Daddy's Little Girl by Christopher L. Knives There was little light. It was the perfect setting for his dark charade, as he was the conductor of a gruesome and sadistic ploy. After violently shaking the family into fractured regiments, the scum of existence landed on his greatest manipulation. It was the daughter of a middle class family that was playing the corporate game. A family that lived for making the big impression, a mother that never stayed home for more than an hour and a dad who might as well remain nameless. This sacred piece of the family was a savored piece, as she was an example of how a woman in a youthful age should never be. She loved herself in way that raped respect, skinning the very meaning of it into a belittled category of meaningless proportions. People used her as she let herself be used. She was more of a contaminated piece of filth that somehow bore a soul. She became one with her disease as it built a feeling of belonging. Unfortunately, the feeling of being alive only lasted as long as her partner.
It was in her plot to go from pleasure to pleasure that gave the beast his reasoning, if there ever was any. Her craving for attention and for respect, created for her, a desire to scum to the bottom of the trough and become a wasted girl that fucked on camera. It wasn’t hard for her to force exploitations upon herself, but it was hard to earn a buck doing it. She didn’t live in Las Angeles, California. She lived in a small Wyoming town, which was the most underground place of places to start. She was doing the work of a porn star and getting paid a hookers wage, if even that. Hundreds of guys would treat her like an open house and wreck whatever orifice she had. They had full control of her and could have done her a favor. Being as helpless as she was, her life was spared for many months and somehow, disease and pregnancy missed her. With the horde of men that she had endured it was a blessing, but the only one(More)

Old Mother by D. D. Bell It was early morning in the near deserted police station and officer, Alec Ballack, sat slovenly at his desk reading the Nottingham Evening Post when he should have been working at his backlog – a large mug of sweet tea steamed at his elbow to complete the unfortunate tableau. There was nobody about to check up on him so he did as he pleased; Sergeant Dalton was still out on patrol and Kelvin had his head down in one of the empty cells. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as if an impulsive draught had come across him. He threw down his newspaper and spun around on his chair to face – there was nobody there for him to see.
            “Kelvin.” he shouted out in panic.
            He heard rapid footsteps coming up from the corridor and then the young police officer, Kelvin, rushed into the office straightening up his tunic as he went. He rubbed at his bleary eyes. “What’s up? Is Dalton on his way back?” he gasped.
            “N… no…” stammered Ballack. “It… It’s happened again… Kelv… it happened again.”
            Kelvin let out a groan. “You woke me up to tell me that load of old rubbish… there is nobody else here but me and you… you fat twit.”
            “I felt its breath on my neck again.”
            Kelvin turned. “Bugger this I’m going.” Before he went he made the shape of a phantom and let out a theatrical groan.
            “It not funny, I tell you this place is bloody haunted.”(more)