“…this kingdom of ash, this place so familiar…”
Arms folded. Stare unrelenting. “Get Up.”
Stop, Yahnny. Leeme ‘lone, dooot.
Yahn steps forward. His feet fall with metallic clacks.
All right, fine, I’m up. I’m up, Yahn, stop it!
Still Yahn continues forward, his arms folding ever tighter before his chest. His pupils are gashes like that of a snake’s; his skin seems rubbery and warped, unfitting in a way, almost as if he was wearing a costume; the skin of his arms are fused to his tunic, he couldn’t unfold them if he wanted to. He never folded them in the first place.
No, I’m not a junkie, Yahn. Leeme ‘lone doot, you’r–… stop! Leeme the fuck ‘lone!
Yahn’s bony nose is stabbing into Howie’s neck now. His words, cold as fright, bite into Howie’s collarbone.
“Fucking Junkie. Get Up! Get Up You Fucking Junkie, Go Get Your Junk!”
I’m not a Junkie, Yahn! Stop it!
Howie pushes away, but only succeeds in backing himself further into the corner. He can’t stand to look into Yahn’s eyes, so he looks down at its feet instead.
Are you wearing heels?
The thing called Yahn flicks a serpent’s tongue from between its pointed teeth. A gray hand of stone entombs Howie’s nutsack and crushes it for sport, yet Yahn’s arms remain folded and fused in place. Harrowing tingles and sharpened chills rampage through Howie’s body as blood pulls at his mangled pubic hair with every dripping drop.
“Get Up Hootsie, You Worthless Junkie,” bellows the voice behind the skin with a face that resembles Jhan’s. The mouth of the costume opens and there are no teeth in the oily gums, only worms. Sopping, writhing worms leaking viscous brown slime.
I’m up, Yahn, I’m–
The long metal heel of Yahn’s left pump, sharpened down into a grisly spike like a prison yard shank, sinks effortlessly into Howie’s foot, widening the gap between the knuckles of his first and second toes.
Leeme ‘lone, doot, this isn’t fun anymore!
The Yahn-thing’s eyes burst into putrid black flames. What’s left of the whites ooze down its hollow cheeks as its upper body wilts into itself and sinks into the pool of frothing acid spilling out over its waistline. The weight on Howie’s foot somehow becomes heavier as the Yahn-thing’s heelspike delves forever deeper into Howie’s foot, the pressure alone tearing a wet, grisly split all the way up his foot to his ankle. Howie watches it happen with eyes wide as the empty socket of a skull, yet he doesn’t feel any pain.
Leeme ‘lone, doot!
Hello Commons, this has been the third subchapter of the third chapter of Flowers, a novel about a man who smokes the last of his pot.
Flowers is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Flowers is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Flowers and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.
Be well Commons~