Category: Stories & Captions

A collection of stories, photo captions, and shoddy poetry

Untitled Umberto Eco Fanfic

[Just a taste of something I’ve been working on. I’m not really into aping other writers’ vibes, but hey, E.L. James is rich and I’m not.]

Giovanni was a humble man, made of humble stuff. Accidents of birth had left his form misshapen, his gait unsteady, and his mind disordered, but he persisted through these vicissitudes and more, with one bulging eye always trained upon tomorrow and its myriad opportunities.

Despite —or as a result of, who can say?— his taking of holy orders, the opportunities that beckoned him always seemed to be those soaked in gluttony and lechery. So great was his appetite for carnal indulgence —the likes of which would have blushed the cheeks of the most debauched heretic— that it left him jealous of every moment that might be otherwise dedicated to such pursuits. Giovanni therefore avoided the daily offices of the Order and the assigned duties of the cellarer with a certain focused, brutal efficiency, using his menacing size and countenance to intimidate the younger monks and more tractable peasants into looking away or even doing his bidding.

The abbot, of course, chose to know none of this. All he knew was that Giovanni kept the charity sluice in good repair, kept the dung sluice mucked out, and ensured that his monks seldom confused the two; from such an unfortunate servant of Christ, the benevolent Lord Abbot reasoned, little more could be asked. And as the abbot —like his abbey— was both busy and wealthy, it suited him to leave many things unseen.

This was equally pleasing to Giovanni, whose unfortunate estate had left him with a lifelong preference for practical invisibility. The world had never welcomed him —it was said that his mother, in her natal despair at the sight of her deformed child, cut her own throat before the midwife could cut the umbilicus— and he had thus found it best to operate at the periphery of the world’s attention. In such a place, a man could make his way. Or at least profitably stalk the ways of others.

He’d been a more literal sort of brigand once, long ago. As a child, he had of course been regularly beaten, to chase from his accursed body the sin it had so visibly inherited, and isolated, to ensure that whatever taint remained would not spread. He’d not been taught a trade —on the assumption that he was unfit for work and impervious to education— but his family’s violence and disdain were tutors of a sort. By the time he reached the full season of his manhood, he’d proven that his infirmities and limitations were no bar to the kind of trade one plies from ambush at the side of a road.

So it was that he reveled in his newfound freedoms: to bludgeon, to plunder, and to ravish. As one who had so often cowered beneath lashes of both tongue and leather, he took particular satisfaction in being a generator of fear. In the thrill of self-sufficiency, he found his life’s first hint of a purpose; in the blood of a fat merchant couple and the cunt of their shrill-shrieking daughter, Giovanni discovered his first passion.

And yet it never seemed enough. To murder and defile was bliss for a moment, but offered him no solace in the long, quiet hours after. When the hateful dreams returned each night to haunt him —the cruel phantoms of youth, arisen from the unholy sepulcher of memory— he wailed in helpless frustration.

Until he saw her.

Addition By Subtraction

Addition By Subtraction — Mr. Bedtime

Heads up, stupid! We need to talk.

It’s time we accept reality. You’ve been here in the basement for eighteen months, and there’s no exit in sight. We both wanted things to go another way, but it’s time to move on. This is life for you, for as long as you have it. Life for me too, I guess.

That wasn’t the plan, obviously. You were supposed to be a short-term thing, a quick snatch-and-sell I could use to finance my dream of filling this basement with girls way prettier than you. Not that I didn’t intend to have a little fun before handing you along to my guy in Dubai; I mean, I’m not going to the trouble of taking you and not use you, right?

But then you were just so goddamned good, and I— I just couldn’t stop.

It’s like, you know, that thing you used to do with your eyes when I was inside you? Where you’d stop blinking and just kinda focus on the ceiling while I did my business? It’s like you were somewhere else; somewhere safe and separate and numb. The first time you did that, I swear to you, I instantly started to cum… no shit, I felt my soul leave my body. I’m not sure why; maybe it just wanted to see where you’d gone, so it could follow and rape you there, too.

Every couple days, every time I got on top of you, there was something like that. Some weird little— I don’t know, like, a coping mechanism or something? Some new thing that your brain came up with to help you escape without ever leaving the room. It was like watching a magician playing tricks on herself; you hated me and my dick so much, you were willing to abandon your own body like a stalled car on the side of the road. It was the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen.

So naturally, you ruined it. Screwed it all up in less than six months, when I realized that cute little half-snort, half-sob thing you did while I choke-fucked you was actually the sound of you getting off. You’d finally given up and given in; your pride was breaking your body, so you decided your pride had to die. You… changed.

It was understandable, I guess, but I was still like, “What the fuck, cunt?” The gall of you. You fucking robbed me.

One minute I had it all: a hot little piece of ass on a chain that I could hollow out with nothing but a hard-on. The next, I’ve got you grabbing on to me when we fuck, pulling me deeper. You don’t cry and go blank anymore; like, sure, okay, you still cry a little, but I think that’s just the shame leaking out. Because even you know how disgusting you are now; shit, at this rate, you’re just a few weeks away from missing me when I’m not around. You’ve gone from being a captive sex-puppet in a scary dungeon to a pathetic live-in girlfriend who never gets out of bed and always smells like sex.

Fuck. That.

I was pissed at first, but I just said, “Okay, fine. The honeymoon’s over. Love doesn’t last. Blah blah blah. What next?” You were too blown out by that point for my high-end customers —I don’t think that left ear is ever going to look right again— and whatever you had that made you special to me was gone. So I decided, fuck it, let’s just ransom her ass back to her family. They’re not rich or anything, but I figured I could at least get ten grand out of them; not much, I know, but it’s tough to make good money selling something worthless.

Turns out, it’s not just tough; sometimes it’s fucking impossible.

You have no idea how hard I tried. I was methodical as hell; I started surveilling your family’s home, and broke in every few days to go through their shit and learn their patterns. Went through their checkbooks and credit card statements to figure out what kind of cash they could come up with in a hurry. Cloned your sister’s phone and took photos of all your parents’ sticky-note password reminders.

I should have known right then. It was all there in front of me.

You remember that time you were telling me all about your family so I would stop burning you with a curling iron? Y’know that suspicion you’ve always had that they looked at you as, like, a disappointment or a burden? Yeah, well, I think you were on to something with that one, sweetpea. You disappeared from their world a year-and-a-half ago, and today… I mean, objectively, they’re happy.

Your parents are selling the house… can you believe that? They’re about to close on the sale, and have already picked out a place in Florida to buy with the proceeds. Your old man retired early, and your mom gave up her afternoon vodka hobby. Your little sister is graduating next month, and according to her diary, lost her virginity to a boy who kisses her nose when she’s scared. I suppose losing you taught them the importance of living in the now, or some similar horseshit. Whatever, man… all I know is that their Facebook photos are full of smiles, and they don’t post about you anymore.

Don’t believe me? I can tell you don’t believe me, but I’m serious. I taped the first ransom note to your bedroom mirror, in plain sight of the open door; it took them seven weeks to find it. Seven motherfucking weeks. There’s a big manila envelope taped up in there, holding a letter demanding money along with a few sample photos of their missing daughter chained to a wall, and they can’t be bothered to notice for almost two months!

I was blown away, but I figured, what do I know about grief— other than how to cause it? I thought putting it in your old room would be poetic or creepy or something, reminding them of when you were a kid; I didn’t consider that they might actually avoid looking in there. But they finally found it, and that was the important thing… so I settled in and waited for them to either call my burner or call the cops.

They did neither. They did nothing. Not a goddamned thing.

I know, right? Insane. But true.

At that point I’m thinking, “Is this really happening? Are they really fucking ignoring me?” That’s when we had our day trip. You remember that? Probably not… I fed you enough oxy to keep you manageable, so you were in and out. Their schedules all said they were going out to dinner to celebrate, so I took you home, used their iPad to record you getting fucked on your parents’ bed, and left it plugged in and looping on your mom’s damp, sticky pillow. Then I went back the next week.

They’d thrown out the sheets. The iPad, too.

But they kept on packing.

And now it’s days later, and I just can’t stop wondering.

…

What— what the hell did you do to those people?

copyright © 2018 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls.com

31)Describe your most taboo fantasy. 93)Tag your Tumblr crush Lol I like that one I’m gonna reblog.

chubby-crybby:

31. describe ur most taboo fantasy

lmao i know the more i say this the more y’all get curious 😭 ok so it may not be THE most taboo fantasy but A taboo fantasy i have is to be like gaslighted into relying completely on a partner in a v gross way

93. tag ur tumblr crush

@brat-grrl2 obvs and idk maybe @bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls or @black-operations

My Most Taboo Fantasy:

My mind lights the Candle as my hands trace the Lattice. The implant behind my right eye tells me the injection was a success, and the nanofleet has been deployed within my veins. I cannot feel it, but they are already maneuvering and organizing within my body; millions of autonomous microscopic devices are bonding with one another in delicate chains that will essentially write the full text of a 7th century heretic’s psychedelic dream journal directly in to my bloodstream.

Ah! I can feel *that*. The spell is cast.

My vision blurs, and within the blur I can see the Harmonies, the ultrabright matter from whose patterns and wobbles the laws of the universe are derived. I intend to touch them, and in so doing, redefine the interplay of the fundamental forces. It crosses my mind that I killed a dear man in Marrakech for simply *considering* this; in fairness, I am probably killing myself now.

Later, after regaining corporeal form, I strip naked in my bedroom closet and watch my wife fuck the pool guy.

How Things End

[CONTENT NOTE: Here be dragons.]

Hello, Daddy? It’s me, Erin.

Yes, Daddy; Erin your daughter. Yes, that’s always funny.

I’m not trying to–

No, no, you’re right. I’m sorry. That’s not–

I love your jokes, Daddy. Really.

Can we– can I–?

It’s just that I have something to tell you.

More than one thing, really. A lot of things. I had to– I had to write some of it down, so please, if it’s okay, please let me get through it.

Don’t get— don’t be— you don’t need to be defensive, okay? I just need you to listen.

Can’t you just—? Please? Thank you.

I’ve been thinking about it for so long, talking to you like this. About us and— whatever this thing is. This thing between us that we can’t give a name, because, I don’t know… because putting it into words will make it real? Because if we talk about it, something will finally have to change? It scares me so much, knowing we can never go back from here… but it’s time. It’s just… it’s time.

You fucked me, Daddy.

You fucked me, and taught me to like it. More than like it… you made me need it. It’s been fifteen years since the first time, and I— I still fucking crave you, on like— on a cellular level. It’s like my body doesn’t feel right if you’re not using it. Can you even imagine that? Your whole life, feeling wrong in your own skin… and the only thing that makes it better is the worst thing in the world?

No. No. Of course you can’t. If you could imagine what it’s like to be me —if you could see that far outside yourself— then none of this would have ever happened. I guess I grew up in your blind spot.

It’s not that I hate you. Or maybe I do, a little. I should. But I love you more. I love you so much that I’ve tried to claw through my own skin and rip the love out of me. For a long, long time, I wanted nothing more than to kill it, and if the rest of me had to die in the process, then fine— fuck it.

But I see differently now. I see that your love is like your green eyes and your allergies and your dick; it’s just something you’ve put inside me that’s made me what I am. You’re in my genes, in my blood, in my head… you’re what I see when I think “man”, and it’s your weight I feel when I think “sex”.

It took a while, but I’ve figured myself out. I’ve learned that I can’t stop loving you and continue to live in this world, and you know what, Daddy? I want to live. I want to fucking live. So I choose to love you and accept it. I choose.

But the thing is— the thing is… I— I’m pregnant.

I’ve known for a while, and it’s going to be a girl.

And Daddy, I need you to hear me and understand, okay? As much as I love you… my daughter will never know you. She will never see your face or hear your name. You died in a war, or a building fell on you; I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet. The important thing is that she never spends even one moment of her precious life wondering about you.

I hope you get why it has to be this way, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t; my mind is set on this. I can’t bear the thought of you touching her, for all the right and wrong reasons. She never needs to feel the way I feel, and if I’m honest, I would hate her a little if she did. You’ve always been my sickness, you know? I can’t and I won’t share it.

But she won’t be here for months yet. And I— I still have that craving.

…

I’m outside your front door, Daddy. Please open up and say goodbye to me.

copyright © 2017 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls