More Free Fiction. Experimental Horror.

I am still in a mood so how about some more free to read experimental horror and craft yammer?

Before I post the thing, let’s talk about what I was playing with.

Outside of horror I’m also a huge fan of drug fiction. Low culture, junkies yanno.

I have Mike Arnzen’s book Instigation: Creative Prompts on the Dark Side a book full of dark prompts. I have talked about it before and HIGHLY recommend y’all. I bought it when it came out and use it regularly.

I believe I used a prompt about demons and I started wondering, what about a junkie demon? As with most things, it started with a what if a junkie became some kind of demon.

I also wanted to play with the non-believer doing something dumb trope. The point in a horror movie where you start yelling DO NOT GO IN THERE/DO THAT STUPID YOU GONNA DIE.

And with that, I present y’all with Light Junkie. This is another one that I submitted to a few places with pretty loose horror definitions and it wasn’t really Horror Horror.

OH also in case you are subbed and don’t click over, click over. I wanted to change ONE tiny thing and went entirely left and changed everything. Also now you can hit that link to see everything I’ve published that is available/that I can remember.

Enjoy.

Light Junkie

By

Shannon Barber

 

The current state of affairs is my own fault. I did that thing that stupid White people have done for centuries because I did not believe. Nor did I respect; much to my own peril.

There could be no demon. There could be no God(s) and nothing in the universe but stars. So of course there was nothing that could happen. I’d memorized the incantation to break out at parties or to scare street dealers. I was that guy.

I did the dumbest thing, I did the incantations. I did the entire ceremony and it came. It came oozing like ink inside me. I could hear it inside my skull, low coppery laughter that stung my synapses and burned my nerves.

It was nothing like on TV, there were no explosions or smells of sulfur or anything. You could reasonably expect fireworks when one lone dumbass opens a portal to The Pit and calls something out of it to play, but nope. One moment I was human, and the next I was being swallowed by a need so huge- all I am is need.

Once upon a time I had a golden arm. For a while my entire life revolved around the acquisition and shooting of as fine a grade of heroin as I could afford.

Speaking from that experience, I am what us professionals call alpha sad dog junkie. I lived it for a long time. Among some of the other junkies I knew at the time I was king sucks dick for horse type.

I know need.

I remember the days waking up sick and shaking. The sweating and pants shitting and tears, I cried all the time.

Thinking about that life, I thought I knew need.  Every time I lay in my own shit covered in sweat trying to detox in jail, I would tell myself all the ways I knew that shit, I was that shit.

I knew nothing.

The sun is coming up outside, I can feel it.  Oh god, my arm is burning. It wants, it needs I can feel it inside chewing.

What was I saying?

Right, king shit fuck junkie, blablabla.
The demon knew, the moment it entered my body. It swallowed my need for heroin and replaced it with something so much worse.

The next morning upon waking from what I hoped was simply a bad dream when I stumbled into the hall and the sun hit my face it felt like my brain in a- this is your brain on drugs commercial kind of way.

Fire lanced through my eyes and into my brain. I was screaming and flopping around; my roommate thought I had been doing sherm. I sweated and raged and flopped around until he got a blanket over my head.

That was bad enough. I remember his voice quavering with fear the kind of terror that happens when you are positive someone is about to die in front of you. You partly don’t want the investigation and partly don’t want them to die before they tell you where their stash is.

“Dude, dude, what did you smoke? Come on man, I ain’t mad. Just tell me.”

It was worse than the times I had almost OD’d or temporarily died on floors or in gas station bathrooms.

I don’t remember much else from that first morning except the pain, the pulling in my veins and cramps in my legs. It was like kicking, but worse. It was so much worse.

The first time I fixed in the light it was glorious. Maybe it was junkie instinct, but I found my spot, my left arm and my one good vein. I sat and angled myself in the corner of the bathroom and waited for the sun to show. I eased that beam of sunlight into my arm like a fresh needle and it felt so damn good.

It was better than China White, better than black Tar. Better than sex.

The light, the sun burns me. My demon is a thing of darkness addicted to light. To its own destruction, it is the apotheosis of who I was.

I wish I was being poetic. Back in the day when I rode the monkey rather than it riding me, I wrote poems. Sometimes late at night I’d read them to girls my apartment. If I had tried harder I could have gotten good at it.

Instead, I got good at being a junkie.

Now, here I am; holed up in the closet of a less fucked demon, waiting for my fix.

My sweat reeks of The Pit, the later it gets, the more I hurt. My veins are crying for it. My guts are twisting and I’m swilling cheap gin as if it will help.

One stupid thing and this is where I am and what I am.

I am an infernal sun junkie, waiting for a hot shot made of sunlight and a release I’m afraid I will never know.

Damn my idiot soul.

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