This story was written by my 10 year old son David as a surprise for me. I am indeed, surprised and pleased, I hope you will be too.
“Sometimes a story gets so crowded you can’t tell an original story anymore.”
He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. To his horror, he saw an exact clone of himself knocked unconscious and a knife marked #1. He essentially had to kill himself to escape this torment. Inside himself, he found a key saying, “It was inside you all along.” As he finished reading it, James remembered who he was.
There was a door engraved exit and he opened it nervously. Sure enough, it was an exit and James was happy. He went home and found something peculiar. His front door was engraved with a 2. All he could do was laugh as he realised there was no end to his torment. He went inside.
James never came out again.
It all started with a man named Thomas. he came to a place named Pewter City to ask for directions to California. He found it oddly deserted. He explored, confused and came to a door marked with a 2 in blood. Our of curiosity, Thomas opened the door and found a man crying in a corner. Ignoring everything else, he tapped on the man’s shoulder and only caught a glimpse of the man’s bloodshot eyes.
Thomas awoke confused and without memory of who he was, and noticed that he was locked tight into a chair with a free clone of himself before him with a knife in his hand. Thomas screamed as the cloned stabbed him to death.
But he didn’t die. Thomas was still alive, he was free and all he could see was a bright red exit sign. So he ran and ran and ran until he blacked out.
Thomas ame to only to see a drop and a gun with a sign saying DO IT!
Thomas jumped. He landed on some spikes that were arranged in the text #3 and never came to again.
James woke up suddenly and everything was different. A loudspeaker boomed overhead, “Welcome James! Take a good look around. It will matter. You have 10 seconds starting….NOW 10-9-8-765 PSYCH!! You thought this was over, didn’t you? It isn’t over until you are dead. I will hunt you down. I will find you. You will be #4. Goodbye James, for now.”
One second he was trapped in a chair, then he was free with a knife, then in a car and then impaled on spikes. Outside! It was all too much and it all went black when the same voice spit from above his head, “it’s time to wake up! Rise and shine!” James opened his eyes; he was on the lawn and everything was still the same as before he went inside the house.
“Rise and smell the ashes Jim!”
The house transformed into a burning wreckage and he shook, shouting, “Who are you?”
The unknown voice laughed, “That’s for me to know, and you to find out Jimmy Boy!” There was another clone coming towards him and James held out his hand, shocked to see it held a gun. Hanging from a tag, a message read, “Aim for the head and pull.”
James shot the gun.
“well, they keep coming, so put on the show!” It was him, that ham from all those years ago. Finally, he is here; the man that caused all the fear. “Goodbye John,” he said, for now.”
This is the story of Stanley “Eggs” Benedict.
Stanley awoke tired. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up to see himself seconds before the world went black.
There was an exit sign flashing in the distance, and with it, he, himself, was phasing in and out of existence. The lights went out, even the sign and that is when he saw them and remembered it all. The drop, the door, the loudspeaker voice, everything!
From behind him, a man’s voice spoke quietly, as the man himself stepped from the shadows. “Congratulations Mr. Benedict. You passed the test and stayed sane.” It was his best friend, Jeremy Fitzgerald.
“What was that!? Stanley yelled, shocked.
“Revenge. Revenge for that Saw prank earlier in August. I know you have fond memories of that,” Jeremy replied with a smirk.
“But how? I don’t get it.”
The light is so bright and Jeremy’s blurry face appears laughing, “You were in VR, dummy.”
Stanley shook his head, and said, “so, it wasn’t real?”
Jeremy just laughed. The next day, he was found decapitated with no reason or explaination. A fitting end for a torturing psychopath.
Part 5: The Return
“…..hello…? I’m back!!”
Memories of long ago rushed into my head. Living like this, you’re better off dead. “I’ll be found deep down underground. What have I done to deserve this torture?”
“Wake up. Wake Up!” and suddenly, he was but why does it matter? I’m dead.
“It will matter. See that remote? Push the button and be the core.” There is a remote in my hand that has only one button. I press it and all turns black.
“A man chooses but a slave obeys. This is not the end. More shall come, more shall die. Watch your back.”
The end is near as the encryption appears
“This is the last test, James. After this, you are free.”
James is suddenly falling. He has been impaled, shot, stabbed and phased out of existence. Now he is in a room with four doors each with several numbers marked on them. He opens door 1 and sees more and more doors and with a sigh, starts down the hall. James becomes lost and is never seen again.
Don’t be too kind to me.
I’m only human and like it or not
There’s still a heart ticking away In here.
Worse yet, it feels things and I’m tired.
Stupid thing, it still wants to believe that maybe
words aren’t all doggerel and dirges
secrets and lies and wooful design.
so, please, don’t be too kind
I may believe you.
Punches leave stains.
people call them bruises but
stains is more accurate.
words leave stains, too.
they hunch shoulders and
they burn in your chest, and
they mar your view of yourself
until all you see is ugly.
they scar your body in ways
that no one else can see.
some stains can be removed
given enough time, trust and soul bleach,
but the truth of it is that
some stains never fade.
I want a drink.
It is thirsty work
Fighting your daemons
Why not just give in?
The bottle beckons;
Dance, the cruel tease she
Makes the poison glow
The potion relieves
Just one sip will make
It all better – but
It won’t nor can it.
Just another lie
Like that from your lips
You are fearsome, lady,
from those eyes that hide some kind of
beautiful brain that coincides perfectly
with the savage monster you hide inside
oh I pretend that I don’t notice
or care but I do and I want to not be
like all the others but baby,
you’re killing me here
It isn’t just my blood pressure that rises
whenever you walk by, ai, I can’t help but stare,
Yeah stop looking at me like I’m
some kind of prédateur, mon amour,
You have no worry from me, you see,
All this is secret, trapped in my mind,
Because I can barely breathe when you’re near
Let alone speak, or meet your eyes
other than the occasional glance in
The mirrored reflection, it’s distracting
God I wish I could say hello.
There’s a woman in the mirror
that I barely recognise –
maybe a little around the eyes
and in the ghost of a smile
that seems to tremble on the verge
of – I’m not sure but I empathise
with the wistfulness that lies
behind the false facade window dressing
you know, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise
that I don’t know this
beautiful wretched creature
with the sad longing eyes
she’s not what she used to be
the truth lays like bones
in the tears that threaten to spill
and I’d give anything to see them
overflow happy rather than hide
the misery away behind a
deep-seated desire to just fade away.
The voice in my head is incessantly whining at me; Don’t start. Stop Crying. Big girls don’t cry. You’re stronger than this. Gods, shut up already. I’m not stronger than this, not remotely. Perhaps once upon a time, when I could breathe and move without scrutiny and suspicion, and without resignation, maybe then, I was stronger. Now, not even close.
I know that tears are a waste. I know that they are a weakness and that they get you hurt. Whatever entity lives up there knows that I’ve lived enough lessons in my life to know that’s a fact, Jack. There are those that will shake their heads in disbelief or in disgust at my words, likely wondering if I have finally blown a mental gasket and if I am leaking sanity. I’m neither out of my head nor crazy; things would be simpler if I were, but no, this is all just result of environmental poisonings, experiences and far too many teachings from the fist. One learns early on how to bottle and I am old hat at that game. I’ve forgotten more about self-preservation techniques than most should ever know in their lives.
People are so blind. They have little clue about how it feels to sit and shout at yourself you must not be weak sister every single time tears threaten or how it feels to know that you are going to fail. I doubt most of them could survive if they couldn’t find a Starbucks. I wonder if any of you can comprehend being torn apart by your own mind, over a few tears? I don’t think that the majority could, and I pray that they never learn how.
It’s a dual existence truly, learning how to shatter on the inside, and while smiling on the out. Sometimes, some nights it gets to be too much and the pressure can’t be held any longer. No matter how one tries, no matter how one berates oneself, those tears are going to fall.
No one likes to be made fun of as they are falling apart; the beatings I give myself, the fear that I can taste in my mouth when that dam breaks, the shame of crying because I can’t stop, is agonising. To be poked at and told to stop and denied release when it’s an impossible to hold back that tidal wave with what amounts to a drink umbrella is more than unfair. It’s cruel. The words just add a sting, when warm arms would’ve been a softer place to land.
In attempting to be all that everyone requires, one loses oneself in the demands. It’s difficult to juggle, but I like to think that I do it well. But it is difficult to be that tough supporter for those I care for, love while I starve myself. The needs of the many and all that. My life is micromanaging the undefinable, and making it work is all that much harder, and I manage while balancing that fine line between function and fulfilment. Existing in a loud, large bubble is no way to live.
He told me that he was going home to check on the animals and to put gas in the car. It would have been believable if it weren’t for the fact that it was quite difficult to drive without the keys to the vehicle, and he hadn’t asked for them since he tossed them into my purse when we arrived. He had planned to drink. Again.
Tonight, after the community bonfire that we had no choice but to attend, I saw him there in the shadows of the commissary. His eyes were full of brimstone and bite, lustfully gazing on the youthful wife of our Mayor with his dick in his eyes. I saw how she undulated slightly when her eyes met his, and the way she changed position with a gasp before excusing herself with a small smile and a flush. His eyes followed her all night, with his hand rubbing at his crotch absently and his tongue tracing his lips over and over, likely wishing they were hers, while I stood there embarrassed and growing angrier. It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t there, or rather, was and would be invisible until she turned him away. It was all about her. I thought he’d cum in his pants when she brushed against him, and I watched her hand brush against his erection with a smirk in my direction. Whore.
There they are; they think that they are hidden from view they way that they’re greedily groping each other. The Mayor’s wife and the librarian’s husband, who would’ve thought, wanking one another off in full view of anyone with eyes. “Does he have it on him?” a low male voice mutters in my ear, startling me out of the morbid mental happy place that I was in and I feel the smile spread across my lips. The warm meaty hands on my ass make me want to vomit but I nod and shudder when those thick fingers graze the sensitive skin on my inner thigh. I can’t do more than nod.
The cock that Rodney is so proud of is out for the night, twitching in the cool night air and I can hear the crackle of wrapper from here. He shoves her to her knees and slips the rubber from the package and over his dick. “Keep quiet this time, Deena. I didn’t get to finish last time,” Rodney growls and plows into her with a laugh. Last time. He bucks his hips into her and she moans loudly then squeaks when he falls against her in quickening paroxysmal convulsions. The man behind me chuckles and his large hocks squeeze my ass once more before moving away with a suggestion that I make myself scarce. What a chicken shit.
Rodney lies jittering on top of Deena, his overly swollen glans trapping Deena as much as his dead weight does and she can do little more than pant shallowly when I step quickly into the light of the fire and again into the darkness of the commissary shadows where she writhes in the dirt. “Please? Help me! I’m sorry. Can’t be seen. Here. Like this,” and I laugh to myself at the tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. Her cupid bow lips fall open in shock and dismay when Rodney bucks and blows snot into her chestnut hair. “Rodney! Dammit, get off of me! What the fuck did you do to your dick? It hurts!”
“Shut up whore. He didn’t get to finish last time, didn’t you hear? How lucky for you that he gives a shit enough to tell you that you don’t matter. Hear that? You were so anxious to have him inside you that you blew him in public where anyone could see you. I did. Your moans need work by the way. Not believable in the least.” The first voices of the other attendees are getting louder and I titter darkly from around the corner, remembering to stay out of sight. Rodney gasps again, choking bile onto her shoulder and she sobs like a twelve-year-old with a rash. He’s not dead. What a pity. He whined into my ear often enough about how he was trapped living with me. Now he is truly trapped. by the pussy he couldn’t live without. Perhaps he should have looked closer at the wrapper. His are purple, latex free.
“Hey Deena,” I chuckle as I spy the first flashes of lanterns headed this way, “I found this old video on the web. Robin Bobbin? Original.” Closer still and I crouch closer to whisper “Soon everyone else will know what you are too. Virgin bride, my ass.” Deena’s pretty eyes close in submission to fact and I dart from my safe place to spit into her pretty, filthy face, and this time I kick her in the side of the head.
The first lantern bursts through the darkness just as I make my escape and the horrified shouts of the Mayor and his entourage reach my ears much like an applause track in one of those old sitcoms. The next morning the paper from the towns in the surrounding areas will tell the tale of the Mayor’s not so virginal bride, the Mayor’s Right Hand Man and the Missing wife. Such a small town scandal that won’t soon be forgotten.
As for me? I was paid handsomely for my participation and one never knows what the next sunrise will bring.
Watching this election from my post has me concerned on so many levels. It’s like watching a bad beauty pageant through a slot in the panic room door, and wondering which of the candidates is going to trip and explode. Bad whether the enforced steel doors are strong enough to withstand the blast.
Someone likened it to the pulling of a trigger, and both bullets were inferiorly manufactured. As you well know, these types of choices will often blow up in your face, whether you like it or not.
Point is, the die is cast. The deed is done. Fait d’accompli. No one said what comes next is appetising or any less than frightening. It absolutely is frightening, for everyone. But there is little to be done at this stage than to pull together and stop spewing hatred at each other.
You are all in it together, no matter who you voted for. As a country. As a people. This choice that was made is now a reality that must be lived with. Right or wrong. You have 4 years to make the best of it or prepare to make some changes in 2020.
It’s unfortunate, truly, that the electoral process has turned into a popularity contest full of posturing and grandiose promises that have no way of actually coming to fruition without driving the country’s resources further into the Hellmouth. And is it for the masses? No, it’s to benefit those who pull the strings behind the scenes.
Please, in the days ahead, think. Consider your words and actions before your fear and anger causes more heartache and animosity among people who should be able to love one another.
That’s how I see it.
I didn’t mean to kill her.
they were paintings on the wall, just collateral damage;
She, Folie, with those bottle green eyes,
I meant to kill her and with intent.
It wasn’t intentional, more like a premeditated mistake –
an unplanned surgical strike.
She begged for rebellion and Folie followed the shadows
With her unflappably bright smile that fiercely shone
from her heartsblood stained lips.
Everyone said she was tasty, an irresistible sweet treat,
and they were correct.
Writhing, she tasted of wine
Whining, she just tasted dead, and
Folie, with her green eyes shining, laughed,
no she didn’t cry out when the shadows caressed her,
but she sighed with an inferno in her late smile
and promises Hell and more when I returned to her tonight
There she sits, this Goddess
in a Marley t-shirt and plain black panties
The way the shirt is plastered to her small frame
it accentuates those perfect breasts
the chill in the room as plain as the
nipples poking through the thin fabric
Supple, slim, my hands itch to touch
The smooth porcelain of her flesh
and feel her long legs quiver under the
Flats of my palms while they travel down, then between
All that is nonexistent in the regard
To the eyes that stare holes in my soul
This Goddess creature dressed in commoners skin
I forget that she shuns the comparison
Beauty believes she is the beast
I didn’t come wrapped in a bow or pretty paper, instead I came home a raving silent mess full of anxiety and nightmares fresh from Hell. My wife said I was a gift, then, and said I should have died there at the end of our life together. She was right. I know I killed my marriage, although she helped it along. Every night since I came home I lay awake until my mind gives up or I pass out from the cocktail of pills and booze, all in an effort to kill the memories. Nothing works.
Tonight was different though.
Tonight I was on the streets with the few friends who stuck by me in my misery, and why wouldn’t they? They understand. We don’t usually get together at Christmastime, couple of them are still married and they have family to contend with, The others have girlfriends and saw dragged to different functions and expose to strangers who don’t understand when they cringe when the Yule log snaps. But tonight we were all together and happy.
Happy is contagious and I felt myself relax for the first time in months. I hadn’t taken any pills or even had a drink yet, but I felt as high as I usually did with them. It sounds so cliché to say I saw her across the crowded bar, but that’s what happened. She didn’t stand out in the crowd, but faded into it as best she could, which wasn’t at all. “She was watching you earlier. Why don’t you go say hello? Still don’t get what the ladies see in your ugly mug,” Vinnie slaps me on the back with his customary roughness and gives a more private nod of encouragement. She is watching me, just like Vinnie said, with a soft almost sad smile on her pretty lips and a come hither gleam in her eyes.
The bartender was a feisty little thing whose voice carried across all conversations at all times. I often joke that she would’ve been the worlds best drill sergeant, and she usually hands me a snarl with a glint in her eye. I have no doubt she would eat me alive. At least it would be pleasurable this time, but this time Jinger shakes her head swiftly and points the watcher towards the bathrooms them calls me forward anxiously.
“Colt. Stay away from her. Go home now, please. Okay?” This quiet shaky voice was so unlike her gregarious natural nature that it stunned me for a moment, before I nodded and turned away. The boys are all standing by the door laughing in buttoning up against the cold chill outside. I joined them with a smile and glanced over my shoulder at Jinger, who blew me a kiss from those luscious lips.
When I woke up this morning, it was not in a cold sweat, but satisfied and at peace. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, so long that I barely remember it. Jinger is sprawled spreadeagled and naked on top of the tangled bed sheets, her luxurious lips trembling as she snores slightly. I really need to take a piss, but the sight of her laying there beside me gives other ideas.
“I told you to say away from her,” Jinger giggles from the doorway and I feel my bladder let go when she smiles with razor blade teeth and her hands on my thighs while Jinger cuddles close with her cheek on my chest, “I told her you were a gift.”
as Eveline Hood
Have you ever wondered what fear tastes like? Like afraid for your life because this time it might be the end of it kind of fear? If not, count yourself among the lucky ones. To me, fear tastes like metal; like I’ve been sucking on a penny for too many hours. Coppery. Like blood. It feels acidic and it’s a burning itch in the middle of your back that you can’t get away from because reacting in any way gets you hurt. Not reacting does to but it’s a case of the lesser evil and when you are afraid, it’s a very real choice.
It feels heavy in here, too thick, the air and my chest feels like there is an anvil on it. Every sound is making jump, even the wind rustling the leaves outside is too much for my heart to take. It’s only 3 pm. He won’t be home for hours yet, at least three and that is plenty of time. I’ve been visiting instead of cleaning and he will be irate if it isn’t done.
He could be home early. It’s happened before and I was caught unaware. The thought terrifies me and I clean faster. Dirt isn’t always on the surface kiddo, he says when he finds dust on the television or on the picture frames and that usually comes with a slap across the head or even a gut punch. It’s true though. Dirt doesn’t always show on the surface. On the surface, he appears to be the most personable around, easy-going and likable even. A loving husband and hard worker. And it was true, in the beginning. He was that way. The cracks in his mind only started to show after we’d married.
I never know when it will come, or for what reason. Even the small talk about his day could cause a lash out, for the cracks to widen further and allow the monster out. It could be as simple as he wants steak and I made spaghetti. Sometimes it’s not even my fault. I’m just the punching bag he uses when he can’t get to who he wants. Lucky them. I’m shaking so badly and I dropped the fucking wine glass he wanted with dinner last night. Now there’s blood everywhere and I think I need stitches but I won’t go get them. Unless I have to. Maybe next week. Maybe… God I hate my life.
The door slams outside and my heart is slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts. There is no noise and my heart stutters. Silence. Bad. I call out hellos, putting a false cheer in my voice as I try to wipe up the drops of red that dot the white countertop. Then he is there and he is demanding to know why there are dishes in the sink and why there is blood on his counter. He’s had a bad day. Jesus it’s going to be bad.
Turn around with a wince and hold up my hand to show him the cut. I wrapped my hand in a facecloth I found on the table and the red is already seeping through. Then the world is white and blaring, an ocean of light and I am drowning, choking on nothing. Maybe this is Heaven but I’m scared it’s just more Hell. The brimstone is making my head throb and my ears buzz and ring. There is no pain, thankfully but my face is over warm and wet. Numbness. I won’t come away easy this time and maybe I will be finally free of this never-ending limbo.
There is a lot of noise. Male voices roaring and shattering sounds. There are people here, talking so low I can’t hear them at all. I’m still in the ocean of light and the Angels voices are muffled. Then the light has colour and I can see through a haze men in white and I think, finally they’re taking me away haha. I’d laugh but my body hurts so badly I would likely scream instead and the best I can do is let the hot tears flow from my eyes. I hate to cry. I wish they would shut that bitch up that keeps shrieking, it’s hurting my ears.
The doctors are back, talking to me about my injuries and I don’t understand what they are telling me. I hurt but no worse than I have before, unless you count my face. That is agony and they keep wanting me to answer them. One of them touches my hand and I try to pull away, from the touch as much as the pitying expression on her face. She is telling me that security has had to remove him from the room and the hospital itself. She wants to know when this all happened.
Two days ago. I suffered in silence, alone, while he worked days and called into my job claiming I had the flu and would be out of commission a while. Two days of struggling to breathe and not being able to eat or drink before he got me here. Oh he’s sorry, he will say, but I doubt he has one iota of remorse. His demon won’t let him. Again, it’s all about the show. I’m tired of performing and pretending. But the fear keeps me playing the game.
The doctor watches me fight myself, her dark eyes intelligent and she doesn’t understand a thing about survival. She tells me there are places and launches into the spiel that I’ve heard often enough, but am unable to take advantage of. I’m so isolated. So far from the people who love me and want me safe, so far away from everyone who knows me because he had to be in control. I’m too far away from anyone who could rescue me. I have no one to mourn me when I am gone and I wish I had died this time. I sigh and shake my head when she tries to hand me the pamphlets. She doesn’t get it. None of them do. I have nowhere to go and no way to run. He would find me. Only his friends are here, his family, and I know they won’t believe me.
I see him in the doorway, holding a bouquet of roses and some chocolate wearing a sheepish smile. Of course he knows I’ll come back home and that I will have to forgive him, and it will be good for a while and then I will be back here again. The doctor is yelling at him to get out and paging the desk for security when he sits on the edge of the narrow bed and gives his excuses, how it is my fault for pushing him to it. He loves me so much he can’t control himself. I have to try harder and keep loving him and how I have to forgive him for his actions.
The divorce papers are signed already and will be delivered to him the moment I leave this place. I will have to run with only what I have and hope one day I can recover. He will look for me and never stop. The other doctor called a few people and they will be here in two more days. They hope to pack some of my belongings but he will have destroyed everything by then. My mouth tastes like pennies again when he strokes my cheek with the same hand he punched me with, and I nearly gag when he tells me to keep my mouth shut from the flood of copper.
Two more days. Just two more…..
Coming to eBook and paperback in 2017
A thought: In my opinion
The work we do as independent artists of all types is a labour of love and not easy work at times. We do our level best to put out a decent product, given our own resource availability. It isn’t always simple or smooth. So when someone picks apart another’s work, as though they know better, it is insulting and frankly rude.
Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Most of us are realistic, and we know that our art is not for everyone. So, please, think before you speak, keep it constructive, or keep it to yourself.
tears lived there
and I believed him
until I discovered
that numbness has
its merits and that
tequila and tears
make a fine mixture
in which to drown in