Posts Tagged ‘Nerves’

Evelyn Grimes (Novel Excerpt)

April 2, 2017

 

Prologue: Best Laid Plans

1.

January 14th, 1956.

Stark City, Oregon.

12:35 p.m.

“You guys ready?” Lenny Stern whispers through clenched teeth. His pale, thirteen-year-old face gleams with sweat; an odd mix of nerves, apprehension, and lust.

“I’m keen,” Billy Cooligan replies, giving his friend a pistol salute with his right finger. No exaggeration, either. The semi-erection in his pants proves it.

“Sure,” Johnny Pearl says, though the poor, conflicted teenager isn’t sure at all. Unlike the other two, he harbors real doubt about their foolhardy plan…yet not enough to intervene. Thus, Johnny follows their lead, playing perhaps the most villainous role of all.

“Good. Now shut up.”

Lenny edges away from the door, still peeping through the thin crack between it and the doorframe. He hears Sister Marie approaching. Her leather sandals echo on the hard tile…and the familiar sound makes him smile.

The moment of truth has arrived.

2.

Leonard Stern, William Cooligan, and Jonathan Pearl; the disgraced teenage trio huddles behind the large door, careful not to make any noise on the grate landing. The short flight of stairs before them spiral down to the humid boiler room; the place they’ve all agreed upon to perform their monstrous deeds. Down there, in the rusty bowels of Saint Peter’s Orphanage, a line will be crossed, and a crime committed which will come back to haunt them all.

“Here she comes,” Lenny warns.

Rubbing his thin hands together, Billy hisses in anticipation.

Johnny tenses. A chill races up his spine as he thinks: How did things ever get this far?

3.

Right.

How did things ever get this far…?

A fair question, indeed. And in those dreadful moments before Sister Marie reaches the door, Johnny relives the genesis of their crime. Last Monday, at lunchtime. He, Lenny, and Billy had sat together in Saint Peter’s mess hall, munching roast beef sandwiches and slurping milk, when their idle conversation about baseball shifted to something a bit more prurient:

Sister Marie, and her long, slender, legs.

Of course, the good Sister remained ever demure in her nun’s garb, but Lenny had enthralled Billy and Johnny with a fictitious tale about once looking up her dress. “No panties,” he’d assured his wide-eyed audience. “That means she’s always ready to go!”

From there, the conversation devolved into each boy’s lurid fantasy of getting Sister Marie all alone. It didn’t take long before they began to salivate like dogs in heat, and that’s when Lenny laid it out to his pals in the form of a dare:

“I betcha she’d love it if the three of us got her alone. Then we’d see just how ready she really is…”

Billy and Johnny had glanced at each other. Neither wanted to look weak in front of Lenny.

“So how about it? You dorks got the guts?”

Well. Of course, they did.

But truth be told, Johnny hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. He’d agreed because he didn’t want to be ridiculed by everyone in Saint Peter’s. And because Lenny threatened to have his other, older friends kick the shit out of him if he snitched to anyone about their plan.

Now, the timid boy stands before that stomach-turning edge, staring into the dark abyss of his own soul.

Waiting.

So. The rest of the plan had been easy. Just before noon, Lenny approached Sister Marie and asked with doe-eyed innocence if she could meet him in the east hall after lunch. “It’s real important,” he’d said, tugging on her sleeve for emphasis. “Honest.”

“Well, of course I can,” the good Sister replied with a tender smile, never suspecting his true intentions. Not for a moment suspecting the horrors awaiting her in that mirthless boiler room…

4.

“Leonard?”

Sister Marie stands just beyond the stairwell door, and Lenny hears the faint echo of her voice in the hall. “Over here,” he answers, opening the door enough to show his face. “I’ve got something to show ya…”

A moment passes.

The nun looks at the boy, frowning. The boy gazes back; nervous, hopeful. Grinning the disarming grin of a small but prodigal demon.

“Alright,” she says at last, her frown softening.

Thus, without thinking, Sister Marie walks toward her doom, reaching out, her young and beautiful face etched with concern.

5.

Everything happens fast:

Lenny snatches Sister Marie’s hand and jerks her across the threshold before she can react. Billy tackles the hapless nun’s legs, knocking her into Johnny’s waiting arms. Panicked, she shrieks before Lenny clamps his sweaty palm over her mouth. Together, they lift the wriggling, writhing, woman off her feet and carry her down the stairs.

“Don’t drop her, guys!” Lenny shouts.

“We won’t!” Billy replies.

Silent, Johnny grits his teeth, tightens his grip.

The three boys’ hurried footsteps echo in the dank stairwell. Once at the bottom, Lenny, Billy, and Johnny pin the terrified woman to the floor.

Intent on damning their very souls.


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JLR

Blurring The Edge (Short Story Excerpt)

January 30, 2015

October 19th, 2015.

Stark City, Oregon.

9:01 p.m.

Well, today was just like any other day. A struggle. Again. Another uphill climb with only the thought of getting it all over with to keep me going. And once the long day is finally over, I can get on home and relax the best way I know how. By playing with myself.

That’s right.

Some men like to go out after work. They like to hit the bars, hoist cheap beer, watch sports, drool over trashy women, shoot pool, and shoot the shit. I guess that gives them a reason to keep on keeping on. Know what I say? I say they might as well shoot themselves right along with the pool and the shit.

Can’t say just why, but none of that appeals to me. Bars and women. No, sir. What a waste of time. For me, from the moment my eyes snap open in the morning until the moment I sign out in the evening, my mind’s on one thing and one thing only:

Playing with myself.

Nothing else feels quite the same as playing with myself. Not that I don’t love my booze and an occasional joint, cause I most surely do. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let me tell you how each day begins and ends so you’ll have a better idea of what I’m rambling about. The beginning is always shitty, of course. Goddamn alarm clock sounds like a warning buzzer at a hockey game. It sure does the job of waking my tired ass up, though. So as soon as I can muster the energy to haul the load below my shoulders, I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. After I finish my business with the commode I step into the tub and take the longest, hottest shower the water heater allows. Even in the summer. And to save time, I brush my teeth under the hot spray. Afterwards, I’m able to move like a man and not a zombie, which makes getting dressed a bit more pleasant, what with all the bending and twisting involved. Then, before I leave, I make myself a cup of instant coffee with plenty of sugar and cream.

Now, I have to admit, sometimes I wake up with a strong urge to play with myself before I hop in the shower. Especially when I was younger. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to stumble into the living room, plant my bare ass on the couch, and shoot off right there. Sometimes, I have to stand in the bathroom and tell myself over and over, “Wait ’til you get home, boy. Wait ’til you get home.”

So far, I’ve never caved in and done it before work, which is something to be proud of. I mean, after all, I’ve been playing with myself for a long time.

Anyway, let me tell you about work. I’d like to say I have a really interesting job, but I sure as hell don’t. It’s at a big old dirty factory in the Industrial District. Stark City Manufacturing. Job level two, full time with benefits. Been on that damned assembly line for thirteen years now. I put two cogs and one spring on each part that slides my way. These parts are then fitted to valves that attach to hoses in car engines. Foreign engines in slick foreign cars. The kind the kids all drive these days. The details are kind of boring, I guess, but the pay’s good and the work’s easy. Maybe too easy. That must be why my mind always drifts off to my one and only hobby.

Now, you might think a guy like me, who gets off on playing with himself so much, would keep it quiet. And you’re right. I do. For the most part. But once, a long time ago, I let my dirty little secret slip, and I’ve been paying for it ever since. Being a loner type who usually keeps to himself, the guys and gals I work with were always trying to goad me out of my shell. “Whaddya do for fun?” they’d ask. “How do ya unwind after work?”

I’ve always been a man of few words. Don’t like to talk. Don’t like goddamn comedians trying to be funny. Especially when I’m the punch line. So their questions bothered me. A lot. I dealt with it by just shrugging and saying things like, “Nothing much,” or, “You know, the usual.” But over time, it got harder and harder to hide my aggravation, and the more aggravated I got, the more they kept up their bullshit. And one day I finally lost it with this big dumb parts polisher everyone calls “Jethro” on account of him being such a moron. “Jethro” kept asking if I had a life outside of work, and what kind of “lame hobbies” filled up my free time. The bastard wouldn’t stop, and when I couldn’t take it no more I just blurted out the truth:

That I like to go home and play with myself.

Well. Big mistake. There was instant laughter all around, and the news of my confession spread like wildfire. In a matter of minutes, I became known as “the guy who spends all his time jerking off at home.”

And that’s still how it is to this day. Everyone on the crew winks and smiles at me. Sometimes they whistle or slap me on the back. “Betcha can’t wait to go home and play with yourself!” is all I hear, all day long. Sometimes they dig down deep into their vocabularies for the most vulgar expressions they can find to describe what they imagine I do with my dick every night.

According to the assholes I work with, I:

Grease it.

Polish it.

Spit-shine it.

Stroke it.

Slap it.

Spank it.

Yank it.

Tug it.

Whack it.

Beat it.

Jerk it.

Or jack it.

And, of course, to them my dick’s not a dick. It’s a hose, a monkey (my personal favorite), a pipe, a rod, a tallywhacker, a schlong, a dong, a wang, a pinky, a knob, a salami, a wiener, meat, and pud. I guess they’re too juvenile to use grownup words like dick, cock, or penis. They also have other witty little sayings, like: choking the chicken, engaging in man-to-gland combat, and, of course, taking matters into your own hands.

Anyway. None of them know shit from Shinola. They are right about one thing, though. All day long, every miserable second of every miserable hour, I can’t wait to get home and play with myself. And that’s the only way to accurately describe what I do. I “play with myself.” I absolutely do not grease, polish, spit-shine, stroke, slap, spank, yank, tug, whack, beat, jerk, or jack any part of myself.

I just play with myself.

Every evening when I get home.

Yeah. I first started playing with myself around the age of seventeen. I’ve heard that’s kind of late for most guys, but I really wouldn’t know what other people get up to. All I know for sure is that I discovered it right about the time I started my first job as a bagger at Stark Grocery World over in the Dibert District. At first, I was just messing around…figuring the whole thing out…then it got serious. Playing with myself started to feel really good. Insanely good. Like an addiction.

What can I say?

It didn’t take very long before I was hooked.

Now I do it almost every day. And when I’m not doing it, I’m sure as hell thinking about doing it. Those idiots are right about that. But what might surprise them is that I never play with myself on my days off. Don’t know why, either. Just never feel the urge.

Now, over the years I’ve built up some discipline about the whole thing. When I was younger, I’d rush through the door and start playing with myself as soon as I could. Like a man possessed. But now I never rush. I take my time and enjoy it. I savor it like a delicious meal I might never have the chance to taste again. Hell, at this point, it’s become an honest-to-goodness ritual.

So what I do, is this:

Once I get home, I walk through the door of my shit-hole apartment as calmly as possible, and set my lunchbox on the counter in my kitchen. I know what’s waiting for me in the living room but I don’t dare look at it. In fact, I do my damnedest to totally ignore it as I walk past. I go into my bedroom, strip off my dirty work uniform, and slip off my boots. And I take my time with all this, psyching myself for the big event. Thinking about it all day long builds up a shit ton of anticipation, a shit ton of excitement. I know I’ll be playing with myself very soon, and even though I’ve done it thousands of times, I still can’t wait to shoot off on my couch.

Shooting off really is the greatest feeling in the world.


“Blurring The Edge” is now available in Ramingo’s Porch Literary Magazine Issue #3:

https://www.amazon.com/Ramingos-Porch-Issue-3/dp/1948920042


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