Scrap Paper


The monster’s real.

Every second it came closer and there was no stopping it. The awful scratching and

scraping in the hall outside John’s apartment neared and would soon be at his door. He didn’t

bother to barricade it or nail it shut; nothing could keep it out.

Any detail he could imagine of the horrible thing became wiped out by the cartoony

drawings laid out on his desk. All in black crayon, scribbled on the paper like the artwork of a

young child, were the only images of the thing he had seen with his own eyes. But he knew it did

not come from imagination, nor was it drawn by a child.

The first time John saw the wrinkled scraps of paper taped to the wall in the bathroom he

thought nothing of them. He assumed some fool at work had put them there and paid no

attention. It was probably Akhil or Joe, they were always playing practical jokes. If he had

known then what they were he would have quit his job that day and never gone back.

But it was too late. It was nearly at his door and there was no forgetting what he knew, no

taking back what had already been done, no erasing the past.

He tried everything to save himself, even burning the stack of crumpled and stained loose

leaf paper, but it always came back. The first few times they returned after he’d disposed of them

he still told himself it was a very well executed prank. He went as far as thinking someone had

made extra keys to his apartment so they could plant the papers there every time he got rid of

them. But his fears were proven when he went fishing to get away from the bothersome prank

and had caught the stack of paper with his rod and pulled it out of the water. He nearly fell out of

the boat. He found them in his mailbox, in his dresser drawers, in his car, even in his pockets

when he dressed in the morning. He couldn’t escape them. And each day there were more.

Eventually he started putting them in boxes and stacking them in his bedroom. When he

ran out of room he began stuffing them in the closet. When that was full he just left them

wherever they appeared. Now he was nearly buried. Countless sheets of paper covered the floor

and furniture. He walked in it, sat in it, and slept in it. But you really couldn’t call it sleeping. It

was more like a nightmare that did not end when the sun came up.

The phone rang. It echoed in his ears, sounding far away, like in a dream. Was he awake?

Was he asleep? Was it real? He reached for it and answered. “Hello?”

“You’re not dreaming,” a raspy voice replied.

His heart stopped. His body began to tremble, the phone shaking against his ear. “What?”

“I asked if you were coming out tonight.”

He recognized the voice. “Tony?”

Had he really heard what he did? You’re not dreaming… It kept repeating in his head, the

phrase becoming a warped record, spinning and spinning, looping around itself in an insane

repetition that made his head ache.

“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”

“I’m okay; just half asleep is all.”

“You coming to Murphy’s?”

Maybe a strong drink was what he needed, something to quiet his nerves, to keep him

sane a little longer. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

He ended the call, unsure whether or not he would make it to the bar. How was he to get

out of the apartment alive? The horror that waited outside his door would surely get him if he

tried to get out that way. The fire escape seemed the only option.

He opened the window and stepped out into the full dark of night, looking back to make

sure the apartment hadn’t yet been breached by the unspeakable stalker. The door still intact, he

shut the window and climbed down the rusty stairs, dropping the iron ladder and made his way to

the alley.

Looking up at his window on the second floor, he saw the lights flicker before going out

completely. He’d got out just in time. Blending into the crowded sidewalk, he had the feeling he

would never see home again.

Murphy’s Pub was only a few blocks away. He walked, hands in his pockets, not making

eye contact with anyone he passed, constantly looking over his shoulder. Paranoia had taken hold

and squeezed until his eyes bulged from their sockets, his brains surging from his ears. Each

moment of time that passed, a stabbing reminder that the end was near. Suicide had been

contemplated more than once, but he couldn’t go through with it. He didn’t want to die. He only

wanted it to be over.

Murphy’s not far ahead, the soft orange glow from the frosted glass windows spilled out

onto the sidewalk, inviting him closer. It had always been a place of comfort, somewhere to relax

his tired mind and body. Hoping it still was, he pushed the door open and entered.

Tony was sitting at the bar, drink in hand. He turned to look as John walked in, a large

grin forming on his lips. He lifted his glass in welcome. “You made it, you lazy bastard.”

John sat next to him, resting his elbows on the counter.

“You look like shit,” Tony commented.

“Thanks a lot.”

“No, I mean it. You really look like shit. Are you alright?”

“Not really. But it’s nothing a good drink won’t fix.”

“That’s the spirit! Have one on me.”

In one swift gulp he finished the drink. Throat burning, stomach warming, he was ready

for another.

“Feel better yet?” Tony asked.

“It’ll take a lot more than one.”

Two hours later the bar became a waving liquid surface and Tony’s ramblings trailed off

into white noise. His head throbbing and thoughts numbed from drink, he felt ready to face

whatever waited outside. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he gave not a care to the scrap paper that

haunted his every waking moment.

Standing with some difficulty, he left Tony at the bar and stumbled outside. The cool,

night air hit him and he felt freshened and ready to meet his destiny. He had no idea what the

time was but the absence of partygoers on the street indicated happy hour had come and gone.

The door swung open behind him and Tony came out. “The bartender told me to give this

to you, said some guy left it for you.”

Tony handed him a sheet of paper, this one different from the rest. It was not the cartoony

child-like drawing he had seen a thousand times; it was finely detailed and drawn with expert

precision. Its grotesque form sobered him instantly as it seemed to emerge from the paper into

reality. The wild eyes, bright yellow and bulging from their slanted sockets, bore into his head

like a drill. Claws reached out, hanging on wire-thin arms, inches from tearing his face to shreds.

He could hear the low growl from its throat, smell its rotten breath, and feel the heat of its

animated liveliness, ready to spring forth and take his life.

He released the drawing and let it fall to the sidewalk. It floated down, the creature inside

still reaching for him, attempting to stop its descent. It failed to catch hold and rested on the

damp concrete. Absorbing moisture the paper discolored and the inky creature lost form,

bleeding out toward the edges, its body becoming a warped version of its former self.

“Are you okay?” Tony asked, his voice soft, his words careful.

He stood trembling, unable to utter a word. How? How could it have followed him there?

Who gave the bartender the drawing? He demanded to know, needed to know. Walking past his

friend he flung open the door and charged at the bartender. His voice shaky he screamed at him

“where did you get it? Who gave it to you?”

Behind the counter the man glared with suspicious eyes. “I don’t know what you’re

talking about. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off. You’ve had too much to drink.”

“The hell you don’t know what I’m talking about! Who gave you the picture?”

A hand lay upon his shoulder. He turned and flung it off with one swift movement. Tony

backed off, his palms raised. “Sorry man,” he said, “just calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. If you knew…” His words trailed off into labored

breathing. Sweat glistened on his face, streaming down his neck. A crazed look grew in his eyes

as he looked from Tony to the bartender, back to Tony.

“What’s wrong? Maybe if you talk it will help.”

John let out a vicious, maniacal cackling that sent Tony back a few more steps. “You

really think you can help me?”

“At least let me try, I’m your friend.”

The words seemed to calm him. He felt his rage begin to subside. “Yes, you are my

friend. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, just sit down for a moment and we’ll talk this out.”

“I’m done talking,” John said before darting out the door, back into the street. He ran as

fast as he could, leaving Tony behind. Unfortunate that he would never see him again. But that’s

what it was going to take.

It’s the only way to end it, he told himself, and it’s the only way to go. The only choice I

have left.

Police lights lit up the streets below the ten story apartment building and a crowd

gathered to witness the spectacle. Spotlights blazed in his direction, lighting up the figure poised

on the edge of the roof. A policeman with a bullhorn shouted up at him. “Please step away from

the edge,” he said. “We can talk this through.”

Talking, always talking. Why do they all think that’s the answer?

He knew better. He knew no amount of words could stop it. They think I want to kill

myself, he scoffed. They’ll see the truth soon.

He saw Tony in the crowd below. He worked his way through the people and began

talking to one of the cops. They gave him a bullhorn. “John, don’t do this. Just come down from

there. We can help you.”

I wish that were true.

Then the air rushed to meet him. He sailed towards the concrete below, and for a

moment, thought he was flying. Despite the fear it felt beautiful, it felt free. He soared into the

night, and for the briefest of moments, he was invincible.

Tony had to look away from the bloody mess. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he held

back his sobs. He looked up at the roof, wondering why. Why had John taken his life?

From above a single sheet of white paper fluttered down and landed at his feet.

By Lee A. Forman

Lee A. Forman has been a fan of horror literature and cinema for decades. He spends most of his time writing short fiction, hiking trails around the Hudson Valley, and watching old movies. In October 2014 he won 3rd place in the Writer’s Carnival Short Story Contest hosted by Sanitarium Magazine. In 2015 he was a competitor in David Wellington’s Fear Project. His work has also been published in Siren’s Call, The Horror Zine, Morpheus Tales, and Blood Moon Rising. For more information and to read his web series, Silence in the Willow Field, go to
The link to my site is included in my bio but here are links to my Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter if you’d like to include them as well.

Paying Forward


The problem isn’t with the blood; like joy it spreads easy and everywhere.

The problem isn’t with the organs; they’re warm and cushy, ever so comforting especially on

cold and lonely nights.

The problem isn’t with the flesh. A slab of skin is as challenging to an artist as is a block of clay.

It is largely blank and there is so much of it, but unlock your inventiveness; it has so many uses,

so many applications. And when you’re done creating and playing, that meat is so damn chewy

and so tasty even uncooked.

Oh sure I know what you’re thinking. It can be overwhelming. I have seen the hesitation in your

eyes. Once dissected the human body can take up considerably more space since everything is

packed so tightly inside…and well it happened to me.

You should have seen me the first time. I was in overload. I was incomplete confusion as I

unpacked. I didn’t know what to do first.

Look my dear don’t worry. There is no right or wrong here. Just sit back, survey, relax and enjoy

the moment. Let the spirit hit you.

“Like sex?”

You do enjoy sex don’t you? Yes darling, if you enjoy something so much you deserve your

token of remembrance to give it meaning.


Kimberleigh, don’t over think this, that’s the fun of it. Look upon the experience of humanity as

a piñata, as Christmas every time you touch one.


Yes, my darling.

“But what about the smell? I mean, I don’t like the smell. I don’t think I will ever get used to the

stench of a body when it’s first opened, I’m sorry. Especially so after a day or two.”

You’ll get accustomed to it. You’ll be as comfortable with it as a pair of old slippers. It will in

time trigger your desires. Just give it time sweetheart.

“But father…”

Darling, you do love the cutting?

“Yes, but it’s more like slicing. I do love to see the blood surface.”

And you have told me how much you enjoy the texture and feel of the human body.

“Oh yes, I do. But father I really only like one part the best.”

And that’s why you are keeping them in jars in your room next to your unicorns and carousel

horses. There is nothing wrong with that.

Look my dear, if full dissection isn’t your thing that’s okay. You are an individual. A unique

personality who has to develop her own style, her own signature. Just make sure you take out

your trash, being sloppy will get you caught.

“Thank you for understanding father.”

Anything for you my dear, anything at all; I am so gratified and humbled of your wish to carry

forward my legacy to you. But unlike myself, you my love are in possession of something you

treasure and perhaps that is truly better because you will always have a visible connection to

your loves.

I stopped collecting jewelry and clothing…way too dangerous if there ever is an inquiry. I hold

onto memories that with age begin to dim and falter.

You are more analytical than I which is why I believe you will ultimately outperform me and to

that I am so very pleased.

I have always been too impulsive which is perhaps why I crave the excess. And perhaps which is

why I suffer the problem I speak to.

You see darling the problem with this vocation is simply the hole I feel in my heart when I’m

done. It’s the cold feeling I get when my sweat dries and the rush is over. I am curious to see if

you feel the same as I but something tells me you will not. Something tells me you will stay level

and dead inside.

I am happy for you because in my case save for the Good Lord in Heaven, no one knows how

much I hate goodbyes.

By Joseph J. Patchen


Two years ago, I met the love of my life. Ten months ago, I made her my wife.d6bd11dc330ae2e8573df9ea1970fa28

Two weeks ago, I chopped off her head. In my defense, she tried to kill me first. But I

don’t hold a grudge. How could I? She’s the love of my life.

Ours was a romance too fantastical for fairytales, too cheesy for Nicholas Sparks.

And the sex? Jesus. You know the kind of sex middle age housewives in the grocery

store checkout lines think Brad and Angelina have every few hours? Trust me,

Brangelina’s sex life was like your grandparents compared to ours. I don’t tell you this to

brag, though; I’m telling you so you’ll understand why I did what I did.

Even before the deadheads came, we never had much food in the house. So it

wasn’t long until we were down to a sleeve of crackers and some mustard. Neither of us

wanted to go outside, but what choice did we have? I couldn’t just sit there and watch her

starve. Like I said, she was the love of my life.

Unfortunately, our first run didn’t exactly go as planned. We found some food, but

the deadheads found us on the way back, and she got bit. We knew it was a death


That night, I caught her trying to sneak out. Said she didn’t want to burden me. I

held her and told her everything would be okay, that I’d love her forever, no matter what.

I kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth, and then, well, it should come as no

surprise what happened next.

In the middle of it all, on tiptoes and bent over the couch, she turned. La petit mort,

indeed. I couldn’t see her face, and just took the increased moaning and thrashing as a

sign that I was doing something right. Imagine my surprise when I turned her over and

she snapped at my jugular. Take it from me: if you’ve never tried fucking your wife

while she’s trying to eat your face, I wouldn’t recommend it.

I pushed her down, ran to the door and grabbed the axe we’d kept there since Matt

Lauer went deadhead on Al Roker’s surgically deflated stomach on national television. In

one swing, it was over. Her head rolled across the floor and hit the wall, biting at the air

the whole time.

I fainted.

When I came to, her eyes were locked on me, her teeth still snapping at the distance

between us. I got up and placed her now lifeless body in the bedroom, put on some heavy

gloves and carried her head to the kitchen table. Then, using a pair of rusty pliers, I

ripped out her teeth, one by one.

That was two weeks ago. The skin around her gums has pulled back a bit, and her

left cheek has sloughed off. She’s also missing an eye. But she’s still my wife. She’s still


Especially her smile.

I can’t stop thinking about her smile. About her mouth. About the things she used

to do with it. I see her tongue, licking over shriveled gums. I try to hold out, but I’m only

human. Slowly, I unzip my pants and place my hand on top of her head. She opens her

mouth and takes me in.

I’m not proud, but I don’t think she minds. She’s still the love of my life.

By Larry Hinkle

Larry Hinkle is an advertising copywriter living with his wife, two dogs and a cat in the suburbs of San Antonio, Texas. His work has been published in Suspense Magazine, Cemetery Moon, Theme of Absence, 365 Tomorrows, The Drabblecast, the zombie anthology Life of the Dead, and twice inSanitarium Magazine. He was also named an “Honorable Mention” winner in Allegory.

In no particular order, he loves beer, zombies, stand-up comedy, cynicism, Diet Coke, loud music, TV, skiing, camping, dogs, the colors purple, orange and black, horror, proofreaders, the Cleveland Browns, THE Ohio State University, his friends and family, and smart advertising.

He hates pretty much everything else.

Fast Food

d7a006bde69e7e6cda5bec18a217cffdCassaga thought it was peculiar. Rugged was a beast of the shadows. He generally hid.

He would sometimes prey on the girls at the establishment Gorgeous Nightmare in a

playful fashion, but he would always disappear before anyone in the counsel could

interrogate him or bring him into Evan.

“It wasn’t a crime for living,” he once told her.

She hated fights with him. He always made sure to play up the sexual tension and the

innuendo and while there was no doubt that he was attractive, he was a vampire! A

lecherous old creep.

He liked to toy with her in front of her husband when they had their excursions and she

could never seem to work up enough nerve to capture him. But today would be different

if she found him.

It shouldn’t be hard.

He was leaving quite a blood trail today. He must have been ravenous. He had already

drained four victims. She couldn’t imagine how any beast could get so hungry. She knew

every creature had to eat, but this seemed excessive.

Rugged wasn’t known for having much of a conscience. He watched the girl from the

shadows. She could sense him, but she couldn’t see him. He could hear the speed of her

heart thumping loudly in her chest. Such a beautiful drum.

Poor pretty little bird thought she had a chance of getting away. He had to hand it to

them, no matter how pathetic they may seem, humans had a tenacious spirit. They always

had the desire to live and sometimes they could even surprise him with a strength they

didn’t seem to possess. Their fear, their anger seemed to make them stronger than their

usual weakness in every day life. He had to admit that it made the thrill of the hunt a little

more exciting than it otherwise would be.

“Damned beast, where did it go?” she demanded to thin air. “Dear God—.”

Rugged snorted. “I’ve never believed in Him, but if He does exist then He’s left this

alleyway quite some time ago,” he whispered in the girl’s ear, suddenly appearing from

nowhere. “Ever since I laid eyes on you, you didn’t have a prayer.”

“RUGGED!” snarled a voice. He turned to see a gold haired woman with gold eyes

standing before him with guns drawn. The daughter of the great gun maker. Cassaga. He

had tangoed with her before, but he was not in any mood to do any dancing that night. He

was hungry, and like any creature when he was hungry he would need nourishment.

“Sorry, Cassaga, as much as I love taking bets on who gets more dances with you—me or

your husband, I really don’t have time to tango tonight, love.”

“I am not your anything let alone love, and don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that great a

dancer,” she scoffed, eyes flashing.

“No need to be rude,” he sneered, smirking. He used magic to form a wall that Cassaga

could not pass. “But I don’t have time for you tonight so you may as well go back to your

husband. Don’t worry, I’m sure the head of the counsel will love to hear how you let me

get away again. Weren’t you axed for a promotion last time this happened? Can’t wait to

see what he does to you this time.”

“You monster!”

“What gave it away, the fangs?” Rugged snickered. He then turned his back to Cassaga.

The girl was getting away, but he knew just what direction she had just went. Her fear

was rancid and her heart was beating so quickly it was a wonder she hadn’t collapsed yet.

He walked into a building and walked to the top, and he saw the woman’s hair bobbing in

the near black pitch, the red dancing in the pale gold of lamp light. He loved how his

vision made all the vibrant hues more visible to him, all those things that the humans

couldn’t see. Pitiful insects. So easily smashed and crushed like insects beneath his boots.

He watched as the girl turned to see where he was.

Smirking, he gave her a few seconds to think she had outfoxed him before dropping

behind her as she continued looking behind. “Boo,” he breathed in her ear. “Isn’t that how

Orpheus lost Eurydice, by looking behind? Silly humans, you never really learn your

lessons, do you?”

The girl slashed at him with her nails before running away.

“Fiery, eh?” he laughed. “I do like them when they fight back.” He felt the blood rush

down his cheeks. Few had actually scratched him that hard. He loved the feeling. He

knew the wounds would soon heal themselves so he didn’t bother trying to exert energy

on that now.

“Leave me alone.”

“Sorry, love, I’m hungry. I can’t do that. You could make this easier on yourself, just

succumb. I am stronger than you could ever hope to be, you know that, right?” he


“Even still I will never give in,” she snarled, promptly tripping and falling on her rear.

Still, the woman glared at him with such intensity if looks could kill then Rugged would

have instantly keeled over.

Rugged raised his eyebrows. “You, love, are as stubborn as they come. I do love the fire

in your eyes. It’s a pity that they’ll no longer be that lovely shade of blue October once

I’ve killed you. They’ll probably fade to something pale and cloudy.”

She pulled out a gun with shaking hands.

“Do you even know how to use that?”

She shot him hard in the shoulder, causing Rugged to take a few steps backward.

“That hurt,” he pouted. “Why should you hurt me?”

“Are you serious?” she asked. “You’re threatening to kill me and I shouldn’t hurt you?

What special kind of psychopath are you?”

“The type that supersedes even your mother’s imagination,” he winked.

“You’re disgusting.”

Rugged gave her a twisted smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He then appeared

beside her. “Such a pity. You really are a pretty little bird.” He grabbed her by her

shoulders, pulling her into a standing position before biting deep into her throat.

She screamed and clawed at him, but he barely felt or heard anything she did. Her blood

was the only lullaby he could hear. It tasted so sweet his eyes flickered open and closed

in ecstasy. Once she was dead he threw her dead body to the ground. “Just as I

suspected,” he remarked, savoring the last drop of blood that fell from his fangs. “They’re

cloudy and pale.” He frowned, “And I’m still hungry.”

He eyed a man stepping out of his shop. He didn’t seem to have heard the chaos of the

girl’s death as he looked perfectly serene.

“Hello,” Rugged smirked. “Today seems as good a day as any to die, doesn’t it?”

“Who are you?” the man stammered.

Rugged smirked viciously. “Your worst nightmare.” He snorted as the man slashed at

him with a blade. “I forgot that men can put up such horrid fights. They claw more

tenaciously for life than women but with far less passion.” He sighed, grabbing the man

roughly by his shoulders. “But I don’t have time to chase you. I’m hungry.”


He turned to see Veronique standing there, her mismatched eyes flashing with fury. She

was the only woman with whom he had left alive that knew his true name. Yet she didn’t

use it. “I knew my secret was safe with you, beautiful,” he cooed. “But I’m a little busy

right now, perhaps, we could catch up later.”

“Put him down.”

“Not a chance, I’m hungry.”

He saw as she pulled out a stake in one hand and a blade in another.

“Veronique, I thought we were friends, love.”

“I am not friends with monsters.”

“Oh, really?” Rugged challenged.

“Of course not,” Veronique retorted.

“That’s not what you said when we shared that bed together,” he winked. The rage on her

face amused him. “Oh, that look of fury. I wish I could indulge it more, but I have no

time. Do tell your brother if he doesn’t stop sniffing around he will meet the same fate as

his mother. I do hope for his sake that he values his life more than she did. Looks like I’ll

have to take out some fast food.” He bit deeply and savagely into the man’s shoulder,

disappearing in a cloud of magic, but not before spilling the man’s blood upon the


Veronique hissed as Rugged disappeared. She hated vampires. They were really the worst

of the monsters. They always seemed to combine food and pleasure together and they

seemed to find themselves astonishingly witty.

She cursed out loud.

“What now, Lady Veronique?”

“We tell Evan that Rugged is trying to send him a bloody message.”

“Any need for the vulgarity, lady?”

“I was being punny,” Veronique scoffed, without turning. She glanced at the blood

spilled on the ground. “Let the games begin. Evan may be the one to kill the beast, but he

didn’t say I couldn’t maim him. Should he cross my path again, he’ll be lucky if he can

even kill again.”

Cassaga blinked. “You almost seem more monstrous than he does.”

“Trust me,” the elf smirked darkly. “Not all monsters have fangs. Sometimes the

monsters are just you and I.”

By Linda M. Crate
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015.


And so the story is told from long ago about poor Becky and Sam. This young couple fell

in love in the heart of downtown Chicago while sharing some turkey and ham.

Theirs was a love affair that quickly took flight. A romance seemingly written in the stars

until Becky met her end that fateful night when Sam came home from the bars.

He was off his meds, drunk, he was hearing voices urging him to slice and to kill. He

packed some of her remains in the floor joists and the rest he ate until full.

Becky tasted sweet; she was tender and ripe; ever so succulent in a brown sugar glaze.bba1203c048569215d38169c26d80dda

Sam patted his belly and let out a belch as he pulled out his pipe to puff on some purple


Soon he drifted off in a cannabis snooze, fantasizing broiled tripe. Licking his lips and

caressing his sweet muse he was soon shockingly aroused by one sight.

There suspended above him, sweet Becky flew drenched in dripping blood. There were

holes that were her eyes burning so bright she was cackling and shrieking out loud:

“You may have eaten my lungs; you may have ingested my liver, but tonight you will get

your prize. Sam tonight is the night, the deadliest night for you too will end your own


Gagging was Sam from the surprise of his life but he still tried dismissing her with a

shrug. But then he burped, and burped and burped and belched spitting out first his

severed tongue.

Then one by one, followed by each tooth, then his empty jaw…

“It is time for repentance!” declared the dead girl; as his eyes bounced and rolled all

across the floor.

Her form dematerialized into a misty white swirl as the cloud filled the room like smoke.

Sam gagged and flailed as he inhaled her, swarming was she as he lost his toes…

Soon Sam was dead; his was form torn asunder, bite sized, medium and in extra large

chunks. The room looked like the inside of a blender as Becky’s laugh was heard above

the plunks.

And there in the middle was a tube of skin, open too was his throat all cleared;

Sam could not laugh or even manage a burp anymore.

By Joseph J. Patchen

Two Poems by Philip Wardlow

Wolf Moon

Cold fog seeps

and crawls across

the path I creep.

Winds undulate naked branches,

stirring dead leaves to life

begging at second chances

full-moon-by-crudityDarkness shrouds my form

wrapped in a cursed cocoon

that is constantly reborn.

Full moon rises high

resplendent in my soul

A wicked herald courses the sky.

Skin rips, tendons elongate,

Blood drips, fangs germinate

as hair propagates as muscles sip

at the power the moon

spills and instills

into me.

A howl escapes…

full and exultant,

primal and free.

It is answered

by a brother, then a sister

fallen under the same spell

of the Wolf Moon.

It’s a call

To hunt.

and we are hungry.

Oh so hungry.

Scary and Creepy

I spied an old man at my screen door

with yellow teeth,

all filed to sharp fine points

He smiled at me with

a pasty pale wicked grin

mouthing only one simple word,


I caught the flash of a face in

the rear view mirror.


and sick

it looked.

Baleful and bound

to hell in my backseat

That is before I felt

its jagged fingernail upon

my cheek.

I had a dream so real

So real So real

It pulled and dragged

my body down



The weight

of its intent was dark

and unforgiving.

So much so I fear that

I would never ever want

to fall back asleep.

The creak of the stairs.

The creak of the stairs.

Why oh why do the

stairs creak?

For I have no dog, I have no cats

I have no companion in my home.

So why do the stairs creak so?

As I sit in my house all alone.

By Philip Wardlow

Philip Wardlow is a burgeoning ever growing fantasy  writer and poet. His writing tastes run to the Dark Urban Fantasy, Horror, along with a dash of Sci-Fi. He likes to dabble in various forms of poetry; from the erotic, to the dark, to the humorous, profound and beautifully sentimental.

He has only been at this chosen path for a few  years and has produced one Novella published as an Ebook on Amazon called “Roadkill”. He has submitted and continues to submit various stories and works of poetry to publications for consideration. He was recently published in the Quail Bell Magazine for a short story he wrote called, “Flight through Forest”. and came in second in Carnage Conservatory’s Halloween Writing contest for his horror story “Witch Hunt”

He is currently working on  a collection of his short stories  due out in 2015 at the end of year in E-book format and perhaps even as paperback if lucky.   He hopes to toll with bloody fingers to pen and paper and the constant punching of the keyboard.

Love Bites

Sharon Caliri slapped her thigh high boot with the rigid switch. She dabbed the beaded sandm

sweat from her face and forehead with her elbow hugging silk gloves. Sharon grinned at the

striped welts that crisscrossed her husband’s bare ass.

“A few more and I’ll be crowned queen of the rump roasters. You agree with me,

don’t you, my little douche worm.”

Steve Caliri grunted through the orange and red ball gag that cinched his mouth.

“I didn’t hear you, wormy. Does a cat have your tongue, eh? One definitely will

later. And this time I want you to lick all the way to my ribs.”

Sharon returned the whip to its peg on the playroom wall. She snickered and unhooked

the leather paddle hanging beside it. Raised metal studs spelled out SLUT across its center.

Sharon wound her arm and smacked Steve’s right buttock. She giggled at his muted yelp as he

strained against the clasped headboard on the freestanding stocks. Sharon nodded with

satisfaction at the worded impression emblazoned on his crimson skin.

“Got to finish it up right and proper, wormy. Make like the match game, especially since

you’re such a double mint big time ass pain, pain in the ass slut.”

Sharon spanked Steve’s left cheek. She frowned at the dinky puddle of sperm slopped on

the drop cloth bunched around his feet. Sharon unlocked the stocks and unbound her husband’s


“You’re not getting into it much, baby. The last time I used the bum writer, your wee wee

gushed about a gallon’s worth.”

Caliri stretched his freed arms and hugged her.

“I can never say no to you, pet, whenever you want to play. I wouldn’t want, or dare to. I

guess I’m distracted because I’m finally so fucking close! All the indications are there. The

vaccinated animals completely resisted transference of the pathogen from the infected ones, even

after multiple exposures. And they’re able to resist any inflicted injuries to an amazing degree.”

“Oh, they take the licking and keep on ticking,” Sharon said. “Sounds like you and your

sweet bum when we get into really rambunctious play time.”

Caliri laughed and winced at her remark.

“I guess I can make you do almost anything, but not make get into it when you’re not into

it. Or could I?”

Sharon tapped her thigh with the paddle.

“Well, Carly Simon got it right, anticipation is everything she sang about, and a whole

shit load more. Once you’re done and we’re taken care of, we’ll party hardy and hard on-y. So,

my sweet little worm…”

Sharon kissed her husband and swabbed the inside of his mouth with her wet tongue.

Steve cooed when she rubbed his shaven testicles with the jelled strap on she wore.

“Sounds a little scratchy down below,” Sharon said. “Mikey and Ikey need a trim. Maybe

I should get out my special tweezers and clean them like a whistle once and for all.”

“I love your dichotomy, pet. You can be so sweet and girly, and also be such a good,

well, a, ah…”

“A good big old fucking mega bitch. Yep, me bad. Now, go, finish. I can make it an


They embraced and Steve headed for his basement workshop. Sharon braced herself

against the stocks and yanked off her boots. Steve presented them to her when he first pledged

his total surrender and agreed to be her eternal slave. She wore the boots for her husband’s

continued titillation despite the pinch they developed after she administered Steve a literal and

totally satisfying ass kicking. Sharon grinned at the memory of the color kaleidoscope of red,

black and blue bruises that required several weeks to fade. She giggled as thought about lubing

up one boot and testing how far up Steve’s spread open anus she could ram its tapered toe.

Sharon shuffled to the spanking bench in the corner and grabbed the I-pad from its seat.

She thumbed through the views displayed by the panoramic cameras attached to the house. Steve

installed them when the marauding risen dead started to attack the nearby towns. Her clever little

wormy possessed the foresight to reinforce their personal defenses and not rely on the hastily

organized official sanctuaries. The reanimates overran all the government shelters in less than a

The cameras verified their usefulness when Steve’s lusty screams during a strenuous

CBT session alerted half a dozen scavenging ghouls to the couple’s presence in the otherwise

deserted neighborhood. They expended precious ammunition and gas dealing with the freaks.

Sharon insisted they starting using the ball gag to prevent any repeat incursion.

Sharon paused at the feed generated by the front door camera. She zoomed in on a gaggle

of sunflowers that sprouted in the splintered scraps of her former window box. The reanimates

attracted by Steve’s scream struck soon after she planted the seeds; the window box suffered as

collateral damage in the ensuing firefight. Sharon decided the risen dead’s ashen and desiccated

remains provided a potent fertilizer that allowed the flowers to thrive. She giggled and patted her

“Looks like you got some competition for my worm’s bum hole.”

Sharon sauntered from the playroom and padded barefoot through the living room. She

set the I-pad and paddle on the glass topped coffee table and unbarred the steel fortified door.

She stepped out on the browned front lawn and knelt to pick the flowers. Sharon sorted the plants

by stem length and calculated their insertion order.

“He loves me, and he sure as shit wouldn’t dare not to.”

The ground shifted and rippled as a charred skull with scorched skin tatters adhered to it

burrowed through the dirt. The cranium dumped loose earth from its mouth and bit Sharon’s

knee. She shrieked at the peppery sting that burned her. Sharon clutched her leg and wrenched it

from the soot pile. The skull clamped onto her with its jagged blackened teeth. They yanked back

and forth and struggled in a sanguine spraying game of tug of war. Spurting gore striped the skull

with zigzagged blood streaks as Sharon jounced and shook her leg free. The bonehead tore off a

skin hunk when her frantic wriggling knocked it loose. Ground pulpy flesh plopped through its

clacking mouth and swished into the vacant chin cavity.

Sharon doubled in a half crouch and stumbled back into the house. The skull mashed its

jaws together and lugged itself across the lawn. The cranium twirled across the threshold and

continued its mouth drag through the carpet. Sharon halted her precipitous coughing jag and

glared at the skull as it entered the living room.

“You goddamn cock sucking ass wipe!”

She grabbed the SLUT paddle. Sharon chopped the bonehead’s singed scalp and cleaved

it with the swatter’s ridged edges. The exposed brain throbbed and emitted a combined stench of

pungent BO mixed with expelled gas. Sharon sliced at the encephalon with continuous savage

strokes. She implanted the paddle in the squashed organ with a final blow as her fading strength

eclipsed. The weight of the embedded smacker tipped the bonehead on its side. The cranium

leaked pink, gray and tarry mush on the carpet. Sharon hacked another round of dry heaves as

she collapsed on the coffee table. The glass cracked in a web pattern. Her strap on folded in half

under the weight of her expired body.


Steve Caliri sprinted two steps at a time as he ran up the basement stairs. He cradled a

disposable hypodermic and a rubber-corked vial of misted liquid.

“I did it, pet, I did it!” he whooped. “It works, I rock, it works!”

Caliri paused when he reached the kitchen and filled the hypodermic.

“Sharon? I got it all figured now. I let the test animals bite me and they couldn’t infect

me. No spread, no transmittal, total fucking immunity!”

Caliri laughed and cha-chaed through the kitchen.

“Don’t change if you haven’t, it’s mega sadie mashie time. Bump us my rumpus until my

sphincter sings show tunes. I’ll immunize you and…”

Steve halted mid caper when he saw the blood trail across the living room carpet. He

booted the split skull onto the lawn and bolted the door. Caliri flinched when he heard a purled

Sharon sat cross-legged atop the centered coffee table. She twitched and spasmed as she

stared at her husband with glazed, red rimmed eyes. Sharon rubbed her dildo and reached out to

“Sweet wormy,” she croaked.

Sharon slumped from the table. Steve backpedaled and retreated to the kitchen. She duck

walked after him and whacked her strap on.

“Hungry for you. I really want your ass now.”

Steve twisted aside when his wife lunged at him. She bounced against the Formica table

and sprawled backwards on the linoleum floor. Steve snatched a chair and pinned her underneath

it. He plopped in the chair and trapped Sharon’s flailing arm. Caliri jabbed her with the

hypodermic and emptied its contents into her azure vein. Steve observed his wife and frowned

after a minute as she continued to snarl and claw at him. Caliri refilled the hypodermic and

nabbed Sharon’s arm again.

“Work, work, you piece of shit. Cure her!”

Sharon raked Steve’s hand with her nails. He yelped with a combination of agony and

elation. Caliri bolted upright and tipped over the chair. Sharon knelt in front of him and leered at

her husband. His eyes bugged and he gawked as she shredded the chunk of severed hand. Caliri

moaned and grinned as an intense burn kindled in his crotch. He kneaded his testicles in an

automatic gesture while his wife chewed up his skin and sinew. Steve’s stiffened penis popped

from under the sash of his half kimono. Sharon grinned at his hard on and flaunted her bloody

fingertips and teeth at him. A sliver of tendon dangled between her front teeth. Steve watched it

wiggle and spurted a gush of semen. His glistening sperm stained his robe and splattered

Sharon’s face. She scooped it with her fingers and slurped up the milky combination of blood

and cum. Her sanguine smeared lips curved into the familiar oval that punctuated her orgasms.

Sharon moaned and flashed Steve the smile she granted him when he performed to her

satisfaction during play.

“Good, both. More, more.”

“It’s only good as a preventive, not a curative,” Caliri said. “But it really prevents. You

just gave me a better cumquat than even I ever thought I could have. You felt, too. I can’t do a

cure, I don’t have those smarts or the supplies even if I knew how to. I guess I just got lucky with

the vaccine. Shit, is this the consolation prize? I don’t know, pet, I don’t know much at this


Sharon plucked the tendon from her teeth. She looped it around the purple tip of Steve’s

rock hard cock. Caliri gasped when his wife wrung dribbled sperm on the tendon. She

unwrapped the sinew and snaked it around and between her breasts. Steve laughed when she

rubbed it across her labia.

“I guess that’s your way of saying yes. And if my mistress says yes, that’s it, then.”

Sharon scarfed the stringy sinew.


Steve completed his final security sweep with a relieved confidence. He pronounced the

house defenses impenetrable to both reanimates and any possible stray humans. Caliri listed on

his single crutch and grabbed its handle with his skeletal fingers. He needed the extra reassurance

as they embarked on what he termed ultimo play time. Steve smiled when the graphic

recollections of their previous punishment romps stimulated phantom twinges in the multiple

wounds Sharon inflicted on him with ferocious lust.

“Right words, Dr. Smith, wrong intent. Oh, the pain, the pain.”

Caliri’s reveries tingled the customary and always welcome prickle in his groin. He felt

gratified and amazed his mangled man sack retained a virile zing even after Sharon hacked it

open and chowed down on his right testicle. Caliri quivered as his memory of the potent orgasm

his wife’s gonad nibble induced.

“The Hu-mongo-cum.”

Sharon giggled as she chugged his virtual geyser of sperm. She patted his mauled genitals

once the torrent of cum ceased and clamped her blood and seminal fluid smeared mouth on his

quadriceps. Steve interpreted the sparing of his second testicle an indication that a latent

humanity persisted in his reanimated wife.

“You still thought of me and my future pleasure, my sweet mistress pet.”

Sharon’s recent decline frightened and saddened him. Steve attributed her lingering

consciousness to their continued and complete isolation. Reanimates embodied the stereotype of

like beings behaving in a similar fashion when gathered in a group. Steve harbored no desire to

carry on their unique play without his wife’s at least somewhat sentient participation.

Caliri shambled on his bony legs to the bedroom at the rear of the house. Sharon thrashed

against the leather straps binding her to the headboard of their waterbed. Steve trussed his wife in

the same bands she used to tether him. Her increased ferocity required he keep one arm always

remain cinched. Steve noted the thick glaze over her eyes as Sharon fixated on him with

bloodshot orbs. His wife’s prized floor length raven length had clumped and frizzed. Caliri

remembered with wistful lust when Sharon braided her wet tresses into a cat o nine tails and

whipped him with them for over an hour. Her formerly petite and bouncy breasts shriveled to

mismatched lumps and their succulent nipples browned into dried raisins. Sharon’s once lustrous

pubic thatch bristled like a mass of coarse wire. Steve counted half a dozen new splits in her

sallow skin. He smiled and crooned a variation on the old Joe Cocker song he used to serenade

her following intercourse.

“You are still beautiful to me.”

Sharon stuck out her blood-soiled tongue. Steve shrugged off the wooly Garfield robe he

wore. Sharon bought it after she overheard his enthusiastic approval of the obese feline’s disdain

for Mondays. Her grin of recognition perked Steve’s spirits. He whistled The Stripper and

swayed in a mock bump and grind dance. Sharon’s amused smile changed to a ravenous snarl

before the robe hit the floor.

Caliri sat naked beside his wife and rocked her on the droopy bed. He conducted foraging

raids into the still virulent outside world to scrounge for any liquid that helped keep the bed

intact. Sharon loved the waves and ripples they created on it during post play sex. Caliri teared

when his wife chewed his pinky.

“Always for you, pet.”

Sharon crunched the flesh from his tendered appendage. Caliri dabbed his watery eyes

with the skinned hand. He blinked loose blood and stray cuticle flakes. Steve unfastened the

straps and stretched out on the bed. He smiled at Sharon’s perplexed moan.

“You sense it’s different now. Right as always, pet. Soup is really on this time.”

Sharon grinned and straddled Steve’s hips. She clutched his near flaccid penis and

alternated up and down strokes with constricting squeezes. Steve whimpered as his lithe schlong

tensed to full, robust rigidity. Sharon barked with glee and jammed Steve’s cock into her vagina.

Caliri whinnied when she jounced and rode his erection. Her spikey pubes scoured him as her

pussy slapped against his maimed genitalia. Steve squirted pre-cum juice into his wife. Sharon’s

labia seized his penis in a vise grip.

“Your ta-ta is still ha-ha,” Steve said.

Sharon ripped apart Caliri’s throat and slurped up his jugular. She yanked his Adam’s

apple free and pondered its shape.

“You’re right, pet, it really doesn’t look like a fruit of any definition. Whoever named it

must have been toking on some high grade Ganga, man.”

Sharon gnawed the ossified cartilage and cracked her two front teeth. She growled and

flung it against the bedroom wall. Her forceful hurl rocked the waterbed and loosened her pussy

grip on Steve’s dong. Sharon glared at her husband’s tee-heed response to her near tumble.

“Don’t get mad, pet. Take it out on me. Please, take it out on me, sweet mistress.”

Sharon rent Steve’s chest with both hands. She ground his pectorals into skin and sinew

hash and wolfed the down gory potpourri. Caliri laughed again as gobs of the bloody goulash

dribbled down his wife’s chin.

Sharon groped Steve’s shredded chest and pawed his heart. Caliri shrieked and speared

his wife in frenzied tandem with the mauling rhythm of her thumps. Sharon patted her breast and

felt for an answering beat in her own chest. Caliri watched her stymied look change to an

agitated scowl of confusion. He murmured to her in between aroused moans.

“They only beat together metaphorically now, pet.”

Sharon squashed Steve’s heart and wrenched it from his mashed chest. Caliri’s voice

cracked when he screamed in response and launched a gargantuan wad into his wife. Sharon

munched on Steve’s pulsing heart while she jolted up and on his spurting penis. She slathered

blood on her clitoris and blended it with the sperm trickles that seeped from her pussy. Caliri

giggled as his wife’s face twitched and contorted.

“You’re still loving it. That’s the orgasm past cloud nine cum face. The vaccine kept me

going so I could please you one more big ass time!”

Sharon dismounted Steve’s cock. Blood and semen leaked from her vagina and trickled

in crimson and white strips down her legs. Sharon bobbed her head as she licked and sucked

Caliri’s gore and cum varnished pecker. Steve squealed when she scraped his remaining testicle

with her prickly tongue.

“Yeah, that’s it, eat me, pet. Eat me, really eat me!”

Sharon chomped her husband’s penis and mutilated scrotum. Caliri screeched and rocked

the bed with his violent, twisting back arches. His crotch popped its final spasm and he sprayed

cum in his wife’s face. Steve cackled as Sharon slicked down her frizzled hair with his blood and


“That’s using a real cum-ditioner, pet.”

Sharon chewed Caliri’s residual skin and tissue and pared him to a convulsing skeleton.

She rubbed her body with the dripping swathes before feasting on the flesh and fibers. Sharon

slithered up Steve’s quivering bones and rapped on Caliri’s pivoted skull. She grabbed the lamp

from the nightstand and split Steve’s skull with its wrought iron base. Sharon lapped up her

husband’s oozing brain.


Sharon’s dominant consciousness smothered Caliri as it dragged him in. Steve thrilled at

the savage, berserk pull of her ego. He recoiled from a solid fluidness that imprisoned the far

edges of his wife’s awareness. Caliri retreated from the dark barrier and surrendered to Sharon’s

powerful and enthralling thought processes.

Steve flinched as hot wax splattered his again intact testicles. He pictured his wife

squatting over him with a lighted candle. Caliri crammed his face between her taut butt cheeks

and licked her puckered anus. Sharon smirked and ripped a barrage of odiferous farts.

“Taco supreme means more el gas for the wormy.”

Steve’s arms tensed and ached as they strained to support his full body weight. His wrists

chafed in the wall mounted shackles that suspended him half a foot above the playroom floor.

His swollen ass stung from the numerous binder clips his wife pinched to it.

“The rumpus is officially mucho bump us,” Sharon declared. “The wiener and the waggie

baggie get it next. A little good and plenty pain and agony for you, wormy poo.”

Sharon plucked a handful of varied size clips from the pouch strapped to her leather tool

belt. A ribbed foot long dildo anchored it to her waist. Sharon grasped Steve at the waist and

swiveled him around to face her.

“I’m part of you now. You consumed me, but I can’t seem to actually die, all the way.

The vaccine. Fucking A. All your awesome and wicked thoughts and ideas, it’s for always.”

Sharon scowled at her husband.

“You don’t have my permission to talk, wormy. Things ain’t different here. Nip that right

in the bud, just like I’m going to nip your gonad buds. Next thing, you’ll be trying to cum on

your own.”

Sharon clamped Steve’s mouth with three binder clips.

“I got to mix things up; you’re getting too used to these. I can’t have you getting

comfortable on me.”

Sharon slapped Steve’s face and pulled a stapler from her pouch. Steve’s erect penis

throbbed as she tacked his pee hole.

“No squirting for you, wormy douche.”

Sharon smacked Steve’s cock and laughed when it bounced. The clamps binding his

mouth prevented Steve from smiling a full, contented grin.

By Tim J. Finn

Tim J. Finn’s first literary effort was an origin story for Aurora’s The Forgotten Prisoner model. He then proceeded to awe his Catholic school classmates, and no doubt alarm the good nuns, with his subsequent tales of monsters and mayhem. Finn has worked as a short order cook, a radio disc jockey, office temp, copywriter and front desk receptionist. He earned a BA in English from Grinnell College and is a member of the New England Horror Writers and the Horror Society. His stories appear in numerous anthologies as well as print and e-magazines. Details on his writings and musings can be found at

Two Poems by John Grey


My Visit

Rain falls.

I prowl.

Light slips away from the mansion wall.

I replace it, a singular bat-like thing

flanging the shadow of its skin

like a cape.

Wind struggles with a window.

I flick it open like an eye.

Darkness halts at the tip of her cheek,

shunned by beauty.

I plunge, bolt down my sigh

frenzied as lightning.

Night wants no part of it.

I indulge like the child

abandoned by my dark genius,

lick the mountains of her breasts,

thrill to the jerky confusion

of her thighs.

billow in the deepest angles

of her gorgeous neck

before parachuting into veins,

fangs first,

crashing the silence

with electric feasting,

blood’s sensuous liquor

dulling my senses

like a dream,

its warmth teasing my grey existence

into a churning, pulsing fever of life,

nostrils flaring wider than stallions,

feelings flung outward like new stars,

head bursting its bony backdrop

as light bombards the searing shards

of its own eruption.


curtains flicker,

that shudder

familiar as moon-spray,

a reunion almost

look up at the soft

applause of light,

the skin’s piano keys

tingling a welcome song

shadows co-conspire,

provide you with a lover,

brief on splendor,

but generous with the dark

cold hands

invent new ways to warm you

flaming red eyes absorb

the distance between

hunger and blood

By John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Big Muddy and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.