Plumb

February 4, 2014February 3, 2014 ~ Hunter Shea ~ 22 Comments

“Do you want to see what I found?”

Marybeth was about to grab the laundry out of the washing machine – it had just turned off with a hard thunk – when the plumber called out to her.

No, not really, she thought, rolling her eyes and sauntering to the master bath. All I want to do is take a shower without being calf-deep in water. The skinny man was on his knees, chest pressed against the edge of the tub. She was grateful there was no sign of the infamous plumber’s crack. He smelled like grease and damp towels.

“It’s no wonder the water wouldn’t flow,” he said, turning to face her. Elvis would have been proud of the man’s mutton chops. One of his front teeth was gold, the one next to it silver. She jumped back a step when she saw the dead animal dangling from his fingers.

“Oh my God! How the hell did a rat get in the drain?” she shouted, cringing as the body spun lazily.

The plumber smiled. “That’s no rat. Nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a clump of hair and soap and shampoo. Kinda looks like a rat, though, doesn’t it? I pull them out all the time, but this one is especially big. You have daughters?”

She stared at him quizzically. “Yes, I do. How would you know?”

“House full of girls means a lot of long hair going down the drain. It builds up over time until you get something like this.” He tossed the hair-rat into the small plastic waste pail by the toilet. It made a squishing noise when it hit the bottom. Oh crap, that’s disgusting. Just keep cool. It’s not a rat. It’s just hair. Rats were high on her weakness list.

He kept on talking, oblivious to the shade of green she’d turned. “The best way to avoid this happening in the future is by using a few ounces of prevention.” He opened his massive toolbox, rooting around, making rough grunts and sighs.

“Here it is.” He held a brown bottle of liquid drain cleaner. The plumber shook it and unscrewed the cap.

“We tried that but it wouldn’t work,” Marybeth said.

“That’s because you waited too long. This stuff wasn’t going to get past that,” he said, tilting his head toward the garbage. Marybeth felt her bile start to resurface. “You gotta get to it earlier, clean it out at the source.”

Marybeth leaned against the doorframe. “Is there any brand you recommend?” Plumbers don’t come cheap. If all it takes is a few bottles of that stuff to avoid overpaying old mutton chops, she was in.

He repositioned himself so he was now sitting on the edge of the tub. The armpits of his blue shirt were dark with crescent moons of sweat. “Just make sure you get the name brand stuff. The knock-offs don’t eat the hair away near as well.”

She nodded. “Got it. Name brands. Don’t wait for the drain to get bad before I use it. You don’t need to pour that now, do you? I mean, since you just cleared everything out.”

The plumber nodded. “It’s best I show you how to use it.”

Great. I’m sure he’ll charge me ten times what that bottle is worth in the friggin’ supermarket. Does he think I’m an idiot? Open bottle, pour down drain, don’t get any on your skin. Jesus.

He waved her closer. “Come on, I don’t bite. There’s a trick to pouring so you don’t get any splashback.”

Marybeth resigned herself to his demonstration. Hemming and hawing would only keep him in her bathroom longer. She stood next to him, smelling his coffee and cigarette breath.

“Like I said, you gotta get it at the source.”

With whip-like speed, he lashed out and wrapped his fingers in her hair. “Ouch! What the hell are you doing?” Marybeth screamed.

The plumber smiled with uneven, jaundiced teeth. “Gotta burn it at the source.”

She tried to scream but he clamped a greasy hand over her mouth. With the other, he tipped the bottle over her head. At first, the gelatinous goop felt cold, like chilled pudding.

And then the fires began. Shocked with white-hot agony, she kicked him in the balls and pushed him in the chest with both hands. The man tipped over the tub, the back of his head ripping the water spout from the wall. “You goddamn bitch!” he shouted, cradling his head with his hand, his palm coming back slick and red.

Marybeth ran to the sink, spinning the cold water handle, splashing as much as she could onto her head, careful not to get any of the fluid in her eyes or face. It felt like battery acid eating away at her scalp. The stench of her disintegrating hair and scalp made her stomach lurch.

Something heavy smashed against the back of her legs, dropping her to her knees, her chin clanging on the sink’s edge. The plumber held the lid to the toilet tank. His legs were wobbly from the blow to his head.

“You fucker!” Marybeth shrieked. She grabbed her husband’s toothbrush, leaping to her feet and driving it into his eye. The man staggered against the shower wall, the wet gore of his eye leaking over the brush.

Marybeth’s cheek sizzled as the drain cleaner dripped past her hairline. The plumber fell into the tub, yowling like a deaf cat. “Is this the source?” she snarled, prying the heavy ceramic lid from his hands. He couldn’t hear a word, the pain was so excruciating.

With a mad grunt, Marybeth crashed the lid into and through the base of his nose. The plumbers extremities shuddered for a few seconds, then went still.

The lid keranged against the tile floor. Marybeth fumbled in the medicine cabinet until she found the shears. Working through searing pain, she shaved the hair from her head. When that was done, she ran water over her scalded flesh, crying. She dried her head carefully, then applied and entire tube of bacitracin to her head and face. She looked like a carnival freak. Behold, the Lizard Woman, even fire couldn’t kill her!

She looked at the plumber’s body, heard the trickle of his blood going down the now-clear drain. His hair would do.

After a quick trip to the basement for her special toolbox, she removed his scalp with practiced ease. She placed the wet flap of flesh and hair in the sealed container she used for all of her trophies.

“Have to be more proactive with the drains,” she said, staring at the plumber’s scalp. She’d leave the body for her husband when he came home. Disposal was his specialty. She was just a trophy hunter.

~ Hunter Shea

Damned Words 5

December 31, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 19 Comments

His Release
Zack Kullis

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hunted
Dan Dillard

It hunted me.

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

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

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

Genocide
Nina D’Arcangela

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

What the Frost Brings
Tyr Kieran

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

Silent Planet
Thomas Brown

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

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

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

Cold
Joseph A. Pinto

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

Deck The Lawn
Blaze McRob

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

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

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

Cold Hearts
L. Moon

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

View
Hunter Shea

Veins, veins. Ice in my veins.

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

Ice in my veins.

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

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

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

“That is outside. I am inside.”

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

“Make me warm!”

Needle prick.

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

Not a Creature Was Stirring

December 24, 2013December 23, 2013 ~ demonauthor ~ 19 Comments

Tiny footsteps and giggles filled the hallways of the small suburban house. Dad was snoring somewhere in a back bedroom.

“Shh,” one voice said. The other snickered and more footsteps were heard as the pair moved into the kitchen and through the wooden door that led to the basement.

“Where are they?” Emily asked.

Her blond pigtails hung in long, thick ringlets against the bright pink footie-pajamas.

“I don’t know. Look over there, dork,” said David. “I think they’re in daddy’s toolbox.”

She stuck out her tongue and carefully opened the lid to the Craftsman case. She saw screwdrivers and wrenches and various other things inside the tool chest. Then, her eyes grew round and her lips parted, spreading into a wide grin.

“Found ‘em,” she said to her brother, holding up her prize.

“Good. Now help me find the big one.”

She pulled out her list and checked it twice.

“The big one?” she asked as if to say, are you sure?

“Yep.”

David, eight years old, pushed a lock of chestnut brown hair out of his eyes and grabbed a coil of rope from a hook on the pegboard wall while Ironman looked on from the front of his t-shirt. The coil of rope slipped over his shoulder as the pair hunted the big one.

She spotted it first.

“There it is, David.”

David looked where she pointed and leaning against the wall next to the water heater, was a bundle of long handled tools. He grabbed the ten pound sledge hammer and hiked it up onto his shoulder before starting back up the stairs. Emily was looking at a pair of large garden shears, almost as tall as she was.

“Emmy, come on. We don’t need those.”

“You sure? They look sharp and pointy.”

“I’m sure. Everything’s set up already.”

She shrugged, tucked the nails she’d grabbed from the toolbox under her arm and bounded up the steps behind her brother.

“Daddy’s going to be so surprised!” she said in an excited whisper.

“Shh,” David said.

They snuck into the living room and placed the items in the middle of the floor with some earlier gatherings. David grabbed a chair from the dining room and carried it into the living room. He placed it under the exposed beam that ran the length of the ceiling. Emily turned on the Christmas tree lights and hummed Jingle Bells.

David removed a cluster of mistletoe from the beam revealing a metal bracket and with some struggle, connected the handle of the sledge to it with a single bolt. Giving it a nudge, he was happy to see the hammer swing freely side to side. He slid the chair a couple feet to his left and climbed back up, pulling the sledge by its head and connecting it to a loop of twine that was already prepared. The other end of the slipknot dangled over the back of their father’s recliner.

“Like this?” Emily asked.

David turned and looked. Emily had propped up a two-foot-square piece of plywood that was full of holes he had drilled that afternoon and she was busy pushing nails through them. He nodded.

“Just like that.”

When she was finished, it made a triangular pattern much like a Christmas tree. She put duct tape on the back, holding the spikes in place until she could lay it on the plastic sheeting they had placed the floor. There were a few more holes in the board that David had drilled so he could screw it into the subflooring through the thin carpeting. He picked up a battery powered screwdriver.

“Go check on Dad,” he said.

She padded down the hallway and peeked into her father’s room. He snored peacefully and she pulled the door shut behind her with a minimal snick of the latch. Back in the living room, she gave her brother a quick smile and a thumbs up.

“Still asleep. Visions of sugar plums,” she said.

“Cool.”

He quickly screwed down the bed of nails and put the screw-gun away. Emily helped him stretch out the coil of rope and David secured one end of it to the fireplace with a double knot. Once that was finished, they stood back and looked at their work. Emily jumped up.

“Almost forgot,” she said and rushed into the kitchen.

She returned with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk they had staged in the refrigerator and placed them on the end table next to the recliner.

“I think that does it,” Emily said.

David nodded in agreement.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we get in position and don’t move until it’s time.”

They fist bumped and then she ducked behind her dad’s recliner and grabbed the length of twine that hung down from the ceiling. David gripped the end of the rope and sat in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. The Christmas tree lights gave off an eerie glow and not a creature stirred otherwise. Their father’s snoring broke the silence every few seconds.

Those seconds turned into minutes and the children exercised expert patience, but when the clock on the fireplace mantle struck midnight, their wait was rewarded. In a twinkling, they heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of many a hoof. Emily smiled as she peeked around the chair. David gave her a nod and ducked back behind the wall, holding his rope in both hands.

There were more scuffling sounds, then a snore from daddy’s bedroom, then more scuffling, and then with a bound, St. Nicholas came down the chimney. The jolly old elf stepped, leaning over, out from the fireplace and dusted the soot from his furry red suit, then he cranked his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. He glanced at the tree, then at the cookies and when he laughed, his little round belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. Over his shoulder was a sack, and as he stepped further into the room, he swung it around and set it on the floor. David peeked around the corner. It was time.
“Now!” he shouted.

Before Saint Nick could place a finger aside of his nose, Emily jerked the twine with all of her might. The slipknot came undone and the sledge fell from its perch, smashing Santa in the side of the head. David pulled his rope tight and as Santa pirouetted in place, dizzy from the blow, he tripped over the rope and fell face-first onto the bed of nails, embedding his rosy cheeks, cherry nose and droll little mouth onto each three-inch spike.

“We got the bastard,” Emily said as she stood up.

“We sure did,” David agreed.

As the Claus twitched and shuddered, his magic blood seeping out onto the plastic in front of their tree, David and Emily retrieved his bag. It felt empty as they held it up, but when Emily reached inside, wishing, something appeared. A pink tablet computer with her name etched on the back. David pulled out one of his favorite video games, then another. Then they pulled out a wad of cash as thick as the Manhattan Yellow Pages.

“Merry freakin’ Christmas,” Emily said.

Her brother gave her a hug. “Daddy’s going to be so excited.”

“What do we do with that?”

They pair looked at Santa’s corpse and David laughed in spite of himself.

“I have an idea.”

They wrapped the plastic sheeting around Claus’s body and David lifted the old man’s shoulders while Emily pulled the bag over his head. They struggled to get it around the rest of his body, but the bag stretched as necessary and once inside, he disappeared. David unscrewed the board and tossed it and the screws into the magic sack and lucky for them, none of the blood had gotten onto the carpet. He then climbed back onto the chair and replaced the sledge hammer with the mistletoe. Once it was all cleaned up, they sat down and split the milk and cookies.

“What you want to wish for next?” Emily said.

“Dunno. You?”

She shrugged.

A massive thud on the roof startled them. Emily’s tiny hands went to her heart. Another thud followed, then another, and one by one, the reindeer slid off the snow covered roof into the back yard.

Down Dasher, then Dancer, then Prancer and Vixen, followed by Comet, then Cupid, then Donder and finally, Blitzen.

“I almost forgot about the poison carrots,” she said. “How are we gonna hide all that?”

David blushed.

“We’ll think of something,” he said. “We always do.”

~ Dan Dillard

Damned Words 4

October 22, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 52 Comments

Fillmore Street Park
Dan Dillard

He walked to the old bench at the Fillmore Street Park for his evening think. He’d done it for years. He was loving her that night. He’d done that for years as well. With a groan—his old bones protesting, he sat and smiled, wrinkling an old face. Children played while he slumped, his heart seizing. She came soon after, just to check on him. She had stayed behind to clean the dishes. Same thing every night of their marriage. The poisoned glass was something new. She tossed it in the trash and smiled, knowing it was no longer needed.

Name Your Poison
Blaze McRob

Two measuring beakers wait on the left. The poisons, skull and cross-bones displayed on the bottles, are sitting on the right.

The labels tell a story. Mix them all together and it spells one thing. Doom.

Two parts salt from Sodom, three parts of oil pollution greed, and four parts pain from those persecuted. I mix well and put in a flask.

Pulling my hood down over my face, and grabbing my scythe, I head for the door. The night is Dark; the futures of those I intend to visit is Darker yet.

It is Harvest season. Time to reap…

Marvelous Mel
Tyr Kieran

As the carnival migrated from town to town, so did Marvelous Mel. Riding on their road-dust coattails, he leeched off their attraction—the lights, thrills, and spectacles of Big Top Entertainment. He pedaled his medicinal wares of potions, powders, and poultices in a boisterous bally that fed on the crowd’s fears and doubts. The carnies of Porticelli’s Circus loathed the snake oil salesman and the tarnish his cons inflicted upon their fame. They could not strike a deal to part ways, so, with a simple switch of labels, they turned the barker’s next performance into one their patrons’ll never forget.

Brew
Nina D’Arcangela

The sizzle surrendering to silence, the flare diminishing to nothing more than a ghost upon his eyes, Darius wondered at the concoction brewing this Witch’s eve. An elixir he was charged with dispensing to all sons of Barecrest Village. The cloaked man before him would reveal nothing of its effects, only that he must see it consumed. The apprentice, far too dutiful to question, corked the final vial of odiferous liquor and set about his duty. Task complete, he returned both ashen and quivering to find his Master holding two goblets in hand. “Wizard or Warlock, which shall it be?”

Bane
Joseph A. Pinto

We savored our only connection—these sins corked without repentance before us. I remember when you stole stars from my sky, but you laughed: “you’re so over the moon!” The turpentine an easy liquid to digest then; it kept pretenses stripped clean.

One September, you whispered—”how much lovelier we would be if dead.” So I orchestrated a hymn for our funeral; you fashioned wind chimes for our grave.

Now we dance slowly, the carillons a gentle ringing in our ears. This was the way it should have been for us; that amber reflection in your eye never more beautiful.

Half-Measure
Thomas Brown

Drink deep, and with the mellow taste lingering in your mouth open your eyes and see the world for the first time. Regard the narrow alleys down which lovers satisfy themselves inside each other, the offices where machines sing country songs while men and women queue up to step on their whirring blades, the traffic blowing black fumes in the bright sky: our city where we live, love, scream of life and death even as we walk smiling into those mellifluous meat-grinders and know peace. All this revealed in a half-measure from an old bottle, shining darkly on the shelf.

Pain in the Ass
Hunter Shea

“Shit, did it bite you?” Marlene panted as she fastened the leather straps.

Alice looked down at her hand with frantic eyes.

“No,” she said sighing with relief.

The creature thrashed on the table – a writhing amalgam of fur and teal-tinged flesh, jagged teeth and drying blood, savage lust and certain death.

Alice saw the first drip of blood from her parents’ bodies fall from the basement ceiling.

“Pass me the glasses,” Marlene commanded.

“Which ones?”

“The amber ones, over there. Oh, and the funnel,too.”

Death by poisonous enema was better than it deserved, but it would have to do.

The Classic Signature
Leslie Moon

The bartender knew his craft well.

“This will be my classic Mojito, Miss.”

Her eyes twinkled, “You promised gold flecked ice.

“I understand there is an additional cost that I am more than willing to pay.”

“Yes, the gold flecks will match those in your eyes.

“Also for you an old recipe, my signature concoction infused with mint.”

****

“Specially made in celebration. Here’s to us darling.”

She raised her wine glass.

He smiled as he eyed the gold flecks, savoring the end of his drink.

She eyed him with concern.

Weakly he says, “Love, it seems a bit salty…”

Coffin Hop 2013

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

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

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

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

Scissors

October 15, 2013October 7, 2013 ~ demonauthor ~ 27 Comments

Gavin tripped as he left the bathroom and stumbled into his bedroom. He sat on his bed underneath two posters. One was for Empire Strikes Back, his favorite, and the other for the upcoming Return of the Jedi. The legs on his costume pants were a bit long, and they were in the way. Scissors would help. The mask, however, wasn’t helping. The eye-holes were just a bit too high in the one-size-fits-all clown suit his mother had picked out for him. He pushed it up on top of his head, held there by a thin elastic band stapled to the mask on either side.

Of course there weren’t that many choices at Woolworth’s. You had a plastic clown face, a plastic bum face, a monkey, a werewolf, vampire or mummy face…and then there had been the array of superheroes. All plastic, all crappy. His baggy suit was a clever sewing job by his mother. Patchwork colors and shiny silk, a floppy tie and some old shoes of his dad’s, painted orange.

“Can’t we just paint my face?” he’d asked.

“No, sweetie. That stuff is hard to wash off, and it makes your skin break out. The mask is just easier,” his mother said.

He had grumbled, staring at the floor, hating the plastic, store-bought stuff. Rich kids made fun of the poor kids at Halloween. They had rented costumes or luxurious fabrics, custom sewn at the tailor’s shop in town. His family wasn’t poor, but things were tight so they could stay in that neighborhood, living paycheck to paycheck. His parents did the best they could in those trying times, unable to afford extras like Cable or MTV. The Jones’s always had something new to keep up with. A concept Gavin would understand later.

“Besides,” his mother had said. “Think about the candy, and your friend Gregory’s party tonight. That’ll be fun, right?”

It would be fun, he thought. If they don’t make fun of me. If I can get to my friends before the others make fun. Before they point and howl and slap each other on the shoulders at my expense. If I can just live through the next hour or two of trick-or-treating, please God, let that happen.

He nodded, then pulled the mask back down. The eye holes still didn’t match. Scissors would help. He dug a pair out of the desk drawer on the opposite side of his room and immediately snipped two inches from the bottom of his red, yellow and green pants. Then he looked at the mirror over his dresser. His mother had done a fine job. A circus clown, not too menacing, still kind of creepy, like the one in that Poltergeist film. He wished he’d had a jester hat with jingly bells to complete the look, maybe hide some of that awful plastic mask…or some fluffy cotton candy hair.

A few steps in his dad’s old dress shoes, floppy enough, went much better with the bottoms of those pants cut off. It might upset his mother, but there was no time for alteration. The sun was fading and it was time to ring doorbells. He still couldn’t see quite right, so the mask came off once more and the scissors went to work, helping things. Two much larger eyeholes and he could see again. His eyes were sad and didn’t quite match the brilliant red, up-turned smile or the blue diamond-shaped streaks that went across his eyes.

Makeup would’ve been better.

One last look in the mirror and he grabbed his pillowcase—in which he would carry his loot—and carefully descended the stairs to the kitchen which smelled of caramel apples and popcorn.

“Mom! I’m leaving.”

She came in from the attached laundry and smiled.

“You look adorable!”

“I’m supposed to look like that clown from Poltergeist,” Gavin said.

“Oh. Well in that case, you look…terrifying?”

She hadn’t seen the film. Gavin sighed.

“Yes, terrifying,” he said.

She hugged him. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so bad at this.”

But it’s so important to me.

“Have fun, honey. Don’t forget, Gregory’s house by 7:30! And behave.”

“I will, mom.”

It was just after 6:30, a late start, but trick-or-treating didn’t feel right until dusk. He only took ten paces to get to the front door. His shoes mad a clip-flap clip-flap sound as he walked, but changed to a ka-thunk ka-thunk when he crossed the threshold of the front door onto the concrete porch and walkway.

The first house was dark. His next-door neighbors were out of town, going to a funeral he’d heard. They had set out pumpkins, but the lights were off. That was a universal sign that said, ‘No candy here kids. Move along’. He walked by with a light ka-thunk ka-thunk and watched as other groups of kids moved on the opposite side of the street. Some groups were kids only, others had parents who watched from the street and others still were made of the tiniest of trick-or-treaters. Those approached the door with parent’s in tow and were met with “Oh, how precious!” and “Adorable!”

The second home had the lights on, so he knocked. He could hear the television through the door, see the light flickering in the sidelight window. Then he heard steps and when the door opened, it was Mr. Kaminski. The Kaminski’s were at least a hundred years old. Mr. K. looked at him.

“What the hell you s’posed to be?”

“Trick or treat! I’m a scary clown,” Gavin said.

Mr. K. considered and frowned.

“You a little old for this?”

“I’m only thirteen.”

Mr. K. raised an eyebrow and nodded, unimpressed. When he was thirteen, he was probably already married with grandkids. He grabbed a handful of candy from a bowl by the door and tossed it into Gavin’s pillowcase.

“Thanks!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. K said and shut the door.

Before Gavin arrived at the third house, a voice called from across the street.

“Look at the clown! Is that Gavin? You queer or something?”

Gavin felt tears pool in his eyes.

“Look at the queer clown,” the same voice said, followed by the laughter of cronies.

He knew the voices, but when he looked, the faces were different…painted like the rock band Kiss. It was Gregory’s older brother Mike and his thug friends. Gavin snapped his head forward, forcing himself not to look back and he tripped over his orange shoes, scraping through the silky fabric of his costume and the top layer of skin on one knee. The tears spilled over and he was temporarily glad for the mask.

A huge burst of laughter came from across the street. Kiss was cackling and slapping one another on the backs.

“Clowns really are funny. Damn, Gav. Thanks buddy. I needed that shit,” one said.

More chuckles followed as Gavin stood up. His palms were scraped and his knee was on fire. He skipped the next two houses and turned the corner so he could put their jokes behind him. His breath came in jittery puffs as he cried and his cheeks were sticky with dried tears. Once around the corner, he tried another house, one he’d passed a dozen times a week but didn’t know who lived there. He checked his watch before knocking on the door. It was almost 7:00. He could get twenty more houses before he got to Gregory’s. Then he could take off the stupid mask. Then he could hang out with his friends and relax.

Maybe I am too old for this.

A young woman answered the door, maybe a college student. The music inside the house was so loud he was surprised she could hear the doorbell. She laughed at the sight of him and covered her mouth.

“A clown?” she shouted before he could say trick or treat.

“A scary clown,” he said weakly.

She tossed something into his bag and shook her head.

“Hardly,” she said.

The tears pooled again, but he didn’t care. He moved from house to house filling his bag and the taunts kept coming. Gavin shrugged them off. The heavier his bag became, the less the insults hurt. His mother made that costume and it was good enough for him. If only he’d painted on the face. It would’ve washed off. She should’ve let him—no—he should’ve just done it anyway. Suddenly, Gavin was angry with his mother. Angry with Gregory’s brother Mike. Angry with the college girl. Angry with Mr. Kaminski. Angry with the band Kiss… Then he was at Gregory’s door. It was 7:25.

He pushed the mask up on top of his head and wiped his eyes, now sore from crying. The doorbell brought thudding footsteps as someone approached. When it opened, Gregory stood there in a Superman costume, not a plastic one, but one stretchy fabric, exactly like the movie. He even had red boots like Christopher Reeve. Gregory’s hair was slicked back with just one curl on his forehead. Except for the muscles, which Gregory was sorely lacking, it was perfect.

Angry with Gregory.

“Come on in, man. Cool clown suit,” he said, but with a snicker.

In the background, Gavin saw Kiss. Mike and his three stooges sat at the kitchen table gobbling up the snacks that were supposed to be for Gregory’s party.

“Hey, it’s the queer clown. How’s your knee?”

The four of them roared again, and even Gregory laughed. As they turned past the kitchen into the living room where the other kids were, he saw they were laughing as well. Laughing at him. Laughing at Gavin. Laughing at his homemade costume and Woolworth’s mask. He dropped his bag of candy on the floor by the front door and reached into his pocket. The scissors were there, slick and cold and pointy. Scissors would help.

~ Dan Dillard

Damned Words 3

July 30, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 12 Comments

Small Sacrifices
Nina D’Arcangela

Thank you Father, for this bounty you bestow upon me. On small feet they come, hands overflowing with offerings; small sacrifices to appease the almighty. Their pulse begs me to feed; youthful flesh so tender, muscles plump with nourishing fluids. When a youngling does not return, they believe the little one has been blessed, granted the highest honor; they are among the chosen. Chosen indeed, to fill my gullet and offer more than their tiny hands could ever bear. Occasionally a mother weeps; she too may find comfort in my arms – all she need do is step through the archway.

Damnation
Dan Dillard

It wasn’t as I’d imagined, not at all. Neither as grand nor as dark.
It wasn’t preceded by a moat full of lava, the dead screaming in their
endless burn. It wasn’t surrounded by the stench of sulfur or
brimstone. No winged creatures or half-man, half-goats to be seen.
Actually, with surrounding trees in an otherwise healthy forest, and
the fact that it led to nothing on either side, the gateway to Hell
was unimpressive. Hell itself is remarkably like the world you call
home. So alike, you might call them the same… and we have all passed
through that gate.

The Ruin of Man
Tyr Kieran

The gates fell long ago… as did man. We stood firm, but quickly died at the hands of incomprehensible horrors—creatures only myth and the bleakest of nightmares could fathom. They came for our souls. Conjured by our hate, drawn to fear, they grew stronger, feeding on the energy of human emotion. Weaponry, science, religion—nothing could save us. Mankind was eviscerated and devoured by the demons of our own making. In the end, we few survived purely on utter indifference and voided faith. They still prowl the shadows, waiting, knowing that hate will one day call to them again.

Palace
Joseph A Pinto

In this darkness I have longed, yet only now do you approach beneath my canopy of sentinels. Wordless, though I have screamed centuries for you. Guileless, though now indeed you have been warned.

I shall devour your pretenses; leave shorn your bravado. I am your beast, and under granite columns shall you be reborn. You cannot flee, because I have been yours all along. Your heart pumping with my blood.

Embrace me, then. Succumb to my wild. From this moment on know that I shall be your shadow in the woods. This timbered palace holds a refuge, yours and mine.

The Lost Message
Leslie Moon

I felt wrung dry, brittle
I often escaped into this “other world” to escape the city’s emptiness
golden light diffused off the centuries old monuments – it inspired
Today an unnatural sickly smell pervaded the air
I felt “it” – absence
sensed weeping
crunch, crunch
click, click
screech, screech
curiosity moved me closer, closer
“Civilization Will Fail” was back lit though there was no light source
Why these words from a long forgotten statesman’s speech?
Sadly, I comprehended history’s warning
What civilization devoid of beauty can thrive?
The weeping was for all of us
We lived in a growing life sucking void

Ghoul’s Last Laugh
Blaze McRob

A monument to greatness, an impressive structure, but immortality is not captured within the facade of stone. The Dark rolls in and shadows flit about in an array of visual ramification. The overgrown ivy tower stretches upwards towards the place he wished to go. Too bad the trees climb higher than he ever did. For ‘ere the monument set atop his resting place, I came and consumed his body, purifying it by disposing of the filth incarnate residing within. But I couldn’t eat his soul. The Dark Lord accepted it into His realm.

I’m a Ghoul. I always laugh last.

THE OTHER PLACE
Thomas Brown

For a long time – he is not quite sure how long – he stands in silence on the threshold. The entrance is still; a void of blackness extending far into the trees. So dark is the forest that he finds it hard to tell where the stone ends and the entrance begins. He doesn’t suppose it matters. They are one and the same; the forest and the other place beyond. A man could go mad living on these hills. A man could lose his mind for want of company, for the sound of a voice that is not his own.

Dementia
Daemonwulf

It was twenty years ago when the door to my cell swung open, and she was there to welcome me in. It began with the smallest creak of a failing hinge and ended with the echoing click of a silencing lock.

Trapped, but not alone; there are others with me. These husks of comforting strangers fill my head with their thoughts. They create for me a lifetime of memories. No, I am not dead. I’m told it won’t be long. But I wonder if I will know death when she arrives; without anyone to remind me of who she is…

Lady Crocodile

July 16, 2013July 11, 2013 ~ Thomas Brown ~ 20 Comments

‘Your Winnie,’ she mutters, pressing harder with the face wipe. ‘Your dragon, your beautiful dragon girl…’

Sitting before the mirror at her dressing table, she doesn’t recognise the woman staring back at her. There is familiarity in the face, as there is familiarity to be found in anything if a person is subjected to it often enough, but that is all. Still, she keeps looking. She must look, every night, before Seth turns in for bed, desperately studying the features that emerge from beneath her makeup. The ritual of recognition is on-going.

The bedroom is dark, save for the light from the first-floor landing, which spills through the open doorway. It is easier when the bedroom is dark, as though that makes it all right; as though it is acceptable that she cannot properly see herself when she can barely see anything else. Canned laughter carries through the house, and the sound of audience applause, as Seth’s own evening ritual comes to its close. Soon he will ascend through the house, as if chasing the vestigial laughs, the sound of company, until they lead him into the bedroom and are silent.

The evening had begun like any other. Dinner was ready for when Seth returned home from work. She had cooked lamb, rubbed with rosemary and a selection of other herbs. She ate silently while he told her about his day. She nodded when encouraged, smiled when he smiled, laughed at his jokes.

He told her the lamb was nice, that his ‘dragon’s done herself proud with this one.’ They drank wine; his white, hers red. He said the white went with the vegetables. Her palate favoured the red; rich, velveteen flavours in her mouth, against her tongue. She agreed with him regardless.

Seth loves it when she agrees with him. He says it shows their unity, that they are two made into one. ‘In sickness and in health. Till death do we part. My Winnie, my fierce, beautiful dragon girl.’

She turns her attention to her lips next. Pulling a clean tissue free from the box to her right, she dabs it to her mouth, as though kissing it gently good night. Her lips have not kissed anything gently for a long time now. Seth does not like his love gentle, and on the occasions he does press his mouth against hers, it cannot be called a kiss. Once, before all this, he might have kissed her in the proper sense. There had been tenderness then; enough to tempt her from her family home into his arms.

She presses harder, then begins rubbing, until all of the lipstick is gone. Underneath, her lips are thin, and slightly raw. The tissue comes away red and streaky in her hand.

When they had both finished eating dinner, the dragon washed up while her white knight took the wine into the front room. Heat seared her hands as they dipped in and out of the sink. Drowsy with wine and the silky, sudsy water on her skin, she thought things that she had not dared to think before. ‘What ifs’ uncoiled themselves in her mind; fiery thoughts roused and riled.

Staring into her bright, shining eyes in the dressing table mirror, she remembers every slight, every wound, every wicked word intended to belittle her. This is not love, she thinks. She dares to think it again, giving voice to the doubts that have for a long time now been hatching in her head. This is not love. It was never love. She is no better off than when she left home; lost and lonely and unloved by a world that does not know the meaning of the word.

She remembers the feel of his hand against her face, the sound it makes; a ringing slap that sinks beneath the skin and seems to burn. His dragon, scorched!

She thinks of all these things, as she had thought of them at the kitchen sink, her eyes fixed firmly on the wedding ring by the taps. Her hands had moved automatically through the water, her mind caught up in a twister of realisation. So much pain, she thought, so much upset for so little; a small piece of jewellery and their names on a certificate. God, she was sure, played no part in this; an ancient force dead to the modern world. But there were yet more ancient forces, not dead but sleeping, and they stirred now, suffused with heat and hunger –

Tears cling to her long, black lashes, before breaking free and running down her face. Most of her make-up is removed now but she does not stop wiping. She covers all her face from her forehead to her neck, and with every wipe she feels more familiar, less false to her own eyes. And what eyes, she thinks, reaching to rip off her fake lashes. The lids come too, peeled clean above her sockets, revealing mad, majestic orbs underneath.

Silence falls suddenly over the house. As her opened eyes regard themselves in the mirror, she hears Seth at the bottom of the stairs. He comes perhaps to slay her with his lance, to penetrate the folds of her flesh, to pierce her in her most vulnerable place until she is stilled beneath him, and he spent.

She wipes harder, with less care, and it seems to her that every movement sloughs skin from her face. Her flesh smears like concealer, revealing new skin underneath. The tissues tire quickly, turning red and rancid in her hand. Their remains litter the dressing table, and in the mirror, her new face; sharp and scaled. His dragon girl, a woman!

He reaches the top of the stairs, and she senses him on the landing. Then she sees him in the mirror, a silhouette in the doorway. His body blocks the light.

‘You’re cold again.’

‘I’m fine,’ she says, still staring in the mirror.

‘Come off it, I can see you shivering from here.’ Seth moves into the bedroom, his silhouette reappearing by the window. The cross-framed sheet of glass stands open; the bedroom exposed to the black sky, the silver stars swallowed by that blackness so that they barely seem to shine at all. ‘What have I said about leaving this open at night?’

He is still talking but she does not hear. Time seems to stop as she considers him; not Seth but a silhouette, featureless and without meaning. He is nothing. It is nothing. She feels herself shaking as she considers what she has given to him. Every smack scalds her skin, embarrassment sears her cheeks, abuse burning between her thighs until she can barely contain the heat inside her. Her mouth stretches into a silent scream, jaws wide, like the dragons of old. Lipstick and lashes, for lamb!

‘– to make an effort. You know I love you, Winnie? Your knight in shining –’

She rushes at him through the darkness. They stumble into the en-suite, half in and out of the bedroom. His head hits the smooth white of the wash basin and he lies still beneath her. Heat spills from her mouth in hurried words.

‘Lamb,’ she breathes hotly, ‘lipstick and lashes, for lamb!’

His eyes flutter, head lolling on the linoleum, and she wonders if he can see her, if he recognises that she has changed now. Her breath rattles in her throat; a beautiful, crocodilian croak, which seems to say I am a woman and you have wronged me. Then her mouth closes around his face, jaw loose, like that of a great snake. Her teeth sink into his skin and he burns beneath her, this modern knight, this meat, this man.

~ Thomas Brown

LAW OF THE WOLF

June 11, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ blazemcrob ~ 38 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Blaze McRob

Damned Words 2

June 1, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 35 Comments

Betrayal
Dan Dillard

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

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

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

Shiny, Pretty Things
Nina D’Arcangela

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

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

Sworn
Joseph A. Pinto

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

Cheap Champagne
Tyr Kieran

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

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

Agony hits and I collapse.

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

“Help.” I moan. “It hurts!”

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

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

Harvest House
Thomas Brown

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

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

Once Upon A Troll
Blaze McRob

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

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

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

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

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

Sealed Promises
Leslie Moon

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

The Greatest Fraud
Daemonwulf

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

Odonates

February 19, 2013November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 19 Comments

Beautiful creature of destruction; you are the embodiment of majesty and grandeur darting through the air; humming past in the blink of an eye, stunning your prey into a shock of paralytic fear; engaged always in aerial combat with the currents that fight your forward progress; rising, dropping, jerking, zipping.

Always seeking…

What is it you seek on those elegant gossamer wings? Perhaps the next meal that awaits you… What else would a voracious thing such as yourself desire? You, with your crushing mandibles and gnashing teeth, so willing to consume all that cross your path and thereafter, your gullet. A beast of miniscule proportion whose lust to sate itself knows no bounds – respects no boundaries.

The patter of rain does not deter you from the hunt – your need for nourishment is all consuming; it’s all your disjointed body knows. The repeated pumping of your clasping organ seeking purchase as it curves downward to secure a hold in this new and foreign terrain. Your legs spread so delicately, laid wide ever so gently, in this most opportunistic of places. Large bead like eyes of gleaming blackness adapted for spotting the smallest of morsels passing by whilst you suckle on nature’s other offerings.

You have at last found a worthy feeding ground amongst the thin grasses of this murky bank. This piece of drift offers a perch from which you may indulge your glutinous greed. You seek a place to hide, a place of recess from which you may ambush unsuspecting prey.

Cloaked by stealth and the hush of your own inner stillness, you await what tasty treat flicks past seeking a safety all its own whilst knowing not that you are now the monstrous dark occupant which all others must fear in this previously safe harbor.

~ Nina D’Arcangela