It’s three a.m., and I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because of the dog.
It’s not a real dog, mind you; at least not in the way you or I would think of it as being real. I could go over there and try to to touch it, but I think my hand would pass right through it. I say “think” because I’ve never had the guts to try it.
That’s because I can see it just fine from where I’m sitting right now, and it’s nothing that I would want to touch. It looks like a normal dog, like one of those little froo-froo dogs that you always see sticking their heads out of the socialite-du-jour’s handbag, except that the crown of it’s head is pulsing rhythmically. Like it’s breathing.
I shift in my chair, and this is the signal the dog’s been waiting for, apparently. It’s skull opens up with a sound like someone losing their boot in thick mud, and the opening starts spewing out roaches.
They come swarming out like the dog is some hellish pinata that some unfortunate child just fetched a solid whack. The roaches are like a living sea engulfing my living room, crashing over my bookcases, my TVstand, my ottoman. In a few minutes, those waves will breach against the chair I’m sitting in, and I may or may not feel that horrible tickling as the roaches skitter up my arms, their little legs pumping double-time as they scramble over me, going nowhere as fast as they can. I don’t know if I’ll feel it. All I know is that one way or the other, I’ll scream.
So I do the only thing I know how to do.
There’s a half empty bottle of bourbon sitting next to me on the end-table, the cap already off. I lift the bottle to my lips, and the sea recedes a little bit.
The dog’s panting now. I can see it’s pink little tongue lolling out of it’s mouth, but only just. The power company turned me off today. Can’t say that I blame them either. I’ve been spending all my money on booze. I have to.
I’m not a drunk, or at least not by choice. And these aren’t the DT’s, either. It’s not like this started because I stopped drinking my morning fifth of Jack or anything. Before this started, I’d never touched a drop in my life.
As to what this is, I don’t know. The easy answer would be that I’m dead, and this is Hell. But I’m not dead. Nor does Hell have 24-hour liquor stores, at least not to my knowledge. All I really know is that it changes every night. Last night it was a baby. The night before it was my mother.
The first time it happened, it was me.
It never does the same thing twice, either. Like these roaches. This is new. And the dog, that’s new too. It’s never done animals before.
I’m not a drunk, or at least not by choice. It’s just that alcohol is the only thing that helps.
The dog stands up, it’s head still parted in that obscene mouth. The cockroaches are still pouring out of it’s head in endless waves. The dog doesn’t seem to notice, though, and begins to pace my apartment.
It acts like a real dog. It looks like one, except for that mouth. The dog putters around my apartment, sniffing. After a moment, it stops by a barstool that I used to use, back when I didn’t have to drink my three square.
It sniffs the leg of the stool, and, finding something about the stool that it likes, lifts its leg.
I can see the piss hitting, the bar stool, I can hear the thin trickle-hiss sound that belongs to that act alone, and there’s no puddle forming at the foot of the stool.
The roaches are still coming, and the living sea has become a living carpet. The cockroaches are probably two or three deep on the floor now, and yet I still have about two feet of clear, pristine floor all to myself.
The alcohol is keeping them back. I drink to this.
The dog’s inspection is apparently done, and he pads back over to his spot and sits on his haunches. Thus settled, he locks eyes with me and just sits there, as calm as Buddha in the midst of the thrashing, roiling sea my dining room has become.
I went to the doctor today. That’s what you do when you’re feeling sick, you go to the doctor.
My dining room has reached critical mass, it seems. At least horizontally, anyway. The roaches are starting to stack on top of each other, and they’ve managed to get about six inches high.
For a moment, I wonder how many roaches it takes to fill an 8×10 dining room, but then I stop and add it to the mental filing cabinet marked Things I’m Probably Better Off Not Knowing.
The dog is still sitting there calmly, even though the roaches are up to his chest now. He looks like he’s grinning at me.
A single roach breaks through the barrier and starts skittering over to me. A nip off the bottle makes it leap into the air as though it’s just been goosed, and retreat back to the sea. Safety in numbers, I guess.
I knew what the doctor was going to say even before he said it. I mean, you drink as much as I do, then you have to know that even if you don’t have it right at this moment, the check’s in the mail.
The roaches are higher now. If the dog had been wearing a collar, then the roaches would be at collar-level now. In a few minutes, the dog will be swallowed by that pulsing, jittery sea, and still it sits, as cool as a cucumber.
Cirrhosis of the liver. It’s done, crapped out on me. The doctor told me he could put me on the list for a new one, but it’s a long list. I told him not to bother. I’d just wear the new one out, too.
The dog’s up to the first mouth in roaches now, and that second mouth is still spewing roaches. I can’t see it’s little pink tongue anymore, but the dog’s eyes tell me what it’s tongue can’t. Still cool as a cucumber, they say. Yes sir, everything’s right as rain.
The doctor pleaded with me, almost. He told me that I was still a young man, with my whole life ahead of me. I told him that’s the part that worried me, and walked out.
The roaches seem like they’re ready to burst the seams of whatever it is that’s holding them back. But I’m not ready for that. Not yet. I take another swig and the roaches start toeing the line again.
I lose sight of the dog, but not before I see his eyes one last time. No sweat, those eyes say. Happens all the time, those eyes say. Cool as a cucumber, those eyes say.
I hope I’ll be that calm.
The bottle’s almost empty. Not that it’s the last one. Not even close. But I asked myself today, what’s the point?
The roaches are coming faster now, rising steadily past the bar stool, the table, the TV stand. In a few minutes, they’ll be ready to burst the seams again, right around the time the bottle gives up it’s last taste.
The liquor cabinet’s in here, only a few feet from where I sit. I can get up and grab another bottle of bourbon without stepping on a single roach.
But I asked myself today, what’s the point?
So I think I’m going to try and follow that dog’s example.
The sea of roaches has become a wall of roaches, six foot high and rising. They’re also starting to bulge against the boundaries again.
In my head I keep seeing the dog, pink tongue lolling without a care in the world even as the roaches come spewing out, covering the dog, suffocating it.
The bourbon is almost gone, two swigs at most. I drink to this.
The roaches slow for a moment, but it doesn’t matter. They’re already higher than the archway that connects the two rooms, and I’d bet they’re at least eight feet high.
I see that dog again, and I wonder if I’ll be as calm, as cool as a cucumber. I doubt it. I don’t know if I’ll feel it or not when they swarm over me. All I know is that one way or the other, I’ll scream.
I look down the neck of the bottle, see the last sip sloshing at the bottom. The roaches are already trying to burst the seams again, and it will take a lot more than what’s in the bottle to stop them. What’s more, I’ve waited too long. Even if I took this last sip on the way to the liquor cabinet, I don’t have time.
I drink to this.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
This is great. Mines very similar terrain as The Pit, obviously but it’s not repetitive. It’s a different character w/ more in depth psychology. Just a similar style. I would say your genre is “hard boiled horror” or “noir horror” if I believed in genres. I guess I do and this is how I would pitch yourself in query letters to agents and publishers. The deadpan style is great and terse, which you know I’m a fan of. examples like “The power company turned me off. Can’t say I blame them.” and “I went to the doctor today. That’s what you do when you’re sick.” You also have a gift for some memorable turns of phrase in this one like “socialite du jour’s handbag.” Of course, you still refuse any explanation for “the horror, the horror” (um sorry that was pretentious”...”these aren’t the DTs”...”As to what it is, I don’t know.”
you’re onto some great stuff. Get published motherfucker, Kootz and King are fairly played out and there’s nothin’ new out there like this that I know of.
greg
Wow! This was very fun to read. You have some very intense descriptions, and you keep the reader engaged the entire time. I like how you jump back in time for very brief (hints of) memories, interrupting the present horror.
Some suggestions:
“just fetched a solid whack” – I don’t think “fetched” is the right word. ’Fetch’ means ‘to retrieve’, not ‘to give’.
“breach against” – not sure this works – maybe just ‘reach’.
“The power company turned me off today.” – maybe ‘cut me off’ instead?
“and the living sea has become a living carpet.” the “sea” is actually a more intense visual than the “carpet” – you might cut that part – especially since you later refer to it as a “thrashing, roiling sea”.
A good way to lengthen this would be to go into a bit more detail about the previous experiences with the dog, e.g. the baby and the mother.
Also, I think you might give us the last gruesome bit of the story, just to send us over the edge of sublime macabre disgust.
Fantastic and intruiging story – keep writing!
This is just a personal opinion. I don’t like the title. I think you can come up with something more creative and alluring.
In the second paragraph your use of a semi-colon is a bit jarring. I would use an em-dash instead (--). ”It’s not a real dog, mind you--at least not in the way you or I would think of it as being real.” Whenever you use a semi-colon, you have to ask yourself if you can replace it with a period. If you can’t, then you’ve used it incorrectly.
Maybe it’s because your narrator is drunk, but I’m confused when you compare the dog to a real dog, you say that it’s just like a real dog except that it’s breathing. Don’t real dogs breathe? Later you talk about its two mouths, so maybe you’d be better off saying that it was just like a real dog except that it had two mouths. At least it would make more sense later when you bring pull this detail out of nowhere.
One of my problems is that I use the word ‘seem’ too much, and I’ve picked up on you doing it too, but you also over-use apparently. If it’s apparent, you don’t have to state that it’s apparent.
“For a moment, I wonder how many roaches it takes to fill an 8×10 dining room, but then I stop and add it to the mental filing cabinet marked Things I’m Probably Better Off Not Knowing.” This is my favourite line so far. It’s the first relatable line I’ve come across, the first line with real truth.
“If the dog had been wearing a collar, then the roaches would be at collar-level now.” This could be replaced with “The dog was up to his neck in roaches.” Don’t complicate things. You have to remember that your narrator is drunk—he’s not going to be so articulate.
This is the first mention of the two mouths, and it’s confusing as hell: “The dog’s up to the first mouth in roaches now, and that second mouth is still spewing roaches.” I have no idea what that means.
You’ve got to ditch the clichés—or at least trim them down. You can’t use “cool as a cucumber” twice and so close together (and a bunch more times later). Clichés are lazy, they make me want to quit reading (which is also lazy, but if the author doesn’t want to put in the effort, why should I?).
”...but the dog’s eyes tell me what it’s tongue can’t.” Huh? Also “it’s” means “it is”. The word you’re looking for is “its”.
There are some grammatical errors that you should rectify. I suggest you get a copy of Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style. It will help you sort out some of those unnecessary commas.
“The roaches seem like they’re ready to burst the seams of whatever it is that’s holding them back.” I don’t get this line. I don’t like how you used “seem”, especially when you put the other “seam” in the same sentence. This piece would work a lot better if things did not seem to be but just were. You would keep the reader in the moment more, and for a piece like this I think that is important.
“In a few minutes, they’ll be ready to burst the seams again, right around the time the bottle gives up it’s last taste.” Now it sounds as though the roaches are going to burst out of their skin instead of this imaginary border that holds them back. Again with “it’s”. If you’re serious about publishing, that’s something you should know.
“the roaches start toeing the line again.” This is the first time you mention toeing the line, so how can they be doing it again? Besides that, it’s just another cliché that you can do with out.
I know that I’ve focused more on the negative than the positive, but I’m not here to coddle you. If you show this to an editor they’d be a lot harsher. Clichés are redundant on their own, so, before you can think of publishing this, you’ve got to can them—especially the repeated ones.
I don’t know what you want me to walk away with from this story. Right now all I’m thinking is “So what?” Who has time for alcoholics?
This is a good short story, alcoholics do get hallucinations if they are trying to get off the booze , but i’m not sure if the narrator in this, is doing that or if there is another problem causing his visions, or if infact the horror will become reality. I think thats what makes this a good absorbing read.
TVstand – TV stand
Coma’s are not neccesary where and is used.
Semi-colon after stores; at least not to my knowledge. (narrator is thinking).
Well written an creepy
I reread your story quite a few times. I am trying to see what the dog and the roaches symbolize. Once I think its the “dt’s” but you clarify its not. Maybe its symbolic to the disease that one cannot control. The dog is the liver and the roaches are the disease that will continue to spew from it into the body which is the room you sit. Definitely see the denial that he is not an alcoholic. In the end, possibly he sees that he waited to long to get control of the drinking and no matter if he quits or not the disease has won. Maybe i did nit understand it, but enjoyed it.
I drink to this story. I could see the dog; feel the roaches swarming. You set the mood perfectly; the hopelessness, the disparity. i didn’t want to stop reading. your descriptions were unreal. It made my skin crawl, all the while putting a smile on my face. You’re very talented. Keep it up
This kind of story is why I love reading short stories. The voice of the character is strong and the story is just enough in reality to lend credence the bizarre events. I’m sure some people will take issue with the fact that there is no explanation as to what is going on. Personally I find that to be part of the charm. Aspects of it ring out with horror, though I wouldn’t label the story itself as horror.
There are a few errors, typos mostly, that you could pick up with another run through of the story. But overall I would say it’s pretty much fit to print.
Holy crap.. that was an intense opening. Dogs with their skulls splitting open, spewing out roaches is an eye catcher. Do not change this part.
So, hes not an alcholic.. maybe its just me.. but I actually want to belive that his altered state is due to something other then the DTs but at the same time im reminded of “A Scanner Darkly” in that their are lies we tell ourselves in order to cope with a truth we dont want to confront. Very intense stuff, im enjoying this story.
Your description of the dogs and roaches is repulsivly good, I can picture them and I get the willies thinking about it.
He goes to the doctor. I enjoyed the portion read together, broken up it seemed disjointed and didnt work. I know you were trying to space it out, his thoughts and his previous actions, but it just didint work for me. Id prefer it, if it was kept together.
What an ending. This is magnificient. You could write a novel out of this and you should. Maybe a collection of short stories, maybe the people he spends time with. Its intense, and i really hope you get published.
Excellent story. Creepy with a touch of sadness. I really like the voice of the character, and your descriptions are very good.
You had a few mechanical errors, some possessive misuse and a couple of misplaced commas, but nothing too terrible.
“Things I’m Probably Better Off Not Knowing.” Everybody has one of these file drawers. This one was a nice touch, providing a little bit of humor. The repetition of “I drink to this” was a nce refrain throughout the story.
Good luck in getting this published!
The truth is it’s… disgusting, and [TO ME] there’s a difference between being disgusting for the sake of a purpose and being simply disgusting.
I guess you’d have to ask yourself what you’re doing. I don’t read a purpose in this, and I don’t want you to be offended, but maybe I’m missing your purpose in your writing.
I feel like shock value is one thing, but is your purpose to decry the use of alcohol, or celebrate it? Do you want your reader to know your pain or your joy? Are you letting us know you or how you want to change?
Where is the purpose? If I could have seen that, I would have said so, but I cannot see it.
Good luck,
-Geisha
Showing 1 - 10 of 12
Next →
Ratings & Rankings
Review item
Add to faves
