Blood Trench

I called him Mr X and he lived in the drains coiled under our sink. I was a fearful and sickly looking pale child and had the over active imagination that forbade me to go outside often and interact with other children. As such many lonely days were spent with nothing but the burbling brook of the plumbing for company. It is in these first early days when my primordial consciousness came swimming to the surface of the murky mirror of my infantile experiences that I first encountered Mr X. My mother was still alive back then. I never understood the chats she’d have with my estranged father over the phone or the doting little whispers she’d make beside the sink in the dead of night. All these night time curiosities were obliterated by the cool beam of daylight that ran across my bedroom and into the very essence of my personhood during that dreaded worriless morning when my mother disappeared.

It would be easy to retreat to the bloody screaming specifics: running into my kitchen to see half of my mother disappear into the hot tap as blood sprayed everywhere and she screamed for dear life. Easy would be the descriptions that were burned deep and irremovable into my young mind. Easy would be the little dribble of viscera dripping into the washing up bowl like red coalescing crusts of wobbly muscle tissue.

None of that is difficult. The part that’s difficult to describe is the utter inability to leave that house The raw primordial need for safety and sanctuary was kicked into overdrive and I felt a biting attachment to that house after that. Even when father passed away a few years later and left me the money for options I remained in that little house with the sounds of Mr X creeping through the sewers in the dead of night. I couldn’t leave even as I was gripped, I assure you, by a cold form of terror the likes of which I’d never felt.

Suffering was my existence with Mr X. Life was the knowledge that any tap, any shower, any bath plug could spell my violent death. Mr X didn’t kill me though. I think he found me too fun to toy with.


Fog, that grey cat with its soft paws, lay sprawling along the ruddy river bank. The city was a glowing red ember stretched across the horizon and the sky was a brown void like a rat’s big wet eye. My car came trundling to a stop where the concrete of the road slid seamlessly into the wet mud. I stepped out and stared up at the edifice of brick and beady little glass eyes that were its many dark windows. The place was mostly in pristine condition save for a few whispers of graffiti in places- but it had been abandoned as long as I had lived in the city. Above the front door was a rusting metal sign that read “Creation Building” and the door was kept shut but a loop of chain and a padlock. The key the City Comptroller handed me in a brown paper bag scraped painfully into the lock and the door was unshackled. As the chain was snaked out by my automatic hands I looked back at the tranquil water flowing like a ghost down in a slowly swirling stream that dragged on and on towards the big blue sea. The moon shone like a spectre off the gently lapping water and was like a final invitation to let this whole petty business go and let the whole sorry case turn cold a second time. But I’d come this far.

I swung a door open and flicked on the bulky engineer’s torch with a blaze of electric glory. The inside was as derelict as you would expect. The walls were peeling and the carpets in bug eaten tatters. All was witness to the merciless passage of time in this place. Across the walls were the half destroyed paintings of stiff upper lipped old men and grim faced old women whose eyes glared down on my trespass with impotent rage. I wandered down a few more halls until a scamper of feet went echoing down the hallway into my fearful ear.

After a few minutes the detective came strolling out of the Creation Building with a smile on his face and got into his car. It took him a few moments to get the hang of driving it but soon he was back on the road and on the way back to the station. He scribbled something on a post-it note and left it for his partner: “Checked Creation Building- nothing to find there”. He then got back into his car and drove home for an early night. His wife was asleep when he got home and he was sure to slink in beside her, laying a gentle kiss on her cheek as he did so, and proceeded to stare with dead eyes at the ceiling instead of sleeping. His kind could not sleep after all.

I never made it out of that damn house. “Creation” was a cryptic name but it proved to be a fitting one.  

Dr Patria

“The Doctor will see you now.” Her voice was curt. She stood with a strain to her smile that send me flooding back through a flutter of memories of sub-par macaroni art and well done stickers. Her uniform was starched and pressed unnaturally firm to her chest which freakishly ballooned with unnatural breast implants. It was all very wrong; like she was perfectly normal but I was missing some vital piece of information that would make that so. I walked through the door and found it thinner than I expected so she brushed against me and it felt very wrong indeed. She was cold and clunked unnaturally like an animatronic at a theme park. Her face contorted in disgust at the unexpected intimacy and mine with the nature of it. She walked with a contempt off into the waiting room as I disappeared into the doctor’s office. I found myself back in the hallway and stepped through the door once again- and again and again as the nausea took hold and soon the world was a slurred blur. Then I was lost and the light was gone and I stood there in the unwavering gloom of the hospital corridor just about to enter the office. I found myself reaching for a lighter I didn’t know existed and bringing the flickering gleam to the otherwise featureless void just as a wet red plait of exposed flesh and a single milky white eye. I recoiled to reveal the creature that came blundering towards me with one slippery bare hand outstretched and another wrapped in a surgical glove and holding a scalpel. Its face was a bone-and-fleshy mask of the dead and its body a wizened corpse wrapped in green and a husk of new car smell. It was a pale facsimile of a human being and the deficiencies were impossible to avoid. I turned to run but felt myself paralyzed by a cocktail of tingling nothingness and then-

The cold light of morning broke through the incoherent smog and I was back in the real world that didn’t make sense.

Fight for your Life

I only met the Anarchist once when the town was torn down. We all watched from the hill side as all our old homes and shops and schools and memories were crushed in the jaws of the diggers. We all had homes and shops and schools and memories still on account of being rich and moving to them. She was tall and black and had a long scar that wrapped across her face down the back of her neck and then disappeared beneath a tattered shirt. She was physically formidable and quite a departure from my mild mannered middle class upbringing. We all stood in a big crowd together regardless of social standing and watching the red flapping flames as our roof tiles were burned up and the crashes as big hammers smashed up the bricks. The Anarchist said something to the nice preacher man next to him, the one who gave me lemon sherbets when I was quiet in church, in a low rumble of a whisper.

“You know some of those moved here recently have nowhere now to go.”

She was talking about the scary foreigners who’d moved her from somewhere hot. I was told not to bear them mind if they tried to talk to me and keep my distance. We weren’t racist mind we just were being cautious- we always insisted to ourselves. I didn’t question it.

The preacher man looked very uncomfortable and made and excuse before disappearing off into the crowd. I felt in that moment a pang of curiosity that overwhelmed my twelve years of politeness and blandness drilled into me for my own good.

“Excuse me miss but if they wanted a house why didn’t they work hard?”

It was something my dad always said. I didn’t really think about it.

The Anarchist squatted so she was at my eye level and she smiled. She told me a story about race and class and injustice and something called “colonialism” that sounded very bad. She explained the systems that kept people like our community safe and rich and racist and kept those “scary foreigners” trapped in poverty and rape and nothingness.

I could feel tears of bitter sorrow for my fellow human beings and wanted somebody, anybody to blame.

“We need to do something about this!” I screamed in a sudden burst “the government or the economy or something we need to overthrow it we need to destroy it! Oh it’s so awful!”

The Anarchist shook her head.

“What just you? All by yourself? The government have guns and stuff what are you gonna do about that?” She spoke to me without condescending to me.

My head was swimming with throwing Molotov cocktails and overthrowing the evil overlords. The anarchist then explained to me how so much of this hatred was buried in deep psychological traps laid by centuries of oppression. She explained how the fight had been being fought for centuries without victory. I began to bawl again but this time out of hopelessness. My whole world turned upside down a second time in ten minutes and all was lost.

The Anarchist shook her head.

“There is always hope child. We must live our lives fighting. We cannot win with a war- we must fight a thousand battle against our friends, our families, and ourselves to win. We must be the essence of good. Only that will win us the day: one day, one year, and one century at a time.

She walked off into the crowd and I never saw her again. We’d talked for fifteen minutes.

And it made me a more moral person than twelve years of sermons and spankings had ever managed.


Once upon a time there was a lady called Jennifer. Jennifer was so excited because she had met the love of her life when she was just fifteen! They’d met and fallen head over heels in love. They did everything together from satisfy the boys sexual desires to boost the boys ego in front of his friends. Little Jennifer needed only dumb herself down (the boy said she was too smart for him) and never complain that he couldn’t satisfy her sexually. She needed to be the “awesome girlfriend” who didn’t complain when he mistreated her or think for herself in any way. Jennifer was such a lucky girl to meet her soulmate so early in life!

After about a year the boy started to suggest Jennifer run away with him. She really did not want to leave her parents but the boy kept pushing and pushing and then threatened to leave her if she didn’t. She was young and terrified but as soon as she turned 16 and it was legal she ran away with him: it was so romantic!

And then one day the boy hit her because she wouldn’t do what he wanted and that was when it all flooded to her in one tempestuous wave. He’d cut her off from her friends and family and made her feel worthless around him and now he was forcing her to do what he wanted with violence.

She crept downstairs in the middle of the night and slid a large knife out of the kitchen drawer and slipped back upstairs; driving the knife through the boyfriend’s bull heart. Blood sprayed everywhere and, with the life draining from the boy’s eyes Jennifer felt a tingling sensation of relief at being close to free.

She cried and acted innocent and got away with it.

And she then lived happily ever after and became an astrophysicist.

The End.


The Weird Go Pro

The funny thing about going crazy is what suddenly starts to suddenly make sense. In particular what makes sense are the holidays. Traditional stuff ya know? Christmas crackers and shrimp on New Year and fighting the terrorists overseas. It’s just what we do. There’s a niceness to “It’s just what we do”. It aint complicated. And when you can feel your mind slowly beginning to unravel in that. Tiny. Room. Things that aint complicated are a fucking godsend. But what do I know huh?

I sometimes talk to Hunter S Thompson when I’m bored which is most of the time. Going crazy is a lot more boring than you would expect. It’s a lot less hallucinating purple dragons and a lot more feeling the walls close in on you as you obsess over visions of the most horrible shit your brain can come up with to stop you sleeping. Luckily this ROOM must be haunted or something because H always shows up just when I need him, lights up a cigarette, and we chat. Mostly we talk about that. Mostly we talk about menthol cigarettes and cheap TV’s and what the Vegas strip looks like when the sunsets. I’ve never been to Vegas. I don’t smoke neither- I never have. But I just feel the right words come out and it all just kinda works. It’s just me and HST and we ramble and that. It’s pretty dark in- in there- so sometimes I just see his eyes animated by the steady glow of the cigarette as he gets worked up about something.

Sooner or later our conversation comes to an end when I remember he’s dead and he goes all quiet.

Outsideisanextensionofinside the thing I miss the most probably is the food out there. This stuff they give me is so bland it might just drive me crazy someday…


“Does evil exist? And, if so, how would one be able to tell?” My grandfather’s words echoed around the empty hallways of my subconscious as I myself crept through the corridors under the Manor. I had slipped away from the celebrations for a while and finally had some peace and quiet to explore the secrets of the house. I must admit to a small amount of childish nervousness. Ridiculous I know to the gentlemen around this table that I, one of your brothers who prides Reason above all else, should be erred by those errant fears of what lurks in the cool damp corridors underneath a creaky old house but it was so. I was quick to dismiss such concerns as I searched for whatever artefact was rumoured to lurk down here. The whisperings of labyrinthine passageways under the house had been true and I still had perhaps a quarter of an hour before the hosts upstairs would notice my absence. Bare chamber after bare chamber littered the hallways and were guarded by bare enigmatic doors that were never locked.

I was close to giving up when I came across the room with this particular item inside. Now my choice to wrap said item in thirteen feet of chains and seal it in a large unwieldy chest will become clear when I explain my initial experience with the chest. This explanation may also help to explain this being the fifth glass of the evening.

Inside this room was a table and this was not the first time. Many of the previous rooms had bare tables and this table was much like those as though it had been stuffed into this room to make space in the house for more important things. But perched on this table was a large thick book with a spine bound in crystals I did not recognize. Shadows pooled around the book and curiosity and excitement drew me closer to the edifice which sank heavy upon the bare oak wood. The front cover was jet black leather and, as my eyes adjusted to the further degrees of darkness inside the room compared to out in the hall, I could now make out complex patterns of scars and marks across the leather that made some abstract ensemble.

I couldn’t help myself but be overcome then by a sudden shudder of dread like a cold weight was plucked from a shelf and dropped with a shivering splash into the dark pool deep in the recesses of the human heart. You may scoff gentlemen but I assure you any man’s blood would freeze to encounter the volume in the way I did in that room. Ignoring this warnings my curiosity led me yet further and I reached out for the swallowing darkness of the cover.

Contact was a nightmare contained in an instant. My contact was less than a blink but it felt a grim and glacial age where the screaming immensity of something I could neither see nor comprehend was presented to me. The horror and brutal existence of the horrid thing was present in my mind without any affectations. I didn’t so much react to its being there as simply abhor its presence in a way that I was involuntarily repulsed. I pulled back in an instant and stared down at the thing in absolute confusion and fright.

So does Evil exist?

Gentlemen let us find out.

Help me open the box. Anyone got bolt cutters for the chains?