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Why Zombies are Fake – Definitive Proof!

January 24, 2012 Leave a comment

When a zombie bites you, a psychic connection is formed between you and the dead creature. If you squint, and only if you squint, you can see it. If your friends squint, they can see it, too. It pulsates, writhes around, like a tongue and an intestine patch-worked together. It is stitched onto your wound, attached at the other end down the creature’s throat somewhere inside of it. Maybe it’s bit other people; dozens of entrails pouring out from its mouth in every direction.

It is dead, transmitting thoughts and feelings to you and all its victims. Until you die, you will feel your own thoughts and emotions slowly replaced by frazzled nonsense from a broken mind. Nonsensical images formed by snapped synapses will flood your own vision, logic will be replaced by need, and your family will be replaced by cemetery emotions.

“Dear God, place me beneath the earth. Please, just bury me!”

If the creature is killed, the tether linking the two of you will cease to grow. You will have to drag the creature, sharing it with however many other people are still living, still attached. Psychic pus will continue to leak, along with fecal matter, scabs, and blood, until finally you are dead from poison and born as death.

Naturally, this can’t happen, so it’s all a load of total bullshit. Zombies are garbage.

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Categories: Fiction, Horror

Rain Water

October 5, 2011 Leave a comment

“Help me.” A voice called out softly in the rain, weaving through the broken trees. “Help me. I need your help.” It spoke like a whisper, but more excited, echoing just past the entrance to the woods on the far side of White Ross field.

Even as the rain beat against the plastic hood of his raincoat, Darren heard the voice. He had been sloshing through the grass—his rain boots slipping from his feet—hoping to find some crawlers. His feet made loud noises beneath him as he walked. Darren had purposefully given himself a soaker, and the way the water splashed around sounded a lot like a toilet. Darren had thought that was pretty funny stuff, although now he was focused on the voice in the woods.

“I need your help if you’re out there,” the voice called again. “I’ll die if you don’t help me. I’m in the well just past the entrance to the woods.”

Darren moved quickly towards the sound of the voice. Overcast skies had willed the trees and the grasses grey, clouds and wood and leaves merging effortlessly at the skyline. Shadows cast themselves beneath dim ashy trees, pine needles hidden in the dark and by the weeds. Darren was uneasy.

“Help me, please.” Darren could hear the voice becoming louder. No, not louder—closer. Even at the entrance to the woods, noises felt like they were coming from all around him, especially in the rain, quiet as it was.

Like the voice had told him, Darren found White Ross well no more than a few steps into the woods. The old cobblestone had begun to turn the rubble, it wasn’t very deep, and so it had a tendency to flood and spill in any sort of rain. If anyone was in there, they couldn’t be very far down.

The voice echoed again from inside the well. “I can hear you out there. I can hear you walking. Help me, please.” The voice had stayed calm, not fraying or becoming urgent in the slightest.

Darren leaned over the edge of the well and into the rippling, grey, reflection-less water. Within reaching distance was a younger looking man staring up at him, not at all taken by shadow. The walls and the water were grey, but still visible. Whoever he was, he was hidden beneath the murk, from just beneath his chin to up and around his hairline. He looked calm, and then he spoke.

“Will you help me?”

“I can try,” Darren replied. “But why can’t you get out yourself?”

“How would I do that?” he whispered. Darren watched rain drops collect in the back of the man’s throat.
“Just climb up the stones. The rocks are big and easy to hold onto.” He grabbed onto one himself to showcase how sturdy they were.

“I can’t,” the man said. “The walls are too slimy. I’ll slip right off. Will you lend me your hand?”

“You’re down too far,” Darren said.

The man pursed his lips and continued looking directly upwards. Above him, clouds passed in the sky, identical and grey, casting a dim light into the well and onto the clearing where the well had been built.
Darren asked the man how he had gotten down there in the first place.

“I fell in,” the man replied.

“But how?” Darren was starting to feel worse about the situation; frightened, even.

“Can I grab onto your raincoat?” the man asked.

“If I tie it to something, maybe,” Darren said.

“There’s nothing to tie it to. You’ll have to hold on and pull me out.”

The man had never answered Darren’s question, so he asked him again. How did he fall in?

“I have a secret,” the man whispered, looking past Darren and upwards into the sky. “There are other people down here with me—one for my right leg and one for my left. I can’t swim, so I’m standing on them. Otherwise I’d drown.”

Darren felt all the cold from the clouds and the rain travel up his back.

“I-I-I’d better get… I’d better get my parents,” Darren sputtered, stumbling backwards from the well and back towards White Ross field, the sound of water still splashing in his boots.

“Don’t bother!” The man’s voice echoed up and out the well, scraping against the trees. “I already did!”

Categories: Fiction, Horror

8 Minute Scabs

September 15, 2011 Leave a comment

So I’ve been doing 8 Minute Scabs again. It’s a great exercise routine, and blah blah there are better blah blah fuck it. It’s working for me. 12 days in and my abdomen is just one massive scab, so fuck paying like $80 for a gym membership or whatever I’m expected to do. This is better. It’s better because I like it.

Earlier today I wasted like three hours trying to pick at it and see what’s underneath. Trying to just tear off the entire mound is fucking impossible. It’s like a purple tank has adhered itself to my stomach. I mean, it wrinkles a little and gets cracked and crumbly when I bend over, but it’s still way too tough to just yank at. Anything that falls off just grows back anyway. It looks very similar to the way they tar up an old street to fill the cracks and potholes.

You can pull clumps off the top–they’re pretty crumbly, not sticky at all–but it’s impossible to dig deep enough without sending eruptions of puss everywhere. It’s cool if you want that, but my bed is now entirely coated in sticky white shit, and I look like a stupid pervert.

I was finally able to lift the corner up near my right pec. It took forever, but by prying at it with a kitchen knife and then sawing around the edges I got in and took a look inside. I can see some of my organs in there. They’re becoming scabby, too!

Categories: Fiction, Horror

Molest 100 GODDAMN children and become a Centipedo.

July 12, 2011 Leave a comment

LOWER THAN A BUG, YOU CUMMING SLUM-DIVE BUM, LURKING THE ALLEYS FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE DEAD WITH DEAD FEELINGS TRAPPED IN–Heeehhhh…

Lower than a bug, you cumming slum-dive bum. Lurking the alleys for the children of the dead, dead feelings caught in their eyes, trapped like gray corpses beneath where you jerk them off and finger their pussies and their assholes, stick erections in their mouths. You are the centipedo, 100 severed limbs from broken lives sewn onto your back. Lay back on them, you fucking piece of shit. Lay back on them as they prop you up, lower than a bug, but still above them. Nothing is beneath the dead.

Categories: Fiction, Horror

Gravestone Highway

June 30, 2011 Leave a comment

A gravestone found its way into the highway outside my house this morning, upright and with large font text. It has smoothly risen up from the pavement, and it is apparent that it came from beneath the ground, not from above it. It was driven upwards from beneath, or it grew there. Something wanted us to see it, but I don’t know why. I don’t think they wanted us to feel it, because I don’t think they know what that is. I watched half a dozen cars slow down and drive around it, eyeing it as they passed by. It didn’t feel right just passing by. Josh Renfield is dead after all, even if I don’t know who that is. It seems strange to me that I’m contemplating why he’s there, not who he was. I don’t think you could remove that stone. It would just come back.

I feel like that grave passes through all of the Earth, a slender slab of stone descending and emerging in the oceans off Australia’s coasts. It’s a hazard out there, peaking up just above the ocean. Some days it might be covered by a wave. A boat might crash, and people might die, and if they do, they won’t be named Josh Renfield. It won’t be destiny, or irony; it’ll just happen. People will die because someone has died.

It’s a plain red stone, smooth and lightly marbled with the black flecks that give it its character. It says Joshua Renfield, and then it says when he died. He died yesterday, and he was born in 1981. I can’t help but feel that he didn’t die like a person, or in a place that a person might be. Where did you die, Joshua, that you were made into a mystery?

Categories: Fiction, Horror

School Shooting: Response

April 5, 2011 Leave a comment

“My name is Jett Clark, and this is my associate, Birdy. Those are our real names believe it or not, though we’ve been called a lot of different things in the past few days. We haven’t heard them. We’ve been in custody, but our reputations are inevitable. I don’t know what you’ve been saying about us, but I have written and refined every word I am about to say to you. It’s important that you know that, and that you know I am speaking a finished draft of my thoughts and feelings to you, and not just what I’m thinking as I stand right here, right now. You all know what we did. We are the men who killed the Bluesberry Public Academy shooter, Darren Kent. We held him down and we murdered him, and with good reason.

I heard Star-Ellen, my 12-year-old niece, with her friends, screaming in fear–some of them pain–over a broken phone call. Most of those girls have passed away, and I am trying my hardest to muster up sincere condolences for their families. Those feelings of sympathy exist somewhere within me, but for the time being they’re buried. For those wondering, Star-Ellen is still mostly alive. I can thank God for that much, but that does nothing for those of you whose children are dead, and your wives, and your husbands.

Birdy and I have worked our entire lives in the death care industry. We are your funeral directors. He and I bury your kids, and some day Star-Ellen might, too. We spend every single day around the misery of families whose young ones are gone forever and ever. Regardless of that–and it’s Birdy who first realized this–this is the first time either of us have seen death at its most miserable.

He and I are now realizing that death is not a thing, or a feeling, but a place, and that we, as people, can be dragged there against our will at any time by anyone with the means to take us. We’ve been told that nobody can hurt us if we don’t let them–if we don’t give them the satisfaction… and that’s a lie. Anyone can hurt us, because we are built to be hurt.

And we will never stop these men and boys and girls who snuff us out, then take our lives, and enjoy it as they do. They kill our kids and stomp and drown and feel no remorse. They feel an aching anger that surges through them, and pleasure to feel that anger, and a jealous rush because we can feel back. I hate them, and they hate me. I’ve been told not to give them the satisfaction. It’s too late. They’ve carried me down with them, and all I’m expected to be able to hold over them is my ability to feel kindness and compassion, as if that does anything but make me even more vulnerable to hate. I’d like to think you all feel the same. I hope you hate them, too.

I want everyone to know that we don’t consider ourselves heroes in any way. We have acted out in anger, and would do it again if given the chance. We feel no remorse, except for what Darren Kent has done. However, we know that we’ve accomplished nothing. Apprehension is not prevention, and killing him hasn’t brought anyone back. Still, I wish you all had the same chance I did, because it feels great to know I hurt him. It’s the honest truth that I am glad I killed Darren Kent, mass murderer and school shooter. I can look back and see the miserable expression he used to plead with us. Shortly after, Birdy and I beat him in his scum face repeatedly with his own weapon, and then I shot him to death with the same rifle that stole many of your children.

As humans we are meant to fight. Even if we fight against cruelty, and against pain and violence, that’s still our fight. Most of us were bred for dignity, but none of us were bred for peace. If you feel the need to blame us for murdering Darren Kent, you can do that, and we hope you feel right in doing so. That will be a part of your new fight. Still, though, we will not accept the blame. We’re sorry, but we won’t.

Nothing Birdy and I do now will ever change a thing. We aren’t the City of 10,000,000 Dead Children any more. We’re the City of 10,000,878 Dead Children, and that number will keep climbing, and the only thing I can say that matters in any way is that to those who feel alone, you are, and so are we.”

Categories: Fiction, Horror, House of Clark

The Club for Wrinkly Boys and Girls

March 7, 2011 1 comment

I had forgotten my cell phone and somebody had stolen my car. I was downtown, a few hours walking distance from home, so I decided to start moving. It was already night, and it would be early morning by the time I got back. Not really wanting to walk the whole distance at night, and in the cold, I took a detour into a small shop to see if they had a payphone. They did not. I was greeted kindly by an elderly woman who immediately invited me into the back. The way she worded it, it didn’t seem like I had much of a choice. Large, hunched over shadows were pressed against the wall, most of them still, although some rocked back and forth. In the center of the room was a group of elderly folks enjoying pornography. They asked me to join them. The old woman told me they called themselves “The Club for Wrinkly Boys and Girls,” and she started caressing my shoulders, pushing me into the group.

“I have to get home,” I told her.

“Ohhh nonsense,” the woman cooed. “If you sit down and enjoy some tea, we’ll take you home after the movie-film. Most of us aren’t so poorly off we can’t drive a young mister home.”

I took a seat in between two old men who had patted the empty chair to urge me over. They were taller men, and they looked sweet and happy. Cracked lips, old man hats, and brown jackets, just like at the garden club. The one man immediately began rubbing my knee and told me to enjoy the show. To be honest, it seemed kind of boring. The other man leaned over and began whispering in my ear.

“I never had kids,” he told me. “So all this porno business makes me kind of sad. Still, sadness keeps the reaper away, so it’s a shame a plucky young boy like you is here. Makes me feel quite good.”

“I can move if you’d like.”

“However, if I could give you a tug, lad, you wouldn’t be a child any more. You’d be a Mister Man. Let me give you a nice, sexy tug.” I felt his tongue in my ear.

Quickly, I jumped up and thanked everyone, bowed out, and snuck through a side door into a cobblestone alley. There was no exit. Just two lantern lights, some ivy running down the walls, and an opening into the night sky which had let the snow in. Nearly immediately I was overtaken by two large men, angry, and with shrivelled faces, almost like rats.

“Boy, we’re going to take you off this Earth,” the one rat-man told me, forcing me to suck on the barrel of his gun.

The rat-man pulled off my pants and flipped me over, buried my face into the cold, wet cobblestone, and began to rape me. The other stood by and covered his eyes, occasionally peeking at me and smiling. It took seemingly forever, and I could feel myself becoming wet all over. Sweat, snow, blood, and whatever was leaking near my anus. I felt the rat-man pull out of me–like a smooth tearing–and he wasted no time in pulling out a blade, slashing it against my skin. They screamed at me gutturally, swearing and shouting and calling me names, pounding my head further into the cobblestone. I watched the one rat-man’s eyes bulge as he stood nearby and watched, shaking and occasionally volleying a barrage of angry swears at me.

The aggressive rat-man coughed. In a flash I was able to grab the blade from him and force it into his side. His comrade jumped back and hit his head against the face. I dragged it across his torso and watched as his organs fell out onto me. I scrambled backwards, his hot organs tangled in my legs, hit a wall, jumped up, and ran forwards at the second incoming rat-man. He tried to grab the gun from his dying friend, but before he could I jammed the knife into his throat and listened to him screech and gargle. He fell over top of the other rat-man, blood pouring out and soaking into both their worn jackets. They wouldn’t stop twitching. The less maimed rat-man, the one who suffered blood loss rather than the loss of his organs, started to clamber to his feet. I grabbed him and kicked him down again, and started stabbing him repeatedly. He tried to get up over and over, wouldn’t die, and just kept screaming and calling for help. I could hear air coming out in bubbles through the wound in his throat.

I had no choice but to cut off the top of his skull. Still twitching and stuttering, I began to stab him in the brain. Still, it did nothing. As a last resort, I dug the knife in deeply between the folds of his bleeding brain, down through the fibrous remainder of the arachnid mater and until I felt it click against the back of his throat. I stirred his brain up into a liquid goo which began running out his nose and mouth. He sneezed, looked as if he were going to cry, and finally faded completely.

I ran back into The Club for Wrinkly Boys and Girls, covered in blood, gore, and vomit, and tried to make my escape. The club quickly noticed and, with no time to waste, gathered in a large group by the exit. They stood with their hands folded over their crotches, their heads tilted to the right.

“We heard everything, young mister. We heard it through the door. Those P.H. Brothers are a problem, aren’t they?” the woman asked, putting her hands through my hair. “Weren’t they?”

“We can take care of them for you,” another man told me. Panicked, I asked him what he meant. “We can hide the evidence and we can keep you out of jaaaaaiiilll.”

I thanked him, told them I’d do whatever it took, and thanked them collectively once more. They shook their heads and began to swarm around me, caressing me, grabbing me, pulling off my clothes, and more excitedly than anything, licking me. I was held to the ground by spindly fingers and mostly unbroken limbs.

“You’ll need to get rid of these clothes. They’re covered in brains.”