MicroHorror

Dustin LaValley is an author, screenwriter and martial artist from upstate NY. Lowlife Underdogs, his collection of short surreal fiction, is now available from Raw Dog Screaming Press. He is also credited for writing the award-winning film Rise of the Ghosts. Other than writing, Dustin is a Sensei of Shito Ryu karate and Okinawan ju jutsu. More information on the author and his work can be found at myspace.com/dustinlavalley.

April 3, 2009

An Usher of Self-Eradication

Dedicated to the memory of Patrick T. Web

Those he seeks are found balancing on the edges of desolate circles, scattered along the outskirts of subculture values and ideal existences. They wander alone, pathetic and desperate. They’re tired of boredom; the monotony of existence apparent on their faces, it tugs at their skin and wilts their features.

He identifies them by their delicate souls, clearly exposed through glazed eyes. He appears as one of them: lonesome and unwanted, curious but timid, and always emotionless. Thus, there is no alarm, nor judgment concerning his presence. When he approaches, the despairing being–understanding, accepting its disposition–departs willingly.

They’re escorted to the boundary of this realm, where they step inside the darkness. Within this perpetuity, mind and body divide, and euphoria consumes all senses. Upon arrival, there is no struggle at its request, and individual immortality is surrendered to oblivion.

He is the most sorrowful of thoughts, every regretful human tendency, and the peddler of anxiety. The coming of the end will never arise for this usher of self-eradication: he is eternal, as humanity’s miseries forever feed this vile essence.

December 29, 2008

Dead Hooker Blues

Oh man… damn my head hurts… what is that… the television? Jesus… it hurts to open my eyes… even the dim light from the television hurts my eyes… my head… what is that playing? Sounds like that racist cartoon duck with a speech impediment is creating a ruckus once again… what’s his name? I can’t seem to remember… matter of fact… I can’t seem to remember how I got here on this… floor… what the fuck… why am I on the floor… the floor of a… hotel room? It’s got to be… I can tell by the hum of the air conditioner… the ugly curtain and the plain walls with framed flower prints… yes that’s it… a hotel room… it must be… but it’s missing something… that sterile feeling… that scent… smells more like a bathroom of a gas station in here… feels more like a frat house post party in here… what’s that on the bed? And what is that fucking smell? Damn my head hurts…

Oh good god…

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