Journalstone's 2010 Warped Words for Twisted Minds

by Compiled by Christopher C. Payne

  I supposed that Mother must have instilled a bit of her own morose nature into each of these works, for Dean’s face was drawn and gaunt, which was very unlike the man I had known. Although he was a thin fellow, he was always in robust good health, jaunty, and joyful. Unlike some of my mother’s other lovers, he liked children. He called me “my kidda,” and I found myself hoping for my own sake that he would be my stepfather. For his sake I wished that he’d take himself as far from Mother as possible, which he finally did, two years after meeting her.

  I couldn’t blame Dean for leaving, though I often found myself wishing he would have taken me with him. I think he would have stayed in spite of my mother’s extreme fluctuations in mood if she had only been true to him. But she had many assistants, and by the time I was 10 years old, I was aware she was having affairs with most, if not all of them — mostly the men, but I did once see her kissing one of her female assistants as if they were lovers. I kept this knowledge to myself. I’ve no idea what she would have done to me if she realized I knew.

  Most of the assistants were college-aged, but some of the lads looked to be only a few years older than myself. Once Mother was through with them, they never returned. She always made wax sculptures to commemorate them. Mother broke many hearts over the years. If Father had not died in battle, he surely would have divorced her for her philandering.

  Mother planned to sell her immortality formula at an extremely high price once she perfected it. I was sure she was correct in assuming people would pay any price for immortality. So far, her formulations brought only disfiguring death fraught with suffering.

  She usually brought me in to dissect the corpses of her subjects while she threw herself into research to improve the next batch of formula. I never had a cat, dog, bird, rabbit, rat, or monkey for a pet. Instead, I saw countless numbers of these creatures before me on an operating table. I would expose their internal organs so that Mother could discern the extent and type of damage done by her serum.

  Some of her specimens had their organs liquefied. In other cases, young animals aged and died in a matter of minutes. Some suffered internal hemorrhage, and at other times, certain processes essential to life simply failed. One formulation caused the iron base of the blood, hemoglobin, to turn to zinc. The skin of the unfortunate animal given this poison became dead white, as if it had been bled to death. When I drew the scalpel over the skin, the blood that came out was white and chalky. I always felt sad for Mother’s specimens, but I could not allow myself to become emotionally involved if I were to keep my sanity.

  “We do this in the name of science, Anthos,” Mother would remind me each time I was called upon to dissect one of her victims.

  I would agree, all the while wanting to scream that it was she, not I, who was responsible for administering the deadly formulations to these creatures.

  “You do it in the name of your brand of demented pseudo-science,” I wished to tell her. “You administer these formulas to countless victims without regard to how your potions make them suffer. Do not name me as your co-conspirator, for I would never behave in such an unethical fashion.”

  I said nothing as I drew my scalpel across the bulging abdomen of her latest victim. It was clear that all the cells in this monkey’s body had lysed, leaking fluid into its tissues and causing its trunk and extremities to bulge.

  I often thought of running away but wondered where I would go. Mother kept the house locked up like a fortress. The perimeter of the grounds was surrounded by a 7 meter tall wall equipped with alarms to alert her to the presence of any intruder. These alarms would also have informed her of anyone attempting to scale the boundary from the inside. Besides, climbing the wall without equipment would have been a nearly impossible task.

  As I wrote in my journal, I was a prisoner. I detailed a fantasy of one day escaping this death camp and being made a hero for turning my mother over to the police for her insanity and cruelty.

  The Discovery

  One morning I discovered Mother had taken on a new assistant, an exotic young woman named Jamila Van As. I could tell right away the poor deluded girl had fallen deeply under Mother’s spell. Jamila was strikingly beautiful with her deep blue eyes, red-brown hair, and rosy cheeks. She said her mother came from the small Middle Eastern nation of Jordan, and her father was of Dutch ancestry. She was kind to me, and I did not wish to see her wounded by Mother’s cruel criticisms and unrealistic demands the way everyone who comes into Mother’s sphere eventually is.

  I wished that I could tell Jamila to go away before it was too late. I knew that no matter how much Mother gushed over her in the beginning, it would be impossible for her to care for the girl – not as a surrogate daughter, not as a respected colleague, not as an assistant, and not as a lover. Mother used and disposed of everyone eventually — everyone except for me. I assumed, and in truth prayed, that I would one day outlive my usefulness to her and be sent away.

  Jamila said she was 18 years old, but I didn’t believe she could be much older than 16 — a mere four years older than I. I knew one day soon there would be another waxwork in Mother’s showroom. This new waxwork would be a beautiful maiden with dark mahogany hair and olive skin. Her blue eyes would have the same look of sadness and terror that all Mother’s sculptures held. Perfect though they were otherwise, they always possessed an unsettling look of dejected shock.

  During dinner, Jamila expressed her wish that the animals didn’t have to be harmed in the experimentation process. She said she understood that sometimes these things must happen, though, in order to make scientific advances. She praised Mother, saying how honored she felt to be working with such a great scientist.

  Mother in turn told Jamila how inspired she was to meet a beautiful girl who chose to use her mind rather than allow her appearance to carry her through life. She said that Jamila might be the most beautiful girl she had ever seen, and reached under the table to caress her thigh. Jamila blushed and gave a little giggle as Mother leaned over and gave her a kiss near her mouth. I excused myself from the table, having lost my appetite even for Blancmange, which is my very favorite dessert.

  At about 9 p.m., there came a soft rapping on my door. I knew it couldn’t be Mother, as she always knocks loudly in case I have fallen asleep. I was fairly certain the cook had gone home, so I rose and opened the door to see who might be calling. There stood Jamila with a tray containing tea and two dishes of Blancmange.

  “I hoped you might be feeling well enough to enjoy dessert now,” she said. “You looked extremely pale when you left the table.”

  My eyes welled with tears, and I swallowed hard.

  “Thank you, it’s very kind of you. You’re the nicest one who’s been here since Dean.”

  “Was he one of your mother’s assistants?” Jamila asked.

  “He was her fiancé. I hoped he might be my father. My father died in the war before I was born.”

  “Yes, that’s what your mother said.”

  Her voice was so soft, her manner so gentle. She was too good for Mother. I needed to tell her that she must leave for her own sake, before she too was hurt the way Dean and so many others had been.

  Instead I said, “Jamila, you’re so very kind. I would like you to stay here and be my friend.”

  “I would like that too,” Jamila replied. Then she smiled and a starry-eyed, faraway look came over her face as she spoke of Mother.

  “Your mother is so brilliant and so glamorous. I can’t believe she chose me to be her assistant. I’m somewhat like you — my parents are dead, too. They were killed in a plane crash. You’re lucky that your mother is still alive, and now she’s made me feel very special, as well.

  “She visited the biology class at the orphanage school and said she was seeking the best of the best to assist her with her work. She thought I was that choice, even though I’m not the sharpest in my sciences. She said she saw something special in me.”

  “You are special, I can see that,” I said. “The
trouble is, Mother can sometimes be very harsh. She can hurt people’s feelings terribly and not even care. All of her other assistants have left suddenly never to return. I don’t want her to upset you that way.”

  “Well, she is a perfectionist. But she seems very fond of me. Perhaps, for me, it will be different.”

  I wanted to scream that it wouldn’t be different, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I needed to find a way to prove to Jamila that she needed to get as far away from this place as possible, before she became another victim of Mother’s heartlessness.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. “And thank you for the Blancmange and the tea.”

  There was another tap at the door, and Mother entered. She smiled broadly.

  “I thought I might find you here, Jamila,” she said. “How perfectly lovely of you to check on Anthos. Are you feeling better, my darling daughter?”

  “Yes, I am now,” I said.

  “Anthos has a very delicate stomach,” Mother said. “Fortunately, it doesn’t stop her from dissecting the specimens. Jamila, love, I need to see you in the laboratory so we may discuss certain issues critical to your employment with me.”

  “Of course, Dr. Peacock,” Jamila said.

  Before rising, she leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Good night, Anthos,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I squeezed her hand and bit my lip. After Jamila had floated from the room on steps so light as to be nearly inaudible, Mother turned and gave a predatory grin and conspiratorial wink.

  “She is a beauty, isn’t she?” she proclaimed. “And quite bright, which is a bonus. I simply cannot abide a simpleton, no matter how comely he or she may be. Well, dear, it’s time for all good children to be off to dreamland. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Mother’s kiss left sticky pink lipstick on my cheek, which I wiped away as soon as she was gone. She was becoming bolder, making little effort to conceal her true purpose for the assistants she brought into our home. I was her only real underling these days. The others were there to fulfill shameful desires.

  “I won’t let her do it to Jamila—I simply won’t!” I swore to myself.

  After 15 minutes had passed, I crept into the darkened hallway. As I had hoped, there was no one on either the second or main floors. I slipped into the cellar where I heard the voices of my mother and Jamila.

  “Oh, Dr. Peacock, I’m deeply flattered that you are so overcome by my beauty,” Jamila said breathlessly. “But this…it’s wrong, isn’t it? For two women to be lovers, I mean?”

  Mother and Jamila were seated on the sofa just outside the sculpture exhibition room. When Mother leaned towards Jamila, she reminded me of Dracula in the movie scene where he corners the flower girl and leans over her, covering both of them with his cape.

  “That may be what the rest of the world says, my sweet,” Mother sighed, “But a love this strong cannot be fought. You feel it too, don’t you, Jamila? Oh, please, tell me you feel it, too. My heart would be broken if you didn’t feel it.”

  “Oh yes, Dr. Peacock. I’ve never known anyone like you before. You’re so beautiful, I simply don’t feel worthy!”

  Mother brought her face to Jamila’s and kissed her mouth. I felt bile rising in my throat. Fortunately, the laboratory was open, and I slipped inside. Mother had carelessly left her notes on her desk. I began looking through them for anything incriminating enough to convince Jamila she should escape the clutches of this perverse madwoman before it was too late.

  “Her heart would be broken, my foot!” I snorted. “It simply isn’t possible, for she doesn’t possess a heart to break!”

  Mother’s notes began in 1941 when she reached the age of 21 and the title to her parents’ home passed to her following the death of her cousin. It was at this time she began in earnest to try and perfect the immortality formula her father had left undone.

  I leafed through the journals for some 15 minutes. There was page after page describing the deaths of animal specimens, up until the entry for Jan. 17, 1945. As I read, my hands began to shake, and a little cry escaped my throat.

  “He wasn’t killed in the war at all. You…you murdered him!” I gasped.

  17 January 1945

  Wum is due to return to the front tomorrow, so tonight is the night that I test the formula on a human subject. I poured two milliliters into Wum’s nightcap. He was none the wiser until his organs began to turn to wax within him, but by then, it was too late. The process took only an hour. He first began to sweat, and then his breathing became labored. He complained of feeling sick to his stomach, as if he had swallowed a tub of clay. Then he spoke no more, and slowly the life drained out of him.

  24 January 1945

  The army fools came and went today, believing my husband to be a coward and a deserter. I care not. I am happy to find that like the animals in the previous experiments, Wum shows no signs of decay. I have put him on display in the room near my laboratory that I may continue to observe him for any signs of change. I like him much better this way — obedient and quiet!

  Sweat poured from my brow, and my breathing became labored. I felt as though my stomach were filled with sludge. Of course, this was simply a reaction to the terrible truth I had just discovered. My mother had murdered my father and Dean and all of her other assistants and lovers, as well. I needed to get this information to the police. But first I needed to be sure that Jamila escaped the madwoman’s clutches.

  I felt as if I had been drugged. I plodded towards the door, my legs feeling as if they were made of lead. I could hardly move. The journal felt so heavy I could barely carry it. It took all of my strength to pry open the door. Mother, however, pulled it open for me.

  I gasped as I saw Jamila slumped on the couch, gasping for breath. Her blue eyes were wide with terror.

  “Ah, Anthos—you found my notes,” Mother said. “Dear me, it looks as if that big book is terribly heavy for you. I’ll take it now. You don’t look very well, my girl. Why don’t you go sit on the couch beside your new friend?”

  I couldn’t fight—I could hardly move at all. It felt as if I were drowning.

  “Why?” I gasped as Mother pushed me onto the sofa. “How could you?”

  “Oh, Anthos,” Mother sighed. “It’s all in the name of science. How can I ever complete my parents’ research when traitors threaten to stop me from my work at every turn? Your father called me mad. He threatened to turn me over to the RSPCA for my unauthorized experimentation on the specimens. Dean had the audacity to tell me I was a bad mother and threatened to tell the police I was abusing you. Isn’t that absurd? And one by one my assistants became ungrateful, calling me inhumane and refusing to care for my…well, I’ll just say, my womanly needs. You were the only one I could trust not to expose me — until I saw the latest entry in your journal. Really, my dear, did you think you had any secrets from me?”

  I’m sure my eyes reflected my surprise. I kept my journal hidden in a small cutout panel in my closet behind my clothes and several boxes. I never dreamed she would look there. I realized too late how wrong I was in my belief that my mother never paid attention to me.

  “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,” Mother lamented. Her wicked face was blurry in my failing vision. I felt something brush against the tips of my fingers and realized that Jamila’s hand had fallen against mine. I forced my hand over to hold hers.

  “Just like sisters,” my mother gushed. “I knew the two of you would get on nicely. That’s why I mixed the formula into the remaining Blancmange. I suggested Jamila bring it up for the two of you to share. She’s so perfect that I almost couldn’t bear preserving her so soon—but the beauty of love in early bloom always goes rotten sooner or later. Besides, she would never have understood my need to sacrifice my treacherous daughter.”

  As the world went dark before my eyes, I heard my mother’s final words to me.

  “Now everything is perf
ect in my world. I have the perfect husband, perfect child, and a group of wonderful, perfect lovers and cohorts. None of you will ever leave me or betray me, and you will all remain young and beautiful. It’s a shame the precise formula for the Immortality Serum continues to evade me, but my father’s Preservation Serum is perfect in every way!”

  Valley of the Gods

  By Michael D. Griffiths

  Damn, it was hot. But what else could you expect being in the deserts of southern Utah in June? My wife and I had fled here, this desolate yet beautiful place, this Valley of the Gods. No rotting flesh bags came here. Why would they? They were searching for ways to quench their cannibalistic desires and little else. There wasn’t even so much as a small town within 40 miles of here, and even the living dead would be hard pressed to hike through these leagues of jagged cliffs.

  A raven made a strange guttural caw as it passed overhead, flying to the butte that held Balancing Rock. Despite how many times I had seen the looming high mesas, they still filled me with wonder. The narrow spires gave the impression of figures, which reminded one of forgotten gods. The vermillion cliffs surrounded us in every direction, a fortress of solitude and silence. A perfect place to hole up during this plague of death, save for perhaps one thing – we were slowly starving.

  We had gathered as much food as we could before we fled, but when the walking dead are eating your neighbors, you don’t have to time go shopping. My wife and I tried to be conservative with what we had, but soon we were forced to consume the few local animals we could find.

  The only reason we had survived even this long was our discovery of a natural spring. As bizarre as it sounds, in the middle of this arid desert, a small spring flowed out over some limestone like a miracle. When my wife Loni had spotted it, she had held me as tears poured down her face.