All posts by Necrosanity

<p>Whoo-hoo. .-. </p> <hr><p>You drugged me with subterfuge </p><p>Dripping nectar, cloying and irresistible </p><p>Stripping me of my worth </p><p>Just like the night before </p><p>
You seized my arm </p><p>And went for the vein </p><p>Penetrating needles hollowing me out </p><p>A familiar pain </p><p>
Watching me sleep at night </p><p>Alone and exposed </p><p>Pissing the bed </p><p>As I spot you </p><p>
Lock me up deep inside you </p><p>Where needles won’t save me </p><p>Why won’t the pain go away </p><p>Anymore? </p><p>
Pelt me with beer bottles </p><p>Lined up like the grave stones </p><p>Of those you also deflowered </p><p>On a window sill painting the illusion of my escape </p><p>
Subjected to your degrading mockery </p><p>Vile scorn taking wicked flight </p><p>Appraising me like steel wool </p><p>I am your toy, a veritable ragdoll </p><p>
Crushed my ribcage </p><p>So you couldn’t face my rejection </p><p>Driving in your godforsaken van </p><p>To the tune of my death throes </p><p>
You shot yourself in the head, </p><p>Just to spray the guts all over my body </p><p>Marking your territory forevermore </p><p>No, I don’t love you </p><p>
Through sunken eyes, sunken and downcast, </p><p>You pervade me still with predator eyes </p><p>My crumpled body </p><p>Yearning for every young dream of the past </p> <hr><p>(This is the filler part I may or may not cut out. Questionable...) </p><p>You redefined my definition of love </p><p>Made it a living, breathing thing </p><p>And I could tell you enjoyed it </p><p>From your brain radiating warmth onto me </p><p>
Love thinks, therefore it exists </p><p>Something physical, something emotional, </p><p>You just never know till you experience it </p><p>Make it your own </p><p>
Love was always there for me, </p><p>Knocking on my door </p><p>Breathing down my neck </p><p>Till death did us apart. </p>

<p>I posted this a while ago. I recently trimmed it, and I want a second opinion: Are there any parts that are flowery, drawn out, break the pace or contribute little to the story? (At least, that's what I'm primarily looking for, haha.) </p> <hr><p>The door was locked tight. It wasn’t moving anytime soon without a key or a good kick. Towels and even toilet paper were stuffed in the bottom gap. Nevertheless, the stomach-churning stench of meat slipped through the cracks and assaulted The Child’s nostrils. My nostrils. </p><p>Everyday. Day in, day out. A daily occurrence. </p><p>It began manageable enough; just around six o’clock. A consistent, friendly reminder that The Father was roaring back to his abode in his shit-box truck. He always came back with both that stench and that promise. </p><p>“I’ll get you guys out of here. The company’s risen out of the dust like bread, I tell ya. I’m gonna hit it big tomorrow, I swear!” </p><p>His job was the reason he lived. The Family was merely a backdrop. He lived to see another day where he could hang up his old meat hook in satisfaction of what he did: making a meal out of a living, breathing thing. Neither of us fancied the thought of Our Rock being a butcher, but it sufficed. It kept us from licking dust off the old dirt road. </p><p>That promise ended soon enough when the economy collapsed. Coincidentally, so did the company he slaved for. Our income capsized and a deadline was placed on our peace, security, and memories-to-be-made. </p><p>The meat hook was his growing pride and anger. A snake whose lair was a small, wooden box shoved into the top shelf of the closet. The stench was the venom that seethed from its mouth. It had already poisoned The Father. Now, it was choking out even the weeds, and soiling the fresh spring breeze. </p><p>The breaking point was approaching. </p><p>I was holed up in my bedroom, my nostrils being raped by the repugnant waft. There was no schedule anymore, nor any friendly reminder. Just an incessant wave of slaughter; of cracking bones and tearing flesh, then lapping up the blood. </p><p>Nothing was friendly about this harbinger, and nothing good could arise from such a foul odor. Somehow, I know. </p><p>I didn’t bother attending school. After all, I’d just be subjected to the same smell over and over again upon returning. Who knows? Maybe the cursed wind had made its way to the school-grounds already. It was a plague; an epidemic whose origins were as esoteric as its reason to exist. But it was here, and it was now. </p><p>I take a step out this door, I’m smothered by smut. Take a step out the house, and my lungs are pulverized by scathing purity. The deadline wasn’t just on our house; it was on my life. The Child’s life. </p><p>Like a cow to the slaughter, I have been branded and sentenced to die. Well aware of my new fate, it has become a physical affliction: a stigma drilling into my mind. </p><p>Only two paths are left for me: life and death. Both were out of my reach; out of my control. Both were placed into the hands of The Father, for a child’s life is not his own. </p><p>I was The Child, a miserable pile of flesh and blood on his left; the meat hook dangling from his plump right index finger. He crushed the pile in his hand and threw it to the ground, gripping the meat hook just as he had all those days before. And, just as a calf is separated from his doomed mother, I was left to pick up the scraps of tear-sodden memories. The Family may be forever, but the yearning for destruction is imprinted in man’s heart. We were a liability after all. </p><p>Something felt amiss. The snake had left its pit. </p><p>Through the wall, I could hear the TV blaring. The Father had barely seated himself. The raspy, laborious breathing accompanying his weak, racing heart was unlike him. Nor was his devilish gleam of satisfaction. </p><p>The Mother was resting by his side. She was eerily silent, and I knew why: How could she speak when she had a crimson grin from ear-to-ear? </p><p>The rust-stained, blood-soaked metallic snake protruding from her mouth wasn’t her tongue. </p><p>Somehow I knew. I knew when I heard the wedding ring slip from her finger and shatter on the floor, and I knew when I heard The Father rip the hook off The Mother’s jaw. My denial was cut short as soon as the door smashed open and The Father’s snake hissed at me. </p><p>It had once belonged to The Family. Now it belonged to The Husband. </p>

<p>It's a Lovecraftian/Satanic story set in an idyllic household, where a troubled teenager plans to summon an evil God into this world during dinnertime. Her motive? Look at the title. </p><p>I say comedy because some of the descriptions are downright outrageous, and most of the gore is played for laughs. </p><p>One problem I foresee is the lack of character motive and development. I sacrificed that to keep it CP-length. </p> <hr><p>White picket fences, perfectly-grown lawns, and luridly-colored two-story abodes. The only evil that dwells here is in the deceitful heart of man. </p><p>In this neighborhood, a mother asks her son to call his sister down for dinner. The table’s already set, the parents are eager to get on with the prayer, and the rich, savory aroma of chicken pot pie saturates the air. Apple pie sits on the counter, growing colder each second. </p><p>Annoyed, the brother runs up the steps two-at-a-time, stopping just short of busting the door down to his sister’s room. Mustering up his courage, he knocks on the door and says her name. </p><p>“Angie?” </p><p>Right around now he detects faint murmuring from within, like a chant. A trace of must lurks just beneath the scent of mouth-watering food, ruining his appetite with an affront to the nose. </p><p>Growing anxious now, the brother nevertheless plasters on a wicked smile and says, “Don’t you ever get tired of your BF’s cock? Come down and service yourself with some pie in the meantime.” </p><p>Before the father could beat him with the belt, the door rips itself off its hinges, erupting in a storm of splinters that knocks the brother off his feet. </p><p>Stammering and bleeding, he stumbles clumsily into her room as the parents rush to see what happened. The mother’s cries mute themselves as he takes in his surroundings. </p><p>Upside-down crosses hang unassumingly, as did heavy-metal posters with “666” scrawled all over them. Puddles of piss and shit collect in the corners, and lines of dwindling candles mark their boundaries. Somebody helpfully laminated signs reading “<i>CIRCLE OF MANIAS, SHIT AND BLOOD</i>” above each of them, respectively. </p><p>The main attraction, however, was the large pentagram in the middle of the room, encompassing most of the floor. A decomposing goat head placed on a hand mirror was in the center. Empty bottles of lipstick and boxes of chalk were scattered about, as were water bottles, candy wrappers, and strangely, whole fingernails. </p><p>The smell was overbearing. If somebody caught the dying breath of abused puppies in a bottle, minced the feces of strangled kittens, captured every wronged human in a giant elephant’s stomach, and those humans threw deformed babies at the walls trying to break free, only to drown in a mixture of digestive juices and their own fear… </p><p>That elephant’s fart would not begin to describe whatever hellish wind was wafting through her room. </p><p>Hesitating to take even one step further, the brother soon found himself at the edge of the pentagram. Looking to his right, the bathroom was stacked with normal bedroom furniture: beds and dressers; everything he saw just last week. However, the bed has a bloody imprint the shape of a human. Knives were lodged in it, and a blood-rusted book was placed in front of it. </p><p>Its title was “Dear, Diary,” with his sister’s name engraved on the bottom-right corner. </p><p>It seemed an eternity had passed before the brother finally noticed two people dressed in black robes, giving prayers to the goat head while down on their knees. They, too, hadn’t noticed him. </p><p>Finally, his gaze shifted to his sister, standing in the unmarked circle of excrement. She was quivering violently with her back turned to him. </p><p>She abruptly turned around. She, too, was cloaked in robes, and her face was painted black-and-white, with a red pentagram on her forehead and upside-down crosses emblazoned on her cheeks. </p><p>Mistaking her for a juggalo, he yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?!” </p><p>“I’m going through a phase!” </p><p>He heard her bones disjoint as she exploded with a wet, tearing sound. Soggy giblets pelted him in the face and her blood spewed in torrents, soaking him red. </p><p>In her place, the air distorted as if their dimension was leaking. Claws tore a rip through space as tentacles shot out from the deep black rift. One seized the goat head and pulled it in. </p><p><i>“Our master has been revived into this world!”</i> </p><p>The brother spun around and saw the two worshippers rejoicing, hands in the air. They died with a smile on their faces as a tentacle whacked them, blasting a huge hole in the wall. </p><p>He suddenly realized that he had to run. </p><p>Whimpering and limping for no apparent reason, the brother looked into the mirror and saw his greatest fear, lying at the end of all creation. Prying his eyes away, he saw the two zealots, reduced to smears splattered against the house next door. They, too, had found the prize waiting for all of us at the end of our inconsequential life. </p><p>He made it to the stairs before the futility of it all set in. His body ceased function for only a second to allow his sanity to rip itself out his body, but that was enough: He took a tumble down the stairs, joining his parents in a banquet of despair. They froze and screamed at the sight of his crumpled, twitching body, before the father broke into a reckless sprint. </p><p>Even he questioned why he passed the door and ran straight to the kitchen, before realizing his free will meant nothing to his new violent, cruel God. </p><p>His back bulged before his kidneys exploded from him, quickly growing tentacles and strangling him. He was dragged to the kitchen, where his kidneys shoved steaming-hot fetus pie down his throat. </p><p>The mother desperately tried to save him before lunging for the door. She fumbled the knob awkwardly before twisting her wrist. Using her other hand, she eventually bust down the door and ran outside. She collapsed in the middle of the street and beheld what became of the world. </p><p>Raging fires spread in the north woods, as corpses littered the yards of collapsed homes. Those afraid of death joined together, shambling like zombies and singing praise to the tune of a deafening air raid siren. Their souls were raptured away by the One Who Enslaves. </p><p>He, too, had taken form: A massive goat head loomed in the sky, lapping up whole cities with its disease-ridden tongue; the tangible avatar of He Who Devours the Horizon. </p><p>A thundering crash unraveled the earth behind the mother, affirming that she no longer had a sense of place in existence. She didn’t bother turning around to face Death, knowing full-well humanity is finished. The ash-choked atmosphere around her lifted, but even so, the pure malevolence of the presence behind her was suffocating in its own. A pitiable, terrifying existence forsaken by God. </p><p>A searing, sour breath without life ravaged her surroundings and she struggled to stand her ground. Her stomach rejected this profane sensation, and she evacuated herself. She felt nothing, having long been detached from whatever reality is. </p><p>Body parts fell from the sky with a hearty plump as she was overshadowed; plunged into sticky, fathomless shadow. The beast had opened its mouth. </p><p>A lone, blue eye softly invaded her, stabbing into her core and spilling her valueless emotions. It dragged its leg across the earth, stopping just short from rending her asunder. </p><p>With a dread, croaking voice, all color drained from her face. </p><p><i>“Momma? Why does nobody understand me?”</i> </p><p>Who knew children were both the key to our future <i>and</i> the true monsters all along? </p>