“TWISTED: TALES TO ROT YOUR BRAIN is a fun collection of coiled and contorted thoughts, brimming with black humor and playfully illustrated experiments about haunted people, hairy eyeballs, and brains that don’t quite stay where they ought to. Nora Thompson is one of those rare writers who can make the sick seem endearingly sweet (and vice-versa), and her artwork is distinctively bizarre and beautiful at the same time. I can’t wait to read Volume 2!”
—MICHAEL ARNZEN,
author of 100 Jolts: Shockingly Short Stories
Copyright
The stories in this book are works of fiction. Although the characters, the situations they find themselves in and what they say out loud or to themselves may sound familiar, trust me, I totally pulled them out of my own rotty little brain. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.
Twisted: Tales to Rot Your Brain Vol. 1
Copyright © 2011 by Thompson Graphx
Copyright Registration No. Canada: 1088011
Copyright Registration No. United States: TXu 1-761-314
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews, which would be totally cool.
For information please write to:
Thompson Graphx, PO Box 10, Whitney, PA 15693.
www.hairyeyeballspress.com
ISBNs
Hard cover: 978-0-9836699-0-6
Paperback: 978-0-9836699-1-3
pdf: 978-0-9836699-2-0
ePub: 978-0-9836699-3-7
mobi: 978-0-9836699-4-4
First Edition
Book site: www.hairyeyeballs.com
Book blog: www.hairy-eyeballs.blogspot.com
Table of Contents
Allergy
Testophobia
That Smell
Garlic Toast
Insomniac
Shhh...
Bombs Away
Mouth Breather
Visitation Day
Dead Line
Hairy Eyeballs
Doodles
Granny’s Recipes
Headache
Keeper
Shadows
Chula
Lobotomy Pie
Cleaver Overachiever
Full Moon
Doc Chocolate
Three Strange Days
You Know What Else Children Don’t Know?
Security
Crow Quill
Past Tense
Eat Your Vegetables
The End
Allergy
Well first of all, I don’t enjoy sneezing all day, and I don’t really care for your mocking me. So when I’m sneezing, just back off, O.K.? I mean, really. It’s not my fa—ah—ah…Oh! Excuse me. So sorry. Here…wipe that off there. I’ve taken all the medicine in the package just this morning, even though it said it was supposed to last all season—Ah—ah—Oh! Sorry again. My bad. What is what? Huh. Funky. I’m not really sure what that is, but I’m pretty sure it came out of my nose. I—I—phooey! Pardon, here let me get that. Oh, wow. Mushy. I understand what it looks like, but I’m sure it’s just mucous. Give me a break. Nobody’s ever sneezed that hard. Sheesh! Besides, I’m sure if that’s what it was, there would be some definite comse…consen…consequences. What do you mean, “Like what?” Somethink like just spicking to you, I guess. Don’t you thimk I would have sun difficutty? Thass not what I said. I’m spenking ravver plainly. Maybe iss you—ah—ah—jenkees! Back off, man! I’m the one who hassa deal wiff it, so don’ be selling me wha to do! I’ll jus’ shove it all backup innare an’ evertink will juss be hunky-dunky. Serrously. Are you laffung aa me?
Testophobia
That Smell
The leftover parts were weeks ago bagged and buried, and yet the horrid, rotting stench remained. Locked in our noses probably, but we weren’t thinking like that. The first few days we just scrubbed the spot on the floor, trying to get it clean with whatever we could find under the sink. But we soon realized sleeping was difficult so we graduated to bleach. All that managed to do was remove the wood stain and varnish on the hardwood floor where it happened.
And our not sleeping hadn’t changed.
“Spray some of this.” Jeremy forced a rusted can in my face.
I read the label between my brother’s fingers. “I don’t think covering up the smell will actually solve the problem,” I refused. “There must be something somewhere we’re missing.”
“But we were careful,” he pleaded. “Just do something.”
“I am.” I threw the sponge in the bucket where it landed in a splash of stinging peroxide.
“Why don’t you open some windows,” I growled and bumped his shoulder on my way to the back door.
The waxing half moon floated ghostly behind a cloudy October sky. I shivered and watched the vapors breathe across the faded glow and thought how comforting the new moon sky had been only a week before. A lifetime ago. We were so much younger then.
The moon wasn’t against us.
The clouds drifted just then and enough light shone across the field stretched out in front of me that the freshly turned earth more than fifty yards west looked less private than it had in the earlier light of morning.
I swallowed hard as the clouds once again concealed our madness. My nose flared. I knew what we had to do, and swung open the screeching screen door.
“We gotta get out of here, boy. That moon ain’t stopping for nobody.” I grabbed the back of Jeremy’s collar and pushed his skinny body out the door.
“I’ll be getting hungry again soon enough.”
Garlic Toast
Way, way too much garlic on your bread tonight. You wake with parched lips and a tongue that can’t stand what you’ve done. You need a drink to dilute that after-dinner taste lingering there so you toss off the sheets and head for the kitchen. Your eyes strain in the darkness. What was that? Your head snaps toward the scratching across the linoleum behind you. What was that? Your ears perk up, but discern nothing more than silence. Your eyes struggle to catch movement, but still, nothing. Slowly, you resume your path toward the sink. Whoa! There it is again. You glance behind you. It’s got to be right there. Where? It moves. Behind you. Its skin reeks of sulfur and burns the lining of your nose. Your hair tries to shoot itself from the follicles of your arms. The stench becomes stronger. You can feel its foul breath against your body. Your feet are frozen but know they must run. Where to go? Get out of the house. Outside. To the car. The keys. Where are Mom’s keys? Behind the visor. You slam the car door and lock it. You’re fumbling through the keys for the right one. House. Garage. Mailbox. Car, car. Car! Can’t drive? Time to learn! You glimpse toward the house. It’s right there. It’s coming. You drop the keys. Crap! It’s here now, at the door. Pounding the window. The keys are lost in the darkness. It keeps pounding. The window cracks. It breaks. Oily fingers grab at your throat. You slide out the passenger side. The ground is rocky. You lose your footing. You jump back to your feet. You recognize the cool wetness running from the gashes on your legs and hands. You leave some of it with every drag of your foot. You hope it can’t smell you, but you’re sure it can. Around the corner. You find a building. Front door. Stairs. Find the stairs. They groan with each slam of your feet. It hears them. It knows where you are. It’s already there, waiting for you. It reaches through from the back of the open stairs and seizes your ankle. Its grasp is cold and greasy. You can’t pull away. You trip. You slide backwards. It releases. It’s coming around the stairs now. You begin again, this time on all fours. At the top, through
the door, but it’s swollen and refuses to latch behind you. You ram all your weight to jam it. Block it with a chair. You’re breathing even heavier now. The phone. It’s on the stand. The chair twists with each thump at the door. Quickly. Quickly. The receiver falls from your hand. The numbers. How hard can it be? Your fingers hit two at a time. Try again. The gap at the door is getting wider. Focus. Focus. Numbers. The wrong ones. The chair is smashed. You head for a door. But you’re on the roof. The roof! Nowhere to go but down. It’s right behind you. You have to jump. Falling. Falling. You grasp at the air. Anything to stop your fall. Your arms windmill. The sidewalk! Your body jerks on impact. Your eyes spring open. Your room. The moonlight through your window, your ceiling. Your breathing slows. Slowly now. Slowly. You wipe the sweat from your forehead. Rolling to your side, you pull the covers to your chin. You close your eyes and smile. You hope the next one is just as good.
Insomniac
Ted has had about enough. Since his friends were over last Thursday, he hasn’t been sleeping at all well.
Well…At all.
He knows he should be tired. He knows he needs to get some rest, but he just can’t get the z’s he knows he needs. And he can’t figure out why. He stays up with the remote. He surfs the Web. He goes for walks.
He doesn’t remember much, but he’s pretty sure he’s been doing all those things. It’s just lack of sleep, he keeps telling himself. Remembering is such a chore since this happen…what were we talking about?
And the munchies. His appetite has his head in the refrigerator continually. But he never seems to find anything to satisfy the cravings, so he just keeps searching. Sometimes, since he’s up in the middle of the night anyway, he has his head in the refrigerators at the corner 24-hour grocery. Their selection isn’t much better than what he’s found at home, but the clerk is looking pretty good.
She tends to run away from him though, for reasons he’s not entirely certain.
He’s noticed the lack of sleep catching up with him. He drags himself out of bed after not having slept a wink. He drags his heavy head around like it’s a bowling ball. He drags his feet when he walks. Annunciating becomes an issue. Not that anybody has been hanging around to hear anything he has to say anyway. His vision grows cloudier by the minute. To get anywhere, he has to feel his way.
People aren’t seeming to like the new Ted all that much. The grabby hands. The inarticulation. The appetite.
What’s with all the running? he moans. The running actually makes them even more appetizing, he tries to verbalize in the direction of the other appetite-driven insomniacs.
Their brains look all the nummier because they’re not sharing.
At least that’s what he’s trying to say. What he’s actually saying sounds an awful lot like, “Mosmelabelm brummundalm.”
He’s just needing some shut eye is all.
Shhh...
Rebinding a dear old book could easily have been the most relaxing process of this battered librarian’s tiresome day. With frail and gloved hands, she manipulated the brittle pages into submission with expertise, and carefully, anxiously sewed their edges using sinew so as to prevent further deterioration.
The quiet relaxed her. She could hear her own breathing, which was nice. The children weren’t as fond of the lack of ruckus, apparently. She would sew all their mouths shut if she could. She chuckled at the thought. The clock ticked off hours past midnight, but she persisted with stiff determination.
A library should be a place of reverence, she muttered to herself. These books need peace. Can’t those kids just pipe down?
Eventually, though, things should be under control. Library cards would need to be revoked, of course, but it would all be for the greater good. No point in following the proper sluggish channels; circumvention would clearly produce speedier results.
The carapace she had decided to use to encase the tome’s new spine had been boiling since shortly after the closing hour, and experience told her the lot of it should be ready. She raised it from its cloudy slurry and allowed it to drip. Gently and precisely, she sliced the raw material down its length and collected in a pan as much oral mucosa as possible.
Threading another needle, she stitched the slippery portions into a size and shape suitable for more reading and less talking. She brushed adhesive across the surface of backing boards and enveloped the board’s form with her meticulously stitched membrane, papillae facing outward, naturally. She caressed her work and shelved it on the work table to dry.
Now the only tongue wagging, she smiled, will be the flapping of a silent book covering.
Bombs Away
“Wait ’til he looks up.
They hate that.”
Mouth Breather
they told me i a mouth breather. i dunno. i guess it true.
they say that problem.
i know i don’t think so good. i know that. you no have to explain that. i can think real hard on thing that i doing, and i have troubles with other stuff.
but kids, they spot. they make fun. they point and laugh, point and laugh. i no get angry. i just do job. it hurt sometimes, it do. but i chin up. i try make brain chin up.
i try think brain chin up positive. maybe mouth breath just push oxygen where need most, i try think. maybe brain? more oxygen to brain? i be problems thinking on more than one thing at time, like said. so maybe oxygen not going for brain.
was it lungs i thinking? no, me jaws. fingernails? one of those, i pretty sure.
i think more oxygen make blood redder and more oomph for we all-nighters. so why problem?
maybe extra oxygen is for me lungs. since ’cause when i run after stuff, i need breathe that way. with me mouth open.
oh. everybody run with mouth open, huh.
if not lungs, then me jaws can definitely use the extra red. you know, for grabbing on and chewing bone and gristle.
but me fingernails! oh! that must be what oxygen for! how else could grabbing and slashing and shredding if no tough, sharp clawings to stop you when you trying to run away from me?
but you shuffling around up there again. i hold breath. i thinking problem must be how you can hear me under bed.
breathing.
because, i guess i a mouth breather.
Visitation Day
Visitation days are always stressful. But it is family, and you feel obligated. But even family can creep you out when they get in a place like this. Sometimes it’s hard to recognize them when they get that way. But you learn to ignore it, and you tolerate the visit, and you go back home when it’s over. Hopefully what you see doesn’t stay in your head for too long afterwards. Hopefully they don’t. You don’t want them swimming around in there. But before they even bring them in, you’ll notice what the room does to you. All the white around makes even the smallest splash of color vibrate. Skin. Hair. Eyes. When they stare at you, at first you wonder why, but eventually you figure it out. Everything else is sanitized, and you’re the only thing in the room that is not. The hard visits are when they stare and don’t say much, so you don’t say much back. Awkward. Even more awkward are the times they try to tell you about some unknown person who did some ridiculous thing some god-knows-where, and you try to follow along, but, really...huh? Who are these people? Am I really expected to care? I’ll give up a half smile and stare a little more at their clothes. Their clothes vibrate with all the white around. My eye twitches a little sometimes from all the vibrations. Sometimes I can feel my brain vibrating a little, too, and I made the mistake of saying so once. Lots of questions. Lots and lots of questions. They want to get in there with the vibrations, but I won’t let them, and they don’t like it. You don’t want them in there. If it feels like they’re getting in there, just look somewhere else. Or close your eyes real tight, like this. And even if you get scared, try to remember that, no matter what happens, they always bring you back home when it’s over. Try to stay as still as you can. Don’t show them that you’re scared or that you’re angry or th
at you’re anything but good, or they’ll strap you down. You’ll do fine. They’ll bring you back home when it’s over, and I’ll be here. You’ll do just fine.
Dead Line
Hairy Eyeballs
As if Tommy the Terrorizer chasing you through the halls to class wasn’t embarrassing enough, a single strand of stiff, black hair is now growing out of your mouth.
Yeah. Your mouth.
It comes from the back of your throat, and at first you think it’s just a hair in your mouth. Gross. But when you try to get it out of there, you realize it’s attached.
Attached? In your mouth?
You think, “What the…,” and between classes you sneak to the bathroom to take a look in the mirror. Yep. It’s coming from the back of your throat, and it’s too dark back there and too far around the bend to really see what it’s attached to, and it’s pointing straight out of your pie hole. You grab it between your fingers and brace yourself before you pull because you know this is going to hurt.
But it doesn’t.
You raise an eyebrow and give yourself a what-the-crap-was-that look in the mirror. Looking at the strand of hair, you realize it’s pretty freakin’ long.
Too long to be coming from the back of your throat.
You drop it tentatively in the trash and watch it fall to the bottom. You look around to see if anybody else was watching and wipe your hands on your jeans. You back your way out of the bathroom.
That was weird.
The next day during class, you feel the hair in your mouth again.
Twisted: Tales to Rot Your Brain Vol. 1 Page 1
