I don’t have a title for this one that I am happy with. “Revenge” is what comes to mind but that just seems under-whelming.
Also, I am thinking of doing a story as a serial. What do most of you think. Are serials on a blog a good thing or a bad one?
L. E. White
All Jack needed to do was to move two feet. If he could move, then he could reach the latch. If he could reach the latch, he could open it.
The bomb was attached to the latch. It would blow when Jack messed with the lever that held the boats together. Jack would die in that explosion. He knew it, but it didn’t matter.
Dead was better than this.
He pulled, trying to drag his slick, tortured hand through the cuff, but when that didn’t work, he shifted his hands back together and started clawing at it with his other hand. It hurt so bad, but trying to scratch enough of his own flesh away to get free so that he could kill himself was better than waiting for this other death.
The one he knew was coming. The one he felt.
The one her father had promised him on sunny, summer morning.
When Jack came around the sun light glaring in his eyes was confusing. The last thing he remembered was walking out to his car last night. He had been walking out of whats-her-names house after she had given him a BJ and he was heading home. He remembered a burst of pain and then falling.
When he tried to move, he realized his hand and feet were connected. His ass was up in the hot, humid air and his cheek was resting on some smooth surface. There was something jammed into his mouth and it felt like a belt was wrapped around his head. He was trussed up like a pig.
Jack knew that voice. He knew it and he feared it.
It was Beverly’s father.
“I don’t know if you realize exactly what is happening here, but since I gagged you I know you won’t be asking me. That’s fine, I planned to tell you anyway.”
A shadow blocked out the sun. Jack wasn’t in a position to look up much but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t move enough to face him. He wouldn’t have faced him if he had any other choice in the world anyway.
A hand rested on Jacks head. It wasn’t stroking his hair or pulling it. Instead, it just rested there, unmoving and unnerving.
“I told you when they arrested you that the only safe place for you was in jail. When you got off on a technicality you must have known I would be coming for you. There was no way you were going to get away with what you did to my little girl. There was no way I would allow you to do that to someone else’s little girl.”
Jack tried to say something around the gag. Her father grabbed his ear and twisted it until all Jack was doing was crying.
“Don’t try to talk, I don’t want to hear you.”
The man rested his head back on Jack’s head as he waited for the young man to quiet down.
“Better. Now then, I have you here and I am putting an end to you. We both know that, but what you don’t know is how. I want to share that with you. So I will explain as I we go along.”
Jack felt the intrusion, the sudden, stabbing into his rectum, but it wasn’t all that painful and since her dad didn’t move it wasn’t him extracting some form of poetic justice.
“That was the tip of an enema bag. I am going to shoot your bottom full of water. “
There was a rushing sensation, a feeling of being full to the point of Jack’s stomach beginning to ache. Then, the thing was removed and jack was drug into a sitting position.
Now that his face was up, he could see his captor clearly. Bev’s dad looked like he always did. A t-shirt and jeans plus that stupid trucker hat he always wore on the weekends. He was standing beside an old wooden canoe that Jack was sitting in. Jack had his hands and feet cuffed together, he was naked, and now that her dad had given him the enema, he had to go very badly.
Bev’s dad picked up another canoe, and turned it upside down. He put it over the top of Jack, so that his head was poking out of a hole that had been cut in the middle. Then, he started moving around the boat.
“I have packed the edge of this top canoe with powder and ball bearings. If these latches are flipped, the whole thing turns into a pipe bomb. I don’t want you getting out of this.”
Jack bit down on the gag to keep quiet.
After that, the guy put on a pair of chest waders, the big rubber pants that some men wore to walk through a river when fishing, and then he smiled at Jack. Bev’s dad walked to the end of the boat.
“Have you figured out what is going to happen yet?”
Jack shook his head a tiny bit, afraid to move. He felt a bubble in his stomach and fought not to shit himself in the boat.
Her dad pushed the boat out a bit and began to wade into the tiny pond. “This is only a few feet deep, so I am going to push you out to the middle and anchor you there.”
Jack turned his head to look at the man when he moved up to the side of the boat. “This is one of the oldest forms of torture. I am going to leave you here, and you are going to shit yourself. The smell is going to draw in flies and they will lay eggs on you. Especially in those small cuts I made on your back. ”
Jack’s eyes widened. He began to thrash and pull against the cuffs but the strain caused him to let loose. His ass emptied into the boat in a rumbling fart that he and his friends would have laughed at any other time. He felt the gooey mass expand around him in the boat.
“That’s right. The fly larva will hatch and eat you. This will be slow and terrible. You will feel them wiggling and working around and you won’t be able to stop them. This is horrible and I hope you suffer. After what you did to my little angel, you deserve to suffer.”
Bev’s dad waded away, leaving Jack to stew in his juices and wait. Once he was out of the water and all of the stuff had been gathered up he turned back to the condemned. “By the way, this is private property. No one is around and no one is going to hear you try to scream around that gag. You are a pretty big boy, so I expect you to survive through at least two hatchings. You might die from starvation or de-hydration, but I don’t think you will. Remember, you deserve this.”
Jack had screamed at her father as he walked away. He screamed again when he heard the first of the buzzing.
It hurt so bad, clawing at one hand to try and get enough skin and meat out of the way so that he could get loose. That pain was nothing though. It had been two days. He found out that the flies hatch from the eggs in about a day. His back was on fire. Burning, tingling and stabbing all at once with a healthy dose of itch included.
The buzzing was so loud. They were all around the canoe as another one landed on his head beside his ear. The little bastard was crawling into his ear. Jack slammed his head sideways and tried to smash it, but it didn’t work. He could feel it in his ear.
He pulled at the handcuff and when his hand didn’t slip through, he screamed around the gag.
I am sitting in an American airport on a layover before making the final flight home. I will be waiting in the Indianapolis Airport for a few hours to pick up my wife, and then I will be home with my kids. I really enjoyed Ireland but I gotta say,
That really about sums it up. Although I do wonder if anyone enjoys reading the random bits that I always start with. I am thinking of switching the posts around so that the story comes first. I am also thinking that I should title the posts with the story title. If any of you have an opinion, I would love to hear it.
I will be posting other bits about my trip but for now, I am tired and I am going to keep this short. I just want to share one bit of good news.
I have received confirmation of one of my new stories, “Wild Feast”, being selected for inclusion in an Upcoming anthology from Siren’s Call Publications. This marks my fourth piece with that fantastic group and my first acceptance of 2013. It was a great piece of mail to get while I was on my trip and I can’t wait to share the details with you once I have them.
Until I do have them, cheers.
L. E. White
As my wrists burn from the strain, I am forced to admit to just how much of an idiot I am. You always hear stories about stupid tourists, but I always thought I was too smart for that. I always thought that I would be smarter than that.
Now, as I hang from the ceiling, I realize that I am just as stupid as every other penis carrying card member of the, “I think with my dick” club.
She was so beautiful, walking towards me in that skirt, her hips swinging from side to side so much that I thought about the time when I got two cats to fight inside a burlap sack. Her hair was long and curly and it bounced up and down on her shoulders as she came closer.
When she got closer, I noticed that the bouncing of her hair was matched by by the bouncing of her breasts. I assume my jaw must have dropped open when I realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra under that thin shirt. I know the rest of me reacted to that knowledge but I figured she noticed my gape mouthed stare when she asked me if I saw something I liked.
It was cold, but she still stopped to talk to me. I don’t remember saying much that made any sense, but she laughed and asked if I wanted to join her for a drink.
I was so focused on her body, I can’t remember if I answered or just nodded.
The rest of the night was a blur. I have images of drinks and flirting and gentle touches where finger tips brush the back of one hand or another but nothing more specific.
Until I woke up in a drafty old castle, chained to a ceiling with a nasty headache and the realization that I was in serious trouble.
I hear the clicking of heels on stone as she approaches. I don’t want to show any fear, but I am shaking so bad my teeth are chattering when she comes in.
“Oh, you poor darling, are you cold?” She walks over, and runs her hands up and down my back. Looking into my eyes. “Would you like me to let you go?”
She smiles and her eyes smolder. “First things first, I think I want to warm you up a bit.”
Her hands are wandering around to some of the most distracting places.
“Would you like me to warm you up?”
“Please let me go.”
She stops allowing her hands to wander and undoes my pants. The change in tactic is sudden, but she is really giving it her all to change my mind. I can’t help but to react when she raises up from where she was kneeling on the ground. “Are you sure you want me to let you go right now?”
I answer without thinking. “Please don’t stop.”
“Are you asking me to warm you up?”
She kneels back down and pulls my belt out of my pants. Then, this angelic looking creature shoves it into my mouth as a gag before she walks away.
I am hanging, gagged, with my pants around my ankles, as I listen to the clicking of her heels fade away and return. She walks around the corner and that is when I start trying to scream around my gag. I realize how stupid I am and it is too late to do anything about it.
She is wearing a hungry smile and carrying a gas can.
I am so busy I can barely sit down and write. Work is crazy and the major project I am working on is wrapping up. It is getting crazy and everyone is anxious for our group to finish. this means lots of long nights and possibly a few weekends until our software is in place.
As far as writing goes, I am happy to say that I have submitted another story to Siren’s Call Publications. This one is for their serial killer anthology and I am hoping they enjoy it. My title was “The Wild Feast” and now that it is sent out, that is another nine thousand words down.
I am also cleaning up a submission for the “Sword and Mythos” anthology. A collection of fantasy stories that include an element of the dark mythos inspired by H. P. Lovecraft. I love this story and will be anxious to finish it.
Finally, I am preparing for my first public reading. The Bloomington Writers Guild is hosting a public reading at Box Car Books on February 3rd. This is the second in the series and three writers will be reading from their collected works. I will be the first to read and I believe I am going to read the first portion of my now finished novel.
Or, the only polished chapter from my new novel, depending on how you want to look at it.
Feel free to come and listen, we will be there from three to five pm.
Wish me luck, with the way my schedule looks over the next few weeks, I am going need it.
L. E. White
I have to say that this is the best jobs I have ever had. It isn’t hard to find food when you are a demon who feeds on pain, but I still can’t help but love this job.
Back in the old days, I worked as a torturer. I went from kingdom to kingdom, serving each new lord with enthusiasm. Those were good days though I bet you can’t imagine all of the things we did. Sure, we would take people and burn them alive or flay the flesh from their bones, but that was only some of it. Most people don’t really understand the true depths that pain can be inflicted to another person. One of my personal favorites was the iron boots. I would lock a person’s feet in an iron boot and then drive wedges between their knees until the bones splintered. It was slow and painful. You didn’t die from it, but the crippling would leave someone in pain for the rest of their lives.
The best part was that I didn’t invent it. People did.
You lot have been teaching me new and clever ways to inflict pain for centuries. Sure, demons live forever, hopping from body to body, but we just don’t have the creative spark that you mortals do. You’re always trying to one up the generation before you, and that is why you have developed so many interesting ways to hurt and kill.
After torture started going away, and while I can still find jobs that let me torture people trust me when I say they just aren’t as plentiful as they used to be, I tried all sorts of things. I spent some time as a serial killer, but that just isn’t as effective. I didn’t have anyone bringing me fresh people and that made it harder to keep myself fed. I also tried the BDSM scene, but if you don’t respect the safe word then people spread stories that you are dangerous and the opportunities fade away unless you move.
I really don’t like moving. After you pack up a few hundred times, a new place just isn’t exciting.
I wasn’t happy and I wasn’t getting my fill. Years of just not feeling full passed until I stumbled on to this job. A modern way to torture the population and as long as I don’t kill I can eat as much as I want. Heck, every now and then, the population would rise up against a king and if he was over-thrown, his executioner was sure to die.
But now you come to me of your own free will and that is so much better.
So, I am sorry, but it is time for me to go. No more stories today, I have work to do.
Mr. Henderson is scheduled for his root canal and I would hate to keep him waiting.
I recently discovered a call for submissions to a one sentence anthology. Each story could be no more than 350 words long but it had to consist of only a single sentence.
I know I can write a run on sentence, but not breaking them up proved to be a lot harder than I had expected. My efforts to keep what I write from running on and carrying my mind away are, at least partially, working. This was a lot harder than I expected.
One of the biggest things I noticed was that I would lose the thread of what I was trying to write when I tried to carry things on without breaking them up. How this is possible, I just don’t know. You would think that keeping a sentence together would lend itself to carrying on the same thought better than breaking it up but in my case that just isn’t how it worked.
The submission guidelines also stated that each author could submit up to three pieces. I wrote six, so that I could select what I thought were the best three of the group.
By the time this post goes up, the submission period will be closed. If you would be interested in seeing it, and the examples that they posted, you can go to,
and look around or go directly to the blog post at,
While the post says that I can post my submission on here, I want to wait until I hear something to post the three that I submitted. However, I have no problem sharing the other three with you now. I hope you enjoy them.
L. E. White
#1 Rambling Fear
I sit here now, to tell you of things that ought not to be mentioned in polite and civilized conversation, and find my tongue struggling to select those words which will best describe to you, dear listener, the depths of darkness and despair to which this tale will fall; for fall it will and in so doing, we see not the lengthening of shadows or the spilling of blood, but rather the subtle symmetries and distinct junctions that have forever separated the beauty of mathematics and the extraction of true essence from the common mind and in so doing, leave the outer realms, those of dreaming, nightmare and vision, beyond the contemplation of the narrow, closed-minded and strictly scientifically minded individuals who do not partake in the pursuit of those things, for things they must be considered, which shall be forever unnamed by men and yet shall be sought out by formula complex and alien, that they may, on no more than their own merit, suffer the attentions of, not darkness, though without doubt that word does seem to fit, but rather the progenitor of darkness, and in this telling, I hope to impress upon you the folly of seeking that which is unnamed; for in names, there is power and in the naming, a measure of control, such that the unnamed is also that which may not be controlled, and in that case, is the only consistent, undeniable and unchanging force which we know, remembering that in man, the most fearful and dangerous thing is fear of the unknown, which is exactly, dear friend, what has been released.
It was difficult to keep my focus on what I had to do, but that is to be expected when one is faced with the prospect of a grim and terrible death the way that I am as I chant and work, raising the power, casting the spell, opening the gate to a dark, quiet and hollow land that sits beside our world without actually being a part of it, an alternate world that is only seen in deepest dreams by a special few but that I discovered and learned, oh cursed knowledge, about in my nightmares while losing the ignorant bliss that would have kept me from allowing these things that wiggle and twist their way into our world through this magical portal, and in allowing them to come here, I am killing everyone and everything because I can’t bear to see the rest of you enjoy the happiness of daily life without her beside me to hold my hand, breathe my name and look into my eyes; so I will do what no other has done, I will share my pain with the world, allowing everyone to suffer as I do because I am, at heart, to selfish to go on without her while all of you have each other.
#3 Gift Wrapped
As Tammy rolled out the paper, she thought back to other Christmases, to other gifts that she had wrapped and to the happy surprise of her family as the opened up exactly what they wanted; it didn’t matter if it was a new bike, or a new set of golf clubs, Tammy went to great lengths to be sure that Santa never disappointed, that he never came close and that he never almost got it right; no, for her family, only a perfect gift would ever do which was why she now picked up the rose clippers and walked over to the struggling form of the pretty young secretary that her husband had been screwing for the past couple of weeks, though he didn’t know that Tammy knew about it, and sheared off one of her fingers, carrying it back to put it into a little black box before setting it on the paper and neatly forming sharp creases so that the corners of the package would look crisp and professional; the packages had to look good, even though there were over a dozen of the boxes to be filled and wrapped, because when it came to gift giving, to really giving the gift that someone obviously wants, the presentation was almost as important as the contents.
The first major leg in the American holiday season is over and my family survived. Food was cooked, family joined us for a meal and we were able to spend time with our loved ones. I am not much of a fan of the holidays but I think this one went rather well.
So now that this is out of the way, it is time to get back to writing and to share some good news.
January is normally the time where we review our New Year’s resolutions and see how we did. I can’t wait that long. I am too excited.
I had four goals for 2012. I posted them so that if I failed to complete them everyone could ridicule me. A little bit of pressure always helps your motivation, after all. In case you don’t remember, here they are again.
1. I want to be published by someone else, magazine, anthology or traditional publishing. Just so long as they selected my work instead of me publishing it.
2. I want to write a novel length book.
3. I want to find or build a peer review and critique group in my area.
4. I want to be paid for a piece of fiction.
This may not have been a big list to accomplish, but I thought they were goals that could be achieved while still setting a bar above where I was. At the point where I selected those four items, I had been writing for four months. I had nothing to show for those four months besides a few stories that nobody had accepted and a self published novella, I wouldn’t call that more than a start.
Now, I am proud to say that after eleven months, I have checked off every one of those items. I finished the first draft of my first novel, tentatively titled “Double Occupancy”, and it is in the drawer waiting for me to begin the second draft. I have mentioned the variety of stories that I have had selected for publication over the last year as they happened and I have found a critique group on-line as well as one that meets monthly near my home. Finally, I have been paid by one of the collections that I have been included in.
Now, I have a month to figure out what to shoot for next year.
L. E. White
Home Sweet Home
People always say silly things about inanimate objects. For example, “if these walls could talk” or “the walls have ears” or things like that.
Boy wouldn’t those people freak out if they knew that the walls don’t need ears to ear. Those same people would shit plaid kittens if they knew that the walls can talk.
Walls, you see, are something that was created. Everything that is created has a soul of its own, a little spark of the divine that was put there by the hands that created it. That is the real reason why people claim that there are haunted houses. That little bit of soul got charged enough to be seen by regular, normal people.
I hated my father. He was an arrogant, stupid prick that liked to bully his family and take advantage of other people. After my mother passed away, he got drunk and had sex with my girlfriend at my graduation party. Sure, she was a whore to have done it but he was my dad, and I think that makes what he did worse than what she did.
My father built our house. He was always proud of that fact, maybe because it was a cute little house and maybe because it was the only thing that he ever did right in his life. I don’t know and I don’t care. The important thing is that he built it, which means that a little piece of his soul is in the walls.
That is why I still live here. That is why I make sure and do all the terrible things that he hated in this house. I want to be sure that every drop of blood and every ounce of pain that I cause, he gets to experience in some way. I never watch football, I only play music he hated, the walls are painted in bright pastel colors, I let my queer friends have sex parties in the upstairs and I let a doctor who lost his license perform illegal abortions in the basement. I even bury the bodies of my victims in the flowerbeds.
I guess I could just burn the house down. Put an end to him and the last remaining piece of his spirit that I could find, but the truth is that I don’t want to.
I prefer knowing that I get to torture him a little bit more every day.
Eventually, these walls will talk, they will have finally taken as much as the house’s soul can take and they will begin to tell people what I have done here. When they do, I will set the house on fire and stand outside, listening to it scream.
Just a few basic pieces of news and then on to this weeks story.
My in-progress novel just broke 7,000 words. Not saying much but it is coming along. I will try to put some serious effort into it this week as I don’t have any new projects planned. It is an urban fantasy with lots of magic.
I have three short stories that I am polishing and intend to submit different places this week. Wish me luck.
My oldest graduates (grad-gee-eights!) the first weekend in June. I will spend my holiday weekend cleaning, cutting and preparing for the celebration. We are so proud of him.
L. E. White
“Do what you always do, get what you always get.”
“You can change.”
“You don’t get to be happy; you get the chance to make yourself happy.”
These three quotes hang on the wall, each one of them on a different piece of paper. They weren’t printed out like a banner. No big, fancy letters. Nothing that would make them seem like more than words. That was part of the point, they weren’t more than words. Magic isn’t about saying the right things and waving special stuff in the air. There isn’t any magic in anything but your mind.
He put these words up to remind him that he had to make his own magic. Despite all that he had lost, or all that had been taken from him, or even all that he had given up. He was the source of his own magic.
There was no circle on the ground today. If he failed, he would die to teeth and claws, if he succeeded, he would never draw another circle again.
Deep breaths, slow and steady, an exercise to calm his mind and allow him to relax. Once he was ready, he opened his eyes and looked at the floor. A circle of light blazed there, clear in his thoughts and therefore as real as anything built from stone.
There wasn’t any chanting or dancing. No candles and no incense. He took one last deep breath and jumped into the deep end with three little words.
“Ego Vocco Vos.”
All the times he had done this before had been nothing compared to today. He had worked with groups and other skilled practitioners of the arts, never had something torn through the veil this fast. It slammed a great horned head against the invisible wall of the circle with such force that the windows shattered.
He just stood there looking into its eyes.
A raging bellow shook the room. Dust fell from the ceiling and the empty window frames rattled. The beast screamed and roared and lashed out at the prison that they would both see.
He didn’t move.
It looked at him. Squinted its large yellow eyes and sighed as it melted. The body of the fiend flowed like wax until it looked like he did. The same placid expression, brown hair and skinny body that had greeted him that morning now shimmered into being some five feet in front of him.
He smiled then, nodded once to indicate his approval, and released the demon, which returned home with a clap of thunder as reality snapped back together around it.
He smiled as he dropped the spell, feeling his body sag as he released the magic that had kept him alive. It had taken so much to contain the monster. His head was throbbing and he could feel blood leaking out of his nose. He had to sleep, to recover, but not until he was finished.
Slow, stumbling steps carried him to the wall with the three sheets of paper hanging on it. He placed his left hand on the smooth plaster for support before reaching up and wiping a finger along his upper lip. He made a bright red check mark with his macabre finger paint on the middle sheet. After all, he had just graduated.
He had changed.
Kendall Grey has done it. Her novel, Inhale is available.
She is donating all the profits to the whales that inspired her to write the book in the first place so you get a great read and a chance to help whale research. This video is one she recommends to help show why she loves them and just how beautiful they are.
L E White