Carnivore – a story

I haven’t posted a story on here in an age which, if you read this, you may have preferred to what I have to offer.

This story stemmed from my desire to work on a new mythology, one not steeped in the old gods and the old ways but one in which we create our new gods, our new texts, and a new way. I have written a few stories n similar topics and ideas but with this I wanted to start at the point where the acts and ideas become sacred and religious.

It’s a nasty little tale.

And it’s unedited.

I can already think of things I’d change but we’ll leave that to some day when I decide to do something else with it.
IF I do something else with it.

As always, my books reside here –



It was easier than she thought.

At first.

The spit.

The cum.

But then it got more difficult.

The blood.

The bone.

The skin.

She pushed onward though, hearing the voice chanting within her head, telling her what to do, how to do it, when to do it and even who had been chosen.

Derek. Dave. John. Paul. She couldn’t remember his name. Was it initials maybe? She wasn’t sure and the voice wouldn’t let her think to see if the name was still up there somewhere, rattling around in her head like loose change. Do-it-do-it do-it was all it said to her. She had met him at a hall show. He was some punk kid watching some punk band. Both nameless. Both faceless. Both struggling to find their voice beneath the mask of other people’s ideas and influences. He was a kid. She knew that. Was he even sixteen? She pushed her mind away from that and got to work. She was not her own anymore. She was a part of something bigger and grander. She was at ground zero of an awakening. She set her mind to work again, glancing down at herself as she did. She blushed at her nudity and was happy for the red dress she had been given by the boy to dress herself in.

Had he cried?

The boy.



She wasn’t sure.

She worked.

The color of her dress deepening to a blackish red now and the work was harder, her hands hurting, arms burning, but she kept going because the voice insisted.

Sing high the praises of the dark, it told her.

And she did.

He cried.

He cried when they had had sex and then when she had first hurt him. His face was covered in blood and makeup, his warpaint running down his face and onto his pale body. He seemed so weak and prone to her as she stood above him, the small knife in her hand dripping his blood onto him. He had seemed so powerful and sure just moments earlier but now he was shaking and small and she wondered just hold old he really was.

She pulled his intestines free and dropped them in a heap beside other organs she had pulled free, not sure what they were but wanting them, needing them. She grabbed one of his ribs in both hands and pulled and nothing happened. She did it again and nothing. She tried again and again, over and over and nothing happened. She screamed and grabbed a book that was lying on the kid’s floor and started smashing it into his ribs again and again and still nothing happened so she dropped the book and made a fist with her left hand and started to punch at his ribs. She felt something in her hand give but kept at it until she finally heard one of the ribs crack. She grabbed it with her right hand, her left hand a throbbing mess, and snapped the rib free. She cast it aside and then put her hands beneath the boy and rolled him onto his stomach. She picked the knife up clumsily with her left hand and ran her right over his smooth back. He didn’t even have any tattoos, something she was sure he had fantasized about and planned.

She closed her eyes and listened to the voice, which was calmer now and sounding like her own, was it always her own voice, she wondered, but no, it was there, telling her where to cut. She opened her eyes and plunged the knife into his back and started cutting the skin away. This would take hours, she knew. All of it was wanted. All of it was needed. He had been pure when she had taken him and so she had been chosen to begin the pilgrimage that would lead to the new path. She had to go alone, at first, but they would come. The people would come.

First though, the first sonnet must be written.

The first song must be sung.

The first book must be written.

The young woman pulled the first bit of skin away from the body of the boy and cut the remnants of its ties to him away then placed it in a duffle bag she had brought with her. She had brought two bags – one with her tools and clothes and the other empty, for transport. This would be a long, slow process.

First she needed the materials though, which she would have by the end of the night.

Next she needed to let herself heal as the skin was cleaned and cured and the organs and blood were mixed to form the ink.

Then she would begin the process of writing the book in her own blood. A little at a time. The voice was patient though and told her that time was nothing in the eyes of the darkness. Time was a fairy tale Man told itself to believe it held dominion over the universe when it held none. It was nothing.

When the book was finished she would sew it together and then hide it and once hidden she’d put out the call. She would need proof though to get them to come, to get them to find, to get them to believe.

She was the proof.

She was the final proof.

She was afraid. So afraid. The voice told her though, Do this for me and there will be no more pain, no more loneliness, and no more worry. Take my hand in the darkness and I will guide you to the place where all who have hurt you shall pay, and where you can finally be among those that are like you, a new tribe of the lost and broken, a tribe that will rise and burn this world to ash.

She didn’t smile at this but she knew that she was part of something bigger, much bigger, and that she was but a pebble in the ocean but with enough pebbles the ripples would become a tidal wave and a day would come when nothing of Man would remain, and to that, she smiled as she carefully cut the skin from the dead boy’s body.


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