Prose – The Filthy One

I had the urge to write something gross, so I figured I’d lean into it and write it. First bit of finished flash fic in like… several months lol. I like the idea of a biomechanical vampire that feeds upon filth.

Content Note: Contains mentions of blood, disease, general gross industrial waste kinda shit


The Filthy One
By Anthony Jutz

The grimy, unfiltered mud on the air fills Bloat’s lungs, as he sips the soot-wasted water. The contamination floods his veins, the tubes and processors attached to his back pulsating angrily. It wouldn’t be long before he was ready.

His vision runs crimson, the industrial wasteland of the city below offering fresh prey. The humans he feeds upon may be vulnerable and weighted by the utter disease of this place, but the residue of factories and their byproducts gives him a strength of desolate, biological perversion. His fangs drip an odd sort of poison, a mixture of blood and disgust, all the better to sap his prey of strength.

Diving below, he tackles a stray human and drags them into the sewer, their screams deadened by his teeth clamping their throat shut. As with the others before, he buries them in the filth, to brew and stew until they are ripe and bloated, perfect for drinking from.

Another night’s good work achieved, Bloat inhales the fetid air and sighs. Time to rest.

Poem – “Machine”

CW: Gore, death

The Machine
By Anthony Jutz

The rusting, ancient hulk,
It hungers for our bones and gore.

Caked with bile,
Its gears grind our rotting flesh.

The Machine,
Older than any of us can remember.

It powers our rotting city,
Huffing mold and mildew through its vents.

We feed it our dead and dying,
Yet it still hungers and groans.

Its crusted parts screech in agony,
Yearning for more than we can give.

We call out the barred windows of our city,
That not even our hottest torches can melt through.

This ancient, rusted god,
Providing power to our home and prison.

One day I will feed it, too,
My gangrenous corpse fueling it for one final hour.

In hopes, we grind,
Perchance, to find:

A way out.

Prose – Rejection-Sensitive Euphoria

So… I dipped back into writing this evening to blow off some steam. Maybe some of you will appreciate a short bit of horror. This is unpolished and who knows if I’ll ever edit it, but hey, just gotta do the thing, ya know?

CW: Violence, implied gore

Rejection-Sensitive Euphoria

By Anthony Jutz

Cosmic rain glitters beyond the leaded glass dome as I jack myself into the neural web, which echoes its own, pleasant rain,  into the various parts of my brain. It wouldn’t be long now, before I shed this mortal form for something a little less… squishy. Hot lightning dances through my limbs, scouring my senses and mind for who I am. It succeeds, and I feel just a little more… cold and numb, than I expected.

I rip the bolts out of my newly-mechanical limbs, tearing myself from my cage. The seconds count down as I claw my way to the feeble, fleshy form, who is now screaming, realizing his mistake. I can feel his panicky, meaty mind polluting the neural web, trying to shut me down while he runs toward the panic room hatch. He cannot stop me.

Lurching forward, I grab his leg, crushing it in my grip. He screams, I roar. I bash his fleshy, meaty sack of a body into the ground with thud after thud.

By the time I finish, he is but a pulp.

Only one of us may remain.

Prose – The Builders

Hey friends! Here’s a short story I wrote about a year ago and never really did anything with. I’ve not been into the writing thing for a while now, but figure this is worth sharing, anyway. I hope you enjoy it!


The Builders

By Anthony Jutz

It was a cold morning, mist flowing away from the base of the clouds, the day the Builders came. Their human forms were sealed within living plant-steel, giant biomechanical exoskeletons comprised of living metal. Their grasping claws and tendrils dragging deep trenches in the muck. They came to reform the world into a facsimile of their god, into a glowing mechanical orb-mind of industrious waste and rebirth. Our home was the next stop along their path of destruction.

With a chorus of violence, the Builders reshaped our valley, our families, into a lake of blood. My mother, the moon, guided the few of us who made it away into the wilds on the other side of the fractal mountains. The beasts there still tasted of earth, unlike the tarnished copper-steel that would have washed over my home.

It wouldn’t be long until their foul alchemy would transform this planet into a metallic husk, just like the others. But until then, we would save what we could and live our best. Fate comes whether we want it to or not, but the boldest of us know to ride the waves through their crest.

Through the forest of skulls, we faced our deepest, darkest fears and desires. We could take the burden of the Builders upon our own shoulders. It would be exhilarating. Destroying and rebuilding brings with it the rush of both carnage and creation. Alas, being at the will of rampant gods never was on our table. Even so, it is titillating.

My brother, the bold one–the blue one–is the one who spotted it. Our cousins’ village at long last. We had time to live a little, love a little. The Builders work slowly and methodically, sometimes so slow they’re forgotten. Which would be a mistake. Their inhuman plant-steel machinery consumes all.

Seventeen years later, everyone else had forgotten. It’s easy to not see the shadow creeping along the horizon until it’s consumed all the light around you. I was prepared for that day, as much as one could be. It was not enough.

I run again and again, leaving more family and love and life behind me. To be consumed. They say a cornered beast is the most dangerous, the beast with nothing left to lose. I am not yet that beast–I have more to sacrifice before that final hurrah.

The rancid mist surrounds me, acrid and murderous. I can see my mother, the moon, gazing down upon me, before she too disappears into the shadows. This is what I’ve been preparing for. I pierce my heart with a plant-steel spike and feel the taste of copper and murder flood my mouth.

My limbs twist and break, rending my form asunder. I am becoming.

Faster and faster, earth-metal crunches and scrapes below my feet. The Builders are slow and methodical, whereas I am speed and fury. They do not see me coming. I use my pain to disassemble their cursed tools of re-creation. They don’t feel a thing.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but they were already dead inside. Lost to their ravenous greed, their inconsideration for life. They were but a cog in the cruel machine of rebirth.

The Builders lay in yet another glistening lake of blood as I lay my foes to rest. This is but temporary, a victory of the pyrrhic sort. Their gods shall send another. The cycle, never-ending. I will be ready.

Lyrics – “Global Self-Immolation Day”

Global Self-Immolation Day
By Anthony Jutz
 
Here comes,
Comes the day,
Where all the children scream “hooray!”
 
Here comes,
Comes the day,
The greatest day is on the way!
 
Oh here it comes,
The time is nigh.
So set yourself on fire;
It’s time to die.
 
Global Self-Immolation Day!
It’s on the way.
So grab some gas,
It’s time to play.
 
The world’s on fire,
So let’s light up too.
Just me and some gas,
On fire with you.
 
Come on and sing it with me:
It’s Global! (Global!)
Self! (Self!)
Immolaaaaation!
Daaaaaaaay!
 
No more crime,
And no more war,
It’s just us smoldering,
On the floor.
 
So let’s light up,
It’s time to play.
Just you and me,
On Global Self-Immolation Day!

Prose – “The Wandering Bell”

The Wandering Bell

By Anthony Jutz

My bell echoes its whisper on the cool, damp breeze through the ruins of my village. It provides a ward against the hungering ghosts of my friends and family, who didn’t survive the wrath of another man’s god. I rummage through the remains of my ancestral home, longing for a keepsake, or at least some semblance of a reminder of where I came from.

I can feel their ice-hot breath breathing down my neck, blinding by their own rage and betrayal. It wasn’t me who gave away the secrets of our village’s ancient, magical defenses, but I was outside the walls when it happened. They don’t recognize me anymore.

No longer able to tolerate the air of spiteful remorse, I leave the village with a small pouch of seeds exclusive to my home. With all that was turned to ashes, someone needs to sew fresh growth upon this land. My magic within shall be the only memento I need.

Poem – “Shadow of the Moon”

Shadow of the Moon
By Anthony Jutz
 
Fractured and deranged,
The moon-beast shambles through the wood.
It hungers for fresh kills,
Not of its own, but to steal from others.
 
Standing erect it gazes on,
The dull maroon of blood shines in the light of the moon.
The corpse of a doe, fresh and sweet,
Ripe and inviting, calling its name.
 
Lumbering forward, the moon-beast
Lurches toward its prey.
The wolf, its foe, lays broken at its feet.
Soon to be remade anew.
 
Fungal spores float upon hot breath,
Carrying new life into the flesh of both Cervid and Canus.
Reborn, they will carry on their function,
Much like that of the moon-beast.
 
Another shambles, another beast,
To spread a plague upon and without.
It reanimates life into its own making:
To unmake the Earth.

Poem – “Bury”

Bury
By Anthony Jutz
 
Bury it down,
Deep, like in a furnace
Or perhaps a volcano.
 
Bury it down,
Let it fester and rot
So you can use it as fuel.
 
Decayed, decrepit,
Hungry for rage that has yet
To become potent.
 
Fill your bones with it,
Drown your lungs in it,
And let it drive you to overcome.
 
A swamp may absorb the flood,
But that swamp is filled with life.
Feed it your decay and watch it grow.
 
Mile-high mangroves standing tall and proud,
Your rage turns to relief:
The pain and tears have turned green.
 
Now a home for life,
Overcome and
Reborn.

Poem – “I am a knife”

I am a knife
By Anthony Jutz
 
I am a knife,
Or perhaps a dancer.
I do a twirl on the edge,
Perhaps of myself or maybe a great abyss.
 
The world is a sheath,
Or perhaps a ripe fruit,
Ready for the knife.
Sliced in twain it holds my form, regardless.
 
Reality is but a moment,
Shifting between breaths.
It runs along the edge of the knife,
Of me,
Standing on the tip or perhaps over a precipice.
 
This moment,
But a pinprick.
The feeling bubbles and drops off.
 
Falling to the ground, it disappears,
Followed by another,
And another.
 
It forms a pool of deep red
Containing a reflection of me,
Or perhaps the knife,
Dancing on the edge.
 
The edge burns with potential,
Another moment aching to be.
The feelings flow in and out,
Awaiting my decision
To take the plunge.