the festivities. And they sat in a circle ’round the fire, chanting “PENIS PENIS PENIS, BUTT BUTT BUTT! Hail Satan.”
Following that memories flash back, Helen vaguely remembered the death of Cletus. All he wanted was to sleep. As the persistant pound of the rocking La-Z-Boy pounded the floor, Cletus laid in bed thinking of a better future. Though at the age of 31, unemployed, uninterested, Cletus still held hope for a better tomorrow.
…TO BE CONTINUED