Darling Little Uglies

He wakes to see nothing— he feels nothing. But he smells the shore and he can hear the waves and then, bewildered, he tries to move.

Outside! Finally!

He doesn’t know how, nor does he care. He tastes fresh air, at last, and that means freedom— after God knows how long!

His will strains.

He tries again… to move.

His confusion mounts.

After a moment he hears her voice:

“Pretty views are few,

And life’s too though to chew,

I wanna sue for another sight not only pretty but new

And then I wanna share that view with you

Now I think these waters got the cue, cuz they’re paying way past due

Like a giantess had a clue on just what she should do, she laced up her shoes and scooped the world’s dew, then threw it through and into the blue, to make an ocean brew, living and true. If I were to be torn in two,

This view’d be the glue to make me brand new!”

She pulls the darkness away from his eyes— he sees it dangling above him, in the piercingly bright light and fluttering in the breeze: a blindfold.

“What do you think of the view? Does it do my poetry justice?”

She is seated beside him, wearing a wide brimmed straw-hat. She’s beaming down at him, it’s the woman he tried hitting on in the bar last night— the one who drugged his drink. The one who… the memory hurts too much!

He tries to get up— tries to roll away— tries to escape. But his body does not respond.

He feels a heavy breeze on his face, but he cannot feel the air stirring anywhere else on his body.

She’s done something to him.

His eyes roll in their sockets, and his cheeks twitch. He thinks this is how an injured deer must feel, when the hunter who fired the shot bends to admire his handiwork.

Or in this case, her handiwork.

“Thanks for listening to the open of my poem by the way. That’s all I really want. A guy who can appreciate my art— my vision and my creative spirit. A guy who can admire the genius of my poetry, instead of getting up and walking away.”

She beams down at him. The she starts applying sunscreen to her bare shoulders.

“We’re gonna be here a while. I’d ask you to get my back for me, but… well you’re not up to the task.”

She gives him a sly grin. “And I’d put some on you, but that would just be a waste. I’m sure you understand. Can you hear the people down the beach, walking towards us? I hate them. They’re destroying our moment! It should be just us— just you, me, and my poems. But their voices are too intrusive. Too insistent. Too ugly. Try to ignore them, I want you to focus on the beauty of this moment. The view and my poetry, and you: my art.”

He tries to listen for the voices. To deny her the satisfaction of his attention, and to discern whether anyone can help him. He hears children. Happy voices, they’re laughing.

An adult calling them back.

Everyone is oblivious.

She sighs, casts a baleful gaze somewhere down the beach. But he can’t turn his head to see.

She looks down at him. “Blink if you want me to recite some more poetry.”

She stares into his eyes, and he tries not to blink. He tries so hard his eyes begin to feel like embers, beginning to ash.

But reflex wins, he blinks, and a tear rolls down his cheek.

She lights up. “Oh, wonderful! This next piece, I know you’ll like. I actually wrote it about those damn distractions! Maybe not those ones specifically, but they’re all the same. You see, I’ve been here before. On different beaches with different men, but here, all the same. You see it’s all the same. And so are you. Okay? So listen up.”

She turns towards him, sitting cross legged and gazing into his face. The wind plays with her hair. She asks “How do you think we look, to passersby? We must look… picturesque. Romantic even. From far away, we’re perfect.”

Her words sink in. He realizes if he were walking by, witnessing this from a distance he’d probably be a quietly jealous of the man lying on the beach, with a gorgeous woman leaning over him. He’d assume they were happy, in love. And he’d never guess his distress or her gloating sadism.

“The horizon is beautiful. And so are we. But there are still some things bringing me down.

I have found little noises surround and heap and mound until they abound all around these grounds— how my head pounds! I’m so crowned in sound I fear I may drown!

Do you hear them? So many wretched echoes, disrupting our peace. Ruining our moment.

Those ratty children, they’ll play all day in the clay by the bay and their family dogs will bray away along the way. Overwhelming! My senses fray, there’s too much on my tray but you and I, we lay on the quay, and pray that we may not pay into what fey fate God may array… I weigh the fact God’s got nothing to say and what a shame— our skies will stay gray.”

She raises her eyebrows at the end, as if expecting applause.

“I wish you could tell me what you thought of that! I would have loved to hear how it made you feel. Alas. I’ll have to settle for the barest feedback. Blink if it was good poetry.”

She claps her hands and squeals in delight. “Oh, you better not just be saying that! You’re not just trying to gas me up are you?”

She caresses his face, and he can’t even flinch.

“Okay, if you’re that fond of my work who am I to deny you…. I really should share some more.”

She clears her throat, and looks out on the horizon. “This one is about getting parched. You know, when you’re lounging on the beach, dehydration can sneak up on you. Enjoy!”

“If the water froze it would make a nice rink, but it’s too hot to think, the air has a stink, my neck’s got a kink, and I’m on the brink— what if I just slink away like a skink for a drink? A mink sinks under the waves in a blink, and I feel my will shrink like it must be linked. I close my eyes, for a wink and hear dream-bottles klink, as the sun bakes your skin raw-pink.

But nobody sees the paralyzed you,

lying and burning

on the quay by the bay,

And when the sunglow slowly sinks low

You’ll hear the snappy sounds of happy people packing to go

Then a colder wind will begin to blow

When all creature noises are gone except the crickets by your side

They will sing you a song of the impartial tide

You’ll hear it rise—

You’ll hear it rise as tears brace your eyes

Crickets and waves!

They once sounded pretty

But you’ll no longer be brave

For this world shows no pity

And away down the beach

Though you’ll be well in their reach

You’ll hear the yip and the howl

Of the coyotes’ prowl

You’ll try not to think of their slavering jaws

But you know that Nature won’t bend its laws

When Nature’s ugly song grows mournful,

For all your rage you’ll only feel scornful

And when you hear the soft, lonely grief of an owl,

You’ll finally be ready to watch Death lift his cowl.

Then the coy-dogs will circle in, licking their chops

We’ll be the only ones here and I won’t make them stop

I will watch them scatter your paralyzed limbs to the winds

And come morning the seagulls will be packing it in

And the little pieces of you that tumble down to the surf

Well those fall to the crabs, darling little uglies, for we’re on their turf.”

She takes her hat off her head, and sighs. Then she leans close and fans him with the brim. “I just love how a good poem can enrich the moment. Words are like art, and I always try to use mine to paint pretty pictures. Tell me what you thought of my poetry…”

She looks at him and chuckles, and then coos in his ear: “Sorry, I forget myself. Just blink if you liked it.”

***

Author’s note:

This is an expanded adaptation of a r/twosentencehorror story I wrote a while back.

For this longer story, I decided to change the genders of the characters from the original, because I wanted to contradict the frequent stereotype of women being victims in serial killer horror stories like these.

There’s also an element of self satirization here: I almost never share my writing with other people in person. On one level I just don’t think my writing is good enough to share in a general sense. And deep down I fear that asking an in real life friend to read any of my writing is kinda like guilt-trapping them into reading something they won’t find value in. So I feel bad or at least weird about inflicting my art on others. The serial killer character here takes that apprehension to its opposite extreme, forcing her “flawless poetry” onto a captive audience with no sense of guilt or fallibility.

Hope the story works, definitely receptive to feedback if it doesn’t!

If you’d like to read another horror-take on the “Everything Looks Better from Far Away” challenge, I also wrote this: