Merry Christmas

author, christmas, holidays, Life, sad, shortstory, Uncategorized, writers, writing

In the spirit of Christmas, I decided I needed to write something that encompasses the holiday spirit! Nobody loves Christmas as much as Spring does in this new piece. Enjoy.

(Warning, there is some foul language.)

-Turner

The tree was glistening, the lights flashing in an organized rhythm. Blue. Green. Red. Blue. Green. Red. The stockings were hung on the fireplace mantel, arranged by age and size. Mom. Dad. Hunter. And me, Spring. The milk and cookies were placed on the traditional Christmas plate my grandmother had given us when we were just babies. It looked like a Christmas magazine spread.
It was perfect, a flawless family holiday. Oh how I’d been wanting one for so many years. Ever since Hunter moved away for college and Mom and Dad started fighting, it hadn’t been like this. Each year I would call, stop by, hope that the decorations would be hung, that my mom would ask me to come over and bake her special Christmas cookies. Each year that I was denied, that my Mom said she was too busy, that there was no point and that I should have fun with my friends, a part of me would crack.
My brother was too busy with his college buddies and drinking to even answer my calls, my family had fallen apart. My father was always in his study, a strong glass of whiskey beside him, while he chatted with other women online. They thought I didn’t know about all their indiscretions, but I did.
But this year was going to be different. I decided I’d hang the decorations myself. Exactly how mom used to do. I baked the cookies in my mother’s oven, making sure they were just right. I poured just the right amount of milk for Santa. The presents were carefully placed under the twinkling lights. Everything was perfect.
I took in my masterpiece once more before a moan behind me broke my concentration.
“Mm, ahh!” My mother calls from behind her duct tape. Her blue eyes frantically searching mine. Her blonde hair pressed against her cheek from the sweat beading down her temples. I kneel in front of her and push the hair behind her ear. Her breaths are coming in pants as she tries to communicate with me. I shake my head at her, it’s not time yet. It isn’t midnight, it isn’t Christmas yet.
Movement to the left of Mother. My father, wiggling his hands, attempting to free the zip ties I’d placed on them. I know it must hurt, I don’t want to hurt them. I just want to be a family again. This is the only way. Mother looks into father’s eyes, tears falling from both. I think this is the first real emotion they’ve shown one another in years.
Lastly, my brother, Hunter. The brother I haven’t spoken to in almost six months. A brother who posts photos of himself with different girls every night, drinks and drugs in his system. Ignoring what was happening to our family. Ignoring his sister as she spiraled into loneliness. The duct tape I placed on him is barely allowing him to breathe. Bright green ecstasy pills I shoved into his mouth, telling him to not swallow. He needs to learn constraint. To abstain from the evilness of drugs.
I look up at the ticking clock, only eight more minutes til Christmas. A giddiness builds inside me. I look back to my family, who are all panting, sweating and eyeing me like I’m crazy. Frankly, I’m the one sane one in this family. I grip the kitchen knife harder in my hand, wishing time would move by faster. I look out the window, the snowflakes falling in the lights reminding me of when I was a child and would stay up to watch the white blanket covering our small town.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, to no one really. Whimpers escape my mother. “Christmas is the most joyous season, wouldn’t you agree?”
My mother shuts her eyes tightly, her chin falling. I leap over to her, grabbing her chin and pulling her face to mine. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mother?” I ask politely. She nods frantically. Sobbing behind her gag.
I nod back, giving her my best smile. I walk into the kitchen and check on my punch, a family recipe. I take the large ladle and make sure all the pills I’d put in it earlier are dissolved. Almost there, perfect.
A crashing sounds sends me into the living room. Hunter has somehow escaped his duct taped hands, and is now pulling the tape off his mouth.
“You crazy bitch!” He spits at me. I take a deep breath and hold the knife up for protection as he comes towards me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Jesus Christ, Spring!”
“I had to!” I sob, holding the knife out farther, halting his movements. Mom and Dad are now frantically trying to escape, eyes darting between their two children. “You don’t understand. Our family was falling apart!” I cry, a tear escaping my eye as well.
Hunter takes another step towards me and I slash the knife in front of him, he jumps back, his hands out in a soothing gesture. “Okay, just…let’s just put the knife down, Spring. Okay? We’ll put the knife down, let Mom and Dad out, and we can celebrate Christmas.” His head turns towards the clock. “Only four minutes left, right?”
I check, he’s right. Only four minutes. Maybe Hunter is right, maybe everyone is ready to celebrate Christmas. “O-okay.” I stutter.
Hunter lays his hand out, palm up in front of him. “Just, pass the knife over, okay?”
I grip it tightly once, before letting it go in his hand.
He takes a step back, towards Mom and Dad. “I’m just going to let them go, okay? Just so we can be together.”
Together. That is a nice word. Soon, we’ll be together forever.
“Oh, thank god.” My mothers voice rushes out, pulling Hunter to her and gripping his cheeks as she cries.
“Jesus.” My father mutters, pulling them both into his body. Protecting them, from me. Don’t they see, they don’t need to be scared of me. We’re a family. I take a step towards them, wanting to be a part of it all. They hesitate, but allow me into their fold.
After a moment of bonding, they all let go. I can tell they are shaking and unsure what to do.
I look at the clock one more time. One minute, perfect. It’s time for punch and Christmas.
“I’m going to get us some punch. Then we can sit by the fire and open presents, just like we used to, right Momma?” I say.
She nods. “Right.”
I quickly head into the kitchen, pouring ladle fulls of punch into the crystal goblets we’d always used. All the pills are dissolved, they won’t even taste it. Soon, every day will be like Christmas.
“Here.” I say, passing everybody their own glass. My mothers sloshes in her nervousness.
“Spring…I, maybe we should talk about what’s happening here?” My father asks.
Anger rushes into me. “NO! No. We’re going to celebrate Christmas like a family, like tradition!”
“Okay…okay, but after. After we need to…”
“Not now.” I snap. “It’s time. Let’s count down?”
Everyone nods.
“Ten. Nine. Eight.” Dad starts.
“We all sip on zero.”
“Seven. Six. Five.” Hunter.
“Four. Three. Two.” Mom.
“One. Zero.”
Everyone sips.
Merry Christmas.

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It’s going down, Jacob

Blog, characters, death, excerpt, fiction

It’s going down, Jacob.Newest installment. Enjoy.
It’s been too long since blood has coated my skin. Since I watched the light drain from the eyes of a victim.

I’ve been so engrossed in my Angel I’ve put my urges to the side, just soaking up as much of her as I can. Most of the time she knows I’m there, but I still lurk in the shadows. I just can’t help myself.

My mother has called a few times to discuss my abrupt exit from dinner two weeks ago, but I’ve ignored them. I know I’ll have to call her back eventually for appearance sake, but until then, I’m going to bask in the after glow of my kill.

The body is already rolled up and buried deep in the forests ground. My blade is sheathed in its home, resting against my hip. However the blood remains, I run the sticky remnants between my fingers as I make my way back to my car.

Just then my cellphone rings. I check the time, my fingers leaving a red smear on the glossy surface of my I Phone. I’ll have to disinfect the damn thing…again. The ringing stops by the time I’m finished my thought. It’s three am and Angel’s name is flashing across my screen.

“Angel.”

“Jacob…Jake…I need help.”

My heart stutters.

“Excuse me?”

I hear a whimper. “I’m…I’m out, and…someone is following me, Jacob.”

My fist grips my phone so hard I’m scared I’m going to shatter the glass.

“Where. Are. You?”

“Just down on West Haven…can you come? Please?” Her voice is a whisper. A whisper that shoots straight through me.

“Keep walking, head towards the closest store you can. I’ll be there soon.” With that, I hang up.

I pick up my pace until I’m sprinting through the dense underbrush, bursting out into the night when I reach my car and throw myself in. Not even buckling my seat belt, I peel the car out and head straight to my Angel. Whoever is following her is going to be the second victim to feel the fury of my blades tonight.

How I love blood. How I will relish in the feeling of this stalkers as it sprays my face.
-Turner

Twitter: @turnercollins_

Another juicy Jacob piece.

Uncategorized

It’s sad, but a great gift to me, that the well of depraved sick bastards never seems to dry up. Especially now, when I really need to use my blades.
My feet ache to take me through the moist mulch of the forest.
My hands are tingling, wanting to bury another grave.
Angel shut the door in my face, tears in her eyes. But I’ve kept true to my word, I haven’t left her.
I follow her as she goes to work.
I watch her as she tries to have a social life with her waste of space friends.
I dream of her as she undresses at night.
She just doesn’t know it. Not yet, she isn’t ready. But she will be. I can tell she has become more vigilante, looking out her windows more often. Checking her phone on a routine schedule. She’ll never see me though, not until I want to be seen.
Just like with Vincent Harbringer here. I scroll through the information I’ve found on him. Blinking to focus my eyes in the pitch black.
Age, fifty eight.
Seven counts of molestation on under aged girls. Registered sex offender. Three counts of breaking his conditions.
The next victim. My next victim.
I spend the next few hours switching between the research on Vinny and the rest trying to keep my fingers from clicking the live feed of Angel’s house.
Death first.
Pleasure later.
It’s going to be a wonderful day.

  • Turner

My short story titled “Weakness”

short story, writing

I was listening to Jaymes Young’s song Moondust this evening and it conjured a scene in my mind I just had to share with all of you. It’s a sad reality for some, that it seems like there are some things that have a pull stronger than love.

 

“What are you trying to say?”
She paused at the door, turning slightly so that the early morning light that seeped through the window fell across her face. I watched her mouth open, then close. She tapped a nail against the wood of the door and let out a sigh. “What I’m trying to say is…”
“Just spit it out, won’t you? Break my heart,” I shouted, pushing my palms against my eyes to keep the tears from coming. “Break it into a million little pieces.”
I felt a touch like the tickling of a feather against my knuckles and dropped my hands to my sides. Defeated, I looked up into her eyes, at the emerald pools that shimmered there. It felt like years since I had seen them so clearly, so precisely that I could make out the minute changes in color, like stones below the surface, glinting in the sun. I longed to stare into her eyes a little longer but she lowered her gaze, resting in on the floor.
“It wasn’t my intention to break your heart,” she said. “I’m doing this to protect your heart from all the pain I’m doomed to cause it. Please believe me.”
She wasn’t making sense to me. She was saying one thing, but her tone implied something else. I glanced at her in confusion. “Don’t leave me. You’ll only hurt me by leaving.”
“You know that’s not true. I’ve been slipping for a while. I can’t keep it together. I’m not that strong.”
“You’re doing great. You’ve been trying—“
“Dianna.” She pulled up the sleeve of her frayed sweater above the crook of her elbow. A dozen ugly purple marks contrasted harshly against her pale skin. She looked up at me hesitantly like I might hit her.
My voice was a whisper. “Mom…”
She backed away from me as if she were afraid her very presence might wound me.
“You were doing so well,” I croaked. “I just got you back.”
“I told you. I’m not strong.” She shoved her sleeve back down and pulled her pack from the floor, slinging it over her shoulder. She looked like some wayward traveller, already tired from nights of sleeping in bus shelters against cold concrete.
I stepped toward her, the image slipping from my mind, replaced by some frantic need to keep her here. If I could keep her here, I could keep her safe. “Dad. We can tell dad together. He’ll help you. Yeah, he’ll help you find a treatment center that’ll…” I trailed off as her expression changed, falling into shallow peaks and valleys. “If you won’t stay for me, what about Mercy, hmm?” I made my voice hard. “What about your other daughter. She’s only five, she needs you.”
“Di—“
I cut her off before she could piece together another flimsy excuse. My resolve slipped from my chest like sand through my fingers. “Get clean! I know you can do it,” I pleaded.
Mom rubbed her arms slowly in little circles. “I can’t.”
“Just admit it. You love the drugs more than us. More than your own children.” My words sounded hollow, like hearing a church bell echoing from miles away. The truth lingered heavy between us, hovering like some thick fog. Neither one of us had had the courage to say it before. We both thought it before, many times. But to actually say it was something different. It had a strange finality to it, like it was the start of terrible ending.
“Maybe I do,” she whispered so low that I thought I’d misheard her, but when she reached for the door knob, I knew I hadn’t.
This was it. This is how it was going to end. She was going to walk out of our lives, with Mercy sleeping soundly in her bed and dad away overnight on business. A trembling began in my knees and made its way up my torso to my shoulders. I felt like I needed to grasp onto her, to her arm, her leg, to keep her here by shear force, but that was absurd. I couldn’t make her stay. My love wasn’t enough to change her mind.
She drew open the door and stood silently, silhouetted against the street lights for a moment. Desperately I tried to memorize her features. My eyes traced over her cheeks, her lips, her brows. They were so familiar but I felt they might slip from memory the next time I thought of her and then she’d seem more like the ghost of some distant aunt I’d met once when I was eleven.
“You’ll be better off without me,” she said. “Mercy won’t have to grow up going through what I put you through.” Her voice broke and she choked back something like a sob before continuing. “I… I love you.”
I stood frozen as she shut the door quietly and disappeared out of my life. It felt cold in the room suddenly and I sat on the floor, curling my knees to my chest. I hated her, but I loved her all the more, and that was what made me hate her the most.
“I love you too, Mom.”

-Collins

Story Excerpt 

short story, writing

Here’s a new snippet from The Collected. Why does it always seem like my favorite characters are the villians?

 

I take the stairs two at a time, but Dach still manages to stay ahead of me. “Dach, wait!” He doesn’t turn or waiver, just rounds the corner and barrels through the common room and down the hallway. “Wait!”
He stops in his tracks outside the body’s room. I nearly run into him at full speed. I grab his arm with both hands and pull, hard. “Don’t go in there,” I plead.
He takes a step forward, into the doorway, towing me along with him. I peek timidly over his shoulder and catch sight of the body. It sits on its bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. It almost looks… normal, with one hand propped behind its head, the other balancing a book on its stomach. Strands of its hair fall into one of its eyes and it blows at the strands in annoyance.
I realized since the body had been here, I’d never once gone near its room. That’s probably because I avoid it like the plague. The room looks plain, I’d expected a pentagram drawn in goat’s blood on the wall, or a black magic spell book strewn on the desk. For something as evil as it, the normality of the room in which it resides is more disturbing than the goat’s blood and spell book would have been.
“You.” The word leaves Dach’s mouth in a growl, full of heavy implications.
The body quirks an eyebrow over its book and I grasp Dach’s arm tighter. “Can’t you see I’m reading?”

-Collins 

The Paul Series pt. 2

short story, writing

Here’s what Paul sees after Jacob’s conversation with Angel…

 I missed the last quarter of the game. So that was great. My wife also burnt the meatloaf, so I spent dinner scrapping the blackest bits off and crunching on the less black bits. My son refused to talk about anything other than macro- something or rather or whatever the hell he’s learning in that fancy collage we spend twelve grand a year on.

I don’t know this Jacob kid, but I hate him. I watch him from around the corner, behind a giant shrub. He’s bugging that girl he’s sick for. They talk for a minute, and she stands inside, hidden behind the door the whole time. He’s itching to come inside, I can tell by the way he leans forward, shoulders hunching. He must say something the girl doesn’t like, because the door slams shut, leaving him frozen on the porch.

He just stands there for a good two minutes before he slowly turns and descends the steps. He stops at the sidewalk, glancing both ways, his hands balled in the pockets of his denim vest. His face is screwed into pain but shifts quickly into a smooth plain of nothingness. He starts quickly down the street, heading downtown.

Man this kid couldn’t tell rejection from an invitation to a dinner party. Either he’s stupid, or just a gluten for punishment. That girl looks way out of his league anyway, all blonde and beautiful.

I follow him discreetly for six blocks before he enters a coffee shop. Some fancy place where they serve you your drink in a ceramic mug instead of a Styrofoam cup and put root extracts from Mongolia or some shit in it.

How hard is it to sell straight black coffee?

I shake my head in disappointment and pull at the tie I’m wearing. It’s tight around my neck and choking me. My wife gave me this god-awful tie two years ago for Christmas and I have to pull it out of the closet every few months to make her happy.

The door rings a little bell when I push it open and one of the baristas smiles at me, a young girl with shiny eyes. It’s crowded in here, everywhere expresso drinking hippies with their laptops and barets sit in upholstered chairs. Jacob stands at the counter, ordering. I slip in line, three people behind him, and manage to catch the last bit of the conversation.

“I’m sorry sir, we just ran out of that brew twenty minutes ago,” the barrister says. He’s a young guy with glasses and zits who probably spends his weekends studying instead of getting laid.

Jacob’s hands curl into fits on the counter. “That’s the only brew I like. Go find some in the back and make me some.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” Glasses says. “Our shipment of that brew was delayed, so we don’t have any in store after we run out.” He laughs nervously. “Which we just did. Could I interest you in our featured brew?”

Jacob’s jaw clenches and he lashes out, knocking a container of straws off the counter. Glasses’ eyes go wide and he starts to look a little nervous. Jacob grabs his head and shakes it. Damn, that girl’s got him riled up.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jacob says, struggling to calm his tone. “Fine, I’ll just get a large of whatever that featured brew is.” He tosses a five dollar bill down on the counter. “Keep the change.”

Without another word, Glasses grabs the money and pours Jacob’s drink in record time. His hand shakes as he hands it over, liquid spilling over the edge of the mug. Jacob frowns, but takes the drink and heads over to a table in the corner.

The line disappears and I order a bagel, a whole wheat one with butter instead of cream cheese. I’m trying to lose a few pounds. “Does that guy come here often?” I ask Glasses.

He glances over to Jacob’s table for a second, his face getting a little red. “Yeah, he’s a regular.”

“Is he usually that pissy?”

Glasses hands me my bagel. “No, he’s usually pretty nice. But he does say weird stuff sometimes.”

My interest peaks. “Weird stuff? What kind of weird stuff?”

“I don’t know. He once asked me if I had a sister. My co-worker over heard him talking to himself about his ‘angel.’ Weird stuff like that.” He leans over the counter a little. “I think he’s crazy.”

“Thanks.”

With that, I take a seat at the long bar along the window. I watch Jacob out of the corner of my eye. So really all I still know about this kid is that he’s love sick and unstable. Creepy, even. But I still can’t how he could be capable of murdering anyone. I shove the bagel into my mouth, ripping it in half in one bite and chewing roughly. This is such a waste of my time. What am I supposed to tell the Chief when I get into work on Monday? He’s going to chalk up my lack of evidence to lack of conviction for this fucking job.

Jacob shifts in his chair, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on the table. He spins the half empty mug idly with his fingers, his attention on something else, or someone else. I follow his gaze to a middle-aged man across the shop. He sits alone at a table, eyeing a group of teenage girls. They laugh obnoxiously and toss their hair. Most likely going to grow up to be a bunch of little teases. They get up to leave, tossing their garbage in the trash. As soon as they leave, the man gets up, leaving his garbage behind. Jacob gets up a second later and crosses the shop quickly.

I abandon my half eaten bagel and follow after him. The man ghosts behind the girls, getting closer and closer. He’s about to clap one of the girls on the shoulder when Jacob grabs his shoulder and whispers something to him. The man turns his head, his eyes shoot open, the blood vessels in them popping out.

Then, midsentence Jacob stops speaking and turns around suddenly. The man doesn’t wait around and flees across the street. Jacob narrows his eyes at me. “Why are you following me?”

“I’m not. I’m a little turned around here and I can’t find a cab. I was gunna ask that guy if he knew where I could get one, but you scared him away.” I hook a thumb through my belt loop and try to look relaxed. I haven’t had to act undercover in years, but I think I’m pulling it off.

Jacob’s face is plain again, no trace of agitation or suspicion. His lips taught across his face into something resembling a snarl. “Cab’s that way, now piss off,” he says gesturing lamely down the street.

I watch him slide silently out of sight around the corner of the coffee shop. Rude little bastard.

I think back to the pattern of what the disappearances had in common. That guy was going after those girls obviously. Now, whether that was to ogle them, or to try and rape them is the question. If Jacob thought the latter, was he trying to exact his own kind of justice? Suddenly I’m not so sure this kid is what he seems.

-Collins

Jacob talks to his girl.

author, book, controversial, creative, death, excerpt of the day, horror story

Newest installment in the Jacob series. Enjoy.

-Turner

I decide to cut the pretense tonight. Angel is coming out with me. I need my fix and the view from her window has outlived its usefulness.
I step into the shower, washing the blood of my last victim off my body, watching it swirl down the drain. Rinsing away my sins so I can be with my angel.
After getting dressed in my typical jeans, boots and denim vest I make my way to her house on foot. It’s not far from my place. I planned this on purpose. We grew up as neighbours…it seemed only fitting to still be near her.
I get to Angel’s house after only five minutes of walking, the blinds are shut tight. Tighter than normal. Did she figure out what I had been up to? I ignore the thought and knock solidly a few times before taking a step back and shoving my hands in my pockets.
The door creaks open slowly, just a few strands of hair and a piece of her smooth cheek showing. She must realize it’s me because she opens the door wider, sticking her head out, keeping her body inside.
“Jacob…you need to leave.” She nearly whispers.
“No. Come out here.” I say, done playing games. We’ve been playing games for weeks it seems. Or maybe that’s just me.
I notice a single tear drip down her cheek. It nearly guts me. This woman is the only one who has been able to get any sort of emotional response from me. “Please, I can’t do this again.” Her voice is raspy. I want to hold her, comfort her. That isn’t me. I don’t comfort, I don’t offer support. I kill, I maim, I steal and I hack. But for her, I do all the other stuff too.
“Angel…” I say soothingly, as soothingly as someone like me can. Using her nickname I gave her as children.
Her head shakes a few times. “No. I can’t let you back into my life just to have you leave me all over again, Jacob. You know how I feel about you.”
I nod, because I do know. What she doesn’t know is that I would and have killed for her. I will always protect her. No matter what she does, or where she goes, I will always find her.
I look up into her stricken eyes, the tears pooling on the blonde lashes and give her the biggest piece of my honesty that I can. “I will never leave you again.”