Hola chicos.

This is just a series of drabbles about nothing at all. It's to help keep my creative juices doing whatever it is that creative juices need to be doing. You know, whatev'. My goal is to try to keep each one under 1000 words but still have a beginning, middle and end. They might or might not have anything in common. Some might be funny, some much be smutty, and some might be twisty. Besides the volume, I've got no reigns here. You'll never know what you're gonna get. Who knows! Could be fun.

This first one is a little bit of horror.

Blood's Ripple

It was that sound.

That sound that never ended. Like a leaky faucet.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Not that it wasn't a . . . pleasant leak. But when one tried to abstain from their very way of life, what came natural—what is natural—even the smallest things will drive you to the brink of insanity.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

And each was distinct. A chorus of noise—heart pounding noise.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drip. Drop. Drop. Drip. DRIP. . DROP. DRIP.

A screaming echo curled and rang and stung like a spiked bell inside a skull. There was a grab, a furious pull at hair attached to that skull, but the tedium of sound was excruciating. And it would never just end.


Any pattern was lost and all that noise became everything. It pooled in cheeks, just under a permeable . . . delectable surface. A mouth watered but not of saliva. Warmth spread like a fire left alone in a forest. Rubies glared: their pupils dilating in a way that indicated some sort of chemical reaction—some endorphic one.

Abstinence was for the weak.

Or perhaps only for those truly divine.

But it wasn't a moment of self-discovery or theories or philosophical thoughts. It was instinctual and when muscles coiled, constricting in length to prepare the body for every obstacle, nothing else mattered.

Predator was a word that wasn't synonymous with abstinence. At least that much was certain.

The screaming was no longer a thundering howl stabbing at a skull. It was everywhere, bouncing off of walls, a ceiling . . . skin.

When razors tore into skin there wasn't a sound. It didn't crunch like bones being broken. It didn't smash like a head colliding with a ground.

And when there was no noise at all everything was just serene. Nothing was more satisfying, not even the succulent taste of nature's wine on dehyrated lips.

A smile plastered itself on the face of a killer who, for at least another day, found peace in a silent echo of a once leaky faucet.

Thanks for reading.