QUEER HORROR DAY 10 - LIPS

QUEER HORROR DAY 10 - LIPS

As the plastic surgeon unwrapped the bandages tightly wound around Melissa's head, we all noticed the curly hairs poking out from between the slats of gauze. The hairless misshapen mound of her new forehead descended into two fleshy folds where her button nose used to be. And in place of her usually pouting lips, there merely glowed an unhealthy pink hole that turned darker red as it receded into her face.

Her girlfriend — the so called "human artist" — had mutilated my best friend's beautiful face into a vagina; as she promised, "Something I will always love to kiss."

It was then that we heard the pained moaning coming from under the sheets, quivering slightly between Melissa's legs.

(image via)

QUEER HORROR DAY 14 - CAT

The day his grey cat Aesop went missing, he’d left no open windows or doors unlocked. The cat wasn’t hiding in the hamper, behind the couch, in the study cabinet or any of his other usual hiding places.

He left Aesop’s food out until it went wormy; then he threw it out. He always kept  Aesop’s bowl out where it had always been in the kitchen… polished and waiting.

One morning, over a year later, he woke up to find a large pool of blood splashed in his living room corner — tufts of grey soaking in the red. The front door had been unlocked.

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 11 - CHEMICALS

Freshly smelling of bath salts from the shower, John sprayed on his  cologne and took a sip of Moonlight before dragging on his cancer stick. In the kitchen he ironed. He stopped buttoning his shirt in the mirror, took a quick bump off of his car key, gel-styled his hair and drove into the acrid  night.

At the neon bar, he toked with a twink, tasted his cherry lip balm, pulled him closer and said, "I wanna inject you. Like a smoke... like a poison."

They went home. Dropped a tab. Did a bump. Smoked T. Sweated into each other, lipsandhandsblurring a wet humping mess. They woke up a deformed indistinguishable mass — faces connected at the cheek, hair  down the middle, an arm out the other's back, four legs intersecting like two melted plastic fetuses.