Tuesday, August 12, 2014

HYBRID - BY MAGENTA NERO - IS THIS WEEK'S TERROR TUESDAY!




http://penofthedamned.com/2014/08/12/hybrid-2/


Hybrid, by Magenta Nero is this week's Terror Tuesday! I have only included a snippet of this super tale below. Go to the link above and read it in its entirety. Many times I wonder about the feasibility of what Magenta writes about in this story. The more I think about it, the more I know it could happen and probably is already.

Read more of Magenta's tale and others she has written on our website. Stay a while and read great stories from the rest of our members. They are Damned Dark . . .


Blaze McRob




Hybrid

Scampering on all fours, the deformed arch of his spine protrudes through his flesh, the flex and buckle of his bones twisting him painfully. Night has fallen but he can’t sleep or stop for long. They are hunting him, getting closer, the more they track him the more they learn about him. He keeps his mutating body shrouded, only in the most quiet and private moments can he bare to look at himself. He scuttles under his damp blanket through the dense shrub of the city foothills.
The worst thing is the hunger. A perpetual, insatiable hunger that festers within his empty gut and grates against his bones. A hunger he has only begun to understand. The last time he was inside a supermarket his desire for human food had almost diminished completely. He roamed the aisles, restless, agitated, trying to find something that looked appetizing. He dragged dirty fingertips along rows of tins and jars, everything was pickled in salt and sugar. He stared blankly at cuts of flesh packaged neatly in little trays. He stuck his nose into piles of fruit and vegetables, sniffing deeply, fascinated by the smell of pesticide and wax. Everything on display was rotten; toxic. How can people eat this shit? he thought to himself but he must have spoken out loud, a woman standing nearby gave him a sharp stare and stormed off. He scuttled over to the bakery section where he fondled the bread. He crushed a loaf in his hands, his fingers easily popping the crust and sinking into soft, white pulp. He longed to crush something alive, something with a still beating heart.
The store security guard appeared, strolling up to him casually. Crossing his arms over his bulging chest, the guard said, “I’ll have to ask you to leave now, sir.”
What is his name, what did they used to call him? He lifts his sleeve. The scar says ‘BEN’. He cut it into his flesh himself, clumsily, with a razor blade. They have taken away almost everything but he won’t let them take his name.
“Ben,” he mumbles to himself “Ben, Ben, Ben…”

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