Kathleen Hoyer “Emotional Abortion”

About the Author:

I live in Palm Springs, California with my fiance Mike and my pug Gus. I have a degree in English Literature from University of California, Irvine and am a voracious reader. I primarily wrote poetry, but am now venturing into the short story. I’ve been having a lot of fun with it and just letting my imagination go and writing uncensored. Part of the reason why I have not ventured into the short story sooner is because, when I did attempt it, I was always told to reign it in and censor it. I also sketch, paint, and do collages. I’ve had a love for horror ever since I was little thanks to my uncles who started me young.

“Emotional Abortion”

By Kathleen Hoyer

My skull is pregnant with the words I want to say to you.

Words conceived of confusion and silent rage.

Barely formed

these words fall stillborn from my lips.

Scraped from me.

I can’t even have those.

I allow you to take my words from me.

Hollow me out,

like a greedy child scooping out the guts of a pumpkin.

And I allow you!

I allow you to leave me silent.

My anger is a hot thing

as hot as the blood spilt before me.

You believe love and sadness binds my lips

Holds my tongue.

Your dominance and potential for violence hold my leash

keeps my jaws from snapping.

That which drew you to me is my undoing.

Your loaded silence

Your disgust at my weakness

Leaves me scraped, raw, and empty,

My mangled words

They’re pulled, brutal evidence at your feet.

This time there are no tears.

You are the one that is weak!

You are the one that needs me.

This unlocks something lying dormant inside me.

It stretches and turns its face toward the light.

My skull is fertile again.

My words grow.

My lips part and my words spill forth.

Who’s at the end of the leash now?

This emotional abortion practice is over.

Kathleen Hoyer “One Night Stand (?)”

“One Night Stand (?)”

By Kathleen Hoyer

We make our way up the stairs, drunkenly clinging to each other and laughing. We had been celebrating that he got a new job. I stumble on the stairs and fall forward, laughing. He hauls me up and we continue the trek to his third floor apartment. While he fumbles for his keys, I lean uncertainly in my heels against the doorframe, my eyes closed and the world spinning around me. He gets the door open and grabs my hand, pulling me into the cool darkness of his apartment. The door slams shut and I make a yip of surprise and then laugh at myself. We are enveloped in darkness and the hush that only 3a.m. can bring. He flips on the kitchen light and tosses his keys on the counter. He goes to the fridge, opens it and takes out a beer. I go to him and slide my hand up his spine and bring my body tight against his back. He relaxes into me and drinks from his beer. I reach my hands around him and stroke his chest. I bring my lips to his neck and kiss him. I am crossing a line, we’re friends, nothing more. But the alcohol has made me bold, or maybe I’m using the alcohol as an excuse. He goes still under my hands, his beer untouched. The laughter is gone. He turns around, putting his beer on the counter. My first thought is that I have indeed crossed a line and have acted on feelings that are not shared. He eases me back, my heels clicking on the hardwood, until I am backed against the front door. He cradles my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my jaw line.

He lowers his face to mine and whispers against my lips, “I’ve been thinking of doing this all night.”

Kathleen Hoyer “I Put A Spell On You”

“I Put a Spell on You…”

by Kathleen Hoyer

Prologue

“The urge towards love pushed to its limit, is an urge towards death”- Marquis de Sade

The candles flicker uncertainly in the light breeze that snakes its way through the open bathroom window. Three candles are set on the floor in the formation of a triangle; at the tip of the triangle is a black candle for binding, at the left corner a red candle for love, and at the right corner a purple candle for devotion. Carved into each candle are his and her initials. At the center of the candles is a shallow dish filled with water. Kyle kneels, surveying her work thus far. The candles are the only source of illumination, casting flickering shadows across her face, giving it a mask-like appearance. A derisive snort of laughter escapes her and she rubs her hands down her face.

“I can’t believe I am doing this. 28 years old and casting a love spell to make Jack want to be with me.”

She sighs and thinks, desperate times call for desperate measures. I have to have Jack.