WARNING! Gruesome content, might disturb some readers.

Before, walking down a dark, forlorn alley with my tall, masculine boyfriend seemed like a safe enough adventure. Six or seven strides in, still seemed safe. Step nine was a doozy. The hazy shadows crisscrossed our own and even the light beer buzz muffling my mind cleared at that sight. From the unintentional squeeze to my hand, I knew I wasn't alone in that feeling. As the front men cut us off, I looked up at my boyfriend, for hope. Seven were too many, and he knew that. I actually prayed they only wanted money but the chilling ball of ice in my abdomen said otherwise. Their hoots and whistles reminded me of a foreign tribe hunting. Their eyes, touched by moonlight were bitter and hungry. My greatest fear tore through my mind. The overpowerment, punches, blood, repeated agony, defeat and being left for dead. That was the nice version. My teeth being kicked into my ripped cheek, my head smacking wetly into the pavement, blows cracking my ribs; the degrading stream of hot piss and accompanying horks of spit, tearing of the insides, furious tearing and infinite scars.
Looking up at my boyfriends face, a face that would never do those things to me. He would fight to stop them, but I could see in his eyes what would happen. They would make him watch.
They circled us like wolves. Sick and dying elk was what they saw. Their numbers gave them confidence.
The desperation clawed from my innards, out of that ball of ice and up to my lungs. My breath came shallow and harsh in the cool air. It hurt to keep quiet and I felt a scream of anguish crawl up my throat. They only laughed harder. My boyfriend did his best but they made him pay.
The desperation was liquid ice to my veins and as the window opened, I seized my chance. The one coming towards me was a fool, shoving a loaded gun down his pants. Thinking my grab was enticing, I wrapped my hand around his heavy mound of steel.
Tables turned; the wolves were sharp and their vileness was tangible in the air. Grabbing my boyfriend by the neck, they hauled him up. Quicker than my elk eyes could follow, a glittering incisor was against his throat.
What to do.
I felt so close to the light at the end of the tunnel. I worried that fear would blind that light from my eyes. Deftly unhitching the safety with my thumb, I threw some prongs into the brick wall nearest me. Puffs of brick dust made mini mushroom bombs and the wolves leapt back. Confusion crossed their eyes but their grip on the throat they held remained fixed.
A person's will is like a golden thread, surprisingly strong yet susceptible.
At that moment, mine broke.
I did what I wanted to do most, I raised the gun to my temple, pressing firmly. It was odd to see alarm in their eyes. Quite unexpected. The light at the end of the alley was closer and washed me in the best calm I've ever felt. My body relaxed within itself and I couldn't help but smile. A minute passed, frozen, as the light grew.
" I hope you like dead meat."
They must have seen my finger lay itself upon the trigger because bodies hurtled towards me. They took forever. My boyfriend was free and he joined them.
But the lights were too close now, the most beautiful ruby and sapphire lights. They crawled up both ends of the alley. Like a perfectly laid trap, the wolves were cornered. I drew the gun away from my temple and felt the perfect circle indented there. Arms encircled me and I was asked a lot of whys. I knew if the lights hadn't saved me, there would have been more to that circle. I couldn't help but feel a deep peace in that knowledge.

I remember when the power went off; it was a cue to fulfill my task.
Oh right, my task.
The encompassing darkness crushed my body like a bear-hug from a perverted uncle. Shuffling feet and muttering came from around me and finally a trembling voice called out reassurances.
I realized I was crouched on the ground so I stood up, bumping into a lamp. Useless lamp. Striking forward, clawed hands struck at my eyes. No, not there. Back to my task.
Moving like a shark in brine, I swept slowly, back and forth through the darkness. Using people's voices as radars, spots to avoid. My slow progress was worth the effort; the voices were now looking for me. I would succeed before they found me. Giant blood-sucking bugs dove for me as I reached the entrance. A last minute crouch saved my neck and I crawled the rest of the way to my prize. Wrapping my arms carefully around it I made my way back to the entry, now the exit. I made it. I could hear the voices again, wondering where I was. One of them seemed to know, but they were too late.
Suddenly the lights flickered and came on.
There I stood, in my chinos and argyle sweater, between the living room and the bedroom, teddy bear clutched to my heart. I faced our entire regime of dinner party guests. Wide eyes and stifled laughter faced me as well as a pitying and exasperated wife.
"As I was trying to explain, my husband is afraid of the dark." she huffed, shaking her head.

The Battle

The hurricane neared, its mass of undulating bodies turning red, flushed with heat, rage and blood. It coursed, like lava, down their limbs to be flicked from fingertips, airborne for a moment only to land on the neighboring body. The bloody lava made its path like that: course, flick, splat, course, flick, splat.
Its Gothic dance melded with the main jive, the swish and clang of blades and soft slice of skin, muscle, bone. Cries fell on rage-deafened ears, which were mindless to the pain. Every whirl, stretch and thrust were made to live and kill. Only the exhausted swung wildly, madmen among mad men.
Seconds, minutes, hours passed unnoticed, a waste of passed time. To get it back could be to get your life back. The ground had turned soft, flesh does that. Now the ground was alive, with lava and limbs. No flicking though, just lava, rolling down smooth expanses, to drip into the quenched dirt. But it would take more; it always does.

Classy Condiments

Use the words: Mayonnaise, Mustard, Soy Sauce, Relish, Pickle, Hot peppers and Ketchup in a story.
His taste in women was complex. If his women were a type of food, I'd say they were pickles. Had I told you that in a conversation, you would reply back "How odd." and I'd say "Not at all you see, pickles are tangy and he likes his women to have a zesty attitude. Now I mean pickles, whole, in a jar with garlic, not pickled relish. It must have garlic because he likes his women to carry a scent of mysterious musk that lingers. Not garlic smelling of course but you understand my analogy." and then you'd say, "Well what about in a sandwich, how could you relate his pickled women then?" trying to stump me of course. I'd easily reply back " It would be on a whole wheat bun, because he wants his women to have healthy buns."
"Who doesn't." You'd mutter.
"I suppose it was a given. He wouldn't have it with mayonnaise, nothing so fatty and boring as that. Mustard I assume would be his choice. Putting mayo on a sandwich would be like putting ketchup on a hotdog for him and he wants a one-of-a-kind woman, not what every other man has. He would top it off with hot peppers."
"That's a bit of an odd sandwich, I don't think I could stand the hot peppers."
"Of course you wouldn't, that is why his taste is complex. What one man shudders at, another man devours."
You would sit there and ponder my comment before concluding, "You haven't mentioned beauty at all."
I would sigh at your foolishness, shaking my head. "It's not about beauty to him, otherwise I might have compared his women to soy sauce."
"Soy Sauce?"
"Yes, dark, tantalising on your tongue and dangerous to your health. Instead I refer to his women as pickles, green and warty because he doesn't care about beauty on the outside."
"Yes well I've bitten into a pickle before and there is nothing beautiful on the inside."
I would push back my chair at that point and stand up to leave, throwing down some paper for the bill.
"Then one day my friend, you may find yourself hungry."

Terrible Two's

You are two years old with a name that has the initials C.A.T.
Name: Chevrolet Avalanche Tacoma
Nickname: Chevy in adult language, Sh-wee in two year old language
Favorite Food: Gravel
Siblings names/ages: Jayna age. 6
How they treat you: Silent Revenge
Thoughts on toilet training: Why poop in the toilet when you can poop in the big thing they call a bathtub.

Here I am stuck in my crib, I've just started to figure out how to escape it but it's hit or miss. If it were nighttime I'd be scared. Beside my crib, on the wall with the ratty shredded wallpaper are three little holes. At night that's where they come from. The worms I mean. I haven't seen them come out of there, but I just know. If you were my age, you'd understand. Us two year olds just know things; things that others don't. It's okay when you're really really old, you'll realized them again.
Anyways, those worms come out of the three holes at night and they fall into my crib. I don't know why but every time they do, I have to cry. Even though they're actually quite pretty. Being the size of half of my daddy's cigars, its easy to see what they look like. Some are indigo, other a vibrant yellow-green but most are black and they all have glitter showing through their skin. I always stand up, because who wants to lie in a pile of worms. It's not long before my mommy saves me. She always asks what's wrong and if I had that kind of co-ordination I'd roll my eyes at her. I walk through the worms to get to her, still wondering why she's even asking. Then she picks me up and I look down, and they're gone. They must have gone back in the holes.
So here I am, stuck in my crib in the daylight. Although today I've stolen some tape and I've stuck it over the holes good and tight.
No more glittery worms visiting me tonight.

A Change of Pace

Since I seem to only write depressing things here, I decided that I'll start posting some writing exercises I've been doing from a book called Write Brain.
Exercise 1:
Include the words: Exorcist, jambalaya, keepsake
Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil running around and around on his wheel. I mean, I do an honest day of work. Although I should feel saint-like being an exorcist, I still feel that I'm just recycling these demons back into the system. Maybe I've exorcised some of the same ones over, how would I know. If I could only take some sort of keepsake from each, to let me know if I meet them again. Like a special jambalaya recipe, then I could say "Hey how do you make jambalaya?" right before I make the demon burst from the body. Although I can't say demons believe in honesty at all costs. I don't even think humans do. The reality of it is... I bet demons make horrible jambalaya.

Natural Selection

I don't like myself. I don't think anyone likes themselves. If they do, they're lying. People that seem to like themselves are the ones who are most guilty of self-hatred.
Many people feel a dislike for the outer things, such as their hair, their butt, their clothes and whatever vain thing you can think of. I'm guilty of that too, of course. At times I can look in the mirror and vaguely agree that I look okay, spin one circle and feel gut-wrenchingly disgusted at myself. I wish it weren't so back and forth like that; it can be tiring.
My disgust runs deeper than that. I hate the way I laugh, which is after every sentence I say because I don't trust what comes out of my mouth. It's a laugh done out of nervousness. What a waste of a laugh. I hate my emotions. My own emotions. People run on emotions, we'd be machines otherwise. I hate what I run on. I can't trust my own reactions. Sometimes I get so hurt by something, and I'm angry, and I feel wrong for being that way. I can't even tell if it's a normal reaction. I wish I could be the carefree, happy person that some people want me to be, but I can't keep wearing masks. Its not always a mask, but sometimes. I feel guilty if I don't put it on. I feel guilty for being mad, which makes me sad. I always wonder if I'll forever be sad. Some say you have to make your own happiness. Or it's all in your mind. Mine seems to be broken. Two angers definately don't make a right, but it sure happens often. Now here I am, sitting alone in an empty room. Its always alone. Listening to country... which has to be a sign that I'm depressed. I just want that smile, someone to touch me, make it real laughter and nothing out of nerves. Seems to be about eggs in a basket. I put one in and the rest follow. Only to have them smashed on the ground. Is it normal to live life saving yourself from hurt? Never fully trusting? I suppose in the end it's about saving yourself above others. That's what everyone is doing, bailing out before they get hurt, at the cost of others. You just have to know when to bail. That's my fault, bad timing.
Am I honestly that stupid? I haven't felt this stupid in a while. I feel like everything I do is stupid, every attempt, every gesture, every mistake. I don't know how long I can last like this. I don't want it to happen again, but if its so reaccuring then maybe it's how it's supposed to be. Kind of like natural selection. The dumb and the weak are supposed to die off so the rest can live on. So they can live together, not alone, and be happy for the rest of their long lives.
I can already feel it beginning.