The Devildeath Spider

Posted in Fiction on May 28, 2018 by GuNNhead

Deep in its web, it lurks. Gossamer strings stretch for kilometers, vibrations of the essence of beings who become trapped in their heads, in its bed. It feels your pull on its tiny leg hairs. It does not live for flavor, or to savor, it is to consume, it does not live. In your sleep, your mind is rotating, being wrapped up in its threads, a sliver of dream extending from its spinnerettes, caressing your consciousness, gentle pedipalp packaging. You walked into this devildeath, to be swaddled as a baby, fawned over, admired in eight eyes. Attention and care, massaged in silk, comfort blankets your entire vibe. You glow to it, you know, just like heaven.

There is no way to stop it, you don’t need to feel alive, a calm of stunted growth, preserved as you are. Your innards remain, it does not crave the corporeal, fangs of the metaphysical enter your thought, and your sense of future begins to necrotize from the venom injected. Numinous neurotoxin spreads, and spreads, and spreads. Across time, across space, you will die, consumed and left a monument to the mastery of the devildeath’s craft. Your self will remain there, as you continue to walk around, hollow and alone, void of what once made it move so determinately long ago. You are remembered, like distant stars and a rainstorm out of the blue, falling for what seems like forever, but can only be glimpsed so briefly in our time. A rain drop on a tongue, a meteor in the heat of a sun, you have arrived at one inevitability.

It gently sways to itself as it has its drinks of you. Its abdomen and legs moving to an unheard rhythm within your life. It occasionally stops to brush your hair from your face, place soft chelicerae smooches upon your brow. As you come undone, it knows you. Each sip, a memory, every gulp, a moment; the swigs are loves. It feels no remorse, but it feels the potential you once had for yourself in your mind that will no longer be able to be achieved; consumed. It wishes that you had accomplished your goals for you, but knows that to live, all who fall into its web cannot, it has felt the remorse of lost potential for the entirety of its existence, that is how it lives up to its fullest destiny. A spectral spider, webs lining the space between dream and reality, consuming the past and preventing the future, Devildeath.

You wake up, and take a walk to clear the cobwebs from your head.

Face the Music at the Butcher’s Bar

Posted in Fiction on March 28, 2018 by GuNNhead

“Hmm, looks like it’s time to clean the soap dish.” Adult thoughts are the fucking stupidest sounding, like, there’s no need to clean the soap dish, soap is clean. Anyway, no point. We’ll keep drinking and see if it gets done before I head out or sometime tomorrow. The spectre looms over me.

The usual place for events I go to is Butcher’s Bar, it’s an odd little tavern in the back of a supermarket. Go in through the alley, hit a little button on a buzzer, it’ll tell you to look up at the camera. Doesn’t matter who you are, really, they’ll buzz you in, I think they just do it for mystique. Adds to the weird vibe of the place, that’s for sure. Behind metal double doors, you can buy shots and halfburgers. No clue why they sold em by the half. And meats, assorted. The only light was from the grocery fridges on the sidewalls and the two big ones in the middles.

There’s one thing you need to know about me, my life is a prosaic nightmare from which there is no waking. There is a force in this world that has crossed a barrier between dimensions. Its coming here was a mistake, my fault, and now it is trapped within me, affecting my mind and my life. It does not like humanity, and my thoughts of ambition, my feelings of joy or love, act as a poison to it, to us. Should I experience amicability beyond the scope of what is required to remain alive for this conduit to the universal hatred of my existence, it shall appear, and I will be further disfigured for my indiscretion, it knows all I do and think, and revels in negative thoughts, they keep it sated. When I am miserable, I am safe.

However, it’s not all bad, self destruction and depression is a nice middle ground to live in. Occasionally, though, I do invoke the demon, just get to out of my apartment and drink until I wake up at home. The demon is an excellent auto-pilot. In the 14 years we’ve been together with my getting blackout drunk, I’ve never, not once, woken up elsewhere than my apartment. Tonight was lookng to be another one of those nights, and I was looking forward to it. But not too much, sometimes I can look forward to events too much, and the entity will reflexively trigger, rendering me unrecognizably monstrous and in pain for a time, preventing me from attending, and so I have learned to keep my expectations tempered. I cannot blame it, it is my fault for being too optimistic

Repressed expectations in tow, I enter Butcher’s Bar. Inside, I grab a few shots and a couple slices of salami. Scoping the place out, I grab a beer and a halfie to walk around with. I see some people I know, and have a general conversation with them, before zoning out and withdrawing from practiced disinterest. Finding a break in the conversation, I excuse myself to the bathroom, and wander. In the further back room, I pass where the bodies hang to the exit out to an enclosed lot where I can have a smoke. There are a few others here, I nod in acknowledgement of their existence, and keep to myself.

Back inside, I sit alone at the bar, and order another beer. I feel nothing here, and no connection to anyone. I am miserable, and it is perfect. I hate my life. After my beer, I head home around midnight. I drink more alone when I get home, listening to better music than what played at the bar. My own choice. Racing myself, I wake up not remembering anything after 2AM, and go to the bathroom. Washing my hands, I notice my soap dish is clean.

That Dream Everyone Has Had

Posted in Fiction on September 18, 2017 by GuNNhead

I had the Phil Hartman nightmare again. Yeah, that one, you all know it.

The one where it’s a movie in the 80s/90s, and these thieves have broken into a government facility. Though it’s seemingly already a bit ransacked in the lower parts. Almost as if there was a problem, or they’re trying to leave in a hurry. So there are still some few scientists around. The thieves split up to find what they came for, and maybe pick up a little something extra on the side.

The main character (POV you/me in the dream, Steve Martin in the movie, iirc), gets what they came for by threatening a scientist who just wants to get out of there and doesn’t care about the experimental tech. This time it was like 5-6 of those blue PS4 game cases with white paper cover inserts, black sharpie titles. Experimental videogames and the console to play them on all in a cardboard box, wires included. (It changes every time I have the dream.) As the main character starts to leave with the bounty, the scene cuts to one of the other thieves.

The next thief, Jon Lovitz, snooping around, sees a sealed door heavily marked with all sorts of “Do Not Open” and “Danger” warnings. He shuts off a bunch of the fail-safes, and greedily licks his lips and rubs his hands together in anticipation as he opens the door to find Phil Hartman wearing a green and purple polo shirt tucked into blue jeans sitting on the floor, handcuffed to a table in the special room. Phil lights up to see Lovitz, and is real friendly, happy to be freed. Lovitz gets in close asking this handcuffed man about what kinda stuff there might be to steal in this place. Phil is eager to help for his freedom, says he knows lots about this place, but then lunges at Lovitz, breaking the cuffs, biting deep into his throat.

Then we follow Danny DeVito thief, and he runs into Phil, who is super friendly again, but Danny isn’t having it, being all ‘get outta the way, chump, or I’ll put a bullet in ya’ but Phil won’t leave. He keeps on talking friendly small talk, so DeVito takes a swing at him with his gun, but Phil is too fast, so DeVito starts shooting, Phil dodges it all, and begins chasing DeVito, crawling on the walls and vanishing and stuff, all the while smiling with a creepy grimace of a smile. DeVito soon thinks he lost him, looking around, but turns to find Phil looming over him from the darkness.

Cut back to the main person with the box of stuff, where we hear DeVito’s blood curdling scream of death, so I try to make it out with the box, but am constantly chased by Hartman, appearing in front of me, saying stuff like ‘how about that weather’ or ‘what’s in the box, neighbor’ I make it to the final exiting area, but the army is there, and I ask for their help, but there’s nothing they can do, they’ve come to shut the whole place down, destroy it now, since the experimental weapon has escaped. One soldier gets spooked by Hartman, though, and shoots the glass and metal separating us, and then I can only see glimpses of Hartman biting them, tearing through the ranks as gun flashes silhouette them. He then comes for me. He keeps smiling, looking me dead in the eyes, walking closer and closer. I drop the box out of fear. He leans in and says “I think we’re gonna be great pals.” Then the dream ends.

The Debris

Posted in Fiction, Horror on September 11, 2017 by GuNNhead

I woke up again. Ugh. Hungover, hollow, with a scowl I can no longer remove. I rupture out of bed, disgusted by being alive. I see a half-finished beer by my bedside, and end it. The warm, sallow liquid reminds me to grab another from my fridge. Its dispelled carbonation can no longer hide its true flavors, and so I make my way to the others. Breaking the cheap metal by its tab, a familiar fizz greets me, and I wash down the flavor of its fallen comrade. I trudge to the bathroom out of necessity, and try to avoid the mirror’s dark gaze as I wash my clammy hands. Leaving the room, I face my living room, but it’s difficult to think of much living that went on there. Do I bother sitting on the couch, the sun mocking me with its radiant douchebaggery, or do I sit at my computer in my blackened room, and avoid more of the world? I wish I could do neither, as I take another sip.

I walk over to my couch, and look at my coffee table littered with beer cans and plates I’ve re-used so many times I don’t remember what I first ate on them since I last cleaned them. My ashtray is overflowing, but I see one last cigarette sticking out of a pack, so I take it and light it. In my first puff, I think about how shit the day is, and in my exhale, how I wish it would just end. I turn around to enter my room, but pause for a moment. Fuck it, I’ll tidy up a bit. I look outside the window for a bit, and reflect on my decision. What’s the point? I take another look at my filth and squalor, and pick up a few cans, moving them to an empty case in the kitchen. After a few more trips of this I’m done my smoke, and put it out in the sink, throwing the butt in the trash. I take the final sip of my beer, and open another. Refreshed by its chilled stinging carbonation, I decide to head back to continue my attack on the detritus of the living room.

Ignoring the dishes, I set my focus on the trash behind my table, between it and the TV, the forgotten zone. I remove a few paper and plastic bags of sorts before making it to the end, and as I go to pick up the last paper bag I notice something sticking slightly out of it. A piece of fried chicken. A breast. When was the last time I had fried chicken? Last week? Two weeks ago? I see a small spider on top of it, and knew it had attracted other bugs, damnable ants. As I go to pick it up, however, I kick the bag, and the spider moves, and I begin to see others. Larger spiders, hiding in all sorts of places around my shelves near my TV. Their webs, small and unseeable if not for the sun. I back away, creeped out, but as my vision widens, I only see more spiders crawling out of their hiding places, larger and larger. I eye my bug-zapping flyswatter, only to see another arachnid has made it its nest, its large body resting comfortably on the handle. I make my way to the door to get my shoe, return and start swatting, but it’s of no use, there’s simply too many, and back up into my room, only to be met with a doorway clogged with more webs than I’ve ever experienced. I struggle to get it off of me, but to no avail. I keep trying to crush them with my shoe as the millions of tiny fangs dig into me, but have no leverage as it falls from my hand. I fall to the ground, and it all goes black.

The Old Friend

Posted in Fiction on December 12, 2016 by GuNNhead

Jeff got home from work just like any other day, except today was Friday. His apartment was an older one, white-painted brick and scuffed wooden floors. He liked the aesthetic, it made him feel more avant-garde, and embraced it in the decorations, orange curtains, older style corduroy couches with a differently colored but matching chair, and a paisley scarf hung above his large curved screen LCD. Claire was home, and didn’t much care for the style, but she didn’t have much opinions on anything, and enjoyed the spacious open layout. They sit quietly, enjoying each other’s company, watching TV or reading for most the evening.

A knock on the door, and he goes to get it. A girl around his age no taller than four and a half feet excitedly jumps up, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. Though she seems very familiar, he has no clue who she is, and gently pushes her away to arms length, breaking the kiss.
“Jeff! Oh my g-I’m so embarrassed, you don’t remember me, do you?”
“Yes, well, no, well, I think I saw you at work once or twice this week?”
“Yeah, work! Well–” She sees Claire, standing in the hallway, glaring. “…You didn’t wait for me?”
“Wait for you, I don’t know you?”
“Who is this?” shouts Claire.
“I don’t know!”
“I’m Gwen, an old friend, I just started working with him, and I’m sorry, if I’d known, I never would have greeted him like that.”

Things settle down, and soon they’re caught up. The tension is still there, but it’s mostly awkward, silent tension. In a bohemian manner, the three sit on the bed in the back alcove of the apartment beside the kitchen, having tea with the older CRT flat screen TV on in the background. Claire’s persian cat hangs around in the peripheries, cautious of the new person. After conversations die down, the three are comfortably watching TV, with Gwen laying down at the foot of the bed, and the couple sitting up at the back. Eventually, the three switch positions, and the two are sitting at the edge of the bed, engrossed in a show that seems oddly relevant, and with gained empathy from the brilliant writing, decide to let her stay over, even though when they turn to look at her, she is asleep, curled in a ball, sucking her thumb. This quiet girl is a bit weird.

The next afternoon, the three are lounging around on the couches, and Claire’s cat comes out of hiding, which sparks Gwen into revealing more about her past.
“Jeff, remember you used to have a fluffy white cat, but couldn’t keep it?”
“Yeah, that cat was the best thing ever, absolutely loved that cat, but how’d you know?”
“Well…” Gwen slowly transforms into a white and black, fluffy Himalayan cat.
“Fuck!”

She explains to them that she’s from the distant future, and that her species can turn back and forth into felines, but only after a certain age, and she can’t return home. She started searching him out as soon as she was able, remembering their time together. He feels for her, but is in a committed relationship. There is a sad, mutual understanding that they cannot be together.
The four spend one last night all together, and the next day drive out to the country, to a friendly pet and wildlife preserve, fenced in. At the edge of a chain link fence, they hug tightly, and she turns into her cat self. Petting her, they both have memories of the first time they said goodbye, and he remembers putting his contact information on the back of one of his company’s business cards in her collar way back then, and does the same. She enters the preserve through a small animal-sized entrance in the fence, and runs through a field down to a river, jumping on a small raft with other animals. She climbs on top of a horse, and floats down the river.

Claire and Jeff drive down another highway that night back into the city, he is running his fingers through her hair, when it gets caught on his nail, tearing it a bit, he turns his attention to it for a few moments. Soon they pass a huge blue billboard with large yellow writing: “Did you marry a pooper?” There’s a picture of a Himalayan cat at a litter box, and little else. The couple stares in continued silence, when sirens flare up behind them. Claire pulls over, and an officer comes up to the window, shining the flashlight inside at her. Rolling down the window, Claire asks what the problem is. The agent explains simply: he’s there to help stop a recently discovered local alien invasion that’s been occurring for years, and their silence was typically a telling sign.