rubbed some unguent on it. That’s how the ghost tries to control you, by touching your penis. The unguent makes your penis slippery, so its hands slide off.”
Eyes squeezed shut, Tom started to blubber. “Will you take the knife blade away from my throat? Please? Please?”
“Maybe not just yet. She’s kind of a cunt, huh?”
“Please!”
Peter looked at his bedside clock. It wasn’t even nine yet.
He glanced up at the white ceiling. “Oh, no!”
“What? What?”
And hours and hours and hours left before his mom came home.
•••••
This is Ralph Robert Moore’s third appearance in Black Static . Recently published stories of his can be found in the anthologies Shadows & Tall Trees 2014 , Journeys into Darkness , Of Devils & Deviants , and forthcoming in Darkest Minds . His website SENTENCE at ralphrobertmoore.com features a wide selection of his writings, and includes purchase information on his novel As Dead As Me plus short story collections Remove the Eyes and I Smell Blood . Rob lives with his wife Mary in Dallas, Texas.
EQUILIBRIUM
CAROLE JOHNSTONE
I just want to feel. It’s as though I’ve forgotten how; as though my skin has become shrunken and ossified, my internal organs indurate, my thoughts polished marble. I sit and I breathe, I sip warm water from the plastic jug by the bed, I hold his hand, and I can feel none of it.
“How is he today?” I ask the nurse through numb lips, and there are no vibrations inside my chest, my throat when I speak.
Her smile is kind, wary, distracted. “He’s comfortable.”
I stand up and look down at his paper thin skin and the slow, blue blood beneath it. I stroke the hard/soft curve of his bald skull and pretend that I can feel it: the warmth, the downy fuzz that is nearly white. He once had beautiful dark hair that was silky smooth to the touch, long enough to grab inside fists.
“You’re going already?”
I try to smile at the nurse, but am not certain I succeed. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say.
•••
It’s very quiet at home. Sometimes I start to believe that I can no longer hear either, but I know it’s not true. My stony heart thuds slow inside my ears. I make myself eat some dry toast before I turn on the computer again, though I have no appetite. Mostly I forget to eat; other times I cram my belly full of everything and anything until I’m sick, and only then do I remember to stop.
I log onto the site, but I don’t check my profile. I go straight to his. His photo smiles with straight, white teeth, and he’s standing on top of a daisy-sprung hill, his dark hair blown over his forehead. Immediately, his name pops up in the small window at the bottom of the screen. ManlyBeardMan. The first time he made contact, the name made me laugh when I thought nothing ever would again.
♂ Hey! Where u been?
♀ Sorry
♂ Bad day?
I look at his picture again. I’m so wary, always so wary of getting it wrong.
♀ Just tired
There is too long a pause, too long. I try to ignore my panic because it doesn’t help, but I stare at the blinking cursor inside that small window at the bottom of the screen. I wait for the electronic beep of severed contact. Sometimes it comes out of the blue, when I’m smiling and mid-flow and nearly sensate again; other times hours pass in kind or funny or even flirty exchange until I forget to be cautious. There is no pattern, no learning curve for my mistakes. I always vow not to be the one to give way to these silences, but my need for connection, my need to feel again is too great, and so I nearly always do. The silence presses in around me until I can’t even hear my stony heart.
♀ I want to hear your voice
Am I allowed to say that? Allowed to ask it? I don’t know. But I need to hear something, I need to hear him. And my vision has grown blurry; I can hardly see his smiling face anymore.
♂ Next time
•••
“He had a bad night,” the nurse says, looking at me carefully. She
Eyes squeezed shut, Tom started to blubber. “Will you take the knife blade away from my throat? Please? Please?”
“Maybe not just yet. She’s kind of a cunt, huh?”
“Please!”
Peter looked at his bedside clock. It wasn’t even nine yet.
He glanced up at the white ceiling. “Oh, no!”
“What? What?”
And hours and hours and hours left before his mom came home.
•••••
This is Ralph Robert Moore’s third appearance in Black Static . Recently published stories of his can be found in the anthologies Shadows & Tall Trees 2014 , Journeys into Darkness , Of Devils & Deviants , and forthcoming in Darkest Minds . His website SENTENCE at ralphrobertmoore.com features a wide selection of his writings, and includes purchase information on his novel As Dead As Me plus short story collections Remove the Eyes and I Smell Blood . Rob lives with his wife Mary in Dallas, Texas.
EQUILIBRIUM
CAROLE JOHNSTONE
I just want to feel. It’s as though I’ve forgotten how; as though my skin has become shrunken and ossified, my internal organs indurate, my thoughts polished marble. I sit and I breathe, I sip warm water from the plastic jug by the bed, I hold his hand, and I can feel none of it.
“How is he today?” I ask the nurse through numb lips, and there are no vibrations inside my chest, my throat when I speak.
Her smile is kind, wary, distracted. “He’s comfortable.”
I stand up and look down at his paper thin skin and the slow, blue blood beneath it. I stroke the hard/soft curve of his bald skull and pretend that I can feel it: the warmth, the downy fuzz that is nearly white. He once had beautiful dark hair that was silky smooth to the touch, long enough to grab inside fists.
“You’re going already?”
I try to smile at the nurse, but am not certain I succeed. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say.
•••
It’s very quiet at home. Sometimes I start to believe that I can no longer hear either, but I know it’s not true. My stony heart thuds slow inside my ears. I make myself eat some dry toast before I turn on the computer again, though I have no appetite. Mostly I forget to eat; other times I cram my belly full of everything and anything until I’m sick, and only then do I remember to stop.
I log onto the site, but I don’t check my profile. I go straight to his. His photo smiles with straight, white teeth, and he’s standing on top of a daisy-sprung hill, his dark hair blown over his forehead. Immediately, his name pops up in the small window at the bottom of the screen. ManlyBeardMan. The first time he made contact, the name made me laugh when I thought nothing ever would again.
♂ Hey! Where u been?
♀ Sorry
♂ Bad day?
I look at his picture again. I’m so wary, always so wary of getting it wrong.
♀ Just tired
There is too long a pause, too long. I try to ignore my panic because it doesn’t help, but I stare at the blinking cursor inside that small window at the bottom of the screen. I wait for the electronic beep of severed contact. Sometimes it comes out of the blue, when I’m smiling and mid-flow and nearly sensate again; other times hours pass in kind or funny or even flirty exchange until I forget to be cautious. There is no pattern, no learning curve for my mistakes. I always vow not to be the one to give way to these silences, but my need for connection, my need to feel again is too great, and so I nearly always do. The silence presses in around me until I can’t even hear my stony heart.
♀ I want to hear your voice
Am I allowed to say that? Allowed to ask it? I don’t know. But I need to hear something, I need to hear him. And my vision has grown blurry; I can hardly see his smiling face anymore.
♂ Next time
•••
“He had a bad night,” the nurse says, looking at me carefully. She
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