Mitchell sits on its broken foam seat, feeling the pain diminish. Blood loss pulls him from his cares and worries. He can feel his hands slipping from the sides of the chair. His choice was made by another, but not the one holding the blade. It was the demon in the chair that made the choice. It spoke to him and told him what it needed; more blood. He closed his eyes and the voice faded until it was a whisper. The last thought on Mitchell’s mind wasn’t death, but the chair. Who would feed it once he was gone?
Nothing like this had ever been found before; the diggers unsure of their discovery. What is it? Excitement, confusion and terror glisten in their eyes. Months spent sifting through rubble, burrowing into the past with little to show for it; very few indications or evidence to reward our labor. Today, we find this: elegance crafted by the barbaric. Its craftsmen, the humans, all but erased from history; consumed by extinction. Is it safe? There’s nothing to fear, yet reassurance is met with hesitation. Like the others, it will be cataloged and destroyed; recorded and wiped from existence like its makers.
There was nothing quite as perfect as the spoiled beauty of the fetid and rancid. Everything his eyes touched was painted with the distinct colors of decomposition’s palette. It took him years to fill his sub-basement with thoughtfully selected detritus that would breed the corruption and blight he so loved.
Nearly a decade of carefully chosen carcasses littered the floor, blessing this place with their funk and ghastly splendor. It was perfect but for one thing – himself. He clamped his eyes open and shackled his hands to the chair. Death would not keep him from watching his own loathsome metamorphosis.
Death has long since swallowed him whole but he believes himself to be living. His face is shrunken, folded upon itself, closed like a flower at dusk. His eyes are ringed with grey. Pain wrestles with his body as he lies in bed. Each morning he rises, dragging his disease ridden leg behind him.
Born of clay, with the pride of kings, he judges all and pardons nothing. He survives alone. One by one he has severed all ties with the living, unable to forgive or forget. All that remains is the vision of a throne, righteous amongst the clouds.
No Work, All Play
Joseph A. Pinto
Interment had delayed my work.
Comprised only of broken rock and lost time, my resting place had been disturbed in dubious fashion. Ignorant thrill seekers they were, tipping bottles to mouth. One stumbled callously into my chair.
Stepping from decades of grit, my straight razor I drew. I had forgotten the power of my blade. But it had not forgotten the power mine.
Throat utilized as strop to steel, his blood made me whole to the world again. Within the deep gloss finish of the blade, I admired my reflection.
“Handsome devil,” I crooned and busied myself in his lather.
Delusion of Freewill
This is the place I was born. Not brought into the world, but given life; purpose. Society could no longer sustain the delusion of freewill. It had become a blight; a poison that corroded the beast from within. No, this world was not intended for choice, it needed structure, guidance; a singular hand to rein it. I succumbed to that hand. Strapped to the chair, current charred my flesh, molded my mind until I became a drone; re-purposed for the greater good.
Born again as a bone man I had but one task – pick amongst the piles of the dead.
Under The Knife
He came here last year for Botox. Funny how they find their way back. Rotten cats, retracing old steps. Stumbling onto the chair, she flails, snatching a scalpel from the steel tray.
Decay has done terrible things to the man’s features but she remembers him. His Tie Dye shirt, green Crocks, the way he’d smiled when she’d fixed his forehead.
He is still smiling now. A shovel has seen to that; his lips red and wet. They all look happy, dead and indifferent. He looms over her, hands outstretched. Smiling back at him, she takes the scalpel to her throat.
Home, Sweet Broken Home
I smile at the chair, despite its imperfections—rusted metal, cracked leather, speckles of dried blood—it’s the only thing that feels like home. Sitting on its cool leather so many years ago, I had my first conflicted taste of solid food. From diapers to teenage acne, this chair held me for many forced meals and brutal punishments. I only tasted freedom for a few moments annually, on my birthday—the only gift my mother ever granted. Eventually, I outgrew the chair and captivity. Now, to help celebrate my birthday, Mother is the one temporarily freed of the chair’s confines.
Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2016
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.
18 thoughts on “Damned Words 16”
Reblogged this on firefly465 and commented:
some lovely horrific shorts to sink your teeth into
Thank you, and thanks for the reblog!!
Another superb collection! Our minds took the same basic concept depicted by Nina’s awesome photograph and spun it in so many creative directions! You guys rock!! 🙂
Another great grouping of drabbles, guys! Love them!! Nice diversity… 😀
Wow! It’s fantastic to see what we’ve all done with this image. Thank you, Nina for the inspiration. 🙂
Always my pleasure to poke the minds of the depraved! 😉
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This was such a fun picture to run with for this Damned Words!! I always love seeing the different kinds of horror that can be squeezed from a single visual.
Great collection of flash, each one such a unique take on the image. Awesome work, Damned!
These are great and I look forward to them every time! Thanks for providing a wicked pic, Nina! This one was a lot of fun!
This chair has it’s own horror pedigree which made it an excellent candidate! 😉
Reblogged this on and commented:
DAMNED WORDS 16 by Pen of the Damned
Another fine collection of fetid words from The Damned. Bravo to all!
Wow, this is clearly one of our best group flashes, might even be my favorite! Superb horror concepts and all expertly shoehorned into the 100 word confine. Every single one left me wanting more.
Nina, excellent photo! Love the history of the location, the perfect fodder for many many horror stories.
Proud to be Damned!!!
Reblogged this on THOMAS BROWN.
It’s interesting to see the direction our stories have taken with a more obviously horrifying prompt this week! Decay, dark heritage, and knife-blades abound, yet each story still reads with its own sense of individuality and character! A Damned collection, as always.
Reblogged this on sueshan123.
a dhuine uasail , tá tú scríbhneoir an-mhaith , a bheidh ag teastáil a bhfuil creideamh níos mó i féin ! dom agus na cailíní . x nóta – fiú maith Tony stuif tú, agus tá sé frog grimpy !