SNM Horror Magazine
If You Build A Mausoleum...The Dead Will Come!
EDITOR'S SUBMISSIONS / FOUR SHORT STORIES
Below are 4 short stories; 1 is from my new unpublished novel called "The Dark Art Of Wonder." I only completed this recently and am trying to get it published. The last is the prelude to my second novel The Banished. As a writer I believe in being on the battlegrounds with my troops! Some will see this as a cheap plug. I look at it as the only form of payment to offer a FREE magazine to the public! Plus I do not want to interfere with current issue authors.
ANNOUNCEMENT: NEW COLLABORATIVE STORY!
I'm pleased to announce a brand new story that's SNM's first collaborative piece with Story of the Month winner, Jason Keene. It is not part of the August theme concept but it promsies to be as dark and disturbing as it gets! It's called: "As My Pen Gently Weeps." Come check it out! You can visit Jason at: www.myspace.com/keenehorror *Feel free to drop us some comments in the guestbook!
Steven Marshall Jason Keene
As My Pen Gently Weeps
Steven Marshall & Jason Keene
"Forgive me as I sing the melancholy of my soul in a familiar, gentle weep. Among the living I walk the dead and my soul you can keep. Let me bleed of thy heart while I still may, if for nothing else than for something to say..."
The Gates of Hell seem old and tired as my soul collects more rot. Indeed, I am but a Rigor mortis of Time, hanging here in perpetual perpetuity, as I hear the multi-decibel shrieks from the Galleries of the Defunct. Each has their own tale of woe and sometimes heartbreak: whispered effigies of the dead either unsung or falling on deaf ears; multitudes of wailing, shrieking cacophonies in vein eclipsed by sallow mute responses.
Here in my own Private Purgatory, my soul languishes in anguish. Hear me as I cry, hear me as I die, but for me there is no Hell where sinners roast, and no Heaven of Glory Bright calling my name. Divine are the consequences of my actions and now is thy day of torment. Behold the shambles and shards of my fractured soul…but don’t let me die here alone!
Numb inside, start to decay,
Emptiness shatters into gray,
Corrosion wilts inside my soul.
Beauty kills and turns to mold.
Bitter-harsh taste of life I got,
My soul shall mold, decay and rot.
Is there no penance better received inside this void—this hollowed out husk of a world? Whereas I once walked side by side with man in the land of light and gifts, now I can only tread this dark abyss long-paved with the tainted tracks left by a monster. Woe is he that does not find the simple pleasures in life; tempting fate with a villainous and methodical hand.
I find my place amongst the fallen, the cursed, the damned. By way of these filthy five digits that clench and unclench in anticipated torment at my side, I now reap the very seeds of sin that I have sown. They know what they have done and the lament is never-ending.
All they have left me with are memories. Sad blossoms opening petals, bright and luminescent, if only for a brief moment beyond the absolute darkness. Can a human eye be forced to look at them eternally? For inside that bright glimmer, deep within the recesses that I have blocked out years and years ago, there embeds the roots of this eternal damnation. Perhaps it is better to simply see the flashes of brightness for just a second to avoid their spiraling black core—but I cannot avert my eyes. Surely this is why I, too, am dead! To writhe in this eternity that now binds me by anguish in this mocking pit of despair.
The Dead still await their Execution Chamber in dark voids of silence with a creeping anticipation, as their souls forsake their bodies. It is the way of all flesh and yet I am seemingly exempt to this human condition. I am but a hybrid reminiscing as an offspring of the dead, descended from the deceased, yet immortal and incapable of dying in another sense. My name should be finger written in blood in the Book of Death! My lineage is longer than time yet my carcass rests in this empty coffin of the unknown; an ignoble, anonymous name is mine. My fellow Lost Souls are the illustrious multitudes of the defunct. I might as well be the mirage of a myth; an echo of a most profound lie that has become a paradox in reality. Death would be a peace-keep to my soul…I am more worried that my singular unrest will never end! So blame me not for the harrowing events that have transpired here, for I am Nobody!
Read on for a short while as I serenade the woeful repent of Dead Dreamers. Alas my Pen gently weeps the blood of tears and disdain.
Time endless makes way for retrospect amongst The Dead and I am but one of many. The Keepers of the Dead, Harbingers of Sorrow that stalk these ill corridors give glances of disgust and repulsion, for they know what we have done; what means we have used to seal our own fates. Oh! Their cold brazen eyes—I know now that I must no longer meet the icy depths of their stare. I must focus elsewhere—but where? All that is left to view in the dim confines of a lonely Private Purgatory are the inner recesses of the distraught path I have tread; each footfall stepped inside the dark whims of regret and penance no longer forthcoming.
I was but a boy when my hand felt the first warmth of blood and conviction. A robin, small and delicate, drew my ear as it broke its frail body against my windowpane. With the inquisitive state that pervades the minds of children implored, I find the hapless thing and do what I must to ensure its livelihood. It was crumpled into a twitching heap on the soft grass outside of my home as I kneeled down to it. Taking the poor beast into my tiny hand, a feeling consumed me: sympathy. For all that I had learned of God in Sunday school, He no longer looked upon this creature—His miniscule flying denizen. Just as He no longer casts His eyes upon me now; the beast had been forgotten. Tears streamed in torrents as my fist had wrapped around the bird, squeezing—tighter and tighter my fingers clench until I felt its frame give way; the warm trickle of its final breath washing down my trembling young hand. I was repulsed at myself, and yet, the bird was as lost in His eyes as the poor souls that tread here, consumed by our own Rigor mortis of Time. There are times when I still see that robin in flight from the corner of my eye, and from its ghostly image the piercing quick cackles are soaked thick in sympathy…or accusation, of which account I know not.
Now the very life has been squeezed from me by some cruel Hand of Fate as I wisp in the quiet corners alone with my cadaver; a bird once taking to wing the very crumpled mess that lies twitching in limbotic uncertainty. Through a dark, illuminating Heavenless light, my only fear now is that it will never end with any true resolve; whereas death would squash the anxiety and mark the end of something. An infinity divided by many eternities wretches at my stagnant soul; the very act of life stilled like all the Blue Lipped Victims that still haunt me; their unsettled souls drifting aimlessly and arbitrarily around me; all of which on the inside looking out into emptiness on the other side of life. I, for one, am ready to die in spirit.
Emptiness; non-existence, a lack of responsibility, no more worry and woeful despair are a cordial welcome. When does the brain just stop facilitating commands? Why does my soul not simply die in its place to end this flutter of confusion? Why must this illusion of self- prosecution be a reality when nothing matters other than antimatter; life bequeathed forevermore in this empty shell of abandonment. That is my wish, my one and only, which I would barter everything in the world to trade in this very core that rots me from the inside out. Oh, my agony is exquisite; my suffering divine in some strange way as I revisit my eternity alone within myself.
I never thought that I would die at 42. Once you get past your terrible teens and reckless carefree youth, you assume that you will grow old and simply retire; maybe have a couple years left to anticipate the inevitable. But the last thing that dawns into realization is dying precisely at 42, otherwise you would take the utmost care, or live life to its fullest. So all you can expect is the unexpected!
Now behold, the Dead grow restless! The Galleries of the Defunct boil over with rage and a universal appetite to continue to commit their foul atrocities. These souls know no peace; no slumber. Their moans and howls, more foul than the filthiest gnashing of teeth like a wild, rabid pack of hyenas. Their confines grow weary -- and they hunger. Or better yet, they lust! And it must be writ, for this is the coming of the end!
I must take note. Scrawl what I can somehow in these last fleeting moments as the Dead turn upon their Harbingers and Keepers—before the very Galleries turn over upon themselves and unleash the fury of the Fallen. But from what muse source shall I be able to pen this when the Keepers have taken everything? Wait…I resolve that we do what we must in such trying times. Yes, I will take this down, may the fates be damned along with us all!
There is only silence now where once dwelled the abominable cries of the doomed. The calm before the storm is dreadful and I fear to even peer out into the darkness. They scurry. The sound is unbearable—so softly do they breathe and yet I feel them nearby. The Dead shuffle about in the shadows and the war is upon us. Soon they will have their moment; glorious they will stand—triumphant! The Harbingers and Keepers, their black souls shall scourge no more. Even now, the Dead tap against the blackened confines and signal. The time is nigh.
The bloodshed has begun! The silent darkness has given way to the horrific war-cry of the Damned and they rise. They rise! It’s a battle of the epic, the Damned and the Damning, going tooth and nail! The savagery is far beyond what mortal eyes can withstand. My ears can no longer take this perverse pondering and I must gaze upon it—I must! The line has been drawn in a deep crimson rift that paints the very walls of this hellish cavern from where I perch in my suspended animation.
I have returned and with a fresh utensil to write this with, no less! A gift from the battlefield dropped haphazardly in a struggle. But I will make some good use of it, nonetheless. Any normal soul would be quivering; distraught with the sights which still rage on outside. But I find this odd sentiment about myself: Calm, yet morose feelings reassure me that we have both won and lost—one as melancholy and bittersweet as the other. We may have been triumphant in the battle of today, but still face the war of tomorrow as the Keepers will not stand down, even in the onslaught of defeat. They will quickly lick all their wounds, multiply in numbers, and redeem in the name of their predecessors!
I scribe here within my Private Purgatory in splotchy streaks barely legible. Over a labored and agonizing period of time, scrolled with pain and disdain, I bring you the salt of my tears. Now I acquiesce in remembrance of my life to a less cerebral, more tangible time when my face knew how to smile and my mind was not drifting endlessly in infinity. I breathe in life like the wake of an ocean, pondering all the little things that I had taken for granted:
The sun falling upon her golden hair; the warmth of her smile; the soulfulness of the expression in her eyes; all that is pure and inspiring. And she was equally as beautiful on the inside; purity, compassion, selflessness; not jaded by the darker side of human nature. Her beauty was so intoxicating it hurts to think about it. Any libido-active man would surely be spellbound by her vibrancy and would want to make a demonstrative claim of her. And fondly enough, she was unaware of this spell she cast; one that pulses the blood of man and makes their hearts flutter and lusts crave! She was a gazelle in a den of lions, frolicking in their fields unknowing; unaware, nibbling on some leaves alone in their hunting territory.My male nurturing instinct responded to the need to protect this passive little lamb from harm in nature’s predator and prey food chain of the dominant species and their ever-consuming hunger. I had gravitated to her like a moth to the light, fluttering about; much like my heart did when I was in her presence. If only I had waited just a little while longer!
One of the voices from the Dead conjures me back to my refuge, to my catatonic state of inescapable means.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks only to cure his boredom.
“Keeping low and hiding from the Keepers,” was my reply.
“I meant how did you end up here?” he rephrased.
I showed him my right hand like a claw, curling my fingers inward.
“Revenge or murder?” he probed.
“Both,” I replied.
“Over a woman?”
“Yes. I suffer a sweet little Hell over it.”
“Beauty kills…and so do men to have it.”
“In the end, beauty turns to mold, as does my soul in here.”
“Write about it,” he suggested, intrigued in a ‘passing the time’ kind of way.
“I am. But I needed the tools of my scroll…and now I have them!”
“I’d like to see it when you’re done.”
“You must speak of it to no one.”
“Have no worries…I am No One,” he said fading into the darkness.
And he was one of those Dead Dreamers, cast into his own Private Purgatory for eternal damnation. He was neither alive nor dead or even something of both. Death would be too welcoming! He just drifts amongst the Dead, floating in and out of Purgatory, trying to fill in the anguish of time. For him there is no Execution Chamber to look forward to, no Heaven or Hell to contemplate, no Book of Death to cast him from this existence as he rots progressively here in the Netherworld. Indeed, he and I do have some things in common, although we are completely estranged souls. I never fully realized the pure loneliness of my agony until I saw the lack of reflection in his empty eyes and vacant stare…it was as if he was fading and never whole to begin with; yet neither could he disappear.
Veronica. She sits just beyond my reach now, but she's always within eye’s view. Across the dark confines of lifeless Private Purgatory—surely if you were here, you could not blame me for the sinking feeling of despair that resounds within my mind. Her beauty is untouched and soft and pale and all the while her sad smile belies her intentions. Like a porcelain doll, her face is etched in shades of pain and unforgivable censure; her milky white eyes show only the depths of sorrow and there is no more love in her heart for me. And why should there be? Can I ask for nothing less as she stands there, staring at me with such lifeless eyes? Of course not; this is but another atonement of terms unwritten in my Book of Death.
In earlier times, we were one. Determined to sate the hunger of the beast inside of me, she stayed when everyone else turned and fled—or bled. My moments would come and pass and Veronica would bathe me in her calming embrace through each and every ordeal. Beyond my apparent madness, she saw a scared and frightened child and treated me as such. Perhaps I was hungry for youth lost or perhaps she was merely the white light that filled the empty voids within my soul. Yet either way, she now lingers before me pale, semi-transparent—cold. As her saddened eyes continue to burn my deserved penance, I find a fluttering filling my ears. From behind me, the similarly translucent form of a small bird darts then sweeps and lands, perching upon her ghostly shoulder. The robin that, by my own wicked hand, fell before her has joined her in their ghostly vigil. I can no longer bear to withstand their glare—those hazy white orbs of guilt and ridicule burn flames within my soul. Her low drones find a home in my ears, performing a melodic symphony with the bird’s song in dark unison, ever whispering. Even now as my hand presses firmly down on this utensil to apply the last draining remnants of its liquids, I feel no pain, only guilt.
I try to stay in a constant state of sleep, although even sleep is an ambiguous at best definition to my current condition. I wrestle with my demons and find myself in a pinning predicament of chastise. Anything remotely approaching a state of slumber is suddenly interrupted by lightning bolts of remorse stabbing my stomach, shocking me awake into the demon I’ve become. I have lost all signs of humanity but still sustain some vague emotion within that allows me to exist in this constant state of shame plagued with humility. And it is quite inescapable to say the least. All the physical sensations in me have dulled down to a liquefying numbness that steals another piece of what’s left of my soul, like a cerebral hemorrhage vomiting blood inside of me; yet somehow escaping. In my blasphemous fairyland of which I am King, I find myself giving eternal servitude to my conscience; perhaps the only sense of humanity that has any sense of familiarity to me! It’s like an inward creeping decay that has become my drowning pool of despair. Even now, I can still hear Veronica calling my name; her words are like verbal daggers. I can still hear what she is saying, although she is not aware of my presence…
“Look, I want to be sure that what you’re telling me is true…”
Pause.
“Oh, I know how he’s going to react if he finds out…”
Pause.
“No, I haven’t told him yet, I’m still working up the courage.”
Pause.
“How certain are you?
Pause.
“Yes, he is…” she says firmly.
Pause.
“I can…try to arrange that if you like. But it has to come from me.”
Pause.
“Of course I’m going through with it. You know how much this means!”
Pause.
“He’s just going to have to understand and get past it.”
Pause.
“Well this is definitely awesome – and so are you, but…I think I want a girl next time. I’m so excited!” she giggles.
Pause.
“Please! He’s very jealous. If he even knew you saw me naked, he’d flip, let alone…hey, I think I just heard him, I gotta go. Talk to ya later…”
Pause.
…okay, bye.”
“Honey, you’re home early!” she says cheerfully.
“Who in the fuck were you talking to?”
“Look, I have something to tell you…”
“Don’t bother, I already know.”
“…How did you find out?”
“You’re a stupid bitch, you know that?”
“And what did I do to deserve that?”
A harsh slap crashed upon her face.
“Ow! What’s wrong with you?!”
“You, ya fucken whore!”
“Get off of me!” she pleads.
“Why didn’t you tell him that?”
“Tell who? You’re hurting me, stop!”
“Just acting how you’re labeling me. You want to see flip? ‘If I knew he saw you naked, let alone’ what? Fucked you like the little whore you are?”
“No, you don’t understand!”
“You’re damn right I don’t!”
A strike to her jaw, dizzying her into an almost unconscious state.
“What’s the matter, I don’t fuck you good enough anymore?”
“Please, stop!”
“Comeer ya lil’ whore, ya want it so bad, turn around!”
“What are you doing to me, get off!”
“I’ll get off on you alright, get down on the bed!”
A punch to the back of her head, immobilizing her.
The sound of her skirt and underwear being shredded.
The feeling of cold air on her naked backside.
The sound of a belt unbuckling and zipper unzipping.
The cracking sound of being strapped; a hot, stinging feeling of being whipped.
A familiar angry throbbing, pulsing with lust, wagging against her.
‘Not there please’, she says to herself -- she’s far too tiny and he’s too big!
Her deafening voice, shrill and raw, screams to the Heavens.
A violation so harsh it rips her apart with a penetrating thrust.
A relentless jackhammer splitting her against the laws of anatomy.
A hateful pounding and throbbing, injecting her with a hot, vengeful squirt; seed of life -- and seed of death all in one.
The feeling of large hands reaching around her neck from behind, squeezing hard.
The feeling of claustrophobia and powerlessness suffocating her.
The taste of blood on her tongue; her face is smothered in the bed.
The loss of sight and dizziness; preparing for death, unable to fight him off.
The loss of all senses; a succumbing unto herself...welcoming death.
...I wake up with a jolt to find my own filthy hands wrapped around my throat. If only I had the willpower left inside this hollowed husk I call a body then I believe I should just squeeze harder—choke the penance from myself and leave this horrid existence fading into darkness. Every wretched moment is plagued by the retribution of guilt—the most intense being for that which I unleashed upon my poor Veronica. This dank, pitiful existence is more than justified.
The beast within me would not be held at bay once I discovered her on the telephone with “him.” I could have picked up the pieces and moved forward out into the unknown. Visions haunted my thoughts during that last fateful encounter with my Veronica—her escaping from me! Instead, her lifeless body fell limp to the bed before me, slumping haphazardly to the floor while the blood of fury still boiled within my veins. After averting my murderous stare from her naked corpse, I reached for the phone. It still laid hanging from the receiver, its cord stretched across the foot of the bed—nothing but a dial tone, but I would not be denied.
I redialed the number left on the caller ID—the office of an MD. How fitting indeed that she’d leave me for some older, richer doctor! My fists were clenched into a knot like white balls of fury as I agonized through the first three rings. When someone did finally answer, the beast within me seethed so violently that spittle frothed from my quivering lips on the mouthpiece. A female voice replied:
“Doctor Avery’s office, how can I direct your...”
“Put the son of a bitch on now!” I could feel the burning sensation blistering the lobes of my ears and my cheeks.
There was a moment of silence that seemed to drift into hours before Dr. Avery answered. He knew it was me, the office most likely shared caller ID as well. In all honesty, I was shocked he’d taken the phone call.
“So I take it she has told you, then?” His calm demeanor set me ablaze even more. To think that this vile bastard could act this calmly as he forced me to murder my treacherous wife, was more than a slap in the face!
“She isn’t saying a Goddamn word, doc. Told me what?”
“Calm down, this is a situation that you two should sit down and thoroughly discuss together.”
“Rot in Hell! You and I have some things to discuss, you bastard. You don’t have to worry about giving me the address -- just stick around the office for a while and I’ll be there shortly.”
“Is Veronica there?” the calm in his voice inquired. “May I speak with her for a moment, please?”
“You’ll be joining her shortly,” I seethed. I wanted him to know that I was coming—I wanted him to linger in knowing he was going to die. “After I slice your throat and tear your heart out, you two will be able to fuck like rabbits on the other side.”
“You don’t understand…” but his response fell on deaf ears.
I heaved the phone across the room with reckless abandon before turning to exit the room. I was fully intent on making my way to the doctor’s office and killing him, as violently as the beast within me would allow, when I noticed the neatly tri-folded letter and its ripped envelope sitting atop the nightstand. Typically in this state, I would have ignored it, but something stopped me—something made me pick the note up and give it a look. It was a typed letter addressing both Veronica and myself, with that damn rat-bastard Dr. Avery’s sloppy signature insanely scrawled across the bottom…
The results of your second pregnancy test are in. The test results have been confirmed positive. Congratulations on your new baby boy! Please contact the office upon receipt of this letter.
The bile rose in my throat as the realization gripped me. I turned to look at Veronica’s naked body, limp upon the floor and I focused below her navel; her womb. I had set forth to take two lives from this world from the moment I eavesdropped on her phone call. Although the first had been intentional—Veronica—the second had been slain without laying a finger on the intended victim and had come in the form of my unknowing child. Could it be true I’d killed my…boy? Along with my adoring wife, who only gave me her love? I wrongly accused and raped her; her last memory of me stealing her life and that of our…baby boy? No, it couldn’t be true! Could I not just rewind time, relive the scene and revert back to the moment just prior to her explanation.
“Yes, Veronica, this is Dr. Avery, calling to confirm the test results.”
“Look, I want to be sure that what you’re telling me is true…”
“We have the results from the second test and they are confirmed. How do you think your husband will react when he finds out?”
“Oh, I know how he’s going to react if he finds out…”
“The both of you should arrange an office visit to discuss the matter. Have you discussed anything with him yet?”
“No, I haven’t told him yet, I’m still working up the courage.”
“I know this is a life changing event and it takes time to digest.”
“How certain are you?”
“99% that it’s a boy, but 100% that you are indeed pregnant. Are you certain that he is in fact the father?”
“Yes he is…” she says firmly.
“We have to arrange an office visit to discuss things together.”
“I can try to arrange that if you want. But it has to come from me.”
“I understand. Are you sure you will go through with the pregnancy?”
“Of course I’m going through with it. You know how much this means!”
“I just have to confirm. How do you think he will react about it?”
“He’s just going to have to understand and get past it.”
“We do have counseling available in private sectors. We’ll discuss it at a later time.”
“Well this is definitely awesome – and so are you, but…I think I want a girl next time. I’m so excited!” she giggles.
“Well be happy that you bear the gift of life. Women become most beautiful during their pregnancy; so much so, they glow. I'm not implying that you aren’t attractive and vibrant already. That’s a given -- and is also confirmed!”
“Please! He’s very jealous. If he even knew you saw me naked, he’d flip, let alone…hey, I think I just heard him, I gotta go. Talk to ya later.”
“Well, good day and please call soon to arrange a meeting once you’ve told him of the news.”
“…okay, bye.”
She hangs up the phone and greets me:
“Honey, you’re home early…”
From there, the rest was history. My new life had begun in the making of my own image. A monster was born unto the world. The former person I was had just died. Life would take on a whole new meaning from here. One I’m certain would forever pave a bleak road of despair; one that would haunt me with dark imaginings and ghostly images to my dying day. And speaking of which, mine was lurking just around the corner…I could hear their familiar pitter-patter of their inevitable approach drawing nearer…
“They’re coming for you,” Veronica’s image has finally left me alone to my sorrow, but her voice still fills my head with accusing mockery. “I’ll be seeing you soon…”
Although there is no fresh air within these dilapidated corridors; these Galleries of the Defunct, I find a slight breeze brushing across my cheek. It's soothing as it pushes the guilt aside for one sweet moment. I’d be inclined to imagine it as Veronica’s ghostly hand, but could she ever forgive me? It matters not to ask, for now I feel her presence has gone and left me to my penance—to reap what I have sown.
The war that has raged between the foul beasts just beyond these dark crypts has silenced itself and I fear that we have lost. I rue the moment that I stepped beyond my boundaries here and took up arms in joining their plight, for the Keepers are calling me. They know I offered my hand in shedding the blood that stains the halls outside—that I took what I needed from the fallen before returning to finish my passages here. I will fight no more.
Guilt is weighing heavily inside my head, like the burden of the world upon Atlas’s shoulders. Yet I am no Titan—no God. I was but a man of flesh and bone; of guilt and pondering. Moreover, I was free of my denial and hatred. I have lain here, beyond deteriorating and broken, comforted only by the beast that welled up inside of me for years upon years. Only now does the beast flee from me, leaving this butchered husk to feel the wrought hand of justice.
The Keepers, damn their vile hearts, are in the doorway now. I hold them at bay with the razor blade I hid along the inside of my bed a year ago, waiting for this very occasion. They will not keep me from finishing and I will flay the hide from their hands if they come close enough.
Wait, they’re transforming: their horns ease back into their grey and mottled foreheads and their eyes no longer glow red with seething hatred; jagged, beastly teeth withdraw into nervous lips and—so help me insanity—they are demons no more!
With that damnable beast’s grip loosened on my soul, the very area around me takes on a different form. There is a light within this catacomb now. Not the faint glow and flicker of Hell’s dancing flames that once filtered through the barbwire encased bars of the fence, but rather this fluorescent glow shining in from behind the Keepers’ forms.The pain has washed in and finds me quickly drawing my left hand against my stomach, pressing the bloody stump hard in an attempt to stop the blood that has soaked my clothing. My God, what have I done under the spell of that damnable beast?
My strength is fleeting and I fear that I am fading quickly. I'm losing grip on this Pen and—have mercy—it is yet another metaphor of my Scribe!
Around me lies the remnants of my left hand, the fingers chiseled to the very stumpy bones in a pointed fashion and emptied of their blood scrolled onto this very paper. This last finger drains quickly and I find the bone scratching instead of smoothly jotting down my final words. Over time, I have peeled off all seven layers of skin, siphoned the blood and kept it in a bowl in the toilet so it looked like part of the bottom in my darkened prison. But I have stripped the sinew like uncoiling licorice, thumbed out the thin muscle and discarded the entrails of my excess ancillary waste, flushing them all down! Indeed it hurts, perhaps more so every time, but it soothed the guilt gripping me, which was by far more painful and harrowing. This was just my way of numbing the incurable scraping inside me, as if my bones were attempting to abandon my body and claw their way out!
Alas my Pen doth gently weep the blood of tears and disdain…as it spills the blood of my fingers and nectar of my soul, dripping beautifully with life.
There are more Keepers now lining the doorway and they advance upon me. Their suits are dark and they have a staunch, official look.The light reflects brightly against the badges upon their chests. Their wide eyes show fear and I assume that none of them have killed a person. I envy their innocence and refuse to submit them to their own beasts’ demands. I will not let that vile monster corrupt another. There will be no more bloodshed other than mine!
One draws within arm’s reach, his pistol so close that I can see the remnants of gun-powder inside the tip of his barrel. Oh God, no!—he is transforming again! The horns swirl up through his forehead once more, splitting the flesh as the light dims behind them and the hellfire rages anew. The beast returns within me and demands I grasp the razor blade that lays strewn amongst the bloody pile of amputated digits at my side. As I write my last entry in my own blood over the course of a year, ginding my fingers to the bone! Only four barely visible nubs at the end of my palm. I must give my own blood sweat and tears to that other lifer, No One, to help pass the time. He’ll so be looking forward to having something to evade The Great Beast we call Time! I will anticipate what will happen from here then let the last bloodnote entry dry. After breakfast, my last meal, I will stash it in the Sunday newspaper they allow us and hand it over to him. For I now know how this will end...Veronica has told me.
...I will reach for the blade, but I will turn it to my own neck and the beast will come with me to be judged for our sins together. The officers will not feel the wrath of the beast this day, and once my spirit lifts from this hollowed husk and ascends beyond this prison cell, I will see Veronica and my child…
Indeed, The Gates of Hell seem old and tired as my soul collects more rot as I wallow on death row, inside my Private Purgatory here in my prison cell. Indeed, I am but a Rigor mortis of Time, hanging in perpetual perpetuity. I'm not even halfway through a double-murder sentence; another lifer rotting away. The Execution Chamber was far too generous to execute me as they did with the other Blue Lipped Victims; dead, murdered prisoners executed by the state. I can hear the multi-decibel shrieks from the Galleries of the Defunct like a hive of bees in a colony stirring in each individual cell as the many rioting prisoners begin to scurry out into the corridors. More guards rush to the scene to help their fallen predecessors in badge and uniform; The Keepers of the Dead, Harbingers of Sorrow. Indeed the Dead are far worse than dead; they’re the very living, non-living, all harboring in a perpetual Purgatory; most for eternity.
The Dead represent all the prisoners here with me on death row. A Purgatory somewhere between the Hell of Glory Bright and this Heavenless place where sinners dwell. Divine are the consequences of my actions and now is thy day of torment! The Book of Death, the very same law book by which the judge and jury pronounced my eternal condemnation to double-life. In my state, it was a minimum of 25 years each for killing my wife and baby; a grand sentence of 50 years with no parole in maximum state penitentiary in the great state of Texas; the land of the righteous. Texas had as many executions in one year as all other 49 states combined at the turn of the millennia. Why couldn’t they just take my life instead, like the 40 other inmates they’d executed back in 2000? What more heinous crimes could the others have committed to deserve the dignified honor of such a quick and merciful death?
I never thought that I would die at 42. I’m pretty certain that today marks my anniversary of 20 years in as I was sentenced when I was 22. Not even half way there and look at me – I’m stumped! Heh-heh. Hey it’s my blood, right? But at last I am free of the beast within! I am no longer dying in a nightmare, for these prison walls can contain me no more! Indeed there are things far worse than death. This is one of them.
A gunshot rang out through the cell block, resulting in yet more blood. There, No One stashes my Scribe of Dried Blood inside his mattress and fades back into the darkness.
Indeed...My Pen gently doth weep the tears of blood and disdain.
* * *
EDITOR SUBMISSION FOR THE JULY THEME ISSUE:
MISTRESS OF DECEPTION
STEVEN MARSHALL
He knew not the patterns of her foul lies
Blind to the betrayal gilded in her smiles
Characters and tales were part of her art
Alas, fidelity was negligent in her heart
In love, there’s always one you betray
In theory, there’s always a price to pay
But after the flame dies in passion’s heat
Nothing scorns the soul more than deceit!
W. Shakespeare
Learning rather abruptly of the news she received today, Missy Delgado dressed up in her most sexually appetizing outfit: a sheer, low-cut, black silk-fringe blouse that revealed her cleavage. The fine cloth scarcely deceived the eye and, in doing so, left little to the imagination. Her black leather pants caressed her every curve as if painted onto her body. Eyeliner, black as tar, personified her cold, black eyes, giving her a sinister glare; but they were lightened by a captivating shade of hot-pink lipstick which silhouetted her tender and lavish lips. Teased-out dirty-blonde hair in one light, a lightly-bleached hue in another. A deep cinnamon tan with a well-proportioned body always caught the eyes of even the most faithful.
Over the years she learned to master two types of smile: The first, portrayed as innocent, never failed to highlight all the sensuality in her face. The second was portrayed as the cat that swallowed the canary; used to crush the fire of many a man’s heart from flame to ash. Also used to manipulate sexual innuendo in an unconcealed and frivolous way. But how she could break a man was no match to how she could make herself irresistible, if she so desired. And tonight, she desired very much so.
All tucked away in a luxury apartment in upper
Every Friday night, Missy could be spotted at either some bar or nightclub; wherever more action dwelt. Inevitably, she would either attract or provoke romantic interlude with any decent looking, libido-active man harboring in such areas.
Tonight happened to be Friday night, but Missy didn’t want it to be just any old Friday night. Tonight was going to be different. She wanted to meet a man, not just any cretin who slugged along ‑ but a real challenge she could leave an ever-lasting impression on; a married man who’d never forget their encounter for as long as he lived.
Ryan Ashley sat alone at the bar, sipping on his fifth Martini. Drowning his sorrows, he still couldn’t escape from the emptiness he felt within. His wife of over ten years had left him for his best friend. It wasn’t discussed, it was simply done