Lullaby

October 8, 2013December 12, 2013 ~ Joseph Pinto ~ 45 Comments

It became my ghost, that lullaby—its virulent strain infecting not only the cloaked woods that surrounded us, but also the ears upon which it fell. It haunted us all, wormed its way into our brains and cored our frightened eyes to hollowed orbs. Unlike the other girls, who mewled in dread as those tinny chords crackled out from the absolute darkness, I sought to discover its origin.

I was as terrified as the rest; perhaps more so, for I managed to keep my mind threaded to reality while preventing the lullaby from wholly poisoning my thoughts. I needed to if any of us were to survive.

The other girls shoved into a uniform mass of shuddering limbs against the bars of our cage whenever the lullaby serenaded us, yet I remained apart, prone and flattened atop the floor, face pressed against the cold, slickened bars, focusing on its source. At first, tracking it eluded me, my emaciated stomach becoming its own troublesome din. Eventually I learned to ignore my hunger growls, as well the sobs from our band of captives. Soon, I gained a morsel of information; useful as it was. Somewhere—from an old phonograph, perhaps—the lullaby popped and hissed its chords away into the night. This had to mean the old woman lived in a dwelling close by.

As for the creature, that remained another mystery altogether.

By my measure, captivity had defined me for nearly five months. Abducted in spring as I took my morning stroll through the park—a chemical soaked rag ripped me from my normal life. I had since stopped wondering if my husband and children believed I was still alive. Even if by some miracle I managed to escape, I knew I would return home a husk of the woman they once knew. During this past week, a chill threaded our nights of imprisonment under the stars; autumn made herself known, and my gut instinct whispered that I would not come to feel winter’s grasp.

Within the cage, I remained the only grown woman; the others ranged in ages from seven to sixteen, their body development my only means of guessing. Fear had worn our faces down to indistinguishable masks. I used to glow whenever my husband told me that I looked much younger than my years. I always smiled when mistaken for my oldest daughter’s sister. Such cruel irony that my youthful appearance served to bring this misfortune upon me.

Tonight, a breeze rose again from the sentient woods and while our sunburnt, naked bodies trembled under its touch, a scent of something fetid clogged my throat. Though dirt and feces caked us, this horrible stench was not that. It had soured my stomach on many occasions before; ultimately, the precession to the lullaby. And so I steeled myself.

I stretched flat atop the cage floor, and peered between the bars out into the nothingness and waited.

“What are you doing?” A whisper from behind.

Katie—perhaps only sixteen. She reminded me so much of my oldest daughter that my soul ached. “Listening.”

“For what?”

The woods then crackled, releasing a static charge into the air. Behind me, the girls scuttled like manic bugs.

Baby mine, don’t you cry

Unreasonable terror descended upon us all. The girls’ high-pitched shrieks pierced the night, but my gaze remained unwavering through the bars.

Baby mine, dry your eyes

Katie threw herself down beside me; she was shivering like a leaf. I gripped her hand. “Let me concentrate,” I said. She nodded, teeth chattering inside her skull.

Rest your head close to my heart

The girls screamed as one.

Never to part, baby of mine

Soon thereafter, the footfall of the creature pounded through my chest. Katie must have felt it too, for her breath drew ragged in my ear. “What do we do?”

“Pray that neither of us is taken.”

Little one when you play

Indifferent to the hysteria within our cage, the lullaby wafted in its heavenly timbre. It betrayed us every time.

Don’t you mind what they say

A lantern’s glow floated to us from the darkness, its purpose one we knew all too well.

Let those eyes sparkle and shine

The creature’s footfalls resonated stronger through the floor. Desperation suddenly gripped me—the lullaby, the constant and promised threat of death. I turned toward the girls, the churning mass of desperate bodies, those agonized faces cast under pale moonlight, and sobbed against the bars. But Katie squeezed hard upon my hand and snapped me back into focus.

Never a tear, baby of mine

An apricot radiance fell upon us. The girls’ shadows swayed all about, and I did my best to hide within their shallow pools; I hoped it would be enough to detract attention from Katie and myself. The old woman emerged from the thicket, face shimmering at the door of the cage. Much like us, she wore no clothing; her skin affected, however, not by the elements, but by age. A ragged sack hung from her hip. Her puckered mouth moved to the tune of the lullaby.

If they knew sweet little you,
They’d end up loving you too

She placed the lantern at her feet. The keys to our prison jangled within her fingers. “Who’s my lucky one tonight?”

The hysteria resumed. The old woman stared through the bars, oblivious of it all. Oblivious of us. Now unlocked, the cage door squeaked open and she shuffled in, the lantern behind her silhouetting her hunched form. From her sack, she withdrew a tattered, old nightgown as well as a six-inch bladed knife. I pressed myself down hard onto the floor of the cage. Beneath us, the ground tremored, and I could hear the snap of tree boughs as something advanced.

“You,” the old lady spat, her gnarled finger jabbing toward a girl whose knees were drawn to her chest as she rocked back and forth upon the floor. “Put it on.”

She was no more than seven. I am confident those crippled eyes of hers once carried the warmth of the sun, but not anymore. The little one wet herself in distress. With a deftness that always astounded me, the old woman lunged and seized her by the wrist. In wide arcs, she swung the knife with her free hand, keeping any would-be rescuers at bay. In one motion, the old woman draped the nightgown over the girl’s soiled head and then dragged her from the cage. Aside from the desperate gouges her fingers dug through the loose dirt upon the floor, the girl offered no resistance.

They never did.

All of those people who scold you
what they’d give just for the right to hold you

The creature’s roar shattered the night. Girls bayed; cries for their momma went unanswered. Worse still, the cackle from the old woman’s lips, and the glint of lantern light captured within her beady glare. She slammed and locked the cage door behind her once more. Off she lurched, the point of her blade at the young girl’s back, the lantern’s glow bobbing along. Together, they disappeared into the woods. They left us alone with the chill gnawing our bare shoulders, the metallic resonance of the lullaby failing to soothe our ears. From somewhere out in the coagulated canopy of darkness came a deep-bellied roar.

Then awful, earsplitting silence.

***

The following morning, Katie pulled me to the far side of the cage. Sometime during the night, after we had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, the old woman had returned and thrown ladles of porridge through the bars. At least, I assumed it had been the old woman. The girls ate, scooping breakfast from the churned dirt with their hands. “You said you were listening. For what? Maybe we could have saved Monica and the others before her. Maybe we could still save ourselves. We can’t let the old woman take us away like she does.”

“Please, keep your voice down.” I surveyed the cage. While some of the girls shoveled dirt and porridge into their mouths, most sat with empty gazes. “Something is out in those woods, we know that. The old woman must summon it with that lullaby. And whatever is out there obviously hasn’t harmed her.”

“There must be more people helping her.”

“One would tend to believe, but there is no certainty. All the times I’ve listened, I’ve yet to hear anyone else.”

“The girls who’ve been taken. Do you think they might still be…?”

“No,” I said, far more curtly than I wished. “It’s time to stop dwelling on the maybe’s and the why’s. We need to focus on finally getting out. And I may have an answer.”

A glimmer of hope flashed within Katie’s eyes. She must have been a beautiful girl once; I wondered if she ever had the opportunity to kiss a boy. “The old woman’s peripheral vision is nonexistent,” I continued. “She’s never noticed me lying on the floor. It unfortunately took me some time to realize. But as the oldest one here, I’ve still some wits left about me.”

“Oldest? You’re no older than I am.”

For the first time since my abduction, I smiled. “Katie, I’m old enough to be your mother. It’s what got me into this. It’s what might get us out.”

***

Six days had passed since my conversation with Katie. On the third day, the skies opened and so we drank from putrid shallows of mud. My strength had ebbed considerably. I paced the corners of the cage, keeping my limbs as agile as possible. No one spoke; we huddled in cold discomfort. Six days…and on the sixth night, the lullaby crooned anew.

From your head down to your toes,
you’re not much, goodness knows

A cacophony of turmoil gripped the cage. The girls were beyond reason. I grabbed Katie by the shoulders, and pulled her face to mine. “It’s time,” I said. With that, my desperate plan was set into motion.

I crawled along the floor, Katie beside me, and then pressed my face against the bars. Like a clone of my panicked heartbeat, the creature’s heavy footfall assaulted the ground.

But you’re so precious to me,
sweet as can be,
baby of mine

The lantern approached, the knotted woods sputtering in its glow. Beneath the melodic beckoning of the lullaby, I thought I heard the creature snort. “It’ll be alright,” I soothed Katie, wondering if I lied only to appease myself.

A rattle of keys—the crinkled face appeared at the door of the cage, once more wearing a crooked smile. “Who’s my lucky one tonight?”

Katie waited until the old woman entered, and then rose from her position beside me. Cautiously, she entered the fringes of our jailer’s vision exactly as I had instructed.

The old woman’s misshaped head snapped toward her. She scrutinized Katie for a moment, and then drew the nightgown and knife from her sack. Katie glanced at me nervously as I held my breath, praying she would not reveal my position. The old woman tossed the nightgown at Katie’s blackened feet, and I exhaled. “You. Put it on.”

Side to side the blade swung as Katie placed the nightgown over her head. I sprang from the ground then, pushing my withered body to its limit; the sheer action of launching from my bare feet ignited agony in my joints. Whether or not the old woman saw me attack from the side, her blade still managed to slice my brow; now my own vision was compromised by blood.

I tackled her, clumsily wrapping my thin arms around her leathery body. Far stronger than I deemed natural, the old woman stood her ground, and I screamed my throat raw as her knife pierced my shoulder.

I collapsed—the whinnies of the girls surrounded me, and a growl sounded from the creature in the woods. Above it all, my ghost, that lullaby, sang to me.

If they knew sweet little you,
they’d end up loving you too

I staggered to my feet. The old woman suddenly yelped—Katie had done as told. Through the scarlet mask covering my eyes, I glimpsed Katie yanking the nightgown over the old woman’s head, which caused her to drop her knife and keys in surprise. I scooped both from the floor, spun her around and jabbed the tip of the blade into her back. “Walk,” I demanded and shoved her from the cage. By the lantern’s glow, I quickly shut the cage door, locking the girls in behind me. I tossed the keys between the bars. “Keep yourselves locked inside until daybreak,” I ordered Katie. “If I don’t return by then, free yourselves.”

I grabbed the lantern, then pushed the old woman forward. She howled, understanding her predicament—if she removed the nightgown from her body, I would kill her in cold blood. Like an obedient calf, I prodded her along; she babbled uncontrollably, but the lullaby and the snorts of the creature smothered her pitiful sounds from my ears.

We trudged deeper into the woods. The brush tore at my feet but still I pressed on; to where, I did not know. The lullaby seduced me as the lantern flame flickered and gradually went cold. The dark suffocated my senses; only then did I question whether my surmises held merit.

Then it emerged, a blackjack oak snapping at its feet, something so huge it threw the very pitch of night aside. Its foul stench rolled from its mass as it stooped over us both. “There, there,” the old woman whispered.

The creature sniffed my body. I gagged upon its putrid breath. Its moist snout moved slowly along my neck as a sharp talon grazed the top of my shoulder. Feeling. Touching. Pinpricks of white twinkled in one eye—the starlight reflected back from within its inky, remorseless orb. It peered upward, measuring my response. Urine trickled along my legs and I dropped the knife to the ground.

All those same people who scold you,
what they’d give just for the right to hold you

“That’s right,” the old woman cooed.

The shadowy outline of a thick, knobby arm touched my bare skin. It hesitated, and then reached for the old woman, tugging at the nightgown. “There, there, baby,” her voice suddenly becoming strained.

A horrendous growl burst from the creature’s jaws, then it knocked me aside. In an instant, all faded—the old woman’s cries for mercy, the thump of the creature’s footfalls as it dragged her deep into the woods. I lay there shivering atop the moss and lichen. Eventually I rose, praying I could find my way back to the girls, the chords of my ghost, that lullaby, keeping company at my side.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

Distant Shores

September 24, 2013September 23, 2013 ~ Thomas Brown ~ 25 Comments

“It’s not what you call me, but what I answer to that matters the most.” – African Proverb

The nightclub vomited its occupants onto the cobbled streets. Laughing figures tumbled through the cold, some falling to the pavement while others sought to sate themselves on warmth and food, drawn to kebab vans like chimpanzees to weak, wounded prey. Their shrieks filled the night; wild, simian noises that would not sound out of place in the hot darkness of the jungle. She knew those sounds well, and the mindless acts that followed; cannibal-banquets partaken by those same primates, orange eyes staring from beneath low brows as they licked clean the pink bones of their own.

From the narrow alleyway across the street, Oyotunji watched as one girl, dressed in shiny leopard print, fell to her knees in the road. Bent low she began to heave, a cocktail of stomach lining, sangria and hot digestive juices spewing from her lips. The rank aroma carried through the night.

“What?” shouted the girl, when she finally stopped heaving and could speak again. Her glazed, unseeing eyes challenged the world. “Come on, then!” she screamed, struggling to her feet, “have at it! Come on!”

Stepping back from the street, Oyotunji huddled deeper into her fur shawl. It was an intimate, elderly gesture; the last frail twitch of a small sparrow, but then she was an elderly woman. Her lips pinched as tight as the mouth of the alleyway in which she stood.

“I cold,” she said suddenly.

“You not cold. You don’ feel cold now. Not for many year have you felt it touch.”

Wambua stood a little way behind her. In the darkness her twin brother was almost invisible, except for the fur draped over his shoulders; a matching leopard skin that gave him some substance in the shadows. She did not need to see the aged contours of his face to know how he was feeling. His discontent sang in her heart, her blood, in the jelly of her bones.

“I don’ feel cold like dat. I feel cold for dem. I feel cold for bein’ here, in dis grey place.”

A flicker of lightning, vague and indistinct, flashed overhead, illuminating the slumped, misshapen street. Opening her hand, Oyotunji felt for the rain that would inevitably follow. She knew it was the same rain that fell back home, she knew the air around her was the same air, the clouds the same clouds. And yet they were not. These things were different here. Pollution clogged the sky, saturated the earth and the wind. The city was a watering hole, where once her brother and she would have come to slake their thirst, now tainted; corrupted by twenty-first century carrion.

The first fat drops found her palm, and she realised she was not comforted.

“We have slept too long, sister, and missed many things. De British Empire has grown rotten.”

“Dis is de Empire we once feared?” She gesticulated wildly, arms, little more than bones, thrown to the sky. Lightning flickered again, followed by thunderous discontent. “Dat cannot be. What has happened here?”

“De world is spoiled meat, crawling with flies.”

Even as her brother spoke, Oyotunji smelled again the woman’s sick, heard the mad laughter of the inebriated, felt anger rolling like waves through the night-time city. More screams carried on the wind, and she remembered the troupe of chimpanzees feasting on their own. Inspired by those screams she remembered other things too; man as he forced himself into her on the river bank, the raging faces of the white folk as their weapons spat death into the village, Wambua’s body, limp where she clutched him to her wounded chest. As they had lived as twins, so they had died a twinned death, and were reborn together when the rains next fell; brought back by Africa to slake their desert thirst on the lifeblood of those who had despoiled the land, dealt death beneath the burning sun.

“Do not despair, sister. Dis place look grey, you speak truth. But look deeper, look past stone an’ noise an’ misery an’ you got some’ting more. Some’ting you an’ me both know.”

“An’ what be dat, brother of mine?”

“A jungle,” he said, his eyes shining like discs in the darkness. “A man-made jungle, Oyotunji.”

“A jungle?”

“Hear de roar of de people as dey struggle to make themself heard, each man an’ woman de hog, de antelope, de buffalo –”

“An’ we de cat.”

He nodded, and in the darkness of the alley a mouth of yellowing teeth appeared. She smelled them as much as she saw them, rotten and real; a sharp, pungent smile in this city where everything else was synthetic and stale. Together their mouths knew more life and death than the rest of the city combined.

“Exactly, sister. We de leopard. We will stalk de street like shadow, invisible, an’ in dis grey, decayin’ place we will have our retribution. Dey dug us from our sleep in de earth and brought us here, to dis place where dere is no earth, where de wild is silenced. So we will speak for de wild again. We will roar –”

“An’ it will be bloody,” whispered Oyotunji. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and she cocked her head, eyes closed, savouring the sound as it reverberated in the hollows of her head.

When she opened her eyes again, her brother was standing beside her. He screamed first, and in the flash of answering lightning she saw his face, tortured by the angst of a continent, a land with no outlet for its pain except the voices of the dead things in its soil. Then she joined him, her own voice rising leonine into the night, before brother and sister eschewed their human shapes, wrapping their flesh with real fur, and fled together through the streets in the guise of great cats; Mother Africa awakened, and alive.

~ Thomas Brown

Pollywogs

September 17, 2013September 16, 2013 ~ Hunter Shea ~ 41 Comments

There were so many dead, the fire pits had been decommissioned. Now they just loaded the bodies on commandeered cruise ships and dumped them in the ocean. I heard that hordes of seagulls, bloated and flying erratically from the never-ending feast, would descend on the floating corpses like flies. If you vomited on deck, they’d eat that, too.

I wasn’t sure if I preferred to be one of the living or the dead on those ships that stank like an open grave in the summer sun. On account of my asthma, it was a good bet I’d never get assigned corpse duty.

“Jeremy, where did you go to now?”

Destiny snapped her black lace-gloved fingers in my face.

“Sorry. I spaced.”

“I figured.” She smiled with purple tinted lips, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her hot pink hair caught the last filaments of the moon before it tucked itself behind a black, roiling cloud. I remembered when the skies were black with smoke for months on end, until the government realized they had destroyed an entire growing season and had to scale back the fires.

“You want to tell me why we’re here again?” I said. I did a three-sixty scan of the graveyard. A majority of the tombstones were crooked, many of them shattered by vandals. The vegetation had been left to go feral, the grass coming up to our hips. Critters large and small skulked in the weeds.

“So I can be with you forever,” she said, pouting for added effect. I was a geek, she was the hottest girl in my school, at least back when there was a school. Who was I to say no? Plus, there were less and less fish in the sea to choose from for us both.

Well, the sea was teeming with fish because of all the human nutrients we’d been dumping in it, but you get my point.

No one, except the Crazies, ate fish anymore, by the way. The rest of us would rather starve – and many have.

I sighed, taking off my glasses to clean them with the end of my shirt. Destiny gingerly put them back on for me and lit a kiss on my thin, dry lips.

“There’s no proof that it will work,” I said. “You ever hear of an urban legend? I’m pretty sure this qualifies.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong. I’ve been reading a lot about it. Couples in eastern Europe have been doing it and surviving.”

A blood curdling shriek echoed over the untended cemetery hills. Destiny pressed herself to my back. I could feel the heat of her breath on my neck.

“The internet is practically dead. Whatever’s on there is just Crazies talking crazy shit,” I said.

“But what if they’re right? I mean, it’s not like it can hurt.”

The shriek was met by an angry growl, this time from the other end of the cemetery. We wouldn’t be going home tonight.

“Come on, I picked out a safe one the other day.” Destiny grabbed my hand, leading me to a small, marble mausoleum. She bent by the iron and glass door, taking a pin and paperclip from her pocket. The lock clicked open and she rushed us inside.

Another cry, this one human, made my blood run cold.

There was little room to move Inside the crypt. There was a folding chair, a vase with dried flowers attached to the back wall underneath a stained glass window, and a plastic bag on the floor.

The most glaring aspect of the tiny death house was that the wall had been chipped away. Bits of grit and marble were everywhere.

“Did you do this?” I asked.

She averted her eyes, a clear admission.

Shit, she’s becoming one of the Crazies.

I clicked on my pen light, saw the coffin that had been wedged into the wall space.

“Destiny,” I sighed. “No.”

“But you have to!” she cried, balling my shirt in her fists. “It’s all easy for you because you know they’ll never touch you! Don’t you want the same for me?”

It was true, but she never understood that I wasn’t too keen on being the last of a dying race.

When the Pollywogs first started pouring out of Mt. Saint Helens, our nation’s embryonic inertia of fear was counteracted by a bloody show of extreme violence. We hit them with everything our military could stuff into a gun or rocket launcher. The Pollywogs, gray skinned creatures twice the size of a man with tapering tails and sperm-like heads with button black eyes, were faster and more resilient than anyone could predict. They were also regenerative. Blow off their legs, and they grew back within hours. Set them on fire and they would secrete a flame-dousing jelly from their pores. Hack them into pieces, and each piece is reborn into a hungry Pollywog.

You absolutely did not want to do that.

While the west coast became a food source for the beasts, the earthquake under Manhattan split the fault line wide enough for the east coast Pollywogs to run free. The hordes met in the center of the country, devouring people like they were Tic Tacs. The same scene happened in every country around the transforming world. I guess the center of the earth wanted some time in the sun.

I shouldn’t say they ate people. Actually, they only preferred their lungs. Healthy lungs. Not lungs like mine. Rapidly, mankind was being whittled down to the weak and the lame.

Destiny tugged at the coffin handle. “Help me get this down and fuck me inside.”

Her eyes were manic, desperate. I knew she didn’t want to be with me forever. She just didn’t want to die. Even now, being asked to have sex with her amidst the rot and ruin of a years old corpse, I couldn’t simply say no.

The coffin crashed onto its side, the latch springing open. The jerkeyed body smelled surprisingly like moldering apples. Shrugging out of her skirt, Destiny wedged herself inside the askew coffin, laying atop its resident. The cries of the Pollywogs were a chorus of hunger.

“Please, Jeremey, please fuck me.”

The legend had it that if you fucked a Craplung, someone like me, atop a corpse, and became impregnated, the Pollywogs would do everything in their power to avoid you. Something about the scent of death and growing a Craplung in your womb. It made no sense and I wondered what Crazy invented it.

Desperate times were fertile ground for insane conjectures.

Seeing Destiny spread her stockinged legs, revealing the brown matchstick legs of the corpse beneath her. I decided it was no use fighting.

Becoming a Crazy or having your lungs devoured by a Pollywog, they were both death in different clothes.

~ Hunter Shea

Feathers

September 10, 2013May 25, 2016 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 18 Comments

I sit here sipping from my glass, a fine glass at that; delicate in nature, with spinning hues of barest midnight blue drawn through its perfect surface, creating an undulating wave of confused beauty. Beauty; I look at the cavern around me, the carved seat I rest upon, my enclave, my domain; my perfect world. Things of beauty surround me, but only at my beck and call. True, some have come crawling, but I find I’ve no use for such sniveling. They are no longer amongst us. Is there not one worthy of my attentiveness? This isolation grows tiresome. Ordering one of the grovlings to fetch me a new pet, I wait with little patience.

Finally, she is brought before me. “Kneel.” There is no question she will do as I instruct, they all do. I toss a collar onto the floor, it attaches to a leash fastened to the arm of my perch. “Put it on,” I instruct as she attempts to speak.

“I do not recall telling you to open your lips. When I wish them to perform, I will demand it. Now, put it on, and do so with your mouth shut!” She scrambles to do as ordered, but the idiot grovling has yet to release her from the crude looped choker used to drag her here. I glance at the grovling and he realizes his folly. He apologizes profusely, trying to loosen the choker as she desperately tries to fasten the collar around her bleeding neck with hands that shake. I let him babble, his stupidity is quite amusing, then I bore of hearing it. Standing, I descend the two steps that separate myself from the others. She shivers uncontrollably as I pass by. He drops to a knee while still begging forgiveness for his lack of foresight. Foolish, that. The assumption that he’s been given the right to foreshadow my thoughts or wishes, a mistake I would not have made had I been in his position. Crouching in front of him, my wing tips curl against the stone floor. I order him to lift his chin. As he does so, he pisses himself. I glace down at the growing puddle beneath him and gently tap the edge of the glass against the floor. It fractures magnificently.

“Do you recall when this glass was made for me, grovling?” Desperately, he tries to hold my eye, but cannot. His own orbs flick quickly to the glass; I smile. He opens his mouth to respond and I hush him with a gentle garnet-tipped finger upon his lips. “My question did not require an answer, or did your foresight fail you yet again?” Trembling with indecision, he is unsure if a response is expected. I’m of the opinion it is not, but I’ll allow his inner torment to continue a bit longer. The jingling to my right finally stops; she has managed to fasten the collar around her neck. I hear the slightest tinkling – the sound of the metal chain leading from the collar back to my seat quivering; she is frightened, but doing admirably well. So far.

Waiting is the sweetest torture, one my many eons in this festering shithole has taught me well how to exploit. The grovling on the other hand, is finding the wait – arduous. I can sense his overwhelming desire to speak; I can see the thoughts flick through his feeble little mind. Dragging the now jagged edge of the glass through his own urine, I provoke him. “It must be so difficult kneeling before me, wanting to speak your mind, but knowing you probably should not.” The sound of glass scraping stone must be maddening. “I almost feel compassion for you, honestly, I almost do. Was being obedient and keeping your mouth shut so very hard that you simply found yourself incapable of the task?” His lips part; the bait is taken. If I were a sport fisherman, this is the point at which I would yank the line, one swift hard pull to set my hook. In what is a blink in his world, I ram the piss covered broken glass through his eye socket clean into his brain cavity. The ickor that oozes into the glass is proof enough that his brief squeal will be his final utterance.

With the same finger that earlier sent him into a quaking fit of terror, I push his useless body to the ground. There are other grovlings lurking in the shadows, there always are – putrescent little beasts. With a dismissive nod of my head, several rush forward to dispose of the lifeless meat littering the chamber floor.

I turn to the captive beside me, realizing that the grovling’s piss has spread beneath her knees. She still trembles, but only mildly. Admirable that. Kneeling in a dead thing’s piss and still she does not flinch. I stare at her for a moment, perhaps two, then rise and retrieve the handle of her new life. A grovling attempts to capture my eye, he clearly wishes to tell me that the deceased has been removed. Presuming me too stupid to recognize this fact on my own would be another mistake for his kind this day. Best that he should simply go about his business, leaving me to mine. Somehow, he senses this and begins to back away.

Standing atop the dais from which I have retrieved the leash, I issue an order to all who are lurking. “Leave us.”

Is that a small intake of breath I hear from my new treasure? Oh, and she has been doing so well up to this point. Descending the steps a second time, I bend forward, placing one hand on my knees, the other gouging a fingernail into the flesh below her chin. I force her gaze to meet mine. “Did I frighten you?” I ask with mock patience, patience I have not felt in a decade or more.

She stares back true and steady for several heartbeats, licks her lips – a gesture of fear, or simply to moisten them? Her eyes say the latter. In a whispered voice that carries more strength than I would have imagined, she replies, “No, not frightened. Startled.”

“I don’t frighten you? I find that hard to believe. Please don’t tell me you are some ignorant field peasant the grovlings dragged in here because your curves will suit me.” Exasperation and a growing anger fill me as my fingernail draws blood from the soft hollow where it resides.

This is not the distraction I hoped for; yet another useless mongrel, I look away. Just as I am ready to release her from the burden of breathing, her hand gently wraps around mine, forcing my nail in deeper. I turn back, ready to dispatch the second disrespectful whelp of the day. “No, I was not dragged here by those hideous little creatures. I came of my own accord.” Staring directly into my eyes, she continues, “I have seen you, in the glade. Warming yourself in the sunlight. I have seen you soar above the cliffs that house this cave. I have seen you caress your lover to death near the water’s edge. I have watched you for some time now, and I wish to be like you. To…”

“To be like me?” I snort. “How exactly do you propose to be like me? I am unlike anything your minute mind can comprehend. You say you have watched me soar, shall we take you to the top of the cliff, toss you off, see if you soar as well? I suppose if by some chance of fate you do manage to soar a few feet, you might be like me… until you hit the ground.”

Hesitation; confusion creeps into her gaze. Her grip weakens. Now we shall see what gumption you truly posses, my little dove. Locked in our repose, she still stares unwaveringly, perhaps not quite as sure, but devout nonetheless. An admirable trait, and quite the beauty at that.

Long wavy chestnut hair, soft supple cinnamon lips, eyes blazing the deepest amber, glittering with crystal specks. Her form does not disappoint either, my eyes lick over her more than adequate body.

“May I speak again?” she inquires.

“I believe you already have. Continue.”

“If I cannot be like you, then allow me to be for you. I have no wish to be tossed off the cliff, but if that is what you will do with me, then so be it.”

She truly has the audacity to mean what she proffers. The scent of the single drop of perspiration mixed with blood beading at the base of her throat is intoxicating. My lip quirks upward; I do intend to enjoy this one immensely.

Rising, I gently coax her to her feet. Her legs run with the dead grovling’s piss, her bare feet and body filthy. Removing the leash from the D-ring attached to her collar, I guide her to the hot spring welling in the far corner of the cavern. “Come, let’s clean you, then we shall figure out what purpose you might serve.”

As we move towards the pool of water, I hear, “Am I still free to speak?”

A ripple of annoyance slams through me. “Clearly, as you are still speaking, and still breathing.” Removing the doeskin sack the grovlings clad her in, my mind flashes with thoughts of the creature whose skin she wears. I mutter under my breath, “No, it is not fair. That much is true.”

As I drop the garment to the floor, she inquires, “Pardon me?”

“Pardon you for what? I gave you permission to speak, I offered no pardon. What is it you are prattling about?” A look of shock and pain crosses her beautiful features. Well, isn’t she in for a surprise? I adjust my tone and address her again. “What is it you would like to say?” She stares at me blankly. Perhaps she is more feeble than I initially thought.

With a sigh, I remove my own garments as well, laying them by the side of the water. Stepping onto the generous ledge three feet below the surface, I see fright in her eyes. I glance downward. She finally speaks what is on her mind. “It is much larger than it seems from the other side of the cavern. Are those eyes I see at the bottom?”

“Yes, they are. The spring is deceptive. Come,” I reach my hand out for her to join me. “The water appears shallow, but step one leg off this ledge and it is an eighty-five foot plummet to the bottom where the creature belonging to those eyes waits. This water offers no buoyancy; the creature bears you no good will. You’ll be safe with me. Come, I won’t tell you again.”

Hesitantly she reaches forward taking my hand and slips into the steaming water. A swarm of Garra rufa immediately begin cleaning her. Terrified, she tries to flee, but breaking my grip is not so easy. “What are they?”

“They will clean you. If you’re to be my pet, I’ll not have you filthy. Lean back, let them wash over your face and comb through your hair.” Doing as she is told, the Garra rufa clean every morsel of foulness from her. She looks magnificent splayed in the water. I imagine the fish will not be the only thing roaming her body this day.

She lifts herself to a seated position, and laughs – a deep-throated chuckle. “They feel oddly wonderful. It tingles all over.” Glancing up from the thinning swarm in the water, she wonders, “Why do they not feast on you as well?”

Looking to the water and waving a hand to send them back to the crevasses they reside in, I consider the truth of my answer. “My taste would poison them. Like most natural creatures, they instinctively know to avoid one such as me. Why is it that you don’t have the same inherent fear?”

Her smile falters for a moment, then, “May I touch them?” She reaches forward, I grasp her wrist, perhaps harder than I meant to, perhaps not. “I only want to touch your wings. They gleam iridescent in this water. May I touch one, please?”

“No. You may not touch one, and do not be too eager for one to touch you either. For the day they do without my consent, you will draw your last breath.” I consider the defiant stare in her eyes. This answer will not satisfy her. I see the contemplation dancing through their caramel tint as she weighs her odds. From bellow, I hear a chuckle. In my mind, words resonate from the bottom of the spring, ‘I suppose this one will be failing the second trial as well… Gooooood, I’m hungry! And I’ve feed on nothing but those foul little balls of flesh for too long.’

She withdraws her hand; I allow it. She leans backward; one leg slips to dangle over the ledge. I move forward and swiftly pull her leg back onto the submerged rock. Wrapping a hand around her throat, I growl, “What did I tell you about straying over the edge? Are you fool enough to throw your life away so easily?”

Gaining confidence, or unmasking what she had hidden so well, her head snaps up, her hand darts out – she now holds one black feather. Our eyes lock, I think to myself yet another one. The transformation begins. The creature in the spring calls to me.

My pet smiles in triumph and glee, “It’s so soft, so delicate. Holding just this single feather feels as though I am holding a world in my hands!” Her bliss apparent on her face, no doubt the effect of the treasure she has snatched. I allow her the briefest moment to run the feather across her magnificently formed breasts, her closed eyes, her plump lips. Her eyes flick open, still filled with the gleam of childlike ecstasy.

“Yes, it does,” I respond with no mirth. “Imagine hundreds of them carried upon your back.” My smile now cold, though she mistakes it for engaging.

She smiles back, “I wouldn’t know how to begin imagining such a thing.”

Amid her laughter, my talon slashes up from the water and rends her neck useless to her body. “No, you wouldn’t.”

I watch as her form slips over the ledge and is drawn through the barely verdant water into its depths. The creature that resides below feasts on tender flesh that was meant for me. It is not grateful. I haven’t a care to be bothered.

Summoning the grovlings back to the cavern, I wriggle a finger at one and draw it near. “You will wash me, but do not make the mistake of touching my wings. Is that clear?” From the shaking of its hands, I’m fairly certain the spring will be receiving a second course.

~ Nina D’Arcangela

Snapping Point

September 3, 2013September 3, 2013 ~ Tyr Kieran ~ 24 Comments

Trent closed the door and set his brief case down on the console table. He tossed his keys at the wooden bowl like always, but this time they hit the rim and tumbled to the floor, taking the artisan bowl with them. The Aboriginal keepsake from his honeymoon in Australia cracked against the entryway’s stone flooring.

“God Damnit.” He said, cursing, fanning the fires of his already considerable frustration.

Poor Beth’ll be so disappointed! And, wait until she hears that I have to cancel our family backyard camp out. Worst week ever, he thought, grinding his teeth.

For the last five days, Trent’s boss had chastised him in front of his peers over the most menial issues. Issues that were recently considered required procedures. To make matters worse, deadlines were rapidly approaching and his clients weren’t cooperating—another working weekend away from his kids.

As he bent down to pick up the fallen items, his throbbing headache plumed into a full-blown migraine. With flashing light spotting his vision, he staggered and, losing balance, missed the key ring on his first attempt. He paused on one knee, the pain stabbing through his temples cutting deeper, burning hotter. Trent gritted his teeth and weathered the storm. After the intensity spiked, the pain dropped away just as fast.

He paused, processing a few deep breaths—one of them a big sigh of relief—before moving on. He picked up the bowl and keys and climbed to his feet.

A shriek shattered the air.

Arctic spiders of fear crawled up his spine and nested at the base of his skull. His body moved fluid and fast. He dropped the items onto the table as his legs propelled him down the hall.

Trent burst into the room. He found his wife, Beth, kneeling at the edge of the tub, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks, while their two-year-old daughter floated, pale and lifeless in the bath.

“Ahh—” Trent uttered and lunged forward to pull their girl from the water. He wrapped a hand around the toddler’s neck, checking for a pulse.

Nothing.

“Put her down,” his wife moaned, holding out a trembling hand. Crying had made her look like a tragic clown with smeared mascara lines. Her lips quivered. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the thick emotion bubbling in her throat cut it short, “I—”

Zack, their four-year-old, sat at the other end of the bathtub, wailing. His plump face turning more red with each outcry.

“What happened?” Trent asked. He stared at Beth through a haze of forming tears, his mouth hanging open.

She didn’t respond.

“Beth, what happened?!”

“I… I couldn’t stop myself,” she said, mumbling as if trying to explain it to herself.

“Wha— You did this?” Trent squinted at her. He couldn’t have heard her correctly! No, it had to be an accident.

He looked down at the little girl in his arms, cold, limp, peaceful. The sweet, clean smell of baby shampoo still strong on her wet hair. Anguish swelled in Trent’s sinuses, spreading—gaining ground with hot needled claws—and threatening to burst out of him. He bit hard on his trembling lower lip and managed to keep it all contained, for now.

Gently placing the little corpse on the floor, he swaddled the girl in a towel and kissed her forehead. Then in a green blur, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“I had to do it,” Beth said with a voice made eerie by its sudden serenity.

Trent, already providing details to the operator, turned to look at his wife.

His body went numb and the phone slid from his fingers, hitting the hard tile in a tiny explosion of plastic and glass. It was more the expression on her upturned face than her words that stalled his brain.

Beth was smiling at him. Smiling!

Through her lunatic grin, a litany of prayers spewed forth in an impossible array of voices. Their harsh consonants ricocheted off the walls, adding sharp edges to the bombardment on Trent’s sanity.

His legs buckled and he dropped to his knees.

Eye to eye with his troubled wife, he watched in disbelief as her grin contorted with the rest of her face into a mask of pure rage. Her skin seemed to prune and wither before him, and her eyes clouded over like a steamed mirror. She spat and cursed at him.

“Your blood is cursed,” she shouted. “Your spawn must die!”

“Beth?”

“Die! Die! Die!”

“Beth.” Trent, gently holding her head, pleaded with her. “Honey, come back to me. You’re sick, having a…a spell or something. We’ll get you some help.”

The woman’s virulent expression fell away at once, leaving a pale, terrified shell in its place. “I don’t know what’s happening. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t in control.”

“We’ll find the problem and get it treated.”

“Oh, God!” she sobbed. “My little girl is dead. Our baby’s gone!”

“Let’s just take care of Zack, and wait for—”

Beth shrieked and bent over, clutching at her head as if something was gnawing on her brain. She shifted back to the venomous woman ruined by hate-etched lines and the milky eyes of morgue residents.

“Beth!” Trent shouted, shaking her by the shoulders.

She blinked and the demonic change left as quickly as it came.

“Trent, it’s going to happen again,” she said, her posture slumping between his grip. She sat for a moment, victimized and deflated before a realization took over. She jolted forward, clutched at his work shirt.

“You have to stop me!”

“What?” He said, startled. “Help is on the way.”

“No, stop me before I do it again. You’re not safe, Zack’s not safe.”

“The police will—”

Beth twitched, corroding again into an evil form. She jerked away from Trent, grabbed the boy, both of them screaming—one in terror, the other in hate—and forced the child under water.

“No!” Trent cried out. He clutched at her, but an unexpected strength pulsed through her sylphlike body as if she was cemented in place. He pulled and pleaded, but she continued to drown their son.

“Stop! Please!” he begged, tugging feebly at her arms as tears dripped from his stubbled chin.

She laughed—cackling like a fairytale witch.

Unable to pull his child to safety or break his wife’s hold, Trent did the only thing he could. He locked his arms around her neck and started to squeeze.

“Don’t make me do this!” he said, sobbing in her ear.

The monster controlling his true love, his soul mate, only laughed again.

“Beth. You have to stop. You’re killing him!” Trent shouted amid the frothy sounds of thrashing water.

Her expression changed enough for Trent to sense his wife in there. Despite the continued physical struggle, Beth’s voice rang out. “Do it. Stop me. Save our child.”

“I… I…”

“Do it!” she screamed in a banshee’s wail that echoed painfully in the small room.

With one quick jerk, he pivoted and snapped her neck. She collapsed to the cold tile floor. Trent moved fast, pulling the boy out of the tub and laying him out on the mat.

Sirens howled in the distance.

The boy wasn’t breathing. There was no heartbeat.

Trent began CPR.

A moment later the Police rushed in the front door and down the hall toward them, guns drawn.

“Back away from the child, now!” The lead officer yelled.

Without stopping, Trent responded. “He’s dying, I’m trying to—”

The gunshot was deafening.

Trent was thrown backward, his head slamming against the hard porcelain tub as he fell. The hole in his shoulder burned with an intense fire that sent rivulets of electric pain throughout his chest.

The cops rushed in and forced his wrists into handcuffs. Trent lifted his head to plead for help in resuscitating his son but paused, noticing Zack was conscious, coughing and crying as an EMT tended to him.

His boy was going to be okay.

A sigh of relief filled his lungs but died there—it clung, burning, unreleased, as the sights Trent now witnessed struck a chord of confusion and utter disruption within.

His son was clothed and dry. How could that be? Was this an illusion? Were his eyes betraying him?

It all seeming like a bad dream, but the pain was real. The cold steel of the handcuffs was real. The carpet, not title, beneath him felt real. Things were suddenly different from what he previously knew. His reality had shifted. Maybe the pain had cleared his head, sharpening his attention like a splash of ice water to the face.

His son was not a child pulled from bath water, dripping and cold. The boy looked flushed in the face and was still wearing his school clothes. And yet, Trent could distinctly remember the feel of his child’s clammy skin when he began CPR.

What’s going on? Trent wondered amid the torrent of confusion. His mind whirled and he struggled against the urge to vomit. Two conflicting streams of memories battled for dominance. As each quivering breath cycled through him, his mind stabilized with one set of memories taking hold as the vivid truth. Trent relived the moments, seeing them for the first time, as they cycled past his mind’s eye.

He hadn’t been working at chest compressions to save Zack’s life a moment ago. He’d worked to take the boy’s life—squeezing it out of him with an unforgiving grip around his little neck. But, why? He couldn’t believe it, but he saw that it happened. He could recall the way his son’s little hands feebly gripped at his as he clenched harder and harder. And the haunting sight of Zack’s bulging eyes looking back at him in terror and confusion and pain. How are these memories possible?

Why would he try to kill his only remaining son after his wife had… Beth! Her body lay on the floor at a distinctly different angle than her head—the bulging skin of her neck already blooming with blotches of purple.

Trent searched for the memory of breaking her neck to save one child after she’d already drowned the other, but the vision that surfaced told a different tale. There was no splashing of bath water. No smells of baby soap and laundered towels. He watched as his wife pleaded with him, begging for him to stop, that they’ll get help, and to please put their daughter down. Trent searched the room with wide, frantic eyes until he found the little bundle on the floor.

The toddler was not swaddled in a towel as he expected. She was fully dressed and completely dry like her brother. Her face flushed in a familiar shade of purple. She lay motionless on the sky blue carpet of the nursery, not the white shag rug of their bathroom.

Realization ripped through him without mercy.

“Oh, God.” Trent mumbled and turned his head. The room spun beneath him. The heavy oak crib loomed over him and his dead family like a massive tombstone. The pain of Trent’s injuries were made imperceptible by his emotional agony.

“Beth wasn’t… it was me. I killed—” Trent’s lamentation was cut off by a violent stomach upheaval as nausea overwhelmed him.

An officer bent down next to Trent and picked up an object encased in pink plastic. He held the undamaged cell phone to his ear. His voice was flat and somber when he spoke. “This is Officer James. The situation is now under control.”

He paused, listening to a voice on the other end. Then, “No, Ma’am. We were too late for the others.”

The policeman looked down at Trent. The cuffed man was now slamming his head on the floor and chanting, “Sick in the head. Sick in the head. Sick in the head.”

Frowning, the officer added, “Looks like he snapped.”

~ Tyr Kieran

Dark Enemy

August 20, 2013March 7, 2018 ~ blazemcrob ~ 23 Comments

A hot night. Damn hot! Even during the monsoon season over here it never got cold. But now the rain is far behind us, and the moonless evening drips with heat and humidity. Shit!

My fatigues cling to me, and my GI issue boxers are giving me one hell of a wedgie, threatening to strangle my balls. Some of the guys have taken to not wearing the boxers to prevent this, but I tried it once and the jewels looked like someone had taken a meat pulverizer to them. It’s a no win deal. Wearing the boxers is a better option for me.

There is no resting tonight. Charlie is just the other side of the hills. If our intelligence is right, they have no idea we’re in the area. Yeah, right! How many times have I been told that, only to wind up in the middle of a bloody ambush? Who tips these damn Cong off? If I only knew . . .

The sounds of the jungle, the myriad forms of wildlife scattered everywhere, add a buffer to the sounds of our feet plodding through the dense underbrush. There is not much of a trail here. In terrain such as this with optimal conditions for forest rejuvenation, paths can vanish rapidly, replaced by new growth.

However, it means the enemy has not been through this area too recently. Not even here could the jungle put up a fence of vegetation to deter interlopers that rapidly.

It’s rough going through this terrain without light, but the darkness is our friend for now. If we can’t see, neither can our enemy. That makes us even. At least for the moment.

A weird odor attaches itself to the moist air, strangling me with the very obscenity of its foulness. Something tells me not to go in the direction of its source, but that’s not possible: the Cong are in that direction, and we have to strike while the irons are hot.

The air circulates more and more the closer we get to the hills, and the stench builds. I have smelled it before. It is the odor of death and rotting flesh. Human flesh.

Wondering if something is wrong with me since the others appear not to notice anything out of the ordinary, I say nothing about my increasing fears of death closing in on us. This goes far beyond any battle experience I have encountered up ’til now. And I’m not certain war has anything to do with this. Not this war; not a war between humans.

Jesus, I’m suffering some kind of sensory hallucinations reaching beyond my ability to fight them off! I appear to be rational, but rationality is an abstract concept, one not readily agreed upon.

“Straighten up, man!” I say to myself. “Something’s going down. You know it, even if the others don’t. You have to be alert.”

The night gets darker; the stench gets worse; and the comforting sounds from before lessen the farther we go. We are thrust into a vortex of darkness so deep that it seems no light has ever existed here before. Darker and darker, the closer we get to the center the more we are drawn to whatever mystery resides within.

The center explodes outwards, enveloping us in an unbelievable cloak of invisibility, forcing us to use our other senses to navigate, touch being the dominant one because taste and smell are too intertwined with what lies ahead, and we need to be concerned with what is here. In order to forge ahead, we need to conquer the present.

Hairs on my neck signal that a power resides here that is all around, sizing us up before it acts against us. For the moment we are safe, but that will change. Our acquaintance with what looms ahead will not be pleasant.

The enemy has shifted from the Cong to whatever is waiting for us, drawing us into its realm: a place where no prisoners are taken. My mind is telling me these things, but how could I possibly know? I can’t fucking see, damn it ! But I feel it . . .I feel it watching, eyes everywhere, knowing we are to come in to its lair.

Still, the others are unaware, walking along as if nothing is wrong. To them it is another day in the jungle looking for Charlie, waiting for a chance to come out on top in this topsy-turvy war.

But I am aware.

The spinning orb, totally bereft of any light, draws them to the right. Fools! They are being drawn into a trap, one from which there is no escape.

“No! No!” I shout. “Don’t go there! That’s what they want.”

No reaction. It’s as if they don’t even hear me, yet I know they’re still here. Their footsteps surround me as they steadfastly march towards their impending demise. Darker and darker; quieter and quieter. That’s why no one reacted to my warning yells! All sound no longer exists. Along with the sense of sight, we can not hear either. It is almost as if we are in another dimension, another plane of existence playing tag with our own.

My skin crawls, the stench becomes worse, and the taste in my mouth becomes a smorgasbord of filth and decay. Close. We are close now.

The air around me shakes from my comrades struggling, but struggling against what? And then I know! A sticky, rope-like substance grabs me, and the more I attempt to break free, the more entangled I become. The . . .the web, a very thick one, is increasing its mastery over my every move. I am powerless to escape. It has me in its grip. What the fuck has a hold of me?

Gagging from the odor of whatever else is trapped within the morass of servitude I’m stuck in, I feel them coming. They move quickly, and there are many of them. At this moment I’m glad I can’t hear or see anything. The frenetic shaking of our gooey prison tells me all I need to know. My fellow warriors are under attack, and they’re going down.

Within moments, they’re on me! Long fangs tear into me, some kind of liquid flowing into my body, numbing me but not doing a complete job. I struggle against all they do, even managing to grab a hold of one, feeling long, sharp body hairs, and I’m able to gouge out some of its eyes. This thing has more than two eyes. I feel them rubbing against my hands and arms. The creature goes berserk and tears huge chunks of my flesh out of my carcass with its strong jaws.

The others respond to the pain their comrade is in by upping the attack on me. They bite, chew, and drag their many legs across my wounds, twisting as they go, as if attempting to teach me a lesson.

Pushed against the web even more from the brutal assault of my adversaries, I’m totally trapped, unable to move, as bit by bit they tear into me, feasting on my flesh as if there is no food left for them or ever will be.

Even as my limbs separate from the rest of me due to the incessant, never-ending attack from their jaws, I refuse to give in, figuring and hoping that something will stem the tide, and maybe, just maybe, there will be a way . . .

Blood gushes out of me as the demons once more inject something into my body, the numbing more complete now, but putting me into a whole new hell as I am still alive, just barely perhaps, but still able to feel my body for what it is: a buffet table for my antagonists to come by and suck out what juices and eat what flesh they want, long after I’m dead. Soon, very soon, I am to join and become one with the stench from the earlier assault on my nostrils.

I don’t need sight or hearing to know that I have become fodder for entities so many humans have become accustomed to stomping on.

Who is doing the stomping now?

The giant spiders attack what is left of my body and eat their fill. The Black becomes blacker as I fade into a state of semi-awareness.

At the moment my genitals are ripped off and devoured, my spirit leaves my body. I hover over the monsters and can see them for what they are now. But it matters not to me anymore.

They can’t hurt me any longer . . .

~ Blaze McRob

Oats

August 13, 2013August 13, 2013 ~ Joseph Pinto ~ 46 Comments

Folks ask all the time how I came to be raising my brothers and sisters. I tell them that my Mama and Daddy, they just run off. Guess they tired of having us kids. I tell folks that. It’s much easier than the truth of things.

We was poor back then. We still poor right now, but we was piss poor then. My brothers and sisters, we ate oatmeal from the same bowl. Notice I didn’t say shared cause when it come to five hungry children, well, five hungry children they don’t share. Five hungry children bite and scratch when food comes near. Mama, she gave up getting between us early on, on account that we needed to learn to fend for ourselves. I ain’t raising no babies, Mama would say, even if we was only babies in our own right. My brothers and sisters and me, make no mistake, we all loved the other, but we learned right quick to eat that oatmeal the second Mama ladled it into the bowl.

Now Daddy, he be out working all day long. Sometime I hear him rustling around when the sun still down and then the whoosh of the front door as he left. If he was lucky, he’d come home just in time for dinner, all us still round the table. We ate that oatmeal for dinner, too. That’s the only time we did share, ’cause Mama always ate first. Daddy too, if he was home in time. He’d scoop it right up from that bowl, right up onto his plate with those black hands of his. Daddy scrubbed his hands all the time with that bristle brush atop the slop sink, but Mama said when you work so hard sometime the dirt, it just curl up inside your skin.

Daddy worked real hard, I know that. He was never no lazy man. Sometime when you work construction, the money, well it just ain’t there to be found, I remember Daddy saying. “Ain’t no money to be found,” he’d tell Mama and me and my brothers and sisters as we ate our oatmeal. “Still ain’t no reason for me to ever stop looking.” I was always proud of my Daddy. Proud of him and his black hands.

I eventually learnt that being hungry and poor does funny things to grownups. Us kids, we made do, mostly ’cause we didn’t know any better. Us kids, we forgot we was poor until oatmeal time rolled round, mostly. After awhile Mama and Daddy though, they started grumbling under their breath about it. Time went by, their talking got louder and louder. Sometime us kids was sleeping, but other times, Mama and Daddy kept us up at night bickering about it. All that shouting. Cabinet banging, too.

Mama, she got real quiet round Daddy when we was all together. She got jittery-like. That made me nervous. And Daddy, we noticed the change come down over his face. He started coming home earlier and earlier every day. His hands not so black any more. Heard him whispering to Mama how the construction was nearly dried up. When Mama told him forceful like that he’s got to look harder for the money, he turned around, face all swollen and red like he just got himself stung by a bee.

***

I remember real clear the time Daddy told me he was gonna rob the Tooth Fairy.

I was hanging laundry on the line for Mama. Daddy come around the corner of the house, wringing his hands worse than Mama wringing the washcloths. He called my name. When I see how wild his face looked, I nearly spilled my clothespin bucket. “How long that front tooth of yours been loose, girl?” Daddy asked me, voice all strangled like.

“Week or two,” I say.

“Should fall out soon then. Real soon. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir. I reckon it should.”

He nodded, but it wasn’t a nod like a man agreeing to something. Daddy nodded like he was sentenced to death. I ain’t never been so scared in all my life. “Good,” he said, but he ain’t talking to me no more, he’s talking to himself. “Good, cause that tooth meant to fall any day now. Maybe any minute. I’ll be ready. Sure as shit, I’ll be ready.” My Daddy, he realized he never used cuss words in front of us kids, and it snapped him back to the here and now. “Listen, honeysuckle,” he said, ’cause that’s what he called me, honeysuckle. “Daddy found a way to make money. I ain’t proud ’bout it, but it’s a way. Now you keep this secret from your Mama, and brothers and sisters too, you hear? I’m gonna take the money from the Tooth Fairy when it come for your tooth, you understand? Don’t look scared now, girl. You know Daddy ain’t never find no reason to stop looking for the money. Well, I been looking, and I been thinking, and I found us something real good.”

“Stealing ain’t never good. You taught us that, Daddy,” I said, close to tears.

Daddy brings his face real close to mine, and my tummy hurt when I realize I don’t know this man no more. “That’s right, honeysuckle. But I know that Tooth Fairy gonna have more than enough of what we need.”

***

I slept with my hands stuffed in my mouth, terrified about that tooth falling out of my head, pressing just as strong as I could press to keep it up inside my gums. I remember waking that morning, waking with my arms down along my sides. I scraped my tongue all around inside my mouth ’till I felt that horrible hole where that tooth should have been.

Daddy stood, just waiting there in the doorway, body all slumped like the air’d been sucked from his chest. His eyes was wilder than any animal I’d ever seen. He brung a hand to his lips and shushed me real gentle like. Leaving me trying to decide what terrified me more…the fact that the black was gone from his hands, or that he was rolling my tooth between his fingers.

“Don’t go waking your brothers and sisters now,” he says to me, ’cause we all crammed into the same room, our mattresses squeezed up one against the other. “I’m gonna lay this tooth ‘neath your pillow tonight, honeysuckle, and come the morn I wager we’ll be set just a little bit better.” And with that, he just slipped away like a ghost in the stories me and my brothers and sisters scare each other with at night.

I did as Daddy said; I didn’t say nothing to nobody. Didn’t feel much like eating oatmeal that day either. I guess it was ’cause of keeping that hole in my mouth a secret.

Mama tucked us all in that night, and Daddy came in after. He kissed me last. I wrapped my arms round him like he was the teddy bear I wished he and Mama could buy me. His lips were tender on my cheek. Then I felt him fumbling under my pillow. He pulled away, and I wish I could of said Daddy don’t do it, Daddy there’s got to be better way! But he swore me to a secret, and I ain’t never disobeyed my Daddy. It was late by the time I fell asleep, that tooth beneath my pillow giving me dreams something wicked.

I’m still not sure what time it was when that window started sliding upward. Mama kept it locked come autumn, but the draft still found its way in and the nip, it always got right down to your bones. But somehow that night, that window come unlocked and sliding upward. Sure enough, the wind start moaning through the room. I squeezed my eyes real tight and did my best to make-believe I was sleeping. The window, it just keep creaking open. I started praying to the baby Jesus that the wind howling through our room was the worst thing I’d hear. But it wasn’t.

I heard it. It was a whole lot raspier than my brothers’ and sisters’ breathing. Real harsh, like nails dragged across shingles. I straight near piddled my panties when something meaty dragged itself over the windowsill. I sensed something hovering over me, its shadow darker than the dark of my closed eyes. It snorted, its stinky breath wetting my cheek. Next thing I know, my pillow done lifted straight from the bed, then settled down again. Coins start rattling in my ear.

Our bedroom door suddenly banged open, and I heard a big tussle. Groans and grunts and screaming… god-awful screaming. Then a shotgun blast. Something splattered all over my face. When I opened my eyes, Mama was sliding down the wall, but she ain’t got a head no more. And my Daddy, he be choking on a knife stuck straight through his throat. I grabbed my brothers and sisters and dragged them half-asleep from the room quick as I could. We ain’t never slept back in there again.

Since then, I ain’t never had the chance to stop looking for the money. My hands are black now, just like Daddy’s used to be. And those folks, they ask all the time how I came to be raising my brothers and sisters. No one’s gonna believe the truth. The truth of how my Mama and Daddy really done killed each other. The truth of how I saw the Tooth Fairy leaving through the window. Crooked finger at its yellowy lips, shushing me real gentle into yet another secret. I don’t tell no secrets, never have, never will.

We still eat that oatmeal. Got to—especially since I used Daddy’s old pliers to pull out every last one of our teeth.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

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

The Other

July 2, 2013November 17, 2014 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 36 Comments

With a steely-eyed gaze, she watches those far below performing their meaningless and menial tasks. Her clawed feet grip the head of the gargoyle she squats upon as the wind tunnels down the avenue. Her wings flutter slightly; she tries to hold them closed yet they begin to unfurl nonetheless. This one has no control. She caresses the stone creature she clings to. I see longing in her expression for the days when their corporeal brothers took flight with the likes of our kind.

Tasked with watching her movements, yet instructed not to intervene, I take a perverse pleasure knowing that she hunts so near the house of their current prevailing god. Glancing over, I survey the cathedral of this Saint Patrick. It’s a magnificent structure, shame it serves no purpose other than to collect lost, frightened sheep. This urban sprawl is no different from any other these humans have littered the ground with – houses of false worship, dens of inadequacy, squalor in the name of ownership. They do love their tenement housing and the riches it brings them to take advantage of the less fortunate. Even the well-to-do who buy into their own lie of opulence live like rats in a sinking cage. Some are enlightened and grateful for what is shared with them, but most – they display undignified arrogance, believing they’ve the right to divide the land among themselves.

Visually sorting the wriggling maggots below, she spots one that holds her eye longer than the rest. She scents the human while I watch her. Then I look down and immediately know what she is taken with. No, please no.

My gaze slowly rises to watch her once again; she is patting her stone companion on the head, scoring it with her talon and a smear of blood so others of our kind will know it belongs to her. Task complete, she sets off in steady yet slow pursuit of her prey.

The girl on the ground is not going far – I know exactly where she is going. A short taxi ride takes her to her chic-to-be-common Tribecca residence guarded by an ass in a ridiculous hat. Settling in a stone archway a short distance away, I wait for what will happen next, though in truth, I already know.

The girl enters her building. Minutes later, the entire top floor illuminates. I picture it in my mind’s eye: she removes her coat, hanging it on a hook as she pulls the clip from her hair, allowing her mane to fall freely about her shoulders. She kicks off her stilettos, sliding them to the side with a delicate bare foot. She drops her mail on the sideboard as she begins her evening ritual. Why was she on Madison Avenue today?

I watch as sly satisfaction crawls over the Other’s features. I’m sure she’s wondering if the advantage of enjoying the finer things in life will make the girl taste sweeter – I would wonder myself. Meanwhile, I nestle deeper into the cloaking mask of twilight as the shimmering refection of the Hudson glimmers in my eyes.

***

Night has fallen, her prey has settled comfortably in for the evening, or so the poor girl thinks. I feel regret, but like all other things, this too shall pass… Dropping to the ground, the Other opts to visit the door-monkey, an unnecessary cruelty. He rushes to grant her egress. Most of our kind hide their true nature from these humans. She prefers to flaunt it… let them see her shimmering wings, her clawed feet, her taloned hands; let them see all she has to offer – haughty bitch! Her hold over him masks his fear until she decides to let him feel it; I am guilty of wearing the same mask, but not for the same reason. As she walks past the door-monkey, I watch while she mockingly thanks him for opening the door. He bows in supplication; her left arm strikes out, crushing his head against the marbled wall of the foyer. Kneeling beside him, she removes the ring of keys attached to his belt and shakes the ichor from her hand at the same time.

She ascends the stairs, walks across the well-appointed lobby and calls for the elevator. It arrives and as she has guessed, the Penthouse unit requires key access for the lift. She inserts the key into the slot, smears a finger across the button labeled ‘P’, and the doors close behind her. I can see no more from where I am. I move to the building’s ledge, finding better vantage to watch what is to unfold.

The elevator doors open onto a comfortable yet highly privileged loft. The thought that the girl living here knows of her arrival must have crossed her mind by now, but to one like her who enjoys terror as much as flesh, the squealing pork is that much sweeter. My heart rises to choke me.

She begins to walk through the apartment; I see confusion on her face. There are antiques of great value here; stone carvings hang upon the walls that are far too reminiscent of our kind’s past. She runs a finger across a 17^th century credenza in exquisite condition, a Celtic dragon carving hanging above it. She glances at my latest gift, a Victorian fainting chaise poised below the windows opposite the entry. Most Manhattanites, wealthy or not, don’t posses such things. Her interest is piqued… and the hostess in residence has still not come out to play. I swallow the sickening feeling in my gut.

The Other sniffs the air; I know what she smells. The scent of warm honey and jasmine coming from the left – it often greets me. She heads in that direction.

Following along pace by pace on the outer ledge of the building, I reach the room the scent is emanating from the same time she does. She slowly pushes the door open as I peer through the window. What I see confounds me for a moment. The girl, my girl, my pet, is lying placidly in a tub of warm water, steam rising from it, hair pinned atop her head, with a cloth resting across her eyes. I simply stare. She must know by now it isn’t me, why hasn’t she run?

My lovely pet begins to speak, the movement of her lips the only thing disturbing this twisted diorama.

“She won’t like that you’ve come here. You should leave.” Even through the glass wall of the window and the vying sounds of the street below, I hear her taunting the Other. My eyes sting in the biting wind. Goodbye my beautiful pet.

Shock freezes the Other in place for a moment, indecision caused by the unexpected brazen nature of the creature resting in the water. Then realization dawns upon her; this human is already kept by another. As if sensing this comprehension, my pet lifts her arm from the water to display a small black feather inked on the inside of her left wrist. It is the mark I make upon my own.

Moving her hand to the edge of the cloth, my pet lifts it slowly from one eye; I see my own arrogance radiating from her gorgeous emerald lens. Lowering the cloth once more, her arm sinks back into the water, she waits. I am to blame for this.

The Other loses what little control she has maintained up to this point. She dives at my pet, ripping her throat open with snapping teeth. I watch as she tears apart tender flesh with raking talons and scratching claws. Honey and jasmine scented water splashes the room as my own vision tinges red. Within, I silently howl my rage. Throughout the encounter, my pet does not struggle… not once. She dies with dignity.

I slowly withdraw from the glass as the Other withdraws from the bathroom; she backs down the hallway. Sensing she is being watched, her head whips toward the bank of windows set into the exterior wall, her eyes narrow, nervously searching. There, in the darkness, I crouch. Waiting…

~ Nina D’Arcangela