Here Be Monsters by Murphy M.T.; Reinke Sara; Anderson Samantha; Drummond India; Reine S.M.; Shipp Jeremy C.; Portillo Anabel; Sharman Ian; Barientos Jose Manuel Portillo; Rindels Alissa

Author:Murphy, M.T.; Reinke, Sara; Anderson, Samantha; Drummond, India; Reine, S.M.; Shipp, Jeremy C.; Portillo, Anabel; Sharman, Ian; Barientos, Jose Manuel Portillo; Rindels, Alissa [Murphy, M.T.; Reinke, Sara; Anderson, Samantha; Drummond, India; Reine, S.M.; Shipp, Jeremy C.; Portillo, Anabel; Sharman, Ian; Barientos, Jose Manuel Portillo; Rindels, Alissa]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Lex Talionis Books
Published: 2011-09-09T04:00:00+00:00

Figs

Jeremy C. Shipp

© 2011

All rights reserved.

The black ink on the bathroom wall tells me, There is hope in God. And below that, God is a lie. And below that, Your mom is a lie and a whore. Then, a drawing of a cross-eyed stick woman having sex with an anthropomorphic teacup. I search the stall and find the word whore four times. Fag, nine times, and eventually, I hear a woman screaming. I can’t paint over the graffiti, so I do the next best thing. I take the Nikon out of my backpack, and take a picture.

At this point, the woman calms down, and I finally feel comfortable enough to take a dump.

After leaving Sierra Library, I wander around and end up in Cruikshank’s Orchard, sitting on a fern-patterned bench next to the girl of my dreams. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says, Vegetarian Zombie. Below that, the zombie says, Graaaaaaains.

“You don’t mind me sitting here?” she says.

“No, not at all,” I say.

“It’s just, this is my favorite bench. I love the smell of the figs.”

I turn my head toward the old Mission fig tree, and sniff the air as loud as I can.

“Do you have a cold?” She opens her brown leather stash bag. “I think I have some Airborne.”

“No. No thanks. I’m good. Thanks.”

She retrieves a tin of Altoids from her bag and drops a few mints into her mouth. “So, are you a photography major?”

I look down at notice that I’m still gripping my Nikon in both hands. “I used to be. What about you?”

She shrugs, and stands. She approaches the fig tree. Then she picks up a moldy fig and holds the rotten fruit close to her thin red lips.

Time freezes.

No, I can feel the wind on my face. I can hear a boy laughing behind me. She’s the only thing in the world that isn’t moving.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“Posing,” she says, without moving her mouth.

“Um. I can’t take your picture with this camera.”

She drops the fig, which lands on her white tennis shoes. “And why not?”

I could tell her that the camera’s out of batteries, but the thought of lying to her makes me feel a little nauseous. “It’s hard to explain. It’s weird.”

“What’s a little weirdness between friends?”

When she says the word friends, I can’t help but grin. “With this camera, I only take pictures of…well, bad things.”

“And you’re assuming I’m not a bad thing?”

“Yeah.”

Then she runs at me, and wraps her hands around my neck. She squeezes, gently. Then she laughs.

I laugh.

And then she kisses me.

Her mouth tastes a lot like cinnamon and little like manure, but I don’t care.

On the way to my apartment, Teresa freezes on the sidewalk and points. At first I can’t see what she’s seeing, but then I spot what looks like a dead baby bird caught on a low branch.

“The fall broke her neck,” Teresa says.

“Must have,” I say.

The woman in my head whimpers.

I take a picture.

In my apartment, Teresa kneels beside my DVD collection. She runs a finger down the tower.