JSW Response 5-14-2017

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“You have an inner serial killer?”

“Yes. Sort of like the Kellogg Killer.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Really?  He was a big thing back in the 90’s.”

“Nope, never heard of him. Who did he kill?”

“Ah… Suzy Frost and her sister Sarah Frost.  Then again, they were both flakes.”

“Really? Anybody else?”

“Lucky Charman.”

“A Mafia boss?”

“He was just a big marshmallow.”

“This sounds pretty serious.”

“Oh yes. It’s been years in the solving.”

“You mean he hadn’t been caught?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you think he’s still around?”

“Oh yes, I saw him at the store the other day.”

“You know who he is and you haven’t told the police!”

“Well, it’s not like I want to rat on myself.”

“Wait….. you’re the Kellogg Killer?”

“Yep,”

“But….”

“I had to quit, you know.”

“Ah… why?”

“Damn Corn Flakes kept getting ground into the carpet.”

 

 

JSW Prompt 12-14-2016

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There was a speck of truth to its words, much as I hated to admit it. Kings were dropping like flies, but I’m not surprised. King are like flies – tiny, buzzing, annoying little shits that, remarkably, eat just about anything. You’ll notice I did not point out flies actually eat shit, but I guess I just did, didn’t I?

“You have a certain..point,” I admitted, leaning back against the stone, one hand thoughtfully on my chin. “On the other hand, I’ve heard some of the denizens of your ilk are having a bit of a rough time nowadays.”

I tapped my finger against my lip. “Did Medusa’s snakes get into a humdinger and kill themselves? Bad hair day…. bad, bad, hair day.” I shook my head as if I felt their pain. “And Cyclops? Fell off a cliff?  I understand he couldn’t swim.. Blind in one eye and….well…. blind.

“What about the ‘one-eyed, one-horned, flyin’ purple people eater?’ Did you hear? He ate a bad person and the indigestion killed him.”

“Yor pont?”

“No point, just making conversation.”

A huff, somewhere between a snort and a sneeze was it’s only answer.

“Shall I go on?”

Another huff, this one a clearing of the throat.

“Bad time for monsters.” I raised my hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture.

“Whatta ya wnt?”

“Well, since we were speaking of Kings dying and monsters with excessive troubles, I was thinking we might come to some accommodation.” I held up a hand to forestall the interruption wiggling on its tongue. “Nothing much… I am not an unreasonable man.

“Wha?”

Motioning it close, I put an around it’s neck and lowered my voice.  “Here’s what we are going to do.” For a moment, it froze as the dagger sank into flesh, severing its spine. Letting out a brief little “whum,” it crumpled to the ground.

Since it was never smart to assume in regards to monsters, I waited until the end. Bad, bad, day for monsters. After all, it had been stupidly simple to lure Cyclops right on off that cliff.

 

 

 

Daily Post One Word Daily Prompts – Liminal 11-26-2016

Liminal

Liminality (from the Latin word līmen, meaning “a threshold”) is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete. During a ritual’s liminal stage, participants “stand at the threshold” between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which the ritual establishes.

-Wikipedia

The Neighbors, Part 6

There are those among us who live false lives. Nasty men. Vicious women. Forgotten children. You will never see them. They pretend normalcy; friends and neighbors and co-workers. Inside they are monsters.

Am I one? Some things are best discovered on your own.


Sometimes the screams wake me, desperate cries ringing in the dark. I never help. I can’t. I won’t. There is only so much pain a child can endure. That, of course, is where I’ve lived my life since, inside the bloody hollow place where last I was a boy, long before I became the man I am now. I never saw the change coming, never even knew a living death was possible but it is…. gods help me, it is.

I was awake. Really awake. Cold. Dark. Deep. Trapped.

Somewhere a dog  barked frantically.

Damned dog. Rising, I pulled on slacks and a pullover from the day, treading bare-foot down cool stairs. The barking got louder. I unlocked the door to the basement and a thing of fur burst past, knocking me against the far wall.

Damned dog.

It rushed to the front door, barking, claws scraping wood. Lying in blood-stains, the only sound water on tiles and a dog in the distance. It couldn’t come in. There was nothing inside me to come into.

As soon as I opened the door, it sprang down the steps and around the fence, towards the neighbors. Good riddance.

I listened for a moment, waiting for silence, but it didn’t come.  The dog barked more and more frantic, sound turning into howls of despair.

Pressing hands hard against my face as if to stop the things inside from rushing out, I closed the door behind me. The grass was chilled, cold from overnight rain. The dog dug frantic at their front door. When he saw me, he started running to me and then back to the door, back and forth, forth and back. Barking.

I would have killed for quiet. I should have killed him the moment I saw him.

The door opened at my touch. He pushed in and I followed. I didn’t want involvement. Solitude was the only salvation I ever found.

The house was a wreak, eerily silent now the dog had stopped his uproar. I smelled it. Not a cut on the finger blood but much, much more. It was a smell I knew deep down in my bones.

Leave now. This isn’t your problem. Pack a bag and go away, find another corner in which to hide. Only I couldn’t. A shard of glass cut my foot. The room – floor, ceiling, furniture – were soaked in blood.

And the smell! The taste in my mouth. The squish of carpet beneath my feet. I heard somebody, somewhere, breathing heavily. The iron taste of madness hung suspended in the air.

I found Jane in the kitchen, no longer a pretty woman. She had been stabbed  until her chest was a bloody mass, head almost severed from her body. Nobody was pretty after that kind of death.

The breathing continued and so did I, making my way into the hall. The bathroom was empty of blood as was the first bedroom. I continued to the final room, cold fear spiking in my chest.

James slumped on the bed, hands between his knees, covered in blood.

I was in the shower. Hearing cries, screams, pain tangible in the air. If I helped, he would hurt me. Again. Again. I feared the hatred in his eyes. He wasn’t my father. He couldn’t be. I tried to be good. I tried.

Pumpkin stood guard in front of the closet, fur bristling, growling low and dangerous.

It hurt,” he whispered. “Hurt.”

There was little blood in the room not on James. You knew and you left me there.”

Crying. Begging. Screaming. Blood swirling round me, down the drain. Dripping down the walls.

“You died,” I croaked.

He shook his head.  “The minute you abandoned me, you died. I knew, knew, you were somewhere, hiding, pretending to be normal. Pretending.”

I drew in a careful breath. “Where is Janice?”

“She’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Like you should have been. Like you will be.”

I backed up as he rose, my hand knocking something hard. He raised the knife and I cracked the lamp on his head. He fell, knife laying where it had fallen.

I buried the blade into his back over and over. I’d been wrong to run, to leave him, but what did children know of monsters?

Gone. Finished. Done.

Pumpkin sidled over to me, head down, tail tucked between his legs. His cold nose nudged my face.

“Janice?”

He whimpered, slinking beside me as I crawled to the closet.

“Janice?”

Pumpkin barked.

I clawed the door open. She hurled herself into me, wrapped her tiny body around mine. Her heart beat a thousand thunders.

I carried her out of the room,  past the body of her mother, into the cool night beyond. “It will be all right,” I whispered, “I won’t let anybody hurt you”. Pumpkin trotted beside me.

“It will be all right.”

And it was.

THE END

Read Parts 1-5 here.

Quote For The Day 6-3-2016

“Fear is a … it’s a weird thing, when you think about it. People are only afraid of other things, they’re never afraid of themselves.” ― Dan Wells, I Am Not A Serial Killer

 

Do you agree or disagree with this quote?  Can you be afraid of yourself? I admit I am on the fence, but at least it is making me think.

Quote For The Day 5-31-2016

“The monster behind the wall stirred. I’d come to think of it as a monster, but it was just me. Or the darker part of me, at least. You probably think it would be creepy to have a real monster hiding inside of you, but trust me – it’s far, far worse when the monster is really just your own mind. Calling it a monster seemed to distance it a little, which made me feel better about it. Not much better, but I take what I can get.”
Dan Wells, I Am Not A Serial Killer