think of a lyric that's been on your mind/stuck in your head recently (and if you don't have any, then just feel free to look for one that resonates right now) and write something based on it!
Max note: This one is from the archives, written in 2011 (post date: 2/17/25). When I was younger I wrote shorts inspired by lyrics often! When I saw this prompt I knew I had to share something older. This piece is a little spooky if you let yourself get into it. Inspired by the lyrics of "The Wretched" by NIN, I decided to write a take on human-like creatures called the Wretched. (Rereading it now, I can also see hints of other lyrics from the band Rancid.)
When we were kids, Calli and I, we never played at the playground like others our age. They were taller, tanner, richer, and possessed entirely separate difficulties on the path of life. We held hands under the tunnel at daybreak and watched the early-start runners puff their courses, hearts pounding resourcefully through their veins. The pump was visible, almost audible to our young, sensitive minds, and we fell in love experiencing mutual vibrations of hesitation.
We kept hidden until the beats per minute decreased and were gone. Without knowing they were held, we let out our breaths in giggles, doubled over at the stupidity of hiding in a free world. We did not yet know who we were or why we had both been shipped to the same corner of this murky planet. We only knew that we were similar enough to carry each other through the trials that we met. I never knew my mother; Calli never had one, she always said. My father was taken at sea while we traveled from the old country, and I look never looked back. Stationed with uncles who didn't share, but understood my afflictions, I was safe long enough to find love.
But we all know how quickly and quietly love stories fall apart. We made Autumn to commemorate our union; she was a precious child with Calliope's younger face. I donated my eyes and bits of feathery hair, and our daughter was born. My precious Calli was greedy, though, spoiled by the man who claimed to be her father but who bore neither name nor manneristic resemblance to her. He was a traveler, out on some twilight adventure, when Calliope served our final meal together.
Flesh it was, almost still throbbing and steaming from the kill. With hungry eyes, Autumn and I stared as Calli consumed her required portion of the feast, red juice dripping savagely and staining her clothes. Autumn turned her head to the front door but said nothing, only smiled. She still hadn't uttered her first word, but she knew of the hunger that plagues us all.
"What do you see, Dove?" I asked her sincerely, and though I perceived the slight shake of her head in my periphery, my eyes were ever focused on the meat in front of her mother. We'd each placed half our hearts in the girl, but Calli's half died and disintegrated long before mine gave up its efforts. I loved her still, but recognized her not as an emblem of our passion. She was, in short, just another creature who happened to possess me in a way I couldn't fully understand.
We were on the lawn in front of our small home in the woods. I don't know how we got there, whether it was some trick of drink or smoke, or if this was a power Autumn kept secret in all our affairs together, but she and I were in the grass mere seconds before flame burst through the dinner set and Calliope lay murdered, her soul piercing a thin line through the darkness as it left for home.
Her killer cheered and turned to us, but without the stench of that night's meat between our teeth, we were no threat, and so it turned and continued on to find, presumably, its next fleshy victim, innocent and full. I never discovered who set the beast upon us, but Autumn's fear drove us deeper into this country, until we met our new home, free of the Wrecked and swarming with Wretched.
Autumn survives easily wherever she goes. Born of this modern era, it's not difficult for her to comprehend and play their games. Her generation doesn't hide in the shadows. They know better how to keep their secrets, and so they can live openly and freely within the bounds of that restriction which broke Calliope and drove her to recklessness.
Her generation mingles. They go to the same schools, they play on the same grounds. I wonder sometimes if parents know the old ways or believe them enough to warn their children. I may not be capable of consuming within the town, but Autumn hasn't learned better yet, and my fear is always when and where she will finally strike. It's a wonder she hasn't yet.
We are staying with a family who has agreed to deem us relative. They know our plight, and they understand our ways. We sleep in the basement under lock and key and when Autumn must leave for school, we will sometimes find sustenance on the kitchen table after they've gone to work. I haven't had the heart to ask why or how they help, but I am eternally grateful for the convenience.
Autumn never mentions her mother, but I can't stop thinking of her. She is in every glance, every crowd, behind every mirror, and caught in Autumn's soul. I see her in the faces surrounding the after-school jungle gym where Autumn sits in the corner watching the other children. Mothers snicker and fathers shake their heads, but their kids are ambivalent. They care nothing for the strange girl who never joins them, until one day, as I watch the smile of a young mother. Calliope would have loved that smile.
The path of her eyesight was as certain as an overcast day in Liverpool. A little boy wearing a Thomas the Tank Engine shirt was approaching my little girl, and his mother had keen interest.
They've never seen one like her before, they don't know what they're dealing with. If she turns left while they turn right, they'll think we all turn left. If she eats the apple beside theirs, they'll think we all like apples; that's something in common, at least. By herself, she sits in the corner of the playground perfectly still, her legs crossed, shoulders squared forward but her head turned to the left. The other kids don't pay attention. The girl in the blue-grey dress just observes expressionless; sometimes she brings her thumbnail in between her teeth and nibbles, but she never bites down. We never break off the pieces that make us.
A lock of hair falls over her eye, but she doesn't flinch or move. Ben walks over to her with two trucks in his hands. He's smaller than the other children, placed in this class by parents who swear his intelligence level warrant him higher education. He doesn't talk yet, they say, but he can solve the puzzles that fifth year children find difficult. She blinks as he extends his hand to offer her a white truck. His eyes encourage her to take it, but still she doesn't move. He sighs and sits before her, "vrooms" the trucks back and forth while stealing glances for a reaction. Her eyes have shifted from the playground to the boy in front of her, but still she says nothing. They don't follow the movement of the vehicles; instead she watches his face. It's set in concentration on the task at hand: to push the trucks in front of the girl who won't include herself in the games of the other children.
I wonder if he is trying to show her it would be okay to play with him, or if he is just curious to know the differences. Maybe he's too young to know what she is. His mother might even be uncertain.
Playground incidents are never predictable, but they're expected. Parents, teachers, volunteers: They crowd the area, talking and joking but ever ready to jump in when a child falls or a big kid pushes over a little kid. It creates an odd sense of community. They may have never spoken otherwise, but today and every workday afternoon, they join to protect each other's children. They say that children are the future, but we have other ways of looking at the world. Ben walks away and she keeps her usual detached stance as if he never approached her. I know it's time to collect her, but we are watchful, inquisitive creatures. I wonder if she'll follow with her eyes, or if he'll return with a new game.
The sky is fickle; cement clouds roll in from beyond the stretches of sight. I breathe in the sweet scent of evergreen that always promises a clear, crisp winter. Autumn shrugs in the air and lets it out with a small huff; sensing my presence, she grudgingly tears her gaze from the other children. Her feet bring her slowly, but she comes without complaint, and without words takes my hand in hers.
Destination: Unknown. It's time to find a new home, the previous fortnight's location sucked dry of its use. We are not afraid of being found; they already know we're here. We know after decades of travel that they don't welcome us more than once. That the last family kept us for so long was unique. It's a solitary lifestyle, but just as Autumn was born into it, so was I, and so was my mother. Gender has no calling; we all follow the same instinct: To join, to create and solidify, and then to disappear.
"Did you have a good class today, Sweetie?" I ask, but my tone is business, not casual, caring parenting. She stares forward without response and I think perhaps she hasn't found her words yet. At her age it's common that she should find more use in thought than in verbal communication. Still, I encourage the idea of conversation. She'll need that skill to survive once I'm gone. After ten minutes we stop at a gas station to refuel. it is here that Autumn hints a recognition of life. A Twix bar and a bag of chips will always do that for her. I don't know who she got such cravings from, but they certainly weren't picked off from any of my stock.
She scarfs down the chips energetically and smiles, her angelic blue eyes hiding some playful secret. Moods much improved, we are able to pass as ordinary people when we visit a cousin of mine. His daughter shares our affliction; although he keeps us in the basement like everyone else, he understands the importance of a clean, dry place to sleep. A four year old should never have to feel a touch of poverty.
In the morning, I'm ravenous. Somehow my little girl manages nights better than the rest of us. The house upstairs is empty and when I jiggle the doorknob at the top of the stairs I discover it is unlocked. Autumn takes a deep breath; a greedy grin crawls across her cheeks, but I don't give her time to consume the generous treats left for us on the table. She's fed much more recently than I have, and the slow beat of my dying heart dictates a need for replenishment. Like a good daughter, she shrugs off the sacrifice and gathers her things for school.
Ben is waiting for her on the playground. He has a cut on his face, nothing too alarming, but forensics would tell his parents it was purposefully made. He likely indicated a fall.
Autumn sits in her usual corner, and he drives his toys in front of her. She is not any more interested in him despite the wound, but this doesn't concern me. I don't possess the power to read her thoughts, and most of the time no one can read her face, either. She will be strong like the best of us. She might even live to create her own. I never had her strength, only her mother did. I've no doubt the legacy will live on with her. We've all but died out in America, preferring more anonymous, ancient venues. I can tell that Autumn loves it here, though, and she will never leave.