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

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

Splintered Petals

She sits quietly
Staring at her hands
Lost in thought
Her fingers writhe like snakes
Entangled and ensnared
Caught in her lap
Caught in her eye

She sits quietly
Staring at her hands
Her thoughts writhe like snakes
Entangled, ensnared
Caught in the word-trap
Caught in her sighs

She sits quietly
Staring at her hands
Her heart writhes like snakes
Entangled, ensnared
Choking on the words
The ones caught in her eyes

She sits quietly
Staring at her hands
The thoughts, words unspoken
Cannot be articulated, enunciated
Fear holds her captive
The madness is taking hold

She sits quietly
Staring at her hands
Lost in thought
She speaks in silences
Not a word she will speak
Since I cut out her tongue

©MelanieMcCurdie2017

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

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.

 

The Swollen Man

The voice in my head is incessantly whining at me;  Don’t start.  Stop Crying.  Big girls don’t cry.  You’re stronger than this. Gods, shut up already.  I’m not stronger than this, not remotely.  Perhaps once upon a time,  when I could breathe and move without scrutiny and suspicion, and without resignation, maybe then,  I was stronger.  Now,  not even close.

I know that tears are a waste.  I know that they are a weakness and that they get you hurt.  Whatever entity lives up there knows that I’ve lived enough lessons in my life to know that’s a fact, Jack.  There are those that will shake their heads in disbelief or in disgust at my words, likely wondering if I have finally blown a mental gasket and if I am leaking sanity.  I’m neither out of my head nor crazy;  things would be simpler if I were, but no, this is all just result of environmental poisonings, experiences and far too many teachings from the fist.  One learns early on how to bottle and I am old hat at that game. I’ve forgotten more about self-preservation techniques than most should ever know in their lives.

People are so blind.  They have little clue about how it feels to sit and shout at yourself you must not be weak sister every single time tears threaten or how it feels to know that you are going to fail. I doubt most of them could survive if they couldn’t find a Starbucks.  I wonder if any of you  can comprehend being torn apart by your own mind, over a few tears?  I don’t think that the majority could, and I pray that they never learn how.

It’s a dual existence truly, learning how to shatter on the inside, and while smiling on the out.  Sometimes, some nights it gets to be too much and the pressure can’t be held any longer.  No matter how one tries, no matter how one berates oneself,  those tears are going to fall.

No one likes to be made fun of as they are falling apart; the beatings I give myself, the fear that I can taste in my mouth when that dam breaks, the shame of crying because I can’t stop, is agonising.  To be poked at and told to stop and denied release when it’s an impossible to hold back that tidal wave with what amounts to a drink umbrella  is more than unfair.  It’s cruel.  The words just add a sting, when warm arms would’ve been a softer place to land.

In attempting to be all that everyone requires, one loses oneself in the demands.  It’s difficult to juggle, but I like to think that I do it well.  But it is difficult to be that tough supporter for those I care for, love while I starve myself.  The needs of the many and all that.   My life is micromanaging the undefinable, and making it work is all that much harder, and I manage while balancing that fine line between function and fulfilment.  Existing in a loud, large bubble is no way to live.

He told me that he was going home to check on the animals and to put gas in the car.  It would have been believable if it weren’t for the fact that it was quite difficult to drive without the keys to the vehicle,  and he hadn’t asked for them since he tossed them into my purse when we arrived. He had planned to drink. Again.

Tonight, after the community bonfire that we had no choice but to attend, I saw him there in the shadows of the commissary. His eyes were full of brimstone and bite, lustfully gazing on the youthful wife of our Mayor with his dick in his eyes.  I saw how she undulated slightly when her eyes met his, and the way she changed position with a gasp before excusing herself with a small smile and a flush.  His eyes followed her all night, with his hand rubbing at his crotch absently and his tongue tracing his lips over and over, likely wishing they were hers, while I stood there embarrassed and growing angrier.  It didn’t matter, because  I wasn’t there, or rather, was and would be invisible until she turned him away.  It was all about her.  I thought he’d cum in his pants when she brushed against him, and I watched her hand brush against his erection with a smirk in my direction.  Whore.

There they are; they think that they are hidden from view they way that they’re greedily groping each other.  The Mayor’s wife and the librarian’s husband, who would’ve thought,  wanking one another off in full view of anyone with eyes. “Does he have it on him?” a low male voice mutters in my ear, startling me out of the morbid mental happy place that I was in and I feel the smile spread across my lips. The warm meaty hands on my ass make me want to vomit but I nod and shudder when those thick fingers graze the sensitive skin on my inner thigh.  I can’t do more than nod.

The cock that Rodney is so proud of is out for the night, twitching in the cool night air and I can hear the crackle of wrapper from here.  He shoves her to her knees and slips the rubber from the package and over his dick. “Keep quiet this time, Deena.  I didn’t get to finish last time,” Rodney growls and plows into her with a laugh. Last time. He bucks his hips into her and she moans loudly then squeaks when he falls against her in quickening paroxysmal convulsions. The man behind me chuckles and his large hocks squeeze my ass once more before moving away with a suggestion that I make myself scarce. What a chicken shit.

Rodney lies jittering on top of Deena,  his overly swollen glans trapping Deena as much as his dead weight does and she can do little more than pant shallowly when I step quickly into the light of the fire and again into the darkness of the commissary shadows where she writhes in the dirt. “Please?  Help me! I’m sorry.  Can’t be seen.  Here.  Like this,” and I laugh to myself at the tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. Her cupid bow lips fall open in shock and dismay when Rodney bucks and blows snot into her chestnut hair.  “Rodney! Dammit, get off of me!  What the fuck did you do to your dick? It hurts!”

“Shut up whore.  He didn’t get to finish last time, didn’t you hear?  How lucky for you that he gives a shit enough to tell you that you don’t matter.  Hear that?  You were so anxious to have him inside you that you blew him in public where anyone could see you.  I did.  Your moans need work by the way.  Not believable in the least.”  The first voices of the other attendees are getting louder and I titter darkly from around the corner, remembering to stay out of sight. Rodney gasps again, choking bile onto her shoulder and she sobs like a twelve-year-old with a rash.  He’s not dead. What a pity. He whined into my ear often enough about how he was trapped living with me.  Now he is truly trapped. by the pussy he couldn’t live without.   Perhaps he should have looked closer at the wrapper.   His are purple, latex free.

“Hey Deena,”  I chuckle as I spy the first flashes of lanterns headed this way, “I found this old video on the web.  Robin Bobbin? Original.” Closer still and I crouch closer to whisper “Soon everyone else will know what you are too. Virgin bride, my ass.”  Deena’s pretty eyes close in submission to fact and I dart from my safe place to spit into her pretty, filthy face,  and this time I kick her in the side of the head.

The first lantern bursts through the darkness just as I make my escape and the horrified shouts of the Mayor and his entourage reach my ears much like an applause track in one of those old sitcoms.  The next morning the paper from the towns in the surrounding areas will tell the tale of the Mayor’s not so virginal bride, the Mayor’s Right Hand Man and the Missing wife.  Such a small town scandal that won’t soon be forgotten.

As for me?  I was paid handsomely for my participation and one never knows what the next sunrise will bring.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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Get your copy of The Hurt Chamber by Foggy McCorrigan
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Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now

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

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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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https://melaniemccurdie.com

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.

Razors: The Return of Jack the Ripper

It’s no secret that I love a good horror with a soupçon of f history and humour thrown in to offer levity.  As a writer myself, if I were offered an opportunity such as we find in the film I just devoured with glee, there is little doubt that I would willingly immerse myself into the situation with little concern for what may be haunting the location.  But that is me.  Imagine, the darkened stairwells and hallways, walls lit by firelit torches that throw meager light for the group of young writers that are trooping ever downward into a Victorian era building that has seen better days.  The walls whisper and barely audible over the sounds of your footsteps, the lilting voice of a young girl singing a nursery rhyme that is just creepy enough to send a chilly finger up your spine.  Flashes of bloody hands and maniac howls punctuate the child’s lonely song.

Welcome to Razors – The Return of Jack the Ripper, a deliciously dark tale written and directed by Ian Powell and Karl Ward.  This film was a delight to watch…twice.  I submerged myself it the horror that they created with pleasure and a touch of trepidation.   Not to worry, I will elaborate, but where to begin?  I think the beginning is best.  Jack the Ripper. Three words that ignite curiosity and have inspired many films and books regarding the brutal murder of five women in Victorian London.  But what if it wasn’t five?  What if there were more victims?  Not much is truly known about this enigmatic serial murder, mostly speculation and perhaps literary licence.  He has remained a salacious spirit of malice that remains in the shadows of our histories.

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This brings us back to Razors.  This film takes a unique twist on an old mystery hooked me early on with the line, “I just need someone to believe me.”  These words, spoken by Ruth Walker (played by Kelby Keenen) are echoed throughout the film.   Ruth, a young writer is challenged along with several other attendees, to write the ultimate horror movie during a writing workshop held in a deteriorating Victorian warehouse by the abstruse and charismatic screenwriter Prof.  Richard Wise.

Razors begins with a couple lost in what appears to be a drug fueled nightmare, and nightmare it is, for both of them and for the dreamer. Her fellow writers, James, Zack, Denton, Sadie and Jane,  arrive into true horror without knowing that the walls whisper and the shadows are truly able to kill.  Ruth Walker, a young writer in possession of a script and a surely haunted piece of Murder Memorabilia, the Holy Grail of Horror,   joins Wise and her colleagues with a box that she claims contains the knives used by Jack the Ripper.  There are rules, of course.  The box must never be opened lest it release the spirit of Jack and thus his recrudescence into our world.

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Early on, you will notice small movements in the background shadows that marry nicely with the suspense.  I found only once that it was too dark to see properly, otherwise the lighting is wonderfully done, and the use of firelight to add ambiance definitely appealed to this viewer.  The dialogue well written and the flow was easy to keep pace with, as was the humour.  Again, only once did I have an issue hearing the actors and that was when the words were drowned out by the sounds of their footsteps.

This film has some marvelous lines in it, some that are so eloquent that I had to rewind to listen again.  For instance, “Horror must be balanced with beauty.”  A nugget of truth that is exceedingly true in my eyes.  I particularly enjoyed the little bits of homage paid to horror classics such as Nosferatu and the line, “Welcome home Eleanor,” made me laugh out loud.   The cast was likeable and I found I was invested early into the story, lost in the world that these gentlemen have created, and voluntarily, I returned to watch again.

The one thing that was brilliantly done and honestly has me shuddering even still is the doll.   when that child’s plaything made its appearance on the screen, I wrote in my notes exactly this “if that thing opens its eyes….”     Those that know me know of my extreme dislike for  dolls in general, and this one creeps me out so much more than Annabelle ever could.   I won’t spoil the film for you, but I can tell you this much, I don’t think I will be sleeping much tonight.

 

Stills from 'Razors'
Stills from ‘Razors’

©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

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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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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

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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Reaper’s Eye

It could be somethin’… Or just might be nothing …shrug… I don’t suppose it matters, but I have a question

Have you ever died?

Not figuratively, or even spiritually.

Died.
Ended.
The old dirt nap.
Existence: Terminated.
Stop breathing, stop everything, even fighting for your life kind of death.

I have.

I’m still here, breathing and stuff; fact: I’m a walking, talking, profanity spewing fucking miracle of science and stupidity. Some have likened me to a cockroach, stating that I’m impossible to kill, and nearly as ugly.

Ugly is as ugly does. Survival is never pretty.

If they only knew how close to the truth those obnoxious sons of whores really are. Stupidity, being what it is, makes it possible for me to employ the necessary skills needed to avoid those agonizing recollections that haunt relentlessly, and, for a while, pretend that I’m a person.

A human.

I’m not, though, human. I’m not even real. How could I be, when I ceased to exist in 1996. Stop rolling your eyes. I am well aware of the way I am viewed, and I don’t give a rolling fuck at a traveling donut. No one has lived my life, and no one has to live through that motherfucking nightmare every godammed night of theirs. I have that delightful chore

Not that I’d wish those all too real memories on even my worst enemy…although it might teach some valuable lessons to those who think themselves so holier-than-thou. Those memories hurt. They ache and burn and steal breath, driving you to scream and fall to pieces in silence. Why would I shared them, anyway? I can justify until I’m blue in the face, for all the good it does. Why – why Why WHY? – why’d you stay? Why didn’t you run? Why didn’t you FIGHT?

Why’d I stay?

Where would I go? Who would believe me? I was, am, nothing and had less. The ownership papers are real – I’ve seen them with my own eyes. So where was I to go?

I. Did. Run.

There was nowhere to run to, but it didn’t stop me. Not right away I ran; so many times I fled the fists and the and the barbs and the lies, and every time the people I thought I could trust took me straight back to hell. That desperation to be free was all encompassing but I was trapped, a relative prisoner. Do you know how that feels? To sit shivering in a dark corner, falling apart because it’s Friday at 5 and he’s been drinking again? Praying that some drunk angel driving would destroy the monster on its way home because You can’t take being hurt one more time? It feels awful, and you feel like a horrible person, begging for the death of another being, and then praying harder. Then, when the monster stumbles through the door, that energy evaporates out of fear.

Why didn’t I fight. Such a simple, stupidly ridiculous question. I did, at first. I gave as good as I got, for a while, fists and verbal spears, poison daggers. I fought and hard, but a mind can only take efforts to shatter it for so long before self preservation convinces you that it’s safer to take the hits than to throw them. Bruises heal. Scars fade. Life goes on.

Except, I’m not sure it does. The night I died hasn’t faded in the least, not in the sensations nor in the torturous dreams in which it is relived. The fragrance of stale beer, sweat and perfume is imbedded in my nose, as is the scent of my bladder when darkness finally crept in and Reaper stood waiting by the door. The over warm meatiness of hands around my throat, and that laugh lingers even now….

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

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The Last Angel

·

·

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I see it all.

Each darkened corner full of monsters and pixie dust and the bodies of dead dreams piling like cordwood under dust bunny tarps.

The nightmarish coursers that haunt my waking hours smell like corrupted flowers and cinnamon fire; an obscene mix that sours my stomach and comforts what remains of my heart.

I see it all and it makes me want to simply accept fate and fade away and I would. I would except they won’t let me go. They won’t let me leave and trap me with I love you.

I love you.

I love you…

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©MelanieMcCurdie

flutter

You don’t get it
being trapped in your head
and trapped in your mind
all corridors and no exits
nothing but hallways and corners
with no safe place to hide
from the monsters inside me
they induce fear and prison
all my life since then stolen away
like treasure by pirates yo ho Ho but there is no rum
just poison that drips from lips
laced in false truths and honest lies
like it’ll never happen again
and I love you
and please don’t leave
then its better
until it’s hell
until the fists
until the wishes for death
you’re drowning in brimstone
freezing alone
with no fire left in you
but by some miracle
an ember survives
or I’m too too stupid to know
that I died long ago
when my expression was taken
I ache to create
put my fingers on cool keys
gentle ivories
let it flow like magic
water into a desiccated soul
it hurts to miss the soundscapes
the release of the notes
a thirst never quenched
it just coughs dust and regret
while I die without an outlet to scream
or a prescience of presence
in a trusted heart that judges not
just listens to the inane
insane babblings of a lost heart
that’s tired of wandering

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©MelanieMcCurdie2016