This is a short piece I wrote last week in one sitting whilst waiting for a meeting time to arrive. If I recall correctly it was written as a quick observation practice but other than that, no specific reason. I'll probably refer back to it in the future as a reference to a new piece.
In the meantime, here it is, pretty much exactly as it was written by hand.
-------
It sounded like a low hum. A grumble. There were no in-between silences or sweet sounds, just a grumble. If you wanted a quiet holiday this wasn’t the ideal location.
Around me people spoke on their ‘phones and walked within their own shells. These were important people in their own rights. They had places to go, people to see. However, every one of these important people was just an ant in a huge society of workers.
On the outskirts of the hum was the rattling of machinery destroying concrete and the odd expensive car going past, releasing poisonous gases into the air. Trees lined the streets and occupied the communal parks. Birds spoke to each other, but I could still hear the destruction of concrete and the construction of buildings.
The sounds were comforting. I knew I belonged here. I was in my new home. I was in the metropolis, the city, London.
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The "ants" description came from the naturistic notion of there being hundreds of ants in a nest, walking around, working.
Sunday 21 August 2011
Friday 19 August 2011
The Chair, a short story
This was something I wrote at the start of the year as I wanted to write something nasty but kind of decent.
I was going through my writings on my laptop and came across the story. After a quick read, I noticed it needed some editing which I did and finally came out with this. It may need a bit more editing here and there but for now, it's fine and I'm pretty happy with it.
Enjoy!
-----------
I could feel the cold steel against the small of my back and the blade sliding on my skin with my every step. Sometimes it would scratch and I’d feel a small tear of blood run down the indent and settle somewhere. People would look at me as I walked past them, not because of the knife - that was hidden under my trench coat - nor because of the pain each scratch caused, I could hide that with a determined face, but because of the scar across my mouth; held closed with lip rings. I was used to it though, and right now my scar was the last thing on my mind.
I pushed the two-way door, its hinges squeaking and approached the bar. “Double Jim Beam”, I said, wiping some sticky liquid off of the arm of my jacket. Fucking kids can’t even keep their drinks in a glass. I paid the young barman and found a table in the dark corner and waited.
An hour and two double Jim Beams later he walked through the door. A tall man with dark long hair, leather biker jacket and what looked like some expensive sunglasses resting on his head who walked with confidence and authority. He approached the bar and said some inaudible words with a laugh while the bar kid poured him a drink.
He threw some change on the bar, which I assumed was the correct amount, and glanced up, spotting me in the corner. Walking over with a dark pint of what looked like Guinness in his hand, he looked me up and down with an eye of suspicion and sat down in one smooth movement, not spilling a drop of alchohol. Clever bastard.
He lifted his pint and took a long drink, causing me to assume that he‘d had a long morning. “Got the gear?”, he asked quietly after letting the half-empty glass slide through his hand and gently settle on the table. I nodded slightly and tapped my left jacket pocket twice. “Let’s go”, he said before downing the rest of his pint and standing up. I took my Beam in two - the liquid burning my throat - and followed. I could see the barman staring at us curiously. I shot him a hard look followed by a sly smile and walked out.
********
We walked up the driveway towards my front door as I span my keys round my finger. With a final spin I caught the keys and pushed the main key into the lock. “After you”, I said, pulling the needle from my pocket and, in one quick movement, stabbed it into his neck and injected a nice, heavy dose of anti-speed. Two seconds later he fell with a heavy thud, his head hitting the doorframe as he dropped.
Play time!
********
With a groan, his eyes flickered open and he squinted in the fluorescent basement lights. Disorientated he tried to move, however, unfortunately for him, he was stuck with his ankles tied to the chair legs and his hands cuffed behind the hard, wooden chair.
“Evening. Sleep well?”.
Being a typical victim he replied with “Where am I?”, stripped to nothing but a pair of polka-dot boxers.
“I wouldn’t worry about that right now. I’d be more concerned about keeping still if you want to remain alive”, staring him in the face. As I said this this a smile grew on my face and he spat at me. Unaffected, I backhanded him across the face, my not-so-purity ring breaking the skin. A thin, red line of blood ran down his cheek. I wiped my sleeve over my face and walked across the basement floor towards a desk covered with a stained-brown bed sheet. Whipping it off there was a clang of metal. I dropped the sheet and looked in front of me, scanning the table and its contents. Across it were all the items I’d set out this morning: pliers, blowtorch, corrosive acid, jump cables and generator, thick ropes and a foot long baton, all clean, tested and ready for use.
I slipped on a pair of dirty industrial gloves and picked up the cold steel pot of acid. Using a thick metal syringe I sucked up some of the green acid through the one-way suction hole in the lid and walked towards my victim, a small smile growing on my face while a look of concern came over his along with increasingly deeper breaths to the point where he sounded like he was having an asthma attack.
As I stood above him and placed my thumb on the plunger he clenched his eyes shut and let out an ear-piercing scream of “NO!”, and that was it. I lowered my hand and placed the syringe back on the table and went upstairs to find a ball-gag. I could hear him release a lungful of air. The man thought he was potentially free. I knew otherwise.
********
After a ten minute search, I’d found the gag - a ’classic’ red ball and black leather strap with a connector buckle on the back - and set on my way back down to the basement. Once I was down I saw that my victim had managed to make the chair fall over onto the grey stone floor. He was now lying on his side, looking helpless and vulnerable. “Silly boy”, I laughed as I picked him up with some struggle.
After picking him up, I went behind him and grabbed his thick hair so I could attach the gag. After a lot of head-shaking and growling it was on and the mouthy cunt couldn’t utter another word.
As I returned to my position above him with a needle in my hand and him looking now even more helpless, I gently pushed the plunger and let two drops of acid fall onto his bare leg and quietly hiss as they cooked the skin. Behind the gag I could hear a long moan. “What’s that?”, I asked, lifting the gag. “Fuck you!”, was his only reply resulting in another backhand across his face.
“One more word and you’ll be tasting bleach!”, I warned him, letting the gag flick back into his mouth. I turned on my heels and walked back to the table as his eyes began to dilate with fear. At the table I ran my hand over the tools, each one clanging as I moved to the next when I spotted the large white box of 50 catheter needles I’d left on the shadowed wooden shelf above the table. They were just waiting and asking to be used and this was the perfect moment.
“Do you like piercings, Mr. Stanley?”, I asked, still facing the shelf. I heard a mumble. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I turned round and slowly walked towards him, unpacking a needle as I walked. At the chair I pulled off the orange cover with my mouth - hygiene was the last thing on my mind right now - and spat it to the side.
Standing there, I scanned his lame body up and down, wondering where to poke the first needle. There was so much bare skin it was impossible to choose just one place; this was going to take some time. I finally decided on the biceps - an area not too sensitive but would still feel the pain of a two-inch needle being jabbed in. I held the needle in my right hand, hovering beside the man’s arm, “Ready?”, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Stab!
“Mmph!”, I heard as his eye widened then slammed shut, presumably due to the pain the of a 2-inch needle piercing the flesh and muscle of his left arm. It now pointed out horizontally, looking like an arm version of Pinhead. A thin red line of blood dribbled down his arm and settled in the indent of his elbow joint. “Where next?”, I wondered aloud. The right arm was my choice, even things out a bit like a spirit level., so I repeated as before, except from behind this time. Unfortunately I couldn’t have the pleasure of seeing the pain in his face. From his groan though, I knew I’d hurt him and that was all I needed to know.
Once I’d finished having my fun with the needles he looked like a torso version of Pinhead from Hellraiser. With two in each bicep, one piercing each of his nipples and four in a diamond shape around his heart, he began to sound weak and exhausted - the only noises he was making were those of deep, shallow breathing.. He now looked more feeble than ever - his face was bruised and swollen and flopped loosely forwards, unliftable, each of his legs had numbers of small acidic burns and blood ran down his face from his nose and mouth onto his naked torso. How he was still conscious I had no idea.
To finish things off I collected my DSLR camera from the table, focused onto his body, my ‘model’ and began taking photos. To some these photos would be art, and we all know art sells and, of course, I knew the market of which these pictures would sell; guaranteed money. After a few more photos from different positions and angles it was time to release this man from his pain so I walked behind him and slowly began unstrapping the gag.
The gag ran down Mr. Stanley’s body, catching the needles mid-fall and landed with a quiet bounce on the floor, rolled a foot or two and was stopped by the strap intersecting the path. I returned to my position in front of him and looked down. He slowly rolled his eyes up to connect with mine and said between breaths “You . . . Bitch!”. Those were his final words before I reached round and pulled out the knife from the waistband of my red latex skirt. With a quick backhand slash I sliced the air with the blade, smoothly catching his throat in the process. When I stopped a number of bloodlines ran down his neck before his throat seemed to explode in a shower of dark red blood, catching my right side in the process.
I turned and walked up the stairs towards the exit of the basement, closing the door when I stepped out. I’ll clean him up later, I thought to myself before stripping and walking upstairs to run a bath. I was knackered.
I was going through my writings on my laptop and came across the story. After a quick read, I noticed it needed some editing which I did and finally came out with this. It may need a bit more editing here and there but for now, it's fine and I'm pretty happy with it.
Enjoy!
-----------
I could feel the cold steel against the small of my back and the blade sliding on my skin with my every step. Sometimes it would scratch and I’d feel a small tear of blood run down the indent and settle somewhere. People would look at me as I walked past them, not because of the knife - that was hidden under my trench coat - nor because of the pain each scratch caused, I could hide that with a determined face, but because of the scar across my mouth; held closed with lip rings. I was used to it though, and right now my scar was the last thing on my mind.
I pushed the two-way door, its hinges squeaking and approached the bar. “Double Jim Beam”, I said, wiping some sticky liquid off of the arm of my jacket. Fucking kids can’t even keep their drinks in a glass. I paid the young barman and found a table in the dark corner and waited.
An hour and two double Jim Beams later he walked through the door. A tall man with dark long hair, leather biker jacket and what looked like some expensive sunglasses resting on his head who walked with confidence and authority. He approached the bar and said some inaudible words with a laugh while the bar kid poured him a drink.
He threw some change on the bar, which I assumed was the correct amount, and glanced up, spotting me in the corner. Walking over with a dark pint of what looked like Guinness in his hand, he looked me up and down with an eye of suspicion and sat down in one smooth movement, not spilling a drop of alchohol. Clever bastard.
He lifted his pint and took a long drink, causing me to assume that he‘d had a long morning. “Got the gear?”, he asked quietly after letting the half-empty glass slide through his hand and gently settle on the table. I nodded slightly and tapped my left jacket pocket twice. “Let’s go”, he said before downing the rest of his pint and standing up. I took my Beam in two - the liquid burning my throat - and followed. I could see the barman staring at us curiously. I shot him a hard look followed by a sly smile and walked out.
********
We walked up the driveway towards my front door as I span my keys round my finger. With a final spin I caught the keys and pushed the main key into the lock. “After you”, I said, pulling the needle from my pocket and, in one quick movement, stabbed it into his neck and injected a nice, heavy dose of anti-speed. Two seconds later he fell with a heavy thud, his head hitting the doorframe as he dropped.
Play time!
********
With a groan, his eyes flickered open and he squinted in the fluorescent basement lights. Disorientated he tried to move, however, unfortunately for him, he was stuck with his ankles tied to the chair legs and his hands cuffed behind the hard, wooden chair.
“Evening. Sleep well?”.
Being a typical victim he replied with “Where am I?”, stripped to nothing but a pair of polka-dot boxers.
“I wouldn’t worry about that right now. I’d be more concerned about keeping still if you want to remain alive”, staring him in the face. As I said this this a smile grew on my face and he spat at me. Unaffected, I backhanded him across the face, my not-so-purity ring breaking the skin. A thin, red line of blood ran down his cheek. I wiped my sleeve over my face and walked across the basement floor towards a desk covered with a stained-brown bed sheet. Whipping it off there was a clang of metal. I dropped the sheet and looked in front of me, scanning the table and its contents. Across it were all the items I’d set out this morning: pliers, blowtorch, corrosive acid, jump cables and generator, thick ropes and a foot long baton, all clean, tested and ready for use.
I slipped on a pair of dirty industrial gloves and picked up the cold steel pot of acid. Using a thick metal syringe I sucked up some of the green acid through the one-way suction hole in the lid and walked towards my victim, a small smile growing on my face while a look of concern came over his along with increasingly deeper breaths to the point where he sounded like he was having an asthma attack.
As I stood above him and placed my thumb on the plunger he clenched his eyes shut and let out an ear-piercing scream of “NO!”, and that was it. I lowered my hand and placed the syringe back on the table and went upstairs to find a ball-gag. I could hear him release a lungful of air. The man thought he was potentially free. I knew otherwise.
********
After a ten minute search, I’d found the gag - a ’classic’ red ball and black leather strap with a connector buckle on the back - and set on my way back down to the basement. Once I was down I saw that my victim had managed to make the chair fall over onto the grey stone floor. He was now lying on his side, looking helpless and vulnerable. “Silly boy”, I laughed as I picked him up with some struggle.
After picking him up, I went behind him and grabbed his thick hair so I could attach the gag. After a lot of head-shaking and growling it was on and the mouthy cunt couldn’t utter another word.
As I returned to my position above him with a needle in my hand and him looking now even more helpless, I gently pushed the plunger and let two drops of acid fall onto his bare leg and quietly hiss as they cooked the skin. Behind the gag I could hear a long moan. “What’s that?”, I asked, lifting the gag. “Fuck you!”, was his only reply resulting in another backhand across his face.
“One more word and you’ll be tasting bleach!”, I warned him, letting the gag flick back into his mouth. I turned on my heels and walked back to the table as his eyes began to dilate with fear. At the table I ran my hand over the tools, each one clanging as I moved to the next when I spotted the large white box of 50 catheter needles I’d left on the shadowed wooden shelf above the table. They were just waiting and asking to be used and this was the perfect moment.
“Do you like piercings, Mr. Stanley?”, I asked, still facing the shelf. I heard a mumble. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I turned round and slowly walked towards him, unpacking a needle as I walked. At the chair I pulled off the orange cover with my mouth - hygiene was the last thing on my mind right now - and spat it to the side.
Standing there, I scanned his lame body up and down, wondering where to poke the first needle. There was so much bare skin it was impossible to choose just one place; this was going to take some time. I finally decided on the biceps - an area not too sensitive but would still feel the pain of a two-inch needle being jabbed in. I held the needle in my right hand, hovering beside the man’s arm, “Ready?”, 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Stab!
“Mmph!”, I heard as his eye widened then slammed shut, presumably due to the pain the of a 2-inch needle piercing the flesh and muscle of his left arm. It now pointed out horizontally, looking like an arm version of Pinhead. A thin red line of blood dribbled down his arm and settled in the indent of his elbow joint. “Where next?”, I wondered aloud. The right arm was my choice, even things out a bit like a spirit level., so I repeated as before, except from behind this time. Unfortunately I couldn’t have the pleasure of seeing the pain in his face. From his groan though, I knew I’d hurt him and that was all I needed to know.
Once I’d finished having my fun with the needles he looked like a torso version of Pinhead from Hellraiser. With two in each bicep, one piercing each of his nipples and four in a diamond shape around his heart, he began to sound weak and exhausted - the only noises he was making were those of deep, shallow breathing.. He now looked more feeble than ever - his face was bruised and swollen and flopped loosely forwards, unliftable, each of his legs had numbers of small acidic burns and blood ran down his face from his nose and mouth onto his naked torso. How he was still conscious I had no idea.
To finish things off I collected my DSLR camera from the table, focused onto his body, my ‘model’ and began taking photos. To some these photos would be art, and we all know art sells and, of course, I knew the market of which these pictures would sell; guaranteed money. After a few more photos from different positions and angles it was time to release this man from his pain so I walked behind him and slowly began unstrapping the gag.
The gag ran down Mr. Stanley’s body, catching the needles mid-fall and landed with a quiet bounce on the floor, rolled a foot or two and was stopped by the strap intersecting the path. I returned to my position in front of him and looked down. He slowly rolled his eyes up to connect with mine and said between breaths “You . . . Bitch!”. Those were his final words before I reached round and pulled out the knife from the waistband of my red latex skirt. With a quick backhand slash I sliced the air with the blade, smoothly catching his throat in the process. When I stopped a number of bloodlines ran down his neck before his throat seemed to explode in a shower of dark red blood, catching my right side in the process.
I turned and walked up the stairs towards the exit of the basement, closing the door when I stepped out. I’ll clean him up later, I thought to myself before stripping and walking upstairs to run a bath. I was knackered.
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