Throwing Stones

Let’s throw stones, shall we?

No? You do already –

Now, hard as you can

Throw them into the water

Watch the impact

Smash the mirror image and

Make the ripple  a reality

The splash is arterial spray

or your own tears

And you killed it

Did it feel good?   Did you enjoy it?

Do it again

Again

DO  IT  AGAIN

Beat that voice in your head into silence

Throw stones and punches

Over and over til your arm hurts

Cause those ripples that destroy the reflection

The cold clear sky reflects like

A slight mist on the surface of hell

It’s too pretty

Throw more stones

Make it ugly

Make it hurt

Do it again

Again

AGAIN, DO IT AGAIN

Why?!

Scream, Curse the sky

Throw rage to the river

Let it drown

Do Nothing

Let it die

cry

 

they said watch the horizon

up and down … up and down … up

the swells make my head explode
my heart aches in sympathy
for my stomach and my ears

look for the horizon
there is no shore out there
only water, and the –

burning alive, want water
but there is none to be had
surrounded by it and not
a drop to drink, its salted

there is another here and
we’re the last; not survivors,
we won’t unless help comes soon

we’re lost in the vastness
we will die on this damned raft
oh, i don’t want to be sick,

not again – i can’t afford –
leaking valuable fluids
it hurts and i want to die
but i don’t want to die

i won’t die if i just drink
squeeze my eyes shut against it
it’s a hallucination

the other looks different
shivering in my skin over
ripples of chilly fever

the other stares at me with
his mouth slightly open and
eyes dead in their watchfulness
i desperately need water

i feel like food, god help me
but I’m not food, i’m alone
i desperately need water

my tongue’s a sandpaper worm
i’m alone, surrounded by
water and the horizon

up and down … up and down … up

just water, the horizon
and the sun, it’s burning me
precious fluid lies waiting
stagnating in the other

it would slake the thirst but
my heart refutes what my
body demands quenched and quelled

so far to go, too far
saying it makes it real
rotting in his veins – tick tock

his body moves, sorta twitches
involuntarily, my
eyes on the cooling liquids
strength and survival, they said

strength and survival
i’m sorry, i’m so sorry
sorry, i don’t want to die

it gushes after the cut
after the small blade I pried
from the other’s stiff fingers
puncture the adust membrane

it’s water – it’s just water
believe that it’s red water

i press my lips on the slash
it’s like sucking through a straw
breathe in deep the red water

the blood, its only water
its just water, please god, please
its water, i’m so thirsty

up and down … up and down … up

i’m alone now and the sun
it burned when I threw him,
his husk, with a light splash
much like a funeral pyre

the sky is alive, on fire
molten water and the sky
they said watch the horizon,

just how long have i been here?
how many days, hours, minutes
the other is empty, gone

i can’t, please, please god i can’t
not anymore, just end me
pry the cup from my burnt lips
be kind to this poor sinner

non-believer, heretic
won’t you please take me home now
i have been a faithful son

how is it daybreak again
the horizon is on fire
how many days has it been

nothing seems real anymore
the surreal sense of living
i remember so little
nothing but that god damned hole

i remember the screaming
killing, there were dead people
so much blood and so much death

and the lifeboats were all gone
everyone left us or died
those sonsabitches left us!

then there were only we two
the other and me we found
this inflatable dinghy
and we jumped and we floated

drifting on sea vomit when
our vessel, it exploded
there was a fire after

and the boat, she broke apart
on the surface and the wind
and the force of it pushed us

we were only frightened boys
and now there is only me
surrounded by water and
not a drop to drink

up and down … up and down … up

i pray to every god
i prey to the Other
i look at the horizon

beg and plead for a rescue
i’m so thirsty and tired
please god, please show me mercy

i can’t do this much longer
my flesh is no longer pink
but mottled brackish purple
my skin hurts just to breathe, even
my teeth, my mind whimpers softly

up and down … up and down … up

my guts are heaving sickness
desperate to be ill
but you can’t throw up nothing

i need fluids, some water
surrounded by water, but
there is never a shoreline

no shore, just the horizon
look to the horizon
they said watch the horizon

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

Home Fires Burning

Once i was home.

i was home to my family
my body housed life and suffered death
i lay in solitude, listening to him breath
listening to the quiet ticking of the clock.

it was Tuesday, late when
he staggered to our bed
still wearing that damned fedora
and her perfume
and nothing else

i was lonely, and miserable that night
crying in the dark with my eyes closed,
while he rode the waves of pleasure
and i could smell her all over him

i felt so small
my fingers tracing the scratches she left behind
when he came, it was inside me
calling her name and
it scalded like tears
when he rolled away,
murmuring her name again
as he drifted to sleep.

i lay alone, last Tuesday
shivering in the lightness room
in an effort to be silent, in mourning
i just wanted contact
i needed to be warm
i needed to feel something
other than the numb cold

stuck struggling with the knowledge
that he was elsewhere, often
wondering why i’m not enough
trapped here, while he snores

it is Tuesday evening, again
i pace the gleaming wooden floors
eyes on the clock on the mantel
eyes on the front door.
I made this hell a home

there are no children
to fill the empty hallways
the long empty days last forever
and when night falls,
the cobwebs flutter and
the ghosts flitter through
the in-between spaces

they dance and knock on the walls
sometimes they cast shadows on the glass
they become people with the endless chatter
endless opinions
endless questions
unable to grasp my sorrow
but with a solution

so today, I hid in the darkened parlour
choosing to stop the insistent fight
and let my sanity skip and slip
I drank champagne and ate oranges
danced barefoot on the thorny line
where my sanity capered and
cried until I laughed

i’m still laughing

he begs and pleads from the bed
wearing that stupid fedora

there, where I said my last goodbye
where I painted it with my tongue and
carved my name into his flesh
when he filled me with his tainted seed

the air is heavy
with the scent of fire, and ringing screams

Outside the sirens wail and
inside, he thrashes and writhes
burning in our bed

i watch him struggle
fingering the stem
of my champagne glass and
lift my other hand
placing it under my chin
in thought and reflection

then pull the trigger with a smile

Vacant Rose

It’s easier in the dark.
Alone doesn’t feel quite so isolating
wet cheeks go unnoticed
Somehow, the bleakness seems a comfort
Not unlike a pair of warm arms.

She doesn’t know I’m watching
Lost in her rain cloud
I’m positive that she’d prefer an embrace
To the cold silence

There she sits
Cross-legged, nude,
Tragic beauty she cries, face in a pillow
The mirror covered in linen
I know she is wishing for the strength
For the courage set right the horror show
That she sees in the mirror reflection

But, much like me, she’s a coward
A loser done up on codeine and weed
Practically paralysed, poor thing
And all in an effort to achieve peace
Much like me, she’s achieving nothing close to it.
These are the nights I can’t help but hate
Because what other choice is there
I can hardly barge in, now can I?
Invading her misery by pulling her close
I want to take it away, if she’d let me
If I could,

Instead I watch her turn it inward
It’s a simpler method to live with
Mechanisms to emancipation
I write the steps to her freedom

It’s all about weights and measures
The balance is off
The telemetry is fucked
Knowing so doesn’t calm a racing heart
Or stop the tearing desire to howl

Soon, so soon, Impatience cries
I’m sick of waking each day
Gasping because I’m dying of suffocation
It all comes from bottling
The anticipation is agony

She rises, long and lean
Her lips rippling as she chants the same ugly litany
Telling herself;
It’s stupid to be in fear of nothing
idiotic to be afraid of long dead monsters
What are you, 12?
Trembling with like a child
No desire in the dark
Are you so desperate to be swept away?
Just take the pills and shut up

Pacing, bare flesh flashing
Her hair flies static
Staring out at the street below
Tonight its defenestration she battles

I know how she thinks
i know all this as well as I know my own heart
The idea of that beautiful body
Splattered like red velvet vomit
Horrified and aroused

Blood spilled spells oxygen.
The weight of biology is lifted
Swiftly slipping to press against the glass
She stares, pondering and
My temperature burns hotter
The daemon salivates,
Its venom fills my mouth
Such a glorious gluteus maximus
It calls my palms with a sirens wail
So long she’s teased me
Pleading for release from her glass tower
Tonight her prayers are answered
Blood is life.

I’m so tired of bleeding.
Now it’s her turn

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

a horrified shadow

If you have never felt hunger

a desperation so deep in your gut

that it gnaws at your bones and

it speaks in vernacular tongues

whispering to your pain addled brain

in the devil’s voice it denies,

tries to convince your starving stomach

that it doesn’t need that sustenance

then you have no right to tell me to be patient.  

 

It is devastating, to stand in the

refrigerator light sobbing,

in the open door of a food filled fridge and

know that there is not a damned thing in it

that you can ingest or imbibe

and there is nothing you can use

to fill that emptiness inside.

 

That experience

is enough

to destroy

anyone’s

mental wellbeing 

img_6863

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Coming Soon to eBook and in paperback
Coming Soon to eBook and in paperback
Get your copy of The Hurt Chamber by Foggy McCorrigan
Get your copy of The Hurt Chamber by Foggy McCorrigan
Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now
Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now

Snarktastically, speaking

Tomorrow is cutting day. Yup! I’m going under the knife!

Admittedly, I’m a dight nervous about some legalised lunatic armed with nasty ass tools and enough meds to knock Godzilla into the next dimension being anywhere near my nearly perfect physique.  That was snarkasm, by  the way,   There’s nothing perfect about this physique and I’m good with that thanks.

I’m just kidding. My doctor, she is very sweet and actually quite gentle, but the fact remains. Nasty tool = not enough medicinal tequila in the world…. It is my intent to distract myself with a variance of artistic pursuits and filmatic offerings in an effort to keep myself distracted from said fact.

 I will be out of commission for a short period of time, and as insulting as it is for my family to be giving praise to the Almighty for the gift,  they have a point.  A girl needs her beauty sleep and blah blah recovery blah blah blood sounds cool blah blah blah

You feel me?

So,  beginning today, if you should need my attentions,  and you really don’t want my full attention,  the usual methods will suffice. I do intend to be playing my music at brain shattering levels  when I am not sleeping or writing and this will necessitate some creative attention-getting skills.

I’ll just leave that with you…

Melanie McCurdie

The End of Her Rope

It is the last straw, this, the last time. This time his whore came to our home, dressed, or rather undressed, expecting him to be ready for her. In our bed. Not the first time, but certainly the final time. I’ve paid, and dearly for his indiscretions, physically, emotionally, having to swallow my pride and my hurt for the sake of his. It ends today.

She won’t be missed

I played the injured lover to the hilt, preying on her softer side. She knew he was involved, more of his lies are revealed, as she spills her guts over coffee, tears flowing over her cup. It makes me sick to watch her cry, all that emotion. I did the same, but they were false, simply a way to draw out more information, and she spilled her guts like vomit. Months of lies and purposeful manipulations he slathered on her, making her believe he loved her. How stupid of her to believe in him, his silver-tongued lies, always providing lip service so he can get some of the same. He cares for no one save himself, and he will pay for this violation. He promised after last time, when I caught him, and he nearly killed me in a rage after I confronted him. He will come to wish he’d finished the job.
Few times in our years together have I been glad for the isolation he forces upon me, living in the furthest reaches of civilization. The trees are a welcome cover for the next heinous deed I must perform. I smile, slightly, at the remembered terror in her eyes.

Her eyes widen with outright fear, as the coldness overtakes me. She’s seen the blackness that lives where I used to have a heart, the deep hole of hatred I harbour. She is up and out of the chair she sits in, blindly backing away. Her calves hit that horrible excuse for a table he HAD to have, and she tumbles backwards, her bare legs sprawling and revealing the bareness of her hollow. She followed instruction to the word. She scrambles to her feet, her loose-lipped maw open and screeching FIRE at the top of her lungs. The fire is out back, slowly smouldering as it waits for me to feed it more than wood and brick. I advance on her, pulling a designer knife from the back that sits on the kitchen island, yet another example of his falsity. Scream, I tell her, scream till your voice breaks, my own voice cold as the most bitter winter night. No one can hear you, I say, keep screaming. She does, long and loud, buzzing like a chainsaw in my ears.

Fool.

I wrapped my hand into the mop of ashen blonde hair, feeling it slide through my fingers like a sinuous snake. I clamp my hand hard and yank her head back, hearing its protesting snap as I pull, much as he probably does while slamming himself into her night after, “I’m working late” night. Making eye contact, I hold her gaze as I pull harder, exposing the tender and delicate flesh of her throat. The sounds she makes are sickening me, useless begging for her life. She doesn’t deserve to live. She sees the black rage seeping from my eyes and peals shriek after shriek her terror; it hurts my ears, makes my eyes bleed and I just want her to shut the fuck up. Holding the thick handled blade, I dig the tip into the smooth skin of her throat, drawing a blood poppy to the surface, and tear it across to the other side. Her shrilling stops, leaving in its wake only harsh bubbling sounds; I prefer that to the constant blaring, and her blood gushes over the ragged lip the blade made as it tore and ripped her flesh. My hand is coated with nearly too hot blood, as it pattered to the floor in a scarlet bloodfall, pooling at her feet.

I’ll have to clean that soon, before it begins to harden

My rage was too large to contain, a spitting monster that had to be let loose, and I destroyed her, first thrusting my knife over and over into her body, losing count in the screaming noise in my head, then with the axe, dismembering limbs and head. He’d hurt me so many times, with his words, his actions….his fists, attempting to break my spirit along with my bones, and she paid for all his indiscretions.

My arms hurt from the exertion, having hefted the axe I found in the shed, being unaccustomed to its weight, and chopped her empty shell into bits, a soundtrack of calm in my mind as I did. I fumble with the Advil bottle, and pry it open with my teeth, dry swallowing three before continuing to rid myself of what remains of her, feeding her dismantled bits into the flames, into the pyre. It is a burning Hell, the heat bringing a mist of sweat to my face, in the light of the morning sun. Soon there will be nothing left, as the fire’s hunger devours the diseased flesh of this…thing. Her hair goes up in a flickering blaze as I toss her head in, sparks exploding into the air. Too much product darling, I laugh, chuckling into the sunlight.
The sun is warm, as is the air. My fire warmed skin cooling in the slight breeze, I soak in the rays as I return to the house and the mess I have made. I will have to open all the windows and air out the house as I wash her vile blood from the floors, and soon, before it starts to dry. The concoction I mix to clean will aid in covering the stench of blood from the space, but I take no chances. He must not know until the time is right that his lover is gone, and I will delight in the pain and horror it will cause him. Opening the door it hits me like a brick wall, the smell of death redolent in the air.

The house reeks of copper as I scrub the splatter from the cupboards and counters, on my knees, soaking up the pool of now cool redness that gathers there. I wear no gloves, despite the intense toxicity of the cleaning solution, and my hands are painted red from wrist to my fingertips. Bloody gloves. My mind aches with the desire to punish him, the vision of what will be playing like a movie behind my eyes. He deserves every torture I can inflict, every pain I can devise, the possibilities are endless, and I feel damp with delight as I imagine him screaming in agony. Better, screaming with no voice.

He called a while ago, exactly when escapes me, only the dry ticking of the clock is counting the minutes….hours? Time means nothing to me now, only the deep-seated hatred that eats at my soul with sharpest teeth, and the knowledge of his death will finally bring me the freedom I crave. An adventure he said, his smug, lying voice like an ice pick in my brain. I wanted to lash out, slice his vocal cords as I had hers, the words strong on my tongue, but I withheld, instead acting surprised and pleased that we would be going away. “To reconnect,” he says, as though I have little clue about his cheating ways, about all the women he’d had in our bed, in our home, the lipstick stains on the wineglasses we rarely use, his underwear…fury screams in my head.

I burn the rags I used to mop up the mess I’d made. The pyre has burned low and red-hot, the logs I’d piled atop the bricks that lined the bottom of the pit covered in the ashes from her bones, as I watch the flames jump up, licking along the edges of the thin cloth. The fire animal devours the last vestiges of her existence, now not even her blood remains. There is not a drop of his whore left in my home; I cleaned and scrubbed every inch of the space I inhabit, twice.

A shrill ringing assaults my ears, damn, her cell phone. I race to the door, desperate to find the damnable thing before he waltzes in the door, demanding his dinner and God knows what else. I will have to play nice, as much as I’d rather bite that thing he is so proud of off than be anywhere near it. There it is, just under the corner of the divan that sits useless most of the time, its cheery ringtone an abomination. Happy…of course it would play that. She was happy enough, at the time. His number on the screen, and 10 texts varying from professing love to out-and-out worry. I giggle as I read, a true comedy are these messages, as if he could possible love anyone more than himself. Flames can’t rid me of this problem so easily. I turn off the phone, removing the battery and put both pieces into my purse, I can use this later, to throw at him as he….

It will be useful.

He slams in, throwing his keys on the kitchen table, leaving a light scratch across its surface. I feel that fear rising in my throat, knowing better to do more than breathe. Not if I am to finish this on my feet. He says not a word as he glares around the kitchen, nostrils flaring at the tang of the cleaner in the air. He growls at me, making some snide comment about finally bothering to clean, and the rage rises, nearly overflowing. I bite it back, and my tongue, hard enough to bring blood to the surface and tears to my eyes. Satisfaction colours his eyes, thinking that he won again, little does he know.

I wander around the far side of the island, preparing to serve dinner when my head is slammed to the marble surface of the countertop. He stands over me, holding me there as my own blood stains the shining surface, ruining the hard work I did just hours before, and unbuckling his belt. I know what comes next, and I know better than to struggle, so I simply stay still, waiting for him to assert his supposed dominance, all the while playing over and over the plans that I have to end this once and for all.

He enters me with no preamble, holding the same knife I had used to cut his slut’s throat to my own, and commences hammering himself into me, as though that will change a thing. He presses the knife’s tip harder, I can feel it about to break through the skin, when he loses interest, throwing it to the ground and pulling out. I breathe a little deeper, not daring to move or speak, yet eying the knife block and judging my distance. I’d as soon end him now than wait, the thought of driving that butcher knife into his skull with every ounce of strength I have mouth-wateringly sweet. He lifts my head from the counter by my hair, his hand twisted into my hair, yanking it hard as he does, and throwing me, callously, to the floor. He tells me to clean up the mess I made, and stalks off to the bedroom to change.

Slowly I rise to my feet, holding the edge of the counter to balance myself, eyes, though feeling loose in the sockets, staring directly at the knife block. I stagger forward, my foot slipping slightly on the spilled blood once again on the floor, rage warring with the need to gain back my equilibrium. Seething, my fingers curl around the handle of the large butcher knife that I’d pulled free, leaving it dangling at my side. My fury lingering just below the surface, I make my way to the bedroom, ready to end his pathetic life and free my own from this Hell I have had to endure for too many years. The shower is running, less to clean, should I do it now.

By the door, the luggage sits, aside the chair he stole back when he loved me, from the hotel where we spent our first night together. It has been noticeably absent over the past few years, and its appearance makes me recoil in confusion and suspicion. How I could have missed this is upsetting. It wasn’t there when he come home. I put the luggage there myself. From behind me, I hear him, the jingle of his keys as he grabs them, dragging them across the polished surface of the table, more scars to add to the collection, the tap running in the kitchen, and his happy humming as he throws the prepared dinner I’d made into the trash can. Still, I stand, bleeding from the split skin on my forehead, staring at this chair.

He asks me if I plan to change, a joking tone in his voice, handing me a wet facecloth to wipe the evidence from my face. I don’t respond, instead making my way to the bedroom, the den of iniquity, pulling my ruined top over my head as I do. The plan plays loud in my ears as I throw on something, paying little attention to what it is, simply one minded and determined to finish my torment. All is silent as I return to the kitchen, no presence of the bane of my existence, perhaps he took the opportunity to kill himself. But no, he is in the yard, warming his hands over the pyre of his now dead lover. I smile with the coldest touch of frost, feeling the coldness return to me as watch him pour water over the pit, washing down the ashes, drowning them. He sees me, his eyes narrowed and wary as he walks back towards me, fists clenched at his sides. Good. I hope he suspects what I’ve done. Should he lay another finger on my body, I will, with no remorse, cut his head from his body.

Having locked the door, he snatches the trash bag from the back door, tossing it to me as he grasps the luggage, the suitcases tied and playing tag along, with one hand as he lifts the chair with other, a strange and disturbing expression on his face. Yes, there is something niggling at the back of his mind, burrowing in like a panic rat just beginning to stir, and my lips curve as I set the alarm and turn the key in the lock. I have nothing but time now, nothing but the infinite pleasure of knowing it’s begun.

I don’t know where he is taking me, just that the road is dark and isolated, a back road. This is not the way to the hotel. I know now there is no hotel, no “weekend getaway”. He stares straight ahead, unresponsive to my demands to know what he thinks he is doing, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I see. I understand now. What I’ve planned in minute detail in my mind, he plans to inflict on me, or try to. As usual, he hadn’t planned ahead, hadn’t considered me in this at all past the decision that I was in his way of life with his slut. He won’t have that now, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He turns into an overgrown driveway, the trees and grass brushing at the undercarriage of the car, scratching at the windows and the sound is harmony in my ears. Here is where it will end, for one of us, for him. I’ve learned my lessons, studied, planned carefully. I have no fear left, instead, in the place where it lived for so long a fire is burning, consuming all in its path. I stare at him, hard and cold, letting the darkness carry whatever love I might have had away, leaving only rage, murderous intent.

The building he chose for his demise is an old and hulking relic, its stone walls weathered and beaten by the cruelest mistress of time and weather, its windows amazingly still intact, glittering like eyes in the moonlight that streams through the surrounding trees. Little point to screaming here; the nearest neighbour is miles away, far past he reaches of human voice. Good. He won’t scream anyway. He couldn’t with no air in his lungs.

The front door is standing open, as though waiting for us, slowly wavering in the slight breeze. The ghosts of this place are welcoming another soul. It won’t be mine. He appears at my window, a leering and malevolent smile on his lying lips, and I let my face show fear, my eyes fill and spill over tears. I feel nothing. Fear does not exist here, only the overwhelming desire to peel the flesh from his face, the need to rip his tongue from his head and watch him bleed out. He opens my door, and seizes me from the seat, his fingers digging deeply into the meat of my bicep, straight into the muscle that aches and moans from my exertions. I don’t fight much, just enough to let him think he’s won.

He hasn’t

I am thrown through the front door, where I land hard amongst the dust and debris left behind by those that have entered it before me. On the wall someone has written “You are in Hell” in blood-red paint. Wrong. I was in Hell. This is heaven, if it exists at all. He brings the chair in, holding it by its back with one hand, the other carrying a duffel bag, no doubt full of the tools he thinks he requires to end me. He won’t get the chance to use any of it.

The chair, its red velvet cushion gleams in the meager light, bringing to mind the first time he had me, when he loved me, if he loved me. When he reveled in my flame hair, drowning in the curls, when he called me his Bloody Angel, his Queen. Oh how he was going to build me a palace. Lies. Meretricious lies, all the while carrying on behind my back, flaunting his indiscrete rendezvous, thinking me too blind to see. Saying he loved me while he prostituted my own love for him, promises. Always promises.

Lies

I refuse to respond to his demands that I stand, to come and sit in this chair while he tells me a few truths. Truths, or more omissions of truth, it doesn’t matter. I won’t make it easy for him. I want him to struggle, to suffer for his lack of foresight. He crouches beside me, his finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes, and whispers how he plans to have me again, like the first time, in this place, and how the evening will end with a surprise. What a fool he is. It will end in surprise, and then, I will be free.

From the duffel bag he pulls a coil of rope, old and frayed, most likely from the shed behind our house, and I hear the rattle of other utensils within it. A pair of pliers falls from the bag, and I glance at his face, marvelling at the shock and horror written there. He doesn’t have the guts for it. I do. I ask him, innocently, what he plans to do with the rope, and he chuckles in what he perceives to be an evil laugh, as he winds the end into a noose, replying that he wants to try something new. There is no way that noose is going over my head, or near me if I can help it.
Above, the ceilings are open rafters, wide enough apart to swing the end of a rope over, and I see the plan he has in mind for me. I watch as he glances around at the rafters, trying to figure out how to loop the rope over it. Feigning innocence, I suggest he stand on the chair. He does, tracking dust in footprints on the crimson fabric, and I grit my teeth, holding back the need to shove him head first off of it, to watch him crack his skull on the hard floor.

The rope goes easily over, the noose now hanging parallel with his face, and he suggests I try it, it will be fun. I tie the loose end to the wall sconce bolted tightly to the wall, making sure it is tight and unmoving, then I ask, sweetly, as he expects, for him to show me. He slips the rough lariat over his head, tightening it around his own neck, smiling his liar’s smile, all teeth, no sentiment and I snarl, knowing the time is close.

I reach into my purse, and pull his whore’s cell from it, sliding the battery home and turning it on. His eyes bulge from his head in shock, as it plays its cheery tune, announcing more messages, probably from him. Meeting his eyes, I speak a truth of my own, that I know. That she was in our home, that he forgotten he had made arrangements to meet her while I was not there, again. How she spilled her guts to me over a cup of coffee.

How I killed her

With a smile full of malignant malice, my lips feeling white with the same frost that coats my heart, I drift closer and kick the chair out from under him. His feet dance in the air, reaching and kicking for purchase, as his hands grasp at the rope digging and choking him, cutting off his hair as his face turns puce. His body twists and turns, slowly spinning as he struggles to draw breath. I feel little, perhaps curiosity as the final indignities are visited upon him.

I sit astride the chair he stood on, the very chair where this all began, watching as he stares holes in my eyes, his hands now at his sides, opening and closing like some demented toy, probably wishing they were choking the breath from my own lungs. Survival of the fittest.

I could save him, if I did it now, cut the rope that he hangs from, and allow his pathetic excuse for a life to continue. I’d suffered at his hands, over and over, beaten till I couldn’t breathe, broken bones, he tried to break my spirit. Could I trust that the second his feet hit the floor that he wouldn’t be on me, letting his fists speak the words he is too inept to speak himself, I would show some mercy. If I had any. I don’t

Instead, I watch him. I listen to his harsh choking sounds, as he struggles and strains to catch air, my chin on my hand, alone in the dark. I feel little now that it’s done, even let down now that it’s finished. The coldness in my soul is growing, spare enjoyment of watching his final air dance, feet twitching in the air. In spite of all I had to endure, all the times I wished for his death, and for mine, prayed for some way out of this Hell I was living in, that this feeling should be so strong. I want to relive what I’ve done, relive what I’ve caused. I watch him swing.

@MelanieMcCurdie

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Inside by David Boutin

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.

Melanie

“Sometimes a story gets so crowded you can’t tell an original story anymore.”

Scott Cawthon

Part 1

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.

Part 2

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.

Part 3

 

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.

 

Part 4

“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.

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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.”

Part 6

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.

 

Two more days

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…..

©MelanieMcCurdie

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 Coming to eBook and paperback in 2017

https://melaniemccurdie.com

Storm

It’s something like a tornado

the way the universe tends to

turn. what’s a girl to do, one thinks

as she sprays her life with gaso/

line and lights a match just to watch

it’s birth; once, twice, thrice and again.

she does nothing more than giggle,

make popcorn and watch the world burn.

“clear skies ahead in the eyes

of the dead,” she sighs wiping

tears from her cheeks and i relate

because i know the struggle to

keep breathing. the creature creeping;

it’s not real, but it is. i don’t

comprehend how it is that they

cannot see the storm building, or

hear the thunders roar.  it never

stops to stupefy, boggle the

mind; bleating sleeping sheep in fear

afraid of a silly spirit.

watch the way they mill about

frantic when the winds begin to

whip chaos into a frenzy.

pray to the almighty absent

for sanctuary if it helps

i can’t grasp the concept of it

i don’t understand the way you prey.

©MMcCurdie

The Eyeless Prophet

I swear this is mostly a true story.   I’m in the kitchen and there’s a man in the lawn. The same eyeless prophet outside my window that I always see.  He shimmers, shivering, just standing there watching me with a mindless smile. Tonight, every night, and he’s everywhere, I swear it, in every place I go.  Behind the door or on the stair, in the mirror glare.

No matter where, impossibly, he’s there and I sense this seemingly sane man would speak if given the platform but he never utters a word. Not one. Not once. Not of grievance nor gratitude; he offers only silence as reward for concern.

But I digress. It’s a mess and I’m beginning to feel nervous and somewhat fretful. Prophet he may be – he told me once in a dream where we were sipping cocktails on the Vegas strip that Prophets aren’t in it for Profit. I told him he was a weirdo and then I woke up – he was human then and maybe still is, I’m not sure.

He doesn’t frighten me. I’m no mewling kitten afraid of it’s own shadow, and I suppose I have reason to be worried a smidge. But he doesn’t frighten me … not nearly as much as the knife wielding freakazoid sneaking up behind him.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Drown

Confession:

I’m terrified to fall asleep again.
It’s no joke, kid, I swear I ain’t laughin’

It’s like waking up underwater and
you are barely able to tread water
you’re so close enough to ripple the surface
that your fingertips dance lightly across
but no matter how hard you fight to life
the glass ceiling won’t yield for the dying
It’s about the desperation just to shatter the physical reality
hon, it’s no dream – I need to breathe again.

I despise 3:01 a.m. more than
the non-existence of it at all;
time is a human concept of torture.
but when the great horn’ed owls take flight
from piney bough to greener pastures
and I’m standing in the fucking window
trying not to drown instead of drowsing
the whole real/unreal thing is a moot point

©MMcCurdie2016

seppuku

Title photo Seppuku by Spanish artist Pejac

The flight of geese outside my windows heralds the small death of Mother Nature; She, having fed on the vitality of summer, soon will lay dormant under a blanket of snow. So will I.   I’ve  tried to ask for help the only way I know how, and my call has gone unanswered. No one cares. Not even me.  Those times that felt that I mattered to someone are priceless. I hide them away much like Gollum hid his Precious, a jewel in my chest. They mattered to me. It matters, because that’s what I will hold onto at the end. Don’t misunderstand, there is no blame, unless it’s on me. It falls squarely on me.  Its my own fault for having faith, that sanguine expectation I’d avoided for so long it was second nature.

It’s not just emotional agony. There is more that I conceal and it eats at me, the black mass of my soul that just can’t stand the thought of waking up another day in this personal prison.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the small phial of white powder I’d procured earlier today in desperation for something, anything to take the pain away. Opening it means goodbye to sobriety, goodbye to the years of effort and self-discipline it took to kick it. It also means I can finally sleep, because there is more in the old coffee container above the kitchen sink. If I open the phial, I won’t stop until my heart does. Even though I’m not even a blip in your thoughts, I still feel your disapproval and hesitate.

But it  was you, then; you, who insisted I was worth something more than just being considered a pussy with a hank of hair and pair of legs. You were the one who kept me here when I was sure I wanted to die, even after I tried to end my life.  It was you who told me I was beautiful, that I was desirable and that you loved me. It didn’t matter how that love existed, just that it did and I want to hold onto that.  I felt real and it kept me awake days and sleepless nights, until my sanity creaked.  I still can’t understand how you could see me when I withdrew, or how you could see something in the mirror that I couldn’t and still can’t see.

My Hero, you swooped in and rescued the drowning psycho with a smile and pretty words, and like a fool, I believed the repeated insistence that you’d never leave. I wanted to believe in you.  I needed to believe in somebody after so many reasons not to but was afraid because I knew deep down one day I’d be alone again  after the vanishing act occurred.  It was inevitable I suppose,  just  like every other person in my life who has made the same promises. Lo, behold, my fear proven correct. Again.

The phial is empty, as am I.  My heart pounds a noiseless earthquake in my ears like a drumbeat.  A bullet would be quicker but the exhilaration of knowledge that  I am about to be free from my mortal bonds is a relief and nothing else matters except for the hunger that ravages my veins and makes my nose burn.  The one thing that I have never been able to resist was the Siren call of the White.  My chest hurts so badly that I’m panting. I’d forgotten that; it feels like life, and smells like Reaper. Soon she will be here, I hope. I’m afraid again. What if there is noth-

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@MelanieMcCurdie2015

For more Slayful News – Click here

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Coming October 2016 to paperback and eBook

-anthropophagus airborne –

 

*an excerpt from Slaughterhouse Stories,  coming in October 2016*

Airports.  A concrete pen full of rules and fragrant with the scent of human animals.  It is certainly not the place Abbegael Clermont wants to be.  She was supposed to be on a tropical beach with a drink in her hand, but her employers disagreed, as usual. Instead she is stuck in the middle of nowhere in this box, drowning in a sea of humanity and she is already bored.  Everything about these places rubs her the wrong way and having to face spending half a day on a flying hunk of metal over some vast ocean was not Abbee’s idea of fun.  In fact, she is quite irritated about being forced to blow off some much-needed fun for this job. “Right now, I could be lying on my back being serviced by a local stud,” she grouses under her breath, “I need that lay worse than the paycheck.” Thankfully, flying First Class has its benefits and before long she is comfortably seated and in the air.

She should be at ease, but something feels off and Abbegael takes note of the seemingly empty cabin.  It may appear that way but a pair of eyes is watching her intently, and she surreptitiously pats her left side, feeling for the familiar weight of her weapon and immediately whispers, “Fuck,” before dropping her hands to her lap again.  “I can use my hands, if need be.” There is no way to ascertain who was doing the observing without being obvious, an annoying issue but easily solved.  Rising to her feet, Abbee walks slowly  up the aisle to the lavatory, adding a little extra stagger in her step, and  hoping that the lavatory would be occupied so that she could look around while waiting.

Sometimes Abbee wants to wring Lady Luck’s scrawny neck, “Bitch never has my back,” she growls, pulling open the narrow door and stepping inside.  Engaging the lock immediately, she glances in the mirror.   Her reflection looks haggard, the critical eye harping on the fine lines that etched the corners of her eyes and the dark circles under them. “At least my hair looks good. Silver linings do exist ” she shrugs while washing her hands.

Her cool fingertips ease the burn of her fever flush that have risen on her cheeks and the redness dissipates lightly. “What the hell is wrong with me? It’s the damned plane. I hate planes.”   Abbee open the door abruptly and steps  out into the galley, her eyes scanning the cabin for any sign of another passenger.  That intent stare is back and it is crawling all over her body in a predatory manner and she wishes absently again for her weapon.  She feels preyed upon;  it makes her nervous and still, she likes it well enough to feel that familiar flutter gush between her thighs.  It’d been a while. In her  line of work,  romance and relationships are not the best of bedfellows. on the left side of the first class cabin, her eyes meet a pair of dark glittering ones,  frankly staring back with hunger, causing her to startle and stumble backwards.  Attempting to catch her balance as the flying tin can she is trapped in rumbles down the dirt road of the surprise storm.

He was on his feet in a blink;  truly, she  misses it, and  then he was at Abbee’s side, steadying her with his hands firmly on her ass as the plane bounces up and down, making them rock together in some sort of strange dance.  She thanks him, unable to move away.    He holds her tighter, surprising her into a momentary flutter of panic thrill when she looks up at him, choreographing her next action when the stranger  places a kiss gently on the corner of her mouth.  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Abbee struggles, her nails sliding against the slick material of his shirt; she hitches in a breath to scream when his next words freeze them solid.  “There’s no one else on board.  Only you, Me and a very small, discreet and loyal flight crew. But go ahead. I love it when my meals scream.”

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Final Memory

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.”

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Snapshot – Turner’s Folly

Read  S N A P S H O T

August 13, 2015
Outside of Kelford

30 miles NE of Skull Creek

It’s all Al Kennedy can think about. Three weeks’ vacation to spend seven days of it driving while Angie slept and the kids fussed and fought endlessly in the back seat. Then she would admonish him for being grumpy and out of sorts when they finally stopped for the night. Al loves her but sometimes he daydreams of choking the fuck out of her when she starts sniping at him. Then last night she drops that fucking bomb on him and expected him to cheer and bitched when he stepped out for a walk and a joint. “A man needs to clear his head, for fuck sake,” he thought, slamming the door behind him.

Angie is asleep, again, with her head on his lap; her breath is warm through the summer weight trousers he wears and his cock twitches when she moans lightly and tightens her fingers on his inner thigh. Fuck me, kid number three on my three-week vacation, he thinks bitterly and flicks his eyes up to scan the road behind him.  Rest and relaxation, Angie insisted, laughing at him when he emphatically refused and then ended up relenting as he always did.

The dark clouds are building behind the old but still solid station wagon and Al is growing weary of the constant bickering in the backseat. If not for the kids, he would wake Angie with a poke in the eye and a hard fuck against the passenger door. Turner, their six-year-old starts whining that he has to take a piss and Al realises that he wasn’t paying attention to the road and swerves back into his lane with an embarrassed flush.

“Dad please! I really gotta pee,” Turner nearly sobs and Al’s heart drops when he sees the stricken face of his son in the rear-view mirror. He’d only been trained a couple of years and the kid still remembers the cold showers he’d gotten when he’d had an accident. Al suddenly feels like a shit. He had hoped to be safe at home by now and indoors before that storm hit them head on, but likely he’d be stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere with two bitching kids and a sleeping wife.

“Yeah okay kiddo. Let me find a safe place, okay?” Turner nods and wipes at his eyes with an irritated swipe of his hand, then stares out the window with his knees trembling. God, I’m an asshole, he thinks and veers off to the side of the road at the nearest wide place. The second the wagon shudders to a stop, Turner bolts from the car like a flash, yanking his shorts down around his narrow little ass in a smooth practiced motion that makes Al laugh.

He expects the kid to lift his small face to the sky in relief, and steals a peek at his eight year old daughter CeeCee, who was sitting oblivious and enthralled in the latest Thea Stilton book. They were good kids all in all. It wasn’t their fault that their vacation was spent driving instead of relaxing beside a pool somewhere. Angie sits up abruptly and flops against the door, bonking her head on the window and Al winces. She would feel that later and that would be no sex for him again tonight.

Turner was standing in the long grass with his shorts around his ankles and his hands slack at his sides. Jesus. Al feels the air freeze in his lungs, and jumps out of the door, slamming his knee on the door handle. He tells CeeCee to stay with her mother, then rubs at his knee and sprints towards his son. “Hey Slugger! What’s the deal? Are you going to take a leak or what? That storm ain’t gonna wait,” he calls to the kid and his stomach drops as the Turner turns towards him with his pale face wan and cheeks wet with tears. He runs to his son’s side and drops to his knees wincing, visually checking him for anything out of the ordinary. “Turner? Why haven’t you gone pee?” The kids shakes his head and points to the ground about three feet from where he was standing.

“I couldn’t Daddy. I didn’t want to pee near the dead lady,” he says in a thin scared voice and starts to cry like a frightened toddler when his bladder finally lets go. Al looks to his left and chokes back the horrified scream that is in his throat. There is a woman lying there, nude and completely hairless with her legs splayed and her hands cupping her full breasts. Her face is gone and her empty sockets are full of flies as is her empty stomach cavity. Her arm looks as though it has been chewed on. Al turns to vomit and then grabs Turner close to him to whisper in his ear, “Close your eyes Slugger, and cover your ears.” He waits for the kid to comply before he picks him up and runs for the car, screaming for Angie and his cell phone.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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After the storm

  stay calm

 (that’s just stupid)

can’t breathe

(duh dumbass  i tried to warn you)

drumbeats in my ears are too loud

(nah that’s just your heart about to explode. fun innit?)

in terror and I’m alone

why  are my eyes  wet?

(you cry? holy shit.  i thought you were made of stone …lungs burn yet?)

they hurt

(now you know how I feel)

where is the air ?

(no air for you!!  you’re not going to die, you know)

oh hell and  eternal damnation

The brittle failings,  they hang like raindrops on needles

(kinda like teardrops on lashes)

 They aren’t much different after the storm

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016

At the feet of Prophecy

It hasn’t been long
Not really
As far as the concept of time allows

But that creature in the shadows
With reddish blue eyes, too human.
I can’t forget it.

The stare, as watchful as mine
But wrong and appealing somehow
With corruption oozing hunger

It crept, bold as brass monkey balls
Observing with a mouthful of teeth
Spider silk strands of saliva dripping
The monster, it starved

I believe that Evil is confident
My theory proven
When it stepped into the light
Laying lineless palms upon the living

And with each pronouncement it spoke
The unhealthy glow of death
Enveloped the blissfully unaware

Recollection rings truer in hindsight
What appeared to be insane mutterings have come to pass

Nothing examples fact louder
Than the words it screamed
Burning spittle left scars, the rage
Horror in hilarity, it crowed;

“They can’t be saved, so stop trying
They are already dead or dying. They are mine.”

I dreamt of this daemon again last night
The same slippery steps to a darker place
Deeper shadows that defy the light
And a tiny glittering reminder
Shining like the sun on the filthy floor
At the feet of Prophecy

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Twisted Tales Patti Beeton

Available now for Kindle and in paperback - Just click the link!
Available now for Kindle and in paperback – Just click the link!

Thorns

My ears are ringing, my head throbbing in time with my heart, my skin, my… Where am I? I open my eyes, lifting my hand to shade the sun’s glare. The light hurts, and I feel sick, the bile rising harsh and acidic in the back of my throat. Trees all around, their bushy heads touching the sky, roots dig into my back, and I roll to my side, clutching my belly and trying desperately not to vomit. It’s a battle I lose, throwing up little more than the last precious ounces of fluid in my stomach.

I want to cry, go all weak sister and sob my heart out. Not today, not now, I tell myself, forcing my arms to push me up. They tremble, threatening to give and I steel myself, slowly lifting my head and feeling the world swim in front of my eyes. What the fuck happened to me? I remember my date, I remember going back to his place…. The door read 669 and I joked that I would have broken and run had it read 666. He looked at me so oddly before his face softened and the smile spread across it. Where is he?

It’s so quiet, my ears strain for any sounds of civilization, a human voice, a dog for fuck sake, something that told me I wasn’t far from humanity. I wasn’t anywhere near humanity, the loudest sound was a squirrel chittering from a tree limb somewhere. I hated those fucking things, rabid little bastards, a plague of the fuzzy tailed little lunatics. I feel my sanity slipping away, and throttle it back into place, wondering what was coursing through my veins to cause this. How had I ended up here? Me? I’m not some Suburb Samantha, I don’t belong to the PTA or volunteer at the local arena. I’m a monster and I am top of the food chain. Or not, apparently.
My purse has been destroyed. It lies a few feet away, ripped shreds of the linking scatter in the wind, the threads catching on the dead leaves that litter the ground. The leather looks like it was put through a blender. Around it, my identification, or what remains of it, the cards shattered into tiny shards that glitter in the filtered light, the papers turned into confetti. I cannot stand, not yet, and so I crawl closer to my wallet, snatching it closer to me and rifling through it. The money is gone, down to the last cent, the pictures are ripped to pieces, and I feel my heart pound harder as I search through the tiny compartment under the change purse. I catch the edge with my nail, and pull the thick paper out of brightly coloured wallet. It survived, whomever did this obviously didn’t check properly.

I run the tip of my finger across the faded photo, before tucking it into my bra for safekeeping and flinch as the paper touches my bare breast. The darkening handprint on my skin startles me. What the hell. I almost hear a voice, in my head, and the implied tone sends a finger up my spine, causing me to twist and arch my back. My dress is torn and ruined the bodice all but hanging off my shoulders. Handprints across my skin, some burn as though they were branded on, others ache and pulse, and all make me queasy.

He was to be my first, i chose him, the moment of our meeting was something I’d dreamed of for months, played out over and over in my mind as the time grew closer. Girl meets boy, Girl fucks boy, Girl kills boy. The perfect love story. Imagine my surprise when he came to me, carrying a black coffee with 3 sugars and a knee-loosening smile, and I knew he was perfect. His name was Errol and I smirked slightly, looking away and thinking, “how dashing” sarcastically as usual. He was so sweet to bring me coffee, and I didn’t’ want to hurt him yet. “My parents were the original weirdos. My brother’s name is Cary Grant, don’t laugh, it’s true. My sister lucked out though, she got Faye after Mom’s favourite actress. You know, King Kong/” he said, pounding his chest and slopping coffee all down the front of his t-shirt. I couldn’t help it, and started giggling like a fucking idiot while ripping off paper towels and patting his chest down with a wad of the damned things.

He kissed me then, softly then harder, pulling me hard against him as our tongues danced together. The little flame I could occasionally drown, flared up and ignited the desire I’d been fighting to squash. “Go out with me. Tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7. Dress in red.” Had I been in my mind at all, i would have refused, but I was dazed and dazzled and simply nodded my agreement. He placed his hand on my cheek, and his thumb caressed my bottom lip, before he dipped to kiss me again, a light shivery kiss that left ny nerve endings shivery. “see you at 7,” he whispered before striding confidently to the door. He didn’t look back and It didn’t occur to me to be concerned until just now. I didn’t give him my address. He had so little offered information. So How? My legs are aching and I attempt to rise to my feet as I ponder my net move. First things first, I needed to be up on my feet. I placed my hand on the rough bark of the nearest tree, and pushed my self to my knees, wincing at the sting of my abraded skin. Setting one foot flat on the ground, I pushed up with my hand still on the tree for support.

He was so handsome, showing up at my door promptly at 7 and wearing a fantastic black suit, with light red pinstripes through the well made fabric. What a shame I’d have to slice through that wonderful thing. Maybe I could have him undress first. I was dressed as requested, my form-fitting crimson dress was made by Maiden’s Delight, a very exclusive designer, and his eyes travelled over my body, feather light, before meeting my eyes. “Shall we?” he asked, reaching his arm around my waist and drawing me forward. He really was the perfect first.
I’m trapped in some kind of natural prison, a nearly perfect circle of thick thorny bushes, with no apparent way out. Baby steps, I tell myself, as I slowly scan the treeline for some kind of hole or hidden exit, despair growing in my heart. How the fuck did I get in here if there is no way in or out? There must be, has to be or he is some kind of otherworldly creature. The thorns are huge, the smallest the length of a key, the largest could puncture through my arm. A glimpse of light about 25 feet from where I stand, there, gone, there again.

We were seated in a private room at a restaurant where reservations were taken a year in advance, and were much coveted. How strange that he was able to get one so quickly. “How did you get us in here? I’ve been on the list for 6 months now.” “My brother owns it. I used my family ties to get the best table in the house,” his soft toned voice caressing my girlish nature. Damn it. It had been a while and I was attracted, I could kill him after. His green eyes gleamed in the dimly lit room, and admittedly it unnerved me, enough so that I excused my self to the washroom in order to catch my breath. I could feel his gaze on me as I left the room, glad for the lessened weight of his stare.

Something is in here with me. I’m cold and I am nearly undressed, but for the tatters of my dress I’d be nude. It hurts to breathe and my ribs scream each time I take a shallow breath. Whatever is here is closer, like an animal surveying its prey and It sends a rage boiling in my blood. The light is back and I move towards dense branches, staggering slightly as my head throbs and pounds. There is an opening, barely noticeable in the tangle of thorns that nearly obscured it. Relieve course through my veins and I stumble, landing on my raw knees and screaming as a long dagger pierces my forearm, its point sticking out of the flesh on top, impaled. It snaps from its branch as I yank my arm back, It barely registers with the constant agony of my other injuries. My inner thighs are covered in purpling bruises and I ache in waves that make me nauseous.

“I ordered us some red wine,” he said as I returned to our table, standing to hold my chair for me. How old-fashioned, I remembered thinking, as I took my seat, feeling his fingers run across the bareness of my shoulders and across my cheek. This man disturbed me, sending warning bells ringing in my head that I ignored, as usual, and instead leaned my face into his palm, relishing the warmth. “Have some of this and then drink your wine,” he said, handing me a shot glass, the air-filled with the delicious astringent scent of tequila and I smiled, before closing my eyes and tossing it into my mouth. The strong alcohol seared my throat and coated it in fire, the final fruity flavour delighting my taste buds.

It’s all I can taste, and I turn away to vomit, feeling the burning bile in my throat but ridding my body of nothing. I am empty. I need to get out of here, but first this thorn needs to go. I grasp the end, feeling my fingers slip in the blood that had gathered on its edge. An imperfect grip but likely the only one I was to get and I pulled hard, feeling the wooden spike grind against a bone before coming free in a glut of blood. Four inches long, it would do to defend myself against whatever had found its way here.

The thorns are rustling, a shivery sound that sends a shiver up my spine and I stumble backwards into a warm set of arms. The scream that shoots out of my throat startles the birds in the trees, and I pull away or try to. I’m held fast, enfolded in what I suspect is meant to comfort and instead terrifies me, angers me. “Let me go.” I demand, wrestling against the bonds of warm flesh that surround me. “I’m not going to hurt you. If you fall you’ll land in those spikes and you’ll die, before I get to know you.” A soft male voice invades my building fury, dampening it to a low roar, and my body pulls in on itself in a painful attempt to hold together. “You’re hurting me. I have injuries and your arms are pressing on them. Please let me go. I really don’t want to be touched.” The embrace loosens but doesn’t let go, and I turn my head to meet a pair of cerulean eyes and a luscious smile that in any other situation would have loosened my knees.

“Who are you? What is this place? Why do you want to get to know me? Trust me, you don’t,” I spit out, as I push his arms away and move closer to the thorns. I’d rather skewer myself on those gargantuan lances than die at the hands of this stranger. I’d had quite enough of losing for one day, the very fact that I had lost before I had begun boiled my blood. “I’d rather show you, if you don’t mind. It’s a short walk to my home, if you’ll join me,” he said softly, holding out his hand, his open palm revealing an interesting web of lines. I stared at it for a long moment before lifting my gaze to meet a similarly open smile that reached his eyes. Genuine then, but why. Unable to resist, i took it, my mind running circles in frustration and confusion. Tight in my grip I held the thorn, prepared to plunge it into whatever soft membrane I could find should I feel the need. A shame to ruin one of those beautiful eyes, but I would if I had to.

He gently pulls me forward, towards the small exit I had spied earlier and I hesitate knowing there was no possible way to get through there with my skin in tact. The still gushing wound in my forearm throbs nauseatingly, and I feel my head swim. “Hold still,” he says firmly, letting go of my hand to pull his shirt over his head. “What are you doing?” My voice sounds strange and distant to my ears, interrupted by a harsh tearing sound that makes my eyes itch. I feel my knees buckle, the black butterflies stealing my sight and I gladly let them take my other senses with them.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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