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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.

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.

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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.

Categories
Creative Writing Horror

Something Memorable

I wonder what she’s like, I thought. And just like that she came over to my desk, smiled, and plopped herself down unceremoniously on the frumpy chair in front of me.

We spoke.

We spoke about her requirement for 4G, and how she’s unhappy with the current list of data plans, and why her iPhone, which she bought from us, takes so long to charge.

I’ve always been fascinated with Customer Service. I get to see all types of people walk in and walk out. Inevitably they always walk out just a little bit unhappier. As a company we try our best to please, but it isn’t always so easy.

She rattled on, and with one ironic flip of my tongue, I managed to draw out a chortle from her. She has a pretty face with almost perfect features, I thought. She looked happy underneath it all especially when I managed to get her lips to eke out a sunny smile.

Our work was done, and it was time for the customary handshake. As our hands touched, I searched her consciousness. It’s something I’ve perfected for years, and through an ‘almost-osmosis’ sort of way, I visited her and sipped on her happy memories.

I chose two.

One was when she celebrated her 17th birthday with her mother; it was a memory that was made more precious and happier since her mother died a week later thanks to lung cancer.

The second was when she gave birth two years ago, and she named her little girl — Maria. What a beautiful girl. So strong and happy was this memory. After all, she did give her daughter her mother’s name.

As I completed the transference of those two happy memories into my own consciousness and owned it, I watched her smile fade along with the light in her eyes; no doubt her heart was feeling the void left by those two central happy memories.

Stealing memories is like a drug, you see. It’s so addictive. As she turned and trudged back towards the entrance — with her voice, eyes, gaze, and walk emanating a sense of real sadness — I felt something akin to a clot of remorse albeit quite tiny.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen her mother and her daughter from her, but that wisp of remorse left as another customer sat on the same sad chair in front of me as he smiled and started a harangue about his 4G connection.

All I could think of was how happy he seemed; I was looking forward to the moment when our business was done so we could shake hands.