Tag: Blaze McRob

Damned Words 5

~ TheDamned ~ 19 Comments

Ice_Tree_DW5

His Release
Zack Kullis

The plume of his breath in the January air lied to him, but he knew the truth.

His heart pushed the searing heat through his body.  He was burning from the inside.  “Release the heat,” his fever screamed.

He could see the fiery blue of the offending veins.  They were the traitorous vehicles for the blood which burned him.

Steel, blessedly cold, cut easily.  He peeled away the skin on his arm with a pleasurable frenzy.

Vein-like branches quickly gave up their sanguine heat.  Blue soon gave way to grey.

Frozen veins, branching across his opened flesh, burned him nevermore.

Hunted
Dan Dillard

It hunted me.

And for the better part of the chase, I was enthralled. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, keeping them hot. My muscles seared as I darted this way and that, ducking, leaping and rolling into the next place where I would wait. Wait for a breath, the crack of twigs underfoot, the flutter of a flock of birds frightened by my suitor, or a scent detected from upwind. They gave it away.

For a time it was quiet and no direction looked safe. I hesitated.

I felt its moist, warm breath on my neck and my veins froze.

Genocide
Nina D’Arcangela

Icy tendrils; you’d think they’d chill me, but no – they warm my very soul. The children of my children’s children, the progeny that will carry forth my breath cocooned in an impenetrable translucent sleeve. When this world thaws, my branches will spring free. They will bloom, spreading their lethal spore among others of my kind, killing their offspring, weakening each host. As they fail to mend, the frost will come again, and I will wait for the next thaw. When that day comes, I will stand alone, proud, the only of my kind – as it was always meant to be.

What the Frost Brings
Tyr Kieran

I am the cold—not the winter’s chill, but the dark, seeping cold that settles within the bones of the living. As they shiver and doubt and fear, I grow stronger, burning their patience away to ash. When hardship gets harder, the flames go out and their food stores diminish, I take over, filling the void where hope once bloomed. I force their despair into violence until nothing stirs but my sweet mistress: Death. Oh, how divine her touch! I’ve laid waste to entire civilizations just to feel her embrace. So, heed the frost’s warning—Death is not far behind.

Silent Planet
Thomas Brown

I travelled the world in search of you. They said that you were gone but I knew there were still places where we might talk; where for a few minutes at midnight I might look into your eyes, and smile.

Austria, Germany, the vast trackless forests of Norway. Five times I found you, hiding in the dark, bound to the old locales dotted around the world: cosmic pockets where the dead still dance.

It was a dream come true to watch you waltz under the stars. Then dawn broke, the dream ended and I died inside to be so alone.

Cold
Joseph A. Pinto

I have no magic left to revive you; you have gone cold at my feet.  A time existed when I held you aloft, serenaded by the sun.  We both know that day is no more.  So into your wonderland, I follow one last time; your brittle boughs snap between my callous fingers.  I find your pain an absent, infinite thing.  Can you hear the ice crack; yes, I can hear your heart crack.  Come spring, when the ground softens, I’ll dig you free again.  For now, whisper to me your lost, blue-lipped solace.  You have gone cold at my feet.

Deck The Lawn
Blaze McRob

They’re going to put the fucking lights and other shit on me again. I won’t allow it to happen. This ice is even too much weight for my branches to support.

It is dark when they come. Good for me, not for them. Before they have a chance to assault me, my icy branches take them down and apply a frosty guillotine to their necks.  Their red blood gives the lawn a festive look, and the shock, still in their eyes, is better than any dangling orbs hanging on a tree.

Old fat Santa couldn’t have done a better job.

Cold Hearts
L. Moon

“Hard hearts in the making”
soft wintry voices say
innocence is for the taking
fiendish finger play
*
small bodies fearful, shiver
carrion blocks the light
black wings swoop and quiver
will spend life this night
*
“quickly now and hide your young ones”
dark howls fill night’s space
crystal snow a place to burrow
by dawn there’s little trace
*
scheming branches interlocking
cries both far and wide
the rumors say “death is walking”
beckoning from the other side
*
“Hard hearts foul in the making”
ice cold voices say
innocence is for the taking
while fiendish fingers play

View
Hunter Shea

Veins, veins. Ice in my veins.

Snowflakes flitting on my window, tapping, melting. So cold.

Ice in my veins.

My hands are numb. How fast will it travel, this ice flow, broken free from some frozen cellular hinterland?

Frozen fingers, numb nose, pressed against the glass. Waiting for my heart to glaciate. Warm heart, cold hands. Dead hands, deader heart.

“Stop looking out there. That is not you,” I mumble. The man next to me snorts, claws at his hair.

“That is outside. I am inside.”

Spider veins, glistening, luminescent. Blue veins, silver. Cadaverous flesh.

“Make me warm!”

Needle prick.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
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Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Samhain Madness

~ blazemcrob ~ 42 Comments

A fierce wind blows across the Bethel Cemetery grounds. This is a cleansing, Wyoming style. Tomorrow is Samhain, and all must be ready. Nothing must stand in the way of what is to happen here at the appointed time.

Leaves scatter everywhere, swirling around, telling the world their story. The multicolored delights just recently fallen from the trees will soon turn brown and add to the dead look of winter. By morning, none of the leaves will be left in the cemetery. It has been mandated.

One gravesite stands apart from the rest, mounds of dirt placed to the side, allowing room for those who will come and grieve.  There is no need for a cleansing wind here. There is not a leaf to be found. The tombstone, its fresh marble surface shining in the moonlight, displays the name of tomorrow’s occupant.

Blaze McRob

Born: September 14, 1947
Died: October 30, 2013

“Feast at my burial. I’ll bring the beer.”

*    *    *

I toss my suitcase on the bed, tired from the long trip and the rotten travel conditions. Something weird is going on in the skies. The turbulence was freaky. Several times I thought the end was coming, the little prop job almost slammed to the surface before the pilot was able to pull the nose up at the last second.

Blaze asked me to meet him here at the Plains Hotel in downtown Cheyenne, he said there was something very important he had to tell me. But when he didn’t show up, I booked a room. This is an interesting place. The bell boy had rattled off tales of the people killed here, ghosts running around the joint, and other stories of the paranormal. His jabber-jawing earned him a good tip from me.

Heading back to the lobby, I stop at the front desk and ask if there’s a dining room at the hotel. I’m starved. Nothing like a roller-coaster plane ride to whet an appetite. Plus, I need a beer.

“Yes, Mr. Kullis, the dining room is down the hallway to your right. The food and beverage selection is quite excellent. Enjoy your dinner, sir,” the clerk smiled. “Oh, just a moment, I nearly forgot. I have a letter for you.”

‘Hi, Zack. It’s Blaze,’ I read. ‘I won’t be able to meet you at the Plains – I’m dead. Kind of sucks, but I’m being buried at the Cemetery tomorrow night at 8:00 P.M. and I’d like you to be there. Strange time, I realize, but you’ll understand why tomorrow. No need for fancy duds. It’ll be quite dark and no one will give a fuck what you’re wearing. See you tomorrow night, buddy.’

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Blaze is up to something. The man’s a real wise-ass. I just wonder when he’ll arrive on the scene and try to scare the living shit out of me.

I walk into the dining room. The waitress seats me at a table close to the window where I can see what’s happening outside. Perfect. I don’t like being hemmed in. Too many years in the FBI have taught me to always  have an escape route planned. In this case, it’s a window, but it’ll do.

She takes my order and asks if I would like a drink while I wait for my meal. “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll have a Budweiser, please.”

It hits the spot, and I drink slowly as I wait for my meal. The wind is howling outside, sending debris ripping down the street at a frightening pace. It tears a sign apart across the road. I’m glad I’m on this side. But then again, what if the wind shifts? I’m right next to the fucking window. So much for an escape route – a safe one anyway.

“Here’s your dinner, sir,” my waitress says, placing it before me. “I see you were watching our unique natural phenomenon. It keeps the air clean, if nothing else.”

“I would imagine it does. Is it always like this?”

“Yes, except in the summer when we could use a breeze.”

“Amazing. I guess you get used to it after a while.”

“Not really. The state has a pretty high suicide rate, I’m sure the wind has a lot to do with it. Would you care for another beer?”

“Yes, please,” I say, surprised that suicide and beer should both roll off her tongue so easily.

“I’ll be right back with another Budweiser. Enjoy your dinner.”

My steak is sitting in a pool of warm blood, shaking wildly as though daring me to try cutting into it. Bones adorn the outer perimeters of the platter the steak sits on. When I attempt to butter my potato, they begin attacking my hands. Damn that fucking Blaze! What’s that joker up to? I know he’s behind this.

“Is everything all right, sir?” my waitress asks when she returns.

“I believe my steak is a bit too rare,” I intone with a hint of sarcasm. “Would you have the chef cook it a little longer, please?”

“No problem, sir.”

She removes the plate, and I sip my second beer. When she returns, I find that everything is cooked to perfection. There is no blood on the plate, and no more snapping bones. “Is everything okay this time, sir?” she asks as she watches me take my first bite.

“Absolutely delicious, thank you.”

I finish my meal and order one last beer.

“Would you prefer to sit here with your beer or go to the lounge, sir,” my waitress asks.

“Actually, I’m waiting for a friend of mine to pop up on the scene. He sent me a letter saying he was dead and to meet him tomorrow night at the cemetery. But Blaze is quite the trickster.”

“Blaze McRob?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

“Indeed I do. He cuts quite a figure in this town. But he did die, sir. This morning, in fact.  He has been sick for a while, you know.”

“I heard he was, but I had no idea he was that sick.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. He had quite a following. The cemetery will be packed tomorrow night. I’ll be there for sure.”

Wow! Even in death, Blaze found a way to make the situation a merry one.

“Why is he being buried only one day after his death?”

“He arranged it this way. He didn’t want a mortician working on him. A simple pine box, closed lid, and a quick, natural burial were his wishes. But he arranged for a feast to be catered at the grave site. The man knew how to live, no doubting that, but he certainly knew how to die with style!”

My respect for Blaze growing, my curiosity as to who this man really was growing by leaps and bounds. I knew him, but apparently I didn’t really know him.

“Why will so many people be there? Don’t most already have plans for Halloween? Parties, tick-or-treating with the kids?”

She smiled, “Blaze was loved by everyone. He was a very generous man when it came to children and his friends, and helped everyone he knew as much as he could. Plus, his was always the best Halloween party in town. Something special will happen tomorrow, rest assured of that.”

“Well, I guess we’ll find out,” I say.

Linda, the waitress (I can tell by her name tag – hey, we FBI guys are sharp) is right about Blaze in many respects, but she’s not telling me the whole story. I can hear the hidden inflection in her speech, read her various body mannerisms, and I know there is more to it than she’s telling me, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll go tomorrow night and see for myself, pay my respects to my friend, and leave the following day. I owe it to Blaze. He’s helped me out a number of times in the past. It’s the least I can do.

“If you don’t mind, Linda,” I say, “I’ll just sit here and finish this beer before going back to my room.” She brings me my check, I pay and drop her a twenty as a tip. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Thank you very much, that’s very generous of you. Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

After nursing the last few sips of my beer, I head back to my room, every step of the way feeling as if I am being  followed. I see nothing, but it doesn’t matter; I feel everything; I’m not alone. I’m on the cusp of a grand adventure.

Thanks, Blaze. You know how I thrive on the unknown. Tomorrow, buddy. Tomorrow.

*    *    *

I arrive at the grave site early, or so I thought. There are already easily a hundred people assembled. The catering is in full swing, tables of food set up for everyone, well in advance of the burial.  Blaze’s casket sits off to the side of the party, watching; almost seeming to survey everything that’s going on in the cemetery.

Kegs of Killian’s Red, Blaze’s favorite beer are set up in huge ice baths, and a bartender is busy pouring away.

Walking to the tombstone, I see the inscription and have to laugh. Linda was right: Blaze knows how to die with style.

I grab some food. There’s a little bit of everything here. Enough entrees and desserts to blow your socks off. Over a thousand miles from the closest ocean, and yet there are fresh lobsters, steamed clams, succulent oysters, as well as prime-cut locally raised steaks and burgers.

Spotting Linda, I walk to her and say, “Hello again. I’m glad to see you here. You mentioned there would be a big turn out, but I never expected this.”

She laughs. “This is only the beginning.”

With everything else going on tonight, I imagine her words resonate with truth. As much as I don’t wish to see my buddy being interred in the ground, I can hardly wait to see what happens next. It’s as if I’m in a movie, one scene after another playing before my eyes, waiting for my part to begin.

Eight P.M. arrives and two men maneuver the casket over the open grave and lower it into the ground. All eyes are on what’s happening. When the pine box hits the bottom of the hole, the men begin tossing dirt on top of it, shovel by shovelful. In a matter of fifteen minutes, all that meets the eyes is a mound of soil not quite as flattened out as it should be. There are no words spoken, no eulogy given. Strange, but I guess that’s the way Blaze wanted it.

Standing off to the side, watching the people gathered here, I feel a growing sense of expectation in the pit of my stomach; something is yet to come. Then it happens. The earth shakes, enough to almost toss me to the ground. I look around to see the others behaving as if they expected this to happen. The huge mausoleum next to Blaze’s modest burial-place splits in two from the force of the quaking, and the immense crowd, now numbering at least three hundred, stands to either side of the opening, forming as a human channel to direct traffic… but for what?

I hear scratching and clawing, and smell a hideous, musty stench coming from inside the mausoleum. Winged beasts emerge from the breach first, looking like gigantic bats, but upon further inspection, appear to resemble enormous Gargoyles with long, split tails. They rise high into the air, their wings sending the putrefaction farther out into the cemetery. And then, they fly away faster than anything I have ever seen before.

Wispy ghosts appear next, their non-substantive forms flying wildly about in the wake of the monstrosities before them. They must be lost souls released from their bondage. But where do they go now?

“Believe. Open your eyes and believe,” Linda says, as she moves next to me. “This is the closest that the Gates to Otherworld have ever been to our world. Look at the name on the mausoleum: Katz; an aberration of cats. This is the Cave of the Cats.”

As much as I try to refute her statements, I can’t. I am a witness to all measure of demons and oddities from Hell. Beings of indescribable shapes and sizes parade their deformities before me.

But wait! None of them make any effort to attack those forming the corridor directing them away from their tomb. Where will they go? What will they do?

The last of them trickle from view, and we return to Blaze’s grave site.

The dirt begins to shift. A hand rises from the center of the mound, and then another. They push away more of the fill covering the burial, and the unmistakable sight of Blaze, dirt clinging to his long beard, catches the light of the moon. The crowd cheers as he surfaces, shakes and dusts himself off, then grabs a beer from the outstretched hand of the bartender.

“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” his booming voice echoes through the cemetery. “We know what we’re up against now. These things will go after their kind first, those who possess evil to match their own. When they run out of the scum of the Earth to feast upon, that’s when the good folk will have to worry.

“And worry they will. The Dark Ages have returned, worse than ever.”

He raises his beer into the air, and the crowd joins him.

“For now, let’s party. All work and no play, and all that shit, you know.”

I walk to Blaze and hold out my hand. “You need a fucking bath, buddy. You reek.”

“Soon enough, my friend. You know, your days with the FBI are done. This is not the only Cave of the Cats. There is one in Washington, D.C. These beings from Otherworld will be busy there for quite some time.”

I laugh. “I suppose, but how do I know that you didn’t change into one of the bastards of the Underworld when you were dead?”

“You don’t. But I certainly found the perfect night to rise up from the dead, didn’t I? The doctors couldn’t come up with a plan to keep my old carcass alive, but I found a way to avoid putting myself under their care.”

“Kind of an extreme way around the health care system, isn’t it?”

“Enough talk, Zack. Let’s party. Dead or alive, I can’t die again.”

For a dead guy, Blaze makes a lot of sense. We drink ‘til almost dawn, none of the crowd leaving. My friend is right. I will stay here. This will be a long  battle.

*    *    *

Heavy rains saturate the area, flowing into the old mausoleum. A deep well is forming, but without fortifications to support it, it collapses in upon itself, sealing the opening forever.

The Gargoyles circle in the sky, the first vestige of destruction having occurred. Like the flying reptiles of millions of years ago, they rule supreme in the air. Nothing can touch them. They do not have to return to their confinement in Hell.

Pesky planes fly into Cheyenne airport. They picked the wrong time…

~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2013 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.

Coffin Hop 2013

The lid cracks open; dust and a foul odor emanate from within. But there is something… something lurking at the bottom. Could it be the Damned prize? Sliding the lid further, dirt rains down upon your unsoiled shoes, you peer deeper into the dim recesses; Damned if you’ll leave here without the treasure, Damned still if you do! The gap opens wider, something from within scuttles across your hand. Is that the echo of menacing laughter you hear?

Comment below ‘tween October 24th and 31st, 2013, and you may be Damned to suffer what the Coffin yields!

…and don’t forget to follow the other Coffin Hoppers here!

Dark Enemy

~ blazemcrob ~ 23 Comments

A hot night. Damn hot! Even during the monsoon season over here it never got cold. But now the rain is far behind us, and the moonless evening drips with heat and humidity. Shit!

My fatigues cling to me,  and my GI issue boxers are giving me one hell of a wedgie, threatening to strangle my balls. Some of the guys have taken to not wearing the boxers to prevent this, but I tried it once and the jewels looked like someone had taken a meat pulverizer to them. It’s a no win deal. Wearing the boxers is a better option for me.

There is no resting tonight. Charlie is just the other side of the hills. If our intelligence is right, they have no idea we’re in the area. Yeah, right! How many times have I been told that, only to wind up in the middle of a bloody ambush? Who tips these damn Cong off? If I only knew . . .

The sounds of the jungle, the myriad forms of wildlife scattered everywhere, add a buffer to the sounds of our feet plodding through the dense underbrush. There is not much of a trail here. In terrain such as this with optimal conditions for forest rejuvenation, paths can vanish rapidly, replaced by new growth.

However, it means the enemy has not been through this area too recently. Not even here could the jungle put up a fence of vegetation to deter interlopers that rapidly.

It’s rough going through this terrain without light, but the darkness is our friend for now. If we can’t see, neither can our enemy. That makes us even. At least for the moment.

A weird odor attaches itself to the moist air, strangling me with the very obscenity of its foulness. Something tells me not to go in the direction of its source, but that’s not possible: the Cong are in that direction, and we have to strike while the irons are hot.

The air circulates more and more the closer we get to the hills, and the stench builds. I have smelled it before. It is the odor of death and rotting flesh. Human flesh.

Wondering if something is wrong with me since the others appear not to notice anything out of the ordinary, I say nothing about my increasing fears of death closing in on us. This goes far beyond any battle experience I have encountered up ’til now. And I’m not certain war has anything to do with this. Not this war; not a war between humans.

Jesus, I’m suffering some kind of sensory hallucinations reaching beyond my ability to fight them off! I appear to be rational, but rationality is an abstract concept, one not readily agreed upon.

“Straighten up, man!” I say to myself. “Something’s going down. You know it, even if the others don’t. You have to be alert.”

The night gets darker; the stench gets worse; and the comforting sounds from before lessen the farther we go. We are thrust into a vortex of darkness so deep that it seems no light has ever existed here before. Darker and darker, the closer we get to the center the more we are drawn to whatever mystery resides within.

The center explodes outwards, enveloping us in an unbelievable cloak of invisibility, forcing us to use our other senses to navigate, touch being the dominant one because taste and smell are too intertwined with what lies ahead, and we need to be concerned with what is here. In order to forge ahead, we need to conquer the present.

Hairs on my neck signal that a power resides here that is all around, sizing us up before it acts against us. For the moment we are safe, but that will change. Our acquaintance with what looms ahead will not be pleasant.

The enemy has shifted from the Cong to whatever is waiting for us, drawing us into its realm: a place where no prisoners are taken. My mind is telling me these things, but how could I possibly know? I can’t fucking see, damn it ! But I feel it . . .I feel it watching, eyes everywhere, knowing we are to come in to its lair.

Still, the others are unaware, walking along as if nothing is wrong. To them it is another day in the jungle looking for Charlie, waiting for a chance to come out on top in this topsy-turvy war.

But I am aware.

The spinning orb, totally bereft of any light, draws them to the right. Fools! They are being drawn into a trap, one from which there is no escape.

“No! No!” I shout. “Don’t go there! That’s what they want.”

No reaction. It’s as if they don’t even hear me, yet I know they’re still here. Their footsteps surround me as they steadfastly march towards their impending demise. Darker and darker; quieter and quieter. That’s why no one reacted to my warning yells! All sound no longer exists. Along with the sense of sight, we can not hear either. It is almost as if we are in another dimension, another plane of existence playing tag with our own.

My skin crawls, the stench becomes worse, and the taste in my mouth becomes a smorgasbord of filth and decay. Close. We are close now.

The air around me shakes from my comrades struggling, but struggling against what? And then I know! A sticky, rope-like substance grabs me, and the more I attempt to break free, the more entangled I become. The . . .the web, a very thick one, is increasing its mastery over my every move. I am powerless to escape. It has me in its grip. What the fuck has a hold of me?

Gagging from the odor of whatever else is trapped within the morass of servitude I’m stuck in, I feel them coming. They move quickly, and there are many of them. At this moment I’m glad I can’t hear or see anything. The frenetic shaking of our gooey prison tells me all I need to know. My fellow warriors are under attack, and they’re going down.

Within moments, they’re on me! Long fangs tear into me, some kind of liquid flowing into my body, numbing me but not doing a complete job. I struggle against all they do, even managing to grab a hold of one, feeling long, sharp body hairs, and I’m able to gouge out some of its eyes. This thing has more than two eyes. I feel them rubbing against my hands and arms. The creature goes berserk and tears huge chunks of my flesh out of my carcass with its strong jaws.

The others respond to the pain their comrade is in by upping the attack on me. They bite, chew, and drag their many legs across my wounds, twisting as they go, as if attempting to teach me a lesson.

Pushed against the web even more from the brutal assault of my adversaries, I’m totally trapped, unable to move, as bit by bit they tear into me, feasting on my flesh as if there is no food left for them or ever will be.

Even as my limbs separate from the rest of me due to the incessant, never-ending attack from their jaws, I refuse to give in, figuring and hoping that something will stem the tide, and maybe, just maybe, there will be a way . . .

Blood gushes out of me as the demons once more inject something into my body, the numbing more complete now, but putting me into a whole new hell as I am still alive, just barely perhaps, but still able to feel my body for what it is: a buffet table for my antagonists to come by and suck out what juices and eat what flesh they want, long after I’m dead. Soon, very soon, I am to join and become one with the stench from the earlier assault on my nostrils.

I don’t need sight or hearing to know that I have become fodder for entities so many humans have become accustomed to stomping on.

Who is doing the stomping now?

The giant spiders attack what is left of my body and eat their fill. The Black becomes blacker as I fade into a state of semi-awareness.

At the moment my genitals are ripped off and devoured, my spirit leaves my body. I hover over the monsters and can see them for what they are now. But it matters not to me anymore.

They can’t hurt me any longer . . .

~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2013 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.

LAW OF THE WOLF

~ blazemcrob ~ 38 Comments

The darkness is still and hot as it hangs in the plains air. On a night that could use the purification of a breeze to rejuvenate what the heat has removed, there is none. Stagnation is everywhere.

It’s almost closing time at the liquor store that sits just outside the reservation’s boundary. No one has been in for the last thirty minutes now, and the greedy purveyor of hootch is hoping to grab at least a few more sales tonight. Surely someone wants cold beer? On a night like this, a cold one feels so good going down the throat, sliding to the stomach and settling comfortably there. The pleasant buzz to the head makes you forget the cares of the day, of the world; so good.

It doesn’t matter to the greedy fucker that the residents of the reservation can’t really afford to buy what’s for sale in the store. Does he care that by spending money here, a father might be depriving his family of food? Nope. The bottom line, the almighty dollar, that’s what matters. Yes. Squeezing every last dollar out of the Red Man, that’s what’s important. It’s not his fault if someone can’t resist the pull of booze. White people can’t resist it either. Money – its green, doesn’t give a shit what color your skin is.

Fourteen people live in the town on the reservation, and one store serves it. The only business here is booze. There’s nothing to eat, no public rest rooms, nothing other than the liquor. Buy it and be on your way.

Zack can’t take it anymore, he needs a beer. Even though his air conditioner is running, it’s still hot as balls in here. According to the law, he’s not supposed to open the hootch inside the store, but who’s going to catch him? This shit hole is the only place for miles. Cops? There hasn’t been one of those around here for weeks.

He grabs a long-neck out of the cooler, pops the top, and steps outside with it hoping for some sort of a breeze. The change in scenery will do him some good too.

“Damn,” he says, once out the door. “It’s still like a furnace out here.”

Something grabs at his attention, but he doesn’t want to go back inside just yet. He can’t get a handle on it; it’s more of a feeling than anything else. Things aren’t right.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. Maybe it’s all in his head.

A rustling in the prairie grass tells him otherwise. Someone is out there; or something.

“State your business! I’m only warning you once!”

The rustling comes closer, becoming much louder. There is no attempt to muffle the sound. Whatever it is is coming at him fast; much faster than it should be.

Zack drops his beer and races towards the store in fear, intent on grabbing the thirty-eight he left under the counter.

A huge roar rips though the night just as he reaches for the handle. He turns and stares into the face of a hideous wolf-like creature with red eyes, and saliva dripping from a mouth filled with ferocious, bared teeth. It stands upright on its rear legs, towering over him, completely covered in long, reddish fur. It reaches its arms toward him with grotesque claws quivering in anticipation of tearing him apart. Moistness envelops Zack’s pants as he confronts this monster, fear pulsing in every molecule of his being, his heart pounding so hard it might explode from the ferocity of its beating.

The creature lifts Zack into the air above its head, the claws digging deep into his body. He hollers out in pain, cry after cry until no more sound comes from his lips. With sudden swiftness, the wolf-beast brings him down to eye-level. While watching the horrified look on Zack’s face, it engulfs the man’s head in its mouth then tears it from his body. Spitting the head out of its mouth onto the ground, it tosses the still-quivering body on top of it and roars again.

The others come running, some firing their weapons at the monster. It does no good. Within minutes, the town of fourteen is now a town of zero.

~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2013 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.

Damned Words 2

~ TheDamned ~ 35 Comments

bolts2

Betrayal
Dan Dillard

It began with one.
But bolt by bolt and rail by rail,
Walls he could not scale.
Leaving was to no avail.
The bastard.

I didn’t mean it as a snare,
At first, it was not a jail.
He had his way, but didn’t care
And now I laugh, I sit and stare.
I watch as he wails and calls
Begging me, “Tear down the walls!”
I  will not.

He will pay with dread and deal with pain.
The love I gave him not in vain.
The cage I built, his blood to stain.
He won’t make this mistake again.

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Shiny, Pretty Things
Nina D’Arcangela

Obediently loyal, begging of my affection. Shining vibrantly, fools each one. Seeking my notice among the many. They cling to the side, perfection in every space; none dare lag behind. Repugnant they are.

One does catch my eye, not the brightest, not the flawless; but the least refined. Standing in front, lacking shimmer; displaying the audacity to perch to the left, head skewed slightly off kilter. Perhaps one of these fools is deserving. What use have I of minions made perfect? Give me the challenge; I will break him to my ideal. Yes, this one may be indeed be worthy.

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Sworn
Joseph A. Pinto

 I thought you would follow, but the willow reed swallowed me whole
At least that’s the excuse you sold…
I’d been too busy tightening bolts
Preparing for traffic that would never come.
On the opposite end of nothing now
I’ve teetered upon this sharp edge far too long
Waiting for that willow reed to part
A path once cut through it; I suppose now it’s gone
Should my bridge someday be crossed
Unlike that lost, forgotten route
I’ll keep to tightening bolts, even if my hands get torn
The willow reed once led the way, at least
So you’d sworn.

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Cheap Champagne
Tyr Kieran

My vision blurs as if mocking the slur that hindered my tongue for the last hour. On the balcony, the cold aluminum railing burns my cheek, but serves to support me while I regain balance.

I’ve drowned out our honeymoon night, but she kept feeding me full glasses.

Agony hits and I collapse.

My new bride ignores me as she packs a suitcase on the bed.

“Help.” I moan. “It hurts!”

She steps out onto the terrace through the open sliding door and squeezes my face in her hands.

“Yeah, poison will do that, Dear. Thanks for the life insurance.”

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Harvest House
Thomas Brown

Each day, when morning breaks, the gates unlock. Blue-eyed boys and blond-haired girls hop, skip and jump, crack silly jokes, kick chequered balls into an empty sky. A bell rings and they rush inside; Tom, Dan, Joe, Little Hunter drink juice, help themselves to biscuits, laughing, throwing punches, wiping crumbs from round their messy mouths.

After lunch the children play inside, read stories (Nina sings), fall fast asleep, and then, in that calm, soporific state begin to change. Skin shivers, splits revealing shells, long insect legs, click-clacking tongues; by night a horrid, hungry hive trapped inside this, their steel penal-nest.

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Once Upon A Troll
Blaze McRob

This was once a peaceful place, the bridge above my home wooden and old. No one used it. Ah, except for the occasional foolish school child taking a short cut home. Tasty little creatures for a troll such as me.

Then they put in the steel girder bridge so the train could run over my home. No Damned peace now!

Tonight is a special run. The train will be filled with people.

The rivets are so easy for my strong fingers to turn and remove. Just perfect.

Falling into the middle of the river, the train will run no more.

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Sealed Promises
Leslie Moon

All my living fears buried, banished, bolted
contained beneath earth’s seas.
Bound are the monsters was their promise to me.
***
My logic sneers, “Is the box today’s illusion?”
Placate and pacify where set in stone is a new dependence
and false security they can’t deny.
***
Their promises  fit neatly in those little pill squares.
Now that the voices have gotten louder where do I run?
Their hot breath growing fouler.
*
Red eyes at morning taunt my blinds.
Does no one heed the warning?
Make room in the canvas sack, seal out the sounds.
Give my reason back!

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The Greatest Fraud
Daemonwulf

I see a world that no longer is, one in which I cannot live. Just as today, and each before, my mind closes another door. But like a movie without an end, the fire takes me back again. Life and death whiz past my head, I hear a thousand screams of dread.  I taste the blood upon my tongue, and smell the burning of the young.  While blades of green replace hot sands, I watch my life pour through red hands. I now know it was a war of swine that caused me to cross this bridge in pine.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

BACK ROOM DEALS

~ blazemcrob ~ 31 Comments
Something’s wrong in Club Blaze tonight. I can’t put my finger on it, but the heaviness of the air is pushing on my lungs, and I can hardly breathe. The metal band playing their rolling, heavy rifts would normally have me sky-high by now, but I’m anything but.
 
“Come on, Zack Kullis,” I say to myself, “get it under control. The bar is hopping. If you want the big tips that come with Friday nights like this, you better keep your ass moving.”
 
The fucking Blazing Skull fresco plastered on the wall behind the performers appears to be smiling, leering even, and I swear it’s staring at me. Shit! It’s not just staring at me, it’s trying to get into my head. It wants my thoughts known to it.
 
Wow! What’s come over me? I’ve worked here a long time, and I’ve seen some strange things go down but I’ve always been able to look the other way and not worry about them. But the very atmosphere tonight is a choking, threatening force, an entity even, one intent on wreaking havoc on me.
 
The mere scent of beer coming from the bottles as I open them causes my stomach to retch, and as for pouring one on tap, it’s nausea city. I can hardly stand, doubled over the way I am from the pain deep within my gut, forcing its way up my esophagus, and lingering in the space between the back of my throat and my trembling lips.
 
Sweating like I’ve just stepped out of a sauna, my fancy bartender’s garb – black tuxedo pants, cumberbund, long sleeved white shirt, and a hideous black bow-tie – is drenched and trapping the heat against my body. Steam! My God, I feel like steam is pouring out from within and frying my skin. Boils pop up before my eyes, and I rush to run cold water over my hands to keep the burns down, knocking Joe, the other bartender, to the side.
 
“What’s wrong with you, mother-fucker?!” he shouts.
 
Pointing to my blistered hands, I say, “I have to get water on these burns now!”
 
“What burns? You’re one crazy fuck tonight!”
 
What the . . . ?
 
There are no burns! How can this be? Just moments ago they were all over my hands.
 
The fresco laughs at me, the fleshless skull opening its mouth wide, flashing those perfect white teeth in my direction. The flames go wild, and within seconds the back drop to the stage ignites and the band is engulfed in a deluge of red, orange, and yellow. The dancing armada of heat demons sets the leather jackets of the band members on fire, and soon their faces match that of my nemesis, as peeling flesh falls from their faces to the floor. Five flaming musicians cavort on stage as if possessed, the intensity of their music reaching a crescendo unlike anything I have ever heard before.
 
Wild, burning banshees sing of a place much like the stage is now, one filled with torture and pain. But . . . but the band doesn’t appear to be in distress. Can it be? Is this their normal state of being?
 
Before I can react to the fire, to get to an extinguisher at the side of the bar, the flames reverse themselves and traipse back to the fresco, where they once more become mere paint and fabric. And the band . . . the band and all that was once consumed by the fire is now back to the way it was.
 
My head! What is going on? This can’t be happening? The painting is causing this. I know it is.
 
“Damn you!” I shout, staring at the painting. “Stop this shit!”
 
Joe pulls me back from the edge of the bar. “Zack! Calm down. Go outside and get some air. Pull yourself together.”
 
Yeah, that’s what I need. This place is closing in on me tonight. That’s all. A little air and I’ll be just fine.
 
It’s no easy task working my way through the patrons. The joint is getting more packed with every minute. But I have to get through. Even the participants in this crazy drinking, dancing, and orgasmic frenzy of emotions coming from I don’t know where are looking non-human. Their outward personas vanish beneath their false veneers and I see them for who and what they really are.
 
Putting my hands over my eyes, I force myself through the gathering of miscreants and, after what seems to be an eternity, I find myself in the parking lot. Oh, shit! The parking lot is empty. These people inside; where did they come from? How did they get here?
 
“A little confused, are you?”
 
I turn and see Mr. McRob leaning up against one of the porch supports, striking his match against the timber and lighting up a cigar. Cuban. Damn, I remember the aroma from the pre-embargo days.
 
“Remember these, Zack? Ah, you do, don’t you?”
 
Before I can answer him, a lit cigar is in my hand.
 
“Go ahead, my friend. Indulge. I have plenty.”
 
Standing a few feet apart, puffing on the best of the best, and wondering how he got to me so fast, I simply say, “Thank you, sir.”
 
He laughs. “Call me Blaze. Everyone else does. Well, almost everyone else. Sometimes I get called rather vile names. People can be rather crude, you know.”
 
I’m not sure what’s going down, but I haven’t physically laid eyes on Mr. McRob since the day I was hired. And that’s been a long time. Why now?
 
“Why now? I’ll tell you why now,” he says.
 
How does the bastard know what I’m thinking?
 
“Let me explain what’s happening here, Zack. Club Blaze is a little more than a gin mill with heavy metal music. Well, that’s a bit of a lie. Damn me. Truth be told: it’s a lot more. See, we cater to some pretty special people.
 
“Alas. The special people are pretty much gone. You know the back room where you thought the high stakes poker games were going on?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“The games were going on, but other things were happening as well.”
 
“What’s that, sir?”
 
“Please, call me Blaze, Zack. Deals were being made. Special deals; deals with a purpose, a special meaning.”
 
I’m still confused. What does all this have to do with a full joint, an empty parking lot, a wall painting becoming alive, and non-humans hiding inside the bodies of what appear to be humans?
 
A sarcastic laugh reverberates around me from all sides of the parking lot. “Oh, Zack, you are such a virgin when it comes to the ways of the world. My world, anyway.”   
 
He walks to the road and beckons for me to join him. Gingerly, I walk to where he waits for me.
 
“What we have here is a crossroads, Zack. Two paths intersecting; two choices to be made. And for me, deals to be made. Some people are rather unhappy with their lot in life and work out a deal with me to gain riches, a longer life, or maybe some guy wants a hot floozy to scratch his scrotum for awhile. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
 
I totally understand what he’s saying, but I don’t know if I can believe it or not. This is too far over the top. It just flies against logic.
 
“Fuck logic, Zack. You’re working for a bit of a bastard. Sorry you have to find that out, but better now than later, huh?”
 
“Yes, Blaze. Better now than later.”
 
“Great! We have some common ground. Now we go back to choices and deals. What do you want from life?”
 
“Nothing much. I have a job, make some decent money, and my wants are really not that exorbitant. I’m pretty content with things the way they are.”
 
“Oh, Zack, come on now. Surely you would enjoy riches and all that comes with it.”
 
“Not really. I live alone, and my salary here is quite good. I enjoy my job, for the most part, anyway – tonight was wonky – but there’s not anything else I need.”
 
“Women?”
 
“I’ve been burned too often. I need a break there. When the time is right, things will gel. Until then, I’ll just wait.”
 
Blaze is pissed. He wants to make a deal, and I’m not amenable to his little game.
 
“Let’s up the ante, Zack. What would happen if you were fired from this job, you searched high and low to find another one, only to find out you’re too fucking old to be considered? What then?”
 
“Social Security, maybe?”
 
“I don’t think so, Zack. It’s not very secure anymore, is it?”
 
This isn’t sounding too reassuring. I’m thinking my job is heading south, and my options are not too high in the sky.
 
“So what are you suggesting, Blaze?”
 
“There we go, Zack. I’m just suggesting we make a deal. As you can see, I’ve tapped into everyone else around here. My present clientele is waiting for their time to pay up or shut up.”
 
“So I’m fresh meat?”
 
“Interesting way to put it, but it’s true.”
 
“Fuck you!”
 
Blaze is really pissed now. “You don’t have a choice in the matter.”
 
The final ashes fall from the exquisite cigar, and as I stomp the butt out in the lot, I stare into the faces of everyone from inside the club.
 
“Well, Zack, it seems to me that keeping your job is pretty high on your list of wants. If you don’t deal, that job is gone. What do you say?”
 
Fuck, he has me. I need a job. “So what’s the deal?”
 
“Usually, I would love to play some poker, but we have an audience. How about we flip a coin? You call it. If you win, you not only keep your job, but you’ll own the club. What a deal, huh?”
 
“My coin, and it’s heads.”
 
“Fair enough.”
 
I take a quarter out of my pocket, stare at the entourage around me, and flip it high into the air. There is electricity in the air as everyone waits to see which way the coin lands.
 
“Hey, Blaze” I say, “it’s heads. Heh, heh. Looks like I win.”
 
The assemblage murmurs in shock. This is not what anyone expected.
 
A rumbling comes from deep beneath, its intensity building the closer it gets to me. The ground opens under the club and swallows it up. My parking lot companions, other than Blaze, turn into so many variants of wispy personas and vanish into the night.
 
“Blaze,” I say, “I thought the club was mine.”
 
“Oh. It is. We just never discussed where the club would be when you owned it.”
 
A sinister laugh taunts me before I stand alone at the crossroads.
 
I turn my coin over in my hands. Go figure. This quarter has two heads . . .
 
 
 ~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2013 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.

Heed the Tale Weaver: Celebrate the one-year anniversary of the Damned. Through May 7, 2013, upon each new post, a comment you will leave. A package of ghoulish goodies tainted with an offering from every member of the Damned awaits one fated winner – glorious books, personalized stories and eternal suffering at your feet. Now Damn yourself, make your mark below! But remember insolent ones, you must leave a comment, a “like” will not earn you a chance at our collection of depravity. Do not make the Damned hunt you down.

Damned Words

~ TheDamned ~ 64 Comments

Enter.  Sit before the Tale Weaver.
Heed: true beauty tis not in the eye of the beholder
but in the minds of the Damned.
Open yourself to us…

handle

A Picture Paints 100 Words, by Dan Dillard

The knob creaked as I gave it a twist. The ancient sound of metal on metal made my ears ache and slithered panic up my spine. Funny it should do that. That anything was able to do that to me in this stage of the game.

It was brilliant that I even found this place, so fitting to my plan. Her body tucked ever so well into the old crematorium. The drugs working their magic until after I lit the burner and the flames licked up, tickling her with devilish hunger. My favorite part was yet to come. The screaming.

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Poisonous Hope, by Tyr Kieran

Imprisoned behind an unlocked gate of decorative iron, I watch the world carry on without me. Each day I remain in captivity works on my soul as bacteria would on a slab of uncured beef. The breeze that swirls in and out of my chamber taunts of life’s sensations that could still be mine. Yet, intangible chains bind me to a rotting corpse while the sweet poison of hope corrodes my chance at eternal peace. It’s too tempting to ignore. I cannot rest, cannot let go. So, I wait for receptive prey to venture in and unknowingly forfeit their future.

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Sacred Charge, by Nina D’Arcangela

Day after day I have grasped you, clung to your surface, held you as though you were yet a remnant of her. Many the night I sat below you, gazing upward; wishing, hoping, never praying. Have I made you my false idol? Perhaps. But in your solemn stance, you guard over all that was precious to me, how can I blame you? But I do. My mind bleeds for what should have been, for the chance never to have seen you. My tears shed upon your unyielding beauty only add to my remorse for what lies beyond your sacred charge.

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Refuge, by Joseph A. Pinto

Refuge; before these iron gates I tremble.  Words, long forgotten, muttered upon this unforgiving draft.  Weary fingers graze lips; memory languishes.  A song cries.  Lost, what once remained.  Balm to my wounds, these iron gates I clutch.  To twist this handle, to enter into that which I have denied myself.  A thousand angels mock my arrogance; their light I have shunned.  Tell me godless thing, who haunts your starless nights?  My thousand lies expired at last; hollow, barren, crumbled within.  Shadows beckon; so soon shall I dance.  Refuge beyond these iron gates; blackened tomb.  Condemned both by heaven and hell.

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Vacuum, by Leslie Moon

You ask me to grasp this? Enter something into which I cannot perceive meaning. Is there a way through this dim portal? Will I come to the end and find a vacuous self? Strain into a haze with no return?

Ask me not to open this sepulcher of doubt. Free my way, menial I will welcome. To touch this skeleton of all my fears, a repugnant notion. You bid me- go, no gentle nudge. I am plummeted to the world beyond my fears. Where all I cherish is missing. All I long for is past. All I was is gone.

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Sleeping Dogs, by Thomas Brown

Higher and higher the dog-king climbs, advancing up the stairs. Where the brickwork fails, he catches light; small glimmers in the dark. Dawn illuminates the countryside, and at its heart his tower; a Gothic spike, a splinter, driven deep into the hills.

Steps crumble, break beneath paw-hands, and then he is outside. The rooftop glitters, wet with slime and sunlight on old stone. He crawls to where the guttering clings tightly to the slate, and where the new dawn sees his flesh, his broken face, his lolling tongue, it hears him laugh, breathe rancid breath, then turns him into stone.

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Inner Sanctum, by Blaze McRob

From down the hall, the words do come, and with them now, a screeching hum. As door does open, telling all, that deep fears wait at beck and call. But now must I with no noise crawl, or parents both will make me call, out in the night as they will beat, the stuffing out from my small feat. For in my bed I am to be, and not in hall the place for me. As radio for this great show, within my soul is not to grow. But Inner Sanctum does arrive, and three year ears in story dive.

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Welcome Home, Baby! by Hunter Shea

Shirley, I’m coming!  

The words came out as, “Sssrlleee, mmmm cnnngggg!”

One foot stepped on the other and my forehead slammed into the grated door. It should have hurt, but then again, all the should haves were dead and gone.

Unlike me.

Unlike the other shambling wrecks in the cemetery.

Do I look that bad?

I twisted the iron knob. I’d been able to breathe last time I’d been here. I came to bring flowers, talk to the air.

The door opened with a steady creek.

Shirley!

Her skin slid off her face. So what? We had each other again.

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Veneration, by Daemonwulf

The shrieks of the ageless faithful defile him, seeking restitution from an eternally deafened heart. Their history of torment, revealed in screaming admonition, scrapes the frozen memories and claws at cold, darkened walls, struggling for a chance to be heard.

Theirs is a multitude of ignored voices; immeasurable lives ending as grist to be chewed by holy teeth.

He slams the door as the suffering faithful yearn for salvation, choosing instead the false prophecies he utters in glorious silence.

Crying out for redemption, they clamor for their promised reward, only to find sanctuary within the warming shit of their God.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Ashes to Ashes, Blood to Blood

~ blazemcrob ~ 27 Comments

The breeze, gentle at first, carries the voice to my mind. “No, not again!” I think, cupping my hands over my ears, trying to keep from hearing its taunting, knowing that I can handle only so much of this.

Night after night it comes, and even though I expect it to surround me, it finds a way to sneak in when my guard is down. I’m leveled by its assault, barely able to think, and unable to retain any semblance of vertigo. I fall to the carpet, writhing in pain, and my mind gets ever so close to the abyss separating sanity from insanity. Nearer and nearer I approach the gash dividing reality from what does not exist. And the drop from the precipice to what lies below is long and deep. Yes, it is like a bottomless well, devoid of water and waiting to fill itself with whatever it can.

“No, you can’t have me!” I shout. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

Laughter . . . laughter joins in with the whispered words, knowing I will crack, that it is only a matter of time. If anything, the laughter is worse, forcing its way on my entire body, its vibrations rubbing against my flesh, working along the distraught hairs on the back of my neck and radiating outward from there. I retch from the sensations of thousands of bugs crawling over me, knowing they will bite, but not sure when. The remembrance of biting bed bugs from a long ago place and time reach my mind, and I fear that they are here in my study and attacking me with their taunting presence before they bite and suck out my precious life-giving fluid.

Slapping wildly against the onslaught, I know I have stepped over the line when their teeth find their mark and my body convulses in the agony.

Just enough biting; just enough blood removed; and just enough crawling. Always the push is ever so close, enough to push me to the brink, but not all the way over. Yes, the voice knows; it always knows. Enough of the voice! I must defeat it.

“You cannot ignore me forever, you know,” the voice whispers in my ear, the words moving the bugs to the side. “You will listen to me; you have no choice.”

“No! Leave me!” I holler. “You don’t exist.”

Silence . . . blessed silence, but it does not last.

“Ah, but I do exist. I existed before, I exist now, and I will exist in the future.”

The present; the future. I must not allow this creature access to these two-time continuums. If I do . . .  No, I cannot even think of what might happen.

I force myself up, working against the vertigo problems, not wanting to subject myself to attacks from above. No more can I grovel before the beast. It must be dealt with from a position of strength. Heh, heh. This is how I will defeat it.

A clap of thunder encapsulates my room, and a rumbling beneath me rises up and splits it in two. One of my feet is left on one side, and the other one struggles to maintain balance on the opposite side of the tearing. The chasm becomes wider, and I push off with my right leg, attempting to propel my body to the other side, but my efforts are not enough. My hands grasp the far side as I slip and slide back, reaching for a secure hand-hold but not finding one. Ever closer I get to losing my grip and falling into the darkness below. My body flails against the side of the abyss, looking for a place where I can gain a foothold.

None is to be found.

Blood pours from my hands as I pull myself up ever so slowly, getting away from the forces waiting below. Every hand hold comes with a price attached, my body wracked in pain from the physical assault and the tearing inflicted on me. Finally, with a last heave, my entire body is out, and I am secure under my desk. The two sides slam together in defiance, as if to show me the power still resides within the room.

This time I’m not in any hurry to get back up. My body is beaten down, and I need to recoup. There is more to come; there is always more to come.

The breeze switches to a gale-force wind and blows a dense fog into the room. This is no ordinary fog: I’ve experienced it before. Now! Now is the time to get up.

My head demands release from the torment, but my body is not cooperating. I bob and weave like a punch-drunk boxer having gone one fight too many. Yes, I can’t conceive of fighting even one more round.

The fog is up to my chest, concealing what lies beneath. More suspense; more agony.

Serpentine entities wrap themselves around my legs, squeezing, relaxing their grip then repeating their torture. The veins and arteries in my already pummeled legs scream out in pain, not knowing what the next moment will hold.

“I take it you’re not enjoying the massage the vipers are affording you?”

Staring into the coal-black eyes of the horned beast speaking to me, his prominent brow and deeply creased face glaring at me, the hairs on my body once more tingle. All the stops are being pulled out tonight.

“I’m talking to you, boy” he says, “And I don’t like to be ignored.”

Rage replaces my fear. “Fuck you! Your presence is unwelcome here.”

Lightning and thunder reverberate through the room, being the outlet for his anger.

“Not welcome here? You have no choice in the matter. You don’t dictate what happens. I do.”

Scenes from days gone by play like a panorama of horror against the walls, ceilings, and floors of my room. And then  . . . and then they become alive once more, the dancing, naked bodies and their conjuration circle; the altar with a frightened virgin laid out upon it, her virginity attacked mercilessly as demon after demon take her and inject their seed into her, so many of them that the blood from her womb flows out onto the altar and then to the floor, the rivers formed from the confluence of blood and juices beating a horrid staccato against the floor.

And they come to me, tearing my clothes off and leading me to the altar. As before, I am always the last one to penetrate the woman lying before me. I cannot fight it. The forces against me are too strong. How I am able to rise up and perform as a man is a mystery. I am disgusted at what I am forced to do, and yet, at the same time, excitement bursts from my loins and I do what is demanded of me.

She stares at me, still in shock at what has transpired, but her eyes tell me she understands.

“You are weak,” the horned one says. You have always been weak. But that doesn’t matter. You were not conceived for the purpose of your own strength. Yours is another facet of birth.”

His words fly into my mind, knocking my mental stability down even lower, but the anger in me from what he has implied – no, more than implied – keeps me from going over the edge. What is he saying? I must know.

He laughs. “No need for you to speak to me. I know your thoughts. Ah, it is not for me to answer your questions tonight. She . . . she will answer them.”

My mind swirls from all I have seen and done, my eyes closing, attempting to refocus. When they open again, my study is as it was before anything happened, and I am clothed once more. It is as if everything that happened was only present in my mind.

But I know better.

The voice returns to me again, this time more insistent, not attempting to convince me now. Demands are hollered into my ears, my head shaken by the impact.

No more can I hide in my study. It is time to confront my demons.

I follow the voice to the cemetery. Yes, I know where it is coming from. As much as I have feared this moment, I realize it is necessary for me to attack the demons running rampant through my mind.

The mist, the same fog as before, has settled over the grave, but it parts when I arrive, exposing a shovel resting against the headstone. Trembling with fear, I take it into my hands and start digging.

With each pass through the dirt, the voice gets louder, telling me to dig faster, echoing its need for release. Sweat pours off me, my confusion and fear melding together. What do I do when the source from which the voice emanates is laid out before me? Releasing the demon cannot be a good thing but, then again, how do I silence the voice forever?

Shovel after shovel removes the dirt until I hit the top of the coffin. Instead of an increased volume from the voice, there is silence. A trick! Yes, this is a ploy. I am supposed to be lulled into a sense of false security, but that won’t work. I can’t be tricked that easily.

But what do I do now! I need to open the coffin and satisfy my curiosity once and for all. If nothing is here to worry about, then I can put my mind at ease.

Then again, the possibility exists that maybe all of this does reside entirely in me. Am I losing it? Is my mind going?

I must find out! I must!

With a vengeance, I tear the shovel into the coffin, not caring about any damage I might incur. What difference does that make? She is already dead. When I’m done, I’ll cover everything back up again.

I grasp at the last remnants of the lid and tear it off. I must see her now!

Looking down, a bright moon at my back, I stare at her and smile.

There’s nothing here to worry about,” I think. “She’s dead. As dead as they come.”

Starting to shovel the dirt back in on top of the coffin, I stop as soon as I start. She sits up, pieces of flesh dangling down from areas on her skeleton, teasing me with their very presence. The musky odor surrounding her almost forces me to pass out, and her eye sockets, long ago remaindered to empty holes, take on a red glow and stare at me. A smile breaks out on her skull, flashing those perfect teeth she always had when she was alive.

“I knew you would come, my son,” she says. “It took you a while, but my faith in you never wavered.”

My heart beats faster than it has ever beaten before. Never have I been so afraid. All the things happening around me when I was growing up are nothing compared to this. My mother, dead for five years, is still alive: if you can call her condition anything close to normal. All these years, she has called to me, imploring me to come to her, but I refused. Until tonight. My supposed closure is anything but.

“I gave you life years ago,” she says. “Now . . . now it is your turn to reciprocate. You will give me life.”

My mind reaches for an answer to what she is saying, but none is forthcoming.

“You are confused, my son. Don’t be. I pushed you out into the world forty years ago, and now you will do the same for me.”

Horror burns through every fiber of my being as she grabs me and pulls my body into what remains of her vagina. She and I both convulse as my adult persona is totally absorbed into her birth canal. She writhes in pain as the size of me works past her vaginal opening and rejuvenates her long dead body, bringing life back to her once more. My blood pours out of me and into her, supplying her with the precious liquid she so needs to live once more.

I scream out in pain, the sounds muffled between her thighs and that part of her expelling me so many years before.

She lies in the coffin a little longer, waiting for the pain to subside and the transformation to become complete. Five years is a long time to wait for a second coming.

“He was such a good son,” she says . . .

~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2013 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.

The Enforcer

~ blazemcrob ~ 22 Comments

He stands before the large bay window, looking down upon the streets below, not really needing to see the evil happening. The visuals, courtesy of all his sensory perceptions, attack his mind.

And yet, The Committee condones such sadistic behavior as this. “Let them do as they will. It will all be sorted out later,” they say. “Their feeble minds can not grasp the concepts of good or evil: not enough for them to advance to an elevated status at any rate.”

“Elevated, my ass!” he thinks. “All of us on The Committee were once like these weaklings. We found it difficult to reason, to discard depravity and debauchery for the less than obvious elements of good inherent in humans and the world surrounding them.”

Pacing back and forth, the raw energy of evil present in this city sickens him. Someone in his position should distance himself from what is present here. After all, it has taken him many lifetimes to achieve his elevated status. Yes, he has evolved beyond the rabble scratching around to make ends meet, to find a reason for existence, and perhaps…just perhaps, to find at least some happiness from the filth which is ever-present here.

But through it all, he remembers. How can he possibly forget the times when he was beaten down by those wanting to keep him, and many others, in a state of abject slavery? Maybe the absence of freedom wasn’t slavery as many envision it to be, but when one’s soul is torn from the physical embodiment of humanity, what else would it be? One becomes nothing more than a Zombie, a dancing, unthinking, undead persona manipulated by a necromancer concerned only for his own welfare. And, his own power.

He laughs. Now the power belongs to him, an advanced being capable of an existence beyond human understanding. Yes, to those like him, the ones who have reached the “most perfect” stage of development, a utopian society exists, one in which Heaven is a state of glory residing within the minds of those fortunate enough to have reached the pinnacle of all that is.

Truth be known? They are Gods. And yet, should Gods look the other way when the unfortunate ones wallow around in ineptitude and suffer at the hands of the evil ones?

Ah, the Gods might have lost any semblance of previous humanity when their ultimate tableau was achieved.

Selchor, on the other hand, still retains compassion within his soul. It pains him when the unfortunate ones suffer as he once did. There is no reason for this. Those who can help, should help.

He dresses for the evening, donning the clothing of the time, and grabbing his walking stick when he leaves the apartment. Once he reaches the streets, he blends in with everyone else around him.

His cane beats a staccato along the sidewalk as he walks towards the place of supreme evil manifestations. For too long, this street has been a sinister one, hiding secrets, exposing pain . . . pain shoved upon those much too young to experience it.

A large man, easily 300 pounds, bald, and wearing an expensive suit, embroidered shirt, and fancy wing-tips, comes out of the adjoining alleyway and motions for him to stop.

“I take it you’re here for the young girls,’ he says. “Name your age, and we can fulfill your fantasy and allow you to live life to the fullest, doing what so few are able to experience.”

Selchor smiles at the man. “Yes, my good man. I am here for the children. Your fame has spread farther than you can imagine.”

The pimp gives the stranger a funny look, wondering exactly what this man is talking about. “And exactly what are you looking for, might I ask?”

“I would like to have all the young ladies assembled before me so I can choose.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them. I will gladly pay you up front if you are concerned about my intent.”

The big guy salivates at the thought of his entire assemblage being paid for. “Of course. Whatever you wish, sir.”

He grabs a cell phone out of his pocket and makes a couple of quick calls. Within minutes, a dozen young women of differing ages are paraded before him.

Selchor laughs and says, “I’ll take them all.”

“All of them?” the pimp asks.

Handing him the money, Selchor says, “Yes, all of them.”

The girls are shoved towards him, and Selchor says, “I am setting you free. Go and never return. There is nothing left for you here, and you need not worry about anything. I’m giving you your freedom.”

They are reluctant to leave at first, but something about the calm exterior of their benefactor soothes them, and they scramble away.

The procurer is upset and attempts to shove the cane-bearing man out of the way so he can retrieve the girls, but Selchor holds him, and his henchmen, back. In no time at all the former slaves are gone.

“But . . . but this is not what you asked for,” the bald man says, anger shoved from every pore in his body. “I thought . . .”

“You think far too much, I must say,” Selchor says. “I never said what I wanted the girls for. You merely assumed. You and your henchmen are evil people and should have your eyes opened to the truth of who you really are.”

The fancy-dressed pimp laughs now. “I don’t believe a man carrying a cane will be able to do much damage to the six of us.”

“Do not be deceived by me or my cane. Your time of reckoning has come.”

They charge en-mass, but Selchor touches a button on the cane’s handle, and a knife blade, easily a foot long, comes out from the end. “Looky what I have here, me lads. Guess what? I know how to use it too.”

The fight is brutal: blood, guts, and chunks of flesh fly everywhere. One by one, Selchor deftly removes their hearts, impales them on the blade, and places them in the hands of their owners.

Selchor watches as the spirits rise from the fallen bodies and stare down at what is now nothing more than food for the rats. He laughs, a most unsettling one, and says, “It appears that the time has come for you to go to Heaven or Hell. Which one is it?”

Confusion runs through the souls. This was not expected. Heaven or Hell is a choice left to them? How can this be?

“Yes, you have this choice,” Selchor tells them. “Tell me: which path are you taking?”

Even before they have the chance to say that Heaven is the obvious choice, thoughts jump into their minds, talking to them of all the evil they have perpetrated in their lives. How many times were people, some very young, subjected to pain to supply them with pleasure and a fulfillment of power? Too many times. They grab their heads and cry out in pain, trying to exorcise the demons present within them.

It doesn’t work.

All of them are dragged away to Hell. But…but there is not “one” Hell. For them, there are six Hells, and no two are the same. Selchor smiles as he watches their twisting, convoluted efforts to escape the grasp of the demons pulling them into the darkness.

Silence. The sweet sound of nothing takes over. The pimp and his crew are gone, taken into Hell on the wings of their own guilt. Justice has been served.

Selchor surveys the scene and his former humanity becomes more dominant. He loses none of the knowledge he has gained over time. If anything, he is more advanced than the others on The Committee. Knowledge, power, and humanity all belong to him.

Heaven and Hell are abstracts and reside within the minds and souls of those going to one or the other. If a person believes they have done good during their past life, they will advance to the next level of humanity, or they can happily exist in Heaven as they are. But those who are tormented by the guilt of the past evils they have committed will send themselves to Hell.

How sweet is this? Heaven and Hell reside within one’s self.

Selchor knows now he can not return to the lofty enclave of others of his kind. It is wrong to look the other way.

The world needs an enforcer. Selchor is perfect for the job . . .

~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.

Routines

~ blazemcrob ~ 15 Comments

Every day, never wavering, Stacey would go on her walk through the forest at the moment the sun started to burst through the ceiling formed by the tall trees. Virgin pines with broad branches of thick needles, they grudgingly fought the onslaught of the light’s invasion, resenting any intrusion into their domain.

This was Stacey’s chosen time to be alone and commune with nature. Even though hazards abounded in the deep woods environment, it was not enough to keep her out. She knew how to spot the signs of the denizens of the forests. This section had its share of bears and a few wolves, but she had never had any trouble with any of them. To be on the safe side, she carried a .38 sidearm and a 30/06. Couldn’t hurt to be careful.

From his observation post high on a tree along the trail, he watched her. Every day with the same routine could be a detriment to one’s health. Predictability. Not a healthy thing in a world where survival or death could hinge on minuscule trivialities. This went far beyond such minor imperfections.

He traipsed along the tops of the heavy boughs, keeping pace with Stacey, having to hold back even because of his prowess of walking from branch to branch and tree to tree. Up ahead it would all be decided.

The forest seemed very quiet this morning. Stacey kept her guard up, knowing that silence meant something large was lurking around, sending the smaller animals into hiding. Probably earlier they had been chattering around between themselves, sending warnings out to each other. Funny how humans couldn’t understand the animals, but animals of different species could communicate with each other. She undid the snap on her holster. This might be the morning she would need to use that hand gun.

The path crested and dropped sharply on the other side, blocking out the light and placing Stacey in a momentary state of blindness. Within a couple steps she found herself entangled in some gooey mesh-like material. The harder she struggled to escape, the more it held on to her.

Panic set in! What was she tangled in? How would she get out?

Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she knew it was a web . . . a  huge spider web. But there were no spiders that big around here, and the web was thick-like a sticky rope. Birds were caught in it as well as her. Damn it! This couldn’t be!

His days of observation had paid off in huge dividends. Finally he would have a real meal, much more than the snacks afforded him by birds and other small animals. This woman would be a prize. A screaming buffet just for him.

The enormous spider crawled down the tree and stared at his meal. She tried to reach her weapons, but she was too entangled.

Her scream shattered the stillness of the forest as the beast began feeding on her, sucking the life-force out of her.

The last thing she saw in life was his hideous red eyes coming closer and closer to her face . . .

~ Blaze McRob

© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.