Posts Tagged ‘Fate’

Pentecost (Short Story Excerpt)

January 17, 2017

author-2

April 14th, 2017
Stark City, Oregon.
6:01 a.m.

“I will extol Thee, Oh Lord!” Reverend Gideon Brahm recited with all the enthusiasm he could muster. Bathed in flickering candlelight, his eyes stung from lack of sleep. His throat ached from seventy-eight hours of near-constant preaching about life, death, love, Pentecost, and—he hoped—resurrection. “For Thou hast lifted me up…”
Gideon’s heart sank as he gazed at his dwindling flock. Three days ago, he’d begun this doomed experiment with twelve handpicked apostles, and half of them had fled.

Half of them had denied him.

“And hast not made my foes to rejoice over me!”

Tall and lean, Gideon looked much younger than his actual age of forty-three. He wore his light brown hair shoulder-length, framing his smooth, handsome face. A face that’s charmed many out of their money, and lured many others into his thrall.

“Oh Lord, my God…”

Even now, hair mussed and tangled, eyes ringed with dark circles, Gideon radiated warmth and compassion. A natural born leader. A man you’d trust with your very soul.

“I cried unto Thee, and Thou hast healed me!”

Before Gideon lay a white satin sheet. Atop the sheet lay a pale, putrescent thing which couldn’t be healed—by The Lord or otherwise. A corpse. A naked old woman. Name, unknown. Cause of death, unknown. Its wrinkled face looked slack and peaceful; eyes closed, lips parted. Arms spread in a T, fingers curled into partial fists.

The eternal pose of the crucified.

“Oh Lord, Thou hast brought up my soul from the grave…”

Washed but not embalmed, the old woman’s body had been culled from Stark Memorial Services by a fellow devotee. Already, it carried the sour stench of death, and the flesh beneath its breasts and buttocks had begun to blacken.

“Thou hast kept me alive, that I should not go down into the pit!”

Around the corpse sat the remnants of Gideon’s flock. Like Gideon, they wore white satin robes tied at their waists with golden cords, and nothing else.

“Sing unto The Lord, Oh ye saints of His…”

To Gideon’s left sat Dennis Moore. A kind man with a kind face, Gideon thought. A distraught woman lay across his lap, weeping. Dennis held her, chewing his bottom lip as he absorbed the sermon. Gideon had known Dennis for five years. A friend invited him to Gideon’s now defunct Lambs of Nazareth bible study group; long before Gideon proclaimed himself an actual prophet.

Before a lot of things.

“And give thanks at the remembrance of His holiness!”

Marla Smith, the woman clinging to Dennis, had also belonged to the Lambs of Nazareth. A very average woman, Gideon thought. Unloved, unmarried, and childless. But Gideon had slowed Marla’s descent into spinsterhood with several detours to his bedroom. Not that she’d minded. It felt good to be wanted, and the lovemaking had grown in both frequency and intensity—

Until Hope arrived.

“For His anger endureth but a moment; in His favor is life!”

Beside Marla sat Rick Daniels, shivering and stroking his thick, blonde mustache. He looked like a used car salesman, Gideon thought. Gideon had known Rick for three years. After ordering his flock to disseminate flyers proclaiming him a Prophet of the New Age, Gideon first met Rick, flyer in hand, outside his church. Fresh from rehab, Rick had seemed lost and lonesome, and Gideon welcomed him with open arms, advising him to fill his life not with booze, but with God.

Trading one addiction for another.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning!”

Beside Rick sat Gwen Robinson, grinning, hands clasped between her flabby breasts. Not a very bright woman, Gideon thought. But pleasant; the very definition of obedient. And gullible. When Gideon spoke in tongues, she’d shout, “Praise Reverend Brahm!” When Gideon placed his hands on an arthritic old man and proclaimed him free of pain, she’d shout, “Praise Reverend Brahm!” When Gideon spoke of the paradise awaiting all those who followed him, she’d shout, “Praise Reverend Brahm!”

And by the rapture on her face, Gwen had zero doubt that Gideon would fulfill his messianic prophecy.

“And in my prosperity I said, I shall never be moved!”

Beside Gwen sat Ruth Miller—the oldest of Gideon’s flock—impassive as she brushed the corpse’s hair. Impassive, though her thin hands trembled with every stroke. Two years ago, Gideon had convinced Ruth of his power by conducting a séance in which he’d contacted her uncle; the man who’d molested her at the tender age of twelve. “He says he’s deeply sorry,” Gideon told her. “And he wishes he could take it all back.” Afterward, Ruth handed Gideon a check which had decimated her savings but cemented her position in the flock.

And both enjoyed the benefits of forgiveness.

“Lord, by Thy favor, Thou has made my mountain to stand strong!”

Shaking, Gideon turned to his most beloved follower, Hope Rochester. So beautiful, so pious and docile. A former cheerleader, and it showed. Long, slender legs. Petite waist. Firm breasts. Bright blue eyes. She sat with her head bowed, blonde hair shrouding her angelic face. Though exhausted, looking at Hope stoked a wicked desire deep in Gideon’s loins.

A temptation into which he’d already been led.

“Thou didst hide Thy face, and I was troubled!”

Dennis, Marla, Rick, Gwen, Ruth, and Hope. All of them believed that God—not fate, not luck, not mere coincidence, but God—had brought Gideon into their lives. Thus, they believed that God had gathered them together in Unit 313 of the Warrington Arms apartment complex to witness a miracle.

To be touched by the Holy Spirit.


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JLR

What Came Over Her (Short Story Excerpt)

September 2, 2015

author-1

1.

June 3rd, 2016.

Stark City, Oregon.

11:57 p.m.

Smiling, Wendy Marie Hunicutt stepped onto the pentagram. “Now it begins,” she whispered, sinking to her knees.

“Payback’s a bitch, Kara!”

The pale, flabby girl had drawn a crude circle on the floor in chalk. Within this circle, she’d drawn a five-pointed star. At each point of the star, she’d placed a small black candle. Five tiny flames now lit the empty room; flickering, twisting the darkness around Wendy’s naked body. The azure ring on her left hand glimmered in the soft light. The initials carved into the gold band read:

K.L.V.

“You’ve fucked with me for the last time!”

Kneeling in the star’s central pentagon, Wendy closed her eyes. Blood spurted from her wrists, splattering against her legs, pooling around her knees. The razor she’d used to slit her veins lay outside the circle, next to an open tome of ancient writing. Beneath the razor lay a portrait of Kara Vance. Blonde, dimpled, and buxom. The All-American High School Cheerleader Goddess. Her blue eyes had been slashed by the razor. Black candle wax hid her perfect smile.

“And now I’m free…”

Ignoring the hot sting in her forearms, Wendy concentrated, forming a vivid mental portrait of Kara. Her favorite portrait:

Kara, resplendent in her cheerleader uniform, falling from a great height. Hurtling into darkness.

Crying.

Shrieking.

Thrashing.

All the way to her death.

I’m gonna make you suffer worse than I ever have!

Still, Wendy’s blood spurted. Her jaw quivered. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and legs. Beginning to feel faint, she bit down hard, took a deep breath, and began her ominous chant:

Possideo

The memory of that fateful first encounter resurfaced. Walking into the Robert Sloan High School cafeteria for the first time. Seeing Kara Vance, daughter of Stark City Councilman, Kirk Vance, in the flesh. Everyone knew Kara. Everyone wanted to be her friend. There’d been an empty spot at Kara’s table, and Wendy had committed the sin of sitting down, and the mortal sin of speaking to her.

“Why are you talking to me?” Kara had asked, much to the delight of her squealing sophomore posse. “You’re freshman trash. Even worse, you’re Meyer trash. We live in Hinckley, honey. Our parents can buy and sell your parents…”

Then came the laughter. Brutal. Haunting. Unrelenting.

“Deleo

Nude, bleeding, bathed in candlelight, Wendy remembered the utter confusion, anger, and shame as complete strangers ridiculed her. People she hadn’t harmed…people she didn’t even know.

“Supero…

And from there, everything escalated.

“Possideo…”

Dirty notes on her locker. Insulting texts to her phone. Obscene messages on her Facebook page. The unfortunate nickname: Windy Huni-cunt.

“Deleo…”

Condescending looks in the halls. Snide remarks in class. Prank phone calls in the middle of the night.

“Supero…”

Threats. Shoves. Bubblegum in her hair. Key marks on her mother’s car the first and last time Wendy drove it to school.

“Possideo…

The time three friends of Kara’s friends—since Kara’s posse would never sully their own hands—jumped Wendy in the bathroom, resulting in a black eye, bruised ribs, and a sprained ankle.

“Deleo…

And the rumors. The filthy, vicious rumors. The least cruel being that Wendy had blown several of her male teachers for passing grades. The worst being that she’d molested a boy she’d once babysat.

“Supero…

Dying, Wendy recalled how at first her parents hadn’t believed her. How they’d told her that everyone deals with bullying at some point, and to tough it out. But when the abuse became undeniable, they’d gotten involved. Or tried to, at least. The teachers, the principal, the entire school system; no one could help.

Maybe they just didn’t want to.

“Possideo

Changing their landline had gotten their house egged. Getting a new phone increased the online harassment. Shutting down her Facebook caused a bag of dog shit to appear in her locker. Kara and her friends just created a fake Windy Huni-cunt profile, anyway. And there they posted the vilest messages and pictures the real Wendy had ever seen.

“Deleo

For three years, Wendy has endured this torment. Three long, miserable years.

“Supero

With no end of suffering in sight.

“Possideo

Three times she’d applied for a school transfer, and three times she’d been refused due to overcrowding.

“Deleo

And lest she take comfort in the fact that her last year at Robert Sloan would be Kara-free, Wendy received an anonymous typewritten note in her backpack:

Dear Ms. Huni-cunt,

Don’t think for a second that just because someone graduates their influence can’t be felt.

Good luck in your senior year.

Sincerely,

A Friend

“Supero

Thus, hopeless, harrowed, and untouched by any boy she’d ever liked, Wendy Hunicutt came to this abandoned boathouse overlooking Stark Reservoir, armed with a book, a razor, and a raging thirst for vengeance.

“Possideo…deleo…supero…

And there, at last, Wendy found peace…

Read “What Came Over Her” compliments of The Abyss E-zine @ http://theabyssmag.blogspot.com/2018/07/what-came-over-her-by-jesse-lynn-rucilez.html


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Support me on Patreon @ https://www.patreon.com/jesselynnrucilez

Thank you for reading!

JLR


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