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Friday, September 14, 2012

JOURNAL OF THE BLACK LODGER (3) copyright 2012 m.s.

Mrs. Beasley's guests have been disappearing. It has come to the day that I am the last of guests. I have my suspicions. Her helper around the house, a large burly man, has been carrying a trunk down to the basement and in the house again.

I was curious. I headed back down the basement. I saw the wall to the hidden room was open. Mrs. Beasley's helper was with her Father's masterful sculptures. He had the trunk open and was extracting various body parts from that moldy velvety box. I knew his intention right then. He was the one carrying on the legacy of Mrs. Beasley's Father.

I saw my chance when a hacksaw and a hammer appeared beside the man.


When I was done with Mrs. Beasley's helper, I headed to my room to clean the blood from my hands and clothes. Mrs. Beasley stopped at my room. She saw the blood and smiled at me. She took hold of my shirt, pushed me against the wall, kissed me hard. I moved my hand to her left breast, squeezed. I moved my hand over to her right breast, gave it a squeeze.

It felt strange.

Nothing was there. No soft pillow to lay my head upon. Her night dress fell to her feet revealing her naked body to God and me. At first I was horrified. Then aroused.

It seems her Father not only experimented with the dead for his sculptures, but also the living. The right side of her was man's chest. And in the between her her legs was not only her womb, but a dried up dead penis.

“Take me as I am,” Mrs. Beasley said.

I did. And another chapter in my life has begun.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

JOURNAL OF THE BLACK LODGER(2) copyright 2012 m.s.

Living in Mrs. Beasley's house provides wonderful opportunities. The other guests stay to themselves mostly. Except Marx. He is a snotty little man with big world ideas. I don't agree with any of them. I don't believe in a class war. It would interfere with my own activities. He is a very nosy individual. Every time I open my door he seems to be standing in the halls, listening. At the dinner table he is almost always writing in his little book.

Mrs. Beasley seems very much in awe of this ridiculous little man. She laughs at his dense jokes. Interested in every word he utters.

I'm sorry Mrs. Beasley, I can not have competition for your affections.

Mrs. Beasley would be upset if she knew what I did. I let myself into Marx room. That's the very reason I keep mine locked. It was cold and smelled of soiled linen. His room was littered with books, none of which were on a shelf. Books are a waste of time, unless you read Sherlock Holmes. Murder is always entertaining. What I saw next made me go red.

Marx had his own little hole to Mrs. Beasley's room.

Oh, yes. It was time for him to make his exit.

I waited until nine, which is when Marx goes out to the pub. I donned my costume of black pork pie hat, black scarf wrapped around the lower part of my face; and of course my black goat hair coat. I didn't want anyone to recognize me. I slipped my pearl handled knife in my coat pocket. I was ready for the newspapers to print their next BLACK RIPPER story.

I followed Marx down a street past the banks and shops. It seemed we traveled far to reach a pub. That was when I realized he was leading me on a wild goose chase. We ended up at a bridge. He stopped, looked over, dropped a few books over the edge into the river below.

What was his game?

“Oh, Mrs.'ll never know how much I love you....”

Then the bugger jumped!
I turned to make sure no one heard his screams as he leaped to his death. I was dumbfounded. What the hell? I heard police whistles. Heels on the cobblestone. I did the only thing I could do. I ran.

I ran all the way to Mrs. Beasley’s home. I went to my room and stayed to myself the rest of the night. I heard Mrs. Beasley rummaging in her room. I couldn't resist. I removed the painting of Queen Victoria. Through my little hole I watched Mrs. Beasley dress for bed.

Just ripe for the picking.

There was a knock on her door. She opened it and let a large brutish man inside. I believe he fixes things around the house. They kissed. She took him by the hand to her bed.

“It worked,” The man said. “Those love letters to Marx....then the kiss off letter.”

“He gave me the envelope of the rest of his money he earned from the publishers. I found it slipped under my door earlier. The fool!”

I couldn't resist watching them. I hate him, the large man. But Mrs. Beasley . What luck. A woman after my own heart, the murderous bitch.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

JOURNAL OF THE BLACK LODGER (1) copyright 2012 m.s.

Mrs. Beasley rented me a grand room containing a lumpy bed and moth eaten blankets. The room is the same size as the room I was given by the bastards that said I was looney. That will be a word I'll not use often with my own lips, as it is a very dirty word.

Mrs. Beasley is a lovey large woman just ripe for the picking. I lick my chapped lips every time I see her, and I see her often through the little hole I made in my bedroom wall.  I always seem to catch her finishing dressing or bathing the left side of her body.What were the chances mine and her bedrooms were next door. Just ripe for picking.

Mrs. Beasley tells a tale of a missing husband at A young age. A right fool if you ask me. She said Father and husband didn't get along. The husband went missing a few months after they were married, never to turn up again. So, the only way to make ends meet was to rent rooms.

There are other guests in Mrs. Beasley's house. A large house her Father used to own. As she said, her Father was a renowned Surgeon and respected scholar in the medical field. What Mrs. Beasley don't know is what is stored in the basement of the house. Something I stumbled on when I was looking to get rid of that nasty cat of hers I was experimenting with sassafras and arsenic.

I rather felt in awe of a master, it seems. Pure genius, the bastard was. I accidentally touched a lever of some sort and the wall of the cellar moved. It opened up to a new dark and dank room. What I saw was completely and utterly beautiful.

It was about twelve of these wonderful human sculptures. Several people with animal body parts. One woman had the legs of a goat. A man had the head of a deer, antlers and all! But my favorite to have been the man split in half, sewn together with the right side of a woman.

I wonder what Mrs. Beasley would think if she ever stumbled upon her Father's passionate art?

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

OPHELIA copyright2012 m.s.

The doll was beautiful. This I must confess.  Kyra and Mika made her to star in one of their films, and I must admit.  I never look forward to watching them. They are extremely upsetting to me.  They are nightmare visions that never seem to resolve any kind of plot, if there is any in their films.  The boys are quite talented.

I met the twins at art school eons ago. They’ve always been a little odd, but Mika and Kyra never worried about popular vote when it came to them. They are both dark haired, ponytailed, odd angular faces. The only way to tell the boys apart was a mole on Mika’s left cheek.

Every time they complete a new short film, the boys invite me for a sneak preview. Judging by my cringing or how many times I look away, they are pleased with their efforts.

“Derek,” Mika said.
“Old friend,” Kyra shook my hand.
“We are so glad you could make it,” They both finished.

“Well, you know I wouldn’t miss one of your films,” I told them as I came in through the front door of their studio.

“Come now,” Mika grinned.
“We use you as a guinea pig,” Kyra laughed. They showed me to my usual chair by the window overlooking the city below.
“Am I the only one here? Where’s Saul, you guy’s producer?”
At that moment, Ophelia appeared.
Now let me go on record….I always thought the boys were gay. I didn’t even know they had an interest in women. Even if they were gay, it wouldn’t have changed our relationships.  Even in art school they didn’t show interest when the random girl showed interest…and that was not often. Everyone, even their parents, thought the boys were just a little creepy.

Ophelia was tall, leggy blond. She had large pouty, red lips. She seemed to wisp, not walk. That night
she wore a white dress…she smelled like raspberries.
Yes, I had a thing for her. Well, more than a thing. I fell hard for her. I wanted Ophelia bad.
“Hi,” She said. “I’m actually their new producer. Saul….we don’t exactly know what happened…..but, he’s no longer in the picture.”
I didn’t know what to say.  Saul had given the boys money since their last year at art school. Even helped they buy the studio they live and work in. And being so sudden, I was in shock. I rather enjoyed conversations with the old coot. He was a producer for the BBC. Then he became independent.
“What about Channel four?” I asked.
Simultaneously, they said, “What about Channel Four?”
I blinked, smiled. They looked at each other.
“We still have our commitments,” Kyra said.

“But,” Mika took Ophelia by the hand and brought her into the circle. “Ophelia has gotten us a three picture deal with Channel Four backing. Something Saul could never achieve.”
“Well, let’s get the film going,” I took a seat. “I have an early morning.”

The light went down. The film started.  It was their usual blend of fantastic animation, live action, wonderful eastern bloc composer, whom I’m not sure, wrote the music. The film, of course, was quite upsetting to me.
The female doll was blond, no facial expression, as a matter of fact, her face was blank. She was controlled by a hand moving her about like a marionette. She would rise from her bed, open the door of her bedroom, and walk into a white void. Suddenly find her back in bed. This would repeat several times. Later she noticed a hole in the wall of her bedroom. She went to it, looked inside. She saw a large rat making a meal of a man. The camera would move in and reveal the doll’s face a striking resemblance to Saul, their old producer. At the end the camera pulled away to show a faceless man stab the female doll repeatedly as she slept, in the same scene pencils danced around them.

I was not handling the film well. When the lights came up, I was in tears. I stood, rushed to the front door. “Thank you, boys,” I barely managed to call out as I ran out.
Out in the streets, I watched the traffic race by. A light drizzle dampened my face to cover my tears. I hailed a taxi and told the turban man to take me to my apartment on the west side. He must have thought I was mad. I wept the entire trip.

All night my sleep was undeniably rampant with horrible images. Bloodied hands opening me up and sowing me back up with needle and thread. I kept hearing voices. That strange violin riff danced through my head the entire distraught slumber.  Spiritual pencils sang their praises to the wrong Lord, intestine crucifixes.
I awoke with a pounding headache.
I received a phone call from Ophelia. I rolled out of bed to answer my phone that was under my clothes. I felt like I’d had a night out on the town. Truth better to tell I had not drunk at all in six months and I am reluctant recovered alcoholic. I had lost my business, a small one I had built for five years working in the commercial advertising industry. I even lost the wife of two years.  Very dire situations.
“Hello,” My voice cracked when I spoke into the phone.
“Derek,” Ophelia said. She sounded hurried.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Ophelia, of course. Who else could it be?”
“Maybe a client? A job for me? What do you want?”
“You.” She said, cleared her voice. “I must see you.”
“I really need to get out there, hit the pavement as they say, and find employment.” I told her.
“I need you,” Ophelia nearly burst into tears.
“For what?”
“Oh my God,” She said. “Do I really have to spell it for you?”
“Well….” I thought a second. “Yes,” I laughed. “You should.”

“This is pathetic! Fine. Come over at once! Sex! I want sex!” And she hung up.

I had no choice, you understand.
She needed me. The boys were not giving her all she wanted. Of course. I ran ten blocks.  I was almost there, dodging traffic as I crossed streets. I noticed a homeless man walking in circles behind a dumpster in front of a coffee shop.
“Saul!” I screamed. “Saul!” I avoided a collision with a dry cleaners van. The driver cursed me as he swerved, almost hitting a man walking his dog. An argument ensued.
“Saul!” I called out to him again.
He didn’t hear me, or was just ignoring me. I really couldn’t tell. So went over to him, grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Saul? Hey, it’s me. Derek.”
He just looked at me…or rather right through me. His eyes….there were nothing behind them. No life at all.  Two dark holes in his face.
I let go of him. He continued his journey, walking in circles. It was sad. I walked away from him, shaking my head. It was only two weeks ago I saw the man, all was well.
I walked past the driver and the man with the dog having a fist fight. As they were trading blows, the dog, a Rottweiler had bitten the owner on the leg and wouldn’t let go. This was very humorous. But I couldn’t stay to watch.
One more street corner and I would be at Mika and Kyra’s studio. I would have Ophelia to myself….at least this one time.

Ophelia met me at the door. She took hold of my tie and pulled me in. she slammed the door shut. We stared at each other for a half second before she pulled my face closer to hers for a passionate kiss. We broke for away for a few. She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom she shared with the twins.

My head was swirling. She undressed me, laid me on the bed. I looked around, saw all the dolls the twins used in there movies. They were sitting on several shelves across the bedroom.  Some dolls missing certain limbs, some with parts that don’t match, some with blank faces, some with animal parts. Some with faces painted like clowns.  
I felt her lips softly move down from my chest towards my midsection, and her hands were wandering…searching.
I felt strange. I felt short of breath.
The dolls were moving. Laughing, waving, heads spinning around.  They slid down the shelves and began to crawl across the carpeted floor, hissing, laughing, and crying out. It was shear chaos.
I became short of breath. My vision was blurred.
I felt Ophelia straddle me.  She was riding me hard and I could feel myself slip away into the void. The dolls by now had joined us in the bed. A doll with rubber arms stretched out and had wrapped them around Ophelia’s breasts, caressing the nipples.
I came. Then everything went black.
There were voices. Voices overlapping each other, and talking very fast.
I felt hands on my limp body. A knife split me open from chest to abdomen. Fingers were inside me, filling me with liquid. Suddenly, I was stiff.
“Oh, he is going to be beautiful,” I heard Ophelia say.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a miniature bedroom decorated with a canopy bed and a vanity. I stood there, holding a bloody knife in my hands and a doll with a blank face lying on the bed in a pool of blood…..

Sunday, September 2, 2012