Flashing #19 - Stephanie Meyer

Man...writing like Stephanie Meyer is HARD. I seriously gave up after around 700 words, didn't even bother rewriting or editing. The process is easy, of course. Start with no plot, insert a weak female lead and an abusive male lead, and then face fuck your thesaurus until it begs for mercy. It's the thesaurus part that gets you, though. I mean, seriously, how many ways can one say "heavenly?"

Anyway - I abused the English language with today's post. I fucking EDWARDED that shit. I went back to the original memoir, again, but focused on Robin's side of the story. I was going to have her get pregnant and then have Jason rip the baby out of her stomach with his teeth so a werewolf can piss on it but I had to stop. I couldn't keep writing like this.

I apologize to Robin for Meyering her. But yesterday she was Mametted so it all works out.

If you want more Flashing stories head on over to the main page.

I'd also like to acknowledge Kellen Rice and Cracked.com for their skewering of Stephanie Meyer. Those two articles inspired me to achieve horrible things.

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Robin habitually scrutinizes her email one last time. Jason hasn’t written to her in many a protracted hour, filling her soul with vapid, innocuous, and unpalatable emptiness. What time is it in Germany? she cogitates to herself and her sardonic intellect instantly supplies an answer: It is 8:28PM. Minutes glide by like a schooner across open seas with Robin steadily fighting the overwhelming impetus to click, “Send/Receive” one last time. Unable to bear the thought of yet another vanquishing rejection she hoists her computer over her head and throws it against her unyielding wall with all of her puissance.

The insensate computer shatters and obliterates, debris falling to the haggard carpet, filling the room with a fine dust, tendrils reaching out into the gaunt patch of celestial radiance peeking through her living room window. That’s done now she ponders to herself. Now it doesn’t matter if he writes.

The ravenous desire in her, however, is not satiated. Not for an infinitesimal moment. She dives to the glacial floor in a bluster, tripping over her own lack of self-control, flustered by her naiveté, sifting through dust and fissured glass, trying to piece her computer back together. After all, it is her only tie to Jason.

And then she remembers her phone. To hear his cherubic voice one more time would be as to call forth a specter of empyrean nirvana. She grabs her phone and thrusts it to her yearning ear, pummels the digits that combine to form his godlike phone number, and listens to the propitious sounds of a dialing phone.

One ring. Her body trembles like the anger of Zeus. Two rings. Her lips quake and cause tsunamis to form in her heart. Three rings. Her uterus twists like a pretzel made by Beelzebub himself.

Voicemail after three lasting rings. He must have hit ignore she deliberates to herself. Suddenly, there is nothing left in her destitute world but imperturbable death. Having no other choice, she goes into the bathroom and expropriates her sharp razor. Before she mercilessly hacks at her indefensible wrists she looks over at her phone and sees that the backlight is like a scintillating beacon. Is it possible that there is a transmission from her savior?

Robin seizes the phone and stares, wide eyes opened widely, at the screen. One new message from Jason. One new reason to live.

He loves me she thinks while hastily clicking “read.” She clicks it so speedily, in fact, that she knocks the phone out of her own oscillating hand and into the emiction receptacle, causing the hunk of plastic and wires to explode into a mass of broken dreams and barbarous regret.

As she stares at the rank mixture of electrons and lateritious she begins to despair. She finds strength; however, she calls upon the words of Ernest Hemingway, who once said, “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.” As if Anubis himself had answered her call the home phone rings and deep down in Robin’s vacuous heart she knows it is Jason, calling to save her from unabbreviated annihilation.

“Robin?” His staunch and merciful voice explodes over the paltry craters that varnish the receiver like tiny souls in need of strong shoulders. Robin feels a boiling humidity in her loins but she extinguishes that craving the moment it surfaces, knowing it would not be sagacious to tempt her ethereal steward.

“Yes…” The words flow from her faultless mouth like afterbirth from a comely womb. She knows he hears her fire. She knows he hears her unequivocal and unconditional love.

“Hey, can you tape Lost for me?” Robin’s eyes swell up acrid tears. She bites her lip so hard that fine rivulets of blood coat her well-cleaved chin and run down her heaving breasts. He needs me she woolgathers to herself.

“Yes. Yes, I will.” Jason hangs up the phone and even the click of the receiver sounds like tender sentiment and unconditional love. Robin sets the phlegmatic DVR, considering her faultless love with every push of the insensate remote control’s lifeless buttons. The whole time she looks forward to the sweetest slumber, knowing that she’ll be dreaming of her smoldering beau.

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