High Octane Devils and Gasoline Souls

[milktoaste]

It's a little bit Bonnie and Clyde, a little bit Thunderkiss '65. Hope you like it.

High Octane Devils and Gasoline Souls
Cheryl is a demon. Fire and brimstone, cute little horns and a tail attached to her pinup body. Men lusted over her, but Cheryl never loved anything other than herself and her tight red skin. That is until the day she met Charlie, Charlie and his classic pitch black Impala with the huge white ‘6’ painted on the hood.
Being a demon has it perks, really, and more than just immortality and soul swallowing. Demons are also great listeners and they are an excellent judge of character. Demons can also be incredibly loyal, smart as hell and impossible to see when they didn’t want to be seen.
But something happened inside of Cheryl, the day she watched his car growl past her on that old stretch of deserted desert highway. It was so black, no trim or shiny rims, it seems to actually darken the daylight sky around it. Something was beginning to pound inside of her, the beat of a heart that had never before existed. Somehow she knows this man is the cause for all the free souls she’d been finding in the area, not the squad car that regularly passed this very spot. She can’t look away as he slowly steps out of his car and searches the horizon for any sign of witness. Charlie saw nothing but the red desert sand glaring in the afternoon sun and sporadic desert shrubbery disappearing towards the distant mountain range. As I was saying, a demon can’t be seen unless a demon wants to be seen.
Cheryl makes sure to stay down wind of him. She would be a fool to think he could smell her, but something tells her not to take any chances. She carefully shortens the distance between them. ‘Was this the man dumping souls in the desert? What else would he be doing out here anyway? What sins was he trying to hide out here in the middle of nowhere?’ (And yes, you are just as likely to find a demon out here, in God’s beautiful open country, than anywhere else.) She watches like a hungry cat, as he suspiciously smokes his cigarette and walks back towards the trunk of the car. She has to get closer; curiosity drives her one step after the other. How close can she get? Ten feet, his key hits the lock, and the trunk pops open. She’s still too far to see what’s inside. Only six feet away now, she tries to peer into the truck and only manages to kick a few small pebbles at her feet.
Never had Cheryl seen a mortal man move that fast. Before she realized the sound of the small stones was caused by her, he had spun around, brandishing a previously unseen .45 which was now pointed directly into her chest.
No one ever got the beat on Charlie before, not ever. And the notion of someone doing so out here seemed completely impossible; still, he knew what he had heard. Beads of freezing cold sweet began to form all over his body before the percussion of his .45 could return from its tip to the nearby mountains. However, he was standing there all alone. Fortunately for demons, they can only be seen when they want to be seen.
“Whose there?” he calls out, turning several times. This time Charlie points his gun less like a sword, and more like a shield.
The desert was so quiet and peaceful under the blazing sun, it doesn’t take Charlie long to convince himself it was just a jack rabbit or roadrunner. So he returns his attention to the dead woman in his trunk, and replaces the pistol in the front of his belt.
Cheryl had been shot before, plenty of times. She’d also been stabbed, burned, drowned and once a priest even poured holy water all up in her hair. None of which has any real effect on a demon, other than to leave a really shitty first impression. On that note, remember not to ever, under any circumstances, mess with a demons hairdo. Actually, firing a bullet into the place you’d expect its heart to be, may be a much worse idea.
In fact, if Cheryl had felt one degree less interested about Charlie, this story would be over. Instead all Cheryl could do was smile. This man had not disappointed her. She’d met plenty of men who seemed to know evil was about them, and that thought would always make them afraid, afraid of their own actions, afraid of the damnation it would bring. That was the kind of fear that made men weak, and a weak human was worth no more than the soul they carried around inside of them. A soul is pure mass less energy after all. Anyone who ever counted a calorie or paid three bucks for a gallon of gas should learn to appreciate such a valuable resource.
Charlie wasn’t afraid of hell, he was cool as ice. He didn’t bother to lift the body out of the trunk, not that he wasn’t capable. He more or less dragged it out of his trunk by one of its legs. He dragged the half naked body off of the road about twenty feet and just let go of it there. He didn’t turn her face towards the sky or cross her arms and he certainly didn’t waste any of his time praying for her. Cheryl like that part best, because it was the moment she found how untouchable Charlie was, how different and free he was. It was that moment she decided not to let this man go.
Charlie knew this stretch of highway well; he knew the patch of desert it went through even better. How many bodies have you dumped out here Charlie? Fifteen, thirty, maybe even more? Charlie doesn’t really care, he lights another cigarette and secretly prays the coyotes eat all of it this time.
Charlie still has half of a cigarette left when he flicks the butt towards the body. His job is done here, no need to stick around; He turns his back on the body and slams the trunk lid closed. He stretches and cracks his back before reaching down to open the black car door. He doesn’t see Cheryl until he’s fully planted in the driver’s seat and the door is slammed tight.
Charlie couldn’t think fast enough to worry how in the hell she had gotten there, but suddenly she was and he recognized the tell-tale horns, and well, tail well enough. Never had he seen hands move so fast to grab him as he throws himself backward through the driver side door which he had just came in. Charlie falls flat on his back on the old pavement, rolls over and regains his footing, he spins while reaching for his gun. It was as if it were choreographed, the precision at which he nearly regained control, lifting his hand from the familiar place at the front of his belt, Charlie’s hand is empty.
Charlie’s .45 was spinning around Cheryl’s right index finger. “Don’t you know it’s illegal to dump your garbage out here?” she smiles. Charlie was a live one, standing all alone in the middle of the road pointing his finger at her like it was the gun he’d expected it to be. She was starting to like Charlie more and more.
“Get back in the fucking car.” She says, and who was going to argue?
Charlie doesn’t budge; his brain has instantly gone into overdrive. ‘Who the fuck is the red skinned bomb shell sitting shotgun Charlie? And how did she manage to get your gun so fast? How can you kill her, so you can get back on the highway?’
“You can’t, so why don’t you get back in your car before someone else shows up?” Cheryl motions him towards the car with his gun. “C’mon sweety, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
Charlie had never been so angry, to be at this end of his own gun, and yet so relieved that it be by the hands of such a beautiful angel. Never before had he been surprised like that, just where in the hell did she come from any way? Is she smoking your discarded Camel? If Charlie knew anything it was women, but this one didn’t care that he’d just dumped a corpse on the side of the road. He smiles; she wasn’t really pointing the gun at him anyway. ‘Just play it cool Charlie, you’ll know what to do.’ He carefully makes his way back into the drivers’ seat.
“Close the door, c’mon we ain’t got all day.” She waves the gun towards the door.
He takes a breath to speak but she interrupts him, “Charlie, in ten minutes there’s going to be a black and white car that’ll pass right by this very spot, and in that car is a very dangerous man, even more dangerous than you.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Just a lonely girl who happens to like your car.” She points the gun directly at him for the first time. “What’s your name?”
“Charlie”
She likes that name. “Well Charlie, I suggest you start the engine and get us the fuck outta here.”
“Us?”
“Start the fucking car.”
Charlie’s ’65 Impala roared to life with the likeness of a thousand junkyard dogs, the thought of every gasoline molecule being subjected to intense pressure and heat reminded Cheryl only of home. “You’d better get good and used to me Charlie,” she smiles,” Cause I’m not going anywhere.”
Officer Davis drives this same stretch of highway every day. There had been more frequent reports of human bones found out here, scattered by the coyotes they were almost impossible to identify.
The young woman’s body was easy to see. Same M.O., same patch of desert. Something was clearly different this time though. This time the perpetrator left a signature in the form an eighth of a mile pair of deep black tire tracks.
Officer Davis kneels beside one of burnt tracks, places his old Stetson on the asphalt beside him and kisses his grandmothers black rosary. Something had breathed a new passion into this unknown killer, and made him express himself in such a different way. He didn’t know what it was, but he starts praying anyway, something told him, he was going to need all the help he could get.

[Doc Faustus]

Nice premise, good, accessible folksy style. Once again, for flash you're using too much exposition. It's more interesting to reveal what something can do or how it works as it happens. When you write about something supernatural, don't force your hand. One author's vampire or demon might not be capable of what another author's vampire or demon is capable of and it's a lot more fun to watch it happen and reveal it as it does. If you're writing about vampires that can turn into acid spitting iguanas, don't say "Count Reptilicus loved turning into an acid spitting iguana which vampires can do." Instead:" "I have you now!" said Johnny Solomon, cocking his shotgun and preparing to give Count Reptilicus a belly full of blessed silver. Reptilicus didn't get a belly full of blessed silver, but Solomon got a face full of acid; the Count had transformed into a ten foot tall lizard like abomination and let loose a steaming green stream of vitriol."

[milktoaste]

I'm almost not sure why, but it makes perfect sence. Two days ago I completely blew up on my assigned reading group, three worthless 18 year old girls, and later discussed my displeasure with my professor. I'm getting a new group after spring break :) I told my prof. how I had been able to get much more valuable feedback right here, the only site I've posted a story on.

I am going to really work on this exposition issue, I'm obviously not that experienced a writer, but I will improve. I never expected to end up liking my characters, and their troubles so much.

Once again Doctor F., my apreciation is limitless.

[Doc Faustus]

If you want to find a roomful of people that are guaranteed never to see print, you can't do better than a Creative Writing workshop. You're more likely to find successful writers at Arby's.

[milktoaste]

Originally Posted by Doc Faustus

If you want to find a roomful of people that are guaranteed never to see print, you can't do better than a Creative Writing workshop. You're more likely to find successful writers at Arby's.

Are you saying I shouldn't have judged the girls so harshly? I suppose at first i wasn't really expecting much from them, but I also thought I could help them. I was wrong, so so wrong. Was expecting something different from a different configuration of students wrong?

Plenty of friends have read my shorter stories too, but without any sort of actuall writing background their feedback generally just consists of "I liked it." There really isn't any seperation between that type of responce and the ones I recieved from my group. Prof. Gillard promised me a 'good' group after the Spring Break, I'm sure you'll hear from me before then.

I wish. . . .

[Doc Faustus]

No, I'm saying that Creative Writing Workshops are really annoying.

[milktoaste]

Agreed. I hated everyone elses stupid stories anyway. If I have to hear "Oh, that's supposed to be left to the readers interpretation." one more freaking time. . .


. . . I probably will just complain about.

[Doc Faustus]

I hate when people say that. Everything is for the reader to interpret. It goes without saying what you write is for the reader to interpret, but writers of so-called literary fiction enjoy creating ambiguity to sound cool. That person should have just said "I want to be like Raymond Carver, but I'm not smart enough to communicate."

[ChronoGrl]

Originally Posted by Doc Faustus

No, I'm saying that Creative Writing Workshops are really annoying.

DITTO

I was so incredibly disillusioned by my creative writing classes in college - They always dissected the wrong things, missed the point, and their own submissions didn't have much imagination at all. I HATED it - The only good part was that it forced me to write, something that I do not make time for anymore... :(


But back to your story: My biggest issue is the same issue that I had with your first one; the tense... You go from present tense to past tense - I suggest just making it past tense; as Doc mentioned, the folky aspect of it is really fantastic - I felt as though this was more of an oral tale than a written narration; great tone.