This story was originally put up on the ever talented wordpress plugin master’s site: FiddyP. Andy, being gracious as always, allowed me to retain my rights to this story. Without further ado, here for your reading pleasure is a twisted little black comedy I like to call ‘Fresh Meat’.

Gretta stood next to a dumpster in the alleyway behind her family’s restaurant, puffing furiously on a cigarette. She fumbled with the broken zipper on her coat for a while until she finally gave up with a defeated sigh and a twinge of disgust.

That’s it. I am buying myself a new coat for Christmas. Why didn’t I throw this ratty old thing out last year like I planned? Why do I save useless crap like this? I need to just grab a few dozen trash bags and get rid of it, all of it. It’s not like I’m ever going to use old catalogs, broken cassette tapes, or a year’s supply of plastic bags. Why is it so hard to let things go?

Her feeble attempts to ward off the frigid air by clenching her coat closed with one hand were thwarted by mighty arctic blasts. No longer able to withstand the chill, Gretta dipped the half-finished cigarette into the newly fallen snow. Then she dropped the soggy butt into her coat pocket.

“Damn zipper,” she mumbled as she turned around to reach for the door.

Dieter noticed his daughter trying to shake off the bitter cold when she passed the stove to hang up her coat. “Come and have a nice bowl of soup. I made it fresh.”

Gretta sat down with her soup. Just as the spoon was about to touch the murky broth, her face soured and muscles tensed.

“Wait, how fresh?” She turned to her father.

“Oh!” Dieter grew pale for a moment while he wiped his hands on his apron. “Not that fresh…” He glanced over at a man in a tacky, red Santa sweater who’d been busy studying the menu longer than it would take Dieter to read a novel. “Just a little something I whipped up this morning.” He smiled nervously.

It was too late. She had already lost her appetite. She felt nauseated and her head was pounding. Even the soft melody of Christmas oldies playing on the jukebox were grating on her nerves. Aching to get this day over with and just jump straight into bed, Gretta glanced up at the clock. That’s when she noticed the dirty tables waiting for her.

I can’t believe that I didn’t even remember to clean up after the morning rush.

Gretta shook her head while glancing down at the barely touched mounds of food abandoned by two teenagers.

“Such a waste,” she sighed and cleared off the table.

Just like my life.

She tried to push the unsettling thought away without success.

You ruined everything! We were supposed to grow old together. You were going to toss aside fifteen years for some silly little teenage girl with bleached blond hair and bad skin. How could you do that to me? I loved you! You fu-

“Excuse me, Miss?” The raspy voice of a patron flagging her over pierced the foggy veil of her thoughts instantly, but the bitterness lingered.

Gretta forced a smile and grabbed a pen and pad from her apron. When the elderly gentleman gave her his order, she struggled to suppress the urge to giggle. The hint of a grin flashed across her face as she strolled into the kitchen.

Her panic-stricken husband made futile attempts to jerk free from his bindings when Gretta opened the freezer door. He gurgled in alarm as he eyed the knife in her hand.

“You’re an utter waste of human life, but I just can’t bring myself to throw things away, even worthless trash like you. You got off real easy last time, Franz. I mean, how many people order tongue these days?” She grabbed his crotch forcefully and met his bewildered gaze with a smirk.

“This time, it’s German sausage.”

Sometimes a writer can get a bit too ambitious. That was the case with this story. I wanted to write a story about a man who was in love with love itself. I wanted it to appear that he was just going through the motions and that all his words were hollow, as if a he were a bad actor rehearsing lines for a play. This story was also in first person perspective. The combination was a real disaster. Ah well, you live and learn.

I love you. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but I do. I know what you must think of me but I am not a monster. I am not heartless, my love, but this is for the best, don’t you see?

Your tears do pain me so, my darling. Please don’t cry. I only do what I must to preserve our love. We’ve both luxuriated in its glorious fervor for over a year now but you know as well as I that things are no longer as they once were. Just small things really, like the pauses in our conversations that seem to be growing every day or that we barely hold hands now. It’s only a matter of time before these little pebbles of a rift between us turn into an avalanche.

Fight it as we may, the fire between us is burning itself out. Intense passion doesn’t last for an eternity, my sweet. Once our passion is in its death throes, our love will be devoured slowly by routine and boredom until one day we awaken and realize that we can’t remember what had once consumed us so readily. I cannot bear to be forced to see you with different, less adoring eyes as the years roll by.

Please, don’t cower from my touch. I know I deserve your contempt but it tortures me just the same. I am not enjoying this, my love. I gain no pleasure from seeing the raw anguish etched into your face. I only wish to comfort you, even though I realize I am the source of your pain.

I am sorry; so very sorry for robbing you of the future you’ve always wanted. It’s a sin that you’ll never get to know the thrill of having your first book in print, the big family we’ve talked about, the horses you wanted to raise, or the cozy home up in the mountains. I wanted those things for you too darling, for us both. Sadly, dreams perish with us but much like Romeo and Juliet, our unmarred romance will be preserved throughout the ages. In this way, we will be granted immortality.

Don’t struggle so much darling, you’ll just hurt yourself. You could scream until your voice caves in but the only savior to be found this night, is the one that I hold firmly in my hand. Shhhhhhhhh… Please don’t be afraid. Wherever this road may lead us, at least we will be traveling it together. They say love is sacrifice. Few people understand to what extent. Now be a good girl and close your eyes. This won’t hurt a bit.

I wrote this trying to create a horror poem for a poetry contest that left the reader feeling disturbed without using any gore or supernatural elements. This is what I came up with. Let me know if I succeeded!  

I love Cee Cee very much.
We share secrets.
Sometimes when I get mad,
I tickle her everywhere,
even her bad place,
just like Daddy.

I tore off one of her eyes.
I keep it in my jewelry box;
The button is smooth and black,
the way Cee Cee’s hair used to be,
before I used Daddy’s lighter.

Now Cee Cee won’t talk to me.
She doesn’t like me anymore.
I hear her crying every night,
but I won’t ever dig her up.
That little bitch might tell.

This is the only story that I’ve ever written that contained a good amount of gore. If that kind of stuff bothers you please do not read further! I wrote this for a flash fiction contest and I must say shows one of the many reasons you should refrain from pissing off a horror writer. We can be some sick, twisted little puppies. Oh, just so no one gets the idea, the woman in the story is NOT me. This is not a personal revenge fantasy.

It’s amazing what plastic surgery can do. He didn’t even recognize my name. Then again, it’s been years since he took my virginity on a dare. I thought he saw past the weight and crooked nose. He ripped my dignity from me then he dropped me cold. Tonight, I showed him what it feels like to be ugly.

He thought he was getting laid tonight and let me restrain him for a bit of play. I laid out my bag of “toys” and watched his beautiful face curdle with panic. I tore into his flesh the way he so callously tore into my heart and delighted in marring his perfect skin.

I carved one word all over his torso and limbs so everyone would see him for what he really is: a pig. How the lying, little piggy did squeal for me too, especially when I showed him my blow torch.

I hacked away at the charming smile that once fed me seductive lies using a steak knife. I allowed a few small chunks of meat to dangle for flames to feast upon. The smell of the remaining fragments of tissue from his lips being burned off of the bone reminded me of a pig roast.

This whole thing has really worked up my appetite. I think I’ll make myself a ham sandwich. After all, he’s got plenty of meat left. Hell, maybe I’ll make him one too.

For those who haven’t been around here for very long or simply don’t remember, strange things happen in my apartment. I consider myself a pretty rational human being and have never been one to believe in the Boogeyman or Bigfoot but the things that happen in this house are just creepy and too weird to ignore.

Anyhow, everything was blissfully quiet here since the coffee pot incident back in October. It was actually starting to look like whatever was causing all this chaos was gone which both elated and frustrated me (I feel driven to find answers at this point). Then this morning while I was sitting at my computer the overhead light suddenly turned on. The light switch itself was in the ‘on’ position.

Like last time my boyfriend was not home and my children were quietly playing with blocks on the other side of the bedroom. There is also furniture blocking them from being able to reach it and a height issue (they’d have to stand on something to reach it). Anyone have any ideas on how that could happen?

If spirits are real, it seems that they can go on vacation. Who knew? This is all so very surreal. Sometimes, I feel like I am living in the twilight zone.

This is the first short story that I wrote back in ‘06. I wanted to hint at some of the things that transpired without actually mentioning them. I wanted it to be like a puzzle you had to piece together. Some people got it, many didn’t. Oh well. It’s still not bad for a first attempt. At least, I don’t think so. Are you able to make sense of the plot?

Elizabeth watched, numbed to the bone, as her home burned to the ground, the flames devouring everything she held dear. Everything her parents worked so hard to achieve, all her childhood memories, lost in an ancient dance of embers.

She wasn’t sure when the tears began to well in her eyes but the wall of numbness that had enveloped her was rupturing. How she wished her father had been alive to see this. He was always so obsessed with his possessions. Better yet, she wished that bastard had been inside the house before she had set it ablaze.

They say fire can be a cleansing ritual. The blood on her hands could never be scrubbed away. Perhaps, the flames could sear that memory from her brain. Let her forget.

That night. Would it ever stop tormenting her? The echoes of a crying newborn mixed with her mother’s terrified screams as she guarded the doorway frantically trying to protect her child. Her father’s nearly inhuman bellows of “He ain’t mine, you god damn whore! Your son ain’t mine! You slut… You fucking slut!”

One shot was all it took. Crimson rivulets poured down the wallpaper like raindrops. This madman whom had once been her father, stepped over his wife’s lifeless form, gun in hand, into the nursery.

Murder-suicide they called it but Elizabeth knew better. It had been her fault. All her fault. She hadn’t meant to tell but the words just somehow slipped out like grains of sand through narrow fingers.

If only she had just kept her mouth shut… If only her dad had been sober… If only. Those two simple words put together have the power to torture one’s mind for an eternity. Yet, Elizabeth knew the truth. It didn’t matter now. All the “what ifs” in the world wouldn’t change the fact that modest markers in some dilapidated cemetery upstate were all that remained of the people she loved.

The billowing smoke signified that the god of fire had accepted her humble offering but she knew then, as the flames flickered all around her like a lover’s caress, that she was the sacrifice for which he lusted.

If she accepted his invitation she would be stripped of her burdens; her flesh purified as it burned away. The crackling embers beckoned to her, inviting her to join the merriment that raged beyond the foyer. The flames twirled like acrobats; their mesmerizing performance for her eyes alone.

Slowly, she crept closer to the front door, her hands balled tightly into fists of determination. Crossing the threshold, Elizabeth knew there was no going back. The deal had been struck. It was a fair trade; her body for her soul. Atonement always comes at a price.

Can you guess what horror legend this micro-fiction horror story was written in tribute to? He is one of my idols. He wrote some of the top horror flicks of all time and as far as I am concerned will always be the master of suspense.

I always said Mama was rotten. Her sour face and gruff demeanor could chase anyone away. That’s when it dawned on me; she really was rotting on the inside.

Her heart was fermenting from years of neglect. I knew the decay had surely spread to her other organs as well. So, I did what any good daughter would. I scraped out every last trace of tainted flesh and muscle. Then, I filled her gaping emptiness with sawdust, the way Daddy used to with squirrels and rabbits.

She’s much happier now. I know because she’s always smiling. She doesn’t talk much anymore, but I don’t mind. I just wish she’d change the channel now and then. I’m tired of watching PBS.

Well, it’s just about time for Halloween so I’ve decided to post this horror poem. This poem is about demonic possession. In my version of demonic possession the aim of the monster isn’t to destroy the person being possessed but more of a desire to escape from hell and live as the human they are possessing. Let me know if you find it creepy!

The mother you knew,
she’s gone, she’s gone;
I remain in her stead.

The wife you cherished,
she weeps, she weeps;
Her soul resides with the dead.

The woman you loved,
she rots, she rots;
She’s taken my place in hell.

The stranger you embrace,
she smiles, she smiles;
from within a stolen shell.

For those of you who don’t know the original story, please read a little about the strange things occuring in my apartment. I have an update of sorts. Something ‘new’ happened last night and I am officially starting to get a little spooked to say the least.

I was out in the living room laying on the couch after putting the kids to bed. I had a little headache so I was just relaxing with the lights off. All of a sudden I hear *click* *click* *click* over and over again. It’s coming from the Kitchen and while I couldn’t see, it was obvious to me that it sounded just like the switch to the coffee maker.

I got up to investigate and sure enough, the coffee maker was turned on with no water in it. Now, I know I wasn’t making coffee and my boyfriend had left to go out about a half an hour beforehand. He only drinks coffee in the morning and that’s on occasion. I’m really starting to get the creeps now. Anyone want to give me a rational explanation for this? Pretty please?

Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today
Oh how I wish he’d go away.
- Hughes Mearns

I’ve always considered myself a logical sort of person. I don’t give in to ridiculous ideas of fantasy, although I really enjoy writing about them. I just don’t happen to believe in mystical things like fairies or Bigfoot. I didn’t used to believe in things like spirits ether, until I moved here.

I have only told people online about my situation because I am afraid people are going to think I am ether seeking attention or am completely insane. I’ve tried telling people about this in a couple of online forums but I’ve found that the people there, well, didn’t seem all there… ‘Yes, I believe in supernatural occurrences and in the tiny tree people called ‘popo’ living in Guam that magically travel in time and send me messages about future events via morse code in my teeth fillings.” I stopped visiting those freak shows but it didn’t change the fact that there is something unusual about this apartment and I can not explain the things that occur.

Now, I realize that problems with the electrical system can cause a Television to turn on or off, but how about channel surfing on it’s own? Or when it goes from channel 2 to channel 62? That doesn’t seem like it could be caused by electrical wiring.

A short circuit could cause an electronic toy to go off by itself, I’m sure. However, when it happens with a bunch of different toys, on different occasions and some of them are switched off at the time, not to mention the fact that this only occurs in the wee hours of the morning… it seems like a less likely explanation.

The last thing I have no theory about whatsoever. My cabinets will open themselves. I am not talking about a tiny little crack ether. I mean swing wide open with force. I used to walk into the kitchen and get mad at my boyfriend for leaving them open. Then I started to lose my mind because I could swear I had just shut the cabinet a few minutes earlier and here it was open again. It wasn’t until I actually saw it happen once myself that I understood what was going on. (What the hell does a spiritual entity want with baking soda, a box of cereal and some all purpose flour anyhow?)

So, that’s my story. It sounds crazy but it’s true. I would never have believed it if it wasn’t me this was happening to. Yet here I am, somewhere in the twilight zone. I haven’t discounted the idea of blood pouring from the walls and voices telling me to ‘get out’ just yet but as it stands I am not as afraid as I am curious. I want to know what’s happening and why. Have you ever had anything weird like this happen to you?