Short Story Saturday: Another 8 Hours from a 'Jessica's *What if* writing prompt'

Another 8 Hours

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to bring the image to my mind as to force myself into the reality I desire when I drift to sleep.

'Please! Don't put me back into the dark world of beasts and ghouls. The world where they tear one another apart with little regard as to what they are doing and why,' I scream within my thoughts.

I feel my breathing slow as I drift to sleep, into another world. He's there. His face kind, caring . . . knowing. His green eyes shimmer with mischief. He smiles. It spreads further to his cheeks than possible. Further still. The corner of his lips reaching the lobes of his ears, splitting his face in two.

I scream as the top of his head falls back, thudding at the nape of his neck. His exposed esophagus has what looks like dark, black, hairy twigs escaping it. The opening widens as the biggest spider I've ever seen is freed from his gaping maw.

I jump to my feet and run. Only tricked that I'd actually come to the place I'd hoped to dream of, instead to have been placed in the nightmare world I'd wished to avoid. Another night, another 8 hours I must fight to stay alive. No wonder I'm always so tired when I wake up.





*This flash fiction story came about from a segment in the Facebook group 'Supporting Indies, Reaching Readers' called Jessica's 'What if' Weekly. Every week Jessica Minor posts a 'What if' question; some ponder on the question, others write a tale inspired by the question, and some just move along as if the world didn't just stop turning for one of their fellow authors. This week's question was: What if the place in your dreams or nightmares were really an unknown dimension?

Short Story Saturday: Guest Author Xanxa Symanah with Unsociable Hours

Unsociable Hours

by Xanxa Symanah

It was the best decision that I could have made, given the circumstances.  Living in the slums as I did, the choices were clear – the gangs or a life of poverty and despair.  I knew that I wasn’t a gang kind of person, so I looked for an alternative.  I had never imagined what that might be, but here I am, years later, doing the kind of jobs that few people have the taste or the inclination for. 

I don’t have friends, simply not possible in my line of work.  Except one, maybe.  Only he understands my true nature and unlike so many others, he embraces it.  I can be myself with him.  He won’t ask those awkward questions when I turn up at his house, late at night, covered in the blood of my victims.  He simply offers me a bath and a meal.  And companionship, naturally.

My thoughts turn back to our first meeting.  I was at a high-class restaurant, the kind that I would never normally frequent.  I was waiting for a client, who was late.  The kind of clients who avail themselves of my services are never the reliable type and I’d already figured this one for a no-show.  However, since the meal was on expenses, I thought I’d stay and enjoy it. 

He was a distinguished looking gentleman, perhaps ten or so years older than me.  He too was dining alone.  He caught my eye and smiled at me.  Thus the connection was made.  He beckoned me over and invited me to join him.  When I agreed, he made a great show of asking the waiter to set another place at his table and have my food served there.  We shared a bottle of wine together and a very pleasant conversation.

After that first night together, we made arrangements to meet again.  He invited me over to his beautiful home in an exclusive district.  He was waiting in the porch as I drove up in my battered old truck, still wearing my work overalls and my black balaclava.  That was the first time he offered me the use of his bathroom, and he even found me some spare clothes to wear, while he proceeded to cook dinner for us.

He didn’t even ask my name until several weeks later, although he had introduced himself in the restaurant.  His name meant nothing to me, since I didn’t move in the same social circles as he.  In fact, I didn’t move in any social circles, due to the particularly anti-social nature of my work.  It was only after I’d told him my name – my real name, that is, not the many aliases which are necessary in my trade – that he began to confide in me.  Although his line of work was very different to mine, he confessed that he admired what I did for a living and told me that it was a hobby to him.  We swapped tips over dinner, enjoying the unsavoury nature of our conversations whilst dining on the finest cuisine prepared and cooked by his expert hands. 

Are we lovers?  Perhaps we have become so over the years.  I recall one night when we first crossed that fine line between friendship and something deeper.  I was sitting in his kitchen, just about to wipe the blood off my face, when he began to lick it off for me.  I let him continue and when he was done, we made violent passionate love on his kitchen floor.  He had not asked consent, for he already knew that it was not necessary.  I think that’s what I like most about my special friend, my only friend.  We don’t tie each other up in the complexities of most relationships.  There is no room for misinterpretation, no desire to control or manipulate one another.  We just are.  Simple as. 

So put me in one of your nasty little boxes if you wish.  Categorise me as a violent killer.  I consider what I do to be a public service.  I have big plans for the future.  They will not see me coming.  They will not even notice a rather plain, slightly overweight little woman in shabby clothes.  I am invisible to them and that is the secret of my success.  So I raise a glass to unsociable hours and people who need to be removed from this life.

Short Story Saturday: 'The Window Man' by Guest Author Xanxa Symanah

Check out Xanxa's full-length novel by the same name.

The Window Man

by Xanxa Symanah 

I lean back in my chair and look at the view from my window.  My window in my office.  The office which I now occupy as befitting my status.  For so many years, I have merely existed at the whim of others and allowed myself to be used by others.  No more.  A change has been wrought and the balance of power has moved in my favour.

I have achieved the infamy which I desired all along.  People may curse me or fear me but they will never forget my name.  I will live on in the tales they tell their offspring at night (why do so many species do this?  Frighten the little ones half to death, THEN expect them to drift happily off into sleep?) and the rumours which spread like forest fires.

If you ever see me in your window, you know you are doomed.  Even if you don't see me, and I am there, it still spells your swift demise.  The missions are similar, the reasons are similar, only the chain of command has changed.  I now call the shots.  I have minions waiting to do my bidding and apprentices hanging on my every word.  I rule my own private empire.

A God? No, I still prefer to think of myself as a man.  Not just any man, I am the Window Man.  Closing the shutters will not keep me from your window.  I know the deepest secrets of the soul, I know the lies, I made them myself.  And I will not hesitate to use that knowledge against you.  In fact I will delight in it.  If I were given to dancing, I would dance on your grave.  In reality I prefer to celebrate my victories in a far more modest and seemly manner.  I get blind drunk ... alone ...

Alone.  Still alone.  Even after all this notoriety, there is still nobody to fill the endless void which threatens to consume me with all the might of a black hole.  There is a vast black hole where my soul is supposed to reside.

There have been interested individuals over the years, but none of them have survived their liaisons with me.  To be touched by me is to embrace death.

Alone.  Lonely at the top.  The fact I am so remote from all who cower beneath me only serves to reaffirm my status.  I can trust nobody, admit nobody into my inner sanctum.

I am the Window Man.  I come with a lifetime guarantee ... yours or mine?

Short Story Saturday: 'The Dog Star' from Guest Author Paul Skelton

Author Paul Skelton

The Dog Star

by Paul Skelton

It was a Wednesday afternoon, August 8^th to be precise, and Jenna Muldoon was sunbathing in her back garden, in her birthday suit. Not that it was her birthday; that was in July, she was a Gemini. Whilst Jenna attached little significance to her star sign, Charles Rixon did.

Charles was perspiring heavily, partly because it was a hot clammy afternoon and partly because he was studying Jenna’s naked form through his telescope from the balcony of his 12^th floor flat in Goldings House. It was a good ‘scope, a Hitachi Cirius named after The Dog Star. Such was its power that Charles could clearly observe every cleft and mound on Jenna’s body.

Mo Saheed regularly passed Goldings House on his beat. He was the local P.C.S.O., or plastic cop as the resident louts called him. They were the brash and proud keepers of dangerous trophy dogs, widely feared and reviled. Mo, on this occasion, was following up a complaint from the caretaker, Neil Barlow, of the Primary School overlooked by Goldings House. The school was hosting an outdoor summer holiday sports activity day, and having spotted Charles Rixon using his telescope, Neil was concerned that he may be spying on the children playing outside.

Mo nervously entered Goldings House and took the lift to the 12^th floor. He had calculated which flat was home to the guy with the telescope. Charles took an age to answer the door, but when he did, there was instant recognition and familiarity.

‘Hey, it’s the plastic cop. How ya doing, Mo?’

‘Yeh, good. Thanks, mate. Can I come in for a minute, gotta check something with you,’ Mo replied.

‘Yeh, come on in. Shut the door, come through and take the weight off,’ responded Charles cheerfully.

Mo did as he was bade, and he sat down on a comfy old chair in the main living room. The doors to the balcony were wide open, the Hitachi Cirius in full view.

‘Nice telescope, Charles, looks expensive.’ Mo observed.

‘Yep, cost over a grand, very powerful. Got it with the compensation money. So, how can I help with your enquiries then, Mo?’ Charles smiled easily.

‘Well, it’s Mr. Barlow at the school, mate. He’s a bit worried about what you may be looking at through that thing. It’s to do with child protection.’

Charles laughed. ‘Really? Well he needn’t bother himself, I’m into astrology. It’s my new thing.’

‘What, during the day?’ Mo was incredulous.

‘Well, yeh. These few days in August are the perfect time to observe the so-called Dog Star, which comes up with the sun.’

Before Charles could stop him, Mo had risen and was on the balcony, peering into the telescope. Then Mo turned to look back at Charles, his face glum.

‘Oh . . . mate, that’s sad. Voyeurism?’

Charles was suddenly tearful. ‘Yes, Mo. I know. I can’t let go, hurts so bad.’ He sniffed.

‘Look I know she was a bitch, but you need to move on, mate. There’s laws against this sort of thing. It’s a bit pervy.’

‘Look at me, Mo. That accident cost me my job, my mobility, and her. My so-called girlfriend. Everyone said she was selfish, but Christ almighty, she dumped me while I was still in hospital. She said she couldn’t fancy a guy in a wheelchair. How cruel’s that? I’m a Leo, she’s Gemini, we should have been compatible.’

‘It’s not you, is it, Charles, badmouthing her on social media? Posting those pictures of her on that revenge site? Are you the—’ Mo was cut short.

‘YES, MO!’ ranted Charles. ‘It’s me. I’m the troll called “Dog Star”. I’m posting all those naked pictures and stuff. Just desserts, I think.’

Mo was conflicted as he left Goldings House. Should he report Charles as a peeping-tom, a troll, a pervert? Should he, as a friend, turn a blind eye? Lost in these thoughts, Mo carelessly walked into the path of a delivery van and was killed instantly, so the decision was never made.

Jenna’s conflict was very different. She knew exactly who the “Dog Star” troll was but couldn’t bring herself to hate him for it. She felt too guilty for that, and yet, she couldn’t go on living with the cruel comments and revenge porn. As she lay there that afternoon, naked, she hoped Charles could see her one last time, whilst the overdose of tranquilizers, she had taken, took effect.

Later, as the sun (and its attendant Dog Star) went down, Charles had ventured out in his electric wheelchair. He was headed for his local Tesco Express to buy some Frosty Jack cider, which he called “brain damage”. The pack of Rottweilers were off the leash, their owners high as kites, and Charles stood no chance against them. Mauled and maimed, Charles died to the sound of the frenzied dogs howling, but he managed to add one last cry to the cacophony: ‘I AM THE DOG STAR, SEE YOU IN HELL!’

Short Story Saturday: Special Guest Author Xanxa Symanah with 'Cloned'

photo of Xanxa Symanah

CLONED

by Xanxa Symanah

I looked around me, wondering what kind of strange place I had ended up in. It appeared to be some sort of canteen or cafeteria. There was a line of people shuffling along, carrying trays, helping themselves from the food counter. At first, I didn't really notice what was odd about them, but then after a few minutes' observance, I realised ...

They were all the same. Exactly the same. Hundreds of them. All elderly men, tall and skeletally thin, wearing bedraggled, dirty grey robes, with long, grey matted hair and beards, their skin having that translucent pallor of those not long for this mortal plane of existence, their pale greyish eyes staring vacantly ahead. They seemed barely aware of each other, let alone of me, this stranger in their midst, female, short, plump, dark-haired and with brown eyes. I watched them a while longer, fascinated yet at the same time feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Yeh, sure I've seen twins before, when I was at school there were two sets of twins in my year, at first I couldn't tell them apart, but then after a while, I began to notice minute differences between them, then when I got to know their personalities, I realised that they weren't so alike as I'd first thought. But these drab, grey men were all exactly alike. There were no differences visible to my eyes.

I began to ponder, if I could take samples of their DNA, perhaps if I were to grab a strand of the long, straggly grey hair that hung down their backs, would the lab analysis reveal that they were all total carbon copies? Were they born to mothers in the natural way, or were they created in a lab somewhere? Why were they all here in this place?

Something told me that this was a place of detention, an institution of some kind, perhaps a prison or a hospital. So, bearing out that theory, they were here for the purposes of rehabilitation or treatment, possibly both. They did not seem to be violent or disturbed, apathetic is the key word here. No conversation, no animation, just soft, slow, semi-conscious shuffling in their slippered feet, holding their trays, helping themselves to the food at the counter, collecting their plastic cutlery and their condiments from the stand at the end, then going to take their places at the long rows of tables.

Even as they sat down, each one took the next vacant place, filling up the row, then the next, then when that table was full, the next one would be filled. In any canteen or cafeteria that I've ever been in, people don't fill up the spaces in such an ordered way, they usually go and sit with someone they know, or find a vacant table, or politely ask if they could join a group or individual at a table.

The longer I stayed there, the more uncomfortable I felt. Then I wondered, would they notice if I queued up at the counter, helped myself to food, then took the next vacant place in line. I found myself moving, slowly and uncertainly, to the end of the queue, close enough to reach out and touch the long, straggly hair of the man in front of me.

As I got nearer to the food counter, there was a mirror beside the entrance to the kitchens. I found myself looking in the mirror, and to my horror, I could not see myself among the sea of grey haired shuffling clones. My reflection simply was not there!

Panicked, I left my place in the queue and ran, choking on nothing, struggling to breathe in this depressing atmosphere. As I tried to run, I tripped on the unravelling hem of my dirty grey robe, one slippered foot crashing into the other, and sending me tumbling to the floor ...

Short Story Saturday: Sucker (a flash-fiction piece)

Sucker

She pulled into the parking space at the gas station. Imagine her surprise, or lack thereof, when she found out she had to take her sister’s boyfriend to work, again. It seemed like she was the only one who ever took him in since he’d blow the motor in his car.

“You need anything?” he asked.

“If you’re buying, a Pepsi. If not, I’m good,” she replied, knowing he’d come out empty handed with a pack of smokes in his pocket.

“Okay.” He slid out of the car, and then ducked down to reach through the window. “Here, hold this till I get back. Don’t know why I lit it.” He handed her a near-whole cigarette.

She watched him walk away, pulling the door open and walking inside, before mumbling, “Don’t mind if I do,” and putting the filter to her lips.

She inhaled deeply, letting the blue-grey smoke fill her lungs. Holding it in, savoring it for several seconds before exhaling. She hadn’t had a cigarette all day, being underage and dependent on her ‘friends’ to catch a drag here and there. If she was lucky, someone would give her one or even buy her a pack when she asked, giving them a couple extra bucks for their trouble.

She leaned her head back on the headrest. The bass coming through the twelve-inch subwoofers vibrated through her body—Just Like You by Three Days Grace played from a cd she’d burned.

She glanced to the store’s glass door to check if he was coming out yet. The coast was clear, so she put the cigarette back to her lips, taking a long drag and closing her eyes. On the exhale, she turned her head to the left toward the open window and opened her eyes to see something she hadn’t expected.

“Shit,” she said as the realization dawned on her who sat in the large truck three spaces over.

He shook his head, a chuckle playing at his lips. “Shit’s right,” he said, getting out of the truck and walking over. “I’d ask when you started smoking, but I don’t want to know.”

“It’s habit. He had me hold it, what else was I supposed to do with it?” she said, setting the offending item in the ashtray.

“Yeah, a bad habit.” He took a drag from his own cigarette. “I’ll tell you what, don’t tell anyone you saw me here, and I won’t let your mother know what I saw.”

She looked at him, incredulous. She wanted to ask why but decided to avoid the grief on both accounts. What the hell did anyone care why he was at the store for anyway?

“Okay,” she replied, and he walked back to his truck and climbed in, sitting there.

“What’s he doing here?” The car’s door creaked slightly as it opened.

She turned to look at her sister’s boyfriend. “Beats me. Your fucking cigarette’s in the ashtray.”

She glanced behind her, putting the shifter in reverse and backing out of the spot swiftly. The tires chirped as she slammed the gear shifter into drive and hit the gas, wondering how weird what had just happened was.

It was only later she’d found out the man had been cheating on his wife with a woman who worked at the gas station they’d been parked at that day. Something that would hang over her head for endless years later, making her feel like a sucker—filling her with guilt and helping to fuel her already paralyzing depression.

Short Story Saturday: Plan

PLAN

BOOM!

I crumple to the floor in agonizing pain. Well, that certainly hurt more than I thought it would. Why does it still hurt? This isn't how it's supposed to go.

I open my eyes, which I'd pinned shut right before. Well, I open my right eye as the left doesn't seem to want to cooperate. Speaking of things not wanting to cooperate, I can't get either of my legs or arms to work. I try to focus the vision in my lone eye and work to make sense of what I'm seeing.

Of all the junk in this old, abandoned barn to land in front of, I'm unlucky enough to have fallen on my side in front of a dingy mirror. I can see every bit of damage I've done to myself, purposely and not. I didn't mean for that piece of rebar to jam itself through my neck. I guess I figured out why I can't move. But, my face . . . that I did on purpose, though I had no intentions on seeing the aftermath.

I'm not sure what my dad had loaded in his shotgun, but I'm betting it wasn't the best thing for killing yourself with. My angle must have been off too. Also, I now knew why I couldn't see anything with my left eye. Somewhere in the pile of blood and meat bits that is the left side of my head is the eye, but I can't decipher which pile of goo and gore it is. I also can't seem to pinpoint my ear. There are a few teeth sitting in the bloody flesh, though.

I should've done this on a Friday, so I know someone would show up, and they could put me out of my misery. But, no, I just had to be a dumbass and do it on a Tuesday. Nobody comes to the barn during the week.

***

It's dark now, and I can't see. The sun set a while ago. There's a scurrying on the floor. Then something tugs at the mutilated flesh until it rips a chunk free and runs away. It happens several times during the night.

***

I wake to the sun shining on my face and an irritating tickling sensation. I look at my reflection. The blood has dried and has more of a brown color to it now. The meat bits have paled from their bright pink color, and there are areas of bone showing from where the animals in the night stole chunks of flesh.

Something catches my attention in the mirror as it flits around. More than one, and I register the smell as I figure out what's flying around my face. Blow flies. A whole swarm of them. I quickly process what they're doing and cringe inwardly. I guess the cringe wasn't as inward as I thought as the pungent taste of pus wets my overly dry tongue.

By mid-afternoon, the gore that is the left side of my face is coated in a sickly, yellow tinted slime that if looked at carefully moves and slides. It's not the pus itself moving, but the newly hatch maggots that are feasting on it. I've long since felt the original pain and am left with a dull sensation of the squirmy little fucks slipping in and out of the dead flesh they feed upon.

It takes a much shorter amount of time than one would think for the maggots to grow. Once barely visible specs are now easily seen in just a few short hours, but it'll be dark soon. By the last of daylight, I watch as they begin to make their way into my nose from my mouth where there are just too many of them—some must find other places to go. The pain as they burrow themselves into undamaged flesh is becoming unbearable. Though, there's nothing I can do. I try to scream, but the sharp intake of air forces a clump of maggots down my windpipe, and I feel as if I'm choking.

***

It's dark now. I know I will never see daylight again as I feel the slimy creeps begin to dig into my good eye. I don't know how much longer this will go on, but the last thing that comes to my mind is that this situation is so much worse than what brought me to this old barn, to begin with, and I wonder why I thought it would be a good idea. I wanted to end my suffering, not cause more. Nothing ever goes the way I plan.




*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection

Short Story Saturday: Cleaner

CLEANER

The moonlight shines brightly off the blade of my knife. It's quiet out, aside from my knife sliding across the whetstone in my hands and the sound of steady, rhythmic breathing. I'm standing just outside the darker shadows of the tree near me.

I set the whetstone on the tailgate of my truck. Then I run my left thumb over the blade. I can't tell right away, as there is no pain or blood, but I know that the skin had been sliced. I place the knife in its sheath then turn my attention to my thumb. Still no blood. I take my right hand and squeeze the thumb between my other one and the pointer finger of my left hand. There it is, the dark red fluid leaks from the self-inflicted wound. I stare at it for a minute. My pulse quickening. Finally, I stick the digit in my mouth and suck. I love the coppery taste and the thickness of the blood on my tongue.

A moan from behind distracts my pleasure. “What the fuck?”

Ah, she's awake. It's about time, I think. Though, she doesn't need to be awake for me to do what I'm getting paid for. Not to mention the bonus steaks I get if the client's happy.

I hear chains, not so much clinking but adjusting as the woman hanging upside-down behind me struggles. I turn to face her. There's a stream of moonlight that shines through the tree branches at exactly the right angle to bathe her in it. Her hands hang below her head; they're four, maybe five, inches from the ground. I stare at them longingly for several minutes. I think how I'll keep them for myself. They're handcuffed together, giving her less of a range of motion. My eyes drift up past her face, which is twisted in a mix of discomfort and rage, to her breast. They sit higher on her chest than they should from the pull of gravity. My eyes travel further, skimming over her navel that had a piercing, but I took it out when I removed her clothes. I pass over her slit, it's shaved completely, except for a thin strip of trimmed hair. I stop where the chains wrap around her ankles. Her legs are spread.

I always wish I could use hooks, but I've tried it before. The weight of the person tears the tendons, and my prey ends up with a broken neck. What fun is that? If they don't die, they can't struggle. That brings me no excitement.

“Joke's over, you sick fuck! Let me down,” she screams and struggles again against her bindings. Her hair sweeping across the ground.

I laugh. “That's not going to happen, sweetheart. I've got an order to fill.”

I turn back around and head toward my truck. I grab the whetstone and put it in the glove box, and I return to the bed, pulling the large cooler, heavy with ice, to the tailgate. I retrieve a bucket from the bed and return to the woman, setting it in front of her.

“What are you doing?” she asks and swings around a bit, still trying to break free.

I say nothing as I walk behind her. I wrap her hair in my left hand and pull it as tight as possible, and then I use my knife to cut her hair as close to the scalp as I can without cutting it. She screams. I toss the hair to the ground as I make my way back to the bucket. I slide it under her head. Her shoulders are nearly touching the rim of the bucket. I'd almost hung her too low.

Her screams and cries are now echoed. “You can't do this. Do you know who I am? Just stop, I can give you money. I won't even tell anyone.”

“Don't you know how to shut up?” I say and grasp her chin, pushing it down.

I bring my knife from directly underneath one earlobe, around her throat, and to the same location under the other ear. I can hear the blood spray the wall of the bucket. She gurgles for a minute. Soon there's just the sound of dripping—more blood joining the blood that's already filled the bucket at least a quarter of the way.

I wait for the dripping to stop being so frequent, and I remove the bucket, taking it to the truck and place the lid on it. I put this bucket in a large trough that has ice in it, some of which has already melted and the bucket slides past the ice easily. I take a second bucket and place it in front of the woman. I get to work. First, I remove her hands and place them in a gallon sized baggy, tossing it to the ground, and then I skin her. Some clients prefer to have the skin intact but not this one; they also want the meat boneless. I run my knife down her middle, starting at her pelvis and working my way to her collarbone. Her guts spill forward and down. I remove them carefully from the cavity from which they came, trying my hardest not to damage any of the organs as I placed them in the bucket.

After closing the second bucket and placing it in the trough next to the other, I go back to the woman. Well, what's left of her. I begin removing the meat from her bones, putting each piece in the cooler as I remove it. I start with her calves, using a step ladder to reach the highest areas, and I end by removing her tongue and eyes. I've also removed her ribs intact.

Once there's nearly only a skeleton remaining, I close the lid to the cooler. I climb in the bed of the truck and pull the cooler off the tailgate and further into the bed. I close the lid upon returning my feet to the ground.

I take the bones down from the tree, along with the chains and other hardware. The bones I place in a garbage bag to take home to our dogs. Our dogs love it when I bring them special treats. The chains, hardware, and the gallon bag that contain her hands I put in the toolbox in the bed of my truck. I tuck the garbage bag in a compartment under the back seat before getting in and driving to the butcher. I'm only the hunter and cleaner. Josh, he's the one that fills the order. You know: steaks, sausage, roast. All that good stuff.




*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection.

Short Story Saturday: Soup

SOUP

Firmly, I insert my blade just above his groin. I can feel the metal graze against the top of his pelvic bone. I've sharpened the knife enough to do the job I need it to. Pressing on the handle, I feel the blade slip past the muscle wall, and I stop. I bring the hilt back to where the end hovers above his navel. The tip of the blade gets held up under his pelvic bone, and I draw it a half inch higher up his stomach, feeling it slice easily through skin, fat, and muscle, and then unwedge from under the bone.

Screams have been escaping the man the entire time, muffled by the silk I've tied around his head and over his mouth. I'm sure the cries of pain will continue until he passes out from shock or dies—It all depends on how strong he is.

Keeping the pressure on the knife, I begin drawing the blade upward along his abdomen allowing it to slice through the muscle wall but not damaging any organs. Following the line of his happy trail, I cut through his belly button. Blood begins running out of the fissure that I've created and down his sides. Still, I pull the knife further.

His body trembles. I look to his face, tears have long since welled and ran to his hairline—tiny, salty rivers—and for a second, I feel pity towards him. Though, just that small fraction of time and I feel as if I wasted too much on him. He's only getting what he deserves.

I've reached the rib cage with my knife. As my blade moves slightly to the left of his sternum, I use more force to cut through the costal cartilage, and he passes out. I could stop to see if he regains consciousness, but he'll probably bleed out and die first. I want his heart beating when I cut it from his chest.

Working as quickly as I can, I rip my knife through the cartilage holding the ribs to the sternum. Realizing I've gone too far, I slip my blade through the flesh above the third rib down and slide it over toward his armpit.

I remove the piece of steel from his flesh, laying it on the table. Using both hands, I grab the section of ribs and pull back with brute strength. Bones break as I bend the slab down to the wooden table the man is lain upon. To hold the meat and bone down, I quickly retrieve a hammer and some nails I've previously set to the side. After pounding in several nails, I then toss the hammer to the floor.

Fumbling around inside his chest for a moment, I get my hand around his heart, and I grab the knife from the table with my free hand. I locate where I need to cut, and in seconds, the heart is free, pumping its last few beats. On the other side of the room, a fire burns within the fireplace. I go there and throw the lifeless muscle into the flames.

"At least your heart will finally show its true color and keep it as it turns to ash, you worthless mother fucker."

I return to the corpse on the table. Before wrapping him in plastic and putting him in my trunk—so I can later throw him in the woods to be a feast for scavengers—I cut his eyes, ears, and tongue from his head, and then his liver, kidneys, and spleen from his body. I plan to make a soup with these things later, which I'll deliver to his friends and family as they gather for their yearly reunion. Maybe they'll wonder what happened to him. Maybe they won't. Or, maybe they'll be relieved that he isn't there and celebrate his absence.

*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection.

Short Story Saturday: Josh

JOSH

“You think you can just start fucking someone and leave,” I bellow in her face. “Like you'd think I'd just let you leave, Meg?”

She laughs at me. Fucking laughs! She thinks the whole situation is hilarious, but I knew just when she started fucking him. A part of me thought she'd stay, but that, apparently, wasn't going to be the case. I didn't care if she fucked someone else. Hell, I didn't even care if she fucked me. I don't care for all that stuff. If I get tense, I know how to take care of it myself. That's how I was brought up—though I left Jeb, Jack, and Mason long ago, they taught me well how to take care of my own needs. Even if their ways were extremely unorthodox.

They were quick to replace me after I left. I'm pretty sure the kid who took my place is called Tommy. Though, it's probably not his real name, just what the others called him after they took him away from his real family. Sometimes, Mason calls asking me to come back, but I left that life for a reason. I needed to at least appear like a normal person.

That's why I chose Meg. She's the perfect housewife material. Normal in all aspects. A little overweight, brunette, a nice smile, and when we first got together, others looked at me as if I was normal, too, and not like the creepy, single, town butcher they had before I'd hooked up with her. I was approachable on the streets these days. People said hello in greeting while passing me. Now she's going to fuck things up.

“Meg, fuck who you want. Fuck 'em when you want. I don't give a shit. Just stay. I need you here,” I say, not liking the way my voice cracks more than I'd wanted it to. I'm pushing too hard for emotions I don't have. Emotions she knows I don't have, so she knows this is all an act.

“Don't give me that. You need me because I make you seem like an actual person to other people. What the fuck do I get out of it? A shag once or twice a year. Certainly, no emotional connection. Have you ever thought I might want kids? Would you even consider letting me have them?” she screams at me.

Kids? What the fuck? I'd just screw them up. Kids shouldn't be anywhere in my proximity. I open my mouth, but she's already talking again.

“No. You wouldn't, and if you say otherwise now, it's just to keep me here.” She stops and crosses her arms over her chest. “I'm going, Josh. There's nothing you can say or do to make me stay.” She turns away from me.

I grab the lamp from the table on my left. The cord rips free from the plug. It's noisy, but she keeps walking. I rush after her and smash her over the head. She crumples in a heap on the floor.

I straighten out her body, rolling her to her back. I see her chest rise and fall. I think fast, pulling the wire from the lamp, and I turn her on her side. I bring her feet up and her hands down, tying them with the wire almost as if she were a calf at a rodeo and I a cowboy.

I go to the garage in search of lengths of chain and padlocks that I know are in there. I find them and take them to the spare room.

When I return to Meg, she's still unconscious on the floor. I think about untying her and hefting her over my shoulder but decide against it. Instead, I drag her—holding onto the wire that binds her hands and feet together—along the carpet to the spare room. I release the wire and turn her over, seeing the carpet burns on her face and across her stomach where her shirt rode up.

“That's gonna sting,” I say, satisfied.

I grab a stepladder from the corner, placing it in the center of the room under a support beam I normally hang my heavy bag from. I grab three lengths of chain—two longer, one shorter—and a padlock. I wrap one end of the shorter length around the support beam and padlock it to itself, letting the rest dangle down toward the floor. The two longer ones I run over the beam, half of each chain on either side, and step down. I walk toward Meg, and I wrap the other end of the shorter chain around her neck and padlock it to itself, giving her a heavy chain necklace. I pull at the wire tying her hands to her feet and remove it. I grab the two ends of one of the longer chains and wrap an end around each wrist using two more padlocks. She now has matching bracelets to go with her necklace. I move to her feet, doing the same to her ankles that I did her wrists, completing the set with anklets.

Well, she did like to harass me about jewelry. Now she has some; though, it's probably not exactly what she had in mind.

I go to the kitchen and pour a glass of whiskey. I swish it around my mouth before letting it burn down my throat. I don't mind killing. It really isn't my thing, but I don't care either way. I'll let her wake up. Let her decide her own fate. She can agree to stay with me and live or choose to die.

I've nearly finished the bottle of whiskey when Meg starts screaming. I go back to the room where she is. She's jerking the chain on her right wrist only to have it pull her left arm away. I laugh. It's actually an extremely funny sight to see. She falls when she kicks a left leg back and the right is yanked forward.

“Josh, you need to let me go!”

“You agree to stay, and I'll take the chains off,” I tell her with a shrug.

“Fuck you, asshole! You think I'm going to stay here after you do this?”

I pull my phone from my back pocket. I search through my contacts list, finding the name I want, and touch the screen. It rings through. Just when I think he's not going to answer, he does.

“Damn, Josh, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw your name. You change your mind?” Mason says.

“Nah, Mas. I do have a favor to ask, or maybe an offer for fun?”

“Josh, you need to let me go,” Meg yells.

“Hey, is that Meg? The one I've heard about you being with?” Mason asks.

“Yeah, and if you agree with my offer, well, you can meet her.”

“No shit! Whatcha need, Josh?”

“Well, you remember that time you took me deer hunting?” I ask him.

“Yeah?”

“How we finished the day?”

Meg starts screaming for help, but our closest neighbor's a quarter mile away. Maybe if she was outside, they'd hear her but not with her inside the house.

“What with cleaning the deer?” he asks.

“Yeah. Can you help me with something like that but not a deer?”

“Sure thing. Is it Meg?” The excitement in his voice is unmistakable. “Because I'm sure Jeb wouldn't object to a new girl. You know, if you'd rather me just pick her up,” he says.

“Nah, Mas. I've got a better idea, and I think it'll really help out with the business.”

“Hey, Josh, how is the butcher business, anyway?”

“Not bad, but it's not great, either,” I tell him.

“Well, give me a couple hours, and I'll be there. I know the perfect place. You let me know how that meat sells later,” he says and hangs up.

I look at Meg. Her face is streaked with tears, and she's sobbing. She brings her eyes up to meet mine and asks, “Why?”

“What? I gave you a choice. You chose wrong.” I shrug my shoulders and leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

Short Story Saturday: Beauty

BEAUTY

I look at the tub, I'm going to need two more bucketfuls to fill it. I grab the five-gallon bucket, make my way out the door, and down the hallway. I stop by the living room.

“Hey, Dylan?”

“Hmm, whatcha need?” he says, looking up from the TV.

“I'm going to need you to get a hold of Josh, see if he has any more bath supplies in stock. We're low.”

“You're low? You know, that shit's expensive. When you gonna start paying for it?”

“Honey, I pay for it every night I take my clothes off for you. Now, just do it before Tuesday,” I say menacingly.

“Yeah, yeah. Anything to keep that skin of yours soft and wrinkle free.” He turns back to face the TV again.

I walk out of the living room and to the garage where a fifty-five-gallon drum sits. I dip the bucket into the drum and fill it. I heft it into the sink, wash off the sides, and wipe it clean. I make my way back to the bathroom, being careful not to slosh the contents onto the floor along my way. After dumping it into the tub, I go back to the garage for the last bucketful.

When the tub has the last bit dumped into it, I set the bucket in the separate shower and disrobe. I take a moment to look into the full-length mirror, running my hands over my skin. It is soft. It's also flawless. I thank the baths. They proved themselves, over the last several years, over any beauty product I could buy from any store, and I've tried them all.

I put my left leg in first followed soon by the right. This stirs up an eloquent bouquet of fragrance. True, I used to gag at the smell when I first started the regimen, but now, I don't think I could live without it. It's an odor I've found myself to have grown quite fond of.

I slide down carefully into the tub. It's a bit slimy, but that, too, I got used to after a while. It's warm. That always surprises me, but I know now that it's the energy expelled from the bacteria as they aid in the decomposition process.

When I'm comfortable and submerged up to my neck, I work at pushing away the chunks that haven't completely decomposed. Bits of liver and heart. Small lengths of intestines. I grab something that's slightly larger than usual and pull it out of the grayish-brown sludge. It looks to be an entire kidney. Josh must have missed chopping it up during processing.

Josh the butcher, what a miraculous man. I wonder sometimes how he came up with the idea of selling the unwanted organs as a beauty treatment. It was only after I'd overheard a conversation at the butcher shop that I realized the organ slurry was mostly human, but it didn't shy me away from it. Matter of fact, it only made me more interested in Josh.

I've often thought about leaving Dylan for Josh, but I know what happened to his last lover. With that thought, I toss the kidney toward my feet, and I feel it settle next to my calf.

I'll sit and soak for an hour and a half, maybe two, before rinsing off in the shower. But for now, I think about how refreshed I'll feel afterward. I smear a layer on my face and neck, and I breathe in and close my eyes, letting my skin soak in the goodness of my treatment.