Tag: horror

Hockey, My Love

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My first love was ice hockey.
I spent more time on the ice than I did anywhere else.
Especially the shower. I could kill a moose at forty paces with my stench.
I stank on ice. After a while, nobody would play with or against me.
One day, I got dragged into the shower and blasted with the fire hose.
Broke my leg, never quite healed up right.
When I couldn’t skate no more, I went to center ice, chipped a hole with my skate, and put a flower in there.
Then I slashed the throats of those firehose-waving bastards.

Calling names

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Every boy in my kindergarten class is named John and every girl is named Joan.
The other five classes are the same.
We check with the other schools in the district and they are reporting the same thing.
You’d think someone would have noticed this with the birth certificates, but nobody noticed a pattern or raised an alarm.
Normal name distribution in the district, normal migration patterns for a developed country.
One boy’s eyes flash blue for a moment.
Then the others. They all smile.
Where did these kids come from?
And where did all of the normal kids go?

Jackals and Jokers

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Jackals and jokers line the streets.
Licking their lips as the coffin goes by.
A nice juicy leg would make such a treat.
You bite through the knees while I tug on the feet.
Don’t lock down the lid.
We all want a peek.
No? Not this time?
What if we promise not to suck out the other eye?
We made him. We own him. He is a part of us.
Let us tear him apart. Let us scatter his bones.
When we are done all is left is his suit.
What size did he wear? I take forty-two long.

No Clue

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From the moment I was called on, it was obvious: I had no clue.
Everybody else has a clue, but when Teacher asked where mine was, I said “I forgot.”
The other kids, with their bloody knives and smoking guns and fingerprints, laughing at me.
Shrinking into my seat, the laughter just gets worse.
I snapped. I went on a murderous rampage with the various weapons in the classroom.
When the smoke cleared, I was the last alive.
That’s when I realized… I had a clue after all.
Many clues.
Sitting there, on the desk.
I give myself an A.

Sunday Brunch

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I was cleaning the litterbox when I came across a human skull.
I’m pretty sure it’s human, unlike the past three skulls, which turned out to be chimpanzees.
My kitten is asleep on a chair.
Should I have stopped him after finding the first skull?
It was only a chimpanzee, right? Where’s the harm in that?
I haven’t seen any posters about missing chimpanzee skulls. Or, now, human skulls.
I tried to put a camera on the litterbox, but the power cord had been chewed on and pulled out.
The kitten is awake. I smile, and cautiously wiggle a ribbon.

The Blood

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Hallways of history’s horrors, collected to remind future generations of the evils of the past.
Never again, we all say.
Gunfire!
Get down. Now.
Get behind something.
We see two men, guns drawn.
A guard. And a madman.
Both fired.
Each man falls to the floor, blood flowing from where they’d shot each other.
A madman with a lifetime of hate, his blood slowly mixing with the guard’s blood who had stopped him at the cost of his own life.
He sees the dead stare, and then their blood together.
Black. White.
If only this were the last to spill.

Get a clown

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If you need a birthday clown, you look in the Yellow Pages for one.
On the other hand, if you need a demon clown, you draw a pentagram with silly string and sacrifice a balloon animal.
It’s not easy spraying a decent pentagram with that stuff, but with a little practice and a steady hand you’ll have your clown army of darkness.
Why you want a clown army of darkness, I won’t ask. I just teach these summoning spells. What they’re used for, it’s not my problem.
Here’s a can of silly string, a balloon, and my spellbook.
Good luck.

Daisy 5.1

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Daisy looked in the mirror and made a list of everything wrong:
Hips wide.
Gangly. Matchstick arms.
Freckles.
Thin hair.
Yuck.
And the chest. She said B, not D.
“No” she says.
A doctor nods, and the umbilical disconnects.
Back in the jar, her brain linked up the body catalog and browsed the new styles.
She’d always wanted green eyes.
“Maybe I’ll wait for Spring,” she thought.
The simulator worked up a sketch, and she scanned it for an hour before authorizing a growtank to begin.
Another tank quietly recycled Daisy 5.1, crediting her account and waiting for another order.

Country Music Star

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There’s a country music star on television.
She’s standing there with a guitar, but she doesn’t play the guitar.
She doesn’t play anything.
Doesn’t write anything either. Someone else writes the songs.
She doesn’t even sing her own songs. Someone else sings them for her and she just mouths the words.
That’s not even her up there. Someone stood in for her, and nobody noticed the difference.
When she won a Grammy, she didn’t bother showing up to the ceremony to pick it up.
They filed a missing persons report that night.
She was never found.
Isn’t this music great?

Mr. Fist Around My Throat

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My throat hurts.
It feels like someone clenched a fist around it.
But you can’t see anyone with a fist on my throat.
Maybe it’s my old imaginary friend.
His name was Mr. Fist Around My Throat.
Looking back, he wasn’t much of an imaginary friend. He was more of an imaginary bully. And he beat the crap out of me day and night.
I got even with him, though. I took medicine which stopped my imagining him, and he vanished.
Now he’s back.
Are these the right pills?
I knew I should have drilled a hole in my head.