Protégé

February 2, 2016January 31, 2016 ~ Veronica M.Nero ~ 32 Comments

The front gates of your fortress are tall, ornate and heavily guarded, much like I imagine the gates of Heaven to be. I easily make it through security when they realize who I am. Your protégé has returned at last. I walk slowly up the long winding road admiring the impeccable and wonderful gardens that surround your mansion.

On the marble steps of the entrance I stand like a crucified god, both arms outstretched as your bodyguards search me, and I smile at the irony. I step into the great hall where a devotee bows to me then requests that I remove my shoes. I am given a white robe and led into a change room. I have not worn the robe for so long that I feel and look like another person. I glance at my reflection for a long time, the memories swell and churn. I lived many years in your ashram. I let the memories come and go. I feel nothing.

When I emerge from the change room the devotee bows to me again.

“The Guru is expecting you. He is most pleased that you have come,” purrs the man with a polite smile. He gestures, inviting me to proceed.

I walk deeper into the large entrance hall, marveling at the decadence. The floor is fine, white granite. It is cold and smooth under my feet. A beautiful fountain is in the centre of the hall. Its crystal clear water fills the air with a fine, refreshing mist. Light streams in from the domed glass ceiling. A huge winding staircase of glistening mahogany stands ahead. The staircase is laid with plush red carpet. The carpet seems to melt beneath my feet; warm and soft, a striking contrast to the granite floor. With careful slow steps I begin the ascent.

I walk the pristine white halls, passing the silent sentinels who stare ahead although they observe me carefully. Within large rooms the elite of your followers are seated softly chanting your mantra. Fresh bouquets of extravagant blooms line the walls. The altars are large and overflowing with more flowers, adorning huge portraits of you. Streaming brass bowls thicken the air with the intoxicating scent of sandalwood. I keep climbing, to the very pinnacle of your mansion, to a small room lined with windows that offer exhilarating views of the coast.

I stand before the white raw silk curtains that line the doorway, the veil between you and I. In this room you live, rarely leaving; you no longer travel to teach anymore. From the peak of your ivory tower you look down at the world you have left behind. In this room you receive the most select and gifted of your followers. Very few are granted entrance. I sat in this room with you often, the two of us on orange cushions gazing down at the ocean.

The silk brushes my face as I pass through; there is no turning back. I have not returned to embrace you my beloved Guru, I have come to say goodbye. You were a kind and generous Guru, you gave me everything. Except the key. Except what I wanted.

I find you as I remember you, seated on your cushion, gazing out of the window, as if you have not moved in all these years. The sharp morning light that pours in is overpowering, it seems as if we are standing amongst clouds.

I wait silently. After a few moments you finally rise and turn to me. Your skin glistens like polished bronze, your eyes are orbs of bottomless black. You are an enigma, oozing mystique. I approach you and our eyes meet. A sensation sweeps over me, is it love? It is nothing but a distraction; I will not be deterred. I know I must act instantly. With a swift and powerful motion I plunge my fist deep into your belly. You do not struggle, you do not make a sound. You hold my gaze, expressionless, but deep down I can see the surprise, the shock. Your protégé has surpassed you in skill. The pain must be excruciating as I push my hand in deeper; you drool from the mouth, tears seep from your eyes. I withdraw and blood gushes from the wound. You drop to your knees and I follow, diving my hand in deeper again. I need it while you are still alive. You begin to convulse as I scoop out your intestines. I can feel it with the very tip of my fingers, smooth and hard, deep within you. A small curved thing, the most sacred of bones. The seat of the soul, the seat of power, the sacrum. I have come to collect yours, my Guru.

~ Magenta Nero

The Mortician’s Angst

January 26, 2016December 9, 2019 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 34 Comments

There was an audible twang. Turning back, he wrinkled his brow in disgust. Four! Four perfectly placed stitches had torn loose so far. He was baffled and more than a bit annoyed. Peering at the remainder of the skein, he examined it for defects; it looked perfectly fine. He wrapped a short length around his fingers and gave a hard tug. He received nothing but resistance for his effort. A bit perplexed, his fingers slipped between her lips to remove the defective stitch; he inspected it thoroughly with a loop before discarding it with the others.

Making his way to the old apothecary cabinet his grandfather had used many years ago, he opened each draw until he finally found what he was looking for – catgut. Sometimes the old-fashioned way was the only way. Threading the much thicker needle with the coarse sinew, he finished the sutures. He stood and stared in consternation for a good ten minutes willing them to stay fast yet daring them to break free. Finally satisfied, he turned to reach for the clay and began the next stage of reconstruction.

Two hours later, after finishing the cosmetic details, he gazed down upon the face he had just rebuilt and was pleased with his efforts. He’d done a fine job of reconstructing her crushed bones and concealing the bruised tissue. She looked peaceful, almost angelic, but the sedative would soon wear off. After a brief wait, a slight murmur reached his ears; one eye began to tear open. As his grandfather used to say, ‘death was just around the corner, one should always be prepared,’ though he doubted his grandfather had meant it in quite the same manner.

With a deep sigh, he inserted a trocar into the femoral vein to drain the body, then moved to insert another into her brachial artery to introduce the chemical mixture. The art of embalming was one so few had the opportunity to experience, to appreciate. Apparently, she was not in an appreciative mood.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

Damned Words 15

December 29, 2015March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 21 Comments

Rusted Relics
Jon Olson

Are they gone? The Creepers I mean? Fuck that was close. Too close. Shit, they almost got me. Cold-blooded bastards. They’re most active in the sun, yet you ventured out in daylight. We can’t take any more chances; there are so few of us left now. At one time, we were many; powerful and dominant. Then the Creepers came. Their war with us was quick; brutal; unrelenting; genocidal. These old war machines, these rusted relics, once a source of pride in our dominance, now gravestones of a dying civilization. Grim reminders of what we were and of what we’ve become.

Delirium
Zack Kullis

Delirium from the dehydration twisted his worst memory to the sweetest- the blood. The fall into the abandoned coal pulverizer broke his back and legs, but the compound fracture in his left leg covered his face with blood. Warm, wet blood. What had once been nausea was now thirst and desperation.

Upside down, he raised the jagged piece of iron with his last bit of strength and plunged it into his gut, and salvation flowed with damnation. He gulped savagely until something plugged the wound. His fury turned to gluttony, for he had found something meaty to eat as well.

Footsteps
Magenta Nero

I hear footsteps approaching with a dull, heavy thud. Always the same footsteps. Big boots with steel capped heels. I squeeze further back into the black corner. I shun the light that streaks through the bars in a fan of gleaming dust. The footsteps stop. There’s a rustle of paper. He hurls it into my cell; a sandwich. Always the same; a thin slice of processed meat between heavily buttered white bread. It lands in a puddle of dirty water. I never touch them but the rats do. They will come during the night, squeaking as they crawl through the bars.

Laughter
Christopher A. Liccardi

The smelling salts brought him back to his situation and the clarity of the thing in front of him. His hands ached; pinned overhead with the dagger. His thick calf muscle screamed. He was with the other woman, then…

“Rumor has it, you like to fuck. Me too.” His wife’s voice tittered as she stepped into the light. The thing’s steel finger bore down, tearing flesh from bone. Pain exploded in to him. He could see her in the gloom, licking her lips and laughing.

In the end, it wasn’t the agony, but her laughter escorting him to his death.

God-Given Seed
Thomas Brown

We tried everything but they kept coming. Nothing would drive them off except when Pa took to the fields. “Don’t play in the corn,” he’d say. We’d watch from the first-floor window, scythe bobbing, glinting in the light, scattering the birds like dark clouds into the sky.

When Pa died, there was no stopping them. We went hungry that year. The one afterwards we brought him back. Sticks and straw, all trussed up high, old scythe stitched to his paw. Now the birds are the least of our worries. “Don’t play in the corn,” he’d say. We keep well clear.

Of A New Age
Joseph A. Pinto

We are all as one, she said, and the great wheelwork spun behind her eyes. It bore into me, that horrible flaking of rust, the anguished drumming of the mechanism she was, and still, I would have followed her anywhere. Into the mouth of the machine, she said. Yes, into the mouth of madness. I cuffed my sleeves and exhaled, watching her shudder like an awakening beast as she gathered steam. She was right. We are all as one. I closed my eyes and finally, surrendered. Extending my hand, she took me, and shorn me as she had been shorn.

Sufferance
Nina D’Arcangela

It churned along, belching foul, oily smoke into the already smothered atmosphere. Where it roamed, nothing was left; not animal, nor tree, or blade of grass – it consumed all. Nothing could withstand the creature’s path. Many generations had passed since we’d lived without fear of this demon; it was a constant in our world. We’d heard rumor of its approach, rumors we’d heard before; this one proved itself true. Crouched in our burrow, we watched in terror as the gnashing iron teeth approached. Just a few feet more – the end so very near. Call me coward, but I welcomed it.

Chomp
Blaze McRob

Metal scrapes against metal, hastening the demise of the already deteriorating structure. From inside the darkened crevices they wake, ready to finish their job. Rust calls to them, sounding a dinner gong. Already, the transformation is happening. Not much of the infrastructure built by humans remains; not many of them remain. Chomp, chomp, chomp. Those who have eaten more than their share are now becoming the eaten. There is no place left for them to hide.

An unlucky one walks beneath the girder at the wrong time. The rust eaters have done their job. The flesh eaters now do theirs.

The Pit
Craig McGray

They’d done it for decades, maybe even centuries. Each full moon, the elders gathered the chosen and brought them to the pit. Eager and naïve, the chosen were led into the forest with hopes of a promising future, dreams of becoming one of the guardians to protect the clan from evil intruders who would dare take them from their home and destroy their way of life. However, true evil comes from within and the elders were pure evil, through and through. Once inside the pit, true intentions were revealed and the elders feasted on the pure innocence of the weak.

Relics of the Old World
Tyr Kieran

Massive machines moored in ancient soil, now unearthed to behold—such barbaric contraptions of whirring gears, sharp slicing appendages, and explosive, rotating turrets. Their victims’ screams and spilled blood now nothing more than faded memories and miniscule footnotes in historical annuals. Moving metal warriors left to rust. Their purpose of aligning world views and beliefs through slaughter, has been long forgotten. But, such effective devices they were! Nothing unifies like fear and power. These sleeping giants, abandoned in their finest hours, have endured. They lie silent… simply waiting for new marching orders. Well, I say, “Rise, and unify us again!”

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2015
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

What’s Inside

December 22, 2015December 19, 2015 ~ Christopher A Liccardi ~ 33 Comments

“Did you do it, did you open that thing?” William asked. Shelly was sitting on a splintered tree that had fallen during the storm. She didn’t take her eyes off the box. She’d been holding on to it since the storm.

“Not yet, but I want to open it. Don’t you think I should? I want to see what’s inside,” she whimpered.

Shelly found the black box, with its weird writing and odd symbols while they were digging through the debris. What they found was this ancient relic Shelly had inherited from her mother.

From the second she touched the box, she’d been unable to do more than sit, cradling it like an injured child. She hadn’t eaten or slept much in days and wouldn’t leave it long enough to go with William to the shelter.

“Honey, you need to put that damn thing down and get some food. You’re gonna get sick. I can watch it for you so nothing happens to it.” William pleaded with her. He didn’t want to take it away, but he was getting nervous.

After the storm, the plan was to find a shelter that would take them in until they could move what little there was to his sister’s place. Then Shelly found the box and didn’t want to leave.

“I’m not very hungry. You can go without me, Will. I’ll be fine sitting here,” she said, her voice hollow and distant.

William felt the wind pick up but the moving air was no comfort. The temperature had gone up ten degrees and he feared another storm was on its way.

“Shelly, we should get inside somewhere before the weather kicks up again. Look at the clouds. What if we take it with us?”

Shelly answered, but not in words. She began cooing at the box and caressing it. She had her back turned and he couldn’t see the look on her face. William walked around to the front of the tree where she was sitting. “I want to stay here, Willie. It wants me to stay here,” she finally moaned in an odd, baby doll voice.

Her eyes had a sunken-in look and her skin was gaunt on her diminished frame. Had it only been a few days since she’d eaten? “Shelly?” He touched her arm, but she was a statue.

The wind picked up and it began to rain. William knew staying any longer was a bad idea. It might already be too late to get far enough away but he hadn’t heard the air raid siren go yet. Maybe the storm would be fast and blow itself out, but they wouldn’t survive without some cover. The debris from the last storm whirled, leaving cuts all over his exposed skin. He barely noticed.

“Baby, we need to get out of here, now!” he shouted. It had grown so dark that even the short space between them was like looking through black ink.

“I can’t leave yet. It’s about to open and show me what it’s been hiding,” she said, in that spooky baby doll voice again. “You’re going to want to see this, Will.”

Her fingers stopped caressing the lid and began to lift one corner. The light escaping the box was dim as Shelly wormed her finger deeper, making the space between the lid and the box bigger.

The light brightened and William realized that as the light intensified, so did the storm. Dawning recognition hit him. The storm hadn’t come from the plains; it was that damned box. Shelly was letting it out of the box.

“Shelly, no!” William shouted as he leapt forward. He was going to slam the lid back down on that thing before it killed them both. She might lose a finger, but…

He reached for her, grabbing for the box and trying to push the lid back in place. Shelly turned slightly at the sound of his voice and the box slipped from her lap. She began to shriek.

William tried to ignore the pain he heard and made for the box as it hit the ground. It skidded away in the mud. The lid popped up for a moment and the wind matched her screams. Then, it closed and the storm puffed out instantly.

He looked at Shelly to see if she was alright but she was sliding limply from her seat on to her knees.

“Shelly, are you okay? Oh my god, Shelly,” William cried out, trying to catch her. He didn’t want her to smash her head on any of the fallen debris. Everywhere he looked, he saw sharp gouging death winking up at him.

Shelly crumpled into a ball and collapsed before he could reach her. He screamed at the sound of her head and face slapping the wet earth. She twitched once, violently, then was still.

William lurched forward onto his knees, heedless of the glass cutting in to him. He reached under her wet hair, wanting to see if she was alive, but something bit into his hand.

William pulled his hand away, screaming and holding it to his chest. He had squeezed it shut instinctively, and now he could see blood pooling in the spaces where his last two fingers should have been.

Shelly lay forgotten for a moment as he held his hand to his face. The missing digits hadn’t registered just yet. It felt like hot iron was being poured over the place where his fingers had been. He clapped his other hand over the stumps and searing pain bolted down his arm. He thought he was going to vomit right there, watching the blood rush through his fingers.

When he realized she could have fallen on whatever just cut him, he snapped.

“Shelly!” he yelled. Was something gnawing at his wife while he knelt there nursing his own horrible injury? The shock of being bitten was almost too much.

He pulled his shirt over his head to wrap around his hand. When he looked down, she was no longer lying on the wet ground. It took him a moment to realize that she had moved a few feet away. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

She was sitting with the box in her lap again, caressing the lid. Her face had a twisted, horrified look that he had never seen on any human before.

“Shelly,” he asked, trying to keep his feet.

“You shouldn’t have taken it from me, Will. It doesn’t want you to touch it.” She looked up at William with a demented, hateful grin. William’s heart skipped a beat.

“What are you doing Shelly,” William asked. He moved in closer to her.

“I can’t stop myself, Willie,” she said. He could see the outright terror on her face. The look stopped him in his tracks.

“Baby?”

For a long moment, Shelly sat, staring blankly back at her husband. Her fingers had stopped on one corner of the lid.

Finally, she smiled again. It was part Shelly and part whatever evil had taken hold of her in the last six days.

“I can’t, William…” She trailed off. William relaxed a bit. Then he watched in horror as she ripped the lid off the box all at once.

“SHELLY…” his voice ending in a blood-curdling scream.

Shelly laughed, in that spooky baby doll voice. She stood and stepped blindly into that darkness.

~ Christopher A. Liccardi

The Game of Life

December 15, 2015December 15, 2015 ~ Tyr Kieran ~ 35 Comments

Beads of sweat emphasized the early night’s chill along his exposed neck and brow. The Policeman stood on their stoop, shifting his weight as much for warmth as from impatience. After a few brisk moments, a man answered the door.

“Oh… hello, Officer,” the homeowner said, greeting him with large, hesitant eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Sir,” the officer replied. “We have a criminal on the run in this neighborhood, so for everyone’s safety, we’re performing house to house searches. Would you mind?”

“No, not at all. Please, come in.” The man stepped back and ushered the policeman into his home.

The house was warm and full of light. Two faces peered at him from an adjoining dinning room. The officer could smell Christmas dinner before he saw the mouthwatering spread.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “We’re just taking precautions.”

Then, turning to the father, he asked in a hushed tone, “Is there anyone else in the house?”

The man shook his head, “No, no one.”

The officer nodded and turned back to the family, “Please carry on with your meal. I won’t be long.”

Wide eyes followed the officer as he stalked down the hall, hand on his pistol, weapon at the ready. Room by room, he searched and after a few moments, he confirmed the house was clear.

Returning to the dining area, Officer Mitcheltree stood for a moment. He watched the holiday scene—the small, happy family sharing home cooked food that clung to their souls, laughing as they created a memory for future cherishment; bad puns spoken over poured gravy and steaming roast turkey nestled snug against blended potatoes and acceptable gluttony.

Watching the interaction, hearing the high-pitched innocence of their young daughter, nearly caused the officer to flinch.

The mother was the first to notice the police officer standing there. “Is… everything alright, Officer?”

A silent moment passed, his non-reply thickening the tension in the air.

“W—would you like to join us for dinner?” the father asked.

Sweat collected along the cop’s chin and dripped to the floor. His gaze lingered on each member of the family, their kind offer drowned out by the hammering of his own heartbeat.

With each passing second, concern and confusion creased their expressions further.

Officer Mitcheltree raised his gun, pointing the weapon point blank at the father’s head. Half-lidded eyes unfurled into wide disbelieving orbs. Before any of them could do more than inhale, the officer pulled the trigger.

Blood, skull fragments, and gray matter splattered the table, desecrating the partially carved turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, holiday linens, and the terrified faces. A scream hurled free from the mother’s throat, but the gun’s second bullet deprived her lament of its longevity, jolting her head backward with such force that it dislocated vertebrae in her neck. Dangling, her head hung at an unnatural angle.

When the young girl’s gaze shifted from her dead mother back to the murderous police officer through the haze of fresh tears and fading gun smoke, she found the weapon pointed at her.

Her eyes climbed the barrel to meet his. Tears streamed down their cheeks in unison. The officer squeezed his eyes shut as he squeezed the trigger for the third time.

His face contorted as the hard-clamped humorless grin broke open under the pressure of raw emotion. A loud, guttural yell seemed to burst from every pore, reverberating throughout his body. He fell to his hands and knees and wept in oxygen-starved fits. Many minutes passed until he managed a semblance of composure.

Electronic music chimed from his waist.

He fished a cell phone from his pocket and looked down at the screen:‘Unknown. No Caller ID’.

Officer Mitcheltree touched the answer prompt and waited.

Neither party spoke. Soft sounds of calm breathing and a distant, continuous rumble came across the line – nothing else.

“It’s done,” the officer said, breaking the stalemate. Then, as he fought back another bought of emotion with gritted teeth, he added, “A life for a life.”

“Hmm… Show me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Now, now, Officer Mitcheltree. Be civil.”

“Civil? I did what you asked, now give me back my family, you son of a bitch!” the officer said, spitting into the phone.

“Of course, but first, I need proof of your efforts.”

The officer opened the camera app on his phone and snapped a photo of the morbid scene, then sent it to the number provided.

“I see,” the voice on the other end said. “A life for a life it shall be. We can finalize our exchange in the bowels of Reformation Chapel.”

The policeman’s eyes shifted back and forth as he dug through his memory.

“The abandoned chapel off Farmstead Road? That’s two hours outside of town!”

“And if you hurry, you’ll arrive just in time.”

“Just in time for what?” the officer shouted, but the call had already ended.

***

Officer Mitcheltree stalked down the steps of the old chapel. With the aid of flashing lights and a wailing siren, he was able to make the trek with six minutes to spare; the use of caution was now an option. Gun raised, he reached the bottom to find a narrow walk-through pantry that opened up to a larger room. He padded across the shelf-lined hallway, his eyes searching for movement.

Entering the main room, the officer stalked to the table at its center while twisting and turning to check for threats. The room was still, silent, hot.

He wiped sweat from his brow with a quick brush of his forearm.

“Where are you?” He shouted. “Where’s my family?”

No answer came except for the echo of his own desperate pleas and the clanking of mason jars as he bumped into the table.

Electronic music chimed from his hip.

Again, the screen read: ‘Unknown. No Caller ID’.

Officer Mitcheltree answered the call, “Where’s my family?”

“I have returned them to you in accordance with our arrangement.”

The cop whirled around, searching for his wife and daughter, but there was still no sign of them. “No more games! Where are they?”

“Your answer is on the table.”

Mitcheltree wiped the sweat from his eyes and inspected the items on the table. At first glance, they seemed nothing more than simple canning supplies left out from when the pantry was in operation many years ago, but focused attention revealed that they weren’t covered in dust. One large Mason jar was sealed and full of a gray powdered substance. The other was significantly smaller, open and empty—unused.

The policeman picked up the large jar, hoping to find a note or some kind of clue, but there was nothing else on the table but the two jars. As he brought the phone back up to his ear, prepared to unleash a flurry of threats, something caught his eye.

A piece of masking tape labeled the far side of the tall jar. He read the name as he turned it in his hands, “Mrs. Mitcheltree & Daughter.”

“What the Fuck is this?” he said, breathing the words into the phone—his chest suddenly feeling hotter than the rest of him, his throat tightening. He put the jar down with a loud thunk and backed away.

“A life for a life, Officer.” the kidnapper stated firmly. “I asked for life. A life to save a life. You misinterpreted and provided death.”

The cop’s head swam, the room began to spin; the heat not helping his focus. He stumbled further away from the table. That’s when he spotted the small metal door in the opposite wall. The source of all the heat—a crematory.

“You misunderstood my request, Officer Mitcheltree. You chose death. You killed your family.”

“Oh, God. No!” the policeman cried out; reeling. He fell backward into the shelves. Glass jars clanked together. He turned on instinct; looked with wavering vision at the objects before him.

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one who’s made that mistake.”

Shelf after shelf carried large ash-filled Mason jars with masking tape labels. He couldn’t quite make out the letters, but he knew they were names. Then, he realized each one was paired with a smaller jar also filled and labeled.

“I have a lovely collection, don’t you think?”

This time, the voice echoed—sounding in both ears.

The policeman turned and the last thing he saw was a smiling face and a descending sledgehammer.

~ Tyr Kieran

Raw

December 8, 2015December 10, 2015 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 49 Comments

I pound my torn fists against the sides of this box, but the effort is useless – there is no escaping oneself. Scratching, clawing, chewing a splinter I manage to create in my mad scrambling does no good; I simply ravage myself further. Bloody and raw, I fill with a pressure that threatens to burst from my haggard being, further tainting this polluted soul.

There is no escape from the crushing weight of my prison. I beg to be saved from the anguish in which I languor; but there is no salvation, not for me; not for one so undeserving, uncherished, unloved. There is only the false glimmer of light, one my inner demon allows me to glimpse for his enjoyment and my unrelenting torture.

Scuffed, scrapped, tattered and torn, a thing not palatable to another, I slide to my knees; a pile of rent flesh brutalized by the walls surrounding me. I clutch at the only thing I have left, a scrap of sanity, but my fingers… they no longer close. A wail erupts from my stricken lungs; my raw throat bellows a croon no one will ever hear.

My demon laughs; he finds my anguish a great delight. I am a toy to be played with, a thing of distraction, a means to pass the eternity in which he will dwell within me. I cannot escape him, though I try – all the more to his amusement. He watches me struggle in futility, basks in the restriction of breath that bands my burning lungs. He hears my silent shriek of agony, licks the salty tears that streak my filth-ridden face. He is my tormentor, he is my keeper, he is my salvation – though he shall never grant it.

The walls of this box are by now a forest of splinters; it matters not where I lay for comfort, I find none – there is only jagged surface to be sought here. This prison so impenetrable, no other shall ever glimpse it, nor shall I ever be released from it. I have no false hope, only a fool would hope for mercy from such a thing. Though I am a fool, I am not that fool…

Awash in a pool of my own shattered dreams, I find no blame other than mine to own. My demon chuckles as he reminds me this box is of my own design, made impregnable by my own failings.

Yet still, I rub my ragged and blood caked palm along the shreds of wall hoping to find the smallest fissure, a mere crack, any sign that can offer even the falsest of hope that someday I will break free – but there is none. There never has been.

In this box, I see my deepest desires turn to dust; my most cherished dreams die; my fate sealed forever. I find my demon observing my anguish, relishing the unending torture of my most exquisite pain. Here, I am me – I am this quivering thing that lies upon the floor begging for a mercy that will never come; beseeching my demon for a small measure of what others are granted, but I shall never have. I am destined to scrape and scratch and gnaw at this unyielding pen that is minuscule in breadth, yet without end.

Why will it not swallow me and put to rest this pathetic shadow of my former self? Consume me, I beg of it, but it will not. What use am I to the box if it has no grief from which to feed; no pain left to color its darkened walls; no feather to pluck while my remnants jerk in concert?

My demon wants me locked in this box for an eternity, perhaps because it seeks the same as I do – a measure of level tolerance. It lives a lone existence, my demon, though I believe it was meant to, whereas I am meant for more. I am meant to be free from this punji-ridden hell of despair…

Another false hope I harbor; another path to mental decay I shall have to avoid for as long as I can. One more shattered reality in a world filled with tightly sealed boxes. Yet without these boxes, would I not be only an empty shell? Another harsh reality to be born on the back of so many others I wish were not mine. But the lie told that all is just, is just that – a lie. With each whispered falsehood the box containing my soul shrinks further, the desperate pitch of my moaning crescendos grander, the laughter of my demon grows stronger; a promise that one day, I will succumb to this crippling madness.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

Payback

December 1, 2015March 7, 2018 ~ blazemcrob ~ 23 Comments

The afterbirth sits still in the bottom of the coffin, a mixture of bone and stale blood. Bolt after bolt of lightning rip through the evening sky, illuminating the scene, and casting an eerie pall upon the torn asunder remnants of what had, only moments before, been a resting place for a vile woman. Rats, drawn to the scene by the musty pungency of decayed clothing and fresh bones to gnaw on, frolic around, their whiskers twitching in delight. Not even the deafening roar of the thunder scares them off.

Mists weave through the graveyard and play their games of here one second, gone the next. They are on a search . . . a search of seeming randomness. Random to them perhaps, but there is cause and effect at work here.

At the edge of the cemetery, the house waits in eager anticipation of welcoming its new owner. Perhaps new is not the best choice of wordage. Five years is a long time. A lot can happen; a lot has happened. Renewal is approaching.

The old timbers sing a song of allegiance to the one who was the mistress of everything surrounding her, their oak cacophony of weathered groans added to the still settling of the house within the confines of the foundation, twisted and bent from many years of use.

Evil use.

Dust lingers everywhere in the basement, some entrapped within the spider webs dwelling in every corner and extending well out into the room, the masters of the web feeling safe when the son of the mistress was in residence here. He never ventured down to the dark, dank places where his mother had held court. Always . . . always, there was the fear of what was down there in his mind.

Screams implanted in the basement walls tell a story more vividly than any book possibly could. The still bloodied torture devices share the dried crimson with the rest of the room, the light produced from the storm above penetrating through the dingy windows and forcing a tapestry of visual elements, seamlessly interwoven in a constant state of flux. Creeping shadows waltz between the walls and the room proper, visiting everything, pulled along by memories of what transpired here. Only when the sky is dark and the lights are off do they jostle for some substance against the realities of what once were in this debased cavern of Satanic jurisdiction.

***

Blood pours from the gash giving life to her son many years ago, and her reincarnation of moments before, sliding down her legs and, hastened by the pouring rain, mixes with the wet soil, the mud becoming a churning mix of red and dark loam, the stench of copper pushing away the odor of ozone from the maelstrom of fury launched from the skies. Night crawlers slip through the mess in vain, either killed by the toxic mixture they wiggle through or by the crushing death delivered by the feet of the woman above them as she stumbles towards the house ahead of her.

“Every step is closer to my healing,” she thinks. “I can rest when I return home. I must. There is much to be done when the Master returns.”

There is electricity in the air, but it is not merely from the storm. Power surrounds everything for miles. Once again, the possession of control over all that dwells within this backwoods bastion of separation from the rest of the world is due to shift.

***

Foot falls plant themselves on the dark steps – something of substance, but bereft of visual acuity – and trudge upstairs. A heavy door is opened, leading to a place well implanted in the conscious awareness of the house.

A fireplace springs to life on its own, like an entity of flame bearing reason and purpose, and spreads its light throughout the vast living room, one large enough to have held large gatherings of believers from the old days. Soon . . . soon, it will again.

Books are ripped from the shelves of the book cases in the study and tossed into the corner. Invisible hands replace them with new books, those with strange symbols on their old leather covers and covered with inscriptions like none of the books removed. The light from the fireplace in the other room finds its way through the open door and causes the casting of dancing shadows on the walls and ceilings.

The door slams shut and heavy feet walk across the rough-hewn wood floor. The cushions of the recliner sitting directly opposite the roaring fire take on a sunken appearance as the chair groans under a heavy weight. Still, nothing or no one can be seen in the room. Slowly, the chair reclines and a contented cackle emanates from the fabric covering of the worn recliner.

Spirals of flame dance about, high one second and lower the next. Orange and yellows intermix with the occasional red – his favorite. Always, the flames ignite thought in his mind, those not welcomed by the common rabble, those not part of the new path.

He sits and waits . . . waits for the next piece of his intricate plan to fall into place. Patience is his.

***

With each step taken, she gains strength, knowing deep within her dark soul that the last five years will not have been in vain. A test. To get stronger, one must suffer. She has done that, and more.

Dying vegetation spreads out from the path she takes towards the house. She is the center of a circle with an ever enlarging diameter, one of death and decay. Grass withers and dies, in spite of the nourishing rain beating down. Trees raise their branches in homage to a God above who is deaf to their supplications. Their leaves shrink and fall as the limbs look like skeletons picked apart by voracious bugs intent on consuming every tasty morsel available to them.

Silence from the animal life occurs as a migration of survival sets in, much like rats scurrying down a rope from a ship tied to a dock, knowing ahead of time that the vessel is doomed and will float no longer. If only humans had the good sense that these creatures have. But they don’t, do they?

At long last, she sees light coming from her house. Her son must have left the lights on for her. “How considerate,” she thinks.

Reaching the porch, she drags her naked body up the railing and is two steps from the top when all light vanishes from the house. Wicked laughter calls out to her . . .

***

The door is unlocked, and she pushes gently against it, hoping for the best but not knowing what’s going on. Not only is the interior of the house dark, but there is no light outside, as well. It is beyond dark: there are no shades of gray coming from the corners where the black resides; there are no shades of black even; there is only the darkest black.

Trying to recall where everything is arranged in the house, she hugs the wall when she gets inside and slowly navigates around the perimeter of the living room. Still not completely in charge of all her senses, her balance is off – enough to cause her to bump into things . . . things that are not placed where she remembers them to have been. Damn kid anyway!

Of course, what should she expect by now? He wouldn’t have left the house exactly the way it was. The way he felt about her, he certainly would not have wanted a shrine left in her house. Why had he stayed, anyway? He should have left, if not only for his sake.

The light switch she comes to just before the door to the study does nothing when she flicks it. Damn! The power went out. Now what? She can’t see a thing. Does she find a chair and wait it out? No, no! A bed would be better.

It’s not her bed she finds when she gets to the bedroom. Bob moved hers out when she died. Probably all her furniture too. She’ll find out once she wakes. Hopefully there will be some light by then.

Her son’s bed is king sized. The fucking weasel was never a king in her mind. He was always lacking: he never had the spunk to do what was expected of him. It matters not now; it never mattered. As in the predestination beliefs of Calvin and his followers, so did it apply to her son. Certainly not from any Christian viewpoint, but from that of the Master.

Bob’s life, and death , as well as hers, went according to plans. And now, everything will evolve to the next level.

She slides beneath the blankets, dragging the mud, raindrops still plastering her body, and the blood still pouring from her vagina, along with her. Cold . . . the cold from being buried for five years in the damp, chilling confines of her coffin, not even the waterproof wadding able to make things any more hospitable for her, is still deeply rooted within her bones. Every worm working through her body, tearing flesh away from bone, is felt as she tries to find a place of comfort. The blood and flesh of her son rejuvenated her, but the bones are still hers. And the bones are cold.

Shadows move about her, not visible within the dark, but they are there none-the-less. Pressure pushes out from the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Especially the floor. The damned beings remaindered to their next incarnate still roam there, their souls refusing to leave.

And their souls are hungry . . . hungry for revenge.

Damn! If only I had the strength to repel these bastards. Force them down to the basement where they belong, she thinks.

But her strength is not what she needs to send them back. Soon enough. For now, she needs to rest.

Light floods her room, courtesy of the open door of the bedroom, coming from the living room. She slips her weary body from the bed to see what’s going on. She had heard nothing to indicate that anyone had entered the house. What . . . what is happening?

The flames in the fireplace dance about eerily, telling her a story, one without words. Shadows cavort around freely, their multi shades of blacks and grays, crawling throughout the entire room. Heavy pressure surrounds her, getting close then retreating, only to get closer and closer, the game not wanting to find closure.

Demonic laughter surrounds her from every corner, from behind every piece of furniture, causing her to drop to her knees from the pain coursing through her brain.

“Come on, Dottie. What’s wrong?” a voice shouts out. “You’ve been waiting five years for this moment to come. Surely a little mixture of dark and light can’t stay you from your zeal.”

“Master! Master! You have returned to me. I am ready to serve you.”

“Yes, Dottie, but what about that ingrate son of yours? His body, consumed by your soul and bones, has given you life eternal, but his soul. What about his soul?”

She stares at the Master and shakes in fear. Damn! His soul . . . his soul is still wandering. Even now, I can feel him.

“Yes, Dottie, his soul is still loose. It never entered my kingdom, and I know he wasn’t pure enough to walk through any Pearly Gates.”

He grabs her hand and drags her out the door, out once more into the pouring rain. The intensity of the lightning increases the closer they get to the cemetery.

“You will help me find his soul, Dottie. Then you can take your place at my side. Not a moment before. Call to him! Call to him now.”

Evil pleadings are carried through the moisture laden air, but nothing happens. There are no returned calls of longing or even acknowledgement. All that can be heard are the sounds of the storm all around her.

***

Bob relives the moment again; his mother drawing him back into her dead body; the incredible pain as his entire frame was forced through her vagina; the tearing apart of flesh and organs, everything going to supply new life for his mother at the same time his was forced out of him. The agony and pain remain within his soul, the torture embedded in his mind.

His mother and Satan get ever closer to where he sits on his mother’s tombstone. He raises his hands up to the sky and feels the power surrounding him.

“Payback’s a bitch!” he shouts . . .

~ Blaze McRob

4:09

November 24, 2015November 24, 2015 ~ jonolsonauthor ~ 16 Comments

The elevator lurches to a stop on the fifth floor and the orderly leads me out as the doors swish open. It’s always quiet up here. The carpeted floors, potted plants and framed paintings on the walls almost make you forget that you’re in a mental institution.

Dr. Quill’s office is the last door on the left at the far end of the hall. Harold guides me down; his hand gently gripping my elbow. In the five-plus years I’ve been here, the orderly has always been decent to me.

We stop in front of Dr. Quill’s door.

There are nice, stained-wood doors up here, while we’re stuck with steel ones painted a sterilizing grey.

Harold checks his watch and at precisely 4:00pm, he knocks.

“Come in, please.” Dr. Quill’s voice is faint and gentle.

Harold turns the knob and pushes the door open.

Dr. Quill’s windowless office appears smaller than it actually is thanks to four large book shelves that dominate the far wall. Each shelf is lined with expensive looking medical encyclopedias and I wonder if he’s even read one of them. There are two fake potted plants in the corners to my left and right.

The good doctor is standing behind his desk, smiling.

“Good afternoon, Xavier,” he says.

“Hello.”

Dr. Quill nods to Harold who turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Quill says, gesturing to the single chair in front of his desk.

I take him up on his offer and sit. The chair has always been surprisingly comfortable.

“How are you feeling today, Xavier?” he asks, pulling his chair closer by the arm rests. A yellow pad of lined paper sits on his desk with his expensive pens. He takes the cap off one of them and holds the pen in his hand, ready to write.

I smile. “Fantastic.”

“And why is that?”

“Today is the day that all of this ends.”

He begins scrawling his notes on the pad. “All of what ends, Xavier? Our sessions?”

“Everything.”

More scrawls. “What time will this occur?”

“4:09.”

Dr. Quill stops writing and looks at his watch, then back up at me. His glasses are resting on the end of his nose and he has to tilt his head down to look over them at me. “That’s a precise time… and so soon.”

“He’s waited long enough and sees no point in delaying his arrival any longer.”

“You are referring to…”

“Sredna.”

“So Sredna is coming at 4:09?”

I nod. “I’ve told you all about him week in and week out for the last five years. I’ve been his conduit and you still don’t believe that he exists, do you?”

“He’s real to you.”

I giggle. “Very soon he will be real to you too, Doc.”

“What will happen when he gets here?”

“He will eat our reality.”

“You say it so matter-of-fact.”

“It’s what he does.”

Dr. Quill writes some more in his notes and is about to speak when he hears it.

A low hum that’s very faint but we both register it. My fillings begin to tingle and my heart beats faster.

He is coming.

A high-pitched shriek cuts through the air and all of the light bulbs explode in a shower of sparks. Dr. Quill jumps back, letting out a cry of surprise as the entire room is thrown into blackness.

It’s 4:09.

“Don’t worry, Xavier. The emergency lights will kick in any minute.”

His voice is muffled and seems far away. I cannot see him anymore in this blackness.

The blackness is moving, almost wriggling with no distinct shape.

Sredna.

I notice my skin is burning. The pain is excruciating yet I don’t scream as Sredna fills my mouth, rendering it useless. My skin dissolves, exposing muscle tissue and it too is quickly eaten away.

In what I can only guess to be a matter of seconds, the burning subsides and then…

…there is nothing.

Just Sredna.

~ Jon Olson

New Breed

November 17, 2015November 12, 2015 ~ Veronica M.Nero ~ 17 Comments

I was born twice. Once in my own world, of which I recall very little, and once again by a human vessel. My consciousness was merged with human seed and implanted in a hot womb of thriving tissue.  Perhaps those months spent within my human host are the most enjoyable in my memory. No one could reach me there. I was happy, alone, protected and silent; safe from the Fathers and not yet privy to the horrors of this Earth. Nourishment was instant. I desired nothing, much like the state I once enjoyed in my homeland. Then came the time to be expelled and no matter how much I refused, the imperative of the human body was unstoppable. I was squeezed in the most undignified way through a narrow canal, my skull and limbs crushed by straining muscles.

Deformed and coated in human slime, I arrived on this planet. I screeched in terror, in outrage. The humans smiled, their faces glazed with ignorance. They were so proud of themselves and so smitten with me, as if I really was their very own creation.

I once met another like myself. This never occurs, it was no coincidence. It was a warning, to teach me a lesson.

He appeared to be a well dressed business man. We passed each other on the street, then we both stopped and turned back to stare at one another. He looked around anxiously. He dropped his briefcase and grabbed my arms.

“Free yourself!” he hissed. “Use the humanity to mask yourself!”

He revealed his true eyes to me, the pupils stretched to long slits, the colour of the iris drained away. I looked at him helplessly and recognised the burden cast upon us, this human suffering we are made to bear. I felt his fingers morph as they clutched me, stretching and curling into long grey digits.

There was so much I wanted to ask him but I couldn’t utter a sound and our meeting was swiftly ended. He coughed, buckled and seized, his skin began to smoke and burn, the smell of it revolting. I felt his excruciating pain and together we screamed. Still clutching me he melted like wax, his body folding upon itself, bones and organs exposed for a moment before disintegrating. I stared as his sizzling remains, my clothes stained with his dripping flesh.

I was on a busy street; humans rushed past me, unaware as usual. Blind, deaf and dumb to the reality around them. I couldn’t make sense of the emotions coursing through me.  Is this madness? I wondered, Can I succumb to the weaknesses of the human mind?

***

I have been sent here as many before me were sent and many more will follow. We live among you while your governments shoot their toy rocket ships into space. We are here beside you as you stare into the night sky pondering extraterrestrials. You are infantile, primitive creatures. My Fathers recognise your wealth even if you do not. The rich earth you live upon and the unique consciousness and bodies you possess, there is much on your planet for them to reap and therefore they sow. Each generation is a little less human as we assimilate your genes.

Their grand design and agenda, that I can’t disclose for I don’t know myself. I serve as countless others serve. I receive my instructions one at a time and everything that occurs in this human life I inhabit is preordained, I have no free will to gamble with.

I have jumped through all the hoops; school, work, family. I have upheld an identity, a personality. All these things I have endured, as well as any real human, for the sake of the Fathers. Every day I wonder, is my service finally complete? Will I soon be able to vacate this form? Perhaps tomorrow a car will crush me or I will be shot in the street or better still, I will be given the directive to do it myself. I would gladly poison this body, laughing as it twitched and jerked to its demise. I daydream about slashing wrists and broken necks. I would revel in the torture of this soft, sensual jail. I have never become fully accustomed to it. It accomplishes things in such slow, inefficient ways, victim to the savage torment of time as it gradually breaks down like a tired machine. The chewing and digestion of food, defecating and urinating, the putrid mess of sexual intercourse; it is perverse.

***

My swelling womb stretched my stomach to obscene proportions. I was smooth, round and ripe, ready to burst; pregnant. For the first time I felt fear, what more will the Fathers demand of me?

The man who is my husband was happy in the simple manner of humans. He served me tea, stuffing more pillows around me, propping me up like the doll I am. He rattled on about possible names for the offspring and how we should decorate the nursery.

Bloated like a rotting thing, I was more disgusted by this body than ever before. A grim depression overcame me. It was then I realized there is no higher purpose for me to fulfill. I am simply here to propagate for the Fathers.

My human husband said, “Cheer up darling, everything will be fine!”

I wobbled to the window and looked up at the night sky. Beyond those faint twinkling stars, an inconceivable distance away in human time, is my home. I close my eyes and try to remember the serene cities of my planet, free of all artifice and decoration, cold, simple, perfect; the identical faces of my clan – nothing was random in my world, nothing was superfluous, life thrived in geometric precision; and I remember the wars, thousands slaughtered in one breath by intergalactic beings more powerful and merciless than us.

***

The bone stretching contractions, the violent spasms cracking this body open. A spine buckling possession. No amount of screaming alleviated the torment, it was a grueling marathon to the brink of human endurance.

“Don’t give it to me!” I shrieked when they handed me the writhing little monster.

It looked so perfectly human; its skin pink, its eyes blue. But I can feel its ancient power. It is one of my kind, much older and stronger than I have ever known.

At first I tried to kill it. Surely its fragile body would be easy to kill? I bashed its little skull on the floor. I tried to smother it, to drown it. But it survived unscathed while I was struck down with pain.

It doesn’t stop howling until I bring it to my breast. It latches on and sucks greedily, the little leech. I cry the strange salt of human tears as I realize it is not over for me, it has only just begun. I am a mother of the new breed. I will grow old and wrinkled and die a tedious human death while this hybrid creature will flourish and conquer, favored by evolution. My baby stares up at me and gurgles innocently, drooling from its perfect rosebud lips.

~ Magenta Nero

Bait and Switch

November 10, 2015November 9, 2015 ~ Craig McGray ~ 19 Comments

“Come on, Bobby, quit being such a mamma’s boy,” Darryl said as he held the front of the rowboat steady.

Bobby sat wringing his hands, contemplating whether he would get out of the boat and join Darryl on the rocky shoreline, or just like every other time Darryl got a wild hair up his ass, he’d stay behind and listen to Darryl’s embellishments from the adventure on his own.

Against his better judgment, Bobby stood and swallowed his nerves along with any common sense and stumbled toward the front of the boat, reaching for Darryl’s outstretched hand.

Darryl pulled Bobby onto shore and they tied the boat off to a piece of rebar protruding from one of the hunks of concrete making up the shore. “Well, well. Look who’s not being a pussy for once in his life,” Darryl said before delivering a benign punch to Bobby’s shoulder.

Darryl scurried his way up the bank of the island and after a deep breath, Bobby followed. Once on flat ground, the eeriness of Hart Island really settled in. Only a few dilapidated structures remained and the full moon only provided filtered light through the clouds. A stiff breeze blew across the island, carrying a unique and pungent odor with it.

“Come on, Bobby, try to keep up.”

Though Darryl was only 13 months older than Bobby, he had seen things that were well beyond his years. With a single mom at home who didn’t give a shit what her son was up to, Darryl was mostly on his own. Bobby’s mother had tried to be there for Darryl if he needed anything, but that wasn’t enough to keep Darryl out of trouble.

Bobby was a good kid and even though his father split when he was 7, his mom always maintained a solid relationship with him. Bobby knew at some point, he and Darryl would need to go their separate ways in life or they’d both end up either dead or in prison, but since it was Darryl’s fifteenth birthday, he figured he’d go along with him on this little adventure.

Darryl had a creepy obsession with death. Bobby’s mom said it was because he was the one who found his alcoholic, asshole of a dad dead in the basement. He’d gone down there to get hammered after losing another job and passed out on the couch. At some point during the night, he threw up and choked to death on his own vomit. Bobby had heard Darryl’s mom say it was a fitting end and he deserved to go like that. Bobby never understood why, but Darryl really missed his dad. Even though Darryl used to constantly have new bruises from his father, he continually talked about the good times they had, choosing to forget the shitty ones.

Bobby’s dad never put a finger on him that he could remember, but he hated his dad. Hated him for leaving his mom and leaving Bobby to grow up with no father.

“I can’t believe you went through with it, Bobby. I thought for sure you’d chicken shit out on me like usual.”

“Not this time, man,” Bobby said with the crackly voice of a boy just hitting his stride with puberty. “Where’re we going anyway?”

“Just over there,” he said, pointing toward a small clump of trees.

A few minutes later, the teenagers were standing under a group of overgrown trees looking out at a fog-covered field that disappeared into the darkness.

“What are we doing here?” Bobby asked.

Darryl largely ignored the question as he swung his backpack around and set it down at his feet. He unzipped and rifled through the bag before pulling a handful of supplies out and laying them on the ground. Darryl sat and began unraveling a spool of fishing line. “You know what this place is, Bobby?”

Bobby looked around before sitting next to Darryl. “Not really.” Bobby continued looking into the dark when a gust of wind marched through, clearing away a thin layer of fog. As far as Bobby could see, small tombstones jutted from the ground. “A cemetery?”

“Pretty good,” Darryl said. He grabbed a large set of scissors and pointed them at Bobby. “It is a cemetery. The largest burial ground in the world, in fact.” He snipped off a long piece of fishing line. “And do you know what else is here?” he said again, pointing the scissors toward Bobby. His voice had an edge to it that Bobby had never heard before. The tone sent a shiver rippling down his spine.

Bobby squirmed in the dirt before shaking his head and swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I’m gonna show you.” Darryl then pulled a large hunting knife out of his bag.

Bobby jumped to his feet. “Holy shit, Darryl. What’s that for?”

“I’ll show you that too,” Darryl said, grabbing Bobby’s ankle and pulling his foot from under him, causing him to slam back down to the ground. “Just relax, Bobby ol’ pal. This isn’t for you,” he said pointing the knife at him.

Bobby’s pulse hammered in his ears and he froze with fear. Darryl let go of Bobby’s ankle and pulled the front of his shirt up to reveal several old scars and a few fresh wounds. Bobby tried to scramble away but Darryl grabbed his ankle again. “Hang on. You can’t go anywhere yet.”

Bobby kicked and screamed, trying to shake Darryl’s grip but the other boy was much stronger and Bobby couldn’t get loose. “Don’t hurt me, man!”

Darryl stabbed the knife into the ground next to Bobby’s leg. “Hurt you? You’re my friend, I wouldn’t hurt you. I just want to show you something. Me and my dad used to do this all the time. It just stings for a minute.”

Bobby stopped struggling and Darryl released his leg before snatching the knife out of the ground. He again lifted his shirt and pressed the blade to his skin. He pinched a fold of skin, pulling it up before slicing off the fatty chunk. Darryl held up the hunk of flesh before reaching into his backpack again. Bobby’s stomach turned on itself and he thought he was going to heave, but he swallowed it down as Darryl shoved a fishing hook through the piece of meat. Darryl then tied one end of the line to the hook and got to his feet.

He gathered the rest of the line, leaving the hook dangling several inches from his hand, and swung the baited hook in circles before releasing it out into the graveyard. A grin crept onto his face and Bobby squeezed his eyes tight, hoping when he opened them, he’d be in his bed and this had all been some crazy dream. When he opened them though, not only was it not a dream, but someone else was standing next to Darryl.

Darryl and a shadowy figure focused intently on the darkness, the fishing line held in Darryl’s fingertips while the ominous stranger held still at his side. “I think we got one, Dad.” Darryl said.

A moment later, Darryl yanked his hand back and a gust of foul wind stormed through the area. Bobby got to his feet and turned to run but something grabbed him by the arm. Bobby tried to shake free but was unable to get out of the invisible grip. Whatever it was that had him, was dragging him back to where Darryl was trying to drag the line in.

“We got one, Bobby. Wait ’til you see this!”

Bobby continued struggling to break free but couldn’t. He was held in place while Darryl hooted and hollered, fighting something that was struggling at the end of the line. Shrieking came from the darkness followed by what sounded like a screaming woman. Bobby was released but found himself captivated by what was happening.

“Almost got it, man. Check it out. Get over here!”

Darryl’s focus was entirely on whatever he was dragging to them. Another gust of wind blew through and Bobby’s brain couldn’t comprehend what his eyes were seeing. At the end of the line, flopping like a fish that had just been pulled from the water and dropped onto the ground, was a horribly decomposed woman’s body.

“Woohoo! Look at this one, Dad!” Darryl yelled as the thing screeched and tried to crawl back into the darkness.

The silhouette next to Darryl floated erratically in the space around Darryl, floating in the sky like a kite in the wind.

Bobby looked back to the thing at the end of the line. Its flesh was mostly gone, and what remained was tattered and torn. Sinew and bone glistened in the sporadic moonlight as clouds drifted overhead, intermittently drowning the full moon’s light.

Once the thing had been brought close enough, Darryl grabbed the hunting knife from its sheath at his waistband and plunged it into what remained of the woman’s skull. Its struggle ended instantly and the figure that Darryl had called Dad settled down next to him, one of its wispy arms settling onto Darryl’s shoulder.

Darryl turned to Bobby with a look of complete satisfaction and elation. “Did you see that? She was a whopper wasn’t she, Bobby?”

Bobby hesitated for a second, studying Darryl’s look of complete joy and for the first time, he saw the face of the figure. He’d only seen Darryl’s dad a few times, but the face was unmistakable. It was twisted into a malevolent yet proud smile. Something inside Bobby made him forget the hideousness of what he just witnessed. The sense of accomplishment on Darryl’s face, the look of pride in Darryl’s dad’s decayed face, it brought something out inside of Bobby that he hadn’t felt since his dad left.

“Whaddya think, man? You wanna give it a try?” Darryl said, wiping the gore from the knife and holding it out to Bobby.

Bobby missed his dad but never realized how much until he saw the happiness at that moment between Darryl and his dead father.

A tear escaped down Bobby’s cheek as he reached out to take the blade from Darryl. An owl hooted in the distance as Darryl’s dad danced around the two boys, filling both boys with a sense of pride.

“Go on, Bobby. Do it,” Darryl said before socking Bobby in the arm again. “Don’t be a pussy.”

Bobby grinned, lifted his shirt, and tucked it under his chin before pinching a good hunk of meat between his fingers. “Screw you, Darryl. You’re the only pussy around here,” he said before slicing off the bit of flesh.

~ Craig McGray