Sundance

Sundance, an ancient art. A ritualistic fusion of primal dance and doped adrenaline escapades into the mind. A scent more foul than ancient sewers assaulted my nose, along with a mixture of acrid flesh and boiling water.

I had been bound, held without regard on charges only these tribesmen know. What was left of the rest of my expedition crew lain in course piles on the ground. The thunderous, rolling beats of their drums scared off all other creatures, nary a single flap of a wing could be seen through the clear, bright sky.

I wondered, maddened by my surroundings, at what fate I had in store. I had gave up my god days ago, months of capture proving how prayer never worked. I begged forgiveness, now, as the sharp, shrill cry of a blade to stone called out through the rest of the cacophony.

May you all burn in hell, I thought, as the spear tip raised from stone and pointed towards me.

May you all burn in hell.

Image source: Roberto Pazzi/Daily Mail UK

Faded

Today, I faded.

Fell, more like, as if my body no longer kept my soul. It fell to the ground, a sharp crack as the neck snapped from the sudden impact. I wanted to stand there. I wanted to believe that it couldn’t have happened the way it did.

But it did.

And here I slip, as the world goes grey around me. Thoughts became fleeting things, no longer bound by will or the need to conserve precious resources. Memories abound of my life, of things I had forgotten or things that had never seemed quite right. And then, nothing spun. Nothing moved, not even my thoughts. I stood stock still in black twilight, void of feeling, of remorse or love. Everything was gone. And I hoped that, soon, I would be gone too.

I heard a whimper, a whispered moan of sorrow. It enveloped me, pulling my limited existence in all directions until I stood behind the source. What had only been moments had been days, at the least, as I saw my mother crying before a casket in a dark room. I could hear her voice call my name, giving me my memories of her back as if they had never left. I felt sorry. I wished to have been able to console her, to hold her in my arms and tell her that it would be okay.

But soon the sobbing stopped, and I lost track of everything around me.

That was the day I faded, pulled beneath death’s wing, to never know what else I could have been.

Be Prepared

Surprises come in all shapes and sizes.

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** Disclaimer: This is my most graphic story to date. Please be advised that before reading, if you are easily upset by violence or graphic content please move on to another post. **

Screams. The horrible, blood curdling, sudden screams. I have been locked in a room for who knows how long, without so much a light to see. The smell of urine and rusted metal prevail the room, musky with the added distaste of sweat. Shackles hold my hands together. Another scream shuddered through the silence, before falling to the deaf.

The darkness has my mind racing, time is no longer measurable. The true nature of fear and panic settle to dull ache as I await my turn for the torture room. Sometimes I think I see the flickering of red light underneath a small gap between floor and door, but passed it off as my mind playing tricks in my fevered mentality. I pull the chains that have me bound, but only find stability in their taut lengths. My head pounds against the bricks as I try to think of some way of escape.

Then there was a sound. Dull, distant at first. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Rhythmic, slow and pounding. My eyes search for some purchase of light, to give my torments a face or other thing to go with the menace. Thunk, thunk. Closer now, my mind racing. Then there was a heavy pounding, as if wood on metal. A red light began to flow towards me as the door slowly opened. The sudden luminance blinded my eyes. The heavy rapping of a rod against the tiles began, each a cacophonous, maddening barrage to ears all too accustomed to silence.

I tried to see. My eyes opened slowly as I began to glance upwards. The movement was met with a solid blow to the head. When I next came to, my eyes could barely open.

And I wish they hadn’t. I was suspended in the center of a large room. It was brightly lit, focus lights pointed to the center of the blood stained room. A man, far as I could tell from his hooded and bloodsoaked form, stood before me. There were others around, but none carried life. The man reached a filthy glove and pinched my chin within his thumb and forefinger. He forced my head left and right, then turned and nodded towards the far corner, beyond my lessened sight.

A woman stepped out from the shadows, a camera in hand. Black rimmed glasses framed vagrant blue eyes, eyes of the soulless. Her small, slender frame was wrapped in the finest of formal clothes, as if this was some business meeting rather than a deadly torture chamber. She sets the camera atop a tripod that the faceless man had pulled from afar, then smiles.

“Welcome to your death, Mr. Brewster.” She points to the camera beside her, the smile fading into a business focus. “We will be recording this for a niche group, ones who pay top dollar to see vivisections and bodily mutilation for pure enjoyment. Your rivals and enemies will thoroughly enjoy this.”

She then turns the camera on before leaving the room, a heavy door closing behind her. The man grunts, turns to the camera. His voice was a guttural growl unlike anything I have ever heard.

“The Judges have spoken. The sentence is death by torture.”

He shambles over to a chair with the remains of a woman. He pulls a gritted knife from within his apron and carves into her stomach. The woman suddenly screams, blood spurting from her mouth. Fear and agony begin to take my mind as I shift against the bonds holding my arms above me. They shook, but to no avail as the man began pulling her intestines from her gullet. He strings it out from her, then moves towards me, wrapping the still warm organs around my throat. The woman’s body began to convulsed heavily before a final death call rang from her lips, her head falling forward. I began to swing my legs against the shackles attached from below, trying to do whatever I could to squirm the sickly, quickly cooling membrane from my own skin.
Then there was a large boom. Blood covered my face as the man, whose head was now a cavity, fell to his knees. The camera was kicked, my mind racing as bodies began filling the room. “…too late for her…” voices swam as fast as the room, and I began to vomit. Soon, my sight was gone from fear, then shortly my mind.

This was the post I originally talked about here. I have decided to post the original one here for the sake of getting criticism for the style and storytelling, and would love to hear everyone’s thoughts.

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The Day the World Faded

“We are doomed.”

“The President of the United States has announced the launch of nuclear weapons into enemy and ally countries, and we are getting reports of the same from all around the globe. Russia was the first to launch theirs as ours went airborne. Targets are unknown, so I urge everyone to please find the nearest fallout point and take shelter.”

“I repeat, nuclear missiles are airborne. Take shelter…” [Transmission cuts here]

Transcript from the last news video aired on Death Day, January 26th, 2052.

With the Nuclear War, all life is at an inevitable loss.
Image source on DeviantArt

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The Morning After

Hatred consumes me. Hatred of myself, for what I have done. I snatched up my clothes that had been discarded about the room, my fingers darting into pockets. Item found, slipping the golden, simple ring that means so much to me back upon its finger. I try to silently dress in near darkness of early dawn, trying not to wake the woman I woke up next to.

As I sit to slip on my shoes, I feel a hand caress my back, just between the shoulder blades. A shiver of mixed pleasure and fear runs through my form, and I quickly turn. Her eyes are still shut. Good. I stand as fast as I could without alerting her to my disappearance, locking the knob of the door as I shut it behind me.

Half an hour later, I am slipping quietly into bed beside another woman. I hope the smell of cheap liquor no longer lingered on my breath. Hoping and praying that she will wake right as rain, so that her day wouldn’t start on the wrong foot. I fall asleep once more, thankful that at least I didn’t have to work.

“Kenneth… Kenneth!!!”

A piercing scream drags me from the depths of slumber, and I look to my wife, who stood over me. She is crying, screaming, the looks of horror all over her face. “What is wrong, dear?” I ask, and she pointed at my chest.

There, in the center, was a large splatter stain of blood. My own eyes tear up as the bloody knife I held slashed at her. When I woke, before I left the other woman’s, that knife appeared in my pocket. And now I know whose hand it was that touched my back. It was not the woman, for she was already dead. It was her ghost. And soon, my wife will be a ghost.

The morning after, death with death.

Little Miss Scarlett

Scars run down his face, large and vicious. Her claws had dug deep that fated night. But his head rang thoughts of revenge, to do the same to her pretty face.

One raunchy evening, drunk as he’ll, he had called a number he got from a friend. The voice was soft, seductive. They talked for over an hour, agreeing with some monetary exchange for her ‘services’. A short term hotel room was their meeting place, her supple body his for a time. But in his stupor, he must confess, his fist had raised at a slight discrepancy in their agreed terms. Her hands were like lightning to his face.

He lost everything that month. His wife, the kids departed, his home foreclosed and his job cut from him. A year had passed, and still his anger raged. His fingers clenched the gun tight, as he watched her take in another fool. He snuck around, hiding behind bushes, as the hour dwindled down. His hand jersey up, a shot rang out. Down went the fool, but Scarlett had not stepped out.

He burst through her door, her name on his lips. She was nowhere to be seen. He grew ever more furious. From around the corner she stepped, calm as ever. Her clothes slid off, and he shut the door. First her body, he thought, as she drew closers, then her life. But when she neared, she kissed his scars gently. The anger began to fade, lust taking over. But what he didn’t see coming was a knife through his throat.

“No man will ever best Scarlett.” She smiled. Then everything faded.

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This is a different kind of story for me. I’m not usually into this kind of macabre storytelling, more for the other types of dark storytelling. Let me know what you guys think below.

Black Widow

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Infectious, intoxicating viral affliction. As my dagger sank deeper into his spine, between two ribs and into a lung, I can hear his bloody attempt at a scream behind my hand.

Limping, tormented soul. A fluid seeps from his eyes as his nose trickles with blood. The stream gains momentum and covers my hand as I pull the blood and envenomed blade from his form.

Sadness, maddening grief. My heart aches at this man. He was kind and loving, a hero among friends and gentle in bed. But the black widow must strike, and strike I did.

Longing, a feeling soon repressed. I focus and steel my will as I turn to make my escape. The bounty was high, and with hope, i can find another like him after I have retired this sinful profession.