Killing Lilith Excerpt: The Cannibals

So, there's been some discussion about the various other internet madness that has occurred since the beginning of the Information Age. Most would agree that the German Cannibals take the cake. They actually make a cameo in Killing Lilith. Here's a snippet of that for your reading pleasure:

A graphic depiction of Armin Meiwes serving  Bernd Jürgen Brandes his own penis

I did as he instructed, opening a separate window for the newsgroup so that we could continue to chat. At the time I don’t know what scared me more, what I read and saw there, or the fact that it was suppose to offer some insight into SlowHand. The thought of either spread a tide of fear over me, powerful and uncontrollable.


Regardless, I scrolled down a macabre list of topics and subtopics. As I did, I wondered what new game I was playing. Was I intentionally seeking out a succession of increasingly outrageous realities? Why? How far would I go? What was I looking for? As I gleaned over the postings, tested my frontiers, I could feel the walls that enclosed my morality and protected it from the absurd. Yet, I could not stop.


As I glanced at the overwhelming number of images—pictures of rotting corpses, serial killers and their victims, mob hits, accident scenes, mass murder and burial sites, charred bodies pouring out from the ovens of Krakow, a manifesto by someone calling himself Billy The Killer, people sprawled like mad sparrows as they tumbled down the towers, the towers themselves—crumbling, gigabytes of Abu Ghraib atrocities, bloated bodies floating like swamp grass in New Orleans in Katrina’s aftermath—I climbed over undeterred. I was past the realm of morality. I had not yet discovered my new domain’s name.


SlowHand: Click on the one titled “the germans”. It’s my favorite.


I scrolled down the list of gruesome titles, Man sleeps with dead wife, yoboy with face blown off!, Killing Strays with Hammer, until I found the right link. It automatically opened up my media player. After a lag, a video began to play. A dark shot of an wok sizzling on a stove. An arm reached into the frame with a bottle, liquor of some sort, and poured it into the wok. It ignited.


LiLith: What’s this? Some kind of cooking show?


SlowHand: Keep watching.


The camera zooms out for a second before zooming back in, closer. The flames died down as the alcohol burned off. I could barely make out what was being flambéed. A sausage? Then it dawned on me.


LiLith: Is that a penis?!


SlowHand: Yes.


The arm reached in, turned off the stove and pulled the pan off the flame.


LiLith: Like what? Dog?


SlowHand: No. His.


The scene cut to a man, seated at a table, not all there. He looked tired, worn. Another man, the man with the arm, pan in hand, came to the table, set the pan down on a trivet, picked up a knife and started slicing. The seated man seemed to perk up.


LiLith: You’re putting me on, right.


He wasn’t. I could remember hearing something, somewhere. A news clip. Maybe a few words in passing. Some Internet chatter. Did you hear about those cannibals in Germany?


SlowHand: The man who is seated is Bernie. He met Arnie, the carver, online in 2001 through an ad Arnie placed looking for people willing to offer and share some of their flesh. Apparently, Bernie was the only taker, or giver as the case may be. Just google “german cannibals” if you want to read all about it.


I opened a third window and did just that, incredulous that this could even be real. I skimmed the article at the top of the list as I tried to keep up with the action on the video. I could only shake my head as I watched Arnie serve Bernie, and then himself. I felt my stomach roll as they both sampled their gruesome meal.


LiLith: Heavy price to pay for a taste of human flesh, don’t you think.


SlowHand: It gets heavier. Arnie convinces Bernie to let him kill him. Keep watching. You get to see the slaughter… if you can handle it. Bernie videotaped the whole thing, It was supposedly suppressed by the german gov, but I guess someone leaked it. These things always get leaked.

I couldn’t. I had seen enough, more really than I could take back then. I wanted to close my player. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The Lilith Legend

Only thirty more pages to edit, as of 1:00pm today. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Editing is actually moving at a fairly quick pace, which is a great sign. It means that I'm not finding anything blatant that I think I need to change. We'll see. the true test is a week from tomorrow when I meet with my critique group (¡Hi Barb, Holly & Tracy!).

Anyhow, my brother, Carlos, was talking about Killing Lilith yesterday, and he referenced some of the legends of the mythological Lilith. So I decided to post this small excerpt for him. Don't forget to check out the Killing Lilith Facebook Page and click "like" for news, updates & more excerpts!

Artwork by Kara T. Wells

 My father considered himself the consummate bible scholar and student. “You learn until you die,” he would say, “What you learn is up to you.” Obsessed with origin myths, he would use my misbehavior as an opportunity to expound on the legend of Lilith. “There are those who study the secrets of the scriptures that believe, before Eve, God made another woman for Adam.”

These same secrets are now sold with a red bracelet and a bottle of blessed water to any celebrity looking to ride a new wave to enlightenment.

“Certain students of Kabala believe that lost versions of the B’reshit (or bear shit as I would joke about the first book of the Torah behind his back; ‘bear shit, smut bear shit and smut,’ I would mock once he left the room after one of his lectures) tell her story—Lilith’s. She came not from Adam’s rib, but from the same earth from which Adam was formed. Some even say she came from Adam’s filth. Like you, she went against the word of her father. She rebelled against her husband and was banished as a demon. Do not follow her path child; it will prove a difficult one.”

The more he called me by that name, which he did more often as I got older and wilder, the more I identified with her. Why couldn’t we be equal? What made him better? His knowledge? His wisdom? His rib? The power of his voice? Men and women swooned, even shuddered, as his vibrato tenor resonated throughout the temple, the words of the scriptures pouring over them as if from the mouth of God himself. All I ever heard were his admonishments.

Dying to be My Muse

A class photo of Sharon. She's the one in the cap, staring off to the right.

A little over fifteen years ago I was taking a class, Writing for the Internet Age—one of the first of its kind. During the ides of October, word came of a woman's body being found buried under a child's swing set in a trailer park in North Carolina.

Within days, as the police discovered during what they thought was a murder investigation that the victim, Sharon Denburg Lopatka—a housewife from Hampstead, MD—had solicited her executioner, Robert Glass, to torture, rape & kill her. He wasn't even the only one. Glass was just the first to follow through.

While many dismissed her as yet another crazy, I was fascinated with Sharon. As I  researched her story, a novel took shape in my mind. Click on Sharon's photo to read about the woman who inspired Killing Lilith.
Don't forget to check out the Killing Lilith Facebook Page and click "like" for news, updates & more excerpts!

Killing Lilith (excerpt)

Wrapped up the latest edit on Killing Lilith. Going well! Don't forget to check out the Killing Lilith Facebook Page and click "like" for news, updates & more excerpts! Here's a little excerpt for you Lilith fans out there:

4:14pm

Phone’s ringing—been ringing now for twenty minutes, on & off: Emily calling from the stables wondering why I haven’t picked her up from Equestrian practice. She’ll use it as an excuse to petition for that new car she says we’re too cheap to buy her—as if she can’t realize that she doesn’t deserve one. I’d be shocked if she didn’t drive any car we got her straight to South Central and trade it for a year’s supply of crack.

Jacob calling from his guitar lesson. He decided he wanted to learn guitar after he abandoned violin, saxophone, flute, & piano. He’s been talking about giving up music for acting. The older he gets, the more attention he craves. Perhaps it’s other things he craves. Women. Drugs. Fame. I have little doubt he’ll find anything he seeks. I also doubt he’ll be capable of handling any of it before it destroys him.

Jack’s called a few times—probably pissed off, not because he’ll have to leave the office early to pick up the kids, but because he won’t get the chance to have a few drinks at the bar with his colleagues after work. He needs that to wind down before he comes home.

I get to try winding down between cleaning, errands, picking up the children, cooking, and lifting up my nightgown once in a while so Jack can release some sexual tension. None of them are worried about where I am.

Point Dume. Sitting on a beach staring as the sun burns a trail through the Malibu sky, listening to the vain attempts of my family to contact me. I stare directly into the sun so that it might dry the tears before they leave their ducts. They love me. No, they need me. Dependency misconstrued as love. Fuck them!

My love was unconditional for a time. What have I been able to depend on? I never expected anything in exchange for that love. Regardless, I am mourning them. I will die, but they are already dead.  So I sit here, burning my ass on the sand, beating my chest, setting my retinas on fire—sitting Shiva.

  I stand and begin to make my way back to the car through a haze of black and yellow. The phone rings again. Jack, Emily, Jacob. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve made my peace. I turn around once last time, facing the waves and the waning sun, and throw the phone at the offending horizon.

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 [FQ31] 4:14pm Chapter Three (Malibu)