QUEER HORROR DAY 4 - PATROL

QUEER HORROR DAY 4 - PATROL

In Dallas 1971, police investigated a series assaults by an unknown person know only as "The Pink Panther." From summer to fall of that year, the Panther broke the arm of a single mother walking home from work, fractured the eye socket and jaw of a drunk man on lower Greenville (he lost his eye) and broke into the home of a straight couple and forced them at gunpoint to insert household objects into each other and then pour bleach on one another. Investigators realized that the Panther was re-creating gay bashings scenarios that had occurred around Dallas the previous summer, but by 1972 the Panther disappeared. The Dallas Morning News  buried stories of the Panther's attacks, supposedly to keep other gays from committing copycat crimes. But some local gays considered the Panther a hero and told gruesome stories of other straights having their teeth bashed out and their hair set on fire. A lot of people also believed the Panther was a woman.

QUEER HORROR DAY 3 - PORTRAIT

None of us have seen Dorian for several weeks, but he keeps posting weird shit on his blog. First, it was naked pictures of his ex — a guy who until then was still friends with him. Then there were several tweets about an unnamed relative dying in a house fire, a comment about how meth gave him  diarrhea and a post that read "Just lost my job because of porn." Then a week later, there was this image with red letters that just said "I have already infected 4 people with HIV." None of us can get a hold of Dorian. We're not even sure if it's really him  updating his blog.

QUEER HORROR DAY 7 - GHOST

The ghost of her lover permeated the apartment — she could smell her in the shower, feel her empty spot in bed, hear the tinkling of her fork every time she ate alone. At times she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in the garage, the scent of nagchampa in the living room even though she owned neither. She stared at the blank television as the sun slowly set against the cardboard boxes. It had been two months. They'd never found a body. The television, the radio, the icy window panes called to her, "Come... come here, lover... come be with me please."

QUEER HORROR DAY 1 - HEAVEN HOUSE

An ex-gay therapist's room: queer kids strapped down, being electrocuted and made to vomit while viewing innocuous pictures of men and women. An Bishop's boudoir: old priests and nuns getting ready to gang-bang a black kid. A Westboro Baptist funeral:  the "God Hates Fags" family smiles around the open coffin of a queer kid — her face horribly bashed in. An exorcism room: conservative shirt-and-tie folks holding down a scared kid as a preacher approaches him with hot iron cross and a water bucket — funnel and hose attached. In the last room, a bunch of queers with colored hair tell you, "There is a way out! You don't have to go to heaven, you know. Would you like to be saved?"

QUEER HORROR DAY 2 - TRICKED

After I finished bottoming for him, he said, "I have to go," quickly put on his pants and disappeared into the night. I tried to contacting him later to thank him, but he'd blocked me on the site where we met. Soon after that, I found my wallet laying open on my bedroom floor, completely emptied — my cards and rent all gone. I don't remember his screen name; I never knew his real one. But now he knows mine, where I live and where to return if he ever wants more.

QUEER HORROR DAY 17 - MIDNIGHT CHILD

When my pregnant lover fell into a coma, I began sleeping in his hospital room. A few weeks back he began sputtering and convulsing. Weird black squiggles (like dark veins) spread from the center of his abdomen.

“Your child is deformed,” the doctor concluded. “I want it,” I said, massaging my aching stump.

Every night at midnight, my lover speaks. He says, “Daddy, you dare? Is dark n coldie. Pwease hode me.” It’s not sleep-talking; the voice is not his. It’s a toddler’s, gurgling in fluid.

The black veins extend every day. “Daddy dying. Pwease halp.” I cry against the cold stomach whispering, “I promise I promise I promise,” as I fall asleep.

My lover has been brain dead for a few days now. His bedsores stink. I beg the doctor to cut our child from the womb. “It won’t survive,” she replies. Not he or she. It.

The sonogram display a writhing, squirming mass eating away at Ken’s innards — a wormy tangle, a pulsating brain. Please save me. It’s all we have.

“Daddy, I hungee I hungee I hungee,” he says. I rub my wrist  against Ken’s blackened belly. “I cannot wait. I will hold you. I will feed you all that's left of me.”