This is my Body, This is my Blood

As I’ve gotten older I’ve been finding inspiration in new places. When I was younger and playing a lot more roleplaying games than was probably healthy I would flip through the phone book for character names. The names are often all I needed to craft a fully realized background.

In recent years, I find someone in the bar or restaurant I’m at and I make up a little story about them. Whether or not the story matches closely to their actual life is irrelevant. It was just a thought experiment to help me write better. I had a hard time pulling those ideas out when I sat down at home to write and that brings us to what I’ve been doing lately.  Last week I pulled a series of phrases and crafted a short story out of those phrases. It’s not exactly cut up style, but I have found recently that when I’m stuck with where to go I can look at a phrase within the context of the story I’m writing and give it a new meaning. I have found it to be incredibly helpful.

Below is a new piece of flash fiction I wrote using a few phrases I lifted from twitter. It is an original piece apart from the handful of words I used for inspiration.


Criminal turned actor, people called him Jack. Criminal turned actor read well on paper like maybe he turned his life around. “That’s the sound of Thunder.” He said as he lit the blunt.

We were standing next to a bench next to a large gothic church. There were people nearby, all of them focused on their own strangeness. This is where the refuse sleeps, out on these benches. During the day, it is teeming with performers and fortune tellers, but the night was for the unwashed stinking reprobates. My tribe as much as I hated it.

The criminal turned actor said, “Smoke of this blunt for it is my body, drink of this forty for it is my blood.” Jack’s face cracked into a smile, “Is it raining or just moisting?” He looked at the sky in a wistful way. I shrugged unsure of the answer. I hadn’t felt any rain, but the rain came and went with mysterious stealth in this part of the world. He extended the blunt to me. The joint cherry cracked gently as its blazing core decimated the paper. I focused on the smoke rising from it, took the joint and pulled it to my lips. I inhaled deeply and remembered I shouldn’t take such large hits, but it was an old habit.

Jack kept smiled, I couldn’t look at him when I was high. I turned to the others. A homeless man mumbled to himself as I drew in the sweet smoke, “I been here for forty years! Right here! I got them dirty motherfuckers. I got them dirty motherfuckers and I’ll kick your ass! You fucker. I been her forty years. I’ll be here after your gone. You don’t know shit, motherfucker.” The bum’s name was Kermit, like the frog. I knew him. He was my future. I could see it in his wrinkled dry apple face.

“Drink of this forty.” He smiled again.

I finished the phrase, “It is your blood.” He nodded. “I’m going to go.”

He nodded as I tipped the bottle back. The sick sweet beer was warm. I coughed as it washed the back of my throat. “Do you want company?” Jack looked interested in personal time. I told him before I wasn’t interested, but he still tried when we were together.

“Sure.” I responded.

We walked to the river’s edge and stood on the beach passing the bottle between us. The joint was already finished and the effects were starting to fully present themselves. I felt the plush sensation of THC hitting my nerve endings and I felt my face smiling.

There was  a snap in the distance as if a firecracker were set off somewhere. “That’s a gun.” Said Jack. He turned to the bank and ran up.

I followed. “Why are we running towards the gunshots?” I asked still grinning.

“Could be something worth seeing.” His eyes sparkled. They were mostly balls of shadow, but there was the tiniest reflection running along the rim of his iris.

I smiled back, couldn’t help myself and for an endless moment I reconsidered his intentions. Another crack broke the spell of darkness and another. “We should get out of here.” I said.

“Okay.” He nodded and we turned back to the lower ground of the beach. I shifted and fell in the loose sand. I felt Jack’s posture change next to me. I picked myself up and saw his back was to me. I was about to speak, but the forty fell from his hand and his body shifted uneasily and he fell forward just to his knees. I moved closer unsure and unwilling to believe what I knew was happening. I stood for a moment and then reached to him. My hand grabbed his shoulder. I couldn’t get any closer.

Another firecracker and I dropped to the ground. Jack still knelt beside me, hadn’t moved. I got to my knees and grabbed at his shoulders, “Stop it.” He said, almost too quiet. He turned to me and I could see what had happened, what I knew had happened. In the yellow sodium light, I was spared the grisly details, but I knew his right eye was gone.

The story ends abruptly because I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to continue it or not. I kind of like ending things this way even if  I never pick it up again.

Thank you for reading, and please feel free to submit stories I would love to post more.

Kristopher Bishop


SunDance/Middle American Cults

I have a lot of unfinished material on my hard drive. This site is where I will put the material that I have been working with. A lot of it will be unfinished, some are scraps of other stories. I like to think that somewhere down the line it will lead to a novel or a short story collection, something so that whatever good parts aren’t wasted in the cobwebs of my crap computer.

Today I will present two pieces. The first is a vampire story I was working on. I hit a wall and haven’t been able to go further.

As before this material is the first draft and may be a bit raw.


Monsters are real. Sometimes they’re men and women who do horrific things. They perpetrate torture, murder and rape. Sometimes they aren’t human, or maybe they were, but they were changed into something else. Werewolves were humans until they were bitten by another werewolf and like a virus the curse was transferred. Sometimes it was a gypsy curse or drinking water from a werewolves footprint. There were all kinds of ways to be changed into a monster. A vampire sucks your blood and you rise from your own grave another vampire. A bite from a zombie would transform you. Faeries steal babies and replace them with their own children who walk each day as a human until something alerts them to their nature. They hear faerie music or fall asleep in a toadstool ring. Suddenly they know they are no longer human and they do whatever it is faeries do, which isn’t always very nice. Redcaps would eat children and dye their caps in the leftover blood. Selkies would drown men and women by luring them into the water. Sidhe employed poisonous arrows. Demonic possession could change you as well. People have forgotten the old stories and forgotten why the dark is a terrifying place. We still fear darkness, but we never really know the reason. Here is my testimony that dark things exist in the world.

Continue reading

Once more into the breach

When I feel that I am not the man I am supposed to be, or the man I was meant to be I feel dread. Not as a slow creeping malignancy, but as this all consuming fire that swallows my rational mind. I am supposed to be a writer and when asked I tell people I am a writer, but I don’t write. I drive, work, clean, and philosophize, but I don’t write. I have this problem that I’m afraid of rejection and success simultaneously.

I have written sporadically over the last year. I have always written sporadically, but it is increasingly troubling as I am trying to move further along in an effort to become a professional writer. I enjoy writing, but often it becomes a slog where I feel an excitement and the words come easily and freely, but soon after comes anxiety and then boredom. This is the cycle. It is a cycle that I struggle with constantly so it is with this is in mind that I am writing now. I want to move forward and become a better writer in order to do that I have to force myself to write consistently. There are no awards. There is possibly no one reading, but it has to become a habit like brushing teeth or exercise.

I will write. I will move past this longstanding roadblock and progress.

This blog is designed to feature my creative writing and the creative process as a whole. I listened to a radio documentary about William S Burroughs presented by Iggy Pop. The documentary was entertaining, but what inspired me was the concept of the Cut Up process that he became involved in. I thought to try it out but didn’t have access to a newspaper so I instead turned to Twitter, lifted three phrases out of context and created a story around them. The story evolved naturally and despite the lifted phrases it is a completely original work.

Note: I do not condone violence towards women. The piece below is a work of fiction and not meant to display any politics on my part. I am proud of the piece. It has an underworld quality that reminds me of Tom Waits or Nick Cave in regard to subject matter.

He believes she’s a hooker, a reject from Hell returning to Earth for a life of depravity. He thinks about her, this hooker and wonders what Hell was like, wonders if he’ll ever see its shores. He believes what he wants to believe and he hears Dennis Hopper screaming “Feel my muscles. Feel it. You like that?” and all the old stereotypes resurface.
He believes she is a hooker, but he hasn’t asked her. He sits quietly in the cafe dreaming of her life of depravity, dreaming of her return to Earth to test his will. His will is a weak and flimsy thing and despite his knowledge of her demonic origins he knows if she were to approach he would let his soul be damned. He believes what he wants to believe, but his soul is weak. He can’t have it. Dinner with this hooker in his sight. To him, she becomes more the whore with each movement, each breath. Every second she is transforming trollop, harlot, adulteress. Where is her man? Where is the cop to arrest her indecency?
He wishes now, in the pit of his heart that he had read the scriptures more carefully. He wishes he were better defended. She is beautiful and he can see her leg from his vantage. She touched it lovingly as she drank her coffee. How could he not? Her skirt was so short and her skin was practically glowing in the florescent light of the cafe. There is a twist in his stomach, a slow churning that comes before vomit. He can’t stand the sight of her, but he also can’t look away and has become caught in her devilish spell.
He closes his eyes and hums to himself. Sixteen years sober today. He believes she’s a hooker. He picks up his coffee pot. Grips it tightly as he stands. “Feel my muscles.” the words sing to him. He walks to her table slowly, deliberately. Each step is a victory for heaven. He looks her in the eye. She stares up at him and smiles. He believes she’s a hooker, “You like that?” He says as he raises the pot. She can see what’s coming now, but it’s too late. She is going to feel pain. The coffee pot shatters on contact with her head. “You like that?” He screams and hits her again.
She was reading a book. He didn’t see the book before, but he sees it now. Its title is obscured by her blood. He keeps hitting because now the demon must know he is righteous and that he will not back down from Satan. He keeps hitting her until a waitress, a cook and three other customers pull him from on top of her. His eyes sting with tears as they lay him on the cold tile of the diner floor. His fingers feel the texture of grime beneath him and he cough and then laughs at his victory over the devil. He believes she’s a hooker.


Note: Another story about the exploits of Martin Tyrone Key, metaphysical detective. This one involves a sex cult with all the graphic detail you would expect from such a story.


On a cracked and dusty asphalt street in a desert town Martin Tyrone Key ran his fingers through his mohawk as he looked at the picture of Elise her parents had given him. A decrepit building gaped at the boarded up houses that surrounded it. All told thirteen people had entered in the past two hours. Key perused the file; Elise Wilson disappeared two weeks ago with her boyfriend Cody Wilkes. The two had hooked with a sex cult called “Fornicatio Solemnitas” lead by a man called Hotspur.

Key waited until dark to get out of his car. He slipped casually to the side of the building, pulled a silver flask from his coat and took a long swig, capping the flask he took two deep breaths and headed in.

Incense billowed in a massive protean cloud over the congregation. The chamber was vast and candlelit, despite the heat from the thousand little flames a damp chill still hung on every atom of the room. The members of the congregation were all dressed in red robes and masks. Each mask was unique and represented something of the individual who wore it. Some had old plastic Halloween masks others had ornate filigreed treasures. Underneath the robes each celebrant was naked, flashes of genitalia were as common as handshakes and hugs among them.

The congregation swarmed around the altar at the center of the room, oblivious to everything but each other. Key perched himself on a massive boarded windowsill away from the reunion of worshippers. He winced as he took another swig of the sickly sweet Crème de Cocoa in his flask. The liquor did little to warm him against the chill so he stuffed his hands under his armpits and focused his attention on the simple concrete altar.

A young girl, no more than eighteen, stepped into the room while at the opposite side a teenage boy mirrored her entrance. The girl’s robe was red like the others but hers was shorter and only hung to her thigh, additionally it hung open to give a teasing look as to what lay beneath. A hint of breast, a shock of pubic hair, and a flash of muscle along her stomach as she walked. She wore a mask made in the image of a moon. The boy dressed identically save for the sun that adorned his face. The girl was the right age and height for Elise and she had a dirty blue party tattoo of a butterfly on the top of her foot, which fully identified her, leaving Key to surmise that the boy was Cody.

They strode across the floor towards the altar. Members of the congregation began groping each other as the teenagers passed. The congregation was shortly a symphony of hands jerking, kneading, and probing with hedonistic abandon. Some solitary souls merely masturbated as they watched the long journey to the altar.

Elise and Cody ascended the altar to a choir of carnality. The teenagers kneeled in front of each other with mere inches between them. Elise’s palms were sweaty, her mouth was dry, and she felt dizzy. She worried that she might fall into Cody, they were forbidden to touch at this part of the ceremony, and disrupt the proceedings.
The priest entered the room and quickly moved to the altar. He kissed the palms of his hands lightly and touched both of them on the forehead. Then he raised his hands to the ceiling and began chanting.

The congregation’s fervor amplified when he began chanting. One woman obscured by a baby doll mask straddled a man’s cock while she jerked another one off. Beads of cum shot at her like buckshot and she groaned ecstatically and bucked harder against the lover below her. On the opposite side of the altar a man thrust slowly into the ass of another man, both grunting softly with each long stroke. The altar was crackling with energy as the priest continued chanting.

Elise could feel the energy rising up through the altar and pulsing fiercely through her body. She could feel heat sweeping off of Cody. She wanted so badly to touch him, to feel his arms around her. Her arms would not obey; they were two pieces of lumber hanging stubbornly from her shoulders. Her breathing was becoming labored and she felt her muscles twitching as if in a spasm. Cody’s head was swaying lightly and his mouth was moving. His dick, which was exposed through his robe, was rigid and tall. Elise wanted to take it, to touch it, lick it, straddle it, she wanted to feed off of his cock. The impulse was already irresistible and growing more feverish with each moment, but her body was paralyzed by the spasms.

Key lifted himself off the windowsill and crouched behind a bundle of rusted pipes. He saw runes on the altar begin glowing around the lovers. They were arcane symbols whose origins had gone to time and tide. Key pulled a notebook from one of his many pockets and copied them down as best he could.

Elise saw the symbols too. They glowed a putrid blue color and made her head swoon when she tried to look at them. Sweat was pouring down Cody’s body. The priest was screaming and thin ribbons of blood pulsed from his eyes, nose, and ears. His tongue was swollen and splitting like a cooked sausage making the strange language he was speaking come out in wet sloppy consonants. Cody was reeling, his body was shaking and his eyes were rolled back in his head. The sound of sex was reverberating off the walls and it mixed with the low snarls that were coming from Cody. The cacophony was deafening.
Elise felt her need rising, the strain of it was unbearable. Cody, who was no more than twelve inches from her, was heaving and growing. His muscles were flexing and straining. Cody’s raw sexuality was hitting Elise in waves. She could see the fornication around her and she was cherry picking the positions she could try from the menu at her peripherals. She could feel an orgasm rising in her just from looking at him. Then as the cacophony became a din, it was all halted by a loud crack.
The force of Key’s blow sent ripples of force through the clouds of incense. The priest fell to the ground. His face was wet and pulpy from the ritual and slid against the concrete. “Enough!” Key bellowed to the celebrants. The tribal tattoos that gilded Key’s face all but glowed next to the pale blue of the altar and the yellow light of the candles. He stood over the priest with a gun drawn and pointed out in front of him.

“What have you done?” Yelled one worshipper. The group surrounded him boners pointing like spears.

Key fired a shot off into the ceiling. The crowd stood in silence as he grabbed Elise around the waist and eased her off the pedestal. The baby doll stepped forward, her breasts still heaving. “You shouldn’t be here. The rectory is sanctified and there will be retribution from Hotspur.”

Key put his gun in his waistband. “I don’t think he’ll be causing any trouble for me.” He kicked the priest lightly as he hefted Elise into his arms.

“That’s not Hotspur.” She retorted as she pointed at the altar.

Key turned to Cody. Cody fell forward his body steaming from the moisture in the air. His musculature was impressive and preternatural. His mask fell away from his face; his eyes beneath were crusted in blood and his lips were pulled back in a wicked snarl. His head cocked and he looked at Key leaving with his mate. Fury erupted in him, he howled and launched himself at Key.

Key moved as quickly as he could, but Cody become Hotspur was on him. Key and Elise went sprawling across the floor. Hotspur grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him back towards the altar. He threw Key into the concrete block like one would throw a child. Key’s head cracked against the hard altar, which sent flashes of pain through his skull. Hotspur pounced on Key and jammed his thumbs into Key’s eyes. Key’s face was throbbing in white-hot pain; he bellowed as his hands fumbled for his pockets. He gripped a small sack and smashed it against Hotspur’s face.

The pouch erupted in a crystalline cloud; Hotspur released his grip on Key and scratched at his burning face. Key pulled a lighter and a vial from another pocket, a small glass tube with thick reddish liquid, and quickly poured the contents into his mouth, flicked the lighter and spat the substance back at Hotspur in a ball of flame. He forced himself to his feet. Hotspur howled and rubbed his face into the grime-covered floor. Key fell against the altar and weakly pulled the gun from his waistband. His eyes were still pulsing from the attack and his head pounded with jackhammer force.

Key cocked the gun. Hotspur was recovering quickly from the salt and the flame. With sudden ferocity three of the masked celebrants tackled Key, knocking him against the altar again. Key pressed the gun against one of the reveler’s heads held the head firm with the off hand and yelled, “Back! Get back!” They stopped their assault and stepped away. Key pushed the hostage away with the barrel and turned his attention back to Hotspur. The Demon was up and on him. Key fired a shot, but Hotspur pushed his hand away and the shot went wild. The following punch knocked Key across the room. His shoulder hit the ground hard and he thought he felt something snap. Key rolled onto his back as Hotspur raced after him. He leveled the gun again and the barrel sang as a bullet ejected from the gun. The shot tore through Hotspur’s chest and exploded out the back in a spray of red gore.

The creature fell twitching on the ground. Key pulled himself up and staggered over to Elise. Key dropped the gun, kneeled next to Elise, then almost lovingly he lifted and cradled her; she was still unconscious. He pulled a small strange looking rattle from an inside pocket and began methodically rattling and chanting in a sing-songy voice. The congregation did nothing but watch.

The police arrived some time later. The worshippers stories varied wildly as the police questioned each of them about what had happened. The police didn’t charge Martin Tyrone Key with assault or murder. Cody’s body disappeared and the priest, one Harold Kasee, was assumed to be the leader of a vile sex cult that was trying to marry these teenagers in an orgiastic ritual with satanic overtones. He would be convicted of multiple sexual offenses. In prison two years later he would be murdered in the middle of the night by a white supremacist.

Key received medical attention for a dislocated shoulder and concussion, but was released of his own recognizance. He stiffly got into his car with Elise. She turned to him as he slid into the driver’s seat. “What happened?” She asked.

Key silently started the car and drove onto the highway. For thirty minutes he said nothing. He thought very long about what he was going to tell her. He thought about explaining everything that had happened, what the ritual was meant to accomplish, and how her boyfriend had been possessed and murdered by the demon that now inhabited him. Elise tried in vain to get him to answer her questions. Finally he said, “They conjured a demon. You were supposed to be its bride.” It seemed direct.

She mulled over his answer for a moment then retorted, “Bullshit.”
Key simply shrugged and drained the remnants of crème de cocoa from his flask. The ride was long and quiet after that.


Over the last weekend I had the pleasure of hanging out on a Wisconsin farm for three days eating, drinking, having fantastic conversations and listening to Neil Young covers. I knew the owner of the farm, Rob Rule, and I met him while filming a horror/action/comedy film on his farm. All weekend I was introduced as a filmmaker and it got me thinking. I was a filmmaker, I have some ability at it, but I haven’t really thought of myself as one in a while. I think it’s time to change that. You will find two of the films I have directed over the last five years.


This first short is my best work to date. The second is my first film, it was shot on film with an Arri S and the power cord kept coming loose which I actually really liked because it added a kind of herky jerky motion to it. Perfect, no, but I liked it and as such I’m sharing it.


A very special Valentine’s Day message:

Originally this was a holiday about fertility and it was named after the wolf that watched over Romulus and Remus. Once again some seriously creepy origins to what has become a hallmark holiday, an excuse to drink and/or get laid and it is with this in mind that I submit the following story.
The story itself is very simple, a man investigating a murder, but there is one hell of a twist. It is part of a larger volume and connects in some ways to that larger story, but I feel like it stands alone.


The trailer park yawned with each gust of wind. The detective wanted to throw up, but his pride wouldn’t allow him. He stared at the man lying in a pool of his own blood, his arm was degloved at the shoulder. The detective was tall and wide, a stetson sat on his head and a large shiny buckle in the shape of Tennessee held in his straining midsection. He looked over the room trying to make some sense of the scene in front of him.
The room was stagnant, the corpse appeared to be something of a hoarder, everything that wasn’t covered with blood was covered with dust. The linoleum in the kitchen was peeled back revealing the wooden floor, rancid food filled the refrigerator and everything had the faint reek of locker room socks. The rest was strewn with decades old magazines, soda cans, cigarette butts on every available surface, random musical instruments, decaying food, a collection of useless crap, the television was on, but muted and the blue light made the horror less real somehow. He swallowed hard and moved carefully through the scene.
Something kept striking him as he looked at the body. The skin at his stomach was loose and coiled and his face was frozen in a scream, his eyes were clearly fixed on his arm. He looked as best he could without touching the body for any other wounds, but he couldn’t find any, the base of his shoulder looked torn, like a ragged piece of leather. It reminded him in it’s way of his youth spent in his grandfather’s tannery. The place smelled foul and the gutted bodies of wildlife were slung hollow on racks. The stomach and arm both triggered his nostalgia and set his stomach reeling
He let his eyes fall on every surface. A small spot on the entertainment center was untouched by blood or dust, an elongated oval of clean space. A framed photo next to it showed the dead man posing with a girl, the now naked arm once had a tattoo, a naked pin up devil girl, and he was a large man, easily three hundred pounds. There was no sign of the girlfriend here, nothing feminine would survive in this hovel. He turned away and left the room. Police outside were ready to enter with their bags and paint cans.
The chill of fall greeted him. The trailer park was still, it was the middle of the night, somewhere a cat yowled, the detective lit a match waved the flame underneath the stub of a cigar and drew in.
“Rhiner.” He turned to see Unger, the coroner, running a hand through his thinning hair. Rhiner tipped his stetson towards him. “What have you got for me?” Unger asked.
“Dead body. His arm was chewed up real good. Not much to go on, why don’t you give me a second opinion?”
“What do you expect me to turn up. Nothing I do will help you this evening.”
“I don’t know, but that is some horrible God Damned shit in there and I don’t want to give whoever did it time to rest. I want him caught and hung by dawn if we can.”
The coroner shook his head and moved into the trailer. Rhiner lit his cigar again and puffed it to full burning life. He tasted the tobacco and slowly blew out, felt the tension drain from him at the first heavenly drag.
Unger returned as he finished his cigar. “The victim, died of blood loss from what I can gather, won’t know for sure until the autopsy, but he also lost a considerable amount of cellulite.”
“Yeah he lost some weight looks like.”
“No, I mean there are portions of fat tissue strewn along the floor with the blood. He looks like he was gutted.” Rhiner chewed on the information. Unger spoke again, “May I go now?”
“You’re dismissed.” He absently turned away from Unger, who stomped away.
Despite the motion of those around him flowing in and out of the trailer Rhiner’s eyes were drawn to the ground, a brief reflection of sulfur light, the ripple of a puddle, he looked at the ground and saw them. Little cat’s paws of blood anointing the asphalt at haphazard intervals. The size was not uniform, some smaller, some larger, but each seemed to follow a rough path.
He followed the path at a leisurely pace until it disappeared below a trailer. He dropped awkwardly to his hands and knees hoping to spot the source of the tracks, but there was only gravel. He made another trip around the trailer, but the trail was cold. When he returned the crime scene was fully secured, the body was removed and only a few officers remained to continue collecting, swabbing and bagging evidence.
He tugged at a uniform police officer, “Get some samples of these.” He pointed to the blood splotches on the asphalt. The officer nodded and set to work.
Rhiner went to his car to catch his breath. He hadn’t realized he was holding it until he sat in his driver’s seat. He was a homicide detective and had seen horrific crime scenes in his time. Tim Woolly took a gunshot to the face and compared to that this crime scene seemed tame, but it shook him worse somehow. The lack of other identifiable wounds first on his list, the torn flesh a very close second. The old girlfriend was obviously the first suspect, he would have to find her, but he felt a strange stirring in the pit of his stomach. The girl didn’t do it, his instincts told him, but the world he felt encroaching on him felt so suddenly alien. He got out of his car and instantly lost his balance, he fell to his knees on the asphalt.
“Are you alright sir?” an officer nearby asked.
Rhiner scooted to his butt and nodded to the cop. “Just lost my balance, I’m good.” he gave a thumbs up. His head swooned, he felt feverish, placed his palms firmly on the ground and he felt it. Suddenly and undeniably he felt the asphalt take a breath. He lifted his hand like it touched a hot pan. His eyes bulged wide and he rose from the ground as quickly as possible. Something was wrong, he was hallucinating, he slapped his face, grabbed hold of his car door everything felt real, solid.
He pulled out his cellphone, dialed and brought the phone to his ear. “Baby? Did I wake you?”
“Yeah, ‘sokay, what’s wrong?” His wife, Kimberly answered, he could hear in her breathing she was still asleep.
“I’m at the crime scene, it’s gonna be a while.”
“I love you.” he felt the words come and couldn’t stop them.
“I love you too. Is everything alright?” she roused a bit.
“Yeah, no everything is fine, just wanted to hear, I’m gonna go, sorry I woke you.” Sweat was pouring from his brow.
“I’ll see you when you get home babe.”
“Uh huh.” he hung up, wiped his brow and leaned his forehead against his car. He saw the blood again, leading away from his vehicle. He pushed himself off and followed it.
The trailer park was big, bigger than any he had been in before and it wound into cul de sacs and empty swampland at several turns, but the trail kept presenting itself to him, like a morbid gift whenever he lost it he would look around and find it again within moments even in the darkness. The path ended at a small trailer towards the back of the park, it’s west flank butted up against a gum tree.
He stepped carefully onto the tin stoop. The screen door hung open flapping with the wind and the interior door was open letting a sliver of gold light through. Overcast blotted out the light of the moon and left the street in darkness save for the ribbon of light. He drew his gun and placed his hand gently on the door. He heard a sound, like latex stretched too far, a faint squeaking sound. He pushed and the door swung open.
The living room was furnished with a couch, two recliners and a coffee table. The décor was sparse a painting over the couch a bowl of candy on the coffee table. A hairy man slumped in a recliner with a pocket knife sticking from his chest. Beyond him and the chair there was a shape moving, something slumped over crouching low. Rhiner lifted his gun and drew a bead on the shape when it moved into the light.
A woman, red skin, jutting enormous breasts, and devil horns holding luxurious black hair out of her face. The corpse’s tattoo brought to life stood illuminated in the gold light. It smiled and licked its lips as Rhiner stared at her. Her skin was impossibly smooth and seemed slick with oil. “Put your hands up.” He said without confidence.
She lifted her arms. Her back was still knitting over the lumpy corpse of the body she now possessed. She put her hands on top of her head and let them slowly move down her hair grasp onto her neck momentarily before descending to her tits. She lowered her head and stared at the detective eye to eye. She traced her aureola with one hand while reaching out with the other. Rhiner didn’t moved.
He was frozen in place, she reached towards him pulled the gun from his hand, he let her, laid it on the table, she pulled him in for a kiss, he didn’t resist. His thoughts drifted to his wife then were consumed by the salty sweet taste of the demon woman’s tongue. She pushed him into a chair. In this moment his adrenalin was at a fever pitch his penis was at attention nothing would move him from this spot. She could ask him anything, run away with her, kill for her and in this ecstatic moment he would say yes, it was the only thing he knew to say.
She put one leg up on the chair, flicked his stetson from his head and pulled his yellow tinted glasses off his face demurely. His eyes were fixed on her exquisite pussy, the dark mysteries he was about to discover. She pulled teasingly at her labia and leaned in towards him. Rhiner grabbed her thigh with one hand and her ass with the other. He wanted to take his time, to enjoy this brief moment before whatever consequences he had to face were upon him. He kissed at the thigh and moved quickly for the cleft between her pelvis and her leg. Nibbling and kissing in equal measure before moving to the vagina. He kissed it, made out with it tasting and luxuriating in its smell. Pulled back for a moment to look up at her, she had one hand mauling her breast and her head was thrown back. This gave him the drive to press on, he pulled the petals apart and flicked the clitoris, let his tongue linger there, hummed into it with longing and gave long strokes with his tongue. She had grabbed the back of his head and was moaning, the smell of her filled the room, may have filled the whole damned park for all he cared.
The demon girl howled, Rhiner grinned. He watched her tits sway and bob as her hips bucked against his face. The force of her thrust threw him away and split his lower lip. She looked down on him and curled towards him. Her tongue flipped out, its thin pink tip touched his lower lip and she drew a single drop of blood from the wound rolled it into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered, she grabbed Rhiner’s shoulder for balance. Her head rolled back for a full wide circle as she exalted until it once again stopped in front. They were eye to eye, she kissed him, just a peck and then smiled. It struck Rhiner strangely she reminded him in that very brief moment of his wife. Something about the crinkling of her eyes, the broadness of the smile pulled her image from his memory. In that moment he looked around, the room was a crisp, clean, the edges and distances were suddenly very clear, he was solidly in the moment. His fingers felt the texture of the chair he was sitting on, he smelled the dead body laying five feet from him, saw the blood and the silver glint of the pocket knife. The knife’s handle was edged with a thin coat of blood, Rhiner’s mind drew back to the oval shaped spot in the victim’s house. The tattoo stood over him, the man’s simple tattoo of a busty devil girl was in the room and was no longer smiling. The tattoo pulled itself from the corpse’s arm and left him on the floor to bleed to death. She put her hand around the back of Rhiner’s head and pulled him forcefully back into her sex.
Her labia opened to greet him its fleshy petals reached out to him. Rhiner was suddenly very aware of how strong she was and couldn’t find the leverage to pull himself away. He shoved a heel into the coffee table, but it slid leaving him more prone than before. He put his hands around her taught waist and pushed with all the strength he could muster. His gun was too far away to reach, his buck knife was within reach, but he feared if he moved a hand from her flank to his boot her strength would overwhelm him. He was locked in this grapple, the devil girl’s labia were reaching out for him stretching beyond human capacity, the horror of it sapped his strength long enough for her to fall on him. Her greedy snatch swallowed his face. Everything went black for Rhiner, the room was gone and all that remained was the musky darkness. His eyes bulged, he thrashed as he began to suffocate what oxygen he had was leaving him with his exertion. The grip from her hands and thighs held him fast. Rhiner’s struggles stopped as his last breath trickled away. She smiled ecstatically as she released her grip on him.
The devil girl dislodged the lifeless detective and perched Rhiner’s stetson on her head before she left the trailer. She whistled and skipped away from the trailer. The wind felt delicious on her new naked skin.

Connie the Robot Girl

10:17am EST

Light reflected of the gleaming white floors. There were tiny abrasions in the perfection that Connie noticed at the feet of the tables, certain trails that certain patients repeated ad nauseam every waking hour of their lives in the institution. She tried not to notice, tried to resist the lure of these chaotic moments along the floors, but the more she resisted the more she focused. She would lose herself in the knotted scratch marks and when she could bear no more she would look away to the worn upholstery of the couch she sat on and go over, in her head, her primary functions as she remembered them. First function was to serve the betterment of mankind, second to obey all orders to the best of her ability without question and the third was to blend with the dominant species and assimilate to their customs. These were not real functions, she was human, but her mind sometimes went back to that place. She would stop if she could but her alternatives were limited it was a choice between these false robotic functions or the chaos of the pristine floors with its rich veins of scratch marks, Yin and Yang, light and dark, too much to think about easier to just go over her functions. “Connie.”
She looked up almost relieved by the intrusion. The room was a morgue composed of chairs and card tables. Patients crowd the room all dressed in pajamas and robes. Some patients mill around like zombies, some sit in huddled groups playing endless games of hearts, checkers and chess.
“It’s time.” The nurse smiled down at Connie. Connie became suddenly aware that she had been crying and wiped her cheek as she stood.
She was lead to the office of Doctor Hayam, the head administrator of the institution Connie resided in. He was an older man with a massive shaggy beard and a Santa-like paunch. He had an easy smile and wrote a few notes as Connie sat. Her posture was always impeccable and she developed a habit of staring straight ahead whenever she was required to speak to somebody. She was fearful of eyes. “How is your day so far?”
“Good.” There was a hint of a robotic inflection to her voice as she spoke.
“I’ve brought you here today, Connie, because we’re not going to be able to house you here any longer. It’s all very complicated business stuff, but we have seen your improvement over the years and have deemed you fit to go out on your own.” The Doctor leaned back against his chair and crossed his arms behind his head in a casual manner.
“No.” Connie answered.
He scratched his head with his pen and leaned forward as he spoke again. “Connie, this is good news for you. You’re going to be independent, get a job, get on with your life.”
“Doctor, I am not well.” The smell of cherry pipe tobacco that permeated the room rushed her senses and made her swoon. Her stomach churned at the thought of leaving. She couldn’t read the Doctor’s expression, to her he just seemed to stare complacent to send her into the unknown with a duffle bag full of clothes and a bus token.

3:00pm EST

She stood outside the institution waiting for a bus. She wore a tattered jacket floodwater pants and a small top that no longer fit. These were the clothes she arrived in; she filled them out beautifully, but in a totally inappropriate way. She stood awkwardly and stared straight ahead. Quietly she went over her directives lest she become distracted by the qualities of the outside world.
Thunder rumbled high above and rain quickly followed. Connie looked upward into the vast grey waste and let the rain fall against her skin.

15 years ago

Joseph was a gaunt boy with stringy hair and coke bottle glasses. He watched little Connie play in the puddles outside. His face was slack a slight string of drool formed at his lower lip and threatened to spill over as he watched. Inside the house he could hear his parents laughing as they discussed something, he couldn’t tell what and scarcely cared, his mind was focused on his little perfect sister.
Connie played outside letting the thick mud run through her fingers before she formed up a tiny tower as an addition to her sizable mud castle. It was near the size of a city to her imaginings with winding alleys; grand towers, halls, flying buttresses and small lumpen gargoyles perched at every ledge. Joseph stood behind her, she could feel him watching, he often made her nervous. “What is your designation?” He asked.
Connie straightened her back her mind rifling for strength to object. Her eyes unfocused “Connie Jacobs.”
“Why are you playing?”
“I like to play in the rain.” She spoke robotically, it started as a game, but Joseph became more insistent the longer they played. She gave up fighting and just allowed herself to be the robot.
“You don’t like anything, I programmed you to blend in and that’s just what you’re doing. I am concerned that the rain may hurt your circuitry.”
Connie didn’t like it when he spoke like this, but it was becoming harder to remember that he was pretending, she would forget sometimes. “I’m not a robot, Mom told me Joseph.”
“She’s not your mom; she was conditioned to believe she is. To help you better assimilate. You are a prototype, a very sensitive top-secret prototype. She doesn’t have clearance. If she were to find out what you really are. The consequences could be dire.”
Connie tried to run, but Joseph grabbed her in a bear hug from behind. Connie struggled, but he was too strong and he kept saying over and over “You are a robot. You are a robot. You are a robot.”
Finally she exhausted herself from her own struggle and felt the rain pour down on her hot scalp. She wanted him to stop, but he kept repeating his phrase until it became mantra to her. Her hair was slicked to her forehead and her eyes were closed. She hated this game. “I am a robot.” She would finally say, her accent was perfect.

3:45pm EST

Connie sat on the bus surrounded by commuters going to someplace from another. The bus was a zoological collection of businessmen, homeless folks and college students. One traveler, the Mugwump, watched Connie very closely as she stared forward waiting patiently for her stop.
Grinning and evil his head bobbed in a vaguely shark-like motion. He could hear the whispers as they explained what he needed to do and he nodded his agreement.
Connie got off the bus on a deserted street and wound her way through the ghost neighborhood. Barren lawns, poverty encrusted houses and shapeless husks of rust and rubber met her at each bend in the road. Her brain was too busy extrapolating the information around her to notice the slow moving menace bobbing its head as it plodded behind her.
People moved inside caged windows some peering out at her as she passed. The jarring sound of police sirens echoed from distant blocks. Connie passed a toothless woman sitting on a stoop. They exchanged no words. The woman watched Connie and innocuously flipped a wooden drumstick through her fingers.
A wrinkled mailbox with chipped letters reading “AC BS” elicited a smile at the corners of Connie’s mouth. She looked at the knobbed weeping willow she climbed as a child. The makeshift latter her brother made from nailed boards still hung from the trees heavy hide. She traced the contours of the tree until she faced the decrepit house of her childhood. The front door hung open vulgarly, a step was missing from the deck and the screen that once held away bugs was stripped and gone the only evidence of its existence was in the draped shreds. Connie made the ascent and entered the decrepit house.
She thumbed her old keys as she crossed the threshold. Mildewed scraps of wallpaper decorated the walls. Nature had its way with the house the doorways were crooked Seussian things that lead to further profusions of weeds and animal feces. A bisected couch sat in the center of the room. Some black shape twitched on the remaining arm. Connie moved toward the shape reached out to touch it, but the demon thing sensed her presence and reared up hissing and spitting. It lashed out with its claws and slashed Connie’s hand.

15 years ago

A black cat lounged along the arm of a couch. Sunshine burst through the living room window reflecting off the cat’s shiny coat. It stretched, arched its back and yawned in one long protracted movement. Young Connie ran her hand along the cat’s back. Its muscles twitched as her fingers formed long indentations in its fur from its willowy neck to its tail. She grinned as it began purring, rubbing itself against her leaving its scent and its hair all over her frilly dress.

4:23pm EST

Connie moved to the kitchen. Jagged pipes jutted from the wall marking the absence of appliances. The sink remained but it was filled with rancid water.

15 years ago

Elise pulled a soap slickened plate from the sink, washed it and placed it in a rack with its twins. She emptied the drain and pleasantly hummed to herself as she examined the leaves of a flourishing pothos. She reached over to a spray bottle and caught her arm on one of the drying knives slicing it viciously. She recoiled instantly and looked down at the bleeding wound.
Connie reacted from the kitchen table. “Are you all right?”
The wound was pouring and the color drained from Elise’s face. The world around her started to blur and dance in an almost drunken pleasantness if not for the sharp pain in her limb she would sit and enjoy the warm spaceyness. “No it’s fine baby, just sliced myself on a knife.” She slurred. Heavy drops of red formed a community along the linoleum floor.
“Let me see.” Connie snatched the limb and pulled it to her. She wiped at the blood trying to see the wound below, but she found none. Only clean unmolested skin lay beneath the growing gore of her wrist.
Her mother felt the difference instantly the pain had retreated, but her mind still held on to the shreds of her approaching shock. She looked down to find the slice washed her wrist and the wound had disappeared. She turned to her daughter and dropped to her level. “Connie. What did you do baby?”
Connie just shrugged.
Her mother ran her fingers through Connie’s hair and smiled gratefully “You’re very special, you know that don’t you baby?”
Connie looks up at her strangely, her eyes unfocused “I know that Elise.”
Elise hugs her daughter “Call me Mommy.”

4:24pm EST

Tears streamed down Connie’s face. Her whole face lost its composure. Her nose filled with snot and her mouth seemed unable to hold in her saliva; which left her drooling as she cried. Her lower lip curled into itself, her strength peeled away from her muscles and she dropped to the floor and cradled herself in the middle of the rancid kitchen.
“There, there.” The voice was hollow and grim. It almost struck as one would be struck by a bullet or a knife. The shock and fear of that voice erased everything and replaced it with sudden panic. Her head darted around until her eyes met the man’s hulking form emerging from the shadows. Her limbs lifted her reflexively and she backed herself in amongst the ancient pipes. “What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ in a nasty place like this?” The creature said as he approached. His face entered the light it was worn and his bestial eyes carried a crazed intensity. His mouth was drawn into a rictus.
“Get away.” She wanted to scream but her voice was snatched from her in the dank air between them and it came out as a startled whisper.
“We haven’t even gotten to know each other.” Mugwump snatched at her. His maul-like hands immobilized any resistance she could muster. Her body thrashed and she kicked as hard as she could toward whatever tender vittles her foot could find, but her fear betrayed her and tore her strength away. The man just smiled at her spirited attempt and promptly put his fist in her face. Connie had up until this point never been punched. Once her father spanked her with a belt and at one point in the institution another patient scratched her face, but neither incident came close to the stunning brutality of this one punch. Her nose felt as if it had exploded, her eyes were already tearful, but this brought a whole new torrent. She imagined a mace hitting like this, Ivan Drago hit like this, Gods hurling boulders hit like this man-beast. Flashes of red sparked deep in her brain and then all went black. She heard, just faintly, one last thing from her attacker. He said “Fun Time.”

13 years ago

Joseph was alone in the dark of his room; the only light was the dull green glow of his monitor. His bedroom door opened and obliterated the darkness. Joseph rotated in his seat and looked at Connie silhouetted in the hallway’s light. Her expression was colorless, her arms held loosely at her sides and her eyes stared straight ahead. “What took you?”
She started to say “Mom,” but he quickly interrupted her. “She’s not your Mother!” The venom in his voice hacked away at her heart.
She waited for a moment before speaking again. “ Designation Elise asked me to fold laundry.”
Joseph leaned back in his chair. “What is your primary function?”
“To serve the betterment –”
“Next!” He spat.
“To obey.”
Joseph removed his glasses and leaned forward in his chair. “To obey, close the door.” Connie complied. “Kneel.” She dropped casually to her knees between his legs. “You are not to tell Elise or Michael about this. Understood?”
Joseph unzipped his pants and watched her carefully, the glow of the computer showed the barest hint of her right cheek and eye. “Then proceed.” He breathed.

6:36pm EST

Connie could hear muttering at the edge of her consciousness. She lifted her head off a musty patch of carpet and realized she was bound at her hands and feet. She was in Joseph’s old room. The Mugwump stood in the corner tapping his forehead against the sagging drywall. He seemed to hear her, because he turned his attention to her and said, “Make them stop.” He turned to her and rubbing his temples he leaned his back against the corner. “Can’t you hear them? They keep going on and on, they won’t stop.”
Connie struggled with the duct tape around her wrists twisting and pulling her hands free as he muttered to himself. He put his hand through a wall, the sudden movement and anger startled Connie for a moment, but he kept up his assault on the wall oblivious to Connie’s presence. She quickly untaped her ankles and blasted for the window. The Mugwump turned when she began her run. She covered her head and jumped. The window broke free with little resistance. The rotting wood gave way and she was in the back lawn with few options.
The lawn was gated on all side with chain link fence and junk from years of disuse had built up making it a obstacle course of tires, old television sets, broken down bicycles, glass, garbage bags and other unidentified refuse. Her clearest path was to the old shed.

10 years ago

The shed door was open. Joseph leaned in the doorway, his demeanor was casual even friendly as he beckoned Connie. “Connie, come in here. I need to show you something.”
Young Connie walked slowly, stiffly to him and entered the warm glow of the shed.

6:37pm EST

The Mugwump hunched outside the broken out window and watched Connie. She seemed oblivious to him, freed from her previous panic. The voices pushed for him to attack, beat her down and rape her, but he felt something stirring in his freakish heart and felt this strange curiosity come over him.
She entered the shed.

10 years ago

Joseph looked down at her as she entered. “I need you to understand that this is your fault.”
Connie’s parents, Michael and Elise, lay in a heap in the corner of the room. Their necks jutted at broken angles, blood and bruises speckled their bodies. Michael had a slash along his mouth that curved his expression into a vicious smile and Elise seemed to have been stabbed in the stomach. Connie tilted her head like a confused dog and looked back at Joseph.
“I told you not to tell them and now look.” The sound of Joseph’s voice is curved like he is holding onto a laugh. Connie wondered if perhaps this was some prank he and her parents had pulled. At any moment they would jump up and yell surprise, grab Connie and hug her till she burst. She couldn’t find it in her to express any of it. Instead she felt the wetness of a single tear burn down her cheek. “You did this, you killed them Connie, robot girl.”

6:38pm EST

Connie stood at the center of the shed and turned when her pursuer’s massive form eclipsed her shadow. Connie gripped a solid seeming board from a pile of them off to her left. “They keep talkin’. They want you.” He says.
Connie brandished her club and turned to face him.
He bull rushed her; the force lifted her off the ground. As she raised she swung with the club and caught him full on the crown. He responded by grabbing her by the throat. She dropped the club as he forced her tiny body against the wall. He moved in close to her nearly nose to nose before he spoke. “Someone died in here. I can smell it. I’m thinkin’ that you done somethin’ awful here. I wanna know what it was. Why are you here pretty girl?”

10 years ago

Joseph stood facing the pegboard wall full of tools. He clucked his tongue as he looked over the various instruments. He grabbed a garden trowel and a hammer and held them as if weighing them against each other. “You are no longer a viable subject. You’re going to deactivate yourself. Kill yourself. Which tool will be best? Any suggestions?”
Connie stood frozen in place her face devoid of emotion. “I do not want to deactivate.”
He turned violently towards her and slapped her across the face, a red mark started to from almost instantly. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t want anything.” He grabbed a screwdriver from the pegboard and slapped it into her hand. “I wish there were another way, but you brought this on yourself.” He lifted her hand up with the screwdriver in it and pointed it toward her heart. “Now impale this through your chest.” He stepped back. “Obey.”
She looked over the screwdriver and up at her brother, “I will not.” She answered.
Joseph’s face turned beat red “You did this!” He pointed at their parents again. “You forced my hand, now you need to not be here. The experiment is over. Just do it.” He paced and threw his hands in the air. “Do it.”
Connie lifted the screwdriver up, it felt heavy and warm in her hand, and she thrust it into her brother. The screwdriver caught him squarely on his back and sunk in deep. She cried out, shrieked and ran from the shed.
She had the phone in her blood covered hands and spoke into the receiver, “The programming failed. They are dead, all dead. Please, please come.”

6:39pm EST

“I killed him.” Connie answered.
“Me.” A grizzled bum leveled a sawed off shotgun at the interloper. He moved with a drunken swagger and his nose had the beaten red ball shape of an alcoholic. He glared at Connie through watery eyes. The Mugwump dropped Connie and moved toward Joseph. Joseph barely seemed aware of his presence, he focused all his attention on Connie as she coughed and wiped blood from her face. Joseph pulled the trigger sending a spray of buckshot into the beast.
He fell against the wall grabbed at the smoking wound. He looked up blood dribbled from his mouth as he grinned at Joseph. “Pussy.” Joseph fired again and ambled toward Connie.
“I’ve been waiting for you Connie.” He reloaded his gun as he spoke. “I’m very cross with you Connie. The second directive was obedience.”
“I’m not a fucking robot.” She braced herself up against the wall and wiped tears from her eyes. “Mom said so.” Joseph braced raised the gun to fire on her. Full of fury she pressed her forehead against the barrel of the shotgun, wincing at the heat. “Do you remember Mom, Joseph?” Joseph cocked the hammers back. “Do you!” Joseph was frozen in place his face a mixture of torments, the shotgun braced firmly against his shoulder. “Did she scream Joseph? How did it feel to hit her with the shovel?” Connie’s eyes were boring into Joseph who seemed unable or unwilling to pull the trigger. His finger idly traced the contours of the trigger guard. “Murderer!”
Joseph held firm then finally wavered, pulled the gun away and opened the breach. “You’re one to talk. You killed me Connie.” He put the shells in his pocket and dropped the shotgun on the floor. “Three months in the ICU only to be denied coverage. It went downhill from there hopping from shelter to shelter. No home, no job, my life was over.” He launched himself at her caught her in the stomach and pushed her face into a wall. She responded by pulling at his hair and bashing him in the face with her palm heel.
They fell apart and circled each other. “Your life?” Joseph speared her, quickly scrambled to mount her and finally pinned her arms down. The collective damage was taking its toll on her body and her adrenalin was no longer carrying her. Her struggles became weaker as he pinned her legs and arms completely immobilizing her.
“You’re not worth the bullet.” He growled.
Out of nowhere the Mugwump grabbed Joseph by the face and launched him across the room. Joseph made for the shotgun, but not before the interloper kicked it out of the way. Joseph found himself staring up at him, he tried to scramble out of the way but not before Mugwump stomped on his back. He casually picked up the shotgun opened the breach and just as quickly dropped it when he realized it was empty.
“You two are a damn piece of work. Shit, I ain’t never heard so fucked up a story. I mean I got my problems, but you are some Texas Chainsaw Massacre shit. I don’t know the particulars, but I’m sure it’s much worse than it sounds.” He paced as he spoke and then dropped to Joseph’s level. “What really pisses me off is that you busted in on my dance.”
“You want me?” Connie stood up behind the Mugwump. He turned his attention to her. “I have been away a long time. You should have just asked for a dance.”
He smirked and pulled her in close. “What about before?”
“I was startled. I was not myself, but I am now.” She hugged him around the neck and drew him close. “We are all broken.”
“What are you doing?” He held her at arms length.
“I am trying to save you.” She touched his forehead. The Mugwump tried to pull away, but she kept her hand firmly against his forehead. “I can hear the voices. I want them. Give them to me.” The light started as a pinprick pouring from Mugwump’s forehead, but the ray quickly expanded to consume them both. The column of light plumed upward from their conjoined forms blew through the roof and filtered out into the rainy sky. Tears streamed from the Man Beast’s eyes as his heart filled with warmth he had never known was possible.
The air around them felt electric, alive, it caressed Joseph as he covered his eyes. He heard faint whispers that shamed him for what he had done and bade him to seek forgiveness, but his mind pulsed with fear and he grabbed the shotgun and burst from the remnants of the shed and into the house.
Connie placed her hand on the Mugwump’s chest and dark clouds billowed from his chest in heavy motes. It whirled the air and was eviscerated by the pouring tremendous light, whispy tendrils were all that remained. Yet more energy flowed from Mugwump and tore into Connie as if in its death knells it was trying to fight her, attack her, kill her. It pulsed into her eyes and mouth blotting her face. A final explosion of light and dark finished off what was left of the shed.
Connie and The Mugwump were left kneeling in the empty space the shed once occupied. Smoke or steam wafted from Connie’s tiny form. She stood slowly and walked to the Mugwump. His limbs hung against the ground and he looked up at her serenity washed over his face. “What did you do?”
“I took away the voices.” She wiped the sweat from his brow. “I can hear them, vile and full of anger. I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through.” She left him, “ I need to speak to my brother now.”
Joseph is cowering in the corner of his room. He looked up as she entered, his eyes wild and his whole visage wrought with terror. “What are you going to do to me?” He tried to press himself further into the wall, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Nothing it’s over now.” She gave him her hand. “I forgive you.”
The Police greeted Connie as she stepped out of the old house she grew up in. They yelled things at her as she approached, their guns were drawn and their stances were rigid pictures of action. Connie knelt down in front of the Police and they were quick to claim her. Joseph wandered out of the house, the shotgun at his side. “Connie!” He yelled, she didn’t turn; frustrated he raised his shotgun oblivious to the Police orders. They were unforgiving in their assault. Joseph was ripped apart in seconds as the bullets pierced his chest, arms, legs and head. He managed two more short steps before a stray bullet caught him in the ocular cavity and pushed its way to the back of his skull creating a fist sized hole accompanied by a fine pink mist.
Connie looked up at the nearest Officer and said very quietly and with a robotic accent, “It is over now.”