There were giants that way. That was all James ever used to say.
In the woods out back, down the path to the right, past the old sewer runoff, and into the clearing next to the skunk cabbage.
There were giants.
He would whisper it from his hospice bed. He was real good at that. James that was the type of kid that could tell a bedtime story so terrible, so shocking, that it made all the little hairs on your neck and arm prickle up like crazy.
I am not so good like that, but I will try.
They were three mean giants, and each was dirtier and nastier than the last one.
The biggest one was the lady giant.
Test subject 43 – 2017-08-19
Height – 178 cm
Weight – 94 kg
Age – 22 years
Smoker – no
Drug use – none within the past two years
Alcohol – none within the past two years
Subject 43 is a bit of a rarity; very healthy, near-peak physical conditions. Subject 43 was previously considered to be a borderline Olympic sprinter before financial troubles landed him in severe financial debt. His mental status, up until very recently however, has also exceeded nearly every other test subject.
His extremely durable constitution has enabled us to push him further than any of the previous test subjects by considerable lengths. He has also survived longer than even subject 11 and displayed an unparalleled resistance to light and heat that even subject 19 could not match. Subject 19 was the only test subject so far that could survive direct sunlight exposure for any time longer than a few seconds. Unfortunately, subject 43 began to show signs of mental decay and it was decided to end his experiment before the end of the month.
I was on my way to a parent teacher interview with my son Billy’s teacher when I ran into the young boy. He was sitting in a chair on the porch of an old white bungalow just a half a block from the school. He waved at me and said “Hello, Mrs. Danaher!”
I waved back, although I didn’t recognize him. He said “I’m friends with Billy.” I hesitated because I had not met this boy before, and we live in a fairly small town. I said “Well, it’s nice to meet you. What did you say your name was?”
“I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Martins. Billy and I are in the same class.”
“Well, Nick. I hate to rush, but I’m just on my way to meet with your teacher Mr. Atkinson.”
“Okay. It was nice to meet you!”
“It was nice to meet you too, Nick.”
“Tell Billy I’ll be in the basement.”
BDSM lost its kick a couple of years into our relationship.
Toby and I had always been bored with everything vanilla and predictable when it came to sex, so after I suggested breath play one night and he agreed I was ecstatic. I love him so much, and it’s such a rush being with somebody you trust and value in such a dangerous or harmful scenario. I get off on the irony of it alone. The first time we did it I spend the entire night awake, flush with ecstasy and pleasure. So of course we escalated, why wouldn’t we? Breath-play turned into choking, that turned into nearly losing consciousness and everything along that line.
One of my least favorite parts about being a middle school history teacher is the bullshit “Living History” assignments we give at the end of every school year. Kids are supposed to sit with their grandparents and video tape, voice record, or transcribe their oldest memories for posterity (and for an easy way to bring up their GPA).
I have been doing this for seventeen years, and when I collected the projects this time around, I assumed they would be as dull, if not duller than usual. This had not been a particularly bright class.
I don’t know when you’re going to read this, but I can tell you when it started: I was out for a walk alone in the woods when the entity came for me. It was beyond a blur. It was, for lack of a better term, absence of meaning. Where it hid, there were no trees; where it crept closer, there was no grass; through the arc it leapt at me, there was no breeze of motion. There was no air at all.
As it struck, I felt the distinct sensation of claws puncturing me somewhere unseen; somewhere I’d never felt before. My hands and arms and legs and torso seemed fine and I wasn’t bleeding, but I knew I’d been injured somehow. As I fearfully ran back home, I could tell that I was less. I was vaguely tired, and it was hard to focus at times.
Or at least, most of them don’t. They prefer to swallow their words and never relive those horrific moments in isolation, or they fear that they have fallen too deep into the depths of insanity to be taken seriously. Mental institutions would be just another kind of prison to them.
My twin brother – I’ll call him Joaquin, for the sake of our privacy – is none of the aforementioned. At first, he didn’t talk much and kept to himself, locked away in his room for hours on end. But the more accustomed he grew to being back home, the more the opened up. The words poured out of him in heavy streams of verbal vomit and all I could do was listen. He was lost for almost two months, down south in the Gulf of Mexico. He… hasn’t been the same since, not that I expected him to be. He’s told me some things that I’m still trying to process and to be honest, don’t fully understand. I guess that’s why I’m posting this here, because I need to purge this new knowledge out of my system and see if someone could give me some input. There’s a strange fear gnawing at me that I can’t quite shake off, but I’m unsure if that’s Joaquin projecting his feelings. Us twins have that connection, you know? The kind you read about in some stories.
He said it louder “Did you know there’s 1.5 gallons of blood in an average person” One of the girls at our lunch table looked at him in disgust, and looked away.
Robert was a weird ass kid. None of us were friends with him, and we didn’t pay any attention to him, so it was a surprise to see his greasy self sitting at our table. His unwashed bangs covered his forehead, but a large patch of acne was still visible. His small, half moon glasses made his eyes look like they’re bulging out of his head.
Warning: this is a long story.
I shot up to a sitting position in the bed. There was no mistaking it. I was hearing footsteps, footsteps on stairs. Stairs which apparently lay behind the door of my tiny bedroom closet. Stairs which I knew for a fact – did not exist. The steps grew closer and closer, heavy slaps against what sounded like cold stone flooring.