Sons of Blood

The monsters that gave birth to us were made of blood. The blood of their fathers, of their mothers, of their husbands, of their sons and their daughters slaughtered. Bled to death upon them even as they themselves were being raped.

We are the Sons of Blood.

Our fathers were demons who deserved to die. Our mothers were the monsters who taught us how to kill them.

No one taught us how to live.

Now we face a dilemma: Our fathers are dead and so are our mothers too. We the Sons of Blood have killed them all.

So what do we do now? Where are we to go? We the Sons of Blood who know not how to live a life that’s not revenge, who are we to kill now?

Now that there is no one left. Not one single demon. Not one single monster. Only us.

Who are we, the sons of blood, to kill now?

We start to kill each other. We be begin to kill ourselves.

We paint the ground beneath us red with blood. The blood of the Sons of Blood flows like rivers on this land.

And then there’s no one left but me: The Last of the Sons of Blood surviving.

And I should kill myself. I know. I really should. But morning comes, and evening falls, and still I have not done so. Morning comes again, and I have yet to kill myself.

I have my weapons. My swords upon the ground. My poison blades. And still I have not killed myself.

I pick them up. My swords. My poison blades. I sheath them all. And then I start to walk.

I walk until I meet a woman. Build a life.

No Humanity

“Come now, my sweet,” she brushes the hair away from my face and smiles. “You’re not stupid. You know better than to expect mercy from those who brought us into being.”

– “There is no humanity in those who are not human,” I whisper from memory. A quote from my days in schooling.

– “That’s more like it, sweet thing,” she laughs. “Now get up. We’ll wash away the blood, and you’ll be good as new.”

– “As good as new…” I whisper, but I hear the lie in the words even as I do so.
This will not be fixed with showers nor with laundry. This will not be fixed with food, with sleep, with anything at all. And though in the years to come I drink far more than my fair share of poison, even that will never fix what has been done.

They made me unable to die.

The Sword Embedded

The sword embedded in his heart was beautiful. A truly magnificent example of both sword smithery and spell casting. The sharpness of the blade incomparable. Its strength incredible. The only inclusions in the diamonds in the hilt were the spells she had cast to get the blade past his defences.

He looked into her eyes now, seeing no hatred in them, but only sorrow.
– “Why?” the only word he managed before he fell.
She crumbled to her knees with him. She cradled his head in her arms as he breathed his last breath. She kissed his eyes closed, and cried.

She held his body all through the night, sharing one last moment of closeness, though he was already gone.
In the morning she rose. Spoke words that turned her into a bird. Took flight towards the east now she was free.

Having done what needed to be done,now those who caused the need would come to face her fury. There would be no beauty in the blades that killed them all. There would be no sorrow in her eyes.

Her spells would burn their souls beyond salvation.

Don’t Read This

‘Don’t read this’ on the cover of the book. ‘Don’t read this’ on its back. Open it and on the first page it says ‘I’m serious. Do not fucking read this!!!’.

Doesn’t work. Unless it’s reverse psychology trying to get people to read, it doesn’t work. People read it. People read the book, and lose their will to live. They always do.

The story of their lives. That’s what it is. Or no, it’s not the story of their lives, but the Truth thereof. Truth with a capital T.

People read the book. They read the real Truth of all their lives, and then they just give up.

They drop the book that disappears. They sit wherever they are, and then they die.

Oh, no, it’s not a swift death. It’s not like the pages of the book contained some actual poison that stops their hearts. No.

It is a slow death. A death that claims a body that no longer cares about a thing. A body no longer feeds itself. A body no longer moves to stay alive.

Little by little they waste away in death. Little by little the bodies become as broken as the mind, the soul, the spirit and the heart of their owner.

“Don’t read this” on the cover. “Don’t read this” on the back. “Do not fucking read this!!!” Still they do. They always read.

Oh well. Can’t say I didn’t warn them.

Killers in the Dark

There’s killers in the dark. I’m sure of it. There’s killers in the dark and they are hiding. They’re getting ready to kill again. I’m sure of it. I have no doubt that I am right.

– “Why won’t you believe me? There are killers in the dark! Why won’t anyone ever believe me???!” I scream.

No one does believe me. No one ever listens. Not to me.

They all go out in the dark. They all of them always go out in the dark and they are all of them always killed.

I don’t get it. I just don’t understand. Why they choose to ignore me. Why they will not listen and stay alive.

Those killers in the dark they are there. Oh, they are always there when I feel them. When I sense that they are near, they really are. Hiding in the dark they’re always there.

I try to warn them. All these people that I care about. I always try to warn them. Then I warn the ones I do not even like.

Why won’t they any of them listen to me???

That’s two hundred and twenty people I’ve warned so far. Ain’t none of them ever listened. Ain’t none of them lived and now, now I’m close to the point where I don’t care. I’m reaching the point where I no longer even try to save their lives.

They locked me up ten years ago. They locked me up. Thinking it would help. Just lock me up and shut me up with drugs.

I still tell them. I still warn them when there’s killers in the dark.

They still don’t listen. They still don’t care that what I say is only meant to help them. They still go out and die, because there’s killers in the dark and they don’t listen.

Why would they? Why would they listen to me? I’m crazy, aren’t I? All locked up and drugged up to keep me quiet. Why would they listen to me…

They go out and they get killed. Out there in the darkness where those killers hide.

How stupid people can be. They do not listen.

It takes three hundred and sixty seven before they talk to me again, the police.

They know I’m all locked up. They know the cameras follow me every single moment of every single day and night. I cannot be the killer that they seek. Nor can I talk to anyone that is. So they don’t talk to me again until it’s three hundred and sixty seven people I have warned who end up dead.

They know I did not kill them. They know I didn’t talk to anyone that did. So they ask me how did I know.

“There’s killers in the dark,” is what I tell them. “There’s killers in the dark. I know there are. I feel them. There’s killers in the dark tonight they kill again.”

They talk to me. They go away. There’s nothing useful I can give them, so they think. If only they had listened to my warning they would live.

Tonight the police are all dead.

…Never to Cross Again

They crossed the bridge they’d crossed so many times as children. They crossed it just once more as grown ups. Crossed it once again, just this one last time, never to cross again.

The ravine was deep. They said that it was bottomless. Forever going down into the depths of the world and never ending.

They said if you fell in you never would stop falling. They said you’d live forever in that fall, but no one wanted to find out if that was actually true.

Grown ups said so many things we never knew if they were true. And then when we were grown ourselves they said that we must leave. They said that we must cross that bridge again, but this time not return.

Like they who left us last year. Like they who left the year before. Like they who always left us never to return.

Only now it was our turn to not return.

The bridge was narrow. It was hard to cross. The wind would blow and sometimes children fell. Forever went on falling so they say.

It was harder for the ones who were no longer children. Hard to cross this narrow bridge without a fall. Harder still to walk into the jungle on the other side where the children never went.

No one had ever returned once they were grown. No one who had stepped into that jungle had come back.

And now it was our turn.

We walked to where the bridge begins. We looked back at all that we had known. We walked across the narrow bridge so careful not to fall into the endless ravine. We walked into the jungle never to return.

We crossed that bridge to another world…

…never to cross again.

Dripping Dreams

A donut is dripping its glazing all over the kitchen table. Damn this heat. There’s flies all over. Attracted to the sugar. Laying their eggs in the quickly rotting carcass on the floor.

He was a man.

He was a real man he was. Strong. Capable.

Quick to temper he was. He beat his wife and daughter time and time again. Oh, he was a man. Oh such a Man with a capital M.

The hell he was.

He was just a worm. A maggot like the ones now crawling in his body on the kitchen floor.

I sit in the living room drinking an ice cold soda.

The donut drips its glazing in my dreams at night long after it is gone all this is gone it will be dripping in my dreams. I know it will.

I stand in the kitchen doorway looking at his body at the flies and at the donut on the table growing mold.

I rush in to snatch another soda I rush out.

I haven’t liked to spend any time in the kitchen since the day he died.

I rush in. I grab another soda. I get out.

I buried her in the garden. Put flowers on her grave I made a wreath.

I buried her in the garden with flowers on her grave I made a wreath I will. I’ll make another wreath for her I will. I promise that I will.

She stopped him hurting me again. She got in his way and she stopped him. Slowed him down.

He killed her for it. He beat her to death and I… I killed him because of that. I killed him for killing her.

When he was drunk enough I killed him. When he passed out on the kitchen floor I took a knife. I killed him cut him open.

I buried her in the garden left him there on the kitchen floor.

He brought the donuts for my birthday. He never could remember when it was my birthday. He never did remember when it was.

He meant to bring those donuts for me. For me upon my birthday it was not my birthday then. I should not have said that. I should not have told him it was not my birthday. Shouldn’t have told him anything should have smiled.

He killed her when she helped me. For standing in his way. I killed him and left him to rot.

It is my birthday now. He never did remember when it was. My birthday is today is now. Today it is my birthday.

Today I am fourteen I miss my mom.