Honestly Brutal





Title art by L.H. Grey



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Recoil “Breath Control”



Little girl lost. Tell me, is that what you see? Just another defenseless female in need of saving. Weak and spineless. A damsel in distress. Lamb to the slaughter. Fresh meat for the grinder. Is that what you discern? A victim? Then you really do have no idea. Please allow me to make this most clear. I’m your WORST FUCKING NIGHTMARE and that’s just on a good day. On a bad one, I’m the kind you don’t wake from. And I’m certainly not the girl you wish to take from. Did your mother not teach you that looks can deceive? And what makes you think you’d ever find the truth in her eyes? You’ve been looking in all the wrong places my friend. So I’ll ask you again – what is it you see?

There’s really no need to be so bashful. Come a little closer. Ignore the razor wire smile and the thick sludge in my fingernails. My eyes are a far more handsome prize. They tell no lies, the hollows wouldn’t allow it. They’re dank chambers of malice, should you approach the wrong way. And you may not concur with the way that they play. But you know what they say – windows to the soul – and mine are no different. Fall into my gaze and they’ll catch you. There are no guarantees that they’ll like what they see. That depends on the ends you’ve prepared for the bleed.

May I cut you? Nothing sinister. Just a tiny nick. My apologies. I’m being too forward aren’t I? Take some weight off. Recline. You’ll be fine. There’s still time for that stem of red wine. But I do insist on pouring it myself. You see, Sometimes…


I am a pretentious Cunt, with a Capital C – and a rather large – FUCK – with- a – fist – iron – cast – smothered in – poison –


Oh, I’m frightfully sorry. Wherever did that come from? I do hope I didn’t startle. Would hate to cause a debacle. Please think nothing of it. Tell you what – how about we use a safe word? That could be fun, don’t you think? Something easy to remember. I know – DISMEMBER. It’s only like one of my favorite words. What do you say pardner? You trust me right? Do I look like the type of girl who’d skip rope with your GIZZARDS just for the spatter? Snap each tenuous twig with my painted black toes? Play hopscotch on your rib cage just to tap out that grenade? Suck the bittersweet sap from your marrow? Strip the rancid flesh from your bones? Do these seem like things I’d entertain?

Perhaps you’ve gotten me all wrong? Could it be this best seller reads from back to front? Perhaps your happy ending is yet to be told. Would you be so bold as to skim read? Skip a chapter or two just to verse yourself? Or would that just be making it worse for yourself? Tough call I know. Do I stay? Do I go? Do I even have a choice? What say you? I’d give a most pretty penny for those thoughts of yours. Would be a shrewd investment I feel. Money well spent. Something to tide me over as I work out what to do with you next. You see, there’s a part of me that just wants a playmate. And another that just wants to SLAY STRAIGHT.

Thus I really do see your dilemma. Boy do I ever. Wouldn’t wish to be in your shoes right now. But a choice is still a choice right? It’s not like I’ve declined you the swing vote. So come on then. Sharing is caring. And I feel your need glaring. Hold the lies. Only brutal honesty – here, I’ll go first –


I am just an elitist with a homicidal temperament …


One hundred fifty milligrams of FUCK OFF written across my heart. Imprinted upon my soul…branded into my fists.


They would punch you straight through – to admire the view – make a terrible mess as they flay – the shreds of skin between my teeth, decayed – in need of fresh meat – to awaken that which – slumbers – a woodcutter in search of fresh lumber – ax chipping away at the bark – just to weep out that sap – etch my name into the very knots of your tears – and strangle them FUCKING dry –

Oh my. I really cannot apologize enough. It’s like a tick, you know. A slow working poison that cures the vile ailment I’m afflicted with. You see, I didn’t ask for this feeble flesh. There’s nothing binding here. Confining – yes. Stifling – most definitely. But nothing a highly skilled surgeon couldn’t fix. Someone who knows how to separate the mutton from mulch. A steady hand and trained eye. Fully qualified to pry. A cruel honey dripper in the guise of a…




Do you think such a practitioner exists? And do you think he wouldn’t SEVER both wrists – just to tie your hands with the tendons? You walked the Grey Chapel Path on free will of your own. The shadows already told me you were coming. They do like to gossip. And what kind of host would I be not to heed but impede their instruction. After all, it’s thanks to them that I owe this very introduction.


Please, do oblige my wrath… invoke her… ask her to come out and play –

Bored is she.


So what do you say I FUCK that skull back in with my STIFF STEEL COCK then? Turn your eye sockets into BLEEDING CUNTS? Make ’em spurt. I really am the most horrid of flirts. Just not used to one quite so inert. Is it something I’ve said? Must I really retread? Or can we skip to the part where your insides get BLED? Stop dead in our tracks just to savor each stab. I shall walk you straight through it, of course. For the Grey Chapel Path is a mile and a half from a solitary soul to console. It’s an intimate passage to the innermost CLIT of my festering pestering fancy. Blushed ruby red and over bulged to indulge. Swelling for sickened slaughter at its trickling altar. Had quite enough of this saunter. Time to get down to some gristle, is it not? Mull it over. I’m in no rush. Would much rather make waste, than haste.


Tis the nature of the beast to sit in silence…to observe, and to – wait – for the foolish to – bleed into her cracks – their marred blood – aggravating – agitating


– All the while, she sits, reveling in the notion of their – self induced suicidal tendency – knowing –


She will be fed, all too soon.


So you see – you’re FUCKED either way now. Committed it seems to whatever I deem acceptable practice. In this Vestibule of Madness, anything goes and that’s rings on the fingers and bells on the toes of a little girl lost such as I. And my innocence has long since been embittered. Every brilliant diamond delicately mined and replaced with the blackest of coal. Some time since I paid that dark toll. This condition of mine is no mere coalition. No handshakes or treaties to sign. Just one stab taken blind. I can see you’re resigned to your fate and would say you’ve waited long enough, wouldn’t you? Shall we skip to dessert? As my nipples have perked and I’m aching to FRIG with your entrails.

You’ve met the BUTCHER now. You know what’s entailed. Come be centerpiece in my window. Be my fresh cut of the day. Just so you know – that’s the long and the short – either way. And I’d really much rather you put up a fight. As it gives us more time for the prime. For the Raven to fly. For the death knell to chime. For this vicious barbed ivy to trench in and climb. Puncture. Rupture. Complete deconstruction of a lustrous machine ~ that looks far too pristine not to dull down the sheen. What this means ~ is that I really will not be denied ~ matter of fact ~ I’m already inside.


~ can you feel each deft twist ~ every flick of the wrist ~ do your arteries ~ burst ~ do they thirst for release ~ well then FUCKING listen to them silly ~ really must i break this down ~


~ feel the rush ~ as I brush them aside ~



these bustling leaves of Fall
wondrous and tinged with autumn
signal summers end this dusk


pulverized bone
bent backwards on impact



then disowned from these fragments of husk


i cocked the trigger
applied the faintest of pressure
and it is i who have fashioned their majesty


as i’m honest
to a fault
and not lost at all

when it comes to






Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill




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