Homer Barron’s Last Room

Disclaimer: I do not own Faulkner’s A Rose for Emily. But I am totally in love with said story. This little piece here was based off a prompt I came across. It’s the room in which the town finds the poor fella but… it’s not in the same timeframe. Think of it as… Homer is in mid decay. Anyway, enjoy!


It was the iron dust that settled deep into the open veins of the floor and wall, the muddled windows and heavy drapes that really created the stuffiness. The pulling of the walls. The room that withstood the changing of the decades, the grotesque, decaying body that still held faint features of what made it beautiful. Once. The scent of death passionately embraced the sticky, heavy humid air, twisting and rolling them along sweated skin. None us could have known just how embroiled in the desperate one sided love it was. The windows only allowed a foggy light, the glass growing grime, mold sleeping in the gentle etchings of delicate flowers. Perhaps it was best Miss Emily could never see everything about the room, the look of shock, rather than adoration forever expressed on that cold carcass.

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Cremashu’s Song

And to the stars we shall return,

dusted and burned, ashed and frozen.

We are the stars that burn beyond the line of sight.

We see what has been forgot and remember what has been pushed away.

Anger is but a breath away and revenge but a song.

The song shall end, when the blade is sheathed.

To the stars we started, to the stars we’ll end,

and to our ashes we shall answer.

The Monster’s Babe

It had been only a second – the wrong utterances of words and then– she was throwing whatever her hands could grasp, attempting to hit him in the face. Her screams were like a banshee’s – telling him he would soon be joining the dead. It had been that ear piercing horrible shriek. She hissed when the picture frame had missed his face. By mere millimeters. The shattering glass made him visible wince. Damn, good thing he hated the ugly fucker. “It’s your fault, you bastard!” she snarled. “And you tell me oh, don’t worry, it’s only a mild pain?! You cunning asshole!” He held his hands out protectively, making himself fight against the instinct to lash out and jump her. And jump her.

“I didn’t–” the king of words couldn’t calm down his own queen of hearts (or death as the current case may be). He ducked as a lamp sailed over his head. He blinked. Where in the world had she gotten that strength? Yet, failing to see her arm reel back, he fell on his bottom as the book clocked him on the corner of his forehead. He bit back the string of curses, the inside of his cheek bleeding. The metallic taste set his temper aflame. He closed his eyes.





“I completely and totally blame you! You’re an arse!” she screeched, wincing, as she gripped her side. “I fucking hate you!” A tear slid down her face, which was followed by another and another. Why? Why was she crying?! He was the one that was assaulted! Granted, he had been talking about Branson… Branston? That hicks thing with contractions. Whatever it was called. It was common and happened all the time. He really didn’t get it. The doctor said it was mild and nothing to worry ab—oh.

He suddenly grinned. The wrong move. He saw his usually gentle wife transform into a red hulk. Hell. He was going to feel it for days! Weeks, months! She would never let him forget! F–

“You smirking bitch!” she began her tirade again, the tears forgotten as she threw herself at him, both tumbling to the floor. His hands were quick to keep her from clocking her head against the table. He really didn’t want to deal with the clean up. Again. Damn klutz.

“Oaf! You’re heavy,” he grunted and froze. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. He could feel her still, her body tensing. Why did he have to say those words? His mother in law had warned him the women were very sensitive around this time. Especially to ‘you’re heavy.’ Damnit!

“Say. That. Again.”

Her body rose, arms tense and he knew, whatever she had planned, he would not survive the night. And as much as he wished he was exaggerating, he wasn’t. Her father had been a horror comicbook creator. She was his spawn. It fit really.

His arms instinctively captured her and pressed her tight against the line of his body, pulling her further into his own construction. He could feel her struggle, the sting of her teeth biting him through his thick sweater. “Sorry,” he said, staring up into her eyes as she lifted her face to his. His smile was gentle, enticing as he refused to loosen his hold. He could feel her breathing. Thinking.





Her eyes softened, the anger seeping out of her overly exhausted frame. “For what, dragonfly? You’re teasing? You’re callousness? The brush offs of what could possibly happen? You all are acting too casual about it? How about the fact I know nothing about raising a child?! Or maybe the fact that I’m not ready to–”

“You will,” he promised. “Whatever spawn you squirt out–”

“… squirt?” she raised an eyebrow, a small smile on her face.

“– squirt out, will no doubt be born to make your life a living hell. After me, of course,” he nodded, still refusing to let her go. She wiggled.

“You know, such a relief you bring,” she rolled her eyes, the tension ebbing away, “and how you provide such reassurance. Thank you for letting me know I’ll be having a hellion of a child.” She let out a sigh. “I’m so going to be the one responsible for destroying the world via our child. They’ll be blaming me. I’ll be blaming you.”

“Oh, I do hope there is more than one,” he teased. Did he? He wasn’t sure. But the priceless look on her face was worth it. “I expect you to have a hell of a lot more. And in kitchen. And yes, yes, I do believe it’s said you should be… barefoot?”


And it was in moments like these the monster remained content in drowsing in the shadows. A reprieve from the dark as it played with its wife. The moments it could almost believe it was real.

Monster Pretends





He’ll pretend it’s love as he brushes back her damp bangs, the sweat glistening under the harsh lights. Her chest feebly rising and falling, rising and falling. He presses his lips to her cold forehead, silently telling her what she wants to know – needs to know. Her frail hand grips his shirt, weakly as a child, asking for something he cannot give. Will not give. His own black eyes are filled with forced sympathetic gleam, mimicking what husbands are supposed to do for their wives. What he could never really do. A mocking bird, he is – able to mimic emotions he never had. He can force himself to cry, make his dark eyes fill with light and blend into the background. Become anyone he wants to be. Ideally.

He touches her face, his fingers testing her sickly skin, too pale, too weak. She looks transparent to his eyes, a jellyfish trapped on land. Her heart beating through frost skin. He ignores the sterile, stale smell of sick, the too white walls, the incessant beeping of the monitors. He ignores the smell of the internal sickness that’s festering deep in her body, seeping out of her pores. The muffled sounds and voices of the doctors and nurses, right outside the door slither through the open crack, but it doesn’t invade his ears.

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Medusa Part I

I wrote this a few years ago. It’s supposed to be a reinterpretation of Ovid’s Medusa. The basic summary is that this is an alternative universe in which Greek Mythology is actual real (and no, not Aliens that have been misinterpreted) and Medusa didn’t actually get her head chopped off (I’ve never liked that bit (and yes, I’m a Medusa fangirl — Snakehead all the way!)). Anyway, the short story was supposed to be short but… it expanded to more than I expected. It’s still short… ish, but I decided to break it up into two parts for easier reading. Or well, I think it’s easier reading (the post is still way too long. Oh well). Anyway, hope you all enjoy the story. Alright, alright, Part 1 of it.

“So, you’re here looking for this…” the woman tilted her head, the dim lights reflecting off her black sunglasses. It was a strange to see anyone inside, with dimmed lights wearing sunglasses. He assumed she was blind, but her actions spoke otherwise. He figured she must’ve had some other eye issue that caused some sort of light sensitivity. Her hair was a soft ivory in the light, which gave her pale skin an off-color. Not the sickly kind… just the kind that you’d see in the movies of the mysteriously mysterious woman or man who was later on revealed that they were part of some relevant part of some myth or legend. He wondered if she was the indoors type or if maybe… well, she was one of Zeus’s unfortunate off-springs. (There were a lot of those and a lot of them met with tragedy.)

Or maybe she was trying to avoid Apollo… it was a reasonable guess. Apollo still wasn’t have the best of luck in that particular department. Then again, one should never piss off cupid, er, Eros. He didn’t appreciate the name Cupid. The Hunter shook his head free of thoughts and focused back onto the woman. She seemed to pondering what he was hunting after, although she didn’t seem all that interested.

“It’s not a harpy, is it? I heard they leave us people well enough alone – at least those who leaves them alone,” she leaned forward on the table slight, arms sliding forward on the aged wood. “Is it the sirens? Please tell me they haven’t decided to grow legs and walk on land! I can’t stand those damn songs!” She made a slight face, scrunching her nose slightly. “Well, they’re decent enough, I guess. Just don’t ride boats around them.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Naw, I don’t think that’s it. Isn’t it—”

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The Last Chance

He sighed as he leaned against the chair, his eyes looking straight out the window. A bird had landed on his window sill, an elegant looking one with soft black feathers. He could only see one of the eyes, a light greyish green. He thought it was a little strange but otherwise paid it no attention. Shaking his head, Shaun turned away and focused back on the computer. The TV played the news softly in the background, but he barely paid any attention to it. His fingers were poised on the keyboard, but no words fell from his fingertips. His mind was empty and blank, something nagging at the back of his mind. He had forgotten to do something rather important. Eyes inching back at the bird, he followed its gaze toward the answering machine.

Riiight. He hadn’t checked his messages yesterday. Feeling slightly guilty, but at the same time, knowing that it was something that could have waited, he went to check. It wasn’t like anyone had died.

You have seven messages,” the machine’s voice sounded.

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