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A Collection of Three Really Old Short Stories

I wrote these for my creative writing class and I found them archived in my emails dating back to 2004. I can’t remember the teacher’s name, but it was a creative writing class I took at Station Camp HIgh School in Gallatin, TN. The school was only a few years old, and we only had around 8 students in the entire class.

We were often tasked with writing things and sharing them in class. Most of the things I wrote upset the teacher, and I even had a meeting with the principal once over a writing I did about tentacle porn and sexual assault. Yes, I was writing about tentacle rape in high school. I’m not exactly proud.

I proof read these before publishing this article, and let me tell you– these don’t make any sense at all. I don’t know what I was thinking. Something was obviously a bit off in my head back then for sure. I was pretty morbid, to say the least.

It was like, I wanted to be sexual but I just ended up murdering everyone all the time? I don’t know. These are kind of problematic to be honest. Don’t read if you’re sensitive to juvenile gore porn, I guess? I’m having a really difficult time making sense out of these. There’s three of these. Enjoy:


Color Me Blood Red

Once I was a man who wasn’t afraid of saying “I love you.” After a series of events that have affected my way of thinking, I am reluctant to utter words like those any more. I always seemed to attract the crazy girls. Having sex with a crazy girl is like killing one; you feel mutual regardless. You explain to them your feelings, but the brains of these women are warped. The perceptions are completely different from average girls. Reality is obscured with delusions implanted into their brains during a spoiled childhood.

We stood on the balcony of her house, staring at the lovely night sky. I stood behind her with my hands wrapped across her like a reverse hug. We danced to the tune of nature – swaying – in a rhythmic motion. I moved my mouth close to her ear, but I maintained wordless dialogue. My tongue massaged her ear as she smoothly exhaled her breath. I left a trail of kisses down her neck and on the front of her chest. She put her hands on my hips and pushed me away.

“I’m just not ready for this. I mean, maybe we should just hold hands?” Molly said, leaning against the balcony.

“You’re right, it would mean more if we waited.” I ingeniously retorted. Inside, I was damaged, but my physical appearance denoted joy. If I appeared as if I wanted to wait for more from my girlfriend, resistant, she would want me more. It seemed ludicrous that we’ve been dating for four years and this is as far as I am allowed. That night, we ended up holding hands staring at the stars in the sky, aimlessly trying to identify constellations.

I went home at 10:30. My parents were out of town, but I had to be home to keep a watchful eye over my lovely sister who was, coincidentally, named Molly. Our parents were really quite restrictive. They wouldn’t let her go anywhere because she’s only fifteen. She isn’t allowed to watch TV because the main set has a parental lock on it, preventing anyone from watching certain channels. She would always watch music television, and the fashion channel. Occasionally, I would catch her watching the comedy. The light was on in my room when I walked into the house; my sister was watching television in my room. She knew that irked me the most, but this was common for a little sister. She wanted to bug me and drive me crazy. It worked.

I walked into my room, and she quickly turned off the TV and jumped out of my bed. She was in my covers, my bed, and watching my TV. She appeared a little flushed, and her hands seemed wet with a strange liquid. Just what exactly was she watching? What was she doing underneath those sheets? Thoughts ran through my head – she was pleasuring herself. She didn’t seem embarrassed; in fact, she seemed as if my unexpected appearance stimulated her.

“Big brother, you didn’t let me finish. Now you’re going to have to help me.” Molly said.

I ignored her and sat on my bed – on top of the covers, mind you. She walked over towards me and slowly placed her hands near my groin. I didn’t know how to feel, or what to think. My own sister was feeling me up! She proceeded to unbutton my pants. She rubbed where my boxers were, trying to stimulate my genitals. She then grabbed my hand and forced it into her skirt – she wore no underwear.

I couldn’t blame my sister for harboring feelings for me; I always had a secret crush on her because she shared my girlfriend’s name. I had become quite frustrated lately that my girlfriend is so conservative with her body. We’ve been together for four years, and I can do nothing. My sister gets laid more than I do, and she’s three years younger! I felt angry – I would have sex with my sister. I’d do anything to get rid of this excess stress, and sperm.

Her young nubile mouth felt like a bed of flowers as she massaged my genitals with her tongue. I told her to stop. Then I took off her clothes and threw them on the floor. She took my pants off as well. I laid her on my bed, legs spread open. I felt like I was going to ejaculate at the sight of her private parts. I closed my eyes and went inside her.

We made sweet love that night. Could you really call it love? Something as sick and twisted as lying with my own sister is not love. Perhaps it is the same reason why some men are homosexual. Their fathers never loved them, or weren’t around. In effect, the individual sought ‘love’ from a man, but since the need for ‘love’ was so strong from the lack of a fatherly figure, he sought sexual relations with a man. In other words, because I couldn’t get laid I had to have sex with my sister to fill that huge gap within my heart. I’ve always known Molly was a tramp, but I didn’t know she’d go this far. I’m not sure who I’m more disappointed with: myself or her.

Guilt – like coffee, almost spills over the edge of my cup.

I couldn’t handle the fact that I had sex with Molly. It wasn’t really guilt; it was an amazing release of tension. One I never felt before – a sense of freedom flowed inside me. I had to kill her. If she were to let this slip, I would be doomed. I am eighteen and she’s merely fifteen. How could I not create a mess? The only question that raced through my mind as we silently stared into each other’s souls after a night of long arduous “self-expression.”

I forced a pillow over her face. She kicked and screamed; eventually, she stopped moving. I checked her pulse – dead. I looked at her face; all the muscles in her dead body were relaxed (more so than humanly possible whilst amongst the living), and the visage she maintained was angelic. I wanted to screw her again.

What are you thinking!? She’s dead! Oh well, it would not hurt to try would it? My brain was Satan, or I was possessed. The boy I used to be would never think these thoughts. I wanted to screw, so I spread out Molly once again and “expressed” myself once again. The mysteries of life are astounding, even after death she was still the angelic little sister that I remember. Whore.

I looked at her coldly and said, “Do you need a cigarette?” She didn’t answer. In my delusional state, I grabbed her by the neck and shook her violently. I was so neurotic at this point that I had no idea who was alive, who was dead, nor who was a boy or girl.

If you could call it unconsciousness then it is supposed that one could assert I regained consciousness thirty minutes later. I was of sound mind? I put my clothes on, and carried Molly to my car. Who would be able to help me? My girlfriend, she loved me. She loved me in such a way that she didn’t want to spoil sex for me. I called Molly on her cell phone first and said there was something important I needed her assistance with. This would be easy, since she owned her own house (rich parents pay for it, but she denies it).

“Molly, there’s a dead body in my car.”

She didn’t know what to say, but at least she was calm. Her eyes showed bewilderment. She asked, “Well, who put him there?”

I retorted: “I did, it’s my sister.”

“Why in God’s name did you kill your sister? You’ve lost it.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her, it’s just that – that, “I stuttered, “I had sex with her. I felt guilty about it and decided I had to kill her. Only you know, my parents won’t be back home for two weeks.”

Molly paced around nervously for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, she said, “I know why you had sex with your sister. It’s because I wouldn’t do it with you, right? Let’s make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen again.” Molly grabbed me by the hand and walked me to her couch. She took her clothes off and forced my hand on her breasts. She took my pants off, and then took hers off also. I didn’t feel guilty amidst our love-making; instead, I felt like this was an apology.

Apology accepted.

She waited after I calmed down to comment, “I say we burn her, and we run off together.”

I looked at her beautiful face. I smiled.

I arose from my position on her bed and proceeded to walk out to my car. Molly got in the passenger seat, and I drove to the lake. We dumped the other Molly into the water and watched her body float on. Molly let out a sigh of relief and sat back in the car, lighting a cigarette. Along with her, I was joyous that this night was coming to an end. I turned on the ignition and began to back up out of the lake area. Molly said, “I love you.”

I made a sigh of passive disdain. She was unsure whether I was sad, stressed, or playful. Perhaps I was a little of all three. I was certain of one thing: she had to die. I decided this on the way back to her house. She didn’t respect me; she wanted my sister. That’s the only reason she helped me. I am certain of this.

“I’ll go make some coffee; caffeine always helps us clear our minds, right?” I announced, walking towards the kitchen.

Where’s the biggest knife? Which will make that wench bleed more?

She obviously heard me searching for stuff in the kitchen. “Honey, you’re overreacting. I love you, and you love me. I know you’re upset right now, but there’s no reason to kill anymore than you already have.” Molly leaned forward and embraced me with her arms. She squeezed me tight; she needed me. I needed her because she was the glue that could keep me together when my spine was broken and all my pages fell out. It took the sacrifice of my sister to help me understand the fallacies I act out in my life. Perhaps now I can feel happy.

I blinked several times. I knew my feelings were genuine, but I knew they wouldn’t last. She would fail me again, and I would fail myself. I pulled out the knife I found from the kitchen and stabbed her in the back while she was embracing me. I threw her on the couch and began to laugh.

“I love you, too. I need you, too. Let’s be together, forever.” Then I ripped her clothes off and took mine off as well. She was moaning in pain. With each thrust, more blood spilled onto the couch. She stopped. I realized it was all over, there was no one left to love, not even myself.

I was jealous of her blissful face that signified death. I couldn’t stop making love to her, I wouldn’t accept that she was gone, but it felt like there was no love between us. I left her lying on the couch – painting a picture of red on a white canvas.

Meandering over towards her kitchen cabinet, I searched for her pills. Molly was a bit on the neurotic side also. I took a handful of antidepressants and digested them. I sat on the couch with my dead girlfriend. I turned on the television to a romantic comedy—her favorite—only to sit back down to cuddle next to my beautiful girlfriend.

I realized then, she was the most beautiful girl I had ever met. I am lucky to have such a girl. “Goodnight, Molly,” I said as I closed my eyes, “if you dream—dream of me.”


I am at a loss for explanation even today, but one day my sister and I had our parents stolen from us. The only thing the two of us recall was a loud crash. My sister seems to have a different recollection of the events. She accounts that we were taken from our parents and that they knew about it for quite some time. Perhaps I was young and naïve, but I refused to believe my sister. The two most loving people I ever met would not willingly send us away.

We now live in some kind of strange secluded ward. I see other children my age, but there are none any older than my sister. She is seventeen, and I am twelve. The two of us are kept in keen shape; we exercise daily. I like to play, but what they make us do is pretty harsh. It takes all the fun out of it. Maybe they’re right, and we are all winners.

I am not cynical, but the people in charge just don’t allow me to be optimistic. I see the looks on the faces of kids who become chronically ill. They have that cursed look on their faces, as if they know their fate. Grandpa had that look before he passed away. Sister says that’s because he didn’t know where he was going when he died. Perhaps these children are afraid of going back home. I always see them clean out their rooms and refer to the sick child as a “rotten tomato not fit for harvest.” I didn’t know what it meant, but my sister thought she had an idea.

Sister was smart. She knew what the doctors and nurses that took care of us were up to. We were important. “Why else would they monitor everything we do?” Sis would say. A year ago, the age group above my sister had become sleepy all the time. Sister said they were catatonic. That meant that they were becoming like slugs. I poured some table salt on one of them. Nothing happened.

Then next year, the same thing began to happen. My sister was in that age group and had become like the rest, a slug. She wouldn’t talk to me anymore. My sister was nothing. She would simply stare at me. It must’ve been something they put in her food. One day I gave her a hug, because I couldn’t bear to see her this way. She drooled on my shirt. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. A doctor’s voice said, “It’s time for your sister to go.”

I acknowledged the request and let go of my sister. The doctor put her in a wheel chair and rolled her off to a curtained off area. Being that I was twelve, I was somewhat small in stature. I followed the nurse and hid behind a cupboard. Two doctors came in with some strange shiny metal objects.  My sister was already in a hospital scrub because that’s all she had due to inability to change herself.   The doctors injected some kind of serum into her thigh. They took her shirt off, and put two blue sheets on her chest.

After some time of poking at her with those strange pointy objects the doctors pulled out a pancake shaped object. It dripped with blood. I was horrified. The doctor said, “Oh – this one’s ripe for harvesting!” He put the red pancake on a metal table. He continued to take out more organs, I assumed, from her body.

“All right, we got the parts we need. Let’s transfer it over to Section B.” A doctor said as he began to push the cart with my sister’s body on it.

“Stop!” I yelled out from behind the cupboard. “That’s my sister!” That’s all I could think to say – I was so disgusted at the sight of them dissecting her.  

The doctor sighed and said, “Look kid, we’re doing this for the good of the world. It’s not like she was hurt. People need organs. Everybody should have the organs they need. You and your sister both have good bodies for harvesting. We harvest your bodies and sell them.”

“So—so—so you killed her?” I managed.

“Not necessarily.” The doctor snapped his fingers and motioned his assistant to bring him something. “This here is your sister,” he said, holding a baby. “We cloned your sister. She’s still alive. You ought to be lucky you still have a few more growth spurts before you turn seventeen otherwise I’d throw you away with the rest of the rotten crops.”

“You’re not mad at me for watching?”

“Well, this is about the third time you’ve caught us doing this to your sister – so I don’t think this time is any less or more special. You’ll be fine. Remember, it’s for a good cause.” The doctor winked, and I then felt a sharp prick on the back of my neck as another doctor put his hand on my shoulder – as I finally lost touch with reality.

Cut and Paste

I licked the blood the blade as I gently pulled it out from his chest. I promised I wouldn’t cry. I promised I wouldn’t run away this time.

So I stood my ground holding a handkerchief to his mouth in order to keep him from screaming out in joy. He lay prostrate on the floor, squirming at an odd pace. The towels I placed underneath him soaked with blood.

I don’t remember how long I was maintaining him. His muscles relaxed and he ceased breathing. Now is the time – I cleaned him up. I shaved him, cut his toenails, and cleaned all the excess blood from him. As always, I carry my kit with me. I stitched his wound with my delicate fingers.

~Frown~ This is not the way I want to live. Women – They’ve abused me my whole life, now I can abuse them. Hurting men is like hurting myself – in a different way. I receive no satisfaction from doing this. I shouldn’t kill anyone. Murder only makes the amount of individuals suffering much less. They need to live in misery. Sadness is a disease and it spreads likewise. If I kill – who will spread the sadness I inflict upon them? I want the world to feel my misery.

But that’s what everyone says. Do something different.


The home life was saturated with tears. I would come home crying each day. Kids on the bus were all the same as I was now. Not as developed, though. They all had this deep void from within them, and an instinct to fill those painful gaps. To vanquish those insecurities they would treat me like nothing. In order to hide the feelings of nothingness, they forced me into becoming null and void. Everyday I would allow my emotions to get the best of me. I would sob and sob. I liked it though. This kind of pain was all I knew. This kind of pain is who I am. I am comfortable this way.

I like being hurt and I strive each day for a new kind of pain.

The best part of all was when I came home. Nobody cared. I wanted them to help me. I didn’t know how to start helping myself, and my home life was just as useless as I was. How could I help myself? I could undo what was done. Take what was broken and glue it back together. I am that glue. I will bind myself between things and bridge them together. That doesn’t work!

I drop the ball and it bounces. It goes to the Earth. Everything is magnetic and becomes bigger. Black holes attract more and more mass – as do other large mass objects. I will pull you towards me, and we shall become on. The unity of our suffering will be glorious.


I licked the blood from the blade as I pulled it out from her thigh. She hadn’t screamed – I had her unconscious. I made sure that as little blood as possible gushed out.

I opened the wound with my fingers, and held it open. In my kit I had a cold thermos of my own semen. I was frightened at first, but I kept a cool heart because this was all for a good purpose. I filled the needle dropper full of my liquid and squeezed it evenly over her wound. It reminded me of thanksgiving, cherry pie with whipped cream. I was never a fan of this particular variation of pie.

I don’t like the smell.

As if calling my name, I grabbed the needles and stitches. I closed up her wound. I wiped off the excess blood and semen that squeezed out from her wound. Tastes like metal. I couldn’t place it, copper perhaps?

This must’ve been the tree of life and her blood – the forbidden fruit. Why else would it taste so lovely? And Man is the tree of wisdom – the other forbidden fruit. No wonder they were outlawed to Adam and Eve. God is truly wise.

Everybody wants to experience happiness. Through these means we may become as one. Together we shall be free from our chains of sadness. Through our sadness we will become one. Through these wounds I inflict I will become one with mankind. They will join me in my sadness, and with this we shall all claim eternal happiness.


So on and so forth I continued to cut and paste society. Random women, children, and on occasion (when I felt like hurting myself inside) I would perform on men. The news spread and all became fearful. Nobody ever died because of what I did to them. I wrote a few anonymous letters explaining why I did what I did.

More and more people began to be abducted and had their thighs cut. People began to make a religion out of my beliefs. The whole world began to mix the fruits from the tree of life and the tree of wisdom together. Everyone loved the pain. Those who had been inflicted seemed at ease, but still maintained a somber, forlorn disposition. Were they happy inside? How would I know?


The abused have a special way of thanking the abuser. A self-endowed affinity for he whom inflicted the undeniable suffering is exactly what that abuser becomes. Filling the void – both can be at ease.


I woke up, and there was a wet cut on my thigh. It was sticky, but it was clean. I could something sliding around inside of me.


She wanted me to do it to her. I gave up this lifestyle, I was on vacation. The smile on my face needed no more aid.

“You’ll mean nothing me, but I’ll do it.”

I reached for the sedatives, but she pulled my hand back. She said, “No, I want feel it.” I stared at her blankly. No excitement: nothing felt on my end.

“Make me bleed!” She yelled as I slit her thigh. I put my liquid on it and rubbed it together with her blood. I stitched up the wound, but wiped the remains with my finger at allowed her to lick the two fruits.

“Thank you.”

“What does it taste like to you?”

She smiled and said, “It tastes like the future. A thousand happy endings stimulating my taste buds all at once.”

“So then, you have attained wisdom and life?”

She frowned at me. “For your sake, no.” She then took the knife I cut her with and stabbed herself in the chest. She was smiling.

I stared blankly at this scenery – then I smirked. I don’t know how to be sad anymore. It’s wonderful. If I could only be as happy as she!

Who is she?

I pulled my knife out from her chest. “She sure appears to be happy.”

Politely nodding my head towards her to show respect I pried open her mouth. I poured the rest of my fruit into her mouth. “I won’t be in need of this anymore.”

So I lie next to her. Holding her hand I take the knife and thrust it into myself.

Everything faded into darkness. I was in limbo, but then a light appeared before me. I saw Earth; she was beautiful.

“Who are you?” I asked.

~I am you. We are all you~.

“Is that so. . . Well then . . .” I trailed off as everything faded to darkness once more. A curtain of red bled over me almost as if I were pulling a blanket over my head.

Eternal sleep. At least I’ve done something with my life. I smile one last time. It’s numb. It’s all numb.




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