Crush

August 30, 2023August 20, 2023 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 7 Comments

She pondered again how he might taste. It was a distracting thought, and the more she thought about it, the more loudly the subtle pulse in his throat seemed to beat. She nodded to all he said, but heard only the rhythm of his blood.

Could she still contain her hunger, or would this be the day when she sank her fangs into his throat? But that seemed too quick, too simple. Perhaps instead she could start at his chest. Peel back the skin and muscle, pop the ribs out of her way, pull his heart right from his body. She imagined how it would feel in her hand—a warm, wet weight to hold, to crush, to drink oh so deeply. Salty-sweet, perhaps. Thick and pulpy, certainly. She shuddered at the thought, the thrill, the thumping of his heart that beckoned her closer.

Even so, she sat. She sat, she nodded, she smiled. She continued as she always had. Reminding herself that however sweet he may be, her imaginings of him were sweeter still.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Why Their Eyes

June 14, 2023June 7, 2023 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

Evelyn hated that she couldn’t remember his eyes. All her memories were painted in broad strokes, leaving out the precious details. Some nights she could find him in her dreams. There, he’d be as he once was—still young, still innocent, still alive. She would pull him close, breathe in his scent, sob her joy and relief into his tousled hair. But always he would look up at her with two empty holes where his eyes should be.

“David,” she’d say, “what happened to your eyes?”

Each time she would wake without an answer, gazing into the dark of her too-empty home.

David, she wondered again, what happened to you?

***

It was now ten years since the boys had started disappearing. Their faces had been everywhere: nightly news, shop windows, church pinboards. They were impossible not to see, but even harder to look at. Each one had made Evelyn think of David, made her grateful for his safety, made her ashamed of her own selfishness.

Then the posters started coming down. That was even worse. In those posters there had been hope: the boys’ smiling faces captured in time, safe and whole. But one by dreadful one, those hopes disappeared. The town’s whispers said what the news could not: the bodies that were found were not safe, not whole.

“Why their eyes?” the neighbours had murmured.

Why their eyes? Evelyn wondered still.

***

Maybe the answer was there, in his childhood. She had searched her memories so many times that they were starting to fray, to unravel, to fall to pieces all around her. Evelyn tried to knit them back together, but she doubted herself more each time.

Those eyes that she could never remember, was there something there? Something she had ignored? Something she hadn’t bothered to see? There were too many questions she had never thought to ask until it was too late. Now they hung about her—heavy and unanswered.

She wondered what others had seen, looking at him. What he had seen, looking at them. In those eyes was the mystery, the truth.

Those boys, what had they seen with their missing eyes?

***

The eyes of the town were all around. She felt them every time she left her home, which wasn’t often. She tired of being seen, of the unheard but constant whispers that accompanied those eyes.

There had been a time when she was unseen. As a single mother, she had gone through the paces of work and home in quiet obscurity, leaving little to be seen.

David hadn’t been so lucky. He had told her he didn’t fit in. He had said the other kids picked on him, singled him out. He had felt all too seen.

A rite of passage, she had thought.

Now, she wondered.

***

She had tried to ask him once. That last time she had seen him alive.

“Why their eyes?”

David had met her gaze through the glass partition, those unknowable eyes creasing in a smile that chilled her more than the prison, more than his scarlet death row uniform.

He never did answer.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Moonlight

March 22, 2023March 7, 2023 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 7 Comments

She sat straight, legs crossed, palms filling with rising moonlight. Each in-breath had the cool chill of autumn night. Each out-breath had the warm hunger of her heart. Breathing in nightfall, breathing out hunger, she reminded herself that she was controlled by neither.

And yet, the moonlight had its plans.

The moon rose higher, and she felt her hunger rising to meet it. Her breath came faster now. New scents, new possibilities drifted on the night air, and she breathed them in, savored them through her sharpening senses. Her savoring turned to panting. As her breathing sped, swift and shallow, she found herself losing all count of in-breaths and out-breaths. Losing all sense of control. All sense of herself.

Her hunger howled within her, and as the last of her humanity slipped away, her limitations went too. She lost herself, but gained the night. She had no need for counting or control. She was the moonlight made into flesh and fur and fang.

And she was hungry.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Worthwhile

January 11, 2023January 3, 2023 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

It was not an easy path. The old mines were swallowed up by the forest at the edge of town. There were fences to climb, warning signs to ignore, hazards to bypass. The old mineshaft pond was further away than most, abandoned back in the early days of prospecting. No one said why, but Jessica had no need to ask.

The pond itself was small—a black puddle in the craggy forest, but deeper than anyone dared to question. Rusty bars crisscrossed the dark waters to further dissuade the curious. Still, Jessica made her way through the forest trees, over the fences and signs, around the mining hazards, just to sit at those rusty bars. The way was difficult, the waters were dark, and the knife’s edge stung as she slid it across her finger. But watching her blood drops fall to the water below, Jessica knew it would all be worth it to watch Her feed.

The blood beckoned Her like a familiar voice, Her face appearing like a darkly beautiful reflection beneath the water. She came hungry, Her too-sharp teeth eager for the scraps of squirrel, of raccoon, of uncertain roadkill that Jessica might bring. But Her greatest delights were human: the collected digits, limbs, cuts of flesh that Jessica pushed through the bars.

Jessica didn’t know where She had come from, or how She had acquired her dark appetite. But neither did She question how Jessica gathered such offerings. Both came for these moments together, and both left with their secrets intact. It was not much, but it was enough to make the work worthwhile.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

In Her Chest

October 19, 2022October 6, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 6 Comments

It nested in her chest. It was a scrawny, featherless thing, forever screeching for more. But she had already given it her whole heart. Strip by tattered strip, every valve, vein, artery had gone to its ceaseless appetite. Still it cried from inside, rattling her ribs in its hungry fury.

“Hush,” she told it. “Soon.” But words could not soothe it. Only beating flesh.

And so she went into the night, searching for a fresh supply. Hearts were easy enough to come by in the city. Here was one ripe for picking—so ready to pluck he almost tumbled into her hand.

“I can feel your heart race,” he murmured as they slipped into the shadows.

She did not have the heart to tell him it was only the beating of wings. He would learn soon enough. And as she fed her pet, she pondered again the readiness with which we give ourselves away, wondering what might yet grow from it all.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

Return

August 3, 2022July 24, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

It would hurt to return to the stars. It meant leaving everything behind, and for too long, she wasn’t sure that she could.

No need to hurry, the stars said. At your own time.

But would she ever be ready? Could she? In the light of day, she wasn’t sure. But at night, under the spread of stars, her doubts were quieter, her future clearer.

When her last day dawned, she felt her certainty rise with the sun. She knew that, by nightfall, she would be among the stars. That last day was the sweetest of her life, seasoned by finality and peace. Evening neared, and she prepared herself for the sky—for her beginning and her end.

She had chosen the place long before. Quiet, away from the lights and sounds of town life. Here, under the darkening sky, the earliest stars already shone and beckoned.

It is time.

And so, she began to undo herself. First were the outer things—those things she had never mistaken for herself, and yet held so close. Clothing, jewelry, needless ornaments all fell to the ground around her, and she felt lighter without them.

But then, the harder things to lose. Locks of hair fell away painlessly, but still she felt the cold core of fear within her, knowing that pain must come.

Sure enough, the pain was intense as she began to shed herself. The skin that had for so long defined her limits began to peel away. Arteries, veins, capillaries unraveled themselves from the tissues that had softened her, the bones that had hardened her, the muscles that had strengthened her. These things she shed, and with each loss there was pain, but also lightness. Lighter and lighter she became, until she was light itself.

When at last all pain, all fear, all thought fell away, she knew she had returned. Looking at the distant Earth, she added her glow to that of the stars, illuminating the scraps of a life already long forgotten.

As Long As It Lasts

May 18, 2022May 12, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 5 Comments

I know it sounds corny, but I believe life has a purpose. Really, I do. I believe that I—all of us—have a reason for being here, a reason for living. I don’t need to know what mine is. All I know is that one day it will come and it will go, and with it will go my need to live.

I test this every now and then, to see if I’ve outlived my use. The first time was with a pill bottle, but I’ve gotten more creative since. Five times I’ve tested this and five times I’ve survived.

Guess that means I’m still useful.

Hard to believe it as I make my way through the busy streets, just one of many ants in this hill. It’s times like this my philosophy carries me through. Every moment could be my moment—the one that completes me, opens the door, sets me free. All around me is potential. It gives life dimension for as long as it lasts.

As I ride the bus back from yet another eight hours spent by the burger fryer, I can’t help but wonder if today was my day. Maybe I did my part by holding the door for that girl, or by smiling at the gentleman on the corner, or by offering my seat to the grandmotherly woman on my morning bus. Every part counts, and maybe I’ve paid my dues.

I hear the moan of braking bus tires and get up at the all-too-familiar sight of my stop. I wave to the driver, but my mind is elsewhere, thinking of what the test should be. I try to change it up each time. After a while, it becomes an art of sorts, but that’s the kind of detail I pride myself on.

Lost in these thoughts, I barely even notice her until I’m almost past the alley. It’s the click that gets me. I stop in my tracks, expecting someone to come out asking for my wallet or my watch or something, but nothing happens. I glance down the alleyway and see her. It quickly becomes clear that it’s not my money she’s after.

I relax a bit, and see her look at me for the first time. She’s young enough—early twenties, no doubt—and not bad-looking. Mind you, she would probably look even better if she wasn’t holding a gun to her head.

“Guess you’re gonna tell me to back off,” she says after a long moment. I can see her grip tighten, and I almost laugh at the idea.

“Nah, go ahead.” I step back, cross my arms. “I’m kind of curious, actually.”

She snorts. “Morbid son of a bitch, aren’t ya?”

“Guess you could say that. Not every day you get a street-side show. Seems like a strange place for it.”

“Not for me. Thought I’d leave him with something to remember.” She gestures up to a window in the decrepit apartment building beside us. “Maybe I can get his attention while he’s still inside that bitch of his. Give her something to really scream about.”

“That works.”

I wait. I watch her. She watches me.

“You’re really not going to stop me?” she asks at last.

“No point,” I say with a shrug. “I’ve got a theory, of sorts. Call it fate if you like, but it all comes down to a fifty-fifty chance. Either it’ll work or it won’t. Either you’ve got a reason to live or you don’t. Not my call.”

“You really are sick, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, but it keeps me going. Here, how many bullets do you have in there?”

She pauses. “One.”

I stretch out a hand, slowly. “May I?”

I can see she wants to say no, but her curiosity is stronger. She gives me the gun. I unset it and spin the cylinder. Before she can say anything I cock it again, raise it to my head and pull the trigger.

Nothing.

I shrug. “See? Guess that means I keep going.”

The girl is visibly shaken as I hand the gun back to her. She’s lost some of her initial verve, but still cocks the gun and lifts it to her head. She bites her lip as she pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

I give a small smile. “Guess you keep going, too.”

The effort seems to have drained the last of her resolve. She almost drops the gun as she pushes it into my hands. “Thank you,” she says. She’s crying now.

I’m about to reply, but she’s already gone. Running from the alley, the building, the gun. Running to something more. As I watch her go, I wonder what her purpose is. Why she keeps on living. Why any of us keep on living.

The weight of the gun returns me to the present. I look down at it with some surprise. I think of the girl, of all that was and wasn’t.

I smile and lift the gun for one last test.

~ Miriam H. Harrison

The Stones

March 2, 2022May 6, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 4 Comments

The stones were restless that night. She could hear them clattering and chattering against rock faces and echoing up from the dormant mineshafts. The town had long ago been built into those rocks, blasting and chipping and burrowing its way into ancient granite and quartzite, slate and chert, greywacke and basalt.

Yet time moves differently there, in the deep. There, veins of silver were newly bled dry for the wealth of people long since passed. There, the shock of trauma had only just begun to fade. In its place rose an ancient fury, a rage she had long awaited.

When the town shook and crumbled, she did not think of its history, of its centennial celebrations, of its museums and plaques celebrating unwelcome conquest. She smiled, thinking like the stones, feeling the relief of swatting a mosquito who had only just landed.

~ Miriam H. Harrison

The Beauty Within

December 15, 2021May 6, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 6 Comments

I can make you beautiful.

It was an enticing phrase. Ellen saw it in the Chronicle in a small, unassuming advertisement. There were no images, no flourishes, no embellishments. Just that phrase, and beneath it, more words:

For those who dedicate their lives to beauty. Serious inquiries only. Please write with preferred appointment time and place to The Beauty Within at the address below.

Ellen considered the advertisement for a while. Even after she had put the newspaper aside, those words still followed her throughout her day.

For those who dedicate their lives to beauty.

Surely that was her. She was known throughout London as the most desirable young lady. It was a point of highest pride with her father, who went to great lengths to have her seen in only the finest fabrics, the best jewels. There was no one who would deny her beauty.

Serious inquiries only.

That line seemed almost to beckon her, to challenge her. Did she take her beauty seriously? Oh, yes indeed. Then why had she not already written? What was holding her back? What was there to explain this cold, twisted fear in her stomach?

Silliness, she thought.

She sat at her writing desk and pulled out her quill and paper.

***

“Who are you?”

I am the one you invited—the one to make you beautiful.

Ellen considered him doubtfully. He had no hair to style, no lips to redden, not even skin to powder. He was bones and nothing more.

“What can you know of beauty?”

More than you can even see.

She did not understand.

Look at yourself. What do you see?

She turned to the mirror, paused. “Dark hair, fair skin, powder, jewels.”

Illusions.

“Illusions?”

Illusions—all of them. Not one is true beauty.

She frowned, not certain of his meaning. He had no facial features to decipher. She could not know if he meant to offend.

“Who are you?”

I am Beauty.

She almost laughed. “You are bones.”

I am.

“Then what am I?”

You are flesh. But you could be so much more.

“More?”

Yes. You are flesh, yet you are bones. The beauty within.

“My bones?”

Yes, your beautiful bones. You hide them beneath fat, skin, hair. You must be less to be more.

“How?”

You must rid yourself of your wretched flesh. Be slender. Be thin. Let the sharp, beautiful angles of your bones be seen.

“But I do. I try. I eat like a lady; I lace my stays.”

But less. Tighter.

“I try, I try.”

I can help you.

“You can?”

Yes. Let me lace you. You will be smaller. You will be beautiful.

“But they are so tight already.”

But they can be tighter still, if you only know how.

“You would do that?”

I would. For you. For your beautiful bones.

“Yes. Please.”

You must hold still.

“Oh! Oh, that hurts!”

Hush.

“How are you so strong? Oh!”

I am that which is strongest.

“Ah!”

I am Death.

“Oh! Oh!”

Death is Beauty.

“Ah!”

And soon. . .

“Oh!”

. . .you will be beautiful.

~ Miriam H. Harrison

The Long Walk

September 29, 2021May 6, 2022 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 10 Comments

Her shoes walked about at night. She could hear them pace through the house all night, yet by morning they always returned to their place by the door, waiting for her.

One morning she came down to find the shoes dirty. More than dirty—ruined. The once-white sneakers were caked with mud, scratched as if from underbrush. She went through the house and found the back door standing open.

That night she brought the shoes to her bedroom and set them down beside her bed. Closing the bedroom door, she settled in to sleep.

It wasn’t long before her shoes began to shuffle about, then pace the room. She rose and opened the door. The shoes hurried out; she followed close behind. Down the hall, the stairs, to the front door. The shoes shuffled about eagerly as she turned the latch, opened the door. They hurried out, but she hesitated at the threshold, her feet bare.

The shoes returned, organized themselves at her feet, waited. She slipped her feet inside. Before she could close the door behind her, the shoes had already carried her into the night.

The door stood open through the night, the morning, into the afternoon. It was only then that a neighbour came by. He poked his head inside, concerned. He pulled his head back, frightened.

There by the door were her shoes. They were ragged from their long walk. Torn, scratched by stones and underbrush, they sat there. Stained through and through with blood, they waited.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison