MicroHorror

The next night, I wrote Dali a poem expressing how desperately I wanted to see her, and drown in her mysterious sea. She loved me, touched me, and excited me like no man ever did before. I sketched her as mystical, erogenous, enchanting, and cunning. She was a perfect femme for a Salvador Dali painting. That was the perfect name. Therefore, I named my mystery lover Dali.

No one would have believed me if I told them that she was only but a fine mist upon my skin. Dali was an erotic zephyr, with an ominous ancient fragrance. Bizarre scents which I became familiar with from reading, from researching, and from first-hand experience. Creatures of myth and folklore were my preferred genre when reading as a child. Creatures (if they ever were) I thought to be extinct, not extant. Frightened by my speculations, I dismissed the thoughts that Dali was indeed a vampire.

Upon arrival, her noctilucent haze glimmered like Sirius. She approached me, and I could feel her damp cheek brush ever so softly against mine, whilst whispering my name Sascha in my ear. She was sobbing as she told me to close my eyes. With the barest touch, she caressed me, nibbled my nape, my breasts, and slowly moved on to tease my ready lips. I was all hers, with arched back and eyes closed. Her tongue, wet and warm, left indelible trails of tender kisses inside my thighs. She gently lifted me closer. All I could see were Heaven’s most brilliant stars, and hear Heaven’s most harmonious symphony.

Under her spell, I did not care about anything else, and my pleasure resounded in orgasmic echoes. When I opened my eyes, she was gone, and only a linger of what smelled like decay remained. I was left feeling sad, violated, and oh so satisfied. I embraced myself, pretending my arms were hers.

Moments later, sharp pains inside my thighs abruptly replaced my ethereal reminiscing of her being there. Dribbling blood accompanied the stinging pain. I rushed to wash my inconceivable night away. My world shattered as I sat in a crimson bath. Vampires do indeed exist, and so did Dali.

Belle is a beautiful child with innocence as sweet as honeysuckle. Her mother boasts how Belle, at only ten years old, is completely captivated by the allure of the ocean. Fortunately, they live beside the ocean and Belle couldn’t be happier. The rocks, the scents, the sounds, the movement of the water, all are simply magical to her.

Being challenged, Belle’s mother teaches her about the world around her and how to do things by making lists. Belle reads, learns, and follows instructions on the lists with all her heart and soul.

Today is Belle’s birthday. She is so excited and can’t wait to read what her mother plans for her on her birthday list! Following the list with all her heart and soul, Belle got up early, bathed, put on her new crimson dress, put a matching colored bow in her beautiful red hair, put on her new shoes, walked to her favorite rock overlooking the ocean, and jumped.

A neighborhood Trick-or-Treat Gang (Bobby, Sally, Jimmy, Suzy, and Timmy) was getting ready for the big night. They were excited to get dressed in their costumes and compete to see who would get the most candy. Bobby was so proud of his Captain Jack Sparrow costume. They also talked about the Haunted House. No one went near the house for rumor had it that strange things happened to those who did. The gang decided to visit the house; after all, it was Halloween, and what is Halloween without a little fright?

Jimmy and Suzy finished dressing in their costumes first and went ahead to begin their long awaited candy-gathering competition. The rest of the gang set out about a half an hour later, and decided to go to the Haunted House. With knees buckling, Timmy rang the doorbell.

A hideous sound filled their ears. With minds racing as to the stories they heard, the children gasped as the door slowly creaked open. A tall figure, dressed in black, floated to the door. A long black cloak with a hood covered the face. The figure did not speak. The children were too shocked to say their line, except for Sally. Sally said, “Trick or Treat! Wow, that’s a great costume, sir! How did you do that? How did you float to the door?”

Long bloodless bony hands extended a tray full of medium-pumpkin-sized caramel apples. The only sound was the click of bony fingers to give the children a note. Bobby read the note. It asked, “With or without nuts?” The children said no, thank you, because the apples were way too big. The figure floated backward, and the door creaked shut on its own. Just a few seconds later, screams and a thud were heard.

The children ran as fast as they could away from the Haunted House. When they came to a stop to catch their breath, Bobby said, “Wow, that guy is good! He even scared the great Captain Jack Sparrow! Did you guys notice that he even made two of the apples look like Jimmy and Suzy?”

Last lab report read that a ferocious chartreuse-colored man-made cloud killed everything on Earth, even itself on Halloween.

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
On a foggy Hallows’ Eve

A lantern was needed by Jack
Too bad a whining Jill’s neck went snap
Her decapitated head was a pleasure to cleave.

You can see ancient skin glistening against the Celtic cross. A burning harvest of fire and brimstone crackles, tickling the lambent tongues of flame. It’s time. Bonfire’s ripe. Her imbued self-offering, plump with a “New Season,” bequeaths “All Hallows’ Eve.” She sets her bones to fire. Her scream transcends to the lucid moon. Piercing eyes from the realms of the living and dead commixes ceremoniously. They dance precariously, waiting for the “New Saint” to show his face out of burning embers. He is to be great this year. As the embers silence, it’s a girl.

Tactile echoes ripple secrets of an abominable past. Bloodstained whispers suffocate beyond hideous black breath. Muffled screams drip down walls of her cadaverous boudoir. The sound is deafening even to frolicsome beasts of the macabre. One hand extends to help you climb through mangled secrets marinated in blood. The other clenches a dripping hippocampus of an axed cranium, now only but a silent carcass.

She has been waiting in a brand new dress, of the prettiest light blue. A crimson enigma waits beyond the grisly door if you dare to open it. Reality will be hazed and will no longer exist. The sense known as the sixth awakens hallows of unfinished death. Only those born with a veil can see the hatched silhouettes in the silver moonlight, can hear the crackling of skull cavity split to precision, can see mouthful-sized pieces of brains splattered adding relief to the walls like a Van Gogh, can feel the viscous texture of a blackened atmosphere, can smell the noxious stench of fresh-baked decay, and can taste the vibrations of butchered screams bathed in bloody innocence. The children can still be seen playing jump rope as they sing:

Applause, cheers, and whistles. “We have come to the highlight of the show!” Ta-dah! Lights reveal the Black Box. Applause and cheers. “Who would like to get sawed in half tonight? I need a volunteer. Uhmm… let’s see, ah, yes, you there. The lady in purple from the sixth row, please come to the stage!”

As she slowly walked to the center of the stage, her life flashed before her drowning eyes. Many thoughts rented space in her mind. Maybe he’s a mind reader too, she thought. Maybe he could see the neon sign painted in her mind that had been screaming… silently. A mind that screams “I can’t take it anymore” Yeah, abracafuckindabra… is how she felt, when she stood on stage, and it felt no different in her everyday life. Mary thought to herself that she would rather be in Hell.

Back to the show…

“Please lie down in the box and relax!” The Magician spun the Black Box very slowly to show the audience all sides of the box. She hummed a Beethoven sonata. He positioned the box just so, pulled out a large, shiny, electric double-toothed saw, and turned it on.

As the Magician leaned down to begin the illusion of dissection, Mary started screaming hysterically. Unbeknownst to the audience, Mary saw the face of death. A flash of his head bore the semblance of what appeared to be a grotesque and cadaverous being. At that moment, he had no eyes and a stench of flesh in its last stages of decay. The audience went wild, as they loved the show. The Magician whispered to Mary, “Welcome to Hell, Mary.” The intensity of the cheers from the audience pumped through the Magician’s veins like molten magma.

The Magician got caught up in the cheers, turned off the saw, raised his arms, and gloried in his fame. Mary broke free from the Black Box and ran half-crazed off the stage. The Magician yelled for her, and then he noticed a man in the last row holding a sign that said “Charles, rest in peace.” The Magician slowly lowered his arms, and just stared at the man. Someone from the audience yelled out, “What the fuck is going on here?” Mary was no longer in sight as she ran out of from the show and managed to get a taxi home.

The scientist answered by saying that the Magician before the audience was Charles Morris, who died one hundred years ago. “His soul was never laid to rest and he came to me. While living, Charles had a disease that severely disfigured and malformed his head. Adults and children alike called him a freak while frightened of him. With a broken spirit, he turned to killing, and set out to mutilate anyone and everyone who made fun of him, and turned their cheek. He loved the thrill of severing the cords and sawing off the heads of people who made fun of his…with a chainsaw. He begged me to give him life again. In return he promised never to kill again.” There was complete silence from the audience and the silent Magician began a new page in his diary.

The next day, still shaken from her ordeal, Mary made her morning tea, and turned on the telly.

“We have incredible breaking news! A bloody massacre occurred last night at the Magic Show in downtown London! This was the site of the most hideous and horrific massacre in London’s history! There appear to be no survivors, and all who attended last night were decapitated!”

Mary dropped her tea and as it shattered to the ground she shrieked in horror. She sat down to try to compose herself enough to call the police. Her screams were silenced as her head tumbled in her lap.

It was 1:00 in the afternoon and the officers had just left the home of a devastated mother. Her ten-year-old daughter had been missing for two days. The last place she was going was to the candy store. Lastly, she described her daughter as a fun-loving girl who loved chocolate and candy bracelets.

With temperatures soaring well over one hundred degrees, the familiar song of the ice cream truck made the officers smile with relief. The officers stopped the truck, saw a sign that said “New Flavors and Toppings Weekly,” and ordered bowls of the week’s newest flavor.

The men got in their car, said how great the chocolate ice cream with candy toppings was, and attended to finding clues to where the tasty (oh–I mean missing) girl could be.

I love my new house, my new job, my new husband, and my new life. What I love most are the small things like being able to put up another clothesline. My husband and I moved to this new town last winter, and now it is springtime. Spring is my beloved season, as what seemed extinct and dormant now comes alive. My own blood seems to begin to thaw.

My favorite pastime is hanging clothes on the line. I wash early every sunny, honeysuckle-soaked Saturday in the springtime. It has been four years, since my third husband hung himself, and it was time to start over again… with my fourth loving husband. So I am excited to hang clothes on the line, and enjoy nature’s fragrant air for the first time this spring. Starting over in this new town has been a dream thus far, and the people are very friendly. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to leave all the bloody memories of those dreaded people from my prior town behind.

The people were mean to me in the town I just moved from and called me horrible names. There was one name in particular that I actually liked, and that was Noose. That name has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Well, back to my story… the people from my old town watched out their windows carefully when I hung clothes out on the line, never spoke to me, and were afraid of me. In my opinion, they were just jealous of me. They were jealous of my clothes, my money, my jaguars, and me. Yes, I have three jaguars. I love jaguars. For the life of me, I can’t understand why some people are so obtuse. Fortunately, I never had to work. My former husbands were wealthy men. I find it amusing that these elite men find me so attractive, and quite frankly, who wouldn’t love the attention. After all, I always look good, and am always dressed to kill.

I get much enjoyment out of the feel of a clothesline. The way the line drapes over my fingers when I put it up, the fancy knots I practice making, and the intricate pattern of twists and turns that make it…well… a clothesline, has always fascinated and empowered me. When I buy clotheslines I always buy two sets, because for some reason, I always misplace a line. This is my fourth clothesline.

I have a ritual, if you will, when it comes to hanging clothes on the line. Certain items, in specific order, are hung on my line. First, my jeans, then my husband’s jeans, my tops, then my husband’s shirts, my socks, and last is my husband’s socks. Never do I hang my undies on the line, as it is not proper clothesline etiquette; however, the occasional pair of boxers is acceptable.

Funny thing is, the other clothesline is missing and so is my husband. I have not seen my husband for four days, and today is Saturday… my washday.

As I have said, certain items, in specific order are hung on my line. First, my jeans, then my husband’s jeans, my tops, then my husband’s shirts, my socks, and last is my husband’s socks, with the exception of the occasional pair of boxers. However, today I’m only hanging my jeans, my tops, my socks, and no boxers.

I wonder where my husband is hanging?