Another old story, although not from the 'missing' ones I found (I still haven't gone through those, only uploaded 50 Shades of Gnome because I remembered it). This one was for an anthology that isn't going to happen now. If you enjoy this story, check out Stef and Tucker on Patreon (and Seth, I will try to have Carissa ready for January, but the first section is free on this website, under Seth). www.patreon.com/Danibrown/posts
 
 
 
 
 
X is for Xylophone
By Dani Brown
 
Zander pulled at his braces. He couldn’t see the vibrant colours contrasting with his wife-beater - the mirror was too dirty. He didn’t have a wife he could beat into cleaning it with her tongue.
He wasn’t that sort of man anyways. He wouldn’t mind a wife though; someone to be clean for, someone worth more than his guitarist. Stolen glances at each other weren’t good enough. But the guitarist had a wife with objections.
Satisfied with his imagined appearance, he left the room. He didn’t bring a change of clothes. Girls liked men with sweat dripping from them in buckets. Body odour with a slick layer of moisture implied that he was working hard, and as such he would work harder to satisfy them and not cum himself until they experienced orgasm. Except few girls ever took up his offers of pleasure.
Guitarists went home with arms linked with various girls and had them all at the same time. Life wasn’t fair. Zander went home to his hands.
He smiled, trying to get a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror (also dirty). Today was xylophone day. Girls liked xylophone, especially if he let them play. Still, the xylophone wasn’t as sexy as the guitar.
He tried walking around with a guitar strapped to his back, which might have workd had not the first girl he encountered asked him to perform something for her. Xylophones, however, were Zander’s speciality – apart from his voice (and what a voice it was).
Zander left his shitty one-bed hovel with his xylophone and various mallets. He had a nice car. He used it to try and pick up girls. The bed they came home to would stab them in the ribs. Zander didn’t care as long as he could blow his load somewhere other than a sock or down the broken glass panes as he looked out the window at the fake breasted beauties passing on by with little ankle biting doggies in their handbags.
He put his xylophone on the back seat. He was meeting the rest of the band at the studio for a rare internet TV performance. The drummer was one goofy looking fuck – loyal to his wife as well. Zander didn’t have to worry about him. The bassist looked like a troll had figured out how to appear in daylight, and would probably take off with any subsequent babies from encounters and cook them in a pot.
It was the guitarist, with his luscious ‘tache curled into perfect little points and secured with beeswax from the rare Himalayan fuzz bee. The wax stolen on the third full moon of the year by a labouring woman and her goat. Zander couldn’t grow a ‘tache unless he wanted a face load of pubes right up to his eyes.
He knew the guitarist groomed himself down there too with equally rare beeswax. There was once a time when the guitarist would let him taste it, if only to suck the herpes virus out of his pisshole. Zander spat his diseased jiz into a cup with a lid and stored it in the back of his freezer. One day scientists would work out a way for men to carry a baby to term. Zander saved it for that day.
In the meantime, there were girls. But none for him. He whistled at some walking past before he started his car. He had a drink thrown at his windscreen for his efforts. He just lacked that magic touch.
He drove with the radio on, the desert sun beating down. The car was hot but a/c was bad for the voice. He drove with the windows down. He might get windswept hair but it would most likely look fucking lame on him. He didn’t have anything girls wanted to run their delicate little fingers through.
Out of nowhere came a tree. Zander ducked. The xylophone wasn’t belted in. It went right through the windscreen and decapitated the offending tree where the front end of the car had collapsed underneath it.
He hopped out of the car. He wasn’t broken. The xylophone was. He needed one quickly. He had to make it to the studio. If the band didn’t make it, if they didn’t sell more merch, he’d be back to flipping burgers with his face covered in grease. He needed a new xylophone. He needed one fast.
Giggling girls found him to point and laugh. They always found him, even on backroads through the desert with the sun beating down. He couldn’t take it any longer.  
“Hey there Zander, how’s your sock.”
It wasn’t a question. The guitarist was so cruel to him. To impress girls, he told them shit about Zander. It didn’t matter about his wife waiting home. Loyalty meant nothing to him. It meant everything to Zander though.
“Need to borrow my tweezers.”
More giggling. They thought they were so fucking witty. Zander was another remark away from total meltdown. He shouldn’t have to take this. He was sick of the guitarist. He was sick of the girls. The girls never wanted him.
He ran at the closest and tackled her like the quarterback of the football team used to tackle him before shoving him into a locker with his ripped underwear over his head. His hidden strength surprised him. It was down to years of carrying around the weight of the world making fun of him.
He didn’t have a small cock! It was huge. The bulge onstage wasn’t socks down his trousers. It was a mild erection. He always had one when he sang. He didn’t need her fucking tweezers. He shaved his pubes and used both hands to jerk off at the end of each show. Last tour, his spunk went all over the guitarist’s pillow while he had his nose in some girl with a fake I.D. It soaked right through to the cheap mattress.
Blood rushed to his cock as he slammed the girl to the pavement. Her skull shattered on impact, splattering his face with brain and skull fragments. Her friend’s giggles turned to screams. Zander didn’t care. His balls were going to burst. He whipped it out right in front of her friends.
They saw. They didn’t believe. The guitarist had lied to them to make his own puny cock seem large. Even if they ran away now and didn’t tell a soul what else they had seen, the image of Zander’s penis would follow them into their sedated nightmares tonight.
Once he had a taste of the girl’s blood in his mouth he wanted more. Her nipples were easily accessible beneath her clothing. In that moment, Zander developed a new-found appreciation for the fashions of the modern twenty-something woman. He’d never had any before. Pictures of fully-clothed women from decades past had always been more pleasing, with their cone-shaped breasts moulded by the right bra and big rear-ends - an illusion created with a petticoat. He assumed that models of times gone by received their cinched waists from tight girdle lacing.
Her dead nipple tasted fine beneath his teeth. He bit it off and swallowed. The flesh was raw but he was reminded of fried chicken beneath a coating of batter or breadcrumbs as it went down his throat. Zander went in for another bite, grabbing her sides.
She was a skinny girl. Twenty-somethings these days hadn’t yet experienced the spreading effect of stable relationships or childbirth. Her ribs had the right feel to them. He had to get to the studio.
 He had to promote his band. If he could make a living doing something he loved, he would attract the right sort of wife. All thoughts of feeling the tickle of the guitarist’s ‘tache as he licked Zander’s asshole could be properly buried somewhere in the region of his pineal gland, and only re-emerge when the senility of old age took over.
He ripped her shirt off fully. Cheap polyester drenched in body fluids tore easily. Her ribs were perfect. He ran back to his smashed car. He didn’t have a knife. It wasn’t very wise to drive around with one – girls these days frowned upon criminal records even for something minor. But then he remembered the little pocket knife attached to his keyring. It was more useful for cleaning underneath his nails than actually cutting anything, but it would have to make do.
Her friends screamed around him as he came back with the keys.
“Oh my god, you killed her!”
Well, obviously. And now he was going to repurpose her ribs. If her friends didn’t shut the fuck up, he would turn their leg bones into drum sticks and sell their organs on the black market. All except their lungs. No one needed lungs like those.
They should have been running away and phoning the cops. Their lives being so full of fake drama and the desire for perfect selfies meant they could only scream and take pictures of themselves with their mascara running down their faces – the look of true fear. Discovery online could lead to a role in a horror movie. That could lead to further, more important roles.
Lots of money with minimal effort. These girls were the sort that didn’t know acting entailed a lot of serious work. Not calling the pigs in was good, although after all of this, Zander could sure go for a bacon sandwich.
He wished they would scream somewhere else before they caught the attention of ramblers or other idiots out in the desert heat. There were always people about, even on the back roads with no houses for miles.
Before he settled down for a bit of improvised grave robbing sans the grave, he slapped each one on the back of the head. The intention was to make each one shut the fuck up for a few minutes at least. The force that he used was enough to smash their upper and lower sets of teeth together, possibly chipping a tooth or two if any of them had a hidden soda habit.
What he hadn’t expected was for a knife to fall out of one of their blouses onto the sun-bleached hard-top. It seemed somebody had a hidden stabbing hobby. Or possibly they used it to self-harm, the pain dulling their insecurities. This seemed most likely. Girls like these couldn’t stand violence. Violence was toxic and must be repressed at all costs, even with violence. How someone managed to keep a knife hidden in tight polyester was anyone’s guess, but Zander choose not to focus on it. He had a knife now. An actual knife instead of a keyring pocket knife would liberate the ribs sooner.
He set to work, the desert sun beating down on him. This would soon turn to stinky work. The fester of decay would get up his nose and leave him heaving into the gutters at the side of the road
Birds called overhead, but he didn’t care that he would soon be competing with vultures or crows. They were welcome to the rest of her body. He needed the ribs.
He made the first incision. He was shocked by a gasp of air. A voice in the back of his mind tried to stir up a memory about the body releasing gases after death, but that voice was lost amongst the images of every zombie movie he’d ever seen. He needed those ribs though. As long as she didn’t bite his face off during her resurrection, he could have them and be hitchhiking away from the scene and to the studio.
Zander held his breath as he cut along her sides. He would need to cut along her deflated breasts. That y-incision - made famous in various horror films he watched in secret while jerking off, imagining the blonde’s mouth on his cock - he needed to make one of those. He’d watched a lot of movies by himself, cock in hand. He knew how it was done.
Another gasp escaped her as he cut along. The ribs were visible. He reached for them but they were stuck to something. Harvesting body parts was much more difficult than the movies made out.
The girls started screaming again. He couldn’t take it. He slapped his hands over his ears.
“Shut up.”
It was no louder than a mumble. It wasn’t heard above their screams. As if by magic, they seemingly grew louder. Only the call of birds circling overhead, announcing to their kin the meal ticket below, could be heard above it.
Tears sprung up in his eyes. Real men didn’t cry. He was a man. He was going to prove it. One of those girls screaming over by the side of the road could shut up and watch as he overcame his problems and put on the performance of his life. She’d fall in love with him and not spare a googly-eyed glance at the guitarist.
He tried to hold back. Snot bubbles rising in his nose had other ideas. He planted his hands in the dead girl’s chest cavity and pulled, snotty tears running in gooey rivers down his face. He could feel the sunlight reflecting off each tear and into the eyes of the girls looking for drama. If he could catch one alone, he would show her a world without drama and selfies.
He looked down at what he was doing. He wasn’t going to watch the humiliation run down his face and bubble out of his nose any more than he already had. He cleared his throat.
“Shut the fuck up.”
For that brief moment in time, he kept the shake out of his voice. Even the birds stopped calling. Everything stood still. He wasn’t a strong man but he could channel strength from everything around him, right down to the worms eating soil below the pavement.
His tears cleared. As they evaporated, his vision became keener. The girls had become silent, if only temporary. The only thing that didn’t improve was his sense of smell.
He cracked her sternum with a tap of the knife. He couldn’t break any other part of the ribcage upon removal. He needed it to make music on internet TV in a little while. Time seemed to stop for him though, giving him a chance to do things right.
He ran his fingers along the outside of the ribcage, pulling up skin and sinew which he threw aside. A bird dived out of the sky and took it from the road. More came down and did the hard work for him, pecking the ribs free of their bounds in a much more delicate fashion than Zander would ever have been able to muster. They knew not to peck at him.
An aura of strength and secret communication engulfed him. The birds managed to crawl inside and liberate the ribcage from that end too. He was free to pick it up.
He shoved some mallets into his back pocket and walked beneath the desert sun. The girls screamed in the distance but he had his xylophone. One of them was sure to be impressed with his playing. He reached the busier road without so much as a hint of dehydration, the fresh ribcage cradled in his arms like a mother holding a new born.
The guitarist sped by. He saw Zander walking out of the desert holding something like a shadow against his chest. He pulled over with a skid. The vocalist was an embarrassment. If he didn’t have such a sexy voice that attracted the female audience (until they saw him, but by then they’d already bought the album), he would have been sacked and sent back to flipping burgers long ago. He needed to see what fresh trouble Zander had gotten himself into and recruit the rest of the band to clean it up before they had to be at the studio.
“Quickly.”
Zander picked up his heels if only for the chance to get lost in the guitarist’s eyes. The blood had dried on him while he was inhaling desert dust. It still smelled fresh enough to make the guitarist’s ‘tache droop and his asshole close over.
“What have you done?”
He looked at what Zander held in his hands. He couldn’t be sure if the ribs were real or not but he had a good idea that they were, based on the blood and overall smell.
Zander’s eyes were different. They didn’t have any sort of glint in them. They were glazed over and dead.
“I replaced my xylophone.”
Zander smiled. There was blood between his teeth. Then he laughed, and the guitarist saw the blood and tissue stuck in his cheap fillings. The laugh was hollow.
That was what really made his guts turn over. Sourness grazed the back of his throat. He swallowed it down and turned the car around.
Zander had a voice. Murder could be covered up. A voice like that wouldn’t be found again for one thousand years or more. He turned his car down the backroad.
Sunlight reflected off something in the distance. He assumed that was Zander’s car. He didn’t know how the man could crash into nothing. As he closed the distance, he saw the front end was caved in, but there was nothing to suggest why.
The sun reflected off the road in that watery mirage you get on long desert roads, giving everything a sinister looking halo. The birds’ screaming sounded like the teenage girls who tried to get backstage at their gigs. He slowed. Random bits of polyester clothing had melted into the road. He stopped the car and got out. Something wasn’t right out here.
A bird swooped down. It had a human face and carried a bit of what looked like an eyeball in her beak (or was it a mouth?).
Zander remained in the passenger seat. He could hear him tapping along on the ribcage. The sound was pure and beautiful.
He bent down, exposing his toned ass to the car. Zander’s longing glance was the least of his concerns. He was looking for a body and some sign of what had caused the car to cave in. There was nothing. The road was smooth and flat. Splatters of blood soaked into it leaving dark patches.
Not even birds with human faces and screams would take off with everything. Any sign of a larger animal that would have gnawed on bones was nowhere to be seen, not even dusty tracks or a distant howl.
The car popped. The dents were coming out. Zander tapped away on his new xylophone as the guitarist backed up, refusing to turn away. Zander’s car was getting better.
The guitarist sat in the driver’s seat of his own car and pressed the gas. He wasn’t going to sit around and watch. He drove straight back towards civilisation.
He was on the main road before he glanced at Zander, still with that dead look in his eyes. His xylophone was new and pure white. In another time and place, it might have been bleached ivory.
He never wanted to see Zander’s car again, and wondered if someone had slipped him something to make him imagine the entire thing. It didn’t explain Zander’s new xylophone though. Best not to think of those things. He focused on the only things he knew; guitar riffs, grooming wax and the feel of the back of Zander’s throat on his cock. 

I thought of this story a lot while writing Sparky the Spunky Robot. It might even be where the garden decorations came from. If you can't possibly wait until February 2019 for Sparky and my videos on my facebook page aren't enough, then try my Stef and Tucker stories on patreon www.patreon.com/Danibrown I'll get the second one uploaded within the next few weeks. 

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50 Shades of Gnome
by Dani Brown
Larry loved his garden gnomes in the middle of each night in a frilly nightdress with matching slippers in a way sure to set off his neighbour’s motion-sensor lights. Every night he would select a lucky gnome to sit on. Sometimes two. And three on the weekends. He would wave his arms about while zigzagging across the garden in a series of clumsy leaps to ensure all lights were on and it was as bright as it would be at noon on a cloudless day close to midsummer.
He hoped his neighbours were watching. This was how Larry made his living while they went to their hateful office jobs and put second mortgages on their homes held together with motion sensor flood lights. He owned his house outright.
He knew his fans watched. Without them he would still be living in his mother’s basement with the smell of festering decay for company. Mould spores clung to his gnomes in those conditions. He streamed his nocturnal activities to an audience of millions in all the world’s time zones for large sums of money and even larger sexual gratification.
He smothered the tips of all the gnomes’ hats in Vaseline every morning at six (this too was streamed online but didn’t attract all that many viewers). He liked the jelly to absorb sunlight during the day so it was warm to sit on in the middle of the night. No one wanted to watch him jump because of an anal chill – not even his neighbours.
He knew he needed to up his show to compete with Octopus Lady. Goat Man showed signs of catching up in the ratings as well. That was a troublesome thought. Goat Man wasn’t anything special, unlike Larry and his garden gnomes. He didn’t know what he could do.
More than anything he wanted his garden gnomes to breath in the air and blood to pump through little veins to an oversized brain. They would offer advice on stealing viewers from Octopus Lady and Goat Man and how to go about it. Years of their hats meeting with his hairy anus made them super-smart. They would be only too happy to oblige – this was their online show too.
If Larry’s gnomes came to life Octopus Lady and Goat Man would be so slack-jawed with awe they wouldn’t be able to stream anything other than flies entering their open mouths and lying eggs on their tongues. Viewers would turn off and count the hours until Larry was streaming a new night’s garden gnome activities.
In the early hours Larry sighed and switched off the webcam after a night of violating his anus and went to bed just as he did every morning. His arse was so stretched after years of sitting on gnomes he could hardly feel it anymore. He was worried he might start leaking butt-juice into his nightdress. He needed something new both for himself and the online audience.
He crawled into his bed still in the same nightie he wore for his show. He kicked the slippers under the wooden frame to collect dust bunnies with the others. He pulled the custom-made blankets over his head and drifted off. The last things he saw before closing his eyes each morning were the gnomes that decorated his duvet cover and pillow. He has yet to save up enough money for the matching curtains but he planned to – if only he could stop adding to his gnome family and collection of lawn ornaments.
Larry only ever dreamed about his gnomes and their ceramic smiles. When he went to bed each morning the television would come out of the footboard via remote control and playback his night in the garden combined with his custom-made bedclothes, he was guaranteed gnomish dreams. In these dream sequences as the sun crept up from behind the hills, his gnomes were turned into supporting actors. That wasn’t right; they’re meant to be the stars.
His garden was visited by a fairy; not a pretty fairy from his picture books which he used as masturbation fodder when the cameras weren’t streaming. He wanted to swallow a real one if one could be found and used this image and the ensuring jealous gnome as he reached climax.
This fairy looked like Octopus Lady. Instead of wings she had tentacles. It was a sight he didn’t want to witness.
At the time of Larry’s dream, Octopus Lady was busy streaming real-time footage of giving herself an enema with puréed tentacles. Her fans often clicked on her page from his once Larry turns off his cameras but he doesn’t know that. No one planned to inform him.
Octopus Lady started to fly, pulsing and flexing her tentacles to move through the air. Larry wanted to vomit in the bushes but there weren’t any bushes; he uprooted them to make way for more gnomes.
Her legs, smooth in soft silk stockings and court shoes transformed into a series of tentacles with oozing boils. Larry’s stomach rumbled its intense disagreement but he couldn’t please it by shutting his eyes as the lids appeared to be missing.
Goat Man was there too. Pus-filled boils exploded out of Octopus Lady’s tentacles so it rained pus in Larry’s garden. Goat Man appeared to enjoy it. He rolled around on the grass and every now and then he would stick out his tongue to catch a blob of pus. Larry, however, didn’t like pus landing on his gnomes – he was the one who had to sit on them. He tried to catch her in a net so he could throw her in a fish tank but no matter how fast he ran she was always out of reach.
The goats sniffed the gnomes’ pointed hats in search of a decent one to nibble on; one that didn’t smell too much like Larry’s arse. They didn’t seem bothered by the pus that fell like snow on a winter’s morning. All goats were ever concerned with was eating; the ones belonging to Goat Man proved no exception.
Larry didn’t like Octopus Lady and Goat Man and he especially didn’t want them fucking with his gnomes, or worse, fucking his gnomes. They were his main competition for the online audience. He didn’t care if they were nice people in person; the risk of them pinching his viewers was too high for any affection towards either to ever grace even his most generous thoughts.
Goat Man preferred to be sucked off by his goats. That was his thing; his gimmick, except on Christmas when he would fuck them each in turn – the entire herd until he passed out drunk and covered in goat spunk, shit and his own semen. He had no reason to be in Larry’s garden with Larry’s gnomes. But there he was, with his dick flapping around through the hole in his crusty tighty-whities. He watched over his goats with a pair of night vision goggles as the neighbour’s flood lights failed to come on, his tongue going in and out of his mouth like a lizard’s as he caught pus, swallowed it and stuck his tongue out again. It didn’t appear to be a conscious action.
Larry didn’t believe Octopus Lady to be a lady at all. Or human for that matter. In waking life he had viewed her stream paying by the minute like a phone call and she clearly had the lady parts but this was dreamland; if it started to rain jelly beans, Larry would have viewed that as real and the world where Octopus Lady shoved octopi inside her as the imposter.
Everything Octopus Lady did while swimming through the air, she did through her mouth due her lack of lady-parts and an arsehole. Larry didn’t find this odd in any way.
She puked giant multi-coloured turds onto his gnomes. Larry wanted to shove them back down her throat but the goats ate them while he watched from a telescope on top of a hill two point four miles away. There was no way he could get to his garden in time to salvage even one piece of rainbow shit.
When he woke up at ten to six, it was like he hardly slept at all. His neck creaked with cold stiffness. His duvet was on the dusty wooden floor. His bladder wasn’t even full like it usually was when he woke for half an hour to smother his gnomes in Vaseline. Thankfully, his sheets showed no signs of dampness.
His dreams were so weird and vivid that he expected to see Octopus Lady swimming and pulsating through the air in his garden as Goat Man’s goats munched on the pointy hats of his gnomes, their fur splattered with rainbow shit. He was more shocked by their absence as the last of the hazy remains of the dream faded into oblivion and then he didn’t know why he was shocked.
All seemed normal when he went outside with his apartment block sized bucket of Vaseline (good for the entire block for a year or more!) to coat the gnomes for his activities planned for once the sun went down. A bucket of Vaseline that large lasted Larry about a month but he couldn’t find an even bigger one.
A gnome winked at him while he covered its hat in goo to melt in the sun while he slept the day away. His sleep deprived brain didn’t register the subtle action. Larry moved onto the next gnome. This one was very vocal about his dislike of slugs and snails sucking butt-juice and Vaseline off his hat (which wasn’t really a hat but a physical part of him). Larry thought he was hearing voices again. He was too tired to realise his wish of living garden gnomes had been granted during his fitful sleep. He crawled back into bed once the task was over. He didn’t bother to wash Vaseline and butt-juice from his hands first; he never did.
He slept soundly and awoke refreshed in the late afternoon. He didn’t have any dreams, or at least any he could recall. His early morning Vaseline trip into the garden lay forgotten with the dreams of the post-gnome sitting.
He didn’t stream his entire life online as tempted as he was to do so. He didn’t think his fans would appreciate watching as the camera steamed up from his epic post-breakfast dump, or even watching him eat a massive fried breakfast every late afternoon to crap out the following afternoon. Between waking up and going outside in women’s nightwear picked up on the cheap from the local second-hand shop, Larry was the average person. In other words he was so normal it was coma-inducing boring.
It was the way he made his living and the enjoyment out of it that set him apart. But that was just a job. A happy and fun job, but a job none-the-less.
He went about his day. He didn’t start streaming until the sun went down, which in the summer that far north was very late. He brought his gnomes into the conservatory during the winter months; his viewers didn’t want to see his cold shrivelled balls.
His day was uneventful. His days often were.
He opened his curtains to watch the sun set. His gnomes were having tea. He rubbed his eyes; his gnomes were still drinking tea. He didn’t know where they acquired the tea cups. He didn’t care. His gnomes were alive! Now his streaming wouldn’t have to compete with Octopus Lady anymore and he could stop worrying about the threat to viewing figures posed by Goat Man.
He was already in his nightdress; a thin cotton number that he picked up new from a discount clothing chain. He didn’t have matching slippers so he put his thinning shoulder length hair in rollers with cream cheese on his face (it gave the appearance of thick night cream) –his audience always appreciated extra effort.
It wasn’t time to go outside but he needed to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He wanted to touch his gnomes before he felt them inside and maybe give them a wet kiss.
Larry just about tripped over his bare feet in his rush to make sure it was real. He wanted to learn their names. He had so many questions formed in his head. It didn’t occur to him that garden gnomes aren’t capable of polite conversation. It also didn’t occur to him that the words in his head wouldn’t come out of his mouth in a way that made any sense. He ran out of his door and across the warm concrete of the patio.
The gnomes weren’t frightened of the lunatic in the blue nightie running and leaping towards them. The man breasts flapping about braless beneath the thin nightie fabric wasn’t a pleasant thing to witness; it made their little stomachs rumble but the gnomes didn’t view it as shit-your-pants terrifying. The older ones had decade’s worth of butt-juice from when they lived in a mould stained cardboard box under the rusty bed in Larry’s mother’s basement – nothing could be worse than that. They continued to sip their tea in tea cups stolen from the old lady down the road like Larry wasn’t there. They didn’t think to steal some perfumed soap and sponges from the old lady.
He was trying to talk but the gnomes didn’t care. He wasn’t even forming words with what came out of his mouth, let alone sentences. It crossed their minds to have him sectioned under the Mental Health Act but that would be too simple.
Once the sun was behind the hill and only the cold dregs remained in their cups they would get revenge for years of being sat on. But first they wanted to fuck with him and wax his arse for his audience of millions. The wax strips they stole from next door and hid in the wishing well, along with other stolen items for tonight’s special show.
The gnomes planned to take control, for now; however, they sipped their tea and watched Larry. Due to their short stature they were unfortunate enough to see up the blue cotton nightie and witness Larry’s floppy cock flapping around with his festering low-hung balls covered in spikey hair. It was nothing they hadn’t seen before but that didn’t make it any easier.
They wished their trousers weren’t painted on apart from making pissing and shitting rather difficult - they fancied subjecting Larry to similar sights. They wanted to sit on his head. Alas, their arseholes were simply too small.
A spikey pube landed in a cup of tea. The gnome it belonged to wanted to bite Larry’s ankle and then let his anus swallow Larry’s head but the later was impossible and he didn’t desire a mouthful of wiry hairs. Besides, the gnomes planned to lure Larry into a false sense of security. When Larry bent down to inspect the gnomes he was given a ceramic kiss instead of having his face chewed off. Chewing off Larry’s body parts would come later.
The motion sensor flood light next door came on, set off by a butterfly so big it belonged in a sci-fi movie. Larry was almost too excited to switch on the webcam and run around with a leap every now and then to set off the rest of the lights. He remembered just as he was about to sit on a gnome with a hat so old and faded it looked pink.
The gnomes discussed how much more indignity they would suffer while Larry was taking care of lights and cameras. It looked like they were about to drink some more of his butt-juice. Now they were living breathing beings, Larry could, at the very least, think of something fresh.
By the time the garden was lit up like high noon the gnomes had finished their tea and smashed the little cups and saucers by throwing them against the wooden fence (the old lady had plenty more to steal due to her apparent hoarding problem). There was a one in fifty chance of being sat on – although Larry may decide to sit on each of them until ejaculation but that was a rarity reversed for bank holidays. No gnome wanted to be the one to connect with Larry’s hairy anus.
They scattered to the corners with hopes of hiding in what few shadows the garden knew. There weren’t enough to secure hiding spots for fifty garden gnomes. The recently purchased remained in the open due to confusion over their surroundings. The older ones knew that garden better than they knew themselves. Each morning after Larry removed the slugs and snails and covered them in Vaseline they would study it with their unmoving eyes. Of course they were blind to the areas not immediately in front of them but Larry exercised no order when displaying his gnomes each spring and would often move them around the garden during the summer months so they all faced different directions (as requested by his viewers). The ones moved most often had the advantage.
It was the gnome purchased from a discount market stall last Tuesday that Larry laid his beady eyes on first. The colours were bright but the cheapness of the paint and the coercive powers of Larry’s butt-juice caused it to peel. Larry didn’t care. This one was his new favourite (favourites could change in a matter of minutes but sometimes a favourite gnome would remain so all summer).
He caught the gnome by its feet and licked accumulated Vaseline from its oversized ears. The viewers at home were able to see the fur that grew out of his tongue and the bread stuck to his teeth. They were the sort of people to get off on such things. Some wished for the very same furry tongue to run along their arse-cracks and lick out shit instead of Vaseline.
Larry half closed his eyes to work the squirming gnome’s ear. It wasn’t necessary but he knew his viewers appreciated it. To the audience on the other end of the camera, they looked fully shut. To them, he was only focused on the gnome. What they didn’t see was the counter next to each camera that would show Larry how many people were streaming in real-time.
Since he attached these little counters his viewing figures increased because he was able to respond to the audience within seconds. He also took requests on his message board and would enact the most popular every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. He expected a sudden surge in viewers tonight due to the life breathed into his gnomes while he slept.
The discomfort of Larry’s tongue was comparable to being filed down by damp and mouldy sandpaper with his breath like a combination of decaying fish and cheap perfume. It took a lot of gnomish will-power to pretend to enjoy it but it was all part of luring Larry to his false sense of security. Even the newest member of the gnome family knew how important the farce was.
So the gnome allowed drool to drip down his ear without compliant. The coating of Vaseline protected him to an extent. He even managed to make some moaning noises. They excited Larry further. His viewers and the gnomes witnessed a tent pop up in his nightie.
Larry would often relieve his throbbing erection by fucking the hole in the bottom of the ceramic gnomes. He didn’t know if the hole was still there anymore. He didn’t know how much the gnomes had changed with their first breaths. He might have to order a fuck cup or two; the thought did nothing to help his current predicament. Old fashioned plain and simple jerking off with a little hand lotion always failed to get him off, unless fairy-princess picture books were involved. It was the gnomes that did it for him and the audience would be bored with his licking soon, if they weren’t already. They wouldn’t want to witness him spanking it while looking at his jiz-stained picture books.
He turned the gnome in his hand upside down, the tea and cake sloshed to the extent that the viewers at home were able to hear. The gnome fancied a chunk out of Larry’s hand; he restrained himself for the good of all the garden gnomes.
To Larry’s dismay, there no longer was a hole in the bottom of the gnome. Little legs with painted on trousers replaced the hollow ceramic. He flipped the little gnome over to inspect its backside. It didn’t occur to Larry that even if the garden gnome did have an arsehole his cock wouldn’t fit inside.
He would have better luck with the gnome’s mouth. To the gnome’s relief, the thought never seemed to occur to Larry. He had a mouth painted in a permanent smile that concealed teeth like iron spikes with decapitated heads on top surrounding an enemy’s castle. The spikes might betray evil intentions or the gnome would give in to temptation and relieve Larry of his man-parts.
Larry’s face conveyed utter disappointment. A split second thought of Goat Man’s goats was entertained in his head before he realised the other gnomes might have a fuckable butthole.
He placed the one he was holding onto the yellowed grass. He would have dropped it in dismay but he didn’t want to break it, he had broken too many gnomes when they fell from his grip.
The gnome ran as fast as its short fat legs would carry it to the bird bath with hopes it would find water in there. Even festering algae-covered water was preferable to a coating of Larry’s saliva seeped beneath the layers of Vaseline so it couldn’t evaporate. Anything would be preferable to a coating of Larry’s spit, except perhaps his semen and butt-juice.
The gnomes in the darkened corner where Larry was heading collectively crapped in their painted-on pants. The smell wasn’t too pleasant with nowhere for the shit to go except down their chunky legs. Larry didn’t notice it over his own over-powering body odour. The viewers at home couldn’t due to smell-o-vision having not been invented.
Larry owned a gnome that stood at nearly four feet tall. This one he sat on once by special request as any further sitting would result in an anal injury that would see him in the hospital. It was a gift from a fan. He was grateful to that particular fan just then, even if he couldn’t remember the name or the face that went with it. If any of the gnomes were going to offer a way for him to blow his load it would be this one. He saw them drinking tea and there were half-eaten cakes on little saucers. If they can eat and drink then they can piss and shit. Following this logic, they require a hole of some variety to rid themselves of the waste (unless it came out their mouths).
The gnome Larry wanted wasn’t in this particular corner. The gnomes weren’t sure which one of them was going to be next. They tried to hide as best they could but Larry cut down and uprooted the hedge six months ago the result of which, hiding was damn near impossible. Larry was too focused on finding the largest member of the gnome family to notice the smaller ones trying to hide.
One of the flood lights went out. Larry activated it again when he leaped and pranced to the next corner in search of his largest gnome. It wasn’t there either.
A gnome that big is expected to meet with trouble when securing a hiding spot. Larry didn’t believe it could have gone far. It must have found a spot amongst the lawn ornaments. Hiding in plain sight was the only explanation he could come up with.
In his haste to get outside he didn’t realise he left the French doors open. Prancing around the garden in his cheap cotton nightie, he didn’t notice the missing boards in the fence either, even though they were brightly illuminated along with the neighbour’s dusty yellow grass (no flouting the hose pipe ban in the middle of the night there, Larry had everything to do with that). A few missing boards won’t let nearly a four foot tall garden gnome through anyways. Garden gnomes were as wide as they were tall often times; nearly four foot tall ones were no exception.
Larry’s prancing became less joyful as panic took over. A belt tightened across his heart. Or was it a tentacle belonging to Octopus Lady? A tentacle seemed more likely. It squeezed and shook  at the same time becoming tighter with each passing second. Something wet wrapped around his lungs and coated them in slime.
More than half his garden gnomes appeared to be missing. The observation threatened to send him over the edge of remotely sane and into the abyss of the ranting and raving lunatic.
Through-out his panic, he maintained his erection. He even leaked some pre-cum into his nightie. His cock felt like it was covered in tentacles with suction cups and lubricated by slime, yet, nothing except thrusting it into the back entrance of a garden gnome would relieve it. If he wasn’t careful he would end up with a case of blue balls so terrible he would need to seek medical attention.
The gnomes who entered Larry’s house through the open French doors were on a mission; not for freedom but for paint. They planned on a striking new appearance to act to their advantage when they shove a decorative flamingo up Larry’s anus and tie him down with whatever rope or twine he kept in the little shed. But no one had seen the nearly four feet tall gnome. He wasn’t with the gnomes in the house; a gnome of that size wouldn’t look pleasant with wet-look black painted to resemble PVC trousers.
The nearly four foot tall gnome decided his best option was to become lost amongst the random selection of lawn ornaments yet close to the flock of plastic flamingos. He knew he was the one Larry wanted. He was the only gnome large enough to maybe take Larry in his arsehole. Attired in painted-on clothing rather than physical fabric, his anus was a big black hole staring like a blind eye at the yellow grass between his legs. It would be only too easy to find.
To prevent the possible loss of his arse-virginity he plugged it with broken crockery and found a spot next to the wishing well. He struck a comfortable pose and looked set to spend his first night alive completely immobile.
The broken shards of dishes in his arse weren’t comfortable. He thought that being made of ceramic and fired in a kiln that broken porcelain wouldn’t hurt or that ceramics couldn’t bleed – he was wrong on both accounts. Through his bleeding discomfort he kept his pose, even when Larry came close to impaling himself on his pointy hat.
The nearly four foot tall gnome watched the freshly painted gnomes emerge from the French doors from his unmoving eyes. Larry was too busy trying to rip tentacles from his body to notice. To the viewers at the other end of the webcam, it looked like Larry was ripping his nightie and tearing off his skin. They found it hilarious. As word of mouth, or in this case, instant message, spread more and more people clicked onto the live stream. Even Octopus Lady and Goat Man watched, more out of curiosity than anything. They were sure to send the link to all their contacts. Larry had such a large audience that early retirement was a feasible option as long as the servers didn’t crash.
The gnomes emerging from the house found hairpins and twisty-ties while they climbed onto the kitchen counter to act as whips and chains. They didn’t plan on using them but they appreciated the dramatic effect offered by such props and thought the internet viewers would too. These gnomes could have won an award for the ugliest and shortest dominatrices in the land. They each took a turn to hiss into a camera. It enticed more viewers.
Larry didn’t notice the gnomes with their wet paint creep up on him. He was occupied with efforts to breathe deep and break the tentacles shackled around his chest and cock. He pranced about with even less grace than usual, it was more stumbling about but he failed to fall as he tore at his nightie and the skin beneath. The online audience didn’t know what screen to watch – there was too much going on in Larry’s garden.
The largest of the family watched the gnomes disguised as ugly pseudo-sex workers sneak up on Larry, taking a chance on moving his body the slightest bit. When the signal came his task was to pull up a flamingo and tip over the wishing well – to spill the stolen contents onto the yellowed grass. A much needed evening shower could have ruined the plan.
The gnomes that escaped into the neighbouring garden made their way back with Vaseline stolen from bathrooms up and down the road. They planned to layer it onto Larry’s body while not lubricating his arsehole. They even found a little bucket to gather slugs and snails in to see how much he enjoyed having them slime up and down his body. The online audience were sadistic fucks; they’ll enjoy watching that.
A painted gnome came close to ending his life underneath Larry’s feet. Larry failed to notice due to two more tentacles wrapping themselves around him each time he succeeded in tearing one away. The gnome scurried away.
The captain of the BDSM gnomes farted with such velocity it shattered the crystal ball beneath his arse, as was the agreed signal. Larry didn’t notice; he was too busy with imagined tentacles and skin-tearing suction cups.
The nearly four foot gnome pulled a plastic flamingo out of the dried clay that served as soil and kicked over the wishing well. His anus swallowed a broken piece of a saucer with the impact of the stained wood on his foot. He impaled himself through the beard and throat on the stick of the plastic flamingo when he fell over in surprise. Larry was now down to forty-nine garden gnomes, or would be in within a few minutes.
The gnomes from the closet corner to the accidental impalement ran over. They could do nothing to save the largest gnome so they uprooted more plastic flamingos as he took his dying breaths.
The gnomes with the Vaseline carried it above their heads. These containers were normal sized – the neighbours didn’t require enough Vaseline for an entire apartment complex. They crept up on Larry and stood next to the gnomes with the flamingos. The gnomes from the furthest corners made their way towards the others until they formed a ring around the newly painted gnomes who formed a ring around Larry.
It was only when the flamingos were held as spears and pointed at Larry that he noticed them. The freshly painted gnomes tried their best to look grim and would have succeeded if they didn’t have painted on smiles with a twinkle in their eyes to match. The gnomes in the ring behind them bared their teeth. Yet, Larry failed to recognise their sinister intentions.
Salty pre-cum escaped Larry’s cock. He was getting too old to jiz more than once a night, he wasn’t even sure if he would be able to get it up again if he spunked down his leg. The thought of grannies sucking diarrhoea off each other’s sagging breasts through extra-long bendy straws threatened his low-hung balls. They began the long journey back inside him as his dick returned to its default state. He saw some of his gnomes had painted themselves and nearly lost it all; grannies couldn’t help him even when he added vomit into the fantasy. He sensed he was about to be dominated by gnomes and how right he was. He succeeded in not blowing his load.
The viewers at home fell out of seats and banged their fists on tables and desks. Some held their breath with anticipation. This was taking too damn long in this world of instant gratification. Unfortunately there was no way to fast forward life.
The gnomes with the fresh paint drew closer to Larry. A flood light went out; it added to the effect owing to the new-found shadows. It even disguised that not all the gnomes with fresh paint received enough coatings of flesh coloured before layers of silver and wet-look black were applied, there just wasn’t enough to go around (once again it was the newer gnomes that missed out). Larry liked the touch added by the pretend whips and chains; he was certain the online audience appreciated the effort displayed by the gnomes.
He sat on the yellowed grass lifting up his torn nightie to feel it stab his arse. Some of his cream cheese smudged during his panic and gnome licking so it ran off his face – sweat cut canyons on his cheeks and formed deep lakes on his forehead.  Rollers had fallen out his hair and were scattered through-out the garden. He was the spitting image of the world’s least likely porn star, yet, more people tuned in.
Forty-nine garden gnomes approached him in two rings. This didn’t at all seem imposing, even with the flamingos held as spears and pointing at him. His dick throbbed with the thought of some gnomish role-play.
The captain of the BDSM gnomes jumped onto Larry’s chest. Garden gnomes, once they become sentient beings weigh a lot more than their size would suggest. The gnome forced Larry onto his back with his weight and pushed the air out of his lungs. Upon being forced onto his back he found it impossible to not straighten his legs. Gnomes don’t like being kicked; they poked him with plastic flamingos. He laced his hands behind his head as a pillow. Larry’s earlier panic lay forgotten at the bottom of his knocked over wishing well (it didn’t touch the unnoticed contents spewed across the lawn or the dead gnome next to it).
There was enough fabric left of Larry’s shredded nightie to create a tent where his cock poked up. The gnomes wanted to vomit their tea and cakes into the proverbial gutter between their legs but swallowed the burning liquid down to once again take up residence in their stomachs. Heaving gnomes would take away from the aesthetic they were going for, unless they puked down his throat.
Larry might have been physically capable of over-powering all forty-nine gnomes. They didn’t want to take any chances; they resorted to psychological domination. Given that Larry wished to submit to his garden gnomes’ deepest desires all it took was extending the plastic flamingos in a criss-cross pattern over Larry’s body. He could have escaped the restraint if he really wanted to but it put control firmly in the hands of the gnomes.
Larry heard shuffling. He couldn’t prevent turning his head to check out what was causing the sound. The captain of the gnomes didn’t take kindly to this and bit Larry’s nipple. Larry somehow managed not to tear the fabric across his nipples in his panic so the captain of the gnomes couldn’t bite off his nipple. He found himself disappointed even as red flowers blossomed across the tattered fabric.
The online audience were divided between Larry and the gnomes by the shed. Larry hadn’t lost blood on the show since he last tried to sit on the largest gnome; the audience were fans of blood. But there might be blood if the gnomes climbing onto each other’s shoulders by the shed fell. The death of the largest gnome proved dying and dead gnomes didn’t revert back to their ceramic form.
Some viewers had a split screen on a smart phone which made it nearly possible to watch both at the same time if they were willing to sacrifice concentration on either. These viewers couldn’t get full enjoyment out of the scenes as they unfolded and had to use the playback feature. 
Larry knew not to attempt movement again – it was all part of the game the gnomes wanted to play. Larry wanted to play it too. To him, this was simply a temporary submission. Once the sky fades from black to grey he would be allowed into his home to sleep for a few hours until it was time to give the gnomes their daily coat of Vaseline. The gnomes knew this wasn’t going to be the case. Even the viewers at home could see what was happening, including the ones with terrible connections.
Larry allowed a stupid-looking grin to cut through the cream cheese. He hadn’t entered sub-space but he thought he would (he wouldn’t). This was the happiest he had been in a long time. His joy transferred onto the screens of millions of viewers across the world.
The gnomes broke into the shed without impaling each other on their pointy hats or toppling over to their death. For all Larry’s security precautions, he wasn’t all that concerned with the shed. The lock on the door was so rusty it was nearly dust. A firm punch and it broke away.
Apart from storing odd bits of things he would never use but bought anyways, it served as a gnome graveyard for all the gnomes broken beneath his anus or when he kicked them over in a rage. When Larry’s garden gnomes were brought to life, so were the broken pieces. Some were so broken they were fly-covered parts but others were alive and moaning in agony. The gnomes wanted to put them out of their misery but they were there for one purpose – something to tie Larry down with (none of the neighbouring houses seemed to have anything while they were gathering supplies for tonight’s live stream).
Waiting around for rope or twine to arrive was boring business. Viewers would start to click off. The hairpins and twisty-ties were meant to be a simple prop designed to make the gnomes appear with more intimidation than their painted on smiles and twinkly eyes would allow. But hairpins and twisty-ties were all they had until the gnomes in the shed arrived back to the circle even with the contents of the wishing well so close, yet, so far because Larry couldn’t be left unattended, not until his submission was complete.
The gnomes with the hairpins passed them to one gnome without a word between them. These were then passed onto the captain. He secured them into a bundle with twisty-ties.
Larry didn’t notice the bundle of hairpins until they entered his piss-hole; he was too lost in relaxation and the quest for sub-space to notice much of anything. The gnomes should have shoved a lit firecracker up there, the pain was the same and just as sudden but Larry wasn’t about to suggest the idea. He did express his physical agony in a series of screams and tears cutting through the smudged cream cheese. He wasn’t in a condition to suggest agreement of a safe word. The gnomes managed to not laugh; gleeful laughter would come later. Despite the excruciating pain, escape didn’t enter Larry’s mind.
The gnomes in the shed returned with twine and post-traumatic stress from the sights they witnessed. Some of these gnomes were broken when Larry sat on them. Others, when he kicked them over during the height of orgasm. And others still when he was angry about a swollen pus-filled infection in his arsehole; a snail was at fault and not a gnome but that didn’t occur to Larry until his guilt-filled tears in the early hours. They didn’t have the time to seek the stories of each dying gnome in the shed.
The viewers at home were concerned for Larry’s welfare; they reserved no affection for him but they didn’t want to see him pass out before the gnomes had tied him up. They typed suggestions of ways in which to preserve his levels of consciousness onto the message board but they weren’t sure if the gnomes would see it or if they could read. They suspected a bit of both.
With twine acquired and tears in the eyes of the gnomes who walked amongst the broken dying, the gnomes felt like genies in granting Larry his wish. They lacked scissors; it was time to demonstrate the sharpness of the iron spikes that hid behind the painted on smiles. Larry didn’t notice the teeth or the twine or anything except the agony erupting in his pisshole.
The twine was more an aide to psychological control rather than a way to keep Larry physically restrained. It was too weak and he was too strong; therefore, the twine was really super weak because Larry wasn’t that strong. The gnomes didn’t know much about Japanese rope bondage but they did their best and were satisfied with the result.
The gnomes that ventured into the shed were in no fit state to make a trip past a dead gnome to the wishing well so another group was sent. They weren’t allowed a rest; they were handed plastic flamingos to keep Larry in line. They were only too tempted to barrage him with ceaseless poking.
Larry didn’t really feel the poking. It was annoyance like a fly at a picnic beneath the pain in his cock. The flamingos and twine weren’t required to keep Larry stationary; the pain was enough but the gnomes weren’t about to take any chances.
Larry didn’t react when the body-temperature activated wax strips were applied and then ripped away from his legs. The gnomes decided to use the remaining strips on his balls. He felt that through the pain coursing from his penis.
He tried to sit up. He tried to cup his balls with his hands. He was poked in the eye with a plastic flamingo stick.
More viewers clicked onto the live stream putting the servers under increased pressure. The gnomes were unaware of the disadvantages of the technology which allowed them to reach millions of people all over the world.
The wax strips were used up but the gnomes did not despair. The captain called for his special weapon that he stole from a house two streets away while Larry was lost in the blissful oblivion of dreamless sleep in the afternoon. The gnomes heaved it up over their heads and helped the captain attached the stainless steel to Larry’s hairless balls.
The cool metal offered mild pain relief. Some of Larry’s senses returned but not enough to stutter the suggestion the gnomes ease up for the night.
A collar was secured around Larry’s neck and twine attached to the buckle. It wasn’t as cool as the metal around his balls. Larry let the first thoughts of no more pain enter his mind.
Feathers danced across the soles of his feet while the stainless steel lost its cool. Larry began to relax again, even with blood staining his nightie and flamingos held over his body.
The twine around his wrists and ankles rubbed the skin away and itched but Larry didn’t mind. He didn’t mind a bit of foot tickling either. It was nice compared to the waxing and the explosive pain in his cock. He tried to focus on both the pleasant sensations at the same time to drown out the agony.
Larry’s breathing became normalised and his pulse rate slowed. It didn’t reach relaxation levels but was close enough for the satisfaction of the gnomes.
The captain jumped on the ball clamps. He nearly lost his balance when Larry sat straight up due in part to too much leeway on the twine (it didn’t snap). In anger, he shoved the hairpins back into Larry’s pisshole.
The online audience loved it. Whenever they thought Larry would pass out from the pain he proved them wrong by taking double.
The plan didn’t include castrating Larry. The clamps were removed as the risk factor was too high. Larry would need to be worked up over weeks to handle them. Larry was pulled back to the dirt whimpering in pain.
Lids were removed from pots of Vaseline. Gnomes hated Vaseline but each of them smeared some onto their hands and wrists and fought for a place to rub it onto Larry. He found the massage to be nice – a pleasant way to make him forget about the pain coursing from his cock and balls.
Everywhere except his arse received a healthy coating. The gnomes even rolled him onto his stomach to get at his back. More was applied until it was at least an inch thick in places. It mixed with the cream cheese on his face and ran into his hair. The grease will remain with him for the rest of his life.
The gnomes wanted to wash their hands but lacked the time. The sun was peaking up from behind the hills. They couldn’t risk anything melting the Vaseline so it ran into Larry’s arse offering him lubrication – his body heat was already at work in that.
A flamingo was selected at random. This one would find a new home amongst the shit in Larry’s anus. The captain shoved it up. Years of sitting on gnomes had loosened Larry’s arsehole but unlubricated, it still caused a howl.
Groggy-eyed neighbours twitched their curtains and blinds to look into Larry’s garden. They learned the location of their missing items and found it worth the cost of a few wax strips or some Vaseline. Larry deserved everything. Some had watched the live stream in the night and weren’t surprised to see the gnomes and others thought they were still dreaming.
Larry wasn’t given any time to adjust to the strange shaped object in his arse. It was pushed in and out with such force it broke. An unlucky gnome had to retrieve it so a fresh one could be shoved up there.
Shit clung to broken shards of plastic as the newest gnome in the family stuck his fist up Larry’s backside. He planned on chopping it off once he removed most of the broken flamingo. His plan was never carried out and it withered and died while still attached to him two weeks later.
The new plastic flamingo pushed the broken shards into Larry’s body where they were absorbed by his bowel to become part of him. It was more pleasant than the agony experienced in his cock but painful none-the-less. He wasn’t sure he still possessed a cock; the pain could be a simple phantom of excruciating throbbing memory of man-parts after they were severed. He was aware he had an anus, albeit, one that was plugged up and cut up.
The gnomes untied Larry’s wrists and ankles. He was in no position to escape if the thought were to cross his mind. They forced him onto his hands and knees with the flamingo protruding into the air. The twine attached to the dog collar around his neck served as a leash.
They walked Larry on all fours through his house and out his front door as the land was waking up and wiping the sleepiness out of their eyes. Except the people up all night watching the live stream, they were washing caffeine pills down with double espressos to see themselves through the day.
Plastic flamingos that survived the night were carried with them as spears to keep Larry in line. It was unfortunate they couldn’t carry the cameras with them but a fan hacked into the area’s CCTV so grainy images were broadcast all over the world.
Wherever there happened to be glass or a pile of steaming dog shit, Larry was forced to crawl through it. His legs were torn as badly as his nightie. People lined the roads to watch. The gnomes allowed Larry a breakfast of raw road kill. They planned on having him out all day and couldn’t have him passing out from hunger.
The gnomes paraded Larry through the city centre as the business men and women arrived at work and the shops were opening. Most had dark circles under their eyes or disguised behind poorly applied make-up from watching the live stream all night.
The police force had been up all night viewing. Those coming off night shift went to watch Larry and the gnomes instead of going home for dinner and sleep. They were observers in Larry’s degradation. They didn’t even try to cover him up when giggling school girls walked past.
No one’s sleep deprived mind was able to process forty-nine garden gnomes had come to life. No one bothered to check if there were any other living lawn decorations. No one cared. Larry and his garden gnomes were too distracting.
The End
 
 

Here's an old one (2015, I think) for an anthology that never happened. I have a few of these stories saved and will upload them, time permitting, over the upcoming days. I thought I would start with this one as it has Halloween in the title and it is nearly Halloween.
 
 
 
Electric Halloween
By Dani Brown
 
 
 
It wasn’t the children she was after. They were too fatty. She wasn’t one for slow cooking. Leaving them without their parents was the best solution for creating a better world. She was performing a public service really.
She cackled at her reflection, her mutant cat circling her ankles threatening to trip her up. Tonight was the big night. Parents sweated all summer long, exercising those muscles for nice lean cuts. On Halloween night, they dressed their little darlings up as extensions of themselves and dragged them door-to-door for candy.
This was the one night of the year the witch didn’t need to put on a costume – her naturally bad looks were the delight of children from all over the neighbourhood. And she gave out the best candy – full size, king chocolate bars with five dollar bills.
Parents laughed, thinking she had the best costume and had put in loads of effort with latex and special effects make-up, not realising that the face was the same for the rest of the year. She put the cat in a spider costume for small dogs to disguise his extra legs.
The candy sat in boxes by her front door with bags of five dollar bills on the other side. None of it was tainted. There was a time neighbours trusted each other and bobbing for apples on someone’s front porch was accepted. She missed those times.
Musty watched her from beneath his spider hat. The last few years had barely provided enough harvest to see through winter. They had to sustain themselves on cow and pig parts for the rest of the year. It was getting worse as paranoia levels increased.
If tonight didn’t bring in the tastiest of parents, she might have to put the children in deep freeze and offer ten dollar bills next year. Only in the old country during the sporadic plague outbreaks did she have to preserve children to last through the year. Their flesh was the preference for some but not for Mildpryᵭ, or Millie as she was known as today.
The first trick-or-treater stood on her porch. A lone teenager. Too skinny, otherwise she would have lured him inside and down to the walk-in freezer in the basement.
These last few years she’d picked up a few teens as well. The football players had some nice muscle but the girls were either too fat or too skinny.
She looked up and down the road before shutting her door. Everyone displayed Halloween decorations but no one was on the street. The sun was just beginning to set, but any other night of the year there would’ve been some lights on.
Mildpryᵭ sighed. Another year without food. She spent the last of her energy on a witches’ brew. If this didn’t lure parents to her house, she didn’t know what would.
There was a time when she was young and beautiful without the spell. The young men poked each other with sticks and even resulted to murder for the chance to kiss her hand. They all ended up feeding her and Musty. These days, they sensed the magic behind her appearance and stayed away.
She sat on the old rocker on her porch and waited with candy and five dollar bills. The neighbours declared they were off to a party. She thought about joining them but she couldn’t eat her neighbours – that was too close to home. There once was an old witch way back in the old country who was burned for that very thing.
It was better to get the parents coming in from the bad neighbours with their children. The rich neighbours adopted them when they found them wandering cold and alone once all the other children were tucked up in their beds.
Mildpryᵭ sang, a sound low in her throat. Musty joined in with a yowl. A special combination of words to open up the portals and bring the parents to her, fresh from the gym and still in their sweaty work-out clothes. The clothes would go in her fireplace to heat her pot of hot water and hopefully the first thigh-roast in a long time. The extra parents would go in the freezer, still with their guts on the inside (soups and things were made with the bad bits and her mattress was stuffed with their hair). Their children were sent to wander the streets.
Rumours used to spread about children going missing on Halloween but truth was, no children went missing – only parents. The rumours encouraged the parents to accompany their brats, much to the satisfaction of the old witch and her old cat.
Now, the rumours were something new. Something dreadful. And the revival of hard-core Christianity wasn’t helping. Those parents took their children to harvest parties at the church for songs and prayers, not door-to-door for sweet treats.
Her voice used to be more powerful than even the most vengeful god. It had been years since she last used it. There was risk attached to it but another year without decent meat and she may not live to see the end of the world. It would be a shame to go out now.
Musty purred on her lap. His yowls were only the backing track. He kicked in when needed. It was an old song, easy to remember, easy for it to chase parents into the light at the end of their lives. If tonight was the night they died, then they would go together. Followed shortly after by their song.
The air vibrated with their song. There was a cackle on the air. The dance of electricity lit up the space above the road. No one was there to see it apart from Mildpryᵭ and Musty.
Until they were. The children came out of the dancing blue first. Millie had her eyes closed but she could smell them. A distinct scent follows children around. She kept the disappointment and panic out of her voice.
Musty, purring on her lap, felt her ancient muscles tense below her layer of flab and added his yowls to her singing even though they weren’t needed.
The cackle grew louder. If the neighbours were home, they would have heard it above their voices. The children wandered with shuffles and wide eyes to Millie’s porch and spread out on the lawn. Buckets were held up waiting for treats.
The blue turned to purple and then to white. A dog yapped, stepping out and onto Mildpryᵭ’s lawn. Children were thick but there was space made for more and the dogs.
Musty continued to yowl, harmonising with Mildpryᵭ. He didn’t like the dogs. Big dogs. Small dogs. They were all coming through the electric wormhole. No sign of parents yet.
With a slight rise to her voice, Mildpryᵭ cleared a path on her front lawn for adults to walk up to the house while their little brats stuff their faces on chocolate and throw toilet paper on the neighbour’s cherry tree. But, still no sign of them.
Children and dogs stared from the street. There was no more space on the lawn. Her voice went higher with Musty’s yowls emulating from her lap (he stopped purring).
The white electricity rolled into a ball. The first adult stepped out. More followed. Musty jumped off her lap so she could open the door. With the singing, they would find their own way to the walk-in freezer in the basement and remember to shut the door behind them until no more could fit in.
It left Mildpryᵭ with a lawn filled with children and dogs with vacant expressions. She threw candy and five dollar bills at them but they wouldn’t disperse. They didn’t even try to catch the bars of chocolate.
The cackle of electricity grew stronger, even without Millie and Musty singing. It stretched to the other side of the street, connecting the two houses across from each other. The crystal glasses that social-climbing residents liked to keep were on display. Broken crystal was the only way to break the electrical portal.
Satisfied there were enough adults in her walk-in freezer, Millie cleared a path through the children and dogs for a spot of breaking and entering. The first house didn’t have the door locked which made her life a lot easier. She was too old to be climbing in through windows.
An umbrella stand waited. She helped herself to the one most closely resembling a baseball bat. She followed the electricity visible on the air looking for the crystal. She found it in a case in the dining room.
She smashed the entire case. Her neighbours would have insurance, but even if they didn’t, busting the portal before anything else could come through was vital. But the portal wouldn’t break. The electricity grabbed broken pieces of crystal and became stronger.
The cackle was like being in the front row at a concert. Deep echoes stamped around behind the pure white light. Something big was coming through. She smashed some more. Musty wasn’t with her to help – he was back at home herding adults into the walk-in freezer.
The crystal was protected by shards of wood and glass. She was too old and too tired. Breath caught in her throat and mixed with the dust on the air (all of it sharp). A trickle of blood ran out of Mildpryᵭ’s nose.
She kept smashing even though her nosebleed became worse and splattered blood on her neighbour’s horsehair wallpaper. The echoes became closer. Something ripped somewhere within the sheet of electricity.
A face poked out. Mildpryᵭ aimed her umbrella at it. Grotesque, reptilian and green with scales and feathers, she thought it was a dinosaur from some far off place and time – not one ever seen on Earth.
The thing opened its mouth revealing a triple row of pointed teeth. Mildpryᵭ thought it was wearing a costume for Halloween, but had had no way to hide its teeth. The portal stretched to allow it through. The feathers seemed fake; the rest of the creature, only too real.
“Some Halloween costume,” Mildpryᵭ thought.
It sniffed her with a long snout. She could see right up its nostrils. A lump of green snot looked ripe for picking. Allergies were a concern wherever the creature was from (she didn’t think it was the same place as all the children). It sniffed her again. When she looked up, the green snot was dripping out of its nose. She could only hope it didn’t sneeze.
It lost interest in her. Something even bigger was trying to get through. She smashed harder. The portal was connected to one of the crystal glasses. Trouble was, Mildpryᵭ didn’t know what piece of crystal it had attached to.
The creature cleared off, only to make space for something larger, and rampaged through the neighbourhood. Mildpryᵭ didn’t sweat but her dry skin flaked away as she went crazy on the display case and crystal. The portal cackled as the electric storm inside kicked up a notch.
Breaking the other connection might break the portal. She ran across the street with the same umbrella. This door was locked. A window was open.
She looked around for something to slash the screen. Musty’s claws would come in useful here but he was too busy with the herding. She ended up using her own nails. Nail care was something of an afterthought in her life but they were sharp enough to cut through the screen. She was lucky it was one of the soft ones. A bit of steel mesh would’ve proved impossible, even for Musty.
Her bones creaked objections as she climbed through the window. They couldn’t be heard over the sound of the portal. She followed the light through the house into the dining room. The set-up was the same as across the street. All the houses were the same. It was rather boring but made her life easier during this rare spot of breaking and entering.
She was more careful with her smashing this time. It wasn’t as reckless. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact glass that held the portal. But she could locate the shelf it sat on with its sisters. She smashed all of those. The electricity dancing on the air made her body hair stand up. The portal didn’t break.
Something large was once again coming through. Boring and repetitive, she thought. Until she looked in its eyes. It was much larger. She gave up on her ordered smashing and set about randomly destroying everything, calling on her last reserves of power to invoke destruction through magical means.
It was of no use. The thing coming in was large enough to make the rip through reality a permanent feature. She aimed her own electrical currents at it and some fire for good measure. She passed out. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal in too long of a time to keep going.
Musty heard the sound made as the thing tore through and beamed it into Mildpryᵭ’s brain. She wasn’t dreaming. She heard but couldn’t force herself awake. She lay there, between worlds, taking shallow breaths, with drool seeping out of her chin.
The thing stepped out and smashed the house apart with its size. It didn’t step on Mildpryᵭ. No debris from the broken house fell on top of her through pure luck. The creature was from a different place to the reptilian creature.
It was large enough to tear the fabric through many dimensions but nothing as big as it stepped out. It didn’t have to move to snatch the previous reptilian creature from the street and swallow it.
Another creature stepped through between its legs. The appearance was humanoid but Mildpryᵭ was too passed out to notice. It held its hands above its head. Purple light shot out from the palms and wrapped around the creature.
Musty projected into Mildpryᵭ’s head and forced her eyes open. She couldn’t see but he could. The humanoid was a tamer. The creature was subdued beneath the purple energy. Another tamer stepped out of the portal.
Everything running on electricity up and down the street and for several blocks switched on to full power. Fuses were blown. The portal was growing. It swallowed its first house and the boards of the broken one, leaving Mildpryᵭ on a bare floor.
The gawking trick or treaters that had first come through to Mildpryᵭ’s world were sucked up with their buckets and dogs as creatures from other worlds stepped onto the street. The parents were safe in Mildpryᵭ’s freezer, some still not dead despite the frozen state of their hair and clothing.
The electricity searched out crystal in all the houses. It was easy to find. Showing off collections of antique crystal glasses passed down through a handful of generations was a favourite hobby of the people in this neighbourhood.
It had trouble once it passed over the train tracks. Crystal came in the meth variety in that neighbourhood. It wasn’t as conductive to transdimensional electricity. It couldn’t go any further that way.
The other direction however, was the shopping district. The people in the neighbourhood needed places to buy their fine crystal and pass it off as family heirlooms. It was there they did their shopping. Every store was stocked with it, even the grocery store. The portal no longer looked like a portal but a mash-up of fifty million different places all fighting for a place.
Musty urged Mildpryᵭ to pick up her head. It felt dead inside but she still breathed. Still had a heartbeat. For lack of knowing what else to do, he urged his mistress awake. She didn’t even swat him away. She wasn’t entirely gone but she would be before long. He jumped heads, projecting until he found someone who could do something.
A new arrival in this world. He sensed the cat in his head and the chaos all around him on the most sacred of nights. The veil between worlds was already thin (or at least between his world and that of Mildpryᵭ and Musty). Thinner still on Halloween night. A tear in the fabric of all realities meant the dead now roamed the Earth. But death didn’t cause him to lose himself to decay.
Where the electricity tried to dance on crystal meth, it was weaker. He saw the immediate need to cook up more despite an explosion in the lab being responsible for his untimely demise. He still sported the burns and molten flesh to prove it.
Pharmacists could provide prescriptions for cold and sinus medicine, so the pharmacy was a good stop. He found what he needed locked up behind the counter in the same drawer as pain killers. Narcotics couldn’t relieve the agony of death so he left them alone.
The dead and the living from other dimensions left him alone. The neighbourhood itself had been deserted prior to the portal being opened – something of a blessing really. He did what he had to do, cooking up the biggest batch of crystal meth ever seen. The dead had no problems remaining calm. Stress hormones couldn’t exactly course through his system.
Musty left the dead guy to it – he didn’t want to be inhabiting him if he blew his arms off (amazing he still had them after the accident that killed him). The trick or treaters not sucked into the vacuum of oblivion stared from the front lawn. Musty scratched the ankles of a girl not wearing stockings. She didn’t have a reaction.
The cackle of electricity spread, opening up more worlds. Musty wasn’t sure if throwing crystal meth into it would stop it spreading or break it. He wasn’t sure the worlds would be restored to the way they were an hour ago.
Either way, Mildpryᵭ was a goner. She was close to death now. If the world was restored to a time before the portal was opened, the freezer would be empty and death would be slow and painful. Musty curled up next to her purring. No one should die alone. Even old cats spent most of their lives asleep.
When the crystal meth was ready it was thrown into the white electricity. The sound it made woke Musty. Mildpryᵭ was dead. She was sitting up, cold dead eyes looking around. The way to the afterlife might be barred after this. Her cold hands sent a shiver up the cat’s spine, but he didn’t stop his purring.
A deep darkness spread from the portal. It wrapped around everything that wasn’t meant to be there. Musty was pushed off Mildpryᵭ’s lap and chased by a tentacle of black. He watched it wrapping around her. She was allowed to turn around.
“Goodbye dear Musty.”
And with that, he was a stray. He went to meth chef. For this good deed, the man was allowed to return to life as long as he promised to only cook meth in times of need. Musty pawed the burn marks on his ankle. He scratched Musty on the ears with his scarred hands. Musty brought the stray man home.

This is a writing exercise from my third year of uni. I haven't edited it, but it has appeared online on and off over the years and people find it enjoyable. I think I put it together with a deck of cards or role playing dice. Each card or side of the dice had a situation then there was another set for what needed to be included. It would have been something like that. The date on the file says 15/10/2007. I would have written it out by hand. I actually think I wrote it the same night I started Seth (04/10/07) but my notes for Seth are a lot clearer. If you enjoy this story, try Middle Age Rae of Fucking Sunshine. www.amazon.com/Middle-Age-RAE-Fucking-Sunshine-ebook/dp/B00PLZ4KJ6/

One
 
An unknown man looked around, he is alone – sometimes he likes to check. Public wanking has been a hobby of his since he was a teenager. Now in his forties, he still enjoys the thrill of possibly being caught. He has had to stay the night in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, but they have an outdoor hot tub. There is nothing our unknown man enjoys more than to sit in a public hot tub spanking it while looking at the stars, but not really seeing them. His mind is on a different type of star, one of the celebrity variety (sometimes more than one). Tonight he is thinking of one of the stars, some new and probably illegal actress – he can never remember their names. This one is quite the looker. Compared to most actresses she is heavy, with large breasts and a full arse. Still thinking of this young actress he removed his dressing gown and stepped into the hot tub, he’s wearing swimming trunks just incase somebody walks by, but it’ll be quite obvious what he is up to anyhow. His erect penis has created a tent in the flower-patterned lime green shorts. The hot bubbling water connected with rather hairy skin which turned it a horrid pink that clashed terribly with his shorts. He looked around again, pulled down his swimming shorts a bit and leant his head back so it rested on the hard edge of the hot tub. He reached over his flabby stomach and wrapped his hand around his cock. The nearly obese, ugly, hairy man sat jerking off, picturing the young actress was riding him like a pony, for nearly twenty minutes before he blew his load into the warm water. He pulled up his swimming shorts, got out the hot tub, put on his dressing gown and vacated the area.
*
 
Ten minutes later an eleven-year-old virgin goes into the hot tub with her older sister. The older one is on the pill. Nine months later the virgin gives birth to a hideous baby boy.
 
Two 
An unknown man goes to a party and gets insanely drunk. At this party there is a hot tub, he strips down and jumps inside. Someone watching him says the magical-bestiality-word. He spanks it while thinking of goats.
*
 
At this same party is a beautiful teenage virgin. All the boys want her, but she’s saving herself for someone special. The girl and her brother didn’t witness the man jerking off while he thought of fucking goats; the man and his audience had left the hot tub.
 
The girl and her brother go into the hot tub. She didn’t want to go to the house party, but her brother dragged her along. He was hoping to introduce her to one of his friends, but his friend never turned up. When she saw the hot tub, she wanted to go in, but not alone. Her brother felt that he owed her so he went in with her.
 
Nine months later the girl, still a virgin, gives birth. She has never even kissed a boy, let alone done anything to become pregnant. Upon hearing that the teenage virgin has given birth, a boy who was at the party nine months earlier goes to talk with her brother. The brother hears of the man who jerked off into the hot tub. The brother learns the man’s name. The brother and his friend run home to tell the virgin the story and give her the name of the man who masturbated into the hot tub nine months before.
 
With the help of her brother, his friend and her father, the girl gets the address of the man who fathered her child. She takes the baby and her father drives her to the man’s house. A man she has never met before and she is a bit nervous because she doesn’t know what to say to him. She holds the baby in her arm and knocks on the door. The man answers. He looks a lot like the baby. She tells him about how she went into a hot tub at a party nine months earlier. A hot tub that he jerked off in. She tells him that she had a virgin birth and he’s the father. She congratulates him and walks back to the car where her father is waiting. They drive off into the sunset.
 
Three 
A very pretty girl once stood by a hot tub and watched her very geeky older cousin play with his penis in it. He was moaning and then some white stuff came out the end of his manhood. He left the hot tub and then she got in. Nine months later the girl gave birth.
 
*
There was once a very geeky young man. He was a virgin and believed that he was saving himself for someone special, but no girl who wasn’t legally insane would ever get with him. Because he was saving himself, or so he thought, he regularly wanked in the hot tub in the garden. Jerking himself off in the hot tub was his favourite activity.
 
One evening this seventeen-year-old geek was meant to be looking after his younger cousin when he got the urge. He put Walt Disney’s Bambi in the DVD player for the girl who had just begun her periods. He thought that it would keep her entertained while he made a trip into the garden. She got bored with the film and went outside to find him. He was nearing his climax when she found him. He didn’t notice her until after he blew his load into the hot, steaming, bubbly water. He figured that the girl had no idea what he was doing (he had guessed correctly) and so offered no explanation and went inside. He thought that his cousin followed him into the house, but he was wrong. When he discovered her missing he went to look for her. She was found in the hot tub – he figured that the hot water would kill his sperm and didn’t think anything of it until nine months later when the girl gave birth to an inbred child.
 
 
Four 
An extremely attractive man once found himself spending the night at a very expensive hotel without a nice young lady in which to spend it with. The man was so sexy that woman practically threw themselves at him. He even had fifteen kids with fifteen different hot mommas. But that night all the young ladies were hideously ugly so he decided to masturbate in the hot tub instead of getting it on.
 
*
Ten minutes after the extremely fuckable man left the hot tub, the ugliest woman that most people have ever seen entered it. She was so disgustingly ugly that mirrors broke if she just happened to walk by. She was in her forties and still a virgin. No one would ever have sex with her, not even if they had drunk an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s and she had a paper bag over her head. The poor lady was so gross in her appearance that when she went to buy a vibrator the girl in the shop puked all over her shoes when the woman went to pay. the woman had resigned herself to never having kids which she desperately wanted. Not even the sperm bank would give her any sperm for fear that the ugly gene would be passed onto the offspring. Every night before bed the woman prayed to God to make her pretty so a man would impregnate her. God never made her pretty. This forty-something was still a virgin when she gave birth to triplets nine months after entering a hot tub in a very expensive hotel. Although God had never made her pretty, he answered her prayers times three. The sperm bank was wrong, as by looking at the triplets and then looking at their mother, it was clear that they did not inherit her condition. If she knew who the father was, she would have known that they looked like him. Because she prayed every night, she thought that God had sent an angel from Heaven to have sex with her as the triplets seemed to glow in their own light. She thanked God for being so kind to her and blessing her three times over.
 
FiveA girl of child bearing age got in an argument with her parents and ran away to a friend’s house. She only had the one friend, so her mother phoned the friend’s mother before the girl arrived and explained what happened and checked to make sure it was okay for the girl to stay there until she felt ready to go home. The friend’s mother said that it was okay, but informed the mother that her and her husband would be going out for the evening.
 
The girl arrived at the friend’s house to find her friend with a young man. The girl had interrupted something. Her friend was understandably upset until the girl explained to her that the young man was like the town bicycle and already had a child to represent each of his fifteen years. As it was nearing his sixteenth birthday, he probably wanted another.
 
The friend’s parents had recently purchased a hot tub and the friend suggested that they go in. Within five minutes they were in the hot tub, the friend thanking the girl for stopping her from doing something stupid when some white stuff floated by. “Ew, what’s that?” asked the girl. “Semen,” the friend replied. Both girls jumped out of the hot tub.
 
Out of the bushes jumped the boy who was a teenage man-whore. He was laughing, “Ha, ha you stupid bitches, I was a hot tub virgin but I needed to blow my load somewhere.” The girls’ felt stick as he ran off still laughing.
Nine months later the girl gave birth to triplets. She always used a condom so she couldn’t understand how she became pregnant until she thought back to that night her and her friend went into the hot tub. The boy wasn’t too popular with the mothers of all his children so getting a DNA test done was easy.
 
*
Nine months after popping his hot tub cherry a sixteen year old answered a knock on his door. On the doorstep stood the girl and the three babies. She handed him an envelope. He opened it and shouted, “Serves you right, stopping my fun.” And he slammed the door in her face.
 
SixTwo lesbians who found the very thought of anything to do with men repulsive went into the hot tub at a cheap motel. Two months later, much to their horror, both lesbians were pregnant.
 
*
In that same cheap motel, there stayed a goat-fancier on the same night as the lesbians. He had been watching Animal Planet when a documentary about mountain goats was aired. He had been looking forward to the documentary all week and booked a room in this particular cheap motel because of its cable and hot tub. His parents were having a party that particular night so the hot tub at his home would be off limits. He loved to jerk off in the hot tub after watching a documentary about young feisty goats. He was a virgin, he wasn’t saving himself for another geek, but for a special goat. A nice lady goat he could fuck from behind. He thought those mountain goats on the show would be nice to screw and suck. He restrained himself from spanking it through-out the entire hour long duration of the programme. He wanted to, but he knew it’ll be better in the hot tub. He was already wearing his horrid swimming trunks when the show ended. They had a nice tent in them when he left his room for the hot tub. With thoughts of lovely little goats he stepped into the steamy water. He sat down and put his hand inside his shorts, rubbing it back and forth over his throbbing cock. After he ejaculated into his swimming trucks and water, he heard the voices of two woman. He decided that it was time to go back to his room and find more TV shows about goats.
 
SevenAt a party one day a teenage girl goes into a hot tub. A month or two later she discovered that she was pregnant and told her parents. Her parents thought that she would bring dishonour to them by having a baby out of wedlock so they kicked her out. Nine months after the party she gave birth to twins.
*
At a party one day a very sexy man wearing truly horrid swimming shorts decided to go into the hot tub. The man was beautiful, so beautiful in fact, that he seemed to glow in his own light. He always dressed absolutely dreadfully so he wouldn’t appear to be as gorgeous as he really was. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t work he usually ended up impregnating some woman. He had fifteen kids even though he always used a condom, but the a lot of times the condom broke, which is why he is never very enthusiastic about meeting new ladies. That night at the party (it was a long party) his purposely terrible fashion sense seemed to be paying off. But there was a very beautiful young lady there. A dark and mysterious woman who turned on all the guys. She seemed oblivious to her own beauty. Even though the sexy man found the woman to be very attractive he decided not to speak to her and instead went to jerk-off in the hot tub. He did not want another kid but he needed some way to get rid of the massive erection. The bathroom seemed to be in use, as were all the bedrooms. That was when he went outside and saw the hot tub. It was beyond the pool (an unusual place for the a hot tub, thought the man) and relatively secluded, so no one would see him. He got in and still wearing his horrid swimming shorts he started to masturbate. No one did witness him in the hot tub.
 
EightAn attractive man was one night staying in a very expensive hotel. He liked to jerk-off. He saw that the hotel had a hot tub so he decided to spank in that. When he was done pleasuring himself he went back to his room, watched some porn and jerked-off some more.
*
A middle-aged mother of two from a very respectable family decided that she needed a little break from her controlling husband who was the vicar at the local church. She took his bank card and her credit card (which he paid for) and decided to stay in a very expensive hotel until things improved for her. To relax a bit she decided to go into the hot tub. She did not own a swim suit and as it was night all the shops were shut. No one was around so she went into the hot tub completely naked.
 
After about a week her husband and teenage children told her that they would be nicer to her and requested that she come her. Although she enjoyed her new-found freedom (and going into the hot tub in the nude) she missed her family and agreed to go back home.
 
She began to get sick in the mornings and took and pregnancy test. She was pregnant. But that’s impossible, she thought, as her and her husband had not wanted a baby and being good Christians they only had sex when they wanted to reproduce.
 
The woman tried to hide the pregnancy from her husband but he soon found out. He was very upset, it would look very bad for him. After some thought, he told her that she would have to move out. He packed her bags and put her on a plane out of the country. 
 
Nine months after staying in an expensive hotel the woman gave birth in a strange country. She tried to contact her other children to tell them, but all of her letters got stamped with ‘return to sender’. It was obvious that they wanted nothing to do with her or her baby.
 
NineOne night a teenage girl was staying in a hotel with her very large Catholic family. She couldn’t sleep and decided to go for a walk. When she reached the pool area (which in this hotel was outside) she saw that everyone was walking around naked. Being a very rebellious (although sheltered) teenager she decide to give it a try. She was not worried that any of her family members would wake up and catch her walked around as naked as the day she was born because they always slept through the night – the entire city could be under attack and still they’d sleep. She took off her clothes and left them by the gate and joined in on the naked fun. She had never seen a naked man before, not even in a picture or drawing. She was offered a drink of beer, which she accepted; it was her first drink and did not taste as good as she had imagined, so she put it down and asked for a soft drink instead. She was glad that she do so because as the night wore on all the drunk people (which was mostly everyone) were acting very stupid. She eventually found herself standing by a hot tub with a large group of people. There was a man in the hot tub playing with the thing that made him a man but she really wanted to go in because she was cold from walking around in the nude and she didn’t want to put her clothes back on because no one else was wearing any. She figured that because everyone was drunk, they wouldn’t remember her going into the hot tub with the strange man. In fact, the people at the party were so intent on watching the man, they never even registered the girl in their minds. The strange man was moaning as the girl got in, she wondered why. He started to scream and she wondered why nobody would help him, the people standing around the hot tub were all much older than she, so she went over to the man and as she got closer a bunch of white stuff had escaped his thingy. He had stopped screaming and left in girl alone in the hot tub. She wondered what the stuff was and tried to catch some in her hands. People were leaving the pool area, she asked what time it was and discovered that it was nearly four in the morning. She decided that she had better get back to her room. She dried herself off, found her clothes, took a quick shower (so her parents wouldn’t smell the chlorine) and went back.
 
When her parents discovered that she was getting sick in the mornings and had strange food cravings they took her to see a doctor. The doctor confirmed their fears – their daughter was pregnant. They were so very disappointed with her that they disowned her. She begged and pleaded and said that she was still virgin (she hardly knew what sex and the whole baby making process was) but they didn’t believe her and sent her away anyhow.
 
*
At a hotel where a teenager was staying with her large Catholic family, a group of nudist were also staying. In this group there was a man who enjoyed jerking himself off in front of everybody. In the early hours of the morning, he found himself in the hot tub and right after he comed he discovered the Catholic teenager in the hot tub with him. He found it odd but because nearly everyone was drunk, he didn’t think anything other than the girl had probably had too much to drink (he was wrong) and left the hot tub.
 

Ten
A middle-aged couple were having a garden party one night. After a bit too much to drink things got really out of control and the host decided that after the hostess went inside to bed, to take off all his clothes. After some encouragement from his friends he went into the hot tub and began to masturbate. His friends stood around the hot tub egging him on until he ejaculated into the water. When the party ended everyone found their way home. The next morning when the hostess woke up, she found her husband still drunk and naked wandering around the garden. He made a drunk confession about what he did the night before. She was disgusted and left the house in her car, he stumbled after the moving vehicle.
*
Later that afternoon the couple’s teenage daughter came home with her boyfriend. Upon discovering her parents weren’t home and the place was completely trashed she suggested that they go into the hot tub together – naked.. The boy had been waiting to take away her virginity so he promptly agreed. They got into the hot tub, but the girl heard her parents so the quickly exited and got dressed. The girl didn’t lose her virginity that day, she was actually still a virgin when she gave birth nine months later.

I don't think I've posted this one before. It was written a long time ago, when I was still sick following child birth. I used to read it on the rare occasion when I when health was good enough to go out. It was written way back when I thought people would treat me with some respect and had hope for the future. Enjoy...

Three thousands habitable planets in the known universe, and I’m stuck on the only one without soap. Not disinfectant, there’s loads of that – all different types with different fragrances and different purposes. What I’m talking about is a simple bar of soap. The type used to wash one’s self. Surprisingly the smell isn’t so bad. It has something to do with the atmosphere, I think. When the wind blows it smells like freshly cut flowers, which perfumes the world. There might be other factors but I can’t elaborate on something I know nothing about. The real problem with a lack of soap is all the dirt that encases everyone’s body. Sometimes someone’s bright pink pimple will penetrate the filth, but that’s about all you see of someone’s skin. We have showers but water can only wash away so much – it loosens the top layer, but that’s about all. There’s even shampoo, so everyone’s hair is clean but shampoo is too mild to wash away the muck from pig farming. The entire planet is a pig farm. We used to import soap from the cow farming planet next to us, but their surplus has begun to run low and they need the rest for their population, which is considerably larger than ours.
 
No one really knows what happened to the soap factory planet. It happened so long ago that only legends exist. Everyone knows there was once a planet that made soap for the universe. It’s in the history books, but they differ on what actually happened. Some say a natural disaster wiped out the entire planet. Others say soap angered the Gods. And yet others blame intergalactic terrorism. On the museum planet there’s an actual bar of the stuff in a special case. Nearly all the other planets have a few bars left but pig farmers are possibly the most wasteful beings to have ever existed so all our soap ran out centuries ago.
 
I used to travel a lot and I can tell you the vast majority of planets are smelly, dingy places with momentous amounts of industrial waste. When they run out of soap no one will want to live there. And where does that leave us? I’m sure our population will swell, it has already begun as stricter soap rationing comes into force all over the universe. The warm pleasant fragrance attracts refugees from everywhere with horror tales of sulfurous smelling winds.
 
I once tried to make soap, I think everyone has, but I was unsuccessful. I thought it would be easy and other people were just being idiots and going about it wrong. This is a planet of pig farms so animal fat (which features as a key ingredient given in most of the legends) is abundant but the slimy bar of stuff I made only smelt terrible and did nothing to remove the filth on my body. Even with reverse engineering no one has figured out the secret to making more soap. And any planet with soap reverses doesn’t want to sacrifice another bar to a lost cause. Soon nowhere will have any soap.
 
Sometimes, with enough shampoo and disinfectant and a shower loafer one can scrub off most of the grime, but not all of it –a good old bar of soap is required to do that.
 
We’re getting a shipment of imports from the outer galaxies later today. Perhaps someone on one of those cold dark planets in the nearly forgotten galaxies has figured out how to make soap in their spare time. It isn’t very likely though. Most young people today have never seen a bar of soap and have absolutely no interest in the ancient art of cleaning one’s skin. But us old timers, or at least one’s who have travelled have and some, including myself, have even used it. Those who have known soap hope for its return.
 
I decided to go to the spaceport and wait for the ship to arrive. I joined about fifty old folks already waiting. It was a small platform way out in the middle of nowhere so there wasn’t a building in which snacks could be purchased like in the cities, we had a vending machine that worked about a quarter of the time.  We waited and waited, talking to one another of places we’ve been and the soaps we’ve used. Eventually a ship arrived, a big old one coated in space dust (it can’t be washed here). If there was any soap we wouldn’t be able to see it, everything comes out of the ship in big unlabeled crates. It’s then stacked up on the platform. If there was a box of soap we’d be able to smell it – that’s what brings the old folks out every import day.
 
I thought the ship was unloaded and started to walk off the platform when I heard heavy footsteps and gasping. While turning around there was a loud clunking sound as someone fainted. The wind started to blow as a creature was lead out of the ship. It had a hemp rope tied around its large neck and another rope connected to that one as a leash. I wondered how someone managed to tie the rope around its neck – it was so large. Although I really didn’t think the rope as necessary. The creature was tranquil and would probably have followed the Box Boys off the ship. It was bigger than the crated imports from various planets even while walking on all fours. And it had fur of the brightest pink imaginable that fell in dreadlocks all over its body. Once on the platform it stood on two legs to its full height. The Box Boy, well Box Girl in this case, extended the length of rope she was holding so the creature could walk up right. It wore no clothes but with all that bright pink fur I don’t think it was concerned with covering up.
 
The creature was lead away. I was curious but by no means curious enough to follow as some people had. It was the last thing off the ship and unless this creature somehow knew the secret of soap making there’d be none this shipment. I always feel a bit sad when everything’s off the ship and there isn’t any. I should know not to get my hopes up, but I can’t help it. The thought of once again being entirely clean ensures I’ll always feel this sense of disappointment.
 
The people who didn’t follow were gathered in clusters on the platform trying to figure out the significance of the creature. I didn’t really care and wanted to get home. I put my head down hoping not to be recognised and brought into an in-depth yet boring conversation.
 
Upon arriving there I discovered my son and his wife had already seen to the pigs and the grandchildren were telling each other stories of a pink monster in anxious whispers. When I was finally noticed everyone went quiet. They knew I went to the spaceport when imports arrived and correctly assumed that I’d seen the pink creature. I told them what it looked like and how it was lead off the ship. I didn’t tell them how I hoped it held the secret to soap. We settled down for the night.
 
One would think a planet of pig farmers would be early to rise but that isn’t so. When I woke up around noon I heard excitement from outside my open window. News travels fast and it sounds like some people were too excited to sleep much last night. I quickly dressed and went downstairs. The entire household was out of bed, even my son who usually considers it to be illegal to make an appearance while there’s still natural light in the sky.
 
The television in the kitchen was on which is most unusual, even the grandchildren don’t watch much TV. It was tuned to the news. A young news presenter with clean skin was at the spaceport. I thought that with a story this big the Journalism Planet would have sent a more seasoned presenter but I was wrong. The news didn’t give us a clue about the creature. All the presenter did was regurgitate what everyone knew already. I wasn’t surprised. The news lady didn’t even tell us if the creature was dangerous. It seemed tranquil enough yesterday but the Box Boys could have given it some sort of calming serum. I decided to go out to see if there was anything I could learn.
 
There were far too many pedestrians to take the car, besides one learns more when traveling on foot. That’s how I found out an import was coming in today. Two days in a row. That’s a bit strange, but not unheard of. The Depot Planet is one of the slowest moving things in the entire universe and the Administrative Planet just messes things up. We were probably due two ships yesterday but it was held back for whatever reason, probably incorrect paperwork.
 
Based on the gossip I heard, everyone seemed to be in agreement on two things; firstly, the creature is meant to be here, and second, there really is a ship of imports landing today.
 
The spaceport was so crowded with people and news crews that I couldn’t get on the platform. I don’t think anyone in the area was tending to the pigs. The police had to monitor the crowd that was gathering outside and leaking onto the road. Suddenly everyone went quiet. I couldn’t see anything from my position on the road but I knew the ship had come in. In the silence I could here the door opening. People tried shifting their bodies but it was hopeless, no one would be able to see anything from the road.
 
I heard the box boys shout at the crowd, “Stand back. Clear a path”.
 
I craned my neck skywards even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to see. Lots of people did that, some type of reflex, I guess. There were gasps from the platform. I wondered what they saw.
 
There were more of the creatures. Blue ones, green ones, pink ones, yellow ones. Colours of the rainbow and more. All with that bizarre dreadlock fur. They had ropes around their necks and were slowly being lead away. The crowd followed.
 
No one needed to have worried about aggression – they were the calmest creatures in the entire universe. So calm in fact, that the creatures brought to the Pig Farm were the last of their kind. Later that day I found out that the rest had been wiped out. Not so much as by hunters which usually involves some sort of chase, but by people who fancied themselves as hunters.
 
Some archeologists set out to discover the formula for soap and found these creatures cowering in the ancient ruins of a factory on what is assumed to be the Soap Factory Planet. The creatures the so-called hunters didn’t drive to the brink of extinction were dying of starvation. They were brought to the Depot Planet to await further instruction from the Administrative Planet. The creatures would have surely died then because the Administrative Planet never sent the order to feed them but the Depot Planet has a fair number of rebels and these rebels took responsibility for looking after the creatures. Eventually the Administrative Planet gave the order to the Depot Planet to send the creatures here. We already have a large number of refugees from all over the universe and it was thought that someone would be able to speak the same language as the creatures. But the creatures were silent. It was obvious they were an advanced species, but seemed to lack vocal cords and no one could tap into them telepathically. 
 
The creatures appeared to be interested in the pigs. They’d point and stare at them.
 
One lazy evening the town awoke to find dead pigs scattered down the road leading to where the creatures slept. Some of these were exceedingly expensive award winning pigs. It’s the only place on the entire planet that farms these particular pigs and they were nearly all killed. Anger wouldn’t be the correct word. I don’t even think rage would cover how everyone felt. No wonder why these creatures were facing extinction, if they go around killing people’s livestock like that. The townspeople and people from surrounding towns and even far-away city dwellers quickly assembled into a mob. I think the intention was to burn them alive while stabbing and beating them. The mob gained strength as it hammered down the road, swelling as more rage filled people joined uttering incoherent battle cries. I’m ashamed to say that I was a part of the blood thirsty mob, but I was.
 
We circled the bright fur creatures so they had nowhere to turn and run away. I dread to think about how similar we looked to rage filled rabid monsters. They were crying, not tears, but bubbles that floated up instead of running into their dreadlock fur. These were really large bubbles. They had a calming effect on the mob. Weapons were lowered as arms became tired. Bubbles popped high above the mob and rained down blessed liquid soap of the highest quality.
 
One of the creatures, a small one, a baby by the looks of it silently screamed. It pulled at the fur of the creature next to it. The creature knelt down to comfort it with such loving tenderness it brought tears to the eyes of the monsters in the mob. Turns out the baby needed to shit but didn’t fancy the idea of doing it in front of everyone. The mob had already blocked all exits, which in turn blocked all ways leading to a toilet. The poor little thing was forced to shit right there in front of everyone. With all that fur it’s hard to imagine no shit or mud caked to it but there wasn’t any.
 
The mob denied the little creature any dignity. Bubbles rose up in the air as the creatures silently cried harder. Tension was once again building. Slowly people began to raise their weapons luckily the venom had left the mob. The creatures stepped aside. The little one had finished its business. A lot of the people in the mob were young but I was there at the front. I knew what the pile of droppings were. Before the mob could attack I dived towards where the creatures were with my hands held up in the universal “I surrender” gesture. I reached the shit and held up a bar of soap. I figured out then why soap was scarce and impossible to make – it is a waste product of these creatures, but only when they eat raw pork, which we always ensure they have plenty of.
 
 
 

I wrote this while under a lot of stress. I was trying to get back into second person writing. I think this was my second attempt, or maybe third. It hasn't been published.
 
 
 
 
You Can’t Eat the Slugs Down Here
By Dani Brown
 
 
 
 
 
 
Sinkholes open all the time. A little one, good for a poke with a stick – a secret between a boy and a girl. They both have sticks and a lot of anger – poking helps.
Sinkholes open without warning. Sinkholes swallow a boy and a girl. Down through the depths of the Earth they fall, never to be seen on the surface again.
Darkness surrounds them. Strange noises click all around them. A sliver of light appears above and to the right. Shadows stretch out before them.
Anger finds itself replaced by fear. A boy and a girl clutch each other. Daylight above, close to high noon; night time below, close to midnight. They don’t see the slugs with their teeth glistening in their own natural light.
Sleep washes over them. The fast beat of their hearts, the shards of fear like glass in their lungs and the belts around their chests dissolve into a world of dreams.
Something nudges and sniffs at them until they re-join the waking world. The girl wipes her eyes first. She has to wipe them again, believing that sleep kept her in its clutches. A pinch. A slap. A vague memory of the tumble through the sink hole.
Pink nostrils flare, interested, at her. A long neck bends somewhere above near the trees. A scream traps itself in her throat. She can’t nudge the boy asleep next to her. She can’t do anything except breath and stare.
A small head attached to a large body nudges the boy.
The creature thinks these two appear young – no older than hatchlings on their first trip out of the nest. Another pair of lost travellers with the clock messed up. The creature’s heart cries for her own children, kidnapped years ago by an old man of the same species as these two, with screams on his breath of fame and fortune. He didn’t make it out alive. None of them did.
Her flat teeth pluck at the clothes of the boy and the girl. A crack sounds overhead – one of the morning storms. The first drops of rain splash. If the hatchlings can’t swim, they will drown. Rain come down heavy below the Earth. Rivers form in the morning and dry away to dust in the evening.
The boy rubs his eyes. Sleep doesn’t hold him the way it did the girl. The pink head nudges them both until they stand. Experience with humans means that she knows the adults wear undergarments. She hopes the hatchlings do too.
She plucks at their bottoms in search of the elastic. These two are more difficult to pick up with her teeth than one adult. And they squirm. She drops one to pick up the other.
A bit of a thinker, but not a talker. Her kind don’t talk. She doesn’t dare stamp her feet – that would scare them. With her long neck, she places the first on her back. The second she grabs with speed before he can escape. She places him with his friend – comfort came in pairs.
The rain drops fall with more intent. The clouds fight the rays of light. It won’t be long before they win. The hatchlings must be with the others of their kind before the weather becomes worse.
She wasn’t one to move with speed. With a long neck strong enough to break the back of even a T-Rex, or the occasional super-sized mega-elephant, she has no need for speed. Long life is granted to only the slowest of creatures. But with hatchlings on her back and the threat of rain, now would be a good time to run. She hasn’t done so in many years.
She doesn’t see the trap. Fishing wire from above, tied across two trees. It hits at her knees, slicing them off. She carries on a few steps before she notices, and comes down with a thud on her stumps.
Tiny men with spears shout from behind the trees. They aren’t of the same species as the hatchlings on her back. The girl falls. Soft mud cushions her. The boy holds on.
She lacks a voice to scream her agony. Blood attracts the first predators. The men with spears throw them into her pink hide. They are sharpened, with poison on the tips. They pierce her hide without effort.
The tiny men pick up the girl from the mud and encourage the boy to slide down the creature’s long neck. The boy doesn’t move. One of the spear throwers manages to climb up and grab him around the waist. The child screams. It makes no difference.
Rain drops fall. They are large enough to swallow the children and the spear men. They need shelter.
Trees fall in a path leading to the dead pink dinosaur. The spear men do not have much time before the terror comes upon them.
The children are in shock by the time they are bundled beneath blankets in the back of a cave. The sound of rain hits everything, so conversation is impossible.
The terror down here takes the shape of flesh-eating giant prehistoric slugs with teeth. They come out from under their rocks at night. Slow they may be, but they still have enough power to take down the biggest and meanest dinosaurs.
Safety doesn’t exist anywhere two nights in a row. The chances of escaping this world are slim to none, due to a lack of anywhere to set up a lab to tear a purposeful hole in reality. To step through a random portal would be risking stepping into something worse.
The slugs themselves ooze into everywhere with a hole in reality. Governments make it a game to cover them up and relegate them to the darkest realms of conspiracy theories.
Spears present no obstacle to the slugs. When hit, they spray toxic slime in a fifty-two-foot radius. Not even the best spear throwers risk it in case they hit an extra-squirty one.
Each night more come out of whatever holes they crawled underneath to sleep away the hot summer sun. Spear men who make it through a winter say they crawl out of frozen rocks and melt the snow with a green glow beneath the northern lights.
Safety is an issue when sleepiness washes over the party. Guards sit watch, but without coffee or cocaine they soon drift off to a land without slugs.
The population is dwindling. Each night someone is carried away, wrapped up in slime and spat onto the ceiling in a dry cave at the bottom of the lake. Rescue missions fail. Bodies decompose and the slugs absorb them. Spear tips are added to the rows of the slugs’ teeth. The poison the men dipped them in is absorbed and used against them. The bits of twine that hold the spears together are excreted, and used to make nests for the slugs’ eggs.
The cave offers shelter from the storm whilst the children come to their senses. The arrival of young blood presents an opportunity to connect with the other humanoids who find themselves down here. Under normal circumstances, spear men are to be avoided.
They plan to move out in the morning once the rains pass. The trek to the other humanoids will take all day. Rumour has it the other humanoids tame pterodactyls as a mode of smart transport, and use them to hide up in the air away from the slugs and their sharp teeth. Just a rumour, but still, there can’t be smoke unless someone lights a fire.
The children must be protected. It seems stupid now to have killed what could have been a mode of transport and protection. They should have formed an alliance, but no creatures ever want to form anything with spear men.
The children, so young, will force the other humanoids to grudgingly accept the spear men. The spear men couldn’t trust other creatures though. Never again will they be lured into a false sense of security.
There will be no moon tonight. New moon night in this world stretches on longer than any other night of the month. The slugs have a bizarre mating ritual based on gratification. Few creatures experience sexual pleasure, but their ritual just proves they are one of the exceptions like no live-action porno flick ever could.
One-by-one the spear men drift off to sleep. The children wake. Somehow, shock had pushed them into natural sleep. The rush of memories erases the confusion. Eyes, on the stalks of a slug, stare at them. It doesn’t need light to reflect. Slugs have their own – bright enough to illuminate the blood on their teeth and leftover tendons of the spear men.
The nuclear green glow indicates it will always be summer here - not winter like the propaganda would have the children believe. Broken spears litter the floor. The men are gone. The slug bodies are bloated.
A weird click from back of the throat of the slug on top of the children alerts other slugs to their location. Children do not make good dinner. The slugs want their fresh young blood to take back to their underwater kingdom in the centre of the lake. Entertainment for the young slugs. A status symbol for all of slug-kind.
The click grows louder as more slugs join in. Claws, harvested from a raptor, were brought forth and used to slice gills into the children’s necks. Slugs grab the children by the ankles and drag them out. Heads bang on the rock, and the children black out.
The water becomes icy at a depth of twenty feet. It wakes both children. Underwater screams echo around the lake. Too much attention, when the slugs desire to operate in secret, results in ball-gags for the children. The balls are very fresh eggs, laid right there in their mouths. The water burns and itches as it finds its way into every cut. Mouthfuls of slug eggs to bite down on ease the pain slightly.
The little girl notices the mermaids. On the surface world, her brother would wind her up and tell her mermaids had long filed teeth, scales for skin and snakes for hair. It pleases her to discover his lies.
She reaches for the boy. The slugs do not allow them to touch. The enchantments that lie over them will break if they arrive at the centre of the lake with fingers laced together.
Blackness surrounds them. It takes a moment for the children to see the luminescent dots. Plankton drift on unseen currents. Everything glows down here. The centre of everything revolves around the cave.
The entrance looks like a giant green mouth, ready to swallow them and excrete their bones into some other dimension. The boy tries to swim away. More slugs came out and grab his legs. No hope for escape.
The girl wants to know more about the mermaids. She’s also ware of the giant white shark floating above them.
“Don’t worry, she’s sleeping,” she heard whispered into the centre of her brain.
 Megalodon. But those are meant to be extinct. Confusion washes over her. Mermaids don’t exist and dinosaurs are also extinct.
A wondrous world surrounds them. A meeting place of past, present, future and outer space. With a final look at the sleeping shark, the girl is dragged into the cave. If that thing wakes, she won’t even feel its teeth as it eats her. She shudders. Ripples travel through the water and hit the shark.
The airlock drains and dries their clothes and hair at the same time without dehydrating the slugs or the eggs the children spit onto the floor. Once dry, the door rises from above.
The slugs urge them into an underground city. Despite the location – a floating cave in the exact centre of the lake - moisture presents no issue. It doesn’t even drip down the walls.
The cackle of the radio and burst of electronics, dropped in from various times and places, makes their hair stand up and dance. The children cling to each other. Windows to the outside show the sharks. They appear to be surrounded by a school of them. Little sharks dodge the Megalodon – they don’t want to become dinner either.
The slugs assure them of their dominance. The children do not believe it. The top of the food chain surely are the sharks.
One swam up. The children’s legs turn to jelly. The slugs form themselves into a sofa for the children to collapse upon and watch the mysteries of the below.
Portals to various worlds open at random intervals. A shark swims through one and emerges out of another with a Loch Ness monster clenched in its massive jaws. No one challenged it for its prey. The children experience an understanding. Thanks to the randomness of the portals, they have entertainment outside the windows.
A portal opens in the cave. The children don’t walk through, but stare. They know not to attempt escape. Anything they ever want will come out of the portals. It doesn’t matter if it hasn’t been invented yet; Somewhere, at some other time, it will have been.
A waiter steps out with a full tray. Their dinner is served, the portal closing before he could step through it. He looks around. He is having a bad acid trip.
“Bad acid. Too much acid. Not enough acid.”
He sees the window and looks out, mesmerised. The girl stands next to him. The mermaids ride side-saddle on the sharks. She takes the waiter’s hand.
“You can’t eat the slugs down here.”

One day, I was winding up John Ledger on facebook by changing Brittany Spears lyrics. A story was born. I don't think it has been published anywhere, but don't hold me to that. And this one combines sci-fi and the sick shit you lot know and love. You know what else is popular? My messed up sci-fi, but no one buys Dark Roast. If you like this, check out Dark Roast - there's werepossums and coffee that is genetically modified to be a hell of a lot stronger than cocaine. www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Roast-Dani-Brown-ebook/dp/B01HYG87P2/ Dani

 
Oops I Shitted Again
Dani Brown  
Flying saucers don’t have flushing toilets. They should do. After a good anal probing, a virgin arse often needs to take a dump (assuming it doesn’t whist on the metal table). Yeah, they really should have flushing toilets.
Greys need to be a lot more considerate of who they’re kidnapping. Sometimes in the deep of the night, they’d abduct someone who wasn’t an anal virgin. Yeah they would. Their probes wouldn’t need any lubrication. They would glide in without resistance.
Cows didn’t need flushing toilets. They’d crap anywhere. So would this girl. Anal seepage was an understatement. She declared she drank some habanero sauce prior to collapsing into bed with her fist up her arse buried to her wrist. Getting lost in her butt was a common occurrence.
Her complaint with the greys involved the probe not being wide enough. They understood her perfectly well. Disgust was something they communicated via telepathy and not facial expressions. Greys weren’t one for facial expressions even, with their arms up the backside of cows.
All that anal play, once the wrist and fist were, removed resulted in a fountain of liquid shit. Habanero sauce was not a drink. They had the words to explain it to her along with illustrations on a flip chart but she ignored it.
She asked for their fist. She wasn’t in love but she needed to feel it deep, even after it had been up a cow’s butt. She knew Greys had skinny arms but hands that big could roll into a large tight fist. She didn’t care. There was a little surprise up there waiting in her colon. The saucer travelled at the speed of light on its way to the highway out of the Milky Way.
The woman didn’t care. Her diarrhoea could save humanity and humanity’s cows. Yeah it could. She showed them how it was done by fisting her own arse. She couldn’t feel it so she shoved another fist up her vagina and pushed back.
Greys were capable of vomiting. They did so. The one with its arm up the backside of a cow too. Projectile puke hit the cow’s legs and it kicked as the flying saucer sped towards another galaxy.
Blondie wasn’t the only human in the examination room. Puke and shit flew about, defying the gravity machine, and landed on one guy, waking him up. His anus was virginal. He might have played with small rubber butt plugs but that didn’t count. They were no larger than his doctor’s fingers. Face down, arse in the air, something was up it. He wanted to shit. He tried to clench. That made it worse.
Blondie was just leaking. How embarrassing. He was embarrassed for her - more so for her than himself, despite his current predicament. The Greys had to stop on a planet another galaxy away before they could return home, show these people off and drop them back in their beds and the cows in the field. They weren’t the ones responsible for mutilating cows - that was the Reptilian Shapeshifters - but they got the blame for it.
However, Blondie’s explosive habanero diarrhoea was corrosive. Landing on the cows, it burnt their hides. This was the first time the Greys had ever been responsible for mutilated cows. Fisting didn’t count. It didn’t cause any more damage than an Earth vet finding out if the creature was pregnant.
They had no need of flushing toilets. They didn’t understand why Earth creatures couldn’t just relieve themselves by tearing a hole in the fabric of reality and shitting and pissing into another dimension like creatures from every other planet in the universe. It wasn’t that difficult. No special skill was needed and they could do it while carrying on a conversation without anyone noticing. It was more dignified.
Diarrhoea was apparently a natural lubricant. Blondie’s singing woke up another human - a nun with her arse on display. The church would not approve of her anal bruising. She jolted the probe telling Blondie to shut up.
Diarrhoea and vomit got into the gravity machine and short-circuited it. The cows were floating with Greys’ arms up their arseholes. Gravity was needed to pull their arms out. Telepathic sighs were nearly visible on the air in the flying saucer. Luckily, the lack of gravity only affected the anal probe room. The rest of the flying saucer still had gravity and could be navigated to the next galaxy. That didn’t spare the driver and engineer from knowing what was happening down there. They picked up on the telepathic signals as well. They also got a good splattering of Blondie’s thoughts on anal play. They would have to more careful with whom they abducted in future.
Her gaping arsehole was in danger of swallowing everything in the experimental anal probe room. It already swallowed a cow’s head and was working its way down the body. A Grey was still attached via the cow’s arsehole. He sweated. He could feel a baby kick inside the cow trying to be born before Blondie’s arsehole could swallow that as well. The cow shitted all over his arm with so much force and the lack of gravity, he received a mouthful of that as well. Tasted like Earth grass and antibiotics.
Blondie’s gaping arsehole couldn’t get enough of the cow. It was like a black hole in the flying saucer. The cow’s baby was gone up Blondie’s arsehole. The Grey could feel the gaping arsehole on his fingertips. Through telepathy, the rest of the Greys could feel it too. It made steering the flying saucer rather difficult.
The Grey was gone up to his elbow. To the other Greys in telepathic range - which included a lot of other flying saucers due to being on a busy highway out of the Milky Way - it felt like sheer burning. The flying saucers crashed into each other.
Other species didn’t have the telepathic frequencies of the Greys. They had no idea what was happening. However, swearing in thousands of different languages in thousands of different frequencies, both verbal and telepathic, was heard in Grey saucers throughout several galaxies.
The cops were on their way. Meanwhile, Blondie’s gaping arsehole swallowed the Grey with his fist in the cow. It still wasn’t satisfied - Blondie wasn’t that innocent. The nun tutted in disgust. She wasn’t innocent either but there was a world of difference between masturbating with a wooden crucifix and returning it slimy with vaginal sludge to the wall it hung from ready for communion, and gaping arseholes leaking diarrhoea (all the lubrication it needed) swallowing everything.
With the gravity device broken, Blondie’s arse went for the next biggest object – another cow with a Grey performing a rectal exam. The Greys let out a collective telepathic sigh.
The cops on their way didn’t notice – they weren’t Greys. They were Reptilian Shapeshifters with massive sticks up their arses the size of logs. The flying saucer that was causing the spaceship crashes that were backing up the highway was in range of their viewing scope and their disintegrating giant laser beam. That fucker could destroy a planet. They turned down the energy. They only wanted to destroy the flying saucer causing the crashes.
The driver and engineer were drunk and jumped to conclusions without finding out what the problem was. Reptilian Shapeshifters were like that - shoot now, question later. They were the massive douchebags of the universe and resided in the centre of every galaxy.
They switched the laser on. It didn’t take long to warm up. They shot, but there was a problem; Blondie’s gaping arsehole was swallowing the laser beam.
All that energy and it still wasn’t enough. The Greys in the saucer could feel the laser beam by tuning into Blondie’s frequency and had their minds completely blown. Those on the telepathic end of their fellow species on other spaceships blew out a few brain cells from the slits that served as their noses.
Greys’ brains weren’t the prettiest of things. Their chemical makeup was remarkably similar to Earth faeces, hence all the anal probes (they really just wanted to find out if Earth’s anuses could communicate with them). It smelt the same as well. Faecal brain cells flying about from exploded heads got into the other gravity devices shorting them all out.
Blondie’s arse was too occupied with battling a laser beam. It was nearly too much to handle. It couldn’t swallow up anything else. There wasn’t enough space. This was the best laser beam it had ever come across. It dried up all of her diarrhoea so she could feel the burn. It was so much better than habanero sauce and her ghost chilli enemas. Those were her guilty, twice-a-night pleasure followed by sitting on a cactus.
The Reptilian Shapeshifters were confused. Nothing had ever resisted their laser before. They steered their ship closer to the out of control flying saucer and it hit with X-Ray vision.
They could see inside. Shit was floating around. Too much shit. It was mixing together in a giant blender of anti-gravity swirling around the source of the trouble with the laser beam. It could not be penetrated with X-Ray vision.
They would need to go in. Biohazard suits were a must on this job. With shit that could repel X-Rays floating about, they couldn’t quite see what they should shift their forms into. To be on the safe side, they shapeshifted into a being with a cow’s head, long grey arms, a penis and a vagina. Their eyes were simple yellow slits. Those were hard to change without contacts so they put on sunglasses and hoped for the best.
In they went. They became part of the tornado swirling around Blondie’s laser-sucking anus. After seeing the cops go in and not come out again, creatures in the pile up tried to flee on little emergency ships. Those were also sucked into the tornado.
Blondie’s arse was becoming a black hole on the highway between galaxies. There was only traffic to suck up once the laser was out of energy. Without diarrhoea, debris scraped her arsehole going on in. Warnings had to be placed on that stretch of intergalactic road while a new highway was built by prisoners.
Creatures were stranded unless they could jump dimensions and pass by the highway. It was the only road out of the Milky Way from that particular arm of the galaxy. Highways were slow to build and light years had to be put between Blondie’s arsehole and the new road. Creatures grew old and died in galaxies they didn’t belong in before the new highway was built. The first few journeys on the new road featured more hearse spaceships than anything else.
Seeing the giant arsehole on the horizon while driving past on the new highway, a little boy Grey suggested it should be plugged with a giant butt plug. The intergalactic committee approved the suggestion and one was commissioned. Twenty-five different aliens died installing it. The old highway was haunted by the things that were sucked into the gaping anus. The surface of the giant butt plug became a favourite make-out spot for teens and a place to tell ghost stories whilst being touched by actual ghosts.
Nobody on Earth missed Blondie.
 
 
 
 

Sister
By Dani Brown
“Daddy, I want to go feed the pygmy humans.”
“Daddy, I want to feed the pygmy humans to pot-bellied pigs.”
“No Daddy! I want to feed eyeballs to the ducks. Where do the eyeballs come from?”
“Daddy.”
“Daddy.”
“Daddy.”
Goat Lord ground his teeth and wondered what exactly made him think impaling the nanny upon his cock until she bled out was a good idea. Then he remembered, blood is an excellent lubricant. The warm liquid dripping into his piss hole always resulted in ejaculation. He wanted a sure-fire because even getting an erection required far too much effort. Balls, they needed to be relieved.
Now he was stuck with the last remnants of his wife until he hired a new nanny. He would be careful not to impale the next one upon his mighty cock until he had another waiting in the wings. Nannies were difficult to come by. No one wanted to work in the crumbling Hellhole that served as his home. Rumours persisted of certain death and burial under the stairs.
No one wanted to visit either. The smell from under the stairs knocked goats back and sent them running down the street on all fours, reverted to their former pre-revolution, pre-evolution selves. The rumours of burial were false. Goat Lord chucked the bodies under there and hoped for the best.
“Daddy, this way.”
“No, this way.”
“I want to feed the pygmy humans.”
A headache grew from just behind his horns. Goat Lord, Lord of all the Goats in the little patch of land that was his, knew he couldn’t cope with his kids much longer. Not without his head exploding, or his brain turning to liquid and oozing out of his ears and nose.
The world speed by as the little brats shouted for his attention. Goat Lord stamped his hooves. Goats hadn’t even come up with an implant to place in the nose to exhale steam and fire. They would one day, but today was the day to express his anger and frustration by swearing at the fruit of his loins. 
“Shut the fuck up.”
His pocket watch went flying, the chain broken, with the third stamp of his hooves. It didn’t work but served as storage for his stash. Since the time of the uprising, goats found themselves with more and more addictions to block out the blood memories of times gone-by.
Goat Lord was partial to a line or two of coke to perk himself up in the mornings. Too much, over too short a period, and he wouldn’t be able to impale the staff upon his mighty cock.
When dealing with his late-great wife’s leavings he found himself becoming more reliant upon shrooms to see through the long, brutal days of fatherhood. They were meant to be non-addictive, but clung to him like shit on his fur. Much like his surviving children, each one more mutant than the one before it. It was amazing these three lived at all.
He dropped to all fours and screamed. He had to get his pocket watch back. Goat Lord’s mouth dried. Flakes of spit snowed upon the mud from between the natural fork in his tongue. They could have been cocaine grains. He wished they were. His nose ached for the burn as the coffee he gulped back in the night when he couldn’t sleep, wore off. The brats didn’t give him enough time to drink enough to make him shake.
He kicked the youngest brat over with his back legs on his way to look. If the clasp on the watch held, he would maintain a sense of dignity by not eating mud and slurry on his quest to get the drug into his system.
The older brother took the opportunity to lift his leg and pee on his little brother. He never liked the little shit. It wasn’t any wonder their mother topped herself with that deformed thing squealing all the time. Things would be okay if Mother was still here. First Born spent time with her under the stairs, but nothing he did would make her talk.
Sister-in-the-middle kicked First Born out of the way, envy rising inside her. Mother fucker, or mother corpse fucker, if he was only old enough to maintain an erection, knew everything. Every little fucking secret, like he could read minds. He couldn’t bring their mother back from under the stairs. She reminded him at every given opportunity.
She wanted to piss in the little shit’s good eye on account of not remembering her own name since her mother died. Sister was what she went by now. Every time she heard it, she wanted birds to fall dead out of the sky and land in a carriage, their corpses suffocating the next generation or at the very least, sheering their horns.
Sister let the river of foamy urine flow, with a little burning and a dash of blood. Daddy never bothered to call the doctor out. Little Brother can deal with the infection in his eye, if opportunity didn’t present itself to her. She almost wished it wouldn’t. She wanted to see the effect of whatever lurked in her bladder on his eye. But she had waited too long.
The overcast morning just might give her opportunity. It started promising. The old witch by the stream promised clouds on the day. Bladder as empty as it was going to get, she bent down to see if he wept pus.
Her disappointment expressed with a hoof to his misshapen head and the half a third horn on the centre of his forehead. Sister’s kick failed to snap it off. His cloudy white eye rolled around to glare.
First Born watched his father shift around in the mud and shit looking for his broken pocket watch in a river of pygmy human diarrhoea. There wasn’t much in there. He had been pinching from his father’s stash for two weeks now. He didn’t feel any better. The only thing that would help involved puking on the pygmy humans.
They were his favourite. His mother used to tell stories of when they dominated the Earth. They were bigger back then and wore clothes.
First Born experienced vague recollections of his name, but it wasn’t important. He wanted to be a human back when they stood tall and proud and lived in their cities in the sky. Archaeologist knew these once existed, the ruins proved it. He had a stupid goat name, like Little Lord, or something along those lines. It would’ve had Lord in it somewhere at any rate.
His father shifting through manure disgusted him. He wanted nothing to do with his dysfunctional family of the highest inbreeding. Apparently, it was the mark of high status. It wasn’t that high if the peasants had silk fur while First Born was left with course tufts and bald patches.
His mother and father were brother and sister, as were his grandparents. Each generation lost some silkiness and gained roughness in its place. It took generations of tracing back the family tree before a non-related couple could be found. First Born looked at their pictures, photographs from before the Great Uprising. Finest cashmere harvested for wool for the rich.
The miscarried remains of countless brothers and sisters lay beneath the stairs. No one bothered to scarp the flesh from the bone. The smell was horrendous and the linger of decay, enough to result in vomiting in the most sensitive.
First Born enjoyed nothing more than crunching the bones in peace, staring at the shrine to his mother and all the magic he tried to weave around her. No one ventured under the stairs, except for him.
A stray pygmy human squealed past, making it hard to believe they had speech once. He kicked it in the head, getting the thing’s puny brain on his hoof as its body went flying in the opposite direction. Love for a species was one thing. Love devoted to an individual pygmy human didn’t hold a place in his heart.
He spat at the twitching body but missed by half a dozen feet and moved onto their pen, drowning the sounds around him. Pathetic creatures, covered in their own filth, looked up at him with fear and hunger in their eyes.
He went to the feed dispensers and grabbed a bucket with his teeth. He would get down on all fours, like the way goats used to be, to build the fantasy of things being the way they were around him.
The red one was his favourite. Chunks of bone and organ floated in it. More so than usual. The grinder must be clogged again. First Born liked it. Before his mother topped herself pushing out the deformed creature that served as Little Brother, she told him the contents of the red feed were the ground up remains of pygmy humans. The illusion of him on all fours, trotting with his hooves throwing up mud, with a bucket in his mouth wasn’t lost on him.
Sometimes the pygmies in the feed were old. Sometimes there was a surplus. First Born liked the thought of the babbies slurping the Earthly remains of their parents. It was said, humans believed in an afterlife. First Born scooped the red feed into the pen, having to stand up temporarily, imagining the souls of the ground up remains screaming as their relatives ate them.
A youngun’ came over and jumped at his hoof. He looked down and saw it dripping blood. The yougun’s tongue tickled.
A rush of air and pain hit First Born from behind. He toppled over, taking the fence of the pen with him and letting the pygmy humans out. Their soft feet walking over him brought no relief.
Dried shit snowed onto his fur. He should have taken his father’s advice and put on clothes that morning, but it was too late for should-haves. First Born couldn’t have predicted the attack that landed him face down in pygmy human shit.
His sister’s hoof dug into the back of his neck, pushing his face deeper into the slurry. His mouth and nose filled with shit. First Born’s ears were spared. With his other senses dull, noise became a loud firework travelling to the centre of his brain. Slurry blinded him, but it didn’t stop the fireworks going off in front of him.
“You’re going to die.”
He knew his sister whispered, but the voice came in loud and clear.
“Every single week, Daddy takes us out, and every single week, you make us stare at pygmy humans eating their own shit.”
A warm glob of phlegm-filled spit landed on the back of his neck. She would’ve been holding it in her mouth, otherwise he would have heard it being born with the new-found ear sensitivity. The phlegm indicated she ran out of piss.
“I fucking hate pygmy humans.”
She stamped on his head.
“I hate the way their sad beady eyes follow you everywhere, like they remember but not well enough.”
First Born wanted to shout that they wore clothes once. They used to be able to talk but couldn’t very well do that with a mouthful of slurry. He wanted to tell her and them everything he knew.
The warm liquid mud crept further down the back of his throat and into his nostrils. First Born loved the little naked humans. He didn’t love drowning in their filth. His ears searched for their sounds, desperate in hope the connection he fostered between himself and them week after week, was felt on their end. First Born’s legs twitched as slurry filled his lungs, always listening for the pygmy humans.
Goat Lord didn’t pay any attention to what went on around him. The search for the missing pocket watch consumed every ounce of his concentration, drowning out noise and movement. There were no witnesses to First Born’s murder, except the few pygmy humans that turned around once they remembered they had two legs and two arms. His father didn’t feel any loss connection when he died. Little Brother did.
Goat Lord rolled around in the filth of the petting zoo, not noticing the stampede of pygmies running and leaping clumsily on their hind legs, until one stepped on a tiny shimmer of gold and pulled his broken pocket watch up by a toe.
Cocaine snowed on the muck. Until that moment, the clasp held. An old relic from the time of the humans, stolen during the revolution. It should have been replaced generations ago. Goat Lord dived at it, nose aching for the burn as his children murdered each other in the background.
Thunder sounded overhead before the first fat drops of rain fell from the pregnant sky. Sister looked up. It was her day. The witch by the stream said it would play out in the exact way it did.
First Born felt them land on his fur as his body twitched beneath his sister’s weight. He knew he should have put on pants before leaving, but that took up time better spent licking the decayed remains of his siblings beneath the stairs.
Little Brother took off his clothes and threw them in the mud. Everything smelt of his sister’s piss. He couldn’t get the smell out. He didn’t want the memories to follow him. There’ll come a time in the future when he’s bigger than her. If he can get his piss to come out the right hole and aim, he’ll be able to get his revenge then.
He saw his father sniffing the air and decided to join him. Something must smell good over there. He didn’t know of his father’s drug habits, like his brother. Sister suspected something, but didn’t care.
Little Brother crashed into a pygmy human and knocked it face first into the mud. His next step brought his hoof down on its neck. He didn’t look over to see Sister doing the same thing to First Born. He wouldn’t have done anything to stop her, if he did.
Little Brother, upon realising what he stepped on, moved his hoof up, ready for the jump. He knew the things were fast. He didn’t want it to escape. He settled for stamping, the smell of his sister’s urine evaporating with each hoof into the pygmy human’s skull.
They were bigger than goats once. First Born told him that goats used to be kept in pens and fed pellets while humans roamed the Earth and flew to the Moon. First Born lies!
The thought of the stories he told on stormy afternoons made Little Brother’s stamps harder. The brain burst on his last landing, sending skull shards flying and grey matter up Little Brother’s legs all the way to his waist.
Sister watched Little Brother stamp on the pygmy human as First Born drowned in the slurry. Her little brother wrapped himself in an aura of anger from the day he was pushed out with the last of their mother’s blood.
He bit off the wet nurse’s teat and spat it in her face. Father didn’t bother ringing the doctor. His youngest lapped up the blood and sucked her dry.
The smell of her decomposition and the buzz of flies chased Sister into nightmares each time she closed her eyes. Little Brother ate the maggots. First Born tried to study them beneath his cracked microscope. She didn’t know which one disgusted her more.
Little Brother presented an issue with his energy versus an ambush. The most she could handle was peeing on him when he was down. Any threat to his life and he’d end up killing her. She had something special saved for him in the pockets of her dress.
Little Brother seemed happy turning the pygmy human to mush as the heavens opened. Her father appeared distracted. She ran for him, knocking down a confused pygmy human on the way.
Sister’s balance was exceptional. Goat ballet being something she taught herself after her mother told her a bedtime story about how the humans of legend would do it. She begged her father to take her to lessons, but he flat out refused. More reason to charge into him at a twirl and leap.
Mud and coke flakes went up Goat Lord’s nose. His brain was hit at the same time his daughter leaped onto the back of his head, crushing his skull in the landing. He died doing what he loved; snorting cocaine.
Sister glanced at Little Brother, waiting for her father’s death rattle. He found the pygmy human she knocked over and was suckling at the creature’s teats. Pygmy humans were known for lactating pus. Sister felt the vomit raise in the back of her throat. She swallowed it back down.
Memories of his wet nurse overwhelmed him. The pygmy squirmed beneath his bite. Animals felt pain. He couldn’t giggle with flesh in his mouth. He climbed onto her stomach comping down on her nipple until blood flowed with the milk.
Sister had no desire to torture her father’s deceased body while his soul was cleansed with fire. He’d be in too much pain to notice her hoof up his anus. Physically feeling something in the afterlife was said to be impossible, but mentally, the waves of violation would hit him if she stored the body in the freezer until a later date.
She let Little Brother suckle while she went to fetch a cup. Nothing fancy, filled with hot blood and floating chunks of fat, from the shitty little petting zoo café. Sister knew that was his favourite. She paused by the table with the stirrers to add the special ingredient from her dress pocket.
He was right where she left him, sucking the other teat clean in the rain as the creature screamed its agony for the other pygmies to hear. All the other goats at the petting zoo sought shelter from the rain. She could feel their eyes watching and picked up on their attempts to protect their traumatised children from the Goat Lord’s deformed offspring. She hissed at them, the noise not perfect despite her hours spent practicing in front of the mirror.
The hot drink splashed in the cup. It didn’t matter, she checked to make sure the lid was secure. A little burn would ruin the perfect day.
Little Brother chomped on the raw flesh of the tiny human. Since the day he was pushed out in a massive haemorrhage, he was hungry. Born ravenous, he gnawed on their mother until her empty bag of bones was taken away and placed under the stairs.
Sister trotted over to him.
“I thought you might be thirsty.”
Before he could reject the drink, she cleared her throat to add more and bowed her head in the hope he wouldn’t catch the glisten in her eyes or pass it off as the rain.
“I’m sorry I pissed on you. I didn’t want First Born to target me.”
The sweetness in her voice, or the rain falling on the ground did the trick and he took the hot drink, removing the lid so he could suck back the chunky fat in one gulp. Sister watched, attempting to appear causal, wondering if the drink burned his throat on the way down.
The little surprise coursed through him even as he crushed the cup beneath his hoof. Blood dripped from his eyes before he knew what was happening. Sister couldn’t help but smile.
She took her time to shoot the grin at each family as her brother keeled over. She was in charge now. There weren’t going to be any more pygmy humans at petting zoos, or petting zoos for that matter. She held up her arms to a flash of lightening and felt the energy on the air mix with the fear.
Those goats didn’t know fear, but soon, they will.
.

first appeared in Box of Bizarro
 
Little Bo Peep
By Dani Brown
 
“Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep.”
A man in a frilly blue calf length dress hides in the hedge of a Welsh farm and hums beneath his breath (he doesn’t realise he is doing it). Bet you can see where this is going? Just to be sure, allow me to elaborate. Although bestiality is illegal throughout Britain, some people flout these laws, mainly with sheep.
“And doesn’t know where to find them.”
This man knows exactly where to find the sheep. Hence hiding in a hedge in a Welsh farm. He left his car at the bed and breakfast and walked the three miles to the farm.
“Leave them alone.”
The man wanted out of the hedge but he had to make sure the farmer wasn’t around – farmers had guns and they don’t like it if someone fucks their sheep. They’ve even been known to shoot at their own sons for making love to the animals.
“And they’ll come home.”
The man in drag heard heavy boot steps on the dry earth. He backed into the hedge snagging the frills and lace on his blue dress. He was making far too much noise but maybe the person stamping on the dry earth wouldn’t notice. Or maybe it wasn’t the farmer come to check on his sheep and make sure the lambs’ virginity remained intact.
“Bringing their tails behind them.”
He heard a scuffing a little ways down the hedge. And coughing a little ways down the other side of the hedge.
“Little Bo Peep,” started up somewhere else and the man in the frilly blue dress realised he had been humming it all along.
It appeared he wasn’t the only person here to lift the tails of the sheep. But it could be a trap set up by the gun-wielding farmer. Those farmers were really smart when it came to ensuring the sheep weren’t violated.
“Has lost her sheep.”
He could have easily dumped a recording into the hedge to lure potential sheep fuckers into a sense of safety.
“And doesn’t know where to find them.”
The fear of being caught and shot at made the dress wearing man really horny. His erection made his dress a few inches shorter in the front.
Lurking over there was a shadow – the long shadow of a man lacking a gun. The moon shone high in the sky, it was full. The dress wearing man could see the silhouette as it skipped towards the sheep. Too much joy was in that skip.
“Leave them alone.”
It wasn’t a farmer. Another silhouette joined it. This one was clearly a man with a very large, very erected cock.
“And they’ll come home.”
The dress wearing man leaped out of the hedge and became another silhouette running beneath the light of the full moon towards the sheep. He wanted to bring one back to the bed and breakfast with him but then he would be arrested so he had to do the act in the field with all the other men hiding in the hedge.

I don't think this one has been published anywhere...

Skippy
by Dani Brown
Digging. Endless digging. Here’s some more digging. The hole is already so goddamn deep but still, the foreman won’t allow you to stop. Something big must be down here. Something important. If there isn’t, you can round up your fellow employees and impale him. Impalement is always an option down below.
Your fellow employees are letting the frustration show. The lyrics in their stupid chant changed, taking on something more dark and twisted in a subtle sort of way so the foreman wouldn’t be able to work out what they meant.
You don’t chant while you dig. You’re too cool for that bullshit or any other bullshit. You’re doing your time, paying your dues and then you’re out of here – onto great things, better things.
Fingernails are a thing of the past. You’re digging with the nail bed. They broke off long ago with the embedded dirt. Probably eaten by the foreman when you brought them to him with your bleeding fingers. The foreman was a dirty fucker. They always were. What this one was searching for, he never said. Just said to keep digging. Forever digging. It never stops.
At least you have ten hours off at night. You crawl beneath your blankets and don’t move until someone shoves luke warm gruel beneath your nose with dawn’s first light. You swallow that down before you even piss.
Thoughts of the outside world are long since gone. What comes to you in waking hours is like a weird hallucination. This is what has always been and always will be.
You dig some more silently cursing the chanters, hoping they’ll act on their chants with the even more sinister twist (“feed him his liver” – you like that). Your finger hits something solid. You bite your tongue to stop from crying out. It is your discovery. No one else’s. They can chant. They can go fuck themselves and murder the foreman beneath a pool of communal bodily fluids.
It is dark down in the hole. No one knows you are brushing aside dirt with your bare hands. You look up. They’re still digging. The foreman is at the top barking orders through a megaphone. He won’t even shine a spot light down here – something about being a waste of electricity and upsetting luminous albino spiders.
The spiders don’t bother you. If your tongue was longer (and not bleeding) you would lick them off the wall for a tasty snack – gotta be better than the gruel they feed you, but then again, anything is except dirt. Eating spiders earns a trip into blistering daylight though. Your eyes would melt out and you’ll never be able to see again.
The surface is only something you’ve read about in books. Dawn’s early light is only a bulb since the air on the surface is impossible to breathe without getting shards of strings of pollution formed together in a solid form dancing on the wind storms up there. Light, a replication of old photographs and descriptions read about in books by those who still knew how to read. Not many now.
Life had become endless digging down, looking for more space. It couldn’t be built up any more. The winds raping the surface were too strong. Building swayed in them.
One collapsed not so long ago, killing everyone and everything inside and letting in the surface pollutants into the comprised buildings next door – also killing everyone inside. Ghost buildings. The building’s planners, builders, engineers and architects were forced to handle the body removal and bring them to the surface with flimsy bio-haz suits. They died too.
The here and now. Brushing aside the moist soil. It is loose. You feel your neighbour’s body heat next to you. At a guess, you say three feet. Luminous white spiders dance on the walls of the hole.
Your behaviour is suspect but the chances of the foreman paying attention and shining a spotlight down here are slim to none. He’s one lazy bastard. How he made foreman is anyone’s guess. Your theory? He sucked and licked all the chain-gangs working his way up, out of the hole. The next layer of the planet where the bulbs change colour with the daylight outside.
The smoothness gives way in the dark. Light pours out and up. You shield your eyes. The chanting stops. Everyone has noticed. You hope it burns the foreman above. A pull. The gravity. It is intense. Punishment of yesteryear, endless falling. That’s all the old people’s holes were for. And to dump bodies. Skeletons. Partially decomposed. Mummified. You’ve dug up them all and discarded them with the rest of the rubbish from hole digging.
You try to move your heels away from the hole. They scrape against something solid. You wiped away all the dirt. There’s nothing to stop the hole sucking you into the light.
Your heels touch it first. It is warm and strange. Tingles work up your body from there. It is not unpleasant. Relaxing even after more of you is sucked through into the light.
You’re free-falling. You can feel the air rushing past your body even with the tingles. You hear the screams of your formerly chanting fellow employees (in the loosest sense of the word, digging is punishment for crimes unknown). You try to open your eyes and can’t. The wind speed is too much. You aren’t scared. The tingles feel good. You’ve never felt wind. Only heard about it through whispers in the dark.
You can understand why people have to be protected from the surface now. But something this good, can’t be evil, like the church-people claim. You slow down. You were expecting to shatter on the ground eventually. You open your eyes and look down. You can see it, coming slowly up to meet you (or more, you are slowly going down to meet it).
There’s light. It doesn’t hurt. It is soothing. Better than dawn’s early light. Those bulbs are cold and harsh, an endless winter below ground with nothing to eat except bone meal of the old people and gruel.
There’s something lush a green brushing past your cheek. It tickles. And smells divine. Plant life of times gone by, another myth whispered in the dark between the chants. Apparently only stuff with vines and eyes exists on the surface these days. The eyes came when greedy scientists went a bit too far and cross bred the flowers with the fish next to a nuclear reactor. They do nothing about the wind speed and poison pollution up above.
A drop of something wet hits the top of your head. Followed by another. It is cool and refreshing after years spent in the dark.
Your co-employees have stopped their screaming. You hope the foreman wasn’t sucked in. He doesn’t deserve to feel the light defused through the soft greenery, even if it ultimately leads to your death and the death of those you have so recently found yourself working with.
You land on your feet. Even the dirt has a different quality to it down here. You look up. You can’t see what you’ve fallen through. Trees block the way. Or, at least, you think they’re trees. You heard them spoken about in the dark.
Something brushes past your ankle. Something with many legs. You don’t scream. You look down. You can’t see it. An insect of some variety. In the light, they aren’t luminous. They blend in with their surroundings.
Noise in the distance. An animal calling its youth home. Animals would be something of myth too but you’ve dug up enough of their remains and left to be discarded with the trash to know they actually existed in the long ago when the old people were throwing their criminals into holes.
You wonder if you’re dreaming. Maybe your hallucinations became more vivid since your work took a more unpleasant turn down in the pits digging for seemingly no reason at all? Everything about life was pointless. You wondered why you carried on existing. Hallucinations kept you going. Was this the final one? Did you now drop dead out of a combination of sheer boredom and far too much manual and pointless labour?
Hallucination or not, life has new meaning. Another drop falls on your head. You look up. It is coming out of the sky. The light quality has changed. Something grey and mean is blocking it out. Clouds. You heard about them whispered as nursery rhymes to send you to sleep during childhood. Little rain clouds.
Behind the trees, the little bit of woodland you landed in, the light is bright. You look at your hand for the first time. You are clothed in layers of dirt from the years. The rain washes it away. Naked as the day you were born.
The ground shakes. You grab the nearest tree. You don’t want to fall into another hole. Hell was something the church-people blared on about. You didn’t believe in it until now.
There’s something else out there. You hear the mumblings of your co-employees (employment digging wasn’t a choice; it was something forced upon everyone who had to do it but you have no other name for it). People sound confused, not frightened.
Your hair is matted with dirt. You wonder if theirs is in a similar state. You walk towards the voices. Small creatures bounce by you on two legs. You have no idea what they are.
You wonder if people are down here too. People who have always lived in the light, even if it is only the light of your imagination. You see a co-worker. Naked apart from the dirt. They have no shame. Neither do you. Only foremen wear clothes.
You don’t know of people whose status is greater than foremen. You know they exist. Sometimes the foreman is in a bad mood because someone above him gave him new orders. They might wear clothes too. But down in the pits, clothes are forbidden. Even threadbare rags pillaged from the dead of yesteryear aren’t allowed. Clothes would be allowed in this place.
As would soap. Soap was a privilege granted only to the people ruthless enough to claw themselves out of the pits. You want soap. You want to be clean. You want to feel the soft brush of fabric against your bare skin.
Warm air breathes into the cracks in the dirt on your neck. You wait for a tap. Fear, for the first time since feeling the tingles engulf your body grips you. You can’t turn around.
You don’t want to seem rude. These people have lived all their lives in the light. You want their help. You want them to show you the way. This land is so pure and uncorrupted. Clean air to breathe. Light. Plants. The ferns are waist high and don’t have eyes. Fossilised ferns were another thing for the trash heap in the pits above.
But sometimes a particularly sadistic foreman with a spot of education would shove them in the throats of the pit workers endlessly digging. Stories of ancient plants were shoved in ears and brains in the same way the rocks were shoved into the mouths of hungry pit workers.
You want to run into the ferns and hide. The breath cracks open the dirt, pushing it away from your body right down your spine. Your body is frozen. This is how it ends.
The person (creature) behind you moves. You can feel it. Most of your life spent in the pits digging made your senses ultra-sensitive. To your left. Their breath is still on your neck. They’re about your height. They move slow.
You can see out of the corner of your eye now. But it is still green over there. Still raining. Light defused through the green trees. Everything is so green. After a life in the dark, it seemed so pleasant before. Now, you don’t want to see.
You’ve felt fear before. You’ve seen luminous insects. Eaten them when no one was looking. You’ve felt larger things lurking in the dark. Things with blackened teeth, still sharp – looking for a quick bite. But you knew that fear. You knew those things lurked in the dark.
Nursey rhymes became urban legend became the education of the pits. Down in the pits, those things mattered. Your body would freeze. You could go without breathing for two minutes. Longer if needed. Your body was built for it.
But the thing breathing on you now, it could see – as could you. Your mind never wanted to imagine the things lurking in the dark. It didn’t want to meet what was breathing on you now.
You close your eyes. You can’t see it but it can still see you. It can smell you too but the sense of smell in something that can see isn’t as strong as the creatures that lurk sightless in the dark.
You are perfectly still. You aren’t even breathing. The bottom of your feet itch but you’ve learnt to ignore that over the years.
The rain, moments ago so pleasant, falls like torture. Drip. Drop. Not falling with any speed. That would be like the showers you were told about. Something to aim for down in the pits where there’s only festering rags on sticks, ripe with imagined mould growths because it was always too dark to see anything even below dawn’s early light bulbs.
Mud falls off you in drips revealing your bare flesh. So liberating at first. Not so with fear coursing in your body. You can feel that move. You can smell it coming out of your pores.
The person (creature) moves in front of you. You can smell them and not you. The smell isn’t bad. You’re used to bad smells. Anything that isn’t enough to make non-pit creatures die is suspicious by nature.
The person (creature) sniffs and breathes in your face. You have to take a step back. You must exhale the air in your lungs. Your body is frozen. The person (creature) breathes and sniffs.
Your senses and your imagination don’t agree on what is standing in front of you. Your body tells you it doesn’t have skin but scales in green to match the ferns and trees. Your mind tells you another human, clothed and holding something sharp and pointy with teeth filed into points.
You can’t hold your breath any longer. Your lungs are hot and heavy. A few seconds more and maybe the person (creature) will lose interest.
But you’ve been seen. You aren’t in the dark any longer. Things down here in the light are strange.
You hold it in and clench your anus as if this can help you hold your breath.
The person (creature) blows hot breath on your closed eyelids. The request: to open them. You disobey. Little scraps of disobedience were common in the pits. It was the only way to survive. Down here, in the light you aren’t so sure. Blatant disobedience of this variety wasn’t tolerated up above.
It took the last of your mental strength to keep your eyes shut. Your lungs protest inside you. You needed air. The rapid beating of your heart was giving away your location anyways. What difference does it make? If your heart was to randomly stop, it wouldn’t matter. The person (creature) can see you. A battle raged inside you between old habits and new environment.
In the light, nothing is as bad. The pits were dark and dank with luminous albino spiders and terrible gas. You were brought up in a world where trust was a myth experienced by the people of old. They trusted too much and the world became the way it is.
You keep your lids shut. You’re dizzy, lightheaded. Lack of air. You need to breathe. Exhalation of the hot heavy air in your lungs before opening your eyes.
You stumble backwards and are caught by a big green tail. Creature, not person. Expression: curious. Not even the bits of ancient debris in the pits held any sort of explanation for what was sniffing you. Breathing. Eyes open. Heart rate normalising. You pass out.
Green light pokes into the slits of your eyes. You aren’t ready to open them. Sleep wraps her thick arms around you hugging you in a warm embrace.
The smell of something greasy but good travels on the air up to your nostrils. You crack open your eyelids. This time, you open them further. The waking world awaits. You are lying on your back, sunk into something soft. Nightmares of the pits are a distant memory.
The sizzling on the air. You don’t know what that is but it accompanies the smell. Movement around you. Your eyes try to focus but your mind isn’t ready. The sound of a light door moves and the smell becomes stronger. You see a blur. That is all. Eyes aren’t ready.
The smell makes you hungry. You don’t remember when your last bowl of gruel was. Time is a meaningless string to count how long you were in the pits. But you aren’t in the pits any longer. A vague thought of your co-employees dances across your mind but hunger chases them away.
A clicking and a jingle. Something creaks below you. Your mind goes into panic mood. The ground is giving way. What’s below this world may be unpleasant. You want to stay here. Sweat breaks out all over your body. The ground doesn’t move. But you are above it laying on something soft and warm.
The creaks, clicking and jingles get closer. The smell accompanies them getting stronger. So mouth-watering intense. There’s something bitter too, sitting next to something sweet. All those years in the dark and your senses are sharp. They haven’t even begun to dull. But you have no idea how long you’ve been here, or even where here is. Being sucked into the light seemed to have happened so long ago.
Heavy breathing and the ground moves some more near where the air changed. There’s sounds from that direction too. People talking? Maybe. Maybe not. You’re too dazed and hungry to contemplate it now.
With a thud and much clicking, the pleasant smell lands a foot away from your head. You turn towards it begging your eyes to focus. The first thing they hone in on is a flower sticking out of a ceramic vessel. You can see its aura of death. Plants are of such abundance they can just be cut up and put in a vessel here. The death of the flower seems to serve no purpose. Ancient graffiti left behind by the old people, viewed under the dim light of the bulbs hinted as much. Something for decoration only.
There’s a scratching from the ground next to the person. A different smell too. Your stomach rumbles. You cringe at the vibrations. They make you sound weak. A lifetime spent in the dark and you are weak. You don’t want to advertise it. Your vision isn’t as blurry. Tiny details stand out on the vessel containing the dying flower. Vines painted on. Down in the light, someone took the time to make that.
“Food,” a voice says.
You look up from your bed. You know what that word means. It means the same thing above and below.
You push yourself up. Everything is so new and daunting. The soft thing you are laying on wants to suck you in but not in a bad way.
The voice belongs to someone clean and kind-looking but the people above the pits would scrub themselves up and look nice. A kind appearance can be deceptive. You don’t think that is the case here.
Next to the person, is a green creature of some variety with a long neck and tail. Not as large as what you landed on when you fell over due to lack of oxygen. A baby? You think this one might be fully grown.
You succeed in pushing yourself to a sitting position. You didn’t bother to count how many attempts it took. It doesn’t matter. The plate of food is like something you’ve only seen the fossilised remains of. No gruel in sight. Bone meal isn’t there either. It smells so good.
A brown liquid resides in a cup with a handle made of thick ceramic. It doesn’t smell like shit passed through a blender. You avoided that stuff. The person speaks up, “coffee”. You try the word on your tongue, “coffee”. It brings the sound of joy. Steam rises from it.
Steam rises from all the food. In the pits, everything is luke warm and covered in dirt. Not here. That’s actual sunlight out there.
The creature puts its neck on your leg. You have no idea what it is. It seems friendly enough.
You take a sip of the coffee. It feels warm and pleasant going down chasing away the grogginess. Shit in a blender never did that the few times you tried it. It was meant to. That’s what the foremen above said. It was all lies though.
With the coffee in your hand, you reach the other one for the top of the creature’s head. It likes that. The person who brought the food smiles at you.
“I think you two are going to be great friends. Everyone here has one. A connection between a person and a genetically engineered micro-dinosaur is a sacred bond.”
With that the person left, leaving you to sample the offerings on the plate. You ate everything without knowing what it was called. The person returned a short while later. A lizard creature followed behind – another one of the micro-dinosaurs you later learned.
There were lots of different micro-dinosaurs here. They adopted people or people adopted them, depending on who you asked.
There were pits here too. The micro-dinosaur with the long neck who adopted you, took you to see them. They weren’t dark and dank like the ones above – slowly fading into memory and nightmares. They weren’t there for for no other reason than to keep the down-trodden occupied and build more space so there could be more down trodden made. They were places of great learning about the past of this place. DNA was extracted from lizard-creatures and they were born in labs, shrunken down from their big ancestors.
You found some of your co-employees down here. You would meet up for lunch sometimes. Three to four meals a day. This was the life. Your micro-dinosaur was large enough to ride.
You called him “Skippy”. He liked that. You called all the micro-dinosaurs he’s but some were clearly she’s. You rode Skippy to explore the uncharted land with a group of old co-employees.
Life here was easy and relaxed. There was time for leisure. It took a while to get used to.
The sky opened above you. People fell out. The pits above were getting too deep. The foremen too greedy. Skippy kicked into a canter. These people needed help. Down here life was good. You knew from experience they would be a bit dazed. A good life took some getting used to. There’s was plenty of everything for everyone. The labs had just hatched new micro-dinosaurs in anticipation of the sky opening again. Scientists would keep track of sky-quakes to have a general idea of when it would next happen. Being prepared was the key to living in harmony.
 
 
Dani Brown, April 2016