Sometimes, when i’m alone/
almost by myself cos ghosts/
i wear pink with no makeup/
and let my hair go curly/
and pretend that i’m a warm/
blooded, a soft hearted girl/
instead of the cold minded/
all but invisible weirdo/
laying shrouded in bubbles/
adding salt to the water/
that is the truer image/
floating on the razors edge.

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

dangerous liasons and cutthroat city

What am I thinking? You don’t want to know.

No, You don’t. Believe me, as a prisoned resident, I know from personal experience that It’s dangerous liasons and cutthroat city in there. It’s certainly no place for a tenderfoot such as yourself.

Huh. So you say, with that devilish grin and a flinty glint in those eyes and sure, I could crumble, but I won’t. Not yet, maybe. 

Come aboard, if you dare, should you care, and abandon your bravado at the door. I like it when my suitors scream …

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©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Fair Warning

i’m not what i appear
i wish that i were able to be
strong or confident or assured of myself
truth is that in intimate gatherings
in smaller spaces and darker places
the likelihood of a typical initial response
is relatively high due to social programming
however, the effort expended to maintain in this manner
is slim to nil, or less
Fair Warning –  once you are in my eyes

i will never let you out of my sight

©MelanieMcCurdie

Euthanasia

When I think of you
Sometimes I smile
A little bit dirty because …

But mostly I just sneer
Choke back the temptation
To grab the nearest blunt
And let my mouth run amok

Don’t misunderstand

I do not indulge in hatred
Rather, it’s pity that haunts me
That try as I may to hold on
The kindest thing I could do
Was let you go

©MelanieMcCurdie

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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Crybaby

This morning I did something I have never done before –
while the children were bickering
and the telephone was ringing
and the television blaring –
I snuck off to the powder room
and quietly closed the door
and then I slid down to the floor
then with my elbows on my knees
and my heart in my hands.
I cried on the floor  facing the throne
I cried like a baby as silently as possible
so as not to be overheard.
Felt that my heart was breaking…
there are so many reasons
that it’s difficult to pinpoint one.
but I think it’s mostly that
I’ve spent my life trying to be
everything and enough,
the one with a voice.
And I’ve discovered that
I have no voice to speak of.

It’s a hard row to hoe

 

Flensed

What are we but an insouciant society

heaving with tarmac nightmares?

The point is the scrum, not the blood…or reward

And such sociable birds we be,

Angels with vestigial wings

that loom around the truths

like a massive Henge.

What could be used to excise those who

claim ignorance when it is actually arrogance?

Flaying good hearts where

one assumes lives a monster,

leads most often

to the same being flensed

©MelanieMcCurdie

Thirsty Work

I want a drink.
It is thirsty work
Fighting your daemons
Why not just give in?
The bottle beckons;
Dance, the cruel tease she
Makes the poison glow
The potion relieves
Just one sip will make
It all better – but
It won’t nor can it.
Just another lie
Like that from your lips

©MelanieMcCurdie

bones don’t lie

There’s a woman in the mirror
that I barely recognise –
maybe a little around the eyes
and in the ghost of a smile
that seems to tremble on the verge
of – I’m not sure but I empathise
with the wistfulness that lies
behind the false facade window dressing
you know, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise
that I don’t know this
beautiful wretched creature
with the sad longing eyes
she’s not what she used to be
the truth lays like bones
in the tears that threaten to spill
and I’d give anything to see them
overflow happy rather than hide
the misery away behind a
deep-seated desire to just fade away.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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
Get your copy of The Hurt Chamber by Foggy McCorrigan
Get Unrequited Reapings by Carolyn Graham today on Amazon
Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now
Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now

LUNCH

Lunch.

Joseph A. Pinto

The sandwich remains uneaten and forgotten, long since ravaged by mold.  Beside it, the milk in the glass is nothing but crusty, yellow mud.  The lunch now a mockery of what once was.

He leans against the doorway, peering into the fruitless dark of his son’s room.  Clothes cling to his skin.  Thirty minutes prior, he stood within the foyer, dripping in static silence after stumbling in from the rain.  He realizes that nothing carries weight anymore.  Except maybe his sodden clothes.

He wavers.  A car passes somewhere in the night.  Light cuts rudely through the room; shadows jump stiffly about the walls, scurrying into corners.  Stuffed animals squat atop the bed, solemn smiles unflinching across their faces.  A sliver of headlight touches the uneaten sandwich, illuminating the plate like a stage.  It fades away—the show over, curtain drawn on yet another day.  He hesitates, breath snagging in his…

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Frozen Soul

4:30 am.

I’m awake and staring out the window at the snow, wishing I was asleep and not witnessing horror. But instead I am, and so are the deer busily scampering, their hooves a clip clop of wood on wood against the asphalt.  It’s cold and my smoke is dwindling, but I stay anyway with teeth chattering and bare skin rippled   It’s eerily quiet at this time of day; enough that I can hear the downy whoosh of the Great Owls flying as I watch them silently soar. The rabbits scarper, too, suddenly prey, and I, a lowly human, observe thoughtfully, wondering exactly why we sleep through the loveliest time of our cycle.  The answer is that it’s warm and when someone you care for is beside you, it can be paradise; A lost paradise but one nonetheless. It can also be an abyss and one too vast to traverse without adequate supply.

The flame from my torch looks turns the window into a mirror, and the reflection is the true horror. The tip of my home rolled jitters nervously in the light, that makeshift looking-glass tells more truth than any I’ve known since my youth. I can’t turn away from the woman in the window. I want to but she isn’t something I’ve seen before, and like all humans, we covet what we can’t have by imbibing with our eyes. A terrible sort of beauty, she smiles as though sadness were a garment made for her.  Her face is a maze of scars and pitfalls; this resplendent monster wears her mask without shame.  Her bare skin is mottled with wounds that never heal, punch stains and splintered soul, this wonder affects an air of resilient strength that truly stuns. Broken, beaten she stands before me with that sad knowing smile and cries tears of blood in my honour.

I know her; this creature who stands and bleeds on my palms is a woman I recognise from auld lang syne, and I inhale again in hope that she will fade away with the smoke.  It’s selfish but I wish she’d go to Source or just leave, or – and I sigh in a cloud of regret. Selfish indeed. The poor thing didn’t, doesn’t ask to remain here, would rather be forgotten in some unmarked grave but I suppose the tears I cry awaken her spirit.  To my own regret, because there can be no tears in the presence of the world and she is a part of that world, corporeal or flesh, there are still eyes to see them.  Behind the gate and beyond fear, a buck openly observes my inner struggle with unblinking eyes and steam jetting from his muzzle. Moments like hours’ creep by and then he dips his prodigious rack and gracefully trots out of view. A message or a dismissal, of this I will never be sure, and perhaps I don’t need to know the answer.

All that I need to know is that the fire is out.  The smoke that I had lit is gone and the woman is still here.  I also know that I am sitting here in front of an open window watching the snow fall and wishing that was something else.  The woman still stands nearby, sadly smiling with her hands behind her back like a chastised child. After years of talking to a ghost, there are no more words to say that will make her understand that she was in no way complicit. That she should move forward and move on but she just regards me with pity in her eyes and a wince that makes me cringe in sympathy.  No one can convince a soul, no matter how tortured and desperate to believe they are, to give up the grip they have on life.

Above my head, the floorboards creak; the clock strikes five and still I sit here in the cold, thinking. There are things that no one seems to understand and I never want them to live it, let alone comprehend it.  How do you explain the way that I crawled out of the same grave I willingly leapt into?  It sounds insane; but is it as insane as the emotional re-emergence, covered in moss and gasping for air?   Crazy it may be but I crawled out of it nonetheless. I bear the scars from digging through years of dead flowers and the rotting corpses of fallen leaves, digging through thousands of apologies and wasted words to finally breathe free air again. Buried alive is not as far etched as it seems.

The sun will rise soon and I am finally tired enough to sleep. Turning to bid her adieu, with my hand raised to blow her a kiss, I complete the action to an empty room. My muscles creak and bones crackle alarmingly, as I climb the stairs towards my bed and some rest.  I should be exhausted, but it feels more like coming alive.  As I drift to dreamland, I wonder if she’s trying to send me a message.

 ©MelanieMcCurdie2016

Twisted Tales Patti BeetonClick here for more on Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton

Available now for Kindle and in paperback - Just click the link!
Available now for Kindle and in paperback – Just click the link!
The Selkirk Seven is now available for Kindle, Kobo, at Barns and Noble and Amazon as well
The Selkirk Seven is now available for Kindle, Kobo, at Barns and Noble and Amazon as well

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

A Dark Thought

I don’t know why I’m even trying. I swore so long ago that I wouldn’t speak to You ever again and I haven’t,  until now. The Absent  Moral Authority, You abandoned me so many times, when I was taught that You were there to protect me, watch over me. Saviour. The first time I needed someone, after begging the physical individuals in my life to see me, I turned to the one that I was told would always be there.  But, I was left to deal on my own.  I prayed then for a Saviour, begged for help and You sent me further assault on my body and no hope of help to escape. I was five.

I hear from everyone that You are still there, that You still believe in me even if I don’t believe in You. I have no evidence of that. I could have believed, after;  I wanted to,  and I tried but where were You when I was seven with a razor to my throat? When I was twelve and lost? When I was fourteen and desperately needed an intervention? Where were You then? There is blame, a tonne of it and I’m not sorry one bit. I Believed in You, and Trusted that You would be that Protector, and You let me down.

Parts of me still hold to the childhood brainwashing I received in the name of my eternal soul. That’s why I’m making a last-ditch effort. After all, kids suffer worse and survive, right? Every day, people suffer worse fates, and I’m alive, so be grateful, Believe in Me. I’m always here.  But this is where I’m having an issue. When I was dying, trapped like a rat in a maze and willing to provoke the final battle so that it would finally be over, I trusted in You to be my voice. To Save me, after I’ve spent so many years trying to save myself, and I have the scars to prove it.

Where were You when I lay sweating on that stinking bare mattress in the spare room, broken inside from fists and coughing and fever sick from days of effort just to breathe?  Where were you when I had to crawl on bruised knees and broken bones through my own blood and vomit to the bathroom? Where were your miracles when I sat for what seemed like hours, crying silent tears because it hurt to piss?  I could have screamed but that would have meant worse. Where were you when the barrel of that pretty little .44 was shoved into my mouth, breaking my teeth and the gun cocked while I begged for my life?   I prayed.   Nothing.  You weren’t there.  I was.  I needed You and I was alone, as usual.

So why am I here on my knees praying when I swore it would never happen again? Because I have nothing left to believe in. It’s hard to hold faith in someone whose only real action is to prove that company line is to take none.  Years have gone by since l last tried, and there’s always only one course of action that remains when there is nothing left; I’m not ready to entertain that option, yet.  I even pleaded profusely, offering a sacrifice to Cthulhu and then to Gingersnap the Soul Eater, but I was refused in both cases, indulgently. Perhaps it’s because I no longer have a soul.

I’ve asked in jest, and then in seriousness, for help, for a life-preserver, anything to save me from drowning. No one cares enough to pull their eyes away from their own reflection.  Once I was sure that Angel’s existed; I no longer believe in angels but I’m sure that the Devil is real and His name is Technology. Further proof that You aren’t there and Heaven is some kind of Celestial Prank.

Fact is, that I’m in bad shape, and it’s no lie. This time I’m broken in a new way and my breath rattles in my lungs quite like a watery maracas. It’s no excuse for my actions, and I know that I will pay for it in one way or another. Such is the order of things.  My Faith in You still exists.  It’s nothing more than this tiny glow of light but it  lives, but this is the last time that I will ask You to help me.  To forgive me.

I didn’t mean to do it.  I couldn’t swallow the swill of lies and insults anymore and instead of swallowing the gall in my mouth and walking away,like I normally do,  it exploded from the crowbar I was using to open the new barrel in the garage.  His voice was a buzzing in my ears, he was screaming at me so loudly and I turned and rammed the flat end of it into his throat.  I just wanted him to stop shouting, and after, when the blood was spraying all over my face and hand, I stood over him and watched him jitterbug.  His hands kept fluttering at his neck like red and white butterflies. He bled out on his spotless garage floor, and the delicate butterflies?   They stopped flying about five minutes ago.

He was complicit in his demise, made his bed so to speak.  The barrel was empty, thankfully, and made a handy storage place. But now, I’m afraid.  Please, I need Your help. I’m scared and I need Your Guidance.

Son of a –

Tiptoe through ground glass but leave no bloody footprints behind.

Confuzzled by the contradictory  message? Welcome to my world. I suggest you run.

you’re still here?  interesting. my thoughts about the situation go as thus: Winter’s Chill is a twat. On it’s heels, the Agoniser comes with his pretty, pain poisoned stick  this son of a skunkbutt…his main pleasure in existence is to torture and torment everyone.

as you see,  what goes on upstairs, isn’t pretty. those damned squatters have set up shop in the braincase are back and they have drawn some fairly apt, if pornographically  accurate, representations of reality.

and now,  to the chagrin of only me, there’s a high frequency vibration that has settled into my bones. an epically proportional ache that is slowly driving me utterly bonkers with a touch of batshit.

Sound fun?

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Prince of Stones

Promised me you’d stick
like glue, true blue, to the end
but you split like a coward
are you so empowered,
that you break word like bread,
it’s easy to blame, play the game
like a player, role the dice,
you always win, such a sin
but honey, players get played
your excuses are staid and
worth little more then nothing
superman you ain’t but darlin,
to remove the sting
always remember,
a pauper can be king
if he plays the real game
a word to the wise,
I’ll cut it down to manageable size
just end the bullshit riddles
and speak your mind.

@MelanieMcCurdie

Plagued by a Promise

I remember the racket.

That noisy daemon behind the smile.

How could I forget?

Some say I fell in love

with you that day

and maybe they’re right.

Love as a brother,

the first truthsayer in my life.

My friend.

What resonates strongest, and

most often are those quiet

sober moments that weren’t

laugher and gaiety,

but factual and less than tactful.

The words, though, still stick.

“My dear, you’ll die.

Will you die on your terms

or conditions of someone else?”

The answer was then, on my terms.

The answer today remains the same.

I’d be lying to say there aren’t still  days

when I sit down to text you

about some stupidity

or a problem that only your

unedited POV can illuminate.

I get halfway through,

before I remember

that it’s useless,  that

it’s a message that you’ll never get.

I hate that, but I promised,

you motherfucker.

So you win again.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016