The Kings of the day
The Queens of the night
Bring tremors during May
And the reign of deadly plight
A feast is held descriminately
For successful deeds not their own
The poor watch feverishly
As they can only eat soup of bone
Thousands die at the end of June
The royals pay no mind at all
But, during a chill scarlet moon
The dead arrise at the start of fall
Thin to the bone and epidermis blue
They emerged from the unmarked lea
With eyes as red as a bloodish hue
The army marches slow and steadily
Down crumbles the relics and statues
As the poor are left unharmed
The rich are eaten and their pets too
Soldiers are shivering and locked alarmed
Flesh and limbs are torn indescriminately
As the palace burns into a mirage of Valhala
From the ashes, the poor rebuiled passionately
Then, they become lords--recycling the hatred of the
I decided to go a different way home because I thought I was being followed
I ended up in an alley... a dark and dreary alley
The dumpsters were filled to the brim with rotting foods and trash
Rodents and other pests relished in its filth
The stinch was almost unbearable
I almost made it out, until I saw Him
He was slumped over with an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand
He must be drunk I tried to convince myself, but there was no denying the fact that this man was dead
He lacked a pulse and there were maggots feasting on his decaying flesh
Pill bugs dug into his flesh to build homes
Rats gnawed on his exposed bones
Flies buzzed around his corpse trying to lay more eggs
Roaches roamed over this deceased man as if he didn't exist
The smell of Human flesh rotting was simply too much for me
I vomited after witnessing this horrendous sight
I couldn't have even prepared myself for what I saw next
A poor man, who looked like he lived in the slums, came upon the corpse and began devouring parts of the body
He seemed to enjoy it
His malicious smile as he ate from the rotting corpse
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Susan could hear her heart start to race. Click, click, click, click. The typewriter in front of her, though no one was touching it, was typing. Susan stepped forward as the words on the piece of paper came to an end... Run, run and don't look back!
Susan ran, she ran through darkness, she ranon and on. Until, finally she came to light. There, another typewriter sat in front of her. Click, click, click, click. The message, even more frightening... She's Behind You!
Susan slowly turned around to face her chaser, but what she saw was not of anything she ever imagined; she was staring into her own face.
"I wouldn't have turned around if I were you." Her other self hissed.
"But you are me." Susan tried saying casually.
Susan's subconscious self stared at her, "You're wrong, I am nobody, yet somebody. I am the one who will take over your consciousness."
Before Susan knew it, her heart stopped, yet she still was still able to move. She spit blood out of her mouth, "You... aren't... going... to... win. You... will... be... the... one... to... die."
Suddenly, she had a knife in her hand. She quickly, even with an unbeating heart, stabbed the knife deep into her subconscious body.
- Tell me what should happen next. -
My Lovely Little Peach
I run my hands over her supple skin, studying her. She hardly yields, young and nubile little thing she is. The soft fuzz of her cheek floods me with desire. My lips ghost her skin, breathing in her lovely scent. Delectable. I find my mark in her soft expanse of blushing skin. My teeth pierce her flesh, fresh juices flooding my mouth. I dig deeper, tearing her firm yet tender flesh. I rip off a piece and stare at the weeping hole in her side. She’s so stoic, refusing to submit even now. Not an ounce of pain mars her rounded face. I swallow my first taste of her, fluids dripping down my chin. There’s no holding back now. I go in, again and again, the initial tenderness vanishing in favor of ravaging every part of her. I strike bone, flesh peeling back from its pitted surface. She’s such a sweet girl, so tender. She’s laying back and letting me break her, not even a token protest passes her lips. What a pity, I’d been looking for a fight. Her slick melts into me. The little thing was probably enjoying this, being consumed. She was bred for it, after all. She’s running out of flesh to give. I caress her exposed bones, ready to end this. The last shreds of her succulent flesh disappear between my teeth. She’s unrecognizable without her pretty face. I discard her useless remains without a thought. She left a mess all over me, so inconsiderate. I wash away any evidence of what I’ve done. Better to deal with it now than letting all her juices dry onto the floor. Her taste lingers on my tongue. My lovely little peach is already half-forgotten, even as I'm pulling pieces of her from between my teeth.
With each step, creaked the floorboard beneath my muddy shoes, the sound piercing thick air like a periodic slice of a metaphorical knife, cutting through the eerie silence.
An anonymous caller had called in the station right as the clock had stricken midnight, leaving in an ominous tip about this place, 11037 Jenkins Street, an old and abandoned Bungalow.
The tip? A triple murder.
Three weeks ago, the smith family consisting of the aging Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith along with their only daughter, Emily smith, had gone missing.
The caller allegedly found their bodies at this very place.
"Sir, d-do you smell that?"
"That's a stupid question, George. The stench is stomach emptying, you'd have to lose your nose not to notice it."
The newly hired investigative assistant, George, looked aghast at the smell. Handkerchief to the nose and terror in striking blue eyes, grayer than usual.
"D-does that m-mea-"
"Dead bodies." I cut him off, resuming the walk into the Bungalow, the smell was coming from upstairs.
The stairs, creaky.
The air, heavy.
The smell, mortifying.
Finally, the second floor.
"Oh god..." The words escaped my lips as my stomach turned.
George had wanted to say something, yet the words never came. Instead, he had leaned over the railing and threw all over.
Hunched and piled atop each other, ending off with the limp body of the daughter, laid bare the Smiths.
Discolored, green fungi had risen, as the bloated skin had been torn apart, giving birth to the nests and houses of larval blowflies, crawling out of their deceased bodies. Their existence ripped bare of any familiarity, leaving only this horrifying sight as their last memory.
Another sleepless night on the Job.
Above them, the yellow light flickered.
Seven figures sat hunched around a wooden table, the dim yellowness of the light bringing out the mahogany streaks in the table.
All of them sat silently, six of them children, one a hooded figure in black.
On the table lay a hard, black, metallic object, as silent as a killer, waiting to be put to use.
The man in black picked up the revolver, put a single bullet into the barrel and spun it. Without a word, he handed it to the young boy on his left.
The boy took the revolver, his hands trembling, and brought it to his head. He shut his eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The Russian roulette had begun.