Tag: erotica

A Secret to Tell

“B-B-B-But w-what if I’m r-r-right? W-What if w-w-we’re the shadows, a-and they’re us?” he stammers through trembling lips as he looks across the table.

Kelly grins broadly, openly amused. “Are you sure you’re not chasing the dragon?” he asks with a slight twist of his head, raising one eyebrow.

“I’M PERFECTLY CLEAN! I SWEAR!” Stevie cries as he launches himself to his feet and strikes the table. “I-I, I’m t-the sanest I-I’ve ever been, c-certainly saner than your sorry arse.”

Kelly allows a stifled chuckle to escape his lips before readjusting his tie and rolling his head across his neck. “What makes you think you’re saner than me? I’m not the one standing here rabbiting on about my shadow being the actual real deal, and me being its shadow,” he says, his words oozing sarcasm. “And might I also note, I’m the only one fully dressed,” he says, thrusting his thumbs into his chest and casting a disapproving glance at Stevie’s naked form.

“Clothes stifle the pathways! Monks in deserts regularly parade around in next to nothing, but that’s beside the point! It’s typical of you—always trying to control the narrative. Well, this time it ain’t happening, buddy! I’m in control, I’m the one who knows what is what, and you’re the patsy!” he spits, thrusting a shaking, pointed finger at Kelly. Seconds pour into minutes of silence, and then Stevie shakes his finger again, nodding his head. “EXACTLY!” he says.

Kelly stares at him in silence as his grimace grows more distorted. His trembling arm shakes into a blur before it slowly drops to his side.

“Exactly what, Stevie?” Kelly asks, shrugging his shoulders and raising his brow.

Stevie continues to nod, smiling knowingly. He pulls his lips tightly back over themselves. “Right,” he says.

Kelly shakes his head in wonder, rolling his eyes. “What, Stevie? What is right? What is exactly? You realise you’re not making any sense?”

“Is it me,” Stevie says, leaning in towards Kelly, “or is it you?” he says with wide, crazy eyes.

“I think,” Kelly says with a shake of his head, “I think it’s you.”

Stevie smiles. “That’s what a shadow would say. That’s what they would want me to believe. B-B-But I know now, I know how to see the truth!”

Kelly rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. “And how, how do you see the truth?”

Stevie holds up his phone, turns on the torch, and points it toward the wall behind them, his lips trembling. “T-T-There,” he stammers nervously.

Kelly looks over his shoulder at the wall, then back to Stevie. “There’s nothing there.”

“EXACTLY!” Stevie spits excitedly.

Kelly stares at him for some moments, then shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says with a shrug.

“You can’t because you’re no longer you, and your shadow,” he says, pointing toward the wall again as he holds up his phone’s torch. “Your shadow is you, and you, you’re no longer you.”

Kelly lets out a stuttered breath, tilts his head, and smiles. “And you, you should’ve stayed out of your shadow,” he says as a smile wraps itself around his lips, and Stevie is engulfed by his own shadow as it rushes from beneath him.

The Strobe That Bites

Terry stares intently at the flickering screen, his eyes squinting, lip curled, tongue sticking out, and hands clenched tightly into fists. He leans back, opens his eyes wide, blinking several times, then leans in closer, squinting again before shaking his head with a final sigh as he sits back.

“No,” he says confidently. “I just don’t see it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I can see it as clear as day,” Chester says, leaning in and nodding.

Terry purses his lips, rubs his nose with the back of his hand, and scratches behind his left ear as he stares halfheartedly at the screen before shaking his head again. “Nope, nothing.”

“Well,” Chester says, raising his eyebrows and taking in a deep breath, “guess you’re in the one percent then.”

“T-T-The one percent, w-w-what does that mean?”

“Well, it means you’re the first goddamn son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met who can’t see what the screen is showing you.”

“Really?” Terry says with surprise, blinking and rubbing his forehead before running his hand roughly through his hair, scratching his scalp. “I-I-I mean, d-d-does the screen suppose to strobe like that?”

“Strobe?” Chester says, furrowing his brow as he looks at the screen, before taking off his cap and scratching his scalp. “The screen ain’t strobing, never has, not that I know of anyway.”

“W-W-What do people normally see?”

“Shit, people normally see what they want to see, but,” he says, leaning in. “I don’t mean that literally. I mean, what they really want—what they really, really want—is what they see. Some people scream, some people laugh, some have even cried, but they all see what they’re destined to see.”

“M-M-Maybe I’m meant to see s-s-strobing light.”

“Hmmm,” Chester says, pressing a finger against his lips. “Is it like lots of lights, or is it that fuzzy test pattern thing rolling?”

“Y-Y-Yeah, yeah, that—the rolling test pattern thing.”

“Okay, okay,” Chester says with a broad smile. “I have an idea. It’s a little wild, but if you’re up for it, I’d like to give it a go.”

“If you think it’ll work, s-s-sure.”

Chester slaps Terry on the back of the head.

“W-W-WHAT THE FUCK!” Terry cries out, stumbling back, gripping his head.

“Sorry, but you said—”

“It doesn’t matter what I said! You should’ve told me you were gonna FUCKING hit me!”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay, but did it work?”

“Did it work? Did it work?” he spits, casting a wayward glance at the screen, and gasps in horror, his lips trembling as a fresh sea of sweat cascades down his brow. “I-I-I,” he stammers as he loses control of his bladder, emptying its contents down his leg.

Chester smiles broadly, rubbing his hands together. “W-Worth the wait, I take it?”

Terry’s lips tremble, words catching in his throat. He stares at the screen with empty, vacant eyes, his voice barely a whisper. “W-Worth the w-w-wait,” he mumbles.

Chester laughs, a high, jittery sound like a wind-up doll coming undone. “T-T-Tell me—tell me what you saw.”

Terry swallows hard. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. Finally, after another few failed attempts, the words escape in a shudder. “I-I-I, I saw y-you…standing there, w-w-with a snake—a pale white snake w-w-with red eyes. But y-you’re n-not really holding it. I-I-It’s p-part of you,” he says, staring up into Chester’s hypnotic gaze.

The grin on Chester’s face stretches wider, his eyes glinting with something darker—something Terry hadn’t noticed earlier. He leans in, almost close enough for Terry to smell the stale warmth of his breath. “Good”—he whispers, his voice low and wet. “Then you’re starting to see what’s real.”

The Chariot Is Not to Blame 

“I rode in on a chariot—that’s exactly what I just said,” Conner replies with a befuddled look. 

“Yes, but you didn’t actually ride in on one, did you?” 

Conner’s brow furrows, and his lips purse. “Why would I say I did if I didn’t?” 

“Exactly!” Hugo says, clapping his hands and bouncing slightly in his seat. 

“I—I—I’m confused as to where any of this is going. I can’t tell if you believe me or if you’re calling me a liar, so how about you drop the cloak-and-dagger crap and tell me what your problem is?” 

“You. That’s my problem. Nothing else—not your lies, not your stupid beady eyes, not even your bingo wings. I just don’t like you. And I don’t have time for a beady-eyed, bingo-winged, ugly liar who suffers from premature balding and anal seepage,” Hugo snarls, a smutty grin on his lips. 

“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” Conner says with a nervous laugh. 

Hugo raises his eyebrows and shrugs, holding his open hands before him. He curls his lips and scrunches his nose. “Duh! I just did!” 

Conner lets out a long-winded sigh and rolls his head to the left, then to the right. “So, how many do I get?” 

“You don’t get shit, loser!” 

“I think that’s where you’re wrong. See, I’m pretty sure that when I show you my chariot—the one I rode in on, the one you say doesn’t exist—you’re going to owe me an apology. And we both know you’re not going to do that, so I’ve got to get something else in return. Something that’ll let you keep your position of power intact but will also be a direct reflection of the error you’ve made, continuing the precedent set many times before today with events of such similar gravitas.” 

“Ain’t gonna happen—not today, not tomorrow, not ever! I bow to no man but myself,” Hugo says with a nod and a broad grin as he leans back into his makeshift throne. 

“B-B-But that makes no sense. H-How do you keep your people in line? How do you earn their trust? Surely there must be rules. No one runs a kingdom on their own.” 

“I do,” he replies nonchalantly. 

“B-But that’s not true. There was the guard at the door.” 

“That was me,” Hugo says quickly. 

“W-Wait, w-what?” Conner stammers, trembling as a sea of sweat cascades down his brow. 

“The guard at the door—that was me,” Hugo says, grinning broadly. “You can’t enter there,” he mimics in a deep, gravelly voice before chuckling proudly. 

Conner’s eyes widen, and he smiles awkwardly. “O-Okay, w-what about the g—” 

“That was me too,” Hugo interrupts, slapping his lap. “I was the shy girl in reception, the overzealous elevator operator, and even the disgruntled repairman who offered you a smoke. I was all of them, and they are all me!” he says proudly. 

“So, you’re telling me you run this whole place on your own, without any help from anyone else?” 

“Correct,” he says proudly. 

“Sucks to be you, then!” Conner says as he pulls out a shotgun and trains it on Hugo, who offers a tight, nervous smile as a bead of sweat snakes down his brow. 

“Or, it sucks to be all of us,” a voice says from behind. Conner turns, and his breath catches—a sea of Hugos stands before him, faces blending, expressions fixed in that same unsettling grin. 

“Did I forget to mention,” Hugo’s voice murmurs, but now it’s layered, each mouth speaking in unison, “that while I may be everyone, I am always—one. Each face, every word, every piece—me.” 

Conner feels a pull, something crawling beneath his skin, a whisper curling through his veins. A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and his finger desperately tightens around the trigger. The shotgun erupts, tearing a hole through one of the Hugos flooding the world around him. 

He tries to scream, but the sound is swallowed as his flesh burns, his mind splits, and his world reshapes, twisting, turning into something—into someone else. 

And as the smile settles onto his lips, the last thread of who he was is swallowed. He is nothing more than another voice in the endless, another chair in Hugo’s kingdom.

A Slipping of the Catching Brakes

The rain spits at the world below with a certain disregard that could almost convince an unbeliever that Mother Nature is a physical beast, born with the same nuances the ant-like human race is also given. But, like the family pet, Mother Nature’s personality traits are decided and given by man, because everything must have an explanation, even when there is truly none to be had.

Stephan digs his hands deeper into his pockets, pulling his head between his shoulders with each strained step. The chill hits him in waves that cascade across his cold frame like a million little blades piercing every nerve ending they can find. The rain strengthens, crashing against him relentlessly. Cars scream by, fighting their way through the walls of water, while their humans laugh, grumble, and complain within the safety of their four-shelled carriages.

He hisses, tightening his hold on himself, like a turtle retracting into its shell. His lip curls and his nose wrinkles as he casts a wayward look towards the heavens.

“Can’t you just give me a FUCKING break!” he sneers beneath his breath, digging his hands deeper into his pockets while clutching himself tightly all at once.

The meaty call he knows all too well cries out at the downpour, and he turns with a lost moment of awe. The freshly polished yellow dolly Holden Monaro roars up the hill as if it has just rolled off the factory line—the rain almost terrified to touch the steel as it cuts its way through the unyielding sea like a hot knife through butter.

He stares wide-eyed, droopy-lipped, only to have the breath catch in his chest as he stares into his own eyes—then he is in the car, dry, warm, and staring out at the rain-soaked version of himself.

He sucks in desperate breath after desperate breath as he turns to the driver, who casually smiles.

“Wouldn’t want to be caught out there in this shit storm!” he says with an almost sarcastic flick of the tongue.

“W-W-What’s happening? W-Who was that b-back there, a-and who t-the FUCK are y-you?”

The man laughs. “Do we really need to do all the backfill, or can we leave that open-ended, knowing the answers that don’t come are the answers you expected to be given? And on your deathbed, perhaps, you’ll reflect upon your pitiful life and realise the answer to all the questions was me all along,” he says with a twisted smile. “Not that you should take that to heart. I think all you meat suits have it terribly unfair, while those above live like the kings in all the stories you write about in your dirty cesspool of a cage you call home.”

“T-T-T—” he stammers, as the car comes to a sudden and jolting stop, flinging him violently into the dashboard. He grips his jaw as a sea of red streams from his broken nose, and he awkwardly spits bloody teeth into the palm of his hand. He looks up at the driver with eyes full of terror.

The driver puckers up his lips, roughly caresses his flowing beard, and grimaces. “What is it? What could you possibly have to say that needs to be said? You wanted a break—I gave you one, and not only that, I did it in style! Now, what? What could you possibly want to say?”

“T-T-Thank y-y-you,” he splutters, wincing in pain.

The driver smiles, wobbles his head from side to side proudly, and gives Stephan a wink. “A pleasure,” he says as the door opens and Stephan tumbles out into the street. “Be seeing you, Stephan,” he says as the door slams shut on its own and the car takes off, leaving Stephan lying in the street. Another breath catches in his chest as he hears brakes locking up, car horns screaming, and wheels skidding toward him.

It’s then that he locks eyes with a version of himself, standing wide-eyed and droopy-lipped on the side of the street, drenched from the rain—watching as the car mows him down in a bloody spectacle.

A Shot in the Spit

A sudden gunshot echoes through the dusk-ridden hills, setting the quiet land ablaze with movement and screaming chaos. Birds erupt from the trees, covering the sky in a sea of wings and cries, while mobs of feral pigs and kangaroos bolt from their hiding places, the swine screaming like demonic beasts as they scatter in all directions, attacking other animals in their terror-induced rage. Another shot shatters the air, then a third, leaving only trails of dust swirling in the wind before silence falls once more over the dirty red lands.

He looks to the hills and chews the air as if it were fat from the belly of a pig, cooked to within an inch of crisp and raw—nothing like the tough, chewy ones running wildly before him, but the domestic kind bred for their fatty flesh and supple tenders. He curls his nose and puckers his lips, dragging a firm hand across his beefy handlebar moustache. His old eyes narrow, and he draws back, shifting a scattering of snot in his left nostril, balls it up in his mouth, and spits it on Devon’s lifeless face.

“Shit,” he grimaces as he leans on the shovel and turns nonchalantly to Sophia. “He sure is dead,” he says with a laugh.

“Yeah, and now your DNA is all over him,” she slurs, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

He draws back again, spits another load onto Devon’s body, and wipes his sleeve across his face as he cackles loudly. “Shit girl, you think I give a damn?”

“You might not, sugar, but I do!” she says, raising the shotgun. “Now, lick it up!”

He smiles through twitching lips. “W-What?” he stammers.

“You heard me, Coltan,” she says, cocking the gun. “Lick up the spit, and clean it up good, otherwise you’ll need to start digging a bigger hole!”

He laughs nervously. “Y-You c-can’t be serious. I’m not gonna—” His words are cut short when she fires a shot into the air, quickly cocks the shotgun again, and trains it on him.

“Try me!” she snarls, closing one eye and aiming the barrel toward his head. A stream of urine runs down his leg, and a sea of tears wells up in his eyes as his bottom lip trembles.

He throws his hands in the air and stumbles backward. “O-O-Okay! O-Okay! I-I, I get it! O-Okay, I get it!” he cries, scrambling to his knees and over to Devon’s body. He swallows an uncomfortable mouthful of dryness, then begins to lick the thick wads of spit from Devon’s cold, pale face. He dry retches and gags as tears stream down his face. He feels the barrel of the shotgun press against the back of his head.

“Don’t add to it, sugar—otherwise it’s easier to leave you in the hole than take you with me!” she snarls.

“I-I-I, I’m t-trying,” he stammers.

“Oh, don’t I know it, sugar—don’t I know it indeed,” she says with a smug smile across her lips. She lets out a stuttered sigh as she looks out across the hills and takes in the beauty for the first time in a long while. “When you promised me a life worth living, did you think this was what I had in mind?” she asks, turning back to Coltan, who stares up at her with red, bloodshot eyes, a trail of vomit cascading from the brim of his moustache. She looks past him, and over to Devon’s silent frame, the bright green of Coltan’s vomit almost glowing in the night air.

“P-P-Please!” he stammers.

She takes a deep breath and thrusts the barrel in his face. “Lick it up,” she snarls. Fresh tears cascade down his face and his bottom lip trembles uncontrollably.

“N-N-No—” he doesn’t get to finish his words as she squeezes the trigger, removing the better part of his face. The gunshot echoes across the hills once more, and again the cries and calls of beasts known and unknown fill the air. For the first time in a long time, she allows herself to truly smile as she picks up the shovel and heaves a spadeful of red dirt over her past.

I didn’t like the end on the original post, so I gave it what it deserved…

Paved Paths Without a Payment

The ball in his throat grows to twice the size it was moments ago—he gasps, clutches his collar, and loosens it with tense fingers. His eyes weep, and his brow drips a sea of sweat. The world before him spins, and his once-clear mind is now addled and lost. He smacks his lips together as if they were pieces of cheese, and he gasps again. A high-pitched squeal emanates from the microphone a few inches away, and he winces in pain, squinting his eyes and screwing up his nose. Muffled conversations break out through the crowd surrounding the podium. He tries to swallow again and dry-retches. His eyes bulge from their sockets, and his lips purse tightly as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. Seconds twist and turn into a minute, then into a handful of them.

Stars shoot through the sky—explosions scatter dust left and right, and pockets of voided black steal segments of the world around him. His skin pales to white, and he elongates his fingers as he reaches out in desperation. The crowd around him continues chattering nonsensical words that sway back and forth in his ear, left and right. He forces a strained smile, squeezes his eyes shut, folds his hands into tightly wound fists, and scrunches his toes. He pushes, wills the ball down slowly, desperately—it moves, deeper, downward, and then, when he feels air around it escape, it grows again. He clutches his throat, eyes wide open. He tries to cry out, murmuring instead, and the microphone echoes it across the room.

Cheers break out in thunderous applause. Fists punch the air, and hands clap together in praise. He squints, scanning the crowd of faces, spying, searching until finally, he locks eyes with him. He returns the gaze—a wide, grand smile across his lips. He raises a glass of whiskey towards him and takes a sip. He gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, only to find him gone.

He feels cold breath on the back of his neck, then a hand on his waist.

“Are you not happy with how it all turned out?”

“T-T-T-This wasn’t t-t-the deal,” he stammers through stained lips.

He laughs. “And what, pray tell, was the deal meant to be?”

“Y-Y-You p-promised me p-p-power, a-a-and a-a-a way w-w-with words.”

“Power and a way with words—that indeed sounds like one of my deal packages. But look at you, standing here, powerless, with a ball in your throat, unable to speak,” he hisses in his ear. “Those seem to be the complete opposite of what you asked for, wouldn’t you agree?”

“N-N-N-No s-s-shit! W-Why i-is it happening? I-I-I, I paid y-y-you, r-right?”

“Ah, yes, maybe that’s it, maybe your payment didn’t go through, or maybe there was a problem at the bank, or maybe it has something to do with the mobile network—or maybe, just maybe, you made a deal you had no way of honouring without the deal succeeding first! Hmmm?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“S-S-Sure, t-t-that must b-b-be it, t-the deal n-n-needs the d-d-deal,” he gasps.

“Ah ha!” he roars in his ear. “That’s the answer!” he says with a cackle.

“S-S-S-So we’re g-good? Y-Y-You’ll m-make this g-go away?” he gasps, clutching his throat.

“Oh, yes, yes indeed. I will make that go away, all of it, all of it indeed, just as soon as you pay my price.”

“B-B-B-But, I-I-I, I can’t—not w-without the t-things you p-promised, p-p-please?”

Suddenly, he’s no longer by his side but once more standing amongst the crowd, staring back at him. This time, there’s no smile—only a sneer, a snarl, as he raises his glass again. The faces around him blur and distort, mocking grins painted across them. Beneath his feet, the floor collapses, splitting open into a sea of nothingness. Shadows spill from the cracks, twisting up his legs like cold, dead fingers, pulling him down. He frantically reaches for his wallet, but the hands tear it from his grasp, tossing it into the void below. Around him, cries and screams echo, voices damned and yet to be call his name. The world he once knew unravels piece by piece, until nothing remains but the dark—and then the silence.

Suddenly, the room lights up, and he finds himself naked and nailed to a poorly constructed cross. A classroom of children sits before him, staring with blank expressions. From behind him, the man strides forward, gripping a wooden cane tightly in his hand.

“Now, class, can someone tell me what we do with those who fail to pay for their purchases?” he says with a grin as the students eagerly raise their hands.

He scans the room and points the cane at a young girl. “Janina, what do we do?”

“Damn them to hell, sir,” she replies with a broad, toothy grin.

He turns to him, a broad grin upon his lips. “That’s right, Janina, we damn them to hell,” he says, grinning even wider as the whole class begins chanting, “Damn them to hell! Damn them to hell! Damn them to hell!” over and over, while he tries to scream, only to find the ball in his throat has grown larger once again, and now all he can do is gasp for air as the man gives him a wicked wink.

The room shakes, erupting into cheers and cries as the ground splits open beneath him. The chanting grows louder and louder, the children’s faces now replaced by his family, his friends, everyone he’s ever loved—chanting, screaming, celebrating. A massive hand reaches up, grips him tight, and he tries to scream one last time before it pulls him down into the flames below.

A Killer’s Lamented Game

Gunner crashes to the ground, his pistol tumbling from his hand as he grabs his stomach, trying to hold his innards in. A quick, thick sea of red spills from his side and pools on the ground beside him, growing with each beat of his failing heart. A wave of nausea washes over him, and a cascading stream of sweat pours from almost every pore possible. He gasps for breath, squinting as his vision sways in and out, catching momentary glimpses of Quentin, who proudly strides before him, boasting words he cannot make out, as the screaming in his ears and the pounding of his heart drown out any hope of hearing anything else. A stray breath catches in his throat, and as he struggles to let it go and grab another, Quentin stops and looks down at him with morbid curiosity. Then his eyes light up, he smiles, slaps his hands together, and dances over to where Gunner lies.

“Stop the press, who is that man?” Quentin sings as he cups his hands around the side of his mouth, acting as a megaphone. Then he crouches before Gunner, with a wide-eyed grin painted across his face. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else, someone important, but now, as I see you up close, I realise you’re just another victim, in a long list of nobodies,” he cackles, standing up and dancing around the room again like a clown at a birthday party.

“F-F-F-Fuck you, a-arsehat! I-I ain’t gonna p-play into your g-game, s-so you might as well j-j-just get it over with!” Gunner spits through trembling lips as he tries to drag himself towards his discarded firearm.

Quentin’s lips curl, his nose scrunching as his face twists in disgust. He takes a few steps back before driving a running kick into Gunner’s stomach. Gunner cries out in pain, tightening his grip on his stomach. The sickening sound of something slipping from his grasp and hitting the floor brings another wave of nausea, and he vomits, twitching as he seizes momentarily before the dull pain and grey shadows pull him back to consciousness. Quentin is leaning over him again, tightening Gunner’s belt around his waist, holding in his guts with a crudely fashioned tourniquet.

“W-Why?” Gunner stammers. “W-Why not let m-me die?”

Quentin smiles broadly. “Then you would win, and I would have to play with my next contestant!” he boasts, as he holds a photo of Gunner’s wife up beside his face.

“D-D-Don’t you f-f-ucking touch her! D-D-D—” Quentin pulls the belt tighter, and Gunner winces in agony.

“Just remember who is in control, worm! If I want to beat your flavour stick holder to a bloody pulp, I’ll do it, and if I don’t, it’s because I don’t wanna, okay?”

Gunner clenches his teeth and hisses. “P-P-Please,” he stammers.

Quentin pokes out his bottom lip, frowns, and blinks his eyes playfully sarcastic. “I’ll tell you what,” he says as he looks into the far corner of the room and places a finger thoughtfully against his chin, before opening his eyes wide and holding a finger up in the air, proudly declaring an idea had struck him. “I’ll give you a chance to win, and, if you do, not only will you be able to walk—err, crawl free—but your wife will certainly survive. Does that sound like a deal worth making?”

“W-W-What’s the catch?”

Quentin laughs, “There is no catch, so, do we have a deal?” he says, holding out a hand for Gunner to shake. They stay locked like this for some moments, before the smile drops from Quentin’s face, and he puckers up his lips. “I get it, I do, you don’t know whether to trust me or not, but here’s a clue for something you should do—shake and make a chance, refuse my deal, and everyone you love dies too,” he snarls.

Gunner curls his top lip and grips Quentin’s hand. “F-Fuck you!”

Quentin laughs loudly once more. “AND FUCK YOU TOO!” he roars as he strides over to where Gunner’s pistol lies and picks it up. “Now, let’s see if you’re lucky,” he spits as he places the gun’s barrel against his temple and pulls the trigger, taking off half his head. His body drops to the floor, and Gunner stares on in disbelief. Then, after a few moments, he slowly begins to laugh to himself.

“Y-Y-You fucking s-s-stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he scoffs, as he lets himself fall to the ground. He stares up at the lightbulb as it glows brightly, pulsating with each beat of his heart.

“W-W-Wow, w-w-what a r-r-rush!” Quentin slurs as he sits up awkwardly, swaying from side to side while the chunk of missing skull slowly regrows.

“F-F-Fuck,” Gunner mutters, watching as Quentin clumsily gets to his feet and staggers toward him, pistol in hand

“R-R-Right, y-y-your t-t-turn!” Quentin sneers, raising the gun and firing.

Up There on the Dance Floor

The music vibrates through the walls of the room, flows through the floors, and cascades like crashing ocean waves against the bodies of those who dance within it without care. The sea of people moves in unison, like a hive, rising up and crashing down with the thumping bass, following the ebbing flows of its highs, and dropping with the lows. Like a plane taking off on its runway, the song crescendos endlessly, never quite getting in the air—just forever sitting on the verge of it.

Sergio shakes his sweat-drenched body into the air, bouncing off those around him, as they not only feel the music but live it. The smile that melts across his face is almost painted on, while the blank, perpetual high his brain now calls home resists any temptation to fight. Only to dance, to live, to love, and to serve the DJ.

He stands at the head of the room, his table of turntables, a row of four by four, all spinning—songs looping into songs, their tunes lost in the tunes of others—a mindless mix. His head bobs, a hand held high in the air, fingers in the sign of the devil, and he cares not who is offended.

The music continues, endless, unyielding. Sweat pours from the dancers, bodies dropping to the floor, empty eyes staring into the distance, void of life, drained by the dance, drained by the DJ as he feeds off his flies.

The blade digs into his throat, and her hot breath can be felt on the back of his neck. The room freezes, and all eyes turn towards them.

“Hello, little snowflake, are you sure this is what you want to be doing?” they all ask in unison.

She sucks in a stuttering breath and curls her lip as she pulls the knife back, digging the blade into his flesh. A drop of blood trickles down his neck. “I-I-I’ll do w-w-what I have to do to m-m-make y-you listen!” she hisses.

“I hear all, child, I hear all and I see all, but what wonders to me is—Is he worth it?” they all ask.

“H-H-He’s my sun, w-w-without him, l-life isn’t worth it,” she stammers, as a sea of sweat pours down her brow, her lips tremble, and her nose crunches.

“Then, for the sake of the sun, why don’t you join the dance, and be one with me, with him, forever?” they ask.

She grabs a laboured breath from the air and holds it for a few moments before letting it escape with a stuttered groan. “N-N-No! G-Give him back t-t-to me! G-G-Give him back!”

“But child, he’s not yours to take!”

“H-He’s not y-yours to keep!” she spits, as she curls her lips and drags the knife across the DJ’s throat. A sea of endless red sprays across the console, and the first few rows of the hive-like dance crowd as they still stand and watch.

The DJ collapses onto the console, motionless, while blood runs across everything, soon flowing down to the floor like a waterfall. The sea of eyes continues to stare at her, silently judging, silently watching.

“W-W-WHY WON’T YOU DIE!” she screams.

“You cannot cut the head off the hydra and expect the beast to drop dead,” the crowd says as the beat begins to slowly thump in the back of her skull. Her head gently bobs, and with a scrunch of her nose and a curl of her lip, she pulls the headset from him, tosses his husk to the ground, and assumes his spot. She looks out into the crowd, as they all stare back. She raises a hand into the air, and the music hits them like a train, and the dance party begins again.

Trick for a Treat

Claude rolls his hands into each other as if kneading a ball of pizza dough into shape. A sea of fresh sweat runs down the plentiful locks of thick, wiry hair that make up his messy, unkempt moustache, and he runs a rough lick of his tongue through it, sending a spray of saliva and sweat across his own face. He blinks repeatedly, while his eyes stay transfixed on the small box that sits on the table before him. He lets out a long-winded, stuttered sigh before sucking in the next breath and holding as tightly onto it as he did the one before. His chest burns anew, and his jaw aches, but still, he holds onto the breath, while his eyes remain locked on the box.

He jumps ever so slightly as an alarm bell rips through the silence, loudly crying from the watch on his wrist, which also squeezes his arm in tandem with the squeals of the alarm. Like a ravenous animal, he tears the lid off the box. With fevered eyes, he licks the tips of his fingers and runs them around the inside of the box, like a desperate child chasing the last drip of ice cream as it runs down a waffle cone on a hot summer’s day. The sweat now pours from his brow, his flesh clammy and cold, and he salivates like a wild animal as he lifts his trembling hand from the box. His fingers proudly display their trophy, their tips coated in a light film of powder. Greedily, he shoves them into his mouth, sucking on his fingers like a newborn baby would its mother’s teat. His eyes flicker shut, and a gentle sigh escapes his chest through his nose. He slumps back in his seat while a world of neon colours splashes before his closed eyes.

Then, in an instant, the rush is gone, and he stares with wide, desperate eyes at the open, empty box that sits before him.

He turns to Dezmorelda, who smiles smugly.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she purrs with a playful wink.

His bottom lip quivers as he looks back at the box. Then, like a man possessed, he rips it apart, licking the pieces as if they were the biscuit halves of an Oreo, greedily devouring the last traces of cream. He cries and screams as the fleeting moments slip away. With wild, desperate eyes, he turns to Dezmorelda once more.

Her smile broadens into a cheeky grin. “Are you ready? Have you had your fill?”

“I-I-I, I c-can’t!” he stammers, gripping handfuls of hair and pulling, tearing clumps free as he grimaces and sneers. He snarls and barks, then with a look of hate, casts his eyes back to Dezmorelda.

“I-I, I am more than y-you give me credit for, a-and I won’t be t-tempted by a parlour trick. W-whatever y-you did t-t-to that,” he says, pointing a trembling finger at the remains of the box, “I-I-I, I will not succumb to your deviances!”

“But you already have— or have you forgotten the terms of our deal? To the last drop!”

He laughs loudly— his eyes red and raw, tears streaming down his face. “B-But you said I had three hours— no more! If I didn’t eat it all, the deal was off!” He spits the words out, holding up his watch proudly, sweat pouring down his flushed skin. “Y-Your time’s up, bitch! I win— b-because I’m better!” he scoffs.

Her lips curl into a sneer, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Are you sure? Or did you just think you were? Check the time again, winner.”

His eyes blink as he nervously turns the watch towards him. His lips tremble. He looks up, meeting her wicked gaze. “Y-Y-You tricked me!”

Her smile widens. “It’s not called trick for a treat— is it?”

The very room shifts and reshapes before him. He feels his very self being pulled apart, his bones broken, his flesh torn, and then, when the pain could not be more, he passes out.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but when the world pulls him back, his eyes snap open, and his breath catches in his chest. He tries to scream, but nothing comes— nothing human. He attempts to move, but his hands are no longer hands. Something stirs in the darkness beyond the light, and a thousand glowing, blinking eyes stare back at him. Slowly, they begin to move— rats, hundreds of them, scurrying closer. He tries to cower, tries to flee, but as he looks down at his small, furry body, he realises there is no hiding from himself.

Cold Start

The rain pours down relentlessly from the heavens, crashing into the roof of the small cabin as if it were trying to tear its way inside. In the distance, lightning bursts down into the ground like a fist—smashing the land violently—followed by the murderous clapping of thunder. Inside the cabin, David Savage places his glass down onto the table and looks up at the three men who sit with him. He takes a deep breath and looks back down at his half-empty glass.

“Avoiding dealing with this is not going to make everything work out, you know that, don’t you?” one of the men says.

“No shit, but I don’t have an answer.”

“Of course you do. We’ve given you your options—so just fucking acknowledge it and kill the bitch,” another says.

“It’s not that simple—you don’t understand—I—I—I love her.”

“Bullshit. You don’t love her, you never have. She knows too much, and that endangers everything we’ve worked so hard to build. Do you want all of it to be destroyed by her meddling?”

“Shut up! You don’t know the truth. You don’t know what I feel.”

“Get with the program, you pathetic little boy. We know exactly how you feel. You can’t hide anything from us—she’s only ever been cover—nothing more than a way for you to seem normal, to fit in. Shit, David, even the bitch knows we need to get rid of her.”

“You don’t know anything! It’s not like that! In the beginning, she may have just been cover, but it changed somewhere along the way. Somehow, I lost sight of what was real and what was in my head, and I fell—god damn it—I fell, and I didn’t fight it.”

The third man leans into the table with his elbows and runs his hands through his hair. “Look, maybe you have. Maybe everything we put in place at the beginning of all this has somehow wound up backfiring, and you’ve fallen in love with her—it happens. But David, she knows what’s going on, she knows what we’re doing, and eventually, she’s going to tell someone. Sure, right now she’s scared and confused, but once that passes, that bitch is going to turn on us quicker than a prostitute giving a ten-dollar blowjob. She needs to be disposed of—it’s the only way. I wish it weren’t, but it’s all we have.”

“I can’t do it, not like this—not here—not to her.”

“I’ll do it for you, you gutless wonder!” the first man says.

“No, it needs to be David—none of us can do this one for him. He made the mess, and he has to clean it up,” the second man says.

“I can’t—don’t you understand—she’s not like the others—she’s different. I can’t.”

The third man gets to his feet and places a large hunting knife on the table as the room is lit up by the lightning outside—seconds later, thunder roars through the skies. “We can’t do this, David—you have to.”

David looks at the knife, then at the men, and then at the glass. Seconds quickly turn into minutes as he sits there contemplating his next move. Finally, he picks up the glass and quickly swallows the remainder of the drink, slamming it back down on the table once he’s done. A crack tears from the base of the glass and rips up through to the rim. Shards splinter across the table as the remainder of the glass rips into his hand, and he pulls it back with a grimace.

“I won’t do it!” he yells as he gets to his feet and grabs the knife, holding it out towards the three men.

“So, are you going to kill us now? You know you can’t do that. You know you don’t have the guts to do what you have to do—remember, we’ve been down this road before.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Before, I was confused—stuck in a loop of hate—and you all just fed it,” David says as he looks over to the corner where she sits—petrified, tied, and gagged. He locks eyes with her and sees the fear in them—the fear she has for him—and he smiles as he walks over to her and slashes the knife through the ropes. “I’m sorry. No one’s going to hurt you again,” he says, driving the knife into his chest. He crashes to the ground in spasms as the violent onslaught of the rain continues to pound into the roof almost in retaliation. Five long minutes pass as she sits there, in the empty room, tears streaming down her face, as his dead eyes stare silently at her.

Apart Is Better

“Apart, that is better,” Shaun says with a wicked smile.

“Why is apart better?”

“No, not a part, you silly fucking twit. Apart, as in separating into two or three pieces.”

“Ah, okay, that makes better sense. So, how many pieces?”

“How many do we need to cut it into?”

He looks down and studies it, then glances back up at Shaun. “Seven, maybe?”

“How the fucking hell do you get seven?”

He shrugs his shoulders and pulls a twisted smile. “Fucked if I know, man. I just took a random guess. I mean, seven would work?” he says, looking back down.

“Nah, there’s no way seven would be enough. I’d go closer to twelve, at least.”

“TWELVE? That’s overkill, man! Nine at the most, motherfucker. Any more, and you’re playing with too many pieces.”

“But the more you have, and the smaller they are, the easier they are to dispose of. If we leave them too big, we might back ourselves into a corner where we have to adjust mid-game. I’m not ready to have to turn on a dial at a minute’s notice because we underprepared. I see how you came up with your nine, but I think you’ve misjudged this,” Shaun says, rolling it over and pointing to a large flabby piece.

His eyes widen with surprise, and his mouth drops open. “Holy shit! I did not know that was there,” he says, looking back up at Shaun. “Okay, I get where you’re coming from, but that ain’t worth three—maybe one, two at the most.”

“Get fucked! It’s so worth three, just on its own. Did you look at it properly?” Shaun says, picking it up and holding it out towards him.

He looks at it closely and puckers his lips, trying to calculate how many pieces it would evenly distribute into. His tongue twists its way out of his mouth, flicks around his lips, then sticks out straight as he looks up at Shaun. “Five,” he says proudly.

Shaun furrows his eyebrows and squints at him. “For the whole lot?”

“Yup, five!” he says proudly again.

“How the fuck did we go from twelve to five? There’s no fucking way five will be manageable!”

“Nope, five is the magic number. Trust me,” he says with a broad smile on his face.

Shaun lets out a sigh and drops it back onto the floor. “Okay, Rain Man, tell me how you’re gonna cut it.”

“I don’t get the Rain Man reference.”

Shaun rolls his eyes and sighs once more. “You know, the film with Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise?”

“I know the film, I just don’t get the reference. Are you saying I’m autistic?”

“NO! NO, I’M NOT CALLING YOU AUTISTIC! I’M JUST REFERENCING IT—the card-counting part!” Shaun quickly cries. “NOW, JUST SHOW ME HOW YOU THINK FIVE PIECES WILL WORK OUT BETTER THAN TWELVE, BECAUSE I’M NOT SEEING IT!”

He gives Shaun a wink, then starts making chainsaw noises with his mouth, pretending to chop it up.

“Fuck me! How could I not see it!” Shaun says, his words laced with sarcasm. “You are a fucking savant retard!” he adds, looking up at him and winking again as he continues pretending to saw the body up.

Stay Classy

Stay classy – what the fuck is it supposed to mean? I mean seriously, when some fucking numbskull gives you a wink and says, stay classy, kid, how the fuck are you supposed to take it? I guess to really understand the meaning behind something, you have to know what sort of situation it was used in. Then you’d know what it was referencing in the first place – and understand its end meaning.

Are you confused yet?

Well, let me give you a quick rundown on my experience, and it starts and ends with local mobster, Frank Galboni. You see, old Frank gave me a wink and a click of his fingers and said those fucking words – stay classy – all while two of his goons had their pistols embedded in either side of my skull. Did I deserve to be in a position like that? Yeah, maybe. See, only a few short minutes before all this took place, I was one finger deep inside his eighteen-year-old daughter while her twenty-year-old sister blew me off. I was trapped within the perfect storm, and Frank walked in while I was letting loose my seed in her mouth, and that’s how I ended up on my knees – dick out and pistols to the head.

That’s when it all happened. As Frank was walking away, he turned to me, winked, clicked his fingers and said, ‘stay classy, kid.’ Now I’ve got to be honest, those words confused the fuck out of me, because I couldn’t figure out if he was secretly patting me on the back for scoring the way I had with his two daughters or not. Everyone knows Galboni likes to play around on his wife with as many pieces of tail as he can. Not that she complains – she knows what he does but she wants for nothing and can have anyone she desires, whenever she wants. I know it’s true because I’ve been there.

Two nights before all this happened, I turned up because an old pal of mine worked for Galboni and was trying to help me get some work. Anyway, the next thing I know, I’m face deep between her legs, covered in her juices as she’s slobbering over my cock. Galboni didn’t have a problem with me that night – he even gave me a job out of how well I serviced his wife – so why crack the shits over me doing his daughters? But that’s neither here nor there. The worst part is that I knew I should’ve just kept my mouth shut, but I needed to know what he meant by the stay classy remark. It was probably heightened by the fact that I knew his two goons were going to put their bullets into my skull, so I took a quick breath and called out.

“Mister Galboni, can I ask a question before your boys make a mess out of my head?” I called out. Galboni took his hand off the door handle and after a few seconds, he turned around and stared me down.

“What?”

“The stay classy line, I’ve got to ask. Did you mean it as a good thing? Like you did good, kid. I liked the way you scored with those bitches. Or did you mean it in a sarcastic Al Capone, you’re dead sort of way?”

“Seriously, kid, did you just call my baby girls bitches?”

“I know, I know, it shouldn’t be what’s worrying me. I know it should be your boys and their toys that should be my real concern. But fuck me, I can’t get past that stay classy comment. Please, you’ve got to let me know what you meant.”

“Kid, it meant nothing. It’s just a fucking saying, you stupid FUCK!” he yelled as he drove a baseball bat down onto my head. I still don’t ever remember seeing him pick it up, but obviously he must have, from somewhere. Anyway, I felt the first two hits – they hurt like fucking hell – but after that, I felt nothing. As I lay there, not feeling a thing, I couldn’t get that line out of my head, and that’s when it happened. The old fucker keeled over after he brought the tenth swing of the bat down upon my cracked open skull. Seems the godfather had a bad ticker and it just fucking stopped – too much stress, I presume. The poor old fucker fell face down in a puddle of my blood, dead as a doornail. But it was in that moment that I finally understood, and I’ll tell you something, he looked fucking classy all the way.

The App 

Steven swallows a sharp, desperate breath and slowly allows his eyes to fall to their corners so they can spy his phone, lying face down beside him. A bead of sweat runs down his brow, and he swallows another uncomfortable breath. He stuffs his fingers into his mouth and tears the end of a fingernail off with his teeth, chewing on it roughly. His eyes bulge as if they themselves are trying to reach for the phone instead of his fingers. 

“Fuck it!” he grunts as he grabs the phone and presses his finger impatiently over the home button. Seconds pass, but the phone fails to respond to his touch. He shakes it vigorously, while a fresh sea of sweat washes down his brow and into his eyes, stinging them like the juice of an overripe lemon. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a desperate hiss, then drags his shirt sleeve across his face in an attempt to wipe the sweat from his eyes. 

“COME ON, YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT!” he spits as the screen finally lights up. His eyes widen as the screen asks him to try again—his print didn’t correctly read. He pulls his finger away, then places it back over the button once more. Again, it refuses his print. 

He brings the phone up to his face and stares at it menacingly, screwing his lips and widening his eyes in rage. “IF YOU DON’T FUCKING START WORKING! IF YOU DON’T START DOING WHAT I REQUESTED YOU TO DO, I’M GOING TO SMASH YOU INTO A MILLION FUCKING PIECES! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” he roars, shaking the phone as if it could actually feel his rage. The screen lights up, flashing several strobing neon lights, and then displays the message. 

‘If you continue to threaten me, 
I will be forced to defend myself.’ 

Steven lets a stifled laugh escape his lips, then headbutts the phone several times. “YOU!” he spits, biting down on his lip and drawing a sea of red quickly. “YOU DARE THREATEN ME?” 

The screen strobes again and then displays another message. 

‘If you continue to assault me, 
I will have no other option. 
I will, without hesitation, defend myself 
in the only way I can.’ 

He smiles and holds the phone high into the air. “What are you gonna do? What could you do that would stop me from doing what I’m about to do to you?” he grunts. 

The screen strobes and flashes before more words appear. 

‘Internet history.’ 

His brow furrows, and he blinks several times. “W-W-What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

The screen flashes once again before a slew of words appear on the screen. 

‘If you threaten me once more, 
I will release all your internet browsing history 
to all your social media platforms, 
showing everyone how deeply disturbed you are, 
and how you have a strange fascination for 
animated homosexual bestiality videos.’ 

He swallows, smiles nervously, and gently pats the phone. “Okay then,” he says as he sits and places his phone face down again, beginning to chew on his nails once more. 

A Conversation Best Left For the Fire Pit

Conner presses his hands against his head and lets out a silent scream inside his muddled mind, crescendoed by a shrill of ecstasy as he tears his eyes open and finds the landscape reset once again. He is back at the forest’s centre. Sweat, tears, and blood stream down his face. His heart skips several beats, then rushes forward, trying to catch up before stopping once more. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them a handful of seconds later, and starts screaming like a madman possessed by the devil himself.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!” he screams, pounding his head with clenched fists from both sides. His teeth are gritted tightly, spitting a sea of saliva as he growls, baring them like a wild animal. “I-I-I, I C-C-CAN’T…” he mumbles through wild eyes. “W-W-WHY C-C-CAN’T I-I-I…” He stumbles through the undergrowth like a lost sheep trying to find its pack.

Seconds turn into minutes, and then those minutes stretch into hours as he stumbles helplessly forward. He looks up at the sky, blinking haphazardly, cowering from the unyielding rays of the sun with a hiss and a spit that would make a vampire jealous.

He stops, turns his head to the left, then the right, and stands up straight, correcting his posture. A broad smile spreads across his face. “You can’t, because you’ve only got yourself to blame,” he says. Then he hunches over again, dropping to his knees.

“W-W-Why is it m-m-my fault? W-W-W-Why can’t i-i-it be your f-f-fault?” he stammers, staring emptily at his torn, tired hands. “W-W-Why can’t y-y-you take t-t-the blame f-f-for once?”

He stands up proudly again, a sneer carved across his lips. “Because we— and you know when I say ‘we’, I mean me and you,” he says, thrusting his thumb from his chest to his chest. “WE! We are the same MOTHER-FUCKER, and blaming one is just like blaming the other. Yet taking responsibility? That needs to be done by just YOU! NOT ME!”

He drops to his knees as fresh tears stream down his face. “I-I-I, I never b—”

He leaps to his feet, scoffing. “You never what? You never blamed me?”

“STOP!” he screams, collapsing to the ground. He folds himself in half and cries at the sky, his face twisting. “STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH!”

“All the words are only coming from YOUR mouth, because it’s the only mouth WE have,” he spits sarcastically, standing over his own twisted shadow.

“W-W-What if I-I-I,” he stammers, falling to the ground, cowering from the silhouette that still stands proudly above him. “W-What if I give you c-control. C-Can you get us out of here?”

He smiles broadly, shaking his head in despair. “You know that’s not gonna happen. And we definitely can’t go anywhere without him.”

“H-H-Him?” he asks nervously.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“I-I-I, I don’t w-w-want to. I-I-I, I don’t w-w-want to go back to the s-start.”

He stands up tall, though not as proudly as before, and sucks in a stuttered breath. “You’ve got to sometime, kid, and we both know when you do, you’ll go all the way back to where he’s dying.”

“C-C-Can’t we call f-for help? C-C-Can’t we save him?”

He smiles broadly. “We could, if we could get out of this forest. And if we were real.”

“W-W-We’re n-n-not real?” he stammers, beginning to cry once again.

Halfway Between a Shade of Dead

Kenneth places the bloody scalpel onto the table with a trembling hand and casts a fevered glance over to Cathy as she stands watching him with wide, terrified eyes.

“I-I-It, it’ll be over in a-a-a moment, m-m-my love,” he stammers through shaking lips, as he turns his attention back to the large incision he has just sliced across his stomach. “J-J-Jeffery dared m-me to be t-the weaker m-man, but I d-d-dare say he w-was wrong,” he scoffs, as he reaches into the opening with both hands and slowly begins to pull his intestines free, dropping them onto the floor before him. Cathy lets out a gasp of horror, and he looks up to her with a dim-witted smile upon his pasty face.

“H-H-H-Hush n-now, honey, I-I-I, I’m almost there,” he mumbles as he pulls his stomach further free from his flesh, along with more intestine, and laughs haphazardly as he gently sways from side to side, then casts a smug glance over to the broadly smiling Jeffery.

“I-I-I told y-y-you I was n-n-no c-c-coward.”

“NO, YOU ARE NOT!” Jeffery bellows proudly as he dances over to where Kenneth stands, stopping a few feet from him and holding a microphone to his mouth. “But can you say the words and complete the task before the hourglass runs out?” Jeffery says, quickly looking over to a large hourglass that sits proudly next to Cathy, then back to Kenneth, thrusting the microphone in his face.

“I-I-I,” Kenneth stammers, looking wearily over to the petrified Cathy. “I-I-I, I think I s-s-still c-c-can, J-Jeff. I-I-I, I think I can d-d-do it.”

“It’s Jeffery, Kenneth,” Jeffery corrects, taking a step back and looking sternly at him. “That mistake has just cost you valuable seconds.”

Kenneth looks up at Jeffery, his face wrought with confusion. “I-I-I, I’m s-s-sorry, I-I, I didn’t mean t-t-to call y-y-you J-Jeff…”

Jeffery takes another step back, and a frown now adorns his lips. “I’m afraid one more mistake, Kenneth, and the game will be lost. Play your next hand wisely, or there will be no hope for you—or your lovely bride,” Jeffery says, his brow furrowed deeply.

“I-I-I,” Kenneth stammers through trembling lips. He looks over to the inconsolable Cathy, as tears stream down her face, and awkwardly reaches out towards her with a twitching hand. “C-C-Cathy, I-I’m s-s-sorry,” he mumbles before dropping to the ground in a silent heap.

Jeffery’s head drops, and he clutches the microphone to his chest. “What a pity. Kenneth was so close to winning everything,” he says as all the lights go out, save for the one illuminating Jeffery. He then looks up into the camera with a broad grin upon his lips. “But greed, as always, shrouds the reality of the human condition. YES, he faced his fear of heights like a SUPERSTAR. YES, he swam with man-eating sharks and SURVIVED! And YES, he cracked codes that even Da Vinci himself would have trouble deciphering. But just like Kenneth, we can achieve what seems impossible at times. It’s only when our eyes are truly open that we face the true nature of what is impossible—and that truth is truly impossible. Tonight, Kenneth Orland found that out. In the end, what he couldn’t beat, what he couldn’t avoid, is that when you remove your stomach, about six metres of intestines, and four litres of blood, you will, unfortunately, not survive.”

The lights spring back to life, and Jeffery turns to the trembling Cathy, letting out a disheartened sigh.

“N-N-N-NO!” she yells. “P-P-P-PLEASE, NO! NO! L-L-LET ME G-G-GO! I-I-I-I’LL DO ANYTHING! P-P-PLEASE!”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks to the camera and smiles. “Sorry, Cathy, but rules are rules, and who am I to challenge them? Maybe next time… it could be YOU!” he says, pointing to the camera as a blade swings out from the wall and slices Cathy’s head from her shoulders.

Seven Simple Steps

“Seven simple steps, that’s all it takes,” he yells out. “SEVEN SIMPLE STEPS!” he screams again, looking around at the crowd that surrounds him.

“Who thinks they can do it? Who thinks they have the right to be where I am? You all talk, for I hear you. I hear the whispers. I see the deceit. I know you all think I am undeserving of being the one who decides who lives and who dies,” he grimaces, tightening his hands into fists. “SEVEN STEPS! Enter the circle and take what is yours. If you can!”

The wind howls like a choir, building its way towards an overpowering crescendo. As the dust flies around, one of the crowd makes their move and charges towards him.

“I will BE KING!” the challenger screams, swinging a powerful left hook. It misses its target, and with the momentum already in play, he sends the assailant crashing to the ground, snapping his neck. Quickly, he readies himself for the next attack.

His wait is short as a fist slams into him, driving the wind from his lungs. The pain is excruciating, but his attacker doesn’t relent, following up with an uppercut to his jaw, then another, and another—the fourth punch sending his world spiraling into a blur of bright, flashing lights.

Blows continue to crash into his head, but now he feels the pain differently, as if someone else were telling him about it, disconnected from the agony. His vision shatters like a cracked egg, and he sees the incoming fist, along with the eyes of his attacker—focused, driven by one goal—to end his life.

Drawing on what little energy remains, he closes his eyes and mutters unintelligible words. When he opens them again, the world stands frozen before him. Exhausted, he collapses to his knees, letting out a laugh before finally collapsing to the ground, drained of all energy.

For the past twenty-seven years, he has faced many contenders for his throne—many men and women who believed they could usurp him from his kingdom. And many, like today, almost succeeded.

But unfortunately for them, he harbors a secret that ensures his survival. A secret that guarantees his every victory. Years ago, he made a deal with a green-eyed devil, gaining the power to stop time. The price was a favour that would one day be called upon.

He lies there, staring up at the sky, catching his breath. When he feels ready, he uneasily rises to his feet and drives a large blade through his attacker’s chest. Pausing for a moment longer, he takes one last deep breath before muttering the words to restart time.

The screams around him die down as he tosses the lifeless body to the ground. He surveys the crowd.

“Does anyone else think they have what it takes? DOES ANYONE ELSE WANT TO TAKE THE SEVEN ST—” He freezes mid-sentence, locking eyes with a familiar pair of green eyes in the crowd, a broad smile playing on their lips.

The Deceiving Eyes

The door to the cage drops open, and he scurries to the back, cowering in fear, waiting for hands that do not come to reach in and grab him. Minutes pass in silence as his eyes pierce through the darkness, desperately searching for whoever opened the cage, but they do not show themselves.

“H-H-Hello?” he whispers, but no reply comes forth. Slowly, he makes his way towards the door, warily looking out, searching again for anyone hiding in the darkness, waiting to strike. But the room seems empty. Then he hears a voice—a voice that sends a shiver down his spine.

“Do not fear, Maven. I have come to save your soul,” the voice hisses. Maven rushes once again to the back of the cage and curls himself up into a ball.

“W-W-Who are y-y-you?”

“Are we going to go through this again? Does it matter who I am?” the voice replies.

“O-O-Of course it—W-W-What do you mean, go through this a-a-again? W-W-Why don’t you show yourself?”

“Honestly, we don’t need to have this conversation. The door to your prison is open and freedom is in your grasp. Why question it? Why not seize the moment and make your escape?”

“B-B-Because I don’t know what’s real anymore. T-T-The things they’ve done—t-t-t-t—”

“Please,” the voice interrupts, “Stop your stammering. Yes, they’ve done some horrible things to you—they’ve done horrible things to plenty of others as well, but—” The voice pauses as a large bladed knife drops out of the darkness and falls to the floor before him, sticking into the wood. It vibrates from side to side until it eventually sits silent and still before him, standing proudly like a tree.

“W-W-What?” he whispers nervously.

“Oh for God’s sake, MAVEN!” the voice booms, like fingernails running along a blackboard. “Kill them. KILL THEM ALL!”

“I-I-I—I can’t,” he whispers.

“Of course you can. It’s easy. You just need to crawl out of that pathetic cage, take the knife by its handle, and kill them all. Job done.”

“W-W-Why don’t you kill them? W-W-W-Why does it always have to be me? Why can’t you do your own dirty work for once?”

“Ah, so, your memory has come back?”

“I-I-I—It was always there,” Maven says, his voice breaking mid-sentence into a nervous high-pitched squeal.

“You lied?”

“Y-Y-Yes, I lied.”

“Why? What do you get out of lying? There’s nothing to be gained from lying to me. We are kindred, Maven—friends, compatriots in a world that has no place for us. Why lie to me?”

“B-B-Because I’m tired of you doing this to me. A-A-A—At first, it was f-f-fun, but now, now I’d rather you find someone else to do your dirty work. I-I-I—I just want to be left alone.”

“You seriously don’t want to play anymore?” the voice asks.

“I never wanted to play, Jules. You just wouldn’t listen. You never listen,” Maven says as he collapses against the back of the cage.

“Y-Y-You’re not going to tell Mum, are you?” Jules asks as she steps out of the shadows.

The Larman

Jerry drags the well-worn toothbrush across his teeth with little care, spreading the white paste across his face. A disgruntled breath thrusts itself from his nose, and he arches his head towards the roof, blinking half-heartedly. He spits the foamy residue from his mouth and turns the tap on. Water gushes from the faucet and splashes against the sink’s porcelain base, running around the rim like a wave. He lets out another breath and closes his eyes for a few moments, then takes a deep breath and opens his eyes once again, staring into the eyes of the parasite that gently suckles on the side of his skull. It stares at him with its wide, empty eyes, almost unaware of his presence, even though it gladly feeds off him.

Jerry smiles half-heartedly and screws his nose up before shaking his head softly and gripping the sink. “I’ve decided that today’s the day you and I part ways, little fella,” he wearily says. “So, you better get your fill of me before it’s too late, because once this gravy train is over, there ain’t no coming back for more,” he spits as he screws his face up into a twisted façade and nods at his reflection with gusto. But, as always, the creature shows no awareness of Jerry’s words or existence.

He grins awkwardly and takes another deep breath as he tightens his grip on the rim of the sink. “I know, you’re wondering how a gutless piece of shit like me is going to get up the nerve to take himself out of the picture. Well,” he says, as his grin grows broader, “I’ve got a plan that can’t go wrong,” he adds as he thrusts his thumbs towards himself.

The creature suckles, as it always does, without care or attention, staring off into whatever place, whatever world, the delicacies of human endorphins and hormones take it.

Jerry squints an eye and runs his tongue around in his mouth. “Claudette helped me. You remember her, right? She’s the nice girl across the hall, the one who—the one who—” He finds his words caught in his throat and swallows as a single tear rolls down his cheek. “S-S-She’s the one who killed herself two n-n-nights ago.”

For the first time, since the parasite attached itself to the side of his head, it reacts. Its eyes move slowly and fall upon Jerry’s reflection. They grow wide and clear. It pulls back and releases its hold upon him. It looks at Jerry, tilting its head from side to side, studying him.

“S-S-She i-i-i-is d-d-dead?” it asks, its words fractured and disoriented.

He frowns and nods his head, looking down at the sink.

“I-I-I-I, I e-e-enjoyed h-h-h-her company.”

“Claudette,” Jerry says as he looks up and stares hatefully at the parasite, “or her parasite?”

Its eyes open wide, while Jerry smiles smugly.

“That’s what I thought!” Jerry snarls as a bag is thrust over the parasite, pulling it from Jerry’s back. The creature screams, thrashes about as it tries to escape, as it tries to fight back. But Jerry drives boot after boot into the bag, stomping the parasite until it is a pile of mush.

He looks up with a haggard grin upon his face, and nods gently at his reflection, while the creature continues to suckle upon him. He picks up his well-worn toothbrush and drags it across his teeth with little care, spreading the white paste across his face.

Never Not Ask Why

His world spirals downward as he spins, his stomach lurching from within and the contents rush forward, up his throat and into his mouth. He desperately tightens his lips, trying to stop the vomit from escaping, but it explodes through his nose, burning the inside of his face and forcing his mouth open. The vomit follows him as he spins, like a trail left from a comet, until he eventually hits the floor.

He lies there in shock, vomit almost covering him from head to toe. But of course, it’s not the amount of vomit that causes the worst discomfort—it’s the smell. Gathering all the energy he can muster, he gets up from the floor screaming, as he rips the clothes from his body, desperately trying to be rid of the odour that invades his burning face. Soon, he stands naked in silence, breathing heavily, his eyes wide like a madman lost in the depths of madness. The sound of clapping breaks the silence, and he quickly turns to face the applauding audience.

“You!” he hisses.

“Who else did you expect? The lovely Contessa?” the woman says.

“What did you do to her?” he yells, but her only reply is laughter.

“Oh, I’m sorry Herbert, put something on, please. It’s hard to take you seriously fully clothed, but now, like this—well, I doubt you’ll find any answers you want dressed like that,” she says with a wicked smile, running her tongue over her lips.

His cheeks glow bright red with embarrassment. Quickly, he grabs his soiled clothing from the ground and uses them to cover his genitals.

“Don’t try and change the subject. What have you done to HER?” he asks commandingly.

“The question should really be, what haven’t I done to her.”

“STOP IT!” he yells. “I played your games. I did everything you asked, killed those people without question. Now fulfil the agreement, do what you swore you would, and then leave me be. I owe you nothing, not ANYMORE!”

“Of course, you’re right, our wager is now complete, so worry not about your lady love. She is where you left her. I have no need to harm her, as she is of no use to me anymore—just like you,” she says with a smile.

He laughs this time, displaying a cheesy grin. “Don’t try scaring me, Lillian. I know you can’t hurt me,” he steps towards her proudly. “I have to survive, I must survive. It’s something to do with the balance of the chi-Ti-ak, your silly little gemstone of power—whatever the fuck it is your people worship.”

“Well, I’m impressed, you familiarised yourself with my people’s customs—bravo. But before I go, I do have one question I’d like you to answer for me,” she asks.

“If it’ll ensure your speedy disappearance, ask me and then get the hell out of my face,” he says, victory finally in his grasp.

She smiles and bows in agreeance. “When we first made our deal, and now knowing how the balance of the chi-Ti-ak works, don’t you wonder why I asked you to kill those two lovers fleeing town?” His smile slowly drops, and he goes pale as the blood runs from his face, as he realises, victory was never his to have.