Her grave lies in front of you. It’s modest, a hole dug in the ground and filled with her body, wrapped in wood, wrapped in her favorite clothes, buried with flowers and given over to the worms and maggots that no doubt wriggled in the earth. You imagine them swelling like ticks as they consume her. You imagine God watching over with some pleasure behind his eyes. Why create horrible things if he didn’t delight in them?
She knew she was going to die before anyone else did. She kissed everyone goodbye, she wished everyone the best, and she slipped into the afterlife with graceful ease. The way she did everything else. You can still picture the way she smiled at you for the last time. The way her eyes closed as the corners of her mouth turned up, as though she could only bare to do one thing at a time. All her strength left her in the end.
You brought her yellow poppies, her favorite. “They represent optimism, looking at the bright side of things.” She would pick flowers and look up all their meanings in beautifully illustrated tomes of flora. You place them gently in front of the shabby cross that marks her grave. You wish you could find something bright about this. You wish it didn’t tear you apart how it did.
You stand there, feeling more pathetic than you ever have. You’ve known her your whole life, developed in the womb with her. She’s not supposed to be dead without you. She’s not supposed be rotting if you’re not rotting with her. You wish you could plant yourself in the mud and join her, but you know she would hate that. Self-sacrifice, especially because of her, would desecrate her more than any creature that feeds on her.
The layer of dirt over her casket seems to taunt you. Only a few layers separating you and her. Only one of them impenetrable, irreversible. You fall to your knees and are overwhelmed with the urge to stick your fingers in the ground and dig. The sand is cold, chilled by the sea breeze that rolls over the ground. She wanted a sea burial. She wanted to be sent off on an adventure. Float up on some abandoned island, as though she could enjoy it. You couldn’t let her go.
You cleaned her, dressed her, and lowered her into a casket you made. Six pieces of wood hammered together. There was no one to help you, so you buried her shallow, pushing her casket into the ditch you dug. Then covered her. Then laid catatonic on top of her for days. That was months ago. You hadn’t visited since.
You don’t even think about it. There’s a moment before sticking your hands in the ground, and there’s the moment after where your fingers are encapsulated by it. You pull up sand, pull up mud, push it out of the way. It gets under your fingernails, but you can barely feel it. You can barely feel the connection between your hands and the rest of your body. You watch yourself dig, and dig, and dig, until you hit wood.
Your heart is thumping. Your aches travel through your body beside your blood. The wood is wet and soggy, You could break it apart with a soft push. You could lift the lid off and behind it-- Well, behind it would be everything you’ve lost. Everything you love. You’re leaning over the hole, reaching into it. You’re glad you didn’t bury her deeper.
You peel back the wood, not focusing your eyes until the lid is in pieces and pushed completely off to the side. When you look inside, she’s gone. Her body is there, gums receded, hair thin and frayed, skin made up of purples, blues, and grotesque blacks. But she’s not there. All the flowers around her have died. Her dress is stained and eaten through.
You thought, before this, about pumping her heart back to life. Now, there was no heart to revive. It’s mush under her rib cage, her bones the only things that still held themselves together. She’s all empty, all gone.
You move back and press your forehead to the sand. There’s nothing left of her. There’s nothing left to love.
hbhbhbhbhbh that's not the first time someones asked me that after reading something I wrote lmao, it's just what I like writing! and thanks for replying!
This was incredible and at the end I definitely cried. I recently lost a loved one so that feeling of utter desperation is still so raw and you executed those feelings so stunningly and hauntingly. Such a great piece.
It was only one night. Just a couple of hours at some stale restaurant, pretending to care about a stranger’s life story while eating sub-par complimentary bread. When it was over, you would go your separate ways and put the whole thing behind you. That’s what Carmen kept telling herself about her date tonight. Her friends had set the whole thing up weeks ago, keeping it a secret from her until yesterday. Her friend group was convinced that Carmen needed a life that revolved around more than just work, but she certainly did not share their sentiments. Agreeing to go on the date tonight was more of an act of defiance, since she felt like she needed to prove to her friends that she could date people; she just shouldn’t. Or so she thought.
Friday night. Date night. Finding something to wear had been a challenge, since she couldn’t even remember the last time she got dressed for a date. Slipping on a casual dress, Carmen caught herself worrying about what her mystery date would think of her appearance. “What am I even doing?” she thought as she rifled through her closet trying to find the perfect pair of shoes. Finally settled on an outfit, she picked up her diary and turned to the next blank page. With a shaky hand, she wrote,
"1/7
Blind date tonight, thanks to you-know-who. Probably gonna suck. We all know how I tend to scare people off. I can’t wait for this whole thing to be over with. More later."
Closing her journal, she heads back to her bookshelf to return her diary to its hiding place, behind a row of neatly aligned books. She checks herself one last time in the mirror, grabs her keys, and heads to the restaurant.
The general atmosphere of the restaurant was insufferable. The minute she walked in, her gut told her to turn around and leave. But she had to prove herself to her friends. She took a few steps forward and saw a man with light brown hair and glasses sitting at a table by himself. He spotted her at the same time, standing up to signal that he was her date. “Are you Carmen?” he asks. She nods. “I’m Ian” he says, as he takes her hand to lead her to the table.
Hours go by and Carmen is shocked by how much fun she’s having. At the end of the night, they exchange phone numbers and agree to see each other again soon. As Carmen gets in her car to return home, she finally feels the heat of her flushed cheeks and catches herself smiling at the thought of her date. “Maybe Ian will be different than the others”, she silently hopes.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind. The two went on date after date after date, and Carmen truly felt like she had found the “one”. Every ounce of independence that she had worked so hard for and so desperately clung onto was tossed out the window. They truly needed each other, with the same desperation that they needed to breathe. Things were going great. Then, Carmen began to slip.
She could tell that Ian was losing feelings for her. Sure, it had only been a month, but Carmen was ready to fully commit to this relationship, and she wasn’t going to let anything get in her way. When Ian wasn’t around, she would snoop around his apartment, looking for anything to suggest his disloyalty. She began collecting receipts and keeping tabs on his habits in her diary. She began following him to work, from a safe distance of course. Ian was the one! She was certain of it, and she would do anything to prove it to him. Her diary became her playbook of romance. In it, she would plan out the best way to ensure that Ian would be able to spend as much time with her as possible. Convincing him that his friends are manipulating and using him should keep him from going out. A couple of missing sparkplugs would make sure that he didn’t go to work, at least for a few days. The back door being accidentally left open where his dog could get out and run away should keep all his attention on Carmen. She knew that she was the only thing he needed, she just needed him to see it. Soon enough, everything came crashing down.
It was February 14, Valentine’s Day. The happy couple were spending the day at Carmen’s apartment, bathing in the sickly-sweet scent of roses and chocolate. She turns on some music and invites her partner to dance. As they slow dance around Carmen’s living room, she cannot help but think about how perfect this moment is. Dancing, Ian takes a step back and bumps into the cheap bookshelf, causing the top shelf to fall out of place. Books go scattering across the floor. Laughing at his clumsiness, Ian starts picking up the books. Carmen watches him as he picks up her diary. Smiling at her, he opens the small book to a random page and begins reading. His smile quickly shifts into a look of bewilderment and disbelief as he reads his girlfriend’s account of how she planned to make him realize that she was the only thing he needed. He looks up at her, his brain full of questions. Carmen picks up the fallen wooden shelf and walks toward him. Ian, frozen in place, sees her swing the shelf toward him. Almost in slow motion, he sees the grain of the wood inching closer and closer, until it makes contact and his vision fades to black.
Carmen drops the crimson-tinged wood panel. Picking up her diary, she flips to the last page. Looking at the long list of names presented, she goes to the next open line. She scribbles down “Ian-bookshelf”. Guess Ian wasn’t the “one” after all.
ISWMBMOMWN (i slept with my best man on my wedding night)
It’s five in the morning and Alex is standing outside Joel’s hotel room.
He’s still a little drunk. But not nearly enough to excuse or even explain why he’s here. Again. Tonight of all nights.
She didn’t even feel him get up and leave.
Alex places his hand flat on the door. Knocks with the heel of his hand. Just in case Joel is asleep. But he knows he won’t be.
The lights are off when the door opens. Joel blinks back the light from the hallway, looks at Alex for a long moment.
“Alex,” Joel says.
“Don’t,” Alex says. Joel nods. Grabs him by the shirt. Pulls him in and shuts the door.
Joel doesn’t say anything. He knows why Alex is here. He just pushes Alex to the bed, and he clambers up onto it, the white sheets appearing grey in the darkness. Joel kneels up behind him. Pushes the stupid groom shirt up his back. Alex takes it off and Joel pulls his shorts down and off. Alex’s laid bare, Joel’s hands grabbing at him. Brushing the hair off his neck and grabbing it the roots. Pinning his shoulders down to the bed.
“Stay.”
Alex does. Frozen, ass up. Joel gets up and shuffles around in his things. Alex stares into the pattern on the blackout curtains so long they seem to move. The Vegas lights leak in around the edges.
He feels Joel knee up onto the bed behind him and when he pushes up against him, Joel is naked. Alex hears the lube bottle open. Turns his head down into his forearm, hides his face.
“Did you fuck her?” Joel asks. His fingers push in. Alex shudders, pushes back at the contact.
There’s a long pause as Joel stills, knuckle deep. Waits for an answer.
“Alex.”
“What.” Alex’s voice comes out weak.
“Did you fuck her tonight?” Joel asks. Alex cards his hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he admits, face still turned downward. Joel makes a noise. There’s venom in it. Pours on more lube.
“I’m going in,” Joel says, wiping lube across Alex’s back carelessly. Joel holds Alex still. Eases himself in. Folds himself down over him. Crushing him.
“Fuck,” Alex whispers. He pushes back as Joel fucks him. Joel’s breath is hot on the back of his neck.
Joel grabs at Alex’s wrist. The left one. Pries his fingers back. Alex looks away. Doesn’t want to see the ring that’s there now. Only looks at the wallpaper as Joel thumbs over it.
“It’s not enough is it,” Joel says, his voice thin.
Alex shakes his head, buries his face into his elbow.
“You’ll always come back,” Joel says. It’s a statement. Not negotiable. Alex sobs once, and Joel hooks his arm under him, grabs his shoulder, pulls him into it. Leverage. Closer. He's even further away.
Alex doesn’t have to answer that. Feels the tears when he lifts his head.
She’s probably still asleep. Doesn’t even know Alex’s gone.
“Shit,” Joel hisses. He fucks Alex harder. Alex feels lightheaded. Joel moans into his back. He’s close. Alex’s heard it enough times to know. Alex feels it when Joel pulls out and it runs down the inside of his thigh. Alex feels it when Joel sits back on his heels. Feels Joel staring at him. Feels Joel looking down on him in more than one way.
It’s more vulnerable than she’s ever seen him.
“It’s never going to be enough, is it?” Joel asks.
After a long beat, Alex’s voice breaks the silence. “No,” he says, broken.
Joel grabs Alex and spreads him open, spits inside him. Gets his fingers in him again. Three this time, then four. Alex cries into the sheets as Joel fucks him with his hand, the wet slick of lube and cum the only other sound.
“Please,” Alex murmurs.
“Is this enough?” Joel asks. Alex can taste the contempt in his voice.
“Yeah,” Alex chokes out. Joel is deeper inside him than anyone else has ever been. He pulls his hand out and pushes it back in again. Alex’s legs are barely holding him up. Joel ignores him.
“You’ll always come back,” Joel says. Alex jerks off. “You’ll always need me.”
Alex sobs when he finishes. Collapses into the bed. Barely even feels Joel pull his hand out.
“I’m taking a shower,” Joel says. “You better be gone by the time I get out.” Alex feels him get up off the bed. “Go back to your wife.”
When Alex gets back, she’s right where he left her. Still asleep.
You definitely know your wording around the bedroom, no denying that. I like this because behind all of the sex there is such a deeper situation happening. The real tragedy is that it will never be resolved. Thanks for sharing, Marina!
thank you so much! it means a lot coming from you cuz from reading gloom i think we have a lot of the same feelings about writing fiction in general and it seems like we like telling similar stories. i really appreciate it.
glad you enjoyed! i’m definitely usually more of a straight up porn writer as well as creative nonfiction zines so this is different for me yknow. appreciate it!!
My goal this year is to be brave, so I’m going to be brave.
Ageless
Gazing into the full length mirror in her new dress all she can see is the flaws. The creases around her eyes, the sagging skin on her jawline. Breasts that have conceded the fight to gravity. As her eye is drawn down her body they focus on the two rolls at her mid section split in half by her belly button. She sucks in her gut and stares longingly at the figure in the mirror, then sighs as she exhales and watches her stomach balloon back out wishing all it took was a pin to prick it and release all the air to make it go flat. As she draws her eyes back up to her face choosing not to look further down her body she catches the eye of her husband of 25 years looking at her in the mirror. He has a predatory gleam in his eye as his gaze rakes over her body. He stalks over and stands behind her. His fingers brush the top of her shoulders as he runs them down her arms making her shiver. Their eyes lock in the mirror and she hears him whisper “Beautiful”
Thanks for sharing this, Teresa! People tend to see themselves in the worst way and forget that others can love those exact "flaws". This is beautifully worded.
You know, I think you've described me and my husband. I do this all of the time. He is first to tell me when I don't feel beautiful, just how beautiful I am. I don't have a flat stomach or a pretty face, you know? You've captured the emotion to a T I think. It really is beautiful.
There is unstable, primal drive within all of us. An urge with no regard for what logic or intelligence may call for when it comes to reactions. It simply calls for you to obey, and even the most discerning of us will fall prey to it from time to time.
Perhaps with the millions of years of evolution behind it there is a deeper reasoning than meets the eye to obey our primal compulsions, even when they lack all logic. That even when every objective, rational part of you screams that it’s a terrible idea, your heart cannot be swayed.
Should one continue to ignore it, despite the painful, insistent nagging of regret, anxiety, and stress that will occur when one does? Or to find the possibility of release, or catharsis, does one give in?
With love in the mix, one might find that there is no way to resist, as arguably the strongest emotion it has no problem taking the driver’s seat and discarding all logic to the side. Whether it’s the chemicals in your brain gone haywire or the beating of your heart pounding so loud there is no way to focus on reality, it takes hold of your body and mind like a parasite.
It is the easiest way to drown without a single drop of water.
I cannot begin to fathom how deep of an ocean I reside in, nevermind that I am desperately treading water, all in the elusive yet alluring pull of love for one person. As those hazel eyes that once rang with fervor begin to fade like a sepia photograph I know the truth of eternity: that even in death our love goes on.
As the slow monotone beeping of the heart monitor fades away and joins with the piercing silence that rings in my ears I realize that the most agonous aspects of love can bring with them momentous moments of clarity. Things that once seemed impossible to decide become eerily obvious, as if there was never a dilemma in the first place. It seems ludicrous that I hesitated to do this.
There is another presence in control of my body cycling through the mundanity of my new reality whilst I plan and ponder deep within my subconscious. In the recesses of my mind you are still there, I can feel the steady thrumming of your heart as my head rests over your chest. Where I reside, the pain does not exist in the normal sense, my brain has manipulated it into something I do not yet recognize, but we both know that it will soon be faced.
Once unleashed there will be no going back, however, when I truly consider it, there was no way back anyways. The things they did to you made that impossible, their actions make it so I cannot forgive nor can I forget. That much I am sure of.
Now I must remember the filthy things, now is the time for my suffering. All that connects us has never felt stronger than it does now, and for that I am nothing but bitterly grateful. I have come to find that I cannot live without you.
I feel my own tears as the cool night air grazes my cheeks, and the eyes of the predator now made prey begin to open. As the slow haze of drugs and unconsciousness fades away their eyes widen at me, those dark pupils dilating with fear as the rusty blade winks at them in the reflection of the moonlight.
My tears become theirs and muffled pleas for mercy begin as I step closer, dragging the tip of the blade across their cheek. I cannot help the wicked sadist within me that smiles at their fear. A quiet, warm breath escapes my parted lips and graces the frigid evening and I finally find the words.
The pained, hoarse whisper that breaks free from my raw throat croaks, “There's no reason to cry now. There's nothing to forgive. This suffering's my blessing and now it is yours.”
I am ascended into what I must do, ready to take the life that set this all into motion. Call it what you must but, there is not a god that can stop me.
I allow that unquantifiable augnish to take hold, filling my veins with that neverending turmoil, with an utter lovecraftian chaos. You would not recognize the eldritch horror I have become, but just know that there is nothing I will not do for you.
The knife is steady in my grip as I begin, first slicing through their eyelids like the flesh of a finger with a papercut. The soft, slimy matter of their bloodshot eyes gleam with tears and blood, the white scleras fully exposed. The tiny, delicate muscles in the orbital socket flinch and twitch, and I yank down the saliva coated bandana that once was shoved in their mouth.
I force open their mouth and pull out the slippery, thick tongue that resides within, cutting through the broad flesh in a matter of minutes. Saliva and blood bubble in their throat and the wet piece of meat drops to the dusty concrete with a moist slap.
From a table beside them I pick up the glassy, pointed object, weighing the heaviness in my palm. With a harsh grip on their hair I turn their head to the side, exposing an ear before driving the ice pick suddenly into the opening and through the canal.
With every shriek, every bloodcurdling scream I fall deeper into the abyss. They are the canvas for my pain as I bask in their own. It is like a symphony of ecstasy and torment as the scent of blood fills my nostrils, co-mingling with the acrid burn of gasoline, and they are ablaze, the flames dancing in my eyes.
And for the final time, like a phoenix writhing in the pyre of rebirth, I am alive.
Nice, Dara! Your vocabulary is outstanding. "It is the easiest way to drown without a single drop of water." Beautiful line. Great take on love and vengeance. Thanks for sharing!
You hadn’t exactly forgotten what it was like to feel this strung out, but it certainly wasn’t the same old familiar face as it had been in the past. It was kind of like a dream. Everything fuzzy around the edges, far away. Like being trapped in a pocket of air while everything else is surrounded with water. If you got lucky, it stayed like that. Faded, blurry, barely there. Floating on air. Even luckier if it really was a dream, after all.
This wasn’t either.
Your head feels like it’s about to unscrew itself and fall off your shoulders, limbs heavy. Actually, you can wiggle your fingers and toes a bit, but you’re pretty certain you can’t move at all otherwise. Trying takes too much out of you. Your stomach keeps doing backflips, twisting up in a way that makes the room spin even faster and bile rise to your throat already. There’s an ache in your jaw and in your knees, shooting in hot, razor sharp streaks down your calves. Your senses are having a hard time catching up with anything else.
A light’s on somewhere in front of you. Dim, just enough to make out dark shapes and silhouettes. Not that you can exactly see very well right now to begin with. Honestly, you’re thankful it’s not some bright, fluorescent spotlight right in your face. That’s how these things usually wind up, right? Cold, open, exposed, confused.
Vulnerable.
Keeping your head up is a struggle, but given about a minute and a half of consciousness, your self-preservation instinct kicks in. (Or at the very least attempts to, keeping your thoughts straight proves to be even more of a task.)
You pick your chin up again, willing your eyes to adjust. The light aheads seems to be an exposed bulb, hanging from an incline in the ceiling, seated right at the bottom of… a staircase? Most of the view is obscured by boxes and containers shoved against the wall, but a little further up you can see the cast weaving through slats in what you can only infer to be the railing, sending shadows about a quarter of the way across the floor before they dissipate.
A basement?
You try a little harder to move this time, but you’re weak. Not to mention, immediately met with resistance— something biting into your wrists, around your ankles. Your arms are locked behind you. You try to twist them out of their bindings, to no avail. It’s not rope, far too thin and harsh to be rope. They’re fucking tight too. You can still feel your fingers but it aches. Add that to the ever mounting list.
Now the panic starts to hit you.
Shifting in the seat you’re bound to, you make a noise, a little too loud to be a whimper but not loud enough to be a cry. It’s muffled. Your jaw aches. Shit. You bite down into something rubbery, realizing you’re gagged on top of it all.
No, no, no. What the fuck.
Either somebody’s been watching too many fucked up horror flicks or you’re about to get your fucking heart carved out of your chest.
You take a deep breath, exhaling shakily around the gag, feeling a string of drool fall down your chin. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you, and it’s all you can do to resist gagging and upchucking whatever you had in your stomach. You certainly weren’t a stranger to finding yourself in some nasty snags, but you have no fucking clue how the you’re supposed to wiggle your way out of this one. You’re pretty sure you couldn’t even stay awake long enough.
There’s a rustle behind you. It sounds louder than it really is, amplified by the state you’re in, but it’s definitely the sound of fabric. Clothes. Somebody moving?
A squeak, like an old folding chair, and careful yet deliberate footsteps come from behind you.
Closer.
Thunk.
Closer.
Thunk.
Closer.
Your heart starts to race, and you struggle against your restraints again. They feel like they’re cutting straight into your skin, but you can’t even find it in yourself to care. The thought of degloving one of your hands just to get out of this fucking chair isn’t so far fetched at the moment.
You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.
The footsteps stop maybe a foot behind you. You can feel them, whoever they are. The warmth coming off of them compared to the chill of your bare skin. Their breath in the air. It’s almost as if they’re pondering for a moment, before a gentle hand comes down against your shoulder. You flinch, try to jerk away, but it’s no use. You’re light headed before momentum even catches up with you. Tears well up in your eyes, you cry out around the gag, only to be promptly shushed.
It’s not harsh like you expect. Soft, almost soothing, understanding.
They squeeze your shoulder, thumb brushing over the back of your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine. All you can do is sit, tense, on guard, squeeze your eyes shut and cry harder.
Fingertips trace over your collarbone and you hear more movement as the touch falls away. They walk off to the left of you and you hear the click of a switch. A light overhead buzzes to life, and even through your eyelids, it makes your head sear.
Footsteps approach again, stopping in front of you this time. Joints crack and hands rest on the tops of your thighs, slowly climbing up to your hips, your waist, chest, landing cupped around your cheeks. A little timid and unsure.
Your heart’s in your throat.
A sob tears through you, your whole chest fucking aches between whatever hell your body had already been through and your heart working overtime and struggling just to keep air in your lungs.
At this point you’re praying— no, begging that you don’t pass out again. It’s like your soul’s being torn from your body, piece by agonizing piece.
They shush you again, but it’s not until you hear the voice that you come crashing back to earth, even if you are still burning up in the atmosphere.
“Shhh, baby, c’mon. You’re okay.” Their voice is low, but it rumbles through stagnant air like an avalanche. “You’re okay.”
You stop cold. Stop crying, stop moving, stop breathing. You reckon your heart probably skips a beat at first too before going right back to throbbing against your ribcage. No. No, no, no. That can’t be right. It’s the drugs. Your mind playing tricks on you in the wake of your own desperation. It can’t be him.
“That’s it. See? It’s only me.” His voice comes again and you fidget in your seat. You open your eyes, looking out through heavy lids. They need a minute to adjust, but the man in front of you slowly starts to take shape.
So maybe it’s not some fucked up delusion in the name of self preservation. At least you don’t think you’re hallucinating. This doesn’t feel like a trip. You’re a little fuzzy, but you’d like to think you know the difference by now. This is real. Solid. Focused. Clear in view. If nothing else, this definitely isn’t the high.
His thumbs brush tears away from your cheeks. With your attention, it’s a lot more familiar and confident. A gesture he’s well acquainted with, done a million times before. And somehow it works. A bit of the tension melts out of your body. Even cold and naked and strapped to a fucking chair, he can still reach inside you and soothe some of the ache.
You attempt to say something to the effect of “What’s happening?” but it comes out garbled and incoherent around the gag secured tightly between your teeth. More saliva dribbles down your chin, collecting between your collarbones and slicking down your sternum.
“Ah,” He tuts, “Let me do the talking here.”
His eyes meet yours and you’re jelly in his hands.
“‘M sorry. I know this isn’t exactly, uh— ideal. Shit’s just been so busy lately. I miss you. Need you to myself for a while. No distractions. Nobody else to interrupt.”
Great job with this one, Lucas. Your use of all the senses really helps keep you in the moment with the character. Their voice also shines through! Thanks for sharing this!
They say love is the best feeling in the world. It’s when you find that someone that gets you in a way nobody else does, the kind of love that “sweeps you off your feet.” But what if we’re not all allowed to experience that love? That heart warming, butterflies in the stomach, tears of happiness kind of love.
It wasn’t the first relationship that did it. Though full of gutting words, sexual harassment and the kind of intimidation that made you question your self worth… it was the first. It was like being a newborn coming into the world for the first time and knowing nothing else to do but live.
It wasn’t the second one, the one that had moments of glimmering hope. I could feel love just out of my reach. A life that almost made me feel like I was in a Hallmark movie. Almost. But this time, it was me. Blinded to know any better. My heart was too big for my body, beating for the desire to have that Hallmark movie life. It was when someone else became the better option that I again failed to find out what love was.
This one, the next one. The third guy. This is the one that showed me that love was only fit for those worthy of it. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s all in my head and I’m just giving up too soon.
I imagine what it would be like to rid of the abuse. I imagine running away one day and never looking back.
I won’t bleed from this knife on my skin anymore. I will put my headphones down, because the music is only a bandaid. The next time he strikes, I will strike back. No threat of a gun or the hand around my neck will stop me.
It was today that I decided when he struck, that all the lost love will be in my favor.
As I tower over the lost “love” of five years, the dreaded years of mental and emotional pain, I realized he would be the last one to get to me. Watching the blood pool under his head, I dropped the pot on the kitchen floor. “It was self defense,” I’ll say.
The sirens sound closer to what was once my home and as I realized the ending to my love story was finally here, my heart sounded in my ears and I have never felt more alive.
-----
(This is rough and written within a few minutes - I also would never do anything of this nature, this story is purely emotion driven. I honestly have no intention on this winning or even worth a comment or your time of reading. It was more of I needed an outlet and this challenge pushed me to write. I'm sitting here with shaky hands after writing this, but I feel relieved to get out my emotions. So just want to say thank you, Ricky, more than anything.)
Thanks for sharing this, Sara. That's what this is all about: just getting it out there. Whether that be thoughts, emotions, or something else. I think this is a great story about finding yourself and who you really are in the mist of a tragic situation. That last line is a banger! Solid close to the story.
Yeah, actually I whipped out my phone in the middle of work and wrote it within a few minutes on my notes app. I probably could have came up with something much better if I had waited to get home and had some time. However, I like writing under pressure. Thank you though!
I agree; the eleventh hour can really pull out some great stuff. I can count on one hand how many times I wasn’t scrambling to the wire. The difference here is that I spent hours to get mine out, not minutes! I hope I get the chance to read more of your work.
Writing used to be my escape for bullying in middle and high school. Instead of working in class, I'd write tons of these short stories. I haven't written like that in a long time, but it was nice to have someone like Ricky yank it out of me for this. Haha.
The weight on her chest was there again. Ever present and heavy. No matter how many times she shrugged it off, it always returned.
This was the third time tonight she awoke from a sound sleep. Mouth dry and caked from an apparent snoring session. Neck stiff and unmoving from being at the wrong angle on the too soft pillow.
Every night it seemed to get worse. Sometimes the weight would be on her chest, sometimes her stomach. Even her legs were not exempt from the feeling of not being able to move. A frightening reality to awaken to indeed.
When sleep faded and true consciousness returned, the horror of being pinned down disappeared.
Loving yellow eyes- three pairs of them - look on with concern, perched atop their mommy s’ slumbering body. The breath the kitty’s sniff to know it is her, stops coming at regular intervals. Concern that if they did not intervene in an attempt to prevent a deadly nights sleep, the cats would suffer an empty food bowl and no more unconditional love.
Wow!! Thank you!! This is my first attempt at writing a story for everyone to read!! The way you write your stories was the model I used. I love how you keep me in suspense til the end!!
Have you ever been haunted? It’s one of those questions that I always find myself being asked. As a kid, it was at sleepovers, giggling as I held a torch under my face, distorting my features as I came up with whatever warped tales my ten year old mind could muster. As I grew older, it became a question I grew to dread. Of course, ghosts aren’t real. But what about the ghosts that took the shape of memories?
I took another pull of my cigarette, letting the nicotine - and the question - consume me. I hoped to God it would numb my mind even for a few minutes. The thoughts crashing around my head only seemed to get louder as I stared at the words on the page in front of me.
The black ink was splotchy, tear stained.
“It’s been four years. Four years since I cut you off for good.
For four years I’ve been haunted by you. It makes sense, right? You know what you did. It’s ironic too, my memories haunted by you. My own personal ghost. You know what you did, and I vow to make sure you don’t forget it until the life fades from your eyes.
I still yearn for the way only you could make me feel. You broke me down, built me into something you could use, yet when you spoke to me, I truly thought I meant something to you. We both know I didn’t. I was a toy. I was a part of a game. I was just an object; something that you could throw to the side when you got bored of it. I still love you, but I despise you with every fibre of my being.
Your presence is heavy. It’s the constant dead weight on my chest. The darkness in you is liquid, though. It’s tar. And it’s as sharp as a knife.
You seeped into every part of my soul and ripped it to shreds. You were always there. Always watching. Maybe that’s why you named yourself what you did; you haunt me. You stand at the foot of my bed, your shadow snuffing out any light I had left.
You haunt me every fucking day of my life and no matter what I do or say I can’t escape you.
I want to make sure you don’t escape me either. I’m going to be a constant thorn in your side until the day you drop fucking dead.”
What was I at eighteen other than the shell of the person he’d made me?
Tragic. Vengeful. This reads like the opening of a book and makes me want to know more: Who is this person? What is their journey? The descriptions are great. They are always so much stronger when used as a metaphor rather than analogously. (For example, your line, "The darkness in you is liquid. It's tar," is so much stronger than if you had said, "The darkness in you is like liquid tar." I think so, anyway. Simple, but super effective.)
We crawled into the shelter, hands then knees. Denim and cotton clotted with filth. We waited without saying for what. We stopped measuring time in blinks after the first night’s sleep, and in my sleep it happened again.
A figure plunging out of the woods, tugging my periphery. Sirens unhinged their jaws and blurred features settled into a face, his sunken eyes rimmed the color of stormclouds. He hurtled toward me, grabbed my arm, grip pinching and sharp where it had been firm and fleshy weeks ago. We ran without words past the house, down to the gutter, and crouched low, sloshing through mud clinging like mucus. The shelter was room enough for four, but the two of us were ready and first.
How will we know when it is safe? I asked.
We’ll know, he said.
I was prepared to count the sounds of violence but there were none. Even the sirens quieted after enough sleep, but the silence we’d awaited was menacing. Terror dulled with time. I laid my head in the saddle of his lap and counted the hairs gouging his thinning neck and chin. Every few grayed, more than I remembered. In the night the dirt under his fingernails was bitter in my mouth.
When he'd been bigger he would wrap me in arms like coiled constrictors, dragging me into sleep with him. Now he wasted faster than I did; there was more of him to lose. In time my skin became loose, but his evaporated into the air.
Awake we touched hesitantly, hands fearing the strangeness of diminishing bodies. Hunger climbed the walls of our stomachs. Lettering wrapped in black ink down his arms dulled without muscle swelling underneath. His fingers slender rake tines in the dirt.
Do you think it’s safe? I asked less and less frequently.
As long as there is a question, he said, we are not safe.
When won’t there be one?
That’s another question.
***
I avoided his eyes; I avoided the blinking. Every blink marked another five seconds. Another five seconds to wonder how many more five seconds we’d pass and how many more five seconds were worth passing. But evading his gaze long enough drew my eyes the way swaying on the edge of a cliff feels like falling. I saw knobby bones and veins inching through inked skin across his body, but I saw stoic hunger only when I met his eyes.
I braced myself the first time I did it, spine curled into the cavernous earth behind me, feet planted on the ground, forehead pressed to my knees. I’d slipped the knife out of his pocket the night before, one hand over the carved hollow of his chest, lips pressed to his hair. I braced myself against a scream. I blocked up all the air in the bottom of my stomach as I pulled the knife through a flap of skin connected to the meat of my upper arm.
I held it in my palm, presented as a gift. A sliver of meat, skin-down, blood pooling around it, slipping through my fingers. This was not a discussion, the absoluteness a relief.
This is what we will do. This is how we will survive, I told him and pushed the meat past his lips. He chewed automatically, a circular grinding of the jaws. Placid tears slipped between his lips and blended with the meat tearing between his teeth. He swallowed and placed the flat of his hand against the exposed meat of my arm but said nothing.
You can’t leave it there forever, I said.
***
Unconsciousness leaked in one ear and out the other and sleep happened without our knowledge or permission. When his eyes closed I watched his face, his orchid petal eyelids, thin and purple-veined. When his eyes opened I turned away.
Me now, he said and one boot lurched to indicate the knife. Take it from my side.
I peeled his shirt back and counted the ribs pushing at his skin. I left the knife by his feet.
I can’t, I said. There’s nothing left.
Take anything, he said.
I rocked back on my heels and stared at the dirt below. I don’t need anything, I said. I need you.
Here, he said. With the violence of a last reserve of energy he heaved himself upright and took the knife from the ground. He wiped it on his pants, one side, other side, and I should have stopped him. I should have peeled the skin from his heel like a potato to appease him. But I didn’t, and so he kissed me, then dragged the knife across his face faster than I could register. It seemed a practice stroke until, after a moment’s delay, blood poured a narrow brown sheet down his chin, his front. He groped for the chunk of flesh on his lap and pinched it between his fingers, holding it out.
I rolled it on my tongue where I could feel papery flakes of chapped skin like curled Bible pages before swallowing, a swollen grub worm of a lip.
***
While he slept, bottom teeth jutting from his cavernous face, I cut off parts of my body. I no longer recognized the pieces I peeled from my torso, and eventually stopped recognizing my own shape. I arranged the chunks between us on the dirt floor: a strip of meat from my hip, a strip from the underside of my arm, a half-moon from the inside of my thigh. I carved until I was numb, carved out all feeling. He would find a feast upon waking.
My chest seized when he opened his eyes. I approached him with a slab of one calf and tucked the meat into the side of his mouth, where it could be held between cheek and teeth without slipping.
He was too weak to speak but I dared to meet his eyes. I did not find the expected protest.
Good god, this is incredible. Everything about this is so, so great. This gives me huge Cormac McCarthy vibes. Well done, bravo! Thanks for sharing, Allison.
Those three words were all that was scrawled across the ripped piece of notebook paper she saw on the kitchen table, followed thirty seconds later by the gruesome discovery of her best friend sprawled on the bathroom floor, covered in vomit, clutching an empty pill bottle in his limp hand. She should have seen this coming, right? It was no secret Oliver had been horribly depressed for months. It was no secret that the consistent failure of their band was the main source. And it was no secret that he hated taking those damn pills in the hopes of feeling the pure bliss he used to feel when the two of them would write music together. But the passion had long since faded from Oliver’s heart, and evidently not even she was enough to keep him around anymore.
At least he left a note, was the only comforting thought her brain could conjure up as she sat in that cold hospital waiting room, praying they would be able to pump all of the toxins out of his body in time. And praying harder that Oliver wouldn’t hate her for saving his life. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. But she didn’t know what to do anymore. She didn’t know how to possibly fix this.
And then…he sat beside her. With nothing more than a white handkerchief to dry her eyes and a mere promise to help, he changed the entire course of her life.
—-----------------
“I’m sorry, Abi.”
Those three words were all that Oliver could think to say as he watched his best friend collapse onto his chest, her body heaving with sobs, unable to hide the truth from him any longer. Even though it seemed crazy or impossible, he knew she would never lie to him. Not about something like this. Not to mention the fact that it would explain the ridiculous strain of good luck they’d had over the past decade. In less than a year after he tried to end his life, they had gone from playing open mic nights for a dozen uninterested patrons to performing their own sold-out headlining tour; from a revolving door of consistently unreliable band members to finding three of the greatest friends and musicians they’d ever known; from being two nobodies from the south side of Chicago to practical celebrities nearly all across the nation. It almost had seemed too good to be true.
And evidently, it had been.
Oliver glanced down at her left hand gripping the front of his shirt tightly, the light reflecting off the blue sapphire sitting in the middle of the white gold band. Last night on stage, in front of 2500 screaming fans, their drummer Micah had gotten down on one knee and pulled the little velvet box from his pocket, declaring that nothing would make him happier than for the girl who had played keyboard by his side for years to finally become his wife. And when Oliver saw tears instantly sprout from his best friend’s eyes as she said yes, he sensed there was something more than just shock and happiness on her mind in that moment.
But this…he had never expected this. And yet, even now, poking between her fingers, he could see the corners of that dreaded white handkerchief that had unknowingly sealed her fate all those years ago.
—-----------
“I’m sorry, Abi.”
Those three words echoed inside her ears, forcing her eyes open. As she stared into the green room mirror—her face pale and tearstained, her eyes swollen and bloodshot—she saw that she was no longer alone. The man was there, just as she expected him to be. After all, the bright red luminescent numbers above her head told her that she had barely a minute left to live. Once that clock struck midnight, her ten years would be up. And when that happened, he would come to collect what he was owed. She would never get to play music again. She would never get to marry her beloved Micah. She would never be able to say a proper good-bye. Not even to Oliver, the only one who knew what was about to happen. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t face him. He never fully understood why she took the deal in the first place. What were you thinking, Abi? I’m not worth it!
And yet…as she heard his voice echo in her mind, the strangest thing happened. She suddenly felt lighter for the first time in the past ten years. It was as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a weight that she had grown so accustomed to that she didn’t even realize it had been there until it was gone. But that wasn’t the only thing that was gone. Glancing down at the table, she saw that the white handkerchief was gone as well, her hand now clenched around nothing but air. She looked back up at the mirror, expecting to see the man there, ready to take her soul to whatever endless torture he had in store for her, but was surprised to find that he had also vanished. She was alone now.
The clock struck midnight. A scream rang out. She threw open the green room door and peered down the hallway to find a small group of people gathered together. And as she made her way forward, her heart instantly sank with every step. Because she already knew what she was going to find. She knew what he had done. And she knew why he had done it. Because just like she couldn’t live without him, he couldn’t live without her.
Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at her best friend, lying still on the ground in front of her, his soul taken in place of her own, his hand clenched tightly around a white handkerchief. The ultimate sacrifice. All for her. The one he loved.
This is really, really great, Stephanie. I love the tension and release. I love that the you found a way to thread the three sections together with the handkerchief. Very nice!
Thank you so much, Rick! It’s actually a condensed version of a longer short story I have called “The White Handerchief.” Appreciate the feedback, my dude :)
Margot could feel the city’s heartbeat with each step forward, her fingers tangled through Adrian’s as they stumbled towards the neon lights of the cafe. The rumble of the underground beneath their feet, the sound of sirens in the distance and the chatter of the people walking by. There was a buzz of life she had never expected when they’d moved to London. It seemed like soulless grey and glass from a distance, but they'd built a home in a tiny flat in Bayswater. With plants on every surface, photographs of meaningful moments and a million other trinkets but it had all come to a catastrophic end.
“One last coffee?” Adrian asked, faltering for a moment expecting her to say no.
“Sure” It was one word filled with so much false hope. There was no changing her mind once she’d set her sights on something - this time it was calling it quits on their life together. The flat was almost empty, their things already divided up but somehow, they had ended up in the pub where they’d met for one last late night. Between the haze of the wine and clouds of cigarette smoke Adrian had almost forgotten that they were saying goodbye. Their vows had disappeared into the universe like secrets shared but they still had some memories left to call their own.
Margot knew the exact minute it was over. It had been afternoon in May, the type of day that went on forever. The sun had warmed everything it touched masquerading like it was summer for a brief moment in an inconsistent but typically English way. They had hiked the same route as their first date. It was a path full of sentimentality and stories, but silence filled the space between them. With each step the only thing keeping her company was the sound of her heartbeat thumping in her head and grass giving away beneath each footstep. All threads of conversation were false starts; they had nothing to say to each other.
It was one of the best days they’d had in months, but Margot felt like she was crawling out of her skin.
She wondered if Adrian knew. If he'd been looking out at the view imagining his life without her. The comfort was no longer comfortable enough. Over the course of the decade, they’d spent together Margot had lost sense of who she was. The roles they had assigned themselves and the little traditions that meant so much had fallen by the wayside. All the things that had made sense had slowly started to suffocate her in a way she noticed that day in May.
It'd taken six months, but she had realised that there was no redemption for them. Sometimes you fall out of love and there is no safety net to stop you. Adrian fought it at first, insisting they could find their way back to each other. The way he looked at her as they ordered the same coffees they’d always done made her want to forget about everything that had happened. It was just a fleeting moment and by the time they had sat down in a booth looking out at the high street it had passed.
“Do you remember when we first met?” Margot asked, shaking the packets of sugar in her hand before tearing them open and pouring the granules into her mug. She looked like perfection with her faded lipstick and smudged eyeliner even after staying up all night. She looked like the girl that had laughed so hard she could barely breathe in the passenger seat of his sister’s stolen RV as they drove it to the coast.
“You told me you didn’t believe in love” His laugh was low, resounding through her body like a warning signal. The first time she'd seen him smile it'd felt like the world had changed. It still got to her in some way.
“I said love was a chemical reaction that we’re pre-programmed to experience for the sake of survival.” Margot was as dead pan as always. She had a matter-of-fact way of speaking that put him on edge. The warmth of old memories ended, snapping back to the cold reality of bad coffee in a twenty-four hour cafe as the hangover set in.
“Were we a chemical reaction?” Adrian wanted to hear her admit that she was wrong, that things weren’t as black and white as they had seemed to her at 21. She had fallen in love and planned a life just like the people she’d been sceptical of. It hadn’t just been predesigned code. He’d meant something real to her.
“No, we were different, but I think everyone in love thinks that… their love is special somehow to everyone else’s.” Margot gave a shrug, wincing slightly at the taste of the coffee. She was tired. The only thing she knew at that moment was that she needed to start again. It would be dark on some days, and perhaps even lonely but she needed to know if she could exist outside of the script that came with being Adrian’s wife. She needed to know if she could be a whole person, standing on her own two feet not just half of someone else.
“What changed?” His question came from a place of hurt but the sense of relief was impossible to miss. Adrian couldn't say he'd been happy in a long time. They both knew it. There was a pause as they both glanced out onto the street, at the sunrise peeking over tops of the buildings. It would be the last one they saw together before they went off to live their separate lives. Margot considered her answer, she knew the next thing she said would be as good as the signature on the dotted line.
“I always thought that this would be enough, but I was wrong.”
Thank you so much for the feedback! I've always been a cynic about love but somehow a serial monogamist, and going through a relationship breakdown at 29 and rediscovering my own identity again has really taught me a lot about love in a romantic sense, a platonic sense and also self love.
As a child I was obsessed with the concept of eternity. When I was six I truly felt what this word meant. I screamed and cried in my kindergarten classroom. I was terrified of whatever I couldn’t understand at that time.
Sometimes it comes back to me even when I know better, times like this. When I’m standing in front of a grave and I can’t help but to think what that person’s life was like, maybe they shared my fear.
The thing is, eternity is subjective. 5 years ago I lost what I thought would last forever. Her name was Elizabeth. I sounded out those four syllables too many times to count in a day, it was my religion.
We met in the ordinary way, a dating app. I still remember swiping on her profile. When we started talking I reread it over and over, savoring ever bit of information about her that could be put into one hundred characters.
I couldn’t believe she was real, I still catch myself thinking it sometimes. When we first hugged I could smell sandalwood and Nag Champra emanating from her hair. She complimented my dress. a black, long sleeved, turtleneck. It was the only dress I owned.
I looked her up and down. Her black hair was curled into ringlets that hung over a sweetheart neckline and dark floral patterns going all the way down to the floor. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
That night she told me more than I thought would be shared on a first date, but it didn’t strike me as odd when she talked about them. We discussed life, death, And eternity.
“I don’t get your thing with it.” She said and shrugged in my direction.
The only rebuttal I could muster up was, “It’s scary, you can’t put it into words if you haven’t felt it.”
“When my time comes I will welcome it with open arms.” She smiled and sipped her drink.
I drove home that night thinking about things that I hadn’t thought of in a long time.
Elizabeth was with me for three years. I shared every piece of my life with her. we fell fast and hard into it and the same was to be said going out.
On a December night I was woken up by a call from an unknown number, strange. Elizabeth had gone out to some concert, I didn’t accompany her on account that my work day was too long for any event to fit in. I wasn’t going to answer but as I went to hit decline I got an overwhelming feeling that whatever this call was about, it had to be important.
“Is this the residence of Jane fletcher?”
The man speaking on the phone sounded nervous and solemn at the same time. My stomach churned with thoughts of what could be lacing his tone with those things.
“This is her speaking.”
“Your girlfriend, Elizabeth. She’s been in an accident. The icu is treating her, we suggest you come down to fourth street as soon as possible.”
I hung the phone up and raced out the door in my pajamas.
As I arrived I was braced with the antiseptic sting of the hospital. Florescence making my head spin more than it already had been. I sprinted to the intensive care unit and probably knocked down a few things in the process.
I saw her with iv’s inserted and a ventilator keeping her on this side. The doctor’s gazed at us through the curtains as I held her hand. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, In and out of death. I continued to hold her until she was consumed.
And as I wandered out of that hospital three days later, it was if I was lost as a fog. The ambience was muffled and the lights seemed dim. Even the people looked empty.
Just as I reached the threshold, I turned back. I swear I saw her standing there. And as I crossed I heard her whisper…
An arm wrapped around her waist, and a sinking feeling grew in the pits of her stomach. Evelyn bit back a sigh as Laura rested her head on her shoulder, holding her close. The sinking feeling gnawed at her insides as she sat there, feeling Laura’s body warmth through the thin dress she wore, and the bikini top Evelyn had. The false sense of skin on skin, the false sense of intimacy. The arm around her waist tightened its grip, pulling her ever closer. The feeling of Laura’s lips in the crook of her neck made her tip her head. Twisting away to provide more space for her lips to roam, twisting away from the feeling. The gnawing in her stomach was growing, raising into her chest now, threatening to chew whatever heart she might’ve had to pieces. She tried to unclench her jaw as Laura’s kisses moved higher, tried to soften her edges.
The warmth was more present now, pressed against Evelyn in every way as Laura moved to straddle her waist. It was consuming her, burning her as her calloused hands rested on those perfect thighs. Everything about Laura was perfect, in every way. Her perfection was smothering. She was soft, kind, caring, beautiful, and simply perfect. A tulip pressed against a switchblade. Evelyn was a human paper cut, all sharp edges and razor words. It was a scene from a movie, truly. The high school dropout with only a minor drug addiction who sang and played guitar in a band down the street, and the community college nursing major with a savings account full of dollar bills from the strip club in the next town over. They were a solar eclipse, a rare spectacle that never lasted long. But Laura believed. A child born in sunlight that begged for a taste of the stars, she chased the darkness. Laura believed and Evelyn was waiting for the implosion. For the moment when the sun's rays grew and burned away the shadows the moon cast, when Laura would recognize her perfection and burn away the memory of Evelyn’s shadows.
“You’re tense. Relax, Ev, I’ve got you.” The gentle words flowed across Evelyn’s skin, carried on breath that hinted the taste of cheap grocery store boxed wine would be on those lips. The sinking wasn’t fading, wasn’t going away. It was a black hole in her sternum, threatening to swallow everything within and around her if she didn’t fix it. If she didn’t stop it. The razor's edge hidden behind pursed lips didn’t respond, she simply connected their lips, searing heat burning her away bit by bit, tearing her down. Despite the pain that threatened, if Evelyn could bottle these moments, could boil down these feelings of being face to face, hips to hips with an embodiment of perfection, she’d never have to be out back of the Bath and Body Works, her pocket stuffed with money that wasn’t hers, waiting for a stash that half of would be stolen by the next morning. It was just as painful and left her reeling just the same.
“Ev just lay back. I’ve got you.” Laura’s hands were just dipping into the waistband of Evelyn’s track pants, a smile on her face that promised a moment of clarity through the haze of twilight they created together. A promise she’d chased so many times she couldn’t count them all, but she never quite reached. The gnawing reached her throat, and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t open her mouth, couldn’t make a sound. All she could do was lay back, let herself chase that unattainable promise, and burn in the presence of perfection in this hell they thought was love.
But I'm seeing others posting their full stories here so I guess that's the way to go?
KILLER DATE
Valentine’s day and Emma loved it. She had a handsome date and was more than ready to be thrilled tonight. It was not of her to arrive empty-handed so she finished the last details on the Tiramisu she made, shaking the sugar glass over the dessert. Her finger cleaned the glass bowl, licking at the coffee mixed whipped as she stared off into space. She smiled at the taste of something made with love.
On her way to her date’s house, as she rode in the back of a taxi, a newspaper caught her eye. A headline read ‘THE CANNIBAL L.A’s new fear of a loose serial killer’.
***
Jared chopped meat on a cutting board as blood dripped from it. He uncovered a pot where broth boiled and whiffed the aromas, pleased. He stabbed the wooden board as he left the kitchen to set up the dining room. He danced to the beat and mouthed the lyrics to David Bowie’s New Killer Star as he placed the knives on the table, grinning at their sharpness. Candles were being lit when the doorbell rang. A beautiful baby-faced Emma stood behind the door carrying a picnic basket; her strappy back scarlet mini dress hugging her curvy figure, red lips and auburn hair loose on curls made Jared’s heart skip and hold his breath.
“Hi there, am I early?” She grinned.
Jared stepped aside, mirroring her grin as he held the door. “Just in time. Come in.”
“I made us some dessert and brought along wine we both share in likes.”
Jared placed the basket on the table as Emma followed him into the dining room. He glanced at her. “Merlot?”
She smiled. “Yes, and based on our recent conversations I figured out your love for coffee so I made Tiramisu.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” Jared approached her, admiring her beauty. Emma glanced at his lips and back to his dark orbs that seemed to read her. He pulled a chair for her to sit and moved strands of hair back as she could feel his breath right at the base of her neck. “I love your scent.”
“Channel.”
His lips at touch sent electrifying waves through her body. She sighed softly as they moved in a kiss. “I meant your natural scent.”
If this was the beginning, she was eager for the rest of the night. He walked back to the table and opened a bottle of red wine to fill their glasses as both dived into the conversation. The night progressed and the alcohol was making them daring, but Emma wanted to build more tension. She loved bringing men on the edge.
Emma scanned the room and noticed the eclectic gallery art wall, amazed at all the different-sized images with mismatched frames. “You have quite a taste for interior design.”
“I have quite a collection of art. In my opinion, it gives your home a personality, full of visual interests and variety.”
“Ah. It’s as if I am reading your personality. Your many shades.”
Jared was attentive, curious to her observation. He served them both more wine, taking a closer seat to her.
“Your fascination for skulls and dark artwork like Goya and the classic monsters give away the darkness in you. But then you have naked silhouettes of women, architecture, artwork by Van Gogh, Michelangelo and…” Emma paused as she beheld one of the frames. “… Hearts in jars.” She said absently.
“Is that what this wall reveals about me?”
“I also have a collection of my own,” Emma turned to him, ignoring his question. He met her mischievous stare.
“What kind? Let me take a guess.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Shoes, Vinyl records, and your exes’ hearts.”
“Close,” Emma laughed. “I collect belongings of men I date.”
Jared tilted his head back as he furrowed his brow. “I expected something crazy.”
“It is if you steal them.”
Jared chuckled. “What will you steal from me tonight?”
Emma smirked. “Your heart.”
“That’s a given,” They both stared into each other’s eyes. Jared leaned over holding a small space between them. “You're something else. I think I want to keep you.”
“Me too.” Emma threw him a suggestive look as she bit her lip. He met her lips with hunger. Their chemistry buzzed as their tongues touched.
“I don't know if to call you brave, daring, or naïve.” He whispered into her lips. The heated make-out turned into a fuck right there on the table. The candle lights danced along with their bodies as they gave in to little deaths.
“I’ll go wash up. Somehow I got Tiramisu on me.” Emma laughed along with him. “Now I’m craving sweets and second rounds.” He smirked as he dived into the Tiramisu with a spoon still in his underwear. She stared at his hot body as he ate. She smiled at him as he winked at her. “Sweet dreams.” She said to herself as she strolled in the direction of the bathroom when a shadow darted before her into the kitchen. Curious as to what that was, she approached the door and slightly pushed it open. She gaped at the bloody scene: human body parts laid across on the counter and a black Maine Coon sneaked his snout into a bowl. The cat lifted his head flashing neon eyes at her. Emma jumped as he felt Jared’s breath in her neck.
“I see you met Adonis.”
***
Emma placed an empty jar that read Jared ‘The Cannibal of L.A’ next to dozens of other jars with human hearts in them as she carried Adonis in her arms. She took some steps back in the dim red-lit room as she caressed and kissed the cat.
“Look Adonis, you saved your daddy's heart from being part of my valued collection. I took you instead. Too bad your daddy slipped into comatose before I got seconds. He’s a good fuck. Do you think he’ll call me for a second date?”
You know what they say, like-minds attract each other. The original idea though started with the Q, what would happen if two serial killers met? I was working on a script but decided to cut it short and moved on to another wip. Thanks Ricky for reading 🖤
I was brought out of my daydream when some of the whiskey I was drinking dribbled out of the corners of my mouth. I brought the glass down from my face and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I scanned the crowded room searching for Issac. I could barely hear the music over the jumbled conversations that filled the space. Finally, I spotted him. He was making his way over to me with a man I’d never seen before. I was already dreading this office party, and now I had to make small talk with his co-workers that I really didn’t care to meet.
“This is my wife, Gianna.”
Wife.
I flared my nostrils. That word makes me cringe beyond belief. I flashed a smile at my husband’s boss who extended his hand out to shake mine. “Colin Taylor, nice to meet you,” he said, winking. He was charming and objectively good looking, with his salt and pepper hair slicked back. He had green eyes that pierced through the lens of his glasses, but I couldn’t get past his yuppie persona (think Patrick Bateman - not as psychopathic, probably just as misogynistic). He commanded the room just by the energy he projected…and he was pretty loud. Colin was everyone’s friend. I found him repulsive.
“Issac, you didn’t tell me your wife was such a sight for sore eyes,” Colin laughed. His eyes wandered up and down, then back up again. Our eyes met and the eye contact made my stomach feel like concrete. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Issac responded, wrapping his arm around me, squeezing my arm to comfort me. He could tell I was uneasy. I don’t know how, but he always knows when I need consolation. Sometimes he even knows before I do.
“Your husband is one lucky man,” Colin said, his eyes devouring me.
Husband.
This word doesn’t make me cringe like “wife” does. I feel rage bubble in my chest when I hear it. Issac is a good man with a sincere heart, and he was a good husband…so far. We’d only been married ten months at this point, and he hadn’t fucked anything up…yet. All husbands do at some point. If we didn’t get married, I wouldn’t have this sense of impending doom. Truth be told, I didn’t want to get married, but Issac did, and I didn’t want to lose him over a ring and a marriage license. It’s not that I lack love for him, I’m very much in love with Issac. I’ve just only ever seen two outcomes of marriage: divorce, or worse, being trapped in a loveless, combative, miserable arrangement. At some point love would be lost in the relationship, but how long would we have before we got there?
Trying to escape the conversation, I scanned the room again. This time my eyes landed on a woman in a forest green dress, holding an empty wine glass. She was standing right next to Colin, I don’t know how I missed her. She looked back at me and we smiled at each other. The woman gently placed her arm on Colin’s back. He rolled his eyes. “Do you want to go refill our drinks,” I asked her. Maybe she wanted to get away from this conversation too. “No, she’s okay,” Colin said as Lisa looked down at the hardwood floor. I was appalled at the fact that he didn’t let her answer the question that I asked her. “Issac, Gianna, this is my wife, Lisa,” Colin sighed, disdain rolling off his tongue.
Lisa was average. Height, attractiveness, appearance…you name it. I could tell that Colin reminded her of that at every opportunity he had. I felt sorry for her, sorry that she was married to such an asshat of a person. Panic started to whisper in my ear, telling me things I’d rather not think of at the moment. “Colin, I apologize, but I was actually asking Lisa,” I said. I turned back to face her and asked the question again. She kept her eyes on the ground and shook her head. “No, thank you, I’m okay,” she said meekly.
Before me stood a submissive and broken wife: my worst fear. I started to listen to Panic, he was making good points. Surely my marriage was bound to end up like this, they all do. Issac squeezed my arm tighter. I looked up at him. He had a puzzled expression, his eyebrows raised with concern. “Colin, why are you being such a jackass to your wife,” Issac asked with a hint of animosity. Colin’s eyes widened. I guessed his authority had never been questioned by someone he considered his subordinate. “Fine. Come on Lisa, let’s go refill our drinks,” Colin sneered and walked away without waiting for Lisa’s response. She, of course, followed him like a dog with its tail between its legs. Panic told me Colin would argue with her about this embarrassing encounter, blaming her for the remark Issac made. I hoped she’d find the strength to stand up to him, or better yet, leave him.
Issac grabbed my arms and faced me. “I’ll never talk to you like that by the way,” he assured me. Panic stopped whispering. “And if I ever treat you the way Colin treats Lisa, you have my permission to end me.” Issac chuckled and kissed me on the forehead. Maybe there was a third outcome to marriage that I’ve never seen or considered: a happy partnership.
This is great, Hannah! I love your strong sense of voice throughout the story. This is what you really want, for your character to change by the end of the story. Their thoughts, habits, routines, etc. Great execution. And, great job showing Colin's character. Really leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Thanks for sharing!
Burial
Her grave lies in front of you. It’s modest, a hole dug in the ground and filled with her body, wrapped in wood, wrapped in her favorite clothes, buried with flowers and given over to the worms and maggots that no doubt wriggled in the earth. You imagine them swelling like ticks as they consume her. You imagine God watching over with some pleasure behind his eyes. Why create horrible things if he didn’t delight in them?
She knew she was going to die before anyone else did. She kissed everyone goodbye, she wished everyone the best, and she slipped into the afterlife with graceful ease. The way she did everything else. You can still picture the way she smiled at you for the last time. The way her eyes closed as the corners of her mouth turned up, as though she could only bare to do one thing at a time. All her strength left her in the end.
You brought her yellow poppies, her favorite. “They represent optimism, looking at the bright side of things.” She would pick flowers and look up all their meanings in beautifully illustrated tomes of flora. You place them gently in front of the shabby cross that marks her grave. You wish you could find something bright about this. You wish it didn’t tear you apart how it did.
You stand there, feeling more pathetic than you ever have. You’ve known her your whole life, developed in the womb with her. She’s not supposed to be dead without you. She’s not supposed be rotting if you’re not rotting with her. You wish you could plant yourself in the mud and join her, but you know she would hate that. Self-sacrifice, especially because of her, would desecrate her more than any creature that feeds on her.
The layer of dirt over her casket seems to taunt you. Only a few layers separating you and her. Only one of them impenetrable, irreversible. You fall to your knees and are overwhelmed with the urge to stick your fingers in the ground and dig. The sand is cold, chilled by the sea breeze that rolls over the ground. She wanted a sea burial. She wanted to be sent off on an adventure. Float up on some abandoned island, as though she could enjoy it. You couldn’t let her go.
You cleaned her, dressed her, and lowered her into a casket you made. Six pieces of wood hammered together. There was no one to help you, so you buried her shallow, pushing her casket into the ditch you dug. Then covered her. Then laid catatonic on top of her for days. That was months ago. You hadn’t visited since.
You don’t even think about it. There’s a moment before sticking your hands in the ground, and there’s the moment after where your fingers are encapsulated by it. You pull up sand, pull up mud, push it out of the way. It gets under your fingernails, but you can barely feel it. You can barely feel the connection between your hands and the rest of your body. You watch yourself dig, and dig, and dig, until you hit wood.
Your heart is thumping. Your aches travel through your body beside your blood. The wood is wet and soggy, You could break it apart with a soft push. You could lift the lid off and behind it-- Well, behind it would be everything you’ve lost. Everything you love. You’re leaning over the hole, reaching into it. You’re glad you didn’t bury her deeper.
You peel back the wood, not focusing your eyes until the lid is in pieces and pushed completely off to the side. When you look inside, she’s gone. Her body is there, gums receded, hair thin and frayed, skin made up of purples, blues, and grotesque blacks. But she’s not there. All the flowers around her have died. Her dress is stained and eaten through.
You thought, before this, about pumping her heart back to life. Now, there was no heart to revive. It’s mush under her rib cage, her bones the only things that still held themselves together. She’s all empty, all gone.
You move back and press your forehead to the sand. There’s nothing left of her. There’s nothing left to love.
Wow. I just need to ask, are you okay? This is gut wrenching. The heartache is palpable. Great work. Thanks for sharing!
hbhbhbhbhbh that's not the first time someones asked me that after reading something I wrote lmao, it's just what I like writing! and thanks for replying!
This was incredible and at the end I definitely cried. I recently lost a loved one so that feeling of utter desperation is still so raw and you executed those feelings so stunningly and hauntingly. Such a great piece.
thank you, and yeah, it's hard. wishing you the best <3
My stomach flipped at the line “you fall to you knees…” - I had to speed read to the ending!
Sickly Sweet
It was only one night. Just a couple of hours at some stale restaurant, pretending to care about a stranger’s life story while eating sub-par complimentary bread. When it was over, you would go your separate ways and put the whole thing behind you. That’s what Carmen kept telling herself about her date tonight. Her friends had set the whole thing up weeks ago, keeping it a secret from her until yesterday. Her friend group was convinced that Carmen needed a life that revolved around more than just work, but she certainly did not share their sentiments. Agreeing to go on the date tonight was more of an act of defiance, since she felt like she needed to prove to her friends that she could date people; she just shouldn’t. Or so she thought.
Friday night. Date night. Finding something to wear had been a challenge, since she couldn’t even remember the last time she got dressed for a date. Slipping on a casual dress, Carmen caught herself worrying about what her mystery date would think of her appearance. “What am I even doing?” she thought as she rifled through her closet trying to find the perfect pair of shoes. Finally settled on an outfit, she picked up her diary and turned to the next blank page. With a shaky hand, she wrote,
"1/7
Blind date tonight, thanks to you-know-who. Probably gonna suck. We all know how I tend to scare people off. I can’t wait for this whole thing to be over with. More later."
Closing her journal, she heads back to her bookshelf to return her diary to its hiding place, behind a row of neatly aligned books. She checks herself one last time in the mirror, grabs her keys, and heads to the restaurant.
The general atmosphere of the restaurant was insufferable. The minute she walked in, her gut told her to turn around and leave. But she had to prove herself to her friends. She took a few steps forward and saw a man with light brown hair and glasses sitting at a table by himself. He spotted her at the same time, standing up to signal that he was her date. “Are you Carmen?” he asks. She nods. “I’m Ian” he says, as he takes her hand to lead her to the table.
Hours go by and Carmen is shocked by how much fun she’s having. At the end of the night, they exchange phone numbers and agree to see each other again soon. As Carmen gets in her car to return home, she finally feels the heat of her flushed cheeks and catches herself smiling at the thought of her date. “Maybe Ian will be different than the others”, she silently hopes.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind. The two went on date after date after date, and Carmen truly felt like she had found the “one”. Every ounce of independence that she had worked so hard for and so desperately clung onto was tossed out the window. They truly needed each other, with the same desperation that they needed to breathe. Things were going great. Then, Carmen began to slip.
She could tell that Ian was losing feelings for her. Sure, it had only been a month, but Carmen was ready to fully commit to this relationship, and she wasn’t going to let anything get in her way. When Ian wasn’t around, she would snoop around his apartment, looking for anything to suggest his disloyalty. She began collecting receipts and keeping tabs on his habits in her diary. She began following him to work, from a safe distance of course. Ian was the one! She was certain of it, and she would do anything to prove it to him. Her diary became her playbook of romance. In it, she would plan out the best way to ensure that Ian would be able to spend as much time with her as possible. Convincing him that his friends are manipulating and using him should keep him from going out. A couple of missing sparkplugs would make sure that he didn’t go to work, at least for a few days. The back door being accidentally left open where his dog could get out and run away should keep all his attention on Carmen. She knew that she was the only thing he needed, she just needed him to see it. Soon enough, everything came crashing down.
It was February 14, Valentine’s Day. The happy couple were spending the day at Carmen’s apartment, bathing in the sickly-sweet scent of roses and chocolate. She turns on some music and invites her partner to dance. As they slow dance around Carmen’s living room, she cannot help but think about how perfect this moment is. Dancing, Ian takes a step back and bumps into the cheap bookshelf, causing the top shelf to fall out of place. Books go scattering across the floor. Laughing at his clumsiness, Ian starts picking up the books. Carmen watches him as he picks up her diary. Smiling at her, he opens the small book to a random page and begins reading. His smile quickly shifts into a look of bewilderment and disbelief as he reads his girlfriend’s account of how she planned to make him realize that she was the only thing he needed. He looks up at her, his brain full of questions. Carmen picks up the fallen wooden shelf and walks toward him. Ian, frozen in place, sees her swing the shelf toward him. Almost in slow motion, he sees the grain of the wood inching closer and closer, until it makes contact and his vision fades to black.
Carmen drops the crimson-tinged wood panel. Picking up her diary, she flips to the last page. Looking at the long list of names presented, she goes to the next open line. She scribbles down “Ian-bookshelf”. Guess Ian wasn’t the “one” after all.
I love the tonal shift halfway through. Clever! Thanks for sharing, Becca!
Thank you so much!
I loved seeing a woman as the serial killer. Her nonchalance was awesome!
Thank you so much! The nonchalance and apathetic attitude is exactly what I was going for with her. I’m glad you enjoyed it!
This is so evil its brilliant!
Thank you!
18+ readers only pls, minors keep scrolling 🖤
ISWMBMOMWN (i slept with my best man on my wedding night)
It’s five in the morning and Alex is standing outside Joel’s hotel room.
He’s still a little drunk. But not nearly enough to excuse or even explain why he’s here. Again. Tonight of all nights.
She didn’t even feel him get up and leave.
Alex places his hand flat on the door. Knocks with the heel of his hand. Just in case Joel is asleep. But he knows he won’t be.
The lights are off when the door opens. Joel blinks back the light from the hallway, looks at Alex for a long moment.
“Alex,” Joel says.
“Don’t,” Alex says. Joel nods. Grabs him by the shirt. Pulls him in and shuts the door.
Joel doesn’t say anything. He knows why Alex is here. He just pushes Alex to the bed, and he clambers up onto it, the white sheets appearing grey in the darkness. Joel kneels up behind him. Pushes the stupid groom shirt up his back. Alex takes it off and Joel pulls his shorts down and off. Alex’s laid bare, Joel’s hands grabbing at him. Brushing the hair off his neck and grabbing it the roots. Pinning his shoulders down to the bed.
“Stay.”
Alex does. Frozen, ass up. Joel gets up and shuffles around in his things. Alex stares into the pattern on the blackout curtains so long they seem to move. The Vegas lights leak in around the edges.
He feels Joel knee up onto the bed behind him and when he pushes up against him, Joel is naked. Alex hears the lube bottle open. Turns his head down into his forearm, hides his face.
“Did you fuck her?” Joel asks. His fingers push in. Alex shudders, pushes back at the contact.
There’s a long pause as Joel stills, knuckle deep. Waits for an answer.
“Alex.”
“What.” Alex’s voice comes out weak.
“Did you fuck her tonight?” Joel asks. Alex cards his hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he admits, face still turned downward. Joel makes a noise. There’s venom in it. Pours on more lube.
“I’m going in,” Joel says, wiping lube across Alex’s back carelessly. Joel holds Alex still. Eases himself in. Folds himself down over him. Crushing him.
“Fuck,” Alex whispers. He pushes back as Joel fucks him. Joel’s breath is hot on the back of his neck.
Joel grabs at Alex’s wrist. The left one. Pries his fingers back. Alex looks away. Doesn’t want to see the ring that’s there now. Only looks at the wallpaper as Joel thumbs over it.
“It’s not enough is it,” Joel says, his voice thin.
Alex shakes his head, buries his face into his elbow.
“You’ll always come back,” Joel says. It’s a statement. Not negotiable. Alex sobs once, and Joel hooks his arm under him, grabs his shoulder, pulls him into it. Leverage. Closer. He's even further away.
Alex doesn’t have to answer that. Feels the tears when he lifts his head.
She’s probably still asleep. Doesn’t even know Alex’s gone.
“Shit,” Joel hisses. He fucks Alex harder. Alex feels lightheaded. Joel moans into his back. He’s close. Alex’s heard it enough times to know. Alex feels it when Joel pulls out and it runs down the inside of his thigh. Alex feels it when Joel sits back on his heels. Feels Joel staring at him. Feels Joel looking down on him in more than one way.
It’s more vulnerable than she’s ever seen him.
“It’s never going to be enough, is it?” Joel asks.
After a long beat, Alex’s voice breaks the silence. “No,” he says, broken.
Joel grabs Alex and spreads him open, spits inside him. Gets his fingers in him again. Three this time, then four. Alex cries into the sheets as Joel fucks him with his hand, the wet slick of lube and cum the only other sound.
“Please,” Alex murmurs.
“Is this enough?” Joel asks. Alex can taste the contempt in his voice.
“Yeah,” Alex chokes out. Joel is deeper inside him than anyone else has ever been. He pulls his hand out and pushes it back in again. Alex’s legs are barely holding him up. Joel ignores him.
“You’ll always come back,” Joel says. Alex jerks off. “You’ll always need me.”
Alex sobs when he finishes. Collapses into the bed. Barely even feels Joel pull his hand out.
“I’m taking a shower,” Joel says. “You better be gone by the time I get out.” Alex feels him get up off the bed. “Go back to your wife.”
When Alex gets back, she’s right where he left her. Still asleep.
You definitely know your wording around the bedroom, no denying that. I like this because behind all of the sex there is such a deeper situation happening. The real tragedy is that it will never be resolved. Thanks for sharing, Marina!
thank you so much! it means a lot coming from you cuz from reading gloom i think we have a lot of the same feelings about writing fiction in general and it seems like we like telling similar stories. i really appreciate it.
glad you enjoyed! i’m definitely usually more of a straight up porn writer as well as creative nonfiction zines so this is different for me yknow. appreciate it!!
My goal this year is to be brave, so I’m going to be brave.
Ageless
Gazing into the full length mirror in her new dress all she can see is the flaws. The creases around her eyes, the sagging skin on her jawline. Breasts that have conceded the fight to gravity. As her eye is drawn down her body they focus on the two rolls at her mid section split in half by her belly button. She sucks in her gut and stares longingly at the figure in the mirror, then sighs as she exhales and watches her stomach balloon back out wishing all it took was a pin to prick it and release all the air to make it go flat. As she draws her eyes back up to her face choosing not to look further down her body she catches the eye of her husband of 25 years looking at her in the mirror. He has a predatory gleam in his eye as his gaze rakes over her body. He stalks over and stands behind her. His fingers brush the top of her shoulders as he runs them down her arms making her shiver. Their eyes lock in the mirror and she hears him whisper “Beautiful”
Thanks for sharing this, Teresa! People tend to see themselves in the worst way and forget that others can love those exact "flaws". This is beautifully worded.
Thank you. 😊
You know, I think you've described me and my husband. I do this all of the time. He is first to tell me when I don't feel beautiful, just how beautiful I am. I don't have a flat stomach or a pretty face, you know? You've captured the emotion to a T I think. It really is beautiful.
Very well written.
That’s a great goal to have - hitting the post button can be scary sometimes! I loved the ending.
Made me cry ❤️❤️❤️
Burn
There is unstable, primal drive within all of us. An urge with no regard for what logic or intelligence may call for when it comes to reactions. It simply calls for you to obey, and even the most discerning of us will fall prey to it from time to time.
Perhaps with the millions of years of evolution behind it there is a deeper reasoning than meets the eye to obey our primal compulsions, even when they lack all logic. That even when every objective, rational part of you screams that it’s a terrible idea, your heart cannot be swayed.
Should one continue to ignore it, despite the painful, insistent nagging of regret, anxiety, and stress that will occur when one does? Or to find the possibility of release, or catharsis, does one give in?
With love in the mix, one might find that there is no way to resist, as arguably the strongest emotion it has no problem taking the driver’s seat and discarding all logic to the side. Whether it’s the chemicals in your brain gone haywire or the beating of your heart pounding so loud there is no way to focus on reality, it takes hold of your body and mind like a parasite.
It is the easiest way to drown without a single drop of water.
I cannot begin to fathom how deep of an ocean I reside in, nevermind that I am desperately treading water, all in the elusive yet alluring pull of love for one person. As those hazel eyes that once rang with fervor begin to fade like a sepia photograph I know the truth of eternity: that even in death our love goes on.
As the slow monotone beeping of the heart monitor fades away and joins with the piercing silence that rings in my ears I realize that the most agonous aspects of love can bring with them momentous moments of clarity. Things that once seemed impossible to decide become eerily obvious, as if there was never a dilemma in the first place. It seems ludicrous that I hesitated to do this.
There is another presence in control of my body cycling through the mundanity of my new reality whilst I plan and ponder deep within my subconscious. In the recesses of my mind you are still there, I can feel the steady thrumming of your heart as my head rests over your chest. Where I reside, the pain does not exist in the normal sense, my brain has manipulated it into something I do not yet recognize, but we both know that it will soon be faced.
Once unleashed there will be no going back, however, when I truly consider it, there was no way back anyways. The things they did to you made that impossible, their actions make it so I cannot forgive nor can I forget. That much I am sure of.
“𝔅𝔲𝔦𝔩𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔅𝔲𝔯𝔫, 𝔓𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔇𝔦𝔢, 𝔅𝔲𝔱 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 ℑ𝔰 𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯”
Now I must remember the filthy things, now is the time for my suffering. All that connects us has never felt stronger than it does now, and for that I am nothing but bitterly grateful. I have come to find that I cannot live without you.
I feel my own tears as the cool night air grazes my cheeks, and the eyes of the predator now made prey begin to open. As the slow haze of drugs and unconsciousness fades away their eyes widen at me, those dark pupils dilating with fear as the rusty blade winks at them in the reflection of the moonlight.
My tears become theirs and muffled pleas for mercy begin as I step closer, dragging the tip of the blade across their cheek. I cannot help the wicked sadist within me that smiles at their fear. A quiet, warm breath escapes my parted lips and graces the frigid evening and I finally find the words.
The pained, hoarse whisper that breaks free from my raw throat croaks, “There's no reason to cry now. There's nothing to forgive. This suffering's my blessing and now it is yours.”
I am ascended into what I must do, ready to take the life that set this all into motion. Call it what you must but, there is not a god that can stop me.
I allow that unquantifiable augnish to take hold, filling my veins with that neverending turmoil, with an utter lovecraftian chaos. You would not recognize the eldritch horror I have become, but just know that there is nothing I will not do for you.
The knife is steady in my grip as I begin, first slicing through their eyelids like the flesh of a finger with a papercut. The soft, slimy matter of their bloodshot eyes gleam with tears and blood, the white scleras fully exposed. The tiny, delicate muscles in the orbital socket flinch and twitch, and I yank down the saliva coated bandana that once was shoved in their mouth.
I force open their mouth and pull out the slippery, thick tongue that resides within, cutting through the broad flesh in a matter of minutes. Saliva and blood bubble in their throat and the wet piece of meat drops to the dusty concrete with a moist slap.
From a table beside them I pick up the glassy, pointed object, weighing the heaviness in my palm. With a harsh grip on their hair I turn their head to the side, exposing an ear before driving the ice pick suddenly into the opening and through the canal.
With every shriek, every bloodcurdling scream I fall deeper into the abyss. They are the canvas for my pain as I bask in their own. It is like a symphony of ecstasy and torment as the scent of blood fills my nostrils, co-mingling with the acrid burn of gasoline, and they are ablaze, the flames dancing in my eyes.
And for the final time, like a phoenix writhing in the pyre of rebirth, I am alive.
Nice, Dara! Your vocabulary is outstanding. "It is the easiest way to drown without a single drop of water." Beautiful line. Great take on love and vengeance. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you for the opportunity and the compliments. Google is the single greatest and easiest dictionary lol.
How do you make psychopathy so sensual? Damn you, woman!
Its all I know how to do!
You have studied well, grasshopper.
I was taught well by the master.
Girl, I love this.
Thank you, have you entered yet?
***GENERAL CONTENT WARNING***
I apologize in advance lmao
Let Me See Your Insides
You hadn’t exactly forgotten what it was like to feel this strung out, but it certainly wasn’t the same old familiar face as it had been in the past. It was kind of like a dream. Everything fuzzy around the edges, far away. Like being trapped in a pocket of air while everything else is surrounded with water. If you got lucky, it stayed like that. Faded, blurry, barely there. Floating on air. Even luckier if it really was a dream, after all.
This wasn’t either.
Your head feels like it’s about to unscrew itself and fall off your shoulders, limbs heavy. Actually, you can wiggle your fingers and toes a bit, but you’re pretty certain you can’t move at all otherwise. Trying takes too much out of you. Your stomach keeps doing backflips, twisting up in a way that makes the room spin even faster and bile rise to your throat already. There’s an ache in your jaw and in your knees, shooting in hot, razor sharp streaks down your calves. Your senses are having a hard time catching up with anything else.
A light’s on somewhere in front of you. Dim, just enough to make out dark shapes and silhouettes. Not that you can exactly see very well right now to begin with. Honestly, you’re thankful it’s not some bright, fluorescent spotlight right in your face. That’s how these things usually wind up, right? Cold, open, exposed, confused.
Vulnerable.
Keeping your head up is a struggle, but given about a minute and a half of consciousness, your self-preservation instinct kicks in. (Or at the very least attempts to, keeping your thoughts straight proves to be even more of a task.)
You pick your chin up again, willing your eyes to adjust. The light aheads seems to be an exposed bulb, hanging from an incline in the ceiling, seated right at the bottom of… a staircase? Most of the view is obscured by boxes and containers shoved against the wall, but a little further up you can see the cast weaving through slats in what you can only infer to be the railing, sending shadows about a quarter of the way across the floor before they dissipate.
A basement?
You try a little harder to move this time, but you’re weak. Not to mention, immediately met with resistance— something biting into your wrists, around your ankles. Your arms are locked behind you. You try to twist them out of their bindings, to no avail. It’s not rope, far too thin and harsh to be rope. They’re fucking tight too. You can still feel your fingers but it aches. Add that to the ever mounting list.
Now the panic starts to hit you.
Shifting in the seat you’re bound to, you make a noise, a little too loud to be a whimper but not loud enough to be a cry. It’s muffled. Your jaw aches. Shit. You bite down into something rubbery, realizing you’re gagged on top of it all.
No, no, no. What the fuck.
Either somebody’s been watching too many fucked up horror flicks or you’re about to get your fucking heart carved out of your chest.
You take a deep breath, exhaling shakily around the gag, feeling a string of drool fall down your chin. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you, and it’s all you can do to resist gagging and upchucking whatever you had in your stomach. You certainly weren’t a stranger to finding yourself in some nasty snags, but you have no fucking clue how the you’re supposed to wiggle your way out of this one. You’re pretty sure you couldn’t even stay awake long enough.
There’s a rustle behind you. It sounds louder than it really is, amplified by the state you’re in, but it’s definitely the sound of fabric. Clothes. Somebody moving?
A squeak, like an old folding chair, and careful yet deliberate footsteps come from behind you.
Closer.
Thunk.
Closer.
Thunk.
Closer.
Your heart starts to race, and you struggle against your restraints again. They feel like they’re cutting straight into your skin, but you can’t even find it in yourself to care. The thought of degloving one of your hands just to get out of this fucking chair isn’t so far fetched at the moment.
You’re fucked. You’re so fucked.
The footsteps stop maybe a foot behind you. You can feel them, whoever they are. The warmth coming off of them compared to the chill of your bare skin. Their breath in the air. It’s almost as if they’re pondering for a moment, before a gentle hand comes down against your shoulder. You flinch, try to jerk away, but it’s no use. You’re light headed before momentum even catches up with you. Tears well up in your eyes, you cry out around the gag, only to be promptly shushed.
It’s not harsh like you expect. Soft, almost soothing, understanding.
They squeeze your shoulder, thumb brushing over the back of your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine. All you can do is sit, tense, on guard, squeeze your eyes shut and cry harder.
Fingertips trace over your collarbone and you hear more movement as the touch falls away. They walk off to the left of you and you hear the click of a switch. A light overhead buzzes to life, and even through your eyelids, it makes your head sear.
Footsteps approach again, stopping in front of you this time. Joints crack and hands rest on the tops of your thighs, slowly climbing up to your hips, your waist, chest, landing cupped around your cheeks. A little timid and unsure.
Your heart’s in your throat.
A sob tears through you, your whole chest fucking aches between whatever hell your body had already been through and your heart working overtime and struggling just to keep air in your lungs.
At this point you’re praying— no, begging that you don’t pass out again. It’s like your soul’s being torn from your body, piece by agonizing piece.
They shush you again, but it’s not until you hear the voice that you come crashing back to earth, even if you are still burning up in the atmosphere.
“Shhh, baby, c’mon. You’re okay.” Their voice is low, but it rumbles through stagnant air like an avalanche. “You’re okay.”
You stop cold. Stop crying, stop moving, stop breathing. You reckon your heart probably skips a beat at first too before going right back to throbbing against your ribcage. No. No, no, no. That can’t be right. It’s the drugs. Your mind playing tricks on you in the wake of your own desperation. It can’t be him.
“That’s it. See? It’s only me.” His voice comes again and you fidget in your seat. You open your eyes, looking out through heavy lids. They need a minute to adjust, but the man in front of you slowly starts to take shape.
So maybe it’s not some fucked up delusion in the name of self preservation. At least you don’t think you’re hallucinating. This doesn’t feel like a trip. You’re a little fuzzy, but you’d like to think you know the difference by now. This is real. Solid. Focused. Clear in view. If nothing else, this definitely isn’t the high.
His thumbs brush tears away from your cheeks. With your attention, it’s a lot more familiar and confident. A gesture he’s well acquainted with, done a million times before. And somehow it works. A bit of the tension melts out of your body. Even cold and naked and strapped to a fucking chair, he can still reach inside you and soothe some of the ache.
You attempt to say something to the effect of “What’s happening?” but it comes out garbled and incoherent around the gag secured tightly between your teeth. More saliva dribbles down your chin, collecting between your collarbones and slicking down your sternum.
“Ah,” He tuts, “Let me do the talking here.”
His eyes meet yours and you’re jelly in his hands.
“‘M sorry. I know this isn’t exactly, uh— ideal. Shit’s just been so busy lately. I miss you. Need you to myself for a while. No distractions. Nobody else to interrupt.”
Great job with this one, Lucas. Your use of all the senses really helps keep you in the moment with the character. Their voice also shines through! Thanks for sharing this!
Love Lost
They say love is the best feeling in the world. It’s when you find that someone that gets you in a way nobody else does, the kind of love that “sweeps you off your feet.” But what if we’re not all allowed to experience that love? That heart warming, butterflies in the stomach, tears of happiness kind of love.
It wasn’t the first relationship that did it. Though full of gutting words, sexual harassment and the kind of intimidation that made you question your self worth… it was the first. It was like being a newborn coming into the world for the first time and knowing nothing else to do but live.
It wasn’t the second one, the one that had moments of glimmering hope. I could feel love just out of my reach. A life that almost made me feel like I was in a Hallmark movie. Almost. But this time, it was me. Blinded to know any better. My heart was too big for my body, beating for the desire to have that Hallmark movie life. It was when someone else became the better option that I again failed to find out what love was.
This one, the next one. The third guy. This is the one that showed me that love was only fit for those worthy of it. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s all in my head and I’m just giving up too soon.
I imagine what it would be like to rid of the abuse. I imagine running away one day and never looking back.
I won’t bleed from this knife on my skin anymore. I will put my headphones down, because the music is only a bandaid. The next time he strikes, I will strike back. No threat of a gun or the hand around my neck will stop me.
It was today that I decided when he struck, that all the lost love will be in my favor.
As I tower over the lost “love” of five years, the dreaded years of mental and emotional pain, I realized he would be the last one to get to me. Watching the blood pool under his head, I dropped the pot on the kitchen floor. “It was self defense,” I’ll say.
The sirens sound closer to what was once my home and as I realized the ending to my love story was finally here, my heart sounded in my ears and I have never felt more alive.
-----
(This is rough and written within a few minutes - I also would never do anything of this nature, this story is purely emotion driven. I honestly have no intention on this winning or even worth a comment or your time of reading. It was more of I needed an outlet and this challenge pushed me to write. I'm sitting here with shaky hands after writing this, but I feel relieved to get out my emotions. So just want to say thank you, Ricky, more than anything.)
Thanks for sharing this, Sara. That's what this is all about: just getting it out there. Whether that be thoughts, emotions, or something else. I think this is a great story about finding yourself and who you really are in the mist of a tragic situation. That last line is a banger! Solid close to the story.
Thanks, Ricky!
Wow, you seriously wrote this in a few minutes?! I’d love to see what you’d do with a few hours!
Yeah, actually I whipped out my phone in the middle of work and wrote it within a few minutes on my notes app. I probably could have came up with something much better if I had waited to get home and had some time. However, I like writing under pressure. Thank you though!
I agree; the eleventh hour can really pull out some great stuff. I can count on one hand how many times I wasn’t scrambling to the wire. The difference here is that I spent hours to get mine out, not minutes! I hope I get the chance to read more of your work.
Writing used to be my escape for bullying in middle and high school. Instead of working in class, I'd write tons of these short stories. I haven't written like that in a long time, but it was nice to have someone like Ricky yank it out of me for this. Haha.
Me too. Funny how bullies are suddenly so weak when we stand up to them.
Unconditional Love
The weight on her chest was there again. Ever present and heavy. No matter how many times she shrugged it off, it always returned.
This was the third time tonight she awoke from a sound sleep. Mouth dry and caked from an apparent snoring session. Neck stiff and unmoving from being at the wrong angle on the too soft pillow.
Every night it seemed to get worse. Sometimes the weight would be on her chest, sometimes her stomach. Even her legs were not exempt from the feeling of not being able to move. A frightening reality to awaken to indeed.
When sleep faded and true consciousness returned, the horror of being pinned down disappeared.
Loving yellow eyes- three pairs of them - look on with concern, perched atop their mommy s’ slumbering body. The breath the kitty’s sniff to know it is her, stops coming at regular intervals. Concern that if they did not intervene in an attempt to prevent a deadly nights sleep, the cats would suffer an empty food bowl and no more unconditional love.
This is great, Debbie! That twist gave me a chuckle. I wasn't expecting THAT! Good job hiding that until the last possible second!
Wow!! Thank you!! This is my first attempt at writing a story for everyone to read!! The way you write your stories was the model I used. I love how you keep me in suspense til the end!!
Ghosts
Have you ever been haunted? It’s one of those questions that I always find myself being asked. As a kid, it was at sleepovers, giggling as I held a torch under my face, distorting my features as I came up with whatever warped tales my ten year old mind could muster. As I grew older, it became a question I grew to dread. Of course, ghosts aren’t real. But what about the ghosts that took the shape of memories?
I took another pull of my cigarette, letting the nicotine - and the question - consume me. I hoped to God it would numb my mind even for a few minutes. The thoughts crashing around my head only seemed to get louder as I stared at the words on the page in front of me.
The black ink was splotchy, tear stained.
“It’s been four years. Four years since I cut you off for good.
For four years I’ve been haunted by you. It makes sense, right? You know what you did. It’s ironic too, my memories haunted by you. My own personal ghost. You know what you did, and I vow to make sure you don’t forget it until the life fades from your eyes.
I still yearn for the way only you could make me feel. You broke me down, built me into something you could use, yet when you spoke to me, I truly thought I meant something to you. We both know I didn’t. I was a toy. I was a part of a game. I was just an object; something that you could throw to the side when you got bored of it. I still love you, but I despise you with every fibre of my being.
Your presence is heavy. It’s the constant dead weight on my chest. The darkness in you is liquid, though. It’s tar. And it’s as sharp as a knife.
You seeped into every part of my soul and ripped it to shreds. You were always there. Always watching. Maybe that’s why you named yourself what you did; you haunt me. You stand at the foot of my bed, your shadow snuffing out any light I had left.
You haunt me every fucking day of my life and no matter what I do or say I can’t escape you.
I want to make sure you don’t escape me either. I’m going to be a constant thorn in your side until the day you drop fucking dead.”
What was I at eighteen other than the shell of the person he’d made me?
Tragic. Vengeful. This reads like the opening of a book and makes me want to know more: Who is this person? What is their journey? The descriptions are great. They are always so much stronger when used as a metaphor rather than analogously. (For example, your line, "The darkness in you is liquid. It's tar," is so much stronger than if you had said, "The darkness in you is like liquid tar." I think so, anyway. Simple, but super effective.)
Thank you!! This means so much, I really appreciate it!
Unfortunately I know those feelings far too well. But time does heal and I hope you're OK.
Shelter
We crawled into the shelter, hands then knees. Denim and cotton clotted with filth. We waited without saying for what. We stopped measuring time in blinks after the first night’s sleep, and in my sleep it happened again.
A figure plunging out of the woods, tugging my periphery. Sirens unhinged their jaws and blurred features settled into a face, his sunken eyes rimmed the color of stormclouds. He hurtled toward me, grabbed my arm, grip pinching and sharp where it had been firm and fleshy weeks ago. We ran without words past the house, down to the gutter, and crouched low, sloshing through mud clinging like mucus. The shelter was room enough for four, but the two of us were ready and first.
How will we know when it is safe? I asked.
We’ll know, he said.
I was prepared to count the sounds of violence but there were none. Even the sirens quieted after enough sleep, but the silence we’d awaited was menacing. Terror dulled with time. I laid my head in the saddle of his lap and counted the hairs gouging his thinning neck and chin. Every few grayed, more than I remembered. In the night the dirt under his fingernails was bitter in my mouth.
When he'd been bigger he would wrap me in arms like coiled constrictors, dragging me into sleep with him. Now he wasted faster than I did; there was more of him to lose. In time my skin became loose, but his evaporated into the air.
Awake we touched hesitantly, hands fearing the strangeness of diminishing bodies. Hunger climbed the walls of our stomachs. Lettering wrapped in black ink down his arms dulled without muscle swelling underneath. His fingers slender rake tines in the dirt.
Do you think it’s safe? I asked less and less frequently.
As long as there is a question, he said, we are not safe.
When won’t there be one?
That’s another question.
***
I avoided his eyes; I avoided the blinking. Every blink marked another five seconds. Another five seconds to wonder how many more five seconds we’d pass and how many more five seconds were worth passing. But evading his gaze long enough drew my eyes the way swaying on the edge of a cliff feels like falling. I saw knobby bones and veins inching through inked skin across his body, but I saw stoic hunger only when I met his eyes.
I braced myself the first time I did it, spine curled into the cavernous earth behind me, feet planted on the ground, forehead pressed to my knees. I’d slipped the knife out of his pocket the night before, one hand over the carved hollow of his chest, lips pressed to his hair. I braced myself against a scream. I blocked up all the air in the bottom of my stomach as I pulled the knife through a flap of skin connected to the meat of my upper arm.
I held it in my palm, presented as a gift. A sliver of meat, skin-down, blood pooling around it, slipping through my fingers. This was not a discussion, the absoluteness a relief.
This is what we will do. This is how we will survive, I told him and pushed the meat past his lips. He chewed automatically, a circular grinding of the jaws. Placid tears slipped between his lips and blended with the meat tearing between his teeth. He swallowed and placed the flat of his hand against the exposed meat of my arm but said nothing.
You can’t leave it there forever, I said.
***
Unconsciousness leaked in one ear and out the other and sleep happened without our knowledge or permission. When his eyes closed I watched his face, his orchid petal eyelids, thin and purple-veined. When his eyes opened I turned away.
Me now, he said and one boot lurched to indicate the knife. Take it from my side.
I peeled his shirt back and counted the ribs pushing at his skin. I left the knife by his feet.
I can’t, I said. There’s nothing left.
Take anything, he said.
I rocked back on my heels and stared at the dirt below. I don’t need anything, I said. I need you.
Here, he said. With the violence of a last reserve of energy he heaved himself upright and took the knife from the ground. He wiped it on his pants, one side, other side, and I should have stopped him. I should have peeled the skin from his heel like a potato to appease him. But I didn’t, and so he kissed me, then dragged the knife across his face faster than I could register. It seemed a practice stroke until, after a moment’s delay, blood poured a narrow brown sheet down his chin, his front. He groped for the chunk of flesh on his lap and pinched it between his fingers, holding it out.
I rolled it on my tongue where I could feel papery flakes of chapped skin like curled Bible pages before swallowing, a swollen grub worm of a lip.
***
While he slept, bottom teeth jutting from his cavernous face, I cut off parts of my body. I no longer recognized the pieces I peeled from my torso, and eventually stopped recognizing my own shape. I arranged the chunks between us on the dirt floor: a strip of meat from my hip, a strip from the underside of my arm, a half-moon from the inside of my thigh. I carved until I was numb, carved out all feeling. He would find a feast upon waking.
My chest seized when he opened his eyes. I approached him with a slab of one calf and tucked the meat into the side of his mouth, where it could be held between cheek and teeth without slipping.
He was too weak to speak but I dared to meet his eyes. I did not find the expected protest.
I was chilled by a look of lustful greed.
Good god, this is incredible. Everything about this is so, so great. This gives me huge Cormac McCarthy vibes. Well done, bravo! Thanks for sharing, Allison.
Cormac McCarthy vibes? I will NOT complain about that. Thank you so much!
Dear God, woman! I'm chilled but thrilled. Also, I TOLD YOU THAT YOU ARE BRILLIANT! Please take note: I'm always right!
This is wonderful, I love it!
THE APOLOGY
By Stephanie Harding
“I’m sorry, Abi.”
Those three words were all that was scrawled across the ripped piece of notebook paper she saw on the kitchen table, followed thirty seconds later by the gruesome discovery of her best friend sprawled on the bathroom floor, covered in vomit, clutching an empty pill bottle in his limp hand. She should have seen this coming, right? It was no secret Oliver had been horribly depressed for months. It was no secret that the consistent failure of their band was the main source. And it was no secret that he hated taking those damn pills in the hopes of feeling the pure bliss he used to feel when the two of them would write music together. But the passion had long since faded from Oliver’s heart, and evidently not even she was enough to keep him around anymore.
At least he left a note, was the only comforting thought her brain could conjure up as she sat in that cold hospital waiting room, praying they would be able to pump all of the toxins out of his body in time. And praying harder that Oliver wouldn’t hate her for saving his life. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. But she didn’t know what to do anymore. She didn’t know how to possibly fix this.
And then…he sat beside her. With nothing more than a white handkerchief to dry her eyes and a mere promise to help, he changed the entire course of her life.
—-----------------
“I’m sorry, Abi.”
Those three words were all that Oliver could think to say as he watched his best friend collapse onto his chest, her body heaving with sobs, unable to hide the truth from him any longer. Even though it seemed crazy or impossible, he knew she would never lie to him. Not about something like this. Not to mention the fact that it would explain the ridiculous strain of good luck they’d had over the past decade. In less than a year after he tried to end his life, they had gone from playing open mic nights for a dozen uninterested patrons to performing their own sold-out headlining tour; from a revolving door of consistently unreliable band members to finding three of the greatest friends and musicians they’d ever known; from being two nobodies from the south side of Chicago to practical celebrities nearly all across the nation. It almost had seemed too good to be true.
And evidently, it had been.
Oliver glanced down at her left hand gripping the front of his shirt tightly, the light reflecting off the blue sapphire sitting in the middle of the white gold band. Last night on stage, in front of 2500 screaming fans, their drummer Micah had gotten down on one knee and pulled the little velvet box from his pocket, declaring that nothing would make him happier than for the girl who had played keyboard by his side for years to finally become his wife. And when Oliver saw tears instantly sprout from his best friend’s eyes as she said yes, he sensed there was something more than just shock and happiness on her mind in that moment.
But this…he had never expected this. And yet, even now, poking between her fingers, he could see the corners of that dreaded white handkerchief that had unknowingly sealed her fate all those years ago.
—-----------
“I’m sorry, Abi.”
Those three words echoed inside her ears, forcing her eyes open. As she stared into the green room mirror—her face pale and tearstained, her eyes swollen and bloodshot—she saw that she was no longer alone. The man was there, just as she expected him to be. After all, the bright red luminescent numbers above her head told her that she had barely a minute left to live. Once that clock struck midnight, her ten years would be up. And when that happened, he would come to collect what he was owed. She would never get to play music again. She would never get to marry her beloved Micah. She would never be able to say a proper good-bye. Not even to Oliver, the only one who knew what was about to happen. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t face him. He never fully understood why she took the deal in the first place. What were you thinking, Abi? I’m not worth it!
And yet…as she heard his voice echo in her mind, the strangest thing happened. She suddenly felt lighter for the first time in the past ten years. It was as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a weight that she had grown so accustomed to that she didn’t even realize it had been there until it was gone. But that wasn’t the only thing that was gone. Glancing down at the table, she saw that the white handkerchief was gone as well, her hand now clenched around nothing but air. She looked back up at the mirror, expecting to see the man there, ready to take her soul to whatever endless torture he had in store for her, but was surprised to find that he had also vanished. She was alone now.
The clock struck midnight. A scream rang out. She threw open the green room door and peered down the hallway to find a small group of people gathered together. And as she made her way forward, her heart instantly sank with every step. Because she already knew what she was going to find. She knew what he had done. And she knew why he had done it. Because just like she couldn’t live without him, he couldn’t live without her.
Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at her best friend, lying still on the ground in front of her, his soul taken in place of her own, his hand clenched tightly around a white handkerchief. The ultimate sacrifice. All for her. The one he loved.
“I’m sorry, Oli.”
This is really, really great, Stephanie. I love the tension and release. I love that the you found a way to thread the three sections together with the handkerchief. Very nice!
Thank you so much, Rick! It’s actually a condensed version of a longer short story I have called “The White Handerchief.” Appreciate the feedback, my dude :)
Chemical Reactions
Margot could feel the city’s heartbeat with each step forward, her fingers tangled through Adrian’s as they stumbled towards the neon lights of the cafe. The rumble of the underground beneath their feet, the sound of sirens in the distance and the chatter of the people walking by. There was a buzz of life she had never expected when they’d moved to London. It seemed like soulless grey and glass from a distance, but they'd built a home in a tiny flat in Bayswater. With plants on every surface, photographs of meaningful moments and a million other trinkets but it had all come to a catastrophic end.
“One last coffee?” Adrian asked, faltering for a moment expecting her to say no.
“Sure” It was one word filled with so much false hope. There was no changing her mind once she’d set her sights on something - this time it was calling it quits on their life together. The flat was almost empty, their things already divided up but somehow, they had ended up in the pub where they’d met for one last late night. Between the haze of the wine and clouds of cigarette smoke Adrian had almost forgotten that they were saying goodbye. Their vows had disappeared into the universe like secrets shared but they still had some memories left to call their own.
Margot knew the exact minute it was over. It had been afternoon in May, the type of day that went on forever. The sun had warmed everything it touched masquerading like it was summer for a brief moment in an inconsistent but typically English way. They had hiked the same route as their first date. It was a path full of sentimentality and stories, but silence filled the space between them. With each step the only thing keeping her company was the sound of her heartbeat thumping in her head and grass giving away beneath each footstep. All threads of conversation were false starts; they had nothing to say to each other.
It was one of the best days they’d had in months, but Margot felt like she was crawling out of her skin.
She wondered if Adrian knew. If he'd been looking out at the view imagining his life without her. The comfort was no longer comfortable enough. Over the course of the decade, they’d spent together Margot had lost sense of who she was. The roles they had assigned themselves and the little traditions that meant so much had fallen by the wayside. All the things that had made sense had slowly started to suffocate her in a way she noticed that day in May.
It'd taken six months, but she had realised that there was no redemption for them. Sometimes you fall out of love and there is no safety net to stop you. Adrian fought it at first, insisting they could find their way back to each other. The way he looked at her as they ordered the same coffees they’d always done made her want to forget about everything that had happened. It was just a fleeting moment and by the time they had sat down in a booth looking out at the high street it had passed.
“Do you remember when we first met?” Margot asked, shaking the packets of sugar in her hand before tearing them open and pouring the granules into her mug. She looked like perfection with her faded lipstick and smudged eyeliner even after staying up all night. She looked like the girl that had laughed so hard she could barely breathe in the passenger seat of his sister’s stolen RV as they drove it to the coast.
“You told me you didn’t believe in love” His laugh was low, resounding through her body like a warning signal. The first time she'd seen him smile it'd felt like the world had changed. It still got to her in some way.
“I said love was a chemical reaction that we’re pre-programmed to experience for the sake of survival.” Margot was as dead pan as always. She had a matter-of-fact way of speaking that put him on edge. The warmth of old memories ended, snapping back to the cold reality of bad coffee in a twenty-four hour cafe as the hangover set in.
“Were we a chemical reaction?” Adrian wanted to hear her admit that she was wrong, that things weren’t as black and white as they had seemed to her at 21. She had fallen in love and planned a life just like the people she’d been sceptical of. It hadn’t just been predesigned code. He’d meant something real to her.
“No, we were different, but I think everyone in love thinks that… their love is special somehow to everyone else’s.” Margot gave a shrug, wincing slightly at the taste of the coffee. She was tired. The only thing she knew at that moment was that she needed to start again. It would be dark on some days, and perhaps even lonely but she needed to know if she could exist outside of the script that came with being Adrian’s wife. She needed to know if she could be a whole person, standing on her own two feet not just half of someone else.
“What changed?” His question came from a place of hurt but the sense of relief was impossible to miss. Adrian couldn't say he'd been happy in a long time. They both knew it. There was a pause as they both glanced out onto the street, at the sunrise peeking over tops of the buildings. It would be the last one they saw together before they went off to live their separate lives. Margot considered her answer, she knew the next thing she said would be as good as the signature on the dotted line.
“I always thought that this would be enough, but I was wrong.”
Wow, this is beautiful and heart breaking. Well crafted, Bansi. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you so much for the feedback! I've always been a cynic about love but somehow a serial monogamist, and going through a relationship breakdown at 29 and rediscovering my own identity again has really taught me a lot about love in a romantic sense, a platonic sense and also self love.
Eternity
As a child I was obsessed with the concept of eternity. When I was six I truly felt what this word meant. I screamed and cried in my kindergarten classroom. I was terrified of whatever I couldn’t understand at that time.
Sometimes it comes back to me even when I know better, times like this. When I’m standing in front of a grave and I can’t help but to think what that person’s life was like, maybe they shared my fear.
The thing is, eternity is subjective. 5 years ago I lost what I thought would last forever. Her name was Elizabeth. I sounded out those four syllables too many times to count in a day, it was my religion.
We met in the ordinary way, a dating app. I still remember swiping on her profile. When we started talking I reread it over and over, savoring ever bit of information about her that could be put into one hundred characters.
I couldn’t believe she was real, I still catch myself thinking it sometimes. When we first hugged I could smell sandalwood and Nag Champra emanating from her hair. She complimented my dress. a black, long sleeved, turtleneck. It was the only dress I owned.
I looked her up and down. Her black hair was curled into ringlets that hung over a sweetheart neckline and dark floral patterns going all the way down to the floor. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
That night she told me more than I thought would be shared on a first date, but it didn’t strike me as odd when she talked about them. We discussed life, death, And eternity.
“I don’t get your thing with it.” She said and shrugged in my direction.
The only rebuttal I could muster up was, “It’s scary, you can’t put it into words if you haven’t felt it.”
“When my time comes I will welcome it with open arms.” She smiled and sipped her drink.
I drove home that night thinking about things that I hadn’t thought of in a long time.
Elizabeth was with me for three years. I shared every piece of my life with her. we fell fast and hard into it and the same was to be said going out.
On a December night I was woken up by a call from an unknown number, strange. Elizabeth had gone out to some concert, I didn’t accompany her on account that my work day was too long for any event to fit in. I wasn’t going to answer but as I went to hit decline I got an overwhelming feeling that whatever this call was about, it had to be important.
“Is this the residence of Jane fletcher?”
The man speaking on the phone sounded nervous and solemn at the same time. My stomach churned with thoughts of what could be lacing his tone with those things.
“This is her speaking.”
“Your girlfriend, Elizabeth. She’s been in an accident. The icu is treating her, we suggest you come down to fourth street as soon as possible.”
I hung the phone up and raced out the door in my pajamas.
As I arrived I was braced with the antiseptic sting of the hospital. Florescence making my head spin more than it already had been. I sprinted to the intensive care unit and probably knocked down a few things in the process.
I saw her with iv’s inserted and a ventilator keeping her on this side. The doctor’s gazed at us through the curtains as I held her hand. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, In and out of death. I continued to hold her until she was consumed.
And as I wandered out of that hospital three days later, it was if I was lost as a fog. The ambience was muffled and the lights seemed dim. Even the people looked empty.
Just as I reached the threshold, I turned back. I swear I saw her standing there. And as I crossed I heard her whisper…
“For all eternity.”
Nice, Simone! Good work—this is haunting.
A Tulip And The Switchblade
An arm wrapped around her waist, and a sinking feeling grew in the pits of her stomach. Evelyn bit back a sigh as Laura rested her head on her shoulder, holding her close. The sinking feeling gnawed at her insides as she sat there, feeling Laura’s body warmth through the thin dress she wore, and the bikini top Evelyn had. The false sense of skin on skin, the false sense of intimacy. The arm around her waist tightened its grip, pulling her ever closer. The feeling of Laura’s lips in the crook of her neck made her tip her head. Twisting away to provide more space for her lips to roam, twisting away from the feeling. The gnawing in her stomach was growing, raising into her chest now, threatening to chew whatever heart she might’ve had to pieces. She tried to unclench her jaw as Laura’s kisses moved higher, tried to soften her edges.
The warmth was more present now, pressed against Evelyn in every way as Laura moved to straddle her waist. It was consuming her, burning her as her calloused hands rested on those perfect thighs. Everything about Laura was perfect, in every way. Her perfection was smothering. She was soft, kind, caring, beautiful, and simply perfect. A tulip pressed against a switchblade. Evelyn was a human paper cut, all sharp edges and razor words. It was a scene from a movie, truly. The high school dropout with only a minor drug addiction who sang and played guitar in a band down the street, and the community college nursing major with a savings account full of dollar bills from the strip club in the next town over. They were a solar eclipse, a rare spectacle that never lasted long. But Laura believed. A child born in sunlight that begged for a taste of the stars, she chased the darkness. Laura believed and Evelyn was waiting for the implosion. For the moment when the sun's rays grew and burned away the shadows the moon cast, when Laura would recognize her perfection and burn away the memory of Evelyn’s shadows.
“You’re tense. Relax, Ev, I’ve got you.” The gentle words flowed across Evelyn’s skin, carried on breath that hinted the taste of cheap grocery store boxed wine would be on those lips. The sinking wasn’t fading, wasn’t going away. It was a black hole in her sternum, threatening to swallow everything within and around her if she didn’t fix it. If she didn’t stop it. The razor's edge hidden behind pursed lips didn’t respond, she simply connected their lips, searing heat burning her away bit by bit, tearing her down. Despite the pain that threatened, if Evelyn could bottle these moments, could boil down these feelings of being face to face, hips to hips with an embodiment of perfection, she’d never have to be out back of the Bath and Body Works, her pocket stuffed with money that wasn’t hers, waiting for a stash that half of would be stolen by the next morning. It was just as painful and left her reeling just the same.
“Ev just lay back. I’ve got you.” Laura’s hands were just dipping into the waistband of Evelyn’s track pants, a smile on her face that promised a moment of clarity through the haze of twilight they created together. A promise she’d chased so many times she couldn’t count them all, but she never quite reached. The gnawing reached her throat, and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t open her mouth, couldn’t make a sound. All she could do was lay back, let herself chase that unattainable promise, and burn in the presence of perfection in this hell they thought was love.
Thanks for sharing, Gwen! This is tragic! I love the idea that people can convince themselves in this way, even knowing deep down it can never work.
"Evelyn was a human paper cut, all sharp edges and razor words." This line is killer. More of this, please.
What's this? A shorts contest that's free? hah, It's nice for you to do this. I'm in. I uploaded a short to my blog for Valentines. https://alizabelle.substack.com/p/killer-date?r=17t4j8&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
But I'm seeing others posting their full stories here so I guess that's the way to go?
KILLER DATE
Valentine’s day and Emma loved it. She had a handsome date and was more than ready to be thrilled tonight. It was not of her to arrive empty-handed so she finished the last details on the Tiramisu she made, shaking the sugar glass over the dessert. Her finger cleaned the glass bowl, licking at the coffee mixed whipped as she stared off into space. She smiled at the taste of something made with love.
On her way to her date’s house, as she rode in the back of a taxi, a newspaper caught her eye. A headline read ‘THE CANNIBAL L.A’s new fear of a loose serial killer’.
***
Jared chopped meat on a cutting board as blood dripped from it. He uncovered a pot where broth boiled and whiffed the aromas, pleased. He stabbed the wooden board as he left the kitchen to set up the dining room. He danced to the beat and mouthed the lyrics to David Bowie’s New Killer Star as he placed the knives on the table, grinning at their sharpness. Candles were being lit when the doorbell rang. A beautiful baby-faced Emma stood behind the door carrying a picnic basket; her strappy back scarlet mini dress hugging her curvy figure, red lips and auburn hair loose on curls made Jared’s heart skip and hold his breath.
“Hi there, am I early?” She grinned.
Jared stepped aside, mirroring her grin as he held the door. “Just in time. Come in.”
“I made us some dessert and brought along wine we both share in likes.”
Jared placed the basket on the table as Emma followed him into the dining room. He glanced at her. “Merlot?”
She smiled. “Yes, and based on our recent conversations I figured out your love for coffee so I made Tiramisu.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” Jared approached her, admiring her beauty. Emma glanced at his lips and back to his dark orbs that seemed to read her. He pulled a chair for her to sit and moved strands of hair back as she could feel his breath right at the base of her neck. “I love your scent.”
“Channel.”
His lips at touch sent electrifying waves through her body. She sighed softly as they moved in a kiss. “I meant your natural scent.”
If this was the beginning, she was eager for the rest of the night. He walked back to the table and opened a bottle of red wine to fill their glasses as both dived into the conversation. The night progressed and the alcohol was making them daring, but Emma wanted to build more tension. She loved bringing men on the edge.
Emma scanned the room and noticed the eclectic gallery art wall, amazed at all the different-sized images with mismatched frames. “You have quite a taste for interior design.”
“I have quite a collection of art. In my opinion, it gives your home a personality, full of visual interests and variety.”
“Ah. It’s as if I am reading your personality. Your many shades.”
Jared was attentive, curious to her observation. He served them both more wine, taking a closer seat to her.
“Your fascination for skulls and dark artwork like Goya and the classic monsters give away the darkness in you. But then you have naked silhouettes of women, architecture, artwork by Van Gogh, Michelangelo and…” Emma paused as she beheld one of the frames. “… Hearts in jars.” She said absently.
“Is that what this wall reveals about me?”
“I also have a collection of my own,” Emma turned to him, ignoring his question. He met her mischievous stare.
“What kind? Let me take a guess.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Shoes, Vinyl records, and your exes’ hearts.”
“Close,” Emma laughed. “I collect belongings of men I date.”
Jared tilted his head back as he furrowed his brow. “I expected something crazy.”
“It is if you steal them.”
Jared chuckled. “What will you steal from me tonight?”
Emma smirked. “Your heart.”
“That’s a given,” They both stared into each other’s eyes. Jared leaned over holding a small space between them. “You're something else. I think I want to keep you.”
“Me too.” Emma threw him a suggestive look as she bit her lip. He met her lips with hunger. Their chemistry buzzed as their tongues touched.
“I don't know if to call you brave, daring, or naïve.” He whispered into her lips. The heated make-out turned into a fuck right there on the table. The candle lights danced along with their bodies as they gave in to little deaths.
“I’ll go wash up. Somehow I got Tiramisu on me.” Emma laughed along with him. “Now I’m craving sweets and second rounds.” He smirked as he dived into the Tiramisu with a spoon still in his underwear. She stared at his hot body as he ate. She smiled at him as he winked at her. “Sweet dreams.” She said to herself as she strolled in the direction of the bathroom when a shadow darted before her into the kitchen. Curious as to what that was, she approached the door and slightly pushed it open. She gaped at the bloody scene: human body parts laid across on the counter and a black Maine Coon sneaked his snout into a bowl. The cat lifted his head flashing neon eyes at her. Emma jumped as he felt Jared’s breath in her neck.
“I see you met Adonis.”
***
Emma placed an empty jar that read Jared ‘The Cannibal of L.A’ next to dozens of other jars with human hearts in them as she carried Adonis in her arms. She took some steps back in the dim red-lit room as she caressed and kissed the cat.
“Look Adonis, you saved your daddy's heart from being part of my valued collection. I took you instead. Too bad your daddy slipped into comatose before I got seconds. He’s a good fuck. Do you think he’ll call me for a second date?”
Thanks, Aliza! I like the twist at the end. A killer with a heart, I see what you did, there!
You know what they say, like-minds attract each other. The original idea though started with the Q, what would happen if two serial killers met? I was working on a script but decided to cut it short and moved on to another wip. Thanks Ricky for reading 🖤
Regarding your story, twisted and what a way to end a proposal. That guy made me cringe with his lack of skill of reading in between the lines haha.
Panic and the Wife
I was brought out of my daydream when some of the whiskey I was drinking dribbled out of the corners of my mouth. I brought the glass down from my face and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I scanned the crowded room searching for Issac. I could barely hear the music over the jumbled conversations that filled the space. Finally, I spotted him. He was making his way over to me with a man I’d never seen before. I was already dreading this office party, and now I had to make small talk with his co-workers that I really didn’t care to meet.
“This is my wife, Gianna.”
Wife.
I flared my nostrils. That word makes me cringe beyond belief. I flashed a smile at my husband’s boss who extended his hand out to shake mine. “Colin Taylor, nice to meet you,” he said, winking. He was charming and objectively good looking, with his salt and pepper hair slicked back. He had green eyes that pierced through the lens of his glasses, but I couldn’t get past his yuppie persona (think Patrick Bateman - not as psychopathic, probably just as misogynistic). He commanded the room just by the energy he projected…and he was pretty loud. Colin was everyone’s friend. I found him repulsive.
“Issac, you didn’t tell me your wife was such a sight for sore eyes,” Colin laughed. His eyes wandered up and down, then back up again. Our eyes met and the eye contact made my stomach feel like concrete. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Issac responded, wrapping his arm around me, squeezing my arm to comfort me. He could tell I was uneasy. I don’t know how, but he always knows when I need consolation. Sometimes he even knows before I do.
“Your husband is one lucky man,” Colin said, his eyes devouring me.
Husband.
This word doesn’t make me cringe like “wife” does. I feel rage bubble in my chest when I hear it. Issac is a good man with a sincere heart, and he was a good husband…so far. We’d only been married ten months at this point, and he hadn’t fucked anything up…yet. All husbands do at some point. If we didn’t get married, I wouldn’t have this sense of impending doom. Truth be told, I didn’t want to get married, but Issac did, and I didn’t want to lose him over a ring and a marriage license. It’s not that I lack love for him, I’m very much in love with Issac. I’ve just only ever seen two outcomes of marriage: divorce, or worse, being trapped in a loveless, combative, miserable arrangement. At some point love would be lost in the relationship, but how long would we have before we got there?
Trying to escape the conversation, I scanned the room again. This time my eyes landed on a woman in a forest green dress, holding an empty wine glass. She was standing right next to Colin, I don’t know how I missed her. She looked back at me and we smiled at each other. The woman gently placed her arm on Colin’s back. He rolled his eyes. “Do you want to go refill our drinks,” I asked her. Maybe she wanted to get away from this conversation too. “No, she’s okay,” Colin said as Lisa looked down at the hardwood floor. I was appalled at the fact that he didn’t let her answer the question that I asked her. “Issac, Gianna, this is my wife, Lisa,” Colin sighed, disdain rolling off his tongue.
Lisa was average. Height, attractiveness, appearance…you name it. I could tell that Colin reminded her of that at every opportunity he had. I felt sorry for her, sorry that she was married to such an asshat of a person. Panic started to whisper in my ear, telling me things I’d rather not think of at the moment. “Colin, I apologize, but I was actually asking Lisa,” I said. I turned back to face her and asked the question again. She kept her eyes on the ground and shook her head. “No, thank you, I’m okay,” she said meekly.
Before me stood a submissive and broken wife: my worst fear. I started to listen to Panic, he was making good points. Surely my marriage was bound to end up like this, they all do. Issac squeezed my arm tighter. I looked up at him. He had a puzzled expression, his eyebrows raised with concern. “Colin, why are you being such a jackass to your wife,” Issac asked with a hint of animosity. Colin’s eyes widened. I guessed his authority had never been questioned by someone he considered his subordinate. “Fine. Come on Lisa, let’s go refill our drinks,” Colin sneered and walked away without waiting for Lisa’s response. She, of course, followed him like a dog with its tail between its legs. Panic told me Colin would argue with her about this embarrassing encounter, blaming her for the remark Issac made. I hoped she’d find the strength to stand up to him, or better yet, leave him.
Issac grabbed my arms and faced me. “I’ll never talk to you like that by the way,” he assured me. Panic stopped whispering. “And if I ever treat you the way Colin treats Lisa, you have my permission to end me.” Issac chuckled and kissed me on the forehead. Maybe there was a third outcome to marriage that I’ve never seen or considered: a happy partnership.
This is great, Hannah! I love your strong sense of voice throughout the story. This is what you really want, for your character to change by the end of the story. Their thoughts, habits, routines, etc. Great execution. And, great job showing Colin's character. Really leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you so much for your comment, Ricky! It truly means a lot to me!