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Creative Writing Horror

1000 True Fans

I honestly don’t know what came over me. Shit; in fact, I don’t know what came over all of us. It was madness for sure. How else can one explain the stampede and the buffet of gore that shocked us all after the adrenalin and the confusion of common sense wore out that glaze of bloodlust from our eyes.

She truly was a celebrity unlike any other; maybe she was an artistic odalisque in reality. Her grace and her inimitability is was unparalleled. Music is an art form that changed throughout the years. She was one of those few artists that could sing loud and with class. That voice was her superpower. She could throw it with a silky caress that left everyone spellbound.

I remember that day well as I spend my days seated in this rotten jail cell rotting away. I wonder whether it was her karma that she ended up the way she did with her body parts ripped up and dints on that perfect skull of hers. The 808 drums that introduced her hit — Take Me As I Am — made the crowd go berserk. As they all chanted her name like sex freaks and zombies, she made that one mistake of reaching out to touch the hand of a crazy fan.

It was at that precise and inopportune moment that her eyes took on a quality that could be described as being fey. Everything happened at once. As one fan grabbed her hand and hauled her onto the mad mass of human adulation there was that moment everyone screamed out in ecstasy.

They had their idol in their hands. And that’s when everything went wrong; so bloody wrong.

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Creative Writing Horror

A Sudden Unexplained Nocturnal Death

Chen stared at his reflection and gently dabbed his cheeks with rouge. He colored his lips a bright crimson, and inexpertly used eyeliner to finish his bedtime ritual. He tuned out the sniggers and whispered insults that he heard, and walked to his bunk.

Roy thrice asked Chen why he dresses like a queer before he goes to bed at night. Chen always avoided the question, except that one time when he uttered — phi am. Roy just assimilated that answer by flipping a finger Chen’s way presuming that it was a slur in Taiwanese.

Chen knew no fear. Except for the darkness that seeped in when the lights went out. On his second year of incarceration he knew of 10 nocturnal deaths. The prison authorities put it down to a phenomenon known as Sudden Unexplained Nocturnal Death (SUND).

Tonight as he pursed his crimson lips and looked at Roy, he prayed that Death would roll the dice and choose some other poor soul. Before the lights were switched off, Roy sarcastically blew a kiss his way. As the darkness enveloped their cell, Chen saw an outline form near the foot of his bed, and that’s when he closed his eyes shut.

Roy’s face was a rictus of horror illuminated by the sunrise. His passing seemed to have been a torturous affair. Everyone wondered whether it could’ve been Chen. Was it a jealous rage that caused this death? But Chen’s explanation of what took Roy’s life fell on deaf ears.

It defied science and logic, the prison authorities said. They threw Chen into isolation despite his explanations about it being the phi am. They researched the phi am, and laughed. They found out that the Japanese call it pok-kuri. Filipinos call it batibat. In Vietnam, it is the tsob tsuang.

They sent Chen for a psych evaluation, convinced that he was suffering from homicidal proclivities when he was violently insistent that it was a widow ghost, which preys on the soul of young men, that took Roy away. As they threw him back into isolation, he begged not for food or water or freedom, but just one thing — Can they please keep the lights on?!

They refused, and as the seconds morphed into minutes and then hours, Chen’s consciousness drew him back to that fateful night when the phi am trailed it’s nails with surprising and sympathetic gentleness along his naked thighs, and finally, confused by his feminized features, floated towards Roy and laid on his chest, trapping his breath and suffocating him slowly.

He still could see with clarity the way Roy reached out his hand pleading and begging for his help; and, how by morning that same comatose hand with its fingers pointed defiantly at Chen looked like an accusation that would forever be imprinted in his mind.

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Creative Writing Horror

Home Invader

Craving warmth like never before, he crawled purposely towards the house that was illuminated in an inviting glow of light.

So peaceful and welcoming, he thought. With a smile, and a whisper of gratitude he surreptitiously went in.

He won’t make a sound, he promised himself. But just as the warmth of the house enveloped him, and the brightness of the yellow light burned his eyes with luxury, he froze.

Precisely two seconds passed, and all hell broke loose as the woman in front of him launched into a chorus of deadly screams.

This gifted him a wad of fear that sent his eight legs dashing with alacrity towards the nearest crevice, which was shrouded in darkness and safety.

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Creative Writing Horror

Tempus & Potentia

Tempus is time.

Potentia is power.

Time is forever.

Power only corrupts.

Tempus and Potentia with hands held tight walked the streets of history to and fro.

Potentia drunk on the possibilities that are and could be poisoned rulers and lovers against each other.

Potentia’s blood lust wandered away until armies were decimated and countries were driven to dust.

Tempus tried to seduce calmness into Potentia’s heart, but Potentia’s eyes, which were dark as obsidian, glanced at her right hand and traced the shape of a bejewelled sword.

Feeling jealousy course through her veins, Potentia drove her sword into Tempus.

But Tempus didn’t flinch.

Instead Tempus reached out and reached into his aumonière and (with a tear or two) switched off the existence that is Potentia.

As Tempus traversed time, he smiled fondly and reflected on the conversations with Potentia that once was.

That smile widened in relief as Tempus realized that it never was.

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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.

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Creative Writing Horror

Walls Have Ears

The things I hear are murderous.

But only I will know this particular tale in its entirety.

The truth here is that the wife in this story loves her husband because she does not know him. 

Errant lips are an issue, because he came back and gave his wife a little gift that bloomed a bit like herpes. 

People are great at hiding their emotions. 

Yet there are cracks when agony seeps through and bleeds into conversations. 

You’d think that my ears can tolerate the misfortune of their circumstance. They can’t.

What happens when facades are so tight that feelings cannot show and are hidden to fester? 

The meds don’t work either. She slips on her meds and ends up right down where no one can see her. 

It’s time for dessert. Tragedy accompanied tonight’s sweet lemon pie. 

He asked — Did she tell anyone? 

Answer the question or I’ll drag it out of your mouth with this fork, he whispered. 

Who’d have thought that a fork could have such an insidious intention. 

She wrote the message but she never pressed the Send button.

He didn’t believe her and that’s when the cutlery found some other use. 

The stabbing was ferocious. The pouring of whiskey casual. 

But, as always, the headlines will always move on. 

As she lay dying, she wondered why she didn’t feel the smile that drew on her lips so wide.

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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.

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Creative Writing Horror

Do You Know Where The Dead Go?

Talisman used to wonder this with a purr and a tail wag, but his Mama used to raise her paw, and twitch her whiskers in annoyance. Or was it a whiff of fear?

The answer was apparent this Tuesday morning. As the wife laid his bowl of warm milk beside him; the husband slurped his porridge, and Mama’s mouth formed a moue of fear as their son tickled Talisman’s arched back with a fond giggle, which no one heard.

The dead? Where do they reside? The answer, Talisman realized, with his golden fur standing on end was that they in fact stay quite close to home.

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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.