Rafters (Flash Fiction)

Previously published in November of 2016 with The Violet Hour Press.

Maxine never looked up. They were hiding in the rafters.

In the mornings, she would find reels of rotten, grey skin on the stone floor near the edge of her bed. They watched her while she slept. She would wake up in the middle of the night and find fingers twisted in her hair. Their nails felt like knives, taking large swatches of her hair with them as they ran and giggled. Sometimes, she would find a discarded ring finger on her pillow, nail black and infected.

She never opened her eyes when she woke up in the night. Her nightmares told her what they looked like. Their eyes dark pinpricks and knotted hair tangled around impossibly long fingers. The nightmares showed her what they were. She didn’t need to look. Continue reading “Rafters (Flash Fiction)”

Becoming Me: Know Before You Read

We is scared of Them. Sometimes, We turns into Them. We toss the turning ones from the nest, throw them out as they grow cold. They will destroy us. So We are terrified. We are always scared of something.
And sometimes, when We is sleeping, I think of Me and I am not scared. 

Becoming Me is a flash fiction piece that needs to be read to be understood. It is a literary tale that examines collectivism and individualism while being entirely surreal. Read for free here.

How Fickle Love Is (Flash Fiction)

She was made of circuitry and metal sheets. Each smooth plane of skin marred by the gentle swell and bubble of a weld. Oil glistened between each joint, her arms folded around my neck and she pressed silicone lips against mine. If I ignored the exposed wires on her fingertips sending shocks up my spine, I could pretend she was real. The coolness of her metal skin, coloured like flesh with strips of long-lasting paint, was something I could also ignore.

I wanted to name her, something soft and gentle. Something that would drip from my tongue and trickle down her chest. But I didn’t. She told me she was made to service me, not love me. Her hands dragged electricity down my chest, to the waistband of my pants.

I was looking for love. She wasn’t. I don’t think she understood what love was.

Delilah sounded soft enough for her. It matched her delicate intricacy. Her panels of chipped metal flesh overlapped like petals. As flecks of paint peeled, I could see the thousands of colours she had been painted before to match the desires of some John.

But I owned her now. She didn’t need to worry about a thousand paint jobs or unsanitary homes and hands.

“I think I love you.” I whispered against her perfectly dimpled chin. I eased my breath down her neck, felt the rough edges on my tongue.

She laughed, clutched my hair in her fingers and arched her back.

It happened every night, my half admission and her frail refusal. A metallic tinge to my tongue as I wished for more than physical pleasure. But she was a mess of circuits and wires painted like a perfect doll and I was a mass of flesh and blood with thousands of imperfections. I could spend years whispering my love into her molded ear and she would never hear my words.

It just wasn’t meant to be. My wants didn’t matter; my physical needs was the only things she understood. And every night I would hide away my emotions, wrap my arms around her cold, misunderstanding waist, and kiss fake lips with the hope she would understand my frantic passion.

She never did, her back arching in pleasure as my palms traced the welds along her hips and the inside of her thighs. Delilah, a flower sprayed pale pink and speckled with silver underneath all the layers. I traced each inch of her, felt her repeat my motions with her sparking fingertips.

I could pleasure myself with her all I wanted, but it would never be what I needed until she responded to her name and let me love her. I had never been this intimate yet so far away.

She curled against me, cheek against my chest. Her skin cooled my sweat. I brushed a lock of hair back behind a perfectly rounded ear. My delicate flower, one that would rust in the rain and never breathe.

Funny, how fickle love could be.

Real Doll: Know Before You Read

Jack is disgusting, twisted and terrible. He’s spent years wondering what it would be like to have sex with a dead woman and he knows it’s wrong. This isn’t something he should want, ever. But he does, he wants to try it at least once. It’s gotten to the point that he’s even tried roleplaying with his wife. Which, safe to say, didn’t end well. 

So he spends hours in his office instead, dreaming about what it would be like and fueling his desire even more. Jack can’t help what he’s turned on by, no one can help that sort of thing. 

Honestly, what’s wrong with a little bit of fantasy? It’s not like Jack would kill a woman to get what he needs.

Real Doll is a horror flash fiction piece written by George Spisak and featured in The Literary Hatchet. Grotesque and haunting, this tale isn’t for the faint of heart. It is a gritty look at the darkest pieces of humanity. Not every person is human.

Download the free PDF copy here or purchase a physical copy here. 

Mr. Billy, an adult picture book

So I apologize this post wasn’t released on Friday. I ended up spending a night in the hospital and have been recovering since. That being said, I have recovered and everything should be back on schedule as usual. A flash fiction story will be posted this Friday for you and blogs will resume as normal afterwards.

To the point of this blog, I’m here to tell you all about my current project: Mr. Billy. Have a blurb.

Abby always played in the woods behind her house, among the birtch trees and the bramble bushes. Her dad told her to be careful and she always was. Until she stumbled across Mr. Billy. He dripped ink from his finger tips and fed her candy canes in the summer and promised to take her nightmares away if she let him be her friend.

So she did, because she was tired of dreaming of all her teeth falling out. 

Mr. Billy said he would take the bullies in her class away to a place where no one would find them, not even God. They were friends, and friends needed to stick up for each other.

And they went missing, child by child. Abby heard her dad whisper to her mom about the things the police found in the woods behind her house. Terrible things, tiny teeth and bones with ribbions of red flesh. Things that came from the other little boys and girls that went missing.

But Mr. Billy told her not to worry. It was just a game of hide and seek and God was the seeker.

What is Mr. Billy? 

Mr. Billy is a horror story of about 10,000 words. I’m still in the first few drafts of the story, so it’s subject to change. It focuses on Abby, a young second grader, and a friend she finds in the woods named Mr. Billy. It’s a dark tale focused on showing how the innocence of youth is a dangerous thing and how parents, no matter how hard they try, can’t always be a shield of protection. I’m looking at sometime 2017 to publish it.

A picture book for adults?

First off, who doesn’t like beautiful artwork in their stories? Works by Brom, such as Lost Gods and The Child Thief, are absolutely wonderful twisted tales with illustrations. My goal with Mr. Billy is to have a short story for adults with beautiful illustrations, much like Brom’s work. There’s four concept images for the main story so far, exluding the cover art. Here’s the concept for the cover:

 

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This is going to be the style for the story. The art will be done traditionally, most probably painted with acrylics before being scanned. The book will include a terrifying story and hauntingly beautiful illustrations.

Why this project? 

Mr. Billy actually has a huge place in my heart. I fell in love with the story and the characters while writing it and knew this was something I needed to keep ‘for myself’. I also knew I needed full creative freedom for this piece, which is why I’m self-publishing instead of going the traditional route.

Now, I usally publish horror under the pen name ‘George Spisak’. As you can see on the cover art, I’m using the name ‘Kyra Spisak’ for this horror piece. There’s a reason for that. This story will be one of the few horror pieces to be published under Kyra Spisak because I am working on it with my grandfather. It’s a project between the two of us with me as the writer and him as the artist.

He may have told me my pen name is stupid and I may have decided it wasn’t worth the explaination or the agrument.

I’ll be updating you guys on the project at least once a month so that everyone is on the same page. I’m seriously pumped about this, and I’m hoping you guys will fall in love with Mr. Billy just like I have. More information will be coming along as the project developes and expands, so stay tuned!