Hand-me-downs

 

The jacket felt tight across my shoulders, uncomfortable, the zip wouldn't meet across my stomach. The guy I killed to get it had looked about my size, but he had been carrying it draped across his shoulder, his finger hooked into the collar, maybe he had got it from someone smaller. Hell, for all I know the jacket had seen many owners, been carried away from many corpses. At least I was a little warmer now.

The boots were a better fit, a size too large, which was way better than a size too small at least, no laces either, but still much better than the falling to pieces ones that they replaced. I'm guessing he either had big feet for his body size, or his feet rattled inside them too, they probably shared a similar history to the jacket.

The world had moved on, clothes were hard to come by these days, same as food, ammo, good intentions, all gone by the by.

I crouched in the doorway, listening... watching... The moonlight threw pale shadows across the road from the derelict vehicles.

No sounds... Nothing moved.

I hunkered down further and huddled up against the cold as best I could, not the best place to be, but I daren't take the chance of moving just yet, give it a little more time, there may be others like me, watching and waiting, others who were a bit smarter than the jacket donor, god knows how he had managed to survive for so long.

I heard a slight scrape to my left, slowly turned my head to see a shadowy shape a few feet away, the moonlight glinting off the twin whites of his eyes, and the twin holes of a double barrel sawn-off.

Using the edge of the doorstep I worked the boots off my feet, then slowly... slowly... I took off the jacket and held it out to him.

©2025 Stephen. J. Green.

Clutter

I hate clutter. I have always hated clutter.

When I look back through my life, the signs have always been there. My mother once told me how annoying I was as a small child, constantly screaming whilst throwing all the toys from my pram, all but one that is, a bright blue rattle that for some reason I always kept hold of, the rest of the toys strewn messily across the floor, trip hazards for my parents and unwary siblings.

Now, over two decades later, every unnecessary item has been removed from the house, sold, given away, or dumped. I'm a much calmer person these days, now all the triggers have gone, happy with what remains. One chair, one knife, one fork, one spoon, one cup... one of everything, why would a person need more than that?

As for the parents and siblings, I suppose they would have been a little dismayed to learn that they were thought of as clutter, they are beyond caring now, and they all fit into just the one hole I had dug.

©2025 Stephen. J. Green.

Greener grass

 

What a fool I was.

I had chosen this life, Of my own free will I had made the choice.

Uninfluenced by the opinions or guidance of others, I had taken the steps and made the necessary preparations and adjustments to achieve my present predicament.

Boredom. That was my downfall. The boredom of the day to day existence inside the bunker.

The boredom of the same faces, the same conversations and complaints, the same routines, neverending, on and on.

The grass is always greener... always...

The grass we can see in our mind's eye.

The grass I could now see through the shattered window didn't look very green.

After six days I had discarded the stolen rifle, dead weight once the ammo was gone.

The pilfered food had lasted a few days longer, even with careful rationing it still ran out much sooner than I expected.

I thought there would be places to forage. In my imagination the world outside the bunker was littered with tins of food in overlooked cupboards and storerooms.

It was a shame that I couldn't fill my belly with my imaginings, instead of the infrequent trickle of rat meat and insects that were keeping me alive.

I sat with my head tilted back, resting against the filthy, torn wallpaper. My hands clasped around my shins, drawing my knees close to to my chest, shivering, cold and damp.

I closed my eyes and began to drift off.

The grass I saw in my dream grew long and lush, and so very, very green.

I waded through the waist-high stalks, trailing my outstretched palms along the tops of the fronds, pushing my way to a clearing in which stood a trestle table laden with food. Almost faint with hunger I reached and gently picked a roasted drumstick from a plate, watching in horror as it began to liquefy and drip, turn to slime, and cascade maggots, rotting before my very eyes.

All around me the grass was turning brown, withering and crumbling to dust, scattering in the breeze.

I jolted awake... Darkness had come while I slept, and I could hear the howls in the distance as other things came awake, ready to start their day, hungry.

I huddled down into the corner, made myself as small and quiet as possible, with any luck I would be overlooked again.

In the morning I would start my return journey, hopefully to find the rifle still where I left it, I don't think they would let me back in without it.

The grass inside the bunker looked a whole lot greener now than it used to.

©2024 Stephen. J. Green.

Inside the cave lived a fox

INSIDE THE CAVE LIVED A FOX

The very talented, and lovely lady, Cindy Vaskova, has at last made her latest novel available to purchase on Amazon Kindle. The book has been a while in the pipeline, and I'm really happy that it has finally been published.

The novel is entitled “Inside the cave lived a fox”, and follows Neave's journey towards insanity, as, with the help of two strangers, she returns to old surroundings to confront a dark and powerful force from her past.

Over the years I have read many of Cindy's stories, from very short literary flashes, to much longer, and sometimes serialised works, and enjoyed every one of them. Cindy's forte is horror, and she has a darkly delicious descriptive style of writing. Although it doesn't bring the word “Horror” immediately to mind, the reason for the title becomes clear as the story progresses.

The book is available on Amazon Kindle here:-

  Amazon UK – Inside the cave lived a fox (Kindle edition) 

  Amazon US – Inside the cave lived a Fox (Kindle edition)

Good luck with the book Cindy, and any future projects you should undertake.

Best wishes.

Steve. X.

Bossy boots

Erica almost squealed with delight when she first saw them in the shop window. Thigh-length, black leather, with a deliciously sexy-looking five inch stiletto heel and a horizontal strap and buckle across the top. The bright steel zip at the side gave them a real gothy look. They would go very nicely with the skimpy, short leather outfit that she wore on her dominatrix singing telegram jobs.

She rushed inside the shop brandishing her credit card.

Just over an hour later Erica burst excitedly through her apartment door, after placing the package carefully on the sofa she hurried into the bathroom, showered quickly, then into the bedroom and dressed herself in the sleazy, slinky, naughty-looking leather dominatrix outfit. The whip draped around her neck was too soft to do any damage to flesh, but it looked the part, and she wanted to get the full 'mirror-mirror on the wall' effect once she had the boots on.

She pasted her sultry look on her face, and slinky-walked her way back into the lounge, wearing something like this always had this effect on her, role playing was her bread and butter, and each outfit had its own look and walk to maximise the impact.

Erica took the boots out of the package and looked at them appreciatively. Caressed the smooth leather. Ran her fingertips up and down the shiny zips. Oh!... she was almost swooning.

Just inside the boot tops, whilst stroking the smooth, satiny lining, she discovered a tiny label that she hadn't noticed in the shop, a rather cool looking red devil's head logo encircled by the word “Servus” Not a brand she was familiar with but the boots were definitely top quality, the name had an Italian ring to it, and so was quite possibly a subsidiary brand of Gucci or Versace, or one of the other desirable makes.

Finally, no longer able to restrain herself, she slid her left foot into the first boot, it fit like a second skin. Taking a delicate hold of the zip she slowly pulled it upwards to the top, savouring every inch along the way. The boot fit her perfectly, as though it were tailor-made to suit every contour of her leg.

She slid her right foot into the second boot, and as she reached down for the zip it twitched...

Erica froze in alarm, not quite believing what she had just seen.

She sat still for a few moments, and had just about managed to convince herself that it was her imagination at play when it happened again...

Cold fear flooded Erica's whole being, she reached down and grabbed the boot in both hands, but before she had time to pull it from her foot the zip slid smoothly and rapidly all the way to the top.

With a snickery whisper the straps quickly threaded themselves through the buckles and locked themselves in place.

Erica panicked, screaming and thrashing, with fear-strengthened fumbling fingers she tried to pull the zips down, to unfasten the buckles, to bodily tear the leather from her legs, all to no avail.

Soon, she lay back on the couch, her energy spent. She took several deep breaths, and contemplated her predicament.

“There must be some logical explanation for this.” She told herself, in a rather unconvincing inner voice. “I must have pulled the zip up and fastened the buckles whilst daydreaming or something.” She said to herself, her inner voice becoming even less convincing with each word.

Remaining as calm as she possibly could, Erica tried again to remove the boots.

Each boot in turn, she took a firm hold of the zip, and pulled hard and steady. No movement at all.

She turned her attention to the buckles and straps. It was as though they had melded together with the boot material, there was no give in any direction.

Next she tried to slide the boot down from the top. It definitely felt just like a second skin now, as though it had been super-glued in place.

Fighting down the urge to vomit, Erica walked into the kitchen and took the scissors from the drawer. She would cut the damn things off then.

Try as she might, she could not force the blade of the scissors between the leather and her own flesh. After many unsuccessful attempts at various angles, she had managed to score several deep, and very painful scratches along her thighs, but made absolutely no progress towards removing the goddamn boots at all. She tried to cut off the straps, but again met with the same result.

Erica was sobbing uncontrollably now, she threw the scissors into the sink, and glanced feverishly around, looking for something else that may work.

Erica's gaze fell on the knife rack.

She pulled the very sharp carving knife from the rack, it had a thinner, wider blade, maybe that would help.

Before she could even try the knife, the boots set off walking of their own volition, taking Erica along with them.

Jerkily, and puppet-like, Erica was walked involuntarily towards the bedroom. She frantically grabbed the door frame on the way past, but was unable to resist, the boots were stronger than she was.

As she began to lose her grip on the door frame she tried to free up her other hand by dropping the knife, but it stuck to her palm as hard as the boots were stuck to her legs.

Erica's short walk ended up in front of the full-length mirror next to the wardrobe. With tears streaming down her face, she stared at her reflection, her mind refusing to take in what she saw.

The woman in the mirror brandished the knife with malevolent intent, and stared back with an unhinged maniacal look in her eyes, and a vicious sneer on her face.

Erica watched the reflection in terror as the right boot toe separated itself from the upper, baring rows of gleaming, sharp teeth. A forked crimson tongue flicked out.

“Hello slave.” The boot whispered raspily. “Welcome to your new existence. Now, let's go find someone to play with.”


©2019 Stephen. J. Green.

Burnout

Another day... or night?

Sun burns... or moon?

Hard to tell. Blinds closed.

Bottle to lips. Throat burns.

Cigarette to lips. Lungs burn.

Ash falls to carpet.

Vehicle goes by. Time goes by.

Dead TV. No power. No energy.

Bottle to lips. Cigarette to lips.

Needle to arm. Veins burn.

Rat slithers past. Time slithers past.

Bottle to lips. Cigarette to lips.

Pills to mouth. Tongue burns.

Thoughts of you. Heart burns.

Picture of you. Eyes burn.

Bottle to lips. Cigarette to lips. Needle to arm. Pills to mouth.

Moth flies by. Time flies by.

Empty bottle. Empty pack. Empty needle. Empty pill box.

Empty life.

Sleep. Dreams burn.

Wake. Soul burns.

Love burns. Hate burns.

That's all there is.

Without you.




©2019 Stephen. J. Green.

Rhythm and Blues

In the beginning there was much debate on where the music originated. Many different theories and opinions. Some said Latin America, others China, Russia, The Philippines, West Indies, the list was diverse and endless.

There were many conspiracy theories too.

Some believed it was the government's doing, which was laughable really, unless every government in the world were all involved in the same dark plot together. I can just see North Korea and the USA getting round the table with the Russians and the Chinese to pull this one on the people, and besides, the politicians were affected just as much as the man in the street.

Other favourite scapegoats were The Illuminati, dissidents, radical factions, the alien conspiracy, which was my own personal favourite, was quite popular too.

The question of where the music had come from was soon to be overshadowed by other, more important issues.

The beat and tempo of the music seemed to shift and change subtly, making it difficult to define as one particular style or another, and not everyone who listened to it seemed to hear exactly the same tune.

The first DJ to play it on the radio swore he played the rock classic “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, but that was definitely not what came over the air.

Before long the music had infiltrated television and radio archives, internet scores, juke boxes, and even private collections, under the guise of almost every genre of music imaginable.

The one thing that was undeniable though, was the effect...

This music was poison to the mind.

No-one played this music intentionally, in fact no-one knowingly owned any, but the infiltration was deep now, hidden and unpredictable.

And when the notes played...

People wept openly, uncontrollably. Depression, anxiety, and anger ran rife. The murder and suicide rates increased tenfold. Families and friends turned on one another.

The hospitals and prisons were soon overflowing, and governments commandeered schools, warehouses, and even churches to accommodate the overspill.

Many thousands of temporary, barely trained nurses and police were drafted in to help cope with the crisis, but these too were also affected, severely limiting their effectiveness.

The music was analysed in studios and laboratories throughout the world. No subliminals were found, no hidden messages, no vibratory notes that may affect the central nervous system. Nothing!

One by one the music radio stations shut down and went off air. Youtube fought the system but eventually went under after some military intervention.

There were CD and cassette bonfires in the streets. Tech companies soon began to fall by the wayside due to lack of custom. Games consoles, stereo systems, PCs, anything that was capable of producing the sounds disappeared from the stores, which in turn led to rapidly escalating unemployment, and of course, all of this had a massive knock-on effect on the national, and global economy.

The world was sliding towards anarchy.

The slide became an avalanche. Unstoppable, irreversible.

I was only young when the fall came, but somehow I survived.

That was seventeen years ago.

Now, as I squat by the entrance to my cave, the carbine resting across my knees, an old, half-remembered tune drifts into my mind.

Involuntarily my fingertips begin to tap along on the butt of the rifle...

And I feel the tears rise in my eyes...


©2019 Stephen. J. Green.

Saving Bernie

It's strange the thoughts that pass through a man's mind when he is about to die.

I mean, there's Bernie, knelt on his lounge carpet, staring into the end of a .45 barrel.

Now, if the positions were reversed, my mind would probably be racing along avenues of pleading, begging, crying, bargaining... maybe even threatening.

But not Bernie, all he said when I asked if he had any last words was “Who will look after my hamster?”

I looked down at him, trying to work out if this was some kind of joke or not.

I've been in this game for a long time now, clipped a lot of guys along the way. Mostly crims and hoodlums that deserved what I delivered. A few corrupt business men who thought they were untouchable, and some corkscrewy politicians. Hell, some of THOSE guys I would have done for free too.

I have to admit, this is the first time I ever had a response like this. Almost to a man, the only thing the marks I offed were interested in saving was their own skin. I would have put Bernie in that class too until now.

Bernie stared up at me, there was no fear in his voice when he spoke. “I don't have the money.” He said. “I know the rules, and I guess I knew it was gonna go this way. But please, when you leave, take my hamster with you. He's kinda... special.”

The only thing I heard in his voice was concern, not for himself though. Who would ever guess a tough guy like Bernie would spend his last breath pleading for the life of a hamster?

I mean... Jeez, what the hell was Bernie doing with a hamster in the first place? I would have tagged him for being a rottweiler or pitbull owner.

Faint squeaking and scratching sounds came from my left.

“Don't move.” I said to him. I kept the gun pointing in his general direction as I walked over to the hamster cage sat atop the coffee table under the window.

Well, I tell you, this is the weirdest thing I ever did see. The hamster, a cute looking brown and white piece of fluff was sitting on its haunches staring back through the cage bars at me, it's front paws pressed together in front of its chest. I swear, for the life in me, it looked like it was praying... or begging.

And then I looked into the hamster's eyes...

I felt my senses drift as I was drawn into the honeyed, caramel depths of its stare. Now you may think me insane when I say that I felt I was being hypnotised... by a hamster?

Despite being aware, I was powerless to resist. Down, down and ever deeper down I sank through treacly thoughts and flittery imaginings.

Until I hit soft bottom.

I felt I was lying on the silty bed of a molasses lake.

Something inside me shifted, melted, rearranged itself.

I began to rise, slowly, slowly, until I broke surface and found myself once more staring through the cage bars at the hamster. No longer praying, but both tiny arms extended toward me, sharp tiny claws undulating, like a continuous minute mexican wave.

A sharp click of claws brought me back to the present.

I shook my head a few times to clear my thoughts.

What the hell? It felt like a different person talking when I opened my mouth to speak.

“Bernie.” I said. “The contractor doesn't know I've been here yet, so I'm gonna go home and get some sleep, when I come back tomorrow and find you gone, well... I never missed a mark before, but there's a first time for everything, right? sometimes they get away, you follow me?”

I slid the gun back into the shoulder holster as I walked out the door, and just before the door closed behind me there came a few quiet squeaks from the window side of the room, and I swear to this day that they sounded awfully like a very high pitched “God bless you”


©2019 Stephen. J. Green.

As it fell

Oh, how we loved.
Hard and fast.
In any place or where.
In any when.
And as we loved, the world fell.
But not for us.
It wouldn't dare.
Our love was feverish.
Unlike the virus.
Cold and creeping.
It took most everything.
From most everyone.
A world left weeping.
Our only tears were ecstatic.
Post orgasmic crying.
The world was dying.
But still we loved.
With maniacal fury.
As was right.
As was our right.
To be.
As we wanted to be.
As it fell.


©2015 Stephen. J. Green.

Recycle day

There was no real need for me to visit the recycle centre today, other than it was warm and sunny, and I just felt the need to get out of the house for a while.

The few items in my shoulder bag chinked and rattled slightly as I made my way the couple of hundred yards from home to where the recycle skips sat in the corner of the supermarket car park, luckily no-one heard, or if they did they chose to ignore.

I slipped the bag from my shoulder and began posting the items through the holes into the separate containers.

A Coke bottle, a coffee jar, two crushed beer cans, a tuna tin, a soup can, and two corned beef tins.

Hardly worth the visit really, but it certainly was a beautiful day to be out and about.

I slung the bag back over my shoulder, glanced at the ruined mass of the supermarket. No point in even looking in there for anything. Nothing left in there but inedibles, armed scavs, and rats the size of dogs.

I set off back towards home, quietly making my way from one burnt out car hulk to the next, keeping low, eyes and ears working overtime.

There was no real need for me to visit the recycle centre today.

Maybe I am insane.

I prefer to think I'm clinging to the hope that maybe one day everything will go back to how it used to be, and someone will turn up to empty the skips.


©2015 Stephen. J. Green.