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The smile that brightens your face when you see that you have a text from her.


The lump in your throat when she smiles and looks your way.


The way that her black wavy hair delicately brushes over her exposed shoulder.


The twinkle in her eye when she looks at you with some hidden joke.


The sound of her laugh reaching my ears like a bubbling brook watering a cracked desert.


True Horror


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True horror cannot be found through blood-sucking vampires, the walking dead, serial killing clowns or any other creature that disgusts the mind.


True horror is finding out that life is not as it seems. That life was just some sick game or coincidence, of which you were just a helpless pawn.

I discovered this for myself close to four months ago, when everything changed.

Before four months ago, I was a very successful stock broker. I had private bank accounts with thousands upon thousands dollars in them, earning enough interest that I could live off it. And the future still held more, if I kept on rising in promotions like I had.

Now I wander the streets, begging the very type of people that I used to work with for money.  I loathe myself every time I extend my tin pot and ask for spare change. I use to be a wealthy stock broker, why should I have to ask for people’s spare change.

I had a beautiful fiancée, Jasmine. She had a gorgeous personality; funny, witty and intelligent that just naturally complemented her ravishing figure and face. We would lie awake at night, staring at the stars above, dreaming out loud of our future together.

Now I take shelter under bridges, sleeping alone in the dust and the dirt, stuffing newspaper down my clothes to fight off the cold is constantly nipping away at me. I could go elsewhere, but what type of successful man queues the whole afternoon for just simple bed at a homeless shelter… I am ashamed of what I have become. Of who I have become.

I had many quality friends that I had made before my stock broking days, upon whom I could always rely on for quality advice and good friendship. We would go on fishing trips, hikes, long camping trips out into the wilderness. They were always there for me, and I for them.

Now the best company that I have is the lice that nest in my unwashed hair. The tics that painfully dig their way into my skin. The fleas that jump around in the rags that I call clothes. Anybody that tries to be friendly to me, I drive away. They could never even begin to replace the friends that I used to have… The friends who were like family to me.

My life truly was perfect. Though, looking back it now, maybe my life was too perfect. Too unreal.

Maybe that’s what made me wake up four long months ago.

Wake up from a 46 year long coma.

46 years, 8 months and 4 days.

My whole life; stock broking, Jasmine, amazing friends, it had all just been a dream. A 46 year long dream.

None of it had ever happened.

The people that I had loved, befriended, hurted, hated, helped, envied, persevered with.

None of them had ever existed.

When I woke up, the doctor eventually told me that I was the only son of wealthy parents, parents that paid handsomely for the best care available for their 8 year old son who fell off a tree, hit his head on a rock and went into a deep coma.

The doctor’s words brought back faint memories, faint inclinations of déjà vu.

The doctor continued the tale. Years had turned into decades and I still never woke up. My wealthy parents had become not so wealthy anymore. My father began working two jobs just to keep up with the cost of my upkeep. A few years later after that, while working a night shift, he had had a heart attack and died.

I had killed my father.

It’s wasn’t your fault, the doctors and therapists told me.

They lied.

It was and still is my fault.

My mother, distraught at the thought of living life alone in her old age ; the love of her life dead, her only son still in a coma after decades, wrote a will bequeathing all the money that was left to keeping me on life support. And then without so much as leaving a note of farewell, she tied a rope to the ceiling and swayed and jerked to its rhythm until her body hang limp.

I had killed both my father and my mother.

It’s wasn’t your fault, the doctors and therapists told me.

They lied.

It was and still is my fault.

So, to whomever finds and reads this note, do not despair for me. For I have decided that I will finally escape from this horror that is my life. I will be free from this hell that I can endure no longer.

My freedom will be death. A rope tied tight to my neck, my limp body swaying gently to an unheard rhythm.




I would have liked to hold Jasmine one last time, though… To kiss her and tell her everything will be okay…

My Descent Into Madness


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I still remember the day that I saved that ant. The silly little insect was crawling over our driveway and I was just watching him; wondering where he was going, what he was doing, and why he wasn’t with his colony.

The garage door then began to lift open. It was my dad, about to drive off to work. I knew I had only precious seconds before that ant would be dead, it’s body squashed thin like a pancake. But I could not bear the thought of something dying, especially something so innocent and blameless as ant. So without even stopping to question myself, I ran onto the driveway motioning my dad to stop reversing his car with one hand, and I picked up the ant with the other. My dad must have looked at me weird, but I honestly didn’t care at the time. I had saved the ant. I had helped protect life.

Cool story aye? No, not really, you think and I agree with you. But just stick with me and it will make sense in the end.

A few years later my Dad died. He worked as a teller at our local bank, and one day some local gangsters busted in with guns, thinking they could be bank robbers. Their plan failed and the police quickly arrived. Some of the gangsters died in the ensuing gunfight, while those that survived were arrested and thrown into jail. However in the gunfight, four innocent people died. Four innocent people were murdered. Four people that were nothing more than bystanders, trying to survive the gunfight that was taking place around them.

One of those four was my dad.

My hero, my role model wad dead. Lying pale in a coffin, his body sown up in several places from the bullets that had riddled him, claiming his life.

We all know that every person handles grief differently.

In my case I retreated into myself, afraid to care or love anything else in my life, scared that it too would be ripped away from me. And in the darkness, I brooded on my grief ; dwelt upon it night and day.

My mother, on the other hand, instead of trying to help me and comfort me out of the dark place that I was in, turned to Jerry.

Jerry was an alcoholic son of a bitch. There is no other way to describe him. He was selfish, abusive, alcoholic, sex crazed, lazy, filthy son of a bitch. And he fucked up my life.

I never really figured out if she slept with Jerry to help her remind herself of him, my Dad, or to help her forget him. I guess it never mattered in the end, as most weekend nights they would still fuck each other long into the night, banging on the walls, making enough noise that I could hear them all the way from my bedroom.

One following morning I went out to the yard and just sat there, and watched. I watched the ants trailed past me, reminding of that day so long ago. One of the ants diverted from its trail and crawled in my direction, trying to climb onto my shoe.

However, instead of picking it up and taking it to safety, like I had so many years ago, I squashed it. Pleasure flooded my whole being, tingling in my every fibre. I had had the ultimate control over that ant. The power over life and death.

I suddenly snapped out of it, realising what I had done. I had murdered something, killed something in cold blood. How was that better than what those bank robbers had done, murdering my father.

It was later on that same day that I received my first beating from Jerry.

He was lying on the couch, drunker and lazier than usual. He told me to fetch him a beer. I told him he could go fuck himself.

Rising from his drunken slur, he walked over to me and punched  me straight in the gut. I double over in pain, winded and gasping for air. He wasn’t through with me, no. He then gave me a powerful side cut to the nose, while muttering something about me “being  a little shit.”

My mum, drawn by the noise, walked into the room. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of what was taking place. She ran over to Jerry, trying to hold back the arm that was going for another punch at me, begging him to leave me alone.

“Get away from me bitch.” He yelled, and swung his punch to hit her, instead of me. The blow sent her flying across the room , falling face first onto the ground.

Pleased with his handiwork, Jerry then walked to fridge and got himself another beer.

I never did understand why she never reported him. Maybe she was too scared to do such a thing, or maybe she actually did love him underneath it all. Either way, if I known back then that you could report such people, I would not have given it a second thought before doing so.

Sadly, that was but the first of many beatings to follow, some of them directed at just me, some at both me and my mum, and some only at her. I tried to protect her from him. Tried to fight back. But what can a thirteen year old kid do against a man in his prime. It was then that I realised he had the ultimate control over me. The power over life and death.

A few months later, after receiving yet another beating, I ran outside into the yard. My arms and hands shaking with the rage I felt, the rage that I wanted to direct at the one person that I couldn’t. Jerry.

Grabbing a large rock from our garden, I raised it high into the air and brought it smashing down onto my outstretched hand. The pain ripped out of my mouth in blood curling scream, but strangely it felt good at the same time. Causing such pain, even to myself, made me feel satisfied ; relieved partially of the intense rage that tore through myself.

But the feeling parted almost as soon as it came, leaving me craving more. In fact, I desperately needed more.

I grabbed the rock again, in my good hand, and looked around to see what my options were. And then hopping around in his cage, I saw Darcy, the black mini lop rabbit that I had had for years. That my Dad had given me for my seventh birthday.

Walking over to his cage, I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him out. He looked at me with those cute big brown eyes, probably wondering what I was doing.

Still holding onto Darcy, I walked over to the corner of the yard, which was cluttered with trees. Ducking out of view from anyone that might have been watching me from the house, or the neighbours, I pinned Darcy down on the ground with my mangled hand and the raised the rock into the air with the other.

Rage and excitement burned through me, at what I was about to do. I looked at Darcy pinned helplessly before me, and I remembered.

I remembered my Dad, and him giving Darcy to me on my seventh birthday. I remembered how much he loved me, and I him. I remembered how he was my hero, how I wanted to grow up to be just like him. And then I remembered how he was killed. Murdered. How he was ripped away from me without even saying goodbye.

With a cry of anguish and of pain that seemed to emit from somewhere deep inside me, I brought the rock down as hard as I could upon the unsuspecting bunny. Raw pleasure overwhelmed me, numbing out everything else. I could not see the blood erupting out like a glorious fountain from the dying bunny, spraying onto my glee-filled face. Nor hear the cars as they rushed by our house ; or the gurgle of blood entering the lungs of once my prized rabbit.

I  just sat there, basking in what I done. Enjoying the numbing pleasure, enjoying the rage that was slowly subsiding.

And then it was over. The rage, the pleasure, gone ; leaving me craving more. In fact, I desperately needed more.

Burying the now dead Darcy, I would whipped the blood of my face with a spare tissue that I thankfully had in my pocket.

The bloody rock still remained as evidence, though, but I was already late for school, so it would just have to wait.

The rest of the week passed by excruciatingly slow. I kept looking for opportunities to revisit that numbing pleasure, to experience that bliss once more.

I tried squashing an ant. Nothing happened. I tracked the ant trail back to its colony and dug it all up, squashing every single thing that I could see moving. And yet only a glimmer of pleasure I experienced.

I needed to step it up a notch.

Taking all the cents and dollars that I had amassed over the years, I went to the pet store. I ended up buying a baby kitten, and less than an hour later the deed had been done and I revelled in the  almost nauseating pleasure that I was experiencing.

And so the rest of my high school years went by in this manner. My street became notorious for all the missing pet posters that covered every street pole and lamp. Rabbits, cats, guinea pigs and even recently dogs, had all disappeared in the night. Never to show up again.

But it was not enough. The feeling of pleasure would diminish every time I repeated something that I had already done. I would barely even get a tingle of pleasure for killing a kindle of kittens, no matter how gruesomely I killed them or tortured them.

I needed to step it up a notch.

Returning late one night, from secretly disposing some poor dog’s body, I was confronted by Jerry at kitchen door. Mum was working at her night shift, and it was just him and me.

By this time his abusive beatings had diminished, at least to me, as I think he  now feared that I now eighteen and strong with youthful vigour.

Nevertheless this particular night, he had drunk himself into a stupor, and I could tell he was wanting to give me a beating. Just desiring it with every inch of his being. It’s what he craved.

“You are not respecting me, nor your mother..” he paused, stretching out his hand to steady himself against the doorframe. “…. as you should be.”

“Look Jerry. I just want a glass of milk, then I’ll go to my room. I’ll be out your way.” I said as I forcefully pushed past him and into the kitchen.

“You sooon of a bitch.” He slurred at me. I knew him to well not to know what was going to happen next. I ducked as he made a swing at me, his fist flying right over me and crashing into the wall.

This time, though, I fought back.

Putting my full momentum behind it, I swung my fist straight into his gut. This time it was him who doubled over in pain, winded and gasping for air.

Pleasure overwhelmed me like a flood that sweeps over a dry plain ; as I embraced my anger, embraced the rage that I had accumulated over the years of abuse, pain, grief and neglect.

I was not finished with him. No. I had merely begun.

As he was doubled over in pain, I brought my elbow crashing back into his exposed neck, sending him crashing to the floor below.

He looked up at me with, his eyes wide and terrified. He was suddenly scared of me. And he was right to be so.

“Please” he pleaded. “Have mercy on an old man like myself.”

“Mercy?” I spat back out in reply. “Tell me Jerry, when did you have mercy on me? When did ever listen to mine, or my mother’s, pleas for mercy you little shit?”

Without giving him a chance to reply,  I started to kick him as hard as I could in the ribs. I wanted to break that fucker’s lungs.

I knew at the time, that I was giving into my rage, into my anger. But boy did it feel good. I hadn’t felt the pleasure, the bliss this strong ever since I killed my bunny, Darcy, many years ago.

I couldn’t stop now.

I had to step it up a notch.

He lay on the ground, gasping for air. His face and hands begging for the mercy that he could not voice.

And I showed him none.

I grabbed the heavy cast iron fry pan that lay resting on the oven nearby. As I swung it done upon his exposed legs, I realised I had the ultimate control over him. The power between life or death.

He screamed out in raw pain as I smashed his legs repeatedly, over and over again. I shuddered with pleasure as I finally heard the loud pop of his bones break in each leg.

I walked back to the oven, gently resting the frying pan back on it, unworried about Jerry trembling in pain on the ground behind me.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not with those broken legs.

Yanking open one of the many kitchen draws, I searched through it, looking for my favourite carving knife. Finally finding it, I turned around back to Jerry, my hands trembling with both rage and excitement at what I was about to do.

I couldn’t stop now.

I had to step it up a notch.

Jerry eyes darted from looking at the grin plastered over my face, to the knife I held in my trembling hand, the realisation hitting him instantly.

“Please.” He began to weep, tears streaming down his face. “Please, I beg of you, don’t do this. I am sorry, you hear me.” He stretched out a shaking hand in my direction, as if to push me and the knife away. “I AM FUCKING SORRY.”

I did not pause to listen to his screams, but instead took another step in his direction. He was just a coward. Just a fucking coward.


“Keep shouting.” I taunted back at him. “Show more of the fucking coward you were all along, hiding beneath a facade of strength and alcohol.”

He tried to reply, but his mouth failed him and instead just shook in terror, drool trailing out the side of his mouth.

Sinking down to one knee, I grabbed him by the scruff of his t-shirt and roared in his face “SHOW ME.”

He couldn’t even look at me, the fucking coward. Instead he closed his teary eyes shut, drool still spilling out of his spluttering mouth. His body trembled as I held him, his paralysing fear increasingly apparent by the yellow  wet stain leaking from his crotch.

I raised the carving into the air, my whole body trembling, not from fear, but from the rage that coursed through my veins. I paused there temporarily, wondering for a moment how I had gotten here. How I had come so far from that little boy that saved an ant so long ago.

But I couldn’t stop now.

I had come too far to turn back now.

I had to step it up a notch.

Letting out a howl of raw pain and rage that shook me to the very soul, I brought the knife down as hard as I could, the blade sinking deep into Jerry’s soft flesh.

I stabbed him for every time he abused me.

I stabbed him for every time he hurt my mother.

I stabbed him because my mother had turned to him in her grief, rather than me.

I stabbed him because my Dad was dead.

I stabbed him because he never even came close to be being like my Dad.

I stabbed him because he had fucked up my life.

I stabbed him because I could nothing else, I had come too far.

The Clown Murders


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You think you have a normal life. A safe life.

Until everything goes wrong.

I was the loving the husband of my wife. The loving father of my three children.

It was the year of our 15th wedding anniversary and me and my wife were heading out to a  special dinner to mark the occasion.

Our three kids, Jane, Ben and the youngest, Sarah, were still young and needed constant management and attention.

So, as per normal, we arranged for Amanda to babysit our kids while we were gone. Amanda seemed to be a sensible girl ; her head was screwed on right. She was a hard worker and didn’t party her days away, drinking and doing drugs, like most teenagers her age did. So we always felt safe leaving her in charge every time we had to go out as a couple. Plus the all three kids loved her, and her them, which was a big bonus.

I remember rushing around that night, trying to get dressed in time for the big night ahead. My wife, Lorna,  had left our bedroom TV on the background, and I listened in as I yanked on my suit trousers. The news anchor was talking about another murder that had recently happened in our city; the latest victim to be brutally murdered by a serial killer that was making his way through our city. The Clown Murders, they were called, as supposedly a certain clown was always seen on the scene just before the murders would take place ; leading the police to believe that he was the serial killer responsible.

This city is really going to hell, I couldn’t help but think to myself. It might be time to move a safer place. For all of our sakes.

Nevertheless my thoughts were interrupted as I heard my wife yelling at me from the bottom of the stairs.

We were going to be late. Or at least I was about to make us late.

Grabbing my Rolex watch as I ran out the door, I raced down the stair and into the car. As usual, Lorna was waiting for me, already seated and buckled up,  an anxious look plastered over her face. I couldn’t help but delay starting up the engine by a few seconds, as my eyes ran up and down her figure, admiring the way that it stood out in the tight black number that she was wearing. She truly looked exquisite.

Putting the pedal to the medal, I shoved my foot on the accelerator and the car shoot out of the driveway, and onto the road. We were on our way. Finally.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into the restaurant car park and headed inside. After a short wait, due to it being a busy night,  we were seated and began ordering.

Suddenly my pants began to vibrate, followed closely Mr. Bean’s  unique sounding voice.

“Pick up. Pick up the phone. Come on, pick up the phone. Pick it up. Pick it up.”

I tried to ignore the Mr. Bean ringtone, hopping that whoever was calling would get the message and just hang up. I just wanted to continue ordering, and not to ruin this lovely night by answering some bloody call to do with work.

However my phone kept ringing  and Lorna began to look at me with those eyes, the-why-didn’t-you-turn-your-phone-off-at-our-wedding- anniversary-dinnner eyes.

I quickly whipped out my phone, while cringing back into my seat, trying to miss her glare.


It was Amanda, our babysitter.

 I’m off the hook for sure.

“It’s Amanda. I better take it”, I announced happily to my wife.

Lorna’s eyes went from frustrated to concerned. Amanda rarely ever called us when she was babysitting. Something must have been up.

“Hello” I answered cheerfully, as Amanda had just saved my bacon.

“Hi Mr. Miller. It’s Amanda here.”

“Hi Amanda. What can I do for you? Is everything alright? Are the kids playing up?” I asked in quick succession.

“No, no. Nothing of the sort ” She replied. “I was just wondering… Umm…”

“Wondering what? Please spit out.”

“Well, I was wondering if you had ordered anything….unusual, recently. Because there is a life like statue of a clown that is on your front door step. And to be honest, its creeping the hell out of me, and the kids.”

I did not reply for a second, as my mind was lost in thought.

Could it be a prank by one of my friends? No, they all hate clowns.

A gift from my parents, or even worse, the in-laws? No, not like them at all.

Clown.. I’ve heard something about clowns recently… I just can’t quite rememb-…..

Oh God no. Please no.


“Amanda? AMANDA?” I shouted into the cell phone “Whatever you do, do not open the door! DO NOT OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR. Take the kids, lock yourselves in the upstairs bathroom, and call the cops.”

Time slowed almost a halt as I waited for a reply, fully knowing that my wife was staring at me in shock of what I had just shouted out in the restaurant, unable to understand what was happening. The seconds stretched into eternity as I still waited for to hear Amanda’s voice come through the cell phone speaker. But nothing came.

She must have put the cell phone down.

Why the fuck did she do that?

Suddenly, I had my answer as a bloodcurdling scream blasted out from the cell phone and into my ear. It was loud enough that even my wife heard it from across the table ; her eyes parting in horror at the sound of it.

The clown had somehow got inside, and was busy at work at creating the next Clown Murder.

The Pied Piper [Part 1]


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I was eleven years old when the Pied Piper arrived,

Strolling into Dunedin, New Zealand in May, 1923.

We had a infestation of rats, somehow he had derived,

Of which he could rid us of, for just a small fee.

A town council was called later on that day,

To discuss the situation that was now in our way.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin, many people claimed him to be.

The old legend that all fear, from the elderly to the youngest baby.

“We are living in the modern age”, many said.

“The old superstitions and legends are all but dead.”

We asked for a demonstration of how he would rid of us of the rat,

Three of which he gave, all very impressive, and that was that.

The mayor the signed the Pied Piper’s  contract,

With the handsome fee of thirty pounds.

The Pied Piper bowed low, like in a comical act,

His eyes glimmering in his sockets, like an evil clown’s.

He whipped out his pipe, and began to play he did,

Such hauntingly beautiful melodies, I have never heard again.

In the tune I heard a beautiful madness, that made me forbid,

Any thought or action that would go against its free rein.

I  stood there, helplessly mesmerized,

As swarms of rats poured out of the sewers and the alleyways.

The rats gathered at the piper’s feet, as if hypnotized,

And followed him out of town, in the direction of the bays.

The whole town celebrated with one another and rejoiced ,

For the rat infestation was no more.

Laughter and songs were everywhere, as our joy was voiced,

And every street became a dance floor.

Later that night, the Pied Piper returned,

To claim the money that he had so justly earned.

The mayor greeted him, with the money in hand,

Yet the Piper’s face twisted with rage, until you could see every sweat gland.

“This is not the amount that you agreed to pay me.”

The Piper shouted loudly, his eyes dancing with glee.

“The contract you signed, promised me 30 children… Not 30 pounds.”

“Here. Look at it yourself, in case you don’t believe what it sounds.”

The mayor and his advisors examined the lengthy contract for the next hour,

Refusing to believe that they had signed children over to such an evil power.

Yet, somehow, the contract had changed from whence they had first seen it.

Through magic or trickery, the contract had been modified with a flit.

Unable to go through with such a horrendous deed,

The mayor rallied the townspeople and they chased out the Pied Piper.

“We must guard our children from this evil.” the mayor decreed.

“From this demon. From this fiend. From this viper.”

” We must all keep our children safe and sound, under lock and key. ”

“For the Piper will surely return later in the night, to claim his fee.”

The townspeople discussed back and forth, until they all agreed.

And so it was, that every child was locked up safe, so the Piper would not succeed.

I still remember that night as if it was just the other day.

Every second passing by so slowly, that I feared I would waste away.

I waited, unable to sleep, locked in my room.

Wanting to hear that pipe again. To listen to my doom.

I do not know what hour of the night, the Pied Piper returned,

All I know is that I slowly began to hear a faint tune.

A melody grew louder and louder, until in my head it burned,

It’s notes mesmerising me, until I felt like a loon.

My arms and legs began to move in response,

As if commanded by the pipe’s eerie song.

I was a like puppet on a string, filled with nonchalance,

Dancing into its masters trap, headlong.

I watched as my legs rose beneath me and walked me to the bedroom door.

My hands tried to open it, but the door was locked of course.

A hole through the wooden door, my fingers began to bore.

Harder and harder my nails dug into the wood, with all of my body’s force.

Blood began to trickle down my hands as the wood splintered into my skin.

The splinters  began to sink deeper, separating finger nail from flesh.

I tried to cry out as the blinding pain washed over me, to even make a din.

However I was a spectator in my own body, as if my brain was separated by mesh.

Suddenly the melody changed, and my body responded in tow.

I watched as my legs walked me over to the nearby window.

My hands raised it up, and then to my shock and woe.

I jumped out of the window, to the hard ground meters below.

I landed badly, a large pop erupting from my broken knee.

Pain screamed through my body, into my mouth, yet nothing could I plea.

I looked around and saw other children, suffering the same torture as me.

Their faces like mine, white in terror, like a banshee.

We all frantically walked and crawled towards the origin of the pipe’s tune, as if we were hyper.

And out of the darkness of an alleyway, stepped out the Pied Piper.

Swarms of rats scurried around his feet,

Obeying the tune of the Piper in the street.

The Pied Piper turned and looked at us all,

To see what great lengths we had taken to answer his call.

His smile gleamed bright in the dark night,

As if he was relishing and celebrating in the sight.

I Am Alone


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I am alone.

I wander down the hallway, looking for signs of life where there is none.

I see a little girl stumble into the hallway, her eyes bright full of wonder. She sees me and then runs to me, her arms stretched out to hug me.

The memory fades and so does the joy that had temporarily lit up my face. My little girl, Lorna was gone.

She had been walking home from school one day, when a truck skidded off the slippery roads and onto the pavement. The doctors said that she had died instantly and painlessly, but that still gives me no comfort.

My little princess is gone.

Driven by her grief, a few weeks later I returned home to find my wife lying on the bathroom floor.

Her wrists were slit.

A note, stained with blood, laid beside her limp body. It described how she was now reunited with our precious daughter. Our princess, Lorna. She also begged me in the note to come and join them, so we could be a family once more.

I wander down the hallway, looking for signs of life where there is none.

I am alone.



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It was all deafening noise.

Mum telling me to do the dishes.

Dad wanting me to take out the trash.

Sarah and Jane playing karaoke with their Barbies.

Ben clocking some stupid GTA game.

It was just noise.

Deafening noise.

I came home from school one day, just wanting some peace and serenity. Some place where I could hear myself think.
Noise. The house was full of it. My hands covered my ears as the loudness threatened to deafen me. It clawed at me, trying to choke my ear drums in deafening noise.

It was getting worse.

Not pausing to even go to the toilet, I ran upstairs and closed my door, hoping for the serenity of silence.

It was not there.

Ben’s bassy speakers let out a dull thud from room next door, echoing around my room. Grabbing my favourite pair of ear plugs, I hoped into my bedroom cupboard and closed the door. Inserting the ear plugs, I laid down on the floor, curling up into a fetal position.

Sweet silence overwhelmed me.

I could finally think.

I could finally express myself.

I could finally be me.

And in the serenity of silence I suddenly heard it.

The whisper.

I listened attentively in the quiet as it gave me instructions that my heart rejoiced to hear. It told me to wait. Prepare and wait for the opportune moment.

And so I waited.

For three painful years I prepared myself.

And I waited.

And then finally one day, while lying in my bedroom cupboard, the whisper returned to me once again.

The day had finally come.

Exiting the cupboard, I grabbed the blowpipe that lay on my bedside table, the same blowpipe that I had practiced with relentlessly over the last three years. Sinking to my knees, I felt for a hidden box under my bed, concealed from a prying mother’s eyes. My fingers finally made contact with it and I pulled it out and carried out over to my desk. Opening it up, I pulled out of the box five darts.

One for each of them.

Each dart was coated with a snfake venom, containing powerful neurotoxins that would cause paralysis with seconds, yet rendering the victim still completely conscious and able to feel.

Fully prepared, I then got to work.

I found Sarah and Janne playing karaoke with their Barbies.

3 darts left.

Ben was in his room, clocking some stupid GTA game.

2 darts left.

Mum found me in the hallway and started telling me to do the dishes.

1 dart left.

I walked into the lounge. Dad was on the couch, watching TV. He asked me to take out the trash.

0 darts left.

Twelve hours later I stood in the lounge.

It was silent.

I walked upstairs, into every room.

It was silent.

It had been worth it.

It had been worth painfully taking the time to slowly stitch Sarah’s and Jane’s Barbies into their gaping mouths. And then going through the frustration of digging a large hole in the back lawn, burying their bodies while their lungs gasped for air in the dirt that surrounded them.

It had been worth it.

It had been worth it slowly electrocuting Ben with the playstation that he held so dear. The playstation that he always spent time with rather than me.

It had been worth it.

It had been worth slowly covering Mum’s body in petrol and watching as the flames enveloped her every inch. She always did say never to do anything in half measures.

It had been worth it.

It had been the worth the bloody mess of slitting open Dad’s stomach and feeding his still attached intestines to my pet rats. He never did like my pets rats.

It had been worth it.

And finally, after all those years of waiting.


If Roses were as Red as his Broken Heart, & If Violets were as Blue as her Bruised Face.


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If roses were as red,

As the colour of my bleeding broken heart,

Then maybe one day I could understand how,

She could have thrown away my love,

Like I was some spare part.


If violets were as blue,

As the colour of my bruised face and eye,

Then maybe one day I could understand why,

He says he loves me,

But still beats me up like I’m his bitch to cum by.


The Man, The Marquis and the Lost Lover [Part 1]


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On a fateful day,

In the month of May,

A strange man walked into town.


He walked straight up to me,

And asked if I knew the Marquis,

To which I replied “He died many years ago”.


Looking puzzled and confused,

He sat down and mused,

And I left him sitting there.


I returned the next morning,

And said to him “Good morning,

Why are you still sitting here?”


He recounted to me his tale,

Over quite a few pints of ale,

The story of him and his lost love.


Lorna, he told me, was her name,

Her beauty was that of great fame,

But alas she had many rich suitors.


Unphased, though, he remained,

And when he was finally alone with her, he proclaimed,

His undying love and affection for her.

For a few minutes, she said not a thing,

Until, unexpectedly, she gave him her ring,

Symbolising, she said, that she’d already given him her heart.


One thing led to another,

And they soon began to kiss and embrace each other,

For the love between the two was passionate and strong.


They made passionate love until the new sunrise,

After which, she told him, while looking into his eyes.

That the Marquis was her brother, and only surviving family member.


He was immediately shocked and scared for his life,

For the Marquis was nicknamed ‘The Butcher Knife’,

Due to being such a cruel and horrific man.


Rumour had it, that the Marquis made a pact with the Devil,

For in witnessing torture and pain, he would revel,

And all those who’d stood up to him would mysteriously die.


“You must talk to my brother, the Marquis” she implored,

“Tell him of our love, and surely he will be in accord,”

“And allow us to be married before Summer’s Solstice.”


Urged on by his lover’s ceaseless requests,

He finally worked up the courage, a few days later, to address,

Her brother, the Marquis, ‘The Butcher Knife’.

The Mansion [Part 4]


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You have to be strong, Sam. You have to strong, for yourself, and for the others, I told myself in my thoughts. This is not the time.

I rose to my feet, my hands wiping away any tears that were trailing down my face. Kate moved from where she was standing, and made her way slowly to the little girl’s side. She sat next to her, and ever so slowly, embraced her in arms. The reaction was immediate. The little girl’s eyes began to mist over, and her lips to began to quiver.  And then the tears flooded forth as she began let out deep sobs.

We all remained there like that for a few minutes, until she suddenly spoke.

“It was my birthday yesterday. Mommy and Daddy had said that I could invite around Saskia and Jenny, and that we’d have a fun time with lots of lollies and cake to eat. And just when I was about to blow out the candles on my cake, someone at the door knocked. ” She paused, and raised her hand to her mouth as a deep fit of coughing overcame her. It lasted but a moment, but when her hand returned to her side, I noticed blood on her face that hadn’t been there a moment before. I looked at Kate. She had seen it as well. Coughing up blood could only mean one thing. Her lungs had been punctured.

Andria continued.

“Daddy went to go and see who it was, as he always does, and that’s when we heard loud noises and shouting. Mummy told us to wait there, and then she went to go see what was happening. I thought it was gona  be a surprise birthday present from Nana and Poppa, so I decided I wanted to see as well. I got there and saw my Daddy on the ground, and there were three men beating Daddy with metal sticks.”

She paused to catch her breath, yet I noticed her breathing was becoming more laboured.

“I first thought it was a game, but when the three men started playing the same game with Mummy, she started crying and screaming. I walked up to one of them and told them that it was not a very nice game that  they were playing and that I wanted them to stop playing now!”

Her hand rose and touched a massive swollen bump at the back of her head.

“The nasty man then hit me on the head with the metal stick. My Daddy, got up from the ground and started punching them. All three of the nasty men then started focusing Daddy in the game. It was then that Mummy took my hand, and started running to the kitchen. We got to the kitchen, and Mummy locked the door, and told us we were going to play a game of hide and seek, and that we could hide anywhere we wanted to in the house! But we couldn’t let the nasty men catch us, or the game would be over and we’d get no birthday cake. Then someone started knocking  on the kitchen door as well. Mummy went over and stood against the door and started counting, and we went to hide. I hid in the library, Saskia said she was gona hide in the cellar, and Jenny said she was gona hide upstairs.”

Another set of violent coughs overcame Andria, wracking her tiny body, and this time she didn’t try to hide the blood that came forth. When she resumed telling us her story, her voice had grown fainter and weaker.

“I hid for hours in the library. But then I got hungry and needed to go pee pee, and I thought Mummy wouldn’t make me lose for that, so I went. I went to the kitchen. Mummy was no longer there. Mummy must still be trying to find me, I thought. I went to the fridge got an apple to eat. When I closed the fridge door, there was a nasty man looking at me. He ran to me and whacked me really hard right here” She pointed at her chest. “And then he picked me up and took me to the cellar. I saw…. I saw..”

She froze, her eyes widening in terror, unable to put into words whatever horror she had seen. Kate leaned over and whispered something in her ear, but I was too far away to hear. She began to softly cry, but surprisingly she continued even though the tears didn’t stop.

“I saw Mommy and Daddy down in the cellar with the nasty men, they both looked like Grandma did when I went to Grandmas funeral. Both white, like flour and neither of them looked at me when I called out to them for help.” She let out a loud sniff “Daddy was hanging upside-down from the ceiling, cut into long slices like you cut up a birthday cake. And Mommy was on the floor, with one of the nasty men on top of her, yet his pants were on the group and I could see the nasty man’s pink bottom.”

She hesitated “They….They…. They put me on a tabl-“

“Stop” replied Kate, tears pouring down her eyes. “Just rest. Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

She gently began to stroke the parts of Andria’s hair that hadn’t been ripped out.

“Close your eyes and go to sleep, and when you awake up, it will all have been just a bad nightmare”

Andria did as she was told and closed her eyes. Her breathing grew quieter and quieter until it eventually stopped altogether.

She was dead.