flintlike
people call me all sorts of things, but right now i'm feeling like michelle. we'll see how long that lasts. 19. all over the fucking globe. a lot gay, a little straight. i'm every bit as bitter and jaded as i seem. this is a clusterfuck wherein there be art, literature, landscapes, and the like and the unlike.

It is said that their world was born first, then so too were a thousand others, a million, endless. They lay one on top of the other, stacked continually by the Great Mother. Each told the same story, with the same characters in the beginning, with only slight variations in each until the end results had not a thing in common with the others. Perhaps in one there would be a new species of animal, in another all humans might be ginger. So it was told that the second the Great Mother would become bored with one world, another she would form, and continue stacking, stacking, stacking. 

And so the worlds at the bottom of her pile were abandoned to ruin themselves (as all worlds do, it is their nature). And chaos prevailed and they lamented the loss of their beloved Goddess who had become bored with them as a child bored with an inanimate stone. For this reason did they believe in the stacked worlds, for why else would She not return to them? When their crops are withered and their children’s stomachs swollen with hunger and disease, their eyes dull with their impending—but assuredly slow—deaths and when their governments send bombs for the sake of sending bombs, why would She not return to them? 

Because, of course, she has forgotten her first world. She cannot return, for this world, buried under all the rest, has passed from Her mind permanently. 

And they wept for their great loss.


Oftentimes I can’t stand the thought of ever being anything. Instead, I live in a far-off country that hasn’t and never will exist in a small place with it’s own library and sunlight when I want it and rain when I want it and no wind, ever- just reading, reading, reading, until the end of days.

I drown myself in this fairytale, I happily let it smother me with its feather pillows and worn pages. Its fingers are made of words and its face of aged leather and it holds me tightly in its parchment grip. The tightness isn’t necessary. My being is freely given to this place, this thought.  

There is no government, no corruption, no money, no unbearable suffering; only sun and rain and books and people when they are wanted and no people when they are not. 


Breathe, quietly, slowly; don’t let them hear you.

They mustn’t find you. Hush your heart, or they will know. 

If they find you, you will die, but not before they’ve made you beg for your pathetic life.

Their masks, plastic and lifelike all at once, loom before your face. 

They’re not real, not real, not real. 

But they are. 


There was no way out; no unlocked door, no gaping window, no tunnel to the infamous light. 

And the day came that I crumbled, a crushed clod of dirt. 


  13th Mar  ×  reblog

This has no title. 

Miles and miles, days tossed upon days, and labored breath layered beneath agonized gasping. The length of the wee fishes’ journey surpassed all of those whom had travelled before him. From the deepest pit at the lowest point in the ocean the fish did swim, and as the young creature swam his hidden eyesight revealed itself. The sight rested upon the milky white of his eyeballs and with that rest came wonder unbeknownst to any of his kind. Utter blackness faded to supreme and vivid life, and though at first the life and color gave great pain to his eyes, he knew and immediately appreciated the great gift that had been bestowed upon him.

                At last he broke the surface of the great sea. Before him lay a massive shelf of land, one that seemingly dropped straight off into the glistening diamond water.  The water did not move, did not pulsate and dance and laugh as it should. It stood stone still at the edge of the land, as a dead bride before reaching the end of her aisle. He found, to his delight, that the air did not sting or burn as he had been warned. No, it embraced him and gave him sweet sustenance; it warmed him down to his cells.

                A sound drifted through the warmth: the sound of another, the sound of unfamiliarity. His sight locked upon a regal creature. It stood upon the edge of the shelf, not touching the water, but oh so close. And this creature sang, and the song filled every fiber of its body and every fiber of existence. Atop shining black legs stood the creature, adorned in pure white feathers, the color of eternity. The song spilled forth from a long yellow mouth, a mouth that cherished every note, every flaw. The melody lit up its obsidian shard eyes and brought forth animation, animation without movement. It stood as a cliff face kept still by deep roots of rock and mineral, but the song moved for it.

                Tentative, the fish moved forth.

                “Pardon, sir, but what is this place?”

                The song ceased. They eyes of ink turned upon the small being.

                “This is the world, child.”

                The fish was dazed by every aspect of the creature. He could not help the words that next tumbled forth.

                “The world? What is the world, sir?”

                The great beast flexed its wingspan, enveloping the Earth in its embrace.

                “Child, everything is the world. Even you.”

                “Even me? But I am nothing, a particle if anything. I cannot be the world. That is too much unbearable weight upon my shoulders.” Shuddering, the fish shied away from the thought.

                “So it may be.” And with a graceful dip, the bird consumed the entirety of the fish.

                And the world was no more.

                The moral of the story is that even those who offer wisdom are capable of great betrayal. 


Session Seven 

Her cave of a home welcomed her with algid arms of frost. The dark corners were transfused with frigidity. However, the drop in temperature had very little to do with the frantic shudder that was continually coursing through Analise’s dainty figure. Typically, her gait was smooth and blithe, now it jerked and rocked with spasms as she paced nervously back and forth across the width of her living room. Her chest heaved as she hysterically sucked in any and all air her lungs could contain and coughed out each breath grossly.  She wrung her hands so roughly for such a long period that the skin began to chafe and burn. The pain was acute in comparison to the laborious activity within her mind, now cognizant of the day’s events.

            Her mind hectically shuffled through means of escape, means of avoidance.

            There has to be a way. This simply cannot happen. It’s impossible, utterly impossible.

            The crowds would be coming soon, rushing to her to bring about her final demise. She knew it. She knew it, but she struggled to fabricate a plausible way to circumvent the severe castigation she was sure to face.

            There was simply too much evidence that she had never bothered to eradicate. The dark rust bloodstains from victims further in the past, the ones that were still tinted red from her more recent prey, the dried vital fluids that had once drenched her abundance of knives and saws still acted as a foul enamel upon the blades she no longer used or bothered to clean, the fetid stink resulting from the cessation of life in now decaying flesh was imbued through every last ounce of air within the somber building. All incriminating, all blatant.

            Analise halted. An idea had crept slyly into her brain, an idea that would work, an idea that would leave the citizens at least somewhat dissatisfied.

            Just as she began to implement her plan, her final bid for some sort of salvation, her front door erupted inward at the hand of a profusely winded Dahlia. The woman’s coal hair was disheveled from the very same run Analise had run only a short time before.

            The monster had not expected company so soon. It had been caught off guard for the second time that day, an atrocious record, a record the beast intended to make up for.

            “Dahlia, my dear, whatever are you doing here? You can’t have come to hurt me, can you? That would be rather atrocious, no? You wouldn’t want to be like me, now would you?”

            The monster’s smile was of honey and silk, her words laden with sugar.

            The woman facing the demon recoiled, her smooth face showing utter repulsion.

            “You fiend. What reason did you have to hurt that little boy? How can you stand yourself? How can you face yourself day in and day out without wishing to be dead? You will pay for the crimes you’ve committed, Analise. There’s no escaping it. You will pay, and you will pay to me.” Dahlia stepped slowly into the dreary light of the house, revealing the knife she had concealed upon her person. She started toward Analise with meaning, moved closer and closer, closing in the wide gap between them speedily. As she entered into the last few feet of separation, she faltered. Analise has not moved nor blinked, and she stood seemingly frozen to the spot with her honey smile settled warmly upon her face.

            Her calculating eyes immediately sense the hesitation on the part of Dahlia, her calculating brain immediately took action.

            She leaped forth, easily transferred the knife from Dahlia’s trembling hand to her steady one. With a smooth movement, the monster jerked the blade back behind her head to give it more momentum, plunged the stinging metal downward where it slid into the terrified woman’s throat with a sickening bubbling noise. The blood flowed like wine, dribbling down her front, finally reaching the floor where it was promptly absorbed by the carpet. Her blue eyes, the ones that had brought her to this troubling point with their unwelcome knowledge, widened in astonishment and dread.

            Analise, smile still present, stroked her cheek and whispered, “There, there dear. You’ll be fine. Never fear, better things are to come for you.”

            When Dahlia opened her mouth in a sad attempt at response, blood, instead of words, bubbled forth, frothy and crimson. Her shaking knees finally gave way, forcing her entire body to the squalid floor. Her pale complexion was speckled with her liquid life.

            Dahlia’s tormentor dropped to her knees beside the crumpled figure that clung feebly to life. She grabbed the suffering woman’s shoulders, and turned her so she was lying on her back, staring at the coal ceiling above. The young woman spluttered out a cough as she attempted to breathe around the blood that was beginning to collect in her throat. As her body convulsed from the effort of breathing, Analise leaned down, lightly kissed Dahlia on the forehead, then arose once more and walked away.

            She left the room to retrieve the necessary implements to complete her infallible plan.

            By the time she had returned from rummaging about, the struggle against death had been quieted in Dahlia.

            There was no more soul in her pale blue eyes, no more recognition, only cloudy stillness and the lingering hint of extensive fear. Her light clothing had been dyed completely red; the carpet around her was soggy with the beastly red fluid. The line of her hair was caked with the dried ruby as well. The knife still protruded defiantly from her throat, buried comfortably within her once warm flesh.

            Analise ignored the corpse as she set to preparing.

            A piece of blank white paper, the kind that her students took notes upon.

            A pen containing red ink.

            A small blade, sharper than a pin’s point and deadlier than a viper.

            She approached a desk that was shoved ungraciously into a corner of the hideous room, let herself drift lightly into the plain rickety chair that accompanied the block of wood, and set to scribbling words upon the paper. Finished with that task, she folded the paper, stuffed it into the single pocket on the front of her cerulean dress, and floated to her feet for the last time.

            She danced her way to the grubby dirt colored couch, the epitome of tranquility and resolution. Once comfortably seated, she turned her attention to the knife.

            In a moment of brutal honesty with the steel, she let loose her very last once of unrelenting wrath, but this time it was different.

            This time she let loose that fury not upon another, but upon her own corporeal form.

            She pressed and hacked and sawed at her inner forearms directly down the middle from inner wrist to just before the crease of the elbow, switching focus from one to the other after a little while. She caught a quick glimpse of the blindingly white layer of fat and muscle just beneath the skin, a sight she had seen on numerous others, before it was drowned beneath the rapidly flowing blood that hastily emitted from the wounds.

            She went deeper and deeper and the keen sting of the knife became ever more distant.

            Her life began to fail her when her arms had been so viciously attacked that the skin splayed out from the deep middle of the glistening wound to the very edges of the flat facing forearm. The whole face was consumed by the brilliantly bleeding lesion. The crevice that sloped inward gradually filled with blood before spilling out slowly, surely, and quietly over the edges.

            When she was finally appeased by her work, she leaned back into the engulfing couch. She watched the trenches in her arms fill and empty, fill and empty, with hazy eyes and a disoriented mind. Through the murk of blood loss, she managed to think one last thought before sinking back into ambiguity.

They will never punish me. I have won.

Her breathing became staggered and difficult. Her dark yellow eyes took in their last sight, the carcass of her last piece of prey. The only adult she had ever stolen life from. The only adult she ever would steal life from. Beyond the body was the same window that those unfortunate blue eyes had spied through, the same window that brought the foolish girl’s demise.

Through that same window, Analise’s eyes wandered to the lights bobbing through the gloom of the dense forest. They had come for her, but they wouldn’t win. They would never prevail.

The lightweight dress she had been wearing had been gathering the mass amount of maroon life liquid into her lap. In sea of cerulean silk and carmine blood, she slipped away. 


  14th Jan  ×  reblog

Session Six 

She had waited. She had pondered. She had thrown violent fits of nervousness and apprehension. She had resolved herself. She had planned. She took action.

            She had expected.

            Expected Dahlia to run her mouth all over town, to let loose into the world her only and most forbidding secret. Expected Dahlia to run pathetically to the law.

            Perhaps the woman had, but thus far nothing had come of it and for the most succinct of moments, Analise was safe.

            So she planned, and she followed and she observed. She had very nearly been caught spying, but by some force of nature and fate she managed to escape unnoticed from every close unveiling.

            Analise memorized the woman’s habits, her demeanor, her hours of work, her most frequented places, her friends, her family, her romances, every last piece of clothing she owned, her most used words, her life.

            That day she had been tranquil and patient. Sitting solitary in the Waff-N-Hole, sipping peacefully from a shining mug of tea, she awaited the arrival of Dahlia. Every now and again a stray person would stop to say hello; she greeted them cheerfully, made quick conversation, and sent them on their way. Not a single soul could tell that she lacked just that, the essence of life.

            She was a monstrosity in every definition of the word, a monstrosity blinking beneath the veil of wheat hair, liquid gold eyes, and kind words. No one ever bothered to look past a kind word, especially not from her.

            Time ticked and business came and went and her mind was quiet with reserved thought and her body was tense with anticipation. As she raised her mug, filled with only meager dregs of the tea, she had to her lips, trembling so very slightly, she heard the voice. Dahlia’s.

            She stood upon the narrow stairwell leading to the In-N-Out, Claudette very close behind her. They had been chatting amicably, easily, but when Dahlia’s blue eyes locked upon Analise’s aureate ones, there was an abrupt hush.

            Then all Hades broke loose.

            Shouting, disarray, rapid movement, colorful noise swirling loudly through the air. Just as soon as they had spotted each other, they were face to face. In such proximity Analise could have latched onto her and strangled her there and then, but for the moment her courage and audacity was lost. She was lost.

            She had not expected such rage from the woman after watching her behavior for so long. She had not expected Dahlia to demand her to turn herself in after such a long silence and unspoken confessions on the other woman’s end. Her boldness stalled and faltered and for a brusque, unhinged moment; the maniacal beast within her shriveled and retreated leaving behind a very small and crippled piece of human. That piece was fear and helplessness, the only bit of true humanity that had survived against the rampant devil that had torn her to shreds.

            Her head filled with colors and sounds and violence. She tried imploring Dahlia to leave her be, but the words would not formulate.

            The words would not formulate, so she fled.

            She fled fast and dizzily, a mass caramel hair soaring behind her.

            It was only moments after she had escaped the hectic scene that the fiery explosion within her mind manifested itself within the building that had been rapidly drawing further away behind her.

            She did not look back as she heard the barrage of thundering blasts perforate the very fabric of existence.

                                               

           

            


  14th Jan  ×  reblog

Session Five 

A flurry of panic and uncertainty swept its way through the monster.

            That face.

            Was it a face? Was it a shadow? Was it all a simple case of overactive imagination?

            Were those sentient human eyes she had glimpsed in the midst of her slaughter?

            Did they simply belong to a cat or some other feral beast?

            No.

            She knew.

            She could place them. She had seen them before. She had hardly interacted with them in the past, but they still stuck within her mind, light and blue flecked with white.

            She knew.

            The eyes had seen, the eyes had gulped up the entire ruby red and fleshy scenario with an unquenchable thirst for secrets.

            The eyes would tell.

            The eyes and the uncontrollable mouth that went along with it.

            “Dahlia.”

            The name dripped ominously from between the predator’s pale, cracked lips. The name flowed slowly through the murderer’s pained grimace. And with a deep and certain sigh, the new hunt began, a different hunt began. 


Session Four 

The small metal bell let loose a shrill and succinct cry, kindly informing the students and teacher that their day of learning and teaching had come to an end. The children had been well-trained to refrain from frantically packing away their books and papers and other essential materials until Miss Atkins gave the soft word that it was appropriate to commence with such chaos.

            It was no different from any other ordinary day. The bell rang, Miss Atkins stood silently at the head of the class, behind her sturdy desk, closed her lesson plan, smiled sweetly at the group of respectful children, and announced gently, “That’s all for today class, don’t forget, the homework I have assigned you all is due first thing tomorrow, no exceptions.” Her tone was so filled with warmth that the students took to heart her warning without reproach or a bitter word. In a manner so unlike children, they heeded her with no second thought.

            The hectic shuffle to run away from education and into the arms of freedom was interrupted no sooner than it had started, a rare occurrence.

            Analise had directed her sun colored head toward a particular student before speaking once more.

            “Josephus, dear, do you mind waiting a moment? I’d like to have a word.”

            It took no less than three seconds and not an ounce of reluctance for the child to oblige his pleasant teacher’s request. He abandoned his half-packed materials and his worn grey backpack and headed obediently to face Miss Atkins, the dark desk creating a thousand mile gap between them.

            “Oh, you poor thing, you,” she side stepped around the desk and wrapped her arms kindly around his slight shoulders. At her touch, he began to tremble with the sadness he had repressed carefully since discovering the disappearance of his favorite sibling. Boiling tears fell freely from his innocent eyes. Miss Atkins gave him a last squeeze and relinquished her grip, leveled her gaze with his, and spoke quietly and empathetically, “Have they heard any news of your brother? Have they any leads?”

            Had Josephus not been on the brink of breaking down completely, he might have noticed the glint of desperation and alertness behind Miss Atkins’ seemingly tender gaze. He might have seen the subtle signal that he was not safe, that she was digging for inside information, that soon he would find his brother. At long last.

            “You know, ma’am, the sheriff never puts missing children at the top of his list. Besides, there’s not much to investigate is there? He was probably just dragged off by a fiendish animal like all the others were. There’s nothing really to find, nothing really to know.” His small voice, only just the slightest bit deeper than Jorge’s had been, cracked under the reality of his words. He knew that Jorge mattered to no one, to none but him and maybe Miss Atkins, but mostly to him.

            Analise let out a sigh that Josephus instinctually assigned as one of misery and disappointment, not one of complete relief, satisfaction, and a touch of giddiness. She recovered her former cheerless façade and redirected her attention once more to the boy.

            “I’m so incredibly sorry, darling. He was truly was a good boy. Come, come. I think under the circumstances it would be just fine to head to my place for hot cocoa and cake for comfort. Yes? Just this once, of course. Wonderful, grab your things dear.”

˚˚˚˚

            Once upon a time the carpet had been a pale shade of grass. Once upon a time the wallpaper had been adorned with crisp, winding flowers and leaves, vibrant and upbeat. Once upon a time the aroma that drifted about the living room had been that of mint leaves and roses.

            Now the pale green carpet lay plastered down underneath a layer of grime and congealed blood. The once well-shaped strands of carpeting clumped together and twisted, encrusted beneath the old life blood of a child. The stains covered more surface than the outright dirt did. It had become more brown from blood than brown from earth.

            With no upkeep, the wallpaper peeled and curled away, as if trying to escape from a great danger. No longer vivid, the faded flowers looked more dead than alive. They gnarled around each other, black and wilted.

            Mint and rose had abandoned the room first. They had sensed the coming peril and had escaped quickly. The smell of death and rot soon took residence, to please the nostrils of any who would be obliged. They swam sinisterly through the air, grabbing and clawing at the nostrils of all who weren’t Analise. Analise adored them, thrived off of the high they gave her, the comfort they gave her.

            Inside this comfort, she tore and ripped and hacked at the neglected boy she had so lovingly taught.

            Unlike his brother, Josephus had gone completely silent the moment it dawned upon him the seriousness of his situation. His eyes glazed over, seeing nothing, registering nothing. He retreated into the corner of his brain, where he could be happy no matter what at all times. The instant the sharpened blade was first pressed into his skin, he sprinted, if not in bodily form, in mental form, away from his teacher and his predicament.

            Josephus was dead long before his body gave way to the incessant sawing of Analise. Fury welled within her at the knowledge that the boy had escaped her wrath. Pure unbridled hatred was sent crashing into his limp, unresponsive, but still alive, body.

            She sliced long horizontal lines across his exposed stomach, splitting the skin wide open and revealing the sheer whiteness of the fat and muscle that lay quivering just beneath the surface. She split open the flesh along the curve of his each of his shoulder blades forming twisted wings of bloody membrane. His body gave way once and for all after she had finished splitting his calves open right down the middle in the abundance of leg muscle that once propelled the boy forward. She sawed down the bone, and only when the metal hit calcium did she seem satisfied with her work on his legs.

            His heart had ceased to beat. Loss of blood had claimed his corporeal form at long last.

            The smooth and now slick blade slid from between Analise’s delicate fingers and thudded dully onto the carpet that was busy at work absorbing the deep crimson that incessantly dripped and flowed from the small corpse.

            He lay face down in the lake of his own blood upon the knotted carpet. It pooled within his agape mouth and streamed in a slow trickle out of the corner that had formerly creased with grins on a daily basis. His ever-vacant eyes stared straight forward, ignoring the carnage his body had been left behind in, not even bothering to drink in the scene. Analise, who had been kneeling, slumped backward in a way similar to a worker slumping down after a long day’s hard labor.

            She used the back of her arm to wipe away the cold perspiration upon her forehead, temporarily forgetting the slick layer of blood that smeared across her face as a result. A giggle violently erupted from her thin form, wracking her entire body with ecstatic delight. After only a minute or two, she rose again to her bare feet. Floating, she made her way to a black room. She rummaged for a moment in an unlit closet, came upon what she was looking for, pulled it carefully out of the mess, and soared back to the family room. Not once did her feet touch the ground.

            The pristine hacksaw she cradled gently set to work in the final dismemberment of the child. It knew its work well and labored without complaint. He became smaller and smaller and in more and more pieces, until Analise was satisfied with his no longer recognizable body. Only his face was an indication of who he had been, and not for long, for Analise when she was finished reducing him into more bits, set to work upon skinning his young visage.

            No longer was he Josephus. No longer was he human.

            Analise set down the saw beside her and leaned against the shabby couch that sat nearby. A grease coated window stared at her from the front of the house. And in that moment, the window was not the only thing that stared. Eyes, two of them, were gleaming from behind the glass pane.

 


Session Three 

A creature had trailed little Jorge home that night. He had been strolling along at a leisurely pace attributed to children of his age. The tall and full trees surrounding him left patches of moonlight upon the toast colored ground and his upturned face, but mostly they just left vast patches of impenetrable darkness.

As he walked, he kicked around a pebble the color of a stormy ocean, gray and cold, much like the soul of his predator. He hummed an ancient tune, one he had originally heard from a stranger in the Waffle House. His vocals, not yet to the point of cracking from puberty, were soft and subtle and comparable to a songbird, unsure of its own talent. His feet shuffled, kicking up dust molecules that seemed to swirl like a graceful dancer in a spotlight, when caught in the white beams the moon let leak from its surface.

Wasted and dried pine needles made an almost inaudible crunch when his uncommonly insubstantial body weight pressed gently upon them, but the beast flitting from the shadow of one tree to the next made not a sound. There was no forewarning, no tingling sense of alarm within the boy. He was entirely ignorant, entirely exposed.

A melodic voice swam upon the air until bumping into the boy.

“My dear! What ever are you doing this deep in the woods at this hour? Darling child, it’s just frigid out here! Come, come! You are coming to my house for hot cocoa and cake and then we’ll send you on your way.” Her words soothed the initially startled boy; his alarmed eyes relaxed with the recognition of one of his favorite people.

“Of course, Miss Atkins. Whatever you want. I just lost track of time.” He shuffled humbly toward the welcoming arm she had outstretched in his direction. She hugged him protectively to her side, guiding him back down the path in the direction of what could be called the residential area. He felt entirely protected within her presence, guarded like a coveted secret. She gave him the warmth and care his own mother never had time for, what with hordes of children all about all the time. He craved a real mother and Miss Atkins seemed to him the prime candidate for what could potentially be his source of motherly love.

They shuffled along with unspoken conversation hanging in the air. After what seemed to Jorge, a moment or two, they had arrived at Miss Atkins’ humble abode.

It was a lovely place, pleasing to the eye and scrupulously maintained.

The house was medium in size, nothing too grand but most certainly not too small for comfort. It was painted the color of the sky and gave the sense of eternity from its forever blue paneled outer walls.  The door was a dark wood, thick and heavyset, almost out of place, but somehow it fit in perfectly with the collective picture. There were light gray stepping stones, slightly overgrown with a vivid emerald moss, which comprised a front walkway leading to the porch. The shape of the stones were not perfect squares or bricks, but misshapen and naturally curving this way and that, creating an aesthetically pleasing formation, a river of stones. Though the season was fall, and most plants in Socraville were taking their final bow, Miss Atkins’ lawn and garden overflowed with the life of new buds. The grass that swept out from her country style porch remained the color of overripe limes despite the cold. The plants, though not in full bloom, grew wildly about the area. They encompassed the porch railing and grew up the side of the modest building and onto the shingled roof.

Miss Atkins gave Jorge’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze and urged him forward toward the door. He stepped carefully and deliberately on each stone step until he reached the porch. Up, up, up the steps and finally through the door.

The interior was dark, barely illuminated by an old lamp in a far off corner. The wattage of the bulb cast a sinister yellow glow upon the dank room. The lumpish forms of a couch and a few scattered chairs could be discerned, but other than that Jorge could not tell of any other solid object, only tricking shadows, seducing his mind into believing in the incorporeal.

He had become so distracted by the sudden change in scenery that he had not picked up on the fact that the door had been locked, locked in such a way that only a specific key could open it inside or out. This specific key had been tucked away in the front pocket of Miss Atkins’ pale blue silken blouse.

She approached him from behind as he sucked in his surroundings with utter disbelief. This couldn’t possibly be her house; this had to be some elaborate ruse. The young boy of eleven tried to rationalize the entirely unexpected transformation, but no logical explanation appeared before him.

A glint of bright light caught his attention in the dim room, the glint of light that would begin the end of his days.

She caressed it within her hands as tenderly as she would a baby bird, but this was no such thing. This instrument of torture was sharpened to a deadly gleam. It curved and swooped and threatened with its entire existence.

            Her stride was calm and confident, but her shoulders twitched with anticipation, making her upper body lurch and appear deformed. This was not the mother figure he knew. This was not his empathetic teacher. This was not even remotely similar. This was a psychological monster.

            Her wavy yellow hair fell forward into her eyes, casting a demonic shadow upon her once pleasant visage as she made the final descent upon the boy who stood paralyzed with fear and incredulity. Within those same eyes, a frantic glee loped about haphazardly, eager for complete satisfaction. Her last steps came quickly and desperately, practically throwing herself toward him in desperation for the ensuing events. She snatched up his collar in her trembling hands and buried the knife into his throat, though ensuring she cut no major artery.

            The threat flowing from her eyes into his made words utterly unnecessary. All that could be heard was her breathing, rattling from anticipation, and a frightened whimper that began to emit uncontrollably from between his tightly shut lips. Soon the whimper altered to a desperate moan, a hopeless moan, a horrified moan.

            Her lips curved into a smile resembling the blade she wielded upon hearing the pathetic noise. She made a swift movement, sliding the blade across his throat violently, but not enough to kill him. Not yet. Just to make him bleed, for now.

            He involuntarily shrieked at the sting of the blade slicing through flesh. The blade releasing the flow of warm ruby droplets, a racking cough followed shortly after.

            Once her hand released his collar, he crumpled to the floor on all fours, struggling for breath, any breath, a big breath, a small breath. She took a hold of his shirt, and cut down the length of it, splitting it in half. She did the same to the pale and tenuous layer of skin directly above his spine, slashing through the membrane until the clean white of his backbone burst forth and made an appearance, exposed and sliding sickly about between the severed flesh. His screams carried the weight of his last bid for salvation. Such salvation was not to be received. 


Session Two 

Analise Atkins taught her classes with vigor and enthusiasm. She made absolutely sure that every last student felt cherished and retained the materials effectively. This, in particular, was difficult to do considering the overall smart of Socraville was not exactly typical of other towns and cities, but she put every last effort into ensuring the students learned at least the most rudimentary of materials.

In her five years of teaching the children and adolescents of the town, if it could be classified as such, she had stumbled upon exactly three students who were gifted enough to be taught the advanced lesson course she kept carefully locked away in the deep recesses of her large oak desk, ever hopeful to be used.

All three of those students had disappeared days prior to their respective graduation dates.

Children vanishing into thin air were not at all uncommon occurrences within Socraville. Parents tended to be inattentive and carnivorous beasts were always lurking conveniently nearby when the unsuspecting victims wandered off into the dense woods that separated each secluded house.

Naturally, Analise lamented the loss of each child in the proper and expected way, sad downcast eyes, clothing none too bright, and the occasional single tear shed in a moment of remembrance. There was not a single indication that the disappearances had even the remotest thing to do with the kindly and fragile woman. There was not a single indication of the excruciating torture Analise had seen each student endure beneath her unrelenting hand.

No sign of the young blood that had been shed unmercifully. No sign of flesh torn and disfigured. No sign of pleading eyes, silently imploring for life to end in order to escape. No sign of the shrieks that emitted from the very pits of their beings, begging, begging, begging to be released from bondage.  And absolutely no sign of the intense joy in Miss Atkins’ lovely sawdust eyes, the ones that had witnessed the deaths of so many pleading children, striking a last bargain to finally be killed, to finally be set free from worldly restraint.    


Session One 

Her disease consumed her. Mind, body, soul. Once upon a time she had tried to change herself, to be genuinely ordinary. She failed. Her resolve to be normal was just too inadequate to overcome her lurking, bloodthirsty demons. The two sides grappled and fought and tore viciously at each other with claws filed to a point and teeth stained red with blood.

            The victor was a dangerous beast, a lack of human emotion, if nothing else. It ran rampant about her soul, ensuring all true traces of humanity be destroyed, all traces excluding the masterful façade of kindly schoolteacher. This disguise became crucial to her survival, so the monster made the calculated decision to let it thrive in the sunlight, but shy away in the dark.

            When the Sun closed its weary eyes to rest, that is when the demon showed its true and vile colors. Driven by a shattered moral compass, the beast committed crimes most heinous, crimes unthinkable, crimes unforgivable.

            The woman’s peaceable and pleasant exterior deteriorated as the Sun shied away. Her warm face became drained of color. Her golden hair of wheat became washed out and pure white. Her skin drew itself tightly against her protruding cheekbones. Her once upright form became hunched and tense, withholding violent passion. She trembled like an epileptic victim, but she was far from being anything close to a pitied sufferer. The makeup that so meticulously covered the deep purple bags beneath her sleepless eyes was hurriedly wiped away by hands shaking with the urge to wreak destruction upon the pathetic forms of flesh called humans.

            Smeared makeup, hauntingly dark bags, translucent skin, blue veins popping angrily, and mussed, color drained hair, once the color of sunlight, now the color of disease.

            Appearing thus, she crept upon a world that was not her own and stole what was not her own: life.


I just felt the need to share this. 

As you may well know (or most likely not), I am working on a group project in Creative Writing. My group has come up with a rather eccentric and isolated town, Socraville.

Within Socraville there is a building. This building functions as a Waffle House by day, a bar by night (The Alcohole) and a brothel at all hours (befittingly dubbed the In-N-Out, get it?).

Collectively, we have the Waff-N-Hole.

That’s right. That’s right.

I love my group so much.


  6th Jan  ×  4  ×  reblog

Session Three 

A creature had trailed little Jorge home that night. He had been strolling along at a leisurely pace attributed to children of his age. The tall and full trees surrounding him left patches of moonlight upon the toast colored ground and his upturned face, but mostly they just left vast patches of impenetrable darkness.

As he walked, he kicked around a pebble the color of a stormy ocean, gray and cold, much like the soul of his predator. He hummed an ancient tune, one he had originally heard from a stranger in the Waffle House. His vocals, not yet to the point of cracking from puberty, were soft and subtle and comparable to a songbird, unsure of its own talent. His feet shuffled, kicking up dust molecules that seemed to swirl like a graceful dancer in a spotlight, when caught in the white beams the moon let leak from its surface.

Wasted and dried pine needles made an almost inaudible crunch when his uncommonly insubstantial body weight pressed gently upon them, but the beast flitting from the shadow of one tree to the next made not a sound. There was no forewarning, no tingling sense of alarm within the boy. He was entirely ignorant, entirely exposed.

A melodic voice swam upon the air until bumping into the boy.

“My dear! What ever are you doing this deep in the woods at this hour? Darling child, it’s just frigid out here! Come, come! You are coming to my house for hot cocoa and cake and then we’ll send you on your way.” Her words soothed the initially startled boy; his alarmed eyes relaxed with the recognition of one of his favorite people.

“Of course, Miss Atkins. Whatever you want. I just lost track of time.” He shuffled humbly toward the welcoming arm she had outstretched in his direction. She hugged him protectively to her side, guiding him back down the path in the direction of what could be called the residential area. He felt entirely protected within her presence, guarded like a coveted secret. She gave him the warmth and care his own mother never had time for, what with hordes of children all about all the time. He craved a real mother and Miss Atkins seemed to him the prime candidate for what could potentially be his source of motherly love.

They shuffled along with unspoken conversation hanging in the air. After what seemed to Jorge, a moment or two, they had arrived at Miss Atkins’ humble abode.

It was a lovely place, pleasing to the eye and scrupulously maintained.

The house was medium in size, nothing too grand but most certainly not too small for comfort. It was painted the color of the sky and gave the sense of eternity from its forever blue paneled outer walls.  The door was a dark wood, thick and heavyset, almost out of place, but somehow it fit in perfectly with the collective picture. There were light gray stepping stones, slightly overgrown with a vivid emerald moss, which comprised a front walkway leading to the porch. The shape of the stones were not perfect squares or bricks, but misshapen and naturally curving this way and that, creating an aesthetically pleasing formation, a river of stones. Though the season was fall, and most plants in Socraville were taking their final bow, Miss Atkins’ lawn and garden overflowed with the life of new buds. The grass that swept out from her country style porch remained the color of overripe limes despite the cold. The plants, though not in full bloom, grew wildly about the area. They encompassed the porch railing and grew up the side of the modest building and onto the shingled roof.

Miss Atkins gave Jorge’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze and urged him forward toward the door. He stepped carefully and deliberately on each stone step until he reached the porch. Up, up, up the steps and finally through the door.

The interior was dark, barely illuminated by an old lamp in a far off corner. The wattage of the bulb cast a sinister yellow glow upon the dank room. The lumpish forms of a couch and a few scattered chairs could be discerned, but other than that Jorge could not tell of any other solid object, only tricking shadows, seducing his mind into believing in the incorporeal.

He had become so distracted by the sudden change in scenery that he had not picked up on the fact that the door had been locked, locked in such a way that only a specific key could open it inside or out. This specific key had been tucked away in the front pocket of Miss Atkins’ pale blue silken blouse.

She approached him from behind as he sucked in his surroundings with utter disbelief. This couldn’t possibly be her house; this had to be some elaborate ruse. The young boy of eleven tried to rationalize the entirely unexpected transformation, but no logical explanation appeared before him.

A glint of bright light caught his attention in the dim room, the glint of light that would begin the end of his days.

She caressed it within her hands as tenderly as she would a baby bird, but this was no such thing. This instrument of torture was sharpened to a deadly gleam. It curved and swooped and threatened with its entire existence.

            Her stride was calm and confident, but her shoulders twitched with anticipation, making her upper body lurch and appear deformed. This was not the mother figure he knew. This was not his empathetic teacher. This was not even remotely similar. This was a psychological monster.

            Her wavy yellow hair fell forward into her eyes, casting a demonic shadow upon her once pleasant visage as she made the final descent upon the boy who stood paralyzed with fear and incredulity. Within those same eyes, a frantic glee loped about haphazardly, eager for complete satisfaction. Her last steps came quickly and desperately, practically throwing herself toward him in desperation for the ensuing events. She snatched up his collar in her trembling hands and buried the knife into his throat, though ensuring she cut no major artery.

            The threat flowing from her eyes into his made words unnecessary. All that could be heard was her breathing, rattling from anticipation, and a frightened whimper that began to emit uncontrollably from between his tightly shut lips. Soon the whimper altered to a desperate moan, a hopeless moan, a horrified moan.

            Her lips curved into a smile resembling the blade she wielded upon hearing the pathetic noise. She made a swift movement, sliding the blade across his throat violently, but not enough to kill him. Not yet. Just to make him bleed, for now.

            He involuntarily shrieked at the sting of the blade slicing through flesh. The blade releasing the flow of warm ruby droplets, a racking cough followed shortly after.

            Once her hand released his collar, he crumpled to the floor on all fours, struggling for breath, any breath, a big breath, a small breath. She took a hold of his shirt, and cut down the length of it, splitting it in half. She did the same to the pale and tenuous layer of skin directly above his spine, slashing through the membrane until the clean white of his backbone burst forth and made an appearance, exposed and sliding sickly about between the severed flesh. His screams carried the weight of his last bid for salvation. Such salvation was not to be received.