A POTFUL OF SNOT: the untold tale of terror

“BLAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!” shrieked Bartholomew out of utter revulsion and agony when he laid his eyes upon a potful of snot. The entire household hurried to the bathroom to find out what had caused the commotion.

“What ails you, o Bartholomew, my beloved son?” asked Bartholomew’s mother.

“What ails you, o Bartholomew, my fluent friend?” asked Bartholomew’s brother.

“Glarf?” asked Esta, the dog.

“What ails you, o Bartholomew, my heart’s jewel?” asked Bartholomew’s one true love.

“I’ve found a POTFUL OF SNOT!!!!” explained Bartholomew and pointed at the snot-filled pot.

“BLAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!” shrieked the whole family out of utter revulsion and agony, beholding this chamberpot, which was filled with snot.

“Alas!” lamented Bartholomew’s mother. “What a gruesome fate, to encounter such a phlegmacious artifact in the midst of our happy home.”

“Alas!” lamented Bartholomew’s brother. “As I examine the slugly shimmer of this blasphemous nose-spew, I am overcome with revulsion.”

“Alas!” lamented Bartholomew’s one true love. “As I inhale its musty odors, I am overcome with agony!”

“Glarf!” lamented Esta, the dog, as Bartholomew clung to her in utter despondency, preventing her from approaching the pot and sampling its sinful contents.

Amidst mortified wails, the scandalized family lifted up the gob-sullied vessel and tossed it out the window, straight into the morose drink of Heartbreak River. With grave countenances they watched as this abhorrent crucible sank its way to the bottom of the stream.

“We must never speak of it again,” said Bartholomew, and the entire household bitterly concurred. That night, Esta the dog howled in the pale light of the silver moon.

Originally written in my native lickadilly and posted on a somewhat saucy hookup site on 2013-05-07. Meticulously translated over the course of a week, as to, to the best of my abilities, preserve its message.

Doomed to live forever in fear

It was a dark and stormy night. Grethilda had just finished her supper, and was trudging through the stables, drearily concluding her evening cow-inspection. The rain clattered, like so many pebbles, upon the stable’s copper-sheet roofing, and Grethilda shuddered, looking forward to the warm and cozy bed that awaited her inside the cottage.

A sudden flash of lightning lit up the murky corridors, revealing to her eyes a phantom shape by the door. It was Harold the Grievous.

“But it cannot be!” exclaimed Grethilda in some alarm. The fearsome rumbling of thunder resounded throughout the stables, arousing the cattle unto mooful agitation.

“I have come for your blood,” wheezed Harold the Grievous and produced an axe. “The moment of vengeance approaches!”

“Uh-oh!” said Grethilda and threw herself out the window. Then she ran, she ran like wind itself, she ran through the stormy woodlands to escape the vengeance of Harold the Grievous. After three days of fugitive locomotion, she arrived at the harbor and purchased a one-way ticket to the faraway realms. As the ships set sail upon sunrise, she watched the shores of her homeland fade into the horizon.


But she knew within her heart that she was doomed to live forever in fear.

Originally written in un-Anglic parlance and posted on a decidedly shoddy hookup site on 2013-01-13. Translated into Anglic parlance (and slightly embellished upon) today. Phregoopinated in accordance with current international standards.


The Laceration of Chester Wumpherlittle

The kitchen knife rested its sharp edge hesitantly on the firm, golden crust of the baguette, as though unconvinced by the force I was applying onto it. Then, with sudden acuteness the knife glissaded forward – across the entire length of the baguette, then beyond its breadly boundaries, straight towards my hand. Less than a second later, the skin of my left index finger had been split into a centimeter-long gash, just by the fingernail.

I was probably too far into shock to feel anything, because my brain registered no pain at all, even though my anatomy had been rended at its very edge. As though in hypnosis, I watched the blood creep out of the wound, spewing like a tidal wave in a canyon of skin. Within moments, a whole third of the fingertip was submerged in my body’s own blood. Somehow, I managed to produce a paper towel from somewhere on the countertop, and make use of its absorbent fibers to abate the gushing outflow of vital fluid. Red against white: lost innocence, lost hope.

The vegetables were neatly minced and arranged on the cutting board, beside the baguette. They had instilled me with seductive promises, promises of savory goodness, but now everything had ended in tragedy and deceit. I remembered the words my parents had whispered to me in my infancy: that the treacherous surface of a baguette’s crust would yield to the serrated blade of a bread knife. Why hadn’t I used the appropriate cutlery? I wept regretfully, tears of a martyr trickling gently down my cheek as I stared incredulously at the fickle knife that had betrayed me at my most vulnerable moment.

Still in my state of trauma, in this stupefying haze, I willed myself to the bathroom, searching desperately for a band-aid. But when I finally found one, I couldn’t even bear to wrap it around my victimized digit – the band-aid would only prove to remind me of the debacle that had befallen me. Deep within my heart of hearts, I was overcome with despair – why me? What had I done to deserve this?

Originally written in my endemic speechmode and published on a rather lewd hookup website on 2013-05-27. Translated and maybe 30 % rewritten/embellished upon/gluflaglimated today.

The somber fate of Ulrich

I light my evening cigarette by the kitchen window, looking down at Dapperstream Street. As usual, it’s void of people, haunted by nothing but crisp autumn leaves and dead magpies. Five months have passed since everything was torn asunder. I ask myself: wherefore?

No matter how deep I dig into my own past, I find no answer. In my studio apartment, hundreds of documents and photographs are scattered across the floor. But the information I educe from the dates, the diagrams, the faces – they only prove to further confound me.

I know there’s no explanation, I know there’s nothing left to find. Still, I keep on searching.

What I miss most of all was the future laid out before me, the countless possibilities. All the doors that stood open, doors which are now closed, locked – and the keys tossed into a tomb of my own making. I was going to be a railway operator. But now, instead, I stand here by the kitchen window, looking down at Dapperstream Street, living in exile and in squalor, forsaken and forgotten.

The thin line of cigarette smoke sails away on a cool evening’s breeze. I close the kitchen window and head towards the archives for another night of febrile and futile foraging for clues. And yet again, I ask myself: wherefore?

Originally written in my mother tongue and published on an ever so naughty hookup website on 2013-01-15. Translated (and slightly embellished upon) today.


My name is Eulalie, and this is my story.

It all started on a perfectly ordinary Thursday in February. The weather: cloudy.
I woke up to the birdsong of winter thrushes and the restless vocalizations of my housecat, Molly. She preferred to have me out of bed by seven o’ clock, and now it was a quarter past that. I yawned sluggishly, my night’s dream of Paris still wavering in my mind. Then it struck me: the interview was today!

I hastily threw myself into an off-white bathrobe and headed down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. First, oatmeal for myself. Nothing fancy, just regular thick-rolled oats, a pinch of cinnamon, and a handful of coconut shreds for variety. Five minutes in the microwave would do, and meanwhile I could placate the housecat’s urgent cravings. Molly stared intently at me as I produced an aluminium tin from the pantry. Her whiskers trembled with anticipation as I opened the tin and the room was filled with the smell of pickled tuna. And that was when everything suddenly got very dark.

The microwave abruptly suspended its harmonious buzzing, the oatmeal inside it quite unfinished. I felt the cortisol surging through my veins: there was no time for a blackout today! The interview, this very important interview that could land me my dream job, was in less than two hours! The drive would take around thirty-five minutes, and I needed to drop off the cat at my neighbor’s before that, and I hadn’t decided on an outfit yet… My stomach growled. I simply had to have breakfast before the interview, or the nausea would ruin everything.

Hopefully, it was just a matter of flipping a switch on the fuse box, down in the basement. I silently thanked myself for cleaning out the cellar last week – getting to that fuse box could have become quite the ordeal if I hadn’t. I’m quite the hoarder, always finding some silly reason to keep stuff I actually don’t need at all, but I have to admit it was rather cathartic to weed through the clutter of old shoes, broken appliances and unopened boxes of regifted ornaments and then unceremoniously dump it all at the landfill.

Anyhow, when I opened the cellardoor I was surprised to be met by light – electric light. What about the blackout? I had passed both the living room and the entrance hall on my way to the basement, and none of those rooms had been lit. Yet the basement was apparently unaffected! And didn’t I always make sure to turn the lights off down there? I was puzzled. Why was the cellar exempt from the blackout?  But there was something different about this light… This wasn’t the sharp, faintly yellow glow of a lightbulb, but a strange form of green glimmer, somehow thicker than regular light. And as I, with some apprehension, walked down the narrow stairway to investigate, I noticed something else: a weird buzzing sound. The microwave? No, this wasn’t the microwave – it was a feeble sound, the sound of a wasp on the other side of a window.

That’s when I saw it for the first time. The big, circular glass tank with a human brain inside it – a huge, pulsating pink brain, writhing about in viscous pale-blue liquid. I shuddered with discomfort. What was this thing doing in my basement? Who had left it here?

I felt something rub against my leg. Considering the situation, I’m not embarrassed to say that I screamed, completely terrified. Looking down, I sighed in relief when I saw the cat gently nudging at me for attention. Then Molly turned her face towards me and gazed directly into my eyes. The strange green light, reflected in her eyes, was almost hypnotic. I had to lean against the wall, my mind starting to unravel. The feeble buzzing intensified into an ominous, almost human-like humming. I could almost feel the sound prickling against my skin. And I suddenly realized what was happening. And I whispered:

“Lucretia – she’s back…”

Originally written in my native language and posted on a family-unfriendly hookup website on 2013-01-10. Translated into English (and more or less rewritten) today. Most certainly not proofread. Vigorously edited, also today.

Betrayed By The One I Loved The Most

“How could you, Bertram? How could you?”

I could only muster these words through the faintest of whispers. But Bertram heard them, as though they were spoken through a megaphone. A megaphone of broken dreams.

I couldn’t even stand upright. I was reduced to writhing on the floor in anguish, trembling, weeping. My tears felt like blood – the blood of my heart.

“Please, I can explain”, he said vainly. I stared at him with my uttermost contempt.

“Nothing you say will ever make me trust you again. You were the only one I ever loved, and you put a dagger through my heart.”

“But our love was so strong! We can get through this!”

My eyes blackened. I stood up, suddenly pulled together. Steadfast in my determination for revenge.

“Oh Bertram, you fool. It is too late.” I spoke slowly, softly, savoring every poisonous word. “I will not forgive you. Not after what you did to me.”

Originally published on a very filthy hookup website on 2013-01-12. Modestly edited today.

PS: Check out those ads below for some sweet deals!

The Story of How I Brought About My Own Undoing And Was Left With Nothing

“Once, I had it all.”

She spoke to Stephanie through a black lace veil, fastened in the brim of her feathered hat. Her face was almost completely obscured, save for a sharp jaw, angular cheekbones and a striking lower lip, cracked.

“Fame, riches, lovers… Yet one false step was all it took for my life to crumble.”

She took a sip from her tea, which was bitter, and three days old. As there was not gas nor electricity in her forlorn residence, the tea was as cold as the November wind slipping in through window-glass cracks.

“When I met him, I was still untouched by the gnarled hand of misfortune. And as such, naïve, foolish. Today, I regret it all.”

With a sigh, she turned to the writing desk, and produced an aged photograph from a pile of decreipt documents. She handed it to Stephanie, who studied it with great interest. The photograph depicted a man and a woman, facing each other with beaming smiles. Stephanie already knew of the woman, but now also of the man, and of the sad tale that would arise not long after the picture was taken.

“Without him, I despair eternally.”

Suddenly, she stood up.

“I must now leave for Dermouthshire. It is my wish to behold the beloved seagulls, one last time.”

“But there are still so many things I need to know,” Stephanie protested.

“This can no longer be my dwelling. The risks are far too many.”

Stephanie nodded in resignment, for she knew far too well of the risks.

“Please, learn from my mistakes, for all that is left for me now is dreary woe. I leave you now, my young protégée, with this most unfair burden: to preserve my secrets at any cost.”

Without another word, she went for the door, and vanished in the crowds. For weeks to come, Stephanie’s mind lingered only on the twisted tale recounted to her that fateful day.

Written sometime in 2011 (I think…). Published on a degraded hookup website on 2013-01-09. Modestly edited today.