Author Archives: Madd_Fictional

Blind Man’s Bluff

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The elegance palace I work at is huge, larger than most I’ve seen in the city, with at least two thousand working girls at an average age of twenty-five, which is pretty decent for a bordello.

In the center of the Hostess Center, there’s a big stage, where a live band sets the palace’s mood. Why a live band at a sex shop? To help break the ice. Most of the clients are pretty intimidated when they first walk in, so it’s the hostess’s job to make them relax.

One of the activities is the Single Mingle, where I have to dance with a client if they ask me. Refusing a client the dance means I have to pay a penalty. The only time I was ever tempted to pay was when this client who looked like he had great, great, great, great grandchildren, asked me to dance.

He kept pulling me in close by the waist and I could feel his erection poking my thigh. Hard enough to sex four women at once. But that was the only solid thing about him. His grip around my waist was feeble and he had a body tremor that he desperately tried to suppress. My guess is that he was rounding the corner on eighty and found a pill that gave him an eighteen year old erection. Problem is if I kissed him hard enough he’d have a heart attack, so instead I danced him around until his hard on caught up with his age and sent him on his way. I considered that my senior citizen service for the month.

***

I have a regular customer, a blind man, and if it’s possible for a girl in my line of work to have a favorite, then he’s mine. A hassle-free man that I don’t have to dress up in silly costumes for or pretend to be someone else. Our sessions are almost always the same. Short, but sincere small talk, followed by kissing and heavy petting, then a massage followed by a leg hump in cowgirl position until he ejeculates. The very first time I put his erection between my lubricated thighs and moved up-down for several minutes, he exploded easily.

When it was over, he asked, “Did you use a rubber?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

It caught me off guard, the way he asked. If I’m honest, I felt a little insulted that he thought I was so filthy that he could get a disease off me from a simple leg hump. I wanted to tell him what I pack is far worse than any STD he could ever imagine.

“Is it really all right with you?” he asked.

Then I understood. He thought he was inside me. I chuckled and explained who I was, what I was capable of and what I actually did.

“Taking advantage of a blind man, eh?” If he was hurt, I couldn’t detect it.

“That’s not it at all. You didn’t know who I was. You didn’t come here looking to beat the odds or for an easy way to die. You didn’t judge me based on my appearance. I wasn’t a spectacle. So, what I gave you was pleasure and let you keep your life.”

He reached out for my hand and I took his. “I’m not sure how happy I am being deceived like that, but it felt real. The best I’ve ever had.”

And the damnedest thing happened. Despite the fact that I sell sex and death for money and I hate my job, this blind man paid me a compliment that made me feel good about myself.

Pathetic, I know, but you have to take the good bits as they come.

And for the record, for all you that might think a leg hump is lazy, let me tell you that it’s more work and harder to make a man ejaculate than either manual or oral stimulation.

Now, I hear you asking, “If you can do all this then why do you kill so many men?”

Human men die because human men are stupid! I offer them options but they always want what’s worst for them. Who wants any other orafice when they have access to a taboo killer vagina?

Did I mention how stupid human men are?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Prexing Elevator Chat

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

For most of my life on your world I’ve made my living working in an elegance palace. Before you ask, the place I work at is really nothing more than a bordello. I don’t know who came up with the name elegance palace, but I have to tell you, neither I nor any of the other girls working there find anything elegant about it.

The elegance palace is secreted in a building that looks like any other office building, only this one is filled with nothing but adult-themed shops on each floor. I call it prex melata, which in my native tongue translates as ejaculation building.

The thing I really hate about the prex is that it only has one entrance and one elevator. When my shift ends, no matter how I time it, I always manage to get stuck in the elevator with potential customers, who know who I am because I’m the only person on the planet who looks like me.

Alien.

The thing that doesn’t belong. The piece that doesn’t fit. I don’t know what you do by trade, but try to imagine that after an arduous day of ending the lives of horny men through intercourse that you now have to ride in a crowded box with men who just had some other girl service them and all of them eyeing you and thinking that they’re the one who could probably beat the odds and survive.

I hate it. I hate the looks, I hate the arrogance, and I hate the sameness of it all. Eventually they all will come to see me. Eventually they all will die.

At least in the elevator there’s hardly any conversation. I envy girls who don’t have to talk to the men they sleep with. I, on the other hand, am legally obligated to strike up conversations with everyone interested in sleeping with me. I’m the only elegance girl that comes with a Surgeon General warning. Sleeping with me will kill you. You must be made fully aware of that and sign legal documents to that effect.
Occasionally, though, I’ll get a customer that asks, “Do you work here?”

Well, duh, is what I think, although I answer, “Yes“

“I’d like to visit you. What’s your name? What floor do you work on? Do you see customers outside of here?”

I want to tell him not to come. Tell him that I don’t want to see him. That I don’t talk to, let alone service, customers outside the shop, especially to men who have not paid to talk to me.

Some men do that, the smart ones. They come in and lose their nerve and I don’t blame them. They still have to pay for my time but I cut them a discounted rate. And while I don’t enjoy talking to people who view me as a sexable piece of flesh, I take pity on the ones who back out at the last minute. It must be similar to talking someone down off a ledge.

If I do happen to get a talker on the elevator, I don’t smile or make eye contact. I simply answer their questions as curtly as possible and walk away abruptly when the elevator doors open. This usually avoids them feeling comfortable enough to follow me on the street. It’s what scares me the most about the job, no joke.

I have a friend, well, she’s more of a colleague, in the business we call the sexociates, and I don’t know if it’s a vibe she gives off or what, but she attracts more gawker stalkers than all the rest of us combined.

Gawker stalkers are creepy men that lurk around the prex and watch the girls as they leave the building. It’s gotten so bad that Tawni, my sexociate, not her actual name but I doubt even I know her real name, has a taxi on call that she runs into every night as soon as the elevator doors open.

Gawker stalkers never do anything to the girls, to my knowledge, they just watch. But it’s still creepy. I get chills thinking about the possibility of some strange guy following me home. They should just commit and pay the fee and get to play a little bit rather than being a loser that skulks in the shadows and goes home alone, unsatisfied.

When people find out what I do for a living, they seem so fascinated with the concept of dealing out sex for money. I almost regret letting people know because all our conversation after that point turns to them pumping me for kinky-or-weird-but-true stories.

And that’s when my relationships begin to die.

I don’t have any eccentric stories. My vagina forces orgasm and death, and if that isn’t enough to interest you, then what else do we have to talk about? My life is boring, really. So boring that no one wants to hear about it.

How about you?

Will you please read my lonely talk?

To be continued…

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

The Math of the Moment

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

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There were two things that Evan knew:

  1. Mathematics
  2. He lived the wrong kind of life

The first he had known nearly all his life, from age four, if a proud mother’s braggadocio was to be believed. The second he only recently discovered, when he first laid eyes on The Woman. As was his nature, Evan quickly tabulated the absolute value in his head to assess his chances with her. The figures hadn’t added up.

The Woman, obviously accustomed to being the object of men’s stares, avoided eye contact with every XY chromosome in the room as she stood in the doorway and scanned the tables for a place to sit. There were so many free spaces, Evan hadn’t given the possibility of her settling next to him a second thought… until she did just that.

Suddenly the nearness of her had Evan checking the computations of his existence and wondering how he came to live a life so cruel as to deny him the reality of waking up beside The Woman every single morning. The closer she stepped, the more he realize just how lacking he was. The more he examined himself, the further away he pushed the percentages of the two of them spending the rest of their lives together.

But even though he knew down to his square root that nothing could ever have existed between them, he couldn’t let the thought of her go. He wracked his brain trying to suss out what needed to be done to correct their blaring parities.

What charismatic calculus would he have had to perform in order to make the possibility of a relationship between them a reality? What was he lacking that could have been excavated from the untapped depths of his soul in this limited time they cohabitated at this table, these minutes that were passing far too quickly. that would have given her pause? What prime number would have made her consider the impossible? Convinced her to go against every single internal voice and take a chance on a fractioned man well past his sell-by date? A man who needed her greater than she would ever have needed him?

Instead of coming up with solutions to solve the theorum, he vaporlocked. He went to the place where he should have found inspiration and courage and instead stood staring down at a dry well.

If this were a movie, a romantic comedy following a by-the-numbers formula, this would have been their meet cute moment, where though she had no time for him, Evan would somehow have found the nerve to punch above his weight class, as he swung for the fences, until he stumbled upon that one right sentence, quite by accident, that would have opened the door of their budding relationship just a crack.

But this wasn’t a movie in which Evan had access to some writer, a prince of prose, to whip up a witty bit of icebreaking banter, which meant he sat there quiet as a church mouse as the woman of his dreams failed to acknowledge his presence as she sipped her small yet overpriced mall beverage and worked her delicate thumbs across her smartphone keypad.

Perhaps he had approached it wrong. His shyness and lack of confidence in this situation was the problem, but all problems had a solution, so if he somehow broke down the math of the moment, he could not only solve the equation but restructure the formula to his benefit.

And so he began with

The Problem

He was absolutely enchanted by this stranger, who, when she left this table, wouldn’t have known him from Adam due to his insecurities. And while the thought of either tricking or forcing her to have affection for him against her will was a repulsive notion, he wanted to at least put forth the concept of a relationship between them.

The Equation

The left-hand side of the equation needed to describe the geometry of the manifestation of what a man considered love and the lengths he would go through to achieve it. The right-hand side needed to reflect the concomitant swirling curvature of a woman’s nurture and passion weighed against the romanticized notions of love.

Evan pulled a tattered notebook from his backpack and wrote the equation. Front and back on all the blank pages. On the backs of pages containing non-related items. In the margins. On every napkin he laid his hands on. and finally on the table itself.

He wrote and wrote until his brain collapsed under the sheer weight of computations, then he wrote some more. He continued to write until he finally discovered…

The Solution

Evan straightened his back, turned to The Woman, cleared his throat and said in voice squeakier than he would have liked, “Excuse me, Miss. Hello, my name is Evan.”

Sally forth and be mathing your way into the perfect relationshipingly writeful.

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Call Me Desla

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Please, call me Desla.

Not my actual name, mind you, but there is no real reason for you to know me by anything else. I was born– well, that is not important either, is it? All you need to know is that I am an alien — the extraterrestrial kind, not the immigrant kind — we can engage in intercourse for a fee, and you will most certainly not survive the experience.

Upon entering my boudoir you will undoubtedly notice the notches on the posts of my ornate bed. Your first inclination might be to assume these markings to be sexual conquests, and you would be severely mistaken. They are actually deaths. The number of grooves carved into the wooden headboard is one hundred and ninety-seven, at present, but the actual number is at least four times that. Only the deaths I regret have been engraved here. The rest received precisely what they came seeking and ultimately deserved.

A bit harsh, I realize, but how could you expect me to pity or mourn the passing of those who have tossed away so many possibilities, so many futures in search of la mort parfaite?

But I digress.

Due to the residency protocols of your Office of Planetside Security, the majority of my life was made an open book, yet there are certain things that remain hard for me to discuss. It is known that I was charged with treason back home for defending my personal beliefs — which remains my concern alone — and because my mate stood by my side during the trial, we were both exiled from my homeworld.

Set adrift in space, my people chose to let the universe decide our fate. If we were intercepted by a space vessel and taken aboard or found a world that would permit us to stay, then we were fortunate and were surely meant to live. If not, we would die on our craft when the life support and/or provisions ran out.

We traveled for what seemed like an eternity and never crossed paths with another vessel. Eventually the ship malfunctioned and crash-landed on your planet. Only I survived, pulled from the twisted wreckage of my prison ship by a farmer who hid me away and chained me in his barn like an animal. He hosed me down and threw me scraps to keep me alive. What I did not know was that he was mustering the courage to have his way with me.

When I realized what he had in mind, I tried to warn him but I didn’t speak the language yet. I’m not sure even if I did that it would have made a difference. He forced himself on me and upon orgasm, promptly died.

My race can only mate with one partner in our entire lifetime. The first union sets into play a biological defense against infidelity by secreting a vaginal toxin that forces orgasm and subsequently death.

The aptitude test I was given, to determine if there was a place on Earth for me, was grueling and humiliating. And when I was finally issued a case worker, she sat with me and explained that the only opportunity available was in legalized prostitution. I was insulted and furious and baffled by the thinking behind this. Did they not understand that of all the professions they could have handed me that this was by far the worst possible choice? Then I stepped back to took in the bigger picture. The planet was over-populated by indigenous humans and the influx of extraterrestrials and what better to cull the population than to tempt the thrill seekers who wanted to risk death? To treat terminal patients who wanted sweet release?

So, I embraced my role in society and performed my duty and was dubbed the “Whorebinger of Death” and the “Grim Raper” by the press. And naurally, because humans are bizarre creatures, there were ladies who worked the same profession who envied me.

I have yet to warm to this planet and it does not resemble my home planet in any way. My assimilation was slow to nonexistent and this was primarily my fault since I declined to undergo the genetic surgery offered to offworlders to make us appear more human. Though the human form is better suited for the physicality of this world and less cumbersome and my world has turned its back on me, I am still proud to be of my race.

The more time I spend here, the less confident I am about my appearance. On the occasions I watch a television show or movie or glance at an advertisement that places perfect people on display and I learn that there are those among you who feel your appearance doesn’t measure up, consider this: at least you are of the same species.

I stand at the edge of acceptability, balancing on the fine line of grotesque fascination and physical revulsion simple because my eyes are not the same color or shape as humans, and my hair, what little I have in places considered odd by your lot, was actually tufts of fine fur.

I also need to be aware of my nails and keep them within an acceptable length to where they were not considered claws. The same with my smile. Apparently when I bare my teeth it triggers a fight or flight response in most people.

To be continued...

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Drop Ye Breadcrumbs, While Ye May

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
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We all drop breadcrumbs in life, even the most carefree among us, and we do this because normalcy comes well-equipped with comfort zones. Some of you may take exception to the word normalcy but it has nothing to do with the definition society places on the word normal. Here it applies to the recurrent patterns in your life, the things you’ve grown accustomed to.

The breadcrumbs are used to lead us back to the path of familiarity, when the detours we take spiral beyond our ability to control and/or accept.  I stray from the path constantly chiefly because my path is an uneventful one, which many people would kill for, but I find boring. I ought to be a baker with the amount of breadcrumbs I’ve dropped over the years.

Since I’ve always been able to find my way home I never had a problem tearing my life apart, going on concrete jungle pilgrimages, and returning to my path at some later date to rebuild things from scratch. But this time is different. This time the demolition wasn’t of my choosing and there’s something about the way events have been playing out over the past six months that have clued me in on the fact I am near the end of the race.

Homeless yet again, despite my best efforts to avoid it, I have this sinking feeling deep in my marrow that this will be the final time. There’s no way out and no way back. All the breadcrumbs I dropped to lead me back to the main road of rebuilding my life are gone. Most likely eaten by the crows of a fate long overdue. I guess you can only hit the reset button so many times in life.

And I can’t honestly say I didn’t see it coming. Life stopped making sense about three years ago, though not all at once. Little by little, all the rules I had ever learned, all the tricks I added to my arsenal, no longer applied. Now, life, the daily routine that the majority of the population manages to perform without a second thought or breaking a sweat, is a game I no longer know how to play. Existence no longer makes sense to me.

Needless to say, it doesn’t help matters that I have always possessed a nihilistic bug in the back of my brain that constantly questions the logic of struggling to achieve anything when all roads lead to death.

As you can probably work out, I do not believe in the afterlife. So that we’re clear, this is not an invitation for proselytizers to dust off their soapboxes. I am an aspiritual entity and I’ve made my peace with the fact that I shall not receive salvation. If religion works for you, good on you, I wish you nothing but the best.

The purpose of this blog, more for my sake than yours, I’m afraid, is to capture as many of my thoughts and impressions before I lose my sanity to the streets and become one of the wandering bagmen screaming at invisible antagonists.

Wish me luck… and drop some change in my cup should you pass me on the streets.

To completely bastardize the Robert Herrick poem, I urge you to drop ye breadcrumbs, while ye may, however make sure you keep enough on your person to get you safely back to your path.

Until next time, I hope I don’t see you on the breadline.

Custody Battle *expletive deleted*

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

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Kylie heard there were people who actually had the luxury of choosing whether or not to be a f**king @$$hole. She, unfortunately, was not one of those lucky $#itheads. Her great grandfather was an old-fashioned @$$hole who begat an even bigger @$$hole, who begat the king of all @$$holes, who married the high exhalted queen b**ch @$$wipe, better known as the person she called Mommy W**rest. All this to illustrate why Kylie felt she wasn’t totally responsible for the way she was. Not so f**king easy to be a g***ammed pillar of the community when the gene pool you’re pulled from was a $#itty septic tank.

The other genetic trait she inherited was the uncanny ability to choose the absolute d**chiest mate. Enter: Simon. Ever much the p**ck match to her @$$holosity, only he wasn’t merely a p**ck to her, sometimes he was a c**t, too. They were made for one another, the most fearsome twosome since the Kray brothers. And as long as they had a mutual target to focus their hatred on, they maintained wedded bliss. When no target presented itself, they turned on one another like rabid @$$ dogs.

There was only person on the entire face of the planet who was spared their abusive wrath, Ms. Brittany Anne, their daughter. The only thing they gave two $#its about because she was the only thing the pair of created that remained unsullied by the $#itstorm of their separate and combined f**ked up worlds. And as the only thing they had ever gotten g***ammed right, Brittany Anne was only thing they would have abso-f**king-lutely died for, no hesitation, no questions asked.

So, when their marriage $#it the bed for the final time, Kylie told Simon he could keep the house, the car, everything in the joint account, the whole ball of wax, just as long as she got Brittany.

Of course, Simon was having none of that and they wound up in court, which to Kylie was the stupidest move he could have made. He ate his b**ls in the courtroom. He was a living off the grid, import/export, bootlegging sonuvab**ch who looked like dog$#it warmed over on paper. Hadn’t taken the judge long to award her full custody, but she knew in her heart of b**tard hearts that the motherf**king court order wasn’t anything but a piece of paper to wipe her @$$ with.

It took Simon less than four hours to enlist the aid of his brothers, who Kylie knew to be a bunch of fake f**king tough guys who swore they had King Kong sized b**ls simply because they watched Scarface and Goodfellas on continuous DVD loop. And when Kylie was in the kitchen microwaving dinner, those $#itbirds kidnapped her daughter.

Being that there wasn’t an Einstein among them and together their collective IQ couldn’t reach room temperature, Kylie knew exactly where they were holding Brittany. The hot house. It was where Simon operated his numerous non-corporate businesses, a tiny hovel where his inbred f**ktard brothers shacked up when their w**re mother threw their shiftless @$$es out. It was also a $#itty crack den that sat in the otherwise decent residential neighborhood like an infected, bloody hemorrhoid. One that was definitely getting lanced tonight.

After Kylie cased the house and picked the best spot for her approach, she drew her piece, the assault rifle pushing its way from under her denim duster. Simon always accused her of having p**is envy, and if that was the case then this b**ch of a rifle was her g***ammed hard on!

Lep stepped out of the front door, planted his feet on the porch and turned his gat Kylie’s way. The gun was a piece of $#it .44 he bought out of a Kmart shopping cart from some dude with a serious boner for Clint Eastwood.

The youngest of all the brothers, Lep’s real name was Earl but his brothers gave him the moniker due to his height and bizarre resemblance to a leprechaun. Four foot if he was an inch and at least two feet of that was head. Combined with his high pitch laugh, he had a nickname that stuck for life.

Even thirty feet away and caught off guard, Kylie had more than enough time to clean this @$$hat’s clock. She whirled around and squeezed her trigger. His oversized head came apart like a pumpkin in a microwave. To his credit, he managed to take a few steps forward and pulled his trigger before he collapsed, but the shot went wild, missing Kylie by a mile.

Lep was the rare brother who had never really done anything to Kylie and for the briefest of instances she kind of felt sorry for him. But he did try to shoot her, so fuck him, dancing under rainbows, gold hoarding, headless motherf**ker!

The sound of the rifle shot was bound to bring out the rest of the boys so Kylie put a little pep in her step as she walked toward the house.

Slick Sid, the middle brother with the oily, bad skin, was next out of the house and his face went went slack the moment his eyes fell on Lep’s body. He started screaming. Screaming like the little b**ch he was. Kylie though. Mouth going off like a little p**sy siren.

When Sid saw Kylie coming at him, rifle leveled, his hand shot down to the pistol in his waistband, even while he continued to scream. She could have shot his dumb @$$, but chose not to. Maybe hadn’t even needed to.

By the time Sid’s gun cleared his waistband, Kylie was on top of him. Rifle butt to the family jewels doubled him over, then an elbow to the jaw knocked him down to the hardwood porch deck. Sid’s hand twitched on the pistol grip which made Kylie stomp down on his jaw with a horrible crunch.

“Where is she?” Kylie’s voice was controlled rage. Sid made a noise that Kylie took to be “Who?” Maybe smashing his jaw wasn’t the best idea.

“My daughter, b**ch! Where’s my child?” Kylie knelt down and pried the pistol from Sid’s hand. She placed the muzzle on his temple and cocked the piece.

Call it self-preservation or simply blind luck but Sid’s hand shot up and clutched the gun in a manner so that the meat of his hand between thumb and forefinger blocked the hammer from firing.

Kylie was caught off guard as Sid twisted the gun out of her grip, spun the barrel in the opposite direction and squeezed the trigger.

This mutherf**ker! she thought as she took a gun shot to the stomach. Kylie grunted as she brought the shotgun up to his neck. Sid’s throat bloated with automatic rifle ammunition and burst, spitting a dark crimson stain on the bare hardwood.

Kylie pressed her back against the house near the front door, the worst possible place she could have been but the wound in her gut wasn’t letting her go anywhere.

“I know you heard the commotion, so you know I’m out here.” she yelled into the darkened doorway, putting pressure on her stomach to try to stop the bleeding. She prayed they couldn’t detect the pain in her voice. “Si, can you hear me? Two of yours are dead. Didn’t need to be that way. Just give my daughter back unharmed and we’ll call it quits. How’s that sound to you?”

Kylie thought she heard someone running inside the house but couldn’t be sure over the sound of her own heart in her ears as blood continued to ooze from her belly. Unbeknownst to her, Gabby Otis, the mute brother, crept around the side of the house and would have had her dead to rights if he hadn’t stepped on a loose floorboard.

The creak snapped Kylie to attention. She brought the shotgun around and blew the bottom part of Otis’ right leg clean off his body. The man dropped face first off the porch… but never let go of the gun.

Otis’ gun came up over the lip of the porch deck, shakily trying to target Kylie. She put the man in her sights and pulled the trigger. Jammed.

Kylie cursed and squeezed her bullet-pierced stomach as she grabbed the rifle by the barrel and swung it at Otis’ hand. Not a direct hit but the butt connected with enough force to send the gun flying off into the unkempt lawn grass.

Kylie angled the rifle butt at Otis’ head, connected and did it once more for good measure. Otis’ eyes fluttered close as he lost consciousness. His head still in striking distance, she aimed the rifle butt again, catching him full on this time. The left side of Otis’s head caved in and blood squirted from his right ear.

Without warning, Kylie cried out in agony as she was blown forward by the impact of a bullet in her back. She tumbled over the porch railing and landed face first in the grass. Though every movement was pure agony, Kylie twisted her head and struggled to understand what she was looking at.

Brittany Anne, the young girl with clear traces of her mother in her face, a face that was now a mask of fury covered with a sheen of tears, held a pistol in her tiny trembling hands.

Kylie tried to ask her daughter, “Why?” but only managed to cough blood as her mouth formed the word. A shadow fell over Kylie.

“No one took her, you dumb c**t.” the familiar voice said. “She came to me on her own. She wants to live with her daddy right now. Isn’t that right, pumpkin?”

Kylie lifted her head up from the grass, trailing threads of pink saliva and blood, in time to see her little girl nod her head.

“But, if you want to stay,” Simon said, “… there’s one thing I’m going to need you to do. Remember what it was?”

Brittany Anne nodded a second time and answered, “Kill Mommy.”

“What? No!” Kylie said as the pistol in Brittany Anne’s hand went off a second time.

To be continued…

Sally forth and be handling your domestic disputes professionalingly writeful.

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Songs As Stories: My Mind Is Not My Own Today

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

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*Inspired by the song “Once In A Lifetime” by The Talking Heads

My mind is not my own today. Neither of my minds.

That reality continues to plague me as I make my way through both my workaday lives, and I mingle with people both strange and familiar. My minds are not my own today. I have to keep telling myself not to put too much stock in my conflicting thoughts as none of them truly belong to me.

But it wasn’t always this way. Once I had a singular life. A life I can no longer recall because I am not in control of my memories. Not since this morning, when I woke up living two separate lives simultaneously and asking myself, “How did I get here?”

In my left eye, I see the existence where I live in squalor in some poverty stricken part of the world, and although I have many friends and am surrounded by people who care about me, I am alone and lonely. There is no one here for me. No one to share my life. But somehow I manage to remain happy. Or at least I am not unhappy. Which is more than most can claim.

In my right eye, I live the other side of the coin. My house is unbelievably vast and luxurious. My wife is statuesque and blindingly beautiful, and my car, my car is large enough for a small family to live in.

One would think as my wealth has no limit, it would be a freeing thing, correct? But I find that I can’t manage it properly, for this fortune comes with no instruction manual. Can you tell me how a beautiful wife, a gorgeous specimen of a woman that was supposedly tailored to suit my needs actually works? What of a house and car that I feel absolutely microbic in? It is all somehow wrong as if I am a three dimensional being living in a three and one-quarter dimension reality.

Then my doubts become corporeal and wrap their bony fingers around my ankle in a death grip and pull me under the rushing tide of all the moral debts I have incurred throughout my lifetime.

The tide is a repo service that removes all the things that I possess. The push-to-start conveyance is no longer my large automobile, the mansion is no longer my beautiful house and the amazon is no longer my beautiful wife,  Unable to hold my breath for long, I gasp for air, each mouthful leaking my fortune along with my air.

The repossession waters dissolve my belongings, removing them from my existence, remnants of luxury items sink to the bottom of the ocean as waves push me away from opulence and wash me onto a fork in the road of a highway, the signposts of which points left for “Right” and right for “Wrong”. What do these signs mean? Which should I take? What have I done? What have I become? Ami I right, or am I wrong?

And when I question my realities, a voice keeps repeating, a voice inside my head, a voice that is not my own, one phrase that is meant to calm me, to reassure me that everything is as it’s meant to be…

Same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.

Same as it ever was.

Sally forth and be letting the days go byingly writeful.

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Songs As Stories: The King of Wretches

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

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*Inspired by the song “Search and Destroy” by Sanders Bohlke

I don’t have a favorite season, per se, but whenever summer rolls around, my head swims with near endless possibilities of how I can alter not only my reality but the reality of existence so that I can finally live a life in which my head falls on the pillow with no worries and I awaken the same way.

But at this moment, any life other than mine would be an improvement. When you live in the gutter, climbing up onto the pavement can feel like reaching the first heaven, but there’s not much chance of climbing that high. My wings, or what’s left of them, haven’t been able to bear my weight for quite some time now.

And I’m not alone. I lay here amongst the other bodies that convulse on a human Richter scale that makes it impossible to pray and have those prayers heard. My lips, dry and cracked haven’t kissed another in a century of lifetimes, though I have been kissed by cruel fate, who calls my name and announces my presence, the King of Wretches Among Wretches, this fate who comes down from on high, feigns love for me, lifts my head slightly and kisses me deeply and passionately and leaves without uttering a word.

And here I lay wide awake trying to mask my terror because I was instructed to know no fear but I feel my reserve crack and my secret fears are beginning to seep through. Left for dead but not truly dead, I sometimes raise myself to my full height and threaten to leave, but those who know realize this is an empty threat. My soul is anchored here and even though I can beg the wind to carry this all too fleshy carapace, what would I be without that which makes me unique? What sort of life would that be?

Besides, I’m far too proud to beg, even for mercy. Accepting charity never seemed quite right to me. So, I stay in anger, and at the dawn of each new day I let the carrion pick away at the bits of me that have gone necrotic from non-use. I curse the fact that when they take to the sky, they never steal away the bits that made me the monster that led me to be in this predicament in the first place. It’s as if the universe believes its very own balance is better with me assuming this role.

The sad truth is that not all dead are buried in the field with the flowers. Some lie rotting away to nothing, slowly dying from wounds that never heal. The minor injuries you suffer repeatedly every single day that rip the scabs off to bleed you anew. It’s the slowest death imaginable. Where you die a little more on each anniversary.

And in time these injuries celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, and even holidays. And you cry outwardly until the tears no longer come, then you cry inwardly and when people cannot see you weep, they assume that you’ve moved on and think it’s okay to pretend the bad thing never happened and things can return to normal, without realizing that there is no longer a normal to return to.

The parent of a dead hopes and dreams never stop being a parent in their hearts. And you spend the rest of your life gathering the leftover pieces and remnants of a future life well past its sell-by date, and inhume it in the backyard of years gone by in a specially constructed box of disappointment.

Sally forth and be sowing your dreams and reaping better realitiesingly writeful.

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License

Unwritten Stories That Will Never See The Light of Day (maybe)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Prodigy. Genius. Talented. Gifted. Blessed. While it’s true these words describe me to a T, there are times when greatness does not come easily (no, really, it’s true) and some of the ideas that spill forth from my gray matter fall far from the greatness for which I am known.

Most of these hideas (hideous ideas) are forgotten as quickly as they appear, but there are a handful, a select few, that hang around and claim squatter’s rights on mental real estate better suited to my magnum opus(es).

This post shall serve as an eviction notice, with the hope that given some minor attention, the ideas will pack their belongings and fuck off back to obscurity.

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Venusian Gender Non-Specific Martians From The Moon

The year is 1938 and the United States launches a rocketship with the secret mission of sending settlers to stake claim to Earth’s moon for America. Upon their arrival, the lunar settlers stumble upon the satellite’s indigenous lifeform, Venusian Martians who do not identify by gender. The settlers also learn of a Venusian Gender Non-Specific Martian plot to invade Earth and mine the planet for the most precious energy source in the galaxy… human tonsils!

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Trouser Snakes On A Dame

Samantha Jackson, an asexual parking enforcement officer, is trapped in a subway train full of horny business men during rush hour traffic and is force to take on car after car of deadly, one-eyed snakes, deliberately unzipped to deflower any virgin who dares stand in their way.

“I am sick and tired of these masturfapping trouser snakes on this mother loving dame!”

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Pocket Rocket To The Stars

It’s 1937 and America is looking for alternative fuel and power sources. Enter female rocket scientist, Hedda DiClasse, who builds a rocketship powered by the ever elusive and once thought to be mythical female orgasm. Problems arise when Captain Manuel “All Man” Hardbody is brought aboard to pilot the vessel despite the fact he possesses too much testosterone. Can he and Dr. DiClasse put aside their differences and come together to ride that rocket into the Milky Way?

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I Was A Teenage Neanderthal Bride

Ooba wan’t going to be told whom she would marry, especially with all the potential Cro Magnon suitors running around, with their promises of a newer, better way of life. But even as she discovers the prefect homo erectus, she finds herself torn between pursuing her wondrous new life or saving her old life and her family from extinction.

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If Books Could Kill

A single mother gives her daughter a popular children’s book, only to discover that it is possessed with the soul of her recently murdered serial killer husband who’s out for revenge.

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Firstborn

A viral outbreak renders the human race infertile and in order to cheat death, the top scientists and surgeons turn to the works of Victor Frankenstein until generations later, the world is nothing but frankenpeople, but when a frankenwoman gets pregnant and gives birth, the planet will stop at nothing to dissect the newborn.

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Gym Rat Blue

Five unbelievably attractive rookie cops who look as though they spend every waking moment at the gym, have just graduated from the police academy in a nondescript city that could be New York but is probably somewhere in Canada. Now that training’s over and the rough and tumble life of a beat cop begins, they must learn not only to deal with their duties as police officers, but also deal with the problems and expectation of their severely dysfunctional families and friends, while maintaining their unnatural good looks, even after being shot. Pose, pout, protect and serve is the name of the game at the One-Oh-Sex Precinct.

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Let Go Of My Ears, I Know What I’m Doing

We never need talk about this story or its title ever again. Move along, nothing to see here.

Sally forth and be repurposing your less than stellar story ideasingly writeful.

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Creative Commons License