The Monster Game

He held his daughter in his arms, her face pressed up against his chest. His arms ached from holding her. It had always amazed him how fast they grew. He could remember that not too long ago she could barely sit up on her own let alone run around the house like a maniac.

Stroking her hair, she stirred a little bit in his arms and he held his breath. Her face was pale and calm but the eyes did not open. Relieved, he exhaled.

Her fingers had curled over his shirt collar and as he stared at them he was reminded of one of her favorite games. She had called it the Monster Game.

One of them would be the monster, which was always him. He would shut his eyes and hold his mouth open. She was the victim and would giggle, terrified and excited, as she had to insert her finger into the monster’s mouth. For the victim to win, she had to pull her finger out of his mouth before he bit down. The monster would win if he was able to close his teeth on her fingers. From that point on, it turned into a matter of reflexes.

He smiled thinking of those memories.

She stirred again and her eyes fluttered open.

He moaned in sadness as she pulled her head off of his chest and looked at him with cloudy, white eyes.

“Oh, my baby…”

There was no recognition of her father whatsoever; her eyes void of emotion.

The Monster Game was real now, their roles reversed.

It was a game he did not want to win.

Not this time.

He simply shut his eyes as she lunged forward and bit into his throat.

You don’t know shit…


Zack Kullis shares a very thought provoking post You Don’t Know Shit

Originally posted on Flashbangs and Fiction:

“You don’t know shit…”

That’s what I wanted to say to the pretty woman, but I didn’t.  Let me back it up and explain myself.

train platform

At 4:45 this morning I was at the platform waiting for my train.  I was talking with an older gentleman as the pretty woman walked around us.  I’ve talked with this guy before and we frequently have lengthy discussions during our wait.  At 5:00 a.m. I walked down to the spot where I normally stand and continued to wait for the train.  I found myself standing next to the pretty, well-dressed woman.  It’s not what you think, I’ve also known her for a while and we have become friends as well.

I made a sorrowfull comment to the woman about the man I had been talking with, indicating that things were tough for the guy.  She turned to me with a look of distaste and repulsion and said…

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Broken Banquet


BROKEN BANQUET by Pen of the Damned’s Thomas Brown

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:


The forest is starving. Overhead the sun dies, bathing the branches in the pink glow of dusk. Walkers do well to avoid these parts but John knows them like the lines of his own face. His trade depends on them. Allerwood Jam sells as far as Netley, so it seemed only natural that his wife and he should move close to the forest’s borders, when they finally decided to settle down. They first met picking raspberries in the bracken behind what is now McCready’s farm. Grace loves natural produce at least as much as he does. Out here, on the outskirts of the village, they are free to live a quiet life, largely separate from the rest of Lynnwood. Almost twenty years later, they have not looked back.

The ground crunches beneath his boots as a wind sighs through the trees, rustling the few leaves and testing the…

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Damned Words 10


DAMNED WORDS 10 by the Pen of the Damned

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:


Thomas Brown

Misery rolled with the dogs in the shadows of Tompkin’s shed.

On August 25th, 1968, Mike Callahan hung himself from a cross-beam in the ceiling. The wood was old and riddled with rot but it held his weight well enough.

On July 13th, 1985, Sarah Paulson was stabbed in the neck while tending to the potted bulbs on the windowsill. She died instantly. The bulbs never sprouted.

1989, fire. 1997, rape.

In 2001, the Tompkins moved in. The shed became a doghouse. Two-year old Muttley howled perpetually. Three coats of paint couldn’t hide the stains seeping through the skirting board.

Inner Sanctum
Jon Olson

Don’t open it! Leave it shut! You must not let them in. I know you’re tired. You spent years building this place; this hideout; this inner sanctum. Yes, although you can’t see them, your victims are in here too…

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Mammoth: The Monster of Bell Island Part 9

Originally posted on imaginalis:

Once Dr. Roswell was safely ensconced inside his bunker, two men, who had been told to find an errant freak that looked like Joseph Merrick, breathed a huge sigh of relief as their boss wasn’t one for making friends or trading pleasantries.

He ruled by fear and intimidation.

“Hey, Chris, have you ever noticed how the atmosphere changes when he’s not around?”

“Yeah, Dave, there is definitely something off about him,” his friend replied. “I can’t put my finger on why he makes me feel so uncomfortable.”

Chris started walking towards the dock and then began to unzip himself. “Why do you care about anything other than getting paid?”

“He makes me feel uneasy,” Dave replied.

“Me too,” Chris confirmed. “Roswell gives me the creeps. It’s not just him, though. There is something weird going on in that bunker. Argh! I hate this island.”

“Agreed!” Dave exclaimed.

“Which part?” Chris…

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Jon’s story


Jon’s Story

Originally posted on Purple Hope:

Purple Hope is about your personal experiences involving pancreatic cancer.  Please welcome Jon OlsenJon hails from Nova Scotia and would like to share his story – in his own words –  with you all:

Pancreatic Cancer, like every cancer, is a horrible and vicious disease. Anyone who has had family members fight valiantly against this predator, or fought themselves, knows that it is something that can take on many different faces and descriptions.

To me, pancreatic cancer is a thief.

Marylyn Key Olson, my grandmother who we all called Grammie, was an amazing and fantastic woman. She was born on February 15th, 1925. Like all of my relatives, I didn’t get to see my grandparents that often since they lived in the United States while I grew up in Nova Scotia, Canada. That being said, there were many visits that left lasting impressions on me…

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This week on Pen of the Damned comes ENOUGH by Zack Kullis

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned:

The moonless night embraced Chris as he stood in the foothills high above the small town. He cowered underneath the empty sky and swallowed the bile that was his self-loathing.

Disgust paraded across his wounded soul like an ugly Mardi Gras procession, its movements suggestive of cutting, its rhythm a macabre lurching. Chris covered his ears in the quiet. Even when he was alone, he heard the ceaseless badgering that spewed out from the world. It berated his every move and word.

Work, school and seemingly every moment of his existence were filled with ridicule and scowls that screamed he wasn’t good enough. A few years ago he had reached out to somebody at the suicide prevention center, but the volunteer told him he was being a selfish kid that was just looking for attention. Even killing himself wasn’t enough. He screamed to the night until his throat hurt.


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