Mark Allan Gunnells

         "I don't ever remember laughing as a child."

         Karen sighed and set down her fork, staring across the table at her eldest daughter.  "Christine, that's ridiculous.  You laughed plenty as a child.  I have pictures of you laughing."

         "No, Mother!" Christine shouted, slapping an open palm on the tabletop, causing their plates and glasses to rattle.  "I mean on the inside.  I don't ever remember laughing on the inside."

         Taking a sip of her tea and smoothing the napkin on her lap, Karen said, "I don't know what you want me to say, Chris."

         "I just want you to admit it, Mother.  Just stop all the b.s. and admit it."

         "Admit what, honey?"

         "What do you think?" Christine said, waving her arms wildly above her head.  "That you have no maternal instincts.  That you were not equipped to be a mother.  That you probably never should have had children."

         Karen exhaled explosively through her nostrils.  "Chris, I've had just about enough of this.  I have been a good mother.  You were never mistreated, you were never neglected, you always had everything you needed."

         "But you didn't teach me to cope," Christine said, a few tears leaking down her cheeks.

         "Cope with what?"

         "With life.  With everything."

         "Christine," said Suzanne, Christine's younger sister, from her end of the table, "I think Mom did a great job raising us.  I grew up in the same house you did, and I can cope just fine."

         Christine turned on her sister, eyes blazing.  "Suzanne, don't you feel that in relationships—love relationships as well as just friendships—that you are incapable of really giving of yourself?  I mean, isn't that how you feel, Suzanne?  Deep down, isn't that how you feel?"

         "No, Christine, that's not how I feel.  I'm perfectly capable of giving of myself; I give of myself plenty."

         "Everyone in this family is against me!" Christine screeched, pulling at her own hair.  "It's a conspiracy, that's what it is."

         Karen shoved her plate away and rubbed at her temples.  "What has gotten into you, Chris?  I don't know what has brought all of this on; you had a perfectly pleasant childhood."

         "Pleasant, yes, but not special, not exceptional."

         "Why are you being such a brat?" Suzanne said, glaring at her sister.  "We have a great Mom, and we had an almost ideal childhood."

         "Ideal on the surface," Christine shot back.  "But there was all this stuff seething underneath that we never talked about or dealt with."

         "What exactly did we never talk about?" Karen asked.  "Please, tell me, what issue did we never deal with?"

         "Stuff," Christine whined.  "We never talked about all this stuff."

         "Well, let's talk about it then," Suzanne said.  "We're all here, let's get it all out in the open."

         "Oh, I can't talk to you people," Christine wailed to the ceiling.  "No one understands what I'm—"

         Christine's tirade was interrupted by a loud crash and splintering wood and breaking glass as an unspeakable beast erupted from the dining room floor.  It was well over nine feet, seemingly made of stone and hair, eyes red and lips foaming, spiked horns running from its scalp down its back.  Malice poured from it in palpable waves, and it looked at the three women with unadulterated fury.

         Karen and Suzanne screamed and clung to one other, cringing on the floor. 

         "Do you mind?" Christine said, grabbing a steak knife and rising from the table.  In a single fluid motion, she struck out and jammed the knife into a soft spot under the creature's chin.  "We're trying to have a private family conversation."

         The beast howled, a sound that roared through the house like a cyclone, and clutched at its throat.  Its rocky flesh began to crumble until it was nothing but a pile of dust and pebbles in front of the gaping hole in the floor.

         As Karen and Suzanne trembled in each other's arms, breath coming in hitching gasps, Christine strolled nonchalantly back to the table, hands on her hips.  "Where was I?" she said.

         Speaking through her tears, Karen said, "Christine, are you alright?"

         "Why shouldn't I be?" Christine said with a shrug.

         "A hellbeast just burst through our floor!" Suzanne screamed.

         Glancing at the splintery mess and the rubbley remains of the beast, Christine simply said, "Yeah, weird.  Anyway, don't change the subject, we're not done with this discussion just yet."

         Glancing down at the table, Christine saw that her glass had overturned in the tumult and spilled her soda.  "Is there any more Diet Coke?" Christine asked.

         "N-no," Karen stammered, her eyes wide and blank.  "That was the last of it."

         An inarticulate scream, which competed with the howl of the beast for inhuman rage, erupted from Christine's throat and she threw the glass across the room, where it smashed against the china cabinet.  "Why do these things always happen to me?" she shouted.  "I can't take this anymore, I've got to get out of this house.  This family is a wreck."

         Christine stormed from the house, slamming the door behind her, leaving her mother and sister sobbing on the dining room floor.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Mark Allan Gunnells

Mark Allan Gunnells is thirty-one years old and still lives in his hometown of Gaffney, SC.  He holds a degree in English and Psychology.  While he has held an eclectic variety of jobs, writing remains his true passion and ambition.

 

 

Cover: "Alien Tower" 

Copyright 2006, L. S. King

A homeschooling mom, and a gramma, L. S. King taught martial arts for years, and currently coaches gymnastics. She loves Looney Tunes and the color purple, and adores Zorro, which might explain her fascination with swords and capes. When on the planet, she lives with her husband and youngest child in Delaware.

Visit her website Loriendil's Dreamland < loriendil.com > to read her published short stories or her blog.