MicroHorror

Cirrus clouds traversed the cerulean sky in wispy formations and the crackling brush that surrounded two camouflaged figures shimmied in the wind. Late afternoon sun leisurely baked Ian and Graham as they sat motionlessly with their binoculars and hunting rifles.

“When did it start getting so hot here?” Ian grumbled as he wiped glossy orbs of perspiration from his furrowed brow. “It’s Alaska and I’m sweating like a hooker in church.”

“Quit your whining. You’re going to scare the caribou away,” Graham hissed irritably.

“We should try a different location. We’ve been here all day,” Ian suggested, his face flushed.

“If you’d shut your mouth we’d be fine right here,” Graham snapped sourly, an uneasy silence falling over the pair.

Graham was the older of the two; he had been a sniper for the U.S. army over in Vietnam. He was a lean man with an edge about him that was off-putting. Light-hued stubble covered his face and his tanned, leathery skin made his dark sapphire eyes even more startling.

Ian, on the other hand, had been, as Graham had once put it, “playing in the sandbox while I was shooting Gooks.” Ian, who was in his fifties, had recently met Graham after purchasing the house next door to his. Age had only enhanced Ian’s looks; the white streaks in his cinnamon sideburns gave him a distinguished appearance and his muscular frame garnered him lingering gazes from all the neighbors’ wives. At the neighborhood cookouts Graham felt geriatric next to Ian, but in the wilderness it was Graham with all the prowess and predatory skills needed to take down a prized caribou.

“I’m going to go take a piss,” Graham said suddenly, getting up with surprising ease like a lithe jungle cat. He sauntered off into the high grasses.

Ian took a gulp of water from his canteen. When Graham had suggested a hunting trip, Ian assumed that they would be bringing home enough deer meat to fill his freezer. However, Graham was obsessed with tracking a single, elusive male caribou. Over the past three days they hadn’t killed a single creature and Ian was getting impatient.

After some time alone, Ian began to wonder why Graham hadn’t reappeared yet.

“He probably wandered off without me on the trail of that damn caribou.” Ian mused aloud as he awkwardly climbed to his feet, weighed down by his gear.

The sun was beginning its steady decent towards the mountain ridges and Ian estimated only an hour or so left of daylight. He trudged up the slippery terrain in the direction in which his neighbor had gone, swearing under his breath at Graham’s irresponsibility. Eventually the scattered pine trees gave way to dense forest with high boughs dimming the remainder of daylight.

“Graham!” Ian shouted, his voice cutting through the stillness. Not so much as a rustle returned his call.

As darkness embraced the woods, Ian had no choice but to set up camp, resigned to continue his search the following morning. He was infuriated with Graham for leaving him in the middle of nowhere with no connection of any sort to the outside world. Graham had known full well that Ian had never been good with maps and navigation.

After collecting the branches needed to fuel a fire, Ian knelt, removed a match from his pack and set the pile ablaze. As he straightened up, he briefly heard a deafening explosion.

From a tree limb, Graham looked down at Ian with his hawk eyes. The younger man was lying on the pine-needle-covered ground with half of his head torn off where the rifle ammunition had torn through. The gore glistened brilliantly in the tangerine glow from the dancing flames. Graham slinked down the tree and inspected his work with a callous stare. He had restored the social hierarchy of the neighborhood. After gathering the supplies from Ian’s pack, Graham departed into the forest to continue tracking the caribou.

The task is finished; your moist body is lolling beside mine. I’m satisfyingly filled with your effort. Having served your purpose, I now fill your indigo river of veins with venom. I observe your jolting, then slight trembling; your final movements before the paralysis cages you within yourself. I gorge myself on your succulent remains. Digesting on a moonless night, I anticipate the time when my womb will also become engorged.

It is a humid August morning and I can hear the discordance of the pealing wind chimes that hang outside our back door. The cicadas, roasting in the morning heat, add crackling hisses to the unconventional composition. I listen keenly as I slip my cool cotton socks over my bare feet. My white slippers are patiently waiting for me besides the door; I slip into them, slide the door open and descend the nearby staircase.

My mother is in the doorway at the back of the house, near the chimes. She has a slightly upturned mouth painted the color of a red camellia. Her shiny black hair is neatly combed, the long strands untangled and moving gently in the muggy breeze that is coming in from outside.

Mother smiles down at me with her unchanging mirthful expression. Her neck is at an angle, causing her beautiful head to hang off-kilter. Her empty black eyes do not blink. Her toes are slightly off of the ground, grotesquely joyful with their petal pink polish. The cord that she is strung on lets out a groan, barely perceptible over the song of the cicadas. As tears burn my eyes, the wind chimes play a disjointed dirge.

As a young girl, I would run through the winding streets of Gion with a sinister hannya mask over my face. I merrily slithered into the despotic role of the jealous female demon and chased my acquaintances with maniacal glee. The cicadas would hum in the midday heat as my sandals slapped against the ground in hasty pursuit of prey. When my revelry was over, I’d return my beloved mask into my mother’s lacquered cabinet. As a woman, I can no longer distance myself from the role with such ease. Although my countenance is that of a painted doll, envious rage has putrefied my innards. I stalk him through the shadowy alleys of Gion, illuminated only by the occasional paper lantern. I wonder if the dull clop of my wooden shoes reaches his ears. Fixation… my unattainable desire… at what point did I turn into the devil?