Two-Sentence Horror Story: "The Gold Standard"

The honeybee thanked Preston for moving it out of harm’s way by stinging his finger and leaving a throbbing welt. After a cussing storm that rivaled most Floridian hurricanes, Preston said you’re welcome by unzipping his jeans and showering the bee with his own brand of golden honey.

Two-Sentence Horror Story: A Stone's Throw Away

After an hour of standing in front of the toilet, Frank passed the world’s bloodiest and most painful kidney stone in existence. It could one day be used as the business end of a morning star.

Spit Out the Black Pill

“Woody! Unsweetened iced tea for Woody!” No response. “WOODY!”

Woody Silver snapped out of his gangsta rap induced trance long enough to pull his ear buds out and accept his drink. He did so with a nervous glance around the House of Roses and Chocolates (not a bad name for a coffee bar). He knew these people were gazing at him through figurative microscope lenses. If they adjusted the magnification, they could see his tiny ego shrivel up and die like a chopped off cock.

“What are you listening to?” asked the blond barista with the prettiest of grins.

“Uh…gangsta rap. You know, songs about shooting people in the face.”

The barista darted her eyes around as if she needed to know the nearest exit. “You like that kind of music?”

“Yeah. It’s good stuff. It’s not like I’m the one doing the shooting.”

“…Uh-huh…well, you go enjoy your violent music…Woody.”

This would have been a good time for Woody to put a sock in it and leave with at least a little bit of his shattered dignity intact. But he just HAD to make it worse and even more awkward than before. “Yeah, I get it. When someone commits murder, they blame rap music. When someone commits suicide, they blame heavy metal. Chris Benoit was probably a big fan of Rage Against the Machine.”

All eyes were on Woody now and they were large enough to crush his sense of self-worth ten times over. Whether it was the barista, the lesbian couple near the window, or the little girl and her mother not too far from him in line. After a while of allowing Woody’s anxiety to chill faster than his iced drink, the four-year-old princess said, “You fucked up.” Everyone gave a shocked laugh, though this was a pleasant kind of shock.

Woody didn’t find any of this pleasant. He robotically slumped to the nearest table with his drink, his iPhone, and his ear buds, hanging his head in shame. He wished he could be anywhere but that coffee bar. Even getting hit with a bolt of lightning and being sent to an early death seemed tamer than this incredibly public humiliation. Under his breath, he said, “If this ends up on You Tube, I’m going to be very upset…” Thankfully, nobody heard him and the target on his back didn’t grow a single centimeter.

But a metaphorical target he still had. His stomach turned and boiled and no amount of iced tea could calm his mild nausea. The whole world laughed at him and his defenses were gone. Then again, having shaggy blond hair and dirty clothing didn’t provide much in the way of defenses against scrutiny. But then he reached in his flannel jacket pocket and remembered he had a cure for all of this.

It was a small jar of black jelly beans he found on the internet. He couldn’t remember the name of the website or why these beans were advertised as medicinal. When desperation struck him like that much-wanted bolt of lightning, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He unscrewed the lid and shoveled a handful of black jelly beans down his gullet, not even taking ample time to chew his food. Then again, choking wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him that day.

Instead, the rush of energy he got from this candy was the best thing. His hands stopped jittering. He could effortlessly pick up his sunken head. The cloudy weather outside gave way to sunshine through the windows. His iced tea tasted like magic in a cup. The women around him made his heart flutter in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever he paid for these jelly beans was worth it. He could be broke tomorrow and die a happy man the next day, as evidenced by the blossoming smile on his face.

His newfound eye-brightening joy led him to believe he could conquer the day, one in which he previously had no schedule and no plan of any sort. He could finally talk to the barista and not be an awkward mess. He floated by the seat of his pants to the beautiful blond, who was now decked out in a light blue dress with flowers and jewels adorned everywhere. But before he could open his mouth and allow poetry to pour from his lips…

The barista twirled like a fairy princess and showed off the wedding ring on her white gloved hand. She sang in an angelic voice with the rhythm of a nee-ner-nee-ner tune, “I got married! And you can’t have me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha, ha!” 

Woody turned towards the lesbian couple, who were now in matching dark green dresses with forest insignias printed everywhere. Their black gloved hands showed off wedding rings of their own, sparkling like incel tears. “We got married! And you can’t have us!” The same nee-ner-nee-ner tune, the same enchanting high-pitched voices.

And then the mother joined in on the fun with her purple dress, golden crown, and heavenly diamond on her finger. “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

Woody clutched his ears and tightly closed his eyes, running out of the coffee bar and leaving his drink behind. He remembered the iPhone and ear buds, though. The violent rapper’s voice was the only one he wanted to hear…until he had a female guest vocalist who jovially sang, “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

“Oh, come on!” Woody sped down the sidewalk without giving a single solitary fuck who he weirded-out along the way. He was already as small and repugnant as bacteria. He was already lower than the worms crawling beneath the park’s grassy turf. But no matter how far he ran or how many times he actually opened his eyes for a change…

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a white dress-wearing vixen in the sweetest voice.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang Wonder Woman in the comic book shop window.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a woman in jean shorts and flip-flops, also in the loveliest high-pitched voice.

“Stop it! I get your point! I get it, I get it, I get it! I’m weird! I’m stupid! Enough is enough!” shouted Woody, though his words only echoed in his head, never once giving the public a shot at hearing his opinion of their love. “Stop it!” His voice grew deeper and more demonic. “No more!” His voice had a hint of ogre-like growling. “STOP!” Except they wouldn’t stop. These impossibly beautiful women from all around closed in on him, reminding him over and over again that they were not prizes to be won by loser men like him.

“Pick up the brick!” shouted an evil bass voice from behind. The clouds grew dark once more, giving way not to a halo of sunshine, but to the brightness of hellfire. The once lovely women in their dresses turned into pitch-black monsters with razor-sharp claws and mocking goblin voices. Woody looked around to see where the original evil voice came from, but couldn’t find the source except in his own head, booming like movie theater speakers.

“The world never loved you anyways. Your parents think you’re a disgrace. Your friends think you’re dragon shit. Society wants to kill you. Pick up the brick and make them all go away. Murder every last one of those undeserving femoids. Pick up the brick, haul back, and let her ho.”

Woody’s anxious sweat quadrupled into a clay-like substance, like his skin was peeling off and revealing a more sinister side to a world that could already see his weaknesses. He gritted his teeth so hard that his gums bled black. He listened to the one voice who understood him beneath the lovey-dovey mockery. He had a mission. It was his job to smash the world into pieces with that one brick. He smiled like a villain, though his clay sweat masked most of those features.

He learned down and picked up the brick, which would ordinarily weigh him down, but was so natural in his hand, like it was a gift-wrapped present from the forces of evil. He wanted to use it. He wanted to make the world suffer the way he did. All those times he was laughed at for simply existing. All those times he was rejected for being just mildly annoying. All those punches he took in the name of creep control.

But then as Woody strode up to his would-be victims, he passed his reflection in the comic book shop window. He saw what he looked like for the first time since this transformation…and empathized with those calling him a freak. His face was melting and folding over. His eyes were coal black. His nose was dripping like chocolate off his face. His body was bloated with monstrous red goo. His dirty blond hair resembled a den of snakes rather than a simple unkempt appearance.

“What are you waiting for?! Use the brick and end the world! KILL THEM ALL!”

But no matter how the voice vibrated in his brain, no matter how hard it made his nerves convulse, he couldn’t do it. He slowly put the brick down…because he hated what he had become. All this hatred turned him into something ugly and unrecognizable. Finally, society had a reason to hate him and his own self-hatred wasn’t manufactured either. His stomach burst and boiled. It exploded with bile and death sauce. Acid in his throat accumulated like the clay sweat. And then, he let go of his anger and all of his fabricated grudges…in the form of black throw-up on the sidewalk.

In one vomit spell, he cleansed his disgust for himself. Every horrible feeling within him stretched his insides out as the black goop flooded the concrete. And then…emptiness was all that remained. An empty stomach. An empty soul. But best of all, an empty mind free from the judgment of a booming voice and lighthearted fairy laughter. He sat on a part of the sidewalk that wasn’t drenched in puke and breathed in and out, as if the cool morning air soothed his throat.

Speaking of throats, a familiar voice cleared hers. Woody opened his dewy, red, puffy eyes to see that the barista was there holding the drink he left behind. No royal dresses. No punch-down comedy. No scorn. Just concern. “Forget something?” she asked. When Woody reached his hand up to grab his drink, she pulled away. “Give me those jelly beans.”

“The…the jelly beans? These ones?”

The barista nodded and Woody Silver did as he was told. She read the label and analytically curled her lips downward. “Black pills. Of course. Medicine for the involuntary celibate.”

“Those were black pills?!”

She nodded again before throwing the jar in a nearby rubbish bin like she was shooting a basketball. “Two points. I used to play basketball in high school. You could have figured that out if you hadn’t gone on about your…murder music, and let me talk for a change.” Woody hung his head in shame once again. “You just need practice, that’s all. Not with me, of course. I’m married.”

“That’s nice. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. No backlash? No insults? Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Those black pills are out of your system. Here. Drink this instead. I’ll help your stomach.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed the drink and had a few swallows. The coolness was so gentle on his throat that he wasn’t in a hurry to chug it all. He wanted the easiness to last as long as he could draw it out.

“Guess I’ll see you next time you come in. Word of advice, though: I’d retire that Chris Benoit joke if I were you. Send it to the old folks home in Florida.”

“Good idea.”

“Very good. I’m Elizabeth, by the way. But you can call me Liz.”

“Woody. Woody Silver. You already knew that, though. Nice to meet you.”

“Same. Enjoy your tea!” Liz waved goodbye and strolled away.

When she walked out of sight, Woody said under his breath, “Nice to meet you indeed…” He sipped his tea and relaxed against the wall, not caring what the world thought of his vulnerable state. In fact, they didn’t seem to have much of an opinion at all given how the pedestrians mostly ignored him.

Held Down

The dying candlelight in the sky shone through Duane Root’s barred window and sizzled his eyes like bacon and eggs. The tighter he closed them, the more green and purple clouds swirled in his dark vision. The C clamp on his head seemed to crack his skull with how tightly it pushed his brains together. The hairy demonic arms that held him down in his quicksand bed squeezed every last breath of air out of his already exhausted body. What was the point of fighting his self-imposed bondage? What was the point of getting out of bed for a day that was going to end as quickly as it began?

Using what little freedom he had left in his arm, Duane shielded his eyes with his hand and tried to read his obnoxious grandfather clock with blurry vision. He knew he slept long enough to justify a coffin instead of a bed. But when he saw the time read five o’clock at night, he cursed to himself and slumped defeated into his crushing, yet strangely comfortable bed. “I have to go to work tomorrow…I hate work…I should just sleep in again…”

Surrendering to the tightening arms and the bone-snapping head vice would have been the easy way out. Easy was how Duane liked things. What wasn’t easy was the rumbling in his tummy that seemed to drum against his barely visible ribcage. “Jesus Christ…” he muttered into an uncaring universe. “I’d kill for a pizza right now.” With the weakness paralyzing his body, he wished he was the target of his would-be pizza murder. In a way, hunger was a murderer of its own, but its methods were slow and torturous. “What a shitty way to die…”

Duane fought and struggled to free himself from the demonic arms, but it was like losing a wrestling match to a dormant elephant sitting on his already inflamed ribs. He struggled some more, not out of love for life, but out of love for whatever was rotting in his fridge and needed to be eaten. His strength diminished with every tug against the arms. His brains liquefied against the vice grip. It would have been easy to just to give up and only allow his corporate masters to free him for a twelve-hour day of even more torture.

But after a few more squeezes and squirms, Duane freed himself from the monstrous arms, which subsequently crawled by their bladed fingers underneath his box-spring. Duane even managed to rip the vice off of his greasy, partially-bloody hair. Winning that championship wrestling match from hell didn’t take nearly as much out of him as sitting up on his butt. His head swirled like a tornado ripping his synapses apart. He was sure he was about to have a stroke. His stomach even rebelled against him despite not having anything to puke up in the first place.

After a few deep breaths, Duane Root’s equilibrium returned to him and his stomach calmed down. The green and purple eye fog blew away in these mini-breezes from his lungs. He could see again. But what he saw drained all hope from his already sloppy brain. The sun was descending underneath the horizon. The cobwebs in the corners of his room accumulated. The sticky floor clung to his naked feet with every step he took. His pajama pants and dirt-covered Pearl Jam shirt could have put him back to sleep with how musty they smelled.

The way Duane walked across his bedroom floor reflected how exhausted he was by everything around him. It was a zombie crawl on two legs. It was death being propped up with skinny twigs. It was an act of self-mutilation just to take another step out into the kitchen. But step into the kitchen he did. In case climbing one mountain of filth wasn’t enough, the mountain got even taller when he saw how many dishes were piled up in his sink. The demonic worms crawled across them, eating away at crusted egg stains and snickering at him with rancid food between their bladed teeth.

“Okay, Duane, you can do this…right?” There may have been a microsecond when he was capable, but when he turned on the faucet and saw that green slime poured out, he sighed and hunched over as though nothing he did had a point to it. He languidly nudged the faucet while the demon worms bathed and chugged at the viscous goo.

“I don’t need dishes anyways. I’ll just eat with my hands, I don’t give a shit.” He opened the fridge and gazed at the options with despair and anguish. There was a bucket of Kentucky Fried Tarantulas that needed to be finished. There was a McBlowfish sandwich that started to grow mushrooms. There was a Snickers bar that looked like it was birthed out of an ogre’s ass. And to drink he had a bottle of beer that looked like a dragon pissed in it or a jug of milk that deserved its own funeral.

“Fuck!” screamed Duane with a scratchy throat as he slammed the refrigerator door shut and slumped down to his butt. He tucked his head in his hands and allowed them to collect his greasy tears. “I just…I just…I just want life to be fun again…I want to actually want to live…I want my friends back…I want my mom back…I don’t want to live here anymore…I hate this place…”

“There, there, now,” said a ghostly voice, following up with a pat on Duane’s shoulder. He didn’t bother looking up to see who it was, but like everyone told him before, it was all in his head, right? “How can I put this in a way that even you can understand? I know!” The ghostly voice coughed less like it was clearing its throat and more like it was trying to vomit himself inside out. Duane still didn’t pick his head up. “If it makes you feel any better…other people have it worse than you do.”

“Fuck you…”

“It’s true, Duane. At least you have food in your fridge. A child in Africa can’t say the same. Neither can any woman in Saudi Arabia or Afghanistan. There’s more to life than just your sadness. There’s more to the world than the little microcosm you’ve fashioned for yourself. Just pick your head up and smile for a change. Nobody ever got anything done by frowning all the time and being miserable.”

Duane finally picked his head up and saw nobody there. He shrugged his aching shoulders and took the advice to smile…but his headache from the earlier vice grip made that a painful task. Smiling wasn’t the only thing that was painful. So was contrasting his plight to children in Africa or women in the Middle East. Everything was painful to Duane. Every twitch of his finger. Every step across the sticky floor. Every breath he took just sucked the wind out of him some more. “I…I want life to be fun again…” The gulf couldn’t be wider between what he wanted and what he would get.

He took a few more agonized breaths, but this time with anger shielding him from stomach pain. He grabbed the refrigerator door handle to pull himself to his wobbly legs. He looked at the world around him and hated everything in it. His fists clenched painfully as he wanted to destroy everything in his sight. He wanted to smash the worms. He wanted to throw the faucet slime against his windows. He wanted to tip the refrigerator over and stomp on his disgusting food. But just imagining these things sent more shockwaves of pain through his body…and just like that his rage devolved into more tears.

“Why does everything have to suck so much?” he asked the apathetic void. “I want life to be fun again!” But if it couldn’t be, he would rip open his silverware drawer and look for any weapon he could find. A knife? A fork? An even bigger knife that had demon worms crawling all over it? A wooden soup spoon that had its edges eaten off, probably by the aforementioned demon worms?

Duane shuffled his hand through the drawer and pulled out anything and everything that could help him. The sharpest objects he could find were not sharp enough. He needed something strong. He needed something that could cut through misery as through it were butter. He needed…a secret key?

He pulled the key out and stared at it with confusion. Was it supposed to start his car? Was it supposed to lock his house? It was too small to be either of those things. He then rushed to the bathroom, sticky floor pounding against his heels like war drums. He ignored the demon worms crawling on his walls and unlocked the medicine cabinet. Surely, these pills would be more effective than a sharp knife. Less blood, that was for sure. He rifled through the pills. Immodium? Asprin? Tylenol? No. An orange bottle with a barely readable label.

Duane opened it with shaky hands and poured a few tablets onto the sink. He turned on the faucet and more green slime poured out, but he didn’t care. He filled his coffee-stained glass with it and used it to swallow the pills he laid out. Strangely enough, the green slime…tasted like regular water. The demon worms were just mediocre wall paper designs. The floor was just sticky because he spilled food on it days prior.

“I did it…I remembered to take them…” In a microcosm full of darkness and horror, these pills couldn’t be confused for Hocus Pocus or black magic. They were antidepressants. He forgot to take them over the past few days. He was so wrapped up thinking his microcosm was the shittiest place on earth that taking his medicine just…slipped his mind. It was a mind that was no longer sloshing around in his head like moldy Jello. And when he returned to his bedroom, the hairy demonic arms were just an afghan that his mother gave him. The quicksand was just broken foam.

Upon clearing out his fucked up head, he remembered another phrase that no ghostly voice would ever tell him: “One day at a time.” It made perfect sense. He didn’t have to do everything at once. The cobwebs could wait another day. The dirty dishes weren’t going anywhere. Tomorrow was a work day, one that would likely be stressful enough to make him forget to take his pills again. But then again…”One day at a time.” And then Duane plopped down on his mother’s afghan, breathing sighs of relief that didn’t feel like punches to his gut.

“You got this, Duane...just go to work tomorrow…and figure out everything later…You can do this…”

“No, you can’t!” said the ghostly voice, which was greeted with a middle finger from the man it tormented.

En Taro Adun, Space Cadet

“Yoooooooou’re listening to 113.5 WACK FM radio, the conspiracy station. I’m your host Nikki Roman and this is Stargazer Hour episode 750. Before we get into today’s episode, I want to say a quick thank you to this station’s sponsors. 

This episode is brought to you by Raid: Shadow Legends, the only fantasy online RPG where having a giant sword is considered a personality trait and being an ugly goblin is considered a character flaw. 

And also by Noom, the weight loss app for your phone that uses psychology to help you reach your goals. Whether you want that smoking hot beach body or you want to trigger your anorexia, Noom has you covered like a mortician’s body bag. 

And finally by Stuck in the Mud, the newest flavor of chocolate ice cream for anybody who wants to look like a Human Centipede character while eating it. It goes perfectly with that Noom app I mentioned earlier, especially if it’s bulimia you want to trigger instead of anorexia.

Now that our housekeeping is out of the way, I’d like to introduce today’s guest. He’s been itching to come onto the show for a long time, almost as much as he likes to itch his lesion-covered testicles. Please welcome alien skeptic, Bernardino Coffin. Yes, that is what it says on his driver’s license. No, it is not his incel name, but you’d be forgiven if you thought otherwise. Welcome to the show, Mr. Coffin.”

Throughout the sponsorship housekeeping, Nikki kept an eye on the polo shirt-wearing, neck-bearded man sitting across from her booth as his eyes widened in amazement at the studio doodads. In addition to sound equipment and microphones up to yin-yang, elongated purple fingers hung on the walls as well as a transmorgrant for an alien fetus and a lava lamp that looked like a xenomorph jacked off into it.

Bernardino smiled, spread his fingers in a Live Long gesture, and said, “En Taro Adun, Space Cadet. I come in peace.”

“You play one game of Starcraft and you think you can kick my ass in an alien debate? I hope that’s not the only ammunition you brought with you tonight.” Nikki adjusted her purple skull cap as well as her thick-rimmed glasses, not giving away any sign of intimidation.

Bernardino shook his head. “You honestly believe there are aliens out there? Yes, I AM arrogant enough to believe we’re the only ones in this universe. I haven’t seen jack shit ever since you started this stupid radio show. You got a telescope around here? How about a rocket ship? Seriously, where are all these aliens you keep talking about?”

“Clearly, you neglected to do your research before coming here tonight. And no, playing computer games from the 90’s doesn’t count as research and neither does watching Star Wars. George Lucas isn’t in the business of making documentaries, honey.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Nikki reached down into the fridge underneath her booth and pulled out a canister of green slime, unscrewing the top before taking a heavenly sniff of its contents. She fanned herself off for extra effect. “You know what this is?”

“Gonorrhea?”

Nikki chuckled. “No. This is xenomorph blood, my friend. Found this cutie in an abandoned government lab. You’d think they’d want to take stuff like this with them, but apparently it’s not much of a priority and that’s why I have this show. It’s got all sorts of nutrients and DNA and shit. Tastes good too. Want a drink?”

Bernardino’s face contorted in disgust. “No!”

“Fine. More for me.” Nikki downed the canister in record time, making uncomfortable glugging noises with her giant throat. “Mmm! This is some tasty shit! If you like sugary shit, give this a try sometime. Me? I don’t normally drink stuff like this because my boyfriend is a diabetic, which pretty much means I don’t get any sugar either. I do love this stuff, though. It’s like what would happen if the Protoss fucked a can of Mountain Dew.”

“P…Protoss?” Bernardino’s breathing grew heavier as he became visibly nervous. “You just said playing Starcraft didn’t count as research. Now it does?”

“Yeah, playing Starcraft doesn’t count as research. But interviewing the characters does.”

“…HUH?!” Bernardino’s eyes bulged in confusion.

“It’s amazing what you can learn about a culture if you actually sit down and talk with someone. They’ve been at war for seemingly their entire existence with the Zerg. The two races were pretty much made to do battle with each other. You don’t carry warp blades with you unless you’re prepared to slice a zergling in half with one of those. Conversely, you don’t spit acid in someone’s face unless you were trying to kill his ass.”

“…You’re goofy.”

“Really? Does that make you Donald Duck or Mickey Mouse? I really want to know, because I hear Space Mountain is lovely this time of year. If the sunlight hits the Martian mountain at just the right angle, you’ve got these lovely colors blasting everywhere like an Aurora Borealis.”

“…You’re not making a lick of sense…”

Nikki shrugged. “Are you sure you don’t want to see more alien devices? I’ve got one that goes up your…”

“Dude!” The room went uncomfortably silent. “Nobody knows what the fuck you’re talking about. You’re just rambling about stupid random nonsense that nobody cares about. You accuse me of not researching your wacky ideas? Well, guess what, Nikki? You didn’t research my name. You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Nikki remained calm and cool throughout the insanity accusations. “If I Google your name right now, am I going to find your Reddit Manosphere posts? I’m sure those Jordan Peterson quotes are going to make you sound even saner than me right now.” She huffed. “Lobsters. Give me a break. Although, if you really want to find aliens with grabber claws, you should look into studying life on Jupiter. They’ve got some whoppers over there. Yeah, I know the planet is mostly gas that no one in their right mind would want to breathe in, but…”

“Right mind?!” Bernardino clasped his hands over his own skull. “Do you hear yourself? If you would have Googled my name, you would have seen that I work in a psychiatric ward. I published a book about alien conspiracy theorists years ago.”

“Is that where you met your Reddit fans?”

Bernardino whipped out his smart phone and punched a few buttons before showing Nikki something that made her own eyes bulge out of her head in disbelief. “You see that chart? See that? That line nose-diving onto the X-axis is your listener base. You are hemorrhaging audience members! They played along with your bullshit because they like sci-fi and all that, but now you’re just unhinged. How often to people actually call into your show, Nikki?”

She was speechless as the life in her eyes slowly faded.

“How many people, Nikki?!”

Still no answer.

“That’s what I thought. I’m inclined to have you committed right now. We’ve got all sorts of ‘alien devices’ at the psych ward. You’re perfect for us!” A confident smile crept across Bernardino’s face. “Although…there is one way you can still make a living.”

“…Uh-oh…” Nikki’s tummy rumbled underneath her blue and white tie-dye hoodie.

“If this radio show doesn’t work out for you, and it won’t…then you can always sell feet pics for Bit Coin.” Bernardino’s shit-eating grin was in full-effect.

Then again, so was Nikki’s. “You know what? You’re right! With that kind of money, I can get all the insulin I want for my BF. It all makes sense now. Got your camera phone ready?”

“…I was just joking, but…”

“No, no, no, get that camera ready. I’ve got some tootsies for you!”

Bernardino nervously huffed, but nonetheless maintained his smile, got his phone’s camera ready, and said, “Okay! Whenever you’re ready!”

Just like that, Nikki slipped off her flip-flops and planted her tootsies on the booth. But instead of a supermodel moment, Bernardino’s eyes widened with fear. He shook so hard that he dropped his phone and struggled to pick it up again. They weren’t ordinary feet. They were dinosaur-like with purple scales, large soles, and bloody talons that looked like they could slice through steel like a birthday cake.

“Go on! Snap a few pictures. Make me famous!” No response, just more shaking on Bernardino Coffin’s part. “Okay, so maybe you’re not a foot guy after all. Maybe you’d like some tail instead.” Nikki pulled her black jeans down and revealed purple scaly legs with a dripping red scorpion tail attached to the top of her ass. Bernardino dropped to his own ass and slowly inched away.

Nikki pulled off her hoodie and revealed more scaly flesh as well as gigantic bat wings, also with talons and blades, thousands of them, in fact. She then ripped off her human face and revealed a hideous dragon visage underneath, with spiky teeth, a slurpy snake tongue, and glowing gold eyes. By this point in the transformation, Bernardino was pissing himself.

“You still think this is a joke, Dr. Coffin?” Nikki asked in a distorted multi-layered voice. “You still think I’m just a conspiracy theorist with lapsed fans?! Go ahead! Take as many pictures as you’d like!”

Despite the fact that his arm was vibrating like a seizure victim, Bernardino managed to snap a few nice ones on his phone. He even got out a few jittery words. “Y..yeah…yeah...that’s how you get people to believe you…don’t tell them aliens exist…show them?” Dr. Coffin shielded his face with his hairy arms.

Nikki giggled in that sinister voice of hers. “Show, don’t tell. The most basic rule of storytelling and I completely neglected it. Having a radio show instead of a podcast didn’t help matters. Nonetheless…my secret is out. There is life in other worlds. There is a whole family of creatures like me waiting in the outer reaches. My people will be invaded just like any other colonial conquest you humans are known for. But at least you got your proof and I got my ratings back…Isn’t that lovely…”

She swatted away her recording equipment and marched towards Bernardino’s convulsing body while he pleaded, “No!” over and over again. She opened the tip of her scorpion tail as well as the tips of her wing blades and spiked mouth. With all of her frightening limbs, she chomped down on Bernardino’s body and began sucking his life force dry. Every liter of blood. Every chunk of flesh. Every salty morsel of bone marrow. Every muscle fiber on a body not known for Greek god definition. But most importantly, every scream that came out of Bernardino Coffin’s mouth was every bit as delicious and heavenly as the body itself. In fact, his screams tasted like chicken, which went well with xenomorph blood, the Noom app, and Stuck in the Mud ice cream.

Once Bernardino Coffin was wiped completely clean from human existence, Nikki rubbed her tummy and said, “You know what? I could get used to eating this many humans. If they’re coming at me with gauss rifles and shit…I’m coming at them with salt and pepper! And maybe some ketchup. I like ketchup.”

Hell Don't Need Me

Millions of years of evolution came unraveling for Harrison. Tufts of brown fur covered his already battered body. A tail protruded from his backside like a sword’s exit wound. His teeth sharpened and bulged from his gums in the same sword-like manner. His wild staring eyes grew bloodshot with rage and agony. His ham-like fists pounded against his cage as the anger within him built like dynamite. There was no more begging and pleading for the mercy of his eco-terrorist cohorts. The damage was done. Harrison was no more. In his place was a primitive savage with a thirst for blood and a nose for seeking out his prey. The more he punched the cage door, the hotter his rage became. And then…the door fell off.

There were other apes like him trapped in adjacent cages, pounding and growling for freedom. Harrison paid them no mind. His mother wanted a savage beast and she was about to get one. No plan of action. No intricate designs for revenge, just the love of revenge itself. Once he was free, with monkeys screaming in the background like his own personal cheerleaders, he pounded on the steel door to the prison room, creating little dents with each passing blow. Another series of punches, another dose of hot blood flowing through him. One dent turned into a crater of violence. And then, just like the door to his cage, this new door flew off like a leaf on a breeze.

Harrison sniffed around and perked his pointy ears up, but detected no signs of life, just an empty spaceship hallway complete with pipes and wires. More doors. More computer screens. More mumbo jumbo that used to mean something during his life as an eco-terrorist. Those days were long behind him, unlike the pipe he ripped off the wall with ease, which was right in front of him. Harrison smacked the steel pipe in his palm and bashed it off the floor several times, creating new dents where there were previously none. He howled and squeaked with a combination of excitement and anger. He loved this new weapon. He would love it even more once it struck somebody’s flesh.

And then…the common monkey scents grew stronger…and stronger. Harrison already knew he was basically occupying a zoo…but this animal prison had new blood…familiar blood…He took deeper whiffs to make sure he was locked onto this primal smell. His target burned into focus. They were all congregating down the hall. The excitement bubbling within Harrison caused even more primal screams and bashes of his lead pipe as he ran like a lunatic towards his destination. Another door to the cockpit? Where has he heard this story before? Harrison bashed his pipe against the door over and over again, creating the loudest thuds a prehistoric savage could possibly make. The deafening pounds didn’t create dents this time, but little explosions. Pieces of metal became lodged in his fur. Some got in his face, but Harrison didn’t bother wiping it away.

A few more bashes later and the door, much like Harrison’s evolutionary decline, was history. There they were, all in the cockpit like one big happy family. Except they too had prehistoric violence coursing through their veins. The monkey virus had gotten to all of them. His three brothers’ scents were powerful enough to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon. But his mother…the revered leader of a once powerful terrorist unit…the perfume and glamour had given way to a pungent odor that no mother should have. Every guilty party was gathered in one convenient room, all of them swinging around and bashing the environment around them. They didn’t even try to acknowledge Harrison’s presence. Maybe he was too far gone after all. But if that was true…how did he utter the words, “Hell don’t need me!”

Brother number one was the first to feel Harrison’s wrath in the form of a tail chomp so bloody that the limb fell off. The furry attachment flailed around like a crazy cobra while the brother screamed and writhed in agony. The other two brothers flew into battle with their anvil fists ready to disfigure any face they came across. Harrison bashed one of their ribcages in with the steel pipe and got pounced by the other brother. Harrison’s attacker leaned his face in with monster teeth bared, prepping to take a bite of delicious animal meat. Harrison held the pipe to his brother’s throat and pushed as hard as he could, drawing a small amount of blood from his mouth. Then the victim took the role of the bully as he bit his attacker’s finger off and spit it in his eye. Once Harrison was free, he wailed on his brother with the steel pipe over and over again until he was nothing more than a pile of shattered bones and pooling blood.

Harrison surveyed the damage he did in that small moment of white hot anger. His first brother passed out on the floor bleeding profusely from his tail, gangrene not too far behind. The brother with the shattered ribcage took his last breaths in the form of punctured wheezes. The less said about the third brother, the better. Harrison raised his lead pipe to the sky and roared like the savage he was meant to become. He even bashed the steel floor a few more times just to make sure he got all of his primal instincts out of his system. They were, but not in the way he had anticipated. Another cry sounded off in the room, but this one was tear-laden and shaky.

The mother monkey sat in the pilot’s seat of the ship with pleading and sorrow in her eyes. She got on her hands and knees begging for forgiveness, begging for a second chance despite the fact it would never be possible after these transformations. Wetness dropped from her bloodshot eyes and mucous splashed the floor beneath her. She even extended her arms for a peaceful hug, mother to son, just like the way it should have been.

Harrison’s former human side clouded his mind during this sympathetic display. He was feeling things again. His heart ached. His eyes dewed up when he took a second look at his fallen brothers. He snorted mucous upon locking eyes with his mother. “M…M…Mom?” This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Families weren’t supposed to treat each other this way. Everyone was in the wrong. Everyone had something to be guilty over. This was what it meant to be human, even if that particular DNA was a small percentage. Harrison dropped the pipe and embraced his mother, the two of them shedding tears on each other’s furry shoulders. They could start over and track down the bastard who did this to them.

But then the mother took a big bite out of Harrison’s right ear, gnawing it completely off and causing a rainstorm of blood to soak his fur. The mother bit him again, this time on the cheek. And again in the other ear. And again on the nose. Harrison tried to howl in pain, but blood was pouring onto his tongue and censoring his animalistic speech. His heart was broken. His stomach ached with betrayal. Screwed over twice by his own mother. This would be his legacy going forward. He started out as an incompetent eco-terrorist and he would die as a dumb ass monkey. With most of his face bloody and eaten, now wouldn’t be the good time for a head butt. Then again, logic wasn’t the animal kingdom’s strong suit, not even in the human world.

Harrison head butted his mother in the face and cracked her skull, causing her to spit out her sharpest front fangs. The two of them punched and wrestled each other, causing even more blood to stain the already dirty battlefield. Bones cracked. Organs sloshed around. Vomit projected from the mother’s mouth after a vicious kick to the stomach. Despite having cracked teeth himself, Harrison took one last bite out of his mother’s tail, ripping it off and bleeding her dry. The rage-filled demeanor in the mother monkey’s eyes rolled backwards to reveal dizziness and defeat. She stumbled around aimlessly while Harrison dragged his battered body over to the steel pipe before picking it up.

Once the mother plopped backwards on the ground, Harrison dragged his knuckles and his weapon across the ground, creating annoying screeching sounds in doing so, before raising the pipe in the air to deliver the final blow. “Hell…don’t…need…ME!” When Harrison brought the pipe down across his mother’s sternum and exploded her heart, he fell with her, though that was more owed to the sudden shaking of the spaceship they were in. Harrison’s dizzy eyes shifted in and out of focus as the turbulence jostled him around. The mild turbulence became a full on crash, launching Harrison through the windshield and onto the pavement.

This was it. With glass fragments stuck in his fur and blood pouring all over his body, Harrison could finally rest knowing his family was burning in hell. But then a familiar scent awakened him. His eyes slowly opened and his vision was obscured by tears and blood. It was a painstaking process pulling himself to his feet. But drag his body he did, leaving a smattering of life juices across the pavement.

Somebody else’s broken body laid on the sidewalk. All life was completely gone from this new corpse’s eyes, his fingers stuck in a gun position, his blue suit and tie a mess, and his puffy hair ripped and torn. Upon whiffing even deeper, Harrison recognized the familiar scent as the bounty hunter who unleashed his mother’s own monkey virus on the family. Spike Spiegel his name was, right?

Harrison, still holding onto his pipe, gritted his shattered teeth and crawled slowly towards Spike’s prone body. He raised the pipe in the air as if to write the final chapter of this story, despite that chapter already passing. One bash and Harrison’s revenge would be complete. And then…the human side took over once more. Harrison tossed the lead pipe aside and instead cradled Spike’s head in his lap, once again repeating the symbolic words, “Hell…don’t…need…me…” The monkey’s head swam as his vision blacked out. That would be his final act as a living creature: forgiveness for his former enemy. Why? Because it just felt right. It felt…human, at best. Evolution had taken root once again, more so in those last few seconds of life than a million years ever could.

“Hell…don’t…need…me…”

Two-Sentence Horror Stories: Third Strike

Bart Simpson laughed his ass off when he spray painted a penis and testicles on the side of Mr. Burns’s mansion. He screamed in terror when Burns caught him in the act, to which the Nuclear Power Plant tycoon unzipped his own fly and said, “You’re the perfect height for what I’m about to make you do, little boy!”

Travis texted his European girlfriend with grinning and heart emojis while calling her a “Beautiful Bulgarian”. He had a kiwi-sized lump in his throat when his phone auto-corrected his message to “Beautiful Bulge Area” before sending it.

Sammy drove cautiously on a winding mountain road with no guard rails while his wife and baby son snoozed in the back together. For some reason, he thought it would be a good idea to start texting on his smart phone.

A hulking ogress with rotting flesh, maggot-infested fingernails, and drill bit fangs burst through Grayson’s front door with a leonine belch and a paternity test in her hands. While Grayson cowered and shivered behind the easy chair, the ogress tossed the test results in his lap and said, “Congratulations, asshole!”

A stacked WWE Wrestlemania pay-per-view featured the main event of “The Monster Among Men” Braun Strowman vs. “The Modern Day Maharaja” Jinder Mahal for the latter’s WWE Championship in a first blood match. The match ended in five seconds when Jinder poked Braun with a sewing needle and drew a tiny drop of blood, causing the ripped-off fans to destroy the arena in a fiery riot.

Middle school sex ed was off to a rowdy start when the children screamed like banshees and threw paper airplanes at each other. They grew silent, shaky, and wide-eyed when the evilly-grinning professor wrote his name on the chalkboard, which was Mr. Ray Pugh.

Melissa clutched her chest and fought for oxygen when she saw that somebody on Face Book with a Pepe the Frog icon posted a countdown clock for her newborn baby’s eighteenth birthday. She nearly had a conniption when somebody else posted underneath it, “Why wait?”

Colton squirmed and ached in his bent over position while Dr. Smith performed a colonoscopy on him. Colton jumped out of his skin when the doctor said in a jolly voice, “Hey look, we’ve got half a million hits on You Tube!”

Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader engaged in an epic light saber battle that saw Vader slice off Luke’s arm. As young Skywalker doubled over in pain, Vader breathed deeply in his ear and said, “Luke…I am your husband!”

Paul logged onto his Porn Hub account in hopes of finding a live teen webcam feed. He nearly lost both his erection and his sanity when he heard a familiar comedian’s voice on the other end of the feed yell, “Hey, hey, hey, come try my king sized pudding pop!”

Shane couldn’t wait to start his new job at Analytical Weaponry, Inc. That was, until he drove up to his workplace and saw the company name on a neon sign, which had all of the letters after the first L in the word Analytical blown out.

George opened his email and found a message demanding fourteen thousand dollars in exchange for keeping quiet about his porn viewing habits. To show there was no playing around, the extortionist put George’s password in the title of the email.

Anderson took a few puffs of his cigarette before coughing up black pudding all over the floor. His stomach ached and his throat soured when he saw that the tar blob had teeth and feces attached to it.

Stacy approached a hotdog cart and asked for a six-inch Polish sausage. Pee-Wee Herman emerged from his crouched position laughing like a madman with his penis sandwiched in a hotdog bun, complete with “mustard, ketchup, and relish” dripping from the tip.

Mary Poppins floated into London with a grimy man on her arm. As she arrived for her babysitting job, she introduced him to the children as Peter File.

“I’m lost without you, my love,” said Prince Charming. He gave his girlfriend a passionate tongue kiss before closing the casket one last time.

“I’d really like to give you a hand job right now,” said Sedona before licking her rosy red lips. Her lover nearly had a heart attack when she pulled off her arm glove and revealed bladed monster fingers underneath.

It is the middle ground between whiny and angry, between involuntary celibacy and a mass shooting, between a toxic romance and full-blown hostility. This is the dimension of pornographic imagination, an area which we call…The Friend Zone!

After Glenn refused to answer the phone, a robotic voice on the answering machine said, “Please return the call to Charles Dahmer at 1-800-666-5150. This is an attempt to collect your blood and any information obtained will be used for that purpose.”

Chase entered his massive pickup truck and blew into the ignition interlock device. After registering a blood alcohol level of 0.87, he was able to start his vehicle and speed off into the busy night.

Marcus shivered in a cold sweat as he paced around his room for hours waiting for his girlfriend to text him back. His tongue and throat dried when she finally sent him a text saying, “We need to talk.”

“Introducing his opponent fighting out of the red corner: a serial killer and totalitarian dictator who holds a spotless record of thirty-two victims, I mean, wins and no losses, stands at 7’3”, weighs in at 500 lbs., and fights out of Charlottesville, Virginia by way of Jeddah, Saudi Arabia with a pit stop in North Korea…Bone Saw…McGraw! And when the action begins, our referee in charge of the octagon is Steve Mazzigatti.”

On the morning of Valentine’s Day, a grinning Britney excitedly opened a heart-shaped box from her secret admirer. She screamed and dropped it because instead of chocolates, the box contained the bloody remnants of her aborted son.

Mitchell’s stomach gurgled and growled after eating twenty Carolina Reaper hot wings in a row without even a sip of milk. Fifteen minutes of sweating and tearing up later, when it was his turn to use the toilet, he pulled his pants down and his intestines fell out.

Lexi opened a package hoping it was diapers for her children’s charity drive. Her jaw hit the floor when she found out they were adult diapers with a semen-soaked note saying, “These would look really hot on you, Sexy-Lexi!”

Little Debbie skipped up to a cobweb-covered house dressed as a princess and said, “Trick or Treat!” to the wolf man, who had a pot of candy on his lap. She reached inside and cried buckets when she touched the werewolf’s warm and greasy Snickers bar, which was poking through a hole he cut in the bottom of the pot.

Leonard awakened in the middle of the night to find hundreds of hairy tarantulas crawling all over his naked body and sinking their fangs into his flesh. He tried to scream for help, but one of them crawled inside his mouth and clogged his throat.

Helgor the Barbarian wrapped his massive hands around the goblin’s throat and watched his eyeballs bulge and his face turn bright blue. Helgor whispered seductively into his victim’s ear, “This would be a good time for Autoerotic Asphyxiation!”

After hours of body-shredding labor, Wendy pushed one last time and gave birth to her baby boy. The doctor wrapped the bloody mess in a blanket and said, “Congratulations, it’s a porcupine!”

Bethany and her husband laid naked in bed next to each other while attempting to catch their breath. She smiled at him, licked her fingers, and said, “I haven’t creamed that hard in a long time, Uncle Cletus!”

Tucker browsed through the doggies and kitties at the animal shelter and had a cutesy-wutesy smile on his face the entire time. The adoption agent approached him with a clipboard and said, “Let me know which animal you want and I’ll be sure to send you home with a package of condoms.”

"Little Birds" by Hannah Lee Kidder

BOOK TITLE: Little Birds

AUTHOR: Hannah Lee Kidder

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Fictional Short Stories

SUBGENRE: Contemporary

GRADE: Pass

In her debut book, Hannah Lee Kidder’s stories are short, sweet, and to the point, but they pack the most powerful punches in their tiny spaces. Even stories that are only a sentence long are capable of tugging at the reader’s heartstrings with oftentimes brutal force. The subjects she touches on include rape, suicide, breakups, and elderly dementia to name a few. These topics aren’t there just to shock the reader; they have a purpose beyond that. You will be so in love with this book that you’ll wish it was longer.

My favorite short story in this book has to be Wolverine Frogs, the one that deals with the always raw subject of rape and the trauma afterwards. The main character wishes she could have claws like a wolverine frog so that she’ll be better equipped to fend off future attackers. She’s so traumatized that she’ll unleash such amphibian fury upon anybody who gets too close to her, innocent or not. This is such a realistic portrayal of psychological trauma that the trigger warning was absolutely necessary. As a reader, you want her to recover even though that’s not always a truthful outcome. You’re genuinely worried that she might do something to hurt herself in order to alleviate the pain. Wolverine Frogs is without a doubt the most heart-wrenching story in this collection.

My second favorite story in this book is Cane Sprouts, which tells the tale of a young New York lady who returns to her grandparents’ trailer near the Bayou. Again, realistic portrayals of the subject matter at hand are what you can expect. In this case, we’re dealing with elderly dementia. The grandpa mixes up names, gets lost in the middle of fields, wanders everywhere with a broken shotgun, and wakes up from naps in an even more confused state than when he’s already awake. This is heartbreaking to watch as this kind of behavior is usually the precursor to death. The main character’s guilt over not being able to see her grandparents as often as she can is palpable during these moments of elderly confusion. That’s what makes the story so believable and raw.

My third favorite story in this book could be considered micro-fiction seeing as how it’s only two to three pages long. But like I said in the intro, sometimes the shortest stories pack the biggest punches. Of course, the story I’m referring to is He Wrote Me a Song, which details the budding friendship between a nameless female high school student and another kid named RJ. She would always loan him pencils and he showed his gratitude by writing a beautiful song for her. Gratitude is a powerful thing, especially to people like RJ who’ve had it rough over the past few years with people looking their noses down at him. The smallest gestures can have the biggest impact. However, before the main characters’ friendship could blossom…well, let’s just say that your waterworks will be well deserved by the time this story is quickly over.

Some would argue that these stories rely too much on shock value to get their points across. I respectfully disagree with that assessment. These stories have a purpose and that is to be as real and honest as possible. The shocking conclusions are just a small part of the overall bigger picture. If someone in your life is hurting, be there for him or her. Show that person that you care and that everything will be okay in the end. You don’t really know what you’ve got until it’s gone. That’s what Little Birds means to me and that’s why it receives a passing grade.