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

Roadkill

October 9, 2024October 7, 2024 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

No moon. A sky flecked like mica with stars. I had my Harley redlined, the V-Twin burning between my legs. It’s always dangerous riding fast at night. But since the change I had nothing to lose, no one to care if I lost it. Then I saw her, lying across the blacktop.

Dead, I thought.

But she moved when I swerved to avoid her. I got the bike stopped, u-turned, winced as I saw… Her back was broken. I hung the bike on its kickstand, the headlight painting her, refracting jewels from her liquid eyes. I rushed to her, knelt.

She opened her mouth but made no sound. How could she be alive? How could she breathe with a chest half crushed? What was she doing so far from town? What sick fate had sent a vehicle to rendezvous with her at this lonely spot? There were no signs of burnt rubber. Whoever hit her hadn’t even slowed down.

I tried to force, “It’s OK,” through my lips. The meaningless words wouldn’t come.

Then she looked past me toward highway’s edge. I turned, saw some shadowy movement. When I turned back she looked like she was sleeping but her chest no longer rose and fell. My feet followed where her gaze had led, and I saw why she’d been crossing the road. Saw what she was returning to. Or running from.

Her puppies had been born dead. But in this new world they hadn’t stayed that way. They smelled me, and squirmed toward me through their mother’s afterbirth, their baby teeth stark and white and gnashing.

I backed away, then screamed as a sudden flashing agony lanced through my legs. I fell, rolled instinctively away from the pain. The mother hound’s mouth was flecked with foam and blood. My blood. Her eyes had been reborn as scarlet hells.

I tried to get up, found she’d torn out my Achilles tendons. Still screaming, I scrabbled away along the highway. The hound growled and hitched herself toward me, her paws slapping at the asphalt. Intestines unraveled behind her. I laughed hysterically as I realized the mother’s broken spine would keep her from catching me.

Then I saw the puppies. On the road. They couldn’t walk either. But they were crawling faster than I was.

∼ Charles Gramlich

You Have Always Been Nothing

September 25, 2024September 12, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Harrison Kim

Brain Box

September 11, 2024August 5, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 4 Comments

The tendrils, that’s what Jimmy called ‘em. They got hold of his mind and reached in real far. Slithering, he called it. He said they pulled out something from deep inside, something he never could’ve reached on his own.

Oh, he fought it. That I know. Pills, powder, it didn’t matter. As long as it ‘altered his natural state’ he said, it was fine by him. But it was never enough. Reality was too bent for him to see straight, so crooked was the only way to be. That was the only thing that made sense to him. He said when reality became thought, and thought, reality, he couldn’t tell which was which. And when Jimmy’s mind was in a jumble, so was everything around him. I saw things fly off the shelves when he got upset, furniture jumped around the room when he was mad. Never saw nothing like it before. He just couldn’t control it.

When the walls closed in on poor old Jimmy, they really closed in. I think he lived his whole life in fear. I know I would if I had to live with that kind of…condition. Yes, I seen it myself. That run-down old trailer-home of his, crumpled up like a soda can. Poor bastard worried himself to death.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Inhale, Exhale

August 28, 2024August 23, 2024 ~ afstewart ~ 3 Comments

She sat on the steel-framed bed, the texture of the rough linen sheets under her fingertips and her legs dangling off the edge, toes touching the floor. Inhale, exhale, and then she whispered, “Four walls, a ceiling, a locked door. Good.”
It’s a box. Trapped in a box. Doubting words slithered around her mind.
Inhale, exhale. “Stay in the box. A box is safe. ”
Is it? What’s that sound?
She stiffened, straining her ears. Footsteps. Her fingers tightened into the mattress.
“Don’t come in. Don’t come in. Stay out of my box.” Yanking her legs up, she curled into a ball, listening until the thump, thump noise faded away. Inhale, exhale, and her breath softened.
“They’re gone now. Alone the in box. Safe.”
For now.
She closed her eyes, pain creeping past her temples. “No one will come.”
Laying down on the bed, knees still pressed against her chest, she focused on the quiet and the dark. Inhale, exhale, don’t remember…It’s secure in the room, no one would come, the door would never open. She concentrated on the lies to avoid screaming.
Until the itch scrabbled at the back of her thoughts like scratching claws, thrashing through her mind and growling at her consciousness.
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
“Shush. Leave me alone. I need to be alone, alone, alone.”
Laughter echoed in her head. That’s the biggest lie of all. You can’t hide, you can’t stop it.
Her eyes fluttered open, and her stomach churned. “Why?”
More laughter.
“I’m never going to be free, am I?”
No.
Sitting now, she dangled her legs off the edge of the bed, toes touching the floor. The texture of the rough linen sheets under her fingertips grounded her thoughts, but she stared at the door, waiting.
Inhale, exhale. Every moment savoured, knowing it wouldn’t last. When the footsteps returned, she braced herself, whimpering as the lock turned and the door swung open. Scratching claws ripped through her self-control and consumed her will. The demon that shared her mind and body had control.
It whispered in her ear. Told you. The prey is here, and it’s time for my fun.
She closed her eyes as the creature sped her body across the room and leapt on the orderly. Trapped inside her own flesh, she hummed to herself, ignoring the taste of copper blood in her mouth and the screams in her ears…
Inhale, exhale. Try to forget that no one is safe from me…

~ A. F. Stewart

Trash Night

August 7, 2024June 5, 2024 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

Hugo watched from his bedroom window as his wife stuffed something into the garbage receptacle he had dragged to the curb hours before. It was 3:15am and she had done this on four subsequent trash nights.

The following morning he decided to ask her about her jaunt to the trash can. Having lived with her for nearly 30 years, he knew he could not speak to her before her first sip of coffee. She had a superstition about it. “Have you been having trouble sleeping? I woke to go to the bathroom and you weren’t in bed.”

She pretended to be concerned with cracking the shells on their eggs. “Hmm? What was that, honey?”

“Sleep. Are you sleeping well?”

“You know I’m going through the change. It complicates everything. It’s hard to sleep, eat, or find a comfortable temperature.”

That didn’t satisfy his curiosity about her weekly pilgrimage to the trash cans.

“Maybe we switch sides? I sleep closer to the door and you sleep next to the window…for the breeze.”

“Oh no, it’s bad luck for a couple to swap sides after so many years. We were just talking about that at book club.”

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully before responding. “I thought you talked about books at book club.”

She laughed. “We talk about all sorts of things.”

“Mostly complaints about husbands?”

“Of course not.” She appeared focused on flipping the eggs with precision. “We are supportive of each other’s marriages; we don’t want to promote negativity.”

He saw her spoon a powder onto the skillet. “That’s not salt…”

“Nope. Remember, I told you that Jody Hunter came back from the Amazon. She had an amazing trip.”

“And she brought you back seasoning?”

“Not just seasoning, this is a type of mushroom that is good for women of our age. It helps with mood and clarity.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am adding some to your eggs, too, as you seem to need a brain boost…you don’t remember us talking about this at all? About how she brought back some powders and tinctures and…spiritual icons.”

“Spiritual icons?” Hugo snorted. “She is filling you with nonsense.”

She didn’t answer but stared out the window at the utilities truck that had come to receive their collection.

***

The following week Hugo got up at 5:00 AM and went to the garbage bin as his wife snored soundly in bed. He pulled out several large bags; one had a pinhole leak that dribbled onto his slippers like a dotted line.

At the bottom of the bin was a small blue marble.

Is that what she has been hiding? Where did the marble come from and why did she need to throw it away in the dark of the night?

He took the marble and planned to question her over breakfast.

He waited for her to finish her morning affirmations; she had a strong belief that saying them influenced the outcome of her day. He noticed that she read from a notebook while reciting quietly to herself. She had been adding many new rituals to her routine.

“You know when I was a boy I collected the darndest things.” He began, watching her sip her coffee.

She nodded. “I know you had those matchbox cars. And the coins from when your dad travelled.”

“And marbles. Did I ever tell you about my marble collection?”

She raised an eyebrow. “No. That’s funny, I can’t remember you talking about a marble collection.”

He slapped his knee as if this were all a good joke. “Really? All these years and I never mentioned it?”

“Mustn’t have been a very good collection.”

“Au contraire! It was really something. I had marbles everywhere. Stashed away in jars and bottles. My favorite were the blue.” He pulled a marble from his pocket. “Like this.”

Her jaw dropped. “Where did you get that?’

“Why did you throw it away?”

“You can’t have that.” She snatched the marble from his hand and raced to the door. From the window he could see her looking down the street at the utility truck that had just taken their garbage and was driving away.

She was frantic, pacing in the street and rolling the marble between her hands.

When Hugo went to the door to tell her to come back inside, she rushed past him into the house and grabbed the car keys. Moments later, she pulled out of the driveway, with no concern for the fact that he needed to get to work and they shared a car.

Thirty minutes later, she returned.

“Don’t ever do that,” she snarled as she threw the keys to him. He had lived with her long enough to recognize when she was furious.

***

The next week, as he tried to fall asleep on trash night, he found her staring at him. “You did something very bad,” she said in a voice that was completely unfamiliar. “You need to learn a lesson.” She showed him a red marble. She then left the room. From the window, he could see her burying it in the trash.

The following morning they consumed a silent breakfast. Hugo went to work as usual, but by late afternoon, he felt sick, feverish. He took to his bed for days.

When he was finally able to leave his bed and go to the breakfast table, it was trash collection day again. He could not believe that he had lost an entire week. He scolded himself for being nearly as superstitious as his wife.

“I hope you’re happy,” he told her. “You planted that idea in my head of the red marble having meaning.”

She peered at him over her half-consumed cup of coffee. “Count your blessings. It could have been a black marble.”

“You’re crazy. I am not listening to any more of this.”

She shrugged. “Marjorie Baker put a black marble in her trash last night.”

He lifted a piece of toast, noting that the trash had already been picked up. “I give. What does black—”

His question was both cut off and answered by the sound of sirens racing to the Baker house.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Damned Words 58

July 24, 2024July 20, 2024 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

Under My Skin
Marge Simon

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

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

Vast
Lee Andrew Forman

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

The Collector
A.F. Stewart

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

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

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

It isn’t perfect though. I made mistakes.

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

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

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

Piecemeal
Elaine Pascale

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

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

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

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

Closing Time
Charles Gramlich

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

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

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

Hatchling
Nina D’Arcangela

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

Infected
RJ Meldrum

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

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

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

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

The Eye Collector
Kathleen McCluskey

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

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

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

Penetrating the Ball
Harrison Kim

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