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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.

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Creative Writing Horror

Stars On The Ceiling

Tony went to sleep, and he did sleep forever.

The blame the coroner put was on the high dose of poison in his system.

But Tony last night didn’t know that stars were dangerous.

Then again, do stars move at night on the ceiling skittering here and there looking for comfort as they fall from the ceiling onto you?

Tony thought it was Alula, Orion, Rigel and Perseus trying to snuggle up to him.

They found him in the morning blue; with necrosis spreading on his arms.

They saw Sydney Funnel Web spiders and Tarantulas making noises that sounded like happiness.

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Creative Writing Horror

How I Burned Earth

Tommy sees my eyes, sees me looking at him. He sees me seeing him as he slaps me and calls me a Dirty Queer. His friends laugh. They spit. One glob of phlegm ruins what they think is my mascara. Those lines are crafted in the language of the stars — Betelgeuse, to be precise.

Some of us are born of stars. Betelgeuse sees through my eyes. He sees the rage. But he glows a hue of red, which mimics a smile, and which turns crimson. Tommy sees my eyes turn red and thinks he’s seeing things. He sees a lot of things helped by the bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey and a six pack of Lion lager.

My red eyes will be the last thing he sees. Heat will be the last thing he feels. 20,000 degrees Fahrenheit spews through my eyes. Betelgeuse enters Earth from 650 light years away and does what a star does best — Consume.

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Creative Writing Horror

When The Bombs Land Just Smile

I was told to smile when the bombs are let loose.

So I did.

As the Germans unleashed the bombs, I let me lips curve outward.

I have been practicing with my children and my husband how to smile. Every day. Every hour. Every minute.

When one bomb landed and decimated my daughter’s body, I held her head in my hands, and cherished her smile. She had practiced well.

The church told us everyday to smile even if the world crashes around us.

First we have to give our tithes while smiling. Then we have to smile while we starve. But we were promised a smile in return when we die.

My husband and I smiled as we both held our daughter’s head in our hands and gave thanks to God.

As we heard the distant gunfire grow louder, a red-breasted robin looked our way from the window and smiled. We smiled back.

Because as the bombs drop, and a backdrop of blood and guts create a landscape of brightness, we will wake up in heaven and smile.

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Creative Writing Horror

Rapture

Pops laughed himself into his grave.

Because he knew that he was right.

Everyone spoke of how we were in the service of a cult.

That we were never normal.

It was normal: The prayer meetings, the divine incidents of speaking in tongues, and the visions. Or was it?

We never told the non-believers.

The ones who found out said that this was consistent with mass schizophrenia melded with narcissism.

In our family – These incidents were never meant to leave the home.

Pops, the narcissist, it seemed, only served us in service of himself.

Mum was different.

She knew something even when she croaked her last breath, and managed to say it out aloud: The hunger always passes. Remember that.

She had an appetite for something more normal. She was of course referring to cream buns.

The outsiders laughed at us, but when the fat smiles grew thin, and you just knew.

Daddy was right; he left laughing, and he’ll be walking on streets of gold.

When it started raining brimstones with angels bringing fire along with their smiles, we knew: it was too late to get on our knees and ask forgiveness.

Unlike Daddy, I will be going to my grave screaming.

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Creative Writing Horror

Will You Marry Me?

He dug into the chowder, and his face expressed a look of pure bliss.

A minute in and his face creased, coiled, and contorted in confusion.

Staring at me, he gently placed his spoon on the table, put his fingers into his mouth, and pulled out — a petite finger with a gold ring around it.

As his face turned into a grotesque mask of undiluted horror and disgust, I covered my mouth with my left hand (minus a finger) to stifle a gale of giggles.

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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.