Bong Black Blood

Not exactly horror, but an interesting read with a fascinating use of imagery and stream of consciousness.

By Anonymous
Big Ben chimes.

Five bongs.


Face up, snort the street-mix of dog shit, spit, duck-fat and gas.

“Open up.”

Blurred crotch helicopters in, morphs shackled to unsheathed by hand with thumb-massaged base.

Erect, steady, cocked back, ballistic-ready.

Reach out, spine-arched, late, slitting cat-eyes to slow time.

That nuclear white-noise microsecond, that unrepeatable pleasure falling into sonic blindness stalked by my own deafening Paulinho percussion of highs, sighs, moans, and emotions drowning in the black sea of despair.

Another … expiring?

“He resisted and grabbed your gun. So let him bleed out, OK?”

Big Ben chimes.
Six bongs.


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