I will definitely take the advice on the revision of the opening sequence under advisement. I have played around with the placement of the parts of the story, and I believe that the best route is to take that segment and render it smaller, tighter. Thanks for confirming what I think I knew already. And thank you for reading.
Horror / A Balanced Diet (Analysis)
Three meals a day.
That’s all I allow myself. No in-between snacks, no sneaking clandestine bites. I eat them on a schedule, generally.
Just three meals a day.
And when I pick out my meals, I normally go for something a hair less than filling. I take the leaner cuts, the seasoned stuff, the parts that will make me both a polite diner and a relatively thin man. It’s better to remain unseen, unremembered in the paranoid and unpredictable world. The wrong kind of people will ask only the right kinds of questions of the figure with the pleasant table manners that just went away after dinner was done. If they asked him any questions at all.
Just three meals a day.
I relish in the act of choosing my menu. Often, I sit for hours pouring over the bill of fare that moves past me in the café. Pork, fowl, sweetmeats, decadent desserts, the stews and soups, even vegetables can be found in abundance here. They all parade by, tempting me, urging me to blow my diet. But, oh no, patience and discrimination are what bring the most savory and wholesome foods to the taste buds.
Just three meals a day.
This café is my favorite place to dine. The variety it offers is incomparable, an international lineup of recipes, all homegrown, and all sure never to bore and always satisfy my palate. Why, just this morning, I enjoyed a nice spot of Hindi cuisine for my main breakfast, topped off with a Mediterranean pastry. So delicious, so filling. The experience left me craving more, but I always stick to my rule.
Just three meals a day.
It keeps me alive, and it keeps me satisfied. Never full, but never really wanting.
Ah, three meals a day.
Of course, there is a downside to my pickiness. Sometimes I am too finicky and a mealtime slides by, and I am rushed to make up for the meal later. This disrupts my schedule, which, in turn, makes me cram two meals close together. This is unhealthy and unwise.
Like today- I forgot all about eating as I was caught up in the excitement of selecting a meal and all of the best morsels escaped me. The menu grew very thin, and my choices began to look less than appetizing. I was forced to spend the remainder of the afternoon with my stomach murmuring its displeasure.
I have to learn to be prudent and to loosen my tastes if I am going to stick to the rule.
Three meals a day.
The evening meal hour is approaching, and here I haven’t yet eaten lunch. I must choose something, or else I’ll miss another meal. And that too would break the rule.
Three meals a day.
Oh well, here’s something now, a mixed grill. An odd coupling, a spicy Latin dish paired with poached whitefish. Not what I would normally prefer, but then I do have to be a little less fastidious. Yes, it should do just fine. Even though it’s a bit heavier for a single meal, especially for a late lunch, I can have just a light dinner in a bit. Something varied and different. Maybe a selection of tapas. Yes, that’d be nice.
On Friday nights, one can always find a sampler platter of four or five tapas to satisfy the hunger.
Bon apetit! And oh look, there’s the tapas, almost on cue. I do hope they will be around when I’m done with the Spanish dish and the whitefish. The tapas look very nice in their presentation too, although a couple of the pieces do look a little garish…
Mmm, three meals a day.
- * * * *
“Jeanie,” the youngest of the four girls says.
“Yeah, Becky,” Jeanie says. She’s a girl of about sixteen. Her hair and her lipstick match.
“I’m not sure, but I think that creepy guy just killed that Spanish lady.” Becky hates the subway. She is sure that every time she rides it will be her last.
“Becky,” says Michelle, the eldest at eighteen, “you’re always seeing people getting killed on the train.”
“I do not, ‘Chelle.” Becky’s protest brings derision amidst a small burst of giggles. The laughter is for ‘Chelle, the leader, though she deserves no credit for wit; abbreviating her name to ‘Chelle is the girl’s only spark of creativity she has to offer.
The fourth member of the group, Danielle, continues to laugh well after the other two have stopped. Her contribution to the group is blind devotion to ‘Chelle. She is a lap dog.
“I’m serious, guys,” Becky says. Her voice threatens to break. “I saw him.”
“Saw what,” Jeanie and ‘Chelle say together. More giggles.
“Yeah, saw what?” Danielle is a slow lap dog.
“He touched that guy,” she points, “that guy in the sweater and that Spanish chick.”
“She’s Puerto Rican.” ‘Chelle has to have facts stated.
“Whatever. He touched them, or something, and now they’re dead.” She has forced her voice into a gruff whisper.
“They’re not dead. They’re drunk. Or high. Or both. And they just passed out.” ‘Chelle looks at Becky narrowly. She wants to see if the girl will challenge her, or if she’ll play fetch, just like Danielle.
Becky is not even aware there is a challenge. “They weren’t passed out five minutes ago. Five minutes ago, they were awake. Alive. And talking. Then…” Her voice grows as thin as dishwater.
“Then, what?” ‘Chelle and Jeanie and Danielle are staring first at Becky, then at the thin, plain man seated beside the limp couple. The unspoken consensus is that the old man does look capable of copping a quick feel when the subway empties. He might even be able to slide a few fingers under the elastic of a pair of skimpy panties. But he couldn’t be capable of murder. He looks as if he would snap in a stiff wind.
Six eyes turn back to rest on Becky. She feels the scorn before she hears it.
“So, that guy just grabs the white guy and the Puerto Rican and poof, they died. We supposed to believe that shit, Becky?” It is not a question that comes growling at Becky, but another feint designed to draw her out. Girls can goad better than any four boys combined can.
“Look, ‘Chelle, I don’t care what you guys believe. I know what I saw. He touched them and then they were dead.”
There’s another chorus of giggles, louder now but still muted by the metallic pulse of steel wheels on gritty rails.
‘Chelle’s voice rises above the laughter, the words meant to cut. “He killed them by touching them? No gun, no knife, not even a tazer? So he’s a ninja or some shit? Girl, you’re crazy as shit.” The volume goes up on the laughter.
“Screw you guys! I know what I saw!” Becky’s self-control is as tenuous as the line of spittle that connects the upper and lower teeth in an otherwise desert-dry mouth.
“Sure, sweetie. Isn’t it time for your meds?” ‘Chelle is nearly drunk on the laughter and the unearned admiration of her underlings.
“Fuck you, Michelle.” Becky has found her spine. She has also located the epicenter of ‘Chelle’s anger. The laughter is gone and the air carries the sharp tang of black electricity, the kind you find when teen girls gather for battle.
‘Chelle’s justice moves swiftly. Becky feels a bruise swelling beneath the other girl’s fingers. “I don’t think so, little girl. Stupid bitch. You better call me ‘Chelle. And you better never talk to me like that. You hear?” The lead dog has a nasty growl and sting to her nip. Her hand is poised to strike again.
Becky catches the hand as it moves toward her cheek once more. “I just did. Michelle.” Becky’s spine continues to grow. “You can’t tell me what to say. Or what I saw either. Michelle.”
“Chelle’s lips are drawn into a snarl, flattened against her teeth. “I’ll tell you what you saw, bitch. You saw what your little psycho brain wanted you to see. That guy…” she spats as her finger flies past Becky’s head in the direction of the accused; Becky does not flinch. ‘Chelle is aware of this fact, but refuses to acknowledge this fact. ”...did not kill those people. You hallucinated. Probably from smoking your jerk-off boyfriend’s shitty weed.” This is not a nip; ‘Chelle is going for the underbelly.
“Prove it.” Becky stands her ground.
Danielle feels like moving away, but then she is a lap dog. “Go on, ‘Chelle, show her.”
‘Chelle has to prove she’s right. It’s how she keeps the other dogs lapping at her heels. But she won’t do it alone. The pack must follow. It’s what they have to do. “Come one, girls. Let’s show Becky just how psycho she is.”
Danielle and Jeanie don’t want to show Becky anything. ‘Chelle’s stare is slightly colder than the knot of fear in their stomachs. They’ll be showing Becky anything ‘Chelle wants them to if only to escape the glare of the lead bitch.
The three girls move from their seats, bouncing from handrail to pole until they’re standing in front of the three occupants on the other side of the car. The white guy. The Puerto Rican chick. The thin, plain man.
The couple is still out cold. The little man looks at the floor, quiet and still except for the involuntary jogging of his body as the train pushes ahead into dimly lit tunnels. His face is streaked with smears of greenish hues from the lights that grin down from the tops of tunnel stanchions. Three pairs of shoes in his field of vision cause him to look up.
“Mister, please tell our friend back there something,” ‘Chelle says, jabbing her thumb back in Becky’s direction. Becky watches from a safe distance. “Tell her you didn’t just kill those two people.” Her hand darts in the direction of the unconscious people seated beside the thin man, the first two fingers of the hand pointing at the pair.
The thin, plain man smiles a shallow smile and leans to one side to get a good look at Becky. He sits upright again and studies the girls standing close to him.
“Well,” says Jeanie. She wants this to be over. Her thoughts run off to a later scene of drinking and grinding in a club that’s not too strict when it comes to admission.
The man unfolds his hands and rubs the fingers together. It’s the motion of an aged safecracker or a man searching for sensation in numbed digits. His voice is as plain and as thin as he is. “Your friend is mistaken.”
“See,” ‘Chelle crows, “I told you you’re nuts, Becky.” The three girls are twisting their torsos to jeer over at Becky. Their pelvises push forward and the uneven row of breasts moves past the man’s face like a ring of moons orbiting a dead planet.
The jeers and contemptuous looks take too long. Becky knows this. She holds her tongue, though it’s not clear why she does so. Maybe it’s fear, or maybe it’s something else. There’s something in her eyes, though, a little bit of wide-eyed wetness that makes her taunting associates turn around.
The three girls have not fully pivoted when the train grinds, squeals, and shudders to a stop.
The thin, plain man is on his feet. The white guy and the Puerto Rican chick slide to the side, the upper bodies toppling over at the urging of inertia. The white guy’s arm circles the woman’s chest. He’ll never get to feel the softness of her cooling skin.
“As I was saying, your friend is mistaken.” A pallid, but unlined hand sweeps toward the pair of would-be lovers. “I don’t kill my meals. That would be barbaric. I just like things fresh, like cracking open live shellfish. I can’t help that the heart is so frail.”
His hand sweeps back, away from the white guy and the Puerto Rican chick. It glides over the tight skin of the girl’s arms. A chill sweeps through them but they’ll never put words to the pain that deepening cold brings. Their extremities grow limber and their heartbeats stutter and grow faint.
The thin, plain man deftly guides the now-still trio of girls to the seat. They look as though they belong on the seat beside the dead couple. They’ll make striking subjects for the police photographs. The daily rags would pay a good price for a shot like that.
No one but Becky sees the terrible act happen. She won’t call for help; speech will not come for her, no matter how much she works her mouth.
Becky is alone in the car now, the other passengers having long departed and no one’s come to take their place. Even the thin, plain man has gone. Becky’s all alone, except for the withering, stiffening bodies of ‘Chelle, her litter of bitch pups, the white guy, and the Puerto Rican chick. Bodies that look a little sunken, a little lean.
He’s outside the door now, standing on the platform, looking in at Becky. He smiles, but the look is not one of congeniality. It is the look of someone that has just had a really good meal. He finishes the smile off with a flick of his tongue at the corners of his mouth.
The man, whom no one will remember later, waves lightly at Becky. She’ll remember him later. Eternally so.
Becky backs away from him, even though the plastic, metal, and glass doors stand between the two figures. The thin, plain man does not turn his head as the train moves along its way. His eyes don’t follow the girl’s face as the train carries her away.
After the tunnel is black with shadows again and the rolling thunder has seeped away from the platform, the thin, plain man walks away. No one seems to notice him or that he is mumbling to himself.
“I would have liked to taste that last bit. She seemed so much more promising than the others. Maybe on another day she’ll show up on the menu.”
The thin, plain man is swallowed by the light of day as people push by him. He stops and turns to study a very obese man seeping down the stairs to the platform below. Again he mumbles in a voice no one hears.
“Maybe tomorrow, I’ll try something fatty and greasy. I haven’t tried that in a long time. And a little fat never killed anyone. If done in moderation…”
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Panda_Priest reviewed Version 1 -
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This is really great! I was seriously enthralled with this story. I love the original idea within a very common setting. Well done!
I liked the politics within the group of girls. i did think that Becky’s reactions may have been a little unusual for one who was a regular in the group. I felt there may have been a slightly different way of things playing out when she rebels against Michelle. Alas, I am a guy though…I might be looking through a different set of goggles :)
also, is the 3-meal-a-day guy the same man as on the train?
An interesting short that i feel could be published without too much editing.
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TiffVicious reviewed Version 1 -
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This was amazing. The repetition in the beginning really emphasized the obsessive compulsive nature of the main character. I was so entertained by this piece. It was so original, clever, and even a bit comical. I think that this story could defiantly be published!! Its one of my favorites on urbis now!
FrakKevin reviewed Version 1 -
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While reading the beginning I was wondering where the horror would fit in. To me knowing it was a horror prepared me for the strange twist. But if somebody just starts reading not knowing the genre it’ll surprise them. I enjoyed the way he described his food, it was the best part to me. I was kind of on his side in this story, I didnt care if those girls lived or not. Overall nice twist to this story and I liked how you ended back in his mind at the end.
Enigma28 reviewed Version 1 -
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Very interesting indeed. This piece was intruiging but at the same sort of predictable. The only reason I say this is because as soon as I read the first page and knew about the three meals I knew he would be a cannibal, of course this is horror. That being said I think the clever format and interesting dialect overshadowed that.
The only critique I can give you is the way you used ‘her voice thin as dish water’ to me that isn’t really a comparison.
Thanks for sharing
Good work
Jodie
sjvance reviewed Version 1 -
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Awesome, I love the storyline and where this is going. At the beginning I thought it would be boring, but you captured my attention and I couldn’t stop reading. Excellent job. Write more!
thefarmerswife reviewed Version 1 -
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a very fun read. the initial opening in the “cafe” is very nicely done. As we read through we start to get a feeling he is not talking about food from a menu but the people that pass by.
I like your style, the short sentences work well and fir in with the character. He comes across as rather suave and one can imagine him tucking into these meals with a good wine and apreciating the finer things in life.
As we move to the girls on the tube we understand tht his cafe is in fact the tube and then it gets confusing. How did he kill them? did he mean to eat them? Did he actually eat them, we get the feeling he does due to him licking him lips after he gets off but there is no evidence of it happening. we need more informaiton here.
the ending with him walking off the train and looking at the fat man leaves us with a wry smile on our lips. Very good ending. Apart from th lack of info regarding how he actually kills and eats them a very satisfying story. Below are some notes i made as i read through:
in the paranoid - in this paranoid…
that just went away after dinner – this reads a little awkwardly. what about “that simply disapears after dinner… also the next sentence should be joined to this one not seperate.
international lineup of recipes, all homegrown – how can it be international and all homegrown?
I must choose something, or else I’ll miss another meal – i don’t think this comma is necessary. the sentence that follows it doesn’t read right. perhaps “and that would be breaking the rule again” or ” and that would be another violation of the rule”
the dialogue betweent eh girls starts a little stilted. I understand that you are trying to show who is who but people don’t generally keep mentioning the person they are speaking to by name unless they are trying to get their attention. Otherwise their dialogue is entertaining and your observations about them, humorous.
Kimbers reviewed Version 1 -
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I’ll never trust single scary looking guys on trains again.
Phew. I mean, frightening, chilling, suspenseful, breath stealing. Do any of these words do justice to this piecec? Seriously I’m asking.
You’ve got an incredible spine tingling piece at your fingertips here. I found it unnerving to say the least. The subtlety you generate with the pallid man, is perfect. You don’t get a sense that he is completely ‘evil’, at first. you just view him as someone, picking what he’s going to have next. It’s only when you bigen to read more into his psyche that you begin to realise that he’s not talking about your typical ‘food’.
It is the subtlety that draws the reader to look beyond what he is simply saying to how he is saying it. ’Just three meals a day’, is a mantra that reflects his frame of mind. He tries to take care of himself, when he chooses, who he will ‘consume’. And as we progress, this mantra becomes truly worrisome. The calmness he exhibitis is every bit that of the cold killer. But a killer is not how he see’s himself. That is more frightening than most things.
The girl, Becky, gives the reader the sense of isolation in the crowd. Though she is with her peers they more or less scorn her for seeing the reality of the situation. She accepts it without question yet the others are only seeing what they assume is going on. not what is really going on and that in itself proves fatal for them.
They are the stereotypical group of highschool friends. The ringleader, the followers, and the individual. The ringleader tells the others what to see, but the individual, ignores the mass opinion and forms her own.
You end up feeling truly sorry for Becky. Her peers scorn her, jeer at her then promptly die through the stubborness of adolescence. It happens so easily through their foolishness that you wonder if things would have gone differently had Becky asserted herself more, but as is ususally the case the individual against the group rarely wins, and so the group has paid the price of ignorance, and obliviousness.
It is truly itriguing how you begin this piece from the perspective of the man. Rarely do we see the world through the eyes of the killer, having to remain content with the bystander or the good guy. Tat perspective brings freshness to this piece. I would dearly love to read where this progresses.
Bravo!
poplockindropit reviewed Version 1 -
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Wow! I got chills your like a modern day edgar allen poe. Keep writing it though its to short. I love it.
DrowningDeep reviewed Version 1 -
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I really hope this isn’t the end of this story because I really like it. Please keep writing because you are really good at it.
Howard_Bushart reviewed Version 1 -
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Creepy as hell but that’s the point, eh? The story inside the plain man’s head goes on too long. Some will abandon the story, I think, if you don’t get us into it sooner. Given the title and the fact that it’s in the horror genre, it is no surprise what the plain man is talking about at the beginning so, really, there is no secret to keep. And the “three meals” repetition gets tedious pretty quickly. You can bring ‘Chelle and her crew in much earlier. In fact, you might consider the white guy and the Puerto Rican Chick in their element.
You have an excellent feel for setting, put us right in the subway car with the girls as they move from “rail to post” and show us the green lights on the old man. Very nice. And, once we’re in the subway car, the pacing of the story is very even, natural and nothing is forced.
I’d rethink the opening with an eye to severe cuts. Less is more in that passage I think. Good story. Good luck with it.
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