D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (21 page)

“No, I am doing this for the both of us and you are the best. I am sure I want this, book the surgery,” Laurie was adamant.

I nodded with a heavy heart, agreeing to do this only for Him. I knew he would be pleased to have one of his children born close to home. I would do anything for him, including killing thy neighbor.

After the last surgery was completed He emerged to me and celebrated. As we explored each other’s bodies, I noticed He was becoming more defined, as if his existence was becoming more of a permanent fixture in the world. I could make out the lines of his strong cheekbones and even the cleft in his large chin; he was becoming more handsome by the minute and I loved and sucked him even harder that night.

As the weeks passed my neighbor, Laurie, had become more active. She seemed to love her new breasts and flaunted them in tiny white tank tops as she planted and pruned the roses that lined the front of her house. She would always wave and shake her new assets for me to admire when we crossed paths outside. I could swear they seemed to be getting larger and on one occasion as we spoke; I could see the breast on the left shift under her the thin white fabric of her shirt.

One month later I found Him sitting on my couch when I returned from work. He had never looked more solid and inviting. His dark, ebony curls wisped softly around his beautiful black skin. His bare chest had become sculpted and the soft pink of his nipples created a sharp contrast with his surrounding black flesh. The feature that stood out most was his large member; the head stood proudly on top of his erect shaft and glistened like the highest quality of polished obsidian.

“Something wonderful is going to happen today, my love,” he whispered to me and drew me on top of his throbbing lap. I smiled and enjoyed the waves of heat he created between my legs. I bent down to taste those rose pink nipples when I heard frantic banging on my front door.

“Go get the door, my love,” he pushed my rump up with his two large hands.

I groaned with frustration but complied with his wishes. I opened the door to a bloody and hysterical Laurie.

“Laurie, what happened?” I gasped

Laurie fell to the ground, wrapped her bloody arms around my legs, and let out a horrendous howl. I immediately felt the cool air of Him standing behind me and Laurie’s eyes widened in terror as she beheld Him in his full-bloomed darkened glory. He reached down and pushed Laurie onto her back.

“Who is this, Dr. Davidson? What is going on?” she yelled, “You have to help me! My breasts are burning, they’re
infected
! There’s something alive, something scratching from the inside!” Laurie pulled her blouse open and her swollen breasts popped free into the open air. Blood tinged with a black tar like paste was oozing from the center of each aureole.

I also saw that each breast was beginning to crack. Scarlet fissures radiated out from each oozing nipple, the whole effect was that of a splendid red carnation.

“It’s happening,” I heard him crow triumphantly. He bent down and sat on Laurie’s torso.

Laurie bucked and screamed under the assault of his massive weight and a new wave of pain seized her already contorted features. He bent down and delivered a sharp slap to Laurie’s blood-streaked cheek.

“Be still, bitch. If you are still it makes it happen much faster.”

Laurie wept her surrender as He reached down and cupped each breast.

I watched his blue eyes close and He whispered, “I can feel them move. I can feel my children! They’re alive!” With renewed fervor he ripped opened one of the fissures in Laurie’s breast. She whimpered as her white flesh tore, then mercifully fell unconscious.

I watched in fascination as a tiny black limb appeared from the tear—a black arm tipped in razor sharp, silver talons. Soon the entire child was delivered from his nurturing flesh prison and he scampered to his father’s side. He beamed with joy and eagerly ripped open the other breast like a child opening a gift on Christmas morning. The second child emerged, a female, with long dark curls and smooth black skin. She yawned and stretched, embracing her new found freedom.

“My babies are here, free to roam and rule Earth with their father! A new era of darkness has been born!” He opened his arms and the children eagerly jumped into their father’s embrace. He hugged them close to his wide chest and looked at me.

“Get rid of the body, she has served her purpose”

“You will protect me, right? You promised you will protect me forever!” I wailed pathetically, now suddenly fearing the legal and criminal repercussions of my actions.

“Don’t you worry; I have secured a special place in Hell for you. You will sit by my side and we shall burn together for eternity.” He continued, “Now, take this shovel, finish off the bitch-carrier and bury the body in the back yard. Then you can join me and our children in the living room.”

I nodded and delivered the final blow to Laurie’s head. I dragged the torn and bloody remnants through the house leaving a crimson trail behind me.

After the task was completed I returned filthy and bloody to my new family sitting in the darkened living room. All three were sitting still and silent as if waiting for something.

“The other children, how will they know where to go?” I asked.

He smiled, showing his now visible row of pearly white teeth, and flipped a dark curl from his blue eye. “They know the way home; sit beside me, love, and wait for our children to come.”

His two newborns perched on the arms of the love seat gazing out the window with clear blue eyes, each no larger than six inches tall with skin just as sleek and luminescent as their pitch black father. They sat motionless as they waited for their siblings.

“Lindsay,” I heard Him whisper.

“Yes?”

The next thing I knew his dark face loomed above my head showering me in the intense heat of his breath and searing the top of my scalp.

“My name is Chernobog.”

A Laxative for Writer’s Block

Forrest Ingle

Writer’s block is a bitch, a pain in the ass, a goddamn hemorrhoid. It’s one of those annoying ass bill-collectors that call you every night at dinner. One of those nasty rashes that won’t go away. All writers suffer through it at some point or another. You try to write but you just shoot blanks. Every word’s a struggle. It’s like trying to shit but somebody’s sewn your goddamn asshole shut. And what sucks the most is that there is no cure. No fucking laxative. You just gotta sit and wait until it eventually goes away, even though you know it’s gonna come back like some horrible case of herpes.

But what if I told you that I’ve found a prescription for that bulging bastard? What if I told you that, right here in my hand, I’m holding a box of suppositories, ready and willing to jam every single one of them deep into your rectum? Go ahead, my friend, kiss your hemorrhoids goodbye. Despite everything you’ve ever been told, there is a way to defeat the dreaded writer’s block.

See, the problem lies in the pussyfooted
waiting
that we writers do. The whole time we’re infected, we just sit and stare at the monitor like brain-washed apes, thinking that any minute our Muse will return from her smoke break and fuck us into an orgasm of inspiration. But it never happens. She just stands outside the door, sucking on her cigarette while shooting us The Bird.

What we’ve gotta do is, we’ve gotta stop being so goddamn passive and fucking take control. We’ve gotta go out there and
find
her goddamn ass. Grab her by the wrists and fucking
force
her. Throw her whore ass on the ground and
rape
the inspiration out of her glorified puss. No more goddamn smoke breaks. You take that cigarette and put it out on her fucking eyeball if you have to.

Which is exactly what I did earlier: I was sitting right here, watching the cursor blink back and forth, taunting me, when suddenly I caught a glimpse of something in my monitor. I turned around and there it was—The Cure, The Laxative, The Oh-So-Glorious Nicotine Patch—playing on the playground across the street.

It
was a
she
. A little girl, no more than eight or nine. Pre-pubes. Nice and smooth.

She swung on a swing, slid on a slide, and as I stood in my window watching her, I felt the staples in my ass loosen and fall. I had a fucking hard-on, both mind and body, head on my shoulders and head in my pants. No more shooting blanks. I was
cumming
creativity.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet. The Muse was flashing her bush, and I could’ve probably written a decent story just based on the visual—but no, I’m more ambitious than that. I wanted to reach a little higher, try to brush my fingertips against
greatness
. But to do so I needed to get up close and personal with that shit. Needed to stick my nose in it and nibble the clit. Floss with her pubes and chew on her tits.

Only problem was, the little bitch’s mom was with her. So I paced back and forth and I watched them, trying to devise a plan inside my mind. Turned out I didn’t need one because the mother did it for me. She just kissed her daughter on the cheek, hopped in her van and drove away.

I didn’t think much of it at first. Just figured the mom had gone to get them both a drink or something at the local convenience store. These parts are known for being pretty safe. Guess she figured her daughter would be alright for a few short minutes. Irresponsible bitch might as well have dropped her daughter on my doorstep, though. Could’ve made a sign pointing to the little girl’s crotch:
Free Admission
.

When the van disappeared, I hurried outside and across the road. Wasn’t a sign of life anywhere around except for the little girl, now sitting on her idling swing, watching me approach.

When I walked up to her, I smiled, all Joker-like and shit, and said, “Hey, princess, what’s your name?”

No response. Mum for anyone but mom, I guess.

“Well,” I said, “I just got a call from this lady. Said she had a flat tire and wouldn’t be back for quite some time. She asked me if I’d take care of her little girl on the playground until she got back.”

Thank God the little girl was dumb as a rock. Her little lips started quivering. “B-but M-Mommy said she be right b-b-back!”

It took several minutes to get the girl to drop her guard. I was sweating like a goddamn nigger, too, partially because of the sun but mostly out of nervousness. I almost shit myself every time I heard a vehicle. The girl and I joked around for a few short minutes while playing on the jungle gym. I promised her an ice-cream sandwich if she could beat me in a race across the street. She won, by the way, but only because I let her. Her mouth was so goddamn cold I think it gave my dick frostbite.

Don’t worry, though, I’ll spare you the grisly details. That isn’t what this thing’s about.

Let’s just say, after I...um,
directed
her to give me oral pleasure, and then—
lightly
tossed her onto the floor and massaged her neck while...you know, teaching her about the birds and the bees and all, I immediately felt an urge to sit down at my desk and finger the hell out of my goddamn keyboard. Finally, after three long weeks of constipated grunting, I had my laxative. The muse was back. This time with crotchless spandex and a ten-inch dildo. Lubrication required.

Now, before you freak out and stop reading and call me a monster or a horrible, terrible, evil human being, understand that what I did was because of Love. That’s right, Love. I did what I did because I care about my craft. And like any artist, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to be the best at what I do. It’s called Determination with a capital D. The little girl, well, she was simply a necessary sacrifice. But don’t hang your head and weep, because she died for a worthy cause.  In many ways, I gave her life, gave her purpose. Rejoice. Celebrate. She’ll now live on forever through my writing.

Still don’t understand what the hell I’m talking about? Well, it all boils down to that old cliché, the one that every bearded forty-something creative writing teacher preaches at your local community college:
write what you know; write from experience
. But if you’ve ever really stopped to think about it, you’d see that all we writers fucking do is sit and daydream. We fucking
fantasize
. Look at all the horror writers who write stories about crazy psychopath serial killers. Yet how many of them actually know what it’s like to stab, rape, or chop another motherfucker’s head off? Hell, half of all erotica is written by disgusting ass bitches who couldn’t even pay an overweight blind man to have sex with them.

Now, I have no idea how many stories require the knowledge of what it’s like to kill and rape a little girl, but that’s beside the point. At least now I know what it feels like to take somebody’s life. I know firsthand that rush of adrenaline. That crazy surge of power. I know the panic, the fear, the paranoia. From now on when I’m writing I won’t have to fucking daydream. What more experience could I possibly need? I just graduated with a Ph.D. in Psycho Shit.

And to answer your question, no, I’m not delusional. I know I can’t get away with this forever. That isn’t even my intention. I want to get caught. Only then will my writing receive the attention it deserves. Everyone’s gonna be intrigued, wanting to look inside the mind of a murderous pedophile with a fetish for necrophilia. I bet even English scholars will try to analyze my shit (
Is the broken vase in the bathroom a symbol of the deflowered little girl
?).

I’ll become as famous as Mr. Charles Manson. Not to mention a literary genius. Kind of an Edgar Allan Poe of the new millennium. I’m living the story now. I am the narrator. And it’s all thanks to...shit, what did that girl say her name was?

In the Make-Out Room

Matthew Keville

A slow song was playing, and the crowd on the dance floor had thinned out a little. The lights were low, the strobes had gone still, and it was easy for Kristen Norton to pretend that she and Adam Delaney were in a private little world, a soft warm place made of music and two swaying bodies...