Alessandra Francesca D’Olivera plugs her left nostril with outstretched pinky embellished with sharply honed viridian nail and blows a fluttering whip of blood-yolk which twirls like injured dragonfly sticking to a gold-brimmed replica of Claude Monet’s gorgeous 1915 painting Nympheas as the maddened crush of spectators stand in disgusted awe of her dead-eye-dick incisiveness; the tavern interior splattered in gambooge-yellow while the jagged-toothed Antonio Jacopo Terranova sits quietly in a darkened nook, his face shaded wicked by the twisted flicker of curled candle flame, shadows trickling along deeply engraved facial fissures and wax-crimped mustache edging thinly pleated upper lip.
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Posts Tagged short-story
The Monet Defiled
Apr 15
Searing wind gushed through my hair as I drove along the 1-40 connector – my trembling fingers barely able to hold the steering wheel – my life falling apart. My air-conditioner stopped working minutes earlier, adding layers of torment to an already scarring afternoon. I cannot believe they fired me. I went through the memory over and over…how could they care so little? Why does this always happen to me?
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The Waffle House Massacre
Mar 27
12:00 Midnight
I could feel strangeness in the air as I drove through the midnight mist. A full blood-moon eerily hung, spilling it’s maddening radiance across the black gulf water which was but a short distance from highway 90. It was a desolate night, and I had the only car on the road. I rolled my window down—my tongue sheathed in moistened, salty ocean breeze. Something was going to happen, something terrible.
I turned on the radio to hear the latest weather report, the announcer said, “I repeat, hurricane Katrina has been upgraded to category 3 . . . land fall is less than twenty-four hours. The National Weather Service reports the storm will hit somewhere between New Orleans and Biloxi, Mississippi. I repeat…”
I turned it off not wanting to listen to one more second. Rain started drizzling, while wisps of wind rocked my car—short but powerful gusts. I decided to stop and have a bite at Waffle House, the bright yellow sign flickered as I pulled in, foreshadowing what was to come.
Waffle House
wafflehouse
Luckily, there were only four cars parked out front and the open sign was still on. I walked in and was pleased by the delicious aroma of sizzling bacon and hot coffee. The beautiful young waitress smiled and quickly walked over, “Hello! How ya doing tonight?” She reached out and took my hand—I was flushed—my heart pounding. She stopped suddenly and turned around, facing me, close enough to kiss me, “Table for one?”
I tightened my grip on her petite, lovely hand and groaned, “I love you…will you marry me?”
We both giggled like silly love birds—my attraction to her overwhelming. I staggered, falling into my seat. “Candy,” the angered cook bellowed from behind the bar, “Get your ass back here and clean up this mess.”
“I’m Bobby.”
“I’ll think about it Bobby, my name is Candy,” she said walking backwards towards the cook, smiling and lips plumped.
Remembering a favorite line from the movie Highlander, I said, “Candy…of course you are.”
The Showdown
In the booth across from mine was a most bizarre spectacle, the likes of which would be a headliner on the Jerry Springer show. Two wannabe gangbangers in a standoff, staring each other down. One was a bald headed albino; a wicked blond brow forcefully muscled atop his piercing pink eyes—the left cocked high, both bloodshot. The other, a short pudgy Italian with two missing front teeth, the rest capped in gold. They both wore black leather jackets and nostril rings, something I find revolting.
They both turned their attention to my eavesdropping manners. Before they could ask, I quickly explained, “What it be like homey, name’s Bobby.”
The albino smirked, “Yo dude…I’m Casper. This is my boy G-dog,” then returned to their showdown.
Casper unsheathed a fourteen inch bowie knife, cut open the brick of cocaine sitting next to his eggs, trimming himself out a large line. “This better be Peruvian flake,” he grumbled, dunking his ghostly face into the pile and snorted like a wild boar, “Ahhh…damn, this is fire.”
G-dog nodded his head, smiling, “I told you, Pedro just flew it in today, 93.7% pure, no gasoline taste, no fat, no filler.”
Casper stabbed his mammoth blade into the table top, a single sparkle of light twinkled from the beautifully polished 440-c stainless steel—splinters blasting from the gouge. He tossed a brown paper bag onto G-Dog’s licked-clean plate and proudly stated, “That’s one-hundred and twenty thousand front money, I’ll get you the rest in three days.”
I was mortified, thinking these guys would never leave a live body before they departed. I turned to notice the scruffy old man sitting in the corner, sipping a hot cappuccino. He sported a nefarious scowl, wore a tattered army jacket and a hideous scar engraved into his face – a scar obviously stitched with heavy gauge fishing line in a wicked night of blood drenched warfare sometime in his nightmarish past. The man continually glared at the drug dealing pair. I fully expected him to unleash a shotgun and paint the walls in blood sodden flesh . . . any second now.
I suddenly picked up the scent of perfume, noticing lovely legs standing before me. Candy stood as an illuminated goddess in her waffle house skirt, tenderly speaking through freshly glossed lips, “Bobby, you haven’t even looked at the menu,” sitting down beside me, “we close in twenty minutes and I haven’t had my break. Would you like something or maybe . . . I can spend twenty minutes with you?”
Do you think it’s safe in here? There’s a dangerous situation brewing,” I said.
She leaned over, kissing me and said, “The storm? Hehe…the only thing dangerous is you and me . . . together.”
What kind of Waffle House is this? I felt like I was having a pulp-fictionesque nightmare, expecting Quentin Tarantino to be standing behind a camera, directing every scene. I said, “This could be our last night on Earth. What should we do?”
An argument exploded from the gangster booth—Candy nibbling on my earlobe—the vulgar albino stood up . . . blasting, “That’s nothing. Look at this,” pulling up his shirt to reveal five closely spaced bullet wound scars, “Five .44 magnum hollow points, right in the belly, top that . . . punk.”
G-dog jumped to his feet, pulling his collar down. A gruesome, serrated scar of pinkish tissue protruded thickly from his neck, “Ear to ear . . . fool. A razor sharp machete nearly cut my head off back in ‘97.”
They sat back down—Candy twirled her tongue across my neck, a soft hand moving inside my shirt—the two thugs in a horrific standoff. I was sweltering; scared, shivering, excited and petrified in stone rigidity. The old man in the corner throated, “You two need to get a hotel room.”
Candy had me intoxicated, her wondrous green eyes luring me wherever she wanted, “I love you too Bobby and yes . . . I’ll marry you.”
Candy turned towards the old man in the corner and shocked me, “Sorry daddy! This is my new husband.”
He replied, “Take her with you . . . please.”
Was he talking to me? That was her father? Both psychopaths took a huge snort of cocaine and faced off once more. The milky white Casper said, “Watch this.”
bloody knife
He extended his middle finger, crowned by a crusty yellow nail—apparently gnawed on by jagged teeth. He held the razored knife on his finger tip, gently peeling a strip of flesh from top to bottom—blood drizzling over his half eaten waffle. He continued peeling his finger as if it were a blood filled banana. He wound the three flesh strips together and tore them off with his teeth—spitting them on the table. He then put the skinless finger in his mouth and suckled the juices from it.
My body quivered in grotesqueness, trembling in the clutches of supreme horror. Candy saw the sickening event, turned and kissed me—wet with lust. Unbelievably, she said, “Wow, what a turn on . . . I wonder if they’re going to kill each other,” and licked my cheek.
My eyes opened so wide, it almost tore my eyelids off. My heart muscle began twitching in pain, pumping violently, my aorta about to tear open. G-dog quickly snatched a .44 magnum out of nowhere pointing it at Casper’s chest, yelling, “Take your shirt off. I want to see what five slugs look like ripping an albino’s chest open.”
From behind, a mammoth explosion murdered all tension, then another and another. The brutal stench of blood and gun smoke fogged the dining room in hellish fury. The sound of body parts pelted the greasy floor. I wasn’t sure if I was even alive. Once the smoke cleared, I witnessed two headless bodies lying on the floor, one with no arm. I turned and saw the old man standing with a sawed off shotgun, smoke still percolating from the molten barrel.
He walked over and said, “Let go of my daughter and step aside.”
Candy kissed me once more, smiling, “I love you Bobby,” while a cold chill slithered up my spine.
She stepped on Casper’s scarlet soaked chest and reached for the bag of cash. The old man whirled the shot gun at lightning velocity. Candy’s head disappeared and then the thunderous blast of death. She was overcome by morbid twitch—a fountain of hot blood pumped forth—splattering—shrouding me in terror. I stood as a frozen body, so scared I couldn’t even shake. Her headless body took three drunken steps and fell as a lifeless lump. I then heard the echoes of her last scream—after her decapitation—time passing in nightmarish segments.
Reprieve
The man stuffed the shotgun under his jacket and said, “Tastes like mercury don’t it?”
“What?” I asked.
“You’re covered in blood boy . . . it’s all up in your mouth. I killed her so fast, by the time she realized what happened, she was already dead. I wasn’t about to let that greedy little witch get a single nickel of my money . . . and besides, she didn’t really love you anyway. She would have murdered you dead—soon enough.”
He noticed how frightened I was, how fearful I was. He said, “Yep. Snakes, spiders, pungi sticks, napalm . . . nothing grosses out this old dog. Get outta here before I change my mind. If anyone asks, tell ‘em Sweet Willy did it.”
I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. Hurricane Katrina actually uprooted the entire Waffle House building, washing away all traces of what happened that night. Even if I told anyone, I know they wouldn’t believe me. I burned my blood soaked clothes and the car I drove that night. Every time the wind blows, I taste the morbid flavor of mercury.
*The Waffle House picture is from Flak Magazine.
*The bloody knife is from Tanner Cheeseman.
*This story is absolutely made up fiction by Bobby Revell.
*Sweet Willy currently lives richly in Burbank, California with his wife Helga and pet pit bull terrier, Roscoe.
The Blood River Flesh Hunter
Mar 12
Kuagili knelt to the blood river’s edge, her knees seated in warm black crystalline mud – a breathing plaque, percolating on transparent flesh. Cities of iridescence – muscular neurons firing off sparkled atop the liquid surface as it undulated – a gelatinous billow of shimmering flow.
She was tired of running. Seven long days and nights of endless escapes, but her hunter was still near; she could feel it’s presence. She needed sustenance. Her tired segments in need of precious xeroquam, the sweetened nectar of the quanxro tree – high in bloodfiber and spormadic quamozines. Her rubbery ligaments were stiffened from the endless journey and would become tenderly brittle without plasmodic moisture.
She extended her ridged back blades and tenderly plucked the mud sacs from betwixt her anterior cleft. They had become a source of tortuous pain. She filled her webbed palm with Blood River surface gel and smoothed it across her arid tongue – a succulent plasma indeed. Being in need of nutrients and liquidity, it was worth the risk. The river’s powerful hallucinogenic properties were the reality, but she had to feed.
She was corroded by fear. It devoured her. The very idea of being eaten alive by a flesh hunter chilled her deepest marrow. Her glands alive with secretions, her thorax plumped to full extension – ready to claw meat from the most vicious of beasts.
tangerine blood moon
Beautiful midnight smoke burst across the horizon. Angular geometries sculpted in vivid tentacles of insanity, sliced light rays woven by tangerine moon. “How beautiful” she thought, “No one from my village had ever seen the Blood River mist…and I too thought it was just a story.”
She remained hypnotic as psychoactive substrates infiltrated her cerebral cortex, flooding her soul in electric visions of fluidity. Xenon particle clouds soared through the blackness, illuminating every cell in her body. Her first intoxication – a stratified matrix – seething…expanding…breathing. Warmth flooded her in emotion whilst tears slowly oozed. Humid thickness lubricated her parched lenses. The pleasure was powerful and resonant, releasing her from eternity.
flesh hunter
She had never known such sinful ecstasy and continued forward…her tumid mindscape should never end. She writhed in haunting miasma, slithering across the crystalline shore. She was in need and gently slid into the river, floating as mouthwatering meal for her hunter; now – standing atop a quartz cylinder…peering down upon her glistening vesicle.
She gazed into him as he stood violently, a bloodthirsty hell beast wielding claws of surgical precision. Thickly enameled fangs, serrated and fearful, grew in caliber as purplish lips receded. He exploded to the sky; a winding cyclone of hatred. His body expansive…outstretched to astonishing length as he landed – coiled and contracted. Searing red eyes scorched her with hunger…glaring into the heart of terror.
Her heart convulsed as a jackhammer, almost breaking her meaty ribs. Suddenly…pure darkness. She wondered, “Am I dead? Please, God help me!”
A stream of frigid vapor gushed across her face and soft light drizzled through her scaly eye flaps. A familiar voice nestled her ever so gently,”Kuagili…wake up my dear…it’s your father.”
She opened her eyes…relieved from the weight of a thousand suns. Her father picked her up by the dorsal nodule and cradled her softly in his secure grasp, “You were having a nightmare my sweet Kuagili Wuahili…poor thing. Did you dream of the Blood River Flesh Hunter?”
Though trembling in fear, she began to settle in daddy’s arms. “Yes father…I did. The tangerine moon…and Blood River mist was even more spectacular than I could have possibly imagined.”
He smiled, holding her tightly, “My little girl is growing up! Soon we can go there together. We shall drink xeroquam from mother’s chalice. She would be so proud of you my love.”
Kuagili fell into deep slumber, with a wondrous smile on her lips…safe at last.
The wicked beast picture is from The Haunted Mansion.
I sat alone in blackened mist, a cold chill slithering across my flesh, shivering. Where was I? who am I? Out of the nebulous drabness of night screamed endless bellows of silence. I tried to move but could feel nothing, no ground beneath my feet. Though alive, I could not inhale any air, a pleasurable suffocation, vacuum of dreadful emptiness.
I recalled no memories and it seemed, my existence was but folklore spoken by no one – a tale untold into ear-less heads. I was an unwritten story never read, never written. I was an imaginary fabric of the void, a shadowy phantasm, a vacant bubble of dreams…but whose dreams?
A thousand eyes defiled my surface, examining every crevasse, probing all of which I did not know. Fear had taken my world and I knew they were there, watching my every move, predicting my very intention. A surmounting terror wrapped it’s powerful claws, clasping my heart, yet I yearned to hear it’s beat. It was close and I knew death was inevitable.
Conceiving echoes from a distant shore, thousand masterpieces of hellishness painted, still hidden, sheathed in black, behind which veiled my memories. I could taste the thickened flavour of ocean, a salty fog sheathing my virgin tongue. I felt no pain. I had no arms, no legs and no solid reality to sink my handless arms into.
A voice walked towards me, dragging a clubbed foot across searing lava – I could smell it cooking within it’s tattered, leather boot. I tried to cry but could not. My head remained eyeless, yet burned they did, in need of moisture, cracked and chaffed. If only I could secrete a single tear of blood to thank he who approached, to pay tribute for relieving me of this lifeless extinction. A whispering murmur shattered my windows of reality, groaning,”Who are you?”
Who are you, who are you, repercussing back and forth. Screaming jets of sound in textured layers betwixt my madness; reverberations of insanity, chiseling souls, molding dreams. The voice blasted in geometric amplitudes, pulverizing my boneless head, leaving it as forgotten mush.
The words bounced violently within my cerebral echo chamber and emanated an untasted odour, a silent fragrance encased in a glistening skin, undulating, bathing in silvery refraction. Finally, I began a forward velocity, mourning that which I dreamed, to answer the question . . . who are you?
There it hung in all it’s eternal loneliness: a mirror. The mirror of my dreams, above which dangled a solitary light to shine upon what I wanted so desperately to know. Though petrified in terror, I summoned the strength to gaze upon the unknown. I strained a powerful wave of visual acuity upon my reflection, taking in my identity, an attempt to solve my reality, to unmask my secrecy.
I felt that singular tear of blood trickle down my cheek, stricken by profoundity as I distinguished nothing. I was not there. I do not exist, a forgotten memory existing only as an unborn notion of nothingness. My spirit smiled, alas, my question answered . . . and I heard angels sing.
Killing Old Hag
Jan 15
I’m wandering through the frozen foods section in Wal-Mart wearing an ornate aura of nomadism, which masks my wicked intentions. Frozen dinners are the main part of my diet and I love shopping for them.
I’m reading the label on on a box of frozen egg rolls for twenty-five minutes while this vulgar old hag impatiently waits behind me trying to get to the freezer. I notice that she’s wearing sandals, exposing her hideously sickening, fungus encrusted toenails – with transparent skin sheathing purplish dead veins. “Sir. . .Please excuse me.” she says touching my arm.
I pretend to be surprised saying, “Who’s that!”
I step back quickly with my right leg wielding a thickly heeled boot – viciously stomping on her toes, placing all my weight on them. She tries to scream but cannot – hunched over with her hands on her knees. I bounce slightly, my heel still firmly planted on her foot.
“Scream you morbid old hag!” I quietly shrill.
She can barely breathe, much less scream. . .pure terror. My heel finally cuts through to the hard floor – her toes sheared from her repulsively milky foot while a puddle of black blood grew underneath. Mangled skin portions entangled in whole sections of varicose veins lie blood sodden, hanging from her amputated toes.
I’m smiling at her with my mouth, while my eyes stay frozen without emotion. With a look of excruciating pain on her face she clutches her chest; I can actually hear the muffled sound of her ribs breaking as her heart explodes. I pull a thick clump of paper towels from my pocket and wipe my boots.
I begin quickly walking towards the automatic doors and don’t see any store employees. I make it out of there without anyone noticing me – my dick is hard from all the excitement.
The picture I found years ago somewhere on line, if these are your feet or you are the originator of the photo, I’ll give you credit. No old hags were injured in the writing of this story.
BTW- This is an excerpt from one of two books I’ve been writing for over two years. It’s 1st person horror which makes it that much more disturbing. Remember, it’s just fiction…muah hahaha!
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Lick Your Fingers Clean
Jan 4
There it was again…my peripheral vision playing tricks on me, this quivering black shadow. I turned to look – evaporating, producing a humid steam…an exhalation of pungent dead man’s breath. I tried to comprehend where I was, the shadows of confusion encrusting my reality…what the hell is going on?
Oh my God…the morbid stench splashed across my face…this breath…the shadow revealed itself once more. I was not alone, something was there, all around me. I felt it sheath my body, I was embedded…cradled in this continuum of darkness, the fabric of death itself.
Trying to walk, I was blistered by a vulgar twitch…losing my balance, cracking my knee caps on the cold floor. Before my eyes sat five starving children screaming in tortuous agony, “Please feed us…we are so hungry…”
The vile dank of death hung thickly…I gagged, my stomach churning…ughh…uggghh! Choking, I couldn’t get air in my lungs. I coughed up a thickened black slab of greasy strings. Urrggh…bleeech…I splatter vomited that which clogged my esophagus…ridding my body from this horrid portion of sickening gelatinous matter.
The children pounced like bloodthirsty dogs upon my still hot puke – suckling the blackened gristle from their bony fingers. Voices moaned, “Run…you must run!”
I was paralyzed, frozen in fear…I couldn’t squeeze a single drop of movement from my wilted, dying body…”Help me…PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!!!” I bellowed violently. My undulating body quivered in absolute grotesqueness…”HELP ME…….!!!!”
The five albino children gathered around me, blood drenched strings draping from their drooling jowls – vomit crusted, milk-white faces…one said, “I’ll do the honors…” he smiled at me, “For that which we are about to receive, may we be truly thankful…”
Death’s Beauty
Dreaded outcomes
despised harvest
ending up like that
the lonely one
becoming my nightmare
without a fight
numb as a dead body
cold reality buried
expression, my only gift
earned in blood
descriptions egressing
from sores of pain
cold fingers of misery
coaxing every drop
Beautiful deaths shimmer
as distant liquid flames
breezes scented
flavours sweetened
endless finalities
final breaths forever
the last goodbye
a reflection of always
Deaths hand as limp carcasses
draping sickly
like wet rags of sorrow
my dead sun defecating it’s rays
on my garden of shivering dread
death too soon in my prime
leaving the needy behind
I am my own composition
my every component
I design every structure
I own every reflection
I burn every shadow
I voice every echo
design every thought
every action
craft every dream
mold every desire
I live beneath the trench of my soul
I am the plague which destroys my infection
my dreams melt from blackened clouds
then fall as scarlet rain
Warning! screams explode
open not your eyes
don’t look behind you!
I fall to my knees crying
forever alone, a stain on searing love
dust of my memories inhaled
choking those who listen
a thousand eyes upon me
as I melt into the forgotten
Tomb of Sleep
Almost, I can taste it’s scent
barely, my reflection still hidden
from the other side
breath steam
on the tips of my fingers
Reverse negative
my antagonist of opposition
my brother of contrast
being as both halves
human inversion
my contradiction
Electric ice flames of totality
never burn
but as transparent fires
with smokeless embers
standing still with time
side by side
ignited in winter’s furnace
Dying death’s death
my violent convulsion
my finality
death’s last shiver
Thoughtless minds of cold dead
dry thickly as arid slabs
packed into the grave of charred skulls
behind the masks of paralyzed faces
chloroformed into a coma of living
living as programmed
to stay out of the way
to die in what were told
life is. . .
A note to readers:
I wrote this when I was in a tomb of depression, burning in misery unable to get air into my imploded lungs. For four days of my darkest moments, I was unable to walk. I dreamed that someone was stabbing members of my family to death in another room. I was able to rise from the floor and ran to protect my family from harm and to unleash a wicked fury upon anyone who stood before me. Anyone there would suffer my personal judgment. I realized that the people I was trying to protect were already dead. All had died years ago, and for a moment in time, I believed they were still alive.
I fell to my knees…crying like a baby…knowing no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring them back. What a horrible delusion to have…a vile nightmare which made me so sick, I dry heaved for several hours.
In that dream, I had been enjoying happy, meaningful conversations and activities with my deceased father. It was so beautiful, so utterly wonderful, I didn’t want it to end. My father and I never actually had any of that. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. Perhaps it was my father reaching from death to tell me he loved me. Maybe it was pure insanity.
Whatever it was and however horrifying it was to realize he was dead for a second time, those moments were the most precious times I ever had with him…even though it was just a dream…I will cherish it forever because I needed it, I wanted it to be real.
I cannot protect him…he is gone. I wanted to, so badly, anyone trying to hurt him…well…by the time they realized what happened, they’d already be dead. At least I know, that no one will hurt another person before my eyes…not without dealing with me.
It has been said that violence is the supreme authority from which all authority is derived. I must disagree. Real authority is not backed by violence, it is backed by peace. The world we live in with it’s weak men using violence as an authority has got to stop.
Whether it is Osama or the USA killing people, it is the mark of cowardice and weakness. If I saw someone attacking my mother, or for that matter, a woman or child on the street – would I kill that person? Yes…I would. I would also spend the rest of my life in prison…or would I refrain from such an act?
All of this has me thinking…I would not kill them, if I could stop them without needing to. If they lie on the ground, disarmed…there would be no need to let a raging fulguration of anger stomp skull into mush. I could simply call the police after I subdued them.
I let go of much inner anger that day. For I am not a man of violence or evil. I am a man of peace and love. It just hurts to lose people. Losing my father and only having a few precious months of love between us as he was bed ridden, dying of cancer, was better than not having those moments at all.
In my dream, he was healthy. For some reason, I thought he was just sick. Everyone told me he was fine. I ran in the living room and hugged him. We grew a garden together and talked like real friends. When I realized, upon awakening, that he was dead…it hurt more than the first time I found out. What a nightmare.
If it weren’t for the love of the many people I have met blogging, I might not be here. Thank you everyone…my road to recovery is not going to be easy. The anti-depressant I am taking has made me feel really strange. I slept for about 36 hours and had no dreams I could remember. I feel pretty good other than that. Let’s hope for a little happiness around here 
Thank you from the bottom of my heart
