Author: TheDamned

A clandestine collection of the most eclectic minds of horror. These anguished souls have stripped free their pretenses for your grotesque delight. The Pen of the Damned tread where you dare walk not. Breathe what you dare dream not. Share what you dare speak not.

Damned Words 60

~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

What Was Left
Miriam H. Harrison

She had told them something was wrong. Time and again she had said that she wasn’t quite herself, that things were getting worse, that something needed to be done. First they said it was her weight, and told her to come back after a diet. Then they said it was her cycles, as though discomfort was the price of femininity. As her cycles ebbed, they said it was merely old age, as if the concerns hadn’t gone back to her youth. When at long last they opened her up, they were surprised to see what was left of her. Rust and dust and cobwebs filled the space where her heart and hopes should be. It was too late, they said, shaking their heads as if she were the one who let the clock run dry. Wheezing, creaking, rattling, she laughed as she left them. After an invisible lifetime, it was a relief to be seen.

The Operator
Lee Andrew Forman

With blackened hands, The Operator approached the ancient mechanism; a rusty toolbox hung from one arm. After placing it on the cold floor he rubbed his palms together. He opened the top of his rectangular companion with care, splaying the trays apart on squeaky hinges. From within he retrieved an iron handwheel. With careful eyes he inspected its every surface. He blew the dust from its threaded center, then raised it above his bowed head. A symphony of desperate cheers resounded behind him.

The crowd quieted while he aligned the wheel with its intended place, and carefully screwed it tight. Silence made the room itself sweat. Then, a low hum came from deep within the machine. Its dormant innards turned and life surged through its pipes. The room creaked and shuttered as the bygone contraption was reanimated from its slumber.

The vents in the ceiling opened, and in flowed exactly what they wished and waited so long for.

The Eliminominator
Marge Simon

It was a rusty old useless piece of machinery, that was obvious. Why we had to keep it in our one spare room was a mystery, but since it belonged to Grandpa, nobody dared suggest we get rid of it. 

I grew up despising the thing. I wanted my own room and it wasn’t fair that this thing of Grandpa’s had priority. We weren’t even supposed to touch it. I waited years for the opportunity to destroy it. One summer, I had just turned twelve and everyone was gone on a picnic. I said I would be swimming with friends, and nobody questioned it.  When they’d departed, I took a sledge hammer to it, whacked it up and down hard as I could.  Nothing happened. I may as well have been using a feather.

After that, it had my full attention for other reasons. In fact, I actually tried to get Grandpa to tell me what it was for. To my surprise, he grinned really big like he was tickled I asked.  Since he’d not spoken or smiled – or even moved from his bed since before I was born, that was a surprise. He motioned me close and whispered how it was a Eliminominator.  Said it was his first and only invention and what it could do. He told me how to start it up, but he made me promise never to turn it on.

Okay, you probably think I didn’t keep my promise to Grandpa. You think I maybe tried it out on my stupid kid brother Bobby, the one I had to share a room with, right?  You think I made Bobby lie down at the juncture where the knives popped up on the wheels after I’d placed a bucket for the blood in the space provided, don’t you? Well? Don’t you?

Programmed
RJ Meldrum

Long after the end, the machines kept moving. The factory was fully automated and the machines, only artificially intelligent, had no sense their creators were gone. The factory was hermetically sealed so it took years for rust and decay to have an impact. Eventually it did and most machines ground to a halt, parts seized by rust or lack of lubrication. One machine kept running, mechanically building cardboard boxes for the product and after the supplies dwindled to nothing, simply going through the motions. Its arms mimicked the action of folding and sealing.

The human burst through the door onto the factory floor. The disease had destroyed humanity, but some had remained alive. They were here to loot. There was metal here, aluminum and other rare metals to trade. Electronic eyes followed them as the human moved down the manufacturing line, gathering precious material. The human stood in front of the only functioning machine, its arms blindly moving in obedience to its programming.  The human craned over to get a better look and in doing so, stepped over a red line on the floor. The human, born after the disaster, had no sense of impending doom. The machine, similarly unaware, simply picked up the new raw material and did as it was programmed to do. It folded.

The Drip
Kathleen McCluskey

The pipes hadn’t been touched in decades. Hidden deep within the crumbing asylum, they snaked through the walls like veins of a corpse, rusted and forgotten. The maintenance crew avoided the lower levels, muttering about sounds, the whispers and the dripping that nobody dared investigate. 

Until tonight. 

Evan, desperate for overtime pay, descended into the dark. His weak flashlight barely cut through the heavy air. It smelled like old blood and wet iron.

The pipes groaned, too, an organic sound. Evan told himself that it was just stress, fear. Nothing more. He found the main valve, rusted and covered in cobwebs, and reached for it. The metal was slick, greasy, almost sticky.

Drip.

Drip.

The noise was coming from behind him. He turned, shaking. Nothing but the endless pipes. He yanked on the valve, it didn’t budge.

Drip.

Drip. 

It was coming from the pipes, like something trapped inside bleeding out. Evan leaned closer. In the cone of his flashlight, he saw that it wasn’t water.

It was red. Thick and warm.

The valve shuddered violently in his hand, the pipe screamed. A wet, gurgling shriek echoed from the metal. A skeletal hand clawed free, its fingers wrapping around Evan’s throat before he could scream. Rust covered nails punctured his skin, dragging him down against the pipe. As Evan thrashed, more arms slithered out, pulling him inside. 

His last breath was a bubbling choke, swallowed by the twisted mass of metal and bone. 

Above the asylum’s walls trembled as more pipes burst.

Deep below, something ancient laughed, and was still hungry.

Torn Asunder
Elaine Pascale

More than anything, Clara wanted to discard the old relic that was rusting away in her attic. She thought she had discarded her family years prior, but her recently deceased Aunt Sophie’s lawyer had found her and bestowed the industrial fossil on her. 

There was a belief, set forth by great-great grandfather Silas, that the iron shafts and gears preserved from the family’s first factory was what bound them together. “Anything happens to it, and the family is torn asunder,” Cara had been told many times when she was young.

“It didn’t bind me to anyone,” she muttered, frowning at the rusted albatross. It had come with a note, but the note was far too faded to read. She could make out the words “torn asunder” and she assumed the note contained more warnings about keeping the object. 

At least I can clean it up a bit, she thought, get rid of some of the dust and cobwebs. She grabbed a towel and proceeded to rub the gears.

A puff of smoke emanated from the relic and a large shadow darkened her attic.

“Who dares to wake me?” A djinn asked, his voice ominous.

Cara was too frightened to speak.

The djinn eyed her. “You didn’t read the note?”

“N-no. I couldn’t.”

“I warned Silas that a note was not the best way to prevent disaster.” The djinn glared at her. “He promised me eternal rest in that.” He pointed to the factory piece. “And I would grant your family wealth.” He scowled, “But you defied the conditions and woke me.” 

“It doesn’t matter, the family is already torn apart,” she insisted.

The djinn’s scowl transformed into a smile. “You misunderstood. You get wealth, which will bind the family financially. Whoever wakes me, will be torn asunder…literally.”

Just Like Her Father
A.F. Stewart

Daddy lived and died in the company of machines.

It was what he loved, the purr of a good engine, the turn of a crankshaft. He was a first-rate mechanic, working shifts at different jobs over the years from garages to factories. He always called it his passion.

It wasn’t his only passion, though. Drinking ranked just as high.

He never took a sip on the job, he saved it all for home. A mean drunk too, swinging his fists, slamming me and mom against the wall, the floor, splitting our lips, giving us black eyes. Mom had enough when I was ten and walked out, leaving me alone with his rages.

At least that’s what I thought. Until the news showed the recovery of a buried skeleton wearing a gold necklace. Mom’s necklace. Then I knew what he had done…and what still needed doing.

 

Have you ever wondered what a running engine does to a face?

Daddy found out the day he died.

All it took was one quick shove and slamming the hood down with my body weight. Then it was over except the screaming.

A Wheel A Rollin’
Harrison Kim

Ezekial saw a wheel a rollin’ way in the middle of the air.  This one’s stopped except for a single fresh screw with a shining thread.  All out there alone in the Universe rusty and dead on the outside.  That single oily protuberance pokes out, that last forlorn hope.  Curiosity as Ezekial the space walker bobs near, a tiny, suited soul examining this humungous rusty thing…. attached cameras beaming back to earth what is discovered.  He’s a fly on the rust, a piece of white dust against the brown, as he uses X rays and close microscopic focus, as he burns and parts the surface with his blowtorch.  We must find out what’s inside everything, it is like that with all of us humans always looking for more, thinks Ezekial, he was a suicide case after the death of his wife that’s why they sent him up there, a disposable volunteer for this risky job, and he wanted it!  The change in his life a miracle, and now to go out doing something interesting, his brain implanted with new attitude changing electrodes, he’s life loving now but it’s for the whole planet not just himself.   He will go out doing something important for everyone. His welding torch opens the pipe, funny the hole widens so easily, becoming the face of his now-dead wife. How miraculous! He peers closer and inside the face he sees his whole existence inside that eye everything from his birth to his death…as that eye blinks and covers him.  His space suited body and soul absorbed by that shape shifting mass blinking just under the rust on the wheel.  After Ezekial disappears the screw extends out further and becomes slightly shinier. It’s found one more drop of oil and Ezekial has joined his loving wife.

The Pipe
Charles Gramlich

“See that rusty pipe?” I asked my victim.

“What? Why are you showing me that?” he asked in his irritating whine.

“Because I’m going to chain you to it and leave you there.”

“No! Why…would you do that?”

“Too many reasons to name,” I said.

“Please, you can’t. I’ll starve to death.”

My chuckle echoed. “Oh, you won’t have time to starve.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t see them but that pipe is full of microfractures. Should have been replaced years ago but it’s still in use. And every day…. Several times a day, they pump boiling water through it. Those fractures are going to give way any time now.”

“That’ll cook me! Burn me alive!”

“Preach it, brother.”

“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”

“Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t take another day trapped inside your sad, putrid, useless form.”

“Please!”

“Shut it,” I said.

I looped the chains I’d brought around the pipe, then fitted the manacles on my wrists and snapped them closed. A few jerks against the constraints showed that I—that we—were solidly bound. And already the sound of boiling water gushed through the pipe toward me. Would this be the moment when the pipe ruptured? Or next time? Or the one after? The sooner the better.

I should never have possessed this disgusting sack of human flesh. I’d never imagined how clingy a desperate mortal could be. But once the flesh and muscle boil away, the bones won’t be able to hold me. This devil will go back to Hell. It hadn’t been that bad a place. This time, I’ll appreciate it more.”

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2025

A Major Error in Judgement

~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

When the two teenage hot dog vendors laughed at Brandon Viktor, they stuck their tongues out.  The thin, stoop shouldered 21-year-old Viktor took his wiener from its bun and bit a huge piece off.  Everyone in Princetown thought they could make fun of him, but he still had a powerful chomp.

He arrived in town two months ago, after his mom kicked him out of the house.  She gave him a thousand bucks, told him to adventure somewhere far away and find some meaning to his life.

Brandon walked into his tiny apartment. He got down on his hands and knees and inspected the couch.  It looked pretty much the same.  But the lamp.  A chip out of the side.  That wasn’t there yesterday.  Brandon punched the side of the couch with his fist.  “They won’t stop.  They just won’t stop,” he muttered, holding his aching hand.  Every day after returning home, something valuable replaced with a cheap replica. That, and the tongue teasing, and the surreptitious giggling.  He’d already changed the locks three times.

Brandon went to the police station.  The two female officers laughed, just like the hot dog vendors.   He saw their protruding tongues. “Are you on any medication?” said one.  

“No,” Brandon whispered. It seemed that the officer wanted him drugged up and compliant.  Brandon wasn’t going down without a fight.  He left the police station grinding his teeth and muttering “evil Princetown bastards.”

He opened his bedroom closet and inspected his collection of whips. He liked how the whips snapped.  He often practiced flicking them, imagining his enemies flayed and under his power.  Now, even here, replica whips found.  Cheap imitations.  A normal sheeple wouldn’t notice, Brandon mused, “they’re talking advantage of my sensitivity.”

He didn’t know why everyone wanted him out of Princetown.  Possibly jealousy.  People walked by him on the street, showing their tongues.  Trying to make him think his member didn’t measure up. He sometimes stuck his own tongue out at them.  Yet the more he fought, the more the persecutions escalated.

One day he lost his keys.  He searched all around the neighbourhood, on the lawn, behind the toilet.  He bought a carton of milk at the store, opened it for morning cereal.  In the pouring white gush he felt something heavy.  He upended the container and discovered his lost keys.  Someone had broken into his apartment, grabbed the keys, then placed them in the very milk carton he chose at the supermarket.  Brandon threw his cereal against the wall.  The plate shattered.  His favourite plate, the one with Darth Vader on it.

Brandon decided to change tactics.  He’d throw a party.  If he did something nice, something generous, maybe everyone would like him.  After all, he’d been very insular.  He hadn’t spoken to anyone but the police for many days.  

Brandon took all his social assistance money and went into the liquor store.  He bought a few hundred dollars’ worth of wine and spirits and beer.  Then he made colourful posters advertising his free party.  “Citizens of Princetown, come to Brandon Viktor’s apartment at 21-329 Gorgon Street 9 pm Friday til ? for a welcome bash.  Free alcohol!”

People began arriving an hour early.  Some folks seemed normal; some resembled the indigents living in the park across the street.   They all acted happy.  Brandon bought out his CD’s and played them on his little portable stereo.  He poured drinks, served chips and popcorn.  Everyone laughed, people exclaimed “Thank you.”  “This is a great party, Brandon.  It is Brandon, isn’t it?”

Brandon drank til the room swirled.  Might as well celebrate the housewarming.  He didn’t know when he got to sleep.  Upon awakening, he staggered into the bathroom, peered into the toilet at a pile of wet paper.   He peed and flushed, and the water swirled up over the edge.  Plugged!  Brandon quickly turned the water off, lurched out of the room and frantically inspected his apartment. What a mess! Empty or broken wine glasses everywhere. The flat screen TV gone, along with his toaster.  The music player vanished.  And those fabulous speakers!  Brandon ran to check his whip closet.  All the whips intact, but perhaps more were replicas?  He sorted furiously through the collection.

“Someone will pay for this!” he muttered.  “Princetown will not escape my wrath. Someone will be sacrificed as a message for these bastards!”  Brandon stood on his patio, flicking his whips over the street.  

He phoned his mother, spoke one sentence on her answering machine.  “You can auction off my comic book collection, I won’t be needing it anymore.  Love you, Mom.”

The next morning he bought a razor sharp carving knife with the last of his money. He stuffed the knife under his jacket, swallowed a number of pills to stop his terrible headache, and headed for the town park.

He hid in a bathroom stall at public toilets in a little used section of green space, and waited, crouched on the seat, the knife clasped in his hand.  After a while, footsteps.  Brandon listened and watched, peeping out from a crack at one side of the stall door.  A six-foot tall, hefty shouldered young man entered.  Brandon stood five foot five, weighed in at 136 pounds.  He decided to let this guy go.

Ten minutes later he watched an older fellow, maybe in his seventies, fumbling to open his fly.  Brandon quietly stood up, pulled back the stall door.   The white-haired fellow started his business.  Brandon leaped forward with the knife and plunged it into the old man’s side.  A scream, and then the struggle.  It was very, very hard to kill this guy.  The old geezer wriggled like a worm.  His attacker stabbed again and again. The man raised his arms then began to gargle and fall.  Brandon left the knife sticking from the victim’s side and ran out, passing two small children at a nearby picnic table.  

He started washing himself off at the nearby brook.  Then he stopped, overcome by echoing voices telling him “The Victor, you are the Victor!”  Like his last name.  He sat back against a tree, laughing.  He had taken revenge by killing a community citizen.  He showed them who was boss.  Princetown couldn’t fool with him.  The police discovered Brandon there by the brook, giggling, waggling his tongue in their direction.

It wasn’t until a month later, while being interviewed in his cell for fitness to stand trial, that Brandon heard the details about his victim.  The grandfather he murdered, Peter Van Sickle, had popped into the washroom after taking his two grandchildren to the park, allowing their mother a morning break.  He’d driven in the day before from Oregon, to visit his daughter and spend a few days.  

“He wasn’t even a citizen of Princetown?” said Brandon.

“Nope.”  The interviewing psychiatrist shook his head.  “Does that matter?”  

Brandon gripped his head in his hands. “I killed an innocent man.  I should have asked where he was coming from.”

The psychiatrist scribbled some quick notes.  “Looks like you’re very upset.”

Brandon looked at the doctor through his tears.  “I made a terrible mistake.”

At Brandon’s court fitness hearing, citizens of Princetown protested outside the courthouse yelling “Justice for Peter Van Sickle,” and “Put the monster away for life!”  The hearing and the protests made national headlines.

“I can’t figure it out,” Brandon said to his lawyer.  “They’re so angry at me, and the old guy wasn’t even from their town.”

“They say this crime took their innocence,” the lawyer said.  “They say they’ve never experienced such a brutal, barbaric event in Princetown before.”

A frown played across Brandon’s face.  He clenched his fists. “They made me do it.  It was an act of self-defence.  They should be charged with murder, not me. When we drove up in the sheriff’s car today, I saw their tongues sticking out.”

“We’re going to plead insanity,” said the lawyer.  

However, to Brandon, it all made perfect sense, except for his one major error in judgement.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

Damned Words 59

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Bound in Mater’s Shed
Marge Simon

Mater has me cloistered in her potting shed. I’ve screamed until my throat is raw, but no one comes. Christ, she’s a bitch supreme. Tis true, I fed her stupid prize rose to the goat. The thing appeared to be a cross between a mushroom and an avocado, truly revolting to behold. Anyway, it was only for a lark, but the old bat took it seriously. Starlight sifts through the cracks between the boards. If I crane my neck, I can see the moon. That sluggish golem servant she’s made is a mess, with sand for brains. He brings me a crust of bread, a lump of stinky cheese. Now off he goes to gather kindling for our hearth. But wait, he’s not going to the house. Instead, he’s piling it high around my shed. I hear the scratching of a match …

The Eye
Charles Gramlich

An eye opened in the forest, a red fleshy eye. Then another. And another. No one realized what they were, or what they promised.  Just nature’s oddities, humans thought. People went about their business, using the world as they saw fit. But now the world was watching. It had been asleep for a few billion years but that long nap was over. How long before it opened its mouth too—and began to feed?

My Little Flower
Lee Andrew Forman

Homemade medicine drops between your lips at my discretion. You are ill, that I know. No doctor need visit. One drop, two drops, don’t cry. Your beauty shines too brightly, attracts too many flies. Your protector I was, still am. I’ll make sure they can’t get to you, my dear.

The concoction, a recipe not my own. I paid in a back-alley shop, only known by rumor. Bones dangled from the ceiling and candles moved shadows.

I visit daily since you passed, watch this strange flower grow. I wonder if you hear me there, praying to your ghost. I stroke the petals and think of you—my little flower, how I loved you then, now, and forever.

The Blooming
Kathleen McCluskey

The jungle swallowed him whole, the dense foliage closing in like living walls. Sweat clung to his skin as he pushed deeper, following the rancid stench that thickened with every step. Then, he saw it. A monstrous bloom, red and fleshy. It was huge, sprawled against the base of a gnarled tree. Its petals, speckled like diseased flesh, pulsed so slightly as if breathing. The center gaped open, a cavernous maw lined with slick, ridged folds. The air soured farther, thick with decay. Flies buzzed around something lodged within the gaping cavity. A bone, yellowed and splintered, jutted from the depths. 

His stomach clenched. The camera in his hands trembled, the lens trained on the grotesque marvel. He had found it! His colleagues had mocked him, now here he stood in front of it. He raised his camera, sweat rolling down his fingers. The moment the shutter clicked, the petals twitched. A wet, sucking noise oozed from within. 

A spray of warm, gooey fluid hit his arm and face. Searing pain flared across his skin, burning, eating through his flesh like acid. He staggered back, his vision tunneling as his nerves ignited in agony. 

The petals unfurled and surged forward, grabbing him, pulling his collapsing body closer. Enveloped in the wet, pulsating petals, he writhed while needle-like spikes protruded from the fleshy walls. They pierced his skin and anchored him in place while the flower’s insides began to constrict. His scream barely escaped before the flower slammed shut. Muffled sounds of feasting echoed through the jungle. 

By morning, the jungle was silent. The flower sat motionless, its petals gleaming. The only sign of what had transpired was the faintest smear of red on the tree roots.

The Flower Ear
Harrison Kim

My flappy flower ear can hear everything, the tiny tendrils quivering, taking in all you say. There are millions of my listeners everywhere, as everyone knows by now. My spotted flesh and eardrum ring sit planted at the side of every dwelling and business, subway entrance and even on the trees in the park.  All whispers caught. All words taken in and all discussions acquired. You might think you are saying nothing wrong, but fear not, I will decide for you. As my flaps flap and my circle thickens and thins over all my millions of ears, I ponder the value of your existence. Shall I approve of all the things you said and did? No, that is impossible. But there are minor sins and venial sins. Sure, if you embezzled a few dollars, ate all the red smarties, or cheated on your wife, more power to you. You’re a person after my own heart. But If you talked against me personally there can be no forgiveness. I have to say “that’s not very nice,” and show you the consequences.

If you see my flappy ear shimmering over your bed at night, you know it’s judgement time. Rise and clasp the blossom to your heart before it strikes. That way, things will go easier for you. Then the flower will either penetrate, gentle but keen as a razor blade, and become part of you as well as me, or it will suck its ring around your red centre and pull the organ out, chewing and absorbing your treacherous fleshy soul.

Red Spores
A.F. Stewart

A starless night, black as pitch, so the red streak lit up the sky in brilliance and when it landed, the fireball exploded and engulfed half the woods in flames. Sirens screamed as fire trucks and police swarmed the scene, people yelling and pushing everyone back to clear the area.

In the morning, the black SUVs came with the scientists and the quarantine.

Then people started dying.

It happened swiftly, before anyone understood. The cough came first, lungs filling with blood, choking folks on their own fluid. Then the skin shrivelled, dehydration creating a thirst no amount of water could quench. The last stage was the bloating, where the abdomen swelled to twice its size before bursting, spewing putrid guts and crimson spores into the world.

But that wasn’t the worst.

Where the spores landed, plants grew within hours. Giant pulsing leathery flowers, spotted red, emitting a hypnotic hum, enticing people with their siren call. No one resisted, no one protested; we were willing prey. Yet, everyone watched in horror as it happened. The crunch of bone, the blood, their screams, your eyes fixed on your neighbours being eaten alive, knowing your turn was coming. I watched my mama die and it’ll be me soon enough.

I want to run away, to shriek, but I can’t. I stay in line waiting to be devoured.

The best I can do is record our story and hope someone finds it…

Once in a Lifetime
Richard Meldrum

It was an invitation-only event. The rich, the well-connected and a rabble of assorted ‘influencers’ were asked to attend the blooming of the century plant. No riff-raff were allowed.

It was held at the Botanic Gardens, an elegant Victorian glass and steel structure housed in one of the city parks.

The invitees flocked to the event, despite the lack of canapés and champagne. This really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The clue was in the name, the plant produced a single flower every eighty to a hundred years.

The cream of local society crowded round the huge plant, cell phones in hand, waiting expectantly for the glistening bulb atop the massive leaves to burst open in a cacophony of color and spectacle. The staff discreetly left the area and made sure the doors were closed.

Standing outside, they listened with muted glee to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from within. Then there was silence. After a judicious period, they opened the doors to see the pile of bodies. It was a well-preserved secret that the bulb released an air-borne toxin on opening.

The Bloom
Miriam H. Harrison

She had first encountered it in her dreams. On those nights, the bloom spread wide and waiting like a lover. She was no stranger to the pleasures of the forest, of course. She knew the cold, slick touch of the naiads, the rough, knotty embrace of the dryads, the sensuous whispers of wisps beyond her touch. But this beckoning bloom was different, promising a singular experience, and she was woken each morning by goosebumps and anticipation.

So began her days scouring through the forest, sure that the bloom itself was more than mere dream. Journeying in and out of the forest soon seemed inefficient, so she gave up on returning home, sleeping amid the trees and stars, hoping that her dreams might draw her closer. And in those dreams the bloom waited, hinting at mystery and possibility.

Her life was lived between dreaming and searching. It was a strange sort of half life. But she did not fear death—she only feared giving up on the search. The search for something more. Something beyond the limits of her life as she had known it.

And so when she finally found it, it only seemed fitting that the bloom would smell of death. Not a threat, but a promise. As she gave her tired self over to its embrace, she felt the singular relief of yielding to the timeless unknown.

Le Fleur
Elaine Pascale

One day, when the Little Prince was tending to his rose, he noticed another plant sprouting. “This is no baobab,” he confirmed, “it’s a seed from who knows where.”

The plant asked for a moment to ready itself, and the Little Prince dutifully turned his back. When the plant announced that it was ready, the Little Prince turned to see the most startling and strange blossom. Its petals resembled tentacles and its core looked like a widely opened eye.

The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.

The Little Prince said, “You should be careful, there’s a war on my planet between sheep and flowers.” The Little Prince examined the plant carefully. “And you don’t have thorns.”

“I don’t need thorns,” the plant sniffed, “I have teeth.”

“And what is the purpose of teeth?”

“It’s not a matter of importance,” the plant replied.

The Little Prince was confounded. For a flower, there was nothing more important than its thorns. Certainly teeth, being so rare, ranked even higher.

“My rose is not going to like this.”

The plant craned its petals to get a better look at the rose.

“She seems mean.”

“Flowers can’t be mean, they’re vulnerable. For instance, while I am talking to you, she could be eaten by a sheep.” The Little Prince wanted to look away from the new plant, but he was captivated.

“Or by me.”

The Little Prince found he had no choice. He was compromised by his affection for both of his plants. He began traveling the galaxy, bringing visitors back with him, to satiate the new plant and keep his rose safe. 

Travelers beware: if you find yourself in a desert landscape and meet a child with golden hair and laughter like bells, run as fast and far as you can!

  • in dedication to Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2025

The Screaming Pool

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Screaming….loud…  the normal swimming pool sound, the splashing, leaping kids, the developmentally disabled, the laughing old men with hairy backs boiling red round the hot tub especially at mid-afternoon… but who is that average lean fellow feeling the jet fountain spray all over his bald head?  Yes, some kind of officer of the law…looks like his compatriots are here already, laughing and joking with the differently abled children.  Some kind of charity service.  They do it once a month.  A good gig on their 80 thousand a year salaries.  Must be nice.

I’m forever nervous in the presence of the police.  Ten years ago, I did something.  Never caught.  So, every time there’s aspects of the law in here it’s scary.  Are they finally coming for me?  I just act like all the others, nonchalantly enjoying myself.  

I was the caretaker here, you see, ten years ago.  There was an accident.  Something to do with the chlorine.  A pipe burst and the aroma escaped and burned a lot of people.  Even the insides of their windpipes.  Anyway, you should’ve heard the screaming then!

The investigation blamed a faulty valve.  They gave the sufferers lots of financial compensation, including me.  Of course, I know the reason for the fault.  I’m much closer to pipes and chlorine and the pool surface than I am to anyone.  The reason’s deep in my heart, now.  I wanted them to know, to know who I was.  That was my primary motive.  To be recognized finally, in the greatest light, as a hero.  So, to be a hero, I had to cause pain, chaos, even within myself, and then I had to right it.

What’s a wonder is that I’m still the caretaker, the custodian, the only one besides the lifeguard not moving or smiling, back here behind my office window regarding all the kids and parents.  How they yell in ecstasy in the water!  Splashing and thrashing, kicking arms and legs.  Not unlike the throes of death sometimes.  It’s a miracle to still be here, free and victorious, serving the public these many years.

The itching in my eyes all the time bothers me, and my skin, too, it’s always so dry, and I carry that pool smell.  Even when I go to bed at night, the chlorine lingers, a constant reminder of where I’m from, who I am.  It’s like I’ve become a Neptune creature over all these forty years. I now rather enjoy the daily chemical layering, and the memories from it, and hesitate to wash it away.  

Yes, they still say hi to me, the ones who know me, and remember the accident.
The others, the strangers, might turn their heads, or pretend not to notice my disfigurement.  In the accident, my face burned and burned.  What they don’t know is that I was very conscious of that faulty valve, and I purposely let it blow, I even tapped it a few times with my huge pipe wrench.  Despite knowing the immediate pain that would follow, I looked forward to the long-term pleasure.

Life is so dull, so humdrum and low paid, that often the only way out is to tap at something.  You don’t want to be caught; you just want things to change.  And change they do.  It takes a lot of will, but if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.  At least, that’s what I discovered.  So much sympathy that came my way.  I rescued several children from the accident scene, despite my injuries, while fighting the noxious fumes.  The parents still invite me over for visits and give me suppers.  I saved an old man, and tended to the injuries of the young people, using my top notch first aid training, applying all the special breathing masks with consummate skill.

 The city gave me accolades for that.  My picture and story featured on the TV news, and a special medal made, presented by the mayor.  For weeks, interviews and accolades, and visits to my hospital bed.  So many flowers and gifts!  And now I sit here behind my office glass, and watch, and listen to the joyful screamers.   Wonderful to see the police helping too, heroes simply by default.  I had to work for my victory, and I have paid the price, despite always, in a judicial sense, living free.  My drooping mouth and misshapen face remind me of this.  Every day I notice the mirrors, reflecting my scars, and more subtly and enjoyably, my deeds.

Opposites are sometimes compatible, overlapping.  The bad and the good, the burning and the healing.  I clean the pool, and it becomes dirty again.  I release the gas, then rescue the victims.  Screaming can mean pleasure, or suffering.  The common sound has two opposing moods.  As long as I’m here, I can decide, every day, which mood that the swimmers and bathers experience, and remember.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

The Harvesters

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air as the travelers approached the village. The dirt road was lined with golden fields, stretching endlessly into the horizon. In a world where crops had long withered and humanity teetered on the edge of starvation, the sight was almost miraculous. 

Claire was the first to speak. “It’s…perfect.” Her voice was filled with awe and disbelief. 

The villagers greeted them warmly. Their simple clothing and old-fashioned manners put the travelers at ease. They were invited to stay for a meal and offered beds in a large communal house. A stoic elder, his eyes as sharp as they were kind, introduced himself as Elias. 

“Stay. Rest.” Elias said. “The road is cruel, but here, we are blessed.”

Over dinner, the travelers marveled at the abundance of food, fresh vegetables, a hearty stew and ripe fruit. Elias stood, his black robe billowed slightly in the breeze. He gave a cryptic toast. “To the harvest. To the Cycle.” The villagers echoed the words solemnly. 

Afterward, as the group settled into their rooms, Dylan, the most curious of the group, couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. The fields had been too perfect. The villagers’ eyes lingered a little too long when glancing their direction. 

That night, Dylan woke to the sound of a faint whisper carried in the wind. At first he thought it was Claire or Mark talking in their sleep. But as he strained to listen, he realized the sound wasn’t coming from the house. It was outside, rising from the fields like a sighing breath. 

Quietly, he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the others. He stared out the window at the crops glowing faintly under the moonlight. 

The cool, night air wrapped around him as he stepped outside. The village was still, the only movement was the gentle sway of the crops. The whispers grew louder as he approached the barn at the edge of the field. 

The structure loomed in the darkness. Its warped wood twisted and bowed as if the building itself were struggling under some unseen weight. The surface was cracked and weathered with deep grooves that resembled claw marks. Dylan hesitated at the door, gripping the rough edge of the frame. The whispers were almost deafening now, a cacophony of voices overlapping and merging. His stomach churned as he realized that the voices were not those of the villagers. They were coming from beneath the barn. 

He pushed the door open. 

Inside, the air was suffocating and hot, thick with the scent of wet earth plus something metallic. The barn was empty except for rows of tools hanging from the far wall. Sickles, hooks and shears, none of them were rusty or worn. They gleamed, sharp and polished, as though freshly cleaned. 

Beneath his feet, the floor seemed to pulse faintly, a rhythmic vibration that matched the cadence of the whispers, He stepped forward, cautiously. The heat rose with each step, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. When his foot pressed onto a loose plank, the sound beneath the floor changed. It wasn’t a vibration. Something was moving. 

Dylan knelt and pulled at the loose plank. It came away easily, revealing a writhing network of roots. They looked organic but unnatural, slick and pulsating like veins. The whispers were louder now, emanating from the roots themselves. He stumbled backward. HIs heart was pounding. His foot caught on something and he fell. Looking down, he saw the outline of a face, a human face pressed into the ground beneath the roots. The face shifted, its eyes opened and it stared at him with unmistakable awareness. Its mouth moved silently, forming words he couldn’t hear. 

Dylan screamed and stumbled backward. “This…this can’t be real.” 

The barn door creaked open behind him, he spun around to see Claire and Mark standing there. Their faces were pale and drawn, “What is happening, we heard you calling our names.” Claire said, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

Dylan frowned, “I never called for you guys.” He gestured wildly at the exposed roots, “this, this is what is going on! The crops, the barn, the whispers…it’s all connected. I dunno what the fuck is going on but it looks like they’re feeding people to the plants..”

Mark hesitated, then knelt by the roots. His expression hardened as he touched one. “It’s warm,” he said, pulling his hand back quickly. 

The ground beneath them heaved suddenly, the roots twisting and tightening like muscles. The entire barn groaned as if in protest, and the whispers rose to a deafening roar. 

“We need to get out of here,” Claire yelled, grabbing Dylan by the arm. 

Before they could move the barn door slammed shut. The villagers stood outside, their faces serene but unyielding. Elias stepped forward, his hand clasped behind his back. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said calmly. “The harvest is not for the outsider to see.” 

“What the hell is this?” Dylan demanded, his voice cracking. 

“It is life,” Elias answered, his gaze unflinching. “The earth gives but it also takes. The Cycle must continue.”

The villagers surged forward, grabbing Dylan, Claire and Mark. Despite their struggles, the villager’s strength was unnatural, their grip like iron. The trio was dragged deeper into the barn, toward a gaping hole in the floor that hadn’t been there moments before. 

The hole pulsed with light, and the roots writhed as if anticipating a meal. “Let us go!” Claire screamed, kicking at the villagers. 

Elias knelt beside the opening, his calm demeanor unwavering. “You’ll become a part of something eternal. You’ll nourish the fields and live within the Cycle.”

Dylan managed to wrench himself free and grabbed a sickle from the wall. He swung it wildly, catching one villager in the arm. The man didn’t flinch, he didn’t even bleed. Mark broke free next, shoving another villager into the pit. The man fell with a sickening crunch and the roots wrapped around his body instantly, pulling him into the earth. 

The barn shook violently, and the whispers turned into a high pitched wail. The villagers hesitated, their trance-like calm breaking for the first time.

“Run!” Dylan shouted, grabbing Claire by the arm.

Mark followed, swinging the sickle to keep the villagers at bay. They burst out of the barn into the cool, night air. The fields stretched endlessly before them. The whispers followed, now rising from the crops themselves. 

“This way!” Dylan yelled, leading them toward the road. 

But the road was gone. Where there should have been dirt and gravel, there was only more golden wheat, swaying gently in the breeze. 

“We’re trapped,” Claire whispered, her voice trembling. 

The crops around them began to shift, the stalks twisting and writhing like they were alive. Faces emerged, just like the ones that Dylan had seen earlier. Their mouths were open in silent screams. 

Elias’ voice boomed from behind them. “The fields are endless. The Cycle cannot be escaped.”

Dylan turned to Mark and Claire, his face full of determination. “If we can’t escape. We destroy it.”

He lit a match, holding it against the dry stalks. The flames caught instantly, roaring to life and spreading faster than possible. The fields shrieked, a cacophony of human and inhuman cries. The villagers stumbled back, their serene expression breaking into panic. 

Elias stood at the edge of the flames, his calm expression finally cracking. “What have you done? You have doomed us all.”

The fire consumed everything in its path, racing across the plain. They ran through the chaos dodging falling debris and choking on acrid smoke. Behind them the barn collapsed in a massive explosion of light and sound. The whispers were silenced at last. When they reached the end of the fields, they stumbled onto a road that hadn’t been there before. The night was eerily quiet, the air cool and still. 

Dylan looked back, expecting to see the inferno, but the fields of gold wheat were gone. In their place was a barren stretch of land, blackened and lifeless. 

Mark fell to his knees, gasping for air. “What in the hell was that?” 

“The end of the Cycle,” Dylan said, staring at the familiar desolation. 

They walked down the dirt road in silence, the weight of what they had escaped pressed heavily on their shoulders. Behind them, the whispers began again, soft, faint, distant. 

The Cycle would always find a way to start anew. 

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.

You Have Always Been Nothing

~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

When you’re dead, it’s forever. There’s nothing at all, and you won’t even know. You will know nada and be nada just like before you were born. Like every cockroach and worm and yes, human, that has ever lived. And there’s nothing you can do about it, except choose the time and place of your demise. I am here to facilitate that.

The forming of the Universe, the birth of the sun and the planets, the development of life on earth, were all unknown to you before your existence. For practically forever, for billions of years, you were nothing.  The Buddhists say that to be in that state is Nirvana, the absence of thought and feeling and consciousness.

 Now you’re aware of a tiny slice of that consciousness, and this experience isn’t even real. Consciousness is an evolutionary illusion, and according to scientific theory, formed to help you survive. Aliveness is purely a physical phenomenon. Even your awareness is a lie, to help your body avoid enemies. You may ask “but what about memory, isn’t that the story of the self?

Well, if you were only as old as what you could remember, you’d still be a child. These memories are not real either, because the time that they happened does not exist anymore. Your memories are all mind illusion, imagination. What I said three seconds ago has disappeared, except perhaps in your short-term recollections, which as I’ve said, are perpetually trying to grasp onto what no longer is.

 I bring you these straight, true words to assist in the choices you must make today. I would advise making the right decision, because pain is all your mind is experiencing. You’re suffering from a terminal illness, causing you useless suffering, and a few more weeks of hurt is all you’ll know. I see you’re feeling the symptoms right now, even though you’re on an intravenous morphine drip. We have the liquids and the instruments right here, to offer you a way out, a way back to nothingness, where we all came from and where we’re all going. Even myself.

I fear too, the end of my life, but as it’s inevitable, my fear is useless. There’s no running away. I focus on other things, for instance the placing of morphine needles in ancient, diseased bodies, for which I am reasonably paid. My goal is to relieve suffering. I help others discover their true nature and the true meaning of existence.

Other people may briefly grieve your departure, but they’re living in illusion also. They’ll die too, and within a few years nobody will remember that you or they ever existed.

My words may seem stark, but they are merciful. Why not cut that suffering short? 

Why not end it now? It’s the freest decision you’ll ever make.

Do I take pleasure in discussing this subject? Not at all, my smile is merely a reflection of my brain’s chemical processes.  Everyone must capture some sense of the absurd, which we could call humour, in order that we not go completely mad. I want to stay sane. My chuckle is not personal.

What about God, you ask?  Well, we all came from the womb, where all our needs were met. Food, touch, rest, we waited for birth, in the meantime we floated and grew. Memory feelings of that time and place underpin a longing to return, and we make up heaven and God as substitutes for our mother’s belly. Yes, we all want to go back to the heavenly womb. But that time will never occur again. The best times happened before we were even out of that place. No use in calling upon God because God was your Mom. She’s passed away, gone into the void. God is dead.

It’s time for me to leave, my shift ends in fifteen minutes. And it’s your time to go also. You’re not capable of helping anyone, or making the world better, all you can do is lie in bed. You need help rising to use the bathroom.  It’s not your fault, but your life is useless.

There is no need to weep, but if you must, have a good cry. Tears are dripping with toxins, and it’s natural for our body to force those out. Even in our last moments, our bodies still want to keep going. They are hardworking machines, aren’t they? Indeed, I am smiling again. That statement tickled my funny bone.

Yes, I can make you a final appointment. Tomorrow morning.  I commend you for making up your mind. So many people dither until they’re no longer capable.

 At ten tomorrow, I’ll be here for the final time, and we’ll end all your worries and suffering forever. Your life will rise to enter Nirvana, the void where all your individual desires and sufferings disappear. That is as close to heaven as you will ever get. Into the emptiness of non-existence and disconnection, forever and forever and forever.  

All things must pass, as now-deceased Beatle George Harrison wrote in his song of the same name. George is gone, too, as he predicted. And to quote another deceased Beatle, “there’s no hell below us, above us only sky.”  Nothing to look forward to, literally he he.

When the nurse comes to check on you, give her your last breakfast order. I recommend decaffeinated coffee and maybe a slice of rye toast. Try and focus on the taste. Round ten, I’ll bring the needle and the death juice. Wipe away those tears, maybe try and count your heart beats, one way to pass the time.

Have a good night, my friend. Remember, we’re all living this illusion together, at least until tomorrow.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

The Banshee’s Wail

~ TheDamned ~ 5 Comments

The village of Dunmore lay shrouded in a mist as Aoife stepped off the bus, her camera slung over her shoulder. She had come to document the local folklore, the chilling tale of the banshee, whose wail heralded death. The villagers’ fear hung in the air like a shroud, but Aoife was skeptical, considering the Banshee legend nothing more than superstition.

The first few days were uneventful. Aoife captured picturesque landscapes and interviewed wary villagers. Then, on the fourth night, she heard it: a mournful, piercing wail that seemed to freeze the very air. She bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding and her hair standing on end. Her skepticism wavered as the eerie sound reverberated through the village.

The next morning a body was found. Old Mrs.McConnell, her face twisted in a silent shriek of terror, lay cold and lifeless in her bed. The village was in an uproar, whispers of the banshee spread like wildfire. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, Aoife reviewed her photos from the previous days. One image, taken near the old cemetery, sent a shiver up her spine. In the background, partially obscured by the mist, stood a ghostly figure. The image was faint but unmistakable. It was of a woman with wild, streaming hair, hollow soulless eyes and her mouth opened in an unheard scream.

Intrigued and a bit unnerved, Aoife decided to investigate the cemetery that night. As she approached the crumbling gravestones, the temperature seemed to drop. Her breath became visible,  mingling with the ever present mist in the graveyard. Unaware, she began to pant heavily as she heard the wail again, closer this time. She raised her shaking hands and began taking pictures frantically. Suddenly she saw her: the banshee.

The banshee stood before Aoife, a ghastly image of sorrow and rage. Her long, tattered dress, once white, now hung in shreds. It fluttered behind her in the cold night breeze. Her hair, wild and matted, streamed around her like a dark halo. Her eyes burned with an otherworldly light that seemed to pierce Aoife’s soul. The banshee’s mouth was twisted in an eternal scream. Her lips cracked and bloodless, emitting a wail that echoed with the anguish of centuries. She lunged at Aoife, who stumbled backward, barely escaping. In that brief encounter a vision flooded her mind: the brutal death of a woman accused of witchcraft and murdered by the villagers centuries ago. Her name was Bridgid.

Shaken by the encounter, Aoife sought out Liam, a local historian with a reputation for uncovering the village’s dark secrets. She found him in his cluttered study, surrounded by ancient tomes and dusty scrolls. Together, they pieced together Bridgid’s tragic story. She had been a respected healer, known for her kindness and wisdom. However, during a time of hysteria and fear, she was accused of witchcraft by envious villagers. Bridgid was dragged from her home, subjected to a sham trial and ultimately brutally killed by the villagers at the edge of the cemetery. A punishment befitting a witch. Her final moments were filled with unimaginable agony as the flames licked at her skin and the acrid smoke filled her lungs. Her screams of pain and pleas for mercy were drowned out by the crackling flames and the villager’s cold, unfeeling stares. Her vengeful spirit had been transformed into the banshee, her wail a curse upon the village.

The banshee’s attacks intensified, each night more terrifying than the last. Within a week, six villagers were found dead. One evening the village was shaken by the sound of a blood curdling scream. The next morning, a young farmer named Eamon was found dead in his barn. His face was frozen in a mask of terror. Deep, jagged scratches marred his chest as if something was trying to claw his heart out. The hay around him was scattered and bloodied, telling the tale of a violent struggle. Eamon’s death was more brutal than the previous attacks. It sent a wave of dread through the villagers. The attacks continued, each more violent than the last. The bodies were discovered twisted and contorted into grotesque poses, like macabre mannequins. The villagers were on the brink of hysteria. Aoife and Liam knew they had to act fast. They realized that confronting the banshee directly and laying Brigid’s tormented spirit to rest was their only hope in ending the carnage. They prepared a ritual, gathering relics of hope and love. They planned to summon the banshee at the spot of Brigid’s murder.

That night, under the blood red moon, they performed the ritual. An icy wind swept through the cemetery carrying with it the banshee’s wail. Emerging from the mist, her spectral form gilded towards them, The ground shook as she advanced, her fury evident. Aoife and Liam were terrified but resolute, they pleaded with Brigid’s spirit. They offered relics of peace and forgiveness, a silver locket containing a lock of Brigid’s hair, an old rosary blessed by the village priest, and a small handwoven doll that Brigid cherished in her childhood. All of these relics were inside of Liam’s safe collecting dust, he knew one day he would need them. These items imbued with love and memory were meant to convey their heartfelt apologies and to honor her unjustly taken life.

In a climactic, supernatural showdown, the banshee’s wail reached an ear splitting crescendo. A sound so intense it felt like it would shatter their very souls. The ground trembled and the air around them seemed to crackle with a dark energy. Aoife and Liam clung to their relics, their hands trembling as they faced the full fury of Brigid’s tormented spirit. The banshee lunged at them, her ghostly form flickering and distorting in the moonlight. Her hollow eyes blazed with a mixture of rage and sorrow. Her spectral hands reached out and clawed the air around them.

The wind whipped violently around them, and the temperature plummeted each breath turning to frost. Aiofe’s voice shook as she recited the words of the ritual. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Just as all seemed lost, she held up the locket, the rosary and the doll. She shouted their apologies and pleas for forgiveness over the deafening wail. The banshee hesitated, her form flickering in and out as if caught between worlds. The rage in her eyes quivered, replaced momentarily by a profound sadness.

With a final desperate plea, Aiofe offered the locket, a tangible symbol of Brigid’s lost innocence. The banshee let out one last heart wrenching cry, then slowly began to dissipate. Her form dissolved into the frigid night air. The wail faded into an eerie silence, and the oppressive darkness lifted. As the first light of dawn broke, the duo collapsed, exhausted but triumphant. Brigid’s spirit had found peace and the village of Dunmore could finally begin to heal from the centuries old curse.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.

Damned Words 58

~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

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Under My Skin
Marge Simon

Out clubbing, I meet a dreamy guy, you know the kind. My mother warned about deceptive men, but there he was –muscular, with topaz skin, thick lashes, all that goes with. The band is playing silver slipper music. Only one dance, all I ask is make it slow. 

It’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, my favorite. But as he tongues my ear, he spits a devil-worm inside. It makes passage through my cochlea, down my auditory nerve, straight into my brain, then powers on to reach my retina and ends at the lens. The last thing I see is the universe exploding under my skin.

Vast
Lee Andrew Forman

With each particle of light, the ocular focus retains all—joy, pain, elation, agony. The mind recalls its past as it processes its present. But what the consciousness witnesses is beyond comprehension. It exists outside the realm of belief, on the outer reaches of the horizon of reality. Vessels burst, each from the strain of pure terror. Soft brain tissue shrivels at the sight of what cannot be unseen. Even as the last breath releases from this poor soul’s lungs and the heart ceases to function, in death, these memories are ingrained. Forever will its ghost see, in unendingly denied release, the vastness of eternal torment.

The Collector
A.F. Stewart

Is it watching me? What does it see floating in that jar?

I stroke the glass jar and smile at my imaginings. The eye sees nothing anymore. It is only a specimen now.

And such a wonderful specimen. So many beautiful memories attached to it. I stare for a moment, savouring its beauty. Blood still clings to the viscera and membranes, the veins snaking stark red across the white filmy pulp. The satisfaction I felt scooping it from its socket, wet and dripping, plopping it fresh into the preserving fluid.

It isn’t perfect though. I made mistakes. 

The pretty hazel hue of the iris faded; no longer the sparkling bright colour I envied. A shame really, her eyes were the loveliest part of her. A pity my hand slipped when extracting the other one; I wanted a matched set. Her screams during the procedure were too distracting. I’ll remember to gag the next girl.

I slide a new specimen jar next to her eye. Such exquisitely tapered fingers and a pair this time. The axe made nice, clean cuts; no ragged edges. And cauterizing the wounds with the blowtorch kept her alive. I was so proud. She won’t last much longer, but I should be able to remove her lips before she dies. She has such a charming smile, and now it will be mine forever.

Once I’m done with her, then on to the next one. Perhaps that pretty brunette barista at the coffee shop or that teenager working shifts at the farmer’s market. They both have such gorgeous eyes…

Piecemeal
Elaine Pascale

Exercise and diet hadn’t worked. She felt she had run the equivalent of marathons, consumed calories approximating that of fumes, yet the scale did not budge. Pharmaceuticals did not work, either. She experimented with prescription capsules, over-the-counter tablets, and illegally obtained powders. Swallowing, snorting, and injecting left her tired, angry, and the same weight as before. 

Stapling her stomach in half heralded a margin of success. Her physician prescribed a healthy lifestyle to accompany the radical surgery and assure lasting results. In her imagination, the directions that were printed on the side of the “lasting results” bottle warned that they must be taken along with patience, and she had run out of that years before. She wanted instant gratification. If half a stomach meant pounds lost, what would removing a few organs no longer in use produce?

She crafted symptoms that led to a full hysterectomy. She forged a family history that led to a double mastectomy. She paid out of pocket for lipo. She flew to a country whose name she could never pronounce correctly to have some unnecessary bones removed along with fingernails, toenails, and teeth. The scale was still not where she needed it to be.

The final solution: eye removal. Not only would that eliminate 56 grams, she would no longer be able to see the scale.

Closing Time
Charles Gramlich

She made eyes at him across the bar. He didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and flipped her hair when he finally glanced her way. His gaze passed over as if she were part of the pseudo-paneled and pseudo-velvet décor. Now, it was a challenge. She knew she was attractive enough. And surely that was why men came to such places, and why they stayed until closing time. He was mildly attractive himself, in a kind of college professor sort of way. She decided that he needed to make a pass at her, and then she’d turn him down cold for first ignoring her.

She slithered around the bar to be closer to him and ordered a fresh drink for last call. Tipping the good-looking bartender a little too heavily, she slurred her voice while she thanked him, leaning forward on the stool so the hem of her red dress slid well up her thigh. The mark had to be looking at her now; he had to be thinking about how he could take her home and do things to her. But when she glanced provocatively over her shoulder at him, he wasn’t even there. She turned on her stool to see where he’d gone. The bar was empty. She spun back toward the bartender. He wasn’t there either. Before she could gasp in surprise, a long-fingered hand covered her mouth from behind and a man’s voice crooned chillingly into her ear, “Now that you’ve caught my attention, I only have eyes for you.”

Something plopped into her drink. The golden-brown iris suggested it had once belonged to the bartender.

Hatchling
Nina D’Arcangela

Pressure from within stretches the gelatenous casing, the soft shell begins to rupture. A tiny heart—so fragile, so young, quickens as the inner-spawn sees light for the first time. The taut opening widens. Its lasting wait in darkness has come to an end. With it, a cry of pain; the release of violent nature, of agonizing entry into existence. It sees its new domain with fresh eyes; it’s teeming with life. A grumble rises from its empty paunch as it tears free of its sack. Dripping in yolk, its unending feast begins.

Infected
RJ Meldrum

I thought I’d been smart. I’m a prepper; my basement is full of freeze-dried food, bottled water and guns. I wasn’t getting ready for anything specific. I just wanted to be ready. When the end came, it wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t ready. I was in the damn supermarket when it happened. There had been reports of a strange new infection, but nothing local. Just in the city, so I gave it little thought.

I wasn’t aware of how it happened, all I know was a crowd of the infected burst in the front door and started to bite and tear at customers and staff alike. I dropped everything and ran, like everyone else. I passed real close to a victim being torn apart by two of…well, whatever they’d become. Just as I passed, they must have hit an artery and I had to run through a spray of blood. I felt it on my face and had to wipe my eyes to clear my vision.

I got back to my basement safely and locked down. It wasn’t until the second day I realized something was wrong. My left eyeball had a huge inflamed lump on it. It didn’t take long to work out I was infected. I can feel it work its way through my body.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I suspect very soon I won’t have one.

The Eye Collector
Kathleen McCluskey

Martha woke with a broken blood vessel in her eye. That night she vanished. Townspeople began to wake with bloodshot eyes. Each of them disappeared within twenty-four hours. Detective Sam Harris had seen strange cases. But this one was different. The connection was the bloodshot eyes. As Sam was pouring over the case files, Eliza knocked on his door. She spoke of a legend that had been whispered. The Eye Collector was a demon that fed on the eyeballs of its victims. It could only collect them if the victims offered them willingly. It manipulated their thoughts, driving them mad until they plucked out their eyes. Eliza had a book filled with descriptions for the rituals needed.

That night, Sam felt a presence in his room. A whisper in his ear. “Your eyes, give them to me.” He jolted upright. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The burst blood vessel appeared in his eye. He sought out Eliza and told her of the demon’s whisper. They decided to confront the Eye Collector at his lair, a dilapidated house on the edge of town.

As they approached the house, the front door creaked open. The atmosphere was thick with stench. The walls were lined with jars each containing a single, bloodshot eye. The whispers surrounded Sam and grew louder. Eliza began the ritual, chanting the words while Sam tried to keep his sanity. The demon appeared. It was a shadowy figure with eyes that burned like embers. Sam’s hand lifted to his eyes as Eliza’s chanting had reached a crescendo. The jars shook violently. They toppled off the shelves, shattering. Silence. Two jars remained intact. In one of the eyes, the demon’s eyes flickered.

Penetrating the Ball
Harrison Kim

C. and I open our tentacles to touch down and fasten on the red spot of the Black Ball, which resides in the alternative non-liquid Universe.  We’re the front-line explorers for our teeming Swarm and will report back via pulse communication about what we find. We left our orbit shells in the swirling waters up front, then slipped under the edge of the Ball’s artificial protective covering, which forms a barrier between our liquid world and the air based world of the Ball.  Our mission: to explore the region behind the black centre itself, with a view to its nutritive value.   C’s hypothesis is that the ball is attached to the dark mass behind it, which is part of a gigantic alien superstructure.  Some type of electrical phenomenon within the dark mass is causing that ball to twitch.   That means the alien brain could be located somewhere nearby. We crawl across the red ridged surface of the Ball.  Along the way, we hang onto the prominent folded lines of the red spot with our tentacle suckers to avoid being tossed off. Then, we let go, drop down towards the Ball’s centre.  Our multiple arms are working hard, but we finally reach our destination.  To our surprise, there appears to be a gaping hole.  A delicious aroma wafts out.  It’s obvious to myself and C.  from our previous experiences with the alternative universe that this hole leads to the most nutritious and tasty meal, the living alien brain.  We send pulse signals back to the thousands from the Swarm:   “Begin the mass attack! First penetrate through the edges of the barrier, then tentacle down into the hole itself.  Come and eat your fill for the glorious sustenance and survival of our kind!”

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2024

The Concubus of the Palms

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Checking the palm of my hand, all those lines leading where?  If I stretch back the skin, I can open things up, peer between the cracks.  I perceive nothing but a white screen.  There’s pros and cons with every addiction.  Mine keeps me alive.  I need new parasites every seven days.  I’m weak and shaky now, and if I don’t find and absorb more, I’ll fade and die.  I need to shock and rejuvenate my body.  Sure, it’s in exchange for absolute dependency, but I make my own choices.

I close my palm line opening, drop my hand to my lap, then fiddle with my computer as my first client enters, a tiny wrinkled up woman wearing several layers of ragged clothing, pulling a cart filled with garbage bags.  She leans to one side as she limps into the room, lowering herself to the chair using an intricately cut wood cane.  I can only hope she’s infected.

“I was pushed into the road by a crazy woman.  She spat my face, and I hurt my hip and back,” her voice quavers.

I look up from the computer screen.  

“Ms. Bonella, tell me about the pusher.”

“She came running and screaming towards me.  A blur.  She spat in my face.  I know I was her target.”  

I nod and write something on a piece of paper.  The clients always like that.

She adjusts the various kerchiefs draped round her neck and head, multicoloured cloths of blue and white.  “The bank echelons sent her.  It was a warning.”

“Yes, she’s their agent,” I reassure. “She was carrying infective parasite cells in her body like so many maggots and passed them on to you with her spittle.”

I take a kleenex and wipe drool off my mouth.  I smell the high already, but I’ve got to play the counsellor game.  Ms. Bonella wipes off the edges of her own mouth too, using a filthy brown tissue and eyes me up and down.  “Are you a witch?”

“No, Ms. Bonella.  Like my card and website say, I’m a palm reader who helps individuals with their difficulties.”

“I am an old woman,” she continues.  “What am I going to do?”

“You are already infected,” I tell her.  “From that pusher sent by the bank echelons. You must obtain treatment.”
Mrs. Bonella pulls her topcoat layer around her, then leans forward some more.  She pauses before speaking.  “Mistress Cindy, the infections are rolling around inside me. Giving me random electric shocks.”  She rubs her side “Those evil bankers are stealing from me. I am a good person.  In my will, I want to give everything to my grand nieces, for their university education.”

“That is very generous of you,” I say, and I mean it.

“Hold up the palms of your hands,” I tell Ms. Bonella.

I walk round my desk and kneel before the client.  

“Look at the ceiling,” I tell her.  

I trace along one palm and proceed to open a riverline of skin with thumb and forefinger.   As I suspected, one milky blue eye shows in the line gap.  It passes by slowly.  Then I see another. Mrs. Bonella winces. I wipe my mouth off again, for I’m drooling with want. The echelons are in her system, those so-called electric shocks are their liquid forms pulsing through her veins.  They’re keeping her decrepit body alive by circulating, but she doesn’t know that.

She holds her side tighter.  “They’re prodding me right now, Mistress Cindy.”

“It’ll be okay,” I reassure her again.  “I want you to place your palms in my palms.”

She sits and I kneel, and her tiny hands push into mine.  I close my eyes and feel the bulbs of the parasites through her skin.  I move my knuckles along Ms. Bonella’s fingertips, making note of every whorl and line. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Bonella,” I say.  “I’m going to suck out these invaders.”

I put my lips on her left palm and prise open the central palm line with my teeth and jaws.

My tongue slips between that line.  I stick the tip, then the rest of it into Mrs. Bonella’s palm, deep and deeper.  As they parasite eyeballs go by, I grab them, lick them up into my mouth and swallow.  It’s a warm, satisfying drink.  

“What are you doing?” asks Ms. Bonella, “I feel so weak.”

“You are being drained of the echelon energy,” I tell her.  “It’s natural to feel that way.”

I go back in with my teeth and jaw, this time for the other palm, prising it open and sticking my tongue in the opening.

Ms. Bonella slumps back in her chair.
“You can move your fingers now,” I say as I devour the last of the parasites.

Ms. Bonella tries to stand.  She holds onto the chair for a moment

“That was very strange treatment, Mistress Cindy.”

“Go home and rest,” I say.  “Tomorrow you’ll throw away that cane.”

“I feel so weak.”

“No charge for the treatment,” I say, as I experience a few seconds of guilt. 

She’ll never throw away that cane, without the energy from the parasites.  When she sleeps, she will never wake up.  

As she totters out the door, I feel my strength rising.  The parasite electric impulses whirl within me, merge into my brain.  I lift my palm and pull back the skin.  No white space now.  An eye stares back, then rolls by, and another one peeps out.  I whirl my arms around so fast they blur. 

I’m alive again, in full strength and vitality, resurrected by the very parasites that consume my soul, even as they crank my body high.

“I’m sorry Mrs…,” 

I pause and then flail my arms again.  My legs kick out.  I’m wild and high.  All I remember of the old woman are the lines on her palms, widening, opening, showing me inside.

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

The Silence Below

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Jerry had always been drawn to the mysterious and the unknown. So when he found himself lost in the dense forest, he couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement. Amidst the serene embrace of nature, Jerry found tranquility in the solace of the forest. As he trudged through the underbrush, his senses heightened for hidden dangers, he came across a concealed path. It led deeper into the woods. With a casual shrug, Jerry stepped onto the path. His sense of adventure rose louder, smothering the doubts screaming in his mind. 

Jerry followed the path and emerged into a small clearing. His laid eyes upon a village unlike any he had ever seen. The buildings were quaint yet eerie, their windows dark and devoid of life. What struck him the most was the absence of sound. No birds, no bugs, not even the rustling of leaves. It was an oppressive silence that hung like a wet blanket in the air. 

Intrigued, Jerry cautiously made his way into the village. His footsteps echoed loudly on the cobblestone street. The few villagers he encountered glanced at him with wary eyes before averting their gaze. Their faces displayed a silent concern for the outsider that had stumbled into their silent domain. Jerry observed with curiosity as the villagers communicated through intricate gestures. Their hands weaving a silent tapestry of meaning in the air. A shared language born of necessity. They exchanged knowing glances as they looked at hastily scrawled notes passed between them. They refused to speak a single word. 

As night fell, Jerry’s unease only deepened. The silence seemed to intensify, pressing down on him like a weight. As his nerves began to frazzle, he sought refuge in a small inn. A grizzled innkeeper offered him a room for the night. As he led him to his room, their eyes met in a moment of silent understanding. The unspoken tension hung heavy in the air. The absence of words between them spoke volumes, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a spider’s web. 

Alone in his room, Jerry couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with the village. He tossed and turned in his bed. Unable to sleep, he began to pace the floor. He paused. He thought he heard a faint scratching sound coming from beneath the floorboards. 

His curiosity piqued, he tore up the loose floorboards revealing an open, hidden trap door leading down into the darkness. Jerry leaned on the hanging door, its ancient hinges gave a grumbled whine. The stairs descending into the blackened void were weathered and worn. Jerry retrieved the flashlight from the night table. He illuminated the shadowy corridor, and he stepped down. The ancient stone steps creaked softly with each cautious footfall. His flashlight caused the shadows to dance across the dusty walls creating eerie phantoms that beckoned him to venture deeper. As he dared to go further into the underground tunnels, Jerry discovered ancient runes etched into the walls, their meanings lost to time. He gently caressed the outlines. He began to sweat as adrenaline coursed through his body. He was unnerved by the sudden rush of anxiety. However, it was more the sense of dread hanging in the air that chilled him to the bone. 

Jerry explored the tunnels. Deep within, the air grew stale as a warm silent breeze wafted over him. He stumbled upon a chamber unlike any he had seen. A vast cavern with a gaping chasm in the center. In the dim light of his flashlight, Jerry beheld a grotesque sight. It was a writhing mass of tentacles coiling and undulating in the blackness. The slimy appendages reached out hungrily towards him. Glowing eyes peered out from amidst the squirming mass, their malevolent gaze fixated on Jerry. The creature seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its form shifting and contorting in a nightmarish dance as if to defy reality itself. 

As Jerry stood on the precipice of the chasm, a chilling realization washed over him like a wave of icy dread. In that moment, he realized that the absence of sound was not just an eerie aspect of the village but a haunting reminder of the looming threat lurking beneath. He realized that it wasn’t merely a choice but a necessity born from the need to keep the creature at bay. As he faced the creature, its own silence seemed to scream louder than any sound he had ever heard. It was a deafening void that echoed with the weight of centuries, old fear and desperation.The villagers were bound by an ancient pact to keep the creature below at constant rest. For even the slightest sound would awaken it from its slumber.

But it was too late, Jerry’s presence had disturbed the being, and now it hungered for sound. As it surged towards him, he scrambled for freedom. He realized that sound was both his enemy and his salvation. 

Jerry’s heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled backward. His mind raced with primal panic. Before he could react, the creature’s slimy tentacles shot out at lightning speed, wrapping around his limbs and pulling him closer with an inexorable force. Despite his terror, Jerry’s throat constricted in fear. It rendered him speechless as he struggled against the creature’s grasp. His scream was trapped inside of him like a caged beast yearning to be free. 

With the creature’s tentacles tightening around him like a vice, Jerry’s fear reached its breaking point. In a burst of desperation, he unleashed a deafening scream that echoed through the cavernous chamber. 

As Jerry’s scream tore through the silence, the creature recoiled, lifting Jerry higher into the air. It howled as its form contorted and twisted as if assaulted by an unseen force. With a guttural roar, it released its grip on Jerry who was tossed onto the floor. He watched, gasping for breath. As if in response to the creature’s rising, the very ground beneath them began to rumble. The walls of the cavern began to groan and crack under the strain. 

The ground under the village started to split apart, fissures snaked their way through the cobblestone streets. With an explosion of dirt and rubble, the creature burst forth from the ground with an ear splitting roar. Its massive form towering over the village like a wrathful titan. Homes crumbled in its wake, reduced to splinters and dust as the villagers ran for cover. Their silent world was shattered by the unleashed fury of the being below. Its massive tentacles lashed out indiscriminately, reducing buildings to rubble. With each step, the ground trembled beneath its monstrous form. 

Even as the village lay in ruins and the creature’s hunger sated, there was no sign of it returning to its peaceful slumber. Instead it continued its relentless march. Its glowing eyes fixed on the horizon with an insatiable thirst for destruction. As it disappeared into the depths of the forest, a sense of dread fell over Jerry and the villagers. They knew that the true horror had only just begun.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.