Cupid Was Pissed Off

“Ah. February 14th.” I stretched. “It’s time.” I’d planned this all year. Carefully put together the correct apparel, all in black, with metal studs, and chains. Had the feathers on my wings died black too. The same black as the night sky. The same for my hair.

Everyone thought I was nuts, but I knew what I was doing.

I’d purchased a new bow. Not a cheery, red one, or one that showed off the grain and color of the wood it was made from. Instead, I went with a black, carbon fiber composite. With arrows that had fiber composite shafts, and gleaming, titanium coated, stainless steel tips, with barbs. The barbs were cast at angles from the arrow heads, so they would stick in better, and cause way more damage to remove.

“Just a few hours, and it will be dark enough to start.” I’d start in Australia, where the sun set first on Valentine’s Day. “Don’t worry, ladies. I have heard your cries.” I smiled at myself in the mirror. It was long past time someone did what I was about to do. Long past time someone corrected the behavior of certain human men.

I looked back at my friends list on the human social network, “Facebook”. I knew their names so well. Every name. Every story. Stories of betrayal. After ten years, fifteen years, twenty years of marriage. Where he didn’t even ask to leave, and never mentioned anything was missing or wrong. Where he went out, and found a new model. Like he was buying a car, and trading the old model in.

Stories of abuse. Where he screamed at her. Told her how useless she was. Always set her up for failure in everything. Told everyone how she was good for nothing. What amazed me was how few times he physically assaulted her. Assault made the abuse obvious. It wasn’t like the emotional, and psychological abuse, which was hidden from the eye. You couldn’t see a broken, bleeding spirit. You couldn’t see the tears a soul cried.

I carefully loaded my black leather quiver with my deadly arrows. “It’s going to be a fun night indeed.”

Oh, the number of times I’d read that one story. From so many different women, of so many different ages. “He owns a gun, you know. And sometimes, I wonder. Would he use it? Is it worth finding out?” So, they let him do whatever he wanted. And they did whatever he wanted. It was always non-consensual. Always forced. Always done to stay alive. To be safe.

It had taken a few years for me to wake up, to understand what was happening. To see the never ending fear, and abuse, so many human women lived with daily. But, once I understood, I found I had no choice.

“But! Cupids are supposed to spread love! We shoot people with love arrows, that don’t really hurt them. And make them fall in love. And have glorious times, and glorious memories.”

Yeah. Right. Memories that too often ended in broken lives, and shattered souls, who could never really be whole again. Who would always wear the scars others put on them. Who would always have those fears, and the never ending dreams, the never ending nightmares, of what had happened. And of it maybe, one day, happening again.

“Spread love, my ass…”

I waited for the sun to set. That was when I’d commence spreading a little of my own love. There were going to be a lot of smug, arrogant, abusive men who visited hospital emergency rooms on that Valentine’s Day.

I’d guarantee that. Hell. I’d shoot them all year after year. Until they either died out, or they learned.

“Whatever it takes, right? Whatever it takes.”


A Clip From My #NaNoWriMo Work In Progress

[Author’s Note – If you find extreme acts of violence, and descriptions of such acts, disturbing, don’t read this.

What follows is a clip from my Work In Progress, being written for NaNoWriMo 2013. This work has been difficult for me to write. It contains extreme levels of violence, and touches on topics that greatly disturb me.

After several people expressed interest in the story, I decided to share a small clip.]

Frank grabbed Jessica’s hand, “Run!”

They did. But it was no use. The three men rapidly caught up to them. One grabbed Jessica’s arm, yanking her to a stop. Frank turned, and charged at that man. The other two men attacked Frank, striking him in the face, and chest. They quickly overwhelmed him.

Jessica didn’t know if Frank was alive or dead. At the least, she knew he was hurt. She felt fire ignite in her soul. She felt it raced through her blood. She dropped the bag she was carrying, turned, screamed, and struck at the face of the man holding her. She kept her fingernails extended. They tore into his skin, leaving long tracks as they ran down his cheek.

She screamed again, and kicked him, with everything she had, right in his male parts. He lifted off the ground, bellowed in pain, his hands letting go of Jessica’s arm as he reached for his injured crotch and doubled over, howling in pain.

The other two men circled her. “Oh. We got us a tough filly here, don’t we?”

“Yessir. We got a tough bitch here.” They separated, one on each side of her, knowing there was no way she could fight both of them. They were ready for her now. Not like the man she’d taken down. He hadn’t expected her to fight. The two men circling her were ready. There was no surprising them.

Jessica bared her teeth in a nasty snarl, so resembling of a wolf’s snarl, the men hesitated. Making a low growl, she turned from one to the other, waiting. Quickly, eagles filled the sky, circling. They waited. They did not intervene. They waited. They knew. She was finding her fire. Her strength. Her soul.

She was remembering who she truly was.

With no sound at all, she leaped toward the man to her left. He countered by leaping at her, his arms drawn back, beginning to swing. The other man started toward the two of them.

Jessica hurled herself toward the man, easily ducking past his wildly swinging arms, extending her fingers like wolf claws, and raking them across the mans neck, drawing blood. Lots of blood. Her nails torn, her own fingers bleeding, she ignored the wounded man, and turned toward the third member of the group.

He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her off the ground as he kept running. They collided with the side of a house. Jessica felt her shoulder separate. She felt her ribs crack. The man bounced off her, dropping her to the ground.

The pain fueled her fire. She kicked with her legs, her feet connecting with one of his knees. She heard the sounds of tearing tendons and ligaments. She heard him howl in pain, and watched him fall to the ground, his hands clasping his knee.

Jessica struggled to her feet. She went back to the bag, and found a hammer. She turned back toward the men.

The three men fled. Staggering. One holding his neck, trying to keep his blood inside his body. She’d torn the veins on the side of his neck with her fingernails. The one with the destroyed knee hopped along, desperately trying to flee. The third tried to walk, but was still doubled over from the torture between his legs.

Jessica hunted them down. She swung the hammer, like a sword. She struck the head of the man with the broken knee, right behind his left ear. The hammer sunk in, with a sickening cracking noise. The man fell, his body twitching.

She caught the man with the wounded crotch next. Planting the hammer in his left eye, like she was hitting a baseball with a bat. He pitched over backward, limply falling to the ground, not moving.

She swung the clawed end of the hammer at the neck of the third man. The claws sank into his neck, and she yanked, as hard as she could, using all her body weight. The hammer tore loose, and the man’s blood gushed out. He collapsed to the ground, his hands clasping his destroyed neck, his life blood spurting out, spreading rapidly around him.

She returned to the first two men, and made certain they were dead. She watched the third stop moving as his blood stopped flowing.

The eagles in the sky circled the scene. As they did, they screamed, declaring to the world, she was remembering who she was. She was finding her heart, and soul.

#55WordChallenge : The Fence – Part 20

“Who are you?”

She looked at me, “You know.” She raced deeper into the hills. I followed. We reached the top of a hill, and she stopped. “There.” She pointed to a building made of cylinders, covered with windows. Several men stood before it. They tossed a bound woman toward its entrance.

Alice. My mother.

55 words

This is part 20 of the serial story I’m working on for Lisa McCourt Hollar‘s #55WordChallenge flash fiction challenge. Please, go read all the other entries in the challenge this week. It’s flat amazing what gifted writers can say in just 55 words.

If you wish to read all the parts of the story, they are in order, from most recent to first, here.

#12Masque : Lost In The Masquerade

Welcome to the Twelfth Night Masquerade, hosted by Meg McNulty. A masquerade celebration of the twelfth night of Christmas. What follows is my entry into the celebration.

She looked the part she’d chosen to play in the masquerade. The black silk gown she’d selected was exquisite. It fit every curve, drew attention to every surface. Her shoes, more like sandals with straps that wrapped around her ankles and calves. Her nails were all polished black as night. She wore black lace gloves that reached to her elbows. Her black hair cascaded down her bare back, the gown held in place by a black ribbon that laced from the small of her back up to the base of her shoulders. She’d topped it off with a black mask. The pale black eye shadow she’d so carefully placed was just another detail in the work of art she was.

I’d expected nothing less.

She was the same every day. Perfectly made up. Perfectly dressed. With perfect behavior. Like an actress playing a role made just for her. Putting on a show for all to see. With no depth, no life beyond the screen. What does an actress do when she’s not acting? Who does she become when she’s not in character?

I knew the answer, though I dared not share it with anyone, save her.

It was a joy to watch the way she played the part. Turning men into helpless boys, unable to take their eyes off her. Nodding their heads, and racing to fetch her another drink when she indicated she wanted one. Too tongue-tied to ask her to dance.

The way they turned to love-struck puppies was no surprise.

Other women avoided her. The spoke of the hussy in black in hushed tones in their little gatherings. Green jealousy, and red hatred filling their eyes. Visible through their masks. Smiling when their paths crossed hers. “You look stunning tonight, dear. Really. You make it look so easy.”

I stood, in the shadows. Speaking to no one. Watching her perform. Watching the corresponding performances from those around her. Wondering how they would behave, if they knew her as I did. If they knew the truth of who she was.

Would they understand how hurt, how broken, how wounded she was? Would the see the way her heart bled? Would they see the scars within her soul? Would they see she had forgotten so very long ago who she really was? No longer knowing what she felt, what she believed, or who she was. Just an actress, playing a part, and nothing more?

Would they see the little girl, hiding from the world she didn’t understand? Always hidden behind a mask.

As I watched her perform that night, I found myself wondering, as I have wondered so many times before. If I could ever help her find herself. If she would ever see herself as I did. If she would let me walk beside while she searched for who she was. Or if she’d remain as she was now.

Lost. In the masquerade.

496 Words

Please read the other entries in this masquerade. They are all wonderful stories, freely shared by word artists, and are well worth reading.

#12DaysBop : Day 7 – When Sunshine Becomes Angry

It’s day 7 of Stacy Hoyt’s 12 Days Of Christmas Blog Hop. Today, the prompt is storms, and we learn it’s never a good idea to piss off a fairy named Sunshine…

It was a beautiful day. There were no clouds in the sky. A soft breeze flowed from the East to the West. It was a normal day in the village, with children playing, women cooking and cleaning, and men working in the fields, or tending to the animals.

No one talked about what happened three days earlier, when they’d handled that problem child. No one asked how she’d been handled. It was enough to know she was gone, and the village was safe again.

Sunshine walked into the village that day. Men stopped working when they saw her. Her strawberry blond hair cascaded halfway down her back, between her wings and caressed her bare shoulders. Her skirt flipped as her hips swayed while she walked, revealing even more of her legs.

Women stopped when they saw her. Their eyes revealing their jealousy, screaming, “I should look that good!”

The children gathered around the pretty fairy. Fairies were just magical to them.

When she reached the center of the village, she stopped, and looked at each person she could see. Then she spoke, her voice shaking with barely controlled rage. “She didn’t have to die.”

Silence was the only answer she received.

Sunshine looked to the sky and screamed as her rage erupted. The sky transformed into a swirling maelstrom of black clouds. The soft breeze became a linear wind that howled through the village, stripping branches off the trees, ripping fence posts from the ground and reducing every home to splinters.

A torrential rain flash flooded the village. Lighting flashed, and thunder rolled. It only lasted a few minutes for that storm to destroy the village. Every villager died. Then Sunshine flew away.

There was not a single cloud in the perfect blue sky that day.

Please go enjoy the rest of the stories in the blog hop. There are some really gifted writers out there. It’s well worth reading their work. You can find the other entries here:

The 12 Days Of Christmas Blog Hop, Day 7 – The Gift Of Storms