#ThursThreads week 222

Posted in Uncategorized on June 30, 2016 by drmagoo

Prompt: http://www.siobhanmuir.com/siobhans-blog/thursthreads-tying-tales-together-week-222

Not until I know for sure that the medication has taken hold do I loosen the blindfold. Without the sedation she’d have screamed when she saw me. But with it she was delusional, believing I was her husband, handsome and rich and someone who wouldn’t rape her.

Oh, she’ll come out of her fugue state when I first penetrate her, the pain will take care of that.

And then she’ll be dead, which is too bad, because I think she really could’ve loved me, if she had been willing to talk to me, even to smile at me, to notice how much I loved her.

I looked down at her, tied down to my bed, and marveled at the dress she was wearing. Long enough to know she wasn’t a slut, short enough to give me just a little glimpse of thigh when she strolled past me on the sidewalk. She wanted that, I knew, and more – she wanted me to see all the way up – but when I told her so, told her what I could do to her pussy if she just gave me a chance, she turned and walked away.

Walked. Away. From a compliment from a nice man? What kind of woman does that?

She actually started crying before I penetrated her, when she felt me stripping her, no matter how much I complimented her lying bitch mouth or goddamned whore cunt.

Not that it stopped me, of course. I was hard, and she was mine.

VisDare 141

Posted in Uncategorized on June 30, 2016 by drmagoo

Prompt: https://anonymouslegacy1.wordpress.com/2016/06/07/visdare-141-beauty
Randall fidgeted with the borrowed shirt, made for a smaller man in another time. He didn’t know why this getup was necessary, but Satan had been specific. “Every detail, or the deal is off.”

Beside him, Shondra smiled for him. The cancer hadn’t found its way to her eyes yet, and they twinkled with the absurdity of the situation. They were still young, still loved life and the world and each other with silly passion, and if Randall wanted to play old-timey pretend, she’d go along with it. Someday soon she’d be spending every day in pain, so why not enjoy what joy the world still held?

The photographer lined them up, positioning them just so.

Then a countdown, a flash, and Randall felt his lungs turn to fire. He had it now, and she was free. One death and one soul, a small price to pay for one life.

VisDare 125

Posted in Uncategorized on February 23, 2016 by drmagoo

Prompt: https://anonymouslegacy1.wordpress.com/2016/02/16/visdare-125-candid/

She told me that she struggled in relationships because she became so vulnerable so quickly, that she didn’t have a filter to keep herself from sharing all of herself, but that was what I loved so much about her. I never had to wonder what she was thinking, she told me. I never sat, lost in my own head, concocting stories about why she’d stopped loving me, because her love for me was always there, as plain as the bones which gave her body form and the muscles which gave her form motion.

She taught me to trust myself, to be vulnerable to myself, even when I couldn’t with anyone else – even her. She taught me how to talk to people as equals, to not hide what made each of us human in our own ways. She taught me to love.

Love Bites Blog Hop 2016

Posted in Uncategorized on February 12, 2016 by drmagoo

True Love Always Dies
740 words

It wasn’t right that she’d left me, not like this. We were supposed to grow old together, our kids and grandkids and greatgrandkids gathered around us, telling stories and playing in front of the fire. Instead, here I was, standing in a freezing drizzle, watching them lower her into a hole in the ground.

People are jerks when someone dies. They don’t mean to be, I know, but they presume so much. They insinuate themselves into your life, trying to help, as if there was anything anyone could do to make it better. They tell you platitudes about the afterlife, like they alone had an inside line on what happens to us after we become worm food. But mostly they presume to know what you’re going through. They act like they knew her, like they knew her inner thoughts, the dreams she told you about in bed at night, the words she told you the last time you saw her before she was dead. And they don’t know. They can’t know.

But they presume.

I stayed around town for a few weeks after the funeral, but what I really wanted to do was get to work. I didn’t need anyone, even someone as well-meaning as my neighbor Phil, who’d walk around my house – our house – like he owned the place, like that badge in his wallet gave him a key to every business in town, getting in my way. So I left.

They’d find me, I knew. People who presume don’t know boundaries. They don’t know how to leave well enough alone. They don’t know.

The village I’d found online was warm, remote, and full of people who wouldn’t bother me. It was taboo here to enter another man’s house without permission, and I sure as heck wouldn’t be granting that. So no one asked “what’s in the box, mister?” No one asked “is that a pentagram on your floor, Tim?” No one asked what that smell was or what those words were I kept chanting or what that glow was coming from the box.

No one presumed to stop by the day my wife came back to me.

I wasn’t sure what the transition from being dead to being alive would be like for her, but I tried to consider all the possible factors. I bound her wounds, especially the ones where the bullets had exited her body – those had bled like crazy. I tied her arms and legs down, in case she thrashed or tried to escape once she came back. The gag in her mouth was as comfortable as I could make it – she hadn’t been much into that kind of thing when alive. And her favorite song was playing on Pandora.

One look into her eyes told me that it had all worked, and that she was back, she was here. And she was furious.


Trusting in the locals not to presume, I loosened the gag.

I won’t reprint what she said here, because it really wasn’t very nice, and it really didn’t matter anyway. The only words that mattered were the ones she’d told me in our house that last day. “I hate you, Tim,” she’d said. “I hate how you try to control me. To hurt me.” When all I’d done was love her? And this is how she felt? “I’m leaving you. I never want to see you again.”

Like that was a possibility. She’d known that as soon as I’d calmly walked to what had been our bedroom and retrieved my gun, but by then it was too late. She might die, but she’d never leave me.
Here in my new house, we talked. Well, she screamed, mostly. And then she cried. And then she didn’t say anything, because I’d cut out her tongue.

And then her heart.

She presumed that someone would come. She presumed that I’d brought her back to me so I wouldn’t have to live without her.

She presumed.

How little she knew me. Now that I knew how to bring her back, I wasn’t limited to enacting my vengeance just the once.

Sewing her heart back into place took some time, but it was worth the effort. When I brought her back from the dead a second time, I think she understood.

Even if she didn’t, I was going to give her plenty of chances to learn.

She presumed to leave me. Like that was possible.

Flash! Friday Vol 3, Week 40, story 2.

Posted in Uncategorized on September 11, 2015 by drmagoo

Prompt: https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/09/11/flash-friday-vol-3-40/

Aloft on wings of fire
287 words
Character: Rapunzel
Setting: Castle (of a sort)

Rapunzel’s hair was fire, bound with rings of ebony into the most beautiful braids. She worked on the 95th floor, kept away from the world not by a wicked enchantress but by crushing student loans and a childhood of rejection and bullying.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me

The windows didn’t open, not this high off the ground, but the force of the impact shattered the glass. Rapunzel raced to the windows with the rest of the office staff, straining to see the world below, but trigonometry and distance defeated them.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me

The reports came in then, of stairways engulfed in flame, smoke as thick as molasses. There was no way out, none that did not lead into the world of the dead. Her coworkers raced to their phones and made their calls, calling the people that you call when embarking on a journey from which there is no return. But Rapunzel had no one to call, so she stood at the window and listened.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me

Her boss was the first to choose the quicker way out, hurling a chair through the window and shouting his love into the sky. Some followed him, with bravado borne of fearful desperation. Some hid in the corner and soiled themselves. But Rapunzel stood alone in the window, disentangling her hair slowly from its braids.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me

Rapunzel’s hair was on fire, wafting in the smoke billowing from below and behind. She let it out the window, down towards the voice. And she fell, carried away on a journey, alone, forgotten.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me.

Posted in Uncategorized on September 11, 2015 by drmagoo

Prompt: https://flashmobwrites.wordpress.com/2015/09/11/flashmobwrites-1×28/

I lose all control in my sleep. In the light of day, I can pretend that she is still here, that she hadn’t made the call to tell me that the tower was on fire, that she hadn’t told me how I should tell our daughter she would never see her mommy again. There is work to do. Laundry to fold. Food to cook. Stories to read. Birthdays to celebrate. Air to breathe.

Our daughter knows I’m not okay. Sixteen now, and busy with her own life, I see the worry in her eyes when we pass in the hall rushing to get ready in the morning, hear the concern in her voice as she checks in on me before she goes to bed. I’m fine, I tell her. Just tired. And I am tired. But I don’t tell her that every line of her form, every peal of laughter, every touch of her arms as she hugs me goodbye in the morning is a test for me to pass, to see if today is another day I will keep from going insane.

But my dreams betray me. Without the will to build my reality as I see fit, I lose my anchor. Allowed to forget, I am no longer consumed by grief. In my dreams I drive my daughter to her soccer games and cheer with the other parents. We go out for ice cream and celebrate a win or drown our sorrows in whipped cream and hot fudge. As my eyes dance in REM sleep, I see my wife’s beauty echoed in our daughter, but I see me, too, a combination which she carries with a grace that takes my breath away. While the moon and stars cavort overhead, I am happy.

And every morning the grief returns. The anger rises with the sun. By the time I am dressed, and shaved for work, and see my daughter loading up her backpack for school, I am in control again.

But I am not okay.

336 words

Mid-week Blues Buster, 3.15

Posted in Uncategorized on September 11, 2015 by drmagoo

Prompt: https://thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com/2015/09/08/mid-week-blues-buster-week-3-15/


He’d outrun the wolves, though not by much, and he’d made it to the cathedral, grey and black against the azure sky. Martin had been baptized in this cathedral once upon a time, and he’d heard stories of redemption and vengeance shouted throughout its close as long as he could remember. But the priests had been the first to leave when the wolves had come, followed by the police and the mayor. God had no place in a world with the wolves, and neither did man, it seemed.

Martin had always been a loner, even as a kid, and he’d survived the wolves not by being faster or stronger, but because he was camping in the mountains when they came, and it took weeks for the wolves to move beyond the cities. Wolves were natural herders, though, and rather than hunting down stragglers one by one, Martin, and anyone else who’d been out on their own, had been forced to come back to the jetsam of civilization for their reckoning.

Running from the wolves was an exercise in instinct and action, not thought. There wasn’t time to formulate plans or consider strategy. You just went where your gut told you to go as fast as you could. And Martin had come to the cathedral.

The face on the Sanctuary knocker mocked Martin. It promised salvation, but how could salvation lie within when all the world was death? Snarling, the wolves closed in on him, cutting off all avenues for escape save through a massive wooden door that he couldn’t hope to move. He almost gave up, but the instinct to survive was strong, and pounding the knocker against the door at least didn’t feel like surrender.

The wolves howled at the sound of the knocker and grinned at him when he began calling for sanctuary. But their howls turned to whines when the door swung open, allowing Martin to scramble inside.

Transitioning from the afternoon sun to the gloom of the cathedral blinded Martin temporarily, and the only sound he could hear was his own rasping breath. Who had saved him? Who was left to even bother?

As his vision returned, he saw the outline of a woman in front of him, indistinct and hazy in the light refracted by the ancient stained-glass windows. She moved without a sound towards him, her legs motionless, and he screamed when she floated through a railing.

Now he could hear her, a polyphonic laugh which rang through the cathedral without joy. And as she drew closer to him, he realized he could smell her as well, a mixture of cloves and rotten meat. The wooden door was as solid behind his back as it had loomed in front of him while trying to escape from the wolves, and Martin wept. But only for a time. When the damned give you sanctuary, you no longer have a need for tears.

486 words