A Reaper in the hand is worth millions to the right client.
A Reaper in the hand is worth millions to the right client.
It’s 2 am and I’m awake, again, repeating that same tired ass litany of silent cusses and pleading whines –
the small still voice soothes and whispers
everything is copacetic
its all irie BabyGirl –
but it isn’t. little is…
the loudest thing in my world is my mind and while the world sleeps
I plod and blunder
I pace and wonder,
worry and mutter
only to realise that
nothing ever seems to be resolved
by continuously walking the worry circle
🖕🏻 FUCK YOU.🖕🏻
😊 Thanks for playing!! 😊
Aww are we stunned? Hurt? Wonder why?
Does it matter?
Fun, isn’t it. Feels good huh.
Now you know.
👉🏻 Think 👈🏻
👉🏻 Before 👈🏻
👉🏻 You 👈🏻
👉🏻 Open 👈🏻
👉🏻 Your 👈🏻
👉🏻 Ever 👈🏻
👉🏻 Flapping 👈🏻
👍🏻 Yapper 👍🏻
Believe it or not – 😱 hmmm it’s a secret.😱 I dunno if you’re prepared. Are you ready? It’s a shock….
Perhaps you should have a seat.
👉🏻 The universe does not revolve around you 👈🏻
There’s a wealth of information available if one should one care to inquire. But hey, why? Right?
To what end?
Nothing much matters if it’s not about you.
I remember all too well
that agonising thread of fear,
the disbelief and then
the anvil that takes out your will,
your ability to stay sane.
Steals your breath, it does,
it steals your mind,
giggling silver bells and then –
– then, everything stops.
Your heart freezes,
it catches and beats, then stutters again,
pounding heavily in your ears,
and you wonder why?
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHY?
Then you begin to torture yourself
with the constant replay,
the what ifs and the maybes,
just to be sure there wasn’t one action
anything that could’ve changed the outcome
It threatens to turn you weak sister,
and in spite of the brutal pep-talk,
the only you can do is sit and shatter.
I understand the rage
at not being able to change a thing,
at the inability go back and do something
that could affect the outcome.
Desperate to wake up from the horror
But no, it’s all real,
every horrid moment of this nightmare
is not a dream
bot an alternate reality.
Final, forever and you think.
With a sigh, why?
I didn’t know what to say
I never meant for her to feel that way
But it killed me to hear her cry from behind the bathroom door
You don’t love me anymore
Your smile never touches your eyes
The one on your face I barely recognise
Losing you cuts to the core
Because I know you don’t love me anymore
She can’t see me standing here
Listening to her tears
Hurting from the fear
When she sighs, then softly cries
You don’t love me anymore
I could just run away
Something always makes me stay
There is no one else to look for
(You are the one)
So how can you say I don’t love you anymore
You think I don’t care
You can’t see it so it’s not there
(Blind lady love)
You are what my heart cries for
Truly, I couldn’t love you more
She can’t see me standing here
Cheeks wet from my tears
Hurting when she sighs
You don’t love me anymore
I really couldn’t love you more
Some say it’s an invidious action,
to place oneself in such a precarious position.
Dancing with a better class of Daemon
is the summative response to life on a ledge.
Ah, but Evil speaks in such romantic rhetoric
Pretty lilting half truths pleading to be believed
One is always struggling with that temptation;
Refuting the historical evidence as naught, when even
The intricacy of Hell’s hegemony wanes from time to time.
Watch them frolic in the bête noire
Like children splashing in a sun shower
I prefer the manner of Pale Death
Reaper speaks simply, the language of Souls
His way is a recrudescence of full truth
Lanterns of fact in a world of lies
One supposes that it is the best way
Biting back with kindness is similar to
Good deeds against a better class of Devils
Letting them starving to life
During a harvest of fools.
The sounds of silence.
There is no such thing
Why? You are human.
Noise comes naturally
Y’know that crack’lin?
That rapid rushing
When hear something
And you are alone?
That’s the cry of your nervous system
How about that thud
That beats in your ears…
Can’t you hear it now?
Boom (pause) Boom (pause) (pause)
BOOM and your heart screams
That’s the song of your heart pumping blood through your veins
Silence is a misnomer for sound
*from the upcoming book, Stories from the Slaughterhouse, coming soon to digital and paperback*
The thunk of the gun on the table in front of me holds such a finality that I am stunned into stammering. Had I truly come to a point in my life where all my troubles could be bought away by the uttering of a name and the pulling of a trigger? Apparently so – I had to consider my situation carefully and had relatively no time to do it. “That’s the deal, sweetheart. One name, and one bullet.” The man behind the weapon wears a smile that seems more predatory than genuine. It’s odd how predatory fits best with those pointed teeth of his. The smile is not reassuring in the least.
“It all sounds a little too good to be true, and you forgot about the lifetime of guilt and nightmares,” I snark back, more out of fear than anything else. A big hand lands like a wet blanket on the butt of the gun and I realise that I was lashing out at the one person who was willing to give me what I needed. No one ever said that I was smart.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolf. I suppose that I’m nervous. This is a big decision to make, you know?” The hand vanishes as quickly as it came and I inwardly sigh relief. “So who is it? I need the name before I turn you loose. It’s one of the rules.” Who, indeed? There really were so many I could choose from, but whose death would everyone’s world best benefit from? “You already know, don’t you?” I shake my head, because I did and I didn’t want to admit it. I’m a horrible person. A monster.
A monster, but I don’t mean to be, and I try so hard not to be. “Yeah. I know who, and you won’t be needing that gun, either, thank you. I could use a priest and maybe a team of exorcists though, if you know of any.” A bullet will do no good and so the gun is useless, unless I want to blow my own brains out my ear with it. If he takes it with him, It’s sure to happen to him; I am not ready to die, yet, and I’m positive that he isn’t either. It’ll happen, though. It has before.
I am unwell, or so they say and I would normally agree but my point of view has changed drastically. There are some things that one simply cannot unsee or pretend they are untrue Last summer, while I was in a bad way, I voluntarily did a short stint in the local mental hospital. What my family called a sanity sabbatical. I met someone there, a strange and wonderful man who shared so many of the same things in common that for the first time in my life, I began to be happy right where I was.
His name was Piotr and he made me feel like a normal woman, someone with worth, worth the time and I fell in love, hard. From the moment I saw him, he became hypnotic and all-encompassing. Our romance grew in the shadows and in empty doorways, finally resulting in the consummation of our love late on the 13th of June. We found each other in the darkness of the abadoned north wing and on a bed he had thoughtfully set up for our first romantic endeavour he took the only thing I had to give.
There was something – a presence – about him that made me drool with desire every time he came near. The intoxicating scent of the one I adored was more delicious than anything else and my head was full of him when he peeled my clothing off and spread my legs. He kissed me, there, then, and I shivered when his tongue began tracing its pattern; up and down and round and round. My slit was wet but I wanted him in my mouth first and then between my legs, but he refused one and laid me back onto the thin mattress.
I could feel the hot throbbing head of his sex against my virgin opening, and it probed deeper as his tongue did my mouth. There was so much pleasure that I forgot about the pain and spread my legs wide, begging him to pierce my maidenhead and then fuck me til I screamed. No greater pleasure experienced in one’s life than that first time and so it remains the greatest pleasure of my years. The stars in my eyes masked the truth in reality and though he was everything, I had forgotten about the chains of responsibility that come with rapture.
Weeks later, I learned that I was to be a mother, on the very day that I was to be released from my sanctuary, torn away from Piotr and dumped back into hell. I had written him a note after repeated failed attempts to pull him into a private corner to tell him the news. The nurses thwarted me at every step, and I finally resorted to paper and pen; my love left bleeding on paper and handed to a trusted friend to deliver after my departure.
My room remained the same as it had when I was a child, thus relegating me to the child they saw me as. I hated it, chafed at the social collar that I was forced to wear. The only saving grace is that when Poitr was finally free, it would l be easy for me to slip out of the window and into his arms. For a time, it was easy, for maybe a month or so after I received word that he gained employment and was living in a rooming house nearby. The first time, we planned to meet at the gazebo at the local park. It was our first public meeting, and I was a nervous wreck, with my hand caressing the slight bump of my belly as though I would a talisman.
Poitr appeared on the path leading up to the partial secluded building, his eyes on the ground until he reached the stairs; then, nothing existed for a while but our bodies and hearts meeting and beating together. The sound of his knees hitting the wood and the feeling of his soft lips on the slight bump of my belly was more erotic than I ever imagined. The sensation of the hardest part of him resting against my ready slit and then sliding forward was delicious and I arched my back with a groan. I remember that, but the rest is lost in a haze of my own making. It’s for me.
We met that way as often as time would allow, with me climbing from the bedroom window and shimmying down the drainpipe to walk half a mile to the gazebo. It was perfect until I was unable to see my toes, and then we knew we needed to find another way. Piotr proposed on a Friday, in our gazebo. It was raining and the world was draped in mist from the river. The baby kicked hard when he kissed my inner thigh and produced a beautiful small diamond. Of course I said yes and we lay together on a blanket he had brought with him, his hand on my belly and his lips on my ear, telling me about how it would be when we were married and our little one was here. He made it sound so plausible.
“Is it safe? Nadia? Is it – if we -” He was so nervous and I nodded against his neck, nipping my teeth along his collarbone when he growled. “Easy, Poitr, you must go easy,” I gasped when he shoved me onto my back and flipped my skirt up over my hips. I hadn’t worn panties, as he’d requested and his fingers were stroking my already ready slit in a rougher manner than I’d experienced before. “Poitr,” I whined, trying to push his hand away but he chuckled and slipped three of his thick fingers firmly inside my tunnel, wiggling them in a manner that made me squirm in pleasure and discomfort. Baby was active and seemed to be struggling inside of my belly.
An enormous agony tore through my back and up my spine when my juices drenched his still thrusting fingers, easing with the first shriek from Piotr and the frantic wriggling of his hand deep inside of my body. The world stopped, and for a while, so did I, lost in a fog of numbness and the shrieks of the man I loved.
When the mists had cleared, Piotr was gone; his eyes had flies in them and his hand was gnawed away, through to the stub of white gleaming in the red. My belly was empty, and felt empty too, until I felt the warmth of two tiny hands st my breast and the sharp nip of pointed teeth. I was a mother. My son’s first meal had been his father.
That was six months ago Piotr was found shortly after our son wax born by an off duty officer on his morning run. There were no suspects and the papers said it was an isolated animal attack He’s an animal alright, of a sort, my fallen angel who sleeps now in his toddler bed nearest the window. He will wake later so that he can sit up and admire the moon. He’s grown fast, feeding while I sleep and crawling beside me warm and content as the sun rises each morning, waking me the same way he did the day he was born His teeth are sharper.
I miss Piotr, dreadfully. Our child looks so much like him that it makes me ill. I can’t look at him anymore, especially not now He is rapidly losing his grip on what little humanity he’d been born with. I knew that it would happen anyway but I’m frightened by how soon it has occurred.
What brings me here, at this point in my life? Two nights ago I found a man in my house. I just stood in the doorway stunned at seeing a nude stranger it my bed, and the sweet face of my should be infant boy buried hairline deep in his guts and grunting like a boar. The man was still shrieking in agony when I crept away from the open bedroom door and drove away. I haven’t been back.
“Hey beautiful, what’s the word? Going to give me that name?” I really detest this asshole, but he is exactly what I need to get the job done. Raising my eyes to his, I smile and push a folded scrap of paper towards him, and brush the cool metal of the gun in the process. “Gideon. There is the address. I’ll wait for the call.” Mr. Wolf scanned the information I’d carefully printed on it and refolded the paper, placing it in his left breast pocket.
“Okay Ms. C. Give me 24 hours and I’ll have good news for you.” He traipsed away without a care, and never glanced back once. I’ve been waiting for that call, the text, something with the proof of death to secure my freedom for almost 48 hours That is a full day longer than the amount of time that he committed to, but I am loathe to leave yet. This is my child, after all, my son that I’m awaiting word from after all. I afraid that things went terribly wrong.
Another-day/Wake-and-die /Suffocation-again/sigh/ It’s-not-ideal-perhaps /But-I-embrace-it/why-not/ Life-is-so-much-simpler-when-you’re-dead /Shit-doesn’t-matter-except-the-day /And-the-people-in-it/Cursed-daystar/hiss/Death-goes-on-into perpetuity /Mournings-suck-even for-the-departed/ That’s-why-there’s-coffee.
You remind me of someone.
Something says be wary;
It’s the manner that you carry,
the method of speech, rings bells
of the warning variety…
Stupidly, as the reasoning is not sound.
There is no cause for distrust –
Fear can cause brain cells to self-destruct –
no reason but this terminal case of silly suspicion
I’ve been blessed with and yet
it niggles at my memory banks …
You remind me of someone.
The blackness of unconsciousness has monsters in it, slithery horrible things that resemble nothing close to peace. Floating in some breathless place, I wasn’t and then I was. Like a light flashing on, or a flipped switch. What is a light?What is a switch?
Flip the switch, blind the night.
The reality is that my eyes are sizzling in their sockets, and the white light aches in my head. What am I? Who…am I…? I have a name; had one before I was l lost in the noxious nightmare of comatose horror. I have an identity; a life, people who care – someone must miss me…
I heard my name spoken in whispers – while lost in my own head – by a voice that left me shivering as I recall it now, and it strikes fear in my chest. It can’t be true but I know my own ears and I thought that I was alone, then. I can’t remember the name now. Nothing works and I’m broken. I really am broke this time. My head aches and I think it’s bleeding, from the sick, slick sensation of warm wetness on my neck.
The darkness is back and so is the voice, hissing slowly and clearly into my ear and I’m ashamed to admit that it makes me burn with desire. With knowledge.
My name is Bonnee Waitless.
I don’t know where I am, and that’s a big concern because my world is pitch, and seems darker because it was so blindingly bright before. I know that I am awake, aware at least; my eyes are open, and I can feel my nails digging into my cheek so I’m almost sure that this isn’t a dream. I think I know what the darkness is, but I don’t know why it is here. Wherever here is. There are too many questions and not enough answers; I can’t find answers sitting in my ass lost here in the dark. Why is this happening? Why now?
Time to take inventory:
I am afraid. I know nothing yet it seems that I already know everything. I know that I need to move from the floor and find an egress of any sort, but the air is molasses and my body doesn’t respond.
There is something else, as well. I’m no longer alone. What is that sound? A panting in the shadows, frightened or maybe hungry. Perhaps it’s a dog, and if so, it’s probably frightened as well. “Here boy! I don’t bite!”
A breathless whisper seems to surround me; taunting, titillating, and that’s when I realize that the panting is no dog. I don’t know what it is, but I called it and it came with teeth and an agony tipped tongue that peels the skin from my cheek.
I wish I wasn’t.
And then it was light.
“Waitless.” Bang. The recoil on the recollection is like a cannonball to the gut. The same baritone I heard in the cellar when I was a child that came with a stench and an itch that never subsided until after Father Ibriham came and –
It slithers, like fog, sinuously creeping as though it is alive, amd implausibly, it is. I can’t scream; can’t even moan because my throat is ice and my lungs fire when its needle tipped tongue enters my ear and begins laying eggs of a different knowledge there.
Gods help me.
Praying for death only amplifies the pain in my head before it suddenly subsides with a manic giggle that bounces about in my brain . The betrayal of my body as it strains towards the horror as if in orgasm is a worse torture that anyone can imagine and I can feel a glow of soft, bitter pain that comes with being taken over. I have no power to resist nor the will to.
Lost in space, free will taken and given without reservation. The Devil finally found me, exactly as was promised long ago in that cellar, in another time. I can’t fight anymore. It just feels too good to battle a continuous, all-encompassing release. I wish…
I wish I were dead but it wants me alive – my throat!
“Now I am Bonnee Waitless. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
what? who me? …
You can see me?
Thank You for asking –
i know it’s just a thing people say
it ain’t pretty – run…
why’re you still here?
*sigh* fine. You asked …
there are bleaker days, storms ahead and
i’m already tired -feeling small
all hands on deck
it’s going to be a bumpy landing
jebus i hate it enough when I fly
in some magical avionic nightmare
Terra Firma should be more stable –
yet here i am, back on the ground
Hurray!!! skinned knees!!
i’m wondering if- why should i –
i just don’t want to get back up
don’t feel like breathing anymore
barely am anyway, these days
more like sucking a Pete’s Drive-In shake
through a cocktail straw
and it’s far more effort than it’s worth
still, it’s better than the alternative
i hear the transition is a bitch