A holiday treat… continued…

Later, they would tell him that his wife saved him, and that she stood above him with the axe like a soldier, rescuing a downed brother. He would have a bilateral amputation of the lower extremeties, and a skin graft over most of his tortured body, and he would be in a nursing home in his formative years.

And one day, he sat in a wheelchair. In his favourite window. He looked out, and he saw a pillar of smoke from a chimney.

He cast his eyes down, and with a tear, began to smile.

Hope you liked it…  Available for download here:


A nice holiday treat…

To brighten your Christmas cheer, a gruesome little story is here…


As the flame climbed a little higher, he began to sweat.

He tried to move, but his dislocated hip just grew further out of socket. He could feel a few tendons rip, and his femur slid, he thought, much further left than usual. The grinding that this action caused created a burning sensation in what parts he could feel. He could suddenly feel the rubber sole of his black boots melting, and his thoughts turned to irony. He got those shoes from under the same tree on the other side of the brick one Christmas ago.  The shoe melted, and his foot began to cook.

He could feel the pain, but his only thought was: how did I get here?


He held his bag of gifts, looked down the chimney, and smiled. His Santa costume glistened in ts high polyester glory, and his boots were polished to a high sheen– Army style. The white beard and wig he wore shone brightly enough to be seen at a distance.  The skies were overcast. A light snow drifted from the clouds. It was the picturesque Christmas morning. He realized, then, that he’d better get moving, so as not to be seen by the children he  sought to surprise.

He had gone it over in his mind a thousand times.
He would put one leg into the hole, then the next. He would then sit at the top, plant his hands on thee other side, firmly  extend his arms, and – just – slide down.
Well, you know what they say about best laid plans.
He got to the part where he swung a leg over. Then he slipped. For a reason or another, his  knee swung forward, and this action caused his knee to bounce off a sidewall, and levered his thigh onto the other side. Then, the gift bag fell in front of him, and all of the weight fell on his femur, causing it to move completely out of joint. His thigh then popped out of socket, and his kneecap deviated to the left. The combined weight then snapped his femur in half.
At first, for maybe a minute, he did nothing. He just kind of- sat there. Then  the pain set in.
He screamed.
It was a piercing thing, made progressively louder by the echo off of the smokestack. He screamed and wheezed with such ferocity that he could feel it in his soul. The pain was so incredible that he pictured nothing other than pure darkness, and then he blacked out.
As he slept, he had a dream. A dream where nothing mattered, where everything was fine. Where he dindn’t have bones to break, or kids to dissappoint. He was at dinner, and the sky was blue, not a cloud in it. His perfect wife brought out a perfect meal. It was an appetizer of warm dumplings and cranberry, with white wine… his favourites.
“Ready for the main course?” she asked.
“There’s more?”
“Yes, Dear, there’s always more.”
“I would love to. Could you bring it out?”
She went into the kitchen, and let the door swing closed. He looked at his kids, with their perfect hair, and they smiled at him with their perfect teeth. He smiled back, and the    door swung open. Her back was turned as she approached him. She turned around, flashed him a smile, and uncovered the entree. He looked down. It was his shattered femur, glazed to perfection.
And We’re Back

His plastic costume had melted, and curled up, as if to say, “Srew this, you can HAVE  him.”  He had been screaming for awhile now, and most of his body was charred and cracked. Then, quite suddenly, he heard a crack. Then several more. The chimney broke open and he fell with a thick thud to the floor.MORE NEXT POST…

JAmES (2)


Episode 2

He got out of the back yard, and walked the narrow path to the driveway. There were flowers of every color all along the path, placed there as if to mask the ugliness beyond the gate. He could see broken glass, trash, and various bodily refuse there, too, and  didn’t neglect his contribution. He spat a bloody molar into a nearby rosebush.

He reached his car, an original, a 1969 Ford Mustang from the age of American steel. She was beat up, but she ran. After a few tries, he got it started, and started the long drive back to his shitty lite apartment.

The city blew by. He barely registered the passing of the glowing structures that made up the terrain, the mutant Japanese sleds that zipped by (so quiet, you’d not know they were there, anyway), and the occasional turn left or right. The only thing that grabbed his attention on his merry way was the occasional bolt of pain, and the skinny little fucker who cut him off. He was in the zone.He had to be, though.

Otherwise he might notice the pain.

He got to his apartment, but only after he got through a line of protesters. They were protesting the eviction notices they all recieved, because they couldn’t make rent. They all carried signs (don’t they all) and they sported messages like “Babies, what did they do?” or “LANLORS dont EVICT FAMIILEES, GRED EVICS FAMILEES.”

He drove by those people and it made him sick. His only thought was, “Try MY line of work! Then you’ll be a TRUE BLUE hardworkin’ Americin’! Yessiree, that would shape you sorry sots up!”

He reached the gate (which had been bent, probably from a car hitting it) which also barely ran. He pressed the red button which caused the gate to slowly screech open, entered, and hand-closed it behind him — you had to, otherwise it wouldn’t close. He took the only open space available, which was a hike from his apartment.

He parked, got out, slammed and locked the door behind him, and began the parking lot ascent home.


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JAmES (1)


As he stood, he wiped the blood from his lip, and swallowed some of it. He watched, subliminnally, as some drops descended past his eyeline, presumably from his hair. For what seemed like forever he watched, until something flew at it. Instinctively, he dropped, grabbed the nearest cinderblock, raised it, and with a sickening crack, blocked the incoming blow. There was a fierce, animalesque, piercing cry that must have been enough to shake nearby buildings. The audience’s chanting grew to a roar — they knew what was coming. The opponent didn’t. The cries were silenced as James prepared his final move.

He took the same block, swung, and made dull, yet distinct contact with the other man’s stomach.The breath, in a sort of whuckkfff sound, exited his body, and the blood drained from his face. He fell with a thick, bassy sound, and lay stiff and silent on the ground.

James along with the audience, stood silent and watched as the hammer hit the table once… twice… thrice… and as usual, the big, black man shouted,”James is the winner!” The audience erupted again. James didn’t hear it anymore, though. He never heard anything, anymore.

As the poor bastard’s “freinds” (how could friends let friends fight him?) went to pick him up, he stumbled toward the black man — Jim, Tim, he could never remember.

“Give me my fuckin’ money, Tim,” he growled.

“Okay, okay, man. Hey, you really sold the show tonight. Whoo’ee, that was some shit!”

He had managed to wrestle the money from his billfold, and he handed it over. James angrily snatched it from his hand.

“Yeah. Whoopti fuckin’ doo,”

The man looked him over.

“Man, you look a kind of shit.”

James looked at the broken mirror near the door. Damn, Jim-Tim was right. Blood dripped from his short brown hair onto his badly shaven face in little lines and spots, his usually pale skin was now the tone of crimson, his tank was stretched and torn down the middle, his skin was pocked with broken glass – including about a one-inch shard embedded in his hand. His blue eyes were dim, dim with numbness from the Jack he had earlier, and his mouth hung slightly open, because he couldn’t breathe through his nose. One thing was unchanged, save for a little blood, though. His 3 dog tags (two from service, 1 containing a little picture of his baby daughter) were untouched. They had been tucked safely in the back of his shirt. He would let nothing touch them.

Tim-Jim interrupted his moment with words.

“What you’re going to do, is you’re going to go home, take a shower, get that glass offa you for Chrissake, come back Tuesday, and do it again. You got that?” He waited. “I said, ‘you got–”

“– yeah, I got it. Have a nice fuckin’ day, Tim.” He started walking out the gate.

“Yeah, you too. And it’s Jim, you piece of shit!”

He shrugged, and flipped “Jim” the goodbye finger, giving a fitting end to the conversation.


Attached (and below) is the FIRST story.


Or not…


D e l a y s…

Would’ve had story up… having hard time making blog 18+. Apologies!!

Details, Details…

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