Author: Ian Sputnik

Ian Sputnik is a writer, editor and publisher of horror and dark verse. Born and bred in South East England, he works in London. He has had several pieces published in Sanitarium Magazine. He has also been published in Morpheus Tales, Living Paranormal Magazine and Devolution Z. His work has also been narrated by Nocturnal Transmissions and Morbid Corpse. He has also appeared in Pen of the Damned and The Sirens Call. He has published his own collection 'Food for Worms'. As well as writing he was previously Horror Fiction Editor at Living Paranormal Magazine. He is now editor-in-chief of Sanitarium Magazine.

Just Do It

October 16, 2024October 7, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 3 Comments

Charles got out of the bath and gave himself a quick towel down. He then stood at the sink, combed his hair, and brushed his teeth. His thoughts were foggy. Even after a tepid bath he still felt like death warmed up. He briefly mused that nobody said ‘like life cooled down’ which was surely the same, if not similar. He shook his head to clear his thoughts from the ridiculous comparison.

He wandered through to the bedroom and started dressing. As he put his socks on, he instinctively rubbed his lower legs. He looked down at the scars that ran from his ankles to just below his knees. Some were large and deep, others were thin and long, like elongated hairs but with a pale red hue.

His thoughts slowly meandered back to that day, over twenty years ago now. The ‘event’ that would mold his mind and body to what it was now. He was scarred both inside and out. But Charles was resilient and headstrong. And with that strength, he had made a good life. He had a beautiful wife, a lovely home, a blossoming business, and two wonderful children.

***

“Come on Charlie,” shouted Pete. Pete was the troublemaker of the class. He was always in detention or getting the cane, but all the other boys looked up to him with a mixture of admiration and fear.

Charles quickly followed Pete and three of their classmates, Chick, Steve, and Mickey. Pete had come up with a brilliant idea, and, if Pete suggested anything, then it went without saying that others would follow along without question.

During lunch, Pete shared with the others the plan. His brother had been at the boarding school but had since left to attend university. He had informed Pete of a secret way into the tuck shop. A way they could eat candy like kings for free.

They entered the main hall and made their way to the large stage area at the front. The headmaster would orate his morning assembly speeches from it, but it was also used for theatrical productions.

Pete dropped to his knees and pulled a small wooden facia board away from the stage.

“Charlie, come here,” he ordered.

Charles did as he was told.

“Look in between the wooden support beams, right at the end there’s a grille. It’s just pushed into place. It’s really easy to pull out, no screws or anything. The next room is the tuck shop. We all know it’s shut and locked ten minutes before the end of lunch break. Grab as much as you can get. In you go.”

Charles froze. “Why me?”

“You’re the only one small enough”.

“Go on, Charlie, do it,” Pete commanded.

Charlie hesitated. It looked dirty under the stage, and the cobwebs were thick.

“Do it, do it, do it,” the other boys chanted.

Not one to disobey Pete, Charles dropped to his knees and moved slowly under the stage area. He could only just squeeze between the wooden beams on either side of him and he had to do that on all fours with the boards scraping his school blazer.

“You there yet?” Mickey called.

Charles couldn’t turn to see who had asked as there was no room to maneuver. He just carried on into the wooden tunnel. “Nearly, I think,” he answered. He reached the end and fumbled for the grille. He couldn’t see it through the dust-filled air and dim light. That light, no matter how dim suddenly vanished and Charles was plunged into pitch-black darkness. Behind him, he could hear the board being pushed back into place. Then giggles, and the sound of running feet retreating from the scene. Charles also thought he heard the word ‘loser’ being yelled out. It was too muffled to clearly hear who had shouted it, but Charles could easily guess.

He tried to shuffle backward but found it extremely impossible. Going forward was hard enough. His blazer kept catching on splinters and nails. He was stuck. All he could do was kneel there and sob.

He couldn’t tell how long he’d been trapped beneath the stage before he heard the first squeak. It seemed like hours but could have been far less. The squeak was followed by scampering sounds. He felt something crawling up his calf closely followed by a sharp agonizing pain. Charles screamed into the darkness. He twisted his body in sheer panic as another bite was followed by another and yet another. He managed to free himself and spun himself onto his back. He kicked his legs wildly and could feel the rats as he tried to pound them with his legs into the wooden boards above and below him. They began to scratch and bite into his shins as they made their way up his legs. Suddenly, with a creak bright light assaulted his eyes as the board above him was pulled free. Through the blinding light, Charles could vaguely make out a human form.

“Ok, Charlie, I’ve got you,” came the unmistakable reassuring voice of the headmaster.

As he was pulled from his tomb of torment, he also saw the caretaker, who beat off the rats with a broom, and the school’s matron who shrieked “Oh my god, look at his legs”.

It should have been a blessing to be released from the nightmare that he had endured, but it was only the beginning. Each night he’d dream of being stuck beneath the floorboards again. He’d scream and kick at the rats as they scratched and gnawed at his shins whilst they slowly worked their way up his legs. He’d shake himself from his nightmare, a floorboard would be lifted and the daylight would flood in. But now the sight of the headmaster was replaced with that of his mother. “Charles, it’s just a dream,” she’d say in the reassuring tone that only mothers can give.

***

From the day of that terrifying ordeal, Charles was never quite been the same. Outwardly he turned into a strong and determined young man. Inwardly he was something completely different. The nightmares that interrupted his sleep on a regular basis gave him a serious outlook on life, one that made him old before his time. He had become untrusting in nature and this in turn had made him a formidable businessman and a very shrewd figure in the financial scene. But, with all his success and wealth, he’d gladly give it up for the bliss of being able to obtain a steady run of uninterrupted nights of sleep with peaceful dreams. He would be happy working in a factory or grocery store, if he had his loving wife, whom he met at a seminar six years earlier, and his children beside him.

Charles now controlled the nightmares as much as he could with the use of medication. He still had bad nights when he struggled to break free of his recurring nightmare. The longer they lasted, the further the rats would manage to crawl up his body.

Driving back from his office one night, he found it difficult to concentrate. The previous night he’d experienced one of his ‘episodes’. He thought about requesting a stronger dose of medication from his doctor. He worried that his wife would begin to realize that he suffered so badly with regular nightmares. It was a pride thing. He was determined to be a strong husband and father in her eyes. She obviously knew about his nightmares, but even after their years of marriage, he had never revealed the nature or cause of them. This was his burden to bear, and his alone. Every marriage has its secrets, he rationalized, and this was his.

He cracked the window open a little so the fresh breeze would gently brush against his face as he drove. He hoped this would refresh him enough so that he could put his thoughts in order. He had a big meeting planned for the next day and needed to bring his ‘A’ game along with him. There was a big merger in the planning. If successful it would ensure the future of his business.

He turned on his car radio, hoping some music might ease the tension that had already started cramping the back of his neck. He tuned into the local station just as a song was finishing. An advert for a DIY store began. “Don’t keep putting those jobs off in your home,” the narrator said. “It’s time to get your house into shape. JUST-DO-IT,” they commanded, accompanied by combined backing voices who chanted “Do it, do it, do it.”

Charles was suddenly transported back to his wooden prison beneath the stage. He could hear the voices of Pete, Chick, Steve, and Mickey. “Do it, do it, do it,” they urged. Dazzling headlights blinded him. There was then a sudden jolt that made his body lurch forward. The sound of breaking glass and crumpling metal was the last thing that he could hear before the world turned black.

Charles was trapped beneath the stage. The rats chewed chunks from his legs and advanced up his body. They scratched at his knees and began biting and chewing into the soft flesh of his thighs. He screamed and kicked but still the nightmare continued. He shook his head from side to side in order to escape this realm of torture, but he couldn’t break free from the vision. The rodents made their way to his stomach and they tore at his shirt and then into his chest. He heard the creaking of floorboards and light filled the void. As one of them was removed, he could see the haloed vision of a person. As it came into focus, he saw the smiling face of his wife. She was gently calling his name. Gwen then began to slowly lower the board again. She forced it back into place until the dimming light of the outside world was eventually gone once more. Charles screamed and beat upon the wood with bloodied fists but to no avail. How could she do this to him? His thoughts were a haze of panic and confusion.

Gwen’s eyes darted from Charles to the doctor.

“What’s happening?” she cried through teary eyes.

The doctor injected the last of the fluid from the syringe into Charles’s intravenous drip.

“Your husband has sustained severe internal injuries and major head trauma. It’s better that he doesn’t come around yet. That will give his body a better chance to heal.” He explained.

She gently squeezed his hand and briefly left the private hospital room to see to her children who patiently waited in the corridor.

The rats had now made it up to Charles’s face where they tore chunks of flesh from his cheeks. He then felt their warm breath on his eyelids as they began their onslaught, first ripping the lids away and then gorging on his eyes. Charles writhed in agony. No matter how hard he shook his head or kicked his feet he just couldn’t stop the horror.

On seeing their father briefly regain consciousness only to close his eyes again the children began to cry.

“Is Daddy going OK?” his daughter asked. “Is he dead?” she blurted out in a sobbing voice, her tearful eyes letting out a constant stream that ran down her cheeks.

Gwen took a tissue from her pocket and gently began to wipe her daughter’s face.

“It’s going to be ok,” she assured her. “The doctor’s just given Daddy something to make him sleep while he gets better,” she explained. She then hugged both of her children, whilst holding back her own tears for their sake.

Meanwhile, Charles screamed and kicked. Why couldn’t he wake? Why? He tried his hardest to break from his bad dream. His thoughts were of his children and his adoring wife. He prayed that he could return to them again.

Three weeks later Charles finally opened his eyes.

The doctor checked the monitor and gave Gwen a reassuring nod.

She gently spoke Charles’s name. There was no reaction. So, she repeated it again and again.

“What’s happening, doctor?”

“He just needs time,” he responded in a caring but professional manner.

Charles could vaguely see the hospital room’s ceiling. He looked down and could make out the bed through fuzzy vision. But he could not see his wife. The room was empty apart from the giant rat that sat on his chest and stared with black eyes at him.

After nearly thirty days of medically induced coma, Charles’s body had recovered and once again had returned to the land of the living. But his mind was gone forever.

∼ Ian Sputnik

The Long Journey Home

July 17, 2024July 10, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Sam slowly paddled the canoe down the river, carefully negotiating the rocks that were dotted along the way. Mosquitoes nipped at his neck and face with such regularity that he didn’t even bother to swipe at them anymore. At least they were eating well. In this jungle food was virtually non-existent. He wondered how the local tribes managed to survive out here. The plant life was mainly poisonous and what was edible had little to no nutritional value. The wildlife mainly consisted of snakes and spiders, all highly venomous, any monkeys that he occasionally saw jumping from tree to tree were impossible to catch without the use of a firearm and he had long since run out of powder and shot.

It was 1748 and Sam’s second attempt to reach the San Quito outpost deep within the Amazon rain forest. His first attempt ended in failure due to bad weather. This time he had succeeded and was trying to return to where he called home, a small village populated by traders and explorers. His canoe was packed with rare plants. They were completely inedible, but in the right hands they could be turned into medicine. In the wrong hands they became the basis for a very powerful narcotic. He could make decent money selling to those with the right hands, but even more selling to those with the wrong ones. His haul was worth its weight in gold and had cost him very little.

It was now a race against time to get back down the river, a race that he was losing. If disease didn’t get him then starvation certainly would. He was weeks away from his destination and weeks since his last good meal. He had lost what meagre rations he had whilst negotiating some rapids. His stomach was empty and rumbled continuously. He wretched over the side of the boat. Stomach acid burned his throat as it poured from his mouth into the river. He wiped his mouth and took a sip of water from his canteen.

A few days later he heard a voice calling. At first he thought he had imagined it. But then he heard it again.

“Hello, friend.”

Sam could see a man on the riverbank waving to him. He paddled over and they exchanged greetings.

The stranger’s name was Nathaniel. He had also intended to trade at San Quito, but his canoe had been dashed against the rocks during a sudden surge in the river due to heavy rains a few weeks back. He had lost everything to the river and looked in even worse shape than Sam. His eyes and cheeks were sunken and his skin had a sickly grey hue to it.

“I had given up hope of finding anyone,” he blubbered, tears streaming down his face.

“Calm yourself sir,” Sam replied. “If we reorganise my cargo I’m sure I have room for you.”

With the sacks of medicinal plants moved to the centre of the canoe, Nathaniel sat himself at the front with Sam seated at its rear.

“I must admit, walking through that cursed jungle I’ve lost all track of time and no idea how far we are from civilisation. How long will it take to make it down river?” Nathaniel asked.

“At least three weeks by my reckoning.” Sam replied.

“My god, that long? I had hoped I’d made more progress on foot, but it was heavy going. I’m starving, I don’t suppose you have any food?”

“I do now,” Sam said, picking up the machete from the floor of the canoe.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Chalk and Cheese

April 17, 2024April 16, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 6 Comments

Pamela laid out the breakfast bowls on the kitchen table as her youngest son, Jason read quietly. His older brother, Michael was busy running up and down the upstairs corridor screaming like a banshee whilst pushing his favourite toy car along the walls. Jason was 6, his older brother 8 but the way Michael acted it was though his maturity had stagnated or even started going backwards.

“Michael!” his mother shouted. “Stop that racket and come down here for breakfast.”

“No, I won’t.” came the defiant reply.

Pamela dropped her head in frustration. She looked across at Jason and smiled. Then she frowned. He was such a good boy but hated that a brief thought had crossed her mind. She loved them both equally, but Michael made it so difficult at times, and she loathed those fleeting moments of favouritism.

Jason was inquisitive and helpful. Michael was a tornado bringing mayhem and disaster on whichever located he visited. If ever Pamela wondered out loud what the time was, Jason would run to the nearest clock in order he could furnish his mother with the answer. If ever she was rushing about because she wasn’t sure what time the bus to the shops was due, she need only ask, and Jason would retrieve the timetable from the kitchen drawer to find out for her.

Michael had become strangely quiet, eerily so, to be precise. She made her way up the stairs to discover that he had raided her makeup drawer. He had used her lipstick to write swear words all over the wallpaper. Talcum powder was also covering the landing carpet. She screamed.

Jason called up to his mum in fright, asking what the matter was. Pamela marched over to Michael’s bedroom door and attempted to enter. He had pushed something in front of it and refused to budge.

“Look at the state of this place. Why would you do that?” She shouted.

“It wasn’t me, it was Jason,” came the lame reply.

With that she turned and walked sullenly back down the stairs, tears in her eyes. She was at her wits ends.

“What’s happened?” Jason asked, his eyes full of genuine concern.
His mother just shrugged. Jason’s eyes were so full of love and caring that her anger had briefly ebbed away.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “It’s just your brother’s made one hell of a mess. God knows why he misbehaves. I just don’t know what’s in his heads. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to your father when he gets home.”
She gently stroked his hair and told him that he’d best get ready for school. He nodded with a smile.

After dinner, when they’d finally got the kids to bed, Stephen, her husband, and Pamela sat down in the lounge to discuss the worsening problem. They discussed getting a child psychologist involved. The school had suggested as much as his behaviour there was no better than at home. They decided to sleep on the idea and talk about it in the morning after a good night’s sleep.

Pamela woke with a start. Their bedroom door was open, and the faint silhouette of a child was visible in the door frame. Stephen sat up and turned the bedside lamp on.

“What’s up sport, have a nightmare?” He asked while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Jason walked forward into the light and held his hand out. Pamela turned her bedside light on as well so she could see better. He opened his hand to show them.

“It’s just goo,” he said.

Stephen and Pamela looked upon their child, fighting back the vomit and screams. In front of them stood their 6-year-old son, his father’s hammer in one hand, his other containing fragments of skull and lumps of fleshy tissue. Blood dripped through his fingers onto their bedroom carpet.

Pamela broke down first and began to scream. Stephen couldn’t even move or make a sound.
Jason looked horrified by his mum’s response.

“B-b-but you wanted to know what was in his head,” he stammered. He looked at his father, and then back to his mother. “Mum, you wanted to know. You asked me” Jason began to sob. He let the hammer fall from his hand, and then the remains of his brother’s head and brain from the other. “You asked me, you asked me,” he repeated over and over again as his sobs turned into loud cries.

∼ Ian Sputnik

First Day of School

January 17, 2024January 4, 2024 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Amelia looked through the crud-covered windows of the family home. She felt no urge to clean them as the scene they would reveal was far from idyllic. The constant dust storms and polluted rain had turned what was once a desirable location into a gray, depressing collection of mostly abandoned houses. She held her hand over her mouth and shook her head to dispel the feelings of despair.

Tom, her husband, wrapped his arms around her. She hadn’t heard him enter the room. The initial start that he had given her ebbed into a sense of security. She turned around and returned the embrace with an added kiss.

They both sighed and recomposed themselves before calling the children down from their bedrooms. Five minutes later Emma, Joanne, and Rebecca walked down the stairs.

“Let’s have a look at you, Emma,” Amelia asked. Emma was the oldest of their three daughters. She was eleven. She had rosy red cheeks and blonde hair. She was tall for her age, if not a bit thin. But then, everyone was thin in their family. The meager diet of oats mixed with a few greens didn’t lend itself to obesity, to say the least.

Emma shyly stepped forward and meekly smiled. “But I don’t want to go to school,” she complained.

“Now now, you know it’s time. Everyone needs an education and I can’t teach you anymore. What you learn will be important not just for you, but for everyone,” Amelia replied. “Don’t forget how lucky you are, most children don’t get a chance to go to school these days. You should be grateful to Dad for getting you a place.”

Emma sulked but then perked up for the sake of her family.

“But why does it have to be a boarding school, and why do I have to stay for so long?” she enquired.

“Darling,” her father replied, “the school is a long way away. You know we haven’t got any transport and with the rarity of gas these days they just can’t afford to run the school bus back-and-forth apart from at the end of the school year. Now get your things together. Look at the time, we’ve got to go or you’ll miss it.” He bent down and whispered in her ear “At least you won’t have to put up with Mum’s cooking until then.”

Emma giggled.

She said goodbye to her sisters before leaving the house, accompanied by her mother and father. They walked the fifteen minutes to the pick-up point at the old railway station. The last time the station had seen a working train was nearly a decade earlier. Within five minutes the rusty, once-yellow bus rattled its way around the corner. Emma hugged her parents, not wanting to ever let go. Eventually, she tore herself away from their embrace and boarded the decrepit bus. Tom spoke briefly to the school official.

Tom and Amelia slowly walked home. Before entering their house they stopped. They had lied to Emma and their other two daughters. Emma wouldn’t be coming home. After initial training, she would be sold off into servitude. A maid or cook to one of the wealthy families.

“At least she won’t have to go hungry living on what we can offer,” Tom said in way of reply to the question that wasn’t even asked. He held out his hand and showed Amelia the fifty silver coins that the ‘School’ official had paid them in way of compensation. “We’ve got to think of the whole family. This will keep us going for a few seasons, even more if we can save some of the grain we buy and manage to get some sort of harvest this year.”

Amila gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. She knew he was right, but she had no idea what she was going to tell Joanne and Rebecca when Emma failed to return.

***

There were about thirty children on the bus. Emma was seated next to an auburn-haired girl called Stacy.

“I hope we get placed with the same family,” Stacy said.

“What do you mean. We’re going to school?”

“Oh, god. I’m so sorry, didn’t you know?”

“I want to go home” Emma cried.

Stacy comforted her as best she could. She tried to get her to look on the bright side. She explained all the benefits of being in service. Good food, nice clothes. Even with all the work, it’d still be better than what they had to put up with at home.

***

Back at Emma’s house, Amelia stared solemnly at the family photo which hung on the living room wall. She lovingly caressed the image of Emma.

***

The girls were escorted from the bus into a large waiting room. One by one they were called. When Stacy’s name was read out she turned to Emma and said she hoped to see her soon. After about five minutes it was Emma’s name that was called out. A stern-looking women took her by the hand and led her down a long corridor. They entered a large hall. In front of her were rows of seats occupied by the cream of what was left of society. Emma was told to stand in the center of the hall.

“Lot number twenty three” a man’s voice announced through speakers on the wall. “Eleven years old and in good health. Can we start the bidding at one thousand pieces of silver?” He asked.

And so the auction began.

All too soon it was over.

“Going once, going twice, Sold at two thousand seven hundred silver pieces” announced the auctioneer. The couple who had successfully bought Emma smiled at each other. It was an expensive purchase, but in these times fresh meat was extremely rare, and so cost a lot of money. Only the rich could afford to eat it. But this couple, as were all of the others in the auction room were very, very wealthy. Shortages of food meant nothing to them when anything they desired could be bought at a price.

***

Tom and Amelia dished up their tasteless family meal in ignorance. It appeared that Emma wasn’t the only person that had been lied to.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Reflections

October 25, 2023October 12, 2023 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

As I looked into the mirror, I found it hard to believe it was my own reflection. When did I get so old?

I traced every line on my face back to its cause. The ones around my eyes due to squinting from reading in bad light with failing eyesight. The receding hairline, when it used to be standing room only on my head. My lips, once full, now tight, cracked and pale. My face, well formed with a chiselled chin, now thin with sunken cheeks.

Time just passed by so quickly. The doctor removed the mirror and checked it for signs of misted glass. He looked towards my family who stood around my bed and shook his head solemnly.

As they put me in the coffin and nailed the lid shut, I wondered how long it would be before my face started to putrefy and rot to such a degree that I would not be able to recognise myself at all.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Bone Appetit

August 2, 2023July 21, 2023 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

Jerone cut through another thick clump of vines with his machete. The going was slow and hard with the group of botanists only managing to move no more than ten miles a day. Their goal was to discover new species of plants, document them and collect samples. The area of the Amazon that they had selected was one of the least explored parts of the country.

His thoughts wandered off to the day before he had left home. He had boasted to his wife, Tanya, that by the end of the trip, there could well be a plant named after him. “Fame at last,” he declared. His wife just rolled her eyes and continued packing the last of his clothes. If she left it up to him, he’d arrive in Africa with a rucksack full of nothing more than odd socks and ski apparel.

The humidity was really starting to get to him. He stopped at the edge of a small stream and cupped a handful of cool water into his mouth. The local guides that they had hired went into an immediate panic. One gave him a hard slap on the back causing him to spit out the fluid. Another opened his canteen and made Jerone rinse his mouth out before he was ordered to spit that out as well. They stared uneasily at each other, muttered something in their local tongue and slowly continued their journey.

He awoke in the middle of the night and sat bolt-upright in his tent. The fizzing sensation in his mouth was akin to him having eaten an entire box of Alka-Seltzer. He put a finger in quickly to try and ascertain where the discomfort from coming from and pulled it back out twice as fast. The agony that he felt as he touched his teeth was mind-numbing.

Over the course of the next few days, the pain intensified. He woke up one morning choking. He leant forward and gagged. Three teeth shot from his mouth onto his sleeping bag. He picked one up and looked at it in shock. He couldn’t believe that it was one of his own, it was in such a bad state of decay, chipped and rough all over.

The following day the rest of the team arranged to have Jerone flown home. Whatever was ailing him needed proper medical attention, and fast. An infection caught in that part of the world would only worsen quickly due to the moist, hot environment.

Tanya sat in the consultation room as three doctors tried to explain the situation. Jerone had been placed in isolation for the three days since he had returned to the States. They took blood, bone, and tissue samples, circulated them to the top labs in the country and were now waiting for the results. Before leaving the hospital, she approached Jerone’s bed and, through the plastic curtain looked down lovingly at her husband. His face looked sunken as if it was a balloon slowly losing air. His eyes bulged from his sockets. She cried as she turned to leave.

Tanya visited every day for the next week witnessing his quick deterioration in real-time. Each hour he looked visibly worse.

One morning, at about 3am she was awoken by the ringing of the telephone. She knew who would be on the other end of the line before even picking it up.

She arrived at the hospital by cab and made her way to the isolation ward. Once there, she was met by a large group of medical staff. It appeared that his body, more specifically his bones were being eaten away from within, she was told. They tried to dissuade her from seeing her husband but she was determined to be with him at the end so she could say goodbye.

Looking at what remained of Jerone, Tanya collapsed in shock. What remained of her husband was nothing more than an empty sack of a human. With his bones almost entirely gone he was more akin to a puddle of blancmange than a person. It was as if with a zipper added, one might be able to wear him as a flesh suit.

The doctors explained that it seemed the ribs had been the last to be affected. When they finally were gone the weight of his flesh, muscle and skin would push down on his lungs and heart which would cause death. Unfortunately for Jerone, he was awake and aware of what was happening. The drugs that they had been using to put him into a chemically induced coma no longer seemed to work. His eyes darted about as he looked around the hospital room through the loose slits of skin which were once his eyelids. His face was very thin and contorted. Apart from his rib cage, he was almost flat, as if he’d been run over by a steamroller. He made gurgling sounds as he fought for breath as his mouth and throat collapsed in upon itself. The shape and contours of his brain were clearly visible beneath the skin of his head as there was no longer a skull to hide its form.

Within the next few hours, Jerone fought for every precious breath but inevitably died.

About three weeks after the funeral Tanya sat at the kitchen table drinking her coffee and read the morning paper. The service had been beautiful and was attended by so many friends, family, colleagues, and those who were just curious about the strange manner surrounding Jerone’s death. He had to be cremated due to medical concerns for the local area. The thought of that made her even sadder. They had promised that they would be buried alongside each other when their time came.

As she continued reading, she was drawn to a piece about a viral outbreak near their local airport. The symptoms were identical to that of her husband’s, and she knew it was the same affliction as they mentioned the small waterborne, wormlike creature responsible. She had already been advised that Jerone had succumbed to a calcium-eating organism that he had come into contact with in the Amazon, but now they had given it a name. She read it aloud ‘Jeronius Parasiticus’. She wondered whether her husband would have been proud of his new fame even though it wasn’t for having an exotic plant named after him.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Full Moon

May 10, 2023April 23, 2023 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 8 Comments

Rebecca pulled the heavy bolt across the front door. Picking up a lantern, she made her way to the kitchen. On the table, she pushed the pile of cutlery to one side and picked up the pistol. It was heavy in her hand. She could barely lift it. Was it the weight or fear that made her hand shake as she practiced aiming it? Maybe it was a mixture of both. She picked up a bullet and put it in her pocket. It was a conscious decision of hers not to load the gun at that moment, as if not doing so would delay the inevitable.

She breathed in long and deep to steady her nerves and made her way upstairs. Retrieving the round of ammunition from her dress she rolled it between her fingers. It glistened in the light of the lantern, and she paused, marveling at its beauty. It was her father who had shown her at such an early age how to melt and shape metal into a bullet. The silver spoon she had chosen made just the right amount of material for one perfect round.

Loading the weapon, she walked quietly down the corridor. It was a Peacemaker. The type that she had seen in the dime novels about the Wild West. The local sheriff would usually be armed with one. She moved past her parents’ room and stopped. It was 29 days since her father had been killed by the beast. 29 days since the last full moon. 29 days since he had tried, and failed, to protect his family from the hideous creature that came for flesh and blood. On that night it had received both in ample portions.

She made her way to her little brother’s room where he was sleeping soundly. She bent down and kissed him gently on the cheek, feeling his warm, innocent breath on her face. He was not yet even four years of age and was the apple of her eye.

Silver was the only thing that could stop the creature, or at least that is what she had heard. After her father had fallen prey to it, she knew it was now down to her to protect what was left of her family. Her mother had died of fever three summers ago.

She left James’s room and silently closed the door behind her. There was a leather high-backed chair in the corridor which she had moved from her room so she could be as close to him as possible. She settled herself in it to wait.

The clock above the mirror on the opposite wall ticked loudly. It was ten to midnight. She hoped with all her heart that the monster would not appear that night but with the moon shining full it was a fool’s hope.

Rebecca awoke with a start, not intending to have slept at all. A growl filled the corridor, low and menacing in its pitch. She stood and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes shone yellow, her ears started stretching into hairy points, and her teeth grew into razor-sharp fangs. She raised the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.

∼ Ian Sputnik

New Life

February 15, 2023February 15, 2023 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 4 Comments

The doorbell rang.

George looked at his wife, Angela, and for a moment they just stared lovingly at each other. They both walked to the door, but it was George that opened it.

Standing in front of them two well-dressed men sporting suits, long coats, and hats, smiled and introduced themselves as employees of ‘The New Life Project’.

“Mr and Mrs Harris?” The taller of the men enquired.

“Yes, please come in,” George replied.

The men entered the house, smiled, removed their hats, and made formal introductions.

“I am Mr Henson, and this is my associate Mr Baxter,” the taller of the two men stated.

They were invited to sit and as they did so Mr Baxter removed some paperwork from his folder and handed it to his colleague.

After swapping pleasantries they got down to business.

“So, I see here that you have decided not to raise a child of your own but have shown interest in our organisation in order that someone else will benefit from your unused allowance. I do hate to use the word allowance, but it’s as the regulation is worded, so for the sake of removing any confusion we’ll just stick with that repulsive word,” Mr Henson said.

It was indeed a fact that regulation 7C which was put into law some five years ago, in 2057, stated that an allowance of only one child be given to each married couple.
“This has meant that children are a somewhat rare…”

“And valuable,” Mr Baxter interceded.

“Quite so, Mr Baxter, quite so. Rare and valuable commodity, especially when making use of our enhanced genetic improvements procedure. On conception, our specialised team will remove the fertilised egg and make certain adjustments to the DNA. This will make the child stronger in every way. We will discard any faulty genes that could lead to problems in later life, and replace them with our scientifically created ones. A hereditary heart defect, gone. A history of lung disease in the family, well that’s history now if you forgive the pun. Then it’ll be put back where it belongs, so it can have a natural birth. We have found that the benefits of a normal birth far outweigh the risks when it comes to how strong the newborns are. We’ll then take the little one and, depending on how the market is doing, place it where it’s most needed. “

“Can I ask? Well, I mean to say, with the modifications of the DNA, will it still be our child? Or, well I don’t know how to put it. I know that we’re passing it on, but I’d still like to think that there was a part of us in it,” Angela enquired.

“A perfectly good question,” Mr Henson replied. “The baby will comprise of nearly 50% of your genetic makeup…”

“49.6% to be precise,” Mr Baxter interceded again.

“Quite so, quite so, Mr Baxter,” responded Mr Henson. “And as such, once expenses are deducted, certificates and medical costs etc, then you will be paid that percentage of the profits. The market is very fluid at the moment, there is always a buyer out there.”

George wanted to think that it wasn’t the money that was important, but rather the chance to give a loving couple who couldn’t have their own child what they longed for. But truth be told, their finances were in dire straits, and this was their way out. When he had put the idea to Angela, she had reluctantly agreed.

They read through the contract, paused, gave each other another loving look and then signed on the dotted line.

Within a relatively short time Angela received a positive pregnancy test. She was then admitted to a private clinic. The embryo was removed and put back within a day. Before she knew it she was back home. Then the days, weeks and months just shot by.

A month before it was due George caught Angela sitting on the bed, gently caressing her ‘bump’ and quietly sobbing to herself. He moved away from the doorway not letting her know that he had witnessed her torment. He hadn’t the words to soothe her pain, so thought it better to let the moment just slip by.

The day came when it was time to return to the New Life Clinic. Within a couple of days, the baby was delivered. Angela and George had only a brief moment to meet their child before it was whisked away. They were assured that it was better for all concerned if they didn’t have time to bond with the child. For Angela, it was too late. She had felt it growing inside of her. Felt its first kick. Looked into those huge blue eyes. Looked into its soul and the child had looked into hers. The following day she left the clinic minus her child and a huge part of her heart.

The next week was filled with tears and sorrow. The following Monday they made a phone call to The New Life Project.

The doorbell rang. Mr Henson and Mr Baxter followed George into the living room, removed their hats and sat opposite a tearful Angela.

George explained that they had come to a decision. They wanted their baby. The parting of Angela from her child was too much to bear. They realised that there would be a financial cost in ‘buying’ their baby back but were willing to do whatever was necessary to regain what had been given away.

Mr Henson told them that it was quite impossible for them to acquiesce to their demands. The board of The New Life Project had already completed the sale of the child. Unfortunately, it was out of his hands.

“But it’s our baby,” Angela protested.

“Actually, with the project owning over 50% of asset….” Mr Henson started to explain.

“50.4%,” Mr Baxter interrupted.

“Quite so, Mr Baxter, quite so. With the project owning 50.4% of the asset, any decisions regarding its future have been made by the rightful owner. It’s all completely in order as set out in the contract that you both signed,” he continued.

Mr Henson then tried to calm the mood the best he could, which was awkward for all concerned as he was a businessman through and through and this was nothing more than a business transaction after all.

Angela asked if she could see her child one last time.

Mr Henson told her that it would be impossible.

After a period of deafening silence, Mr Baxter removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase and passed it to George. He and Angela read through it.

“What the hell is this?” Angela asked, confused as she tried to comprehend the list.

“Ahh, to the good news. You will see that the organs have made a very respectable profit for all parties concerned,” Mr Henson smiled as he explained.

“Organs?” George stuttered.

“Yes, organs,” Mr Henson replied in a completely matter-of-fact tone. “Surely you read sub-paragraph 11B of the contract? The asset was placed where it realised the most profit. “

“But we thought that meant it would be adopted by a family that was willing to pay the most for it, regardless of which country they lived in,” George responded in shock.

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. The market has shifted quite considerably over the last few days in favour of organ donation over adoption. The heart alone made over $500,000. And the spleen, lungs, and kidneys also made great returns on the investment. A perfect example of the sum of the parts being worth more than the whole. All in all, with 49% of the net profits going to you, you stand to make a tidy sum.”

“49.6%,” Mr Baxter corrected.

“Quite so, Mr Baxter, quite so,” Mr Henson replied.

Angela screamed.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Death and Taxes

November 30, 2022November 16, 2022 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 5 Comments

Kristin sat at his desk in the sparsely decorated government office. He was busily reading through the correspondence of the day. The letters were usually the same-old-same. People would query their latest tax demand. They would invent reasons as to why their annual calculation should be lower than what they were billed. He mused over the fact that the initial communication from each person would be cordial, sometimes even fawning in their appreciation of the department taking the time to consider their applications for tax relief. With the exception of a few legitimate claims, most were just pleas to lessen the burden of the annual charge or to extend the payment due date. A second letter from the same member of the public, when reading closely between the lines, would usually show a hint of desperation. The third would stink of desperation (usually after they had received a dreaded ‘red notice’ or final demand, as it was officially called.) If anyone sent a fourth, then that would usually be at the end of the process and, more often than not, would be hostile to the extent of a profanity riddled rant. These would come from people whose cases had been heard and judged upon with a negative outcome. By negative, it meant business foreclosures or asset and property repossessions.

Although not many had the stomach for his career choice, Kristin was happy in his work. If he dared admit the truth to himself, he even found himself rather enjoying the process of punishing those who did not pay their dues. He always paid his taxes in a timely manner, he rationalised, so why shouldn’t everyone else. If unforeseen hardship had fallen upon those businesses who were now struggling to make ends meet, a death of a business partner, a downturn in the market, then they obviously hadn’t put safety measures in place to ensure they didn’t fall into the debt trap. FYI, not his problem.

He lightly perused the last letter in his in-tray and stamped it ‘Claim Rejected’ with a bit more enthusiasm than was called for. He then sat back, looked upon his day’s toil, and stood to leave for the day. After putting on his coat and scarf, he collected the two piles of paperwork from his desk. On his way out he stopped at his secretary’s desk and put each pile in the correct tray. The one for rejected claims, he deposited the large wad of letters. The one for accepted claims, he put in a single letter which he begrudgingly had to admit held merit for tax exemptions. His secretary (he could never remember her name, nor took the time to even try and make the effort to) smiled sweetly at him.

“Good night, Mr Holland. Have a nice weekend,” she said as he turned to leave.

“You too,” he insincerely said in way of reply.

The next morning, he got out of bed at the usual time of 6.30am. Whether it be a workday, a weekend or even Christmas Day for that matter, his morning routine never wavered.

On descending the stairs down to the kitchen, the only thing wavering seemed to be his balance. He felt very unsteady on his feet and felt the need to grasp the banister to get to the hallway below. He walked through to the Kitchen with some difficulty. Each step was akin to traversing a deep sponge.

On looking down at the ground, he unintentionally let out a shriek of horror. He wasn’t walking on the floor; he was walking in it. The soles of his feet were at least an inch lower than the laminate flooring, and they were sinking further with every passing moment. He heard a rattle of keys by his front door and with effort managed to turn to face it. In desperation he called out and tried to make his way to his long-time partner who was returning home after getting the morning papers. He had never got round to making their relationship more official. He had thought about it, as he had to admit the tax breaks that he would receive on getting married made the idea rather appealing.
Now sunk up to his knees within the floor, each step was like wading through a river of treacle. He sank further and further until the ground passed his mouth, making it impossible for him to make any audible sound whatsoever. Then, within a second, there was no sign of Kristin nor any sign that he had been there at any time that morning. The kitchen floor was as hard and unyielding as it ought to be.

Kristin slid silently through the foundations of his house. He then passed through thick wet mud, which oozed into his nose, ears and mouth, running down his throat and making him gag. His face was pushed against the remains of a body which must have been buried on the plot of land his house now stood many years before it was built. The smell of death filled him with nausea and still he continued his downward journey. Despite the physical relationship between himself and the matter around him being broken, he could still see, smell, taste, and worst of all, feel.

As his body was sucked downwards through mud, chalk and eventually stone he could feel his skin being continuously torn from its body. The pain was agonising and unrelenting, as his flesh was abraded by granite and flint. His skin still it seemed to remain attached to his skeleton. Each layer that was sliced or wrenched from his body was immediately replaced by new growth. Although he could not breathe, the unconsciousness of death eluded him. It refused to clutch him to its bosom for that final relief of oblivion. Instead, he had no choice but to endure the relentless torture of having every nerve ending in his body scraped against the innards of Mother Earth.

Each passing hour seemed like a lifetime of pain. And with each hour a different texture and therefore a different kind of pain. Granite felt different as Kimberlite, as did Obsidian, Basalt and Pumice.

The deeper he travelled the colder he became. As well as the searing pain of friction he now also had to bear the mind shattering freezing temperature.

After what seemed like an age he began to feel, at first, warmth, and then searing heat. It started on the soles of his feet, but slowly worked his way up his body. He could see clumps of flesh singe and burn away from his bones. As each slice of meat barbequed into ash, another piece of fresh flesh grew in its place, and so the burning process would begin anew.

He knew that his final destination would be the furnace of the Earth’s core.

Kristin wondered if his fate was the result of him relishing in other people’s misery and his selfish attitude in both his business and personal life.

Or was it in fact true, that all tax collectors deserved to burn in Hell.

∼ Ian Sputnik

Friend of Mine

September 14, 2022September 14, 2022 ~ Ian Sputnik ~ 10 Comments

Andy could never stand being indoors. He could walk for miles. He was the explorer of his family. His father worked for the local bank, a career that his dad hoped he would follow. His mother worked part-time in the local dentist as a receptionist. His older sister was just finishing high school, she dreamed of being a model. Her parents worried about this; Andy was just bemused by it. He thought her an ugly pig.

Andy, well Andy just liked to explore. He was never happier than when he was on his own, in his own adventure.

It was a particularly balmy day. The sun beamed down on the fields and trees causing the early morning dew to evaporate. It hung in the air like the kind of mist one would usually only see when running a hot shower. His neck was hot and sweaty so he decided to seek shelter from the solar onslaught by walking through the woods. It was the path less traveled by even the most ardent rambler and therefore the going was slow. He edged his way forward over fallen branches whilst trying to avoid the patches of brambles and nettles.

He mused to himself that this was the farthest he’d ventured into this part of the woods in all of his thirteen years. As he marveled at his surroundings there was a creaking sound beneath his feet and the floor open up below him. Then all went dark.

He groaned and shook his head to try and wake his senses. He found himself laying at the bottom of a long shaft. Way above him was a small spot of light, no doubt the opening that he had fallen through. He slowly got to his feet, evidently nothing broken except his pride which was as bruised as his backside.

There was a long tunnel that disappeared into darkness in one direction. In the other was a slight glimmer of light. That was the direction he decided to go. Eventually, the tunnel opened out into a large chamber. He sat on a large stone in its center and took in his surroundings. It was quite bright here as there were many flaming torches lining the walls. On the ground lay discarded clothes. He reached down and lifted one such item to closer inspect it. It looks like one of those old redcoats that he had seen in movies. It was dirty but other than that it was in remarkable condition. He tried it on and as he did so he heard a jingling sound from its pockets. Reaching into one he pulled out a handful of coins. They appeared to be gold and this made him smile broadly.

“So, is that what you desire?” the gravelly voice from a dark side recess enquired.

Andy stood bolt upright. His legs began to tremble as a large bulky shape came into view. It dragged itself along the ground with two very large forearms. The sounds of its movements were accompanied by the metallic clanging of large chains which were attached to a metal collar around its neck. As it entered the chamber the torchlight illuminated the hulk of the creature. Its head was wide, like a bullfrog. But as it continued talking, he could see that its mouth was full of dark, broken, and decaying teeth; each one the size of two house bricks. Its skin was slimy, pale green and covered in warts the size of acorns. “Is it you wish to be rich Beyond your wildest dreams?”

He could do nothing more than slowly shake his head in pure terror. He heard the coins slip from his hand onto the stony surface of the floor.

“Well?” The creature asked again. “Cat got your tongue? You know it is considered rude not to reply when being spoken to.”

Andy couldn’t comprehend what was speaking to him. It was the size of a small RV. It pulled itself closer to him on muscly arms. Its hind legs, if it had any, were not visible. As it approached it continued speaking. With each syllable, the stench of decay invaded Andy’s nostrils. It was all he could do to not vomit.

“Who am I addressing?” It asked.

“I’m An-An-Andy,” he stuttered in way of reply.

“Pleased to meet you, Andy. Please, sit back down and make yourself comfortable. We have much to discuss, so you’ll no doubt be here for a while.”

It smiled as Andy sat back down. A movement that went against every instinct in his body which screamed ‘run’. But he was too enthralled by the ‘thing’ which now sat only a couple of feet from him.

“Sadly, I have no name,” it continued. “If I ever had one, I’ve long since forgotten it.”

“What are you?” Andy blurted out. His mother had warned that his inquisitive nature would be the death of him. But he has so many questions. “Who put those chains on you? How long have you been down here?”

In way of reply it gave out a belly laugh, then added “One question at a time. I was imprisoned down here so very long ago. By who? I cannot remember. Why? I guess my dashing good looks made them jealous,” he burst into laughter again. “Or maybe they just wanted to keep me to myself for my special gift”, he teased.

Andy found himself starting to relax in the company of his new friend. He was intrigued by this strange creature. He wanted to know more.

“What do you eat down here?” he inquired. As he did so, his eyes were once more drawn to the cavern floor. As well as the red coat that he was now wearing, there were clothes of many different styles and eras strewn about the place. He made an audible gasp and turned to his companion.

“Ah, yes well, I must admit my diet does tend to lean towards fresh meat. Never been much of a salad kind of guy. But don’t worry. I rarely need sustenance and I’m not feeling hungry at the moment. You have my word on that, and for all my faults I never lie.”

“Is that what you told ‘them’?” Andy retorted, pointing to the piles of clothing.

“Oh, them. Well, you see they sought me out seeking a deal. Riches for their lives. They didn’t die of greed, they died of stupidity. I gave them what they wanted and took from them what they promised. The deal was fair. I kept my word. They just didn’t think about the finer details of the deal they made. They never really thought it through.”

“I want gold,” he demanded. “If you can grant wishes, then I want gold and lots of it.”

“And in return, I want something,” it said in reply. “I’m going to need a good meal at some stage.”

“OK then,” agreed Andy. “I want as much gold as I can carry, and then you can eat me. But only when I’ve had time to enjoy my riches. On my word, I will return,” he promised.

“Then we have a deal,” the creature said with a smile.

“When I am 100,” Andy added.

“WHAT?” it bellowed. “When you’re how old?”

“Yes, when I am 100. If you truly have gifts, you’ll give me until the age of 100 to fulfill the bargain. And that’s 100 years of good health. Then, when my time has come, you can feast on me. I think it’s only fair that I have time to enjoy being rich. I’m not going to make the mistake the others made.”

The smile disappeared from the fat face of the monster that sat just a few feet from Andy. It grumbled to itself.

“You possess guile beyond your years,” it complained. If shifted its weight from one side to the other and mulled this new caveat to their contract. “OK then. It’s a deal,” it conceded. “I can wait.”

This time it was Andy who bore a smug grin. As he sat, he felt a glow of self-satisfaction flow through his body. He had outsmarted the overconfident blob. It had underestimated his negotiation skills. The creature slid off and returned with a chest of gold and jewels. Small enough for Andy to carry, but large enough to keep him and his family in comfort for the rest of their lives.

Andy moved to collect his prize.

“Not so fast,” the beast commanded. “You think you have the strength to lift that box?”

Andy shrugged off its comments and reached for the handle. He was stronger than he looked. As he tried to claim what was rightfully his, his back gave out with a crunching sound. He sat back down in agony. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he wiped them away with his hands. His palms felt rough and his fingers hurt from that simple movement. He stared at them through the gloom of his failing eyesight. Through the dust, flickering firelight and poor vision, he could still see his hands looked bony and the skin wrinkly.

“What have you done to me?” he asked in a panicked, croaky voice.

“Me? Nothing. Mother nature has done that to you, not I. You see time doesn’t pass the same in my company as it does elsewhere. That is one of my special gifts. I’d say that you’ve been here for 80 or 90 years. Which…” he chortled, “would make you at least 100 by now, maybe a bit more. But you can have those extra few on me.”

It moved towards him with a greater speed than his bulk seemed capable of.

“Now for your end of the bargain, my dear friend,” it said in a sinister tone.

Its mouth opened wide. The smell of decay from its mouth once again assaulted Andy’s senses.

As it lifted Andy high into the air and down towards its cavernous orifice, it stopped briefly to add, “I’m afraid my teeth aren’t what they used to be. Not as sharp as they once were. I may have to chomp and chew on your body for quite a while before I can ingest you. So, this is going to hurt. This is going to hurt a lot.”

∼ Ian Sputnik