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Creative Writing Horror

Entitled

He loved Snickers the best. The way he rolled his tongue teasing away the peanuts from the chocolate and nougat made his cheeks flush; the pleasure centers of his brain always hit overdrive and pump out dopamine like there’s no tomorrow.

The only thing standing between a Snickers bar and him was his Mum. But whatever Eric wants, Eric always gets. Today, Eric wants a Snickers bar; make that 5 bars. He promised his Mum he won’t have a temper tantrum like the last few times; it got so serious they had to pack up their things and leave town.

But Eric knows that promises are meant to be broken; that’s where the fun lies after all. So when they reached the cashier, he quickly picked up 5 candy bars and threw them into the grocery basket. His Mum fixed her eyes on him and pursed her lips into a red lipstick line of worried discontent. She took the 5 bars and growled menacingly — No.

That set Eric off. He screwed his eyes shut and his jugular vein started throbbing vehemently. The cashier calmly watched this exchange of passive-aggressive body language and wondered where her boyfriend might take her out for dinner tonight. She really hoped it was not going to be Dominos; she’s done with pizza and anchovies for good!

As she was dispelling one junk food establishment after the other, she suddenly had a craving for a chocolate sundae with whipped cream and maraschino cherries. Her salivary glands embraced this picture with alacrity, and as she mentally dug in with her imaginary spoon into her make believe sundae, she didn’t realize that her cashier box, which she had opened, had coins that were shivering.

First they shivered ever so slightly; then they jiggled. It was at that point the cashier forgot about her sundae cravings and looked at the coins which were slowly and steadily floating up into the air. Silence diluted sound, and she slowly turned her head towards mother and son who were staring at each other angrily. It took some time to register, but it occurred to her in a dreamlike state that a mandarin was levitating and rotating around at the same time. A nervous giggle escaped her mouth while simultaneously a trickle of urine climbed down her leg.

It was when the mother turned her eyes away and said — Fine. Have your candy! — did everything that was defying gravity gracefully and politely land exactly where they were impossibly lifted up from. The cashier (displaying an open mouth with a trickle of saliva creeping down her lips which was caused by her imaginary chocolate sundae) was staring straight into the obsidian eyes of the mother who simply asked — How much is the bill?

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

Steak Knife

With a bespoke contoured handle that’s made to sit snugly in any hand, the Alethea Steak Knife that measures a convenient 7 1/2 inches was designed to carve through meat, sinew and bone cleanly, swiftly and more importantly — indiscriminately.

Tonight (in Mr. Perera’s hand) it swished through a pretty fine chunk of rump steak that left a dribble of crimson blood dripping on the white floor tiles, which formed a dark red puddle; Talisman, Mr. Perera’s pompous Persian cat, thought this was the ‘purrfect’ appetizer and lapped it all up as he watched his owner go about marinating and roasting his steak.

Talisman recalled with a sense of fondness how the Alethea Steak Knife, which cost a hefty 85 USD, was used by Mr. Perera to draw a fine red line across Mrs. Perera’s pearl necklace-decorated neck; this was a good 3 years ago. Thanks to the use of polyoxymethylene, which has a tighter molecular structure to resist fading and discoloration, the Alethea Steak Knife looked just as sharp and new as it did 4 years ago when it was first purchased.

Talisman also remembered, as he took a heady whiff of the rosemary-tinged aroma that pervaded the kitchen, how Mr. Perera chopped off the hands of Mrs. Perera’s boy toy, Alan, with his favorite steak knife. Talisman recalled reading once that the Alethea Steak Knife utilized Precision Edge Technology, which yields a blade that is 20% sharper with twice the edge retention. Alan, sadly, didn’t stand a chance against such innovative technology.

As the steak was served in a vintage porcelain plate atop the teak table, and a vintage Merlot was popped open, Talisman watched Mr. Perera lovingly clean the Alethea Steak Knife and place it on the fine recesses of the German-built pantry table; he tickled Talisman behind his ears, and settled down for dinner.

As dinner was slowly consumed and the last few dregs of Merlot settled on top of the chewed up rump steak in his stomach, Mr. Perera switched off the kitchen lights.

As the kitchen lights bounced off the shiny carbon stain-free steel of the Alethea Steak Knife, Talisman followed his master to bed only to awaken a few hours later to see Alan’s mother stab Mr. Perera 13 times (“That’s how many times he fucked that bitch of yours!”) with the Alethea Steak Knife; the deed was done swiftly with minimum trouble thanks to the heel bolster of the knife, which provides added balance.

After the woman made a hasty escape, two things occurred to Talisman:

(a.) Mr. Perera’s blood tasted similar to the rump steak, and

(b.) that the Alethea Steak Knife, which protruded from his chest and reflected off the ghostly moonlight, seemed a comfortable fit (Mr. Perera would disagree, he chuckled) and boasted a contemporary and inimitable appearance that unarguably made it the perfect steak knife.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

Summer

August came and went, but she’ll always remember August, because of what he said:

Give me a kiss and I’ll give you a smile.

Tell me something sweet, and I’ll buy you something nice.

You cover your face like the moon behind a shimmer of clouds.

Tell me you love me, and I’ll see you come around.

Darling, didn’t you know that I’ll pick two stars and put them in your eyes.

If only you’ll be a little less stubborn and learn to offer up a smile.

Three months passed, and it was turning out to be the greatest love story ever told.

They promised each other with the stink of sex between them:

Let’s both hold hands and write this story — our story — together.

Months went past but even as her stomach grew and she grew beautiful still, the theatre of life dimmed.

That’s when she opened her mouth, and an angel with a terrible secret whispered out aloud:

Do you know this little secret I’m about to drop softly into your ear, my love?

Street lights wept as she told him of early dementia. The days passed by, and he saw how thoughts, questions, and sanity itself fell away in her mind.

The only thought that remained in that fine sieve of her brain was a terrifying question:

Who am I?

He thought:

Relationships end because one person loves the other person a little less.

And he slipped a knife through with just a hint of a secret gasp, and she felt the skin, flesh and sinew parting with sympathetic and painful reluctance.

She thought with a last painful breath as the darkness came:

As you can see, even monsters were babies once.

When the world came to see her rest, she heard his Mama admonish him:

What are you doing?

He said with a surprised jolt:

Nothing Ma.

But she saw him as did the red-breasted robin nearby, spitting with glee, spitting with relief, right where she lay, right here among the leaves.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

3 Months

It wasn’t the cold that made her shiver.

It was because she was hiding something from me.

I pry her lips open with my tongue.

I wish it tasted like him.

I taste guilt.

Her breath smells sour like betrayal.

That’s when she says: I’ve slept with someone else.

I ask: For how long?

She murmurs: 3 months.

I bite her lips, because I want to giggle.

A 3 year marriage is supposed to end over a 3-month affair?

The joke’s on her.

She was always just a one night stand.

Categories
Creative Writing Love

Smile

Why did you have to look at her like that?

Was I wrong to think that your eyes were only for me?

Is this how this love ends?

Why offer up that smile? 

How many more secret smiles do you offer others when you promised (over a kiss) that your smiles only belong to me?

Have you grown tired of smiling at me the way you used to since we exchanged our hearts on that night? 

When I hold your hand, it’s not because I was saying Good-Bye. It was because I want to say that I’ll never leave you.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

Thought

John wanted to talk about Jim and him, and so he tried to part Jim’s hair with his gentle fingertips.

But Jim parted his teeth instead. Today, the upper cut dislodged a tooth and a thought. One went sliding down John’s shirt while the other flew upwards.

Choking with John’s hands on his throat, Jim knew this fact: When John hits me, I know that he loves me, because he finally sees me.

The cat, which wasn’t part of this conversation, could only look on in alarm. The poor thing sniffed at the thought that was lying sprawled in shock and agony.

The thought was a whisper: One has to finish the other one off. I rather it be me, my love.The cat sniffed tuna and waddled nonchalantly towards the kitchen. It wagged its tail and emitted a purposeful thought: Stories about love need to be eternal, don’t you think? Just like this one where killing is part of the plot.

Categories
Creative Writing Love

Wonder

I wonder if our love will grow stale once you grow and prosper in life. I wonder if all this effort will be in vain. Do you wonder the same?


Can you still love a smooth face that has given way to wrinkles and the shame of time?


Will you still care for the person whose head is adorned by the greys and whites of hopelessness and frailty?


Could you possibly kiss the lips of that one person who once remembered your birthdays throughout the years, but now forgets as he stumbles and falls in weakness?


I wonder if the whispers of I Love You will be forgotten — just an echo now, which Time has chosen to forget too.


Tell me — Do you wonder the same?

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

The Faithful Gardener

The memory played in Alain’s mind. Over and over again. First like a silent movie. Then it took on sepia tones — I want to do something for you, he murmured with a glint of lust in his honey-hued eyes. But she blushed, and he knew that she knew what he really wanted to do was something to her.

What ensued was a pleasant afternoon of lovemaking, yellow and golden in its luxury just like the bourbon that the China teacup spilled into his mouth now. But that ended quite quickly, didn’t it? Wonderful that, he thought, as a salty tear took its time to plot a route down the end of his eye and towards his strong chin that was decorated with golden grizzle. It dropped into his teacup of bourbon liquid.

So he spent his days walking in his estate. He loved the green of his garden. Quite like absinthe. He called out a few words of love to his meadow flowers; parma violets; pink and white geraniums; purple Pyrenean lilies; and juniper bushes. He caressed the bark of the fir and holm oak. He adored the Mediterranean chestnut and beech. Closer to his little cottage, he grew pink hibiscus, bougainvillea, syringas, lavender, and an assortment of poppies.

And now he went to bed. Just a wee sip of rosemary-flavored tea, and he hoped that the bedbugs wouldn’t bite. No one but the bedbugs for company, he whispered bitterly into his pillow and drifted far away where worries were just unknown and alien.

As the crickets chirped, and the crescent moon hid behind a gossamer cloud, Bernard bumbled over a hedge and onto the absinthe grass. Whipping his tongue over his nicotine-stained teeth, and liver-colored lips, he walked stealthily towards the cottage that house a lone flickering candle on the dining table.

But he didn’t get far. His ears prickled as he heard a rustling behind him; the skin on his arms popped up with goosebumps; and his tongue lost its capacity to whimper. Instinct told him something was up, and indeed, something was — the pink bougainvillea flowers fell like rain as the thorn-riddled branches grabbed Bernard by the ankles and hauled him up.

What did he get himself into this time, thought poor Bernard. As the bougainvillea tree pierced his eyes, nose, lips and tongue, the lilies, poppies, geraniums and hibiscus turned their faces towards the dangling corpse. They lapped up the rivulets of blood with greed and thanks.

It was only when the sun shone brightly the next morning did Alain venture outside to yawn luxuriously. As he went about his business watering his beloved plants, he just simply failed to see how the pink bougainvillea flowers have now turned a beautiful yet insidious red.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

So Alike

This little story features a bottle of red wine with a forgettable name, my wife, our mutual best friend of 18 years — Chris, and my two sons — Cameron and Brad.

Thank the good Lord for great friends, I slurred happily, and we all agreed and gulped down more wine. I look at my wife giggling at one of our best friend’s jokes; and then at Chris and his hazel eyes, dimples, and how he effortlessly raises his right eyebrow in a tease.

With the wine warming my belly, my eyes are forced to stare at Brad — and his eyes, which are a beautiful hazel, and deeply ridged dimples — as if they’ve forgotten what he really looks like.

It’s only when Brad turns to me and smiles, and raises his right eyebrow in an ironic arch do I realize that the joke has been on me for the last 18 years.