EXCERPT - FromTriple Monkeys : A Dystopian, Post-Apocalypse Short Story
A PERSONAL EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION...
The moment I let go of my fear and sent that first 7.62 x 39 round flying, I was emancipated.
No longer would I live in bondage to those fears. No longer would I live with the daily terror at any moment being escorted to one of the interment camps. I would never again feel myself start to piss when I saw armed soldiers rounding up people and throwing them in the back of trucks, like cattle.
At last, that icy knot I had carried around with me in my gut melted away.
With the penetration of that first traitorous skull, I was free.
AFTER THE FALL...
After the fall of everything we knew, after the infrastructure crumbled, the internet was killed, the cell phone towers shut off, the stores all closed, the electricity stopped flowing, and the water plants stopped pumping, most people were as defenseless and vulnerable as newborns.
Most of those who died were killed were within the first few weeks, in the days when everybody lost their mind.
As many died in the riots than did from the virus. But the Endgame came when everybody lined up for the new super-duper, cure-all anti-viral shot - even those who had always rebelled against getting flu shots or other vaccines stood in line for it.
The hysteria-inducing propaganda campaign about how horrendous a disease this was worked fabulously. People rioted to get shot up. They trampled others to death to get a shot. They pushed people out of the way, punched them and kicked them and threw them aside, people who were their friends and neighbors, family members.
Once the virus reassembled itself with new viruses in the shots, that was when millions more died. Within 48 hours, more than half of those who took the new shot were either dead, maimed or comatose.
And most of the rest lost their ability to think. They lost their own will. They lost their capacity for reason.
Taking away fast food death burgers, big screen TVs, and their two-for-one Cool Whip coupons was enough to make most people riot or lay down and die.
We were all lost.
There were millions dead.
Tens of millions.
And the death toll just kept on rising.
But some of us – just some of us – found the way back to our own humanity.
And now for something completely different...from the last book I released (see below!) :oD
This is my short story collection of body modification and bloodfetish fiction erotica. Out now in eBook format!
From the near religious ecstasy of self mutilation to redemption via modification of the flesh to a obsession with merging into one body with a lover, this collection is a mixture of online old favorites, little seen micro press-published stories you won't have read, and never before seen material.
From - THE MODIFICATION OF A STUPID CUNT...
I stroke my last scar and think of him. I remember what his own ruined flesh felt like on mine, the texture of his imperfections rubbing against my body, the taste of him. I remember the sensitivity of new scar tissue, like a fresh branding - burning hot pain as new, tight skin stretched almost to breaking point.
I remember the musk that rose from his skin and inflamed me. And the smell of his hair - like cars and apples - and the permanent line of black motor oil under his fingernails. I close my eyes and I think of those dirty hands as they pawed me, scratched my delicate skin. I can still feel each cut and nick and callus that graced his brutal hands, hands so dirty they made my skin smell like an engine.
But I cannot stay away and each time he sees me he wants more. The deeper I cut, the more plentiful my scars, the greater his desire for me. Each time we meet I am new for him, further reconstructed, my modification advancing to a new level. Ongoing transformation of a woman.
From CHANGED FLESH : VIOLETTA & THE MAGDALENS...
She waited for him, dressed in shadows and blending in with the city night; only the alabaster glow of her skin in the darkness gave her away.
Each moment that passed felt like an eternity.
Patience is a virtue.
Anticipatory adrenalin rushed through her; her entire body quivered and her breath quickened in her throat, came out in short bursts like fuck-gasps, visible in the freezing air.
Then she saw him, strutting past the open window, naked and proud. Even from this distance she could see his cock standing to attention.
Her heart lurched in her chest and her gut flipped over twice. She almost whimpered but dug her long black nails into the soft flesh of her palms diverting her concentration from her nervousness and excitement.
She'd been waiting here for hours and her feet and legs were numb, felt almost rooted to the dirty street beneath them. It felt like she had been waiting there forever. And she would have waited that long for him. She would have waited for an eternity. She would have waited until the end of time.
She listened to the sounds of sex that filtered down from the bedroom window, one floor up, across the narrow street. She listened to the words that spilled from his passion-filled mouth and out into the night.
She listened to all the noises of pleasure and pain and the cries of that which lay somewhere between the two. She watched violent silhouettes battle each other, throw themselves against the pallid walls in the candlelight.
From - SURGICAL MESSIAH...
She sits alone bathed in the soft glow of candle light, the scent of exotic incense filling her room. Decadent trails of aromatic smoke, curl into the air around her. She closes her eyes, inhales the Eastern-scented air, feeling the excitement, the anticipation building inside her.
She stares at her own flawed perfection and smiles, like a mother's smile at her new born, a labor of love smile, a smile born of pain and suffering and endurance.
Her scars are beautiful, each as unique as a snowflake and just as pure. The raised patterns are often-traveled paths back to the memories which created them.
Lust hung heavily in the air as he smoldered his way through another song. Drums like a heartbeat throbbed behind his voice and distorted guitars screamed like the adoring crowd.
The warehouse was packed, wall-to-wall, the air wet with excited sweat, the crowd exhaling their desire for him into air that smelled like sex.
Belladonna grinned grudgingly and shook her head as she watched him preach to his disciples. Not much had changed in the eighty years that Belladonna had been a vampire.
Vivant still needed an audience.
And that audience was still on its knees, vibrating with lust so fierce you could almost touch it, taste it.
Men and women wanted him, needed him, just like they always had. And some would even die for him.
Looking at the people in the crowd reminded Belladonna that fashion never changed all that much over the years. Most of them looked as if they'd just stepped from the corroding celluloid of a silent movie, black-eyed and pale and at odds with the colorful world around them.
It was pointless trying to hide; Vivant would have known she was here long before she crossed the threshold. No one could successfully sneak up on him.
Belladonna wondered why he had never left Hollywood for any significant period. He'd arrived here from eastern Europe and not left for more than a few weeks at a time in more than a century.
But it was a foolish question. She knew the answer. It was the reason she was standing there at this moment.
Because this is Hollywood.
And there's no place on earth quite like it.
Hollywood is where the widest dreams can come true and heart's desires are crushed. The place where legends are made and souls are lost.
It's where fantasies can become a reality and reality can turn into a nightmare.
Hollywood is love and hate. Euphoria and despair. Good and evil.
And it is a place where there is always hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, you are the one. Hope that maybe someday it will be you sitting in the back of that long black car sipping ice-cold Cristal from platinum-rimmed flutes, giving head to the top box office star of the year, instead of parking his Limousine.
And Hollywood is where that might just happen. There's always a chance – no matter how small, how miniscule, that it could happen.
Because this is Hollywood.
That's why everybody always comes back.
And why some never leave. Can't leave. Won't leave.
She smiled. Sepia-toned memories invaded her, things she hadn't thought about in years, but she was glad she remembered them.
She was home again. Not that she had been gone for long.
Alex Severin was born in the Scottish Highlands, but was recently transplanted to the Wild, Wild West of the USA.
She writes short stories, novels, screenplays, and loves to write about things that both repel and fascinate.