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Chapter Thirteen of SEETHINGS III delivers a feast of manipulation, shifting alliances, and psychological theatre—an entire chapter built on smiles, charm, and concealed blades.

The chapter opens at another Snow dinner, where Felicity dazzles her guests with stories, beauty, effortless charisma, and a peach-coloured summer dress that captures every eye. Sam, now convinced she is infertile thanks to Felicity’s earlier deception, idolises the doctor with religious devotion. The Snow household becomes her sanctuary; Felicity becomes everything Sam wishes she could be: elegant, adored, powerful, and free.

Mitchell sees the danger. Sam’s blind adoration isn’t just humiliating—it’s destabilising his control. Meanwhile, Tony and Sophie are equally enchanted, unaware they are being drawn deeper into Felicity and Hayden’s carefully curated world.

What follows is a masterclass in social manipulation. Felicity tells a dramatic storm story from her past, the group erupts in laughter, and trust solidifies.

…more of the abridged chapter on this page.

Chapter Twelve of SEETHINGS III is a masterclass in duality—Mitchell’s serene domestic mask versus the monstrous truth beneath it. The morning after he murders Sandra, news of her body being found plays quietly on television. Mitchell, unfazed, butters his toast with Vegemite while his wife, Sam, reads the paper only metres away. The police have already taken Sandra’s estranged husband in for questioning, and Mitchell knows he’ll quickly be cleared. The evidence will never lead back to him.

Sam suggests a peaceful day at the beach, blissfully unaware she’s spending the morning with a killer. Their marital dynamic resurfaces—Sam’s defensiveness about sex, Mitchell’s smooth deflection—but he’s unusually relaxed. Sandra’s death has given him a twisted sense of satisfaction.

What follows is one of the most unsettling sequences in the book: Sam, for the first time in their marriage, suggests visiting the marina, drinking wine, reminiscing, even stepping aboard their yacht. Mitchell plays the doting husband, knowing every moment brings him closer to fulfilling a darker plan.

…more of the abridged chapter on this page.

Chapter Eleven of SEETHINGS III is the novel’s most explosive turning point—where seduction, violence, delusion, and moral collapse reach a horrifying crescendo.

After weeks of surveillance and psychological grooming, Mitchell finally lures Sandra into a face-to-face date at the Moreton Bay Boat Club. On the surface, it looks innocent: dinner, flirting, and a theatrically glamorous red dress. But beneath it all, Mitchell is studying her every move—her body language, her phone use, her desire to be seen, and her craving for male validation. Sandra is playful, sensual, and deeply wounded from past relationships—and Mitchell sees every vulnerability as an opening.

The date moves from the restaurant to a moonlit cliff-top lookout, then down to a secluded beach where the storm-swelled night becomes electric. What begins as consensual intimacy shifts—slowly, then violently—into something far more sinister. As a lightning storm erupts overhead, Mitchell’s Beast takes full control. His sexual aggression merges with ritualistic precision, escalating until Sandra can no longer breathe or fight back.

…more of the abridged chapter on this page.

Chapter Ten of SEETHINGS III is a chilling study in patience, predation, and the slow tightening of a psychological noose.

Sandra cancels her planned date with Mitchell, claiming a stomach bug. After her violent encounter with Dennis in Chapter 9, she retreats into isolation—two weeks of work–home loops, skipped meals, dark rooms, and evasive conversations. Her trauma is palpable, and Mitchell listens to every moment of it through the hacked microphone inside her laptop.

Sandra’s mother eventually forces her way into the silence, discovering a daughter who hasn’t just fallen apart—she’s imploded. Mitchell, still listening from his office while talking to prospective photography clients, waits for Sandra to reveal the truth, but she doesn’t. Instead, her mother mistakenly attributes the emotional collapse to “female troubles,” and Sandra allows it. The lie becomes a convenient shield.

…more of the abridged chapter on this page.

Chapter Nine of SEETHINGS III pivots from erotic chaos back into Mitchell’s most dangerous landscape—his predatory inner world. The chapter introduces Sandra Williams, a newly separated thirty-five-year-old who hides her panic behind nightlife, younger lovers, and curated half-truths. She’s emotionally impulsive, sexually reckless, and always looking over her shoulder. In Mitchell’s eyes, she’s perfect.

Mitchell studies Sandra the way a biologist studies prey. He listens through her laptop microphone for days at a time, watching her type in real time through a custom-built messaging app he tricks her into installing. He knows every secret she won’t tell, every lie she thinks she hides, and every pattern of her movements—right down to when she collects mail from her PO box.

When Sandra claims she’s out partying, Mitchell is already outside her house in Aspley, stethoscope pressed to the wall, proving her lie wrong. He watches her undress through her laptop’s camera and listens to her life unravel through its microphone. She believes she’s in control. Mitchell knows she’s already his.

…more of the abridged story on this page.

Don’t let the faces fool you. Chapter Eight of SEETHINGS III is one of the most visually shocking and psychologically revealing chapters in the entire novel. What begins as a planned “art performance” quickly becomes a symbolic unravelling of boundaries, relationships, and sanity.

Mitchell and Felicity prepare for their live-art sex piece with meticulous ritual. The canvas is pristine, the colours prepared, the cameras positioned, and Hayden—her husband—reduced to a silent, obedient servant. Mitchell asserts dominance from the start, ordering Hayden into muteness and total invisibility. The power imbalance becomes its own kind of theatre.

Felicity and Mitchell strip, paint each other, and transform themselves into embodiments of primary colours: red (Mitchell), blue (Felicity), and yellow (shared accents). Their bodies become tools—brushes, rollers, stamps—smearing symbolism across the canvas.

…more of the abridged chapter on this page.

Chapter Seven of SEETHINGS III is where delusion, desire, and deep psychological fracture collide. The chapter opens with a private consultation between a heavily intoxicated Samantha and Dr Felicity Snow. Felicity gently corners Sam with clinical questions disguised as kindness, coaxing her into revealing the truth she’s avoided for decades: she and Mitchell almost never have sex. Sam tries to maintain the lie—claiming they “try all the time”—but her own story unravels under Felicity’s calm, surgical probing.

Then comes the devastating twist: Sam wants a baby, but she wasn’t referring to Mitchell when she said she wanted “someone to take his sperm.” Her desperation reveals a naïve and disturbing plan—one Felicity instantly sees through. Sam leaves the consultation ecstatic, completely misunderstanding what Felicity was trying to tell her.

…more of the abridged version on this page.

Chapter Six of SEETHINGS III drops us back into the dinner party—now transformed into a psychological pressure cooker where seduction, secrets, and manipulation simmer under every polite laugh. Felicity and Mitchell return from Mon Homme with their illicit encounter hidden beneath designer fabrics and coded jewellery. Only the men—Hayden and David—notice the signs, and their knowing smiles confirm Mitchell’s uneasy induction into their world.

Sam, oblivious, becomes the evening’s next target. Felicity and Anneke turn their charm on her, topping up her champagne, pushing cocktails into her hands, and coaxing her into saying things she’d never normally dare—like the humiliating “I want to suck a cock-sucking cowboy.” Sam tries to remain polite, navigating peer pressure with trembling grace, but Felicity’s strategy is clear: get Sam drunk enough to talk about pregnancy, IVF, and the truth she avoids.

…more of the abridged version on this page.

-M

Chapter Five of SEETHINGS III plunges the reader into the heart of seduction, manipulation, and moral collapse as Mitchell steps aboard Felicity Snow’s luxury catamaran. The tour of her opulent vessel becomes merely a prelude to something far darker: Felicity’s rapid, unnervingly accurate assessment of Mitchell’s sexless marriage and his repressed desires.

Within minutes, she identifies what counsellors never could—Sam’s sexual avoidance, her Catholic guilt, and the psychological conditioning that has shaped her. Felicity frames it clinically, confidently, and without hesitation, positioning herself as the antidote to everything Sam is not. It isn’t long before the conversation shifts from analysis to invitation.

…more on this page (or press play on the audio file above)

Chapter Four of SEETHINGS III shifts the tension from private marital conflict to a polished, glittering stage—a dinner party designed for psychological warfare. Sam and Mitchell arrive at Felicity and Hayden’s luxurious canal-estate home, already anxious for different reasons: Sam fears social embarrassment, while Mitchell anticipates the hidden agendas simmering beneath the night’s surface.

From the moment the front gate unlocks, the chapter becomes a study in contrasts: modesty versus glamour, insecurity versus confidence, repression versus sexual boldness. Sam, feeling plain beside the statuesque Anneke and the impossibly glamorous Dr Felicity Snow, retreats into self-doubt. Mitchell, however, immediately recognises Felicity’s layered provocations—her body, her dress, her confidence, and her silent signals directed at him.

…more on this page (or press play on the audio file above)

-M

Chapter Three of SEETHINGS III pulls readers deep into the toxic intimacy of Mitchell and Sam’s marriage—an emotional battleground disguised as domestic normalcy. What begins as a simple evening of homemade pizza quickly unravels into a subtle war of control, resentment, and unspoken truths.

Sam insists they meet with Dr Felicity Snow—the fertility specialist recommended by Anneke—framing it as a casual dinner, but every line of dialogue reveals her desperation and denial. Mitchell, meanwhile, has stopped playing the obedient husband. A small argument over oven mitts becomes a symbolic showdown: Sam demands compliance; Mitchell quietly asserts autonomy. Their kitchen becomes a microcosm of a marriage where one partner manages reality through rules and avoidance, while the other seethes beneath years of suppressed frustration.

…more on this page (or press play on the audio file above)

-M

Chapter Two of SEETHINGS III shifts dramatically from the covert horror of the opening chapter to a domestic minefield of lies, misdirection, and slow-building revelations. Told through phone conversations and private reflections, the chapter exposes the widening fracture between Samantha and her closest friend, Anneke.

Sam offers a carefully curated version of her life—claiming she and Mitchell are “busy,” that work is overwhelming, and that their attempts to conceive have stalled due to his supposed “low motility.” Anneke senses something is off. Sam’s answers feel rehearsed, inconsistent, and hollow. This discomfort simmers until the call ends abruptly, leaving Anneke unsettled and suspicious.

The chapter then slips into Anneke’s home life, giving a warm, contrasting snapshot of openness, affection, and normalcy with her husband David—a stark counterpoint to Sam and Mitchell’s growing silence. But the real turning point comes when Anneke calls Mitchell directly. What begins as an awkward welfare check soon turns into a truth bomb that detonates everything Sam has been hiding.

…more on this page (or press play on the audio file above)

-M

Chapter One of SEETHINGS III opens on a quiet, moonlit bay where Mitchell has cut his yacht’s engine and finally silenced something far more troubling—his seasick wife, Sam, lying face-down in the dinghy, barely conscious and soaked in salt water and vomit. What begins like a simple night sail quickly turns dark. Mitchell isn’t just crossing the bay—he’s delivering his wife to someone.

A massive catamaran, Mon Homme, glides out from the darkness and pulls alongside. Its skipper, the alluring and morally untethered Felicity Snow, greets Mitchell not with professionalism but with a hungry kiss. Their affair is obvious… and so is their secret arrangement. Felicity, a doctor with a reputation for both sailing and seduction, has come here for a specific task: to extract Sam’s eggs.

…more on this page (or press play on the audio file above)

-M

Days bleed into nights, nights into days. I sleep all day because there’s nothing else to do. When I wake, I listen for something—anything—to remind me I’m not alone. But all I hear is the pounding of my heart, the whispering voices that aren’t really there.

Solitary confinement isn’t punishment; it’s decay. The mind erodes, crumbling like old brick. Studies from the early 1900s showed that isolation causes hallucinations, memory loss, even psychosis. Prisoners in the 19th-century Eastern State Penitentiary were found rocking in their cells, muttering to themselves, their minds shattered beyond repair. Modern research confirms it: without human contact, the brain rewires itself into madness.

And yet, outside these walls, isolation grows.

Once free to play stick ball in the streets and parks, children now sit behind screens, locked away in digital cells. The cold glow of a tablet has replaced the laughter of a playground. Parents, distracted, offer devices instead of conversation. Social skills fade, empathy weakens. The world outside becomes less real than the world behind thin glass.

What happens when an entire society grows up this way? When does the comfort of solitude become preferable to the discomfort of connection? Will we build a world where eye contact is obsolete, where conversation is replaced by text, where voices—real voices—become foreign and strange?

I close my eyes, pressing my palms to my ears—anything to block out the inner chatter. I think of those children, growing up in a prison without bars, never knowing what they’ve lost. I think of the men in here, broken and forgotten. Are we so different? A life without connection is no life at all.

The mind is a fragile thing, meant to exist among others. Without it, we all become prisoners of our own making.

-K

The digital age has brought unparalleled connectivity and convenience, but it has also given rise to a new, chilling phenomenon: Social Media Serial Killers.

In recent years, a disturbing new trend has emerged where some serial killers utilize social media platforms as a hunting ground for their victims, exploiting the vastness of the internet to remain hidden in plain sight.

The anonymity afforded by online spaces has provided a cloak for these predators, allowing them to stalk and select victims with unprecedented ease. Unlike traditional criminal investigations, these faceless perpetrators operate from the shadows of the internet, leaving a digital trail that is difficult to trace.

One of the most unsettling aspects of this phenomenon is how social media becomes a tool for these killers to identify and target vulnerable individuals. By exploiting the trust and openness that often characterizes online interactions, they navigate through the vast web of profiles, seeking out those who may be susceptible to manipulation or coercion.

The anonymity these killers maintain is not only due to their digital presence but also a deliberate effort to conceal their real identities. They create fake profiles, use VPNs to mask their location, and employ a variety of tactics to cover their tracks. This makes it challenging for law enforcement agencies to connect the dots and apprehend these criminals before they strike again.

In some cases, these murderers engage in a disturbing game of cat and mouse with authorities, leaving cryptic clues or taunting messages on social media platforms. This not only adds to the psychological trauma inflicted upon victims but also serves as a sinister form of self-gratification for the perpetrators, who revel in the fear and confusion they sow.

The rise of anonymous serial killers on social media underscores the need for increased vigilance and awareness within online communities. Users must be cautious about sharing personal information, and platforms must implement robust security measures to identify and eradicate fake profiles. Maintaining privacy and ensuring safety in the digital age is a delicate balance.

Law enforcement agencies are grappling with the unique challenges posed by these faceless killers. Traditional investigative techniques are often insufficient in the realm of cyberspace, requiring a new breed of digital detectives who can navigate the complexities of online anonymity and trace the elusive trails left by these predators.

As a society, we must confront the uncomfortable reality that technology, while bringing us together, also creates new avenues for nefarious individuals to exploit. Initiatives to educate the public about online safety, coupled with advancements in digital forensics, are crucial steps in combating this dark intersection of technology and criminality.

I shouldn’t say so, but I know my way around a firewall and how to erase my own digital footprint. It’s why I maneuver into places I shouldn’t go and meet people who wouldn’t want to if they had a choice. Fortunately, society embraces technology first and thinks about security later (read more in SEETHINGS. The book is downloadable and free for a limited time). Despite what I know and share here, I don’t expect that to change soon.

The emergence of anonymous serial killers on social media is a chilling reminder of the ever-evolving landscape of crime in the digital age. The shadows of the internet provide cover for those who prey on the unsuspecting, demanding a collective effort to unveil these hidden threats and protect the vulnerable members of our interconnected society…

…from me.

–Kurdaitcha

Before the advent of DNA forensic science, solving crimes relied heavily on witness testimony, physical evidence, and circumstantial links.

Techniques like blood type analysis, matching fibres, or identifying weapons left at the scene were pivotal in drawing connections between criminals and their offences. The pre-DNA era posed significant challenges, but for crime writers, it’s a goldmine of intrigue—offering a canvas to craft narratives where cunning detectives and resourceful sleuths piece together crimes using intuition, observation, and innovation. Imagine a sleuth noticing a rare cigarette brand at multiple crime scenes or solving a murder with a perfectly timed alibi-breaker.

The introduction of DNA forensic science in legal systems transformed criminal investigations forever. DNA fingerprinting emerged in the 1980s as a groundbreaking tool, allowing investigators to identify suspects with unprecedented accuracy. However, its integration into legal systems varied across countries, creating gaps ripe for creative exploration.

* United Kingdom (1986): The UK became the pioneer of DNA evidence when it solved the infamous case of Colin Pitchfork using genetic fingerprinting. This groundbreaking moment marked a shift toward DNA-backed convictions.

* United States (1987): DNA entered the courtroom with the Florida case of Tommy Lee Andrews, ushering in widespread adoption. It wasn’t until the FBI’s CODIS system launched in the 1990s that DNA databases became game-changers.

* Australia (1989): DNA evidence debuted in Australian law in a murder trial—national DNA databases followed in the 2000s, reflecting an era of transformation in forensic investigation.

* Canada (1990): The first Canadian conviction using DNA evidence demonstrated its potential. Establishing the National DNA Data Bank in 2000 further strengthened its role in solving crimes.

* Germany (1993): DNA evidence entered German courts, gradually becoming a cornerstone of modern forensic practices. In the late 1990s, the creation of a comprehensive database closed countless cold cases.

For writers, these staggered adoption dates present captivating gaps where older, unresolved cases could be revisited with emerging DNA technology. Combine that with growing criminal databases, and there’s a plethora of new writing opportunities to explore. How might a detective uncover new truths in a case left dormant for decades? What old adversaries might resurface as the weight of DNA-backed justice looms large?

There’s a new public crime-solving platform on the horizon: Ancestry.com. Ordinary citizens willingly upload their DNA signatures to the site, hoping to find their genetic origins. Each signature uploaded enters a growing worldwide database. While criminals are unlikely to use the service, their relatives have their DNA results permanently filed, and police have access to these records. Blood relatives are closing cases without knowing it!

The advent of genealogical databases like these adds a modern twist. This new frontier has already led to the capture of notorious criminals, bridging the past and present in pursuing justice. For crime writers, this intersection of history, science, and human stories opens thrilling new narrative avenues.

My novel SEETHINGS exploits the pre-DNA/post-DNA gap. It’s downloadable and free for a limited time.

-M.

If this topic caught your interest, you’d know how special a handwritten love note is — to give and to receive.

It’s been a long time since I last experienced that nervous anticipation of swapping love notes but I still like the tradition of them. It makes me feel warm inside.

It took time to create a message and just as much time to get a response. We didn’t know the outcome of our message until we received a reply. During that time, fluttering hearts made the journey to discovery deliciously wonderful.

A close friend might’ve been invited into the loop to assist us in deciphering love notes received or helping to construct new ones to send. Every heartfelt angle had to be mapped out in the right words to make sure enough of the right things were said the right way — but not too much to sound weird or desperate!

Some high school note swaps weren’t between students. On rare occasions, the exchange occurred between a pupil and a member of staff. This kind of note wouldn’t be one the faculty or the community would approve of. A teacher could be reprimanded or fired over the contents of such a love letter.

While you and I did good, studious things behind our high school desks, some students were in contact with their teachers covertly. A discreet note was placed in a homework book or an assignment paper, and the exchange happened on the teacher’s desk, right in front of every other student at the beginning of the day.

Nobody else knew about these kinds of notes, not even close friends.

I can’t say how often this happened, but I know one that occurred when I was a teen. It was a time when phone messaging wasn’t available. Handwritten notes were standard. There was no choice but to use paper and a pen for everything.

When it came to swapping notes, the teacher collected our books at the beginning of class, marked them during the lesson and then handed the homework books back to us at the end of class. One young lass always had a special message concealed inside her homework book. It was obvious. I saw her pay unusual attention to that book the second we left the classroom.

Anna couldn’t help herself. She frantically flicked through its pages and snatched at something between the book’s leaves. Whatever it was went straight into her pocket — a dead giveaway.

And then there were those gooey eyes she wore during each lesson. When Mr Yublinski was there, Anna’s widened pools drowned him in them. Nothing else in the room existed.

There was a brief moment when I considered speaking to her about her lack of subtlety but decided against it. About a week later, rumours developed among the student body about their secret affair. A month after that, there was an investigation. As there was no proof of one existing, life went on like nothing happened. The couple cooled off, and Anna did her best to play down looks across the classroom. The school year ended, and the senior class graduated. Three months later, Anna announced her engagement to — you guessed it — Mr Yublinski.

Oh yes, they were adamant that it didn’t start until after the school year ended. No one bought it, but the school was satisfied.

The couple got married and had a daughter. She must be about thirty now. As far as I know, they are still together, living life and loving each other today.

I care about love letters, first loves and first kisses.

But I am in two minds about teachers and students sharing love letters and starting their affairs during school hours.

–Michael

Women often complain that men don’t listen. That may be entirely true, but what about the guy who is too attentive and too inquisitive? Is there a point of excess for men who listen all the time? Is it possible for men to know too much about a woman?

Some men pry. Prying can be taken as showing genuine concern, but there’s also a point when it gets creepy. His questions keep coming long after she’s run out of things to say. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for something else to come, perhaps a slip-up or encouraging another truth to fall from her lips.

It’s a volatile relationship for any girl who becomes involved with such a control freak.

And then there’s the silent one. This one appeals to many women. They think they can open him up and get him to share his innermost secrets with her — a worthy prize if she achieves such a result. Prizes aside, a silent gentleman isn’t a sign of a willingness to share anything, much less his innermost secrets. He’s simply a quiet man who has nothing to say.

The stalker is another version of a guy who listens extremely well. He’ll even press an ear against a wall if it’s necessary to do so. He’ll know which day she’ll hang out her washing and what songs she has on high rotation in her playlist. For the techno-stalker, he’ll even get into her computer from a remote location and listen to her that way.

He can turn on her laptop’s microphone. It’s not that hard to do.

He’s willing to wait for that inconspicuous microphone to pick up every subtle sound and broadcast it right into his ears. Like a sniper slowing his heartbeat, our listener slips on his headphones, shuts his eyes and settles back to enjoy her noises — building a picture of her life through her domestic sounds.

She’s alone again — and it’s been like that for days. She had another argument with her soon-to-be ex-husband last night. She was on the phone with him, and he heard it all. Divorce is imminent. She told him not to come looking for her.

She’s stepping into the shower, turning on the water and crying. It’s been a hard few months for her.

There will be a time when she’ll date men again, but it won’t be today. She’s too angry and hurt for that. When this feeling passes, she’ll have something to prove to herself. That’s when our mystery listener will make his move. He’ll know exactly where to find her. It’s been months in the making.

The water stopped. That’s her bare feet making contact with the floor. Can you hear them? That’s what naked sounds like.

He knows when she leaves for work, returns home, does her shopping and, more importantly, how much she tells her family and friends about the breakup, the divorce proceedings and other men who may enter her life in between times. If she holds back some information, he’ll smile for it. Secretive women make better victims.

They’ll meet by chance. He’ll say and do all the right things. It’ll be a brief encounter, little more than a chat and a smile. He’ll apologise for having to leave so soon, and she’ll be left wondering if he was the one. He was a very nice guy. And he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

First contact is done to make first impressions — and so that he can listen to the results of it in his headphones later. Will she tell her friends, or will she keep him to herself?

The test will be repeated, and if she passes, there will be a proper date. It will be the last one she ever has. Her husband will have many questions to answer.

There is much for men to learn about women simply by listening to them. It’s important to listen carefully.

-Michael

Let me tell you, technology leaves digital footprints everywhere. The moment we log on to the ‘net or start our phones, we’ve begun the process of exposing ourselves. There’s no hiding them once they’re out there. They are there for good, and you can’t undo them.

Some of us don’t want that to happen. We want the freedom to surf the ‘net without someone tracking our every move. We don’t want to tell anyone who we are or what we do when we’re doing it. It makes sense. People do it for many reasons, and they shouldn’t have to explain themselves.

Here are my nine basic tips for staying dark on the World Wide Web:

* Turn off photo GEO-location.

* Don’t use cloud services of any kind.

* Don’t use Google Maps.

* Don’t sign into anything.

* Use a private browser that doesn’t require sign-ups.

* Use an incognito browser that blocks advertisements and pop-ups.

* Use a VPN service.

* Buy and use a second, much older cellphone and SIM card (for calls-only).

* Switch off GPS.

I find my victims by employing these techniques (and others I’ve not listed). I stay well hidden by stopping those all-important traceable digital footprints from being left for others to find. But if you’re a garden-variety kind of stalker, what I’ve listed above will do the trick. You’ll stay dark enough that not even your mother would recognize you in cyberspace.

Ironically, these are the techniques that would protect others from us—if they chose to employ them. Fortunately, they are attracted to the romance of cyberspace eutopia. It’s a place where everyone plays nice all the time. Apathy and fairytales matter more to them than the truth, and that’s good. It keeps them distracted so I can do my thing unsupervised. When I get the opportunity to use it to its fullest potential, it’s like taking candy from a baby.

-Angelwanderer

I sit alone in the dimly lit corner of the bar, nursing my drink like it’s the elixir of life itself. The clinking of glasses and distant laughter swirl around me, but I’m cocooned in my own world of shadows. It’s where I belong, where my mind finds solace in the chaos that rages within.

Tonight, I raise my glass not in defiance, but in celebration of the madness that courses through my veins. For too long, I’ve tried to silence the whispers in my head, to drown out the cacophony of doubts and fears. But now, I embrace them like old friends, for they are the only companions I’ve ever truly known.

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As I sip my poison, my thoughts drift to those who came before me, those who found fame in their descent into darkness. Vincent van Gogh, the tortured genius whose brushstrokes captured the turmoil of his mind. They called him mad, but in his madness, he found a beauty that eluded the sane.

I wonder what he would think of me, sitting here in the depths of despair, finding comfort in the bottom of a glass. Would he see a kindred spirit, a soul lost in the wilderness of its own making? Or would he shake his head in pity, lamenting the waste of potential?

But tonight, I refuse to dwell on such thoughts. Tonight, I am alive in my despair, revelling in the twisted dance of my thoughts. For in this darkness, I find a freedom that the world outside cannot offer. Here, there are no expectations, no judgments—only the sweet embrace of oblivion.

I raise my glass once more, a toast to the broken souls who wander the labyrinth of their minds. To Sylvia Plath, who turned her pain into poetry, and Edgar Allan Poe, who found beauty in the macabre. They may have been condemned by society, but in their madness, they found a kind of immortality.

So here’s cheers to poor mental health, to the demons that haunt us and the shadows that guide us. For in our madness, we find a strange sort of salvation, a flicker of light in the darkest of nights. And as long as there are stars to guide us, we will never truly be alone in the abyss.

Thanks for reading Adult Secrets, Truths & Horrors! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

You won’t know. Not if that friend keeps their secrets well hidden. You can’t know what you’re not told.

Here’s the truth. Even best friends withhold information from each other. They really do.

One of my closest girlfriends was extremely secretive when it came to dating. She was highly superstitious. Nina believed that if she made an announcement about dating a new man too soon then it’d spoil things, ruining the chances of the relationship blossoming into something wonderful. I’d never hear about one until it was long over.

Superstition aside, too many ruined relationships in her past kept her silent. It allowed her to save face when they finally failed - and they often did.

There was another close friend who kept good secrets. Her story is a little different.

Linda entered my life by way of an accident. We soon became the best of friends. Our souring marriages unified us. We’d sip coffee on Wednesdays and bitch about our partners until it made us feel better. I came to know everything about her.

Almost everything.

A year later, out of the blue, she calls me in tears. She confesses to a long-term affair she’d been having with a married man. She kept her secrets close for all that time because she didn’t want to admit to being an adulteress. She was working on the principle that if she didn’t talk about it, then it wasn’t really happening to her.

Funny things occur when people tell lies. Little gaps start to appear in their lives. It’s when they say they’re going to be at one place to do one thing but go somewhere different to do something else. I call them grey zones. They are both wonderful and dangerous places to be. Anything can happen at this junction of indifference. The opposing forces provide a place of opportunity for someone like me.

The police questioned Linda’s husband about her unexplained and lengthy absence. Statistically speaking, spouses are likely to be the perpetrators of domestic crime. There were cracks in their marriage and police would’ve found them right away. Investigators might’ve even discovered Linda’s other life. Jealousy can make us do awful things to one another. Terrible tragedies come from insane jealousy.

Nina’s grey zones were larger than Linda’s. That’s because she didn’t have to answer to a spouse.

As a recent divorcee, her time was her own. She rebuilt her life in a safe, cosy place away from the disaster she’d left behind. Threats of retribution had followed Nina to her new home. Ongoing financial battles kept her in touch with the man she tried to poison and he wasn't a happy man over both of those issues.

You could say her wish to start a relationship with a new guy was anticipated. Her ex-husband had found someone and she wanted happiness too. But she didn’t tell anyone about it when it finally happened. Her superstitious nature accompanied her decision making. She told people she was doing one thing but she did something else. Grey zones appeared. Opportunities were taken.

The trick afterwards was to keep calm and let her natural history take charge of the investigatory narrative.

Someone will pay for her death but it won’t be me.

As I said, lies produce grey areas that are both wonderful and dangerous. If the heat of an intense, new relationship keeps lovers coming back for more of what burns most, more secrets will be required to support them. When I’m around, those lies will encourage something more dangerous than wonderful.

No. You won’t know for sure if a close friend is having an affair — at least not until her body shows up.

Sexual attraction is primal, right?

So too is a storm.

Both activate something deep within — at least it does for me.

When they meet, it’s far more than my body can stand.

Although the opportunities to feed my kink are infrequent, I love doing it during a storm. There’s something powerful and aggressive about nature’s wild side that stirs my inner animal. It makes the sex that much better.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not an aggressive lover. That’s not me. I know that’s what the storm represents but it’s still not my thing. Euphoria can be obtained without violence.

Similarly, I don’t reach out and choke my lovers during coitus. I’m more of a meat and potatoes lover. I don’t bite, slap, whip or choke… but making passionate love under a tropical thunderstorm is my fantasy. I like how it makes me feel.

It activates me.

I feel something more.

It’s HIM.

HE comes from another place. HE feels things in ways I don’t.

There is another layer of sexuality hidden beyond my civilised one.

That first crack of lightning is enough to make HIM stir.

First, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. The sensations then penetrate deep beyond my upper sensibilities. I’m like a wild beast with a veracious new energy when the storm rages!

But I’m not a choker! Definitely not! Remember that when I tell you the next part of my story. It’s important to keep it in mind. I don’t choke.

Here I go.

Now take a deep breath, Mitchell. Make sure you get this right.

Last night, I held Nina down. That part is in no way extraordinary. Our sexual synergy took us outdoors. It was her idea, not mine. She never knew about my obsession with the storm. She wanted an outdoor experience.

“Let’s try something different,” she said.

I was on top, so of course I held her that way. It was missionary sex. Simple. Meat and potato love but this time it was in the privacy of her backyard.

Her knees were pointed towards the night sky, and I was facing her, enjoying the moment, as anyone should.

No one was being hurt.

It was perfect.

Nice.

Things were orderly.

But that small storm cell developed in the south and then covered the stars above us. It came out of nowhere and it moved fast.

A flash of light, a crack of thunder, and then a deep rumble shook the ground. None of it was forecast. I know this because I made damn sure of it. It wasn’t meant to happen. I save that kind of thing for my other lovers. Nina is ‘protected property’ as far as I’m concerned.

As expected, my neck hair reacted. Just like before, I couldn’t stop the sensations after they started.

This time, an intense pain struck me right between the eyes.

It hurt. Much.

After the pain subsided, I saw a stranger’s hands appear from nowhere and slide around Nina’s neck. I felt my hips move much faster too. Those hands clamped down on her tight, her eyes popped open, she gurgled and then struggled to get herself free of their grip but couldn’t.

These are the last few things I remember. The rain began to fall and the rest of it fades into a blur.

I woke to a gentle hum of rubber tyres on a dry road. It coaxed me back to reality. The bristles on my neck subsided. At some point, I must’ve dressed, left her place and got myself behind the wheel of my car.

I should’ve been confused by this strange shift in moments, but I wasn’t. I felt profoundly satisfied. There was a certain calmness in me. Never before had I experienced such a sense of inner peace as I did last night.

That’s not the end of it. There’s more.

As I slipped into bed, Samantha woke, rolled over and whispered, “How was it, dear? Did you get everything you needed?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Oh, that’s good. Well, g’night. See you in the morning.”

She gave me a peck on the cheek, rolled over and went back to sleep. Can you believe it?

How can my wife, any wife, do that when her husband arrives as late as I do? No woman rolls away and goes to sleep like that.

Mine does.

I can’t believe it either but that’s the way she is. She’s intelligent enough to know many things about life yet icy cold when it comes to matters of sex. Intimacy isn’t her thing. It wouldn’t occur to her that her husband sees other women. She believes everyone is like her and doesn’t get those urges, least of all her trustworthy husband.

I just can’t break through her frozen exterior.

Yes, this explains much, doesn’t it?

Oh, you want to know about what happened to Nina?

I don’t know. I’m too afraid to find out.

Those hands weren’t mine.

I’m telling you, they did NOT belong to me. My orderly upper consciousness tells me that I couldn’t have hurt her. It’s not within me to choke — but I’m also aware that there’s another something hidden deep beneath those layers of civility that I can’t control or explain.

I don’t know where I finish and HE begins.

It’s also why I’m so scared to watch today’s news.

-Mitchell

My, my, what a lovely neck.Mind if I give it a little squeeze? What’s the matter? Both hands. Yes, baby. I need a good grip. Mmmm — it’s soft, warm. Good throat. Strong pulse. Stop? Why? I’ll let go before I see blue. Promise.

I refer to it as The Pit. This is where wholesome stories start with a happy-ever-after journey but are dismembered before arriving at that destination. Like life, it includes an uncomfortable truth or two to spoil things along the way.

They say truth is stranger than fiction. Nice. Let’s go with that. The truth is subjective anyway. Those who swear by one thing on the ground floor often deny it by the time they reach the next one. The one thing I know is that pure truth is a hazardous thing. Our honest feelings, thoughts, and dreams, can also go to the darkest of places. For some, this is too much. For others, it’s just perfect. Fantastic discoveries are made in the darkness of blind honesty.

Prepare yourself. Discovery has teeth.

So, if you came looking to find hope and happiness cliches here, take a seat Cinderella. I’ll pop these cuffs around your wrists for a while. There you go. Now, let me talk to the realistic ones for a bit.

Okay, come on you lot, gather around. For those of you with a stomach strong enough to read my style of dark fiction, I’ve got something extra special for you. Take a walk with me. Come on. Step this way for chapter one. Oh, don’t worry about Cinderella. Those whimpers will subside. And she’ll be here when we get back. I’m in no hurry. We’ll take this walk first and then after we come back you’ll get to see what I’ve planned to do to her. I promise you’ll get to see everything as it’s happening.

I always take my time.

Always.

-Michael

Solitary confinement is an obvious cause of this disturbing neurosis but it’s not just the incarcerated who get it. Anyone who feels confined can lose their mind to the shadows within themselves.

Our knowledge of the psychological effects caused by solitary confinement isn’t insignificant. We’ve known for a long time that a mind loses cohesion when it’s removed from the sensory and social world around it for extended periods. What we couldn’t agree on was how soon it’d happen.

Two hundred years ago, things were very different. Being sent to solitary meant going into a black hole, quite literally. There was no light, no sound inside that desolate place. It was a silent cell full of a whole lot of nothing. The mind began to wander. Prisoners were dragged back into reality to go to church on Sundays and then sent straight back to the nothingness an hour later. A heavy sack covered their heads in transit so they couldn’t speak to or see anyone along the way. It sounds absurd but there was no malice meant for the process. There was some well-intended logic behind it.

Sensory deprivation was used to re-educate prisoners and improve their behaviour. It was believed that they'd become reformed by taking everything away from them but God.

This method didn’t work. Two weeks in the hole was enough to turn them mad. Some suicide within days of being released from the hole.

To add insult to injury, those who’d passed away had their bodies examined by a doctor. It was done so he could find the inner evil in the flesh of the corpses.

No, the doctors didn’t find any badness inside the dead. It was a wasted exercise.

Solitary confinement is a whole different thing today. There are no black pits, ongoing silences, or sensory deprivation. Lights illuminate cells, even the isolated ones. That way, the senses have something to work with that allows the mind to stay within the boundaries of this reality, the same one you and I enjoy.

Mental cohesion has always fascinated me. I like to push the mind, just to see when it begins to slip all by itself. Apparently, it doesn’t take much for us to lose the plot. I’m a firm believer that psychological slippages can occur in anyone and it doesn’t require visible walls or silent black holes to do it.

Confinement can occur within an oppressive relationship, a prolonged psychological, physical or sexual abuse from a spouse, friend, parent, sibling or a work college. Over many years of torment, an invisible set of walls will surround the person, turning them into an isolated, emotionally deprived prisoner, and closing in on them a little more each day that passes. Losing one’s sense of reality in these conditions is plausible. It too would result in suicide, spontaneous acts of violence, drug use, emotional outbursts and a change in one’s moral standard. It leaves me with one important question:

Could an extremely good person be made to turn evil by the use of emotional confinement?

Find the answer here, right now

-M

But there’s never a story of how the deer lived its life before entering the path of the hunter’s bullet, right?

In a sense, consumers of news and serial killers are alike. We stand by as outsiders mesmerised by the murder but give little time to examine the victim’s life. Our gazes have no time for that.

Lines like: “She leaves behind a daughter”; or; “He was about to graduate as a surgeon”, tug at the heartstrings but, often, this feeling passes and we return to the killer and the details of the killing. We want to know more about the hunt and the hunter. Unless you’re directly connected to the victim, the hunted ranks last on our list.

For serial killers, the victims are just a means to an end. The trophy they steal from the victim’s body becomes the symbol of a successful kill. Killers have a deep connection to their trophies. It’s so intimate and delicate that it’s like no other. Think of it as a secret love affair. It’s a precious thing. Telling anyone would ruin their love together.

My story is a little different. I put my trophies in a place where people can see them. I like knowing that the evidence of my indiscretions is within reach of the most important people in my life. From my perspective, it’s a game that I win daily. I’m not sure why I do it but I guess it has something to do with the abuse I suffered. My adult mind sorted things out in ways that calmed the inner torment. Age has tempered my rage. Displaying the most intimate part of my private life in such a prominent position of my home shows maturity. I like exposing myself to the sunlight. It is as though I have no secrets to hide.

I’m sure Freud would say I had some repressed sexual feelings towards my mother or something.

God, I hope not.

You’re probably wondering what is my type of trophy. Is it tongues, ears, or perhaps the labia?

I suppose I could use those too but blood objects aren’t my thing. I never even planned the first kill anyway — I kind of made it up as it happened. God, I was so nervous when it happened but so elated too. The whole thing was wild and intense. It was just like having that first kiss when I was…

Sorry, I digressed.

Spontaneity. That’s what made me take a trophy. I didn’t even think about it. I was more worried about being caught. I knew they could track me through the victim’s phone, so I snatched it from the ground and smashed it into little pieces. The little SIM popped out. It was just sitting on top of the debris. It called to me. I had to have it. I stuck it into my pocket and promptly forgot about it while I busily dropped remnants of her phone in several places on the way home. I found the SIM in my pocket a day later. I put it into my sock drawer — and that was the beginning. I’ve kept one for every victim since. 

SIM cards. That’s my trophy. They’re small and represent my kills. They also have a tiny amount of gold inside them, did you know that? Anyway, I had five of them before the summer ended. For a while, they lived in their plastic bag, underneath my socks. My wife found them and wondered how they got to be there. I said I’d been collecting them for their gold. She wanted to know where I got them from and my answer was easy. Some were from old phones I owned and the rest were found on the ground at various times. I told her I was going to recycle them and turn them into charms for her teddy bear’s bracelet. She thought that was a great idea, thanked me and gave me a peck on the cheek.

With a smile, she said, “And here’s a kiss from Teddy too. I know he’ll love the seahorse. See? He’s already smiling.”

That bear gets more respect and attention than I do. So do all the other stuffed animals on our bed. It’s like she never grew up. We’ve been married for almost ten years and I’ve still got to remove them from our bed each night before I sleep. And I have to lower them to the floor gently. If I drop them she’ll flip out and call me an abuser.

“They’re not real,” I’d say to her.

“They’re real to me. So don’t drop them.” She won’t talk to me for days if I hurt one of her toys. There’s no crossing Sam or those childhood friends of hers.

To keep the peace, I now place her toys in the corner of the room just as softly as I can, like I’m tucking the babies into bed. Teddy is their smirking gang leader. He gets to wear the charms I made from the victim’s SIM cards. Whenever I make love to my wife, I look to the side of the bed and watch that fucker’s stupid face smirking back at me. It enrages me to see him living in comfort while I’m made to service his mistress. It’s as if I’m the toy and he’s the master.

And then I look down at those little charms on his fluffy wrist. “I got you, mate. If only you knew how you got those charms.”

I guess you could say Teddy is not just a symbol of Sam’s childhood, he’s a symbol of my desire and fury. He’s my muse and nemesis. I despise him but I need to look at his bracelet of trophies to finish off. Sam and Teddy get what they want but I get something I desperately need.

The rest is inside this book

Did you know that cruise ships lose a passenger a month to an overboard incident? By the time the captain is informed of the tragedy, it’s often too late to turn his ship around. The sea consumes the body and, with it, the evidence of how the passenger made it to the water in the first place.

What about smaller craft, like sailing yachts? There are thousands of those transversing Earth’s oceans today.

This next part might be the story of a happy couple beginning their romantic love journey aboard a yacht. Let’s say they dream of sailing into a blue paradise and discovering island sanctuaries along the way but find out that life beyond the horizon doesn’t go quite like that.

The ocean confines people. There’s no escaping each other, no way out if things don’t turn out the way they imagined them to be.

Most people think of cruise sailing as a romantic and glamorous lifestyle. Salty skin, surf hair and a hunger for adventure. On paper, it sounds lovely.

Put the romance aside for the moment, sailing is actually a dangerous sport.

Whenever sailors leave sight of civilisation, they are on their own. That beautiful blue world out there is enormous. A boat is but a tiny speck on it. A human being is but a tiny speck on that speck — and people fall overboard all the time.

Love doesn’t last forever, not even in paradise.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I’ve never settled well. It’s more about experiencing new experiences, even if that new experience is a person. Long love just isn’t for me. There’s no new experience there. The lust fades. The rest of it is plain boring.

Chores. Responsibilities. Pregnancies.

The struggle is real.

Her tummy will grow, and so will her anxieties about the sea. She’ll ask why I don’t carry a satellite phone, and I’ll reply that I’ve never needed one. Nothing I say will matter. Her mood won’t improve.

“You can get off whenever you like, dear,” I’ll say.

A sudden wind change and a rolling sea are all I need to fix the problem. I’ll suddenly swing the wheel to one side and watch the boom sweep across the cockpit, taking her with it. She’ll end up between the waves and the seabed. You know the rest.

“Where did that nice chick go?” an old salty friend will ask in the home port. “She was a bit of alright.”

“She was. Jumped ship at Vanuatu.”

“Again? Shit. That’s what, four now?”

“Ha ha! Yeah, but I don’t mind. I get the best bits. He has the rest of them.”

“Too right! Beer mate?”

“Thanks, mate. Cheers.”

-Mitchell Felding

The first time I had sex, I was a bundle of nerves and excitement. It was a classic high school scenario — a dimly lit car, a song on the radio, and two hearts racing in anticipation. As our bodies drew closer, I couldn’t help but wonder what all the fuss was about. Was it just the physical contact, the meeting of worlds, or was there something more profound hidden within that naughty, elusive moment?

When our bodies finally met, it was a mix of fireworks and confusion. The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest, and my stomach did somersaults. It was a rush of adrenaline as if I had jumped off a cliff and was free-falling through the air.

The first encounter was sweet, awkward, and slightly clumsy.

It also felt like a discovery, an uncharted territory that we were both exploring together. There was a sense of innocence and a lack of expectations or comparisons. It was a stolen moment in time when nothing else mattered. It was beautiful in its simplicity.

Fast forward to the second encounter, and everything changed. We had become more comfortable with each other, more attuned to our rhythm and the electricity shared between us. The second encounter was just as exciting, but it lacked the surprise and wonder of the first. Instead, it was an affirmation of the connection we had forged.

This time, the lovemaking was purposeful and more passionate. The sensations were more intense, like a wildfire spreading through my veins. I could feel my lover’s heart beating in time with mine, and our breaths synchronized. It was a dance of souls, a language of love that needed no words. The second time was about knowing, about recognizing the magic that happened when our bodies met. It was no longer just a physical act; it was a declaration of affection.

And then came the third encounter, lovemaking that held the lessons of the first two. It was an intimacy that had matured, evolved and deepened. By this point, we were no longer fumbling around in the dark or testing the waters. We were in the sea of familiarity, swimming with confidence and ease.

The third time was a revelation. It was the culmination of all the emotions we had shared, all the laughter, the tears, and the late-night conversations. It was a celebration of our journey together. This sex was no longer just about the physical sensation, although that was undeniably present. It was about connection, about a shared history that had brought us to this moment.

As our lips and bodies met, I felt a profound sense of belonging. It was like coming home after a long journey. The third was tender, gentle, and brimming with affection. It was a reassurance, a promise that we were in this together. The sensation was a blend of warmth, comfort, and a touch of excitement. It was the perfect harmony of emotions, a testament to the growth of our relationship.

Looking back, I couldn’t help but compare the three occasions. The first was all about curiosity, the second about passion, and the third about love. Each had its unique charm, its own set of sensations. The first time was a spark, a thrilling beginning. The second was the fire, a burning desire. But the third was the warmth, the enduring flame that would keep us connected in the long run.

I have since realized that the third sexual experience was the best of all because of the lessons we had learned along the way. The first time taught us about the value of taking a chance, of exploring the unknown with an open heart. The second one showed us the power of passion and desire, of giving in to the intensity of our emotions. But the third encounter had revealed the beauty of patience, of growing together, of understanding and cherishing the people we had become.

So, while the first time may have been the start of our story, it was the third one that truly defined our love. It was the type of sex that spoke of patience, of growing together, and of the profound connection that had developed over time.

It was the best of all, not because it was the most thrilling, but because it was the most meaningful. It was a moment that held the lessons of the past and the promises of the future, and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

–Michael (Author of Dark, Erotic Fiction)

Chic Chic Institute has taken out this prestigious award, a world-record fifth year in a row!

Congratulations to our clinicians for making this happen. This proves that we are just more than a group of sadistic hacks performing unnecessary lobotomies on innocent civilians.

To celebrate, we're offering new patients great deals for the next round of experimental lobotomies. Go directly to your nearest award-winning Chic Chic Mental Asylum for some first-class student treatment and check yourself out of this reality today!

* Head injury getting you down?

* Mind worms?

* Voices making you suicidal?

Come to Chic Chic Mental Asylum today and be assessed for free. Let our doctors probe you without obligation. Lie back and take in our electro-therapy. It’s guilt-free because the electricity we use comes from carbon-neutral sources. Now that’s what we call sustainable mental health!

Unable to check yourself in? Don’t worry, parents and spouses can do it for you without a doctor’s recommendation!

At Chic Chic, we leave the rubber gloves off because we care.

This month we have a special on wives. We call it the Husband Holiday Offer! Got a superstitious wife or one with an inexplicable disease of the mind? Maybe she’s just a nuisance and won’t shut the fuck up. Whatever the reason, send her our way. You’ll get the break you deserve, and she’ll return to you all shiny and new.

Long stays welcome! Souvenir bite sticks are yours to keep!

We haven’t forgotten the ladies either. At Chic Chic, you can commit your husband for:

* Greediness

* Deranged Masturbation

* Egotism

* Mansplaining and Masturbation

* …and much much more masturbation-associated things!

Can’t find a reason to commit a loved one? No problems! Send us the symptoms, and we’ll produce a diagnosis. Everyone is welcome at Chic Chic!

‘Clean Surgical Instruments Used Frequently.’

Everyone needs a holiday. Tell us about your dream holiday, and you’ll go in the draw to win a lifetime supply of Valium. Pop one of our pills and sail to Anywhere Paradise in no time, for a whole year, free!

What about the kids?

Book in the next five minutes, and we’ll take in your thankless, Godless children for one dollar more. We’ve a Priest waiting to turn your child around right now!!!

Member of UMAIN (United Mental Asylums Institute National)

Today's phones don't get slammed. They get tapped. At the most, they get poked. This may explain the poor mental health of some of us inside our community.

But don't you hate not being able to smash a phone down in fury?

Remember that wonderful feeling when thick plastic met thick plastic? Fury and action came together as one. It was noisy, aggressive and wonderfully final.

Hanging up today is so blah. We gently tap or swipe a piece of glass. It’s passive. It's lame. That’s what it is.

Modern phones aren't built to take such punishment. Slam any of them and they'll break. Break one, and you're off the air, not to mention up for an expensive repair. Maybe that's why everyone is so uptight all the time. They can't slam their phones. The tension just keeps building and building.

Let me tell you, I've slammed many a chunky phone in my time — and I’ve punished them good.

The shelves they sat on broke before the phones did.

A phone would fall to the floor, and its handpiece and curly cord would land in a heap beside it a second later. I'd pick up the phone, and slam it another time (just to make sure it was done right).

It felt so liberating — and I NEVER needed to replace a phone due to my old-world assertiveness. Today’s phones give up just looking at them.

What about you? Do you miss the good old phone slam days? Have we gone backward with the tappy/swipey phones of today?

-Michael (Author of Dark Fiction)

When Ted Bundy was news in the 70s, or the I-95 Killer known as Gary Ray Bowles did his thing in the 90s, or even the as-yet-unidentified Smiley Face Killer in the present, spines shivered.

People take notice whenever these names are mentioned. Their names are like gold.

That’s because people want to know who was being killed, why they were being killed and how the victim died — so that they knew it was not them who died at the hands of a merciless killer.

Nice. It’s called self-preservation — a normal thing. A valuable thing.

Staying away from killers is good.

Dying is bad.

What else is good is eye-catching headlines, keywords and hashtags. Aligning all the right text in the right post with the right hashtags at the right time will ensure a traffic stream like no other. It’s guaranteed to draw immediate attention. You’ll get everything you want and nothing you don’t — except for those trolls who think you’re piggybacking off a serial killer’s infamy just to score yourself some free points in the social media market.

What do they know about that? What do they know about murder?

They are alive and well.

They should be thankful that they weren’t the killer’s target and have the opportunity to sit at a keyboard and pass a comment, any comment like that. They are at liberty to write what they like and then escape into the masses as though they can’t be identified or located afterwards. They feel free to live life as they choose to.

Yes, they are free but only to a certain point. Life isn’t forever. At some point, death will find them. It will go looking for them.

Everyone dies and, without a dramatic ending to conclude a life, death is typically boring. There is no traffic to be gained if they are to die a natural death. Why don’t we spice it up a bit and do a search for those so-called free souls to help… free their souls?

Start with the one who has the most followers. Their death is sure to attract more traffic than a social nobody. It will add instant fuel to the fire when the news cycle begins its process.

After all, that’s where it starts — and we need both to work together if we’re to make things happen.

Here’s a better idea.

Why don’t we spice it up a bit and play the role of victim instead?

In this influencer-lead, narcissistic world, we should consider fronting up to our local people-butcher ourselves. We can have them, and their special type of carnage do us proud by filming our disembowlement. We can post a selfie during our demise while wearing our entrails as a hat. Think about it. Our social media following will sail up to the stratosphere with a picture like that.

What a social send-off that would be!

If you’d like to raise your social profile and die for, say, some virtue-signalling cause, please leave your email address here and someone will get back to you soon. You and your bloody entrails hat may be the next social media sensation you’re looking for!

Pop them on, turn them up, shut out the world, and run as though you haven’t a care in the world.

I run too. I’m pretty quick — and I care very much.

First, I must thank you for acquiring them. I hope they work well. I’ll need them to do their job right if I’m to do mine right.

Y’know, things used to be much harder than this.

People like you were more aware and the quality of the headphones was lower. You could hear me coming a mile away. That’s why things are so much better now. Your headphones help me hide.

What was it you said on social media last night?

“Who gets into an Uber ride alone and then sits in the front seat beside the driver? It’s no wonder he touched you.”

Profound words, yet ironic.

“Well, who runs without paying due care and attention?”

You do.

You are responsible for your safety when you place a foot onto the path to start your morning jog. Music in your head doesn’t mean you have a band of musicians running alongside you to protect you. Turning off the outside world doesn’t mean it’s not there anymore.

It’s still there.

Do you know why I know that?

It’s because I’m part of it.

In twenty or so seconds, you and your effective noise-cancelling headphones will make a left turn on that path, a right, and then another right. Soon, you’ll enter this stretch of woodland and you’ll be all alone.

Noise-cancelling headphones will stop the sound of me from reaching your ears.

Ah, there you are.

I’ll let you pass this tree and then follow you.

See, now I’m right behind you, keeping pace. Easy as that. You don’t have a clue. This only goes to prove my point. Noise-cancelling headphones are downright dangerous.

Think about it.

A cyclist could come from behind and knock you down by accident. A car could inadvertently leave the road and get you. At least you’d hear something of the trouble and have a chance of getting out of the way to avoid injury or, perhaps, death.

With noise-cancelling headphones, you have no way of hearing anything. None at all.

And then there is you, jogging along like that, oblivious, with me jogging just a few feet behind. You’ve been at it for half an hour. I’ve been jogging for less than a minute.

You have no idea of what I’m about to do.

Here I come.

Ready?

Got it!

Now I’ve got those expensive new noise-cancelling headphones for me! They’re all mine now!

Catch me if you can.

-M

Before smartphones and the Internet, I had a life on CB Radio. Yes, it was the go-to gadget of the eighties.

And I could stalk anyone I liked using my CB radio — and my car.

Signal strength. That’s how I did it. I’d drive around in grid patterns across the city to measure the strength of my special caller’s transmission. She’d keep on talking into her microphone, telling me all about herself and I’d keep driving around while watching the signal strength meter on the CB change.

When I got close to her, that needle moved across to the far right. It told me that her car and mine were near to each other. If she remained transmitting long enough, I’d be able to zone into her signal, and then drive up to her with my lights off — and she wouldn’t even know it was me when I finally tapped on her window and pulled her out of the car.

The whole process could’ve taken a couple of hours to do.

Patience isn’t something many people have these days. It’s almost a foreign concept. They want things now and if they can’t get it right away they feel entitled to get upset and angry and then tell the whole world about it.

I don’t do that. I never have. I remain calm. I’m patient. I tell no one anything. I’m a very good listener.

When I drove my car about the suburbs in the eighties, searching for ripe, young ladies with my CB radio, I’d have to wait to find the right one to come along. I’d hear plenty of females on air, but not every one of them was fit to be turned into a victim. I needed to know a few things about her first.

Was she parked at home or did she, like most of us radio geeks, seek out a special place to get away from her parents? Did she do it alone? Few CB chicks ever went out into the night without a companion. But those who did had a special reason for doing so.

This was the girl I was looking for.

I’d then have to spend time talking to her, finding out everything I could — and it took time to gain her trust. Conversations often occurred over many days and weeks. She’d talk, and I’d listen.

I’d listen to her tell me of her triumphs, her woes, her music interests, her best friends and worst enemies while I slow-cruised the suburbs, watching the needle move on my CB radio.

Patience always paid off.

I never knew their names, but I do remember some of their call signs.

White Rabbit

ET

Wonder Woman

Things are a bit different now. I’m all grown up and I have the Internet to feed my desires. Plenty of females can be found online. If a man’s prepared to shut up and listen, there are plenty of them out there ready to talk. And they do like talking.

Keyboard conversations feel safe.

Many of the women are my age. They are experiencing difficult marriages — lonely ladies who’ll tell a nice guy what’s on their mind because they have a burning desire to do so. They want to share their burdens and the Internet is a handy place to do it.

They know I can’t see them. And they believe I could be half a world away — if that’s what I tell them. They also think I can’t find them.

I can.

I do.

Eventually, I will find you.

I’m very patient. That’s part of the game — and it’s such a wonderful game to play.

I’ll wait for her to ask me to send her a poem that she’s become inquisitive about. She’s become inquisitive about it because I may have offhandedly mentioned it days beforehand. She’ll want to read it.

They always do.

I’ll send her a picture of the handwritten message along with some code I embedded into its metafile. It will make her device tell me everything about her that she doesn’t want me to know.

Good victims are those who are keeping secrets from their husbands and families. The best one of all is the one I have right now. She’s even prepared to keep secrets from herself. She, like those who came before her, will die beneath a thunderstorm.

She’ll die tonight.

I’ll return to being an online stalker tomorrow and the process will start all over again.

That’s when I’ll start looking for you.

-M

That's what she tells me every day. She counts on honesty. She wants me to be honest with her at all times. Her resolve on this matter is absolute.

“Don't you just hate liars, babe? Some people lie right to your face and then believe what they’re telling you. They actually believe their own lies. I mean, why do they have to lie anyway? The world would be a much better place without liars. I've no time for them. I don't know what drives people to lie anyway, do you?”

She leans into her mirror and then runs a thick layer of Allure's Rouge over her thin, pale lips. “If I ever found out that you were lying to me, it’d be over. Remember that.”

You may think that's an extreme threat — but it’s not the first time I’ve heard it. This promise to leave has loomed over us ever since we met. I don’t like liars either, but I recognise contradictions when I see them.

She leads the charge in lie-telling.

Those are not her lips in the mirror. They are the first lie. The change in her face is dramatic. Allure’s Rouge turns her tweedy slits into a pop of dazzling colour and statement.

“And honesty is the most important thing, don't you think?”

After coating her face with various tones to conceal her freckles and flatten her bones into oblivion, she takes a liner to her eyelids. Those tiny puddles become oceans within minutes.

She disrobes and tucks two pouches into her bra. She squeezes her cheeks into wonder jeans and then steps into moderate-sized heels that change the shape of her legs.

“What do you think about my hair? I just love these new extensions Dianna did for me last week. She even found the same blonde tones, right down to the highlights.”

Blonde? Of course not. Without a chemical treatment, she’s a mousy brown.

“Great.”

To compete with her blonde peers, she became one. The extensions were required because frequent treatments have ruined her hair.

“I like you with long hair.”

She smiles and swishes the excess around, ties it into a bun on the top of her head and pins it into place. “What about these stringy bits down the sides? Aren't they cute?”

She winds a loose lock around a heating wand and then releases it into a gentle curl that bounces by her temple.

“What about leaving all of it down?”

“Down is boring. Besides, I have a nice neck and this makes me look sophisticated.”

If only she were.

A cleavage-revealing blouse is slipped over her head. She kisses me while pulling it down to her waist. “Good relationships are built on honesty, don't you agree?”

I tell her what she wants to hear because I'm a gentleman and that’s what makes her happy.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

It's a crock of shit though. 

There are two rules at play here. She has the one she wants me to agree to and the other she lives by. That’s okay. I need her to believe she's right. Her new lips, eyes, tits, butt, legs, hair and sophisticated neck, mean nothing to me. I’ve seen them without lies.

I’ll remain calm and do what’s required to follow her to her new lover's home, and then correct karma’s imbalance after she settles in.

Right now, I just need to smile and nod.

We embrace. She walks to the doorway but turns back one last time. “I've booked the fifth for teeth whitening and a spray tan. She can’t do it any other day. Can you tell anyone who texts or rings on that day that I'm at work?”

Yes, sweetheart.

Honesty is very important.

-Mitchell

In 2001, the bodies of six women were found after nights of wild storms. No one stood trial for these serial crimes. Police are asking for your help to find a killer.

It’s tempting to overlook this recent police request due to the passage of time that’s passed between ’01 and now. Most people believe it’s not relevant anymore, therefore there’s no reason to worry.

There should be.

This serial killer lives near you — we’re certain of it — and their crimes went unpunished. Several families have lived with scars from these vicious attacks and they still don’t know why it happened. You may not know these strangers or the women who tragically lost their lives that summer but you might know the person who did it. The statistics suggest it. You know this person. You’ve made contact with them at some point since then.

There’s another thing.

Ninety per cent of serial killers will kill again. Serial killers don’t get bored and go away. They kill. That’s what they do. The urge to want to continue their folly is far too great for them to stop. The next victim may not be you but someone you know. You can change this. Apply a little time to this post before the next victim falls and ends up on the nightly news bulletin.

“It’s just a matter of time when the killer or killers will be caught. A member of the public will know them. They will be a neighbour or a work colleague, perhaps even a family member. They have probably bragged about killing someone in the past and getting away with it. They may have suffered from an injury or a significant illness at some point after 2001.”

Operation Kurdaitcha was the original investigatory body that looked into these vicious but bizarre murders in the summer of ’01.

It found that apart from the weather events that took place during each murder, the murderer/s didn’t appear to use an external weapon of any kind. They used their bare hands.

Few lines of investigation ever led to arresting a suspect much less making a conviction.

Alan Sweetman who led this specialised crime unit at the time said this afternoon:

“Just as we [Op-Kurd] were forming, the murders suddenly stopped. We thought the bikeway rapist may have been our perpetrator but he was already in custody when Ms DeJong’s body was found. All we know is it’s going to happen again. We’re asking the public to visit our Crimestoppers webpage and take a look at some photos there. If they have any information about the victims on the nights they went missing or sense they know a perpetrator, to make contact with us. They may remember something they previously overlooked, no matter how small.”

The case was scaled down at the end of 2002 but remains open and active today.

“He or they could’ve moved interstate and committed murders elsewhere but we don’t believe this is the case. Until we receive new information, we’re convinced they are still here in this state but suffered a setback of some sort. It kept them from killing again. At this point, we’re unable to proceed any further. We need help from the public. Someone will know this individual or individuals. The families need closure and we have to take a vicious killer, or killers, off the streets. Someone will know something, for sure.”

Kurdaitcha led his victims into the woodland, raping and choking them until they died. Police suspect that all six women knew their killer but aren’t sure how. There are indications they had secret affairs.

‘Serial killer used dating sites.’

“The problem we have with online dating sites is that it can be hard to track down users. If someone doesn’t want to be found, they can remain hidden. It appears our serial killer knows the technology well. He has found a way to locate and identify vulnerable women through dating profiles and then, by hacking into their computers, he’s able to obtain more information about them. We believe that this is when he decides to make contact.”

“The most disturbing thing we’ve discovered during this investigation is his use of the victim’s own microphones. He accesses their device’s mikes and then listens, sometimes for hours at a time. We know he’s accessed their cameras too but this one likes to listen. They wouldn’t have known this was happening at the time.”

“Kurdaitcha” is an Australian indigenous word. At the height of the investigation, Operation Kurdaitcha involved more than thirty officers utilising the resources of five specialist crime units across two major cities. The last known victim was Nina DeJong. Her body was body found outside her Forest Lake home after a thunderstorm storm in December 2001.

(Article inspired by the Novel SEETHINGS)

What about fantastic advancements in medicine? Mathematics? Science? Nope to all three. Mankind's existence is all about breaking things apart, chipping away at the world, one existential rock at a time.

Turning big things into small things is our best performance thus far. We turn rocks into stones, stones into grains, and then grains into powders.

The second best thing we do (or try to do) is to glue those smaller bits back together to form new types of rocks that better serve us. Whether it's turning cement into concrete, or reconfiguring the DNA inside stem cells to grow skin and bone, breaking things apart and putting them back together is our unique duo act. We don't always get it right. Outcomes have failed many times, but we do our best to press on and make new rocks from the ones we’ve broken. 

I hear what you're saying. Not everything turns out bad. What about advancements in medicine? That's the result of good rock breaking and re-sticking back together.

It is?

Antibiotics.

Once that bacteria rock was broken, we built a new rock specifically designed to stop infections. Antibiotics have saved lives. This part of that story is true. The flip side is — bacteria have now evolved. They resist antibiotics. They’ve become stronger. Bacteria prevail. Humans lose to superbugs.

Back to breaking rocks.

When it comes to breaking them, the community expects progress. And its direction is always forward — because sideways isn’t acceptable and backward is pure evil. No is only temporary. All it takes is time to re-glue a yes to the wall to take the next step forward and build ourselves a new rock. We will push on and, when it comes to bacteria, we’ll just make better antibiotics and get on with things. Forget talking about superbugs, the next level would be megabugs.

But not today.

DNA science gives us spare parts which is good for amputees and the like. But DNA science also allows us to produce designer babies. That’s bad. Nevertheless, it’s just a matter of time before we’ll see that threshold crossed — and that’s because forward is good, sideways is unacceptable and backward is pure evil. Babies with pretty eyes, cute noses, great skin and teeth, and superintelligence will come. You’ll see. It’s only a matter of time.

Whether it's breaking down rocks of existentialism, law, injustices, medicine, religion, family, sex or politics, it is what we do best. We like to find out what's inside things by breaking them apart and then sticking ‘em back together our way. Arrogance has us believing that we can do better with the things we break apart.

So, we’ll break a rock. Stick it back together. Fail. And then repeat.

(by Mitchell Felding)

My daughter-in-law is an off-the-charts psycho-bitch. Everyone knows it. We don't say it aloud though. Eyes dart about a room whenever she enters it. You can feel the tension rise. Silence clears a path ahead of this cold-faced cow, who snaps at the smallest things. Her poor husband is at the mercy of her hair-trigger neurosis. Heaven forbid if he ever had a free thought develop in his brow-beaten, emasculated mind. Hell would surely freeze over today if one ever turned into sound and reached the edge of his lips.

I saw one rise to them a long time ago. A steely gaze from the bitch snap-froze them in situ, forcing them back down his gullet. He gagged, gulped and then retreated back into silence. I never witnessed another thought make it to the surface again. Now he waits for her to tell him what to say and when to say it.

This wasn't the girl who dated him and lured his manly parts into her firepit. That version smiled openly and laughed genuinely. It presented itself as a kind, sweet woman. It respected everyone and knew how to speak nicely. This hell-bitch arrived soon after the pregnancy passed the first trimester. That's when the evil creature surfaced and its forked tongue hissed to all and sundry. He should've cut her loose right there and then, but he lost his nerve and went with the happy-ever-after dream instead. Foolish boy. Love didn’t conquer all. It only empowered her and she used it to crush him. She had him lock, stock and bank account.

In the years that followed, one by one, his friends and family were exiled, myself included. She didn't explain herself, she didn’t need to. She simply reached down, gave her husband's nut-sack a squeeze, and he yielded to every demand. Once her pattern of behaviour had rooted itself inside their marriage, she could do anything anytime for any reason — and she did.

My son married a razor-edged narcissist, a witch — our family's most evil in-law. Now he's stuck with her until the day he dies, or until she kills him.

Forget her for a moment, I can't figure out what went wrong. He's a smart man. He left this family home an intelligent person, with an astute mind and a solid heart. He's never entertained fools, no matter how attractive they may have been. But he found this one — a seven at best — married it and then knocked it up. It tricked him. Its pearly smile had us all fooled.

My son is now a gaunt and withered version of himself. She's broken my once happy boy. The saddest part is my three grandchildren — a generation who'll never know me or what a loving relationship between a man and a woman can look like. Their dad is treated like he's a piece of shit on the bottom of their mother’s shoe and they think that's normal. Karma needs to see her slip on it and fall down a very long flight of stairs so it can break her evil neck.

And I think I know the perfect staircase for this to happen. Let me make a quick phone call.

-M

Even the darkest of stories have happy endings if we know where to look for them. The trick in locating them is to skew our heads sideways because straightforward, conventional searches won’t help us. We must first allow the darkness to flow over us so it can smother out orthodoxy and open up our minds.

There are millions of authors on social media who write vanilla HEA’s for traditional HEA fans. HEA is comforting to readers. Fans know that by the close of the book, any crazy world they have in real life is managed and secure inside a good HEA. It makes HEA fans feel comfortable — like pulling up a cozy blanket on a cold Winter’s night.

It got me thinking, I write HEA’s too. My narratives end in happy places! Sure they do. They REALLY do!

Stop laughing.

It’s a fact. My characters flounder like any HEA character. They doubt themselves. They love, hate, inspire to do better, fail and succeed in life. There are winners and losers — just like any HEA character. And every dark story I’ve ever written comes with a profound, life-affirming resolution at its conclusion. Yes, I know, my HEA style is a bit sketchy but stay with me as I explain more.

A criminal’s version of happy-ever-after would be different from ours. It’d be no less important to them, so, as a writer, it’d be a wonderful new writing challenge to create the perfect HEA for a bad guy. Taking their viewpoint would allow a writer to explore their life goals, their hurdles, ups and downs, and all the foibles that come with living their kind of life.

For instance, not going to jail would be one of the criminal’s best HEA’s, right?

This sounds logical but this type of HEA would be a hard sell to those who firmly believe bad people should be punished.

Remember TV’s Dexter?

Now there’s a likeable bad guy who managed to get millions of fans on-side. The show was one part psycho-killer and three parts Equaliser. Dexter was a murderer, but his victims just happened to be much worse than him. They were pedophiles, abusers, rapists, etc — the worst of the worst. This made that kind of order totally acceptable to the audience. We even liked our deranged, yet well-controlled killer, policing society’s filth with a keen eye and a sharp knife. He was a judge, a jury, and an excellent executioner. Viewers grew to love him. It’s a HEA story — unconventional but HEA just the same.

See? It can be done. It just needs the right elements in place.

This writer’s greatest challenge is to create new narratives using the HEA as a starting point — but then develop them from evil’s perspective. I invite readers to experience them, so they too can become dark HEA believers by The End — the perfect conclusion for my kind of adult fiction.

-M

There are flaws in simplifying DNA science through speedy storytelling. Sure, a narrative moves much faster but it also leads to misconceptions about the process. We assume so many things because of it.

Discriminating one blood cell from any other cell is the real job here. There are skin cells, bacteria cells, and every other cell that floats by and gets mixed into a sample. It’s like looking for the right cell in a cell stack. It’s not easy. Everyone in the chain must do their job right to ensure a successful, accurate, and usable outcome.

And then there’s that wonderful moment in history when DNA science was introduced into a law court for the first time. The test was highly accurate and irrefutable. It was the beginning of a change in Law and the way investigations were conducted.

But there was also a magical safe zone that existed for a time while this change took place. It meant that anyone who wanted to commit a crime only had a short time to get it done. If left too long, a criminal could get caught by way of DNA science.

This transitional period and DNA’s implementation into modern investigations intrigues me. It makes me wonder how many real-life criminals are out there just waiting for a knock to come on their door for some crime they committed just prior to the acceptance of DNA science.

Now here’s a twist to that idea: What if your own DNA profile was matched to that of an unsolved murder? That’d shock you, right? You’d deny committing the offence, of course, you would. Like my protagonist, you’re decent and kind. It’s impossible to be linked to any crime, much less murder.

Perhaps someone set you up? That’s the most logical answer of all, right?

Or you did it and don’t know.

Staying hidden on the internet takes more than inventing an alias, browsing incognito and using someone else's face for a profile pic. Technology leaves digital footprints. The moment we log on to the 'net and start our e-devices, we've already started the process. We’re exposed and there are few ways to hide them — shows our true identity.

Some of us don't want that to happen. We want to surf the 'net without telling everyone who we are, where we're going or where we've been. Google hates people like me. It wants to track my every online activity and advertise to me. It says that it's a way to customise and improve my online experience. Nice. I don’t want it. My online experience will be improved by staying the hell away from me.

Here are my basic tips for staying dark on the worldwide web:

* Turn off photo GEO-location.

* Don't use cloud services.

* Don't sign into or up for anything.

* Don’t use Google anything.

* Use a private browser that doesn't require sign-ins.

* Use an incognito browser that blocks advertisements and pop-ups.

* Use a VPN.

* Buy and use a second, older phone, and SIM card (for calls-only).

* Switch off GPS.

* Don’t post personal photos.

I find my victims using these and many other techniques not listed here. I stay hidden from the authorities by stopping those all-important traceable footprints being left on the 'net. But if you're a garden-variety type of predator, what I've listed above will do the trick. You'll stay in the dark zone most of the time. Not even your mother would recognise you if she bumped into you in cyberspace.

Ironically, these are the same techniques that would protect innocents from me — if they chose to use them, of course. Fortunately, they don't. They stay fixated on the shiny things in this world and live inside fairy tales when they do it. It makes them vulnerable and distracted. For me, it's like taking candy from a baby.

-Angelwanderer

No sex. No stimulation. Just watch. Just wash. I want to see her bathe, moving her body inside the frothy liquid while it lightly touches her skin and swirls around it. I want to enjoy it moving around her curves. When she lifts an arm, I want to see the water running off it, leaving a glossy sheen behind that turns into satin a second later.

I want to see that.

Her legs too. I want to see those. They are just gorgeous. Look at them. Just look. See how those suds hug them delicately? Does she know just how much I want to be bubbles, the water and the sheen on her sensuous skin?

A flush of pink rises in her flesh as the water warms it. Small droplets form on her face. She reaches for the soap and knows I'm looking on while she stretches forward.

Nice.

I like how the steam mattes her hair — a casual look that says that she's free. She closes her eyes to draw in that feeling and somehow I feel it too. This is the kind of synergy that well-tuned lovers know well. There'll be a time when her bathing will end and all of these visions will dry up, dress and leave the room — but not now. This is my time, her bath, our pleasure.

Does she know how thrilling this simple act is? Can she tell by how I stare at it how many dreams she is fulfilling? I could tell her how I feel about it as I see it, but that'd spoil these moments. I want her to perform without knowing that she's putting on a performance. I need to see her be free and safe in her way. There's something so visceral about this silent observation that I dare not say a word about it. Speaking would steal its essence. I've already said enough by being here, watching her. Nothing more needs to be spoken.

She asks me if I enjoy watching her bathe. Perfect timing, my darling. I was just thinking about that... she raises an eyebrow and waits for me to respond and part my lips.

Really? An answer? I want to watch. Speaking wasn't part of the—

She doesn't wait for one to come. She levels her eyes, grins and turns onto her side instead. She didn't want a reply at all. She wanted a reaction. Bitch! She got one. She knows me well. Cunning fox. You tease me, bad girl. You beat me at this game. Next time I won't be so obvious and you'll have to work harder for it.

For now, I'll silently congratulate and thank you — just sit here and watch you bathe, appreciating your naughty charm and exquisite femininity without saying a word.

-Michael Forman (Author of dark, adult, slightly erotic fiction.)

Police. They are cunning. They call their kind of evil forensics. Never has there been a time when science has been so cruel to our kind. What should be a simple pedestrian-styled-kill will turn into a major investigation fast. Scrapings from underneath a corpse’s nails will reveal a perpetrator in no time. The next thing you know, you’re having to book on a plane to Mexico because some science geek has solved the case and police are hot on the trail. Fuck that! Why can’t they just leave us the hell alone to live out our lives? We are people too y’know!

Everyone asks me the same thing: Mitchell, is there a way to dodge DNA science and avoid going to jail?

Let me answer this question with a simple few words: If your favourite pastime is bumping people off, you're probably going to get caught one of two ways. Someone witnessed you in the act, or they found solid DNA evidence. If it’s the first reason, then you’re a moron. No good serial killer is supposed to be witnessed doing anything. We are meant to be nobodies in a sea of ordinary. If you get caught this way, then you deserve to go to jail. DNA, on the other hand, is a different thing. That’s a legitimate concern because it is so hard to cover up.

You see, we carry these miniscule particles in our hair, on our skin, blood, spit and secretions. It floats off us and goes everywhere, all the time, including over our victims. You can’t see it, but it’s there. A science nerd will find those particles and then analyses them up close. And how can we stop this from happening?

Why not just pour bleach, wipe down, burn and bury the stuff we touch?

Sure, but that’s hard work — and it only takes a single skin cell to escape the cleaning process to return guilt to the guilty. Let me show you one killer technique I’ve always used that has guaranteed me immunity for so many years.

First, forget covering up your DNA trail. It's impossible to get rid of it all. I’ve never bothered with it. It’s too hard to manage. I say, go ahead and spread your joy liberally, but remember the basics, always.

* Don't have any witnesses see what you do. (Goes without saying)

* Keep your victims random.

There's an important third tip that completes this unholy trinity, but I'll get to that in a second.

I believe that it's totally okay to be a vicious monster, and I support you. It's who you are. Nobody can change that. It's not fair to be judged unfairly just because we found our true calling and exercise our right to be ourselves. That's called discrimination if it were anything else. You can be transsexual, demand equality and get it. But if you’re an evil, psychopathic, serial killer, everyone still wants you arrested and taken off the streets. We’re serial killers, not fucking sideshow freaks. Let us be!

Sadly, equality and understanding is still only for a privileged few.

So it's back into the closet for us. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Go kill, but do it on the down low. We’re left to hide in seedy back-alleys and darkened alcoves to express those cravings. I don’t like it, but that’s what we have to do.

The final serial tip

What’s that one extra thing to include into your routine to protect you from the police?

As I mentioned, we can't do much about DNA science. It's here to stay, and it’ll only get better in the future. So let's get past the DNA itself. It's all about the connection between your DNA profile and the profile of a perpetrator. If there’s no link between these two, there’s no perpetrator or suspect to investigate. Without a connection, the investigation stalls. So let them sequence the miniscule particles found on a body, just don't let them make the all-important link to the miniscule particles on you.

How?

Patience. Practice. A clean slate. If someone makes you angry, don't reach out and immediately kill them. Take a deep breath, refocus, and, when you've had time to contain your emotion, funnel that anger into a random individual instead. You'll get a similar thrill without the DNA heartache that follows it.

Random is the key

Essentially, most psychos are born impulsive. We're so self-absorbed that we forget ourselves. We develop patterns and people associations, and that has to stop from happening. Without some self-control, our evil side is exposed at the wrong time and place. This is a dangerous thing. It’ll get us caught.

The secret to avoiding this is to control our psychopathic tendencies right from the start of our killing journeys (Newbies, this is for you). Reactive behaviour only lets others know what we're thinking when we're thinking it. It's counterproductive to show our fury at this point. It's better to smile, hold back the rising emotion, and wait for another time. Behaviour modification is the real key. Delaying and redirecting our kills into random victims confuses investigators. Without a DNA profile on record, DNA sequencing is of no help to them. There’s no link between crime and a criminal. You're free to be who you are and explore your special gift.

I explored mine last night. I did one on a beach.

She was a sweet redhead. It was like seeing a throwback to the fifties era — wearing a cute skirt from the period and a fake beauty spot on her face. Nice. I like the fifties. Fifties girls look so feminine and pretty.

We met for sex — consensual, of course. That's always the deal. Just as the storm exploded above us, so did I, and then I squeezed her neck, waiting for her fight to fade. It was a deliciously exquisite ending, the best yet. Her profile said she was an empowered woman and independent. I could see that she had something to prove. Nice. Those ones take chances and like to keep secrets from friends. That's what made her so attractive, that and her fake beauty spot.

Having sniper-like patience helps a great deal too. I'd watched her for months without saying a word. My anger had matured well. I was aching to crush an ivory-white throat just like hers, and she had one of those to crush. I also wanted to see a beautiful face above it turn wild at the point when it knew its life was coming to an end. That’s the best part of all. I can’t get enough of that look of desperation. Yummy.

She was my sixth delicious meal. I'm already stalking my seventh and eighth. Both are blondes — each a cheater, stepping out on their husbands. They are secret-specialists too. Secret cheaters hookup easy in today’s world. Hit-and-run sex is not a taboo thing.

Swabs of Ms Redhead's body will be taken, but guess what? She doesn’t know me — and I'm not in the system for police to find! No one has recorded my DNA profile. A genetic link won't be found. I'm free to follow my dream and get me a throat or two.

Sex and throats. That’s all I need to live my life. That's the reward I give to myself for controlling my inner Beast throughout my childhood. As long as I continue to behave like a proper Mr Average, I'm free. The possessive, jealous, ex-husbands will go away for the crimes. Police always suspect them. The community hates possessive, jealous men and are too happy to see them go away.

My wife bought me a new hobby drill this week. She's wonderful. I love her so much. I'll use my gift to turn the redhead's SIM card into a charm for her teddy bear’s bracelet. This one will become a seahorse. She hasn't got one of those yet.

Yes, those of us who get caught are shortsighted fools. It's the smart ones who have distilled and cultivated their hate from their earliest times who'll remain safe and free into adulthood. We’ll stay hidden within our communities, looking like model citizens while committing murders to please and delight our inner-needs.

-Mitchell Felding

‘Forman’s writing style is artful, with the protagonist Mitchell’s warped thought processes masterfully exposed. The author has a powerful and vivid command of language and his word pictures are stark and disturbingly real.’

Linda J Bettenay, author of ‘Secrets Mothers Keep’ and ‘Wishes For Starlight’

That first naughty thing that young, inexperienced adults do that turns them into experienced ones. It’s a threshold that can go one of two ways when it’s crossed. It can be bliss for some of us, but sometimes the moment isn’t perfect. In fact, sometimes we’d prefer to forget it. Unfortunately, first times like that are rule-breaking events and, therefore, they scorch our minds with a burning memory.

Mitchell and Nina were once perfect young lovers. He recalls how special it was for them when they crossed their respective thresholds together. Their moment was fraught with expectation, fear, and doubt smothered in nervous kindness. It could've gone either way, but this encounter had a tender, fairy-tale ending.

Listen to the podcast to hear how that first time played out. Who knew guys could think and feel that way? (For more of their story, please read SEETHINGS on Smashwords. It's free.)

But no matter how memorable that first time was for the couple, it wasn’t an indicator of everlasting love. Sure, they were insatiable — and they continued seeing each other until their sex ran out — but they weren’t compatible outside the bedroom. Their fire faded two years later. They parted ways, but their desire never left. Every five years, they reconnected and rekindled their passion, soaring to places their partners couldn’t take them.

Their relationship ended in a sudden death twenty years later. Now the fire must burn elsewhere, or another sudden death will occur.

-M

"Forman’s writing style is artful, with the protagonist Mitchell’s warped thought processes masterfully exposed. The author has a powerful and vivid command of language and his word pictures are stark and disturbingly real."

– Linda J Bettenay, author of ‘Secrets Mothers Keep’ and ‘Wishes For Starlight’.

It's an awkward topic for some. No parent wants to hear about their baby being touched by an authority figure at their school. School is for learning purposes — and they are just children for God’s sake!

“I trusted you! Leave her alone. Go find someone your own age in the real world! Creep!”

There is an argument that the real world and the school world are deeply interconnected by many things including those outside academia. Love lessons are as important as English and Science. Someone has to do the educating in that department too. Why not a responsible adult? Some teachers are barely out of high school when they start their careers. Graduate teachers are not much older than the students they teach.

“Fuck off! Show me where in the curriculum it says you can take my little girl and do what you like with her!”

Teacher-student relationships do happen but almost all of them are never discovered. They fly underneath the radar. They shouldn't occur, but I've had the opportunity to see one up close and personal at my high school. It's a real story. I know enough of its inner-workings to confirm that the affair really happened. I was a student at the school at the time and I know what I saw. In a way, that affair is still happening. The couple got married and now have children.

Oh yes, it went the distance — and, fortunately, it had a happy ending, but not all teacher-student affairs have that fairytale happy ever-after ending. At its beginning, this one was like all the rest. It was dangerous on so many levels. Everyone in-the-know at the time (the suspicious students) thought that he was just an older guy dipping into the pool of fresh and fertile pussy on display at school — and she was a doe-eyed romantic attracted to older makes. As I recall, the creep level was running pretty high between the children. We had no real proof but there were signs the two were hooking up.

Their private lives were supposed to remain apart. It's morally wrong to have their two orbits cross romantically. There were trust issues and a bunch of professional ethics being broken for this relationship to exist. If discovered, a teaching career would’ve ended. A student would’ve been expelled and lost all her academic credits for that year. Her senior year would’ve been tarnished and it would’ve set her future back as she repeated school. The few people who knew of it were sworn to total secrecy. The only reason I can speak about it now is that no one seems to care about it anymore. Even they talk about their beginnings in mixed company. They speak about it so freely that even they don’t remember what lies they told back in the day.

But they were almost caught out and they needed support from outsiders to keep them protected. That’s how I came to be involved. They called on me to vouch for them. I made a good and convincing ally at the time.

It was her final year. There was a month or two left before she was to graduate and whispers were already going on around the school about the couple — it wasn’t half obvious, the leggy blonde spent much time hanging around his staff room. The teachers had become concerned too, and the administration had to confront him about it when the parent’s voices were added to the mix. The student body believed a secret investigation took place. For weeks, there were strange, new officials moving around the administration block and the teacher’s name was called over the PA many times.

The official version the couple passed to me was that they didn’t get together until after graduation day, after the last day of the school year — that very day as it turned out. Not three days or weeks later but that very day. That one day changed everything.

She was no longer a student of the school but an adult female. She wasn’t the responsibility of the school anymore.

When she spoke to Principal about it, she said she saw him across a room, and it was love at first sight (as if she didn’t know what he already looked like. Too many romance novel stories going on in that young head of hers to realise how stupid it sounded). That was what I was told to say too when I was asked. They dated after graduation not before — I don’t think anyone would’ve believed it, but that version of the story provided a grey area of doubt. No one, not even me, could confirm anything happened before it, so, as far as I could see, it’d bought them a month or two. He kept his job and they were off the hook. The new school year had the staff hopping with new classes, new students and new lessons. No one had the time to pursue the investigation like that. The girl was seventeen and above the age of consent. She wasn’t even at school anymore. Jurisdiction fell elsewhere.

The couple’s plan had worked. He kept his job, and she fell pregnant with their first child almost right away. They got married and everything’s fine. That was many years ago now.

But hard evidence of their affair arose just recently. As I said, they speak freely and talk about their meeting like it was someone else’s story, not their own. They’ve forgotten how much deception took place to cover it up.

Over cocktails, she drew out a glossy photo of her from her handbag. It was a picture of her and a close girlfriend in a city nightclub. It’s bent and faded, and you can see it was taken on an old film camera. There was one more person appearing in that picture — but before I say who, let me describe the scene in the image. The two girls are seen holding drinks and toasting each other beside a very famous 80’s dance floor. There are eighties fashions, eighties drinks, and eighties videos being displayed on small tv screens in the background. Down on the right-hand side of the picture was the date it was taken, something that was common in 80’s cameras. The third person in the photo is a certain male teacher. I could easily do the math. Our teacher had taken two fourteen-year-olds to a bar and provided them with alcohol. That changed everything for me. It was proof the affair started years earlier. The words underage drinking and paedophilia came to my mind. It raises more questions about what was really going on back then. Was he sleeping with one blonde or two? Were there even more young girls in his line-up that no one knew about, not even this blonde child lover? Was that photo only the tip of an iceberg?

I know love comes from anywhere at any time. It's in our DNA to find love, seek a mate, let love grow where and whenever we find it, and we say age shouldn’t matter. If it’s true love then that’s what it is. You can’t stop it when it starts. Leave lovers alone and let them find peace. We should mind our own damn business.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t abide by this way of thinking.

Two girls?

Dammit! That's just wrong!

Take one and leave the other for someone else you selfish bastard!

-A

Although we may not see their benefits right away, all sad endings come with happy new beginnings. Everything we are today comes from the lessons we’ve gained from the past—the good AND the bad. Here’s how I give my thanks to those past lovers of mine—the jerks included.

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