Damned Words 11

February 24, 2015March 7, 2018 ~ The Tale Weaver ~ 31 Comments

A Reason
Joseph A. Pinto

I found a reason to walk tween the folds of winter’s shawl, so hand in hand go we along Perdition’s Road. Shall we burn, we burn as one; shall we suffer, then know love cores the depths of our wounds. Lace your trembling fingers round my neck and your burdens I shall carry. I’ve no need to burn this lantern’s oils for our demons come well-known. Let them swirl in the dark, guttering til gone. Death is tenant of our path, yet tonight she’ll know no coin. My life I mortgage for yours; take flight now against my sky.

Nightfall
Nina D’Arcangela

Torn and bloodied, she huddles against the lantern’s pedestal fighting for a life already lost. Broken in spirit, broken in heart, she watches as they circle, awaiting night’s fall. Not taken on the last, she knows this eve she’ll not be so lucky. Day is already beginning to dim; the heavens darken. Having sought solace in the flicker of a dying flame, the whispers in her mind reassure no salvation will be granted. Darker than the deepening hue of the foreboding sky, they watch. The lantern struggles to glow, then gutters out. Her hope vanquished, they descend. The feast begins.

Monarch-Man
Thomas Brown

It had gone midnight when I crossed the park but he was quite visible by the street lamp. Stick limbs. Wild hair. The sickly-sweet scent of honey. He was filthy and beautiful.

Upturned, his pale face bathed in the orange glow. I saw his tight lips, his dusty skin. His eyes were like two orbs of polished stone. I saw myself in them a thousand times over, growing larger as I approached.

He smiled as I swarmed in his eyes, this Monarch-Man, my Emperor. I smiled back. Together we danced around the street lamp, and the night whispered with wing-beats.

Welcome to New Orleans
Zack Kullis

James glanced at the last gas lantern as they followed the old Haitian woman. Its light seemed to warn of coming darkness, fluttering and pointing away from the famed priestess. They had asked her for a taste of local voodoo, thinking it was bullshit until the old woman turned in the darkness of an alley and blew powder into their faces.

“Coupe poudre,” she whispered with a grin.

He pawed at his face until his legs buckled. Unable to move, James gazed with unblinking eyes as the voodoo priestess stooped close to his face.

“Welcome to New Orleans, my pet.”

Color Me Gray
Blaze McRob

It’s another gray winter evening, bereft of color, even the moonlight not distinct. And the light at the end of the old rock wall? Colorless. The sky blind to its presence.

The leaf-less trees pass his word through their twitching branches. He is pissed. Revenge is on his mind. Those who would destroy what he created must pay the price.

A giant pallet, held between his enormous hands, continues to draw all colors other than gray to it.

Armageddon will be much easier now. The lack of color already depresses them.

Great moans come from everywhere as the beasts attack.

High Society
Hunter Shea

“It’s the one right there”
“Where? I can barely see.”
“The one with the old gas lamp.”
The crowbar made quick work of the rusty mausoleum door. Bitter fall wind knifed through the opening.
“Help me with this.”
They chipped away at the cement covering, dumping the coffin on the floor.
“Shhh, you’ll wake the dead!”
They both tittered.
The coffin lid opened with an eerie squeal. The corpse looked like jerky, smelled rancid.
“You first.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He lowered his open maw on the corpse’s face.
Eaters of the Dead Society was not for the squeamish.

Flicker
Jon Olson

This city stands tall, desolate, and lifeless like the trees against the sunless sky. More empty concrete; more of the same. Nothing. Perched atop the corner on a forgotten wall, a lamp. Encased and protected by a small cage. The glass bulb intact, untouched by history. I imagine it glowing; a beacon of hope in dark and despair. Wait! What was that? Did it just… my God, it did! The filament lit up! I swear it flickered. Do it again! The bulb had blinked once… teasing me. Flicker again! Please do it again! Damn it, I need this. God, please…

The Game
Craig McGray

Once a beacon of hope, the lanterns go unlit now. In a new world, where few things are guaranteed and only death is certain, he scours what remains of the charred earth for the precious few that have somehow survived the scorching heat, famine, and disease that has spread across the globe. They think they’re surviving, fools every one of them, but he’ll track them down; the ultimate hunter. When the demon and his ebony stallion finds them, they’ll wish they’d perished like the others. For the game has only one survivor and he rides atop a fleshless black beast.

Raven
Magenta Nero

I pace in the street light, my heels click a numbing tune. Many drive past, slowing down, hungry eyes gawking, but it’s just not their time.

The chosen one rolls up, engine humming. I get a blank stare when I smile and say “My service is free.”

His face drains of colour as it dawns. The irrevocable darkness is a rising tide within, a slow choking. I shriek excitedly as he passes over. My wings burst open, eager to deliver him. The judgement is always a feast of pain. Few are redeemed. Snatching his soul in my beak, I soar.

Ne’er To Be Seen Again
Tyr Kieran

Under this post, he lay slumped against the cold stone wall; bleeding, appropriately ripped open. I watch the pain swell in his eyes and it widens my smile. I had not reason to smile in weeks—not since the woman I loved had been murdered in a savage manner. Despite her being of ill repute, I planned to marry. But on a night like tonight, with ring waiting in my pocket, I happened upon her torn body in the street. He took her from me. And now, I’ve taken him away from Whitechapel, ne’er to be seen in London again.

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.

Inner Workings

January 6, 2015January 3, 2015 ~ Craig McGray ~ 21 Comments

This was the fourth one this week and James could easily do four more. Truth was, there could never be too many.

He pushed the door open and a wicked grin crossed his lips while the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes etched deeper into place. James was an addict and this was his drug. The arousal that built inside of him as he entered his ‘studio’ could never be matched by any other drug or the touch of a woman. His skin flushed with heat; his body knew what joy his actions would soon provide.

He entered the room to find the unconscious woman on the table in the center of the space, her arms and ankles bound to the cold steel table. The familiar scent caused butterflies to take flight in his belly as if it was his first time. His hand trembled as he stood over the assortment of scalpels and retractors spread out in front of him. Though adrenaline forced his unsteady nerves, the smooth, rigid instrument in his hand always steadied him. He was born for this.

Holding the scalpel in one hand, he drew in a cleansing breath, holding it momentarily before exhaling. With his empty hand, he pulled back on the tender flesh of the woman’s belly before placing the blade to the taut skin. James drew the blade in a meticulous manner, splitting the pale skin to reveal the glistening thin layer of yellow fat just beneath the surface.

His racing pulse slowed to a rhythmic thumping in his ears as it always did when he was focused. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, in awe of the fact that she was alive though did not feel or react to the incision. As he worked his way deeper into the site, he became fully aroused when his hands pressed deeper inside her abdomen. The warmth, the wetness, all of it inebriating. Modern medicine was a spectacular thing; so easy to render someone unconscious, too easy.

He continued to work his way through her layers until a curious smile etched its way onto his face. James worked quickly and soon held the treasure of his search in the palms of his hands. He removed the contents and time seemed to stop. His pulse hammered as the silence grew deafening. The others in the room moved to his side, each one gazing at the prize he held at arm’s length in front of them.

James passed the bloody mess to their groping hands and they scurried around the room in controlled frenzy, each taking turns poking and prodding, pulling and stretching. He looked into the face of the unconscious woman and tears pooled in his eyes. She’d sacrificed so much and would continue to do so for many years to come.

Nearly thirty minutes later, James’ work was complete and he rested his hand on the forehead of the woman who was now semi-conscious, her glassy-eyed gaze a clear indication that she was not fully aware.

He simply smiled and took one last look at the group huddled in the corner before walking to the door. Just as he reached for the handle, it swung open and a woman stood in front of him.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said.

James smiled and stepped aside, gesturing the woman inside. “That’s quite alright.”

The woman returned a coy glance and stepped into the room. “You too, Dr. Green.”

James removed his surgical cap and left the room, leaving the doting parents to tend to their filthy, screaming newborn. James never did care for children, though the insides of a pregnant woman were especially intoxicating to him.

James learned early on that he had a craving for exploring the inner workings of living things. His obsession started with small things; lizards, frogs and such. Soon though, they didn’t satisfy his morbid curiosity and neighborhood cats began to disappear.

After much counseling and failing to assure his parents and therapists that he wasn’t a vicious person, he learned to hide his obsession. After watching a documentary on surgeons as a teen, he decided to create the perfect persona that would allow him to indulge his macabre fascination. He’d become a surgeon. Not only would he be allowed to feed his odd hobby, but society would pay him handsomely for it.

Dr. James Green, renowned surgeon to the stars, was indeed the perfect wolf in sheep’s clothing.

~ Craig McGray

Damned Words 10

December 9, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 28 Comments

Misery
Thomas Brown

Misery rolled with the dogs in the shadows of Tompkin’s shed.

On August 25^th, 1968, Mike Callahan hung himself from a cross-beam in the ceiling. The wood was old and riddled with rot but it held his weight well enough.

On July 13^th, 1985, Sarah Paulson was stabbed in the neck while tending to the potted bulbs on the windowsill. She died instantly. The bulbs never sprouted.

1989, fire. 1997, rape.

In 2001, the Tompkins moved in. The shed became a doghouse. Two-year old Muttley howled perpetually. Three coats of paint couldn’t hide the stains seeping through the skirting board.

Inner Sanctum
Jon Olson

Don’t open it! Leave it shut! You must not let them in. I know you’re tired. You spent years building this place; this hideout; this inner sanctum. Yes, although you can’t see them, your victims are in here too. They coax you to open it; to reveal yourself to the real world. It would be so easy, so relieving, to turn the knob and walk out. No more hiding or pretending. But then what? What will you be out there? Condemned. In here, you rule; you are god. That’s right, step back and let’s go find us a new victim.

Home, Never Sweet, Home
Tyr Kieran

Standing in this place again, after all these years, makes my scars tingle. I swear I can still taste the fear, the spilled blood, the unnatural appetites. Just by looking around, you can see that it was a house of torment; that the structure itself acquiesced to the display of wicked sins. And yet, despite the hatred I bear for my family and this past, I’ve always felt the need to return—a subconscious compulsion to revisit and relive. So, I’ve come back and brought with me this nice trembling family to whom I will gladly pass on the tradition.

Mind Palace
Zack Kullis

In prison I walked the only halls I could – those of my mind. Once luxurious, they now sit in rot and degradation. Twenty years ago this palace was filled with vivid splendor. But memory without input is like a sail without wind – damned to stagnation.

I created this entire place, with the exception of a troublesome door in the darkest recess. No longer able to resist, I open it. A loathsome horde escapes and fills me with their cries of lunacy. The open door shows my cell, its inhabitant raving. My hoarse cackle echos that of the imprisoned maniac.

Portal
Magenta Nero

The force shredded the meat from her bones, flesh flaying like curls of thin paper. She felt herself as a trembling skeleton, the frame that once held her image, her story. Then that too disintegrated in the searing heat. You need to be on the brink to make a choice like that, to challenge the very fabric of the universe, to bend time to your will. The portal opens, a swirling whirlpool of unstable energy, threatening to fold in on itself and disappear. Time at her fingertips and no time to hesitate. She approached the blinding light, she stepped through.

Shadow World
Blaze McRob

One lousy layer of wood is all that separates me from what waits on the other side. Yet, I have fared better than the rest of the town. I am still alive.

I tried warning them, but they laughed at me the way they always did. When they came, it was too late. I should have just fucking gone and not worried about them. I did try. The fault is theirs.

I walk to the door, open it, and embrace the Dark. They are out there, shadows begetting shadows. No more waiting. I am ready.

I am one of them…

ZAP
Leslie Moon

Dusty are those memories: HORSE, the gas scooter we built, the telegraph system…

What is it that two tom-boys saw in that old shack? We imagined a spark could give us a glimpse into history. You held the wire while I hosed the area. You vanished with the last of the sparks; I kept the ashes.

Every year, I go back to find me and see you. I get one question – you always evade the Edison one. This year something is different instead of you answering a question about another century you’re holding a sparking wire and that same dripping hose.

Click
Nina D’Arcangela

Cowering in the corner, I muffle the ceaseless pounding upon my psyche with useless hands that cover my ears. The thunderous clamor from the other side continues night into day, day into night. I watch the walls quiver with each new assault upon my senses; the crack in the floor creeps closer and closer with each quake of the jam. Cold and alone, this huddling in dank misery seems endless. I crawl forward; the battering stills in pregnant pause. I reach for the key in the old lock; listen to its bare click as it disengages. The door swings open…

One-Third
Craig McGray

The world is different now, so fucking different. At first, things seemed random; pockets of disease spreading slightly before being contained, angry mobs destroying their own communities, financial crises. We were too arrogant to see the bigger picture, a picture that didn’t include more than two-thirds of the planet’s population. And now, I’m the one-third of my family still alive. I know what atrocities wait beyond that door because I’ve survived the horrors on this side of that same door. I step over the severed heads and gnashing jaws of my wife and son as I reach for the handle.

Part
Joseph A. Pinto

The chandelier hung here once; your eyes caught in its crystal, cast into a thousand shards, yet I could not see who you were. It is gone now. So are the tools that spurred us, tore all down. I have kept to my menial task of rebuilding; oh, the drudgery of my clumsy fingers through dust clotted hours of toil. Our palace razed, I recall the promise you once glimpsed through these slatted boards. I hold fast to that vision. Our walls crumbled; this foundation strong. You are part of it now. Each pass of my trowel layers your smile.

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.

Kept Secrets

October 21, 2014October 21, 2014 ~ Craig McGray ~ 24 Comments

Darkness devoured every ounce of light.

Opening her eyes, Beth’s mind spun, groping for traction as to where she was and how she’d gotten there. The air, musty and thick, made breathing difficult and she wheezed with each panting breath. Her hands and feet were bound, her sense of balance distorted.

She screamed, but the words caught in her throat, trapped behind a wad of fabric shoved into her mouth. Beth scanned the void for a hint of anything that might bring details to her surroundings.

Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open, ushering in a sliver of light, only to slam shut seconds later. Her chest heaved and rivulets of tears streamed down her cheeks when a familiar sound came to her. The clacking of boot heels on wooden floors echoed like cannons as they made their way closer.

Beth’s pulse echoed in her ears. An orange light flickered in the inky blackness and a figure approached from the other end of the space. Shadows morphed on the walls and ceiling as the naked flame danced its way closer.

She tried to push herself backwards but couldn’t; her body was useless. An ominous silhouette strode closer and the girl recognized Gloria’s sharp features – her stepmother’s features. Her mind’s eye flashed a scene of Gloria bringing her a glass of wine at the dinner party; her last memory before waking up in the void.

Beth cowered as her father’s wife leaned closer and spoke in a raspy, malevolent tone. “You’ll not speak of my secret in life nor death. Of this, I’m sure.”

Gloria rested the candle on the ground and Beth shuddered as the old witch’s bony hands came into view. In one hand, a large needle with wire tailing from the eyelet; in the other, a small vial of liquid gleaned in the glowing candlelight.

Beth strained against her bindings, but she was too weak to break free. Gloria removed the cloth from Beth’s mouth and grabbed her chin before tilting her head back, forcing the potion down her throat.

Beth’s head swum in confusion as the concoction took effect and she slipped in and out of consciousness.

Intermittent flashes of reality only offered hints as to Gloria’s purpose; the biting pain as her stepmother forced the wire through Beth’s lips made those intentions all too clear.

Darkness devoured every ounce of light.

~ Craig McGray

Damned Words 9

September 23, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 27 Comments

Time
Jon Olson

How long has it been? No way to keep track. Not in here; not in this crypt. I’m sure the humans know. Once, they were prey; I was the hunter, too powerful for defeat. How long since they dug this pit and threw me in? Imprisoning and confining me to this tomb? These stone walls: built to contain; to prevent my escape. Impenetrable; unbeatable. That’s their belief; makes them feel safe; makes them forget. Time will be their undoing. Look there! See the plants? Slowly, they’ve found a weakness; slipping in through cracks. A way in, is a way out.

Stone Cold
Blaze McRob

The time is nigh. He feels it, smells it, tastes it. The rocks encased in the cement binding the wall together tingle with excitement. Leaves growing within the cracks between the rocks turn towards the sound of foot steps.

The fool approaches. Each step brings him ever closer to his destiny.

Anticipation hangs heavy in the air.

The young man is entranced by the wall. Stepping closer, the leaves reach out to him and force him flush against the structure. His spirit and the soul trapped within the wall exchange places.

He walks away, a devilish grin on his face.

Bipedal Meal
Zack Kullis

The grating whisper of movement over rock and stone pull me from my long slumber. Sweet bipedal things, wet and soft, are often driven by curiosity into these cavernous depths.

Warm hands grip the cold rocks as they descend with their blasphemous light. Their tasty meat, covered by cloth and rope, awakens my ravenous hunger. One draws near, its eyes focused on where it climbs, unaware it just took its last breath.

No scream escapes its crushed throat. Through his terrified mind I see my eyeless face and gaping maw until his death closes the vision and my meal begins.

Stone Deaf
Leslie Moon

Etch away the soil of my heart. Let the roots and tendrils cling.
Where once blood flowed upon a course, there pulses a stony thing.
Nothing do I feel but cold. But when I lay me down…
A hatchet set to “swoosh” and “ching”; a dark and eery sound.
Young and fair my head to rest . Choice sinews for carrion to shred.
They laughed so coarsely in the crowd; fools believed I was dead.
I will get my pound of flesh when next I am set free.
Beware those who have put me here. A rock cannot hear your pleas.

Cannibalistic Life
Tyr Kieran

Life, all life, is cannibalistic. The temperate way to say this is ‘cyclical’, but let’s be honest, the transition isn’t exactly a smooth one. Some take the phoenix perspective, where life rises in miraculous fashion from impossible means. And, I say, that is nothing but ignorance. Nature survives on destruction, it requires death. This malformed wall, for example, was built with more than stone—a mortar made of mud and human remains. The bodies of Jewish children stacked atop their brothers and mothers by “superior” humans; Aryans advancing by killing. And, from this concentrated death, green nature shamelessly grows anew.

The Cave
Craig McGray

The secrets of the cave were no secret to Ravena. She’d seen what happened to those who wandered too close, and it fascinated her: the screams as the inhabitants revealed themselves; the panic when victims realized that there was no escape; the blissful sound of ripping flesh, the tearing of sinew as the creatures devoured their meal. Even as a child, she found delight in the slaughter and dreamt of the day when she might partake in the massacre. She would wait no longer as today was her eighteenth birthday and two adventurous campers had just strayed from their group.

Eve
Thomas Brown

Your bodies slid over one another, lubricated by sweat and the warming oil from your bedside drawer. I watched for as long as I could, hypnotised by your sinuous limbs.

“I’m sorry,” you said afterwards. You said other things too; empty words as hollow as the hole in my heart. “LonelyfrustratedIdon’tlovehimyouareneverhere.”

When your speech was finished, I took the bedside lamp to your head. You died in a flash of light. I buried you in the dark, beneath the stone wall between our garden and the fields behind. Nettles grow there now. In the summer, butterflies dance over your grave.

Immurement
Joseph A. Pinto

And now there is nothing, nor shall there ever be; from light I have walled myself. Immurement eternal; so shall I become one with stone. My fortress, my penitentiary – a fitting fate; obscurity wrapped as melded shawl round my shoulders. Yet still you find your way, flitting ‘tween cracks I believed mortared so long ago. Ivy seeks my companionship; so too do you seek to entwine my heart. But I have grown unjustly hardened, so wrongly decayed. Leave me, do you hear? I deserve as much. Let me solidify as I contemplate the ways I have erred, gone wrong.

Home
Nina D’Arcangela

From impenetrable depths I hear a single word drifting on stone-cold breath: Come. The shadows beckon me; an icy existence beyond pain calls to one of its ilk – a destroyed soul, my soul. The nether recognizes its own; the summons continues. I stumble forward, grasping desperately at sanity. Home, it murmurs seductively. I scream my need for shrouded deliverance. Reaching a desperate hand forward, I place it upon the stone, follow the path into dappled darkness, but no matter the length of my stride, sanctuary eludes me; the promise is shattered. I’ll forever chase shadows that reveal nothing but light.

Myth
Magenta Nero

Smell the rot you will soon become as your eyes close for the final time. You have always been within my grasp; you have always been mine.

Rest against my ancient skin; hard as rock, cold as stone. Flay yourself against my edge: sharp, cruel, merciless. Feel the warmth drain away, blood turns to ice in your veins. The pain of your myth subsides. Breath escapes as mist, a long held speechless gasp. Before you infinite nothingness, mocking laughter.

I will swallow you whole and fold the illusion of time. Rest against my ancient skin; you have always been mine.

Spelunker
Hunter Shea

Skulls. I’m surrounded by skulls.

“Wait, wait, don’t leave me here!” Sweat pumped from Jarod’s pores. Was it the pain from the compound fracture? Or was it the skulls?

“You can’t leave me here with all these dead people!”

Steve turned his headlamp into the crevasse. It couldn’t penetrate the pitch. Somewhere down there, his friend was losing it.

“We’ll be back with help. Just hang tight, Jarod!” he shouted.

“They’re only stones, buddy,” Steve added. “It’s the shock. It’ll wear off.”

Jarod stared at the wall’s rock face.

Only stones.

“Heh, heh,” something cackled.

The first stone shifted.

“Noooooooo!”

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.

Hunting Season

August 5, 2014July 25, 2014 ~ Craig McGray ~ 29 Comments

Janet Boxley nudged the SUV deeper into the desolate backwoods, peering through the passenger’s side window, searching for her pups’ eyes.

Once she’d made it back to camp, she slammed the truck into park and grabbed her flashlight from the glove box before stepping out; her breath pluming the crisp air.

Her sandals sank into the moist ground and mud squished between her toes. “Dammit!”

She waddled her way to the back of the rusted out Ford Explorer and lifted the hatch. Inside were supplies for the upcoming hunting season which started in the morning: gallon-sized jugs of water, some large plastic water bowls, and several bags of food which she’d either been given by local restaurants or stolen from their dumpsters.

She hated the trips she was forced to make into town, but they were a necessity. The small town was none too kind to her. She was ‘different’ and most made it clear she wasn’t welcome. Even the small shops on the main street would lock their doors as she walked by. The kids, cruel little bastards, would poke at her, call her names before running away laughing. None of that mattered, she was back where she belonged now.

Making an odd clicking noise with her tongue, she pointed the flashlight toward the dense cover of leaves guarding the edge of the woods. The beam of light zigzagged along the trees, slashing through the moonless nighttime air but finding nothing.

“C’mon now. I know you’re in there!”

Massive cramping stabbed at her gut and she paused, inhaling deeply before releasing it in a long sigh.

Janet turned back toward the cargo area and stuck the flashlight under her fleshy arm before grabbing a gallon jug, several bowls, and one of the bags of food.

Moisture had wicked its way onto the bottom of her ‘housecoat’ as she called it, though in all reality it was just a floral dress large women wear in order to cover their ample mass from the judgmental eyes of society.

Still making the clicking sound with her tongue, Janet walked toward the trees. The sharp snapping of twigs and ruffling of leaves in the distance brought a smile to her face.

She rested the supplies on the ground and swept the flashlight over the small clearing. Several sets of reflective eyes peered out from between the branches.

“There you are,” she said as she stepped through the veil of leaves.

High-pitched whines and cries filled the air as the pups greeted her.

Many years ago, she’d made a covered area that was sufficient enough to give her a place to rest and also keep the little ones dry when it rained during the wet season. She left enough slack in their leashes so they could get out of the rain but not too much that they might choke themselves on nearby trees. The shelter was spacious enough for her, several days worth of supplies and her ‘babies’ to gather around. She used the term babies but they hadn’t been small for quite a number of years now, and in fact, most were full-grown.

She used to have at least ten at any given time, but in the last few years, the litters were smaller and smaller. She figured after generations of inbreeding amongst the pack, Mother Nature kind of figured enough was enough and put a stop to it. Probably a good thing too, because the youngest ones were born with severe deformities. Several of them had extra toes, others had missing appendages, and the last ones were born with wide-set bulbous eyes, like googly-eyed goldfish.

Janet’s abdomen continued cramping while she poured water into the bowls and unleashed the younger pups. Twigs snapped, and leaves crunched as the older siblings emerged from the dense forest behind her. Chance, the oldest of the group, was always the first to greet her. He was the friendliest of the pack, and the obvious alpha male often setting the over-zealous younger ones straight whenever they got out of line.

Janet reached over and scratched him between the ears. “How’s my Chance doing?”

Chance sat on his haunches at her feet while the others filtered into the space, each in turn rubbing against her before taking their place at Chance’s side.

It was a gruesome sight, hybrid creatures who bore only a slight resemblance to anything human, yet they didn’t look much like their canine ancestors either. Mutants resulting from many generations of genetic cloning and its failures; just like their mother.

They waited patiently, though some of them whined while others seemed focused on nothing in particular. Janet set the bag of day-old bread and pastries next to her make shift bed on the ground; several old bean bags and tattered sheets had been arranged in the corner, giving her a soft place to rest while they fed. After maneuvering herself on top of the mound, she turned to the group, their anxious eyes devouring her. Janet’s body shuddered when another contraction speared through her belly.

Janet sat up and worked the fabric from the lower part of her muumuu up to her waist, exposing her corpulent thighs. When sitting, her legs oozed onto each other, creating the illusion of one giant mass with the consistency of raw turkey skin and the pallid shade of a corpse.

She continued to peel away her clothing. Raising her arms overhead, she removed the sweaty article of clothing altogether revealing not only innumerable folds and crevices of skin and overfed flesh, but at least six pendulous and malformed breasts aligned in staggered pairs down the center of her torso. Her arms were too small for the size of her body, like short paddles, they protruded from her sides. She leaned over to grab the bag of food she’d placed next to her makeshift bed.

Their craving eyes sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. She began to gorge herself on the contents of the bag while her ‘babies’ crept closer, licking their dried lips and stretching their mouths into wide O’s, preparing for their meal. She would need the energy from the food to sustain herself over the next few arduous days.

Janet reclined back, her head lolling to one side, and closed her eyes. She spread her massive legs and endured the pain as waves of contractions rolled through her body and the first of her pups spilled onto the ground; a malnourished still-born.

The feral children moved in, some on all fours like animals, others stood on spindly legs with crooked spines. The last few dragged their useless lower limbs behind them as their arms pulled them closer to feast on the lifeless body of the runt. Several more lifeless clumps thudded onto the ground before three healthy males emerged and took their first breaths.

Chance scooped up his newest siblings, moved past the insatiable frenzy, and laid next to his mother. He placed each of the pups on her generous belly and helped each latch onto a teat. Chance then nuzzled in close, finding the fullest of her flaccid breasts for himself. Janet placed her free arm under his head and patted his back as he drained nourishment from her bosom.

Janet, exhausted from the effort, allowed the voracious sounds of feeding to lull her into deep, tranquil slumber. Janet dreamed while her young fed. She dreamed of the hunt that would begin once their bellies were full and of the abundance of flesh that would wander into their woods when hunting season opened in the morning.

~ Craig McGray

Damned Words 8

July 8, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 27 Comments

Nothing Lives
Jon Olson

Reflections in windows tease and haunt, showing what was, and what is no longer. Do not look at the glass! Damn, too late. Reflected before me is a tree. Its trunk, branches, and leaves, all on display. I want it to be real. I roam these empty streets. Searching, hoping, and praying to find someone; something; anything. People, animals, and plants are all gone. Concrete, steel and glass remain. I call out and listen, but only my echo replies. This city is dead; nothing lives. The sky is grey; no sun or clouds. Life has abandoned this place; abandoned me.

In Everything
Zack Kullis

They watch and wait in everything. I can feel their hungry eyes and thrusting glares, pulling for the acknowledgement that would seal my fate. Stupid therapist called it Pareidolia.

Demons, creatures, faces and things of terror live in almost everything. Seeing them draws them into your head where they eat your soul. I avoided them until today, overcome by a single glance at a building, a window holding the tree and cloudy sky – all of them full. I heard them coming. Two ice picks saved me, one for each eye. With the windows to my soul ruined, I was free.

Apparition
Magenta Nero

It reflects her suffering, an enticing apparition. “Ease the regret, press your fingertips to mine. I can take from you the memories, I can turn back time.” Its huge empty eyes drip in black streaks, it twists and sighs evocatively. She reaches for its ghostly hand but she pauses, her fingertips tremble, hovering just above the glass. The apparition buckles with rage, the glass rattles as it slams against the surface, begging for release.

“Not yet.” she says and turns away. She wraps on her coat and scarf and heads quickly out the door; she is late for work again.

The Hill
Craig McGray

Neighborhood kids told stories about The Hill, regurgitating false truths that their parents told them. Tall tales about what really went on behind the mirrored glass and towering brick walls, but I learned early on that most parents were full of shit, mine included.

My father told me they did ‘things’ to bad people on The Hill and I should stay away from there. My dad was an asshole, but he wasn’t full of shit.

He should have taken his own advice because they, I mean WE, really did some horrific things to him when he came to The Hill.

The Mill
Nina D’Arcangela

I look out upon all that is left. Sunlight scorches this land; with morning comes heat, an assault upon existence. With evening, a frigid wind; though still a brief respite. I squint as I glare down among those who wallow at my feet. My stone begins its grind, my furnace stokes; a rival to the blistering rays without, but only barely. Their faces turn up, beseeching. I watch as they enter my opening maw; again as they depart in concert with the tenors screech from my bowels. Stragglers dally, grubbing for scraps. Something needs fill the stone on the ‘morrow.

Looking Out
Leslie Moon

curtains brown, tattered and torn

reflections were once welcome

swatting away evening’s flies

light, life, color, have been exiled

I wonder to where they have fled

***

Dark shadows of night interpose

greedily they suck the last drop of day

beating away the memories of her, of us

“futile” I murmur

there is nothing left to hold dear

***

In response the fluttering starts to sneer

night’s sinister incessant chuckle

It loves to remind me

there may still be bloodied remnants

in swiss dotted fabric that the flies have missed

white now turned rusty

I tell myself “better not to remember”

Nothing
Joseph A. Pinto

Nothing will stand between us; nothing will keep me away. The cruelty, locked in your silent world. All you hear is nothing, even as I shout your name. What see of you beyond the reflection of spirit-churned skies? What know of you within that haunted heart? I shall shatter your glass; recover your incarcerated soul. The cruelty, shackled in your listless words. All you think is nothing, even as I cry your name. What suffer of you behind bricked walls? You wait eternally; I say wait no more. Nothing will deny sky from its horizon. Angels of their fall. Nothing.

The Conductor
Thomas Brown

Fingers clutch at the crumbling windowsill. Outside, light spills across the apartment blocks and the gardens beneath.

He calls it a garden but it is little more than paving slabs on which she reclines and smokes and dies a little death each night. She loves cigars. Fat, Cuban things in her slim hands. The whole of her is slim. When she stretches out he imagines taking a stick to her ribs, beating them, making music with her bones. It is not enough, just to see. Beneath his practised hands, her bones could sing. A symphony of human sound, in harmony!

Glass Portrait
Blaze McRob

A picture forms in the panes of glass as it does every day before dusk becomes night. Clouds and trees tonight. Maybe an impending storm. Yes, that’s what I need. Evil must be displayed!

Even now the clouds twist and turn as they darken, and the trees are blown away from the glass portrait. The tranquil scene changes before me. An evil face forms in the glass, hideous in its deformity, mocking the world with its visual display of arrogant intent.

I walk inside and look in the vestibule mirror. “Dorian Gray, you look as young as ever,” I say.

Tainted View
Tyr Kieran

I used to love the view. I’d sit by the sill, mindlessly picking at the cracked paint and I’d watch life happening on the street below; the hasty flow of businessmen scattering off to hard-earned paychecks, health nuts jogging in tight clothes with their leashed, oversized dogs, even the filthy down-trodden vagabonds that stumble from meter to meter—all symptoms of life’s intricate dance; of life’s beauty. Oh, how wrong I was! Now, I see the gritty reality. Ever since my wife hung herself in that goddamn tree, I’ve realized that the window shows the truth. It only shows pain.

A Trip to the Old Country
Hunter Shea

“That’s it right there,” Donal said, pointing at a four-paned window on the second floor. It was one of the few that still had glass in the barren building. The clouds had begun to darken and the air smelled like spring rain.

Finoula pressed her hand against his cheek. “If it’s too hard, we can go back.”

“No, I’m fine.” He kissed her palm. “Professors aren’t supposed to diddle their students, but some do anyway.”

“Bastard,” Finoula said, her gaze locked on the cloud-swept window.

Donal grinned. “You’re standing on him right now.”

He gave the soft earth a stomp.

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.

Pure

May 20, 2014May 8, 2014 ~ Craig McGray ~ 19 Comments

Screams filled the tiny cabin as winter’s first snow blanketed the surrounding forest.

The contractions were coming on top of each other now, each wave stronger than the last, as Meredith struggled to keep Agatha calm.

An almost inhuman cry escaped Agatha’s throat as she writhed on the bed, pain biting at her abdomen.

Wiping the young woman’s brow with a damp cloth, Meredith spoke in the low, hushed tone of a midwife. “Dr. Thompson will be here soon, Agatha.”

Meredith placed her experienced hands on Agatha’s swollen belly, feeling the child roll beneath the relentless waves of uterine contractions. “Your baby’s breech. You must wait until the doctor arrives before pushing.”

The request fell upon deaf ears as searing pain radiated through the young girl’s malnourished body and she shivered on the bed, her fever raging out of control.

The door blew open and frigid winter air ransacked the space, extinguishing all but one of the flickering candles and knocking tiny heirlooms from their perches. A strange man shoved the door closed with his shoulder, set his bag on the floor and removed his coat as Agatha screamed out with an intensity that shocked both the midwife and the stranger before succumbing to unconsciousness.

“Who are you?” Meredith asked.

“Dr. Brennan.”

Confusion swept over Meredith. “But where’s Dr. Thompson?”

Dr. Brennan only rolled up his sleeves, ignoring the inquiry. “How long has she been in labor?”

Though he had not answered her question, the urgency of the situation gave Meredith no time to gauge the stranger’s true intentions. “At least four hours. I came to check on her and it had already started.”

He placed his hands on the girl’s abdomen and glanced at Meredith. “The baby’s breech and post-term. Where’s the husband?”

Meredith simply shook her head.

“The father then, where is he?”

“She does not know the name of the father.”

Meredith dabbed the young girl’s forehead as the doctor lowered accusing eyes to Agatha.

“And her parents?”

“They died two years ago, when she was sixteen. She’s been alone since.”

“Obviously not completely alone, my dear.” He motioned toward Agatha as she lay on her back, her knees bent and legs splayed open.

Meredith sensed a sharp edge to his tone, which made her uneasy. “I’ll ask you again, where is Dr. Thompson?”

The doctor looked up, his eyes narrowed atop a hooked nose. “He’s unavailable this evening. He sent me in his place.”

Dr. Brennan was a slight man, yet his demeanor was anything but. With his coat removed and sleeves rolled up, his gangly frame became quite apparent. Meredith’s eyes studied his skin, fair and paper thin, bluish-green veins mapping his forehead.

The door had been closed for several minutes, plenty of time for the fire in the corner of the room to bring the temperature of the small room up again, yet it somehow seemed to have grown colder.

Suddenly, Agatha became coherent again, just in time for another crack of pain. The baby’s appendages pressed against her abdomen, causing her taut skin to ripple. More primal screams forced Meredith to cover her ears and the doctor to pause.

Brennan placed his medical bag at the foot of the bed, shouting over Agatha’s cries. “The baby’s in danger, we have to take it through cesarean. Boil as much water as you can.”

Meredith hesitated for a moment. She’d never assisted with the surgical procedure, but Agatha’s screams, still echoing in the small cabin, were enough to command her obedience and she rushed to the stove.

Brennan reached into his bag, removed a thick roll of material and placed it on the bed. The instruments clanged as he unrolled the fabric, revealing an archaic assortment of surgical instruments, many of them scarred with badges of rust. Agatha remained still, though her breaths were short and ragged, while the doctor pulled back the blanket that had covered her from the waist down. Dr. Brennan donned a pair of gloves and proceeded to examine the girl.

Meredith returned to the room with a pot of boiling water and nearly dropped it when she saw Brennan. Surely he would discover Agatha’s secret. She cleared her throat, hoping to draw his attention away. He looked up, yet continued his work, a malevolent grin etched into his features.

Meredith’s skin crawled at the sight of Brennan as he probed the young girl. The look on his face was not one of a physician examining a patient; it was the expression of someone enjoying something he clearly should not.

After a few prolonged seconds, he removed the gloves, stood up from between the girl’s legs and motioned to the nightstand beside the bed. “Set the water there.”

Grabbing several straps from his bag, he proceeded to secure the girl’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Meredith stood near the head of the bed, again tending to the girl’s sweat-laden brow with a moist rag.

Meredith hadn’t noticed before, but a persistent, uncomfortable scent now hung in the air, a putrid combination of mildew and scorched hair.

Writhing in agony, Agatha thrashed against the bindings as Meredith watched the doctor prepare his instruments. Using a colander-like apparatus, he lowered a handful of instruments into the water. “Boil this for 5 minutes,” he said, handing the pot to Meredith.

Meredith scurried to the stove with the heavy load.

Brennan lowered his gaze to the wailing girl sprawled out before him. The blanket had fallen to the floor, leaving Agatha naked and exposed. Each new contraction brought her pain to a crescendo, the thick veins of her neck bulging like ropes buried beneath her skin as she cried out.

The doctor prepared a cleansing solution and applied it to Agatha’s abdomen, covering the stretched skin of her belly. The fire still burned in the corner of the room, yet the temperature in the cabin continued to drop.

Meredith returned with the instruments to find Dr. Brennan feeling Agatha’s abdomen, calculating his plan for the procedure.

“Put them there.” He motioned to the bedside table.

Brennan held up a syringe in the candlelight and applied pressure on the plunger to clear the air from the contents. A drop of medicine escaped the tip and traced its way toward the hub.

The doctor plunged the needle into the girl’s thigh and within seconds, the writhing ceased and Agatha lay still, vacant eyes fixed on the orange light as it danced across the ceiling.

“How long will she be out?” Meredith asked.

“Long enough for me to remove the baby. Now, gather all the towels and blankets we have.”

Meredith left the bedside, returning seconds later with several blankets and towels.

Brennan readied the scalpel and pressed it to Agatha’s flesh, her fair skin splitting to reveal a thin layer of glistening, yellow fat. Blood pooled in the wound before running in streams down the girl’s sides, pitter-pattering to the floor. Meredith’s knees nearly unhinged but she managed to lock them tight. Bile rose in her gullet and she swallowed it, droplets of sweat sprouting on her brow. She’d never seen so much blood. She moved to Agatha’s head, focusing on the dilated pupils of the mother-to-be, dabbing sweat as it beaded on her skin.

Brennan worked fastidiously to expose the girl’s uterus, stuffing towels into the wound as he progressed, attempting to ebb the flow of crimson fluid as it seeped from the girl’s sedate body.

“Who else knows of the girl’s pregnancy?” Brennan broke the palpable tension as plumes of his breath escaped into the ever-colder room.

Caught off guard by the question, Meredith hesitated before answering. “No one. She has no family and very few friends, none of whom have seen her since she began to show.”

“Very good.” He brought another blanket onto the bed next to where he was working. “You’ve examined her, have you not?”

“Of course.” Meredith turned to face the doctor.

“Then you and I both know this is a rather unusual pregnancy.”

Meredith’s mind whirled, searching for a response. “I’m not sure I…”

“Don’t lie to me. You know as well as I, this girl has never been with a man. She’s as pure as the newly fallen snow.” Brennan waved a bloodied hand towards the window.

Brennan peered up from the task at hand, snaring Meredith’s gaze with his own. The doctor raised a blood soaked finger to the tip of his tongue. His eyes closed and he exhaled a devious breath, sending Meredith’s pulse pounding. Brennan’s mouth twisted into a wicked smile, as if it had been etched into his skin with a knife, and he opened his eyes, now inky black pools of malicious intent. “There’s nothing so sweet as the blood of a virgin.”

Meredith sprang to her feet and grabbed one of the sharp implements from the bed. “Who are you?”

Brennan set his instrument down and cocked his head to one side. Agatha continued to bleed as the doctor ceased his efforts to stem the copious amounts of blood from hitting the floor, shimmering silhouettes of spilled life pooled on the wood.

“I am a friend of the baby’s father.” He stood and drew a finger through Agatha’s blood covered abdomen leaving an S-like pattern in its wake. “He has sent me here to deliver his son.”

Meredith backed away, keeping the instrument between Brennan and herself. “He? What are you doing here?” Her body trembled from the cold and adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Agatha convulsed on the bed, thrashing in the bindings, blood more free flowing than ever.

“Help her! She’s going to die!”

Brennan looked over his shoulder. “Oh yes, she is going to die. It’s too late to help her even if I wanted to. And besides, that was never the plan.”

In the corner of the room, the fire matured, heat finally radiating through the space, as the stench settled into the room, even more rancid than before.

On the bed, Agatha ripped an arm free from the bindings and clawed at her protruding womb. Amniotic fluid gushed from her abdomen as her other hand broke free and dug at the gaping wound.

Meredith screamed and darted for the door but Brennan lurched at her and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her to him while her hands whirled in the air. His other arm wrapped around her chest and squeezed until she struggled to breathe. Brennan nuzzled his nose behind her ear and inhaled, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it in a deep, noxious breath.

The front door burst open and a silhouette loomed in the opening. “Enough, Abaddon,” a calm, yet booming voice spoke from the doorway. “Let me see her face.”

Abaddon or Brennan, whoever he was, obeyed as Meredith’s legs nearly gave out at the sight of the ominous figure that whirled into view, her head swimming in confusion.

Stepping into the light, revealing his true self, the towering intruder strode towards the bed, cloven hooves pressing into the age-marred floors. Agatha, reeling in shock, looked into the malevolent face of the father of her child. Reaching his massive hands into the yawning belly of the young girl, he tore into the exposed womb and retrieved his son, hoisting the newborn into the air, admiring him from all angles. “You are your father’s son, seedling, and you shall carry out my every desire as your own.”

With those words, the devil left the cabin with his son and vanished into the surrounding snow-covered woods, leaving Abaddon alone with the women.

Screams filled the tiny cabin.

~ Craig McGray

Damned Words 7

April 22, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ The Tale Weaver ~ 29 Comments

Anger Falls
Zack Kullis

It trickles at first, barely perceptible, moving slowly towards an inevitable end. Heat blooms, melting what once was controlled in an icy grip. The trickles collide, begin to coalesce, mingle and fuse.

The calm silence swiftly flows towards a thundering rumble. It pushes against its boundaries with a hint of its violent potential. There is no damn to hold back the deluge.

Anger swells, mounting, growing exponentially as I yield to the unstoppable. I feel the precipice as the fury carries me over and plunges me into the tumultuous abyss of wrath. This is fury’s terminal velocity – Anger Falls.

The Pool Below
Jon Olson

My heart beats rapidly; anxious with excitement. I brought the children like it told me to do. That was so easy. The water is still, like glass, before spilling over into the pool below. Somewhere in those depths, it’s watching, waiting; and hungry. It wants them. Laughing, the little ones are unaware. The movement is ferocious, the scaled grey hand frightening, the laughter silenced; and I am alone. I pull my eyes away from the violence, back to the calm. A deep breath, an exhale and I relax. It’s over, for now, until it grows hungry again. And it will.

Amber Vision
Nina D’Arcangela

Sluicing beneath the calm amber surface, she admires her own form; long sensuous limbs encased in umber scales glinting iridescent, claws meant for rending soft flesh, eyes the barest taint of rust. She floats these waters from another time, another place – all but forgotten. Spying one wading to catch its meal, she allows the flow to carry her near, masks herself as that of something much smaller, permits her seeming capture. A smile parts her lips as her hooked fangs insure its death. She playfully rolls onto her back, the two tumbling head first into the raucous waters churning below.

Spawn
Joseph A. Pinto

This; this place where first I laid eyes on you, beckoning from atop the crest. I would rip gods from the skies just to be with you. I fight the currents. I swallow deeply our Acheron; your vile taste leaves me reborn. Thunder in my ears, cascade a veil cross my eyes. I cannot refuse you; how I relish the way you bloat my throat. Allow me rest; but for a moment, will you…the gravel bed serves me well. Speak my sacrifice at the headwaters; slice free from me my spawn. Let me swirl like detritus amidst your feet.

Keen
Tyr Kieran

In this moment, I am keen. Saturated. Aware. A dominating flourish of life swarms my senses—every detail becoming known and prominent. The breeze caresses my face. Bugs and birds chirp in merry discourse. Dazzling, the sunlight peaks through the foliage overhead and crystallizes brilliantly in the water below. The wood planked bridge behind me sways ever so slightly, subtle creaking that hums in harmony with nature. I feel alive. My heart swells, pounding faster and faster, blood surging. Then, the gurgling lullaby of the creek and everything else ends suddenly as the bristled rope around my neck snaps taught.

Unknown
Craig McGray

Even as a young boy, I’d often wondered what was beneath the roiling water of the falls. Mesmerized by the clarity, clear and untainted before cascading onto the rocks below, crashing into the time-worn rocks huddled at the bottom.

Life, like a crisp mountain stream, starts as something pure, innocent, before running its turbulent course, eventually reaching a precipice and plummeting to something else, something we can’t be positively sure of.

Over the years, I’ve tossed many screaming souls from this very spot, and I’ve yet to hear back as to what they found at the bottom of the falls.

Trespass No More
Blaze McRob

Unseen hands hold Craig’s face beneath the swirling waters below the dam, rubbing it to and fro, the jagged rocks on the river bottom cutting his face to shreds. The unseen entity lifts Craig’s face from the river and says, “You fucking anglers think you can disregard signs. Stay out means just that. You’re not special. This river is mine.”

Enraged at the blood pouring into his beloved river, he shoves Craig under once more, slamming his head repeatedly against the moss-laden saws designed by Mother Nature. His job completed, he releases Craig’s body.

“You will trespass no more, mother-fucker…”

No Swimming
Thomas Brown

From the outside it doesn’t look like much: three warehouses painted a pale cream. Sometimes there is a van or two, parked in the vacant bay beside the river. Plumes of white smoke. A sign, announcing where I am:

The Dream Factory.

Visitors report to the holding bay for guided tours.

You couldn’t pay me to cross the low wire-mesh fence. I’ve seen what leaves this place; not in the vans, but the adjacent stream: transparent fat, pinkish globules, and if you look closely, long, effervescent faces, mouths stretched, eyes wide: nightmares, skimmed from the vats into the quick current.

Kiss
Magenta Nero

The all encompassing roar of the water, a frothing primeval anger that rises from deep within the earth, takes back each useless tear as it rolls off my cheeks. I have spent a lot of time here lately. Poised on this edge. Thinking. Your body slapped against rocks, broken and swept away downstream. Like waste. From the split in your skull leak your extravagant lies. You remember this place don’t you? The place of our first tender kiss. And now our very last. Your mouth open but silent. Your eyes, wide, incredulous, staring back up at me. As you drop.