Tag: short story

Damned Words 59

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Bound in Mater’s Shed
Marge Simon

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

The Eye
Charles Gramlich

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

My Little Flower
Lee Andrew Forman

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

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

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

The Blooming
Kathleen McCluskey

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

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

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

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

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

The Flower Ear
Harrison Kim

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

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

Red Spores
A.F. Stewart

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

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

Then people started dying.

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

But that wasn’t the worst.

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

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

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

Once in a Lifetime
Richard Meldrum

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

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

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

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

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

The Bloom
Miriam H. Harrison

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

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

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

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

Le Fleur
Elaine Pascale

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

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

The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.

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

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

“And what is the purpose of teeth?”

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

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

“My rose is not going to like this.”

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

“She seems mean.”

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

“Or by me.”

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

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

  • in dedication to Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author and may not be reproduced without prior consent. © Copyright 2025

The Whistler

~ Elaine Pascale ~ 9 Comments

The scouting trip had been in the works for months. What had not been planned was the loss of a scout on the second day of the trip.

And not just any scout, they had lost Hayden. Hayden was the troop member who needed the most attention. Each event the scout master planned was precluded with warnings from Hayden’s mother. Hayden had allergies, Hayden had diagnoses and conditions, Hayden required eyes on him at all times.

Hayden was special.

Hayden’s mother’s anxiety had grown with the approach of the camping trip. She had called the scout master daily to remind him that Hayden needed to take his Ritalin. She had explained that he needed his sleep mask and ear plugs even in the deepest, darkest woods. She had produced his inhaler and backup inhaler.

She reminded him that Hayden was special.

Despite Hayden’s mother, or maybe to spite her, the scout master determined to treat Hayden as if he were any other boy as the troop set off into the woods.

That first morning had been accompanied by clear blue skies and a bright sun. Backpacks brimming with supplies and snacks, the boys had told “Whistler” stories as they ascended the mountain.

“If you hear a whistle, run for your life!”

“He will skin you alive!”

“He will eat your eyeballs!”

“He carries a sack of his victim’s bones on his back!”

Hayden had his ear buds in so he did not join in the spinning of tales. His mother had insisted that Hayden needed to listen to nature sounds to ground him. The scout leader had suggested that Hayden listen to the nature sounds of the actual forest they would be walking through, but that recommendation was derided because Hayden was special.

Midway up the mountain, the troop stopped for lunch. This was the first time Hayden disappeared.

”Hayden…” the boys called up into the trees, figuring he had gotten the urge to climb.

“Hayden…” the boys called into the bushes, assuming he was hiding.  

It wasn’t until they had finished their post-lunch granola bars that Hayden reappeared.

He pointed at a wrapper and announced, “Those are made in a facility that processes nuts.”

The other boys laughed at the word “nuts.”

“Hayden, where were you?” the scout master asked.

The boy said nothing as he hiked his backpack higher, causing the interior items to rattle.

***

Despite the scary tales they had been telling all day, the boys had fallen asleep at a decent hour from the fatigue of hiking. The scout master was awoken with rising shouts to accompany the rising sun.

“Hayden is gone!”

“He’s gone!”

“The Whistler got him!”

The scout master looked in the empty tent and then asked, “Are you sure he is gone? Can he hear us calling? Are his ear plugs in?”

The boys exchanged quizzical looks.

“Let’s not notify his mother just yet.” The scout master feigned composure. He said this despite knowing how Hayden’s mother was, or maybe because he knew how Hayden’s mother was.

They spent the day scouring the woods, looking for Hayden. That night, no one slept. The boys reported that the sound of whistling kept them awake. They were certain that the Whistler was coming to collect their bones.

“He will drag us around the mountains forever!”

“We will never make it home!”

“Poor Hayden!”

The boys claimed they heard the rattling of bones coming from the bushes. They noted shadows moving through the forest.

“We have to leave!”

“He is after us!”

“We have to face Hayden’s mother at some point.”

The scout master was more afraid of Hayden’s mother than he was of the Whistler, so he asked for one more day to look for Hayden, agreeing to descend the mountain at the following daybreak.

***

The rising sun brought panicked whispers coming from inside the tent. The boys called for the scout master, “We can’t leave the tent; he is right outside, whistling.”

Despite knowing the troop would be worried, or perhaps to spite the troop, there was a whistler seated by the dying campfire, a very special one.

It was Hayden, whistling through his nearly empty inhaler and stripping unidentified hides, stashing the bones in his backpack.

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.

But What of Home

~ Charles Gramlich ~ 3 Comments

Always, the man traveled, first away from his home in the country, then away from the city, then away from Earth, the sun, the solar system. Ever onward, ever outward. At nearly the speed of light, which didn’t seem fast enough. He called himself an explorer, never a coward.  In the coldest, deepest depths of space between stars, he came upon a derelict spaceship floating silently. But not emptily. He went aboard. 

The other pilot in his seat was long dead. He wasn’t human but the man felt a kinship with him. This being, too, had been a traveler, an explorer. And somewhere along the way he’d despaired and opened his space suit to a vacuum he’d let into his own ship. He’d left a last recorded log. The button to play it rested under one thin tentacle. 

The man pressed the button. And he understood the message. These aliens must have had some kind of translator that connected directly to the man’s brain waves and turned strange gibberish into language. The words said:

I ran until I couldn’t run anymore. If you’re hearing this, go home. In the end, there’s nothing but home. 

The man began to weep. He thought of the family he’d left behind, the lovers he’d spurned, the children he’d never had. He went back to his own ship and turned it around. He blasted for Earth. He yearned for the blue marble; instead, he found a dirty brown cue ball. The traveler had forgotten one thing in his urge to flee his past—time dilation. He’d aged a few years in his journey; the earth had aged millions. There was no home to go to. 

Before opening his suit helmet to the air, and his ship to the vacuum, the man recorded a message for whoever might find it, though he knew it would be useless: “You can’t go home again. The only thing to do is never leave!” 

∼ Charles Gramlich

© Copyright Charles Gramlich. All Rights Reserved.

The Screaming Pool

~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

Scrabbles

~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 4 Comments

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

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

I no longer wonder where the gifts come from.

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

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

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

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

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.

Just Do It

~ Ian Sputnik ~ 3 Comments

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Charlie, come here,” he ordered.

Charles did as he was told.

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

Charles froze. “Why me?”

“You’re the only one small enough”.

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

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

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

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

“You there yet?” Mickey called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gwen’s eyes darted from Charles to the doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three weeks later Charles finally opened his eyes.

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

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

“What’s happening, doctor?”

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

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

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

∼ Ian Sputnik

© Copyright Ian Sputnik. All Rights Reserved.

Roadkill

~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

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

Dead, I thought. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Charles Gramlich

© Copyright Charles Gramlich. All Rights Reserved.

You Have Always Been Nothing

~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Harrison Kim

© Copyright Harrison Kim All Rights Reserved.

Brain Box

~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.

Trash Night

~ Elaine Pascale ~ 6 Comments

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

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

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

“Sleep. Are you sleeping well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mostly complaints about husbands?”

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

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

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

“And she brought you back seasoning?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you throw it away?”

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

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

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

Thirty minutes later, she returned.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.