The New Flesh

The beautiful, well-dressed woman clipped a small microphone on the lapel of her silver blazer. Adjusted her large, perky breasts and signaled that she was ready to go.

A large man, wearing a shirt that read: On The Air or Bust, shook his bald head and yelled, “We’re on in ten seconds, people!” He jumped behind a camera and held up four fingers, then three, then two, then he pointed at the woman.

“Good evening, viewers,” she said, smiling with a huge set of bleached white teeth. “I am Liana Cowan and on tonight’s episode of Terror Entertainment, I am pleased to be joined by critically acclaimed horror book novelist, Malcolm McMurray.” She turned her attention to Malcolm. He sat slumped over with his elbows resting on his knees.

“Mr. McMurray,” Liana continued, “you told me before we went on the air tonight, that you have some news for your legion of fans.”

“Yes,” Malcolm replied, sitting back in the chair. “I’m retiring.”

Liana chuckled. “But Mr. McMurray, you are only in your mid-thirties, and might I add, one of the best-selling authors of our time…” she crinkled her brow. “Don’t you think that retiring might be a little premature?”

“No,” Malcolm answered, loosing his tie. “The stories have just stopped flowing.”

“Stopped flowing?” Liana questioned.

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “You see, the stories I’ve written used to come to me without resistance. They just popped into my head like a lazy thought that wanted to be wrote. Now,” he frowned, “they’ve stopped coming to me. They’ve stopped… flowing. My newer stories are nothing more than resurrected old ones. A mirror copy if you read between the lines. It’s like my head is fighting off new thoughts and new ideas.”

“So, Mr. McMurray what are your plans for the future?”

“Killing,” Malcolm answered slyly.

Liana’s mouth flew open, but no words came out. She looked at her producer. He rubbed his smooth head, and shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Go with it,” he whispered.

“Okay, Mr. McMurray,” Liana said with a weak and shaky voice. “Who are you going to kill?”

“Everyone,” Malcolm answered. “Everyone that I can.”

This must be a joke, Liana thought. “Well,” she laughed, placing her hand on Malcolm’s knee. "Where are you going to start?”

“With you,” Malcolm said, jumping out of his seat and pulling a long, sharp knife out of an inner pocket. He grabbed Liana’s red hair and tilted her head back. Exposing her long, vulnerable throat. Then he took the blade and slit it from ear to ear. Blood shot out of the jugular veins like fireworks on the forth of July.

“Oh shit!” the producer exclaimed, running to Liana’s aid. He clasped a thick hand over Liana’s wound and yelled, “Someone call an ambulance!”

Malcolm grabbed the large man by his forehead, and turned him toward the camera. “Here’s your million dollar shot,” Malcolm whispered into his ear, and slit one of his double chins. Then threw him to the floor. Malcolm turned the camera to a thin, completely-shocked woman holding a cup of coffee and said, “Your turn.”

She screamed as Malcolm lunged at her, and pulled her to the camera. He slit her throat, and dropped her to the blood-covered floor. He breathed deeply and looked into the camera.

“The stories might’ve stopped flowing,” Malcolm said, licking the blade. “But the blood never will.”

"The Stories Have Stopped Flowing"

Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case
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