He spotted them from across the parking lot. There they sat in front of the grocery store, three plump unsuspecting soon-to-be victims. He turned off the car and walked inside, carefully examining his targets as he walked past them. He had to make sure there weren’t any defects. That they’d be fit for the long evening awaiting them.
Everything had to be perfect tonight.
He hurried through the store, grabbing little saws and knives and even a shovel. He needed to make sure they were prepared. He even grabbed a little liquid courage, as they call it, something to ease the tension, so they could enjoy the night.
After checking out, he returned to his car, started the engine, and quickly pulled up to the curb. He jumped out and threw the three poor things into the trunk.
Now all he had to do was wait.
Waiting can be nerve-racking though. Especially when you have a plan and want everything to go accordingly. He paced around the kitchen, envisioning over and over again how things should play out. He cleared off the table, lined up the tools, checked on the three little ones.
Finally, there was a knock at the door. It creaked open. There before him stood the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, the twinkle of mischief in her smile betraying her desire to carve and hack through soft, sweet flesh.
He invited her in. She gracefully made her way to the dining room. They’d need food. They were in for a long night. But he wanted her to feel comfortable, to break the ice a bit, so he told her to eat with him in the living room.
“My house is your house,” he tittered.
She declined. He insisted. Typical of first interactions such as these.
After they finished eating he led her to the back of the house. He tried to show confidence, an assuredness in his decisions, but with every step, he feared more and more that he’d gotten everything all wrong.
Then she saw the table. Her eyes widened along with her smile as she ran her fingers over the teeth of the little saw. He awkwardly tried to figure out where to put his hands, worrying thoughts continuing to flutter through his head. That was until she laid her eyes on the three little ones. She’d never seen anything quite like the three little ones sitting on the table before her.
“They’re big,” she said, eyes twinkling with visions of ravenous carving.
“Enormous,” he smiled back.
He set up the camera, carefully ensuring the entire table was in frame. Every second needed to be captured, every slice, every word, every peeled-back layer. He focused the lens, adjusted for the light of the sun, and made sure the microphone was working.
While he fiddled with the camera, she examined the three little ones sitting on the table before. She took note of their dimples, their wrinkles. She noticed which was taller, which was rounder, which way they leaned. Taking this all in was key. Once they started scoring their skin and cutting away at their flesh, there’d be no turning back. This was the time to decide what she wanted to create, or maybe more accurately, what their figure was telling her to create. This is art. It’s more about allowing than it is about doing.
With everything set, they took their places at the operating table.
Their process was simple on the surface. They would start with removing the crown. Then, sometimes with a hand shovel — or trowel as they learned to call it — or even just their bare hands, they’d remove everything from inside the cavity, all the guts and flesh and goop. After that, it became more complicated, less of a medical procedure, and more like a great sculptor of the Renaissance. They’d slice and chisel and cut until they’d transformed these nondescript victims into timeless pieces of art.
And so they began. First the saw, then the trowel, then the scalpel. More sawing. Tracing. Slicing. All the while they laughed and smiled and shared stories with each other. This was what he truly wanted, this evening with the woman he had longed for. The chance to hear her speak, to be at her side. That they were able to share the pleasure of hacking away at these three little ones, well, was just a lovely little bonus.
She shared stories of giant chairs and bike races while wiping guts off of her hands. He asked her about her travels across the globe while he sawed out eyeballs and cut out teeth. Through all of the splattering and mashing and hacking, they laughed and talked and caught glances into each other’s eyes.
How time can fly when sparks do as well.
They spoke and sliced until sunset. He went to adjust the camera, but decided instead to turn it off. The darkness was a sign that their work was done. It was time for the finishing touches. Sparks only matter once you fan them into flames.
She propped up her finished sculpture. He grabbed a candle, sparked the lighter, and dropped it into its empty cavity. Devoid of its guts and craftily carved into the figure of a ghost, it sat there in a luminous, spooky splendor. He did the same with his and the smiling face he’d carved into the flesh was rivaled in brilliance only by his own smile.
There they stood, the gentle glow of the candles illuminating the glances and smirks they flashed at each other. He hoped he’d done enough, that he hadn’t scared her off.
Maybe they took too long, he worried.
Maybe he said the wrong things or came on a bit too strong.
But time flies when sparks do. And my how these sparks have been fanned.
a quote for you
I’ve been wrong about so much. I’ve lived with ghosts since I was a kid. Since before I knew they were even there. Ghosts are guilt, ghosts are secrets, ghosts are regrets and failings. But most times, most times, a ghost is a wish. Like a marriage is a wish.
The Haunting of Hill House, Episode 10.
I’m not married, yet. One day. But my best friend is getting married soon. And that’s awesome. I’ve been working hard on writing a best man’s speech. It might be the most pressure I’ve ever felt while writing.
a journal prompt for you
Think of a story from your life — a childhood memory or a night on the town, maybe. Write a dramatized, fictionalized account of it. Let your imagination roam free.
I don’t read much fiction and I never write it. Trying out this sort of dramatized style was really fun and pushed me out of my comfort zone.
If you do write something and you would like to share it, I’d love to read it. You can send it to theguidelines@substack.com or leave a comment.
korick is…
korick is reading your email responses. I don’t know if responding to your emails is desired or expected, maybe you can let me know what you think. But I want to recognize your authenticity and vulnerability in the responses I’ve read. It’s really been an honor to hear your stories.
korick is watching The Haunting of Hill House on Netflix. This show is awesome. That’s all I got to say. I’m glad I’m done with it so I can have my life back.
korick is listening to Lahai by Sampha. It’s about time we got some new Sampha
korick is paying attention to routine. I feel like I’ve been thrown way off my routines recently with work and travel and whatnot. Getting back to writing every day, running consistently, and getting a good night’s sleep is high on my priority list.
What are you consuming or paying attention to? I’m always taking recommendations.
I was late. But it’s okay. What matters is that it’s done and out. Consistency over the long run is what’s key. I didn’t prioritize appropriately this week, but that’s a lesson learned.
On to the next.
Thanks for being here! Have a great weekend!
This was great. You are so good with your words. I'm so impressed and incredibly proud of you. Love you.