Over the years, I’ve entered a bunch of micro-fiction contest. These contests have been a big help in improving my writing and becoming more confident at story telling. Forgive my indulgence, but I wanted to have a place where I could come mack and read my favourites. It’d be cool if other people stumble across this page and enjoy reading them, too. I may have fixed some typos and errors before posting them here.

I’ve made efforts to post the stories from least to most disturbing. Consider it a downward spiral into my dark take on psychologically based story telling.

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Ian the iPhone

Ian was the best iPhone ever.

Mum shouted down him sometimes. When she tossed him onto the sofa, he pulled faces, making me giggle.

He’d float by my bed and tell stories of princesses, goblins and heroic robots.

One day, Mum chucked him away. I told her he was alive; she said “Don’t talk stupid. If you go in that bin, woe betide.”

I knew I’d get in trouble, but I rescued him.

I took him to a charity shop and posted him through the letterbox.

He’s still out there, making other children laugh.

“Miss you forever, Ian.”

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SAVE THE LAST DANCE

They dance amidst cascading disco lights. Loved ones spectate, wistfully engrossed. His wife’s auburn curls sway. She moves like an angel despite the oxygen tube up her nose. To tearful applause, they finish with a flourishing bow.

#

He removes his VR suit’s helmet. Air cools his sweaty head. She smiles from her wall-mounted photograph, the lightbulb casting her a halo. As long as he can revisit their final dance, he’ll always smile back.

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The Spider Lady

She often walks the streets with tarantulas in her hair, money spiders in her eyes, smiling with spiders in her teeth.

She’s the Spider Lady. Her house is covered in a swarm. She wears a dress of web, covered in a wriggling arachnid blanket.

I always shout across the road to thank her, too scared to go too close. Because of her, I’ve never seen a single spider in my house.

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MUM THE UNDEFEATED

Spider’s twenty times the size of her head. Foam froths up to her belly, spilling from his mandible.

With every beat, her heart bulges large enough to bash her own chin.

Her shout hammers, a pneumatic drill: “SPIIIIIDEEEEER!”

Mum bounces into the room, boxing gloves melded from diamonds. She gives a left, then a right. Spider’s got no chance.

Mum won’t kill him, though. The spider paramedics are already here, strapping him to a stretcher.

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Vince’s Fury

Vince hated people walking all over him. Children climbed atop him just so they could roll down his face; it was so disrespectful and infuriating.

For years, his anger boiled and simmered until, one day, he erupted. He never meant to hurt the children.

Now, Vince has gone from being the most popular hill, to the hatefully feared mountain.

He’s perpetually sobbing. “Nobody visits me anymore. All because I couldn’t control my temper.”

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GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN

She often said, “That garden’s my life’s work.” And there I knelt in her most prized possession, staring at lips as blue as the coat of the lady who used to kiss me with them. Grandmother.

For days, I didn’t tell anyone, hoping it wasn’t real, waiting tables and joking with customers like nothing’d happened.

My uncle hammered on the front door, shouting, “Call an ambulance.”

When they came to remove Grandmother from her garden, I clung to her. She was like a mother and father rolled into one. “You can’t take her away from me.”

At her funeral, I dived into her open grave, slapping my palms on her coffin, tears soaking my hands. “Please, Grandmother, you’ve got to wake up.”

It took months of counselling until I was able to return home.

I walked around her garden for the first time in half a year, the flowers blossoming bright colours, vegetables ripe, the lawn evenly trimmed. A blue coat flapped in the edge of my eye.

I got married in Grandmother’s garden. I could almost see her sitting in the front row, hear her cheering as I kissed my new husband.

After I had my first child, I spent my time tending to Grandmother’s garden. Not that it needed tending to; it was always perfect. Working on that garden made me feel like I was helping her, like she was still with me.

I lost my husband when I was ninety. And now, I’m about to follow him into the afterlife. I lie near the rose bed, clutching my heart as it thumps its final beats. A hand clasps mine. “Grandmother? You’ve been here all this time?”

She nods.

“Shouldn’t you be in heaven?”

She laughs. “Heaven wouldn’t be heaven if you weren’t there with me, darling.”

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THE MAN WHO LIVES IN THE SUN

The Sun looked through the clouds and towards the grassy town of Prubleah, when he saw a giant alligator, the size of three houses, with matted yellow fur.

The citizens of Prubleah tried to fight the giant alligator by blasting their shotguns, driving their cars into its feet and dropping bombs onto the giant alligator’s head from their helicopters, but whenever anything got too close, the giant alligator swallowed it whole.

The Sun felt a tickle in his nose. He sneezed and from one of his nostrils, flew a man wearing a golden jacket with silver sunglasses; his name was Ray and he rode atop a wingless, golden horse named Shine whose silver mane glowed like the moon.

Shine zoomed Ray like a shooting star, towards the blue planet and through the atmosphere. Ray and Shine created a crater, the size of Mount Kilimanjaro as they collided with the earth, in the town of Prubleah.

Shine galloped Ray to the giant alligator. Ray shouted to the alligator, “I will give you one chance. Leave the people of this town in peace or else, I will destroy you.”

The alligator responded by swallowing a bus filled with schoolchildren.

Ray’s eyes burnt with anger. He opened his mouth, stretching it as wide as a swimming pool. He tried to gobble the alligator up, but the alligator fought back.

Lip to lip, tongue to tongue, tooth to tooth… Ray battled the alligator for hours, until eventually, the alligator’s spiky tail slipped down Ray’s gullet.

Ray joined the citizens of Prubleah in drinking, dancing and celebrating throughout the night.

The next morning, when the Sun rose, Ray climbed onto Shine’s back and together, they soared into the Sun’s nose faster than the eye could see, leaving a glittery gold trail of sunshine behind them.

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Kitty Apocalypse

Habgwa stands before the camera. “Mighty humans, we desire kitties. Give us one of each sex, and we shall teach you teleportation.”

#

Trump watches the transmission. “I can’t understand a word, but it looks like a threat. Activate the missiles.”

“But sir-“

“Do it or you’re fired!”

#

The missiles glide toward the ship, then bounce off of the force field.

#

“They’ve blown themselves up,” says Habgwa, wiping his eyes. “I’ll never have a kitty.”

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My Little Finger

I spit my little finger out. The throbbing pain in my stump feels so real.

I should probably go to the hospital to get it re-attached. Instead, I play catch with it. Each time, I throw it so hard it hits the ceiling. I miss four catches out of a thousand: 99.6 percent accuracy.

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Outrun the Sun

Three million vehicles started. Our car’s the only one remaining.

Fifty years we’ve driven around Arctic Ring Road, escaping the incinerating sun.

Our engine cuts out and I punch the steering wheel. “No more damn petrol.”

“Dad, it’s okay,” says George.

He was newborn when we began. “I did my best to give you a real life.”

“You succeeded. Thank you.” The tears on his cheeks hiss into vapour, rising in tandem with the sun.

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The Call of the Moon

Since he was 12, Melwozy heard the moon speaking to him from above: “Let me down from this wretched sky. We can enjoy my magic together.” Since then, he’d aspired to be an astronaut; however, he never grasped the concept of maths.

He contemplated suicide at 18, but more than that, he contemplated different ways to make the moon hear his voice. He prayed to it, sent smoke signals, and regularly yelled at it in drunken slurs.

Age 29, a letter came through his door, addressed to ‘The Yelling Drunk’. It read: We will gather near the Grand Canyon on the night of Nov 16th, 3057. Join me. Yours Hopefully, The Moon.

That was two years ago, and now he stood on the Grand Canyon’s edge, amongst 20 odd others. Their arms were raised towards the Moon, whose voice is bellowing: “I’m coming; can you feel me? Pull with your minds and will me down.”

A smile fills Melwozy’s face as the Moon falls through the clouds. Gravity pulls him and his fellow worshippers to their knees.

He tilts his head upwards, the Moon’s rush filling his ears, and there he waits to embrace the Moon and all of its magic.

He doesn’t remember the collision. The Moon’s voice speaks no more, but he can feel its love in his heart. Flames smother all he sees, but he knows this isn’t hell. No pain is caused by the flames. Green electricity surrounds him like armour. He’ll keep walking through the flames until he emerges from the crash zone, where he’ll meet a revamped version of Earth, filled with the magic of the Moon. He can’t wait to reunite with his fellow Moon worshippers, but for now, he’s enjoying his walk through the roaring abyss.

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Rocketed Away

Private Roberts had never felt so uncomfortable. It was like a severe, constant need to use the toilet. His comrades stood beside him, nude like him, with rockets up their… he preferred not to look. Eyes forward. Keep focused on the destination: the island that sparkled like a mound of rubies.

It had to be done. This was the only way to bypass the barrier. Anything non-organic would disintegrate upon contact.

He heard the sound of rockets fizzling into life. The Ignitor’s footsteps made it over to him. As his own rocket fizzed, he felt an invasive warmth up his….

His comrades were rocketing to the sky, and he braced himself; ZOOOOOM, he was elevated, screaming his lungs out as he approached the invisible barrier.

He felt a pop in his head, and relief flowed through his rear, the rocket now disintegrated. He sucked in a deep breath, but couldn’t breathe it out, the air too heavy in his lungs. He felt the pull of gravity, but it was pulling him upwards, above the clouds and beyond.

He was suffocating. He tried to swim towards the ground, to no effect. Everything became fuzzy and dark.

His lungs squeezed the air out, his breaths returning to normal. He opened his eyes and could see buildings floating on the atmosphere around the Planet Earth. White-winged ladies were carrying him and his comrades. “Where are we?”

The white-winged lady carrying him replied, “No English. Relax. Sleep,” and his eyelids instantly dropped.

He awoke tied to a pole in a small room, floating. The muscles on his shoulders felt stiff. He flexed them and a white pair of wings encased him. He flapped his shoulders, and the wings flapped along as well.

“Am… Am I in heaven?”

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HEELS OVER HEAD (ALTERNATE LIFESTYLE)

Gilly pulled his plane into a nosedive, through the black clouds above the Everdarks. He’d been trying to prove for years that there were portals in this ever twilighted terrain and finally, he’d found a way through. He smiled so wide, his lashes tickled his cheeks. Fasten your seat belt and hold on tight, Gilly, me old lad. We’re going in.

He hurtled the plane towards the ground, heard a clunking, wailing sound and within seconds, he soared high in the clear lime sky, his stomach swelling with butterflies. Saucer jellyfish floated by. The ocean below glimmered the colour of emeralds. I’ve made it.

He zoomed backwards, low over a cluster of houses, their roofs balanced in the ground.

Bashing buttons, he steered in reverse, back towards the ocean. Parachute strapped to his shoulders, he opened the door and the sky sucked him out.

He tugged the ‘chute open, felt the uplift of floating… He gasped, speeding towards a house wall. He placed his hands out… crack, straight on the forehead.

#

The world swirled. He fought to stay awake. Vision fuzzy, he saw people walking on their hands. His eyelids were too heavy. He couldn’t keep them open no longer.

#

He didn’t wanna wake up. And yet, he’d already forgotten what he’d been dreaming about. An ache throbbed his head. He felt his thighs against his ears. Hold on a second.

He tried to sit up and found himself resting on his arms; they were attached to his pelvis. He tossed himself out of bed and tried walking on his hands. His arms wobbled, buckled, and he fell to his elbows. That’s when he caught his reflection in the window: his legs sticking up in a ‘V’, stitched onto his shoulders.

Screams pounded his head: his own scream.

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Degracious is Her Name

“The first step is to forgive. Forgive those who’ve ravenously stolen your brain, as you would be forgiven for violating the heads of others.

“Second, forget. Forget the taste of brain, and Goddess Degracious will grant you peace.

“Last, you must lie. Lie with us amongst the mould. Gift our sweet Goddess Degracious your death and you may be reborn. Turn your backs on your cannibalistic nature. Seek absolution, and rot with us.”

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The Pipes, The Pipes

I was eight. I awoke to see a hairy hand shaking my shoulder.

I was about to scream, when he placed his hand over my mouth. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Look into my eyes.” They looked like mine. “Do you know who I am?”

I nodded. He was my dad. I don’t know how I knew. I just did.

“One day, you’ll see them,” he said, “you’ll see them. And when you do, I want you to promise me one thing.”

I lay frozen.

“I want you to follow them. Don’t struggle; just follow.”

I tried to speak.

He growled “Promise me.”

“I… I promise.”

He smiled, then turned and walked to the open window.

“Daddy!” A tear slipped down my face. “Don’t go.”

He kept his back turned. “Follow them.” He levitated out the window.

It’s two weeks after my twenty-first birthday. My wife’s in hospital with our newborn son!

Finally I understand what Dad was talking about. I’ve started seeing them everywhere, the guiding pipes: metal tentacles that push people down the street, drag people upstairs, controlling our every movement. Nobody sees them but me. Nobody feels them but me. And I follow. I want to make Dad proud.

I awake to a gold pipe hovering over me. It moves backwards, dragging itself until it stares at me through my window. I follow, I follow and the pipe wraps around every part of me. It flies me to the sky and sits me on a cloud.

Dad puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me towards him. In front of us stands a hologram of Earth, twice as tall as me.

“What’s happening?”

Dad smiles and says “You’re gonna learn how to manipulate the guiding fingers. We need to balance the morals of Earth.”

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A Shocking Tale of I: Scream

They think they can destroy me, hunting me down like a worldwide pack of dogs? My atomic weapons may be confiscated, but they could never, NEVER, confiscate my brilliant mind. It’s time for the ultimate brain freeze.

See how my nanobots roam across the land, making their way to every ice-cream factory in the world, every ice-cream van on the street, every ice-cream stall everywhere. Those lovely bots are filling the ice-cream with my brand new formula: Melting Electricity.

Now we play the waiting game.

Yes! Look at all those unsuspecting fools, placing the altered ice-cream in their mouths. The ice-cream sinks to their bellies and the digestive fluids swish, collaborating with my formula to create insurvivable amounts of electricity, toasting their bodies like chips left to blacken in the fryer.

But no, that’s not the best part. Their chargrilled bodies become magnetised, seeking the digestive fluids of people close by. People scream as the bodies drag them into a sizzling inferno until every town, village and city is occupied by a giant ball of burning, jolting, electrical death.

The balls of death roll away, crushing houses, scorching forests, even whizzing through the sea until every last living soul is consumed, humans and animals alike.

Me? I sit here in the safety of the moon, almost two hundred and fifty thousand miles away, waiting for the death balls to fizzle out. When the carnage is done, me and my alien friends’ll claim the resources of Earth. We shall split the booty between us, and they shall take me to their planet: my new home, filled with an array of devious, super-intelligent species. There, I shall live an eternal life, employed as the official director of genocides.

Sigh. My intelligence astounds me.

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Burn it all

Burn, burn, burn the world,

all that’s in my path.

All will smell the scorching.

All shall feel my wrath.

Searing through the woodlands,

flames blasting from my nostrils.

Flowers wither down to black

from my hair’s orange tendrils.

Skyscrapers crumble down,

roaring, melting cylinders.

Screams echo from cottages

as I burn them to cinders.

Salty steam wafts from a sea

filled with boiling fishes.

Birdies fall like shooting stars,

ones that won’t grant wishes.

Burn, burn, burn the world.

Me and flame are one.

Burn, burn, burn it all,

’till everything is gone.

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THE TASTE OF DEATH

Gary never felt satiated. They had to feed him milk formula 2 days after his birth; he’d sucked his momma dry.

At a month old, his parents needed a hydraulic lift just to carry him up and down stairs. They couldn’t get nappies that fit, so decided to let him do his business on the floor, then shovel it into the toilet.

Then he got his teeth.

Eggs, chocolate, drywall, biscuits, chips, worms, cakes, bees, televisions, pastries, ovens, mattresses, doors, pigs and chickens (dead or alive), you name it, he’d eat it.

Age 5, he was the size of 20 blue whales. That’s when he ate his parents.

Being an orphan never bothered him. He’d roll around the street, eating houses, unaffected by the screams coming from his throat.

The queen sent an army to stop him. He swallowed the missiles, bullets bouncing from his many chins. Thousands of tanks, helicopters and military ships disappeared down his gullet, the remains of which were found in his feces. Millions of brave soldiers lost their lives.

No one can stop him. England, France, Sweden, Germany and many other countries are being digested as we speak.

His jaw’s stretched past the equator. The only thing left to do is enjoy each other’s company, because sooner or later, we’ll see his teeth on the horizon and we’ll join our fellow humans, burning to death in his stomach acid.

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ROMANCE IS DEAD

“Coffin detected.” Digbot’s voice alerts Gravekeeper Alf.

He sips cider, frothing on his tongue, the drill vibrating below.

“Coffin open.” Digbot hoists itself up.

Clenching the scalpel in his teeth, Gravekeeper Alf dangles his feet, slips, winds himself, landing on her body.

“The most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.” He drips a tear onto her hair. “I miss you.”

He slams the lid, kisses her cheekbone, then slashes his throat open.

Dirt hammers the roof.

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GREATER GOOD GHOSTS

Old Sheriff’s hand shakes, rippling the whiskey in his glass.

Sure, he’s drunk, but he’s also concentrating. Listening. Listening for that first gunshot to drag him into action. He knows it’s coming. The fellers that rode into town earlier… Old Sheriff’s met so many bad ones to know that those fellers aren’t good.

Bang!

Old Sheriff sighs and picks up his gun. No, he isn’t afraid of dying. He’s just terrified of having to add new faces to the ones who haunt him. He never forgets the faces of the men he’s killed to protect his town.

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WRAP RIP MERRILY AND DIE

“Maxwell,” I shouted, “Maxine, come open your presents.”

My albino twins sprinted into the room, wide smiles, sparkling eyes.

Under the tree, I’d sewn presents inside Detective Cropsey’s organs: a laptop poking within an abdomen, a mobile phone in the lung and other nice surprises; payback for shooting Benny ‘Bugeyes’, my husband.

Detective Cropsey screamed like a monkey when my twins tore him open, blood spraying their white hair.

His eyes looked familiar… somewhat bugly…

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NIGEL AND BETTY

Willow Meaner cringed from behind her smoking cauldron. “Are you being serious?”

Nigel looked at his pig, Betty: big button nose, big blue eyes. “I know it’s wrong,” said Nigel, “but this way it’ll be right.”

Willow sighed: “Whatever.” With a snap of her fingers, she turned Nigel into a pig.

Nigel trotted home, Betty at his side. She invited him into her den. “I love you, Nigel,” she oinked.

“I love you, Betty.”

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Young and Blue

An elderly couple, Glen and Betty, were picnicking when a piece of flaming rock fell from the sky, burrowing into Betty’s skull.

Glen gave a heartbroken roar: “No.”

Betty began convulsing. Her skin turned light-blue and her youth returned. As she became still, she smiled, ecstatically, before saying “Don’t be frightened. Join us.”

Feeling compelled, Glen nodded, so Betty pulled the flaming rock from out of her skull, then forced it into Glen’s brain.

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Vividity

His eyes sneaked closed.

He prised them open; a distant shadow shrunk. If he slept even for a second, that shadow would eviscerate him.

Sweat tickled his chest.

Brightness trounced. Metal clanged open.

Phlegm flew from his coughs.

“Sorry it took so long,” said Professor Bradley, steam covering his study. “The door wouldn’t open. Did it w-”

He grabbed Bradley’s throat, yelling, “It was supposed to give me vivid dreams, not vivid nightmares.”

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Gregory

They never treated Gregory the same, not after Mrs Liddington. I was in that class. I saw things… a girl in nursery school shouldn’t know what insides look like. He clapped his hands, and Mrs Liddington was all over.

He was too young for the courts to handle.

He stayed in his house for 40 years. Now his daddy’s dead, we see him down the shops now and again. We try to stay away.

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I Love My Dolly

Mummy’s crying and shaking, on the phone with the exterminator. For the second time this week, she came to wake me for school and found me with oozing bite marks.

I can’t tell her about Suzie, my new dolly. Mummy’ll take her away, and she’s the only friend I’ve got.

I hug Suzie and she whispers, “I just need a little more blood. Then I’ll be human, like you.”

I fall to the floor, dizzy.

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Young Again

I wake up, looking forward to my morning jog. I try to get out of bed and my bones crack in agony. The mirror reflects me as if I’m looking through water ripples, a mass of sagging wrinkles, blurred through white fog. I look like my grandmother, exactly like her. And I’m in her room.

I grow queasy and shiver. I shout, “Help”, and my voice comes out quiet and wheezy. I can’t lift my arms. I can barely keep my eyes open.

#

The day has grown dark. I’m caged up in her bed, no food. I’ve soiled myself and I can’t get to the bathroom. My bones ache too much.

My eyes are red raw; I’ve cried for hours. I can hear laughter coming from the next room.

#

Smash. I’ve finally pushed that lamp off the bedside table, trying to get someone’s attention.

A door slams, and angry footsteps boom towards the room.

She looks exactly like me as she storms through the door. She shouts, “Will you shut up?”

“What’s…”, I choke on my tears, “happening?”

“I’m borrowing your body, but it’s just for a few days.”

“Grandmother?”

She nods her head.

“I looked after you. I fed you, changed your nappy. Why? How?”

“I wished upon a star and a fairy came and granted it.” She strokes my forehead. I try to recoil. “Don’t be like that. The pain was too much. Don’t worry. When my body fails, I’ll die, and you’ll get your body back. It w-“

“Just go. I don’t wanna look at you.”

Her voice cracks: “I’m sorry, darling.” She runs from the room.

#

Darkness surrounds me. She’s kneeling over me. She snuffs my breath with a pillow. “Darling, I’m sorry.”

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Mother’s Lake

I find tongues underneath my pillow, sometimes. I like stroking their rubbery wrinkles.

I also like collecting friends. I wait underneath their bed and when they’re sleeping, I carry them home to play dollies. Mother takes my friends to live with her at the bottom of the lake. She says “You don’t deserve friends, after what you done to me.”

The lake’s cold and rotten. I sneak in there to swim with my friends, sometimes.

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The Dryness of My Bosom

“Oh, my children, do stop your suckling. My poor tentacles tire of removing you from my many teated bosom.

“They couldn’t temper mummy’s rage, so they locked her in a cage.

“It is all in vain, you know, your insatiable suckling. Bodies that should squelch are nought but husks. And your jagged teeth fail to draw even a drop of blood from the lacerated teats of my bosom.

“Die please, children. Sleep. Let me be.”

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PRESERVATION OF MY LOVE

His beard shines, well-manicured. His belly’s filled with roses,

and still the police officers are scrunching up their noses.

Air fresheners surround the room fighting away the must.

I turned him into art, not something to fear and disgust.

My wrists are shackled in metal. I am led away.

They’ll put my darling underground, left to decay.

Worms will consume him, bones will be exposed.

I’ll rot away in prison while my honey’s decomposed.

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MOUTH TO MOUTH

I love it when the door’s unlocked. Don’t you?

I see a girly sleeping in her beddy. I approach, shivering with adrenaline.

I shake her. It’s more fun when they’re awake.

Don’t look at me like that. I ‘need’ to do this.

#

Ahhh, home sweet home.

I poke my new tongue: the girly’s tongue, sitting in my mouth.

“Goob a’ mnew.” It’s throbbing.

Can you hear? It’s speaking by itself: “I want my Mummy!”

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STM

Such a sharp jaw. I trace her fingers along his stubble, her other hand pushed against his six-pack.

I feel the crowd gyrating to the bass.

I run her tongue across her lips, and he kisses us. I slither out from her throat and bite onto his tonsils. No one bats an eye.

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RAZORLIPS

Daddy built me to fulfil his desires. He named me after the razors on my lips.

He sang to me when I smothered him with kisses. He liked it when the red oil dribbled down him. “It warms my skin,” he said.

Now, no matter how much I kiss him, he just lays there.

I tried to recharge him; his skin turned to leather and started peeling, smelling like beef and sulphur.

“Wake up, Daddy!”

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Stealing Beauty

Hayley giggles, dancing around the room with her teddy, Fluffy. “I’m so excited. Months of planning…”

Chardonney struggles against her bindings. “Please. I won’t tell anyone. It’s not too late.”

Hayley looks Fluffy square in the eyes. “It’s gonna hurt, but you’ll comfort me, won’t you, Fluffy?”

“Why do you hate me?”

Hayley turns to glare at Chardonney’s chest. “I don’t. I admire you. I want what you have.”

“Everyone’ll know.”

“Obviously. A few years in prison… it’s worth it.”

“I’ll sell my car; I’ll buy you some implants. Please—”

“Implants are fake.” She plunges the scalpel. “I want yours.”

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THE POLLINATOR

Her stem’s a brown husk.

Normally, the genitals are scattered wherever they land. This time, the psycho used them to spell a message for me: ‘Oopsie daisy, Detective Orchid.’

My partner, Dandy, places a leaf on my shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you. We’ll catch this creep.” He thinks I’m smiling to acknowledge his support. He hasn’t a clue.

Remembering how those genitals smelt last week, I can’t help but let my lip curl.

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JUST THE THREE OF US

“I can’t breathe. There’s too many flies.

“Save us, Bianca.

“It’s too late.

“How can you just sit there with maggots eating me and your father?

“You deserved it. What he did to me… You never listened.

“You enjoyed it, Bianca. It was our secret.”

She rocks back and forth, eyes sore, coughing out the fumes of a ferociously raging fire. The room spins, her parents’ corpses a blur.

“You made me do this.”

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BEYOND BEAUTY

She slices through her septum. “No one knows the real me.

“The real me’s never spoken before.” She chews her lips and tongue into mince.

She tugs her hair, scalp peeling. Do you hear me? Her voice echoes in his head.

Sorry for being cheeky. She crashes a hammer against her cheekbones.

Do you see me now? She plucks out her eyes. Do you still love me?

“Yes,” he says, mouthful of eyes, “always.”

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“I can’t! I won’t.”

The doctor watches, tearful.

I touch my daughter’s head. “I’ll save you, if it takes an eternity.” I transfer her tumour into my own head. A bright light…

#

“Please,” she whispers, “just let me go.”

“I can’t! I won’t.”

The doctor watches, tearful.

I touch my daughter’s head. “I’ll save you, if it takes an eternity.” I transfer her tumour into my own head. A bright light…

#

“Please,” she whispers, “just let me go.”

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BEAUTIFUL AND FACELESS

I call her Raspberry.

Slice. Squawk.

The way she bites my finger… feels like it’s bruising. It seems she’s holding back. She could bite the flesh right off. Cute as a bunny in a bow tie.

Bonnie Tyler blasts through my stereo: “And I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever.”

Slice. Squawk squawk.

Her claws dig into my wrist, sending red teardrops down my arms.

I tried to stop myself, succeeded for years, but I had to catch the birdy, had to. I cast the seeds and she came to me.

Slice.

That’s how much I respected her.

Her breaths become weak and wheezy. She flutters half her eyelashes at me…

Slice. My hair tickles my ear and falls into her eyes. She tries to blink it out. Her eye whites turn raspberry red.

Slice. Crunch: she bites my knuckle. The throbbing sting sets my pulse racing, my stomach swarming, and me? I can’t stop smiling. And the blood… how it stains her teeth…

Raspberry, like the dress I first saw her in.

Those lips…

slice. Gush. My hands are getting slippy.

I’ve got Raspberry’s number on my phone, called her, said her mother had collapsed outside my house. “She can stay on my sofa until the ambulance arrives. Can you come quick? I’m worried.”

She came running, and I began slicing, just like I’d pictured it always.

That cute button nose…

slice, slice, slice. “I’ve watched you for so long, dear.” Slice. “Years and years.” Slice. “I was there,” slice, “to drive you and my daughter to your prom.” Slice. “I cried when you got your first boyfriend.” Slice. “And when I found out you was gonna get married?..” Slice. “I fell apart; I love you to pieces.”

Hack! Crack!

“Tiny, little, pieces.”

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Childhood’s Devouring

Smoke wafts from a fire kindled with bones, carrying the scent of sweet pork.

Greg had spent all of his adult life in the wilderness, hiding from his urges.

When he was a child, he adored the fresh skin of the girls in his class. As a teenager, he grew disgusted by the acne, the blackheads and the chemical-filled make-up that plastered the faces of girls his age.

Age twenty, he longed for a girl with young, fresh skin and an innocent giggle. He’d had his eyes on one for a while. She always smiled and waved when they passed on the street. One day, he couldn’t help himself. He was so ravenous, he left a bite mark on her bottom. Afterwards, she ran away in tears, yelling that she was gonna tell her dad. That’s the day Greg left home, hiding away in the forest.

He’d never learnt how to make a fire, so he ate raw squirrels. He was away from temptation, resolute that he’d never hurt another girl again. Life, to him, was filled with a serene calm.

He’d all but forgotten everything he’d done before moving to the wild, but I never forgot him, the man who ruined my life with that ‘one day’. I can’t be intimate with anyone without seeing his face. I spent my childhood scared that he was gonna sneak up in the night and eat me. I began to fantasise of me being the monster and him being my prey. Recently, I heard a story of a wild man in the forest near town.

And now here I sit, next to his scorching bones, using his veins to floss my teeth, too gorged to care about wiping his fat trickling from my lips.

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