- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
Greetings ghouls to Iwaku's Horror Contest!
I am thrilled to be hosting Iwaku's first annual horror writing contest and even more thrilled to show you all our excellent submissions this year. To remind you, this year's themes were:
- Unknown
- Body Horror
- Hunted
As horror is a genre that often places a focus on traumatizing concepts and events, please be mindful of any trigger warnings attached to each piece. We want you to enjoy your fellow members' creativity, but not at the expense of your mental well-being. I put the warnings in spoilers so that those who wish to avoid story spoilers can, but take a look if you think you'll need them. Be kind to yourself, folks, and enjoy your horror responsibly! I will make sure to reiterate any trigger warnings before they are read aloud, as well.
We would love to have you join us in the Iwaku Discord Server on October 30th at 6 PM CST to hear some of these pieces read aloud and discuss them. Please keep any critiques for the authors constructive, and remember that all opinions are subjective, so refrain from giving any sort of letter grade or rating. When discussing the pieces, here are some questions you can consider:
- What do you enjoy most about the piece?
- Does it fit well with the selected themes?
- Is it spooky?
Using the poll above, you can vote for which piece you believe to be the best. The voting here will not determine the winners alone, but member votes will play a role in our judges' decision. As a reminder, our judges this year are the wonderful @Astaroth and @Kuno, and our top three winners will receive Amazon gift cards of varying value. First place will receive a $15 card, second place will receive a $10 card, and third place will receive a $5 card. We will be announcing the winners sometime on October 31st.
Now, without further ado, please enjoy this year's submissions!
everyone who calls on the name of the lord will be saved
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1114
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
It's 5 AM.
The bedsheets crinkle and catch under my sandpaper limbs. I pick at a wound on my arm, staring at the ceiling. It's pockmarked, like I am, staring right back down at me. I shift, feeling my joints shudder and pop, settling into place. My organs shuffle themselves around, scraping at my insides and disturbing my spine. My brain rattles in my skull, a caged prisoner.
I want to die. My veins swell, threatening to burst under the weight of my mantra, repeated a thousand times over. This is my prayer. I feel like I am going to explode. I will become nothing more than a stain on the walls for the other girls to wake up to, a pile of viscera soaking deep into my mattress on the top bunk.
They took my cell phone when I set foot in their domain. They gutted my duffel bag, leaving its innards on their secondhand table, shaking their heads at the pile of contraband. They smoothed out my hair. Young ladies should not be snacking outside of mealtimes. My glasses fogged up from the embarrassment.
I get up and follow the other girls to the communal washroom. The shower is an assault on my senses, sheets of ice tearing jagged gashes down the curves of my body. I shut my eyes tight, hoping no one else sees the blood pooling at my legs, coating the soles of my feet with shame. I avoid looking in the mirror at all costs. My fingers press my frigid skin back into place, feeling it droop away from my skeleton, attempting to return to the damp earth under the floorboards. Anything to be away from me.
I shiver all the way to breakfast. I feel the burden of eyes on me, crawling down my shoulders, following the contaminated droplets of water escaping from my hair. Everyone is watching me eat my rice porridge with morbid curiosity. I beg an unseen power to gouge their eyes out. Inwardly, I tell it that I will believe, I will change, if they grant me this one wish. Nothing happens.
I am an abomination on hallowed ground.
I do not finish my food. I stare at it instead, wondering if I should shove the porridge in my nose, in my ears, in my mouth, until I suffocate and give them what they all want.
I follow everyone to class, sniffling and starving. They're all speaking in tongues. I fantasize about screaming and ripping my hair out in chunks, if only to understand an emotion on their faces for once. I kneel at the pews. My unsteady legs shake. I bring my sweaty forehead down to the worn wood in front of me, testing the amount of effort that it would take to crack my skull open like an egg. The voice of God echoes from the front of the room.
"God's gift of sexuality is to be used as he intended. He made man and woman to complement each other. His first command to them is, 'Be fertile and multiply.'" The voice of God booms from the sinews of a man in white. He is old and frail. I wonder why the might of the Lord has not torn him asunder, if it is to be so feared. Surely, a bag of flesh would not be able to handle the magnitude of His words.
I pick at my skin and leave the scab on the pew as an offering. I am multiplying by the second. My cells are fertile and plentiful and dead. I envision shredding my body into thin slices and laying them across the floor so that I may complement the varnished wood like a man must do to a woman. Tears burn my eyes. I catch the priest's gaze from across the room and his mercy grips my soul from the back of my throat, like two fingers forcing me to retch. He wants me to leave my sins here, with him, so they may be cleansed.
The body of Christ dissolves on my tongue. His blood stains my throat, but does not soothe it.
When that doesn't work and my sins stay firmly put in my esophagus, they pull me out of my bed just before midnight. I stumble and trip, only caught by the nuns' arms linked around my own. They tut at me for being so clumsy. I am led away from the other girls, sleeping soundly in bed. I am the only one who cannot be cured. My ribcage is poking out through my clothes. My stomach acid is leaking onto the campground dirt. The ground beneath me becomes unholy.
It tastes like smoke outside. The lack of a moon is turning the sky into a black hole, transforming reality into a fluid, too hazy around the edges to perceive. I sigh in reverence.
I'm dumped unceremoniously into a plastic, foldable chair. It shrieks under the weight of my wrongdoings.
"Close your eyes. Let the Lord speak through you. Let Him banish the Devil within, the temptation to stray from your true path." They coo and coax me gently, as if they genuinely believe that I can be saved. I want them to. The room is pitch-black. My chest is bubbling, boiling over, desperately trying to please them. My lungs are melting into my intestines, softened by their clemency. The word of God knocks out my teeth. They clatter against the floor.
"I'm sorry," I sob out into the unforgiving darkness, clawing at my throat, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
I become addicted to apologizing. It hurts to breathe. My body is being ripped apart in the name of salvation. The Devil inside of me bristles as the warm confines of my homely body come undone, no longer carefully stitched together by keratin and collagen. The priest is strangling him with both of his papery thin hands. I choke on my own spit and jerk violently in place. I am frothing at the mouth. My bones are breaking and healing every millisecond, the sickening hiss and crack filling the air like the cry of ravenous wildfire. I am sprouting new appendages, being made anew in His image. My fear tastes like the raw skin inside my cheek and twice-digested vomit. I cannot hear God.
He pretends to not hear me.
When they finally send me home, they have banished the Devil from my soul. I am both grateful and dead. He gleefully wears my body home and embraces my parents deeply, until they believe that it is really me. They are delighted by my miraculous transformation. I am too.
I decompose on the plastic chair.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1114
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Religion, Gore, Suicidal Ideation
It's 5 AM.
The bedsheets crinkle and catch under my sandpaper limbs. I pick at a wound on my arm, staring at the ceiling. It's pockmarked, like I am, staring right back down at me. I shift, feeling my joints shudder and pop, settling into place. My organs shuffle themselves around, scraping at my insides and disturbing my spine. My brain rattles in my skull, a caged prisoner.
I want to die. My veins swell, threatening to burst under the weight of my mantra, repeated a thousand times over. This is my prayer. I feel like I am going to explode. I will become nothing more than a stain on the walls for the other girls to wake up to, a pile of viscera soaking deep into my mattress on the top bunk.
They took my cell phone when I set foot in their domain. They gutted my duffel bag, leaving its innards on their secondhand table, shaking their heads at the pile of contraband. They smoothed out my hair. Young ladies should not be snacking outside of mealtimes. My glasses fogged up from the embarrassment.
I get up and follow the other girls to the communal washroom. The shower is an assault on my senses, sheets of ice tearing jagged gashes down the curves of my body. I shut my eyes tight, hoping no one else sees the blood pooling at my legs, coating the soles of my feet with shame. I avoid looking in the mirror at all costs. My fingers press my frigid skin back into place, feeling it droop away from my skeleton, attempting to return to the damp earth under the floorboards. Anything to be away from me.
I shiver all the way to breakfast. I feel the burden of eyes on me, crawling down my shoulders, following the contaminated droplets of water escaping from my hair. Everyone is watching me eat my rice porridge with morbid curiosity. I beg an unseen power to gouge their eyes out. Inwardly, I tell it that I will believe, I will change, if they grant me this one wish. Nothing happens.
I am an abomination on hallowed ground.
I do not finish my food. I stare at it instead, wondering if I should shove the porridge in my nose, in my ears, in my mouth, until I suffocate and give them what they all want.
I follow everyone to class, sniffling and starving. They're all speaking in tongues. I fantasize about screaming and ripping my hair out in chunks, if only to understand an emotion on their faces for once. I kneel at the pews. My unsteady legs shake. I bring my sweaty forehead down to the worn wood in front of me, testing the amount of effort that it would take to crack my skull open like an egg. The voice of God echoes from the front of the room.
"God's gift of sexuality is to be used as he intended. He made man and woman to complement each other. His first command to them is, 'Be fertile and multiply.'" The voice of God booms from the sinews of a man in white. He is old and frail. I wonder why the might of the Lord has not torn him asunder, if it is to be so feared. Surely, a bag of flesh would not be able to handle the magnitude of His words.
I pick at my skin and leave the scab on the pew as an offering. I am multiplying by the second. My cells are fertile and plentiful and dead. I envision shredding my body into thin slices and laying them across the floor so that I may complement the varnished wood like a man must do to a woman. Tears burn my eyes. I catch the priest's gaze from across the room and his mercy grips my soul from the back of my throat, like two fingers forcing me to retch. He wants me to leave my sins here, with him, so they may be cleansed.
The body of Christ dissolves on my tongue. His blood stains my throat, but does not soothe it.
When that doesn't work and my sins stay firmly put in my esophagus, they pull me out of my bed just before midnight. I stumble and trip, only caught by the nuns' arms linked around my own. They tut at me for being so clumsy. I am led away from the other girls, sleeping soundly in bed. I am the only one who cannot be cured. My ribcage is poking out through my clothes. My stomach acid is leaking onto the campground dirt. The ground beneath me becomes unholy.
It tastes like smoke outside. The lack of a moon is turning the sky into a black hole, transforming reality into a fluid, too hazy around the edges to perceive. I sigh in reverence.
I'm dumped unceremoniously into a plastic, foldable chair. It shrieks under the weight of my wrongdoings.
"Close your eyes. Let the Lord speak through you. Let Him banish the Devil within, the temptation to stray from your true path." They coo and coax me gently, as if they genuinely believe that I can be saved. I want them to. The room is pitch-black. My chest is bubbling, boiling over, desperately trying to please them. My lungs are melting into my intestines, softened by their clemency. The word of God knocks out my teeth. They clatter against the floor.
"I'm sorry," I sob out into the unforgiving darkness, clawing at my throat, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
I become addicted to apologizing. It hurts to breathe. My body is being ripped apart in the name of salvation. The Devil inside of me bristles as the warm confines of my homely body come undone, no longer carefully stitched together by keratin and collagen. The priest is strangling him with both of his papery thin hands. I choke on my own spit and jerk violently in place. I am frothing at the mouth. My bones are breaking and healing every millisecond, the sickening hiss and crack filling the air like the cry of ravenous wildfire. I am sprouting new appendages, being made anew in His image. My fear tastes like the raw skin inside my cheek and twice-digested vomit. I cannot hear God.
He pretends to not hear me.
When they finally send me home, they have banished the Devil from my soul. I am both grateful and dead. He gleefully wears my body home and embraces my parents deeply, until they believe that it is really me. They are delighted by my miraculous transformation. I am too.
I decompose on the plastic chair.
Flesh
By: @adumham
Word Count: 1,112
Chosen Theme: Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Nadia came from a large family. Both sets of grandparents still lived, their many children with children of their own. They all lived in the same village, in the same long house. The house was only one floor, but it stretched the length of three average-sized homes, very common in their village. They were all under one large, suffocating roof. And the girl was somewhere in the middle of it all.
From a young age, Nadia had been pulled this way and that, tugged on by her mother and siblings and cousins for all that she could spare. The housework befell the girl, her palms raw and ragged from scrubbing every surface in sight. Nails stained with dirt and turmeric, arms spotted with burns from hot oil. And yet, there was always something missed; a muddy footprint—likely placed there by her sinister siblings—or perhaps the curry had a pinch too much salt, resulting in a ruined dish, a hundred takas worth of chicken thrown out to the strays. A sharp sting from the stick hitting Nadia's palms, leaving a streak of red across brown, and the word useless hanging over them. The weight was too much to carry, so Nadia let it trickle down to her hands, wrapping them in a grip so tight that her fingers joined together until there was nothing but smooth, flat flesh.
Unable to perform household duties, she was married off to a man in a neighboring village so that her family may benefit from her dowry. Her cries and protests stretched the length of the long house, heard even to the woods beyond by other lone animals. Understanding passed between them, unlike her family.
Her father was a harsh and abusive man, and too proud to allow his useless daughter to embarrass him. Moments before dragging Nadia out of the house, his large and heavy hand found its way across the girl's face, smudging the red lipstick forced onto her by her older sister, a streak of red against brown. Obedience was the word that left her father's lips, muffling any further objections. She cast her eyes downward and obeyed, her lips slowly forming together, taking the last of the breath left trapped in her throat until the flesh there was smooth and devoid of sound.
Years passed by as Nadia tried to bear her husband's children, but the pregnancies never lasted longer than a few months, blood leaving her body in gallons, leaving her body weak and broken. Broken, he'd said under his breath, disappointment clouding his eyes. His frustration was left in the bruised bones of her hips and back. He remarried and returned the girl back to her family, leaving her on the dirt in front of their house, only returning once a month to reclaim portions of her dowry. A bad investment.
On and on it went, until she was nothing but a mound of dark flesh. Her nose smoothed into her face until there was nothing unique about it, nothing more than a bump. Her eyes shut and never reopened, her hair vacated her head and body and never regrew. She did not eat, and it was not apparent whether she slept. Her family kept her locked away in a spare room at the very end of the house, unable to get rid of her completely. Patience, they said, as they waited for death to take her.
But death never came, and the girl, lost and confused, dragged herself out of bed one night with her elbows and knees, trying to find the pieces of herself. A low guttural groan could be heard from beneath the flesh that was once her mouth, the sound stretching the length of the long house. At last, they thought, but what did they know of death? Yet at last, with great effort, the once-girl found herself standing above her parents, frozen in fear from the sight. They had not laid eyes on their daughter in almost a year.
The mother screamed as the girl ripped her arm off, sliding the skin and muscle off the bone, to slip her deformed arm in the sleeve. Left arm, and then the right. Her mother was left silent in bed. In disbelief, the father grabbed the girl, but the girl was slowly becoming quicker. Her mother's fingers clenched and stretched on her body, no longer useless. She took hold of her father's chin with delicate fingertips and yanked the skin off his jawbone, taking his mouth with it. With those delicate fingers, she placed it where her own mouth would be. Tongue and teeth, yellowed from chewing sweet tobacco, shoved between them, took place unevenly. But the girl yawned open her father's mouth and the groans came out clearer, vibrated through her chest and throat, breath filling her lungs, dusty from disuse. Her father was left silent.
All throughout the long house, she dragged her body around, searching for the rest of her. Her sister's eyes pressed into her own skull, her brother's nose, bent and broken in the middle. Pieces of hair taken from here and there, patched and sewn through her scalp. She was nearly complete.
Sitting amongst the blood streaked across dark brown earth, the girl waited for her once-husband to return on the night of the new moon. The sky was dark and devoid of stars, and the girl desperately wanted to fill the emptiness.
At last, the sound of wooden wheels rolled across the dirt, carrying the last piece of her with it. A gift, a lost item being returned. The man approached the path in front of the girl, toting a new wife, a small bundle in their arms. They mistook the girl for her mother and provided pleasantries, but the girl was mesmerized by that bundle. The missing piece.
The girl propelled herself at the woman, ripping her in half with her jagged teeth and freeing the child-bearing hips from their bones. She wrapped herself in the warm sheath of flesh. The man didn't comprehend, as if this must have been a nightmare he had yet to wake up from that morning. Surely, he had not left home yet. He had not packed up the cart or his wife and child, they must have just gone to bed, they must still be in bed. While the man tried to convince himself, the girl reached down between his legs and castrated him. At last.
The small bundle, the child, is all that's left in the carnage, a screaming mess in the red-brown dirt. The girl wrapped it up in her new arms, cradling the creature, and returned to the long empty house.
By: @adumham
Word Count: 1,112
Chosen Theme: Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Physical and Verbal Abuse, Implied Sexual Assault. Murder Spree
Nadia came from a large family. Both sets of grandparents still lived, their many children with children of their own. They all lived in the same village, in the same long house. The house was only one floor, but it stretched the length of three average-sized homes, very common in their village. They were all under one large, suffocating roof. And the girl was somewhere in the middle of it all.
From a young age, Nadia had been pulled this way and that, tugged on by her mother and siblings and cousins for all that she could spare. The housework befell the girl, her palms raw and ragged from scrubbing every surface in sight. Nails stained with dirt and turmeric, arms spotted with burns from hot oil. And yet, there was always something missed; a muddy footprint—likely placed there by her sinister siblings—or perhaps the curry had a pinch too much salt, resulting in a ruined dish, a hundred takas worth of chicken thrown out to the strays. A sharp sting from the stick hitting Nadia's palms, leaving a streak of red across brown, and the word useless hanging over them. The weight was too much to carry, so Nadia let it trickle down to her hands, wrapping them in a grip so tight that her fingers joined together until there was nothing but smooth, flat flesh.
Unable to perform household duties, she was married off to a man in a neighboring village so that her family may benefit from her dowry. Her cries and protests stretched the length of the long house, heard even to the woods beyond by other lone animals. Understanding passed between them, unlike her family.
Her father was a harsh and abusive man, and too proud to allow his useless daughter to embarrass him. Moments before dragging Nadia out of the house, his large and heavy hand found its way across the girl's face, smudging the red lipstick forced onto her by her older sister, a streak of red against brown. Obedience was the word that left her father's lips, muffling any further objections. She cast her eyes downward and obeyed, her lips slowly forming together, taking the last of the breath left trapped in her throat until the flesh there was smooth and devoid of sound.
Years passed by as Nadia tried to bear her husband's children, but the pregnancies never lasted longer than a few months, blood leaving her body in gallons, leaving her body weak and broken. Broken, he'd said under his breath, disappointment clouding his eyes. His frustration was left in the bruised bones of her hips and back. He remarried and returned the girl back to her family, leaving her on the dirt in front of their house, only returning once a month to reclaim portions of her dowry. A bad investment.
On and on it went, until she was nothing but a mound of dark flesh. Her nose smoothed into her face until there was nothing unique about it, nothing more than a bump. Her eyes shut and never reopened, her hair vacated her head and body and never regrew. She did not eat, and it was not apparent whether she slept. Her family kept her locked away in a spare room at the very end of the house, unable to get rid of her completely. Patience, they said, as they waited for death to take her.
But death never came, and the girl, lost and confused, dragged herself out of bed one night with her elbows and knees, trying to find the pieces of herself. A low guttural groan could be heard from beneath the flesh that was once her mouth, the sound stretching the length of the long house. At last, they thought, but what did they know of death? Yet at last, with great effort, the once-girl found herself standing above her parents, frozen in fear from the sight. They had not laid eyes on their daughter in almost a year.
The mother screamed as the girl ripped her arm off, sliding the skin and muscle off the bone, to slip her deformed arm in the sleeve. Left arm, and then the right. Her mother was left silent in bed. In disbelief, the father grabbed the girl, but the girl was slowly becoming quicker. Her mother's fingers clenched and stretched on her body, no longer useless. She took hold of her father's chin with delicate fingertips and yanked the skin off his jawbone, taking his mouth with it. With those delicate fingers, she placed it where her own mouth would be. Tongue and teeth, yellowed from chewing sweet tobacco, shoved between them, took place unevenly. But the girl yawned open her father's mouth and the groans came out clearer, vibrated through her chest and throat, breath filling her lungs, dusty from disuse. Her father was left silent.
All throughout the long house, she dragged her body around, searching for the rest of her. Her sister's eyes pressed into her own skull, her brother's nose, bent and broken in the middle. Pieces of hair taken from here and there, patched and sewn through her scalp. She was nearly complete.
Sitting amongst the blood streaked across dark brown earth, the girl waited for her once-husband to return on the night of the new moon. The sky was dark and devoid of stars, and the girl desperately wanted to fill the emptiness.
At last, the sound of wooden wheels rolled across the dirt, carrying the last piece of her with it. A gift, a lost item being returned. The man approached the path in front of the girl, toting a new wife, a small bundle in their arms. They mistook the girl for her mother and provided pleasantries, but the girl was mesmerized by that bundle. The missing piece.
The girl propelled herself at the woman, ripping her in half with her jagged teeth and freeing the child-bearing hips from their bones. She wrapped herself in the warm sheath of flesh. The man didn't comprehend, as if this must have been a nightmare he had yet to wake up from that morning. Surely, he had not left home yet. He had not packed up the cart or his wife and child, they must have just gone to bed, they must still be in bed. While the man tried to convince himself, the girl reached down between his legs and castrated him. At last.
The small bundle, the child, is all that's left in the carnage, a screaming mess in the red-brown dirt. The girl wrapped it up in her new arms, cradling the creature, and returned to the long empty house.
Hatch
By: @Doctor Jax
Word Count: 565
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror & Hunted
Chosen Format: Short Story
He walked into the lab with bloody feet. Reddened eyes looked over his shoulder with the trepidation of the pursued, as the glass door hissed shut behind him. He set his axe aside, a bandaged hand swiping the panel upwards to the LOCKED position. Inside, he saw the lab was empty, partitioned by a glass wall from an empty, clean surgical table.
Practiced eyes swept over the entirety of the space, hand hovering over the panel. No clattering, no creaking.
God, he itched on the inside. It was maddening. He beelined to a medicine cabinet, breaking the glass with the axe. He searched bottle after bottle, tossing them away, until he found the one he wanted: Neurontin. It was the only thing that would kill the itch. He took two, exercising incredible patience not to down the whole thing.
He would need it if he was going to find the launchpad. He had to get out of here. Had to find a doctor who was still alive.
He threw himself into a desk chair in front of a terminal. It uselessly asked for passwords and identification, as if its secrets meant anything to dead men. He typed in his administrator's passcode, and it welcomed him.
Still no connection to the outside. He rubbed his mouth, taking a shuddering breath. Of any sector, he had hoped R&D would still have some communication. Well, even if they had no hardline to the outside, maybe they learned something on this godforsaken rock.
He began to open files. Most made no sense to him, medical charts full of jargon, reports with chemical analysis. The only thing that jumped out to him was the word calcium-based lifeform. He logged into the most frequent user, going through emails. Most were grant reports, funding requisitions, supply requests, but there was one that stood out to him.
From: Dominique Hesch
To: Sector EVA
Re: Mineralization of Osteostraca minisca
…
What I'm trying to tell you is that the mineralization process is way faster than we gave it credit for. The protoplasm was enhancing the bones of the native flora here, and we thought that it would do the same to humans. We were mistaken thinking it was a mutualist. The fauna are fighting the protoplasm, and have evolved defenses against it, to their benefit. We have no such defense.
It's not a marriage of the organism and the bone.
In humans, it colonizes the skeleton.
His eyebrows met, mouth going dry, glancing at his bandaged hand.
He opened one of the medical charts.
…pruritus with no known mechanism, resulting in self-harm to alleviate discomfort…
…spiny growths throughout as colonization outpaces the immune system's capability to hold it in check…
…increased tolerance for morphine, which does not alleviate said itching…
…dislocation and displacement as the colonized structure rejects the other organs around it as foreign…
…emergence through the skin in unanticipated sites as a single unit…
There was a video attachment. His skin grew clammy, his mind screeching that he turn back, that knowing would do him no good.
He only managed a few frames before pausing, stomach roiling. On a table, a human figure twisted. Something pressed against the skin from the inside, like sharp sticks in a cloth bag. Brown blood pooled at each emergence, as something fought to get out.
By: @Doctor Jax
Word Count: 565
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror & Hunted
Chosen Format: Short Story
Parasite-Related Gore
He walked into the lab with bloody feet. Reddened eyes looked over his shoulder with the trepidation of the pursued, as the glass door hissed shut behind him. He set his axe aside, a bandaged hand swiping the panel upwards to the LOCKED position. Inside, he saw the lab was empty, partitioned by a glass wall from an empty, clean surgical table.
Practiced eyes swept over the entirety of the space, hand hovering over the panel. No clattering, no creaking.
God, he itched on the inside. It was maddening. He beelined to a medicine cabinet, breaking the glass with the axe. He searched bottle after bottle, tossing them away, until he found the one he wanted: Neurontin. It was the only thing that would kill the itch. He took two, exercising incredible patience not to down the whole thing.
He would need it if he was going to find the launchpad. He had to get out of here. Had to find a doctor who was still alive.
He threw himself into a desk chair in front of a terminal. It uselessly asked for passwords and identification, as if its secrets meant anything to dead men. He typed in his administrator's passcode, and it welcomed him.
Still no connection to the outside. He rubbed his mouth, taking a shuddering breath. Of any sector, he had hoped R&D would still have some communication. Well, even if they had no hardline to the outside, maybe they learned something on this godforsaken rock.
He began to open files. Most made no sense to him, medical charts full of jargon, reports with chemical analysis. The only thing that jumped out to him was the word calcium-based lifeform. He logged into the most frequent user, going through emails. Most were grant reports, funding requisitions, supply requests, but there was one that stood out to him.
From: Dominique Hesch
To: Sector EVA
Re: Mineralization of Osteostraca minisca
…
What I'm trying to tell you is that the mineralization process is way faster than we gave it credit for. The protoplasm was enhancing the bones of the native flora here, and we thought that it would do the same to humans. We were mistaken thinking it was a mutualist. The fauna are fighting the protoplasm, and have evolved defenses against it, to their benefit. We have no such defense.
It's not a marriage of the organism and the bone.
In humans, it colonizes the skeleton.
His eyebrows met, mouth going dry, glancing at his bandaged hand.
He opened one of the medical charts.
…pruritus with no known mechanism, resulting in self-harm to alleviate discomfort…
…spiny growths throughout as colonization outpaces the immune system's capability to hold it in check…
…increased tolerance for morphine, which does not alleviate said itching…
…dislocation and displacement as the colonized structure rejects the other organs around it as foreign…
…emergence through the skin in unanticipated sites as a single unit…
There was a video attachment. His skin grew clammy, his mind screeching that he turn back, that knowing would do him no good.
He only managed a few frames before pausing, stomach roiling. On a table, a human figure twisted. Something pressed against the skin from the inside, like sharp sticks in a cloth bag. Brown blood pooled at each emergence, as something fought to get out.
Yellow
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 497
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown & Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
You awaken to nothing.
In the far distance a yellow light illuminates a staircase, but its reach is too weak to reveal your surroundings. Waving your arms and taking several small steps, you find no walls or surfaces to orient yourself, and eventually trip. You can only cradle the forming bruise over your ribs and hobble on.
You stumble from darkness into the light, a mass of structures that comprise columns set on top of raised reliefs. Some of them have fallen and pierced bottomless holes in the floor. From one of them a swarm of scaled things about the size of your foot emerge, flowing around your legs to their destination, which is up the staircase and out of sight. You grab one and bite into its soft belly. Its insides are sweet and thick.
Finally, the yellow light casts its pale glow over you. It follows behind, the columns dimming and fading away as you ascend. After about a thousand steps, it flies ahead, leaving you in the dark. The only reality left is what your feet touch. Your legs begin to cramp but you dare not change posture. When you finally can't hold any longer, your head cracks against an edge, but you throw your arms out and find the left and right boundaries of the staircase. At least now you can crawl up.
The steps end where the light reveals a corridor only large enough for you to walk into. It swallows the light, leaving only a yellow rectangle set in nothing. If there is an exit, it is so far that perspective has squashed it to a point, and the entrance similarly fades as you continue inwards.
Air pressure builds at your back, displaced by something behind you. You break into a run, but a second swarm of things slams into you. Your body forms a good seal against the passageway, and your legs are sheared away as they burst past, carrying you along the passage.
You tumble along until the wave thins out and leaves you on the floor. A batch of stragglers are drawn to the fluids oozing from your torso, crawling over each other and fusing with the remains of your legs. You are pulled to your feet and walk on towards the light, which has stopped at the exit.
You and the creatures continue the chase, which takes you through many more spaces filled with columnar structures. Since your legs are no longer under your control, you sustain more injuries as the things navigate spaces not meant for a body of your size. At one point your arms are caught in a gap, so you leave them behind. Those too are replaced.
The bruise no longer throbs. Your body is no longer yours, your head attached to a loose amalgam of flowing and shifting scales. The yellow light fills your vision. You can no longer tell how far away it is. It is the only thing you see.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 497
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown & Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Body Mutilation Gore, Light Existential Horror
You awaken to nothing.
In the far distance a yellow light illuminates a staircase, but its reach is too weak to reveal your surroundings. Waving your arms and taking several small steps, you find no walls or surfaces to orient yourself, and eventually trip. You can only cradle the forming bruise over your ribs and hobble on.
You stumble from darkness into the light, a mass of structures that comprise columns set on top of raised reliefs. Some of them have fallen and pierced bottomless holes in the floor. From one of them a swarm of scaled things about the size of your foot emerge, flowing around your legs to their destination, which is up the staircase and out of sight. You grab one and bite into its soft belly. Its insides are sweet and thick.
Finally, the yellow light casts its pale glow over you. It follows behind, the columns dimming and fading away as you ascend. After about a thousand steps, it flies ahead, leaving you in the dark. The only reality left is what your feet touch. Your legs begin to cramp but you dare not change posture. When you finally can't hold any longer, your head cracks against an edge, but you throw your arms out and find the left and right boundaries of the staircase. At least now you can crawl up.
The steps end where the light reveals a corridor only large enough for you to walk into. It swallows the light, leaving only a yellow rectangle set in nothing. If there is an exit, it is so far that perspective has squashed it to a point, and the entrance similarly fades as you continue inwards.
Air pressure builds at your back, displaced by something behind you. You break into a run, but a second swarm of things slams into you. Your body forms a good seal against the passageway, and your legs are sheared away as they burst past, carrying you along the passage.
You tumble along until the wave thins out and leaves you on the floor. A batch of stragglers are drawn to the fluids oozing from your torso, crawling over each other and fusing with the remains of your legs. You are pulled to your feet and walk on towards the light, which has stopped at the exit.
You and the creatures continue the chase, which takes you through many more spaces filled with columnar structures. Since your legs are no longer under your control, you sustain more injuries as the things navigate spaces not meant for a body of your size. At one point your arms are caught in a gap, so you leave them behind. Those too are replaced.
The bruise no longer throbs. Your body is no longer yours, your head attached to a loose amalgam of flowing and shifting scales. The yellow light fills your vision. You can no longer tell how far away it is. It is the only thing you see.
OUR CARBON FOODPRINT; AN INSIGHT ON ARTIFICIAL MEAT
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1860
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown & Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
OUR CARBON FOODPRINT; AN INSIGHT ON ARTIFICIAL MEAT
An exclusive reportage on artificial meat producer and start-up LESS in the ongoing race of sustainability and consuming less.
Five years ago Leon Manor, by origin a civil engineer, decided that it was time to save the world. Within the ongoing and agonising slow race of continuous climate change. One in which governments are unwilling to come forth with actual implementable and executable ideas for sustainability and cleaner resources. One in which Leon has stepped forward with the idea of LESS; lessening our carbon footprint, less wastage, less everything, including the consumption of meat.
At the very heart of the ideology it means soberising our lives, buying fewer products that create the waste and thus contributing less to the ever growing mountain of waste drifting in our seas, polluting the air and third-world countries. It means not to give into modern trends. Not wanting the newest iPhone when there is a perfectly fine Nokia. Not buying that newest car with its delectable self-driving function and heated seats, preferably not buying a car at all and buying a bike instead. Preferably a second-hand, as to lessen the waste of iron and paint and whatever more is needed to create a cycle. LESS, as Leon has introduced it to the world, means confronting the extreme luxuries we have surrounded ourselves with in our lives, but without actually having to doom ourselves to live in pauperity. And LESS means to start with the meat we consume.
CONSUMER MINDFULNESS
"Be mindful, not wasteful," Leon said in the interview I had before the tour of his factory, a vast empty plot with huge containers that hide away all what is ongoing within the walls. A constant stream of trucks drive on and off the industrial area that looks just like any other; boxed mysteries of whatever is needed to make the promises of LESS come true. "I don't mean for humanity to live like they did in the middle ages, shitting in their lands to fertilise the grounds, though that would be ideal. I want people to become aware of what they eat and what they wear, and I'm starting with the meat we put on our plate."
Indeed, one of the first challenges LESS has taken onto itself is by lessening our meat-intake by producing artificial meat. Artificial meat, not the vegetarian options we see in the shops that look like meat and supposedly taste like meat as well, but artificial meat; meat produced from neither animal or plant but by a printer. For, so explains Leon to me as well, even our plant-based alternatives aren't all that sustainable either. "Soybeans leave the land it grows on utterly wasted." I quote Leon.
INK
What is the artificial meat of LESS made of then? The question naturally rises up and Leon gives me a secretive smile as I'm led into one of the many sizable containers in the area. In there I'm faced with a huge machine, loud and whirring. A mechanic god, I think, as pink goo is poured into it from the top, while sizable patties of meat come out at the end in a neat line. Employees stand in line checking up on the quality of the patties and sending it off for packaging. It reminds me of what the stories claim the McDonald patties are made of.
"I won't bore you with the details, but it's ink made from the very essence of the world." The explanation I'm given isn't all the more satisfying as I'm shown into the next room, another production line where the patties are grilled for a taste test. "Everything good, old Maj?" Leon asks. The thumbs up waved in response makes Leon laugh heartily, patting himself on the chest for a job well-done.
(UN)CONTENT
And so I'm sent off again, with a story to write about LESS, or the lack of a story, for LESS and Leon seem determined to deprive us of not only our luxuries, but also content. "What's there?" I eventually ask at the end of my tour, a ten minute show-around in one of the containers. By now Leon has been refusing any questioning about the pink goo used, claiming that it is a patented secret and that he cannot have the secret published, like Coca cola.
I pointed at a door in the back. It only comes to me now that the room inside of the container is a lot smaller than it had seemed on the outside, the intimidating machine in the middle of it now just a roaring mechanical beast of endless production.
"What's what?" Leon questions, before waving me into his direction, "just an emergency exit." I'm told but I'm unsure of when I have ever seen an emergency exit with an identification pad. I resign myself to that knowledge, even if it doesn't sit well with me.
"Well, cheerio and I look forward to your article," Leon waves me off at the front desk, turning around promptly to rush off to his next meeting. Working for a start-up means wearing multiple hats, and Leon is a busy man. Convenient for me, who is now left alone on the compound of LESS.
THE INTERN
The first thing I do is pull off my guest pass, knowing that it will not lead me anywhere, and I get to exploring the area, trying to find the supposed emergency exit. The area is little secured, the trucks still driving on and off with their huge containers delivering and picking up what keeps LESS running. Eventually, after what seems an infinity, I run into an employee, the only one outside. A fresh-faced ragged looking college graduate in distress I learn.
"There you are, I have been looking for you," she tells me before introducing herself as Mollie and pulling me into one of the containers all the way to the back, "they are a little antsy, it is harvest day after all, but I can't deal with them all alone." Mollie titters on as she easily swipes me through the supposed emergency exit. "Were you lost? Did that journalist catch you? Thank god it is your first day, still, so you don't know anything, but know that Leon doesn't like us talking to the media. Distracts from work and all."
I realise that no input or effort is needed from my side to convince Molly of anything, she is already convinced that I'm the new intern, as I'm introduced to the rest of the team; all equally haggard looking and distressed before they leave rushing off to their own tasks.
The room is unlike any of the rooms I have seen before in LESS. Where Leon has shown me mostly mechanical structures of colossal sizes and questionable production, this room is much more compact, darker even, the only light coming from the sides of the ceiling in a faint buzzing glow. The ceiling is much lower than what I remember the container of the previous room to be and the room warmer, in a stuffy suffocating way.
"I'm not supposed to bring you in here on your first day, but we have been short on hands ever since Bax left," Mollie tells me, gripping my hands so tightly I'm convinced she means to twist them off. An opportunity unlike any other has presented itself and I agree to my secret mission, allowing myself to move further back into the secret room towards the secrets of LESS.
HARVESTING
The sight I'm met with takes me by surprise. I'm dragged towards the furthest corner, dimmer in light, but white and bulbous in colour. As if water has gotten into the wallpaper, forming huge welts, before I realise that they aren't welts on the wall, but chambers of cells instead. Little chambers of floating figures with tentacles and crablike hands, of legs with little hooves both split and whole and of hunched backs with hard shells almost pointing out of the membrane. "There." Mollie tells me much to my horror.
I'm handed a pair of gloves and shoved towards one of the welt-like cells that seems close to bursting. In the background Mollie gives me vague instructions of what I need to do while she keeps her distance. The disgust is clear in her voice, radiating from her very being. Hesitantly, I reach out, finding the membrane of the cell to be a mere thick wall of slime warmed by whatever is inside before I wrap my hands around it and start pulling. A failed attempt, the slime underneath my foot too slippery to grab hold, just as my gloves don't provide the grip my hands otherwise would provide and I feel myself topple over, my elbow digging into the cell below me as I feel my ears clog up and hold my breath for impact.
PLEA
I recover quickly, feeling a light pressure on my chest as I look into a pair of blue eyes, the face of a child coming into view, a voice following like a plea; "please don't eat me, please?" I hear the child ask me, sending a chill down my spine. It is the pain and pressure on my chest that reminds me that this isn't a dream, or a nightmare, and I don't dare to speak, the goo sticky, and warm, and everywhere when I try to wipe it off me.
"I'm human as well," I hear the pitched voice tell me, the tone too mature and eloquent to belong to a child. Yet, I'm sure that I see the face of a child, the voice itself too immature in sound to belong to that of anyone else. A child indeed, I realise to my horror when I finally manage to pull myself up, horrified at the sight of the face of a child that grows out of the body of a lobster, or whatever this shelled and tentacled figure is supposed to represent.
"I could have been one of you, grown with you, please don't eat me." The creature continues to plead, not human, nor animal, yet both and too unreal.
The sentence mulls through my head. It still echoes in my mind.
FEVER DREAM
I don't remember if I screamed before passing out, but I remember waking up in the LESS main office, clean of goo and of any other traces.
"Never forget breakfast," Leon tells me jovially, offering a LESS artificial meat burger to me. An offer I politely decline as I scramble to make my way out of LESS.
"I could have been one of you, grown with you, please don't eat me." The line keeps on repeating itself in my mind whenever I look at meat, real or not, plant-based or not. It comes when I look down at my meal, it returns when I write this article, when I think of LESS, when I try to think less.
Real or not, it leaves me with more questions than funny jokes about the McD's and their pink goo. It leaves me with a real urge to, indeed, think, eat and consume less.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1860
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown & Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Existential Horror, Cannibalism(?)
OUR CARBON FOODPRINT; AN INSIGHT ON ARTIFICIAL MEAT
An exclusive reportage on artificial meat producer and start-up LESS in the ongoing race of sustainability and consuming less.
Five years ago Leon Manor, by origin a civil engineer, decided that it was time to save the world. Within the ongoing and agonising slow race of continuous climate change. One in which governments are unwilling to come forth with actual implementable and executable ideas for sustainability and cleaner resources. One in which Leon has stepped forward with the idea of LESS; lessening our carbon footprint, less wastage, less everything, including the consumption of meat.
At the very heart of the ideology it means soberising our lives, buying fewer products that create the waste and thus contributing less to the ever growing mountain of waste drifting in our seas, polluting the air and third-world countries. It means not to give into modern trends. Not wanting the newest iPhone when there is a perfectly fine Nokia. Not buying that newest car with its delectable self-driving function and heated seats, preferably not buying a car at all and buying a bike instead. Preferably a second-hand, as to lessen the waste of iron and paint and whatever more is needed to create a cycle. LESS, as Leon has introduced it to the world, means confronting the extreme luxuries we have surrounded ourselves with in our lives, but without actually having to doom ourselves to live in pauperity. And LESS means to start with the meat we consume.
CONSUMER MINDFULNESS
"Be mindful, not wasteful," Leon said in the interview I had before the tour of his factory, a vast empty plot with huge containers that hide away all what is ongoing within the walls. A constant stream of trucks drive on and off the industrial area that looks just like any other; boxed mysteries of whatever is needed to make the promises of LESS come true. "I don't mean for humanity to live like they did in the middle ages, shitting in their lands to fertilise the grounds, though that would be ideal. I want people to become aware of what they eat and what they wear, and I'm starting with the meat we put on our plate."
Indeed, one of the first challenges LESS has taken onto itself is by lessening our meat-intake by producing artificial meat. Artificial meat, not the vegetarian options we see in the shops that look like meat and supposedly taste like meat as well, but artificial meat; meat produced from neither animal or plant but by a printer. For, so explains Leon to me as well, even our plant-based alternatives aren't all that sustainable either. "Soybeans leave the land it grows on utterly wasted." I quote Leon.
INK
What is the artificial meat of LESS made of then? The question naturally rises up and Leon gives me a secretive smile as I'm led into one of the many sizable containers in the area. In there I'm faced with a huge machine, loud and whirring. A mechanic god, I think, as pink goo is poured into it from the top, while sizable patties of meat come out at the end in a neat line. Employees stand in line checking up on the quality of the patties and sending it off for packaging. It reminds me of what the stories claim the McDonald patties are made of.
"I won't bore you with the details, but it's ink made from the very essence of the world." The explanation I'm given isn't all the more satisfying as I'm shown into the next room, another production line where the patties are grilled for a taste test. "Everything good, old Maj?" Leon asks. The thumbs up waved in response makes Leon laugh heartily, patting himself on the chest for a job well-done.
(UN)CONTENT
And so I'm sent off again, with a story to write about LESS, or the lack of a story, for LESS and Leon seem determined to deprive us of not only our luxuries, but also content. "What's there?" I eventually ask at the end of my tour, a ten minute show-around in one of the containers. By now Leon has been refusing any questioning about the pink goo used, claiming that it is a patented secret and that he cannot have the secret published, like Coca cola.
I pointed at a door in the back. It only comes to me now that the room inside of the container is a lot smaller than it had seemed on the outside, the intimidating machine in the middle of it now just a roaring mechanical beast of endless production.
"What's what?" Leon questions, before waving me into his direction, "just an emergency exit." I'm told but I'm unsure of when I have ever seen an emergency exit with an identification pad. I resign myself to that knowledge, even if it doesn't sit well with me.
"Well, cheerio and I look forward to your article," Leon waves me off at the front desk, turning around promptly to rush off to his next meeting. Working for a start-up means wearing multiple hats, and Leon is a busy man. Convenient for me, who is now left alone on the compound of LESS.
THE INTERN
The first thing I do is pull off my guest pass, knowing that it will not lead me anywhere, and I get to exploring the area, trying to find the supposed emergency exit. The area is little secured, the trucks still driving on and off with their huge containers delivering and picking up what keeps LESS running. Eventually, after what seems an infinity, I run into an employee, the only one outside. A fresh-faced ragged looking college graduate in distress I learn.
"There you are, I have been looking for you," she tells me before introducing herself as Mollie and pulling me into one of the containers all the way to the back, "they are a little antsy, it is harvest day after all, but I can't deal with them all alone." Mollie titters on as she easily swipes me through the supposed emergency exit. "Were you lost? Did that journalist catch you? Thank god it is your first day, still, so you don't know anything, but know that Leon doesn't like us talking to the media. Distracts from work and all."
I realise that no input or effort is needed from my side to convince Molly of anything, she is already convinced that I'm the new intern, as I'm introduced to the rest of the team; all equally haggard looking and distressed before they leave rushing off to their own tasks.
The room is unlike any of the rooms I have seen before in LESS. Where Leon has shown me mostly mechanical structures of colossal sizes and questionable production, this room is much more compact, darker even, the only light coming from the sides of the ceiling in a faint buzzing glow. The ceiling is much lower than what I remember the container of the previous room to be and the room warmer, in a stuffy suffocating way.
"I'm not supposed to bring you in here on your first day, but we have been short on hands ever since Bax left," Mollie tells me, gripping my hands so tightly I'm convinced she means to twist them off. An opportunity unlike any other has presented itself and I agree to my secret mission, allowing myself to move further back into the secret room towards the secrets of LESS.
HARVESTING
The sight I'm met with takes me by surprise. I'm dragged towards the furthest corner, dimmer in light, but white and bulbous in colour. As if water has gotten into the wallpaper, forming huge welts, before I realise that they aren't welts on the wall, but chambers of cells instead. Little chambers of floating figures with tentacles and crablike hands, of legs with little hooves both split and whole and of hunched backs with hard shells almost pointing out of the membrane. "There." Mollie tells me much to my horror.
I'm handed a pair of gloves and shoved towards one of the welt-like cells that seems close to bursting. In the background Mollie gives me vague instructions of what I need to do while she keeps her distance. The disgust is clear in her voice, radiating from her very being. Hesitantly, I reach out, finding the membrane of the cell to be a mere thick wall of slime warmed by whatever is inside before I wrap my hands around it and start pulling. A failed attempt, the slime underneath my foot too slippery to grab hold, just as my gloves don't provide the grip my hands otherwise would provide and I feel myself topple over, my elbow digging into the cell below me as I feel my ears clog up and hold my breath for impact.
PLEA
I recover quickly, feeling a light pressure on my chest as I look into a pair of blue eyes, the face of a child coming into view, a voice following like a plea; "please don't eat me, please?" I hear the child ask me, sending a chill down my spine. It is the pain and pressure on my chest that reminds me that this isn't a dream, or a nightmare, and I don't dare to speak, the goo sticky, and warm, and everywhere when I try to wipe it off me.
"I'm human as well," I hear the pitched voice tell me, the tone too mature and eloquent to belong to a child. Yet, I'm sure that I see the face of a child, the voice itself too immature in sound to belong to that of anyone else. A child indeed, I realise to my horror when I finally manage to pull myself up, horrified at the sight of the face of a child that grows out of the body of a lobster, or whatever this shelled and tentacled figure is supposed to represent.
"I could have been one of you, grown with you, please don't eat me." The creature continues to plead, not human, nor animal, yet both and too unreal.
The sentence mulls through my head. It still echoes in my mind.
FEVER DREAM
I don't remember if I screamed before passing out, but I remember waking up in the LESS main office, clean of goo and of any other traces.
"Never forget breakfast," Leon tells me jovially, offering a LESS artificial meat burger to me. An offer I politely decline as I scramble to make my way out of LESS.
"I could have been one of you, grown with you, please don't eat me." The line keeps on repeating itself in my mind whenever I look at meat, real or not, plant-based or not. It comes when I look down at my meal, it returns when I write this article, when I think of LESS, when I try to think less.
Real or not, it leaves me with more questions than funny jokes about the McD's and their pink goo. It leaves me with a real urge to, indeed, think, eat and consume less.
Esse
By: @LuckycoolHawk9
Word Count: 682
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror & Unknown
Chosen Format: Short Story
Crack.
Fieri.
The pain of changing into this form was greater than anything that they had ever felt before. Normally, changing into another being was a painless process for them.
But for whatever reason, this creature they had chosen to become was more difficult than any other.
Crack.
The shifting of these bones into the form was painful, almost as if each of the 206 bones in this creature form was needed for some reason.
It seemed that the pain was finally done, as the entire inner shell had become, as the creature would stand, looking over and seeing that it was done.
Sizzle.
It felt a weird sensation as it looked down and the lowest bones started to form this weird gunk to cover the bones. What the fuck was this creature? It had more than one layer to survive.
It felt the sizzling traveling way across the entire form, covering each and every bone in the bone. It was getting warmer and warmer as this second layer would cover the entirety of the first layer.
Immediately, despite everything it knew, the creature was horrified that its naked form was exposed, as if it didn't have another layer covering it. It didn't know why, but the guide to turn into this being had suggested some garments and the creature started to realize why. It slid a small piece over the area where he-no- it. Why had it referred to itself as a him? The creature slid the garment over the legs and stopped in the middle.
It stopped feeling an immense pain as it opened the speaking vessel of this creature as small white pieces would grow out of the body. It felt an odd pain as each one of them would come in, causing immense agony, each white little demon attacking the nervous system.
It still felt a shiver, as it felt another….crack as it stood up to take in its full form. A large feature would appear above the mouth, making a strange crunching noise and two small holes appeared under it.
What purpose did it serve? It didn't understand why he- no- it. Why was this creature so concerned with its pronouns? The creature would look as the vacant sockets where their eyes had been looking out would suddenly widen.
There was a popping noise as each of the sockets suddenly became white with a small fleck of blue.
The creature felt a beat from inside of the new form, uncertain of what that meant. It felt more of a chill as it slid on the blue garments feeling a popping as he- no it- moved these new limbs.
As if the creature couldn't get any weirder, small hair would start to grow all over the arms, chest, back and legs, making every single part of this body to attach. Suddenly, its head would start to itch as long hair would grow all over, stopping over and getting into his eyes.
He would notice that the hair wasn't done, as he would see it start to form on his face, making what these creatures referred to as a full beard. This was truly terrible as each part of his body would hurt as he would slide his shirt.
He blinked twice, looking around, confused about where he was. His head was pounding almost as if somebody had clocked it three times.
" Now where are you, Chad?" He asked himself, looking around at his strange- no- familiar. He was in his room, getting ready for another day of work. Chad would crack his aching back as he would pop each of his joints before going off to work.
As he left, Chad felt that he was forgetting something, but shrugged it off. As his mom would say ' It wasn't important if you forgot it.' The creature watched in horror inside of Chad's mind, seeing that he had been lost in this new shift… and would head off into the unknown.
Crack.
Hominem was the creature's last thought before Chad's mind took it as a part of it.
By: @LuckycoolHawk9
Word Count: 682
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror & Unknown
Chosen Format: Short Story
Body Mutation Gore, Existential Horror
Crack.
Fieri.
The pain of changing into this form was greater than anything that they had ever felt before. Normally, changing into another being was a painless process for them.
But for whatever reason, this creature they had chosen to become was more difficult than any other.
Crack.
The shifting of these bones into the form was painful, almost as if each of the 206 bones in this creature form was needed for some reason.
It seemed that the pain was finally done, as the entire inner shell had become, as the creature would stand, looking over and seeing that it was done.
Sizzle.
It felt a weird sensation as it looked down and the lowest bones started to form this weird gunk to cover the bones. What the fuck was this creature? It had more than one layer to survive.
It felt the sizzling traveling way across the entire form, covering each and every bone in the bone. It was getting warmer and warmer as this second layer would cover the entirety of the first layer.
Immediately, despite everything it knew, the creature was horrified that its naked form was exposed, as if it didn't have another layer covering it. It didn't know why, but the guide to turn into this being had suggested some garments and the creature started to realize why. It slid a small piece over the area where he-no- it. Why had it referred to itself as a him? The creature slid the garment over the legs and stopped in the middle.
It stopped feeling an immense pain as it opened the speaking vessel of this creature as small white pieces would grow out of the body. It felt an odd pain as each one of them would come in, causing immense agony, each white little demon attacking the nervous system.
It still felt a shiver, as it felt another….crack as it stood up to take in its full form. A large feature would appear above the mouth, making a strange crunching noise and two small holes appeared under it.
What purpose did it serve? It didn't understand why he- no- it. Why was this creature so concerned with its pronouns? The creature would look as the vacant sockets where their eyes had been looking out would suddenly widen.
There was a popping noise as each of the sockets suddenly became white with a small fleck of blue.
The creature felt a beat from inside of the new form, uncertain of what that meant. It felt more of a chill as it slid on the blue garments feeling a popping as he- no it- moved these new limbs.
As if the creature couldn't get any weirder, small hair would start to grow all over the arms, chest, back and legs, making every single part of this body to attach. Suddenly, its head would start to itch as long hair would grow all over, stopping over and getting into his eyes.
He would notice that the hair wasn't done, as he would see it start to form on his face, making what these creatures referred to as a full beard. This was truly terrible as each part of his body would hurt as he would slide his shirt.
He blinked twice, looking around, confused about where he was. His head was pounding almost as if somebody had clocked it three times.
" Now where are you, Chad?" He asked himself, looking around at his strange- no- familiar. He was in his room, getting ready for another day of work. Chad would crack his aching back as he would pop each of his joints before going off to work.
As he left, Chad felt that he was forgetting something, but shrugged it off. As his mom would say ' It wasn't important if you forgot it.' The creature watched in horror inside of Chad's mind, seeing that he had been lost in this new shift… and would head off into the unknown.
Crack.
Hominem was the creature's last thought before Chad's mind took it as a part of it.
Sound
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 611
Chosen Theme(s): Hunted & Unknown
Chosen Format: Short Story
The faint strains of humming echoed through the otherwise quiet house. Quiet in every way. No squeaking of the floorboards, buzz of a refrigerator, or creaking of the old heating system against the wall. With the whole house cast in darkness, her ears desperately strained for some sound to latch onto as she trembled behind a dresser. Something to guide her senses, or at least to cut through that damn humming. But no, the house was quiet, as if the laws of sound themselves bent to his will here. She could barely hear herself breathing, though her heart was thumping wildly in her chest.
"Oh dear." His low, quiet voice sounded right next to her ear, although she couldn't recall hearing the hum stop or get closer. She whirled around and jerked back, back slamming into the dresser, and waved her arm out into the darkness just to be sure, but there was no one there.
"What's the matter?" His disembodied voice came again, this time from the space behind her. She couldn't bring herself to turn around to make sure he hadn't somehow become the dresser itself, which had been so sturdy and reassuring a moment ago.
"I haven't done anything to you." He went on, as ever serene and quiet. She couldn't say why that voice unnerved her so. "I haven't done anything to your family."
He wasn't here. He wasn't. Despite the odd way his voice had managed to follow her here, perhaps he hadn't found her. The dresser hadn't made any noise when she'd hit it, after all. Huddling up tight to make herself smaller, she squeezed her eyes shut, and held her head in her hands.
"Of course, it wouldn't be difficult at all to do many things to them. They aren't far from here."
She felt a sob leave her mouth. "Leave me alone. Why won't you just leave me alone?"
"Everything you do and have ever done, I've been there. I know you better than anyone. One might even say I love you. I have always belonged precisely there right next to you. Does there need to be any other reason?"
She couldn't find an answer to that, so instead she asked, shakily, "What do you want from me? What are you going to do?"
"My dear, sweet thing." She trembled, but did not dare look up as she felt a presence finally settle itself in front of her. "What's the point of knowing that? It's enough for you to know you belong to me."
Finally mustering up the courage, she pulled her head up and opened her eyes. In front of her, she could see an outline of a tall person, too tall to be a person, and completely void of any discernable features. How she could see even that was a wonder. His shadowy hand reached out and grabbed one of her own, pulling her upright, and for a moment she wondered if she'd been scared only because he'd been a disembodied voice and a vague presence before now.
Then she saw teeth glistening in the formless head, separating wide to accept her hand, her arm, drawing her into his mouth, deeper than she should be able to go. Her feet were off the ground, though she felt no pressure that suggested his touch was lifting her, and it was only as her shoulder began entering his mouth that she thought to open her mouth to scream.
Her mouth was wide open, but she did not scream. There was no sound in the house besides a return of his gentle humming that should have been impossible while he was swallowing her whole.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 611
Chosen Theme(s): Hunted & Unknown
Chosen Format: Short Story
Stalking, Consuming Whole
The faint strains of humming echoed through the otherwise quiet house. Quiet in every way. No squeaking of the floorboards, buzz of a refrigerator, or creaking of the old heating system against the wall. With the whole house cast in darkness, her ears desperately strained for some sound to latch onto as she trembled behind a dresser. Something to guide her senses, or at least to cut through that damn humming. But no, the house was quiet, as if the laws of sound themselves bent to his will here. She could barely hear herself breathing, though her heart was thumping wildly in her chest.
"Oh dear." His low, quiet voice sounded right next to her ear, although she couldn't recall hearing the hum stop or get closer. She whirled around and jerked back, back slamming into the dresser, and waved her arm out into the darkness just to be sure, but there was no one there.
"What's the matter?" His disembodied voice came again, this time from the space behind her. She couldn't bring herself to turn around to make sure he hadn't somehow become the dresser itself, which had been so sturdy and reassuring a moment ago.
"I haven't done anything to you." He went on, as ever serene and quiet. She couldn't say why that voice unnerved her so. "I haven't done anything to your family."
He wasn't here. He wasn't. Despite the odd way his voice had managed to follow her here, perhaps he hadn't found her. The dresser hadn't made any noise when she'd hit it, after all. Huddling up tight to make herself smaller, she squeezed her eyes shut, and held her head in her hands.
"Of course, it wouldn't be difficult at all to do many things to them. They aren't far from here."
She felt a sob leave her mouth. "Leave me alone. Why won't you just leave me alone?"
"Everything you do and have ever done, I've been there. I know you better than anyone. One might even say I love you. I have always belonged precisely there right next to you. Does there need to be any other reason?"
She couldn't find an answer to that, so instead she asked, shakily, "What do you want from me? What are you going to do?"
"My dear, sweet thing." She trembled, but did not dare look up as she felt a presence finally settle itself in front of her. "What's the point of knowing that? It's enough for you to know you belong to me."
Finally mustering up the courage, she pulled her head up and opened her eyes. In front of her, she could see an outline of a tall person, too tall to be a person, and completely void of any discernable features. How she could see even that was a wonder. His shadowy hand reached out and grabbed one of her own, pulling her upright, and for a moment she wondered if she'd been scared only because he'd been a disembodied voice and a vague presence before now.
Then she saw teeth glistening in the formless head, separating wide to accept her hand, her arm, drawing her into his mouth, deeper than she should be able to go. Her feet were off the ground, though she felt no pressure that suggested his touch was lifting her, and it was only as her shoulder began entering his mouth that she thought to open her mouth to scream.
Her mouth was wide open, but she did not scream. There was no sound in the house besides a return of his gentle humming that should have been impossible while he was swallowing her whole.
Parasite
By: @Takumi
Word Count: 1,416
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
"Inside my brain's a parasite It's telling me what to do
Feeding on my happiness like I never deserved it at all (I never deserved it at all)
Feeling like a pessimist when I just wanna laugh through it all
Skin and bones, vulnerable
Crack my ribs and make me whole
Come and breathe the air into my lungs
I just wanna be your skeleton"-Skeleton, Set It Off
In the small city of Willow's Town, townsfolk follow a few age-old rules: stay inside at night and lock the doors and windows tight. Don't bother the wolves.
"At night the wolves hunt."
"Wolves?" A young man asks the elderly lady he's helping cross the road, raising a brow.
"Yes, wolves. They've been here long before Willow McCoy came and founded this town back in 1706, some say she and the wolves formed a pact that's still strong to this day. When she passed in 1751, they say she wailed out to the Heavens while in her death bed. The Heavens ain't answer but the wolves did, and that's why they call it the Wailing City. Don't see 'em much nowadays, though. Used to be about thirty small packs in and 'round this place when I was a girl, now there's barely ten that merged into one pack. Most were nearly wiped out by some sickness in the water forty some years ago."
"You said they hunt?"
"Oh yes, they hunt. Don't worry dear, they don't hunt people." The old woman hummed, her face turning to the young man's, the grave look on her features chilling him to the core.
"They hunt monsters, and for some time I've been thinking that maybe…something in the waters huntin' the wolves. Some parasite, maybe. Dunno, I just pray that whatever it is, it dies and stays dead so I can sleep at night without hearing their sad howls."
Caleb was woken from that memory by retching. Wincing, he sat up and quietly made his way to the bathroom.
"Mika, Hon…" He murmured watching his husband as he kneeled over the toilet. This was the third night since he got sick yet was the second time something tried coming up.
His tan skin was ashen, green eyes wide and unseeing, dark veins pulsing along the exposed stretch of skin on his neck, hands, and face. Mikael's short dark hair was knotted and matted with sweat as he shuddered and twitched.
"Can't…get it…out." The shorter of the two wheezed.
"Okay, I'll call Siobhan, Lukas, and Dr. Duvall–" Caleb started, only to pause as his husband shook his head in a jerky motion.
"Jusssht Duvall. Other wolvessss…will get….ssick." Mika hissed before gagging, tears trailing down his cheeks.
"Okay, okay, I'll be right back." Caleb breathed, before rushing to get his phone from where it was charging in their room. He let it ring, and waited. Listening.
Two rings, the retching stopped. There was a hacking cough.
Skreee–!!
Squelch.
Three rings, Caleb was out in the hall.
Four rings, Duvall picked up. Caleb spoke in hushed tones, urging the old man to stop by. One glance at the clock had him apologize in advance. 3:50 AM.
Mika was standing in the hallway now, green eyes glassy and watery black ooze and blood staining his borrowed sleep shirt.
"Got it out. Had to dig in and get it." He rumbled, bloody fingers twitching and flexing as he swayed before he pointed towards the bathroom, adding "It didn't put up much of a fight once out. 'M tired. G'night, love."
Caleb went in and snatched a clean towel from the towel rack and ushered him towards their room.
There on the center of the floor was a bloody black mass of flesh and bone, no bigger than a baseball. It writhed, a single bulbous red eye twitching and swiveling as it lay dying on the floor.
Mikael had crushed it in his hands, but hadn't had enough strength to kill it, being far too weak and ill. That was fine, Caleb could handle it.
By the time Dr. Duvall got to their home, Caleb was burning the black stained towel and clothes, brown eyes tired. It was 4:30 in the morning, and he did not sleep. No, he kept watch, keeping an eye on his husband, who slept on and off on the couch next to him.
The dead thing was stuffed into a Mason jar, and wordlessly Caleb held it out as an offering to Duvall.
The elderly man, skin and bone and graying brown hair, carefully took the specimen with a wrinkled frown.
"This is…" the older man started in awe.
"The parasite, yes."
"Maybe…maybe we can stop more wolves from dying now." Duvall muttered.
It was wishful thinking, but part of Caleb held doubt.
Duvall offered to put Mikael in a facility to be monitored until his condition, hopefully, improved and Caleb had hesitated only a moment before agreeing. Due to the early hours of the day, Duvall had offered to come by later to help get Mikael settled.
Caleb didn't remember drifting off on the couch, but he jerked awake with a grunt, startled by weight in his lap and hands on his throat.
Mikael sat in his lap, hands resting around Caleb's neck, thumbs caressing his jaw and eyes wide with his pupils pinpricks in a sea of green.
"I saw you in a dream. It wasn't good." Mika murmured, fingers twitching and spasming. Squeezing briefly before releasing, and again. And again. Almost rhythmically.
Caleb's heart pounded in his ears, breath caught in his throat as Mikael's shaking hands continued their frantic caressing and rhythmic squeezing, Mikael's green eyes twitching as his breathing grew shorter, almost panicked.
"You and Ciara and mom were in this white room staring at me smiling. Then I blinked and it was just us. You wanna know what happened then?"
"Not really–" Caleb started.
"You ripped open my ribcage like you were opening a box and then pulled out my still beating heart and crushed it in your hand like it was wet tissue." Mika continued as if his husband didn't answer.
"Then I woke up, and I had this sudden urge to sink my teeth in your throat and just…rip out your windpipe. It scared me, but it passed, and now I just wanna crawl into your skin."
"Mika, can you hear me? Are you with me right now?" Caleb spoke, trying to keep calm, trying not to let his voice shake with the fear that squeezed his heart.
"Hm? Oh, yeah. 'M 'ere. Love you." Mikael's head jerked in a nod as he leaned forward, laying a sloppy wet kiss to Caleb's chin before smiling shakily as he met his husband's eyes.
"Good, Hon. Good. Love you too. I'm…I'm gonna move your hands, okay?" Caleb spoke slowly, shaky hands wrapping around Mikael's wrists in careful movements. It took three tugs before Mika's grip went slack, letting Caleb rub his thumbs in small circles in his wrists.
"Other than the dream, are you feeling better?" Caleb asked softly.
Mikael hummed an affirmative, nuzzling into Caleb's shoulder despite his small flinch and was out like a light in a matter of minutes.
Admittedly, it made it a bit easier to get him into Duvall's car when the elderly man arrived. Caleb sighed as he sat in the passenger seat, watching as they rode through the city and into the wooded outskirts.
The car screeched to a sudden stop, as something large crashed through the treeline and dragged itself in the middle of the road.
A brown wolf, bloated and covered in black veins and pulsing sores leaking puss and black ooze. Two large bulging red eyes stared at them from it's sunken sockets. Duvall shifted gears and started backing up, and the wolf charged catching up in three bounds before clipping the front and causing the car to swerve violently and hitting a tree. Mikael snarled in the back, and kicked the back door open before jumping out, his hulking black wolf form slamming into the other, one clawed paw causing a sore to pop loudly as the brown wolf yowled in pain.
It was the last thing Caleb registered before everything went dark.
By: @Takumi
Word Count: 1,416
Chosen Theme(s): Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Parasite and Disease-Related Gore, Car Accident
"Inside my brain's a parasite It's telling me what to do
Feeding on my happiness like I never deserved it at all (I never deserved it at all)
Feeling like a pessimist when I just wanna laugh through it all
Skin and bones, vulnerable
Crack my ribs and make me whole
Come and breathe the air into my lungs
I just wanna be your skeleton"-Skeleton, Set It Off
In the small city of Willow's Town, townsfolk follow a few age-old rules: stay inside at night and lock the doors and windows tight. Don't bother the wolves.
"At night the wolves hunt."
"Wolves?" A young man asks the elderly lady he's helping cross the road, raising a brow.
"Yes, wolves. They've been here long before Willow McCoy came and founded this town back in 1706, some say she and the wolves formed a pact that's still strong to this day. When she passed in 1751, they say she wailed out to the Heavens while in her death bed. The Heavens ain't answer but the wolves did, and that's why they call it the Wailing City. Don't see 'em much nowadays, though. Used to be about thirty small packs in and 'round this place when I was a girl, now there's barely ten that merged into one pack. Most were nearly wiped out by some sickness in the water forty some years ago."
"You said they hunt?"
"Oh yes, they hunt. Don't worry dear, they don't hunt people." The old woman hummed, her face turning to the young man's, the grave look on her features chilling him to the core.
"They hunt monsters, and for some time I've been thinking that maybe…something in the waters huntin' the wolves. Some parasite, maybe. Dunno, I just pray that whatever it is, it dies and stays dead so I can sleep at night without hearing their sad howls."
---
Caleb was woken from that memory by retching. Wincing, he sat up and quietly made his way to the bathroom.
"Mika, Hon…" He murmured watching his husband as he kneeled over the toilet. This was the third night since he got sick yet was the second time something tried coming up.
His tan skin was ashen, green eyes wide and unseeing, dark veins pulsing along the exposed stretch of skin on his neck, hands, and face. Mikael's short dark hair was knotted and matted with sweat as he shuddered and twitched.
"Can't…get it…out." The shorter of the two wheezed.
"Okay, I'll call Siobhan, Lukas, and Dr. Duvall–" Caleb started, only to pause as his husband shook his head in a jerky motion.
"Jusssht Duvall. Other wolvessss…will get….ssick." Mika hissed before gagging, tears trailing down his cheeks.
"Okay, okay, I'll be right back." Caleb breathed, before rushing to get his phone from where it was charging in their room. He let it ring, and waited. Listening.
Two rings, the retching stopped. There was a hacking cough.
Skreee–!!
Squelch.
Three rings, Caleb was out in the hall.
Four rings, Duvall picked up. Caleb spoke in hushed tones, urging the old man to stop by. One glance at the clock had him apologize in advance. 3:50 AM.
Mika was standing in the hallway now, green eyes glassy and watery black ooze and blood staining his borrowed sleep shirt.
"Got it out. Had to dig in and get it." He rumbled, bloody fingers twitching and flexing as he swayed before he pointed towards the bathroom, adding "It didn't put up much of a fight once out. 'M tired. G'night, love."
Caleb went in and snatched a clean towel from the towel rack and ushered him towards their room.
There on the center of the floor was a bloody black mass of flesh and bone, no bigger than a baseball. It writhed, a single bulbous red eye twitching and swiveling as it lay dying on the floor.
Mikael had crushed it in his hands, but hadn't had enough strength to kill it, being far too weak and ill. That was fine, Caleb could handle it.
By the time Dr. Duvall got to their home, Caleb was burning the black stained towel and clothes, brown eyes tired. It was 4:30 in the morning, and he did not sleep. No, he kept watch, keeping an eye on his husband, who slept on and off on the couch next to him.
The dead thing was stuffed into a Mason jar, and wordlessly Caleb held it out as an offering to Duvall.
The elderly man, skin and bone and graying brown hair, carefully took the specimen with a wrinkled frown.
"This is…" the older man started in awe.
"The parasite, yes."
"Maybe…maybe we can stop more wolves from dying now." Duvall muttered.
It was wishful thinking, but part of Caleb held doubt.
Duvall offered to put Mikael in a facility to be monitored until his condition, hopefully, improved and Caleb had hesitated only a moment before agreeing. Due to the early hours of the day, Duvall had offered to come by later to help get Mikael settled.
Caleb didn't remember drifting off on the couch, but he jerked awake with a grunt, startled by weight in his lap and hands on his throat.
Mikael sat in his lap, hands resting around Caleb's neck, thumbs caressing his jaw and eyes wide with his pupils pinpricks in a sea of green.
"I saw you in a dream. It wasn't good." Mika murmured, fingers twitching and spasming. Squeezing briefly before releasing, and again. And again. Almost rhythmically.
Caleb's heart pounded in his ears, breath caught in his throat as Mikael's shaking hands continued their frantic caressing and rhythmic squeezing, Mikael's green eyes twitching as his breathing grew shorter, almost panicked.
"You and Ciara and mom were in this white room staring at me smiling. Then I blinked and it was just us. You wanna know what happened then?"
"Not really–" Caleb started.
"You ripped open my ribcage like you were opening a box and then pulled out my still beating heart and crushed it in your hand like it was wet tissue." Mika continued as if his husband didn't answer.
"Then I woke up, and I had this sudden urge to sink my teeth in your throat and just…rip out your windpipe. It scared me, but it passed, and now I just wanna crawl into your skin."
"Mika, can you hear me? Are you with me right now?" Caleb spoke, trying to keep calm, trying not to let his voice shake with the fear that squeezed his heart.
"Hm? Oh, yeah. 'M 'ere. Love you." Mikael's head jerked in a nod as he leaned forward, laying a sloppy wet kiss to Caleb's chin before smiling shakily as he met his husband's eyes.
"Good, Hon. Good. Love you too. I'm…I'm gonna move your hands, okay?" Caleb spoke slowly, shaky hands wrapping around Mikael's wrists in careful movements. It took three tugs before Mika's grip went slack, letting Caleb rub his thumbs in small circles in his wrists.
"Other than the dream, are you feeling better?" Caleb asked softly.
Mikael hummed an affirmative, nuzzling into Caleb's shoulder despite his small flinch and was out like a light in a matter of minutes.
Admittedly, it made it a bit easier to get him into Duvall's car when the elderly man arrived. Caleb sighed as he sat in the passenger seat, watching as they rode through the city and into the wooded outskirts.
The car screeched to a sudden stop, as something large crashed through the treeline and dragged itself in the middle of the road.
A brown wolf, bloated and covered in black veins and pulsing sores leaking puss and black ooze. Two large bulging red eyes stared at them from it's sunken sockets. Duvall shifted gears and started backing up, and the wolf charged catching up in three bounds before clipping the front and causing the car to swerve violently and hitting a tree. Mikael snarled in the back, and kicked the back door open before jumping out, his hulking black wolf form slamming into the other, one clawed paw causing a sore to pop loudly as the brown wolf yowled in pain.
It was the last thing Caleb registered before everything went dark.
Day's Routine
By: @mikaluvkitties
Word Count: 853
Chosen Theme(s): The Unknown & Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Pat and Speck follow a strict routine. When her friends hear about it, they always take a moment to look properly sympathetic and nod their heads, sure that the constant strain of having to be in bed by ten and awake by seven must weigh on her. How difficult it must be to live with someone as sick as Spencer, someone they don't know, have never even met, and never will.
But the thing no one seems to realize is that the routine isn't for Speck—If Pat hadn't broken the day down into permanent chunks rendered rote habit, she would go insane. Because what her friends don't know, can never know, is there is nothing sane about the affliction that has haunted Speck since birth.
Here is how the day goes:
Pat wakes up. Speck is long awake and in all honesty she isn't sure they sleep at all anymore, if what drives through their body will allow them such a rest. She doesn't yet tune into whatever needs to be written this morning, instead heading into the bathroom. A shower hot enough to burn away the dead skin, an antibacterial body wash, antibacterial face wash, a towel across the face, moisturizer even if what's wrong with her face has nothing to do with skin and instead a bad run at the genetic lottery.
Washed hands in the kitchen, good morning to Speck in the living room, visible through the gap between counter top and cabinet—A crucial part of why she got this place—and breakfast gets made. Same thing every day: Two eggs for both of them, hers sunny-side up, theirs in a mug, some vitamin powder whisked in. Two strawberry banana smoothies with even more vitamin powder.
Set them down next to an agitated Speck—"You need to be taking notes."
If Speck had their way, she'd spend the whole day taking notes, recording their voice, running some stream on Twitch and living off donations.
"Let me clean you up first."
Wash hands again, grab the first aid kit in the TV console, crack it open, check for bleeding.
It's a good day and the purplish-black gaps now all over Speck's body aren't growing or leaking. Apply antibiotic ointment, then itch cream, even though neither of those seem to do anything and the only complaint Speck ever seems to have is how cold the spots are. Thankfully, Pat doesn't have to think about that as she wraps up the wounds, lost in the task at hand.
Do the same for the eyes growing in their shoulders and hands and back, but this time apply eye drops. Ignore the way they flinch like the ones in their face, ignore the way they stare at her.
Write down what they have to say and post it online. Nonsense, mostly. Something's happening to rats today. Hopefully, she won't see the news and learn what that means.
Then she has to go to work. Puts on her shoes at 8:45 AM, approaches the door. "I'll see you tonight. Stay out of trouble."
"The poor rats."
Number one rule: Don't waste time dissecting words that won't make sense any time before they're ready to. She walks out the door.
Then work. At this point, most friends are work friends. Most work friends are only just tolerable.
Work.
Work.
Catch sight of the news while on break. Whistle-blower arrested. Don't think about the rats.
Work.
Off. Go back home.
Come in to Speck trying to work her laptop. Decide maybe it really is time for the podcast.
They have a whole new rant by now, something about fish. She doesn't listen, just writes the words and promises them equipment to record their voice—That'd hurt less than trying to use the computer. And she'll post it, just like she types up all their notes and posts them now.
Post the newest notes on Twitter. Don't look at the notifications. Don't check the inbox.
Housework. Bills. Maintenance. Check the eyes and gaps again. Then read for a bit. Try to ignore the way her sibling is falling apart. Try not to wish dealing with it meant she didn't have any friends.
Dinner. Speck keeps rambling.
Tonight, as she's washing the dishes Speck stops their rambling enough to say, "I'm going to miss you after tomorrow."
She doesn't think about it. Doesn't engage.
She says she'll miss them, too.
"Where you're going, no one misses anybody."
Don't think about it.
Shower. Shower again. Shower again. Wash her face, wash it some more. Brush. Floss. Apply her paste. They're still muttering in the living room when she goes to lay in bed in fresh pajamas, a book off the night stand.
Asleep.
Remember before it got this bad, when all it looked like was hours of crying before they got the call her father was dead.
There is no knowing when she will be cut short or how, but Speck's ramblings are always right.
There's no use running because whatever it is will just find her.
She just hopes someone will take care of them when she's gone.
By: @mikaluvkitties
Word Count: 853
Chosen Theme(s): The Unknown & Body Horror
Chosen Format: Short Story
Disease and Eye-Related Gore, Possible Trypophobia Warning
Pat and Speck follow a strict routine. When her friends hear about it, they always take a moment to look properly sympathetic and nod their heads, sure that the constant strain of having to be in bed by ten and awake by seven must weigh on her. How difficult it must be to live with someone as sick as Spencer, someone they don't know, have never even met, and never will.
But the thing no one seems to realize is that the routine isn't for Speck—If Pat hadn't broken the day down into permanent chunks rendered rote habit, she would go insane. Because what her friends don't know, can never know, is there is nothing sane about the affliction that has haunted Speck since birth.
Here is how the day goes:
Pat wakes up. Speck is long awake and in all honesty she isn't sure they sleep at all anymore, if what drives through their body will allow them such a rest. She doesn't yet tune into whatever needs to be written this morning, instead heading into the bathroom. A shower hot enough to burn away the dead skin, an antibacterial body wash, antibacterial face wash, a towel across the face, moisturizer even if what's wrong with her face has nothing to do with skin and instead a bad run at the genetic lottery.
Washed hands in the kitchen, good morning to Speck in the living room, visible through the gap between counter top and cabinet—A crucial part of why she got this place—and breakfast gets made. Same thing every day: Two eggs for both of them, hers sunny-side up, theirs in a mug, some vitamin powder whisked in. Two strawberry banana smoothies with even more vitamin powder.
Set them down next to an agitated Speck—"You need to be taking notes."
If Speck had their way, she'd spend the whole day taking notes, recording their voice, running some stream on Twitch and living off donations.
"Let me clean you up first."
Wash hands again, grab the first aid kit in the TV console, crack it open, check for bleeding.
It's a good day and the purplish-black gaps now all over Speck's body aren't growing or leaking. Apply antibiotic ointment, then itch cream, even though neither of those seem to do anything and the only complaint Speck ever seems to have is how cold the spots are. Thankfully, Pat doesn't have to think about that as she wraps up the wounds, lost in the task at hand.
Do the same for the eyes growing in their shoulders and hands and back, but this time apply eye drops. Ignore the way they flinch like the ones in their face, ignore the way they stare at her.
Write down what they have to say and post it online. Nonsense, mostly. Something's happening to rats today. Hopefully, she won't see the news and learn what that means.
Then she has to go to work. Puts on her shoes at 8:45 AM, approaches the door. "I'll see you tonight. Stay out of trouble."
"The poor rats."
Number one rule: Don't waste time dissecting words that won't make sense any time before they're ready to. She walks out the door.
Then work. At this point, most friends are work friends. Most work friends are only just tolerable.
Work.
Work.
Catch sight of the news while on break. Whistle-blower arrested. Don't think about the rats.
Work.
Off. Go back home.
Come in to Speck trying to work her laptop. Decide maybe it really is time for the podcast.
They have a whole new rant by now, something about fish. She doesn't listen, just writes the words and promises them equipment to record their voice—That'd hurt less than trying to use the computer. And she'll post it, just like she types up all their notes and posts them now.
Post the newest notes on Twitter. Don't look at the notifications. Don't check the inbox.
Housework. Bills. Maintenance. Check the eyes and gaps again. Then read for a bit. Try to ignore the way her sibling is falling apart. Try not to wish dealing with it meant she didn't have any friends.
Dinner. Speck keeps rambling.
Tonight, as she's washing the dishes Speck stops their rambling enough to say, "I'm going to miss you after tomorrow."
She doesn't think about it. Doesn't engage.
She says she'll miss them, too.
"Where you're going, no one misses anybody."
Don't think about it.
Shower. Shower again. Shower again. Wash her face, wash it some more. Brush. Floss. Apply her paste. They're still muttering in the living room when she goes to lay in bed in fresh pajamas, a book off the night stand.
Asleep.
Remember before it got this bad, when all it looked like was hours of crying before they got the call her father was dead.
There is no knowing when she will be cut short or how, but Speck's ramblings are always right.
There's no use running because whatever it is will just find her.
She just hopes someone will take care of them when she's gone.
Empty
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 967
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown
Chosen Format: Short Story
There was nothing unusual about the day that preceded the night I first saw it. The days and weeks before that were equally as mundane. I thought there was supposed to be a catalyst. Death. A new house. The decision to fuck around with things best left alone. None of that foreshadowed my experience. I returned to my tiny apartment after another exhausting day of work. Before crossing that threshold the only thoughts in my head were of my bed. That changed instantly. I bristled. Even before I saw it.
From my place in the kitchen, I could see it. Illuminated only by the dim light of television static there was a figure in my old recliner. The recliner that was always empty. The TV I knew was off when I left. My thoughts tripped and stumbled as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing. It was human-adjacent. A torso. Five limbs. But there was more of it that was uncanny than human-like. It was impossibly black. The gray light didn't touch it. An ink stain on reality, it draped over and out of the chair like thick fabric. Nothing seemed to support its long uneven appendages and its featureless head lulled ever-so-slightly to the side. It was impossibly still. There was no indication it was even alive.
But it was.
I don't know how I knew. An instinct so innate it was more in my body than my brain. That same instinct kept me quiet. Maybe I should've turned on the light but I had a vague notion that would make it angry. I felt like as long as it didn't notice me I would be fine. I should have left. I should have ran. I don't know why I didn't. Instead, I tucked the keys I had been going to drop on the counter back into my hand and started a slow creep from the kitchenette. My pace was agonizingly slow. I pushed myself along with my back against the wall and my eyes on the chair. I wanted there to be as much distance between me and that thing as possible. As soon as I was in my room I closed and locked my door. Without it there I could try to convince myself it wasn't real. It was only stress. A trick of the light. A play on my eyes.
I laid flat on my back the entire night. Alert despite the exhaustion.
It was only when the silver of the early morning started to brighten the window that I finally slept — restlessly for three hours before I was startled awake but the siren of my alarm. Cautious but boldened by the light I checked the living room. The chair was empty. The TV was off. It was all normal. The chair was still the same old fabric patched in duct tape. I even touched it. Nothing wrong. I couldn't bring myself to sit there, though. The image was still too vivid in my mind. I carried on as usual unease quickly fading as I rationalized the incident away. By the time I got to work it was only an occasional thought at the back of my mind. Until I came home.
It was back again.
Occupying a space that was supposed to be empty.
And it was longer, unmistakably.
A misaligned puppet with no one at the strings. Lopsided limbs contorting to the shape of anything beneath them, one side distinctly thinner than the other. Elongated neck twisted to accommodate the limp head. I sprinted to my room without looking back. I just didn't want to be there in that room with that thing. I locked my door and pushed my dresser in front of it. I didn't sleep that night, not even when the light came through the curtains.
It was there the next night.
And the next.
Thinner and more distorted each time. Pulled like clay to stretch and bend around the room and furniture. But it never snapped. It just keeps stretching. Arm so long its warped digits almost touch the kitchen tile. I wonder if it will ever stop growing.
It's there again.
In the chair that's never empty. A shadow of the darkness itself with tendril limbs in every direction. I haven't left my room in two days. I've scribbled down my experience and searched a thousand things online. Primarily about the paranormal. And hallucinations. I don't have friends but I sent a message to my friendliest coworker to see if he wanted to come over. He was busy. I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten since the sun set. I stand just outside my bedroom staring into the room of dark limbs.
Is this even real?
Can it be real?
The fear is.
My hand is in my pocket.
My phone.
I fumble around the plastic as I pull it out. The dim light of my screen is the only light other than the TV. My hand is trembling as I click the camera icon and slowly, ever-so-slowly, lift it.
It's there. There in the camera screen.
The figure in the preview moves. Its neck twists as the head rolls toward me. It has no eyes, no facial features at all, but it's looking at me. I know it's looking at me.
Run.
Shakily I tap the large button.
The blackness twitches. My shaking hands drop my phone and I don't dare to bend over to get it. The television goes blank. I can still see it. Even in the darkness, it's darker. A shadow cast by no light. More limbs now. Twisting and splitting like tree branches. Encroaching upon me. I stumble back through the empty door. My lips part in an attempt to scream but no sound comes out.
The recliner is empty.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 967
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown
Chosen Format: Short Story
Brief Mention of Possible Psychosis
There was nothing unusual about the day that preceded the night I first saw it. The days and weeks before that were equally as mundane. I thought there was supposed to be a catalyst. Death. A new house. The decision to fuck around with things best left alone. None of that foreshadowed my experience. I returned to my tiny apartment after another exhausting day of work. Before crossing that threshold the only thoughts in my head were of my bed. That changed instantly. I bristled. Even before I saw it.
From my place in the kitchen, I could see it. Illuminated only by the dim light of television static there was a figure in my old recliner. The recliner that was always empty. The TV I knew was off when I left. My thoughts tripped and stumbled as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing. It was human-adjacent. A torso. Five limbs. But there was more of it that was uncanny than human-like. It was impossibly black. The gray light didn't touch it. An ink stain on reality, it draped over and out of the chair like thick fabric. Nothing seemed to support its long uneven appendages and its featureless head lulled ever-so-slightly to the side. It was impossibly still. There was no indication it was even alive.
But it was.
I don't know how I knew. An instinct so innate it was more in my body than my brain. That same instinct kept me quiet. Maybe I should've turned on the light but I had a vague notion that would make it angry. I felt like as long as it didn't notice me I would be fine. I should have left. I should have ran. I don't know why I didn't. Instead, I tucked the keys I had been going to drop on the counter back into my hand and started a slow creep from the kitchenette. My pace was agonizingly slow. I pushed myself along with my back against the wall and my eyes on the chair. I wanted there to be as much distance between me and that thing as possible. As soon as I was in my room I closed and locked my door. Without it there I could try to convince myself it wasn't real. It was only stress. A trick of the light. A play on my eyes.
I laid flat on my back the entire night. Alert despite the exhaustion.
It was only when the silver of the early morning started to brighten the window that I finally slept — restlessly for three hours before I was startled awake but the siren of my alarm. Cautious but boldened by the light I checked the living room. The chair was empty. The TV was off. It was all normal. The chair was still the same old fabric patched in duct tape. I even touched it. Nothing wrong. I couldn't bring myself to sit there, though. The image was still too vivid in my mind. I carried on as usual unease quickly fading as I rationalized the incident away. By the time I got to work it was only an occasional thought at the back of my mind. Until I came home.
It was back again.
Occupying a space that was supposed to be empty.
And it was longer, unmistakably.
A misaligned puppet with no one at the strings. Lopsided limbs contorting to the shape of anything beneath them, one side distinctly thinner than the other. Elongated neck twisted to accommodate the limp head. I sprinted to my room without looking back. I just didn't want to be there in that room with that thing. I locked my door and pushed my dresser in front of it. I didn't sleep that night, not even when the light came through the curtains.
It was there the next night.
And the next.
Thinner and more distorted each time. Pulled like clay to stretch and bend around the room and furniture. But it never snapped. It just keeps stretching. Arm so long its warped digits almost touch the kitchen tile. I wonder if it will ever stop growing.
It's there again.
In the chair that's never empty. A shadow of the darkness itself with tendril limbs in every direction. I haven't left my room in two days. I've scribbled down my experience and searched a thousand things online. Primarily about the paranormal. And hallucinations. I don't have friends but I sent a message to my friendliest coworker to see if he wanted to come over. He was busy. I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten since the sun set. I stand just outside my bedroom staring into the room of dark limbs.
Is this even real?
Can it be real?
The fear is.
My hand is in my pocket.
My phone.
I fumble around the plastic as I pull it out. The dim light of my screen is the only light other than the TV. My hand is trembling as I click the camera icon and slowly, ever-so-slowly, lift it.
It's there. There in the camera screen.
The figure in the preview moves. Its neck twists as the head rolls toward me. It has no eyes, no facial features at all, but it's looking at me. I know it's looking at me.
Run.
Shakily I tap the large button.
The blackness twitches. My shaking hands drop my phone and I don't dare to bend over to get it. The television goes blank. I can still see it. Even in the darkness, it's darker. A shadow cast by no light. More limbs now. Twisting and splitting like tree branches. Encroaching upon me. I stumble back through the empty door. My lips part in an attempt to scream but no sound comes out.
The recliner is empty.
Minute to Midnight, Miracle & Sunlight
By: @Gutterpunk
Word count: 1753
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown & Hunted
Chosen Format: Short Story
"She said "better luck next time, don't worry so much",
Without ears I couldn't hear, I could just feel the touch."
Despite knowing he was conscious, the man had no real confirmation he was. His senses were seemingly stolen by the conditions of his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was Vantablack; perfectly silent, with the only thing keeping him grounded being the concrete floor underneath his feet. Attempting to shake off the groggy nature of what he could only compare to a hangover, the man's skin finally reacted to the cold steel of the chair. His attempts to stand up were stopped by duct tape wrapped hap-hazardly across his forearms. The man was now starting to become panicked, confused by his predicament. This confusion, however, was swiftly replaced by thrashing anger. He found his wrists were quickly becoming sore from the friction, and the struggling only served to provide a screeching soundtrack to his escape attempts, metal scraping across the floor.
Then there was light.
A stream of fluorescence reached out across the wall in front of him, shortly followed by a voice filled with delight from behind. "You're awake! Finally!" The chipper tone only served to return the man to a confused state, fear instilled but not primary. On instinct, he tried to turn his head to meet his apparent captor, but all he could make out was an elongated shadow outlined against the section of light, coming closer. The figure was striding towards the tied man, giving him the first glimpse of his kidnapper, and his eyes trailed to the cut flesh across their torso. Lacerations spread across the arms, and further up their shoulders. The man's immediate reaction was to avert his eyes, fear taking over as he focused on the dried blood tattooing the captor's wrists. A hand held up by flimsy flesh made its way to their captive's jaw, as it pushed the man's head up to finally make eye contact with its host.
An all-too-wide smile was equipped on the Lunatic's face, the quivering irises of his victim totally outshined by a fiery pair of green eyes. The man, still bound to the chair, was only able to shift his vision ever so slightly, and in the corner of his peripherals, he could make out an emaciated hand holding on to a knife possibly too large for them to handle. The Lunatic gripped it awkwardly, knuckles turning white with exertion, with the handle sticking out against their skinny frame. He locked back onto the Lunatic's eyes to see them lick their lips and continue mouth-breathing through clenched teeth. They rolled the victim's head around in their free hand, the context of this inspection unknown. After seeming satisfied, they broke the silence. "We don't have much time! I know you're dying to get out, but soon you'll be dying for other reasons. "Now, come with me."
The Lunatic spoke with alarming clarity for a presumed psychopath, but nevertheless it provided no answers as to why he was here, and what their endgame was. They let go of his head, brow now breaking into a flash sweat, despite the cold. Making their way to the wall in front of him, it gave him another chance to try and escape his bondage. No matter how hard he pushed against the tape, it only served to cause strain on his rapidly weakening limbs, legs failing to move an inch between the chair and freedom. This caught the eye of his captor, who responded with an almost disappointed look. "Please, don't struggle. We're almost there!" With the flick of a switch the wall shifted, revealing itself to be a metal garage door.
Then there was light.
"You, my friend, are about to be the first to witness the Beginning." As the Lunatic spoke, he saw sunlight start to breach the empty garage. Soon, the fear regressed back to disbelief, wondering where on Earth he was that allowed for a disfigured psychopath to show off a naked man tied to a chair for the world to see. He knew this unknown location was quickly about to become apparent as more and more light filled the space around him, and yet he couldn't bring himself to look at what may be his only way out. Despite the circumstances, his need to escape the room had become overshadowed by his fear of what may lie outside. As if stalling for time, his eyes began to inspect the walls around him for any insight into the situation...
"Your entire life, you've been strung along under the idea that you weren't a part of something… Your own design betrayed by the architects." To the left, he saw a cork board with various photos, none of which provided him with any clear clues. He saw a cleanly-dressed, well-built man standing with a family in one photo, two kids and a wife proudly by his side; what he could only assume was a business meeting in another. He decided the Lunatic wasn't someone he knew, not at first sight.
"After all, it was only a matter of time before all the… pieces… fit." To the right, there was another cork board, various tools and equipment attached to it. None of them showed any obvious signs of use, they were all in their correct positions and in seemingly perfect condition. Running out of details to look at in the sparse garage, he changed his objective from escape, to trying to establish a connection between the scrawny Lunatic and the man in the photos, but the similarities weren't there. Not immediately, at least. Despite an obvious increase in age, the cuts and lacerations, and their state of undress, he could see the Lunatic in the photo. What brought them to this state of unhinged behaviour was anybody's guess.
"And now? Now we are the victims of a world meant for a hive." After what felt like a lifetime, the garage door finished opening, and the man saw the horizon of a city. Skyscrapers stood imposing in the distance, contrasted by a sunrise unbothered by clouds, and a dawn chorus. It was another summer day, and the early morning seemed to be the only reason why the Lunatic was preparing to lead the man outside. Barreling towards the man with fire in their step, they grabbed the seat, barely missing the more sensitive part of the man's bare body, and began to lead him outside, struggling with the collective weight of their cargo.
Once more of the unfamiliar location began to appear in his view, the man began to see houses to his left and right. He was on a street, with cars still parked in neat rows. Wherever he was, he rationalised that help could be nearby, and with that comfort, he let out bellowing yells for aid, assistance… anything.
"HEY! HEY! ANYONE?! PLEASE?! SOMEONE HELP ME!". His cries fell on deaf ears, receiving no sign of response from the setting around him, or his captor. No worse for wear, the Lunatic continued dragging the man to the sidewalk. As he continued to look around for oncoming help, he noticed the curtains shuffle in a few houses. No doors opened, and his repeated pleading only resulted in a weak slap from his kidnapper.
They stopped on the curb. The wind had become less of a tingling presence and more of a freezing force, the chill getting to him now that adrenaline had started to wear down to exhaustion. The Lunatic just stared endlessly into the landscape, paying no mind to their victim's dismay, the man trying to hold back tears in defeat. Above them, a low-flying aircraft droned over the birdsong that added white noise to the sight. The Lunatic turned, the knife somehow being easier to stare at than the crazed smile successfully breaking their victim down. "I'm so glad you could be here with me for this." Their continued pleasure finally caused the man to question them.
"Wha... Why are you doing this... to me?" The Lunatic held back a small chortle before choking on their own words in unity.
"Because now… now I can."
The Lunatic whipped back around to see the city one more time. With that final image, without hesitation, they threw their arm up and shoved the blade into their own neck. Pressing it further into the throat, they attempted to cut around the bone until their body could no longer receive commands. The damage was done. One half of their neck began to spray blood across a dirty chest, and a man who was hypnotised by the horror. The smile was replaced with twitches, a decreasing amount of movement, and muscles atrophying. Their body fell limp onto the sidewalk, arms spilling onto the road. A generous pool of blood soon followed, all in the view of a paralyzed man, who had stopped struggling. The sight of such a thing only increased his short breaths.
The man began to mimic the same mouth-breathing the Lunatic had possessed, slowly coming to his senses, but still unable to respond appropriately. Every part of him wanted to run, and while his legs were untied, the chair added an uncomfortable weight he couldn't carry. The knife had fallen onto the tarmac, and although the tape was giving way, part of him was hoping someone else could help him with this mess. He couldn't stare at the body anymore, now that it had stopped twitching, and the blood had quickly congealed in the lukewarm weather.
He looked up at the landscape, the sunrise growing brighter, although easier to look at. The wind continued to stay still, his only grace while the chair still provided an unnatural cold. After his breathing became more controlled, the man began to notice black specks increasing in numbers across the sky. They began to blot the sunlight out, breaching the stratus clouds with wispy wounds. They were moving closer to the ground, and with unnerving speed. Their trails only served to stain the sky, and as he looked up to the clouds above him, a black orb began to grow in size, ready to crash down underneath him. Whatever it was, he stared ahead with teary streaks, stone-faced in the preparation of what was to come next, refusing to blink. Refusing to close his eyes to what would happen next.
Then there was light.
"... And when I let that beam pierce me,
I said "There's nowhere else I'd rather be"."
By: @Gutterpunk
Word count: 1753
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown & Hunted
Chosen Format: Short Story
Kidnapping, Gore (Possibly of a Self-Harm Nature), Graphic Suicide, Existential Horror, Apocalyptic Elements
"She said "better luck next time, don't worry so much",
Without ears I couldn't hear, I could just feel the touch."
Despite knowing he was conscious, the man had no real confirmation he was. His senses were seemingly stolen by the conditions of his surroundings. Wherever he was, it was Vantablack; perfectly silent, with the only thing keeping him grounded being the concrete floor underneath his feet. Attempting to shake off the groggy nature of what he could only compare to a hangover, the man's skin finally reacted to the cold steel of the chair. His attempts to stand up were stopped by duct tape wrapped hap-hazardly across his forearms. The man was now starting to become panicked, confused by his predicament. This confusion, however, was swiftly replaced by thrashing anger. He found his wrists were quickly becoming sore from the friction, and the struggling only served to provide a screeching soundtrack to his escape attempts, metal scraping across the floor.
Then there was light.
A stream of fluorescence reached out across the wall in front of him, shortly followed by a voice filled with delight from behind. "You're awake! Finally!" The chipper tone only served to return the man to a confused state, fear instilled but not primary. On instinct, he tried to turn his head to meet his apparent captor, but all he could make out was an elongated shadow outlined against the section of light, coming closer. The figure was striding towards the tied man, giving him the first glimpse of his kidnapper, and his eyes trailed to the cut flesh across their torso. Lacerations spread across the arms, and further up their shoulders. The man's immediate reaction was to avert his eyes, fear taking over as he focused on the dried blood tattooing the captor's wrists. A hand held up by flimsy flesh made its way to their captive's jaw, as it pushed the man's head up to finally make eye contact with its host.
An all-too-wide smile was equipped on the Lunatic's face, the quivering irises of his victim totally outshined by a fiery pair of green eyes. The man, still bound to the chair, was only able to shift his vision ever so slightly, and in the corner of his peripherals, he could make out an emaciated hand holding on to a knife possibly too large for them to handle. The Lunatic gripped it awkwardly, knuckles turning white with exertion, with the handle sticking out against their skinny frame. He locked back onto the Lunatic's eyes to see them lick their lips and continue mouth-breathing through clenched teeth. They rolled the victim's head around in their free hand, the context of this inspection unknown. After seeming satisfied, they broke the silence. "We don't have much time! I know you're dying to get out, but soon you'll be dying for other reasons. "Now, come with me."
The Lunatic spoke with alarming clarity for a presumed psychopath, but nevertheless it provided no answers as to why he was here, and what their endgame was. They let go of his head, brow now breaking into a flash sweat, despite the cold. Making their way to the wall in front of him, it gave him another chance to try and escape his bondage. No matter how hard he pushed against the tape, it only served to cause strain on his rapidly weakening limbs, legs failing to move an inch between the chair and freedom. This caught the eye of his captor, who responded with an almost disappointed look. "Please, don't struggle. We're almost there!" With the flick of a switch the wall shifted, revealing itself to be a metal garage door.
Then there was light.
"You, my friend, are about to be the first to witness the Beginning." As the Lunatic spoke, he saw sunlight start to breach the empty garage. Soon, the fear regressed back to disbelief, wondering where on Earth he was that allowed for a disfigured psychopath to show off a naked man tied to a chair for the world to see. He knew this unknown location was quickly about to become apparent as more and more light filled the space around him, and yet he couldn't bring himself to look at what may be his only way out. Despite the circumstances, his need to escape the room had become overshadowed by his fear of what may lie outside. As if stalling for time, his eyes began to inspect the walls around him for any insight into the situation...
"Your entire life, you've been strung along under the idea that you weren't a part of something… Your own design betrayed by the architects." To the left, he saw a cork board with various photos, none of which provided him with any clear clues. He saw a cleanly-dressed, well-built man standing with a family in one photo, two kids and a wife proudly by his side; what he could only assume was a business meeting in another. He decided the Lunatic wasn't someone he knew, not at first sight.
"After all, it was only a matter of time before all the… pieces… fit." To the right, there was another cork board, various tools and equipment attached to it. None of them showed any obvious signs of use, they were all in their correct positions and in seemingly perfect condition. Running out of details to look at in the sparse garage, he changed his objective from escape, to trying to establish a connection between the scrawny Lunatic and the man in the photos, but the similarities weren't there. Not immediately, at least. Despite an obvious increase in age, the cuts and lacerations, and their state of undress, he could see the Lunatic in the photo. What brought them to this state of unhinged behaviour was anybody's guess.
"And now? Now we are the victims of a world meant for a hive." After what felt like a lifetime, the garage door finished opening, and the man saw the horizon of a city. Skyscrapers stood imposing in the distance, contrasted by a sunrise unbothered by clouds, and a dawn chorus. It was another summer day, and the early morning seemed to be the only reason why the Lunatic was preparing to lead the man outside. Barreling towards the man with fire in their step, they grabbed the seat, barely missing the more sensitive part of the man's bare body, and began to lead him outside, struggling with the collective weight of their cargo.
Once more of the unfamiliar location began to appear in his view, the man began to see houses to his left and right. He was on a street, with cars still parked in neat rows. Wherever he was, he rationalised that help could be nearby, and with that comfort, he let out bellowing yells for aid, assistance… anything.
"HEY! HEY! ANYONE?! PLEASE?! SOMEONE HELP ME!". His cries fell on deaf ears, receiving no sign of response from the setting around him, or his captor. No worse for wear, the Lunatic continued dragging the man to the sidewalk. As he continued to look around for oncoming help, he noticed the curtains shuffle in a few houses. No doors opened, and his repeated pleading only resulted in a weak slap from his kidnapper.
They stopped on the curb. The wind had become less of a tingling presence and more of a freezing force, the chill getting to him now that adrenaline had started to wear down to exhaustion. The Lunatic just stared endlessly into the landscape, paying no mind to their victim's dismay, the man trying to hold back tears in defeat. Above them, a low-flying aircraft droned over the birdsong that added white noise to the sight. The Lunatic turned, the knife somehow being easier to stare at than the crazed smile successfully breaking their victim down. "I'm so glad you could be here with me for this." Their continued pleasure finally caused the man to question them.
"Wha... Why are you doing this... to me?" The Lunatic held back a small chortle before choking on their own words in unity.
"Because now… now I can."
The Lunatic whipped back around to see the city one more time. With that final image, without hesitation, they threw their arm up and shoved the blade into their own neck. Pressing it further into the throat, they attempted to cut around the bone until their body could no longer receive commands. The damage was done. One half of their neck began to spray blood across a dirty chest, and a man who was hypnotised by the horror. The smile was replaced with twitches, a decreasing amount of movement, and muscles atrophying. Their body fell limp onto the sidewalk, arms spilling onto the road. A generous pool of blood soon followed, all in the view of a paralyzed man, who had stopped struggling. The sight of such a thing only increased his short breaths.
The man began to mimic the same mouth-breathing the Lunatic had possessed, slowly coming to his senses, but still unable to respond appropriately. Every part of him wanted to run, and while his legs were untied, the chair added an uncomfortable weight he couldn't carry. The knife had fallen onto the tarmac, and although the tape was giving way, part of him was hoping someone else could help him with this mess. He couldn't stare at the body anymore, now that it had stopped twitching, and the blood had quickly congealed in the lukewarm weather.
He looked up at the landscape, the sunrise growing brighter, although easier to look at. The wind continued to stay still, his only grace while the chair still provided an unnatural cold. After his breathing became more controlled, the man began to notice black specks increasing in numbers across the sky. They began to blot the sunlight out, breaching the stratus clouds with wispy wounds. They were moving closer to the ground, and with unnerving speed. Their trails only served to stain the sky, and as he looked up to the clouds above him, a black orb began to grow in size, ready to crash down underneath him. Whatever it was, he stared ahead with teary streaks, stone-faced in the preparation of what was to come next, refusing to blink. Refusing to close his eyes to what would happen next.
Then there was light.
"... And when I let that beam pierce me,
I said "There's nowhere else I'd rather be"."
A Walk Through the Forest
By: @Marceline
Word Count: 508
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown, Hunted, Body Horror
Chosen Format: Poetry, Free Verse
Green sighs, a thriving sign to see
amidst trees groaning, their boughs reaching
for the moon or shadows betwixt it, prolific things;
twigs and leaves crunch underfoot.
One look was all it took leisurely strolling through
those white-cedar leaves. One look left
poor Jack shook, "I could be home
with a book," he thought as he stopped breathing.
With any luck he could run for the car
Punch in a few things, let the GPS guide him
somewhere far under the stars, lest something
lingered, hiding in the woods to lick bones for dinner.
Bones that withered each winter, hidden
somewhere amidst the white-cedar snow clad trees.
The cycle of life as it was, for spring would come
and rebirth the hunt. A gentle breeze
nudged poor Jack, nearly set his heart flat.
Had something nudged the back of his neck?
He sucked a sharp breath and thought: It was just the wind,
I won't dare check. Who's that I see prowling in the woods ahead?
To tell the truth of it, simply a trick of the eye
the hunt was not seen, only felt by the mind.
Stomachs churned effervescently betwixt the
evergreen trees, bodies numb-stuck; legs of wood with
roots protruding from the sole to curl
beneath the soil and tether them to the earth.
The fear of the hunt petrified poor Jack, it was easier
to mark him that way. Sow the seeds of life
that is death, the cycle as it is, as he stood
learning to breathe again. What is this dread?
He thought: I'm dreaming and I can't wake up.
Why don't I run to the car instead? I'll disappear like I never was here.
But poor Jack was a sharp man, with an eye
for queer things that lie beneath the surface mind.
There was not a 'who' prowling in the woods ahead,
therein the white-cedar woods he felt the hunt, but
couldn't say what it was just yet. As he finally lay strung
upon his bed, the seeds of life sprouted within poor Jack.
He knew after one look the night would end like this
no matter how far from them he might be, one look and
like buds for eyes he'd see the green of leaves, all their
white-cedar trees groaning, their boughs aching to pull him
into the woods again. They gawked at him, not with eyes
a brain could use, but veins like nerves rooted in the earth
slithering beneath the soil searching for its seed sown therein
poor Jack, above his head a tree hollow tore a cavity
through his bedroom wall, white-cedar veins blur its pall.
Their sprung and spiraling limbs contorted round his neck
dragging him like a mattress from bed through its abyss.
One could say poor Jack would be missed, albeit no one
could say where he went. By now his bones have withered
somewhere amidst white-cedar snow clad trees, for spring
would come and rebirth the hunt. The cycle of life as it is.
By: @Marceline
Word Count: 508
Chosen Theme(s): Unknown, Hunted, Body Horror
Chosen Format: Poetry, Free Verse
Stalking
Green sighs, a thriving sign to see
amidst trees groaning, their boughs reaching
for the moon or shadows betwixt it, prolific things;
twigs and leaves crunch underfoot.
One look was all it took leisurely strolling through
those white-cedar leaves. One look left
poor Jack shook, "I could be home
with a book," he thought as he stopped breathing.
With any luck he could run for the car
Punch in a few things, let the GPS guide him
somewhere far under the stars, lest something
lingered, hiding in the woods to lick bones for dinner.
Bones that withered each winter, hidden
somewhere amidst the white-cedar snow clad trees.
The cycle of life as it was, for spring would come
and rebirth the hunt. A gentle breeze
nudged poor Jack, nearly set his heart flat.
Had something nudged the back of his neck?
He sucked a sharp breath and thought: It was just the wind,
I won't dare check. Who's that I see prowling in the woods ahead?
To tell the truth of it, simply a trick of the eye
the hunt was not seen, only felt by the mind.
Stomachs churned effervescently betwixt the
evergreen trees, bodies numb-stuck; legs of wood with
roots protruding from the sole to curl
beneath the soil and tether them to the earth.
The fear of the hunt petrified poor Jack, it was easier
to mark him that way. Sow the seeds of life
that is death, the cycle as it is, as he stood
learning to breathe again. What is this dread?
He thought: I'm dreaming and I can't wake up.
Why don't I run to the car instead? I'll disappear like I never was here.
But poor Jack was a sharp man, with an eye
for queer things that lie beneath the surface mind.
There was not a 'who' prowling in the woods ahead,
therein the white-cedar woods he felt the hunt, but
couldn't say what it was just yet. As he finally lay strung
upon his bed, the seeds of life sprouted within poor Jack.
He knew after one look the night would end like this
no matter how far from them he might be, one look and
like buds for eyes he'd see the green of leaves, all their
white-cedar trees groaning, their boughs aching to pull him
into the woods again. They gawked at him, not with eyes
a brain could use, but veins like nerves rooted in the earth
slithering beneath the soil searching for its seed sown therein
poor Jack, above his head a tree hollow tore a cavity
through his bedroom wall, white-cedar veins blur its pall.
Their sprung and spiraling limbs contorted round his neck
dragging him like a mattress from bed through its abyss.
One could say poor Jack would be missed, albeit no one
could say where he went. By now his bones have withered
somewhere amidst white-cedar snow clad trees, for spring
would come and rebirth the hunt. The cycle of life as it is.
yall definitely earned it and had me shifting uncomfortably a bit, but in a spoopy way. :)
