Runner Up for The Crimson Skull Short Story Contest: A New Rose, A Rabid Fugue State by Peter Marra

Trick r Treat

“Time. Sweat. I shiver.
Continuous fever at the Hell Hole.
Twisted angels climax and touch each other.
An overhead shot.
Black wet fur to touch and smell.
Tactile dreams.
The lights have blown. Come back to smell the earth.
Climax of blue pleasures as it’s piled on top of me.”

“I have the camera, I’ll use it to jolt my memory.”

The purple moon was nailed to the black sky – a sky accentuated by the night tide oozing dull red droplets – slight tears for those in action down below. The Halloween festival murmured in the alleys of Coney Island’s Lunar Park. Children and adults could be heard laughing and screaming on the Cyclone Rollercoaster and within the cages of the Wonder Wheel. The freak show was crowded while Dante’s Inferno funhouse rocked with laughter and childish screams.

Criselda let her legs dangle over the edge of the pier as she stared at the stains on her patched hands. She could still see the thread marks from the skin grafts of the past – it still hurt every so often to bend her fingers. She could still hear the whirr of the generators and the flash of the light. She could still sense the eyes that watched her every move as she shivered in the backroom amidst the drug smoke and laughing shadows, a grimace in the moonlight. The specters that took her morals and sliced them with shiny new scalpels – her dead memories.

Other types of pain would come and go; they were dull pain in twilight: red, black and orange. The codeine pills barely helped anymore, yet she continued to pop the white doves frequently since the withdrawal pain was growing worse and worse each night. Her dolls, her silence.

She could hear the Cyclone screams – the rollercoaster slammed the air; the Wonder Wheel creaked slowly as some of the Ferris wheel’s cars swayed back and forth. Criselda crossed her legs and bent over at the waist, forcing her black leather person into the space between crotch and stomach. Fever dreams beyond all limits underscored the desires within a fractured woman on a journey into and out of submission. A victim no longer.

She gazed down the length of the pier. It was moist air, chilly air for October, for Halloween. October 31st and what did she have? Some ripped from the womb recently idle evil thoughts and chatter. One more codeine pill. She popped one in her mouth and chewed it, enjoying the bitter taste crushing all the granules so the hit would be fast – bang bang to the cerebellum. She leaned back onto her palms, neck bent backwards, gazing at the sky, her ratty black hair moist with sweat, her torso getting warmer as the analgesic sucked on her vagina and ate it’s way up deep inside.

Her stomach was warm – a warm blood bath safe in the amniotic sac. She smiled even though the front of her mind was descending into a falling player piano discordant ride as the drug climbed up and backed out. Criselda could hear the ocean in the darkness: red /water /music /salt /mist tingled her lips.

“Sally go round the roses,” she murmured to herself as she reached under her ripped leather skirt and fingered herself; an attempt to frig herself into oblivion as her legs tingled, as her fingers grew codeine – numb.

She sang gently only for herself.

Lyrics recited without tone or beat.

Lyrics recited with lack of desire and fluctuation.

Just wet – no climax.

Transistors from the radio gleamed while short and calculated circuited digital notes flew behind her eyes. The sky met the ocean out there as she thought and thought and seethed. Her forehead was becoming moist as she wiped her brow and tongued her fingers. Salty and fluid digits tinged with red.
She licked her black fingernails. She reached behind her and tightened her black leather corset tight – tight enough so she became lightheaded and fortified the junk high.


Knives were touching her hands and between her eyes. Murmurs – sweat cold heat – cold light under her tongue.

They put it there.

They put it there.

Criselda’s head snapped back out of her masturbatory reveries.

“They did it. Hooked me up. Pushed it in.”

She licked each of her hands completely, tonguing the scars, pausing to fight back the slight chemical nausea; she gulped down saliva and acid and then she felt better.

“Oh to be a pinup.”

“Cold light.”

A black lean creature clothed in wetness, fresh from a red night sat down beside her and whispered into her left ear.

“Touch the hand of God. Hold my hand and come,” it whispered in a melodious low chant repeating and repeating until her brain buzzed.

She giggled from the warm fetid breath on her neck.


“My ticklish spot.” She reached around and held the being close. She kissed its lips delicately and produced the straight razor from her black leather purse. As she slowly dragged the straight razor across its throat, the warm fluid spurted and accentuated the sounds of her quickly lapping tongue and ignited the evening. It was 2 am.

“Mmmmm,” they both moaned. Then it collapsed.

The purple moon turned crimson, subsequently phasing out to ebony latex.


Criselda got up and walked down the length of the pier. She started off somewhat shakily then more confidently as her worn leather stiletto boots click-clack-clicked on the semi-rotting wood. Her lean legs shook every once in awhile. She was in a junk-sex overdrive; her nose tingled. Tiny small black creatures followed quickly behind her. The nighttime held them close as she made her way off the pier into the street. Past the Cyclone, past the Wonder Wheel, past Dante’s Inferno into slick silence they made their way down. She glanced over her shoulder and she was suddenly alone – sound had evaporated and the street was damp and void. As she walked down Surf Avenue she heard a sound that caused her stomach to slightly heave and she vomited black liquid into the gutter. The Calliope, the sounds from childhood – before the generators, before the incident, before the life force so erotic entered into her.


Criselda stopped in front of the carousel. The merry–go-round was spinning, slowly morphing as it spun. She grew dizzy and had to turn away and sit down on the curb. Gently, Criselda touched the puddle in the gutter and smelled her fingers. No odor whatsoever. Her reflection shimmered – a scarred scared image.

Feeling more steady she stood up and walked over to the carousel. There were no riders the only being present was the operator. Criselda gave him the once over – greasy black hair in a pony tail, the trail of scabs up and down his arms’ veins. A knife hung from his belt. He didn’t see her, he was dining on a meatball hero, enjoying it immensely. Some sauce was on his chin. Criselda turned off to the side and puked a little onto the sidewalk. He noticed her. He was paying attention.


“Hello babe. Feeling queasy?” he asked.

Criselda said nothing at first, but his voice awakened memories and desires. She could feel herself getting wet and there was a marked metallic taste in her mouth.

“Yeah. A little.”

She walked over slowly and stood right in front of him. She ran her fingers slowly up the knife scabbard and gently touched his lips. Criselda noticed a bulge in his black jeans and smiled slightly. At the sight of his arousal, her eyes glowed yellow and spun wildly.

She tried to remember lines from her past as he broadly grinned at her.

“Let me see what’s under your skirt,” he drooled.

Saliva dripped down his lip.

As a response, she stuck her hand down the front of his jeans gently caressing his genitals.

He smiled.

“So hot…”

His face contorted and he wailed as she twisted his cock and balls in a clockwise direction. She pulled him close. Gentle whispers. Talons dug in deeply into his scrotal sac. Flesh ripped.

Soft tearing sound. His love-muscle screamed.

“Do you like it? Do you like it? Will you be my boyfriend?” she delivered the line in a monotone voice.

Criselda felt his flesh give way as she pulled everything up and out over his belt and brought the mess up to her lips. Her fangs sunk into the hunk of meat and her tongue licked the remains of his balls. He was in shock as she tongued his cock and balls and enjoyed the crimson goo congealing on her lips.

He collapsed at her feet. She spit his flesh onto his body. Her lips twitched as she remembered. They brought her to life and they used her mercilessly. The carousel was always in the background. The queasy calliope music underlined her pain and splattered her memory with relentless abuse.

She stuck her right heel into his left eye enjoying the squishy sound.

“I won’t do both eyes. I want you to see me. Tell me you love me.”
He gazed up at her. She flashed her cunt at him.

“Why were you born?” she thought.

She pushed her heel deeper into the orb as the other eye stared at her. He was still breathing. The rainbows had collapsed around her. Her aura ate him up. He could smell vaginal fluid and semen in the air. The wooden horses glowed bright colors.

“Please be my friend.”

Words spoken to a shocked body.

Removing her heel, she slowly lowered herself onto his face and sat down hard. She thought. Her razor in hand, she slowly sliced off his shirt. He was starting to regain consciousness.

“Good. Now you will see.”

He could feel himself being dragged along the ground, up and unto the merry-go-round platform towards the calliope in the center.

He was bare-chested now, his crotch was splattered with dark brown crimson. Starting at his sternum, she slowly brought the silver blade down, down, down, leaving a bright red trail behind it. His eye twitched, he looked frightened and his tongue was wagging – a soundless marionette. His body was starting to get cold. Criselda got wetter as the blade came down to his waist. She repeated the procedure , this time going much deeper. She made some lateral cuts constructing flaps. Then again and again each time, cutting deeper through muscle and fiber until she reached the tasty innards. She reached in and relished the smell of warm blood bile and semen. All those delicious fluids. Criselda reached in and caressed each organ before removing it with a kiss and a slice. The air glowed and her mouth was going dry. Kidneys, liver, gall bladder, stomach, some intestine, some lungs – *plop* *plop* onto the floor in a pile. She carefully removed the heart and studied it closely. She reached into her boot and pulled out a small silver dagger. The dagger easily went into the heart and there it would stay forever.

“You’re mine now and you can’t escape.” This trophy was placed into her purse and was carefully, quickly zipped shut.

She removed his belt and fitted it snuggly around his neck and around the pole of a nearby white horse. She pulled it snuggly and climaxed 3 times. She had to pause until the afterglow had subsided. Time. Time.

Criselda left him tied to the pole, open, wide and wet. She remained on the carousel and pulled the stick to get it started. It slowly started rotating and she puked once more on her lover.

She remembered when she was a child how she used to make snow angels in her backyard. She liked the sound of the snow as it gently fell, the sound of the snow would block out her thoughts, it was a slow gentle sound that dusted her face as she lay down, looked up at the grey sky and moved her legs and arms. Then she would carefully get up and look at what she had created. She would do this many times during the day. If it was a snow day and she was home from school it was an even more special time. She smiled.

Then they came and dug her up. Then they came and sewed her together. Then they came and made her please them. Her scars were testimony to the hurt caused by him.

The first time she masturbated, she was shocked. She was looking at a calendar from Penthouse Magazine. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Vacation. One photo entranced her, a brunette in thigh high black stiletto boots; she started rubbing and the electric frisson overtook her.

Every Saturday morning many years ago she would watch Hercules Theatre which showed old Italian Hercules movies. Channel 9 . The movie showing one particular Saturday contained a memorably violent scene where a woman was being whipped, as the whip marks showed through the flimsy see-through dress, Criselda immediately soaked her panties.

Another scene: a gladiator was stabbed to death by a fellow soldier; although the sword wasn’t shown penetrating, the assassin watched the blood drip off the sword with obvious glee. She smiled.

Criselda jumped off the carousel. It continued to rotate. Children were laughing.
She took pictures. The flash from her camera hurt her eyes. She took several photos, all black and white, some portrait, some landscape. Several people in costume, male and female, drunk and high from masquerade parties passed by and complimented Criselda on her outfit. Swelling with pride, she stood in front of the ride and hung up a sign etched in a childish scrawl: Free Rides, Trick Or Treats.

People started lining up.

“Hi sweetie. Here’s a treat for you.” A kidney plopped into a young girl’s bag.
“Hello stud. You’ll like this.” A piece of lung for a cute hipster. She hugged each person after they received her gift.

“Trick or Treat.”

Stomach, gall bladder, another kidney. These were all dispensed into the patrons’ trick or treat bags. They stared at her; some were in shock, some were puking.

Bats were in the distance, mating in mid-air, the cinemas were burning.

The Shore Hotel across the street moaned and she could see people fucking in the windows.

It was 3:45 am. She walked slowly down Surf Avenue.

Crisleda headed to the beach, she sat down in the sand and slowly opened her purse. She removed the heart with the silver dagger in it. A juju for the holidays.

Criselda looked at the still beating heart longingly as the sun slowly rose. A slim naked woman was posed in the sand. The woman played a discordant violin concerto as the rays started to warm the autumn air. Her bright red hair blew behind her in the breeze. She turned to face the camera – eyes white and void of pupils.

It was now November 1st.

His heart. Crisleda carried it to the ocean, she flung it into the sea, then she rolled in the surf washing off the gore and pieces of flesh and the stink of the night.

Flesh for revenge soothed the desires within the fractured female.

The gulls would be flying towards the ocean soon as the sun rose.

“Please be my friend.”

She shed her clothing and lay spread-eagled in the sand as chilly saltwater caressed her thighs.

“One more pill please. I can make you beautiful.”

By Peter Marra

6 responses to “Runner Up for The Crimson Skull Short Story Contest: A New Rose, A Rabid Fugue State by Peter Marra

  1. Pingback: Crimson Skull Contest Results are Finally Fully Officially In! « Ain't no rest for the wicked – Philip Wardlow

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