Exorcism
By Sheldon Lee Compton
Trish spat in the floor and watched the dribble dance from a flat form to a rounded hill of a thing until it was at last upright. The dribble twisted and grew, black from too many cigarettes and thick from too much drink. She thought the hunched up form looked like a groundhog sniffing the air, inspecting its new surroundings.
“Hello, dribble,” Trish said to the dribble.
“You shouldn’t drink alone,” the dribble said. Its voice was watery and the accent was not southern. Trish immediately began to suspect the dribble was foreign, not as much a part of her as she had thought.
“It’s an art form,” Trish said.
“You are an idiot thing,” the dribble said. “An idiot of a thing.”
“Then you too are an idiot thing,” Trish said. “You came from me.”
The stare down lasted nearly a full minute. Trish sat bow-legged in her blue plush chair, her favorite piece of furniture. She wiggled her toes and smiled. The dribble had no toes to wiggle and she thought to say this.
“What do I need toes for?” the dribble asked.
“To wiggle,” she answered.
“I can wiggle,” the dribble answered back.
The dribble moved in circles. Its thick body did in fact wiggle, but it was grotesque in movement and parts of it were sloughing off and falling into the carpet. Trish stood and lay float on her stomach in floor so she could speak directly to the dribble.
“You’re destroying my carpet,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go. You’re destroying my plush carpet.”
She took two fingers and pushed them into the carpet, scooping the dribble into the palm of her hand. The dribble screamed a soaked and throaty sound, thrashing about in her hand, then went quiet. The final stand was imminent.
“You can’t drink alone,” it said.
Trish flicked her wrist and the dribble hit the back of her throat. She swallowed hard.
“Okay,” she said to the empty room.
- - -
Sheldon Lee Compton lives in Kentucky. His work has appeared or will soon in Fractured West, Keyhole, JMWW, >kill author, Metazen, PANK, Thieves Jargon, DOGZPOLT and elsewhere.
By Sheldon Lee Compton
Trish spat in the floor and watched the dribble dance from a flat form to a rounded hill of a thing until it was at last upright. The dribble twisted and grew, black from too many cigarettes and thick from too much drink. She thought the hunched up form looked like a groundhog sniffing the air, inspecting its new surroundings.
“Hello, dribble,” Trish said to the dribble.
“You shouldn’t drink alone,” the dribble said. Its voice was watery and the accent was not southern. Trish immediately began to suspect the dribble was foreign, not as much a part of her as she had thought.
“It’s an art form,” Trish said.
“You are an idiot thing,” the dribble said. “An idiot of a thing.”
“Then you too are an idiot thing,” Trish said. “You came from me.”
The stare down lasted nearly a full minute. Trish sat bow-legged in her blue plush chair, her favorite piece of furniture. She wiggled her toes and smiled. The dribble had no toes to wiggle and she thought to say this.
“What do I need toes for?” the dribble asked.
“To wiggle,” she answered.
“I can wiggle,” the dribble answered back.
The dribble moved in circles. Its thick body did in fact wiggle, but it was grotesque in movement and parts of it were sloughing off and falling into the carpet. Trish stood and lay float on her stomach in floor so she could speak directly to the dribble.
“You’re destroying my carpet,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go. You’re destroying my plush carpet.”
She took two fingers and pushed them into the carpet, scooping the dribble into the palm of her hand. The dribble screamed a soaked and throaty sound, thrashing about in her hand, then went quiet. The final stand was imminent.
“You can’t drink alone,” it said.
Trish flicked her wrist and the dribble hit the back of her throat. She swallowed hard.
“Okay,” she said to the empty room.
- - -
Sheldon Lee Compton lives in Kentucky. His work has appeared or will soon in Fractured West, Keyhole, JMWW, >kill author, Metazen, PANK, Thieves Jargon, DOGZPOLT and elsewhere.
