Posts Tagged ‘the despot’

Carrion Crow – MtG by AaronMiller

Jacques awoke amongst scattered bodies. His head throbbed where the mace had struck. Nearby, a crow alit on a dead soldier’s chest, plucked an eyeball, just like Laura would pluck vine-ripened grapes. His hand squeezed bloody muck. He envisioned the rich soil of his farmland. He grabbed limbs of the dead, pulled himself forward. He’d crawl back to Laura.

A boot stepped in his path. “Where you heading, mate?”

“Please,” said Jacques, touching the boot.

“Got a live one ‘ere, Sarge,” called the boot.

“Cap’n said no quarter.”

“Sorry mate,” said the boot, grinding Jacques face into the muck.

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Mud Pool by CBasco on DeviantArt.com

“Boy! Give me your hand,” ordered Sir Ballard, knee deep in bog mud.

“You gave me your hand yesterday,” said Haymuth. “Across my face.”

“For impudence.”

“For defending my sister’s honor.”

Ballard’s waist disappeared. “Your sister was a whore.”

“She was a maiden yesterday morning. By noon, a harlot. By evening, a corpse.”

Ballard’s breastplate was engulfed. “I did not kill her.”

“Your lust did.”

“Fetch a rope!”

“My sister used the rope. When I regained consciousness, she was swinging from a rafter.”

“I should not die like this. I’m a knight. Chivalry …” Ballard’s head disappeared.

“… is dead.”

Desert of blood by Idriu95 on DeviantArt.com

Thugs burst from dunes, gripping curved blades.

Surrounded, Keila turns slowly, remembering rough games played with her brothers – hide and seek, ambush, wooden swords – a girl against aspiring squires. They taught her well. When they went to war, she followed.

The thugs circle; Keila crouches. Winds kick up. She lifts a handkerchief over her mouth, raises a blade and small shield. The thugs become silhouettes in swirling red dust.

She spins like a djin, blade biting through the shrieking desert wind.

The winds die. Dust settles.

Keila stands alone, parched. She gulps water from her wineskin. The dunes gulp blood.

Krampus by DamaraCarpenter on DeviantArt.com

Nick’s sled came in hot. He cranked the parking break, slid, and bounced off a snow-covered Caddy. His engine stalled. Nick tried the starter. It howled like a dying cat.

Down a dark alley, two headlights illuminated.

“Krampus!” said Nick, punching a dashboard panel. It dropped open, revealing a joystick and scanner.

A flaming demon sled squealed from the alley. The driver thrust his horned head out the window and screamed “Nicholas! It’s my night!”

A blip approached the scanner center. “You’re under the missile-toe, bitch,” said Nick, firing the button.

“Your one liners suck!” Krampus wailed, before vaporizing.

Green Explosion by STiX2000 on DeviantArt.com

Taking the curve too fast, India veered into the oncoming Camaro’s high beams. The Camaro lurched into the mountain slope; India launched her Cherokee through the guardrail and off the cliff edge. The cab filled with screams as sagebrush and boulders loomed through the windshield. Three passengers had buckled, but two hadn’t, including the driver. The front end squashed like an accordion. The driver’s side door burst open, launching India. She hit gravel. The Jeep rolled down 200 yards, the unbuckled passenger bouncing around the vehicle like a pinball and breaking everyone’s neck. India rode a stretcher up the mountainside.

Rockin Roll Hot Rod by Britt8m on DeviantArt.com

“Ya let that geezer get away, dipshit,” screamed Skwerl.

“Shut yer spithole,” hissed Dingo, cranking the hotrod’s wheel hard left. “Crippled old men ain’t worth the damage. We want the big score.”

“Like what?”

“Teen male. 500 points. For the win!”

“This here’s a retirement community, dipshit.”

Dingo white-knuckled the wheel. “Yer pushing it, Skwerl.”

“Where you gonna find a teen, dipshit?”

Teeth gnashing, Dingo fastened his seatbelt, then pointed ahead. “There.”

“Where?”

Dingo clipped a parked junker. Skwerl flew through the windshield.

Bloody and broken, Skwerl flipped over. “Why, Dingo?”

“For the win, dipshit!” shouted Dingo, rolling over his head.

.sniper wolf by ml-11mk on DeviantArt.com

Menendez’s head vaporized in a pink puff.

Just like the movies, thought Trio, shouldering her .300 Winchester Magnum. She crossed the Parque Central Tower roof, grabbed the zipline handles, and launched off the ledge.

Ten yards from Banco Mercantil, the line pinged like a guitar string. Her peripherals caught the shooter, two roofs over, ducking out. The cartel wrapping up loose ends.

Then she was plummeting, glass windows flashing by – fortieth floor, thirtieth, twentieth.

Trio contemplated a death-defying acrobatic feat, crashing through mirrored glass in slow motion, landing ninja-style. Alas, this was no movie. She painted the sidewalk red.

Enraged by TheBoyofCheese on DeviantArt.com

Marva ran her rough thumb down the axe blade, blood droplets bulging on the pad. She sucked it clean, then stomped outside, her breath billowing in the brisk air.

Tom stood beside the barn, watching a pig wallow, oblivious. Creeping up, Marva grabbed his scrawny neck with farm-strong hands. He squawked. She slammed him across a stump and swung her axe. His skinny legs jerked. Blood spurted sprinkler-like from his neck. His severed head shot to the ground. One eye stared at Marva, saying betrayal.

“Big thanks, Tom,” said Marva. “Whole family’s coming for Thanksgiving. Couldn’t feed them without you.”

Dance of Death by LuxDani on DeviantArt.com

With razor talons, Demonica caresses her latest lover’s scalp. She overwhelms her mate with mantid reflexes, surgically precise. Like Salome dancing the Seven Veils, she bewitches and butchers, twirling under, around, over her partner, seductive fingers slicing parallel love lines on exposed skin, back, neck, shoulders, thighs. Her partner reaches to grasp her, to crush her seduction, but brutes make clumsy lovers. Her thumb hook, needle fine, snags the nipple. She pirouettes. Her adversary unpeels like a ripe apple, fleshy strips spinning off like streamers, a confetti twirl of scarlet. She loves her lovers fully exposed. Bliss.

 

 

 

Old lady by Doctor-Frog on DeviantArt.com

The doorbell rang. Betsy shuffled to the door. As she opened it, rank smoke billowed inward. On her doorstep, a paper bag burned.

“Oh dear.” She stomped on it. The bag burst, smearing her Dr. Scholl’s in dog poo.

Laughter erupted from behind some bushes.

“Darned neighborhood boys,” said Betsy, wiping her shoes with a tea towel.

The next day, the doorbell rang. Betsy shuffled to the door and opened it. An open pit had replaced the doormat. She peered down the hole. Two boys wailed as spears penetrated their intestines.

“Respect your elders, bitches!” said Betsy, closing the trapdoor.