The River

The air over the river was heavy and still, clouds merging overhead into cumulus fortresses blocking the sun as the battered pontoon boat chugged up the river toward the rapids. Shannon elbowed Katie and said, “Maybe we should go back.”

They weren’t supposed to be on the boat. They weren’t even supposed to be down at the marina. Word was out that Bobby Mapp had his son down there on a houseboat. They were supposed to be at the parade on Broad Street, but one thing had led to another, and before Shannon knew what was happening, some guy Katie knew was helping her onto his boat.

His name was Rick, and his friend’s name was Glenn. They had beer. Shannon wished she’d had the courage to tell Katie no, but Shannon always went along with her cousins and her friends. She wished she’d stayed with Claire and Bridget, even if they were ignoring her for their boyfriends. She didn’t like the way Glenn’s eyes lingered on her hips.

Katie’s friend Courtney was also with them. Shannon hated Courtney almost as much as she worshipped Katie, so she plastered a smile on her face and accepted the Bud Light Rick handed to her.

They passed the amphitheater and a few people on jet skis. Courtney babbled incessantly, dropping names like she was Gretel and people were bread.

The mosquitoes were godawful, and it was sweaty hot. The thick bank of clouds gave no relief, and sweat pooled in Shannon’s water bra. Someone handed her another beer. The one in her hand was getting warm, so she accepted the fresh one.

I hate, loathe, despise, and detest slasher horror. It chafes against everything in me, leading me to believe it’s a catharsis I don’t need.

I saw the five hundred dollar purse, and thought, “Why don’t I put some people I hate on a boat with dudes whom I know for a fact are dangerous. Then I’ll surround them with other locally known predators in a dangerous spot on the river, throw red herrings left and right until none of you know which way is up.

Nah. I hate slasher horror, and despite what some may say, I’m not a whore. Before the deadline on the challenge loomed, I began working on a bigger project, which will also hang those bitches out to dry, but in a much more subtle way that will speak to different people on different levels. I love this project, and I’m not forsaking it for something I hate, and especially not for a measly five hundred dollars. The way I feel about myself is worth far more than that. I hate violence-forward slasher horror, so even as a set up, and even with victims I would like to see lying facedown in a salt marsh with the tide coming in, a million tiny cuts all over their mosquito-bitten bodies, I’m not doing it. Get your fear and violence jollies somewhere else.

Five hundred dollars isn’t even a respectable down payment for what the Stay a While challenge wants from me. I’m not giving it; I’m not compromising my lierary aesthetics, and I’m not bringing more unnecessary fear into the world. I’ve seen enough real world horror to make your blood run cold. I didn't plan to go anywhere near that Out of the Dream challenge either—I have enough personal experience with that to again make your blood run cold. Roofies were involved. I gathered my courage and wrote it, seemingly against my will, another recurring theme.

It took me to a very bad place, and when I posted a piece about why I hate horror, a horror fan thought that was a perfect opportunity to talk down to me. That’s not exactly something I need more of in my life these days, so I will never finish this horror story, and I don’t intend to start another horror story, ever.

No slasher horror from me. I’m not writing it, even if it pays a million dollars a word. I wish the best of luck to the creators who love slasher horror and enjoy writing it. I think that anyone who enjoys the genre is entitled to read, write, and view as much of it as they want. For me, it’s a hard pass.