sparks blazing in her

eyes,

she watched him from

across the fire

sitting silently on her

small log,

bracing herself

shivering a little

“You see,” he said, “this fire

gives off more sparks

than flames.”

She nodded

And he went on, “It's because

it uses souls as

fuel. I'm burning

things that once used

to be part of people,

things imbued with

their

essence.

A favorite scarf gifted by

a loved one

before departing,

a wife's beloved ring,

a child's doll

that resembles their mother,

a purse that

is seen as magical by a rich

merchant who

thinks she got rich

by holding money in it,

an army general's lucky

loincloth.

These objects have in them

parts of the

souls of people who used to

own them.

Other thieves think they're stealing

things of value, but

they don't know what

true value means.

Me, I'm no ordinary thief, as

you can tell.”

She nodded

and a long silence

stretched between them, only

the crackle of the flames

and the sizzling of the sparks,

and a very distant

wolf's howl

made the air vibrate

Then he told her,

“A great storm is coming.”

Concerned, she looked around

into the night

sky and then back

at the fire and the man

across from it. But she said

nothing.

“Let's go,” he said. “Inside my

cabin. We'll be safe there.”

Now she spoke. “No. I can't.”

“You can't?”

“I'm sorry. Cabin is too... narrow.

I'm afraid.”

“I have a cat's hind leg

preserved in salt

there. Wouldn't you want to kiss

and suck at the pillowy

paw? To trace its

claws across your tongue

and lips?

It feels great. Comforting.”

She shook her

head. “I can't. Can't go

into...”

“Into narrow spaces,” he finished

for her. “They terrify you.

You've always been

like that, haven't you?

Hence, you came to me,

to the greatest thief of all

times. You want me

to steal away your fear of

small, narrow places.”

She tried to speak

but managed only

a fervent nod

“I see,” he said. “Well then,

rest assured.

You've been robbed

already. You've been robbed

the moment you

set foot in here.”

“H-how?”

“I told you. I am the thief

of all thieves. Before you

see me once,

I will have seen you

for a lifetime. The ultimate thief

is he who is so good

that the victim doesn't

even realize they've been

stolen from.

So stand now, dear, and follow

me inside the

narrow cabin.

Your fear is now in my pockets,

however I was so

subtle that you didn't notice. You

think you still have it.

Yet I must ask

you, what is there

for the dead to fear?”

She hesitated. “I... don't know.”

“That's right. You don't

know. And never will. And what

you don't know

can't hurt you, can it?

Now stand, child. And follow

me inside.”

She stood

but didn't follow as he

departed for the cabin

“What's wrong?” he asked

“The storm that is approaching,”

she said. "I don't fear

it either. I don't

need safety.”

Her words made him burst

into laughter. “Ah, I knew it

was a great idea to

let you find me.

Very well then. When you've had

enough of the storm,

I'll be waiting for

you inside.”

He went in

and closed the door

the storm was

getting ever closer

She brought her log closer to

the fire

and placed her naked feet

in the flames,

looked up at the sky

and laughed

the thunder laughed

right back

***

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she didn't hide it

No, she held it

in full display in her living room

It was a baby's head

floating in a jar

"I wish I could just

unseal it

and open the eyes,"

she said. "It would

really look infinitely more

beautiful if it had

its eyes open. Maybe I could

snip off the eyelids.

But I'm afraid I won't

be able to

seal the jar

back.

This small wonder has been

taken from a research

lab.

The baby was born dead

so the mother, not a Christian

one I take it, had donated

its body for science.

I too lost a baby, only mine

died before exiting the

womb.

And I had this nerdy boyfriend

at the time. He worked in

the research lab

and stole this

for me.

This is what true love

is like. I tried again and again

to get pregnant with him

afterwards

but it just didn't work. Maybe

my system is damaged

beyond repair now

or maybe his sperm

just wasn't

strong enough. We didn't

consult a specialist

about it.

Now I no longer care that

much.

I have this baby right here

and... it works. I no longer

feel the need

for a living one that grows

under my eyes. I'm fine with

this. It's a girl, by the way.

I feel like one of those

men who buy

sex dolls because they

can't get real women.

It'll never be the

real thing, of course. Yet in

some ways it's even

better than

the real thing.

All in all, I do declare myself

a happy, fulfilled woman

today. I need nothing else.

You don't need

real children

or partners to be happy

in life.

Imagination is the only

requirement. And those who

don't have it

call it craziness. Well, let them

talk. Meanwhile those

of us who have it

are living our lives.

Cheers."

***

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"But real love," she says,

"is when you'd

sew your skin into

the skin of your lover to

become one.

If I could cut off

my arm

from the elbow

and cut yours off as well

and join them together

as one limb, I'd go for

it. I'd then follow

with the other

arm, then the legs,

and finally the chests and

the foreheads

and lips.

We'd die of course, but that

would be the

beauty of it. We'd die

together, as one.

We'd become a mass of filth

and puss and

rot and

eventually melt into a single

substance.

That would be heaven.

You'd do

that for me, wouldn't you,

darling?"

Lying in bed,

he removed the pillow

from his face. It did nothing

to silence her. Of course

it did nothing.

Because she was not real,

only in his head.

They were already one

and the same

and as one-and-the-same

as they could get.

"C'mon already!" she

shouted. "Say that

you love me too!"

"Uh, I do," he mumbled,

a hand rubbing

circles at his

right temple

"Of course you do!" she

said. "However, last morning

when you fell

asleep

somehow, for some

unthinkable reason, your

dreams were not of me. I don't

understand how

such a tragedy could

have

occurred.

It's hell!

The simple idea of separation

between the two

of us is hell, darling, and I

don't wanna abandon you

in hell.

Don't worry. I'll keep you

awake. Dreams aren't

good for you.

I'll keep them away

and myself close."

He covered his face

with the

pillow again

and held his breath

She went on, "You know

what I dreamed last

time I was

asleep?

Of you, of course!

I dreamed that you were

so small and so

cute

and I could hold you

in my palm

and play with you so nicely

and squeeze you

all over

and, my ultimate fantasy, chew

on you!

Oh yes! I put you whole

in my mouth and

bit down on your chewy

cuteness.

Then I bit you in the middle

and tore your

torso off

and swallowed your bottom

half completely.

I came at that moment. Yes,

it was a very wet

dream.

I kept the top half of you

in my palms

and watched your beautiful

guts ooze out.

Ah, they were like swollen

spider legs. And I

made you walk

and crawl on them all

over my body.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap,

your hot gut-legs across

my sweaty skin went

up and down,

up and down.

Oh, and I swear the only

bad thing about

this dream was that it

ended too early. Just

when I was about to

sew your guts

on a spot

between my breasts.

But what am I saying? The right

time for that dream

to end would've

been NEVER!!!

Right, darling? Right?"

He tossed the pillow

away

and stood

Walked out of the

bedroom

and into the kitchen

"Darling!" she shouted

in his head. "What do

you think

of my dream?

Most wholesome

thing ever, right

darling?

Riiiiight?"

He opened a cupboard

and reached for

a little box of

sleeping pills

Opened it

"Darling?

What are you doing? What's

that?"

He poured a few pills

into his palm,

about six,

and swallowed them quickly

and placed his head

sideways under the

tap to suck at the

stream of water as he

turned it on

"What silly behavior,

darling," she said. "Those

things will

make you sleepy.

It... It wouldn't be

a problem if

you'd dream of me, but...

What if you don't?

Can you imagine? What if

you go to sleep

for hours and hours

and... Ah, I don't even

want to think about

it!"

He went back into

the bedroom

"Darling,

get those things out

of your lovely

stomach now! C'mon, let's

vomit together!"

But the only thing he

could do now

was start crying

and throw his numb body

forward

like jumping into a pool

so he could land with

the head into the

corner of

the nightstand

It was a fairly

loud bang

and he stayed down

lying on the floor, luckily

on a carpeted portion of it

He was on his side

so it was alright

even if he vomited in his

sleep

The sleep didn't

come yet

but something better

came.

A silence so sweet and

so mercifully tender

that his numb face

turned into a smile as

the eyes closed

It'll be alright

She will come back

by the time

he'd wake up

but she

wasn't always

so bad

Sometimes she

was

actually quite all right

Some time ago

when he worked up

the courage

to tell his

father about her,

the father said,

"Meh, that's nothing,

try living with

a real woman and then

see what it's

like to go mad for

real."

Of course

father was drunk more often

than not

so he didn't know

much about

women that were real

and women that were real

only to certain men. He

had his own

demons to live with

Everyone must

have those

else they're either

a boring saint who spends

a lifetime meditating

in caves

or not a complete person

to begin with

Yeah... demons

complete us

as humans

Why should one seek

to live without

them?

***

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the candles were not

made of wax

it was something

different

Something that smelled

like sweat as they

melted

there were five

of them

One for each

corner of the pentagram

They had to take

the furniture

and the carpet out

of the room

to trace it

in the middle

with powders he'd never

heard about

or smelled

or seen before

he'd never heard

or seen or

thought about anything

like this before

He just went

along

And now watched

her round, shaved head

in the dancing light

of the candles

She looked like

an eastern goddess

to him

"I think we're ready," she

said

He didn't know what

they were ready for

but went along

again and

stretched naked over the

pentagram as instructed

and watched as

she mounted him

She rode him in complete

silence

No moaning,

no heavy breathing,

like she felt nothing at all

"The way to summon

the devil is

through your womb," she

explained. "The seed

of a man who

wants to die

is required. How lucky

I am to have

found you, love."

A few days ago

he wrote on social

media that if

he doesn't find a

goth girlfriend

in six days he'll kill himself

Maybe words

really do

hold power

after all

***

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"Are you trying to

kill me?" his mother screamed. "Are

you trying to fucking

kill me!?"

He backed away. "Mom, please."

"Shut up! You brought

a cat. A cat! Of all things. In the house!

Knowing full well

of my allergies. That is a declaration,

young man. A declaration

that speaks

very loud. You are trying

to kill your own mother, you

insane monster!"

An hour later he

was in his room

caressing the cat's head

and back

while it lay on his chest

and purred

"Can you believe her?" he

said to the cat

"Hardly," said the cat. "She was

a monster though. You made

the right choice, baby."

"When I decided to

keep you?" he asked

"Yes," said the cat. "And when

you stabbed her in

the chest. You're such a good boy.

That's why I love you. And

after I help you calm

down you can

drag her body to the

basement. I'll consume it

a bit every day

until there's nothing but

bones and some

guts that you

can flush down a toilet."

"I love you too," he said

***

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the clouds seemed

to be holding

the sun back

like a slave

with chains of lead

After a night

of heavy snow

the day tried to make

a comeback

and failed

It was 11:00 AM

and dark as evening

and since it was

also cold as hell

they concluded they

were in hell

"But hell is not

forever, mother," he

said. "I'll make it outside

of hell. In a place where

every soul has a home

and no one freezes in the

streets like us."

It was a childish promise

that came from

a child

Unlike his mother and her

purple lips

and faded eyes that looked

towards his face

but not at it,

he was blazing with life

and with rage

He shook his tiny fist

at life's own

cruelty

and cursed the coldness

of the gods

It was still pathetic

in comparison

with the coldness

of humans

but on humans he

gave up

a long time ago

There was only one human left

in his insignificant

life

and he was smart enough

to understand that

he'll have to say

goodbye to her

as well

soon enough

Actually,

today

The food he found in

the snowy, frozen

trash cans along

the alley

wasn't enough to feed

a sick rat

He found two

banana peels

a can of soda with a

drop left

a few food wrappers

stained with

sauces and salt

a surgical glove

and plenty of surgical

masks

like everyone wore

and discarded all the time

thanks to the pandemic

He placed the glove

on his hand

for warmth

Several times he

called mother's name and

she would not

answer

He could see the blue

veins across her

gaunt face

He screamed her

name

but all she could do

was stretch a skeletal

hand that would join his

"I'll make it outside

hell," he said again. "I'll cross

the border. South of this hell

there's a place where

people don't cut your

fingers if you steal food. I've

heard this

plenty of times. So many times

that I believe it, mother.

I'm going there.

But... I won't be able to make it

if I have to carry you

along, won't I?"

An answer was not

needed

Mother still held

on to his hand

"I am going, mother. I owe

it to myself. If I die,

I want to die trying. Else how

could I rest in peace?"

Those weren't a child's words

It was ambition

and hunger

speaking through him,

raging

through his veins

Just thinking about it

made him as warm

as mother was cold

It was decided.

He would go

But he would leave

a fraction of

this insane warmth with

his mother

in her dying moments

He stood

and walked a few paces

away

Removed the surgical glove

from his hand

Pulled the front of his

ragged pants

down and pissed

inside the glove

and tied its opening

at the wrist

neatly

It looked like a bloated

hand

and it was warm

Steaming against

the cold air

He placed it into

his mother's hand,

its fingers intertwining hers

and kissed her

gelid face

for a final time

and was

gone

The coldness of humanity

had taught him

something

indeed

***

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he did have a dream

of becoming a

writer

in his youth

but youth doesn’t last

forever

One day he grew up

and had to pick

a real

job. He studied journalism

and became a reporter

It was today’s task

that reminded

him of

the old dream. He had to

interview unpublished writers

A lot of them

and the general

question

was

“Why do you write?”

The answers he

got were

quite diverse

“I don’t know,” said one

writer. “I’m just trying to

recapture the feeling I had in

childhood when

my mother used to beat me

until I fell unconscious

and dreamed that

she loved me.”

And another said, “I’m not

sure. I just write

because I can’t

do anything else in life.”

Another said, “I’m still trying

to write the perfect

suicide note to leave

behind. I swear to God, I will

not kill myself

until I write it! That’s

what makes me a writer.

It’s stubbornness.”

“Me? Oh, I’m not a writer. I just

jot down elaborate

torture scenes involving

my ex-husband. If you’ve

read ‘The Room’ by Hubert Selby Jr

you know what I’m

talking about. But nah, I’m not

a writer. It’s just my… way of…

yeah, I’m not a writer.”

“I keep trying to put my dreams

into words. That’s the

kind of writer

I am. Not much of a writer. I

mostly dream about being

raped by my little sister while

our parents are

watching TV in the living room.”

“Who told you I’m a writer?

Well, I mean,

I write stuff, but honestly it all started

because I wanted to impress

some girl. It didn’t work,

of course, she went with another guy.

Since then I discovered that

I’ve a cuckold fetish and all my stories

portray it. I’m not

proud of my work.”

“I’ve seen a man die

before my eyes

when I was a kid. So logically

I started writing

stories about soap carving. I don’t

wanna talk about it. Thanks.”

"I suffer from quite

a nasty

case of claustrophobia. Every time

I come out of

a closed space I get this

inexplicable urge to write. But yeah,

it happens only when my issue gets

the better

of me. I've only written about

six thousand pages or so."

“I killed eight men.

That’s all

I gotta say. Thanks.”

“Well, I guess it all started with

little animals. I loved

to place them in extremely small

cages and then just

watch them day after day

as they grow thirsty and hungry

and desperate. I started writing down

the evolution of their

misery. I grew out of it

when my mother had an accident that

left her paralyzed.

I watched her then. And I learned

a lot. Now I can create

fictional characters that go through

the same. I’m quite good at it.”

“My neighbor has a mentally

ill daughter.

She’s quite cute and… you know,

writing fiction is the only

way I can live

my fantasies with her. Oh, I’ve written

so many thousands of

pages.”

“I’m a porn addict. It’s gotten so

bad that I can’t get

hard with real women

anymore. The only thing that gets me

hard now is

imagination. I write about

the times when I heard

my mom

having sex in her bedroom

when I was a child. The fact that she

wasn’t doing it

with my dad… somehow gets

me hard. So that’s why I

write.”

“I have… restriction orders. The only

way I can reach

the people I want to

reach is through

writing. I’m not happy about it.”

“Why do I write? Well, how else

can I explain

what it feels like to be buried

alive? I mean literally.”

“I am The Holy Spirit.”

“I’ve been abducted by

aliens. Multiple

times. It’s going to happen again.

I know it. I’ve nothing

against it. They

are working on my

brain. This is a blessing. I am

the chosen one. Have you

read my writings? You

should, before I get

published and they censor me."

“Are you kidding me? Why do I write?

Hey, you really don’t know

who I am? I am the woman

who died and came back to life. If

someone has something to

say… that’ll be me. Have

you read my books? They're all online!”

“Huh, why do I write?

Because fuck you, that’s why!”

“Honestly, man, I don’t

know.”

“I actually don’t

write.”

At the end of the

day

the reporter

remembered why he never

made it as a writer

himself

and the next day

he interviewed more

unpublished

writers

***

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yes, there are those days

when you lie

in bed

with palms under your head

and stare at the

cracks in the

ceiling

There were many cracks on

the kid's

ceiling

and he watched them

imagining that

they were borders

between countries

He was looking upon

a world map

and he started naming

the countries

and their people

some were humans

and others

were beast folk

and fairies and demons

and the politics

between these countries

were quite shaky.

There were wars all

the time

and that was

easy to imagine,

for the background noise

of wars

was very vivid

just a door

away

It was getting

quite intense now

***

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the good thing about being young

is that you don’t take

as much damage from falling

ten is a fantastic age

for falling

and for getting into

fights

with other kids

It usually all ends with

a handshake and a

tightened friendship

Unless adults get in the way. It all goes

down when adults get in the way.

Childhood itself goes to

hell when adults get in the way

He feels the

scar on the back of his head

aching every time he thinks of this

of the day father had him

fight another ten year old

He didn’t want to

so father pushed him from the back

and called him a pussy

And then father called him

a pathetic piece of crap after he lost

the fight

Father was a gambler. He bet the other kid’s

father that he’ll win the fight

But he lost miserably and

got a big, long scar on the back of his

head from it

along with the lifelong title of ‘Weak Shit’

He became known

as Weak Shit around the household

and the neighborhood

there was no ditching that title

It stuck to him

like a bad smell, a permanent reminder

of the loss he caused his father

Unforgivable

But the title and all the mocking that

came with it had taught him

a lesson

Taught him that the transition from boy

to man can only happen

by beating one who is already a man

Now the good part in this challenge

is that there are no rules

It’s really not like a boxing match

with referee

You just gotta sneak up to the man

while he’s sleeping and

bury the claw end of the hammer into his

temple

and watch the pillow collect his blood

like a famished leech

And that’s how you become

a man

Then other men in uniforms will visit

your house

to complete the initiation into manhood

They will ask you questions

about the man you killed and you reply to

them all

and then you’re good to go

Congratulations,

you are now officially a man

***

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but hell was just a floor below

in the living room

There was a blazing fire

in the fireplace

and there were plenty of screams

coming from mother and father

They argued again

And from upstairs, locked in her

dim room, she knew that

the gnashing of teeth and the shattering

of glass would not be late

in echoing through the walls

They always liked to break glasses

and bottles in the fireplace

while arguing

The fireplace was full of

sparkling shards now

She still remembered the afternoon

her little cousin came to

visit with aunt and uncle and not knowing

any better he tried to pick

the sparkling treasure from the

cold ashes of the fireplace

and cut himself pretty

bad

But who knows,

perhaps there really was a treasure in

that fireplace

Whenever mom and dad left the house

she would stand before the

cold fireplace

and watch the sparkling ashes

like a starry night sky

and would start daydreaming

It worked for a while

but then she just had to reach higher

She had to reach to the stars

and remove the biggest she could find

and slice her wrists or ankles with it

The sight of her own blood

emerging from the shallow cut calmed her

down a great deal

And when mother and father were

in the house, arguing as usual and breaking

stuff

she had her scabs to scratch and peel off and

chew on

That also provided her with a

great sense of calm

But unfortunately mother and father

hadn’t been out in a long while

They’d have to get out

soon

because their dearest daughter had

started plucking her hair already

and that could turn into a problem. She could

end up looking less pretty than

she was with only

the cuts and scabs

***

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