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That Great, Old Beast - A Short Story

[Woop woop here's the final, finished short story, That Great, Old Beast. Started writing this for a class weeks ago and I'm finally done with it. Came out to around 3600 words. Maybe I'll write a longer version in the future, but for now, I'm done touching it. Hope you enjoy!!]

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[Possible Content/Trigger Warnings: Explicit Language, Alcohol/Drug Usage, Implied Death.] 

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Ronan couldn’t remember Bonnie anymore— not the way that he could remember the green of Michigan and the freckles of his mother’s cheek. He lost her by the docks of some town he couldn’t name, cradled in his mother’s tender arms. He lost her face to the fog— her voice to the crashing waves.What he did remember was the way she smelled, like rosemary and sea salt. Just before she left, Bonnie leaned down and pressed a kiss into Ronan’s curly, blonde hair— the same hair that their grandmother used to have, and that their mom loved so dearly. Then, squeezing Ronan’s tiny hands and kissing her mother’s cheek, she cooed words of comfort in their ears:“I’ll be back. I swear,” Bonnie whispered.Ronan was too young. The only thing he knew how to do was wail— how to puff his cheeks and cry.By the time Ronan reached the age of five, his blonde hair darkened to a hazelnut brown— much to his mother’s dismay; and Bonnie, when Ronan asked about her, was no more than a distant memory... Ronan and his mother were nomads. They had lived in fifteen different states by the time he started to care. Usually, they stayed with his mom’s friends— on pull-out couches, in trailers, in attics. The first time they ever really settled down was at a grimy, old motel in the middle of Arizona.  Ronan had just turned six. The motel room reeked of a constant, burning incense— the sort that gave him a headache.

“Mrs. Mallory likes the smell,” his mother explained.  Ronan hated Mrs. Mallory. She yelled at his mother a lot, and she said that Beau, his new best friend, would burn in hell for his red hair. “Ro! Look! Kate bought me Thunder-phant Man!” Beau squeaked, while shoving his newest figurine into Ronan’s face, “His eyes light up, and when you press this button—”Rumble, CRACK! A staticky thunder and crackling sound effect grumbled out of the tiny speaker on Thunder-phant Man’s back.“Isn’t he so cool?”Beau lived in the motel room next door with his older sister Kate. He would let Ronan play with his exclusive set of Electric Elephant-Man figurines; and he didn’t mind when Ronan ranted about dragons and wizards from the books he was reading. Since Kate was rarely home, Ronan could spend every day in their room, which smelled like instant noodles and cheese puffs, instead of incense. But one day, Ronan woke up and knocked at Beau and Kate’s door. It swung wide. Like Bonnie had years earlier, Beau and Kate had vanished.Suddenly, Ronan felt like a toddler washing his hands under the spray of a watering can for the very first time. He had taken, and taken, and taken, and then run out of water before his hands were fully clean. Unlike Bonnie, when Ronan asked about them and when he would see Beau again, his mom set down her cigarette and answered, “They took a Greyhound outta town last night. I’m sorry, baby.”  But what Ronan heard was that Beau and Kate, his first ever friends, had been guzzled up by a huge, gray beast.  And so, two months later, when his mother scooped him up in her big, strong arms and whispered that they were leaving, and that they were going to a Greyhound station— Ronan wasn’t upset. He was going to see Beau again. “Get some sleep, baby,” his mom whispered, in a voice sweet and slow like honey. “It’ll be a long drive.”  Ronan closed his eyes, but he didn’t quite fall asleep. He listened and peeked through his fingers as that colossal, old beast— the one he saw gulping up Beau and Kate in his dreams— finally came into view. It nuzzled up to the pennies in his mother’s hand, and with a screech, the hound opened its enormous maw and swallowed them whole.But even in the belly of that beast, Ronan saw no sign of Beau. That great hound grumbled away, away, away…. And out of the beast’s huge eyes, Ronan watched as the burnt, desert plains of Arizona faded into the suffocating lush of an endless, green forest. Ronan imagined reaching out and sticking his hand through the trees, and how it would surround him, like the thick, matted fur of Susie, a black cat who sat on the steps of Mr. Alfonso’s corner store, where his mother bought her cigarettes. Don’t pet it, Ronan! It’s probably got fleas, his mother would say. Eventually, that great beast groaned to a stop, and spat them out in the dirt driveway of a tiny house surrounded by green. Their new home was no bigger than the motel room they had before, but it stood on its own and had its own steps, and the floor was real wood! It also came with a very tall man who had steel, beady eyes. Except Ronan didn’t care about that man all too much or the new house; because just behind it, the forest crept close— all tangled, tempting tree-branches and mossy ground. While his mother and the beady-eyed man chatted on the front porch, Ronan slinked away. Still no sign of Beau, but if he were anywhere, it’d have to be in those deep woods.Skipping over gigantic boulders and combing through the thick brush, Ronan recalled a book that he’d rented from the library back in Arizona. In it, an elven knight braved the great wilderness and on the other side, found the ancient, lost kingdom of Whistleplume.Ronan armed himself with the thorned branch of a nearby tree. Whistleplume was near.  

It lurked in the edges of his view, and all he had to do was cross the Silver Blooded Canal, a violent stream filled with the agonized souls of all the adventurers that came before him. Finding himself imbued with a newfound magic, Sir Ronan the Great felled an enormous oak over the stream and readied himself to cross. Unfortunately, the second that Sir Ronan set foot on the log, he tumbled clumsily into the water. He sputtered, the coursing river carrying him down, down, downstream, until he washed up on the shore of a small clearing, filled with delicate, white flowers.  Sir Ronan stood, stepping into the clearing. In those flowers, he found Marina. Marina looked up at him— in his muddy shoes and soaking pajamas. She wore a pretty dress and two long, curly pigtails. Ever the Great Knight, Sir Ronan dropped into a kneel— for he had stumbled upon the lost queen of Whistleplume.  .. “Fuck, I hate him!”  “What’d he do this time?” Ronan asked. 

“Ugh—!” Ronan could hear Marina’s eyes roll through the phone. “He ate my leftovers in the fridge again. That’s like, the third time. And I’ve already told him about it, and he keeps doing it. I’m so fucking pissed.” Queen Marina of Whistleplume had a job now. Two jobs, in fact. One of them, as a student counselor for incoming Stanford freshmen. The other, as a receptionist for a law firm. She lived in her own apartment that she shared with her boyfriend, Jordan— an engineering major two years younger than her.  “I wouldn’t care so much except I’m the only one who cooks in this damn house, and it's not like he pays for the groceries, either.”  Marina talked about life plans. She talked about studying for the bar. She talked about developing her own law firm. About fame and success.  “Like how dense can you be?”  “Yeah, that’s um— Yeah, that’s messed up.” “I know, right? Ugh—!” .. It turned out that there was a whole world out there, despite their history as Queen and loyal Knight to the kingdom of Whistleplume. Ronan learned that the day he turned fourteen, and the beady-eyed man handed him a hefty stack of job applications.  “There’s something wrong about you,” the beady-eyed man grumbled. “Always floating five feet off the ground.” “Oh, leave him alone, Richard,” his mother tutted, from her slump on the living room couch. “No, no, Carol, he’s gotta grow up sometime,” the man huffed. “I don’t like that look in his eyes— Like he’s always somewhere else. And I don’t like him always running off in the woods, especially not with that girl. Who knows what they get up to.” “Richard!” “He’s not a kid anymore, Caroline, accept it!” His mother shoved herself up from the couch, jabbing her cigarette at the beady-eyed man’s chest like a rapier.  “He’ll always be my baby!” she gritted; her face shrouded in smoke. “No, he’s a teenager! And trust me, I know what they’re like, and it ain’t nothing good.” Ronan set the stack of applications down on the kitchen table and watched as his mother and the beady-eyed man squared off in the living room. The beady-eyed man dodged Ronan’s mom’s rapier with quick, practiced steps— and parried with his glass of whiskey shield.

The next morning, Marina was missing from her seat in class, which usually meant that she had gotten into an argument with her mom.

Ronan found her between the Keating's farm and the creek where they had first met, building a lean-to against two huge pine trees.

"Richard doesn't want me meeting you out here, anymore," Ronan mumbled, sliding down to sit against one of the trees."What?" Marina huffed, "Why not?""I think he thinks we're doing stupid shit.""Well, I mean, kinda. I did skip class to work on this.""No. Stupid shit. Like, y'know...""Oh, ew, you're like my little brother.""I know.""Did you want to be doing that kind of thing?"Ronan groaned, "God, no.""So why does he think that?""I dunno! I guess I'm getting older, or whatever.""Okay. Case closed. Just ignore him."Ronan huffed. Marina had leaned a few logs up against the trees in a makeshift nook and covered the whole structure in a crackly blue tarp. In that moment, she was dragging blankets inside to pad out the floor. Seeing that Ronan was still sitting outside, and not making an effort to help, she paused and turned to him."Ronan. What's wrong?""Richard's been on my ass about getting a job. He says there's something wrong with me."

“Fuck him. There’s nothing wrong with you.”"What if there is?"Marina tossed aside the blankets and plopped down beside Ronan. She huffed, leaning back on her hands. "I know you're not like all the other kids. And that's fine. Neither am I. Why do you think I'm here? We're both looking for something in these goddamn woods. Belonging. Quiet."

"What'd your mom say this time?" Ronan asked."She wants me to go into the military, like my brother."  

"Are you?""Going into the military? I don't know. I don't want to.""So don't.""You don't get it. She's worked so hard to give me a chance in life. I've gotta make her happy. It's the least I can do.""Well... If you had a choice, what would you do?""I don't know. Maybe I'd paint. I'd get a little cabin in Alaska and sketch the wildlife. What about you? Are you gonna be a writer?""I think so. My mom doesn't mind.""And Richard?""Fuck him."Marina laughed, "Yeah! Fuck him. And fuck everything else. Everyone else. I'll do what I want. I'll fight everyone. The whole world.".. When Ronan was eighteen, he and Marina had both applied and gotten into colleges in different states. Marina had forgone her previous ideas of fighting the world, and had instead developed a very clear, and sensible plan: four years at Stanford University, then four years at Stanford Law, then pass the bar, and spend the rest of her life as a lawyer. It made her mom happy, and anyhow, she was good at that sort of thing. It made sense. The only thing Ronan was good at was writing, because it meant that he could spend hours at a time in a world outside of himself— outside of the kid that never grew up, outside of the boy who spent more time reading books than partying, and outside of the person that the beady-eyed man was so very disappointed in.

“So, I was telling him that he’s gotta have an appointment, and he was getting so fussy with me, I swear! Like, I know he’s got a real big problem, but there’s a lotta people with big problems. I mean, Mr. Johnson, the attorney he was trying to see, wasn’t even in town that week, like—” “—Hey, uh, Marina?” Ronan cut in, scrubbing his face with his free hand.  It was ten p.m., and Marina had called him as he was trying to fall asleep for the night.  “What— Oh, hang on, I think my pizza’s here.” Ronan rolled over in his bed, listening as Marina shuffled her phone around and talked to the pizza delivery driver. After a moment, she apparently had settled down again. “Okay,” she garbled, between bites of pizza, “What is it?” “... I’m sorry, I— I know this is important to you, but I’ve gotta head to sleep. I have work at six tomorrow.” “What? Oh, shit, right, you’re what? Three hours ahead?”"Yeah." “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll let you go,” Marina huffed, “But call me as soon as you get off work.” “I will, I will.”..Ronan’s fingers trembled, hovering aimlessly over his keyboard. He had a five-thousand-word story due in two days, and he’d hardly even started. He was on the phone with Marina again, but a brief lull of quiet had overtaken them.“Hey, Marina?” he uttered, breaking the silence. “Hm? Oh, sorry I was just checking my emails,” Marina hummed. “That’s fine—” “There’s this professor I have, God, I have to tell you—” “I—” Ronan croaked. “—He keeps assigning things like two days before they’re due! Ugh… What were you saying?” “I’m… I’m worried. I feel like this isn’t the career for me.” “What? How come?” “I just— I know you said to chase my dreams and everything but… I mean, I have bills to pay. And I’ve gotta help out my mom… So I’ve been working all these different jobs to try and keep up, and by the time I find a moment to actually write… I’m exhausted.” “Oh, Ronan, you just have to keep working at it! I mean, look, I used to be all mopey like this too— but y’know what? When I stopped complaining and actually started hustling— It all panned out. Besides, you said you wanted this. Maybe, if you'd chosen a more traditional career path, you wouldn't have to work so hard.” “Right.” “Anyways— About this professor, right?” Ronan bit his tongue and stared up at the ceiling, as if it could tell him what to do. In their youth, Marina filled the space that Beau had left. She was always there when Ronan needed her. It was only natural that he did the same.  So why now did it bother him so much?.. Ronan stared out his window, watching the faint glow of the streetlights and passing cars outside his apartment. Though it was a perfectly reasonable time to be awake for Marina, it was midnight in Massachusetts for Ronan.  “Can you believe he’d say that to me? I mean, seriously! It’s not my fault he’d gotten the date wrong. So I told him—” “I don’t think I like these calls, anymore, Marina,” Ronan cut in, his anger, for once, getting the best of him. “What?” Ronan stared up at the ceiling again, as if that god they all kept talking about might finally step in for him. “Well— I don’t know,” he uttered, “I just feel like you don’t really care what I say, so long as it makes you feel better.” “So… What you’re saying is… You hate me.” “I don’t hate you, Marina,” Ronan groaned. “Then what the fuck is this?”  Ronan’s throat burned with bile. The last time he’d heard Marina’s voice like this— all venom and crackling hellfire— he’d broken a precious watch that Marina’s brother had given to her. Ronan was twelve, and he’d never been handed something so precious before. He dropped it in the mud. The glass casing shattered, and the muck had gotten into all those shiny, polished gears. “Christ, Ronan! Where’d you go again?” Marina groaned, “You’re always fucking doing that!” “Um, sorry—” Ronan stammered, blinking away the memory. “Look, Ronan, I don’t need this right now. Whatever the fuck this is.” 

“No— Marina! Marina! I’m not trying to be mean to you. I’m just trying to communicate, you know? I mean, you’re always preaching about that, right? Let’s just have— a civil conversation.” “Fine,” she spat, “What is it?” Ronan threw his blanket off the side of the bed and sat up. Too fast. And the world spun— hot, pounding blood in his ears. Was it always this hot in here?  “I don’t… I don’t hate you, Marina, I just… I don’t know. Lately, I feel like I’ve been distant, and you haven’t noticed or cared.”“God— What do you want me to say to that, Ronan?” Ronan curled in on himself, wincing as the joints in his back cracked, “I don’t know.” A car alarm blared outside Marina’s apartment— BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…Ronan’s heart beat the sixteenths in between each blare— BEEP, ee, and uh, BEEP, ee, and uh, BEEP, ee, and uh— Marina swore and slammed her window shut with a sharp crack. Ronan flinched.“Look, if you’re that pressed about it…” Marina huffed, “Why do you keep picking up? Why don’t we just stop? You can go off and find someone who ‘actually cares’ and I’ll do the same.” 

 Ronan bit his lip so hard it split. His mouth filled with copper. “Just like that?” he whined. “Like what?” 

“Marina, don’t you remember when we were kids? When every stone was a mountain? When those still creeks were oceans, and those woods stretched past everything we’d ever known? Don’t you remember building forts? Talking about life. You said you wanted to paint. You were gonna build a little cabin for yourself in the wilderness to do whatever you wanted."

Ronan raised his head and pictured meeting Marina’s eyes. He knew what she would look like. Her face would be pinched, as if she had just sunk her teeth into the flesh of a grapefruit.  

“Doesn’t that mean something?” Ronan begged, suddenly soft. “Doesn’t that mean something to you?” 

“I’m not that person anymore, Ronan,” Marina replied, her tone even and dry. “I hate this about you. You’re always, always living in the past. You’ve gotta—” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Ronan–” Marina started, exasperated. Ronan hung up. Ronan had never been good at letting go of the people he loved. Not Bonnie, not Beau, and definitely not Marina. That night, Ronan deleted Marina’s number from his phone and caught the next bus back to those old woods and still creeks. When I think of you, Ronan thought, later, while he was staring out that old beast’s eyes again, I think about tearing my lips on the shards of life’s great, big femur— and sucking out the marrow of all that it is to be human. Doesn’t that mean something?. 

.

Marina had outgrown the youth that Ronan so deeply cherished. It was an odd thing, knowing so much about a person, and then suddenly, so little. Ronan couldn’t help but mourn. That grumbling Greyhound spat him out in the ruins of his youth again, now much older, and even less certain of things. He saw his mother out in the garden, no longer so big and strong, but frail.And Ronan saw that beady-eyed man, in legacy, not figure. In the dusty ashtray on the porch, and in the cracks of the floorboards. 

His mother, catching a glimpse of Ronan lingering on the driveway, called out to him.

“Oh, Ro!” she cried, “What on Earth are you doing here?”Ronan’s mother dusted her hands on her dress and staggered over. She greeted him with a warm, if slightly confused smile. “It’s not fall break already, is it?”Ronan, suddenly feeling very, very small, sunk into his mother’s arms, as he always did. And she held him very gently, as she had always done.“Ma…” Ronan whispered, “Won’t you tell me about Bonnie?”“Ronan…”“What happened to her? Why’d she leave me?”His mother cupped his face in her trembling, wrinkled hands, and rasped, “Bonnie loved you so very much.”

Ronan knew that already, but he didn't like how it changed his mother’s face to talk about Bonnie. Her eyes glossed over, in a way that reminded Ronan of glistening sea glass. 

Somehow, it had never occurred to him that adults could cry. ..

In the morning after, Ronan treaded down the creaking porch steps and gazed outwards. Where there were once lush forests, cars and trucks bustled about— on clean roads, and surrounded by sleek, pristine buildings: the beginnings of a brand-new city, creeping up on the edge of their old driveway.As if sensing his disapproval, the sun stretched its warm hands outwards, fingertips catching the edges of rooftops and peeking through windows. To the city, it said:“I’m still here. In spite of you, I’m still here.”

Squinting against the glare, Ronan spotted the silhouette of a flock of geese, careening over a distant, winding river bend. If he were brave enough, he would rush down the driveway and chase after them. His torn sneakers would melt into the smooth sidewalks, and his socks would meet the damp grass. 

He’d follow them way, way past the horizon, and on the other side— in that tremendous world beyond— he’d be reborn.

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Ada Limón, from "Shelter: A Love Letter to Trees," published in June 2022

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[whoop whoop here's another snippet I dug up from my drafts. from an abandoned longer piece called, "When the Fire Dies Down, the Flowers Will Bloom."] Anton canted his head upwards and gazed out the window, catching a glimpse of a blooming magnolia tree. A soft cascade of delicate pinks and whites, swaying gently in the wind, brushed against sleek, slightly golden glass. The tree’s branches hung midway the window, and if the frames were pulled open, Anton was sure he’d be able to smell its fragrant petals, a cocktail of spring. An odd feeling came over him. It had been a long time since he’d seen trees bloom.

Usually, spring meant more time at sea, while the weather was warm and calm. There was hardly any time for long stops of nature. Thinking back, the last time he’d had the chance to see a blooming magnolia was likely in his grandfather’s garden, in his last year of schooling. Or perhaps it was a few years after, when his ship had stopped in a country far south, where their winters seemed like spring. 

It was a week after he’d first confessed to Theodore, back when things were still new and exciting. After docking, they snuck away to explore the vast country together. Anton couldn’t recall exactly if there were blooming trees, although he could remember walking through a beautiful meadow of wildflowers.

The air felt sweet, thick with honey and pollen. Theodore was walking beside him, smiling. They skipped stones, chased streams, shared a bottle of wine while discussing the passing wildlife. By the end of it, they had fallen asleep nestled in the crook of an old oak tree, cushioned by moss and leaves.

Encountering this memory, Anton wasn’t sure whether to feel more nostalgic or remorseful.

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[ye-old-monthly memoir-ish rant draft. trying to break outta just doing short fiction stuff] . I’ve noticed something strange about my memory. I can’t recall a lot of when I was younger. And that’s normal, to an extent. But the strange thing about it, is that a lot of the things I do remember are pain.

My first time being bullied. Tugging at my shirt, walking different, sucking in my cheeks all in an attempt to appear smaller. Snippets of conversations with my parents, not always yelling, but always marred by fear. Acting tough. Getting angry too easily. Bawling my eyes out. Not fitting into old clothes. Losing people. Leaving. Moving. Recently, I’ve spent an odd amount of time unpacking all of this. My issues with self-esteem, body and gender dysmorphia, and my relationship with my family.

It's a work in progress. Some days I look in the mirror and think, ‘oh, he’s cute.’ And some days I want to rip the pounds of flesh off my body, piece by piece. I’m trying to make an effort to cope in healthier ways. I still overeat. Doom scroll. But I've stopped cutting, for at least a year, now.

I'm being careful to avoid drugs and alcohol. I know I'm the kind of person that would get hooked. And I've seen what's it done to my father. I'm just like him. I'm often quicker to anger than kindness, I get lost in temporary hyper fixations, I'm too frivolous with money— constantly chasing entertainment and pleasure. I don't know why he does it, but I know why I do— to try and dampen the inner hatred that I've developed for myself.   I don't mean that in a, 'oh, woe is me, I'm so sad and pitiful' way, it's just the truth. There's a lot of things about my appearance that don't fit the mainstream ideas of beauty, and there's a lot of things that I've done and chosen that don't fit the ideals of my family. If there's anything I've learned from my Sociology 100 class, it's that society likes to sanction people that are different. And given enough time, that person will internalize that. It becomes easier to hate, than to love. And again, I can, and should try to cope in healthier ways. I'm just not there yet.

I'm trying, I swear.

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[tiny cut poetry snippet] .

Oh, to stand at the edge of that beautiful, green pond—

To see my own fragmented reflection amidst the algae, and understand, in no uncertain terms, that the pebbles under my feet and the wind in my ears will remember you.

For you are their sibling in the same way that the stars were once our parents, and today’s rain is destined to become tomorrow’s oceans.

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[short excerpt from "That Great, Old Beast"]

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It turned out that there was a whole world out there, despite their history as Queen and loyal Knight to the kingdom of Whistleplume. Ronan learned that the day he turned fourteen, and the beady-eyed man handed him a hefty stack of job applications.    “There’s something wrong about you,” the beady-eyed man grumbled. “Always floating five feet off the ground.”   “Oh, leave him alone, Richard,” his mother tutted, from her slump on the living room couch.   “No, no, Carol, he’s gotta grow up sometime,” the man huffed. “I don’t like that look in his eyes— Like he’s always somewhere else. And I don’t like him always running off in the woods, especially not with that girl. Who knows what they get up to.”   “Richard!”   “He’s not a kid anymore, Caroline, accept it!”   His mother shoved herself up from the couch, jabbing her cigarette at the beady-eyed man’s chest like a rapier.    “He’ll always be my baby!” she gritted; her face shrouded in smoke.   “No, he’s damn near a teenager! And trust me, I know what they’re like, and it ain’t nothing good.”   Ronan set the stack of applications down on the kitchen table and watched as his mother and the beady-eyed man squared off in the living room. The beady-eyed man dodged Ronan’s mom’s rapier with quick, practiced steps— and parried with his glass of whiskey shield.

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[cut excerpt from "That Great, Old Beast"]

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“There’s a old black train that comes along only when you ain’t expecting it,” Miss Susie rasped as she wrung out a rag over an empty, rusted oil can, “It comes on by, and it takes, and takes, and takes. Takes everyone you’ve ever known.”

A dark tobacco brown liquid dripped out from the rag that Miss Susie was wringing. 

“And that train always takes the good ones first. Kind ones. Best friends. Your mama and papa. That’s assuming they were good mama’s and papa’s. Sometimes, they ain’t, and you gotta get rid of them yourself.”

“What do you mean by that, Miss Susie?” Ronan asked.

Miss Susie let out a long, whistling sigh and slung the rag over the rim of the oil can.  Ronan scooted over on the bench, making room as Miss Susie sat down beside him. The blackened, grimy soot of the rail tracks had gotten into all the crooks of her fingernails and the wrinkles in her cheeks.

“Ronan, what do you think happened to Kate’s father?” “He fell down hanging up the Christmas lights. The ladder gave way–“ “The ladder that Kate was holding?”

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Just finished a workshop on a short story I’d been working on for a while. Constructive criticism is super helpful! Got a ton of feedback on what moments needed more work and what shined– but one thing that I walked away with (that I’m not exactly happy about) is the suggestion that I add a romantic element between the two main characters (who are male and female).

I’ve written plenty of romance, but this isn’t a story that I wanted that for. The point was growing pains– maturing– loss– all that fun stuff. And while yes, adding that extra layer of emotion might aid the story, I’m a firm believer that you can develop meaningful relationships and have emotional losses without the need for romantic attraction. Losing friends can be just as emotional as losing partners.

It’s interesting though, stepping outside of my own brain and handing off my writing like this. It’s so easy to lose sight of things when you’re writing, because there’s always going to be things that you assume based on your own biases and thoughts about your story, that the reader might interpret entirely different.

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[slightly longer excerpt from “That Great, Old Beast”]

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The motel room reeked of a constant, burning incense— the sort that gave him a headache. “Mrs. Mallory likes the smell,” his mother explained.

Ronan hated Mrs. Mallory. She yelled at his mother a lot, and she said that Beau, his new best friend, would burn in hell for his red hair.

“Ro! Look! Kate bought me Thunder-phant Man!” Beau squeaked, while shoving his newest figurine into Ronan’s face, “His eyes light up, and when you press this button—”

Rumble, CRACK! A staticky thunder and crackling sound effect grumbled out of the tiny speaker on Thunder-phant Man’s back.

“Isn’t he so cool?”

Beau lived in the motel room next door with his older sister Kate. He would let Ronan play with his exclusive set of Electric Elephant-Man figurines; and he didn’t mind when Ronan ranted about dragons and wizards from the books he was reading. Since Kate was rarely home, Ronan could spend every day in their room, which smelled like instant noodles and cheese puffs, instead of incense.

But one day, Ronan woke up and knocked at Beau and Kate’s door. It swung wide. Like Bonnie, Beau and Kate had vanished.

Suddenly, Ronan felt like a toddler washing his hands under the spray of a watering can for the very time. He had taken, and taken, and taken, and then run out of water before his hands were fully clean.

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[tiny excerpt from an older draft of “That Great, Old Beast” - a short story]

.

“When I think of you, I think about tearing my lips on the shards of life’s great, big femur— and sucking out the marrow of all that it is to be human.

Doesn’t that mean something?”