Sick Day

Marcy was not herself today, her mother said when the school called. She was under the weather and she could not play with the other children. Marcy’s mother began to suspect that her daughter was not herself very early on that day. Walking up the stairs Dolores Trundleman smelled something ripe. It flared her nostrils and she gagged in the back of her throat, heaving at the top step. In the hallway the stench began to swell.
 
Reluctantly, and in fear of the retching odor, Dolores peered down the dim space cautiously. A faint orange glow was coming from the floor. Creeping towards it Dolores’s stomach turned and she vomited on the beige carpet. The glow illuminated something foul, something stinking, something dead. Then she realized it was not something it was several things piled up.

Groping for the hall light she flipped the switch in anguish, wanting more honestly to run back downstairs to her master bedroom and phone her husband to come home immediately, for something was horribly wrong. With a faint ‘click’ Dolores stared in violent stillness at the grotesque heap in front of her: half rotted animals were neatly stacked in front of an EZ Bake Oven. Roadkill waiting to be cooked, with maggots wriggling free on the floor, exposed internal rot festering in with putrid black mold and once vital organs spilling dryly out.
 
DING! Dolores’s tensed frame spasmed into the wall, knocking a family portrait from its perch behind her to the ground. Mitchell wore a tie Marcy gave him for father’s day, it was red with tiny black flowers on it, it matched his black suit jacket and pressed white shirt. Dolores had donned a tasteful red cap sleeved dress to match her cropped auburn hair, and Marcy, Marcy was dressed in white with a black sash smiling angelically at the camera. Her dark curls springing about in delight, much like now as she stood in the hall facing her mother holding their half devoured house cat, Claude, in her tiny hands like a turkey leg. She was eating out of his belly, stripping the fur off where she could. She didn’t even notice Dolores who had now slumped down to the carpet and was creeping away from her child, towards the stairs.
 
Marcy was not herself today, Dolores told the school, it was probably the because of house cat she ate. You see Claude had worms, that could make any child sick. Dolores needed to stay home and take care of her. Marcy was under the weather. 

Mitchell wouldn’t understand. Only mothers understood their daughters. That’s why Dolores would have to let him down gently, so that she could take care of Marcy. She walked back towards the stairs, Marcy was sitting on the steps with Claude’s worm licked intestines wrapped around her like a sash, and she was nibbling at them like bloody candy necklace. 
 

“Look Mommy!” she said, “I’m wearing Claude!” 
 

Dolores smiled. “Yes you are sweetheart, he looks lovely on you. Can mommy have some?”

She pouted her little mouth and tearing a chunk from her accessory said, “No mommy Claude’s mine.  Just like Daddy.”

By Emily Smith-Miller

RED

This blood in your veins
you speak of as simplistic red
but your bile makes it black
the taste of it on your tongue
a dark reality no one understands

 

 

 much as your own lust for blood when it oozes from pores
excites nerve endings into frenzy
a taunting your flesh craves to death

By Jeff Callico

Relapse

I love the way you smell,
The way you taste of sweat and leather, and I love the way your hands feel on my body,
The way they take me,
The way they bleed me.
 
I love the way the blood hits the wall and splatters like cooking grease as the whip bears down against the soft ivory flesh of my back. 
 

Again comes the pain,
And then harder,
And then again.
 
There is no humility in it,
No sin,
No salvation,
And no acquittal.
 
I am an addict.
 
Had written it twelve times in that blood on the wall.
 
Addict, addict, addict …
 
Addicted to the pain,
Addicted to the shame,
Addicted to all the whitewashed tears that fell like clots of blood upon the paper when there were no more lonely words to write in the darkness.
 
I love you,
The way your flesh rots my soul,
The way your bones waste me.
 
I love your shadow,
And the gravestone you took me on the very first time we met.

By Cheryl Anne Gardner

Grave Liaisons

Alex used to play with the dead until one of the dead played with her. She slid her slender body down the dry earth of Andrew Reese pressing her pubic bone into the dirt talking out loud about how she wanted his brittle frame to engorge itself on top of her, filling her with all his unfulfilled lust and vile fantasies that rotted in his rattling skull. She pictured his decrepit fingers, alive and stroking her inner thigh tickling that special spot that got her soaking from the inside.

Andrew Reese Born Oct. 13, 1906 Died Oct. 28, 1929. The cemetery was ancient and well cared for, grass always spring colored, blossoming like her opening flower on dear Andrew’s eternal resting spot. No doubt even the dead could smell her moist cunt as she writhed on the headstone, gripping it with excitement as she merged her flesh with mottled moss that had formed in the cracks of aged stone. She sprung back and straddled his imaginary coffin, licking her fingers as she rubbed herself harder. “Oh Andrew! Right there!” she screamed, her flimsy white night gown now soaked with dew clung to each curve in its extremes, spotted with dirt and green from her deathly orgasm. Flailing on the grass she felt someone clasp her wrists.

Alex’s eyes burst open, nearly splitting their seam, as she felt something hard and real fill her chasm with every inch of pure pulsation, something living, something convulsing within her loins. But there was nothing. Just the weight on her chest and hands pinned back behind her. Alex often excited herself to frenzy on the floor of this very graveyard but as she began to moan with the sex act this felt not of imagination.

Suddenly flesh wounds opened under her gossamer gown and she felt sex scars tearing at  her body as she was flipped over and her hips yanked in the direction of the penetrating phantasm. She screamed, this time not in pleasure but unequivocal terror. Alex was being torn apart, with each thrust great chunks of bloody muscle were plucked from her back. Tossed to ground the spectre came at her again, forcing her arms to her side while organs began peeking out through slashed skin. Whipping and wailing she fought against the demon on her belly that seemed to be extracting her very womanhood as her paralysis held fast. She felt a hand move up her breast hovering over the pointed nipple gently aware of its precise feminine exquisiteness, she held her breath, then with searing pain a sick ripping sucking sound followed and nothing but pain roared from her former cleavage.

The morning mist rest damply on the still shiny wet grave of Andrew Reese, sopping with upper and lower intestines. Alex’s sweet flower had been separated from her pale thighs, now caked in dried blood. It had been clipped, twisted and made into a human origami project resting atop dear Andrew’s stained marker. Right below the grass line, burrowed where the stone met the earth was the fragile heart. Next to it in near weather worn faded letters was our boy’s darling epitaph: “Here lies Andrew, Maniac, Murderer and Son.”

By Emily Smith-Miller

The Others

“Where are you taking me?” she almost screamed at him as he forced her to walk in front of him, her eyes blindfolded, her wrists bound in tight wire behind her, so tight it cut into her flesh. He could smell her blood and it excited him. He always liked the smell of her blood — not just any blood, her blood. The trees in the woods, so tall all around them as they walked, seemed to listen to her pleadings for an answer; he gave her nothing but an occasional poke in the small of her back with a sturdy stick.

He once loved her. No, he always loved her. Even from when they began with things. She the sexual creature he saw across the room at that fucking former friend’s house party, he the brooding male on the hunt for a girl who would suit his needs for…whatever he had been looking for at the time. He decided that he had been looking for a woman like her, this dark-haired queen who sparked his lust and fed him her own when they got alone in some dark room. They fucked like mad then fucked some more. Their fucking was out of control and when she fucked him she gave him bruises and scratches and scars. She used her sex as a weapon, her pussy her trusted partner in crime. He begged for more and soon he became her animal on a leash. He desired her more than anything and they fucked every night, no matter where they found each other. He was eager to be marked by her, wanted to be branded with her fucklust. She made him hers and told him so. But she liked it when he bit her when he fucked her, when he bit at her flesh and tasted her own blood. She demanded he feed it to her off his tongue and she sucked it like a cock, tasting her blood and wanting more. She bit his cock, made it bleed, drove herself insane. They were crazy for each other’s blood and they both knew it. But he knew something was boiling deep in her mind, he could see it sometimes when she was riding him. She sometimes stared down at him with evil in her eyes; he knew what it was inside her. It took her a few nights to speak her desire, to spew her lust at him.

“If I ever find out you’re fucking somebody else I swear I’ll cut your fucking cock off,” she had told him one night after she fucked him into silence, her hand grabbing his face, the other hand gripping his wilted cock. He knew she was serious, too. She had shown him her knife, the one she told him she would use if he got out of line.

But that was months ago. She was a fucking cunt. She was the one who fucked others behind his back. And he knew it for a fact, he knew people who knew others, the others she fucked and never told him about until he found out for himself. He never dreamed she would, he always thought his submission to her kept her coming back for more, he thought it made her lust stronger for him. “My pussy is yours, your cock is mine,” she had said, the evil in her grin making him believe it. Fuck he loved her. He wanted to consume her, wanted her to consume him. Wanted to be devoured by her evil mouth, her evil mind, her evil lust. But no. She fucked them all, the others. She fucked each one and then fucked them all at once. There were five, no six. The people he knew told him everything. How she seduced one after another then got them all together at some other party and got them to take her home, to fuck her in her bed. How she was ravenous to be fucked by them even though she knew her submissive animal was left alone without a leash, unknowing at the time of her sexual abandon.

Well, then. Fuck that, fuck her, fuck the bitch, fuck her to fucking death.

“I said where the FUCK are  you taking me? Fucking answer me!!!”

He poked her in the back, harder this time. He wanted to poke the stick in her cunt. Maybe he would, soon. Once he got her legs splayed open before him.

They arrived at the location of his choosing. The one he had selected earlier that day. He turned her toward him and took a moment to look at her. What a fucking cunt. He wanted to tell her, wanted to scream it at her, but no. He smacked her instead, smacked her hard in the face, then smacked her again. Blood oozed from her bottom lip. Yes, her blood still excited him, but this time he wanted to taste the blood of her death and not her sex. He licked it offf then spit it in her face. Fuck her sex, he thought, that bleeding lip begging for another vicious slap. So he did, because he could. Because her wrists were bound with wire behind her and she was still blindfolded, she couldn’t tell where his next blow would come from. SMACK. SMACK, SMACK SMACK. He wanted to smack her until she passed out but no. He stopped and stripped her, got her naked like she always wanted to be with him, then pushed her backwards, so that she fell upon his prepared pile of finger-sized twigs and limbs.

She was semi-conscious, he could tell; her moans weren’t sexual, he decided they were filled with pain, with fear, and that was perfect. Darkness was imminent, there was just enough light to see the four stakes he had set in the ground. He unbound her wrists then chained first one arm, then the other, first one leg, then then other. There. She was ready. The fucking cunt slut bitch was ready.

“What….are  you….doing,” she said, her words faint but loud enough for him to hear.

He removed her blindfold but said nothing. He watched as she was able to determine her surroundings, what she was lying on, and saw the sudden terror in her now exposed eyes.

He set her on fire. It was that simple. He lit the match and then the kindling under her arm that was chained to the stake, just like her other arm, and her legs, too. The flames ate her, consumed her, devoured her flesh and he sat on the nearest log and watched, hearing her screams, those other-than-human screams, echo through the woods. He was where no one was, where no one was near, so her animalistic wails meant nothing, not even to the trees. They watched right along with him as she burned alive, the scent of her flesh strangely sweet in his nostrils. Soon her screaming stopped and she knew she was dead. Fucking cunt bitch slut, she shoulda known better. And it was all her fucking fault, not his, he didn’t do a damn thing, it was all her, so yeah she deserved it, she deserved it all. He stood and waited for the flames to die down, for the smoke to dissipate, for the smell of her sweet flesh to turn rotten. He turned and walked away, leaving the trees to deal with her, now nothing more than a burnt corpse nobody could fuck.

By Jeff Callico

Beware of Dog

There is a monster living under my stoop. I used to love him once, but now I have had enough.

 
Lately, he’s been dragging road kill home and leaving uneaten bits of entrails all over the garden. It was the stench that put me over the edge. I have to kill him … I know that … but I don’t know how.
 
It all started in the summer of ‘79, behind my house in the little cubbyhole the townhouse developers had called a “backyard.” I was 13; he was 14. We would be freshmen in the fall — high school that is. We’d been sweethearts since kindergarten, I think, so when he wanted to show me his thing, I didn’t really think anything of it, and when he wanted me to “put my mouth on it” all thoughts left my head.
 
He’d gone missing on his 16th birthday. I told everyone through a hemorrhagic flood of tears and sobs that “he wouldn’t have just run away.” Not from me. The police found him three months later, naked and starved, lying in a dumpster. He never talked about what had happened to him, but I had overheard his parents arguing one day, and it was said “horrible things had been done to him.” Horrible being only one of a thousand words his mother would use to describe those things she could never speak of.
 
He didn’t start killing people until we got to college … didn’t start eating them until after we were married. Mrs. Adrienne Turner, that’s me. I’d call him Addy for short, until last week. I had to put a sign up on the lawn last week. We’ve never even owned a dog. 
 
After he had disappeared, I was more angry than scared. I thought, or wanted to believe, that he had run off to California to become a celebrity, even though I wasn’t really sure how exactly one went about doing that. I always imagined him in skinny jeans and a Gucci shirt, white, pressed, accompanied by some sequined bimbo with synthetic boobs. She would be tall and have huge lips and long painted nails, and she would giggle a lot and flip her hair like a porn star. Still, I often dream of being that porn star. I always loved the way he fucked me just after he’d killed someone. All sweat and anger and release. We haven’t fucked in over two years now. He smells bad.
 

I think rat poison might work, but I have to go now. The mailman is coming, and I want to meet him at the gate. We’ve been through three in the past year. The last was big boned, screamed like a motherfucker when I maced him, and had too much mail to burn discretely. 
 

by Cheryl Anne Gardner