Archive for April, 2008
Flat 8 saved Cheryl’s life. A successful lawyer after struggling for many years with assorted ailments she found herself at age forty divorced for the third time with three estranged children, no money, and no life.
So she sees me as a potential abuser of newborn children and she relayed that information to my professional body. It has been hard for me to stay in employment when I have to fight for my professional credentials at every trial. It all stemmed from my involvement with her husband. She suspected that we were having an affair. I was never smitten with him. After that night we spent out fishing together and the breathless way we arrived home in the early morning. Remember when we slaughtered that trout? The children’s delight and she standing in the background. Fuming. That it should have been her.
She also stole my professional work. I had been working on a very important case to free a young man from a sexual abuse case. It was ground breaking stuff and would later surface as a watershed case in the countries history. Recovered memory would never be the same. The mental health professionals were made to look like fools as they backtracked on their professional position of a decade. She made me out to be a mental case and harped back to the time I spent as a teenager in s psychiatric hospital. She even searched back and had a colleague seek out my records, which had become defaced and abused.
She made a lesbian advance to me you know? Twenty years ago she tried to seduce me and I, repelled by her effrontery, told her in no uncertain terms where to go. She has had it in for me ever since. Surrounded herself by lesbian lackeys who hang on every word. I have stood in the curtains long enough. I have started proceedings to recover the two million she owes me through pilfering my professional knowledge and profiting from my ideas.
I should make amends through mediation but the ill will I feel towards her and her family makes my anger boil to the surface. I want revenge. But I should leave her children and husband out of this. Although she showed no hesitation forgetting mine.
She went on a relaxing, albeit brief vacation to a tropical island. This is where she hatched her sinister but mad plot. She would fight the bitch the way she had attempted to destroy her. Turn the tables. She drafted letters to the governing bodies and to her employers. Demanded an immediate investigation. Showed she had the support of important minority groups who could not be ignored. Evoked the Privacy and the State Security and the Official Information Acts. Changed her name and address three times to evade detection. Hired a fancy lawyer and took a case to the highest court in the land.
But she failed. She even failed to turn up to the hearing, involved in another pressing matter. The judge looked at her evidence and shrugged.
“This women is wasting the courts time. Should she ever bring a case like this again I will be turning this evidence over to the police but advising them to prosecute her for malicious mischief.” Cheryl was devastated. So the abuse had risen to this level. Even the highest judge in the land was now in the pocket of this women. This women who had now completely and devastatingly destroyed her life. For what? For sexual revenge and jealousy? She couldn’t believe that this was all that was involved. She consulted her runes and called upon ancient Gods to provide her with answers. On this, they were silent.
Then she found Flat 8. She had been walking down the street on a bright summer’s day. Traffic whizzed by. Tuis flittered in and out of the tress and occasionally swooped on insects grazing on freshly mown grass. Cheryl’s attention was suddenly drawn to a window of a house adjoining the road. A notice was propped on a table that was almost in dark back from the roadside window. She squinted in the bright sunlight willing her eyes to adjust to the contrast in the light. She could make out the words salvation and help is at hand, but little else. She knocked softly on the door. The heavy knocker and the number 8 were prominent in her field of vision. The door opened.
“You have finally come to us Cheryl.” She lurched backwards. How did they know? Was this another part of her plan. To draw the last bowstring before she was catapulted into the void?
“How d-d-d-d-o you know my name?”
“We have been waiting twenty years for you to come Cheryl. Haven’t you seen our sign?”
Cheryl peered closely at the women in front of her. She was ancient, her skin like thin parchment. Her eyes were incredible. They were so bright. Her hair had once been black but was now flecked with grey and white. Her arms, shrouded in a gossamer material seemed to stretch forever. Her long fingers were clutching a small blue notebook.
“Here. Take this. Read it until you can recite it from memory. Return to us when you have done so. Be tranquil.”
Cheryl stumbled from the front steps and she barely remembered clicking the latch on the gate, or the Tuis, or the noisy traffic. She was effused with such a sense of well-being, of completeness, of bliss. She barely heard the screech of the airbrakes as she stepped into the afternoon traffic and was completely flattened by a fourteen ton logging truck as the driver frantically downshifted and applied brakes to stop killing this wild looking women who suddenly threw herself into the heavy traffic.
Bear Eats Athlete
APA. Stricter drug testing favoured by Olympic body. Spokesperson Raymond Macey warned athletes that stricter testing would precede the 2008 Olympic Games. ‘We are sickened what these young athletes are doing to their bodies with these chemicals’ he said.
Mary Beth knew this was her lucky day. She was nearly at the top of the mountain and she was still fifteen minutes under her best time. The lake swim had been a breeze and she had emerged from the water a good hundred metres in front of the next competitor. She had awoken that morning thinking of the swim and run and even though her heart tightened she knew she was up to the challenge. Since her accident she had been trying hard to return to competitive form but time and time again she choked at the final stretch. Her trainer said it was natural, time would heal. Her fellow competitors were sympathetic but secretly they were pleased she was no longer a serious threat. And she had been fueling up on the honey that came from this very mountain. Honey on toast, honey in tea, honey in baking. As she rounded the trail that led to the turning point at the top of the mountain she allowed herself a smile.
The smile quickly vanished when she saw what was sitting in the clearing, seemingly awaiting her arrival. A huge black bear, red tongue sensuously dangling from his moistened mouth, fixated her with his deep brown eyes. She could see he was a male because an enormous penis, fully erect and engorged with blood, nearly reached to the ground. He rose up on his hind legs and with amazing agility was suddenly in front of her. His penis stood up like a lance and with his front legs he embraced Mary Beth. There was no mistaking his intentions. For some insane reason Mary Beth could only think of a cartoon showing two hunters sitting around a fire, one saying, ‘don’t be afraid, animals are afraid of fire’, and the other looking back gloomily saying ‘I should probably tell you-we’re out of firewood.’ She could smell the bear’s putrid breath as he leaned closer and nuzzled her neck. He was certainly amorous and was, Mary Beth hastily thought, ‘loaded for bear’. His nuzzling suddenly became very painful and Mary Beth instinctively bought he knee up smartly into the bear’s groin. Big mistake. As he entered her his playful hug crushed Mary Beth’s ribcage and her breath escaped her body with a solid whoosh. The last thing Mary Beth heard was the sound of her spine snapping.
APA: The perils of training in the Canadian countryside were exposed last week when a 24yr-old biathlete was killed in an apparent bear attack. Mary Beth Miller had a bite mark on the back of her neck when her body was discovered by police in the heavily wooded area just north of Quebec City. Black bear tracks were spotted near the body.
She walks down the crowded Wednesday afternoon street. The occasional (mostly male) passer-by’s give her a glance; a beautiful young woman, dressed dazzlingly in a green summer dress which barely conceals her voluptuous body. It is clear she is wearing little or no underwear and her breasts swing freely as she negotiates the pavement. She turns into a grey building its dark interior lit by harsh fluorescent lights in contrast to the bright summers day. As she negotiates the entranceway, she rummages in her bag and withdraws a slip of paper, checks the writing, then glances up and reads the sign in the lobby of the building. She approaches the lifts and, when the doors open, enters and presses the No3 button. The lift lurches up the old building.
She alights on the third floor and enters the reception area of a dentist’s office. An assortment of child’s toys lay strewn in one corner. Across the room a line of faded yellow backed chairs provide seats for an audience for whom the receptionist is the central performer. The walls are covered with signs alluding to the many different payment methods the dentist favours. The receptionist glances at her and indicates that she approaches the front desk. She does so and announces her name as Mrs Hymas. The receptionist checks her list and indicates she should be seated and the doctor will be with her in a moment. The young woman reflects on the arrogance of men calling themselves ‘doctor’ when, in fact, they have no covenant on the title. She crosses her legs, picks up a magazine, flicks through it in a bored and distracted fashion, and waits.
After a few minutes an elderly women emerges from a door marked ‘surgery’ and speaks briefly to the receptionist, presumably to make a further appointment with the dentist. She continually runs her hand over her cheek as she does so. The other occupant of the waiting area edges to the front of her seat, in anticipation of her being the next to be called. She looks anxiously at the receptionist, the women, and the dentist’s door. The dentist, a portly man in his late fifties, sweat beading his brow, his white uniform crumpled and worn, opens the door to the surgery and using his finger indicates that the young women we have seen enter the building from the crowded street and negotiate elevators and reception, should now enter his surgery. She rises from her seat, smooths down her green dress which has risen up her tanned thighs, and, glancing briefly at the other patient, enters the surgery. The other patient slumps back in her seat and makes a loud noise to indicate her displeasure at being the next person to physically arrive at the surgery but to end up still waiting in line. She idly picks up the discarded magazine of the young woman and glances at the front cover and the titles of the stories contained within.
Once inside the young woman dispenses with her handbag and then unzips her dress. Our assumption that she was wearing no underwear is revealed to be true, as she stands naked, apart from a pair of black, short-heeled shoes, in front of the dentist who is impatiently ridding himself of his gown and trousers. We see that his t-shirt has a dark stain over the stomach area as if he has spilled food while he has been watching a late night TV movie and has either not noticed it or it is of no import to him. The young woman sits in the dentist’s chair and drapes her legs over the arms at each side. Her sex sits above the sterile plastic of the chair, mocking the dentist and forming a strong contrast to the white and grey machinery around her. The dentist struggles out of his final piece of clothing and starts having vigorous sex with the young women. She stops him before he enters her and asks him for the $500 they had agreed on in their telephone conversation. He reluctantly stops and picks up his crumpled trousers that he has hastily thrown on the floor. He extracts his wallet and carefully counts out the bills, throws them on his tray, then resumes vigorous sex with the women.
As we back out of the surgery see from the rear of the dentists chair a scene of the young woman’s elegant legs with shoes firmly attached protruding from the sides, and the bald head of the dentist pumping up and down as he reaches his rapid climax. As we back out into the reception area and close the door, all sounds emanating from the grunting wanabee doctor are muted.