Tag: horror

Predetermined

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You can’t change fate. Everything is predetermined.
From the beginning of time to the end of time, everything has been planned for.
Even the roll of the dice has a set outcome.
Don’t bother trying to escape from your fate.
This doesn’t means you should just sit there and let things happen.
Because the times you make happen, well, those were fated to happen, too.
The fact that everything happens according to a plan means you are completely absolved from the results of your actions.
This is what I’ll be telling the judge about those seventy-eight murders you committed.
Psycho.

Floating

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It rained hard for a day, and the bayou looked like it would overflow, but it didn’t.
We watched tree branches and other junk flow with the water.
Then, a dead body. Jeans, jacket… face down and not moving.
Well, okay. It was moving downstream.
Around the bend, another body floated by.
Two bodies.
Instead of calling the police, we placed bets.
I bet on the first body. It had a good head start.
But the other one was coming up fast.
Mine got caught on a tree branch, and the other won.
Only then, did we call the police.

Helper

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You can tell who has a Helper biochip and who doesn’t.
Every few minutes, their left eye goes hazy and blank.
That’s them talking to HelpNet. And the Helper talking back.
We use just 10 percent of our brains. Helper uses some of the rest to offer advice, keep schedules, remember things, too. Local storage. Reminders. Suggestions. Warnings.
Helpers connect to the global network to pull up scores, stock quotes, dinner reservations.
Sometimes, Helpers get too helpful. They take over, and when they link to HelpNet…
That’s when we stop being ourselves.
Take off those sunglasses and look at me.

Her Eyes

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Every city has an Oracle.
Every Oracle has a secret to hide.
The bartender with the bandage over her face told us some things should not be known.
“What color are your eyes?” asked Joe.
I elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed.
She put down the rag she was polishing the bar with and pointed to a jar on a shelf.
Blue. Her eyes had been blue.
“What color are they now?” Joe asked.
She sighed, reaching across the bar and putting her hand to Joe’s face.
“Whatever these are,” she said, and Joe screamed, his empty eyesockets bleeding.

The Pie

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She asks me what my favorite scent is.
Pie. Pumpkin pie.
The best pumpkin pie I have ever smelled was a gift.
A woman who had scorned me had left it on her windowsill to cool in the gentle evening breeze as she slept with her new lover.
I took the pie and tossed in a Molotov cocktail.
The fire caught quickly, too fast for them to escape.
They burned to death while I watched, finishing every last bit of the pie.
Here I am, hiding in Mexico, waiting for the heat to die down.
Got any pie? Or matches?

Goldberg

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In all my centuries as a creature of the night, there is one thing of which I am certain.
I hate Bach.
I hate Mozart and Beethoven, too.
Oh, how my ears ache to hear Goldberg just once more.
You have never heard of Goldberg. I know this.
I heard him, long ago.
One symphony to his credit. After its first performance, I was so inspired that I drank him dry.
Dead. Gone.
The city watch caught and nearly killed me.
I escaped, but returned to the burnt-out husk of a concert hall.
Not a single note remained. Gone forever.

Wyvern

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Every week, the townspeople bring meat to my cave.
Sacrifices to the dragon, they say. Keep him from burning our village, like in ancient times.
I laugh.
I am no fire-breathing dragon.
I’m a wyvern.
I don’t breathe fire. Sure, my tail has a deadly sting, but it’s not like fire.
I wear the long-deceased dragon’s snout as a mask. The townsfolk feed me at night. That helps with the disguise.
When a champion comes uphill to slay the dragon, taking off the mask
gives me a few moments of surprise.
Enter sting, exit champion.
The freshest meat of all.

Rape Is Never Funny

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There is a rule of comedy that rape is never funny.
But then, how many comedians are from Easter Island?
Yes, the place with the big stone heads.
I was raped there by the natives.
But they made if funny.
It started with a few jokes and light molestation, but by the end of the sex crime, they had me roaring with laughter as they thrust into me against my will.
I was left on the curb, half-naked and aching from both the assault and how hard I had laughed.
I was left shamed, but also saying “Never say never.”

Molly

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By day, Molly Scott’s soul is where it belongs – inside Molly, making Molly uniquely Molly.
If you’ve read her books, you’ll know what I mean. Children’s books totally unsafe for children. “Cooking With Broken Glass” and “Boogertime Blues” are favorite of mine.
At night, her soul wanders and resides in a CPR dummy in Fairfax.
It was during a late First Aid class that I discovered this phenomenon. Five chest compressions, pinch the nose, breathe in, and a slow, faint whisper: this is why I do not dream.
No movement, no animation. Just plastic.
I switched to a cooking class.

Shaving

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Every time I shave, I miss a few hairs.
It doesn’t matter how many blades my razor has or what kind of shaving cream I use.
Hairs appear in the mirror, or I run my fingers across my face and they spring back out of my skin.
It’s frustrating.
I used a cream that a friend suggested that women use to remove the hair from their legs, but that didn’t work, either.
There was this pad advertised on television. Tiny crystals that lift and exfoliate.
After one use, my face was smooth.
Then, slick. With blood.
My skin was gone.