It wasn’t long before the noise from the treadmills took its toll. In small ways that would have been imperceptible to anyone unfamiliar with our community, we began to wear thin. Our laughter at even the best-told jokes faded faster. Our goodnight kisses took on an unexpected hardness. Our footsteps came faster, lighter, as though we were trying to outrun a looming danger without showing any appearance of panic. We began to suffer from insomnia and panic attacks, which would lead us to pace in our yards during the witching hours of the night and, trembling, stare at the starlit sky. We lost weight—small amounts at first, healthy amounts we should have lost anyway, but eventually enough to make strangers wonder which wasting disease we must have developed and how many months we had left to live. Worst of all, we began to let our thoughts float away from us. We began to consider the balls as our children. We began to imagine what they might do if they weren’t on the treadmills, speeding to nowhere. We began to try to grasp their needs and intentions and desires, impossible though the task might be.
Through our unrelenting contemplation, we were slowly drawn back to the rooms in which we’d placed the treadmills. At first, we stole into the rooms for the briefest of seconds, barely glimpsing even a flash of orange. But seconds stretched to minutes and minutes stretched to hours. Soon, we were spending entire evenings in the treadmill rooms. We watched the ball-children roll in place, our thoughts rolling with them. We could not stop envisioning new scenarios for them, were we to set them free of their shackles. Some of us conjured wild fantasies about the ball-children forming utopian ball-societies that operated without prejudice or hatred or any of the plagues of our human society. Some of us sketched nightmares of ball invasions, with our spherical overlords inflating us to bursting in an effort to assimilate us to their ways of being. And some of us simply hoped that the ball-children might roll to the ends of the earth and back, collecting experiences and perceptions and loves and dreams along their journeys.
No matter their substance, beneath all our thoughts settled an abiding sense of guilt. When no one else was home, we curled up in the treadmill rooms and we wept. We cried for the children we’d lost and we cried for the things they’d become that we’d never let live. We knew we’d wronged the ball-children. We knew we’d trapped what was not ours to trap, held on too tightly to a control we never really had in the first place. If the balls were to save us, we knew it was right. If they were to destroy us, we knew that was right, too. And if they bounced off to distant futures not meant for us at all, we knew that would be best, for in those futures we would find a sanctuary that we’d been missing for quite some time.
So we conferred with one another and we decided to engage in a final treatment so shocking, so revelatory, that no other town had even considered it. We decided to unbuckle the ball-children, open wide the doors to our houses, and, with no small amount of commingled anxiety and excitement and regret, let them roll past us and out of our town. Our final treatment, the only treatment we could justify in the end, was to simply let them roll away.
A MYSTERY
There exists even less data on the nature of the orange ball itself than its terrible effects on our children. Its first documented appearance occurred in a rural farming community in the heartland of the nation—a place called Goldenrod, Nebraska—where, eight years before our own tragedy, it infected its first three children. Its trajectory since then has followed no discernible pattern or logical progression, thus making any prediction of its present or future movement an exercise in pure divination. Its origin is equally the province of speculation and often involves theories that touch on fantastical notions of extraterrestrial intervention, interdimensional slippage, demonic corruption, and clandestine military projects gone awry. Beyond firsthand accounts, visual evidence of the ball itself is also utterly nil, as every attempt to photograph it or record it to video has resulted in nothing but blurred or fuzzy images. Though numerous adults have seen the ball in person and can attest to its physical reality, it has, as far as we or anyone else knows, never been so much as grazed by an adult hand. Many people, ourselves included, wonder what might happen if such an interaction were to occur. Would we, too, be transformed into balls, dead in humanity but vibrant and alive in a new state of being? Is the transformation a curse exclusive to our children? Or have we adults already been cursed in a less tangible way? About any of this, we may never know.
BEN LOORY
The Rock Eater
There once was a man who ate a rock. It was a small rock, nothing big. The man found it in a field, and it was pretty—very pretty—and so he picked it up and he ate it. He wasn’t in the habit of doing things like that—it surprised him as much as anyone—but there it was, on that day, just lying in the field, the rock—the pretty rock—and so he ate it.
The man felt great after he did it. It made him happy to have the rock inside him. And it wasn’t just the physical sensation of the rock; it was also something else. Somehow, the man felt, the rock made him better. Somehow, he felt, it improved him. It gave him a lift, more self-confidence; somehow, it positively changed him. And the man was very, very happy about it. And then he told his wife.
*
You did what? said his wife. You ate a rock?
The man explained to her how it had happened.
That’s insane, said his wife. You’re lucky you’re not dead.
It was just a rock, said the man. It was hardly going to kill me.
*
But after that, the man started to worry. He wandered around thinking about the rock. Should he not have eaten it? Could it really have done him harm? And, what’s more, could it really do him harm?
He needed to talk to someone about it, but he was afraid all his friends would laugh.
So he went downtown and wandered around and knocked on the door of the doctor.
*
How big was this rock? the doctor said.
The man held up his hands to indicate the size. About this big, he said. Pretty small.
Hmm, said the doctor, and frowned.
What do you mean, Hmm? the man said. Is it dangerous? Well, I wouldn’t say dangerous, the doctor said. It’s just, you know, rocks can grow.
Grow? the man said. He’d never heard of that.
Grow, said the doctor. When you eat them, that is. Why, I once saw a woman with an eighty-pound boulder in her gut.
He shook his head.
It wasn’t pretty, he said.
The man stared at the doctor. So what do I do? he finally said.
It should probably come out, the doctor said.
*
Out? said the man. You mean, surgery?
Do you really think that’s necessary? he said.
The decision is yours, of course, said the doctor. But personally, I would recommend it.
*
The man went home and thought about it. He told his wife what the doctor had said.
You should never have eaten that rock to begin with—what did you expect? she said.
*
That night, the man lay thinking about the rock. He could still feel it there, inside him. He could still feel its goodness radiating through him.
I don’t want to lose the rock, he said.
*
Some time went by. The doctor called.
I think I will keep the rock, the man said. Are you sure? said the doctor.
Pretty sure, said the man.
Well, said the doctor, it’s your decision. If you ever change your mind, though, let me know.
Okay, said the man.
And that was that.
*
More time went by. The man was happy. The rock felt good inside him.
But there was one thing that was bothering the man: The rock was definitely growing. The man’s stomach was getting bigger and bigger. It was starting to stick out.
And the rock was getting heavier, too; the man was having a hard time standing up.
*
And final
ly, one day, it got to the point where the man couldn’t get out of bed.
So what? said his wife. You’re just gonna lie there? I can’t move, said the man. What do you want?
This is all because of that dumb rock, his wife said. You should just get it cut out already.
I don’t want it cut out, the man said. It’s my rock. It’s my rock; I ate it; it makes me happy.
*
Then the pain set in. The rock had grown so big it was crowding out the man’s innards.
You have to do it now, the man’s wife said. You understand—you’ll die if this keeps up.
The man knew that his wife was right. He could feel the rock filling up his body. He could still feel the goodness of it in there somewhere—but it was buried now beneath the pain and fear.
All right, the man said. Go get the doctor.
Finally, his wife said.
And she did.
*
The surgery was hard. The doctor needed four men just to lift the rock out. They placed it on a scale, but the scale was crushed and the weight of the rock was never recorded.
Otherwise, everything went according to plan. They sewed the man’s stomach back up. The doctor pronounced the procedure a success, and had a cigar on the porch.
*
Time went by as the man recuperated. Then one day he woke up feeling fine. He patted his stomach and got out of bed, took a breath, and headed toward the door. Where are you going? the man’s wife said. For a walk, said the man. I feel great! The man went out and walked and walked. It was a nice day and he felt the breeze and saw the clouds and heard the birds and everything was absolutely wonderful.
But after a while, the man started to feel different. He started to feel like something was wrong. He frowned and frowned, trying to figure it out, and then it hit him: It was the rock—the rock was gone! That was why he felt so hollow inside! There was a great big hole inside him!
And the man wiped his brow, and squinted, and squirmed.
And then the bad feeling got worse.
*
In a panic, the man turned and ran to the field where he’d found the rock on that day so long ago. He looked around, all around, on the ground, everywhere, staring down, walking round in circles.
Another rock will make me feel good again, he thought.
Another rock will be just what I need.
But he couldn’t seem to find another rock like his. None of them looked right to him.
Oh, there were lots of other rocks, of course, but they were dull and brown and covered with dirt. None of them looked like the right one for him.
He ate some anyway, but they didn’t work.
What am I going to do? the man said. How am I supposed to live like this?
And then it hit him, and he stopped and spun around. My rock! Where is my rock? he said.
*
The man ran frantically all the way home.
Where is the rock? he screamed.
What rock? said his wife.
The rock! screamed the man. The rock, the rock! My rock!
Oh, said his wife. It’s out back. It was too heavy to carry very far.
*
The man went out back. There it was—the rock!—over in the corner of the yard.
The man ran to it.
He knelt down beside it.
He wrapped his arms around the stone.
He ran his hands all over its surface. He rubbed his face against it. It was way too big for him to eat, of course, but he held it, pressed it to his chest.
Oh rock! he said. How could I have been so stupid? And how can I get this empty feeling out?
And then the man heard a noise, and the rock cracked open.
And he stared into its dark and hungry mouth.
BRENNA GOMEZ
Corzo
One day when I was in the seventh grade, I came home to my father—Eduvigo Herrera III—cutting his heart out with a steak knife. He was sitting at the little kitchen table when I got home from school, his hand in a ragged chest wound the size of a plum.
“Mija, I need you to help me,” he said. “I need you to take it out. Your hands are small. Just the right size.”
“Take what out,” I asked, though I knew.
“My heart.”
“No,” I said as I took off my backpack and sat down.
“Please do this for me. I never ask you for anything.” We both knew this wasn’t true. I was the one who took my brother on long walks on the weekends while my parents had their epic screaming matches. He expected me to get straight As, to never be in trouble. To be a good girl and he yelled at me when I didn’t measure up.
“Stick your hand inside. It’s okay. It’ll be a little squishy, but you won’t hurt me. I promise,” he said.
My father’s thick, long fingers were coated with blood. I slid my hand inside the hole and removed his heart. It was soft around the edges and firm in the center. Every so often it shuddered like it didn’t know it wasn’t being used anymore. It was a deep purple, so dark it looked black.
“Now cut it like you would meat when you and your mother make dinner.”
I picked up the knife and slid it into his heart. I hacked big sections off and chopped those sections into bite-sized bits. That’s when he passed me the empty tequila bottle. The label said Corzo.
“Put the pieces in there.”
“Why?”
“I want it to look nice,” he said.
I let each tiny piece plop to the bottom of the bottle. Over and over again, I slid the pieces through the bottle’s neck, struggling with the bigger, uneven chunks.
My mother came home and by that time there were even bits of heart in my hair. Her heels clicked on the floor as she walked over to the table and picked up the Corzo bottle.
“You’ve done it then,” she said.
“I told you I would,” my father said.
“You shouldn’t have made her do it.” She grabbed me by the hand and led me to the shower. “Scrub until your skin turns red.”
“It already is.”
*
Every day my father would proudly point to the tequila bottle that held his heart as if it were a science experiment for which I’d received an A. My mother became strange. At night before dinner she’d light some incense and her Virgin Mary candle and put them beside my father’s heart-bottle. Our dinner table would become a little altar for a time—I would cut the meat or the vegetables for dinner and my mother would kneel at the table, praying under her breath in Spanish. Sometimes my brother would come out to watch my mother pray. She refused to teach us Spanish, she said that people look at you different when you know it. I didn’t tell her that I’d started a beginning Spanish class that semester or that all of my Hispanic friends made fun of me. “How can you be Mexican and not speak Spanish?” they’d ask and laugh when I told them my family had been American for a long time.
I could only make out one word in my mother’s nightly prayers. She said it over and over: muerte. After a week of her mutterings, I was tempted to say something, but my brother beat me to it. I had helped my mother make ham and bean soup with little bits of fried bacon in it. We ate in silence for a while, just like we did every night, until my brother thought he had figured it all out.
“It’s cow meat in the bottle,” Freddie said.
“I told you, Eduvigo, that you shouldn’t have taken the label off. Now they can see it too well,” my mother said. “No Freddie, it’s not cow. Don’t worry about it.”
“What do you think it is, Sara?” he asked. He hadn’t lost all his baby fat yet, so his smile made his cheeks bulge.
“Don’t worry about it,” my mother said again as my father walked into their bedroom and shut the door.
“Muerte,” I said.
“I don’t know what that means,” Freddie said.
“Enough dinner, Freddie. Now go to your room,” my mother said. She wouldn’t even look at me until she was sure Freddie was gone.
“Why do you keep praying that Dad will die?” I asked.
“What? That’s not what I’m doing.”
“I know what muerte means, Mom.”
“I’m not praying he’ll die. I’m just saying the Hail Mary. Praying for his heart.”
“How is he even alive?”
“He is because he wants to be,” she said. “His grandfather showed him how to do this as a child. He’s punishing me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told him he was an unfeeling bastard and now he is.”
I went to pick up the heart-bottle and my mother stepped in front of me. I’d never seen her look that old. She didn’t have any makeup on and I hadn’t seen her without it in a long time. Tiny splotches she called sun spots dotted her cheeks. She told me about them every time I watched her put on her makeup. She said I was still too young for it since I didn’t have any spots.
Year's Best Weird Fiction, Volume 5 Page 4
