Creative Writing Horror

Mojitos And Rage

I look at you and smile. That smile was actually a wink.

If only you can read the thoughts in my mind.

If you did, you’d stop what happens next.

It’s true: alcohol brings out the worst in people.

We are on a beach, there’s this mongrel dog yapping away at me.

The rum hits me, and the rage which was just an observer becomes a protagonist.

I get up. Grab the dog by its balls. Swing it around, deaf to its yelps of agony.

I slam it against a wooden chair. ‘I’m sorry’, it says. ‘I didn’t know I caught you at a bad time. I was just looking for some love. You see, violence is all I know. My wife only spreads her paws for me, when I bark and get aggressive.’

So you stare at me, because I nearly killed this dog, and now I’m offering it a mojito.

The dog tells me: ‘Please don’t make me drunk. I know how much you humans fight when you can’t bring money home since you waste it on cigarettes and drink.’

He understood how we function.

You still hate me. You hate me for almost killing a dog.

But what you don’t realize is that we have more in common than you. You who is staring at me in disgust.

Creative Writing Horror

It Made Sense Towards The End

Things have a strange way of connecting at the end. Of course, it made sense at the end.

A kiss planted on his cheek brightened his eyes, drew his lips into a smile, but still left his heart empty.

A question as to why he never grew taller as the years progressed led him to have a series of blackouts. Subsequently, he did grow taller.

He saw the wires and the mechanical contraptions that were scattered around the place. They seemed familiar. Almost like they were a language that didn’t have syllables or sounds.

As time went on, he wondered why there was no sadness or happiness in his life, only facial expressions that illuminated his face, which elicited a response from the people around him.

When it was time to die, he understood somewhere in his consciousness that green, blue and red was a sequence.

When the red wire was cut, and his CPU fizzled away with sympathy, he realized finally with an ironic thought that — He was, in fact, a robot.

Creative Writing Horror

My Superpower Was Helping Doug Onto The Other Side

I knew what happened when I saw the scene:

Doug caressed the revolver and whispered to it. And it whispered back. The bullet entered Doug’s head, and it ruptured his eyeball.

That hateful machinery of death:

1. continued across the orbital wall and through his ethmoid sinuses, which are those hollow areas around the nose, and
2. it fractured his frontal sinus, causing the leakage of cerebrospinal fluid;
3. the bullet missed the major arteries of the sinuses — this ensured that there won’t be any more bleeding.

Finally, that 7.82-mm intention of death whistled past his left orbital floor and out above his left cheekbone.

I held Doug’s hand, staunched the gushing of blood from his eye, and told him a lie: Everything will be alright.

But it was a safe lie, a good lie. Doug died with me plugging his eye socket with a towel. It’s better that he calls it a night instead of living a miserable existence in this life.

I felt his heart flutter, and he gave one final wink with his good eye. I sighed with relief, because we were in agreement.

Creative Writing Horror

The Empath And The Narcissist

It started with the love bombing.

He saw me in ways I never saw myself.

He introduced me to adjectives that I liked.

He did the usual tricks — the hoovering, the gaslighting, and the use of flying monkeys.

But I feel sorry for him.

He needs a new supply.

As I kiss his lips fervently, I promise him: Relax. I’m working on it.

This is why I smile in the dark. So no one can see.

No one can see how much I enjoy his suffering.

But he knows as much as I do that no one will put up with his tantrums.

I know the tricks people play and the things that they say.

He always used to drive fast.

It’s always as if he was running away from something.

I think it is from me.

Creative Writing Love

How This Love Ended

They both died holding each other.

One died with bitterness. The other with longing.

She thought: They were meant to be.

He was bitter because he felt this life was wasted with her.

She was still longing for him even in death. Even in nothingness.

Their families carried both their bodies on a cart on a long and dusty road.

If was on the 50th bump on the road that both bodies fell to the ground.

This is where they were buried.

As with all things in nature, transformation happened.

Both he and she changed: he into a scorpion and she into a butterfly.

One was destined to a new life of dealing death propelled by rage.

The other a life of longing for the sweetness of nectar.

The scorpion looked at the butterfly and thought he knew her.

She looked at him and wondered why she felt an attraction to something evil and deadly.

That thought lasted just a second.

They went on their way: one, to deal death, and the other to give life.

And this is how their one-time love ended in separation.

Creative Writing Love

Stockholm Syndrome And This Thing Called Love

How can I expect someone broken to fix me?

Maybe because there’s no choice.

Maybe because he’s just good with words.

The real reason is that he hurts me the way I want.

Bruised lips, black eyes, fractured wrists, and a whole recipe of pain. This is what I know as love.

He promises to change, and lay kisses softly like gossamer on the places he has bruised and broken.

And that’s when I know that everything will be okay. That he still loves me.

Yet nothing much has changed, because I know, and that is why I still sleep with the light on.

Creative Writing Horror

He Got You With His Laser Eyes

He was about to fire lasers from his eyes.

He screamed knowing that heat emanating from his eyes would be painful.

Nothing happened.

His colleagues in school laughed.

They trampled his lunch box and called him racial slurs.

He wiped a tear and walked back to his seat.

He contemplated the following: If I were to commit suicide, there will be plenty of Facebook posts, regrets about not being there when I needed someone, a dissection of my good deeds and character. But the saddest part is that with so many so-called friends, I just couldn’t talk with anyone. Let’s be real, funerals are a place to voice regret and alleviate guilt.

THIS was his reality. Or, was it?

But on a different Earth in a different reality, he was firing lasers from his eyes.

He watched them burn.

A crow squawked in alarm and took to the sky away from the heat and the burning flesh.

In THIS reality, the same yet different crow, took to the sky in alarm, wondering why it thought there was the smell of burning flesh somewhere.

Creative Writing Horror

An Echo From Space

Chris, the jackdaw, settled down comfortably and did what birds do — listen. Lots of things were happening in the world. Sri Lanka was bankrupt. Johnny Depp was embroiled in a court case. Starvation was all over. Crops were failing. In other words — Life was normal.

But life doesn’t just happen on Earth, it happens elsewhere too. And life elsewhere has different intentions. What followed an echo from the sky was a cry. The cry became cries. These cries were not cries of loneliness, pain, sadness or despair. These cries were reserved for those on Earth.

The cries that Chris heard were marked with intent. That intent was to kill. Chris perched on his human, and looked at him straight in the eye; and kept on saying just one thing on repeat — Trouble happening.

Creative Writing Love

In Search Of Daddy

Daddy can’t save you from the trauma your daddy laid on you, son. I know how you see me, and it’s endearing. I see you and everything that time has taken away from me. I want your youth.

Some stories last longer than others. Let’s hope this story lasts a long time. You equate this love you feel for me as a Forever Tale. But it just might be an episode of limerence that you feel.

I see a lithe body put through the rigours of gym. The tea-coloured skin with a sheen of sweat shining in the afternoon sun. The strained muscles with the vigor of veins pulsating underneath. The scent of man and youth permeates where I will lay you down and pleasure you.

You see simply a daddy figure. You want the stability and comfort that money gives, and the experience of pleasure in bed. You want the protection and embrace of someone who cares, and someone who will say that everything is alright.

You won’t leave me for now; if and when the money runs out, comfort collapses, and that’s what this Daddy gives. See son, I’ve done this before: I make it a point to know the man across this gulf, before I strike a deal. Sadly, you’re just another one. Everything has an expiry date including us.