Sex, Blood and Rock ‘n’ Roll

It had been like field dressing a deer, just as he said it would be. Once she took the skin off and cleaned it, it was very soft and pliable. She wrapped herself in it like a mink coat, and pulled the roughly cut out lapels close to her chin. She could hear them screaming her name, screaming their name.

Sean was grinning, shoving a severed head on end of his bass, she wondered if that would effect the sound any. RayRay had her head submerged in a bucket that was placed underneath a man with his throat slit. They’d let his thick syrupy blood leak out hours ago, while he suffocated. Dan had the foresight to put an anti-coagulating agent in the mix, so that it didn’t start to get all crusty.

Annabell was draped in her man cloak, wearing nothing but fishnet hot pants and electrical tape over her big pink nipples. She looked like a flesh colored pterodactyl, right out of some 1970s prehistoric porno. RayRay was letting the freshly applied bodily fluid drip down her naked DD tits, rubbing the gooey red slime all over herself before stepping into a neon blue g-string, she had long blonde dreads and diamond tassels on her fancy feast breasts. She was more like Jack the Ripper’s favorite cyber punk prostitute, and that was probably what she was going for.

Dan snuck up behind Annabell and pulled her close, kissing the base of her neck. “You look so hot wearing that hipster’s skin,” he whispered breathily. “They’re shouting our name!” Sean motioned the others out towards the stage. Anna gave one last look at the carnage before she picked up her token microphone, a meat cleaver with a sound head attached, and spread her freshly skinned wings for one hell of an entrance.

Anal Corpse Fuckers played an hour and a half set while enthralled fans threw chunks of raw meat, and masturbated furiously to the writhing stripperific horror goddesses wailing on their instruments. It was porn meets Spinal Tap meets Friday the 13th. Annabell and RayRay mouth fucked each other while Dan and Sean raged furiously in the background. By the time the cops showed up the audience was covered in one form of liquid or another.

The band made their way back to the dressing room, listening to their manager offer the pigs a hunk of change to get the fuck out of there. Waiting patiently by the door were five awesome groupies, coated in blood and black make up, three boys and two succulent imitation RayRay girls.

“Hello friends,” Dan hissed with a smile. “Want to come back stage for the after party?” They all squealed with delight. Annabell sashayed in close to one of the boys and grabbed his cock with her left hand, while caressing his stomach with her mic. He started melting in her grasp and then sank completely as she penetrated his gut with her giant knife.

The girls started to scream, Dan and Sean quickly subdued them. RayRay had already injected the other two boys with a slow acting neurotoxin, they felt the terror but they couldn’t move a muscle. Annabell left her hemorrhaging man to wither in the corner. She approached her two new lovers, stradling them and grinding against their hip bones, their eyes white with terror. “Sweetie,” she giggled. “Don’t look at me like that! You wanted to join the party, now you’re going to be part of the road show . . . as props.”

They all grinned wickedly and pulled the bodies in the back room.

By Emily Smith-Miller

*Inspired by the band Butcher Babies

Dante’s Riscatto


These everyday raging fires

burning within my body

are tributes to a baptismal

of God’s seed and Satan’s greed;

I am cursed for being born


Stranded within a gorge, I am

a crossroad in the intermediate

of the just and the unjust succeeding

the righteous and the wicked;

I am cursed for living


Broken is my body

withered is my heart

splayed is my flesh

maggots banquet on my corpse;

I am cursed for dying

Inferno Purgatorio Paradiso. . .Riscatto

By Devlin De La Chapa

Be Careful What You Wish For

Her photo is alluring. Her deep raven colored hair is long and lush, shining here and there with dark auburn highlights. Her bangs hang low, making her eyes more mysterious; framing and accentuating her sensuous yet innocent girl next door face.

And those eyes – oh, those eyes are so round and soft, bottomless with a glint of blue that is absolutely magnetic.

Then there is her mouth. A mouth so inviting , with luscious red lips pursed just enough for those perfectly straight, pearly teeth to peek through. I can’t stop: all I want to do is plunge something in that mouth.

Her body is sleek, with all the subtle and hard curves of an amusement park ride. She’s a cross between a healthy coed on spring break wrapped around a pole and the baby sitter you always craved.

Her legs are long and toned, with thighs so smooth they demand the attention of my tongue.

I am wet from sweat. I am wet from saliva. I am wet from, well, you know.

Her ad calls for only basic screening, and hell, I’m single and unattached, what do I care. I can afford her rate. I have always had the fantasy and tonight I am finally going to get it fulfilled.

My wish is on a hot streak. It is fate itself. She answers on the second ring and to my surprise isn’t booked for this evening. The lilts and giggles in the purr of her voice reflect the anxiousness in my own voice. I happily give her my information: name, address, phone number, employer and the like.

Already, she is more than I could have expected.  Now, I just have to hold myself for her call back.

At 8 pm I am to meet her outside, in front of a small, uptown café. In this city, any eatery, no matter the size or menu that can place a couple of tables and chairs on the sidewalk, can bill itself as a café.

Fifteen minutes early and I feel late. I decide to hang by a mailbox on the corner that will allow me views east to west, north to south, and up and down a couple of alleys in between. While the walking trade is certainly thinner than during the day, nightlife is still what this city is all about.

I’m surprised no one has paid her any mind. From blocks away she certainly stands out. Amongst all the dolled up secretaries and ‘tappable’ coeds – girls I would normally be chasing-she is a goddess.

She’s tall, at least five foot ten, with the tightest and shortest of little black dresses. Her walk in those stilettos is one of ease as she appears to float above and past the rest. Yet she doesn’t merit a glance from anyone.

Still a block away, her eyes find mine and lock. I am frozen in place, eyes to soles as she smiles, mouthing ‘Hey lover’.

Without hesitation she pecks me on the lips, barely slipping the tip of her tongue into my mouth.  Just for a brief second, sliding it in and out, wet and quickly. My muscles, already locked, tighten more. I am as stiff as a board. She smiles again, knowing I am hooked.

Over a cocktail that she never drinks, we briefly get acquainted. Small talk has never been my thing, but tonight I just open up about my life and desires. She takes it all in, speaking only with a glance, a stare and those gesturing lips.

It isn’t long before she whisks me away, four full blocks north to a three story walk up built sometime in the 1870s, nestled between two enormous, new co-ops. I have lived here all of my  life. I have been up and down this street countless times, but I simply don’t recall ever seeing this building before.

As we make the climb, she is ahead of me, spanning two steps at a time, furtively looking back with a naughty, taunting grin, to be sure that my sight is squarely fixed on what she is not wearing under that dress.

By the time we reach her apartment I am spent from the walk and the view, but when she whirls around and gives me a longer kiss with even more tongue, and a little knee rub to my lap,she re-energizes me as we burst, clenched together, through the door.

I don’t remember the first ten minutes all too well or where our clothes landed, but I have never been in touch with a woman as I am now. I’m naked on her plush white flokati hoping to slow my heartbeat to normal and hoping to find my strength for a second round. I can see the apartment looks much larger on the inside and is impeccably appointed in high end modern decor.

As my vision, mind and consciousness finally re-connect, she is standing over me in a red silk robe. Her voice is soft, yet edged with a growl, “So, how do you feel?”

Choking the words out, “Utterly fantastic. I cannot describe … but you must get that…”

She puts her index finger to my lips to quiet me, “No, I only save my very best for those who are ready, and you said you are ready, right?”

Blushing and gushing like this is my first crush, “I have never been more ready. I have dreamt of this for a long time. Please do it to me. Please.”

“Get ready then. Where do you want it?”

“Anywhere. My body is still tingling. So anywhere, please.”

With that, for the first time she brandishes those canines, swooping down between my legs. Before she takes that bite – the kiss I have craved for all of my life – the last thing I hear is her saying, “You are not going to need this where I’m taking you.”

By Joseph J. Patchen

Of The Shadows

Hear it in a void:

psalms chanted slowly

words slip out from blue lips and

chattering teeth.


See it discretely:

the ice touch from the windows

burns then caresses

as we watch the trees grow slowly






/o my god

mascara streaming silken salt water

things painting the walls/


freely sliced in secret while they look away

simulated love

a hide / a cry

hidden sighs

heard from walls slowly moving away.


the flowers revolve

revolve towards the black sun smiling

black circle falling

the ingredient of forgotten

adulterers sniffing at

the sheets wet burn

in a slick mucous dream


/o my god

mascara streaming silken salt water

things painting the walls/


let. Me. Sleep.


the wooden cross / cold

hangs from the wall

it says goodbye

a pair of

burning black hot lips

mouthing words silently



an after-shadow of nuclear intensity

hiroshima mon amour

first degree epidermis redness,

after several hours in

tissue flesh, see the word-smell

mad wounds rising because

electrical burns are hers.


damage is not always obvious. walk. She was forced.


Because of a loss, a full-thickness, an explanation

as time dies lying in your lap?


she stopped when the floor grabbed her.


tell us about crouching figures

at the base

of a crucifixion


a bullet for the red light

a message waiting blown

away in spit and brine


she forced it

3 hours


three hours

it will be finished

blink. Slowly. Roused. Slowly.


cold sweat dream

close her teeth



she emerged crimson from

the flaming sex garage

By Peter Marra

WINNER Campfire Tales Ghost Story Contest: Debt Collectors by Cheryl Anne Gardner

I’d taken about a hundred hits before my center gave way like blubber piled on a shit-stained mattress. I’d done the couch surfing dream sex thing to my father’s porno mags; the bed-wetting thing, hunkered down against my mother’s incessant prayers, which she thought would save my soul; hell, I’d even dragged in a few shaved cats when I was in college. Ma said I was blessed by the Devil, so blessed, I’ve had all the cancer therapy a person can stand before they start to feel suicidal. So here I sit, toking it up until I can hear my own voice echoing off the back of my head. A baseball game is being called out in earnest on the radio when the streetlights start to flicker. I don’t notice right away because I’m sat here thinking about whether or not I had already put fresh brick dust across all the open doorways. “Dusk to dawn, dust them gone.” Ma said that. Said the shadows were on the move. I can remember running down this very street as a kid, trying to hit the porch step before my pop came out and grounded me for being out after dark. “It’s a simple thing,” he used to say while running his fingers over his belt buckle. He’d had a metal plate in his head for a while, but the government replaced it with plastic. That’s why I had to be inside before the streetlights came on. Before the shadows. Those lights were the only warning, pop said, because he’d lost radio reception on account of the plastic, you see. He’d fought in THE WAR. Never said which one, never said he was afraid. Sometimes I thought he was still fighting it. He’d wring his hands a lot, and I heard him tell Ma once that he felt unclean. When he wasn’t in the basement, he was on the porch. He’d sit and listen to the static on the radio for hours, his eyes focused hard on the dark just beyond the porch rail. He’d point every once and a while and say, “Look there boy!” and I would look, squint my eyes, but I wouldn’t see anything even though I said that I had. BASTARDS! he called them. “Fascist F.A.G. f@!#ing ni@#!rs,” he’d say while chucking rocks into the darkness, and I thought his anger seemed kind of personal even though I didn’t know what any of those words meant at the time. Now that I think about it, between the layers of smoke and the equally vague layers of pain, maybe it was personal – for him. Maybe those shadows weren’t for me to see.

Pop didn’t make it home one night before dark. He never came home. Ma blamed the shadows, and I didn’t see them when they came for her either.

So now I sit here on this miserable-excuse-shanty-shack hunk of termite shit porch, nothing left of me but blanched skin. Ma’s gone. Pop’s gone. All I’ve got left is this dilapi-shack, Pop’s hate, and that damn dirty basement. I take another toke on my cigarette and exhale just as the streetlights snap on. I know they’re coming, can feel a tightening in my chest, so I reach down and turn the knob on the radio until I’m tuned into the static.

Then I stare into the dark just beyond the porch rail … I stare, and I stare, and I stare until I scream.

By Cheryl Anne Gardner

Runner-Up Campfire Tales Ghost Story Contest: Teething Trouble by Gill Hoffs

It was easiest to pull a chunk of bloodied gum out with the teeth, the roots sometimes broke but that was no matter, the dentist would sort that out in his workshop later.  Guy paused only to wipe the handles of his pliers on his apron before getting on with the rest of the mouth.  Several minutes later, the dead soldier’s head had empty jaws and Guy had a bag filling nicely and clinking a little as he hobbled over the legs and tussocks of the battlefield and onto the next intact face.

Old Monsieur Papier had shaken hands on the deal late last night, as the messengers raced through the town on horseback with hopeful faces and the gossip favoured heavy casualties and an end to the warfare on this particular battleground today.  One full bag of pretty white teeth, whole sets where possible but front teeth always preferable, and the ancient dentist would craft Guy a pair of false teeth with the finest wood as a base, sanded till there wasn’t a splinter remaining.  They’d talked briefly of ivory and bone, but since they were renowned for both nastiness of taste and breath, wood was definitely the preferred option.

Especially since he hoped to impress.

Here was a young soldier with a handsome nose and lips begging to be kissed, blue eyes to match his uniform, and nothing left but thick syrupy puddles of blood in the crater where his thighs should have lain.  Pink frills of flesh and shards of bone were all that was left of his legs, and there was the sweet stink of cooked human flesh overlaying the stench of shit and urine from his body relaxing in death.  From the others he’d learned it was easier and far less time consuming to simply break the jaws wide open rather than fight against the tendons and cartilage to reach the great flat teeth towards the backs of their mouths.  It made a popping, wet noise, but nothing he hadn’t heard before or wouldn’t be prepared to hear again.

Pulling a molar free he inspected it for cracks, holes, or the mottling of rot which would mean its rejection by old Papier.  He pulled the scraps of gum from the root, scraping the last stubborn remnants off with his thumbnail before flicking them over to the great black crows staggering about beside him, their bellies full but not yet sated.

On to the next.  This one had brown eyes and a paunch, and part of his pinky-grey brain showing where the top of his skull had peeled off like the softboiled egg Guy had enjoyed for his breakfast.  The odour of the dead barely registered now, but this one had the extra aroma of rancid armpits and halitosis.  Guy was surprised to find the soldier had such beautiful teeth, just the set he’d been looking for.  He was even more surprised when the act of wrenching the jaws apart elicited a gargling groan of pain from the body.  Its eyes blinked at him, the pupils shrinking against the daylight, tears leaking down the temples, running to the mess of hair, skin, and brains nestling into the thick red mud.

The body moved under him, enough to unnerve him, but still he carried on.

Kneeling on the chest, brass buttons hard under his knees, he pinched the nose to hold the head in place and pulled the teeth as carefully as he could, pocketing them, gums and all, the body finally still below him, the eyes losing their focus as he pushed up and stepped away. 

The crows seemed to skip behind Guy as he moved on to the next fallen soldier, knelt in its entrails, and prepared to mine another cooling mouth.  This time, he slapped its face first.


“I didn’t think you liked me.  I never saw you smile before tonight.”

They had drunk enough wine to darken their lips and make the space around them fragrant with the sweet scent of fermentation, but not enough to make them sleepy.  Not before they’d gotten to know each other better in the barn, anyway.

Benoit was sturdy with able hands; Guy was discovering just how able those hands were now they were close enough to feel each other’s breaths on their cheeks.  There was just enough moonlight to show off his teeth, but not enough to render the couple visible to any passers-by.  Benoit licked his lips slowly, staring at Guy all the while, and Guy could feel the front of his breeches straining outwards, towards those capable hands.

His tongue was hot and sore in his mouth, the new teeth taking time to get used to after years without, nipping the sides of it and his inner cheeks hard enough to draw blood and set up a tender throbbing that he knew would lead to pain and ulceration over the next couple of days – but for now, he only wanted to focus on the tender throbbing in his crotch.  Or rather, he wanted Benoit to focus on it.

Their mouths closed on each other’s, their hands fondling front and back, pressing, caressing… till the teeth slipped and nipped Benoit’s lower lip.

“You’ll have to make amends for that.”

Benoit’s hands ran through Guy’s ruff of hair, snagging in it, guiding his head down, down, down, till Guy was on his knees and sucking his cock.

He gagged a little as Benoit went too deep then clasped a hand round the base to stop it happening again, using his other hand to gently tickle Benoit’s slightly sticky balls.  They shifted under his fingers like the belly of a pregnant spaniel, and he could tell Benoit was getting ready to come.

Guy rasped his tongue harder along the shaft, fluid seeping into his mouth and burning its way to the back of his throat, making him sniff as his nose ran, Benoit moaning above him, then… it happened.


Right through.

Just shreds of skin and a tangle of pubic hair keeping body and cock together.

A scream rent the air.

Guy spat the mouthful out, hoping the teeth would go with it.

They didn’t.  He tried pushing them out with his tongue, and the teeth snapped whenever it got near them.

Hooking his cheek away from them with a shaking finger, he attempted to hook round the edges, but they sprang apart, locking his jaw as far open as it would go.

Benoit lay moaning on the floor of the barn, clutching his crotch as blood drenched the hardpacked dirt beneath him.  A rat came out of hiding to drag the seeping penis away.  Guy could only gargle and flail, unable to speak, scream, or call out for help.

A shape appeared in the gloom, the pale green of marsh gas and willo’the’wisps.  It was missing the top of its head, and its lower jaw dangled loose and heavy, swinging a little with every step.

It pointed a broken finger at Guy then turned and gestured towards the burial pits over the hill.

Guy’s jaw ached already.

He shook his head.  Benoit lay motionless on the floor.  Crouching beside him, Guy raised the other man’s bloodied hand and stuck it between the worrisome teeth before hooking his own fingers under the wooden rim and levering it out.  The teeth locked onto Benoit’s hand, but he was out of it and past caring.

Free of the spectre’s teeth, Guy rubbed his jaw, and got thinking.

He tore the penis from the rat, and started walking.  If folk bought up dead men’s teeth, who knew what a penis would bring.  He stuffed it in his pocket, and headed out the door.  The spectre shook its head, jaw quivering, and disappeared.

Guy smiled.  He might feel a bit of a prick, but he was free.

By Gill Hoffs

2nd Place Campfire Tales Ghost Story Contest: Hesitation by Joseph J. Patchen

Irony should be Wallace’s new name. As he wakes up this morning, his back snugly nestled against the carpet, staring up at the living room ceiling of his cookie cutter Cape Cod, he realizes it was not a dream. His wife did leave him for someone he doesn’t know, and that seems to be the point.

She left the house empty and full of debt. She took every possession: every picture off of the walls, hooks and all; every stick of furniture; every book and CD; and every stitch of clothing, except for the heaping pile she left stuffed in an overflowing second floor toilet.

She did leave a note. It was written on a torn piece of scrap paper impaled with a carving knife on the apex of the now water logged pile. The note is constructed as she is built – short, sweet and cutting. Three words describing a sex act and his parentage, scrawled in crayon, amounted to her only communication.

He drank dry every bottle in the house while filling her phone and the phones of her friends and relatives with slobbering and panic laden messages. He drank, puking in the spots where their  wedding photo once hung, where their marital bed once laid, and where they had shared their last discussion less breakfast, just yesterday morning.

There would be no work today, no time sucking career to go to this morning. After all, she always said he spent more time there than at home.

All that remains to numb the pain are medications, most of them hers, for ailments she claimed to have suffered from or could afford to be afflicted with. Initially it puzzles him why she left all the liquor and prescriptions. Perhaps she felt healed. But no matter, he is working his way through a variety of cough syrups and brightly colored pills, hoping to drift until he can get a grip.

A few minutes past three a.m., he wakes again, this time to the tap, tap, tap of a liquid plopping onto his face, falling from the ceiling above. Wallace feels he may have slept an hour, but this round he has been passed out for four.  Of course, he thinks it’s the pipes—‘what else can go wrong.’ Groggy, he gets to his feet, but before he can steady himself, the tapping accelerates to a rapid pattering, puddling on the carpet.

With the lights switched on, he can now see a deepening red spot spreading across the ceiling. It is blood, pooling and splattering where he had been lying. His tongue is thick and tastes acrid.  Wallace wipes the back of his hand across his lips and teeth.  It is smeared with blood.

Adrenalin propels him up the staircase to the room that was, until a few hours ago, his daughter’s bedroom. There, lying in the middle of the floor, in a widening pool of blood, is a naked and faceless man. His throat has been slit, a carving knife by his right hand.

Wallace recoils into the hallway, slamming backwards into a wall, struggling to hold onto whatever stomach contents he may have left. But to no avail, he wretches anyway. Lifting his head and wiping his mouth, his right eye catches a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror just across the hall. Wallace is covered in blood and there are small cuts and gashes on his neck.

Mouth wide open and devoid of thought, he rocks himself back and forth in place. He is sweating and beginning to bleed, feeling the burning stings from those cuts.

The doorbell rings.

As he turns in the direction of the stairs, the dead man rises to his feet, holding his arms out to Wallace, who, upon seeing this, vaults himself down the stairs, two at a time. By the time he reaches the first floor, the corpse and all traces of his blood have faded away as if they had never existed.

Wallace bangs his knee trying to get the front door open. But no one is there. The yard and street appear peaceful and uninhabited. His neighbors’ lights are all off for the night and Wallace’s goose bumps begin to chill. Reason tells him to leave the house, but between all he has ingested and all he has seen tonight, Wallace is frozen in place.

The doorbell rings again but he finds no one there.

 Slamming the door and running back upstairs, he bolts into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. Straddling his belongings, he turns the cold water on full blast and plunges his face into the sink. As he shocks his system into some measure of sobriety, the shower curtain next to him, covering the bathtub, rustles. Shaking the water from his face, Wallace becomes aware that he is not the only one in the room.

It is the faceless man. Faceless, but somewhat transparent.  Transparent, but opaque enough for Wallace to see that the man’s wrists are slashed and mutilated, bleeding profusely, filling the tub as fast as the faucet was filling the sink. This time the faceless man lets out a wail, a cry so piercing that Wallace covers his ears. But even blocking his ears, he can still hear the doorbell ringing.

Stumbling sideways, almost tumbling head first down the stairs, Wallace flees out the door, sliding across the lawn. As he wipes the mud and dewy grass from his eyes, Wallace, sprawled stomach down, can see that no one is at the bell. Wallace shouts and pounds the ground with his fists and feet, crying out, “Why is this happening? Why is this happening? Why?”

 His neighbors don’t hear him.

By the front door a grey mist begins to form.  It appears, not out of the ground or the house, to be gathering itself from a concentration of the air surrounding it. Like smoke, it swirls upwards and floats, yet does not dissipate. Instead it condenses into a shape, taking on the form of a tall and slender, well-dressed and distinguished looking man in his fifties.

Before he can fully materialize, the man locks his gaze upon Wallace, who can’t resist being drawn to the man’s deep blue eyes. While the man solidifies, Wallace stands hypnotized. Nothing is said to him, but somehow Wallace knows and slowly walks towards him. It is only when the two are face to face that the man formally and verbally addresses Wallace.

“Congratulations. You are finally successful. Please take a look. Go in and take a look.”

Wallace steps back into his house and there, in the very spot where he slept, lies a body –  a definitely dead body, dressed as he is, clothes disheveled with limbs bent and contorted, a plastic bag over its head is held in place by an elastic around the neck. And there, on the neck, are irregular wounds, cuts from a knife, some still bleeding and some congealed, cuts mirroring the cuts on the wrists.

Wallace looks over the body, long and hard.

The man, now behind him, addresses Wallace again, “It’s okay. If it puts your mind at ease, by all means take a look.” 

Wallace bends down and begins to unwrap the elastic from the neck in order to remove the bag from the head. There, under all the blood and puke, Wallace sees his own misshapen face. 

By Joseph J. Patchen