The Seance (Part III, the final installment)

Read part II here.

One of the nurses wiped the vomit from Michael's mouth. His heart monitor continued to beep regularly, slowly. His chest rose and fell from the force of the oxygen.

"Jesus Christ, Tara, are you okay?" Jennifer appeared in the doorway.

Tara looked briefly at her best frient with confusion. Her eyes grew wide and bloodshot. She rose from the floor sharply and lunged toward her friend. "Leave me the hell alone!" she screamed, but her speech was almost foreign, vulgar and cold, nothing liker her usual, sweet innocense.

"Oh, God, what's happening..." moaned Jennifer into her hand. Tara tore into the main room, raving like a rabid animal.

Bryon, although confused, continued with the seance. "Spirit, if you're in the room, give us a sign."

The flame on the candle flickered randomly, then settled to a slow, pulsing glow. "I th-think we've got us a winner."

The heart monitor slowed to an almost deadly pace. Medication was pumped into Michael's arm through an IV. "We're losing him!"

Tara felt a sharp pain in her arm. She screamed in agony. Jennifer wanted to rush to her side, but Bryon restrained her. "What's your name, spririt?" he asked calmly.

Tara's eyes fluttered as she screamed, "Michael!"

"Forget it, I think she just wants her boyfriend back," Bryan muttered. "OK, Tara, you can quit now. We're done."

"I'm not Tara."

"Very funny. Cut it out."

"I'M NOT TARA!"

Doctors and nurses ran to Michael's side, stabbing him with needles and countless drugs. His eyes fluttered; he twitched.

The candle flickered.

"They're killing me!" Tara screamed, clutching her arm. Blood trickled from various parts of her body, and bruises began to form around the wounds. Her glazed eyes spun around the room violently. "What the hell did they do to my car?" A sudden panic crossed her body.

Michael sprung up and began writhing uncontrollably, ripping the needles from his veins. The heart monitor pulsed almost randomly as the doctors tried to restrain him. "He's having convulsions!" "He's not going to make it!"

Tara started to laugh, deep and evil. She grabbed a can of beer, drank it with urgency, smashed it against her forehead. She collapsed hard onto the ground. The candle shook, reducing the flame to a weak yellow light.

The heart monitor slowed down, two more beeps, and it stopped. The doctor grabbed the paddles, trying to bring Michael back. "Everybody clear!"

Tara's entire body vibrated as she felt a sudden surge to her chest. She tried harder and harder to breathe, choking on the air as it entered her throat.

"I'll kill you!" she coughed. "You made me do this!"

Clear!

She convulsed again with the force of a rocket. "I'm taking you with me, bitch!" Her friends stared at her helplessly.

Clear!

She gave one last scream and then collapsed. The only sound that could be heard was a soft, regular cry from her throat, harmonizing with the sound of a far-off heart monitor crossing the flatline.

"He's gone." The medical staff placed a sheet over Michael's contorted face and turned out the light.

The candle flickered out.

The Seance (Part II)

Read Part I. And check out some of the language here -- "union of her stomach?" Dear lord.

The participating members of the group gathered in a circle on the floor, around a silver candle. There were eight participants altogether, four of each sex. Tara sat next to a long-haired boy named Alex, and her fourth-grade crush, Bryon. She crossed her legs nervously, wondering if, in her vulnerable state, Alex would try to take advantage of teh dark and slip a hand under her skirt.

"Everybody ready?" Bryon asked. Seven head nodded through the darkness. He lit the candle.

The last thing Michael saw was a brilliant flash of light before his car connected with the tree. He hit the windshield face-first, smashing through the already-crushed glass. A brief sense of pain penetrated his body, then was gone as blackness overcame him.

Tara felt a sense of terror as she picked up the hands of her friends next to her. Her heart pounded; she wondered why she was scared of a teenager's party game.

"Spirit, if you are in the room, please give a sign."

The candle continued to glow with a steady flame.

"Tara, you've got to concentrate," Bryon instructed. "Look deep into the flame. Feel its warmth. Concentrate."

The paramedics arrived to see Michael's limp body sprawled across what was left of the hood. They lifted him onto a backboard, and immediately started pumping oxygen into his lungs. The ambulance drove away, leaving Tara's mangled picture smiling through the wreckage. In an instant, the car burst into flames.

The candle started to burn uncontrollably. The once-steady flame was now an irregular fire, jumping in all directions. "It's working! Tara, keep going."

Tara felt compelled to break the circle and extend her hand toward the wax that was congealing near the base of the candle. She immediately retreated when she felt the heat. But it was more than that. Even in the candlelight, she could see the unmistakable crimson stain of blood trickling down her finger.

Michael's face, underneath the oxygen mask and various other devices, was a mass of blood and glesh. His neck bore scratches reminicesnt of the marks of a cat, goring at its prey. The indentation of the steering weel was prominent against his chest. Blood was everywhere, and a single drop trickled down his index finger.

Tara felt a wave of nausea permeate her body. She stared wearily at the candle until she could no longer. She rose from the circle and ran uncontrollably towards the bathroom. Millions of tiny particles left the union of her stomach and flew towards their suicide. She coughed a few times and continued to vomit. When she finished, she lay on the floor, gasping..."Michael...Michael..."

To be continued...

The Seance (Part I)

Contributor's note: This is from circa 1991, when I had moved beyond pure gore but still had a fascination with the occult. This also marks the first use of "Tara" to represent the "me character." (Most of my friends from high school appear in this story, under different names.) I still use "Tara" as an occasional psuedonym today, on mailing lists and sign-in sheets. I'll be serializing this, a chunk every couple of days or so, in maybe four installments.

There were only seven people there when Tara arrived. She appeared in the doorway, cool and confident in an ensemble of black. Her tight miniskirt made her seem years older than her small frame would usually allow. A single hint of light reflected from the crystal hanging from her neck. She was a symbol of perfection...yet, one thing was missing. Her boyfriend, Michael.

"I dumped him!" She smiled half-heartedly at her onlookers. Most of the guests stared at her left hand. The class ring, which graced her finger for the past six months, was now in the possession of its owner. There was a slightly pale spot against her suntanned skin.

"Congratulations," her friend Cassandra hugged her, assuring her that she had done the right thing. She pressed a cool can of beer into Tara's outstretched hand. "You need a celebration."

Michael drove the length of the road in an angered stupor. The only reprieve from the silence was the sound of the car's tired engine, pushing onward to speeds never seen before. A rabbit jumped in front of the car, and with a sickening crunch, was crushed by the relentless tires. "That should be your head, Tara!" he whispered into the air.


The party was mediocre, no more, no less. A few more people had arrived since Tara, and a few others lay making out on couches. Most of the teenagers were talking and shoveling pretzels into their mouths. Only Tara was apart from the crowd, wondering if she had done the right thing, if Michael was hurting. She glanced at her finger, half expecting to see Michael's ring there, as it had been for the past six months.

Michael gazed across the dashboard and noticed the keychain hanging from the mirror, a picture of Tara encased in plastic. "To Michael, with all my love, Tara," was the inscription on the back. With one swift motion, he crushed the token into a barely recognizable heap. "Bitch deserves it."


"Tara?" Her thoughts were interruped by the voice of her best friend, Jennifer. "You're not still thinking about him are you?"

Not wanting to admit the truth, Tara replied, "I'm -- I'm just not feeling too well, that's all."

"I can tell when you're lying, Tara," Jennifer smirked.

"Shut up!" Tara turned away defensively..

"Fine. Don't talk about it. See if I care," Jennifer mocked. "Anyway, the real reason I came over here was to tell you that Bryon wants to do a seance. He needs someone to be a medium. You up for it?"

"A medium?"

"Someone to hold the spirit in their body so we can talk to it," Jennifer explained. "Oh, come on, you can do it, you're among friends."

"Friends? You don't know shit about friends!" Michael grumbled at the steering wheel. He shifted into a higher gear and floored the pedal.

All you've got to do is pretend. It's fun. You're a good actress." Tara looked uneasy. Jennifer widened her eyes and spoke in a deep, hushed voice. "You don't really believe, do you? They're coming to get you! AAAGH!"

The road curved off into a deep, wooded area. Only an occasional headlight broke the darkness.

"Fine. I'll do it."

To be continued...

The dreaded first page. . .

Since this is my first post, I thought I would divulge my first real attempt. The following is the first piece I ever wrote, I was so sad that day. . . This is Schwartz circa '91.

I could lament on the zeal and zest,
Or perhaps nurse the milk from your breast
Sing songs about the days to come
Mourn the days under the sun.

I could share the feelings in my heart
And how they feel so torn apart
Blindly following a crescent moon
Knowing daylight will come soon.

I could perch myself on the gallow's pole
And let the villiage kill my soul
Scratching at the tightened rope
As blood dams up in my throat

I think that I'll just murder you instead,
Fill your black heart full of lead,
Bury you in a shallow grave,
And for eternity be your mortal slave.

Hey, it was the first thing I ever wrote. . .

Chia Poem

Contributor's note: I was more of a prose person at 16, but I unearthed this little bit of Bloody Awful Poetry™. Enjoy.


Wonder, wait, anticipate
Ponder deep a clay dog's fate
Sprinkle seeds, avoid the weeds
Prepare for your Chia Date.

Spread them out, lest you forget
Be sure to keep them warm and wet
Leave it out until it sprouts
And now you have a Chia Pet!

Sit around and watch it now
Turn from clay to Chia Cow.
Make Chia Trees with Chia Bees
And Chia Crops for you to plow.

Pave your lawn with Chia Grass
Go to church for Chia Mass
Make an issue of Chia Tissue
Wipe your Chia Ass with class.

Do you take this Chia Wife
To have and hold for Chia Life?
Have Chia Tykes ride Chia Bikes
Ignore the stares and Chia Strife.

Non-Chias tend to be so snobby--
So, campaign for the Chia Lobby
Naturalize those Chia Guys...
Or find a more constructive hobby.

Let's get this party started with a real choice tidbit or your guess is as good as mine

The wind blew in the late evening causing the lamp next to the stereo to fall over. The sky was blankly grey, fringed with white vapors.

The blasting winds ripped their way through the bending trees. In the distance, thunder rumbled slowly down from the darkened heavens striking the accustomed earth. The fresh smell of new rain filtered through the window of the house, pushing out the smells of the past dinner.

The television was tuned to a program of science and the youths sat on the couch reading. One was reading the deaths of 1965 aloud: Winston Churchill, Douglas McArthur, and several other well-known persons. The other was reading silently about space exploration, hoping to find out some other tidibit about the gassious planet Neptune, which he had given up the whole day to studying. He found nothing on Neptune but he did find much about the Mariner space craft series.

"I wish it would rain and get it over," their mother said looking out the window, stopping for a moment the crocheting that she was working on. It was for the church bazaar. Her hazel eyes started to drift out past the pictuer-glass into the field of thistles next to the green lawn seperating the driveway from the weeds.

Her brown hair was crinkly. Her face was round and she had chilly pink cheeks. She had an intense expression. Her ears were lobeless. Her stomach protruded somewhat, but she was happy that she had lost some weight. Her feet were worn and well-used. She wore and orange blouse and brown pants.

The boy reading about space exploration followed her eyes out to the field of thistles. A gust of wind came then, carrying millions of white fluffy seed tufts, precariously landing them on the ground where they would grow again the following summer.