Tag Archives: audio

The Dragon’s Requiem

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
In the golden light of the royal court, Eldred knelt before the king. The ceremonial sword tapped his shoulder, each touch a reminder of the burden he now bore. A knight’s duty was honor. A knight’s heart was steel. Eldred had trained for this moment, but as the spurs were fastened to his boots, he felt not pride but a creeping weight in his chest.

“The realm calls upon you,” the king intoned, his voice a sonorous echo in the grand hall. “Rid us of the beast that haunts the forbidden forest. Do this, and your name will live forever.”

Eldred bowed, though the words felt hollow. The dragon was a legend, a specter of fear and awe. To slay such a creature would prove his worth—but to whom?

The forest swallowed him whole. For three moons, Eldred wandered its winding paths, his sword a cold comfort against the suffocating green. The trees whispered dark fates for foolish trespassers, and shadows danced menacingly just beyond the reach of his torchlight.

It was on the fourth day, when exhaustion gnawed at his resolve, that he found something unexpected.

A woman stood in a clearing, sunlight cascading through the canopy to gild her form. Her hair glinted like molten gold, and her eyes shone with an unnatural fire. She seemed a creature of dreams, too beautiful to belong to this world.

“Are you lost, knight?” she asked, her voice a melody that wove through the trees.

Eldred dismounted, his heart pounding. He should have questioned her presence, her purpose in this forbidden place. Instead, he found himself drawn forward, his sword slack in his grip.

“I seek the dragon,” he said, though the words felt distant, as if spoken by someone else.

She smiled, and the air between them shimmered like heat rising from a forge. “Then you have found her.”

The transformation was swift and terrible. The maiden fair's form twisted, golden hair replaced by gleaming scales, delicate hands by talons sharp enough to rend steel. She rose before him, a towering figure of power and frightening beauty, her emerald eyes now blazing with fire.

Eldred stumbled back, his breath catching. The dragon loomed over him, and yet he could not raise his blade. The creature was no monster, no mindless beast. She was exquisite. Terrible. Alive.

“Strike, knight,” she said, her voice still rich with melody, though it now carried an edge of mockery. “Is that not your purpose?”

He hesitated. This was his moment—his chance to prove his worth, to fulfill his oath. But the longer he stared into those piercing eyes, the more his resolve wavered. This creature was not what he had imagined. She was no mindless beast, but something ancient, intelligent, and impossibly beautiful.

“I... can’t,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The dragon lowered her head, her gaze softening. “And why is that?”

“Because... you are not what I was taught to hate.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the dragon shifted, her massive form shrinking back into that of the maiden. She stepped toward him, her movements slow and deliberate. “And yet you came to kill me.”

Eldred lowered his sword, the weight of his quest crushing him. “I didn’t understand,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“And now?” she asked, standing before him once more, her hand reaching out to brush the edge of his blade.

“I see you,” he said.

The sword slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud on the forest floor.

Eldred returned to the kingdom not as a hero but as a man changed. He spoke not of victory but of truth, of the folly of fearing what we do not understand. And though his name was not etched into the annals of legend, the tale of the knight who laid down his sword for the dragon who taught him to see lived on, whispered in the halls of power and the quiet of the woods.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Eternal Lullaby of Wilhelmina Soames

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Every city has its ghosts, but few linger like Wilhelmina Soames. She haunted Main Street with her empty pram, its wheels squeaking on the cracked pavement, her presence as constant as the rising sun. The locals knew her by a hundred cruel names—The Mad Mother, The Lady in Rags—but her true title was whispered only by the bravest and the most foolish: The Collector.

“Nelda, Farley, Aubrey…” Wilhelmina’s voice rasped, a croak that slid down the city’s alleys like smoke. The names flowed from her lips in a ceaseless chant, each one spoken with the reverence of a mother calling her child home. Yet there were no children. Only the pram, and her eyes—wide and fever-bright—scanning the empty streets.

“Vance, Giselle, Wesley…” She called out to names long forgotten, her cracked lips curling into a smile that unsettled anyone who dared to listen too long.

The city had become numb to her presence, indifferent to the sight of her skeletal frame and wild hair, matted with dirt and debris. It was easier that way, to pretend she didn’t exist, to step over her as they did the other broken things the city swallowed whole. But those who whispered behind her back never lingered long near the places Wilhelmina wandered after dark.

Because Wilhelmina didn’t just push an empty pram. She collected.

At dusk, she ventured beyond the crowds, beyond the reach of streetlights, into forgotten corners of the city, the places where the shadows lingered thickest. Those who had been desperate enough to follow—whether out of morbid curiosity or cruel delight—never spoke about what they saw. Some said she rummaged through dumpsters, sifting through filth as if seeking something precious among the discarded refuse. Others claimed to hear her speaking softly to things unseen, her voice a strange lullaby meant to soothe the dead. But always, they said, she found something—someone. And when she did, she would cradle it in her arms, rocking it gently as if it weighed more than air.

Those few who dared to peer too long into her pram swore they caught a glimpse of something terrible. Tiny, disfigured shadows, twisting and writhing inside the carriage as if desperate to escape.

The rumors spread fast, and the stories became more elaborate with each retelling. Some claimed Wilhelmina had once been a nanny to a wealthy family, that she’d lost her charge in a tragic accident—a baby slipping from her grasp and into traffic, her mind snapping in two with the sound of that child’s body beneath tires. Others whispered of ancient curses, that Wilhelmina was cursed to roam the city, forever collecting the souls of the young who died before their time. She wasn’t just a madwoman, they said. She was a harbinger. A guardian of lost souls, condemned to ferry them to a place no living eyes could see.

And so, every night, her eerie refrain echoed through the streets, searching.

But the stories were never enough to explain what happened next.

On the night of her death, Wilhelmina entered the vacant lot, the one space in the city untouched by developers—a place where the air always felt cold, no matter the season. There, among the rubble and weeds, she bent low, her fingers sifting through the earth, frantic, searching as though time itself was running out.

And then she found it. Something unseen yet tangible to her alone. A bundle, light as air, and in her joy, she lifted it high, cradling it to her chest. But in her haste, she didn’t notice the jagged brick half-buried in the dirt.

She tripped. Her skull met the brick with a sickening crack, and the last breath of air left her body in a wet, gurgling gasp. Blood oozed into the soil, darkening the ground beneath her.

But Wilhelmina didn’t die—not in the way most do.

She awoke standing over her own body, her lifeless shell sprawled on the cold earth. The sight didn’t startle her. In fact, it comforted her. The years of madness, the endless wandering, the voices of lost children—she finally understood. She had been preparing for this moment all along.

Around her, the shadows deepened. Small, pale hands reached for her, dozens of tiny figures emerging from the gloom. Children, their faces contorted in silent screams, their eyes hollow and unblinking. They had waited for her, lost in the dark, and now they were ready to be guided to wherever it was that the forgotten dead go.

Wilhelmina smiled, her lips parting to release a lullaby that no living ear could hear. She gathered the children to her, one by one, her touch soothing the fear in their eyes. Her pram was no longer empty—it brimmed with the restless spirits of the city’s lost.

And so, Wilhelmina Soames, the Mad Mother of Main Street, became what she was always meant to be. No longer bound by flesh, she pushed her pram through the vacant lot, her song rising with the wind, a lullaby for the dead. Her voice drifted through the city, a melody of grief and longing, chilling the blood of those who walked too close.

She was no longer just a madwoman; she was their keeper. And the children of the city—those lost and forgotten—would forever hear the eternal lullaby of Wilhelmina Soames, calling them home.

Thirteen For Halloween: Embrace of the Void

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

In the labyrinthine corridors of my mind, I wander like a condemned man, trapped in a purgatory of my own making. Each morning, I rise from the depths, a hollow shell of flesh and bone, reciting lifeless affirmations that dissipate into the cold silence. I set forth, a misguided crusader armed with delusions of redemption, determined to leave a mark on a world that long ago forgot my name.

But the path beneath my feet is a treacherous thing, twisted and serpentine, choked with the refuse of my squandered hopes and festering regrets. Misfortune trails me like a shadow that bleeds black at the edges, its hot breath caressing my neck, its claws raking ever closer. Each choice I make cleaves a piece from my soul, and with every step, I descend further into the maw of a darkness that devours all light.

The road I once called righteous has vanished, swallowed whole by a memory I cannot trust. I drift, lost in a sea of my own sins, the weight of my transgressions crushing me under the stench of decay. The rot is inescapable. It seeps into my pores, coils around my heart, whispering that the time to pay has come—and I am bankrupt, with nothing left to offer but the fragments of a wretched soul.

I collapse into the gutter, a broken thing, my body crumpling like paper soaked through with blood. The cold concrete beneath me drains the warmth from my flesh, and the world dissolves into a sickly blur. Colors bleed away until only the monochrome of oblivion remains. Then, in the midst of this dying delirium, she appears.

She stands above me, a vision carved from darkness, her beauty a dagger in my chest. Her skin is a porcelain pallor, her raven hair cascading in tendrils that curl like smoke. Her eyes, twin voids, drink in the light, leaving nothing but the blackened husk of a soul that once dared to hope. She is perfection amidst the filth, a sanctuary I have sought all my life, a deliverance I could never earn. But as I reach for her, desperate to feel the warmth of salvation, a terrible truth shatters the illusion.

She is not my salvation. She is Death itself, cloaked in false beauty. Her touch is the final cold, her kiss the last exhalation. She is a hallucination conjured by the failing mind of a man who can no longer distinguish agony from ecstasy. Yet even as the understanding seeps into my bones like poison, I yearn for her, ache to surrender to the dark mercy of her embrace. The void whispers that to yield is to find peace, that oblivion is a lover more faithful than hope ever was.

In the end, I am nothing but a hollowed-out husk, a cracked vessel through which the last vestiges of life trickle away. As I fall into the blackness, I cling to the pale specter of Death like a drowning man clutches the hand that pulls him under. I do not fight. I do not struggle. I welcome her embrace as the final union, the consummation of my shattered soul with the void that awaits.

And then, there is only the darkness. There is no salvation, no redemption. There is nothing left of the man I once was—nothing but the silence of the grave and the echo of a heartbeat that has already stopped.

The Million Dollar Choice – A Madd Fictional Imagination Playhouse Production [Audio Drama]

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Step into the eerie world of “The Million Dollar Choice.” Erica finds herself in a high-stakes game where a single choice can either set her free or seal her fate. With her life hanging by a thread, she must choose between two glasses of red wine, one laced with a deadly toxin. This gripping short film, brought to life with stunning visuals and a chilling narrative, delves into the shadowy depths of the dark web where the rich play with lives for sport. Will Erica’s gamble pay off, or will her luck finally run out? Watch to uncover her fate.

A Leap Day Repost: Duchess and the Anecdote

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
Duchess

They come from miles around, my characters do, traveling the great distance from the fringes of my mind’s eye, some even making the long and arduous haul from my childhood, just to sit and talk. They do this whenever I’m alone.

As they gather ’round, I cast an eye upon their many and various faces and can’t help but feel the slightest twinge of remorse. Being in my company, locked within the confines of my imagination, is not wholly unlike a purgatory for them. A holding pattern, a waiting room, where they converse amongst themselves in voices audible only to myself, trying to catch my attention in the slimmest hope of being set free. Birthed into a story.

Some are fresh meat, the rest lifers, each easily spotted by the differences in their appearance and the strength of their voices. Fresh meats are gossamers—newly formed characters, little more than a stack of traits—who shout in whispers. Lifers, on the other hand, are as fleshed out as you or I, perhaps even more so, who have acquired the proper pitch and turn of phrase to catch me unawares during the times when my mind idles.

Before the talks begin–serious conversation, not the normal natterings they engage in–a flying thing the size of a butterfly, jewel-toned blue stripes, greenish-gold spots, with flecks of silver on the wings, lands in the palm of my outstretched hand.

“What is that then?” a childlike voice asks from somewhere deep in the crowd, low to the ground. I recognize it instantly.

“It’s an anecdote, Duchess. Come see for yourself.” I reply as the creature’s wings beat softly on my palm.

The throng–my personal rogue’s gallery whose roster includes reputables and reprobates alike–part like the Red Sea, making way for the noblest of all serval cats, The Duchess.

“An antidote? Have you been poisoned?” The Duchess queries as she saunters into the open space, a dollop of concern gleaming in her vivid blue eyes.

I try to not laugh, partly out of respect, but mostly due to the fact that though she is the eldest of my unused characters, she is technically still but a kitten. “No, Duchess, it’s an anecdote, as in a short, amusing, or interesting story about a person or an incident.“

“I know full well what an anecdote is, thank you kindly. I was merely attempting to lighten the dreadfully somber mood with a bit of levity.” Not her best faux pas cover, but it was swift, which should count for something. As casually as she could manage, the kitten turned to see if anyone found amusement at her expense. No one did. They knew better. “May I hold it?”

I hesitate and stare at the leapling. Created on February 29th all those many years ago, it was my rationale–on paper–for keeping her a kitten, seeing as she had fewer birthdays, she would naturally age at a decelerated rate. The actuality is I have an affinity for kittens. For full-grown cats? Not so much. And now the dilemma is if her kittenish nature should come into play, and without meaning to, cause injury to the anecdote, then all this would be for naught.

Her eyes plead with all the promise of being good and I have no choice but to relent. “It’s fragile, so be gentle. Take care not to crush it.” I gently place the anecdote in her cupped paws.

“Why does one need an anecdote?” The Duchess of Albion asked, her nose twitching whenever the creature moves its wings.

“To tell a proper story,” I answer. “More than just a sequence of actions, anecdotes are the purest form of the story itself.“

“But I thought characters are at the heart of every great story?“

“They are and anecdotes connect the hearts and minds of those characters to a story.” I try to feign calm but I can see the kitten’s body tensing up. Her eyes, those glorious baby blues, are studying the creature closely. Was I wrong in my decision to trust that she rules her instincts and not the other way around?

“They also add suspense to your story, giving the audience a sense that something is about to happen. If you use them right, you can start raising questions right at the beginning of your story—something that urges your audience to stay with you. By raising a question, you imply that you will provide your audience with the answers. And you can keep doing this as long as you remember to answer all the questions you raise.“

The kitten’s breath becomes rapid and her paws close in around the anecdote and I want to cry out, urge her to stop, but it’s far beyond that point now. She is in control of her own fate. Canines bare themselves, paws pulling the creature closer to her mouth.

“No!” she shakes her head violently. Her ears relax and her mouth closes as her breathing returns to normal. Then, the oddest thing happens…

The Duchess begins to vanish. All the characters look on in dazed silence, uncertain how to react.

“What is happening to me?” she shoots me a panicked glance as cohesion abandons her form.

“Haven’t you sussed it out yet?“

“No… I’m scared!“

“Don’t be,” I smile. “Look around you. You’re at the heart of a story. You’re free.“

“Truly?” she is suddenly overwhelmed with delight, her expression priceless. “But — but what do I do with the anecdote now?”

“Open your paws, let it fly off.”

She unfolds her paws. Tiny wings beat their path to freedom. Then someone from the back of the crowd gives The Duchess a slow clap. Soon, others join in, building into a tidal wave of applause.

The now translucent Duchess waves a tearful thank you to the crowd, before turning back to me with a request, “Say my name.“

“Why?“

“Because you always simply address me as Duchess and I want to hear you call me by my full name one last time before I g– —“

And just like that, she was gone.

I bid you a fond farewell, Your Grace the Duchess of Albion Gwenore del Septima Calvina Hilaria Urbana Felicitus-Jayne Verina y de Fannia. Enjoy your journey. You will be missed.

HAPPY LEAP DAY, FOLKS!

 

I Fell Through Hell – A Madd Fictional Imagination Playhouse Production

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Because it was bored and had little else to do but support my head while my body shut down to replenish itself, my pillow took advantage of the moment by whispering my destiny in my ear in the dead of night during that flash second of waking from a nightmare, the moment where the line between illusion and reality blurred, when fear tangled around the heart like a sweat-soaked bed sheet. It said:

Heaven holds no place for you.

It spoke to me in English but with a tongue drenched in an accent I was unable to place. Some dead language known only to pillows, I supposed.

My own unique brand of pillow talk first happened when I was a child and in defiance of all the childhood messages that slipped away unremembered, this one had taken root. I had accepted my fate at a tender age and decided to play the hand I was dealt. And after a lifetime spent in disregard of my fellow man and the consequences of my selfish actions as I baby-stepped my way through my sinful prophecy—I slipped and fell…

Down through the frozen landscape of Niflheim, where the branches, bramble and roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasill, beat my face and tore at my skin. And where Hel, daughter of Loki, stood on the Shore of Corpses, petting the head of Nidhogg, the giant snake that fed on the dead

Carried along on the poisonous snake river, Tuoni, I was brought through Tuonela, a place not wholly unlike Earth under the gloomiest conditions, where the maid of Death, Tytti, cast me down further for bringing no provisions as a tribute.

Down further, I was injured whilst falling onto the Chinavat Bridge, which was thinner than a hair, yet sharper than a blade. The twin four-eyed guardian dogs snapped their jaws at me, judging me based on the deeds in my life.

The bridge turned on its side, for my bad deeds outweighed the good, and pitched me into the demon-filled pit below, where the demon Vizaresh dragged me into the House of Lies, a place of disgusting filth, where I was served spoiled food and tortured by demons, hundreds in number, each representing a specific sin, before Apaosha, the demon of drought and thirst, and Zairika, the demon that makes poisons, cast me further down.

Through a lake of fire and up against an iron wall where I passed through a series of gates guarded by half-animal, half-human creatures named The Blood-Drinker Who Comes From The Slaughterhouse, and The One Who Eats The Excrement Of His Hindquarters, into Duat where my heart was weighed against a feather and eaten by the demon Ammut. Although horrified at the sight of my heart being eaten, I was fascinated by the sight and wanted to watch but I could not stop myself from falling…

Down through Gehenna, a deep and desolate place in which noxious sulfuric gasses hung in the air and flames continuously burned and rained from the sky into rivers of molten metal and where the followers of Moloch sacrificed children in the great fires. My fingertips clutched for purchase on this foundation but I fell…

Down past the nine-headed hydra, into Tartaros, where I was whipped by Tisiphone as I tumbled deeper into the deep black dungeon full of torture and suffering.

Down through Maharaurava where the serpent demon Ruru tried to eat my flesh.

Through Kumbhipaka where I was nearly boiled in hot oil.

Through Diyu where Yama Loki of Naraka condensed the 96,816 hells into 10 sections the Chamber of Tongue Ripping, The Chamber of Scissors, The Chamber of Iron Cycads, the Chamber of Mirror, Chamber of Steamer, Forest of Copper Column, Mountain of Knives, the Hill of Ice, Cauldron of Boiling Oil, Chamber of Ox, Chamber of Rock, Chamber of Pounding, Pool of Blood, Town of Suicide, Chamber of Dismemberment, Mountain of Flames, Yard of Stone Mill, and Chamber of Saw.

Down through Xibalba, where the lords of the afterlife inflicted various odd forms of torture on me such as causing pus to gush from my body, squeezing me until blood filled my throat and I vomited my organs…

Before being cast even lower into rivers filled with blood, scorpions, and pus, where I cascaded over a waterfall to my final death, crashing into oblivion and shattering into millions of pieces…

Only to wake up and hear my pillow whisper in its thick accent:

Hell holds no place for you.

So, again I lost my footing and fell, through limbo this time, into…

Tiny Stories: The Hand of Love (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

When I was a young girl, my father vanished from the earthly plane. But he didn’t merely die—he transitioned. I sensed his absence, his “moving on,” as it were, before anyone else could muster the courage to tell me. A space that had been filled with light became dark; a melody turned into silence. It was as if a cosmic switch had been flipped.

When the news eventually reached my ears, I didn’t cry; instead, I turned inward. My family looked at me with concern, as I refused to eat or sleep, ignoring the therapists who tried to guide me back to the realm of the living. Colors ceased to exist; life itself became a blurred painting left out in a cosmic storm.

I was drifting, fading from existence, my spirit stretching thin, until I collapsed. That’s when it happened. I found myself falling through layers of a dimension not governed by our understanding of space-time, traveling backward through the chronicles of my own existence to the point of inception—the first spark of passion my father had ignited in me.

My descent halted abruptly, and I landed on a surreal beach of incandescent white sand and a boundless aquamarine ocean. Standing on the shoreline was my father, his image superimposed against a shimmering canvas of galaxies, nebulas, and interstellar phenomena.

“Is this heaven?” I asked, awestruck by the spectacle.

He laughed, the sound echoing like a harmonious cosmic wave. “No, sweetheart. This is merely a threshold. Paradise exists in dimensions cooler than this.”

“I want to stay,” I pleaded.

“One day you will, when you’ve fulfilled your purpose in the mundane realm.”

“That’s unfair.”

He held up his hand, now glowing with celestial light. “You see this? It might seem insignificant, but it carries the weight of a universal promise. Even if you can’t see me, my protective hand will guide you.”

Before I could protest, he leaned down and kissed my forehead. In that instant, a cascade of light enveloped me, and I found myself back in my bed, surrounded by my earthly family.

They never heard this story from my lips; they’d rationalize it, strip it of its wonder. But make no mistake—I’ve faced insurmountable odds and survived. In those moments, I felt the presence of that cosmic hand, reassuring me that love transcends all dimensions, guiding me safely through the labyrinth of life.

Tiny Stories: The Armistice (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

Ever met someone so consumed by their thoughts they lose touch with reality? That’s me, most days, thanks to my unique condition: Dissociative Dimensional Disorder, or DDD for short. I’ll save you the Google search: DDD means my brain houses two warring realities. But we’ll get to that in a bit.

Right now, I’m on a date with Jake, a guy I’m desperately trying not to screw things up with. While I should be focusing on our conversation about favorite movies, instead, my consciousness is standing on a mental bridge, holding a cardboard box.

This bridge isn’t some metaphor; it’s an intricate construct connecting my dueling dimensions. Some of its pieces I recognize as my own memories, others feel strangely familiar, and a few are downright alien. And speaking of aliens, here comes the other me—Other Abigail. She’s standing in the middle of the bridge, blocking my path.

“Listen, things are complicated with me right now,” I tell her.

Other Abigail eyes the box suspiciously. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“You’ll always be a part of my life, but…”

“But what?” Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like staring at a funhouse mirror; familiar yet distorted.

“I just need some space to focus on real-world stuff. Like this date I’m on.”

Other Abigail arches an eyebrow. “Good for you. But what’s in the box?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

I sigh. “It’s a compilation of memories, thoughts, and feelings that are muddling up my head. They belong to both of us, but I need to unload some. To make room for new experiences, like this date.”

Other Abigail opens the box and leafs through its metaphorical contents. “Ah, the boy-band fantasy. That one yours or mine?”

“Yours, I think.”

She grins. “Okay, go enjoy your date. But make sure to take notes; I’ll want a full report later.”

As she walks away, a weight lifts off my shoulders. I mentally snap back into my body just as Jake leans in, his eyes searching mine.

“You okay? You seemed far away,” he says.

“Sorry, just had some things on my mind,” I reply, feeling more present than I have all evening.

And for the first time, I truly am.

The Folds of Love

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
image

When the delivery truck pulls up outside the shop, neither of us look out the window ’cause we know exactly who it is. 12:15 pm on the dot means Department of Tissue Waste Removal. Light load today. Driver only schleps in one body bag.

“You’re up, Mickey.” Jhonni nods my way. “Snag ‘n tag salvageables and dip the rest.”

Mickey. Only other person to ever call me that was my pops. I hated when he did it and I damn sure hate that my boss somehow exposed that raw nerve. He only does it to get a rise outta me, but I ain’t bitin’ so I let it slide this time. My mistake? Tellin’ baldilocks here I prefer bein’ called Michelle.

Snag ‘n tag means I gotta dissect the corpse for salvagables, which are any organs that ain’t completely shot to shit and dip whatever’s left over in the chemical vat for DNA repurposin’ — usually either cosmetic skin grafts, lifelike mannequins for movie stunts or some other bioengineerin’ bullshit I don’t really understand.

I sigh, chuck the rest of the deck onto my game of solitaire — cards weren’t cooperating, no how — and walk over to the body bag. I ain’t squeamish about dead bodies or puttin’ the blade to ’em, but I do have one hangup…

I hear myself mutterin’ before I have a chance to stop it, “Don’tbeadudedon’tbeadudedon’tbeadude…” and when I unzip the bag, guess what? A dude. So’s we’re clear, I gots no prob flaying a man, it’s just that chick thing that does me in. You gals know what I’m talking about.

Every man a woman meets, she sizes him up and decides if she’d break him off a piece. Sex, I mean. Young, old, fat, skinny, short, tall… alive or dead, you rate ’em. Would you do ’em, could you do ’em and under what circumstances? A dare? Boredom? For the story? Only me, I got this vivid imagination, see, and when I come across a mutilated dude, I see myself having sex with him. And no, I ain’t no nekkidphiliac, they’re very much alive in my scenarios, just all banged up, pardon the expression.

This one, Ethan Garner, by the toe tag, was tore up from the floor up. Anythin’ worth savin’ would be an innard and not one that’d bring high market value, either. Somethin’ nickel and dime like an appendix, spleen, or some shit.

The fluorescents buzz overhead and sweat breaks out on my forehead as I hear Ethan groan beneath me in my mind’s eye. Think of a dude I know, think of a dude I know. No good. Where’s my iPod? I need a distraction.

The cause of death is listed as Industrial Misadventure which meant poor old Ethan was mangled by machinery, probably one of them press and fold jobbers. His body looks like a bedsheet fresh out the package, tucked up all tight into a tidy square. How the hell am I going to get inside to harvest organs?

I put a little elbow grease into it, dig my fingers into a crease — an armpit, maybe? — and try to pry it apart. Bones creak and skin pulls apart from skin with the sound of moist velcro. I’m sweatin’ buckets now, cause in my head, Ethan is givin’ me the workout of a lifetime, only I can’t see his face so it’s like doing it with a Hot Pocket with a hard-on. Focus, Mickey! Focus! Damn, now that bastard’s got me doin’ it.

With the back of my blade I scrape away the dried blood, which there’s plenty of, and I find a seam. That’s right, a goddammed seam! Now, I wasn’t exactly top of my class in Biology, but I’m kinda certain the human body don’t come equipped with seams. But I’m curious about this so I make my first cut along Ethan’s unnatural hem.

My fingers move into the cut and part skin. I tilt the swing arm lamp to get a better view and the light catches somethin’ that makes my stomach hitch. Whoever bagged this on-scene fucked up big time, which I suppose is kinda sorta understandable, given the unusual nature of the cause of death, but if I reported it, it’d probably cost that slob their job. The Office of Forensic Affairs forgives a ton of infractions, unfortunately, the body count ain’t one of ’em. This was incorrectly listed as a single, when Ethan here, is wrapped around a whole other body.

The second body’s a smaller one, a girl, judging by the tiny pink-painted fingernails, and in the middle of a splatter of brain matter is a child-sized tiara, pressed between them like a flower in a book. The sex visions with Ethan stop instantly and my stomach heaves as I try not to hurl.

My jumpsuit is dripping with sweat and it clings to my clammy body to the point it makes my skin crawl. And then my trusty dusty brain, with its wonderful imagination, kicks into overdrive and I play the story of their final moments.

Ethan works — worked — works in laundry services. It’s bring your daughter to work day. Maybe he’s a weekend dad that doesn’t get to spend enough quality time with his baby girl and he fights the court order and pushes for this until he’s able to negotiate terms.

So he brings her to his job and she insists on wearing the little princess halloween costume, the one with the tiara, and he can’t say no because she is his little princess. Things are going great and he tells her to be careful and stick close to him, but he gets distracted for a moment, maybe by his boss about special instructions on a rush job or somethin’.

The little girl tries to be good and listen to her daddy, but curiosity gets the better of her and she climbs on a piece of machinery she shouldn’t be climbin’ on and Ethan’s dad-alarm goes off and he spots her, losing her balance and he runs for her… runs and dives with no care for his own safety and he manages to grab hold of her but it’s too late and they both fall into the machine before his coworkers can hit the shut off switch.

So, Ethan does the only thing he knows to do… he wraps himself around the little girl and folds her in his love, as the machine does what it’s designed to do.

It probably ain’t even in the same neighborhood as the actual events, but even though my story is most likely bullshit, it’s still real to me. it’s what I choose to believe.

And it breaks my heart ’cause that’s how I wish it was with me and my pop, but after moms died, we can’t be in the same room for ten minutes without it breakin’ into some big production. I know he means well, but who the hell is he to give me instructions on how I should live my life? Holder of the Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition Lifetime Achievement Award, is who.

I carefully harvest the tiara and clean body residue out of every nook and cranny. Then I place the plastic jewelry on a towel and carefully fold it into the best presentable package I can manage.

“Fuck’re you doing over there, Mickey?” Jhonni says over his shoulder.

And suddenly I can’t do this anymore, not just Ethan and this nameless little girl, but any of it. I peel the sopping wet jumpsuit off me and throw it at my boss. “Quitin’ is what I’m doin’.” Correction, my ex-boss.

I take the tiara package over to the phone and search the directory for Forensic Affairs. “And it’s Michelle, by the way, you fat piece of garbage. Call me outside my name again and somebody’ll be unzippin’ you from one of those bags.”

I expect a response, an argument, a something… but he just sits there and takes it quietly. Makes me think this isn’t the first time somethin’ like this has happened.

I dial the number. Do I feel sorry for the person about to lose their job? Sure, but fuck ’em. There’re more important matters at hand. There’s a family that needs reunitin’.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make another call after this one. It’s been a while since I spoke to the old man, after all.

The Anniversary Meal

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

As Amantha carefully diced the spleen, she caught herself. Lost in the preparation of the meal, she absently sang a song under her breath. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem but she was doing it in her native tongue, a dead language that might have revealed her true identity, had anyone heard it. Not that they’d have been able to pinpoint what she was exactly, but they would have sussed she wasn’t what she appeared to be.

She bit the inside of her cheek as she marinated the kidneys, the pain and the coppery tang of blood in her mouth served as a reminder to be more cautious. The head that had been severed and chilled on ice overnight to preserve its freshness, was placed in the stewpot to dissolve in a broth that smelled faintly of sulfur. She would have to remember to do the same with the hands and feet and all the other body parts that couldn’t be disguised as normal cuts of meat.

Anal to a fault, Amantha arranged all the innards neatly on the countertop and went to work on deboning the torso and limbs, the bones of which would join the head in the liquefying broth. She knew she had plenty of time to get rid of the evidence, but she also wanted time to get dressed and made up before Onathan arrived. It was their one year anniversary and she wanted the meal to go without a hitch because she suspected he was going to propose tonight.

“He’s going to propose tonight,” she let slip aloud as she slit open the intestines to clean them. If only she had studied the language better, none of this food preparation would have been necessary.

Onathan’s mother was an important figure in his life, more a best friend than a parent, and he wanted to include her in the anniversary celebration, which Amantha had no problem with because she enjoyed the old woman’s company, she just wished he had phrased his wish differently.

His exact words were, “Do you mind if we had Mom over for dinner? It’s a special night that I want to share with her. Since Dad died, she’s been alone in that house and it’s not good for her.”

“Of course, I don’t mind,” Amantha answered, playing the question over and over in her mind. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“You’re amazing. I can’t believe how understanding you are.” Onathan pulled her into him and gave her the biggest kiss. Surely, she had gotten it right this time. The kiss made her confident that her first interpretation was accurate.

Amantha called Onathan’s mother over late last night after he had gone to bed and she came without question or hesitation. Either she was the most selfless person on the planet or she truly was lonely in that big house all by herself. This would be a good thing.

No stranger to the procedure, Amantha treated her hopefully soon-to-be-late mother-in-law to refreshments laced with a two-part toxin. The first substance was mixed into the pâte sucrée and would have passed through her system harmlessly, had it not bonded with the chemical placed in the sherry. Death was instantaneous and painless.

The phone rang not a few seconds later. It was her mother. When Amantha relayed the news and what Onathan asked and what she had done, there was silence on the other end of the line.

A chill ran down Amantha’s spine. Before her mother said a word, she knew she had gotten it wrong once again. English was such a bastard of a tricky language.

“These humans, they’re not like us, Ammie,” her mother said. “Relatives do not sacrifice themselves for celebration feasts nor do they feel pride in eating kin.”

“But what am I going to do, Mother?” the rising panic made her body quake.

“Are you sure she’s dead?”

Amantha prodded the old woman’s arm with her shoe. “No doubt about it. I followed your recipe to the letter.”

“Looks like you have no choice but to tell him the truth.”

“The truth? I can’t do that! Hi, honey, remember your mother? I killed her by mistake last night, sorry. He’ll never marry me now!”

“Then play ignorant,” her mother suggested. “Human females do it all the time.”

“And what about the body?”

“It isn’t a body anymore, it’s evidence. If you intend to live a lie, you’ll have to get rid of it.”

“I can’t move the body, somebody will see me!”

“Who said anything about moving the body?” her mother said nothing further, waiting patiently for her daughter to catch on.

“You mean cook her?”

“You were going to do it anyway.”

“I–I can’t. That would be wrong.”

Turned out she could. After hours of playing out scenarios in her head, she decided she couldn’t live without Onathan and he wouldn’t want to live with her if he found out the truth.

The difficult part was hiding the body until Onathan left for work in the morning. Amantha thought she had tipped her hand when she rushed him through breakfast and out the door. One of his mother’s earrings was on the kitchen floor, right beside his shoe! It was so close that if she made any move to retrieve it, he would have noticed.

But all that was behind her now, as she opened the refrigerator to get the older woman’s eyeballs to mash into a jelly topping for the dessert. But they weren’t there. She searched everywhere she hid body parts, everywhere they could have rolled but there were no eyeballs! She distinctly remembered plucking them out of their sockets last night.

How could she have misplaced them? Amantha knew she had to find them before Onathan came home in two hours. She threw herself into overdrive and tore the house apart, all the while cursing herself for not being more careful. The last thing she wanted was to have Onathan accidentally stumble upon one of the elusive orbs. He might not recognize it as one of his mother’s, but at the end of the day, it was a human eye and while she didn’t completely understand human culture, she was sure finding random eyeballs in your house wasn’t a common practice.

Amantha finally found them, yes, in the refrigerator. They somehow managed to roll off the saucer and landed in the crisper. She breathed a sigh of relief… until she looked at the clock; Onathan was going to be home in less than an hour, and she not only hadn’t finished dinner yet but now the house was a complete mess.

She prepared the dessert in record time and then hopped on the massive chore of tidying up the house. Just as she put the finishing touches on her makeup, the doorbell rang.

Amantha sat on pins and needles the entire dinner. What if he recognized his mother’s taste? A silly concern but it plagued her nonetheless.

Onathan seemed nervous as well, his eye constantly checking the wall clock or shooting over his shoulder to the front door. It didn’t stop him from enjoying the meal and he ate everything placed before him. At the end of the meal. he accidentally knocked his fork on the floor. Amantha was about to comment on how clumsy he was when he came up on one knee with a ring in his hand. “I was going to wait until mother arrived, but I feel now’s the perfect time, after the perfect meal.”

And that was all it took. The dam of emotions she tried to suppress all evening burst wide open and Amantha began to cry uncontrollably.

“D-did I do something wrong?” Onathan said, confused. “I thought you wanted this?”

“No, no, I do want this,” she said, her breath hitching. “Just not this way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s not you, you’re fine. Really, really fine. It’s me. I have something to tell you.”