Cleft

The tree grew around Gary and he didn’t struggle, he was glad to be hemmed in.

The walls shot up in growing panels and clicked into natural place,

he was enveloped in the smooth, the woody gnarls on the outside, protecting him from the elements, and a wooden smile etched into his face.

Bill had planted the seed, and when he found Gary set inside so perfect, he wished he’d hacked more heartily with his hatchet.

He imagined Gary like the hazelnut in a toffee, cut in perfect half, and the wooden smile jumped across, rooting, delving, fingers rifling in his nut.

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I did free the woman on the meat slicer, but I can’t remember the details

Last night I was an unassuming character, I don’t even know my name and I saw no mirrors.

Invited into a family home I saw the mother on a meat slicer, like hell, constantly being sliced and forever zipping back together, screaming for mercy while father did the taxes or read the paper or smoked.

The daughter rode a plastic toy car outside and begged me to release mother, who only came out for respectable dinners or meetings with the father’s colleagues.

Without the means or the strength to act, I left things as they were and went to the father’s place of work.

I found a culture of silence and built on disturbing risk. Most of the employees had something viciously wrong and the world was strange and liquid and changed depending on the viewer’s mood.

On the bus back, I saw a boy (I was no longer anyone, just a floating observer).

Something was wrong was his friend, something had been lost. So he threw him out the back window with a tearful swiftness.

The world changed around us as he thought about what he’d done.

Memories they’d had materialised in the clashing colours of the sky.

The love unsung he’d harboured for him, flaunted in the giant bananas that were strung up from somewhere as they came together to form hearts, and their favourite burgers were sun-blockingly huge above the orange landscape.

Just before I woke up, the boy was trying to soothe himself but failing, and his eyes flickered like flies. He said “Remember, there’s no god.” out loud, as if that made any difference.

Ooooooo (Horror ooo)

Swollen heads and black eyes

Vacant and cruel

Wobbling toddlers without mercy

Probing waxy fingers

Beckon,

Expressionless narrow mouth set in grey

Bulbous head atop sympathetic frailty.

Limited imagination in our consciousness creates

Alien cliches.

How long have we been falling back on vampires for?

They’ve been “sexy”, they’ve been Gollum Nosferatu

Long in the tooth blood-sucker.

Please mate.

Frigging werewolves again

Prowling around in their tartan,

Classic mirror scene seeing the beast within

Oh the horror,

The imaginable, overdone horror.

Monsters who blend in,

Vacuous gases threaten,

Illness, bacteria, death embodied.

Fear is a creeping darkness

In context.

Little girls with discordant chimes and knives,

Standing over the safe place – the bed, the intrusion of it all,

The relative vulnerability of the sleeping figure and the loomer poised to take violent action.

The suspense of a hand on one’s shoulder, chilling.

Strange.

Literally anything can be scary, if there’s enough of them, or very few –

Just the wrong amount.

Puppy – lovely.

Skip full of puppies – scary.

Fly – OK, mildly gross shit eater.

Drawer full of flies – disturbing.

Forest – normal, only potentially frightening

One singular tree growing through a house or out of someone’s face – well, you get the idea.

An idea can make anything uncanny, I’m looking at jars now, The jars on my brother’s shelf – they’re filled with seeds, and grains and things.

But imagine if they were filled with souls, or eyeballs, or whole worlds and the power to shake the world consumed someone and drove them to a frightening place where they became the voyeur of the jar people,

a little god, and they did experiments and felt the guilt but carried on, and took it out on the innocent jar people and crushed them.

Then that’d be scary-

Or it could be scary, with the right filming and the right acting,

(Grimace in the right place,

Play up that moral struggle and settle on what no one wants you to do)

the right lights and unnerving music.

I wrote this before bed, how silly of me. Typical.

Sickening behaviour by the protagonist once again.