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Hello. I found this lying around. I forgot I wrote it... I'd love your thoughts on it. I haven't done any checks, so, there's no need to point out the switches in stance, etc. It's lengthy, I know. Cheers!



The baby wasn’t done dissolving, the flesh was still clinging to the bones, peeling away, and bubbling. I submerged it with latex hands, prodding it down with an index finger; and before that, I dunked it playfully, clutching it by the fatty neck, feeling its whiny, laboured breathing, the coarse, worried air running up the pipe, then trilling out the mouth, hurrying and intensifying every time the acid nipped its tiny toes; before this, too, I plucked strands of hair from its cranium, it cried and lurched with every pluck. I held it in place with a clamp I brought, and stapled shut its wet lips with industrial-grade metal; before this, again, I attached clips to its nipples, and penis, sending it into convulsions with electrical currents; I also seared its feet and hands with a hair-straightener, and a blowtorch; prior to that still, I squirted bleach in its eyes, and dotted it with acupunctural perforations. I held its squeaker toys up to its face, and made cutesy-noises, saying things like “does the little baby want its toy-toy?” then slapping it lightly. I pushed it over whenever it managed to stand, then laughed at how it resembled a porcupine with all the needles. I sat on the floor, watching it crawl, then stepped on the back of its legs, crushing them, feeling the bones snap out of place, and move around like jumbled wood; even prior to that, I boiled the jug, and scalded it about the pubic region, and smeared a caustic gel in the crevices, wiping it away after using a neutralizer; I’d cup my mouth giddily as the skin reddened, breaking-out into a clustered, lumpish rash, mounds of varying sizes cropping up, akin to thickening blood-blisters, balloons translucent from an aerial, downward view, ringed by red, veiny fluid… I popped them with pins, then snarled at the spillage.

The baby wasn’t done dissolving, the osseous frame remained, the pot sullied by brownish sludge, mother and father cold splays on sheets of plastic, jagged jugular openings, dried flecks aproned down past the collar bones, trickling an afterward saliva, roped – rappelled – down dead cheeks. The skin and flesh had been abloom, spreading apart, disassembled, seeking to outline, circumscribe the pot, murky, mucky, patchy… gobbled down to particulate matter. The facial tissue – the face – had inverted, had warped and wobbled off the skull… the baby-blue irises had been freed to sail; the nails loosened to float, and to shrink; the nasal cartilage receded to the white point; the body lapsed backwards to initial cells; the odorous, wavy fumes reached out sickly.


I do things one cannot speak of – unspeakable things (example in the intro), in fact; they’re unspeakable for obvious reasons (well, maybe not so obvious)… they’re unspeakable not because they’re horrible, or horrid, or another H-word, or some word with moralistic ties – no, they’re unspeakable because you shouldn’t speak of them should you wish to evade prosecution, and yes, persecution (mommies and daddies don’t want you out doing those horrible things to their offspring, do they?). Now, now, ‘prosecution’ is when piglets come by, and snap cuffs around your wrists, thereby restraining you… they then put you in a stupid stand in front of a bunch of mammalian creatures, and try to beat a confession out of you – making you raise your right hand (specifics matter) to an imaginary thing in the sky, and swear to tell the truth; ‘persecution’ is when, should they succeed in convicting you, and placing you behind metal of some kind, your babysitters in uniform mess with your food, and run a baton along the metal of your cell, and get down-and-dirty with you in the shower-room, flogging you with that charcoal-dark stick they unsnap from those pouches… that’s what ‘persecution’ means. It’s rare that you should have to endure such things – ‘persecution’ (as a result of your crimes, not your face, slick with oil and blemishes), that is – prior to the trial, and the lack of exculpation… I mean, that would mean that someone knew that you were doing these awful, awful things (dicing “God’s creatures” into a dozen or more tiny bits) and merely shouting slurs – or more appropriately, slurring slurs – and not opting to call “the fuzz”, as the “jungle-monkeys” like to say (po-po is a good one, too); that would mean that you, in all your horrible, horridness, wrongness, are free (in the judicial sense, mainly) to keep doing those aforementioned things with “God’s creatures” – you ever-degenerating degenerate! Yes, yes, we’re all degenerating – ever-degenerating from conception, I know, I know, you don’t have to go getting all “technical” on me (wait, is that the right word?); I refer to ‘degeneration’ in a moral and ethical sense – falling away, downward (spiralling, that’s a good word) from the high-pillars of contemporaneous conceptualizations of “goodness”, and philosophic (moral sense) purity.

Unspeakable things are often fun things – they’re fun by default, because everything else is a great big bore: work-a-day boorish cads, constricting the lowers, that thing that flops about in the crinkles and plaits of that never-quit dullness; those slimy-squirming-wormlike-disgusting-creatures that you puke out of your vaginal hole periodically, then scrape up green (or whatever the colouration of selected currency) to clothe and habilitate the dirt-ball rat; the saving and garnering of more of that green (or whatever the colouration of selected currency) to house the dirt-ball rat, and the dirt-ball rat suitor man-whore **bleep**ing waste of life **bleep**-bag inseminator, and have a stupid **bleep**ing pen for that **bleep**-**bleep** puss-wart; the encirclement of a finger in some dumb-**bleep** display of antediluvian holdover; the boring tedium (tedium is often boring) of trying to impress the parents of the thing that drives the erect meat-pole into your snatch pink-flesh every second night, or so – pulsing out baby-batter-juice through the purple head.


After my little familial drop-in, I walked through the door with a smirk on my face, and was welcomed back with a shouted greeting: “We’re in the kitchen. You’re back just in time.” I’d only been gone for three hours, leaving straight after work, then doing the deed. It hadn’t been an overly fruitful session, I was startled by a knock on the door, then finished-up in a semi-hurried fashion – decanting the sludge in several acid-safe containers, ripping up the sheets of multi-ply plastic, and stuffing them into my bag. It wasn’t all bad news, though… I did get in some near-copacetic torture-time with the bundle-of-joy, and I even took some pictures for remembrance-sake. I’d only wished that I’d been able to tranquilize the parents, or in some way render them unconscious so I could do those nasty things to their child while they watched. There’s always a next time, right? No, maybe not. That’s the thing with this pastime – you never know when your last funfest will be. That there may have sealed my jail-time – one misstep can cost you greatly. I think I’ve been careful so far: always making time for some recon before capitalizing; always visualizing every move step-by-step; breaking everything down – every frame – into detail-rich pinpoints. Should you be any other way, you’re asking to be caught, no, you’re begging…

Miranda had prepared a sumptuous meal plated in her chinaware; it was seated by purple-tablecloth, and looked smashing in the candlelight. “What’s this,” I said. “You don’t know what night it is?” she looked a tad disappointed. “No, I do not,” I said robotically. She shrugs weakly, then sighs. “It’s our anniversary.” I wind up a chirpy acknowledgement: “Oh, right, yes”. “Our second year,” she says, raising a glass of wine. “Let’s do some tinging with the wine?” I quip. “Let’s do that!” she tilts her glass, it swishes around. “Wait, don’t move, let me pour you a glass,” she does just that. She moves around the table with a sexual subtlety, and starts to pour. “Your hands are shaking. How much have you had to drink already?” I say with my hands on her hips. “Not much… maybe only a glass.” “Maybe?” She turns and hands me the freshly poured helping, then goes and gets hers. “Okay, let’s do this,” she says. Our glasses then ting together in the usual celebratory fashion. “Sweet tinging,” I say, smiling. “Where’s Tim?” I ask, and she answers: “upstairs, sleeping.” She then goes on to speak in a seductive tongue. “That means that we have the night to ourselves, doesn’t it?” “Why yes, madam, I believe so.” I squint at her candlelit face, only one side draped in the glow.

She leads me up the carpeted stairs, holding my hand, turning to me with her finger pressed to her lips, signalling for quiet. We creep past Tim’s room, his feet are the only things visible from the hallway. She turns the doorknob, and I’m hit by more candlelight, and a fragrance that reeks of romance. She starts to unbutton my shirt once we’re behind a closed door, bending her knees and looking up at me with an animalistic lust. The bulge in my trousers grows, she puts her mouth over it, the wetness seeping through. I feel a tingling mixture of sensuality, whishing around and coursing. I start to zone out – see red, redness all-round. I feel more tingling in my hands, but not of sexual-relatedness, at least not discernibly so. I feel them grow, enlarge, clench with an anticipatory striking; all of this happens while I’m staring at the ceiling – eyes pried wide open, unable to blink. I’m panting loudly now, every inflation sounding like an encroaching storm-front, bounding to ruin. The wetness gets wetter, the meat in my pants engorges and pushes out the zipper – a zipper that she is now pulling down, taking care not to kink the sensitivity. My fists turn into angry boulders, attached to stiff, non-lumbering limbs, swollen with a stern harshness. “Are you all right, honey?” she asks, concern now on her face. I snap out of it, and say: “Yes, I’m fine. Keep going.” She resumes, presses on with the undressing. The zipper goes all the way down, then my member flops out, all twisted and stinky, sweaty from the miserableness of the day. She puts it in her mouth, sucking it down past those rosy lips. I feel the back of her throat, the loose piece of flesh that hangs from the ridged ceiling. The tension mounts, I thrust hardly, grabbing her hair with a firm mitt. I feel the prickly static of the energy tearing through my body, my hairs poking out of gooseflesh. I see my arms project as vicious pincers, bending out, connecting with the side of her head, bruising her, making her purple, making her hair a sticky red. Then, I look down, and see that she’s started to run her fingers down the split where her vaginal hole and parts would be. She moans as she’s doing this, clamping down a little on my dick, but not enough to cause pain. The meat-sausage throbs to the sloppy sound of saliva, it goes in and out, as I **bleep** her face. The burn builds, the pressure valve twists, and the abdomen contorts with carnality. I wince and grit my teeth, the fingertips crying out with a bluish discolouration. The urethra readies, expanding, puffs out like a bee-sting. The **bleep**-head swells. Her moaning gets sharper, and quicker – the finger-movement heating the crotch with friction. Then, after the wavelike imbuements of pleasure, I spurt the white stuff down her throat.


I wake to see Miranda’s hand on my ball-sack, looking out-cold. I left it there, and moved it around, fondling myself. I then remembered that I still had the canisters of liquefied carcasses in my trunk, and I’d have to do something about them. I’d also have to dispose of the bloodied sheets that were in the duffel. I threw her hand to the side, and picked my clothes off the floor. When I opened the door, Tim was there, looking like he wanted something. “Good morning,” I said. He didn’t say anything, and looked past me to see his mother dead-to-the-world on the messed-up bedding. I looked back at her, and came up with a grand idea. “Hey, Tim, would you like to see something cool?” His expression didn’t change. “Come here,” I said. I took him by the hand and gave him a gentle tug into the room. “Look, here’s your mother, all naked.” I said proudly. “That’s what the female form looks like, buddy-boy.” His eyes lit up a little, almost imperceptibly. “Want to touch her?” I grabbed his hand, and pushed it out toward her breasts. “Feel it.” His palm hovers over it. “Now, don’t be a priss-priss, sonny-lad.” His palm goes down, and grapples it loosely. “That’s it. How does it feel?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything, so I go on to the next order of business. “Do you know where babies come from?” He shakes his head. “Here, bud-bud.” I gesture to her flaps. “You see, what happens is, when the uterus –“I touch her uterus. “-is fertilized, an iddy-biddy Timothy sprouts.” I stand still for a second, waiting for a response – nothing. “Do you want to know how the uterus gets fertilized?” I go on: “You and I – most males – have a special thing,” he’s stone-faced, but seemingly interested. “We use this special thing to produce something called semen. Now, semen is produced in the testes. Would you like to see?” I have a frank look on my face. “I’m hungry,” he murmurs. “I know, I know, buddy,” I say, my hand going for my unzipped pants. “I’ll get you some food soon,” the penile sleepyhead has come out to play. I go over the different parts like a sex-ed class: “Now, this is the shaft,” tracing my finger up the centre. “It’s like a pipe that shoots out magical stuff,” a cheeky grin. Wait, let’s get to the good stuff before she wakes up, I think.

Breaking away from sex-ed, at least, the male component, I tell him about the female anatomy. “The man’s special friend goes into this, this right here,” I poke her vagina softly. “Come here,” I make a come-hither motion. “Smell this,” I shoot him a forceful glance. “It’s okay. It sometimes smells like fish.” His sniffer stops within an inch from the slit. “Want to try it?” I flick his tiny dick. “Can you get hard at your age?” I sniffle blearily. “Pull your pants down, son-boy,” I order. His pants come down shakily, I see the infant-lump in the container-fabric. I spit in my hand, then wipe it over his pecker. “Now, climb up onto the bed,” I say, now becoming more mindful of the impermanence of sleep. He climbs up clumsily, then crouches there like a dork. “Put it here – inside this,” I make circles in her **bleep**. “That’s it,” I say, unsatisfied – his worm idling pathetically in between the lips. “You have to go in and out,” I demonstrate, humping the hair. It was probably a good thing he couldn’t get hard, and **bleep** her, anyway. If he did that, she’d likely wake up, and berate him for making the fruit of her loins screw him in a bid of incestuous experimentalism. The sneakiness is then shattered by a boom of nasal fluid being snorted and vibrated down the multi-purpose tubes. I pick Timothy up, and toss him out of the room before she comes-to. When I close the door, she gurgles words that I don’t quite understand. “I think I’m – “she rolls onto her back and puts her hand on her forehead. “- sick.” I climb back into bed with her, the child shut out like an unwanted house-pet.

“What can I get you honey? Want a cup of tea?” A few seconds pass before she answers: “Yes, that’d be lovely.”


The jug is still whistling as I pour – the prospect of scalding something living excites me. Watching that steam drift off in all angles – gather on my face, moisten it. I feel the tenderness of my cheeks with my free hand, the suppleness, the meaty film. The tightness builds to a ball in my chest, then I stop with the pouring, and put the jug back on the base. I put my hand over the mouth, feel the taper-down of the heat. Miranda shows up for her tea, looking pale and unwell.

“Is that mine?” she says.

“You bet,” I say, pushing it over to her.

“Oh, wait, I haven’t added the teabag,” I pull it back.

I take out a pack from the cupboard, then dunk it in.

She takes a sip, then calls down Timothy.

“He’s acting weird this morning. I think he may be sick, too,” she says.

“Perhaps there’s a bug going around,” I say.

She leaves the kitchen, goes to the bottom of the staircase, and calls for him again – this time, slightly fretfully.

I hear dull thuds either descending, or ascending – I can’t really tell; then a semi-intelligible back and forth.

Timothy enters the kitchen under Miranda’s arm, looking at the floor, shy. I smirk at the little puss-puss, then pretend to busy myself in the sink.

“What do you want for breakfast, Tim?” says Miranda, trying to be all cheery.

He doesn’t say anything, but pulls out a chair, sits down.

“Fancy some saucy-sausages, Tim-Tim?” I say, wiping a clean pan.

“I’ll make them with an especial sauciness.”

His eyes are downcast, at the table.

“He’s really sick, Taylor,” she says, kneeling down to get on eye-level.

“Is that so, Timmy-wimmy?” - To this, Miranda gives me a questioning glance.

 She puts the back of her hand to his face, remarks as to the normalcy of his temperature, then says: “Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, honey?”

“Your tea’s getting cold,” I try to get her away from the child.

“Do you think we should take him to a doctor?”


“Yes, we, Taylor,” she’s unhappy.

“He’s fine. Look at him, all full of pissy vinegar.”

She goes to the cupboard and retrieves a box of cereal, then asks me to get the milk.

I sit the carton down in front of the boy’s stony face.

“Does the milk go in before, or after, Tim?” asks the mother.

Seconds pass, then he answers, “Before.”

She laughs at this showing.

“Before, are you sure?” Her voice breaks up, taut with happiness.

“I don’t know about that!”

She starts to pour the cereal into the bowl.

“Next step?” she asks him, encouragingly.

He leans forward in his chair, leans for the carton of milk. He struggles to lift it.

“Here, let me give you a hand,” she helps him.

“Now, let’s do this together,” as though she’s speaking to a baby.

The milk splashes down into the cereal, and soon enough, crackling sounds are heard.

“I’m going to go upstairs and take a Panadol. Can you please watch him for me?” she says, her back to me, walking through the doorframe.

“Yummy cereal?” I say, now alone with the boy.

“Now, you’re not going to say anything about this morning, are you, Timothy?”

He quickly shakes his head.

“I hope not, because your mother’s very dear to me. You know I’d be all torn up if anything were to happen to her, or to you, for that matter.”

His spoon is still in his chocolaty milk.

I peek out of the kitchen, up the stairs – nothing.

“Love is such a precious thing, Timothy. You want your mother to be happy, don’t you?” I walk over to the kettle, lift it up, it’s still half-full.

I crouch down, and look into his eyes.

“I would like to continue this whole bonding thing with you. Would you like that? I wiggle the jug, feeling the weight shift.

“Mother is concerned for you, as is father,” I ruffle his hair. “See, demonstrable care.”

I stand, then go on: “Upright rearing is of the utmost importance, Timothy, this, I understand… understand to the outrance. I want you to move through the phases, contented, and full of beans.”

It is at this point that I start to tip the jug over his hand. He recoils, much like when you step on an animal’s paw.

“I apologize. The hands are all buttery this morning. My hands, that is.”

“So, tell me, is little Timmy-stimmy-wimmy-bimmy really ill? Whatever am I to do?” He’s looking me right in the eyes now, his cheeks flushed.

“Shall I fetch you a cold compress of some sort? Tuck you in, all fatherly-like? Toddle you upstairs like a little scamp?”

Miranda comes down the stairs, into the kitchen, and swallows her tablet with a glass of water.

“I’m going to the car for a minute.” I leave on this note.


I access the trunk from inside the car – lowering a seat, then sticking a flashlight into the darkness. I see the glazed-look of the duffel, pull it out, unzip it, and spread apart the sheets of overlaid plastic. Under a few layers of the plastic, is a smaller, pouch-like bag, in which I stuffed the bloodied sheets. Next to this pouch are the heads of mother and father – both eyeless, tongueless, generally hacked up and sliced. I smile as I look at these.

Skirting the inner of the bag are my tools, threaded through hoops. I touch an ultra-sharp dagger, and for a moment, Timothy flashes across my eyes. I imagine driving it into his throat, severing the arterial lines, spurts of blood spraying wallpaper, his mother trying to plug the hole – feebly – with her petite fingers, it exploding out all sides as though a geyser, forming a thin, radial, disc of red over her cleavage; then standing there, aback, watching her cry, hold him in her arms – her floppy, dead little boy.


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