Monthly Archives: October 2019

Impossible Year: Caramel

(Okay, so I was originally supposed to post a really intense and serious shitty creepypasta-esque story that I wrote about a year back, but since it’s in my computer and it’s being a complete arse that won’t let up, here, have one of the parts from a Panic! At The Disco fic that I’ve been working on for a while now instead. Since all of the past halloweek stuff I posted have been nothing but morbidly dark and really gruesome, we’ll have something stupidly wholesome to end the spooky month instead. Boom, plot twist, happy Halloween fuckers!!! 🎃)

OCTOBER 31ST, HALLOWEEN.

Every house in the block and beyond displayed scary decorations on their front lawn; of plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, carved pumpkins and other usual novelty spooky items. Squealing kids rounded the streets with their friends and parents, donning various colourful and monstrous costumes as they knocked on doors and yelled a cheerful “trick or treat!”, and teenagers held their own parties and dared each other to do crazy horror-related things that either sent them running away screaming, or laughing, or in most cases, both.

It was a festive night as usual, perhaps even more festive and rowdy than he’d ever witnessed in his entire life, but Jon Walker simply felt like he was getting too old for this shit.

He had just dropped a couple of fun-sized Snickers on the bag of a kid dressed up as a vampire slayer (“points to him for being a notch above cliche,” Jon wanly mused) and was heading back to his living room, a cup of store-bought coffee in one hand and the TV remote in another.

Nursing a headache, Jon tightened his shabby red bathrobe and sipped on his drink, grimacing slightly at the strange taste of…what was it that kids these days called it? Pumpkin spice? Yeah. Whatever the hell that meant.

He groaned as he unceremoniously plopped back down on the couch to continue watching a random B-list horror movie he found on Netflix. As soon as he pressed the play button, the TV immediately died and all the lights in the house flickered off.

“Great, just my luck.” Jon dryly thought, scratching absently at his unkempt beard. “This is so textbook cliche. Next thing you know, I’m going to fetch my flashlight in the kitchen and there’s going to be an axe murderer waiting behind the fridge to hack me into pieces.

Fortunately for him, there wasn’t anything of the sort.

Although, there was a translucent little girl calmly sitting on his kitchen counter, which definitely was not there before.

Jon recoiled back in shock, nearly spilling his lukewarm drink all over himself in the process. He blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes furiously, and determinedly pinched himself on the arm, all before cautiously glancing back at the apparition.

But instead of being gone, the ghostly child was still there, and this time, she was staring straight back at him.

“Oh.” She piped up as she waved softly, making Jon deliriously laugh. “Hullo.”

“Oh yeah no cool, how’s it going? Oh nothing much, just TALKING TO A GODDAMN GHOST.” He rambled on senselessly in reply. The small phantom, however, seemed mostly unfazed by his reaction, probably already used to seeing that sort of thing. She’d seen worse.

“Are you okay, mister?” She asked innocently, stubby legs swinging back and forth and occasionally passing through the closed cabinets. Jon paused for a moment to think about what he was going to do next, and sighed out as he finally decided to give in to the sheer insanity of it all.

“I’m sorry. I overreacted. Let’s start afresh.” He said, clearing his throat extravagantly. “So. What’s your name, kid?”

“…Nic.” The ghost replied hesitantly.

“Nic, sure, yeah, that’s a nice name.” Jon pleasantly appeased. “So. Nic. Why are you haunting my house?”

She blinked a few times before limply shrugging. “…Dunno. I’m bored. And I think I’m supposed to, I guess.”

“That makes sense.” Jon nodded sagely. “Do you like scaring people?”

All he got was the same blink-blink-shrug routine in reply. “Dunno. I guess. I know I’m not very good at it yet.” Nic pouted sourly. “The older ghosts keep telling me to practice some more and if I don’t, some dumb priest or whatever’s gonna send me back to hell or afterlife or something, like they even know if that’s a real thing, they’ve never been. But I just wanna go outside and play with the other scary-looking kids, honestly. I only ever get to do that once a year, and I’m not even allowed to.”

Her eyes began welling up with tears and she turned away stubbornly, trying to hide them from Jon’s view.

Jon had never seen a ghost cry before, least of all a child ghost. For sure, he could definitely check that off his bucket list. Or just throw away the damn thing because for sure at this point, he’d seen it all.

He set down his coffee cup on the counter and carefully approached the quietly-trembling Nic.

“Well, Nic, if you don’t mind, let me tell you a secret.” He began. Nic still had her face buried in her hands and didn’t move even as he spoke to her, but Jon could sense that she was listening intently, so he carried on.

“Here’s the thing I’ve learned. Sometimes, you don’t have to listen to mean old adults. We’re just really cranky and tired from doing a lot of boring stuff. But you’re still a child after all, and you’ve got a lot to learn, and heck, maybe one day you’ll grow to be the best damn scarer in this cul-de-sac and scare those ancient naysayers back to their miserable graves. But hey, if you just wanna mess around, go wild. You won’t get a lot of chances to do that soon, and honestly—what have you got to lose?”

Nic finally rose from her hunched position and was seriously gazing at him now, a wistfully curious look etched on her pallid face.

“They can take you out of the fight, kid, but they can’t take the fight out of you.” Jon concluded with an assuring nod, finding even himself impressed with his whole speech. “Now go out there and trick or treat with all the other youngsters and show those creaky geezers that you’re made of more than goopy ectoplasm and boring boo noises.”

He shone his phone screen down as he fumbled with his ratty robe’s pocket, and managed to fish a piece of hard mint out of it. Secretly picking some lint off the old candy, Jon handed it to Nic.

“Here’s something for a start.” He said with a casual shrug, “I know it’s not much, but…”

But to the ghostly child, it didn’t seem to matter at all; as the bright grin that grew on her face could have lit up the entire house by itself. She excitedly swiped the candy out his hands (“Note to self,” Jon wondered absently, “ghosts can actually eat candy?”) with a shrill laugh and went in straight for an unexpected hug.

Jon shivered madly at Nic’s hold. The sensation was like getting dunked right into a vat of liquid nitrogen. But he tried his best not to show his utter discomfort as he awkwardly patted her on the back, careful not to let his hand completely pass through her.

“That’s, uh, that’s the spirit.” He stammered out with chattering teeth, chuckling at his own pun.

“Thank you, mister!” She gratefully squeaked.

“You’re welcome. Now git outta here kid, yer bothering me.” Jon replied with a playful wink.

Nic simply nodded fervently, visibly filled with a new excited energy. She waved back once again and smiled the biggest smile a ghost could possibly ever have, before finally running on ahead of Jon.

He silently watched the otherworldly child as her glowing ethereal outline passed through the kitchen walls, and faded away into nothing. At that very moment, the lights flickered back on, but Jon didn’t even notice, still deeply lost in his own thoughts.

“Trick or treat!”

A giggling chorus of childish voices outside finally startled Jon out of his trance. Picking up his cold pumpkin spice drink (which didn’t taste so strange anymore) and the half-filled candy bowl, he walked to the doorway, sighed once, smiled the biggest smile a person could possibly ever have, and opened the door.

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Filed under Prose

Catch Fire


ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴇᴍᴇᴛᴇʀʏ
ʀᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀɪᴠɪʟᴇɢᴇ
ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ‘ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ
ɪ’ᴍ ᴀ sᴡɪᴛᴄʜʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅʟɪɴᴇs
ᴀᴡᴀɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴀ sᴘɪᴋᴇ
ᴀ sᴘɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴇʀɴᴜᴍ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ…


bodies burn like the sunrise aftermath of the destruction

your lies caused—fractured spines ripped apart and counted

with the notches in their fingers, just a sinner’s aggravation

blindly feeding the grand delusion of pure freedom into

the prison cells rusted with blatant injustice, as you plead

for your worthless life and try to prove you’re not a stigma

you have holes under your palms and feet but you can’t

convince the world that you’re the second coming of christ

he’s fucking dead like your family, like you, like the stability

you once had before you hacked away at it with a blunt axe

from your locked toolshed—you left them all for dead, did

you leave even just one splintered breath? a single dose

of comatose or even close would have been enough for

a plea conviction, but every degree was coldly violated

you’re too violent! send the sordid sentence for electrocution

right away tonight, families will sleep a little safer and the

streets spilled with less vomit and spit, the constables

rejoice in favour of another bigger shrimp to fry—did you

even say goodbye? when the glow from their dwindling vision

flickered into the end of the tunnel that you’re chasing, how did

the liquid rose taste when you splattered the shattered mirror

trying to get it off your hands, did you really think it would stay

there forever like the devil on your shoulder? digging in deeper and

deeper, that’s why you smile so crookedly, and the steel manacles

aren’t helping with your shambling gait, either. now, look at the iron

witnesses and the tear-stained grievers and the burly man by the switch

whose teeth is a nasty shade of nicotine brown, like your last meal that

has been as bland as the bible verses of bullshit being spewed by the pastor

holy water nearly drowns you but it can’t drown out all the crying, the

blindfold’s suffocating but the disillusions inside your mind are ever

spinning, chew the rubber wedged between your mouth in agitation

don’t let them smell the fear, don’t let them know you’re here, don’t—

enough with the drama. enough is enough. enough will be the end.

and if anyone dares to ask you now, tell them just one more stunning lie,

“i don’t fucking deserve this.” famous last words, the very tail end

interrupted by one sickening jolt as the entire world lights up for your crimes

and the body of a monster finally burns away into the final sunset’s demise.


ᴄᴜʀʙ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ
ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs
ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍᴇ
ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴍᴇ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅ?


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Filed under Poetry

Sweetest Intimacy

Would you let me

Place my tender hands

On your warm chest

So I could cut you open

With a blunt scalpel

And let my fingers flow

Against your insides

That slippery sensation

Of panicking blood

Against this living flesh

Crushing the oxygen

Tracing lines around your

Lungs like star signs

Of a sky trapped behind

An ivory cage—spare

Me a rib or a vein or two

As my hands shall be

Exploring you way further

Find organs to suture

Or prod you into laughter

Are you ticklish here?

On your stomach, in your

Punctured diaphragm

No need to ask if you have

Got the guts, but don’t

Be heartless, I’ll miss your

Larynx for that chuckle

All before I stain your neck

With the red of your

Slowing aorta, and set you

Free with a final gasp

And just one gentle little snap.

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Elizabeth and the Zealot

His embittered smile proclaims of an innocently senile man, but his rancid breath reeks of irreparable psychological damage.

Outside, a group of children playing tag in the playground across the street, clambering across loose gravel and joyously shrieking as outstretched hands willingly grab for their shoulders, caught unaware and simply caught.

Inside his shirt, the old crucifix his long-deceased mother gave him on the brink of her deathbed, clasp half-broken and several priceless encrusted jewels missing; a toothless grin, unfaithful gaps. The tiny metal weighs heavily against his unwashed chest, the unpleasant sensation almost burning a hole through his heart. Sometimes, he mutters a memorised creed out of reflex, though no one believes in it anymore. Perhaps not even God Himself. But him?

Mindless gazes. The chipped, mouldy statue of a weeping wooden saint in one dark nook of the living room, rotting food and dusty candles its ever-resilient offering. The mirror, barely reflective, smudged with soot and cobwebs and his tuberculosis-infected saliva. The closed window beside him like a sleepy eye, tiringly wary as it occasionally betrays a resounding laugh or a glimpse of excitedly-billowing hair. He forgets so many things nowadays, but he always remembers. The children. He must watch the children.

Or else?

Or else…

Grabbing his ragged coat from the settee, the man coughed into his fist once, twice, and absently wiped the offending knuckle onto his beige pants. He headed for the door and resolutely grabbed the tarnished doorknob with a shaky hand. The hinges squeaked. A child, perhaps the acting leader of the pack, called out for everyone’s attention as he insisted to play hide and seek.

A countdown, and the palpable air of small bodies scattering. The man decided musingly, that he would humour them and join in their little pastime. He’s always been good at hiding. Though, he sighed out in quiet lamentation, with his old age and raging rheumatism, it would not really make the job any easier for him.

But only one child would win the game that night.

No one would ever find her.

He’ll make sure of that.

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Filed under Prose

Not Your Monster

I am not your monster

I’m not the flesh you wish to rend

With your bared fangs

Clawing the sides of my shoulders

As if making me bleed

Profusely would be your salvation

.

I am not your monster

Hidden underneath the floorboards

But you have a shovel

And a knife, and the dirt you dug up

Was crammed into my

Mouth, burying all the words I spoke

.

I am not your monster

Stitched up and painted to look alive

A bride without a heart

Shambling down the aisle in despair

Veil masking the frowns

Picking thorns out of my open palms

.

I am not your monster

A lullaby you use to terrify children

Threatening retribution

From such a wicked, deformed being

Still human; though just

Not enough to invoke empathic pity

.

I am not your monster

The madness you created for yourself

Scars warn to “stay away”

An urban legend for the rest of society

No, I am not your monster

But I fear you might be becoming mine.

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Filed under Poetry

voyeurism

conceal the past

wipe your filthy mouth

but your bridal dress

is quite sleeveless

and there’s too much

blood to staunch now—

now am i your perfect

silent witness?

.

the curtain protesting

against my hunched

body, you thought it was

just the midnight wind

billowing, but it was the

breaths i failed to hold

shallowly enraged and

almost fucking deranged

.

as the unspeakable acts are

fed to me live right before

my eyes, i want to throw up

i want to stain my melting mind

with a heavy dose of ammonia

and scream to god, and scream

to stop, let my oxygen burst into

flames from immense friction

.

disgusted beyond rationality

i can’t look away, my skin shudders

as i seem to hear yours being viciously

torn apart with a sickening rip and

a sickening crunch and a sickening

laugh—but why was it yours, shit

why the fuck was it yours?! eerie calm

ensues but i’m afraid to come out

.

from my flimsy hiding place—all before the lights

turn off and a shadow shifts in front of me…

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Filed under Poetry

Locked-In

Tell me, did your throat close up

When fingers wrapped around it like

Marionette strings, spindly and ready

To be pulled and consumed, or did

You get a final chance to scream?

.

Did your dear friends pick up your call

Or did your neighbours come a-knocking

When you showed up with purple bruises

On the underside of your crooked blank stare

Or your the therapist dismiss it as insomnia?

.

When the comatose finally began, and your

Rigid flesh contracted as if doused with ice

Water, as you didn’t even take a hot second

To shiver and whimper, dreaded rigor mortis

Taking over, did you try to wake yourself up?

.

Tell me, were your glassy eyes still open

When they stuffed you in that metal box

And the starving flames licked at your body

God’s merciful wrath your only sanctity, or

Were you lucky enough to blink just one last time?

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Filed under Poetry

food for thought

my stomach’s

a cracked vase

you’re filling up

with casket nails

.

i plead that i’m

already full but

you pretend to

not be fooled

.

my mouth fills

up with blood

but at least i will

not be thirsty

.

i’m getting used

to the taste of ink

and the aftertaste

of coppertone rusty

.

my stomach’s

a cracked vase

and the flowers

have long died

.

but if you’re still

curious, then go

ahead and check

whatever’s left inside.

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Filed under Poetry

tabby blonde

you showed up

in my dreams

last night again

and i thought

that was that

.

but just when i

thought i’d awake

’cause it couldn’t

get weirder, you

turned into a cat.

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Filed under Poetry

lesser of evils

sever the guidance

that takes on the dirt

transforming their silence

dismember your worth

.

crushed like full moons

finger pointed and waiting

meet your maker soon

but escape their sedating

.

remove the pure persistence

that dares test your goodwill

and if all else calls to failure

hold up your soul and kneel.

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Filed under Poetry