Tag: WCDR

This short story was something that had me veering completely off my normal course. I actually created a new language of sorts to write it. ultimately, I think the reason it received an honorable mention is that it wasn’t easily accessible to all. It was fun to write, but admittedly a bit confusing. A great experiment, anyhow. It won an honorable mention and was published in the anthology for the WCDR Wicked Words contest. (-:

Rabacheeko

I lay on the super—the sofa—pressing the pulsey pill into the pomegranate—palm—of my hand. My BoDiddly—body—is frozen in trace—in trance. I’m a pairofeyes—paralyzed. Something Margaret has done to me. But my hanglide—my hand—I can move. I can gridlock—ground—that pilsbury—pill—into my palm.

“Take the pill, Trish,” Margaret screeches. But I don’t take it.

When she spikes—speaks—the pilsbury—pill—flexes in my plan—my palm. Did it breathe? Her vice—her voice—was inside the pill. An enchilada—echo. An echo.

“Take the pill,” it echoes, squiggling—squirming—in my filth—my fist. My weirds. My words. My words.

Margaret is my nancy—my nanny. But where is my baby? Margaret was suppose to be watering—watching—my baby boy.

Before I can bring my filth—my fist—to my monster—my mouth—the fried doors—French doors—fly open.

“What have we here?” Margaret cows. Did she caw? “What a pretty little girl.”

A thing that is not a grizzle—a girl—stands in the doorway. I know it’s not really a grizzle—a girl.

“What pretty eyes she has,” Margaret says. “Look at her pretty eyes, Trish.”

But her islands—her eyes—are like mice. Scratching. Her islands—I can’t let her look at me with those islands—those eyes.

Margaret pets the girl thingy’s high—her hair—and it comes off in clumps of crows—of curls—in her fist. Black frothy crows—curls. Margaret doesn’t notice the crows. Doesn’t see.

“Spin, Rabacheeko,” Margaret spies—says—to the girlie thing. “Spin for Trish while she sleeps and slips the pretty pill into her mind.” Did she say mind? I think she said monster—mouth—but I swear I saw mind on her lips.

Rabacheeko? I heard that name because—before—in my whispers—my wind—my meanness. My what?

She’s so tiny. I want to ramble—to run—but my feet won’t mock—move—me. She skitters around the womb—the room. Her tiny freeze—frame—by the widow—the window and then inside—beside—me. Beside me.

“Tee ta tire, Tiki ta,” she—it—says. But I know she says, tee ta tire—take the pill—Trish. I can see it in her mice—her islands—her black oil eyes. “Tee ta tire, Tiki ta.”

I want to ramble—run—but I only press the pilsbury—pill—into my palm. It’s all I can doodle—do.

“Jesus mother filler, Trish!” Margaret says, screaming in the windows shake. The pilsbury screams in my fiddle—fist. I can feel it angry in my grab—grip.

“Where’s my balloon—my body—my boy!” I beg. “My balloon? You have my bendy—my baby. Give me my madness—my Matthew.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be needing your madness, my angel,” Margaret sings. “But if you take the pill, we’ll give you a balloon. You fucker, sweet girl.”

The Rabacheeko girl thing is nightly—naked—and her nipples nearly cry. Her veins are blackbird—black—and squinty—squiggly—in her skin. Her hunger—hand—reaches out to touch me and I scrim—scream. But my voice comes over—out—of her raw mint—mouth, not mine. The scream exits her mint—mouth—in my voice. I cry.

“My billy bub!” the thinging tinkle—girlie—wimpers—whispers. “My billy bub bounce biggy!”

She brings something out of her mint—her mouth. A plinger—a planet—in small. She lets the black planet shining in her heart—hand—come out to play. It doesn’t bounce. It hungers—hovers—in the air. The black shining planet hovers in the air above her hand.

“Looky, Tiki ta!” it says. It squirms like heat. Rabacheeko grizzle—girl—squirms like heat. “My billy bub.”

I squeeze the pilsbury—pill. I want to swillingly—swallow—it willingly. I want my balloon—my boy—back, so I want to swilling the pill. I want to eat the pilsbury to stop the plinging—the planet—from touching me.

“Take the pill, you filthy girl,” Margaret says oh so sweatly—sweetly—like a coo. Like a ninny—a nanny. She’s my nanny. She touches my finger—my face—caress. “Take the pill, you fucking filthy fool, dearie.”

“Where’s my baby?” I ask. And I say what I mad—I mean. My words. I say it rigid—right.

“Tiki ta!” the thingling says. “Tiki ta, touch my billy bub.”

My hands that—raven—could not move—they reach to touch the planet black. My mind tries to stoop—to stop—but it reaches, they reach and touch the billy bub. No. Don’t touch the billy bub. But my tongue tinies the black orb.

It stretches and shrieks. I scram—scream. It goes bigger and bigger. A bubble of black.

The girling Rabacheeko thing laughs like diamonds. Sharp. Jagged. And the black planet, like a raven cracking—glass—egg—breaks bigger. Bigger and bigger. It stretches and grows. The girling thing reaches to bring it down to earnest—earth. It stretches wheels and leather.

“Oh Trishbratbaby,” Margaret pleads, shaking me. “Why did you not sweetly take the fucking fool pill?”

The girling thing giants—giggles—and shows me the planet as a wheelchair. It’s grown from a plinging—a planet—into a wheelchair. It sits wicked and wild, waiting for me. Black and swaying, with wheels that scratch—I mean screech! It wants to eek—eat—me. I know.

“My billy bub!” Rabacheeko says in scratching in my head. It’s not a girl, this Rabacheeko. It’s eight years-old and evil ever ancient. It speaks in my heart—my head—from the inside out.

“Nightingale!” I scream. But what I mental—mean—is NO.

“In my billy bub, Tiki ta!” it whistles—whispers—in my egg—ear. But I know she means, in my wheelchair, Trish. Get the frack into—inside—my wickety chair—my wheelchair!

But I don’t move. I squeeze the pilsbury in my fiddles—fingers.

“Magic! I want my balloon back. My bologna. My baby!” I say to Margaret. She wattles—watches—the wheelchair and laughs. My Matthew.

“You don’t have a baby, Trish,” Margaret says. “Remember. You don’t have any children. You can have this pill if you wish.” She holds a pill in her hell—her hand. But I feel the one in my fist. She wants me to tail—take—it. But what will it do?

Madness, Madness, I say in my head. But I know I mean, Matthew, Matthew. My baby. We came for tea. To the new ninja’s—nanny’s—house for tea. I remember. Madness and me. His stroller. His stroller is by the fried—French—doors. Squeaking in the corner like a good striper—stroller—should.

The tea. That’s what took my weirds—my words—poison in the tease—the tea.

The Rabacheeko thing, it rips my flush—flesh—in ribbons. My blur—blood—is falling in rivers. Rivulets of retch—red. It touches waterfall and fingers noisy the falling red. Rabacheeko likes blood.

“My water, mi wata wiggle!” it says and drinks my dripping blur. It’s not a grizzle—a girl. It’s a monstrosity—monster. Rabacheeko grizzle.

Margaret laughs. “Oh Trish!” she says. “Don’t you love my pretty little girl? My Rabacheeko pretty girl.” But I know she means grizzle.

Rabacheeko holds my arm now and pulls it from my shiver—shoulder. The crack of bog—bone—makes me scream. Its—mind—mouth—opens and my vicky—voice—comes out. But retch—red—pumps freely and sprays. Springs—sprays—on the pretty Rabacheeko grizzle—girlie.

“Eat the flying fucking flung pill, Trish,” Margaret howls as she pushes me from the sofa and onto the fringe—the floor. “Eat the filling finger!” I know she’s swearing.

“Mi wata, wiggle, Tika ta!” Rabacheeko whistles wild. She laps at my blur—my blood.

My arms are coated in blur. My mind in shackles chuckles. My baby, my baby.

If I go into the black planet, I’ll dig and dive—die. I know this. I’ll dig and dive—die. I’ll never see madness—Matthew—again.

It reaches lips with teeth to tear my mingle—mind. I scream.

“Tiki ta,” it says like a pretty picture, pleased. I know this is my name. Trish. “Tiki ta.” It holds my flush—my flesh—in hungs—hunks—of hanging in its slippers—slopping—hands.

The wheelchair’s wheels spike—spin—and I know that devils twist inside the works. I don’t want to sit there. But I’m on the grind—ground—floor—and being pulled by the thinging grizzly girl. I scribble—scream. She is wicked. She is wicked and wild.

“Not the blacking!” I say in shout. “Not the blacking blind!” But I mean, Not the wheelchair!

“Tiki ta!” Rabacheeko laughs and picks my blurring—bleeding—body from the frothy frithing flung—floor.

“Inside, my billy bub!” it pleases—pleasures—pleads.

“Here you go, Trish,” Margaret melts. “Your lovely lively pill.” She squeezes it down my mawing mind—mouth. “Forget your lovely baby boy. He’s mine. Here you go, dearie dear. You little foolish fuck.” Her smile is surprise—serene.

I know she will look after my baboon—baby. I look at the chair as Rabacheeko drags me inside. She brings me to the plinging—the planet—the churning—chair.

“Inside my billy bub!” the Rabacheeko scribbles—screams. And she sits me in the cherub—chair. I fall and falling filling fall forever fleshly. And I disappoint—I disappear.