Twisted 50 Volume 1

by Wessell, Stephanie

  Here she stands, glued ankle deep in the sludge, totally helpless, as the love of her life slips through the murky surface.

  It is all her fault! Every time she does her makeup she sees her scars, a constant reminder of how she’s responsible for everything bad that happens to Liam.

  He is sliding deeper now. It is a slow, deliberate but inevitable action. He can hear the stupid bitch screaming his name. He’ll have her when he gets back.

  Her hands cover her face as she screams for help. She can no longer bear the sight before her. Liam and her ring have vanished beneath the bubbling surface, and she feels the icy chill of bereavement of lost love. Poor Liam; he was denied his one opportunity to shine, to give her the ring in the middle of a romantic field. All because she got stuck in the sludge.

  The sum total of human misery fillets her soul as Liam had filleted her face. Beneath the surface Liam is still sinking, the chemicals burning his skin. It should have been her! Dozy cow.

  He is sinking and sliding. It isn’t fast, but it is inexorable. He cannot get a grip on anything. A rock smashes his knee but as he reaches to grab it, to prevent him drowning further, it slips through his fingers. He can taste waste and manure now. The tangs fill his senses as if he has spent his entire life eating shit.

  The human brain offers him solace: this isn’t really happening. He’ll be out of this if he stops panicking. By tonight he’ll be back down the local with Uncle Tommy, having a laugh. All his problems will be at the bottom of this pit and he’ll have that fifty grand under his bed.

  Suddenly, his bedroom seems like a million miles from here, a safe place on another planet.

  In a single flip his brain moves from comfort to terror. A realisation that this is a one-way journey. That it has always been a one-way journey. Not when he took the screwdriver to Chantelle’s dumb, soft features, but from when he was a kid. From when he was born. He’s been set on a single dirt track road, without headlamps or a map, left to bump over one mindless event after another. There was always only one destination.

  He screams, but his open mouth hoovers up the grim contents, and no sound can be heard. A long thin pole has sliced through his thigh. It halts his leg but his body continues its descent, spinning him around so he is now upside down in the oddly warm scum. He reaches down into the black depths for leverage but there is nothing for him to push back against.

  Over sixty years of decomposing animals and shit envelops his being. His last thought is: Stupid bitch. Why wear those fucking shoes out here?

  Do Blastocysts Dream of Foetal Sheep?

  by Alex Thompson

  Awareness came at once like a spotlight turned on in a pitch black room.

  “Where am I?”

  This new consciousness attempted to get a better idea but was restricted both by its surroundings and its limited form. It tried to look around but saw nothing but blackness.

  It could hardly move as it was nothing more than a collection of cells.

  It could not see as it didn’t yet have the light sensitive cells that would eventually form eyes.

  It could not scream out in fear as it didn’t have a mouth.

  *

  Three interminable months passed as the blastocyst developed into a foetus. Sat in the vitreous amniotic fluid, it did the only thing it could do – it listened. Listened to the rhythmic timpani drum of its mother’s heartbeat.

  Strained to hear the muffled conversations in the outside world mere feet from where it lay.

  And the foetus learned.

  Its nascent cognition rose in leaps and bounds. It yearned to be free from its amniotic prison so it could open its thin eyelids and see the world.

  *

  The foetus was deep in sleep when it felt something rushing forwards with great speed. It strained to see through the liquid that surrounded it.

  A glint of steel. The foetus scurried backwards and pressed against the sides of the womb, screaming soundlessly all the while.

  A vicious-looking curved blade passed mere millimetres from the foetus’s partially-developed face. The blade hung there as if suspended in space – unbeknownst to the foetus, it was in fact the hook from a wire coat hanger.

  The hook finally retreated from whence it came, fading from view.

  The foetus gathered its thoughts. Maybe this was an exploratory probe to confirm whether it was ready to leave. Although the foetus was only a few inches tall, it felt sure that it was equipped for the outside world. It was ready.

  It felt the hook approaching again and – despite itself – tensed instinctively.

  The hook lunged upwards, faster than before, then yanked left and right like an animal attempting to free itself from a steel trap. The foetus threw itself backwards in an attempt to avoid the mindless thrashing – it now felt sure that this would not stop until it had been churned back into nothingness.

  *

  The foetus decided that the only course of action would be to escape. The outside world was an unknown but at least it would be able to run – here, it was trapped with no means to defend itself.

  Before it could make good its escape it would need to remove the umbilical cord, which limited the diameter of its movements like a dog chained to a stake. The cord had been a lifeline, supplying nutrients and removing toxins. But now it was a noose around the foetus’ neck.

  The foetus swam through the thick fluid over to where the cord met the placenta. For the first time, it cursed its rapid development – it could have swum faster had its fingers and toes still been webbed.

  Its plan was to bite and tear its way through the cord using its budding teeth and paper-thin fingernails, but this would entail severing two arteries and a vein, leaving it without a source of oxygen until it reached the outside world. Again, it cursed its growth spurt – had it still had pharyngeal arches perhaps it could have force-started them into developing into gills, then used them to breathe until it made good its escape. No such luck.

  Steeling its nerves, it gripped the cord tightly, feeling the fibrous tissue in its hand.

  The foetus bit down.

  *

  Sometime later, it had finally torn through the cord itself, leaving the arteries and vein naked and exposed. It gripped them tightly and felt the blood pulsing beneath its fingers.

  The fleshy tissue of the vein gave easily. After a brief pause, the foetus tore into the walls of the arteries, gnashing at the thicker elastic tissue, blood filling its mouth.

  Finally, the task was complete – it braced against the womb wall then kicked out, propelling itself forward. It glided at first, then swam downward to continue on.

  Its vision began to swirl and its movements slowed as it ran dangerously low on oxygen but the foetus could sense the exit ahead so continued forward using its last vestiges of energy.

  *

  Its head burst forth and the foetus greedily filled its lungs with air before looking around. Mountainous folds of skin clamped its body tightly, and it wriggled free.

  With no amniotic fluid to slow its descent, it free fell downwards and landed with a thud on the cold, hard floor.

  It craned its head to see when it had originated from and its mouth opened wide in amazement – towering above was a gargantuan woman.

  She looked down, eyes widening as she saw a three-inch-high foetus standing in a puddle of fluid on the floor and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

  The foetus held its hands out in supplication. It wanted to placate her – but even if its vocal cords had developed, there was no chance of her hearing over her own screams.

  She snatched up a wooden meat tenderiser from a counter top and brought it crashing down. The foetus scrambled to avoid being obliterated, its feet slipping in the fluid – it felt the air on its naked body as the tenderiser crashed to the ground, missing by millimetres.

  “Does my mother really mean to kill me?”

  Then it realised – the curved blade had been wielded by her as well. And she wouldn’t stop u
ntil it was dead.

  The foetus bolted, arms pistoning by its sides as it ran for freedom. The tenderiser smashed to the ground again and again as the foetus zigged and zagged to avoid being flattened, its tiny heart pounding in its chest.

  It spotted a hole in the skirting board and sprinted towards it, hoping it was large enough.

  Its mother closed the distance between them, dropped to her knees and raised her weapon high into the air.

  Seeing its only chance, the foetus slid across the tiles like a baseball player into first base, leaving a trail of fluid behind it.

  The foetus slipped through the gap as the mallet slammed against the wood just behind it.

  It heard its mother rise to her feet and leave the room.

  It was safe – for now.

  *

  It was cold within the walls.

  Afraid to leave, the foetus sat with its severed umbilical cord around it like a fibrous scarf.

  It was becoming impossible to ignore the gnawing hunger in the pit of its belly.

  Another concern was the intermittent scratching it could hear. Only a small sliver of light came through the hole in the skirting board, and the foetus couldn’t make out the source of the noise through the gloom no matter how hard it strained.

  *

  Hours later, and near delirious from hunger, the foetus heard a noise behind it and turned around sharply. It gasped in alarm.

  How had it not heard this creature approach?

  A monstrous rat loomed over the foetus, its maw wide open to reveal yellow rotted teeth. Its front claws cleaved the air.

  The foetus moved to run, but tripped over its own feet and fell backwards. Edging away, immediately its back pressed against the wall – there was nowhere to go.

  As the rat rose up on its hind legs the foetus bowed its head and closed its eyes. This was the end, and it was ready.

  Its whole body tensed.

  It heard a wet puncture sound and hot blood splashed against its face, but it felt no pain.

  Tentatively, it opened its eyes, expecting the worst.

  With surprise, it saw that, in its panic, instinct had taken over – its umbilical cord had shot out at the behemoth and punctured its torso. The cord hung loosely between them.

  Using muscles it didn’t know it had, the foetus drew the rat’s blood down the cord, feeling stronger and more revitalised with each wave as warmth enveloped its body from the navel out.

  The rat swayed on its hind legs then collapsed backwards, sending dust into the air. The umbilical cord released the rat and snaked back to the foetus.

  Dust motes hung in the air as the foetus cautiously approached the fallen beast. It realised that the rat could still be of use.

  Manipulating one of the rat’s claws like a surgeon’s scalpel, the foetus dragged it down the rat’s chest, folding the skin back as it went until the rib cage was exposed.

  Slowly, methodically, it pulled each rib back until all lay broken on the floor and the rat’s chest lay bloodied and open like a toothless mouth.

  After climbing inside, it picked up the end of the umbilical cord, reached into the ceiling of its shelter, nicked one of the arteries piping oxygen-rich blood around the rodent’s body and connected the cord to it.

  The rat would act as a home, a fortress and a food source while the foetus convalesced.

  *

  For days it stayed, growing ever stronger at the expense of its host. It felt the sluggish pulse of warm blood in the veins around it and the slowing beat of the rat’s heart was a soothing metronome.

  The cord was fat with blood like a well-fed python and colour had returned to the foetus’s skin.

  *

  The veins beneath the foetus’s translucent skin pulsed with life, its eyes bulged with newfound vitality and its vestigial tail twitched in anticipation.

  The rat had expired that morning and was no longer of use.

  The foetus exited the walls.

  Almost immediately, it spied its mother at the other end of the room, busying herself with a phone call. It watched for several minutes, finding her sweet voice calming.

  But that didn’t change its intentions – it couldn’t let her live.

  The foetus fashioned the end of its cord into a loop then swung it like a lasso over the handle on one of the kitchen cabinets. It scurried under a four-seater table and in the darkness it waited.

  *

  Finished with her call, its mother began to walk across the kitchen to leave the room.

  The foetus pulled the cord taut. She tripped and plummeted gracelessly to the ground.

  Her hands splayed out to try and break her fall, but far too late – her wrists shattered on impact. Her chest hit next, driving the air from her body.

  The foetus rushed over as she rolled over onto her back, sobbing all the while. It hurried up her arm, scrabbling at the fabric of her sweater, then scurried across her chest, which rose and fell with each shallow breath. It lifted itself up to her chin.

  She looked past her nose at this three-inch-high antagonist, and the foetus felt sure that it was nothing but a parasite to her.

  The foetus dispassionately watched as its umbilical cord snaked across its mother’s face, the ragged tip caressing her bruised and bloodied lips.

  The cord plunged down her screaming mouth as her eyes bugged out in alarm. Her arms shot up, but with her shattered wrists there was little she could do.

  The foetus watched expressionlessly as the colour left her cheeks, her lips turned blue and comprehension left her eyes.

  Her head lolled to one side and the foetus leapt to the floor.

  It looked up at her beautiful face, silent and peaceful.

  It walked over to her open mouth and slipped inside. There, it curled up on her tongue like a cat on a rug, contented and safe. Survival in this world would be nigh-on impossible even without its mother trying to kill it, but right now that didn’t seem to matter.

  For the first time, here inside its mother, it felt at peace.

  It closed its eyes, and with its partially-formed vocal chords raspily said its first words: “I love you.”

  A Curious Boy

  by Josh Saltzman

  The wind screamed snow into the foyer as The Stranger opened the door and entered in from the storm. He approached the front desk, and asked Deacon’s Mum if they had any vacant rooms.

  “I’m sorry, we’re all full up. The Ivory Inn in Hilltop may have a room. I can call them if you wish.”

  Deacon peered between the railings of the second floor landing, watching The Stranger shake snow from his hat, revealing a moon of a bald head, craters and all.

  “Unfortunately I am stuck. My automobile has found itself lodged in a snow bank a half-mile up the road.”

  This was a lie. Deacon knew.

  He had seen The Stranger from the attic window. The shadowy man had emerged from the woods behind the B&B, and not from the road as he had just claimed.

  Deacon wanted to tell his mother this, but couldn’t. It would be self-incriminating. The attic had been converted into a cosy guest room with a slanted roof that made it feel like a tent. Knowing the occupants, a young couple, were still out skiing, Deacon had snuck in and rummaged through their luggage. Near the bottom of one of their suitcases he found a small velvet box with a diamond ring inside. He held the ring up to the attic window and let the light spread into a million colours. That’s when he saw the Stranger exiting the white capped evergreens beyond the yard – bringing the winter storm with him.

  Deacon had a game, you see. His parents called it a troubling habit. The game was Treasure Hunter. His parents called it snooping through their guests’ luggage. Deacon didn’t mean to be a snoop, it was just that he was a curious boy. Deacon was marooned in his parents’ Bed and Breakfast. He didn’t go to school like the other kids, so each vacationer that resided at Snowy Valley B&B brought with them treasures locked within chests from the wide world outside. His parents called these
treasures private belongings. But to Deacon, these were his to explore. The treasures were never that interesting: clothes, shaving kits, lady stuff, pills…

  It wasn’t the contents that made his imagination swirl. It was the moment. After he’d crept passed his parents, nabbed a spare room key, avoided all the known creaky spots on the stairs, opened the locked guest room, tip-toed to a bag, and just before he unzipped, unhooked, or unlocked the treasure chest – the moment arrived. He’d let the chest keep its secrets a second more. . . then he’d flip the lid fully open to reveal… nothing much.

  The moment would pass, the game of treasure hunter at an end. He’d put everything back, return the key, and promise himself never to play Treasure Hunter again. But when a new guest would arrive, treasure chests in tow…

  Deacon had been caught red-handed on more than one occasion and the consequences went as so: his father would yank him out of the guest room and march him to their quarters; then Father would yell and yell some more; he would make him sit in his room without supper – well, a little supper, but no ice cream; then Father would explain that going through people’s private belongings, especially our paying guests’, is not only forbidden, but is not a moral thing to do. These lectures only made Deacon better at being quiet, better at sneaking, better at knowing what times to go and how to look and touch, but also how to put back, so that it would seem no one had ever touched anything at all.

  *

  “Perhaps we can call Jim Little – he runs the tow in Hilltop.” Deacon’s Mum went for the phone.

  “That would be very kind, ma’am, very kind indeed”, said The Stranger, as he dusted the snow off an ornate box that he cradled under his arm.

  She plucked the phone, clicked the receiver three times and then hung up. “Storm must have taken out the lines. Well, we can’t turn you out in this. It’s only going to get worse. Not that we’re complaining. Almost thought cross-country skiing would be cross-country mudding this season…”