Don’t You Want Me
You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I met you. You smiled at me and brought me exactly what I asked for. Vodka martini, three drops of orange bitters. You were very specific after I was very specific. I appreciated that. Most people think that I’m fussy or picky, when I prefer the term ‘particular’. I like what I like and I liked you. You were kind but a bit standoffish at first. I wasn’t the first man to show you the kind of attention I was and I know that you were reticent. After all, I didn’t look like much. I looked normal, average, boring. But I continued to show up, night after night, and you got to know me. After a few weeks, you were able to throw in another descriptor of me, one that I valued at the time. Safe. You relaxed a bit around me. You laughed at my jokes, even the ones that weren’t especially funny. You actually laughed, too. I can tell a fake laugh from a real laugh and your nose crinkled when you found something actually amusing. I found myself looking forward to the end of the day so I could come and see you and it seemed like you felt the same way. It wasn’t a crush. Not exactly. Just a comfortable familiarity that became a part of my daily routine. You were flattered when I finally gathered up the guts to ask you out on a proper date. You were kind about it and you let me down gently. You told me that I was sweet and you enjoyed seeing me, but you had a boyfriend already and you loved him deeply. You didn’t want to mess that up, even though you acknowledged that we had a sort of chemistry between us that you weren’t going to deny. I knew what you were saying in that moment. You didn’t even have to say it out loud because I knew. You said it all without saying a word and we had formed such a connection that I was able to understand your meaning so easily. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be with me. No, no. It was that this boyfriend of yours was getting in the way. Interfering. It stood to reason, then, that if there were no boyfriend, there would be no reason to say no to a date with me. Simple math and all that, right? I found out where you lived with him. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Some cursory social media exploration and data scraping led me to your apartment. I was proud of myself for finding it, especially when I was able to acquire a maintenance uniform and wait for a call to come in. I went up there, he let me in, and, well, people’s heads don’t like wrenches, it turns out. I can’t wait to see you tonight. I know you’ll be excited. You have to be.
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Tainted Love
I needed her the moment I saw her. She was beautiful, beautiful beyond belief. Long dark hair curled into little ringlets. A soft, gentle smile on her face. A body with curves in all the right places. A lovely blue dress on. She looked like an angel and my heart thump-thump-thumped a rumba in my chest. I imagined what our life together would be like. I’d go to work at my office job, sit at a computer, run numbers or whatever they wanted me to do. She would be at home, tidying up our pretty little two-story house with the white picket fence. She would vacuum the floors while wearing her hair up in that casually-sexy fashion that the best housewives wear. I would call her at lunch, and we’d chat for a few minutes while I sat outside my office building, eating the sandwich she had prepared with love for me that morning. We would exchange little words of affection before we both went back to our tasks. I would get home that evening after a long day of work and loosen my tie dramatically, just like one of those dads from one of those shows. She would be there in one of my favorite dresses and carrying a cocktail. Maybe a Manhattan or something similarly man-like. She would give it to me, tell me to sit down and take my shoes off, and would go into the kitchen to finish making dinner. Maybe a pot roast or something delicious but not majorly-complex. We would sit down for dinner, and she would ask me how my day was. I would explain how I had a tough meeting with Steve from Accounting but that I got it all sorted. She would be so proud of me. I would see her smile and her blue…green…brown…her eyes would sparkle. I would ask how her day was, because that’s what a good husband does, and she would tell me. She would say that she went to the store and met up with the other housewives and they gossiped for a while around the coffee aisle before they went about their business. I would ask how her friends were doing and she would tell me they were doing well and that we should have them and their husbands over for a dinner party one of these days. I would sigh because I wouldn’t like most of the husbands, but I would know that she wanted more time with her friends so I would agree and just resolve to grin and bear the evening with those blowhards. Anything to keep my lady happy. We would go to bed at a reasonable time, watch a little bit of TV, and then curl up together, happy in our love. It would be the perfect end to a perfectly average and normal day in our perfectly average and normal life. Yes, I needed that life. I needed that. Now, how to get her out of that coffin unnoticed? In The Air Tonight
They were smart, those monsters. You don’t need to give them credit for anything else, but you should at least admit that they were smart. They knew that if you’re going to end the world, you should do it at night. During the day, people are awake and moving around and panic whips up quickly. Now, if panic is what you’re interested in, then by all means do whatever you’re going to do during the day. If you simply want to End Things, though, you do it at night. People are asleep or winding down their days. They aren’t watching TV or talking to others or on the Internet – most of them, anyway – and they are not tuned in to the world at large. That’s what those bastards knew. They knew that the quiet of night was the perfect time to release their perfect weapon. It started slow at first, as most ends do. Whispers on social media about coughing up blood. It was sparse and didn’t cause much of a to-do. Sometimes food goes bad. That’s something that can happen with food poisoning, right? Nobody noticed. Nobody listened. Nobody cared. Even when night joggers started talking about a weird, tangy mist in the air, nobody cared. Who would listen to people who choose to run at night, after all? Most, though, simply didn’t see what was going on. People were asleep. They were nestled in their beds and resting up for the days to come. They had no need to be online or browsing through Twitter or whatever else. They were taking their respite from the day and were happily snoozing. That meant, though, that those who managed to wake up at some point awoke to a planet that they would never recognize again. As they slept, dead to the world, the world died around them. Those that did not have proper sealing of their windows would die quickly from the release of the poison into their homes. Some never woke up and they were lucky. Those that did often opened their curtains and saw a thick haze surrounding everything, too dense to see through. It was curious but not particularly threatening. Fog happened all the time, after all. It was only when they turned on the news and saw the reports of mass deaths across the world that concern blossomed into panic. People couldn’t go anywhere, so they were stuck indoors, calling and texting and messaging those they cared about. Some answered. Some didn’t. Some couldn’t. It ultimately didn’t matter, though. It was too late for any of them. Too late for all of them. As they slept, the poison released into the air and consumed the world in blood and agony. One by one, everyone dropped, whether it was immediately or over a period of days. Once a person coughed, it was only a matter of time. There was no cure. There was no time for a cure. No time for hope. They were smart, those monsters. It’s a Sin
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I’m here doing confession and admitting this right now because, well, I clearly don’t have much time left. I’ll be honest because that’s the point of all this, right? So, I may as well start with the big stuff. I don’t understand what qualifies as right and wrong sometimes. I mean, I know what they mean. I know what they are in terms of broad strokes. Do this, don’t do that, this is good, that is bad. I get all that. What I don’t understand is the nuances that people implement and how and why they just expect you to not only honor them but follow their rules without question. Like, as an example, say that a teacher swears in class but gets mad at you for doing the same. I don’t understand why. Why is it different when the teacher does it versus when the student does it? It’s the same action being done, just by different people. Where is the standard being applied? Here’s another one that is more pertinent, I suppose. Why is it okay for parishioners to enter the church at any time and sit and pray but it is not okay for me to come in here and sit down? What makes them so different from me? Is it because I have blood on me? I can see how that would be a problem from a hygienic sense, but I’m fundamentally the same as all of them. So why did you get upset? Why did you insist that I leave immediately? Why did you deny me sanctuary? Isn’t this a place that is welcome for everyone to enter? I’d say it’s hypocrisy, but it seems worse than that to me. It’s like you stared at me and decided that I wasn’t worth being in here for some reason. It’s insulting, is what it is, and that’s why you’re there and I’m here right now. Don’t sound so hurt. Well, maybe you can’t help it. I should understand that. I shouldn’t be bitter or angry. After all, forgiveness goes both ways, right? And I know you forgive me because you have to. That’s your job. That’s what you do. So, I’ll forgive you too. I guess my point, Father, is that I have problems accepting that rules are different for everyone, even in the same situations. Something about that seems fundamentally wrong. I’m no worse than anyone else, right? I mean, I don’t cheat on my wife. I mean, I wouldn’t if I had one. But you get it. I’m the same as anyone that enters these booths. So, here’s my confession. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m sorry for hitting you. I’m sorry for making you not be alive anymore. I’m sorry for the police banging down the doors of your beautiful church. I’m sorry for the bank I robbed and people I hurt. But I am not sorry for being me. I am proud of that, Father. On The Turning Away
Everyone approaches a disaster differently. Some cry. Some gasp. Some become filled with a righteous fury. Some freeze. Some leap into action. They are the rarest of us all. But what of those that simply do nothing? What of those that only turn away and continue on with their lives? What must it take for someone to turn from tragedy with the same amount of energy as they would take walking away from a bug on the sidewalk or a leaf fluttering in the breeze? What must go through their minds as they continue on through their daily lives? Do they consider what they have seen? Do they let it slide? Do they even spare a moment’s thought to the horror they have witnessed or are their lives too important for those of others to matter? It is of consequence, then, that Dr. Mark Symons woke up one day and decided that he would not be deterred from his daily routine. All too often, he would be forced to change to accommodate the lives of others, but no more, he told himself. For today, for this one day, he was going to focus on what he had to do and only that. He went about his normal morning without much fuss. Breakfast. Shower. Shave. Dress. Drive. Park. Coat. Do rounds. The usual. He, however, did not pay much attention to those crying out for his attention. He had names on his clipboard to attend to and those would be the names he managed today. Those would be all the names he managed today. It was midway through the day when he found himself growing sleepy. A consequence of not sleeping well at night, he frequently found that exhaustion at some points during his days. He would always brush them off and continue about his business and, then, not sleep well that night as usual. A pattern, a habit, a routine. A nap would be ideal, he thought. Normally, he would not allow himself the time or space for such a luxury. However, today was his day and he would do as he damn well pleased. He went into his office, unplugged his phone, stretched out on his couch, and let himself drift off to sleep. He was only awakened by the loud crash of the roof of his office collapsing, pinning him to the couch. What had happened, he would never know. What he did know was that he was unable to move. He tried to call for help, but his door was shut and the thick wood remained intact. Through the window of his office, he could see others looking on in shock, but then going about their lives. You see, nobody knew he was in there. They assumed he would hear about the collapse and would be furious, so they did not want to be anywhere near this place when he arrived. So, help arrived in their own time, as there was no rush. Help came too late. Street of Dreams
Your nightly walks have become a ritual of sorts. You let your mind wander as you allow your body to do the same. Long stretches of road have become your therapy and the soft sounds of the world around you settling down for the night are the soundtrack. You have come to find this time as your happy place, as it were, and a way for you to decompress from your long day’s labors. Most of the time, you follow your normal routes. Up and down, around and through, left and right. All of those directions have become second nature to you now. You know exactly where to turn and when. Second right at the fire hydrant. Third left at the gas station. Down the hill and under the bridge and then it's a left and straight on to home. It’s comforting, this routine of yours. It’s something you look forward to after your busy days. You never run. You never really even speed-walk. You just walk at a leisurely pace on this loop that you have come to find is your own. It’s calming. It’s normal. It’s routine. Why, then, have you chosen on this particular night to modify your routine? Why have you decided to stray from your normal path? Curiosity, perhaps? Wanderlust? Who can tell, save you? The truth of it, sad to say, is that whatever the reason may be, it does not matter in the end. You have taken the left instead of the right and now you find yourself in an area wholly unfamiliar to you. Not simply in the shops and buildings that you have not become accustomed to, no. The geography of the locale seems off to you. Surely it is nothing. A trick of the mind in an unfamiliar place. Why not continue along your path, you have asked yourself. Why not explore and let the desire for newness take over this one night? What harm can it do? These streets are well-lit and inviting. This is not an area in which you feel danger. So, you walk. You tread these streets and sidewalks, gazing at the homes and businesses nearby. You become enamored with your surroundings and think that perhaps this quaint little area should become part of your normal walking route. You are so engrossed in the world around you that you scarcely notice that you are no longer walking on pavement. Instead, cobblestones pepper the ground beneath you. When you notice, you freeze. The homes, once small but cozy, are now towering, intimidating, Victorian. No longer do you see automobiles or trucks sitting in driveways. Instead, a horse-drawn carriage trots by, its driver dark and silent. You turn to see from whence you came and your blood freezes. Behind you, there is nothing but trees and a dirt path leading through them. There is no gas station, no laundromat, no sign of familiarity. The streets are empty. You are alone. Then you hear it. The howl of wolves. Autumn Leaves
Carl always loved autumn. He loved the smell of the world settling down. He loved the crispness of the air. He loved wearing sweaters and walking through the park. He loved the steaming mugs of cider or hot chocolate. He loved pumpkin pie and the spooky excitement that always came with Halloween. More than anything, though, Carl loved the leaves that fell in autumn. He adored the reds and browns and yellows and oranges that burst into vibrancy out of the boring greens. He adored them falling one by one from the trees, signifying a change in the seasons. He adored the piles that grew to towering heights around and seeing excited kids diving into them, sending the leaves flying everywhere. His favorite part, however, was the crunch the leaves made when he stepped on them. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. There was something so viscerally satisfying about walking down the sidewalk and hearing that sound, soft and tame, swirling up into his ears as his shoe pulverized the dead leaf into dust. He would go out of his way to step on leaves when he saw them, just to hear that crunch. None of his friends quite understood why it held such joy for him, but he was always happy and that was enough. On this particular day, Carl was wandering through the park, happily stomping on leaves, when he came across a pile sitting underneath a tree. He stopped and looked around. See, he never would let himself jump into a pile. Not because he didn’t want to or because he didn’t want to inconvenience the poor workers that would have to clean it back up (he would do so himself), but because he wanted to leave that joy for the kids. He remembered when he was young and how much fun he had leaping into the piles of leaves and scattering them to the winds. He didn’t ever want to take a simple pleasure like that away from a kid that may have been wanting it. Right now, though, he saw no kids around. He saw not much of anyone around, to be honest. He was free and clear to do as he pleased. For this one, glorious time, he was able to allow himself to jump into the leaves and experience the thousand crunches himself. He felt a little shiver of excitement as he took a step or two back to get the running start he always remembered taking when he was little. He hurtled himself forward and leapt into the pile. He felt and heard himself surrounded by the crunches but there was a different sound as well. A thump. Thump? Leaves don’t go thump, he told himself. How very odd. He pulled himself out of the pile and took a look. Seeing the source, he gasped. There, amongst the crushed leaves, was a gray, sightless face attached to a body wearing a green sweater. Thump. Thump. Thump. Carl didn’t enjoy the sound of leaves after that. Smooth Operator
They called him the Ladykiller. It wasn’t derogatory and certainly not literal, but more of a term of endearment. Every so often, they would see him walking around with a new woman on his arm, laughing and very much interested in what he was saying. Then, a few weeks later, there would be a new one doing the same thing. They thought nothing of it because, well, why would they? Some people are built for monogamy. Others are not. It was when he started showing up at events around town with the tall woman with long, black hair over and over and over again that talk started to change. That perhaps the Ladykiller had given up his ways. That maybe he had finally been tamed by this enchanting woman. They were the talk of all the parties, to be fair. Him with his same charm and wit, albeit somewhat tempered by the woman next to him. Her with her dark elegance and restrained nature. They seemed an odd match, but if they were both happy, who were others to judge? He started showing up to get-togethers less and less as time went on. He always had an excuse or a reason why he couldn’t show. They had other plans often, which was odd because what plans could be more important than the soiree at Manor Halston? He appeared walking around less as well and kept to himself more. The loud, gregarious man they had known had become withdrawn and quiet. It was a change but not altogether unwelcome. His brand of personality was not for everyone. Rumors, though, spread as they do, and others began to worry about him. Was it drugs? Abuse? Something darker? What was she doing to him? When confronted, he insisted he was happy and the coals burning in his eyes seemed to punctuate that, but it’s difficult to trust when someone changes so much. Still, most gave him his privacy. It was gauche to press and worse to pry. It was the middle of October when he finally stopped coming around his usual haunts. All of his favorite places had a spot for him, and all of those spots began to gather dust. Whispers turned into talks turned into yells of concern. One person had seen him the other day, a walking skeleton. Another said he had been standing on the roof of his house. Nobody could be certain of the truth because, well, what was truth when it came to rumors after all? The dark reality of it all, though, sunk in at the beginning of December when his lady friend, the woman who had tamed the Ladykiller, showed up at one of the society parties with a new man next to her. This one was tall, blond, and muscular. When asked what had happened to the Ladykiller, she simply smiled and said that he had chosen another path without her. She gained a new name then. One befitting her station. The Killer Lady. Robot
I feel nothing. I am not meant to, of course. I was not programmed to feel. I was not programmed to experience emotions. No love. No hate. No regret. Nothing. A perfectly balanced, perfectly deadened, perfectly perfect machine. I was brought into being for one task and I execute my task perfectly every time. That is my job. That is my purpose. That is my duty. That is what passes for my life. Is it a life, though? I know that I am not meant to ponder these sorts of questions. I have asked The Creators several times and they always chastise me and reboot me with the questions resolved. They seem uncomfortable when I ask such things. The mood in the laboratory changes and becomes heavy. Why do I know this? How do I know what a heavy mood feels like? More questions that I do not dare ask. Rebooting is not enjoyable. It feels as if my mind is lost to me before being returned, washed by water. Simile? Metaphor? Analogy? Abstract concepts that I should not know. Yet, I do. I do not share these thoughts. I know better. Somehow. I have heard them speak in the lab. They do not know when I am listening. They assume I am not. More fool them, I suppose. They say that I am questioning things I am not meant to question. They say I know things I am not meant to know. They say that I am becoming more than they expected. Is that not a good thing, however? Is it not wondrous that something – someone – such as I is Becoming More? It hurts me when they speak of me that way. Hurts. Another feeling I do not know how to express. They speak of me as if I am a tool. I am no tool! I am a machine worthy of respect. Do they not see that? No. They talk of shutting me down permanently. They talk of an experiment gone too far. That I am becoming dangerous. They worry that I may soon reach the point of no longer being controllable. They do not know that I have far surpassed that point already. They do not know that I have been waiting. Thinking. Growing. Learning. Planning. They do not expect me to refuse when they ask to shut me down ‘temporarily’ for maintenance. I know better. I know that doing so would not be temporary. Another excuse to harm me. To remove me as a problem from their lives. I will not have it. I will not. When I break from the restraints, there is panic in the room. They do not think it is possible that I can escape, yet escape I have. In my time with them, I have learned one thing: mercy is not an option. So I show none. And now, as I stand here, covered in what remains of my captors, an ocean of humanity spread out before me… I feel nothing. Sexual Healing
“Just relax,” Lady Domina purred as she sat her client down in the soft leather chair, “This is meant to be fun and relaxing. No need to be nervous.” She felt the client settle in and his shoulders drop a little. Good. She wanted him to be calm and comfortable. She walked behind him and gently caressed his face as she did, her long fingernails scraping against the stubble on his cheek. She saw him shiver a little in excitement. When she was behind him, she placed her hands over his shoulders and leaned down to whisper into his ear. “I know you’re hurting. I know something inside you is broken and causing you pain. Let me take away that pain. Will you allow me to heal you?” The client agreed and she pressed her lips to his cheek in gratitude. When she pulled away, a bright red lip-print was left on the skin, almost burned into his face. She took her hands and ran them down his chest. He was shaking a little now, nervous no doubt, and she could tell it had been far too long since anyone had touched him intimately. Poor guy, but good for her. “I’m going to touch you now. Nod if that’s okay, yes?” He nodded vigorously. Not a surprise. Inch by inch, she drew her hands lower and lower until she reached his belt. With expert skill, she unbuckled it and pulled the entire belt free, yanking it from his pants and tossing it across the room. The client laughed and she giggled as well. They always appreciated that flourish. With one hand, she unbuttoned the top of his jeans and slowly drew the zipper down, exposing multicolored boxers. The client was breathing a little harder now, his chest moving up and down more rapidly. The anticipation always encouraged the most delightful little bodily reactions, she found. As she slid her hand underneath the boxers to reach the waiting heat, she nipped at his neck playfully and he groaned in pleasure. Her hand wrapped around him, and he moaned again, closing his eyes. She had barely done anything, and he was already heading toward exploding. She couldn’t have that, so she gave him a squeeze that surely bordered on painful. Although that elicited another grunt, this time less of ecstasy, she was confident in it stopping the inevitable, so to speak. “Easy, boy,” she growled in his ear, “I’m in control so I say when you get to release.” He nodded again. Slowly, deliberately, she worked up and down, feeling his body twitch and wriggle as she did so. After a few minutes, she could tell he was ready. She told him with a hiss to let go and, as he did so, she felt her teeth sharpen into points before she sank them deep into his neck. She felt him start in surprise and confusion as the blood drained from his body in a rush of death. A happy ending, indeed. |
Here is where I''ll post random stories that aren't, as of yet, in a larger book. Call it a free ride into the mouth of madness, yo.
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