Porcelain Offerings

By Simon Logan

Artwork by Simon Logan

The only other time in her life that Alanis Hawthorn could recall feeling such a profound sense of relief as she did now was when she was sixteen and was let off with just a caution after setting the gym hall on fire.

She had been traveling for almost a full day straight now, making it 14 days in all, and had been just about ready to collapse when she had seen the old, rusting gas station sign swinging noisily in the wind - which was strange, because she felt no such breeze. Probably just loose on it’s hinges then.

Her backpack felt heavier than ever before, regardless of the fact that she had discarded a great number of items that she could see now were useless extremities rather than part of that strange group of items known as the bare essentials. The past 14 days had taught her a lot about what she really needed and what she could live without.

The past 14 days had taught her a lot period.

But it was not that backpack that was the cause of her concern and irritation. It wasn’t the long, winding dusty roads she had been traversing either. Nor was it the golden, burning sun that looked like a mirage up there, the way it oozed around the ether; at least, it wasn’t the sun directly.

It was her damned stomach.

Ever since passing through the outskirts of Houston almost a week ago now that particular part of her anatomy had ceased acting with her in her struggle for freedom and became her enemy - with a little help, of course. Perhaps it had been something she ate; perhaps the relentless heat; perhaps neither, or both. Whatever was causing it, for the past three days especially as it had gotten a hell of a lot worse recently, it meant her sticking close to bushes, trees and abandoned roadways so at the slightest sign of trouble down there she could rush off, squat, and leave the stinking mess that erupted from her in a neat little pile (more accurately, a puddle) for the sun to dry up or birds to peck at. She was getting used to the weak shaking the event left would leave in her legs, but the smell! It was like nothing she had smelled before - even including the time she had been at a Greenpeace-wannabe demonstration and ended up accidentally knocking over the vat of toxic chemicals they were there to try and stop being dumped. It had only been on the roadside, so no harm was done, but god did it reek! Still, she would gladly take that now. In comparison it’s scent was as pleasing as a fresh rose.

And it was this more-than-minor complaint that had been worrying her for the past, what, ten miles? She lost track of everything when the rumbling started, so it could have been a lot longer, or a lot less.

It always started with a warmth building in his mid-section. Not a pleasant warmth, though. An ugly warmth. Then that would increase until there was a painful heat swirling around. And swirling was exactly the right word, because that was what it felt like - like a slippery, fiery snake that was coiled up inside her and was chasing it’s own tail around and around in circles. Next came the lull. It was misleading, how the burning left her and only a pleasant tickling was left, and had tricked her this way for the first few days, until she had caught on that it was merely the calm before the storm. A vast, gushing storm, with an aroma to make you retch and appearance to do the same would soon follow, leaving her gasping for air and shaking furiously from the sudden loss of intake.

When what she now recognized to be a gas station had first appeared on the oily, wavering horizon she had been in that lull for a little over three hours. It used to be a welcome relief, if only for a short while, but now it was merely a taunt, reminding her what was to come and, she was sure, trying to wait until her guard was down before spilling her guts.

As she had advanced, shading the brilliant, penetrative light up above with one hand while the other rested calmly on her traitorous stomach in what she supposed was the physical equivalent to the white flag of surrender, the shimmering image before her took on the more solid form of a rickety old gas station.

The main building was small; a shack. It had a single, large window that was full of dust, both on the inside and out, so would reveal nothing of the interior, even if she had decided to look in. A pair of grotty-looking pumps stood like two ancient, towering islands in the middle of a sandy ocean, or a strange, less impressive (and less successful) version of Stonehenge. A sign that predated neon swung with the gait of an old man from a pole splintering from years of wet-rot. Somewhere an electric fan was blowing. The chances of this place having a working toilet were almost nil, and even if there was one it would no doubt be in such the same state of disrepair are the rest of the station. Rats, maybe.

But if it meant one less time squatting behind a bush and praying to God that no one would come along (because once it had started, there was absolutely, positively no chance of stopping it), then it would be worth it.

The pleasant tickling was present, and was sharpening into pins and needles as she stepped across the piping that would signal the arrival of another car. On second thoughts, when she saw no sign of life, she edged backwards and pressed down hard on the pipe with the heel of her DM’s. A frail drrinng sounded.

For a few moments nothing happened, except the wind that she did now feel continued to blow, her legs continued to ache, and her stomach continued to ridicule her.

It was going to happen - soon.

She rubbed her thighs together and clenched her buttocks in a vain attempt to hold off the inevitable process, knowing that it would do no good anyway, but feeling the need to do something.

Then there was a creak, a creak more animated than the lifeless, time-automated ones that inhabited the old building itself, and an elderly man emerged from behind the place. He wore a pair of jeans that had presumably fitted him once, but now hung loosely of his bony hips, and a checked shirt which was just as accommodating. He looked surprisingly clean for a gas station attendant; not a drop of oil, as far Alanis could see.

Not wanting to waste any time (rumblerumble) she asked him if he had a bathroom she could use. He eyed her suspiciously at first and she thought he was going to ask her to buy something first like that guy had back in Houston, but then he nodded and disappeared back into the shack. A moment later he came back out with a key chained to a block of wood. He had trouble carrying the block, and had to cradle it in both arms.

"Hea ya go" he said in a thick, soupy southern accent. He smiled, displaying a mouthful of blackened and mispositioned teeth. "Don furgeet tu floosh, y’hear?"

Alanis nodded and took the key, wood and all. She wanted to seem congenial (after all, he was letting her use his bathroom for free) but at the same time struggling against the offensive mahogany flow that was soon to arrive at platform number 2.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem at all interested in conversation (like why a pretty young girl would be wandering around the dusty roads of the deep south all by herself) and walked back around behind the shack before she could even thank him.

She wouldn’t be caught looking a gift horse in the mouth, however, and made straight for the bathroom, which the old man had pointed out to her during his retreat.

She slipped the key into the rusted lock (everything seemed rusted around there - even the old man himself) and it turned with surprising ease. Fluidity, even.

The bathroom was dark, as expected, but did not stink to high heaven, nor did it house the squeaks that would signal a roach or rodent infestation. In fact, when Alanis flipped the lightswitch that was situated to the right of the doorways, she saw it was a pretty damn nice bathroom. Not perfect, of course. Not a gold-trimmed, gleaming job like ol’ Daddy’s, but that was what she had wanted to get away from, right? From perfection. From complete cleanliness; polished floors and sparkling faucets.

The place was almost entirely white. The floor was carpeted with milky tiles, arranged in concentric circles that twirled inwards and ended at one, larger sanguine one. Three cubicles lined the wall to her right and from the way they glittered it was apparent they had been recently painted. A pair of old-fashioned sinks were on the wall to her left, with long thin necks and wide, shallow basins, situated below a large, gleaming mirror that made the room look twice the size it actually was.

It was strange to see such a pleasant looking bathroom amid such a run-down, ramshackle establishment. Relatively speaking, of course. It was still curling at the edges and the walls were a disturbing shade of yellow; but it was worlds better than the places she had been frequenting lately.

It was as if this was the only place the old man bothered to clean at all.

The scene stopped Alanis in her hurried tracks and one word entered her mind; haven. This place was a haven to her.

But she had no longer than that brief instant to reflect on that thought before the pins and needles in her stomach began their stabbing again. She slammed the door shut behind her, and locked it, as from the view in the mirror she could see the cubicles had no doors on them. A minor drawback on an otherwise exquisitely flawless bathroom. Or perhaps it was the fact that it wasn’t completely flawless that made it so attractive to her.

She then dropped the key and it’s timber chaperone to the ground, hearing a satisfying clank as it hit. She dashed to the middle cubicle, subconsciously seeing it as the one with the most protection, (she may be independent, but she was still a scared little girl too) and pulled off her rucksack from her back. She forsook it at the stall’s entrance.

She snatched a brief glimpse of the toilet before she turned from it and found it as strangely satisfying as the rest of room.

Then, with a kind of sick curiosity, she watched herself in the over-sized mirror that faced her from across the room as she unbuttoned her jeans and let them puddle around her ankles. Then, with ever increasing haste, slid down her visibly childish underwear with cartoon dispatch past her knees and literally collapsed down onto the seat as the discharge commenced.

It was over, mercifully, a lot quicker than she had imagined it would take, and this hopefully signaled the beginning of a recovery from whatever ailment it was that was plaguing her.

The cloud of sticky aroma that had gathered in the cubicle was already beginning to dissipate thanks to the cool winds that blew through the broken air conditioning fan overhead and one flush had gotten rid of the most of it.

She continued to sit on the toilet for a few more minutes, knowing that a single burst rarely meant the end of it, no matter how empty her stomach may have felt. She watched herself in the mirror.

Her face was drawn, beginning to lose some of the freshness that was a result of a well-to-do upbringing, but she that would just be the effects of the bug. She was still pretty, with a slim face and prominent (but not too prominent) features; she was especially proud of her nose, which was strong and straight, but not huge, like her mother’s. She could see her arms quivering as they clutched to the side of the seat even from all that way away.

Something creaked under her.

It was a strange sound, considering it’s source (she didn’t recall ever hearing porcelain creak before), and was made even stranger by the silence which had fallen upon the bathroom. She held her breath to be certain she had heard the noise correctly if it sounded again. It did, and she had.

Alanis shifted ever so slightly on the toilet, suddenly feeling very exposed.

It’s the pipes she thought, using the reflection in the mirror to enhance the scenario of addressing herself. They probably haven’t been used in years. That flush has probably just re-awakened them, that all. Not to mention the more-than-modest cargo I unloaded onto it must be putting a little strain on it’s aging system.

That’s all the voice, her voice, echoed.

She looked at herself in the mirror again and nodded in an exaggerated manner, hoping it would re-assure her. It did. A little.

At least, that was, until a new sound emerged from the shining bowl beneath her. A deeper, more sinister sound. A sound that she couldn’t write off as perfectly normal, no matter how hard she tried.

It was more akin to the growl of a dog with it’s hackles up than anything a lavatory should make.

Slowly, and regretting it all the way, Alanis parted her legs, so that the watery darkness beneath her became visible.

The inside of the bowl glittered just as much as the outside did, and she suspected that the small pool of water that occasionally swished from side to side at the bottom was a lot darker than normal; the result of a not entirely successful flush.

She gazed into that pool without quite knowing what she was looking for. As she did so, the scent of her own offerings returned to her stronger than ever and made her whip her head back up again, before she returned it to the darkness, this time with one hand clamped tightly over her mouth and nose.

Then her heart skipped a beat.

Something had moved inside it.

It’s just the pipes clogged up a little the voice in her head told her. The voice of reason. The voice of logic.

She was no longer hearing that voice.

The mud-water shimmered again and for the briefest of moments Alanis thoughts she glimpsed something in there. But what? A discarded condom? A used tampon? A fucking flushed pet alligator?

She laughed out loud at her own last suggestion, which was strange, because she hadn’t laughed once since running away. That it would happen now seemed twisted.

When there was another movement, and this time she glimpsed white, something white, she finally stood up. Thoughts of being seen with her underwear wrapped around her ankles or being caught a second wave of stink had left her mind, it seemed. She had become hypnotized by the peaceful swaying the water was making.

But it was no longer peaceful, was it? It was reaching further and further up the bowl. Now it actually splashed over the side, and Alanis took a small step back (the only kind she could take until she redressed herself).

The water, the liquid, was not clear as it should be, or even a little stained with brown clods. It was black. Pure, deadly black. Like a summer night back in Denver. Black.

As she watched in morbid fascination, she was certain the bowl was filling up with the midnight stuff. It was splashing around inside there and reflecting the overhead lights in wavering circular patterns, as if the light itself was being sucked down in a miniature vortex. The seat rattled under the growing tremblings.

Alanis couldn’t move. She was rooted to the spot by what was happening before her.

The motions were getting much more violent now - so much so that generous splashings of blackness were being thrown out of the vortex, splattering onto the walls of the cubicle and the floor by her feet. However, once it hit the tiling, it did not spread as it should have. Instead, it seemed to gather itself up, drawing in upon itself slowly, very slowly. The stuff on the walls was doing the same too; pulling itself into smaller, but much denser, patches that were making no effort to obey gravity and slide down to the floor.

It was alive.

Her fear finally faltered for a moment, and Alanis managed to retreat out of the cubicle. The movement was too fast, though, and she forgot her jeans and underwear were still around her ankles. She stumbled awkwardly and came crashing down onto her back, her head just missing the set of two sinks.

When she looked up, slightly dazed, she noticed that the ebony glop had now left the walls and was gathering in one, larger pool just inside the stall. It grew with frightening speed as more and more of the stuff spilled forth from the bowl. It now had the consistency of the clear honey her momma used to keep in the cupboard for cold winter nights, when they would all sit around the fireplace and dip toast in a jar of the stuff. It was frothy now, too, with bubbles forming and bursting all over it’s surface.

"Jesus Christ" Alanis uttered as she stiffed her arms and sat up. The tiles were freezing cold underneath her and were already beginning to numb her buttocks but she wasn’t even aware of it. This place obviously has worst plumbing than I thought.

There was then a respite in the gunk’s bubbling and spilling. She didn’t move at first, thinking it to be only momentary, but when, after thirty seconds, it was still inert, she got to her feet, leaving a tan smear on the sparkling white floor. She reached down slowly, always watching the black stuff, and fumbled around her ankles for her underwear, then hitched them on. The gunk was still quiescent as she pulled on her jeans; she left them unbuckled and open, though, as a bubble appeared in the stuff then burst.

It was spreading out now. But not in all directions; only towards her. It was starting to form a clear-cut path of darkness through the white.

She glanced at the door. The key lay discarded beside it, pinned under it’s accompanying timber block.

But at the exact same time that the thought of escaping crossed her mind, the liquid, as if in answer, began to quicken it’s advance on her, and split off a fluid tendril that slithered towards the door. She edged backwards until the rim of one of the sinks slid under her backside.

The stuff was spreading outwards now as it came closer, cutting off any other means of escape before she could even consider them.

By this point, she had stopped think. She was going on pure instinct. After all, could logic deal with a charcoal mess with a grudge against her? Could reason guide her through the perils of being threatened by living pools of turd-water?

The stuff was surrounding her now; it had formed a moat of blackness around her and the two sinks and although it wasn’t even half an inch deep, it stretched back for several meters, linking with the yellowing walls in some places. She was about to ease herself into the sink itself to protect her feet from the liquid’s menace, but noticed that it was quiescent yet again. (Plus, she doubted the sink could take her weight anyway).

Her backpack seemed miles away, stranded in an ocean of sable. She glanced behind her to see if there was something she could use to attack or distract, but there wasn’t even a worn-down bar of soap. But at least the stuff had ceased it’s fluid march. She had an area of safety, at least for the moment.

The sea stirred before her. A bubble formed, then popped. Tremors, small, almost unnoticeable, seemed to be running across it’s surface now like miniature tides.

It was stalking her.

What do you want? he mind asked. But her mouth wouldn’t open enough to speak it.

As she studied it, cautiously poking her toe out at the edge of the ocean to test it’s response, there was a faint noise behind her. She didn’t notice it at first, but as it repeated itself, over and over, over and over, her heart began to quicken.

Before she had even had time to register the fact that the very same stuff that was sitting in front of her, taunting her, was now spilling forth from the taps behind her, her body, still acting solely on animal instinct, had twisted around. She could only watch in horror, though, as a fresh squadron of the evil water gushed out and sprayed all over her. Without thinking, she recoiled, screaming .. and into the grasps of the ocean behind her.

She instantly realized her mistake and tried to return to the island of whit the stuff had afforded her, but it was too late. Even if the island had still been there, she would never have been able to recover from the fall she was in the middle of.

She hit the stuff with a soft whoosh, feeling as if the air itself had just caught her. But the blackness was cold, so cold. She struggled and twisted as the liquid began to crawl over her legs and along her back, a across her neck and over her stomach. Her scream was cut short as her mouth was filled, then her throat.

GodpleasenoGodpleasenoGodpleaseno

She kicked and punched wildly, but had no real target to aim at, and felt the disorientation of weightlessness as she was carried, carried somewhere. Where? A warmth overcame her, then all sound was replaced by a strange whisper and she realized that it had gotten into her ears now too.

GodpleasenoGodpleasenoGodpleaseno.

But her prayers went unanswered. And after a time that was foreign to her (hours, minutes, days) she felt all sensations leave her as she descended into the true, infinite darkness of Death.

The screaming had stopped only a few seconds before Old Joe unlocked the door to the bathroom with his spare key, so he was a little disappointed. Sometimes it was over quicker than others. Obviously, she wasn’t much of a fighter. Pity.

He poked his head around the corner cautiously and looked just in time to see the very end of the girl’s leg, stained red now, as it was carried along on the liquid darkness and disappeared into the middle stall. There wasn’t enough time to chase after the last of the stuff and watch it slither back down the bowl (his knees weren’t quite what they used to be). But his sight was still 20/20 and he had a grandstand view in the mirror on the opposite wall.

Most of the girl had already been taken, swallowed up by the darkness, but there was the occasional flash of skin as the stuff went back to where it came from. Joe thought he even saw a breast at one point, just before the last, tail-like licks of the stuff vanished into the toilet.

Once it was over, Joe sighed. The tiles were now stained a mixture of brown, black and red. His lovely, sparkling white tiles. He trundled in the mop and bucket that stood outside, filled with fresh rainwater, and pulled out the mop. He slapped it down onto the floor and began to wipe. It was hard work for him, cleaning up after the Thing’s consummations, especially since he had put his back out during the winter, and he sometimes got a little bored with the ‘dumb ol’ southerner’ act, but as always, he could rest assured that he would be rewarded well. He always was.

As he swept across a particularly grisly patch of redness, which was encrusted with flecks of what looked to be bone, bemused at what he would get this time. He felt like a child at Christmas, unable to sleep for thinking about what his present would be.

And, if it perhaps wasn’t quite what he had hoped for, as was sometimes the case (the Thing wasn’t perfect, after all), then at least he would have the next time to look forward to. Maybe then he could glimpse a little more, hear a little more. Maybe then he would receive something special.

And with thoughts of gifts and pleasure in mind, Joe went about cleaning the floor as he had done so many times before, whistling happy tunes to himself.

Whistling happy, happy tunes.