Nail Living

The nights get cold here, even in July. Cold enough that my bare skin ripples with chill in this little room, and the steel of the chain that binds me to the heavy-duty plate on the wall makes me shiver.  It makes the chain sing and I’m afraid, and the slightest bit angry.  My knees hurt from always having to be on them.  I have no choice because the chain on the collar is too short for me to sit.

I forget how long it’s been since I came here. Weeks.  Maybe a month. Long enough for me to count the cracks in the wall or the loose nails that litter the destroyed wood floor.  I don’t remember much.  The day I was put in here is etched on my back.  It’s etched in my mind. It will not recuse itself and so I have to live with it like a scar.  I hated when his misogynistic friends would come to visit. The way they treated me would have horrified their own wives and girlfriends, and they knew it. They also knew that I’d been forbidden to speak of it, under threat.

He laughed when one ordered me to my knees, and punched me in the gut when I balked, and then forced me to them anyway when I had no breath to refuse. I had hope still that he would step in and tell  his friend to knock it off. I prayed when this friend unzipped the zipper on his worn jeans, begged he would step in when this friend shoved his cock in my mouth. But he didn’t.  Apparently the situation was laughable because he cheered like the other reprobates when I couldn’t breath and fought.  I was punished when I bit the sonofabitch and earned a dislocated jaw.  It’s still out and throbs like a motherfucker.

My thighs are battered and a kaleidoscope of colours from nearly black to puke green, abraded inside where they meet. The last time a new one was invited. He liked to bite and hit. I hope he doesn’t come back. That man’s eyes are darker than Satan’s asshole and there is not one ounce of compassion or concern in them. He wanted to hurt me then and was given carte blanche do so with a slap on the arm and a hearty laugh. I can feel the torn edges along the soft inner folds.  My fingertips trace a heavily indented impression of what feels like a full set of teeth.  I screamed until I had no breath left  when he did that.

I hear footsteps coming down the hall. Through the window I can see a strip of colour in the sky. The sun is going down.  His fingers tap annoyingly on the wall as he nears the door, saying my name in a sing-song method that tortures my mind.  I’ve got to get out of here.  The door flies open, knocking me on the side of the head.  The world goes white for a moment and I hear him laughing, calling me stupid for sitting there, when it was he that chained me to the fucking wall in the first place.

The collar is loosened, then gone from my neck, and my arm is yanked hard enough to cause pain. I holler, kicking out with both feet and feeling them connect with something strong but yielding – his knees – and laugh when he hits  the ground with a crash and a not so manly yelp.  There is no time to waste.  The nail I found last week in the wall where my fingers can touch had come loose.  It makes a perfect weapon, and I stab it into his eyeball with a satisfied grunt, shoving it a s deep as I can get it before scuttling over him.   I can barely stand and shuffle like Igor down the hall to grab something to wear before I make my escape.  That was my mistake. I should have run as fast and as far as I could but vanity is a cruel mistress.

That’s why I’m still here.

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Moribund

I am dying.  I know it as well as I know the new lines around my eyes and the finer ones around the corners of my mouth.  I know it like the spectre that dogs me every step I take for the past six months, that shadow that won’t go away no matter how bright the sunshine.  No one knows my suspicions, and won’t if I have my way, and I will.  This is between me and whatever remains of the faith I once had.  There isn’t much faith left.  Over the years it has dwindled like the rotgut gin in a hobo’s paper bag. 
  ·
How do I know?  I can’t eat, or, I have no desire to eat anything. I realise sometimes that I go all day and even into the next without more than water and the occasional cup of coffee or juice.  It’s not healthy but I don’t feel hungry, and so I just don’t think about it.  I can’t digest much these days anyway and less time feeling queasy is fine by me.
 ·
I’ve been thinking about God lately, and whether or not there is such an entity at all.  I lost belief in anything outside of extraterrestrial life, species that still prove their own intelligence daily by avoiding humanity.  The idea that we are not alone in the universes and beyond seems so much more plausible than some God who has been on extended lunch for 2000 plus years.   Still, I hope there is something on the other side, someone waiting to meet me. I hate to travel alone.
 ·
I can’t sleep either.   In the worst of my insomnia I still slept a couple of hours a night. It’s been a week now and I haven’t had more than twenty minutes each night.  I’d give anything to not wake up at three each morning drenched in sweat and biting back a scream.  I’d give anything not to wake up feeling ill with my chest locked and tears in my eyes.  I’d like to remember what wakes me in the first place.  I stay away and draw pictures in the air with my mind, eyes drooping closed at exactly 2:40 am and springing open at exactly 3:00 am.
  ·
The sky is on fire outside my window and the chill in the air reminds me that it is soon to be autumn again, another season passed bringing us closer to winter.  Closer to the short dark days that I’m not sure I can endure again.  Not that I will be here by then.  Likely as not I will be in another place. 
It occurs that I’ve been pulling away from everyone around me and it makes me a little sad.  Not many need me around these days; kids grow, families change, distance and decisions.  It’s not a bad thing really.  It proves that life will go on as it always has and nothing much will change my world.  There is that niggling uncomfortable feeling again, the one that always has been a precursor to misfortune, and I fight the urge to vomit. 
Today I heard an odd ticking on my nightstand as I cleaned the ashes of my dreams from the floor and try as I may I can’t find the source.  An internal clock or some kind of weird audio hallucination maybe.  It won’t stop but quiets some as the sun goes down, and my heart beats faster.  Time is flying by and the ticking is louder than ever as the clock races towards 2:40 am.  I’m afraid more than ever now, my limbs shaking like a tree in a hurricane. I can’t stay awake.   2:39 am.
 ·
The sun is too bright and I raise my hand to shade my eyes, confused. It was dark as Satan’s asshole and then suddenly I’m on the sun.  There is a woman, her voluptuous frame silhouetted by the blinding luminescence.  I can hear her speaking but not the words, and the point is moot when the explosion overtakes all other noise.  My ribs feel like they are glass, shattered inside and the burning pain in my left breast is more than I can take.  She comes closer, her long bare legs scissoring then bending as she places a hot circle on my forehead between my eyes, breathing in a husky, sensual voice, “Time to go home.”
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A Matt Farnsworth Film The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Full Fathom 5 Studios
A Matt Farnsworth Film
The Orphan Killer 2
Bound x Blood
Full Fathom 5 Studios

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“The characters Marcus Miller, and Babysister are owned by  Matt Farnsworth”
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Cover Created by Tim Miller

Slayful Stories Volume 1 is now available for Kindle and in paperback

Coming soon Volume 2 – The Death Maiden Journeys

tears are for flowers

You see,
There are all of these thoughts
And dandelion fluff mixed up with
Feelings and stupid things like that
So I end up tongue-tied and twisted
Because I can’t speak,
Not even a peep

Understand,
It’s all about control
Never letting go for one second
Stay diligent! Stay your post, and
I have
But I’m tired of being an empty bottle
That always has to be filled until
There’s no room left

And so,
I stuff it down, smile some more
Get bent out of shape inside
Because there’s nowhere to run
What else is there to do but hide?

It doesn’t matter.
Reconstruction starts over again
More mortar holes to fix
Crumbling passages make one weak
Tears are for flowers
So stop your crying
Rebuilding walls, filling aches
That maybe, one day,
can just crumble away

Because I love you

The Twisted Path Group

Some of the  poem below was published as a collaboration originally .   As I’m quite partial to the words I chose to rework and rerelease the original   Enjoy

Melanie

Because I love you, I whisper through the hole of my hands to where you sit drowning. Drowning in tears of self-pity while attempting to run your fingers across the strings of my heart and finding them snapped, rusted and my heart dead and rotted.

You cry out in shock and despair at my disaffected stare, my severing smile and you, you trapped in body inside the that amaroidal hell, trapped in my Hell, the halls in shameful disrepair, so is the flesh that was my heart. And it’s your fault.

All that remains are are faces, names, the souvenirs in jagged-edged photographs. In charred frames that line the condemned and diseased passages; the walls alive with blowflies that shift in…

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Hello, You Are Me by Thomas Duder

Hello, You are me, by Thomas Duder

The Twisted Path Group

Hello, me.

If you are reading this and all is successful, then I have died and you are me, in the future, having acquired this letter and are now reading it because you wish to have access to those memories that I, and you, once had.

You are, indeed, myself. Hurtled through the ages, this note has stayed alive thanks to the works of our friends, our supporters, and those who believe as we believe.

Perhaps it was Reincarnation that brought you back to me, that made you aware that you are me.

Perhaps God gave us another chance and now my soul, which is within you, is once again living on earth.

Perhaps we are an anomaly and death holds no sway over us.

Perhaps we are a monster of some sort, or have become infected with some kind of virus, or were cursed with Immortality.

It matters not…

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