Hi, I'm C S Jones and I can honestly say that the hardest part of writing is the part where you write about yourself. With that said, I'm 37, from Wrexham, North Wales and only just plucked up enough courage to put myself out there. Horror has been a love of mine for a long time, though truth be told I was terrified of everything as a child, even insisting my parents record over Ghostbusters 2! Anyway, I hope you enjoy what I wrote.
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FLYTRAP
by
C.S. JONES
Giddy and quivering with excitement, Warren held tight to his jar as he shuffled his way through the brush, deeper into the forest-laden mountains. Feeling the altitude close in, he banged the side of his head with an open palm to ease the dull thumping in his ear. It had been getting worse these past few days, but Warren was focused on the job at hand.
He ducked under a low branch, smiling at the army of ants parading along the top. He brushed a couple into his jar before carrying on. Ahead, a dot-to-dot hovered in the clearing, the mosquitoes out in full force. After scooping his jar through the air, he dipped a hand in front to clear a path, imagining himself as Moses parting the Red Sea.
Insects, bugs, pests, whatever you wanted to call them, didn't bother Warren. They only wanted to survive. There was a time in Warren's life he thought the same way. Memories flashed back to life with his sister. He moved on, leaving the memory behind.
Warren was off the beaten path. Ignoring the nettles and brambles with their weak attempts to ward him away, he was determined to reach his destination before nightfall.
A beetle flew past his face and Warren reacted instinctively, trapping it with the rest of his menagerie.
He was almost there. No one else dared venture this far out. This deep into the forest, you could scream for days—until your throat was raw and bloody—and no one would ever find you. Warren should know.
Young Kelly Francis, a girl with an uncanny resemblance to his late sister, had been missing two weeks; gone without a trace and no clue to her whereabouts. She simply vanished. Before her disappearance, Kelly was working on a school project with Warren: a presentation on the Vietnam War. She wanted to focus on the politics while Warren was far more engrossed by the violence.
Since learning of the subject and its atrocities, he became obsessed, gathering quite a collection of grisly photographs. One that took pride of place was a picture showing the aftermath of a folding chair trap. Punji sticks were attached to the underside of two pivoting false floors—a sort of flytrap—when an American soldier stepped between them. They pivoted inward where a series of sharpened punji sticks and rusty nails spun, penetrating and impaling his flesh, clamping him in place. Any attempt to free himself would only drive them deeper. A truly monstrous contraption, yet so simple to replicate. And replicate, Warren certainly did.
What Warren savoured most was how no one helped the soldier. He was left to die a slow, painful death, all alone. Just like he and his sister, Claire, in that dark cellar all those years ago.
Malnourished and eaten alive by local fauna, the image showed the soldier’s dead body, infested and puffy, while his leg remained pinned and decimated. It may have been blurry, but Warren knew he could make out the maggots and flies laced throughout his body, all alive and thriving simply because he was not.
He thought back to that time in the cellar, to those monsters who called themselves parents. Locking them away, often for days at a time, until finally they were left there, forgotten by the ones meant to protect them.
How he missed Claire. He’d do anything to have her back.
Reaching his destination, Warren was careful to avoid the extra traps he set in case Kelly didn't step on that particular spot.
Again, his ear throbbed, causing him to wince.
He sat beside Kelly. “Sorry I'm late, Claire,” he said, her appearance now mirroring his sisters when the police found them.
Kelly was still recognisable, though her skin was waxy and bloated and maggots writhed within her eye sockets. It reminded him of the last glimpse he had of his sister before a policeman whisked him away. Both seemed to smile at him. A rictus smile filled with equal parts love and regret.
A millipede crawled from her pastel lips. Warren scooped it into his jar. “Another one for the collection.”
Again, that throbbing. He shook his head. Thinking back, he hadn't felt right for a few days. Not since falling asleep out there, cuddled up to Kelly, who had already been dead almost a week. Warren assumed he was coming down with a cold or an infection.
He brushed back Kelly’s hair, tangled from the breeze until it resembled his sister’s. Before the maggots.
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and studied the trapped leg. It had grown mulchy and gangrenous. She had developed quite a stench, too, thanks to the marauding insects consuming her from within.
He plucked a pinch of maggots from the wound and dropped them into the jar, then a few more into his mouth, the slithering undulations taking him back to the darkness.
Again, that throbbing. Tickling. Then a trickle.
Warren brought a finger to his ear. It came away bloody. A subdued terror rose. He tilted his head and wiggled a finger in. Something popped. When he brought his hand away it was covered in blood and... maggots.
They squirmed and writhed their way from his ear.
In a panic, Warren flailed and stepped onto one of his traps.
The pain was immense.
Warren fell, hearing a crunch in his knee. His leg remained rooted. He dropped the jar and it rolled beyond his reach.
In a daze, he gazed up at the darkening sky. He felt more maggots crawl out from his ear. A fly must have laid its eggs while he slept.
He chuckled.
Then he cried.
He looked over to Kelly, her smile seemed wider. Then he looked to the buzzing jar resting against her hand.
He chuckled again.