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September 2018 Meat Grinder Contestants

The all female August 2018 Meat Grinder proved to be relentless. Amy Grech and Renee Miller were neck and neck, but Renee encouraged people to leave comments, which paved a smooth road to victory. Let that be a lesson for you. It’s not enough to share, you need to motivate people to leave a comment, even a discussion.

Enough of August, it’s September and it’s time to bring in the new challengers!

Ray Prew enters the ring with The Feast of Beltane

Clark Roberts enters the ring with Craftsmanship for Food

Luke Peace brings Walnut Street to the fray

and

James S. Malheiros enters One Night in 1988

 

The story that receives the most views, likes, and comments wins $50 (minus Paypal fee).

Contestants can share as much as possible, can encourage and motivate in a number of ways.

Stories that receive consistent negative comments (3 in a row) will be eliminated.

Stories could be eliminated due to judge discretion for fraudulent or suspicious activity such as view boosting or buying comments.

 

 

 

 

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[Sep 2018] Craftsmanship for Food – Clark Roberts

 

Clark Roberts

Like the story? toss some change at the author

$1.00

Craftsmanship for Food

Good God, Gary Jennings thought as he hustled to his car, I can’t get away from this place fast enough. He’d spent an extra hour at the dealership crunching numbers, trying to come up with a way to persuade a customer into one of the new cars displayed in the front lot. His efforts were futile; it was written on the woman’s face when they shook hands that she would be buying elsewhere.

If only he could sell his writing, just get a foot in the door in the publishing business, maybe life wouldn’t seem so unbearable. Maybe the ball would get rolling for him. Even if he never made it big-time, so what? He could keep working jobs he really didn’t care about. He’d been doing it his whole life. If some of his stories were published, he’d be able to say he accomplished the one goal in life he was bent on making happen. Of course the possibility of striking gold always lingered in the stretches of his mind. That would be the life. Novels, cocktail parties, and women. Heck, with a flourishing career as a novelist he might even find a woman suitable for marriage.

He glanced at the clock—six-thirty. Of course he was in a pissy mood. He’d wasted an extra hour at work, an hour he could’ve spent drumming his mind for magical words and phrases.

As he turned onto the expressway ramp he noticed a man dressed in rags with a sign propped up against his legs. Scrawled and colored in with dark marker, the crude yet bold penmanship read, Craftsmanship for food. Jennings had seen the man there yesterday, slumped on his ass in the same tired posture, the same sleepy face.

This time, when Jennings passed the man they made eye contact. Jennings instantly felt downright deplorable for the pity-party he always threw for himself over his job and not being able to achieve some otherworldly goal. At least he’d always had a steady income.

On impulse, Jennings slowed the car down, pulling over to the side as a couple commuters sped past. He wasn’t sure how many days the bum would be out there in the heat begging for work, but Jennings knew he couldn’t just drive by ignoring him every day. After all, the man was a real life representation of the types of characters Jennings so desperately tried to portray in his stories. Besides, Jennings liked how the sign was written.

Craftsmanship for food.

At least it didn’t read, Will work for food. That phrase was so tired, so overused, so banal.

Craftsmanship for food.

The phrase was tight, to the point, and about as original as a sign begging for a handout could be.

Jennings waited as another car whizzed past, then backed up to the stranger. The stranger idly watched as Jennings leaned over while thrusting open the passenger side door.

The stranger hid any excitement or gratitude behind a poker face.

“Come on, hop in,” Jennings invited. He took off his sunglasses, grinning hugely. “I think I can help you.”

“What do you have in mind?” the stranger asked.

“Umm, I don’t know really, but I’m sure I can find some kind of work for you to do. Clean my apartment maybe.”

The stranger coiled his face in a look of disgust. “You people are all the same. Read the sign again, Asshole. Craftsmanship for food. It doesn’t say I need charity, or that I want to be a pet monkey.”

“Come on, man. I’m just trying to help you out.”

“Yeah, and maybe when I’m done changing your toilet paper roll I can clean your ass too, but that would mean wiping away that shit eating grin.” The stranger’s face dared Jennings to make another offer.

“Sorry,” Jennings mumbled, more than a little bewildered. “I didn’t mean anything by saying…anything.” Mentally, Jennings kicked himself for sounding so stupid.

“Piss off!”

That was tight and to the point, not very original, but definitely concise.

Jennings opened his mouth to say something but found he was lost for words. He swung the door shut and drove home.

***

Jennings cried himself to sleep that night. Not over the confrontation with the man, but because nothing had gone right with the story he was currently drafting. He’d studied the first few pages, analyzing them, trying to pinpoint why exactly the pieces weren’t fitting snuggly together with the tale he was trying to weave. After only a half-hour he pushed away from the computer screen cursing and throwing papers. Nothing could be done to save the story. It was doomed, sentenced to the half-finished, half-imagined vault of his mind. It was a one-way vault, never opened to retrieve something from the past.

He broke down in the shower, curling himself into a knot of limbs while the water pelted his bare skin. Wasn’t this how professional authors behaved?

Yes, of course people with artistic minds behaved in this manner. Didn’t they?

Or did they go so far as to bleed their stories out?

Eventually, still passing tears, he got out of the shower and went to bed naked and wet.

***

He traipsed through work the next day, meddling only with the customers he knew had already been helped and avoiding those with questioning faces.

The times he did talk to a customer he used a surplus of adjectives, big fifty-cent words without knowing their full meaning. Alabaster. Albescent. Using this type of vocabulary on a daily basis would strengthen his writing. An insane thought, still, he’d arrived at the conclusion that this very well might be the last method of self-training to help his cause.

Another day droned by, and Jennings made no sales. Mr. Johnson called him into the back office at the end of the day. Johnson told him he’d better get his act together—a salesman is supposed to sell.

Writers are supposed to write, Jennings thought, but bit his tongue and complacently nodded.

On the way home he stopped at a fast food joint to pick up dinner. There was no time to cook at home. All attention had to be given to the craft.

Craftsmanship for food!

Jennings prayed the bum would be at the onramp again today, hopefully looking shabbier, hungrier than the day before and more willing to bargain.

Yes, the man was there.

The man was standing instead of sitting, as if expecting Jennings’s arrival. The sign was propped against his shins. Jennings didn’t drive by him but wheeled his car in frantically enough to strike fear in his own heart that he might actually strike the man. The man stood stock still, looking down curiously at the nose of the car only inches away from his legs. Jennings rolled down his window.

“Hey!”

“Hello, Asshole,” the stranger said.

“Get in the car. I’ve got an offer you can’t refuse.” Now he sounded like a salesman.

Amazingly, the bum did not retort. He simply folded the cardboard sign in half before dropping into Jennings’s car.

“Listen,” Jennings said, pulling the car back onto the ramp. He ignored the honking from the traffic behind him. “I’m trying to become a published writer. I like your style. I don’t know why you live the way you do, but you seem intelligent, and more than anything I like your style.” He cursed himself for sounding so pathetically redundant. “Your sign I mean. I like the style of phrase there. Craftsmanship for food. That style…that…that voice. I really like it. I like the style of that voice you used on the sign.”

“Get to the point, Asshole.”

Jennings cleared his throat. “I want you to edit my writing. I’m not sure why I think you’ll be able to do it, but there’s just something about you I can’t describe, can’t quite put into words. I guess it’s the style of that sign. I can just hear a voice when I read it. It’s got—oh I don’t know what it is—style man. Style is the best I can do.”

“I think we can come to some kind of terms of agreement.”

“Great!” Jennings said. “This might work out just great. By the way, I really am sorry about yesterday. I certainly didn’t mean to insult you in any way. What’s your name anyhow?” Jennings freed a hand from the steering wheel and extended it out.

“Jennings,” the bum said. “Gary Jennings and I’m a cannibal.”

The man leaned over to spit on the floor as if this were a practiced custom after shaking hands.

They rode to the apartment in mostly silence.

The stranger sat with a smug smile covered by his wildly unkempt beard. Humming, the bum twiddled his thumbs.

***

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but your name can’t be Gary Jennings. I mean, I’m Gary Jennings.” Jennings stood in bafflement as the stranger strode into his apartment not bothering to remove his dirt-caked shoes. Paying no attention to Jennings, the man headed straight to the kitchen, pulled a glass out of the cupboard, and drew water from the tap. He took a long drink, gulping nearly half the glass down in one giant swallow. Jennings feared the man might actually eat the glass.

Why had he let this man into his home? Why had he even bothered to try and help the man? Had he heard the man correctly when he’d said he was a cannibal?

The man went right past Jennings to sit on the couch. He propped his feet onto Jennings’s hand-me-down coffee table and flicked on the television. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Jennings’s neck. His hands began to shake. He had to show some authority here. He couldn’t allow a stranger—a bum of all things—to act like he owned the place.

“Hey buddy,” Jennings’s intoned while trying to sound authoritative; yet his voice rattled with nerves.

“What, Asshole?” The stranger turned, his expression frozen as a winter gravesite.

“First of all, quit calling me asshole.”

“Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!”

“Get out of here!” Jennings roared. He pointed towards the door as if sending an impudent child to bed without dinner. “Get out of here! Leave! Leave at once!”

“Is that really the best you can express yourself?” The man stood. He placed a sympathetic hand on Jennings’s shoulder. “No wonder you can’t get published, Asshole.”

The man strode away taking his invasion of Jennings’s home even farther to the back of the apartment.

Call the cops, Jennings thought. They’ll come and throw this piece of shit out, probably haul him off to jail. Cops enjoy kicking this kind of person around.

Then Jennings heard the familiar sound of his computer booting up. He ran for the spare bedroom where he attempted to write every night. The stranger was sitting in front of the monitor, looking as patient as a sea turtle on a nest of eggs. The stranger canted his head to the side to spit on the floor.

“Don’t do that. Stop spitting all over the place.”

The stranger spit again. “Shut up, Asshole.”

“Who the heck do you think you are?”

“Jennings. Gary Jennings, and I’m a cannibal.”

“You’re not Gary Jennings! I’m Gary Jennings! You’re nothing but a bum!”

The stranger’s hand clicked on the mouse. The word processor opened on screen. He began diligently typing. There was deftness in the manner the man’s fingers worked, lightly gliding over the keys, barely pressing on them. He never once glanced down at his hands. From time to time he would pause to spit. The current of anger in Jennings ceased as he watched with his mouth agape.

“Listen up, Asshole.” Typing at a mind-boggling pace, the man’s attention didn’t stray from the screen. “This is how it’s going to work. I write. You leave. Jesus, Asshole, don’t you know the first thing about this craft? It isn’t easy. You have to let a man write in peace. Now go fix some dinner. I haven’t fed in nights.”

The man was a lunatic, an absolute lunatic. Jennings couldn’t imagine why on Earth he’d thought to help out this bum. He’d let a total stranger into his home. He’d let the man invade his life.

“Didn’t you hear me, Asshole? Believe it or not, I can get extremely agitated. I suggest you find me something to eat.”

Now the man did stop to look up at Jennings. He grinned. For the first time Jennings noticed that every single tooth came to a point, as if they’d been sharpened with a steel file.

Jennings stepped out of the room shutting the door behind him. He went to the kitchen to cook a dinner.

Spaghetti.

***

“Here it is, Asshole.” The stranger plopped a thick bundle of papers onto the kitchen table. “Your first story that will get published. I’ll send it out tomorrow. You should probably read it just so you know the basic plot if any editors have any questions.”

The man sat down and heaped a large portion of noodles on a plate. He smothered them in a thin sauce with meatballs.

Jennings picked up the manuscript. Judging by its thickness it was about fifty pages deep. Jennings’s name and address were at the top of the first page. The title was “Running with Rabid Dogs”. The corners were marred with dirt where the stranger had handled them.

“You got all this done in under two hours?” Jennings asked, digging a red pen from a drawer.

“Yes. You can put the pen down. It doesn’t need any editing.” The stranger stabbed a meatball and took it right off the knife with his mouth. He chewed and then spat it out. “I thought we had a deal.”

“Huh?” Jennings looked up from the story.

“Our deal. Craftsmanship for food. Remember? I’m a cannibal.” Red sauce dripped down the man’s chin, and of course, Jennings remembered. “Maybe I’ll take your story back. How would you like that?”

“No!” Jennings cradled the pages to his chest. “Please don’t do that.”

In a flash the knife was an inch away from Jennings’s eye, the point of it promising unrelenting pain.

“Tomorrow night you feed me better, or else I start finding my own meal around this place. I won’t have to search far.”

“Yes,” Jennings trembled.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

The knife dropped away from Jennings’s sight. The fear was so strong he thought he might retch over the table.

“Good. Go ahead and read your story. It’s good.”

It was good, better than good. The man was some kind of deity of the craft. Just two pages into the story Jennings found himself enthralled by the simplicity of the writing as words and phrases coalesced drawing out perfect sentences, perfect paragraphs. He was too deep into the story to feel any jealousy towards the man sitting next to him. The action of the story was fast, happening in flashes. The dialogue minimal but absolutely essential and effective. There was just the perfect amount of imagery painting a background to allow the reader fill in the details with his or her own experiences. Emotionally it packed a punch; there was love and love lost, pain and sorrow, and in the end a hint of redemption as the protagonist’s soul bled out whether to heaven or a dark nothing was left for the reader to contemplate.

Jennings was lost to reality. He finished reading in what seemed five minutes, but when he shook his attention from the imaginary world, the clock on the wall indicated over an hour had passed.

The seat next to him was empty. The shower was running.

After the shower turned off the stranger stayed in the bathroom for an impossibly long time. When he came out he was naked and clean-shaven. The resemblance was undeniable: the muscle-build, the facial features, even the birthmark on the man’s back shoulder. How had Jennings not before recognized this man as his doppelganger?

“What did you shave with?” It was all Jennings could think to ask.

“My razor of course. I keep it in the medicine cabinet.”

“That’s mine!”

The stranger smiled, a second time flashing his predatory teeth. “Your story, it’s good isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you like it. No small market publishing, it deserves much more. Goodnight, Asshole.”

The stranger spit on the floor once more and left the room.

Jennings ran to his bedroom, but the stranger was already in bed with the light off.

“I never said you could sleep in my room.”

“The story, Asshole. Your first published piece. Go sleep on the couch.”

Jennings glared flatly. When the man in his bed ignored him and rolled over, Jennings headed for the couch. The apartment seemed dark and cold.

Jennings stayed awake most of the night listening to his own thoughts. Maybe fame wasn’t so far out of reach after all. The story really was that good.  It was early morning when he finally nodded off.

***

Someone was shaking him.

“Wake up, Asshole.”

Jennings rose out of sleep, his joints complaining and cracking from the awkward, strained positioning he’d been forced into from the restraints of the couch.

Jennings realized he’d never set an alarm clock. He popped his eyes alert and gasped, “What time is it?!”

He’d overslept. For sure Mr. Johnson was going to fire him.

“Relax,” the man said. He was dressed in Jennings’s best suit. “I still have over an hour before I have to be at the dealership. I’m just getting an early start because I’ll be hitchhiking. You’re going to need the car today. Remember, I want a solid meal tonight.”

“Wait,” Jennings said. “I just have one question.”

“What?”

“Young or old?”

“Doesn’t matter, just make it human.” The stranger held up the manuscript. “I’ll mail this out today.”

He walked out the door, smiling.

To Jennings, it was like watching a happier version of himself leave.

***

Could he do this?

Why not?

He’d already committed murder. The wound on the old man’s head had finally stopped bleeding so profusely. If Jennings shifted the neck in the right position more blood would seep out, but it wasn’t as messy as he thought it would be. He’d used a hammer, only meaning to knock the man out before toting him home to slice away a muscle or two that would make a good slab of meat. If the man’s consciousness came around the plan was to simply crack him in the head a second time. Then he was going to ditch the old man in a side-alley and make an anonymous call to 911.

Instead, the old man had expelled the weakest, most haunting groan Jennings had ever heard and died in the backseat of the car.

So he’d killed an old man.

Fine.

Could he actually carve him up to cook the meat?

The flesh came away from the bone considerably easier than he’d anticipated. He didn’t worry about the blood spilling. The kitchen floor was linoleum, easy to mop up with a little time and elbow grease.

Maybe the meat of a human was actually palatable.

Maybe it was like chicken.

When he was done butchering the legs he decided to try a thigh for himself. He melted some butter and slapped a slab of meat in the frying pan.

The meat sizzled; juices jumped. A sweet aroma wafted about the apartment.

It didn’t taste like chicken, but with some added spices, it was good.

***

When the stranger came home he told Jennings all about his day. He’d sold three cars and Jack Johnson, not Mr. Johnson, had thought that was just exceptional.

“By the way, I mailed out the manuscript today. We should be getting an acceptance letter in about three weeks.” He said this mildly with the slightest overtone of confidence. He spit on the floor. “We can expect a check for at least five-hundred. Smells good in here, almost like veal. You must’ve tried some. I like my meat pretty rare. Did you eat it rare?”

“Medium.”

“That’s fine,” the stranger said. “but you’re losing all the juices by cooking it that long. I’m going to bang out some more pages. The old noggin is just crammed with ideas. Fry me up some back straps. You did butcher out the back straps didn’t you?

“I did.”

“Great. Don’t overdo mine, and hold off on the spices.”

Jennings unwrapped a cut of meat he’d stored in the freezer. It was amazing how fast it had frozen, so he had to unthaw it in the microwave.

Jennings cooked the meat along with a baked potato as a side.

The stranger ate dinner without complaint.

***

Gary Jennings woke up the following day feeling fresh, ready to make some more sales. He was silent on his way to the shower so not to wake up his roommate sleeping on the couch. He shaved using his razor, pissed in his toilet, and brushed his teeth with his toothbrush. He took the time to make sure his shirt was tucked in just right and the knot of his tie was nice and snug.

Have to look sharp to make sales.

He would let Asshole sleep in today.

Gary Jennings found the couch unoccupied.  He wasn’t all that surprised as it had been a rough couple of days for Asshole.

There was a note on the end table.

Dear Mr. Jennings,

What happened to me? I killed a man yesterday,

an old man. Then I cooked him. I ate part of

another human!  And—oh God—I liked it.

I don’t deserve my life. I’m gone. Please don’t

worry or look for me. Good luck with your future

in writing. I killed an old man. Don’t look for me.

There was no signature at the end of the letter, only a damp spot, as if spitting was the perfect closure.

A whistle on his lips, Gary Jennings strolled out of his apartment.

Please don’t worry or look for me.  

That part of the letter was almost funny. In time, Asshole would be fine. He just had to learn what it meant to be a starving artist. He’d figure it out eventually, once he reached a point where he’d eat almost anything. Then he’d have some real stories to tell.


https://www.spreaker.com/user/8056632/dts-appointment

 

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[Sep 2018] Walnut Street – Luke Peace

 

Luke Peace

Like the story? send the author a dollar or two

$1.00

Walnut Street

I have vague memories of moving into that house. The only thing I remember before then is that I was happy. We used to live in a pretty little farmhouse by the river, surrounded by hills, and family members lived nearby, who we would eat dinner with every Sunday. My best memory is my uncle letting me ride one of his horses on my fourth birthday.

At that age, I didn’t understand the concept of moving. I had this idea that the moving crew we hired was actually going to remove the house we wanted and replace our old one. I imagined it looking the same, only painted purple.

When I shared this idea with my parents, they laughed, and told me that the house wasn’t moving, we were leaving this place for good and were going to live somewhere else now. I wasn’t ready for that.

Years after the fact, my parents told my sister Cassidy and me that on the first day we moved in to the new house, we were both in tears begging Mom and Dad to take us back to the farmhouse. They told us we were frightened and that we kept them up for hours with our crying all through the night. I don’t actually remember that. However, I see old fragments of memories shifting around: driving down that street for the first time, getting my first glimpse of the house crawling up into view, feeling a sinking discomfort that soon replaced the joy I had back on the farm.

We moved into a small historic town, filled with neat houses. They were pretty, and various kinds of trees lined the streets in which birds and squirrels came to nestle. I was actually thrilled by the sight; compared to the town neighboring the farm, this was a ritzy city.

Cassidy and I had our windows pulled down pointing at every beautiful house we came across. “Is that our house? Is that our house? Is that our house?” Each enquiry was met with a disappointing answer from our parents as they continued to drive.

They announced as we turned onto our street. The houses were bland compared to the ones we had just seen. Neither of us were piping up anymore by the time the car finally pulled up against the curb. “Here we are girls, it’s our new home!” said Dad all jovially.

Our new house was taller than the one back on the farm. It was made of brick and was painted a darker shade of red and had three windows on the top floor.

What set it apart was that it was adjoined to another house. It wasn’t as tall as ours, but it was wider and had more windows. It had a flat roof contrasting against our triangular one, and its brick walls were painted with this peach color.

“Who lives in there?” asked Cassidy, motioning to the peach house as we got out of the car. “Nobody,” answered Mom as we were led through the door of the red one, “at least not for a long time, according to our realtor.”

“Does that mean it’s ours too?” Cassidy apparently liked it better than our side. That made Dad chuckle. “No, honey, we bought this house, because we can actually afford it.” At that, Cassidy pouted and hung her head low.

I on the other hand hated both, and I wanted to go home. Home where the farmhouse was and the river and my uncle with the horses.

Over the next couple years, things were pretty normal, except that each morning, when Cassidy and I would come down to the kitchen for breakfast, Mom would inform us that during the night we had been screaming and shouting horrible things like “get out of my room! Get out! I’ll kill you!” She and Dad would break the door open only to find us tossing and turning in our beds, muttering. However, neither of us could remember anything that occurred the next day.

One time our parents had enough and decided to get to the bottom of it. They rummaged through our video cabinet to see if we had stolen any of their rated R movies. They demanded to know if we had watched anything inappropriate at any of our sleepovers, to which we obviously answered no—in spite of the fact that the only thing we ever watched at our friends’ house was Stephen King tapes—but those movies made us laugh. Ironically, the only thing we possessed that actually scared us was our copy of Where the Wild Things Are, which Mom and Dad bought for us.

Mom and Dad were then convinced that we had some sort of sleeping disorder, and they took us in to see a specialist. It was her professional opinion that Cassidy and I had something along those lines, but to be sure she set us up for a sleep study where we stayed overnight, and she’d evaluate our brain activity. Funny thing was, just days before the appointment, the night terrors stopped. We had nothing to show for it at our sleep lab, and the specialist found nothing out of the ordinary.

As the years went by, something seemed to be worrying Mom and Dad. I would often find them whispering in the kitchen, and they’d tell my sister and I not to go in until they were done. During the day, they would warn us not to talk to anybody we didn’t recognize, and if a stranger asked us to come alone with them, to run for it.

This had me scared, and Cassidy was suspicious of Mom and Dad, being older than me and smarter at the time. “I know something is going on guys. I’m going to freak out if you don’t tell me what.” That only made them angry and defensive. “Don’t talk to us like that! You and Amy are going to be fine, because we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

Cassidy and I were fourteen and twelve at the time. One day we were rooting around in Mom and Dad’s room, and I found a stack of old parchment at the bottom of Mom’s sock drawer. It was yellow and crusty and tied closed with string. “Look!” I handed it over to Cassidy. She immediately tore off the string and pulled the sticky sheets apart. Her eyes widened, and her face flushed as she read the contents.

Let me see your children.” She said aloud. The handwriting looked like chicken scratch, but it was still legible enough to make out.

I’m so sad and lonely. Your children make me happy. Let me see your children. I get sick when I can’t see them.” Cassidy’s hands were trembling as she held the papers.

I was confused, and scared of Cassidy’s reaction. “Did Mom write that?”

“No!” a tear came down her cheek as she continued to flip through the yellow sheets. “Somebody wrote this to Mom, they’re all like this!

Each day I get more frustrated that you won’t show me your children. They’re so pretty. Everything is ugly accept your children. One touch and I’ll be happy…”

“Cassidy, who wrote this?” I yelled and snatched a piece from her. “I am angry. This won’t end well for you.

I’m coming.”

“FUCK!” Cassidy shouted and began to sob.

There was the sound of rapid footsteps coming toward the bedroom. The door swung open, startling us. “Cassidy, Amy, what do you think you’re doing?!” Mom stood in the doorway, enraged and horrified at the sight of us holding her letters. “This isn’t your mail!” she lunged over and snatched them out of our hands. “You’re both grounded! You especially, Cassidy, I never expected to hear such language come from your mouth!”

Cassidy’s face tightened, her fear boiled over into rage. “Someone is after us; someone is threatening to kill you just so they can get to Amy and me, and you were never going to tell us? What kind of bullsh—“

“Hold it right there…” Mom’s eyes were lit up wildly. I think she might have actually been scared of her in that moment, but I was scared. I was always scared when she got like that. I cowered back behind my sister.

“No I won’t ‘hold it right there!’ You thought you could keep this a secret, but I knew something was wrong from the start! Did you think I was too dumb to understand? You already knew I was on to you; I was already scared, if that’s what you were trying to prevent. This is cruel!”

Mom was beginning to tear up. I think she broke, and that was somehow more upsetting than when she was angry. “Cassidy…I wasn’t trying to belittle you.”

Cassidy stormed out of the room. Leaving me alone in the room with Mom.

“Are…we actually grounded?”

Mom sighed and shook her head, sniffing.

I pointed at the letters in her hand. “Can you tell me who that is?”

She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re going back to the farm tomorrow. I’m dropping you and Cassidy off at Aunt Malinda and Uncle Drew’s, and you’re going to stay with them. The police are looking for the freak that sent us these and your Dad keeps a loaded rifle locked in that closet. Nothing is going to happen to my babies, I’m not going to let it.”

I ran up and hugged her, and she held me tight, but then I remembered Cassidy, and decided to go looking for her.

Through the window, I saw her going out the back gate, and I ran out to meet her. “Where are you going?” I asked her.

“I’m blowing off some steam.” She answered, turning right, and I followed.

“Mom doesn’t think you’re dumb, and she’s not trying to be sadistic.” I piped up, but she didn’t acknowledge that I had said anything.

“Those letters weren’t folded,” She started.

“Cassidy, what does that have to do with anything? I’m trying to tell you something,”

“If they had been sent in the mail, the shithead who wrote them would had to have folded them so they would fit in an envelope. You can’t send a letter through the mail if you don’t have a mailing and return address on the front of the envelope. That means these letters didn’t come through the mail. That creep delivered them himself…”

I froze.

“Either that or he sent someone to do it for him, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re close by. He’s seen us before. That much is clear from what he’s written…” she was cut short from a loud knocking sound coming from our right.

We turned and looked in the direction of the peach house that was attached to ours. We saw nothing, but the knocking grew louder and faster, and we finally looked up.

An old woman was peering through one of the windows, furiously knocking on the glass.

I screamed and clutched onto my sister’s arm; something was horribly wrong with the face that glared down at us. It was gaunt, skeletal. It was as if one layer of her thin, gray skin were stretched over her skull. Her white hair had fallen out in clumps; only a few strands remained on her bald head, and her eyes…They reflected yellow light the same way a dog’s would when it’s pitch black.

When she realized that we saw her, she stopped knocking on the glass and then waved. We could see by the light of her eyes that she was laughing.

Cassidy pulled me in the opposite direction, and we fled away from the house.

“Mom and Dad said that no one lived there!” I exclaimed through shortness of breath as we ran.

“That’s what the realtor told them. Apparently no one would buy our home knowing there’s a crack den on the other side of the wall.”

“Where are we going?”

“We have to go around the other way. We need to leave today.

We climbed over the fence on the left side of our house, out of sight from the windows next door and ran inside through the kitchen. Dad and Mom turned toward us startled. Then they gave us suspicious looks. “What’s wrong? And where were you too?” asked Dad.

“We have to get out of here, now!” was Cassidy’s answer. Mom turned pale.

“Oh my god,”

“We know whose been writing the letters. There’s this methed out old lady hiding in the peach house. She’s been spying on us for years, and we saw her out in the back alley. If we don’t get out of here, she’s going to kill us!”

Our parents turned to each other with worried looks, but then Dad responded, “Girls, that’s impossible.”

That took Cassidy by surprise, but she sprung right back. “What? What do you mean ‘that’s impossible,’? We saw…”

“That house was the first place the police searched. They combed that place in and out and didn’t find anything.”

“Police? What police?”

“Haven’t you noticed all of the officers in town? They’re looking for our stalker.” Dad then turned around and gestured toward the kitchen window. It looked out onto our backyard and the alley behind it where Cassidy and I had just come from. “Look, there’s one right now.”

We ran to the window and looked out. However, I was unable to see what Dad was pointing to.

“Dad, what are you talking about?” Cassidy couldn’t see it either. Dad frowned and got up from his chair and walked over between us, “See? He’s right in the middle of the alley. We’re safe.”

“Dad…” I stammered.

“What are you trying to pull?” Cassidy yelled angrily, making a sweeping gesture at the empty alley. Dad looked intently at us both. His mouth was open, but he couldn’t decide what to say.

Now Mom came to the window. She pushed it open and waved at the alley.

“Hi officer!” she laughed as though embarrassed, “sorry to bother you when you’re working, but could you…say hi to my daughters? They’re really scared…ha-ha, okay, we’ll come over to you.”

My sister and I looked at each other, terrified, but Mom and Dad made their way to the kitchen door and motioned for us to follow them outside.

I was trembling in fear, but Cassidy needed to know what was going on. She followed them out, and I realized I didn’t want to be left alone in the house, so I came after.

We walked through the back yard and stepped out into the alley where we had just been. I was hoping that the man would be there, that we were just looking in the wrong direction and he would just walk up in front of us. A tall, handsome man with a warm, reassuring smile and armed to his neck.

That seemed to be what Mom and Dad saw when they stopped right in the middle of the alley. “Hi officer, this is my youngest daughter, Amy and my oldest, Cassidy.” Mom blushed and looked over at the two of us impatiently. “Girls…That’s enough! He’s right here…say hello.”

“H-hello,” I said to the open air. I had no idea what to do. Nothing was making any sense. Mom and Dad continued to talk to the invisible and inaudible policeman and would react as if he were talking back.

“We did try that Presbyterian Church over on the corner, but we decided the folks there were a little up tight. We haven’t actually taken the girls anywhere since the letters started showing up.

Hah-ha! We would love to take you up on that offer, but we’re actually heading out of town tomorrow. We’re staying with family for a while…”

Cassidy elbowed me in the shoulder and pointed at the peach house. I desperately did not want to look up, but I felt like I had to.

The withered old woman was there in the window closest to us. Her face pressed against the glass and her yellow eyes widened with sick glee. She was talking or mouthing several words. Each time she stopped, Mom and Dad would respond to the nonexistent policeman. Dad made a really lame joke, and I saw the old woman rear her head back and cackle. What was left of her teeth were brown and cracked. Mom and Dad were laughing now.

“Cassidy,” I whispered, “I don’t think meth-heads can do that.” She didn’t answer me. She only held on tightly to my arm.

The ordeal ended with our parents telling their hallucination goodbye. The hag had on her face a mockingly warm smile, and she turned away from the window, but before she disappeared into the recesses of her hideaway, she glared at us. Her mouth sprouted into a grin that was too wide for her withered face. Her gray skin cracked visibly and her face contorted more than it already had been, and then the curtain closed behind her.

Later, we all sat in the living room with the TV on. Dad had ordered pizza, and we were trying to enjoy the movie that was airing– Galaxy Quest, that spoof starring Tim Allen and that guy who played Snape on Harry Potter. Cassidy and I couldn’t.

The TV was set against the wall to the right of the front door, the same wall that was shared by the adjoining house. I could feel the presence of the old woman on the other side. She was probably resting against the wall, listening to everything that was going on in our living room; she had to have been doing it all these years. I wondered if there were any peepholes that she had been looking through. What had stopped her from just walking through the front door?

There was a knock at the door, and I about lost it. Dad got up and patted me on the head. “That would be the pizza,” he said and went up to get the door. I couldn’t see what was going on but I heard Dad greet the man outside warmly. “Ten dollars? Sure thing, and here’s a five for your trouble.” If the pizza guy said anything, I didn’t hear it.

Then Dad came back into the living room with a perfectly content look on his face.

Cassidy frowned at him. “Where’s the pizza?” He stopped, at first with a confused expression, but then he looked irritated. “Cassidy, there’s a reason why your mother and I didn’t tell you about the stalker. We know you have a habit of taking things too far, and you get Amy worked up too. I don’t know if this is something you’re doing for attention or what, but it needs to stop. We’re leaving tomorrow, and everything’s going to be alright. Just enjoy the pizza, nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Meanwhile, I was looking at Dad’s hands. They were outstretched as though he were offering something to us, but they were empty. There was no pizza. And there had been no pizza guy at the front door.

But I had heard the door knock.

Dad placed what he imagined to be a pizza box on the coffee table, and he made a motion as if he were opening it. Then our parents began pulling out slices and placing them on our paper plates situated on the coffee table. “Ick,” Mom took a paper towel and pretended to dab the grease off of her slice before lifting her empty hands up to her mouth.

“What’s the matter Amy?” Dad asked me as my eyes were fixed on the door.

“I…don’t feel so good.” I answered. He nodded and gave me a hug. I almost felt better, but then he said: “I’ll save you some leftovers if you get hungry,” and I immediately wanted him to let go of me.

“Amy can’t see the pizza,” Cassidy blurted out. Dad glared at her, “that’s enough.”

“I said, Amy can’t see the fucking pizza!”

I thought Dad was going to flip the coffee table. He was definitely about to hurl a string of angry words himself, but I stood up on the couch, facing him. “Daddy, please listen to us!” Tears were streaming down my face.

This time he softened, and he turned away from Cassidy. He crossed his arms and stepped away from us both. “I’m sorry. Tell me what you think is going on, and I’ll listen this time.”

Cassidy was about to start off again, but I cut in. “Dad. Come out side on the front porch with me, I want to show you something.”

He nodded. He shot my mom a frightened look, but he complied.

We stepped outside and I pointed down at the welcome mat. Dad bent over and found the bills that he had given to the pizza guy. He picked them up and stared at them for a moment, and then he glanced over at me. “You knew this would happen.” It was less of a question than an observation. I simply nodded.

He turned and walked back into the living room, rubbing his head in a perplexed manner, but then he put an arm around my sister. “Cassidy, I’m sorry for losing my temper at you. If…you couldn’t see the policeman– or this pizza, for that matter…then I believe you.”

“You get that they’re not real?” she said hopefully.

His sighed heavily and grimaced. “I believe something is going on. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning. I’m going to get us up early so we should probably get to bed early.”

I don’t know why, but having Dad listen to us made me feel a little safer. However one thing still bothered me.

I heard the knock when the delivery guy showed up at our door. That wasn’t a part of Mom and Dad’s hallucination.

That night, I got out my old night light from the closet. My sister and I had shared the same room for most of the time that we spent in that house, but by the time she’d turned twelve, she’d decided she was too old to share bedrooms. I’d never told her, because I didn’t want her to think I was pathetic, but that hurt my feelings, and I missed having her on the other side of the room, and chatting and gossiping with her about all the things that didn’t really matter, but meant something to us.

As afraid as I was of what might happen, I was glad that she decided to sleep in our room… and that she asked me to get the old night light out. Earlier that evening, I was sure that I’d be up all night, paranoid, with my eyes glued to the window, but I was worn out from the terror today, and I was surprised to find that I felt safe enough to fall asleep.

The house filled with the sound of screams and gunfire. My eyes snapped open, but all I could see was pitch black. The screams turned into groans of agony, and they slowly faded into silence. “Mom! Dad!” was what I tried to yell, but no words came out of my mouth.

Then I realized that I was in my own room, and I tried to get up off of my bed, but I couldn’t move my arms or legs. I remembered Cassidy, and I looked over to her to see if she could help me.

She wasn’t there.

Then there were three quiet, yet distinct knocks at my door.

I could feel my heart skip several beats. Maybe it was Cassidy returning from the bathroom. Maybe Dad was coming in to wake us up.

The knob clicked, and the door slowly creaked open.

The old woman peered through the crack as the door moved further and further ajar, the light from her yellow eyes revealing her gaunt, decaying figure and the cracked, rotting teeth in her smile. I made another attempt to scream as she crept slowly toward my bed, but it proved just as useless as the first time. Clearly, she saw what I was trying to do, and she held a boney finger to her mouth.

Shhhhhhhhhhh!

She smelled like rotting meat.

I expected her to wrap her cold, dead hands around my throat, or pull out a knife that would be concealed in her night gown. However, she walked past my bed. She continued over behind me and opened up my closet. The rancid smell filled my nostrils as she turned and looked down into my face, and for the first time, I realized she had a small hole in her throat.

“Do you want to hear a story?”

That voice.

I remembered that horrible voice. It sounded like gravel, and I’d heard it over and over again, night after night several years ago. I was trembling all over.

Oh come now, I used to read to you girls all the time. This one was your favorite,” She held a thin book in her hands, presumably one of my old picture books.

Then she sat down on the edge of my bed and open the book, and I immediately knew what it was. Mom and Dad were always confused as to why I hated it so much.

“Where The Wild Things Are…Story and Pictures by Maurice Sendak.” She turned her head over to me as if hoping for a reaction. Her withered face contorted from her wide smile and her yellow eyes glowed jovially. Then she began to read in her gravelly, distorted voice:

That night, Max wore his wolf suite and made mischief of one kind and another. His mother called him ‘WILD THING!’ and Max said ‘I’LL EAT YOU UP!’ so he was sent to bed without eating anything.

“That very night, in Max’s room a forest grew… and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max, and he sailed off through night and day…to where the wild things are…

“They rolled their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws…

“’And now,’ cried Max, ‘let the wild rumpus start!’…

“Then all around from far away across the world, he smelled good things to eat, so he gave up being king of where the wild things are. But the wild things cried, ‘Oh please don’t go, we’ll eat you up we love you so!’ The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws—” And abruptly, she slammed the book shut and glared at me.

That’s how the story will end for you and your sister. And you have your parents to thank for that.”

Suddenly, whatever invisible force that had kept me pinned down to my mattress and my voice silent sprung off from me, and I jumped her.

“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY ROOM! I’LL KILL YOU!”

Her eyes went wild as she began shrieking with laughter,

Let the wild rumpus start!”

And then I was rolling head over heels down onto the floor.

I knocked my forehead against the side of my door, and suddenly everything changed. Daylight was pouring through my window. My nightlight was still on as if it had been left untouched throughout the night.

I pulled myself up and looked around frantically. Cassidy was still missing. That, and her sleeping bag was torn clean in half, and tufts of cotton lay scattered on the carpet.

I ran down the hallway to Mom and Dad’s room and stopped dead in my tracks.

Red liquid was pooling under their closed bedroom door. “Mom! Dad!” I screamed and broke the door open with brute force. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw behind that door, not even what had transpired last night.

My parents lay sprawled on the floor, lifeless. Their blood spattered all over the room. Dad’s rifle lying next to him.

I stood their silently for an untold amount of time. I couldn’t process anything that I was seeing.

But then I remembered last night. The screams. The gunfire. Her voice. This was a game she’d been playing all these years, and it all culminated last night.

And Cassidy was still missing.

Something inside me snapped. “You’re dead!” I shouted at the wall to my right, on the other side of which was the adjacent house.

There was no reply. That didn’t change the fact that she heard me. She was always listening to us. But I was determined to put an end to it. She killed my parents. Cassidy was next, and I was being saved for some special entertainment.

I snatched the riffle off from the floor and ran downstairs.

I burst through the front door and raced across the sidewalk with a loaded rifle. Anyone could have seen me, yet I was not stopped, no one could have gotten in my way if they tried. I arrived at the peach house, and I kicked the door open.

What greeted me in the unlit living room were several dead bodies strewn about the living room. Many were wearing police uniforms, but one lying closest to my feet had on kakis, a red polo shirt, and a pizza box lying beside him. The smell of rotting meat permeated in the room.

A scream came from further within the house, and I immediately ran after it. The old woman’s cackling resonated from every corridor of the house. I heard the front door slam shut far behind me, and this weird rhythmic sound suddenly began to ring out closer and closer from behind me.

Instinct told me to veer left, so I obeyed, and I followed a long corridor from which the scream emitted from again.

At the end of the hallway, I got a glimpse of Cassidy.

She was tied to a wooden chair in front of a dusty, unlit fireplace. She was gagged, and her eyes were wide with terror. She continued to scream however loudly she could with the cloth tied around her mouth, and she began shaking her head back in forth violently.

That didn’t stop me. I hurried over to her and struggled to untie her. It felt like years trying to unravel those knots.

Suddenly, there was someone standing in the archway. I quickly jumped over to guard Cassidy and aimed my rifle at the shadow. It was the old woman, but she was changing. She was growing—so tall that her head hit against the ceiling. A full mane of gray hair came billowing down to her ankles. Her brown stumps for teeth fell out of her gums, and fangs grew in their place. Her yellow eyes flashed angrily, and large talons sprouted from her bony fingers.

OH, PLEASE DON’T GO…I’LL EAT YOU UP, I LOVE YOU SO!” was her cry, and then she lunged at us, tearing through the walls of the archway as she went.

I don’t know why I did it, but as I lifted my rifle, about to fire, I shouted, “BE STILL!” and then the gun went off.

She wasn’t even phased by the gunfire, but apparently, my words stopped her right where she was at.

What did you say to me?”

Cassidy managed to get the rest of the knots off from her while I stood in front of the chair and ripped the gag out of her mouth. She then stepped out in front of me with her hands stretched forward. “You heard her, you cunt, she said ‘BE STILL!’”

The creature reared back and gave a low growl at us. Her sickly yellow eyes flashed back and forth between us, apparently realizing something that upset her greatly. When Cassidy saw what was happening, she went all in.

“Do you actually love us?”

The creature did not respond. It was seething with anger.

“I think you’re a sick old woman who never learned what love was. You were abandoned by your family weren’t you? You were alone in this house for a long time. And when you were most in need, there was no one there to help you or comfort you.”

The monster roared at that, and gnashed her teeth.

“That’s right. In your depression, you looked to cigarettes and booze to keep you entertained, but that led to cancer. The last year of your life was the most miserable experience you ever had. You were weak from the chemo, and no one wanted to visit you because your hair was falling out, and your voice scared them from that implant in your throat. You died alone in this house. No one even knew about it or cared.”

The old woman howled mournfully. I was beginning to feel sick in my stomach.

“That’s why you’ve been hanging around. You wanted someone, anyone one to come visit you, and perhaps give you the attention that you’ve never gotten. But your view of the world got so…fucked up. You want love, but all you know is self-destruction.” Cassidy apparently ran out of things to say, but I hadn’t.

“I don’t think you do love us. I think you envied our parents because they had each other and a family of their own, and I think you hate us, because you know that we don’t belong to you.”

Something was changing. The creature was shrinking back to her original size. The mane of hair fell out once again, the claws retracted, the fangs vanished, and last of all, the yellow light was gone from her eyes. She was now the old woman, but she was different.

She looked no different from a sad, elderly woman alone in a nursing home. “Oh…” she moaned. “The bad thoughts won’t go away…the voices never stop…oh dear god!”

Cassidy had no response for this, but I did. I felt that I was beginning to understand what was going on. I gently pushed her aside and walked over to the woman. “What’s your name ma’am?”

“Zelda,” she sobbed, “my name is Zelda,”

“Zelda? Where going to get help for you.”

“Amy, no! It’s a trick!” Cassidy grabbed me and pulled me down. The woman withdrew a knife and lunged at us.

We scrambled out of the hallway and ran as fast as we could to the front door. She chased us through the living room, resuming her form of the monster. “NO! PLEASE! I DIDN’T MEAN IT! COME BACK! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU BOTH, JUST LIKE I DID TO YOUR PARENTS!”

With a vicious cry, I shot the door knob, and it swung open to reveal precious daylight and the sound of birds chirping.

She roared her terrible roars and gnashed her terrible teeth and rolled her terrible eyes and showed her terrible claws.

But we escaped.

We escaped and we fled that old historic town, and never looked back again.

We fled into the night of Aunt Malinda and Uncle Drew’s house on the farm where we found supper waiting for us.

And it was still hot.


https://www.spreaker.com/user/8056632/gayle-2-1

 

 

 

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All Female Writing Contest

MeatGrinderWritersPromoAugust2018

 

Four strong contenders entered the ring in the August 2018 The Meat Grinder. Renee Miller is a favorite on the podcast and the author of Eat the Rich. Sravani is a returning champion. Amy is talented writer and formidable challenger, and Lisa might know a few secrets to give her an advantage.

The question is who will win?  Who will receive the most reads, comments, and likes by August 31, 2018? The winner gets $50!

You’ll find their stories below:

[August 2018 TMG] The Cartel – Renee Miller

[August 2018 TMG] The Banyan Tree Ghost – Sravani Singampalli

[August 2018] Getting Off – Amy Grech

[August 2018] Roadkill Love – Lisa Dabrowski

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[August 2018] Roadkill Love – Lisa Dabrowski

Lisa Dabrowski

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Roadkill Love

Right from the start Patti had Billy,her older brother wrapped around her little finger. He adored her and would do anything for her. He brushed her long wavy hair, laid out her clothes, ran her bath, and was a true slave in every sense of the word as I look back on it now.

 

Billy was a few years older than Patti and was a rather handsome man, Platinum blonde hair, baby blue eyes surrounded by a strong muscular build. Billy had strong, yet gentle hands, just like his Father’s. Patti enjoyed it ever so much when Billy rubbed her feet for her, or carried her up the stairs and put her to bed.

 

Their father doted on both of them, which made it worse for Patti with their Mother, who essentially dommed him. She was very controlling and manipulative, and  Patti learned well from her how to get the things she wanted.

 

Their Mother used to switch Billy and us for the slightest infraction. Their Father used to buy her bottles of perfume, and jewelry just to distract her from the children. Daddy took his fair share of whippings. Billy and Patti would listen as she made him cry out for her. Daddy always referred to Mother as Mommy, it was a term of endearment between the two of them. He was definitely her Slave Hubby, and would walk through hell for her. Patti vowed one day to have a Slave Hubby of my own.

 

Billy and Patti were blaring The Ramones one night, as Mother and Daddy went out for the evening, and we could blast the stereo, and play their guitars as loud as they wanted. They were smoking a bong and sharing a fifth of Imperial whiskey. Billy began to look into her eyes and sing softly and sweetly. ”I can’t control my fingers, I can’t control my brain….”  His soft blue eyes were glassy, but there was no mistaking the adoration he held for her in his eyes.

 

Patti rose from the chair and loosened her bra. Letting it fall to the floor. Her full, round breasts exploded into the air. “Ah, I have wanted to do that all day. I love letting them bounce free, and when the air hits them, how my nipples get hard.” She said, leaning over him let my her nipple brush against his fingers while he strummed the guitar. He began to salivate, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.

 

Patti ran her fingers through his thick wavy hair, taking the guitar out of his hand, and sat in his lap. feeling him grow beneath her ample bottom. Placing her erect nipple in his mouth, he sucked fervently, and she felt  herself weaken as her eyes met his. She knew her power.  She felt it beneath her bottom.  She rubbed and grinded against his pulsating erection while he suckled her, Billy began to tremble. I felt a surge of warm wetness on her bottom, he had lost it on her. Ejaculating all over Patti’s pretty pink panties.

 

Patti jumped up and grabbed his hair, “Billy, you little slut! You came on my new panties!” and she smacked him across the face. “Nasty Whore, you are going to sleep in these tonight!” She said handing them to him, and laughing wickedly.

 

Billydid as she commanded; he was putty in her hands and would do anything Patti told him to do at this point. “Brother, darling, model for me.” She ordered. In those pink panties, snugly, on his muscular buttocks, he was a sight to behold. His cock sprung forth, giving away his excitement at his own humiliation by her hands.

 

Patti sat back in the chair and lit up a cigarette telling him to come lay under her feet. “Rub my feet, Billy. “  He massaged them tenderly, kissing each toe. He looked up at her and she began to masturbate in front of him, forcing him to watch her writhe and moan as her wetness trickled down my thighs. I rolled my foot across his engorged and leaking cock. A tear streamed down his face. It was then that I realized I needed this as much as he did.  Patti grabbed Billy’s golden locks, and pulled him up between her legs, with an anomalistic lust, he thrust into her.

Billy moved away from home, leaving Patti behind. He met a beautiful woman , eventually marrying her and having two children. No matter how hard he tried to fit into his cookie cutter life, he could never get over Patti. He left his job, wife and  children behind to form a moderately successful alternative music band. Oh and Patti, of course she came along. She was his sidechick, on this grand adventure. All of this was for her anyway.

 

Billy was playing a round of local clubs in his area, always taking his sidechick Patti alomg with him for the ride.. They had become inseperable since she had introduced him to smack. Billy left his wife and his kids in the dust for Patti and his music, seriously who needs a whining brat or a nagging wife when you’re out on the road.

Billy was devoted to Patti, and blindly as a matter of fact, and thought the same of her.  One night Billy was plating a set on stage and noticed Patti wasn’t in the front , gushing over him as she normally did. This only made him sweat more as he performed, wondering where she could be and if she was ok.

Billy cut his set short and went wandering about the club, looking for Patti. Je stumbled into Max, his manager, and asked him if he’d seen Patti. Max just hung his head. Billy jeard moaning and grunting coming from the Owner’s office, He opened the door and there was he beloved Patti on her knees , needle in her arm, cock in her mouth.

Billy went into fit of rage. He had given up his wife and children for Patti. He had turned down so many so much road cunt fir her, taking the high road and being faithful. Here was Patti, mouth full of cock , veins full of smack. Almost instinctively he pulled out his razor sharp switch nlade. Before they could see it coming Patti had her throat slashed, blood jutting out, spilling upom the floor, and for his actions the owner had his cock lobbed off.

That didn’t seem like enough for Billy.  He spotted a coin jar out the corner of his eye, carefully he took the knife and plucked out Patti’s beautiful baby blue eyes, and tossed them in the jar, pausing for a moment, decided to pluck out the owner’s as well and toss them in the jar. Laughing by now, as he was bitten with a rage that turned to madness, he remembered that eyes without a face are a human disgrace.

Grabbing the keys to the owner’s Lexus he thought he’d cruise out of there and take a trip to Las Vegas, accompanied with jar of eyes.  He stopped and slashed a few more hitch hikers along the way, just until his jar was full of eyes.

Billy was finally apprehended, shouting for more in the midnight hour. He even penned a song about his little tour of madness. He called it Roadkill Love.

She”s All Red white and Blue

Lips are full skin’s like cream mmm eyes

Can I believe anything that’s True

In a Room full of sex and her Roadkill lies

 

Slice me with your blade

Leave me on the pillow

I feel like making a trade

My blood spilled for the crow

 

You  turn Tricks for Treats

You know your’re blonde and hot

I’m begging for your sweets

You always Take more than I’ve got

 

Gimme some Gimme some of your Roadkill Love

Gimme some Gimme some of your Roadkill Love

Young dumb and full of cum you fit like a glove

Young dumb and full of cum you fit like a glove

Gimme some Gimme some of your Roadkill Love


Deadman DeskBernardara
Listen, it’s free

 

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[August 2018] Getting Off – Amy Grech

 

Amy Grech

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Getting Off

My penis rears its ugly head when I least expect it.  I’m not always thinking about my girlfriend when I feel my pants tighten.  Sometimes, hearing my ex.’s name uttered by someone during the course of a conversation or smelling her perfume on a total stranger is enough to set me off.

When a crowded E train finally pulls into Penn Station, I push my way on, and somehow manage to find a seat.  A brawny man with a shaved head and beady, black eyes stands in front of me. His penis is as large as a bratwurst, bulging in his tight, black leather pants.  I usually don’t eye other guy’s goods, but it’s kind of hard not to when it’s inches away from my face. I close my eyes and try to picture him pumping hard in and out of my ex-girlfriend, Sandra, while she holds on for the ride moaning and writhing beneath him.  Thinking about it creates a bulge between my legs, which I cover quickly with my briefcase.

Bratwurst Boy gets off at 50th Street, and I watch a short, stout woman with enormous breasts wearing a red dress that leaves little to the imagination take his place.  I adjust my focus, so it looks like I’m staring into space, even though I’m staring right at her. I doubt she’d notice though, since her eyes are glued to the pages of Spin.  I close my eyes again and picture Sandra’s breasts next to this woman’s.  After a moment, I decide there’s no comparison: Sandra is more than a handful, but Short and Stout is two handfuls and then some!  I fight the urge to reach out and give her tits a little squeeze in front of all these people on the subway. I manage to overcome my desire, though it’s hard to deny my throbbing cock the release it so desperately craves much longer.    

I am oblivious to nearly everyone around me, with the exception of whoever ends up standing in front of me.  The subway itself is merely the vehicle through which I experience virtual bliss. I don’t know if it’s dirty or clean, whether it reeks of piss, spilled beer, or both.  

The woman standing in front of me is my only concern right now.  Short and Stout is flipping through her magazine, struggling to find a certain page before her stop.  Her pale, blue eyes are wide, and her full lips are parted slightly. Seeing her there, gripping the metal bar with one black-and-white gloved hand and holding her magazine with the other makes my head spin.  I rub my eyes for a moment, grappling with my senses.  She gets off at 53rd and 5th, shutting Spin abruptly.   

I wait for someone to take her place; sadly, no one does, so I sigh, set my briefcase down and admire my reflection in the scratched window across from me.  My face is flawlessnot a blemish anywhere.  I run my hand over my cheeks.  Smooth as my ex-girlfriend’s firm ass, because I just shaved, but by the end of the day they will be as rough as sandpaper.  I run my fingers through my brown hair, flattening it a bit.

I look around again.  My half of the car is empty.  I seize the moment, sliding my hand over the bulge between my legs and start to rub, ever so slowly.  I quicken my pace as the train speeds through the tunnel. When it stops at the next station, I am soaked with sweat and my crotch is wet.  I pick up my briefcase and quickly set it down on my lap, hoping the spot on my pants dries before I have to get off.


DeadmanDeskJenniferIrwin
Listen, it’s free

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August 2018 The Meat Grinder Winner

It was a brutal battle, and there was some neck to neck competition at parts, but only one story went balls to the wall with the reads.

Final Supper by Trev Hill was passed up only once in the competition, and it appears it triggered something. Storming ahead, determined to win, Trev Hill out did the others in all three metrics.

That doesn’t mean the others shouldn’t compete again. It just means Trev Hill won.

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June-July Meat Grinder Update

Sienna Sunset- Jeff Dosser
https://deadmanstome.net/2018/06/04/june-2018-meat-grinder-sienna-sunset-4-jeff-dosser/
Sadie Spurs Hidey Hole for the Wicked and Weary – SHea Herlihy-Abba
https://deadmanstome.net/2018/06/04/june-2018-meat-grinder-sadie-spurs-hidey-hole-for-the-wicked-weary/

Willis – B B Blazkowicz
https://deadmanstome.net/2018/06/04/june-2018-meat-grinder-willis-b-b-blazkowicz/

A final Supper – Trev Hill
https://deadmanstome.net/2018/06/04/june-2018-meat-grinder-a-final-supper-trev-hill/

Meat Grinder writing contest is the thunderdome of writing contests.
Send your story to Jessecdedman@gmail.com

 

https://www.spreaker.com/user/8056632/june-july-meat-grinder-update

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The Meat Grinder Writing Contest

Think you’re a good writer? Think you can tell a good story? Well, then why don’t you enter your story into The Meat Grinder and put it to the test!

How does it work?

You enter a story by submitting to Jessecdedman@gmail.com where it will wait for contestants. Don’t worry about word count, flash fiction, short stories, and poems are welcomed and they would compete within their category. All I ask is that you put in the subject if it’s a poem, flash fiction, or short story along with Meat Grinder. Otherwise, I might miss it.

Once the contestants are ready and understand the rules, the stories will post where they have a month to compete for the most reads, likes, and comments. The reads, likes, and comments are measured on the stories directly, not on other sites or social media apps.

Your story is subject to the opinion of the people, and if the they rain down consecutive negative comments such as this story sucks, then it’ll be pulled.

You can also pull your story at any time for any reason.

You got a month to win and earn $50 (USD) paid via PayPal. Do you got what it takes?

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[TMG5] A Stolen Glance – Bo Chappell

Bo Chappell

Like the poem? Give the author some cash

$1.00

A Stolen Glance

In silken seas she slumbered
Celestial reflections from invisible love
Across a mirror
A silver river, running sharply into an ivory valley
A singular point not meant to be shared
Even here I go unnoticed
Yet forever shall I reign
God’s love washes over the alabaster range
To find me idle
Beside a river no longer silver
In waters no longer cold
Yet resting in the open
I will not cast a shadow
Despite my mark
I’ll never be known


coffe and kindleMonstersExist
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