Damned Words 60

May 7, 2025May 5, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

What Was Left
Miriam H. Harrison

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

The Operator
Lee Andrew Forman

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

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

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

The Eliminominator
Marge Simon

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

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

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

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

Programmed
RJ Meldrum

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

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

The Drip
Kathleen McCluskey

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

Until tonight.

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

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

Drip.

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

Drip.

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

It was red. Thick and warm.

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

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

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

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

Torn Asunder
Elaine Pascale

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cara was too frightened to speak.

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

“N-no. I couldn’t.”

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

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

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

Just Like Her Father
A.F. Stewart

Daddy lived and died in the company of machines.

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

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

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

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

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

Daddy found out the day he died.

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

A Wheel A Rollin’
Harrison Kim

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

The Pipe
Charles Gramlich

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

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

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

“No! Why…would you do that?”

“Too many reasons to name,” I said.

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“That’ll cook me! Burn me alive!”

“Preach it, brother.”

“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”

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

“Please!”

“Shut it,” I said.

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

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

Clutch

April 23, 2025January 31, 2025 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 2 Comments

A hairline crack starts along the side—one of many. It branches out in fractal patterns; the shell begins to split. Where fractures spread, a layer of mucus thins as it’s pulled apart by the breach. Tiny claws puncture the soft membrane and its mewling escapes into the air for the first time.

This newborn pulls itself out of the egg from which it hatched and looks upon the unborn. Its head pivots left and right, pointedly observing the rest of the clutch. It then feels something new, a deep wanting within its belly.

Predatory eyes see heat radiating from thin shells. Its mouth waters with instinctual preparedness. One hesitant step forward leads to the increasing urge to feed, which it follows without restraint. It sniffs its brethren as its eyes widen with elation. One by one, it tears each spawn open and feasts upon their new, unrisen flesh.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Under

March 19, 2025February 19, 2025 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 3 Comments

Under a bright blue summer sky, I lie back in the grass and smile up at the sun. I feel the warmth of its kiss upon my cheeks and imagine it smiling back at me. I close my eyes, let my head drift to the side while feathery pieces of hair tickle my face, and I listen.

I hear life’s heartbeat. I hear the birds calling out to one another in their sublime chitter-chatter. I hear leaves dancing upon the breeze as each bow sways. I eavesdrop as the grass whispers its subtle secrets, feel the vibrancy nurturing each blade. I sense the fluttering of a dragonfly as it zips to and fro. Dragonflies always find me; they come to murmur their hello. I smell earthy soil, the heat only a summer’s day can bring, I smell happiness. The scent of youth and joy, love found and lost, only to be found yet again. I remember days gone by, ones in which I would run freely through a field and laugh, only to be captured, held, kissed, cherished. I lie upon the warm blanket of green and experience so much.

Some may say this is a waste of time, so call me a fool, but know – this is time. Life offers her abundance to us all; we’ve only to open our eyes, our ears, our hearts, and our souls to absorb it. I choose to cherish life and offer my abundance in return.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela

A Major Error in Judgement

March 5, 2025February 11, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Harrison Kim

Damned Words 59

February 19, 2025February 13, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Bound in Mater’s Shed
Marge Simon

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

The Eye
Charles Gramlich

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

My Little Flower
Lee Andrew Forman

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

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

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

The Blooming
Kathleen McCluskey

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

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

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

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

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

The Flower Ear
Harrison Kim

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

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

Red Spores
A.F. Stewart

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

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

Then people started dying.

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

But that wasn’t the worst.

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

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

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

Once in a Lifetime
Richard Meldrum

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

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

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

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

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

The Bloom
Miriam H. Harrison

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

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

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

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

Le Fleur
Elaine Pascale

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

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

The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.

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

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

“And what is the purpose of teeth?”

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

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

“My rose is not going to like this.”

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

“She seems mean.”

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

“Or by me.”

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

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

in dedication to Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Wedding Day

February 12, 2025January 29, 2025 ~ afstewart ~ 5 Comments

Do you like my dress?

The fabric has seen better days, all tattered and faded, stained and yellowed with age, but it will suffice, I think. At least it’s still white. Well, mostly.

A bride should always wear white, don’t you think?

You look dismayed. Am I not appealing enough? Perhaps, my appearance isn’t ideal, with rotting flesh and bones sticking out from withered skin, but use your imagination. Try to picture me as I was on my first wedding day. Walking down the aisle in my pristine dress, so crisply white, all lace and flowing silk. Waves of dark hair under my gossamer veil that almost floated in the air.

I was beautiful.

Everything about that day was beautiful.

Except for the ending, that was horrible. I can’t say I cared for being murdered. Slashed and stabbed, bleeding out in what was supposed to be my marriage bed. That’s what ruined my dress, so blame that lying husband of mine.

Although, I supposed I deserved it.

After all, I had planned to kill him in the morning until he beat me to murder. He would have been my fifth victim. A shame, really. I made a lovely widow. Even prettier than as a bride.

Oh, don’t look so shocked. You’re not innocent. That’s why I’m here and you’re stuck with me now.

Oh, don’t protest, and please stop screaming. That hurts my ears. Don’t blame me, you’re the one that summoned me from hell. The wedding must commence.

No, you don’t. No running off! There, got you. Stop struggling, I might accidentally break your arm. You can’t escape. You’re as bound to me as I am to you.

Begging now? Tacky. Don’t debase yourself. It won’t help, and it’s disgusting. Accept what will happen, give in. I mean, I do like it when my grooms fight; it lends a sweet excitement to the proceedings, but that option is never painless for you. If you fight, I’ll make it hurt.

That’s good. Nice and calm, resigned to your fate. I’ll be gentle; a few seconds to eat your soul and you’ll be a hollow corpse, all your cares forgotten.

Now, come give your bride a kiss.

~ A. F. Stewart

The Screaming Pool

December 25, 2024December 11, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Harrison Kim

Scrabbles

December 11, 2024November 21, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 4 Comments

I hear it inside the walls. The scratching travels up and down, room to room, and I follow with ravenous curiosity. Lines in black marker sprawl across my apartment, tracking the paths it takes. They’ve begun to overlap.

Little gifts it leaves, but always when I’m not looking. I’ve yet to glimpse its form. I once tried, strained my eyes to remain open as long as they could. But eventually they grew heavy and took me to darkness. When I woke, a single tooth lay before me. I searched my mouth with a finger and found the gap.

I no longer wonder where the gifts come from.

I wish to meet my little friend, and the thought occurs—what if I leave an offering in return?

What might satisfy it? Show it I mean no harm, and only want to know my secret companion? I think on this a while, picking at a scab on my head, until the answer is revealed by an inner revelation.

I run to the kitchen, open a drawer, and take out what I need. It likes parts, as shown by the prized collection I’ve gathered on a shelf. And what better part than to show it I want to see?

I take the spoon, place the lip below my lower eyelid, and pray it will suffice.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Bleak

November 27, 2024November 17, 2024 ~ afstewart ~ 4 Comments

They huddled together under tattered blankets, a mother and daughter hidden in the shadows of the abandoned building. Outside, the wind rattled against the walls and howled through the cracked windows; the noise drowned the rumblings of their hungry bellies. Weeks of running left them exhausted, yet neither slept. Fear kept them awake.

The girl whispered, “Was there ever a better world than this one, Mama? Grandma said there was. A place where we didn’t always run, didn’t hide. Where daddies and raiders never hunted and hurt us.”

Her mother squirmed. “Perhaps, sweetie. Once. I have vague memories, but they might be only dreams. If it existed, it was a long time ago and it’s never coming back.”

“Like Grandma?”

An intake of breath, a pause, and then, “Yes. Like Grandma.” There was a soft sigh. “What happened to Grandma is why we run, why I teach you. Now tell me the three rules.” She patted her daughter’s hand.

“Yes, Mama. Rule 1: Never trust anyone, not even if they’re nice to you. Rule 2: Try to be kind, but be cruel if you have to.” Her lip quivered. “Like we were with Grandma when we left her?”

“Exactly. She couldn’t keep up and leaving her behind distracted those raiders. Now what’s rule 3?”

“Rule 3: Don’t be weak. The strong live. The strong make it to the Promised Land. The strong dodge the raiders. The strong will be free. No masters, no daddies. No one to hurt us.”

“Good.” She tousled her daughter’s hair. “Never forget those rules. Never break them. If we’re smart, we’ll escape. Now get some sleep. We move out with the sunrise.”

“Tell me about the Promised Land, Mama. It helps me sleep.” The girl snuggled against her mother, burrowing into the blankets.

Words drifted on the darkness. “The Promised Land is a safe place, a place without raiders, or masters, or cruelty, where the fear of engines doesn’t exist. Women don’t have to worry there, don’t fear being hurt, or killed, or enslaved. We won’t have to run, or hide, or go hungry. It’s where we can be happy. Where we don’t have to live by the rules of men.”

The girl closed her eyes, dreaming of a beautiful land as she fell asleep. Her mother kept watch over her, listening for the sound of the raiders’ engines…

Weeks later, their long journey behind them, they left the wasteland and found a place of grassy scrub and a cracked road leading north. Taking her daughter’s hand, the mother squeezed and murmured, “We’re almost there, sweetie. Almost to the Promised Land, to safety.”

Two more days found them outside a neglected settlement, overgrown with vegetation and vacant of life. A broken fence surrounded rustic, disused houses and buildings. As they drew closer, they noticed an open gate crookedly swinging on rusting hinges. Walking inside, a faded sign greeted the pair, mocking them with the ruined, peeling letters: P R O I S M E D A N D.

The girl looked around and tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Is this it, Mama?”

“Yes.” The word cut cold in the air and held despair in its depths.

“But it’s empty, Mama. Where are the people? Where’s the Promised Land?” She stared at her mother, watching the woman’s expression harden. “Are we safe yet?”

“No.” The sound almost choked in her throat. “It’s gone. It’s all gone. There is no Promised Land, no safety. They destroyed it too.” She looked at her daughter as the sound of engines roared in the distance. “It was all a false dream. It was all for nothing.”

She bent down and tilted her daughter’s chin, staring into her eyes. “There’s one more thing to learn, sweetie.” Her other hand reached into her travelling bag. “Rule 4: Everyone lies. Even me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, sweetie.” She brushed her daughter’s hair with her fingers and straightened. “I’m sorry, but there’s nowhere to run and hide anymore and I can’t go back.” She smiled at the confused child. “I’m so sorry.”

From her bag, she pulled out a pistol and shot herself in the head, blood spraying her daughter’s upturned face. The nearing sound of engines mixed with the girl’s screams.

~ A. F. Stewart

Just Do It

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Charlie, come here,” he ordered.

Charles did as he was told.

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

Charles froze. “Why me?”

“You’re the only one small enough”.

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

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

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

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

“You there yet?” Mickey called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwen’s eyes darted from Charles to the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three weeks later Charles finally opened his eyes.

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

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

“What’s happening, doctor?”

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

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

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

∼ Ian Sputnik