The Sane Sanctuary

Thirty-two: there are thirty-two and they hang on the wall. What you ask?  My collection of grisly souvenirs, the last one is barely a month old and frankly, it’s starting to show little signs of decay  and putrefaction.  No matter what I use, I can never stop that first biological rebellion that would keep them perfect.

The walls are pristine white, at least they were once, but now they are marred, stained and marked by the drippings and droolings of crimson that remind me somehow of Dali.  Not that I care about much than the fragrance it leaves behind.  It is art, and it is gorgeous to me.

Am I insane? Perception counts for much I suppose.  We are all beasts, extent hominina and we were given teeth for a reason; to rend flesh from bone and ingest the delicious plasma proteins that sustain life.   Are you any different? I know that you eat too.  Are you better than I? Anyone would do what they had to, to survive if they were starving.

Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in boring polite society.  They would call it cannibalism, but I call it, living.  It is not society’s opinion that matters to me, and it never has. The only judgment that I fear comes from the ones whose thoughts of me really matter and they are the only ones who have the right to judge. Who? Those whom I grilled and gormandize, of course.  They sacrificed their lives to feed me.  And they stay in here, where I come to pray at their feet and beg for forgiveness.

This is my sane sanctuary, my quiet place and the only space of reflection that I have in the world.  Only here can I be myself and lay myself bare before those who know me best, and beg forgiveness of the ones that are a part of me.  Everything about them was delicious; their memories, their minds and their bodies.  They were so tasty and the recollection makes my mouth water.

They aren’t all unknown.  Several, admittedly, had people who loved them and that I will regret til the day I die.  I wonder, though, did they have the same concern for the steak they ate off the grill on Sunday afternoons? One doubts it.  The majority, however, have never been reported missing, or have had people on television with tearful eyes pleading for their return. Sad, isn’t it?

The first one though, she is my favorite, my best girl and I mean that.  We lived together for years while I hid my all but rabid desire to devour her.  My Love, she was so beautiful with her laser beam eyes that always managed to melt my defences.  All she had to do was put her always cool fingers on my cheek and smile into my face and I would turn into a puddle of goo.

My Angel; I met her when I was already dead and her life had just ended.  At first, she never seemed to stop weeping, and all I could do was wrap her in my arms and wait for her sobbing to slow and her bright bright eyes to meet mine in a clear and direct manner.  Eventually, the weeping ceased and her clear stares eventually became something of a signal to her desire.   Not that I complained, and never to her.

Now, her eye sockets are empty , devoid of the once vibrant colour that sparkled there. It happens with decay, but I didn’t let them dry and roll back into her empty noggin.  I couldn’t do that to her.  The holes leave a vacant glare that shivers my spine. I hate when she looks at me like that.

She watched me suffer, disgusted and horrified as I suppressed that need, when died inside night after night laying next to the woman I adored and smelling the luscious scent of her sleep warm flesh.  I smothered my desires while I loved her, and chose to bite and never to tear flesh.  I drew blood but I never drank what I spilled, although sometimes the urge was so overwhelming that I would shake with the paroxysms of bottled passion.

My Angel, I miss her so much that I swear I can still taste her on my lips.  That night, I tried to be gentle and I succeeded, at first.  I devoured her with my eyes until she was the one quivering.  I remember the way her skin ran with goose-flesh and her breasts quivered and the way she looked up at me with those wide eyes that always made me wild with need.  And then, she whispered inconceivable words that both stunned and made my fly a little tighter.

My Love, I had never truly wanted to – never her; I wanted to taste her but I couldn’t live without her.  There was no other option and I clenched my fists and howled at the ceiling.  Angel insisted I explain, allowing me to pull her into her arms and sit her nude on my lap while I stumbled through the horror that I had been holding back for so long.

Only then, feeling my anguish, did Angel see the error of her ways and her thoughts, and she repeated the same words she’d said before, this time with that sweet, secret smile that made my heart throb in its cage.  She gave herself over to me, willingly as her final act of love, as my first meal.  Angel lay back on the bed with her legs spread slightly and waited for me to begin.  She volunteered herself to my strong jaws, and smiled as I nibbled and licked along her inner thighs and screamed when bit into her supple skin, tore into it and buried my tongue as though it were her forever wet well.

She screamed in pleasure at her ecstasy and mine, begging and pleading at first then just howling nonsensically.  It was getting a bit much, the noise and she came alive beneath me when I punctured her eyes, and sucked them from her head like some rare delicacy.  They were as delicious in my mouth as they had been watching me from her beautiful face.

The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was, and her heart staggered its last beats like a trapped bird in a cage while her too white hands danced a final pas de deux in the air over my heart.  Ah memories.

You never forget the first, and she, my fragile Angel, was the first taste of freedom that I had savored.  Just as her kiss had been the one I based all others upon, the flavour of her young, lean healthy muscle was one that all others have paled in comparison of.  Angel, her hair was like spun glass, and she tasted like spring after a long, hard winter.  Her blood was reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that imbibed it like a fine wine and the vitality danced on my tongue for hours after the fluid had been digested.

Gently, I filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and carefully wrapped her so that I could ingest her piecemeal over time, and I made her last as long as I could, until there was so little left that I cried when she was gone.  Angel was no more, in life but she still lives on here, hanging on the wall. She, though Angel’s head does not hold grey matter, not now but it is certainly not empty.  She had the most amazing mind and now her skull holds a secret, a hidden treasure.

Small jars, not quite canopic although I did get the idea from a documentary I watched on the television a few weeks before she gave herself to me.  It took sometime to find them, and eventually ordered a large number with the future in mind.   The first ones I filled with portions of her puréed organs and her exquisite, perfect brain.  The rest I ate in a stew with spring vegetables that turned out so well, I have used it repeatedly.

No other woman has come close to Angel, yet.  Some have resembled her, but that only occurred when I was missing her desperately.  Not one was her, or even had the same flavor.  They have all have tasted tainted, spoiled somehow, and the last made me vomit for days on end.  I had to dispose of the meat as I suspected that it was poisoned and nearly ended up in jail when a pissed off police officer decided my car looked worth inspecting.  It worked out for the best, however, and I convinced him to come home with me for a beer and a home cooked meal.

Perhaps, this one will be different.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Rolling the Beautiful Bones – coming soon to Fear Front Publishing

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.

daveyb-story-photo

 

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.

 

Tinfoil Luna

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.”

©MelanieMcCurdie

hurt-chamber
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Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now

dybbuk box

Maybe I do think Hell is full and maybe I know for a fact that devils roam among us. Maybe I found one. Maybe I know one; and maybe he laughs like sin is a flight of fancy while he watches from his solicitous shadows. Enticing, that daemon, he ignited a barely controlled passion that burned just below the surface. It’s not fair, the way he teased, the horns on his head hidden well from prying eyes, but not from me. Never from me.

I was caught tonight, trying to get drunk and failing. Pissed off and glowering over the half empty bottle, a devil snuck up behind me. What an unsuspecting meal I must have appeared, and he chuckled when I rounded, snarling with my teeth bared, Spite!!  “You sought out a devil and now you’re shocked that you found one,” a devilishly handsome man with brightly shining eyes stated, an unrecognisable expression on his face as he sat and pulled me into his lap.

A girl could have melted then, those perfectly evil lips that begged for a bite, Then it was my turn to laugh. And I did, not unkindly and with a certain hunger colouring the tone enough to widen his smile. With zero regret, I laughed again. “I am not shocked that I found a devil,” I murmured from my new place into the ear of his human suit; his need is a new pressure on my flesh, as is a burning touch across my thighs and on my waist. Smiling, my masque slips and the sharp intake of breath upon sight of dust underneath is soul food. “No, I’m not shocked to find a devil. I’m only surprised I trapped one so quickly.”

©MelanieMcCurdie

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

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