I sat nervously, chewing on what was left of my finger nails. I was waiting for another withdrawal, the last had been painful enough but this was going to be the real killer. Banks had always intimidated me but as time progressed I had become even more fearful of what they represented. As I sat waiting for my advisor I scanned the waiting room’s décor. Bare walls for bare faced liars- no pictures nor paintings, no sketches of a child with a tear in their eye or a horse with out a master. Nothing for no-ones.
Finally my withdrawal advisor slipped out of her office. She was a slender, pale skinned woman with not enough meat on her bones for me, but she was sexy in a chance meeting at midnight kind of way. She came over to where I sat, slumped upon the wooden chair, and bent down to meet me at my level.
“Another withdrawal?” she smiled.
“Yes,” I sneered. Would there be any other reason to be here?
She plunged a syringe into the only unmarked place on my left arm, and took the blood with one, easy slide back.
“It looks like it’s going to be the last.”
I wearily nodded in agreement.
She took what was once mine and threw a plain, brown envelope onto my chest.
“We at this bank don’t expect to see you again,” she said spinning energetically round. “We think your assets have…dried up.”
I clutched the envelope in agreement and closed my eyes to dream. I fantasised of what to spend the money on, maybe a long vacation to somewhere they hadn’t conquered yet. Somewhere the bloodsuckers hadn’t made there own. Somewhere banks weren’t needed. I drifted off, for the last time, with a smile on my face.
The devil is in the details, they say. But they say a lot, don’t they? Well they do to me: over and over and over again. Telling me what to do, how to do it, how not to do it, when to do it; really, who in Hell do they think they are? But up here, I can no longer hear them: the wind’s too loud, and holding on so long, makes me tired, and unfocussed, so much so that my sight is blurry and my mind is finally blank. It’s strange after trying alcohol and drugs, pre-scripted meds, and none of it working, none of it stopping the chattering and babbling in my head, I find out all I’ve got to do is sit on the tallest building in the City and its like I’m out of their range or so far away from it all, they no longer know where I am.
I can see my flat from here, over the river, just beneath the sun as it begins to set on another day. I hope and pray (yes pray, not done that for a long time) that this will be my last, and I find the courage to do what needs to be done, the reason I’m up here. But are all these just words, with no real intent behind them, can I really do what needs to be done? Then, suddenly I hear them, you’re not going to do it, you haven’t the fuckin’ balls, we’ll catch you before you hit the ground, and then, you’ll be forever ours.
Now or never, I think, now or never. I open my arms out as if to take flight but I don’t jump: I fall, just let myself go, and the wind blasts at my ears and whips around my coat and my heartbeat quickens and……
I hear nothing but a slow, steady beat. It’s monotonous and repetitive, yet soothing, calming. Opening my eyes I see my arms are extended out, huge and white and wide like angels wings but as my vision starts to focus in on them, I realise they are just in plaster. A smiling face comes into view and I am told that I am very lucky, because if I hadn’t hit that worker’s tent, I wouldn’t be here. A tiny torch light flashes in each eye and I hear a calming voice telling me everything is going to be alright. The doctor flips through a clipboard, smiles and wishes me goodnight. She closes the door behind her and… then… suddenly… well, well, you ain’t going anywhere now… you’re ours to do with what we want… you can’t even go to the fuckin’ bathroom on your own… you pathetic piece of shit… we’re gonna really enjoy this… and you? You’re gonna wish you’d hit the pavement. You poor bastard… it just looks like we caught ourselves a lucky break.
As tears welled in my eyes I could just about make out three shadows moving towards me. I could also hear a strange, distant, muffled noise; it took a moment for me to realise it was me, hidden beneath the bandages that were wrapped around my screaming mouth.
JJ Breech is the Curator/ Editor/ OversEEr of bizarrEEye Creative Community. He writes @ the UNSEEN & the OBSCENE blog (amongst other places) and has had an interest in Horror and the Fantastique from an early age, when he saw An American Werewolf In London, and realised that’s exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up!
Something made Detective Boll feel uneasy as he stepped into the hallway of the house. Perhaps it was the stillness, the eerie silence broken intermittently by a distant drip as of yet unplaced. Boll stepped carefully towards the kitchen, a pile of garbage spilled from the bin onto the floor. The lino was sticky under his feet. And he still felt uneasy.
He saw the broken chair and the table on its side by the door. The back door lay slightly ajar and began to rock quietly as the wind caught it. Boll looked around for his suspect, his victim, his witness and saw nobody. A dirty trickle of blood on the floor and a red hand-print on the glass window gave it away. He unclicked his holster and let his fingers rest on his revolver. He silenced his breathing and began to step backwards, towards the front door, away from the silence.
Silence comes first. Then the laughter. Then the screaming. He was the last detective left in his team. They always lured them out like this. The child’s swing in the front yard, the freshly mowed lawn and the sparkling SUV on the drive. The eyes were watching him.
He knew there was no point in running, he just stepped back slowly out the door. What chance was he taking by not reporting this? What if it was a real burglary and kidnapping like the screaming woman said?
“Next time.” He shouted. “You’ll have to get me next time!”
Boll drove away, the last remaining Detective. Away from the freshly mowed lawn, the child’s swing, the blood on the window and the eyes in the cupboard under the stairs.
Richard David Lawman is the chief Writer/ Director/ Producer of ‘The Putty In Your Hands’ production company. He can be found and contacted at http://richarddavidlawman.com/ andhttp://uk.linkedin.com/pub/richard-lawman/24/966/182
From within my cage they think that I can no longer get to them. They smile and laugh, drink coffee, rattle a large set of keys, shake their fingers at me as if scolding a naughty child; they believe they are safe and, of course, they are wrong and, if I wanted to, I could prove it. If my eye lashes were to flutter, the first guard would die of a heart attack. If my left hoof was to rise a little, I could snap the tallest guard in two and use him as bloody sticks upon the cells bars, making a hellishly sweet tune- Ha!
If I so desired I would smile sweetly, tear the walls down around me, build a box to hold the rest of the day’s corpses and cadavers in. Then, hour after hour, I would sacrifice the humans before each other, so they all knew- in those tortuous last moments- what was waiting for each and every one of them. If I wanted I would create obscene jewellery to wear- wristbands of babies flesh and a necklace of an elderly home’s collective cancer.
For a day I would travel from city to city and ask those in authority to bow before me and beg for forgiveness, and for my pleasure I would make them describe, in great detail, what they would do to their fellow humans to escape my wrath. And when all self-worth is gone and dignity has left them all- as one by one, they have sold out those they use to call ‘loved ones’- I will show them not the mercy they cry for, but instead they will watch as everything around them burns, knowing their punishment will be the last. And the most creative.
Then, if I desired, I would begin to grind the Earth together between my claws and hooves, and as it stops turning and all the Universe’s eyes are on me, as Armageddon becomes a bliss filled reality, I will finally do my very worst and — but I should stop, as I am getting myself a little… worked up… and… excited, and also I’m not actually going to do any of this. No, no- none of it all. I could if I wanted too but I don’t have anything to prove. These are mere fantasies, erotica, day dreams to pass the time as I wait.
For I have to bide my time and bide it well. So I will stay upright on my hind legs, with closed eyes and I will remain perfectly still. And wait. Why? Because Mother is coming and Mother knows best. And Mother will do, far, far worse than I ever could.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————–(JJ Breech is the Curator/ Editor/ OversEEr of bizarrEEye Creative Community. He writes @ the UNSEEN & the OBSCENE blog (amongst other places) and has had an interest in Horror and the Fantastique from an early age, when he saw An American Werewolf In London, and realised that’s exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up!)
In the next coming days we have work from Adrian Reynolds (of http://www.dawnoftheunread.com/ fame [amongst other things]- a seriously great creative mind!), Richard Lawman (writer,director and all round renaissance man of ‘The Putty in Your Hands’ Production Company http://richarddavidlawman.com/) and my favourite musician- Haroon Mushtaq, known also as Theanon Wonder and Music From the Back Seat (find him @ https://soundcloud.com/theanonwonder)… and with more to come!
These are certainly exciting times but this venture won’t be possible if it wasn’t for YOU! We need fresh blood, new hungry writers and creators. Even if you have never written anything before do not be afraid, as you have to start somewhere, and that somewhere is here! We are looking to create a comfortable, positive, pro-active yet thriving creative community where writers can blossom and find their feet.
So, what are you waiting for? Get your Horror/ sci-fi/ fantasy/ weird and bizarro fiction and poems submitted in today! We are looking to collate enough work to publish an anthology in the future but everything needs a beginning and today is that beginning.
Submit to- firstname.lastname@example.org