Cyborg Gorilla From Hell (2)


Blood. Demonic insects. Unfathomable creatures. Haunted inanimate objects—Crazed Glimpse offers story after story that accelerates helpless souls into hellish dark depths (from which they have absolutely no chance of returning from).

Are you crazed enough to take the plunge? Say goodbye to your friends and family!


Cyborg Gorilla From Hell

— Part 2

*Hell hath no fury like a woman torn*


The horned figure shrugs shoulders:


The demonites orbit Gorilla Mother, each taking a turn to pick up a severed limb. One tosses a leg over their shoulders while another does the same—except with an arm.

A few grunts sigh as they lift Gorilla Mother’s torso just enough to carry her toward the nearest ravine. The world drift into a blur as Gorilla Mother sways under the soft glow of a silvery moon.

One of the demonite’s clawed appendages slips—they topple over in a collective whelp as the smallest wipes their bony brow.

A meaty demonite places back against Gorilla Mother, digs heels in ground, and bites down on scaly lips. She moves just enough to fall within the grasp of gravity. Her head dangles over the edge as she drops along the face of the ravine.

The demonites toss her limbs in after her, but not before they each take one last lick of the substance that awoken their blood lust.

Gorilla Mother accelerates into the darkness as it gradually fades into a featureless green canvas. The farther she falls, the more her world paints with detail by the hand of her memory.

A lowland of grass, saturated with oval-shaped lakes, manifests along the green canvas. Gorilla Mother smiles as a breeze infused with wild pastures glides through her scruffy hair. Beside the watery threshold of a lake, a silverbackedmonster balances on knuckles to dip face into the serene aqua.

In the distance, a smaller gorilla spies behind a curtain of tall grass, eyes locked on a luscious specimen that lounges in sunlight. The loitering gorilla struts toward her with broad steps upon knuckles as she continues her gaze toward the lake.

The silverback sees all.

He stiffens posture; the crown of his cranium rises high into the atmosphere. The intruder doesn’t care for his pitiful attempt at dominance—it is his time now.

The silverback journeys around the opposite side of the lake. Eventually, he emerges a few yards away from the younger gorilla, and calmly sits

When he turns back around, the strut seizes mid-step. They stare as the younger one burst forward into a chaotic tantrum. The silverback smiles, rises to feet, and beats on his pectoral war drums.

The younger gorilla retreat into the nearby forest.

As the silverback turns his back, the younger one bursts through the forest and slams fists upon the silverback’s spine. A continued flurry of feral swipes pushes the silverback into the lake. For a moment, they size one another up; an opportunity to turn away and admit defeat.

Something neither know the meaning of.

They toss meaty arms in a primal wrestling match, swaying side to side down the lake’s coast. The silverback presses forward with barbaric shoves, mouth unhinged, as a bellow thunders into the atmosphere.

Gorilla Mother accelerates into a rocky ground; the memory erupts into a kaleidoscopic luminance.

Her limbs rain down, each land with an unsettled squish. Movement eclipses splotchy orange fluorescence as it gradually resolves into spindly, animated manifestations.

Words seep out of the dark and creep down her ear canal in an avalanche of nonsense. Pulses of laughter interrupt the constant barrage of haunted vowels—all she can do is listen.

The horned figure strolls out of the dark; he rubs hands together as shadows scrub away into a soft, ambient light. Gorilla Mother watches the horned figure fold in arms, and stroke a pointed, pale chin.

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

Between cracks in a moss-covered wall, hands wiggle out, as impish denizens pull themselves free from their mineral prison. They each grab a piece of Gorilla Mother and march down a stone corridor.

A few lift the torso with a squeamish sigh; the weight of Gorilla Mother strains their bony arms into a shiver. Along the stone corridor, bodies hang with rusted, collared alloys constricted around ankles and wrists.

“..Am I dead…”

Kill mewhy won’t you kill me…”

When will I wake up…”

A few bodies quake along the wall as their rusted chains jingle like a torturous laughter. Their eyes flare with a longing glint of helplessness; a familiarity that comforts Gorilla Mother.

The stony corridor opens into a chasm, adorned with spiraled stalagmites that impale upward into damning heights. A slushy ooze crawls down the rippled surface and collects in an opalescent oil around its base. Muffled voices weep collectively from inside the grotesque stalagmites; an ill-defined orchestra eternally suppressed into a calm song.

What was once rock, beats with a subtle pulse of life, as the demonites clawed toes grip into the puffy surface. Purple veins engorge into ungodly worms that quiver under the presence of a suspended soul.

The Demonites lay Gorilla Mother onto a fatty, gelatinous altar.

“Scram! Get out of here!”

The horned figure punts a demonite, while raising a backhand to another. They scurry into the shadows as the horned figure strolls around the altar in a lazy orbit. He glides a hand along the altar’s edge; it descends into the succulent terrain until Gorilla Mother drowns in a film of unearthly slop.

A thread of sinew sways to the presence of a malicious gale; it cyclones in a playful orgy above the horned figure. He struts along the thread; arms held behind him as the wind sways the biological bridge. butterflies flutter within the horned figure’s stomach—a curdled snort erupts from his mouth.

The sinew bridge connects to a malformed tusk that sprouts out of the ground like a crooked spire.

Lasers cut into the darkness from the threshold of an arched doorway. A gaseous pollution hangs in the air as the horned figure suppress a cough and waves a hand in front of his face.

The smoky veil breaks free into delicate clarity.

A cluster of decrepit, spine-hunched beings, articulate their branch-like arms with hypnotic precision. The altar blooms in the middle of the room as a spindly being with a white lab coat, broods over Gorilla Mother….

 To be continued…


Cyborg Gorilla From Hell – Part 1




Cyborg Gorilla From Hell


Carver burps and crushes an empty beer can in his hand. He tosses it behind the truck and then rolls down the window.

“Hand me another.”

Hans reaches between his feet and snaps off a cold one. Carver turns up the radio: Thunder Clash blasts through the speaker—Shake youuuu, break youuuu, baby I’m a gonna leave youuuu.

Carver bounces his hand to the rhythm as he cuts the wheel toward a jungle infested mountainside. For a short while, the truck continues to climb up the mountain until he pumps the breaks.

“We have to walk the rest of the way. Hopefully those things won’t hear us—otherwise it wont be worth the sweat and gas to get back into town.”

Carver reaches into the back of the truck and grabs hold of a jungle survival knife as long as his arm. He reaches again and grabs hold of a 10 gauge double-barreled scattergun.

“Grab those slugs inside the glove department. We may need ’em.”

They walk in silence through the jungle. Carver leads the way with a meek flashlight, occasionally swinging his jungle knife to decapitate  foliage.

“Alright, were almost there. We have to be quiet. If we wake the parents, pull the trigger.”

Carver abruptly stops. He raises the light further ahead of him; the beam pushes back darkness to reveal a mass of fur. Carver extends an arm toward Hans—he stops in place on the tips of toes.

“Take the light. Give me the bag.”

He scoops up the mass of fur and places it inside. As Carver shambles sideways, eyes spring open into auburn whirlpools. A tiny mouth drops open and emits a wail. Carver mutes the cry with his palm, but an intense sting radiates into his hand’s bony architecture.


Carver drops the bag as Hans swivels the flashlight back and forth. A pair of reddened orbs glow from within a pocket of shadow. Hans aims the scattergun with one arm while holding the light with the other. By the time his finger glides over the trigger, a maw lashes out of the dark with a disheartening growl.

Hans squeezes down the trigger.

The world bathes in a momentary flash, followed by a damnable thunder.  Hans’s senses come back to him as he tries to remember when he hit the ground and why his  shoulder will not obey any of his commands.

An orchestra of chirps and inhuman guttural groans taper off into a cold silence. Carver picks up the flashlight and tosses it toward Hans:

“Hold that.”

Carver wipes off plushy matter onto his pants that clings to the spine of his jungle knife. He bags a baby gorilla, and then shifts attention to subtle movement below his feet.

Gnarled fingers reach for his ankle: Carver grips his jungle knife as he chops into a wrist, each strike ending with a dull thud. The hand curls into a spastic dance.

Hanz squints at the sound of each successive thud. He lifts himself up with the arm that still works, and picks up the flashlight:


His whispers escape into the night.

The flashlight’s shallow luminance glides over a glistening red ocean, punctuated with islands of lumpy, blackened masses. The light hovers over a contorted mouth full of jagged teeth.

“Do you see anymore?”

Hanz  jumps as Carver steps beside him.

“Jesus Christ! Don’t scare a man with a gun.”

“…Well? Do you see any? We need a few more.”

The flashlight pulls back the veil of dark beside a meaty leg. Behind it, a pair of reddened orbs stare back. Carver seizes the baby gorilla, and bags his squirmy treasure.

“Alright—let’s head back to Lorenzo: If were quick, maybe we could get paid tonight, and be out of this shithole by dawn.”

Hanz follows behind Carver; branches snap under their weighted footsteps. The audible din flips open the Gorilla Mother’s eyes as the stomping dampens with distance. A tear condenses under her eyelid until it can longer hold back the pressure of hopelessness.

Her mourning burrows underneath unfathomable depths below the jungle floor. Tears and blood soak around the Gorilla Mother like a grotesque oasis.

A horned figure whistles as he strolls beside her mutilated body. A finger rests under her eye; the warmth of her tears sears his dry hide into streams of nebulous specters.

A soft, rhythmic beat flirts for his attention. The horned figure rests an ear on the Gorilla Mother’s chest as lips curl.  Blood absorbs through the soil, pushing back eons of earthen material that has never seen the light of day.

The journey descends into a mouthy abyssal ballroom—walls ornamented with half-buried corpses that fail to understand the meaning of death. Tentacled tongues rise out of their mouths as biological liquor sprinkles like a sunshower.

Tremors displace earthly soil into jagged ravines. Hands latch onto the edge as scaled entities ascend to their feet. They encircle the Gorilla Mother; the aftertaste of her blood seduces their appetite.

One dips a bladed finger inside her shoulder socket and licks the biological juice.

The horned figure punts the pitiful, hellish denizen’s snout into the dirt.

“Beat it!”

The demonic gang slouch their posture as teeth chatter to the call of hunger.

To be continued…



Blood. Demonic insects. Unfathomable creatures. Haunted inanimate objects—Crazed Glimpse offers story after story that accelerates helpless souls into hellish dark depths (from which they have absolutely no chance of returning from).

Are you crazed enough to take the plunge? Say goodbye to your friends and family!




Monster Theory: Death’s Attraction


What is it about someone’s possible untimely death that we can’t turn away from? What is it about a particular threatening event that summons a crowd? Some say the possibility of death is more exciting than any stunt, although people seldom admit it.

From the perspective of the one that puts their life on the line, is it thrill alone that motivates? Or the thrill of constantly keeping death away at arm’s length? Spectators are given a dose of exhilaration when they witness someone preserve their mortality.

Death’s attraction softly pulls at our mortal heart-strings.

Personal sympathy allows us to live through anyone near the moment of death. There’s no greater satisfaction than to walk along the cliff of life, and glance down from the heights of inevitable doom. When we see someone tip over the edge, we can’t help, but feel what they feel: shortness of breath, heart palpitations, sweat on forehead, sharpened visual acuity; it’s as if were walking the cliff along with them.

A sinister intent does exist for those that wish the worst for someone in a precarious situation. To them; the entertainment is death—not the denial of it. Some part of them yearns for blood to be spilled, not safely tucked away in an artery. All sorts of humanistic qualities cause this affinity for death:

  • Hatred
  • Jealousy
  • Prejudice

Any disdain for humankind can be incubated into a grudge against life.


A loss of sympathy has the potential to strip someone of their comforting blanket that keeps them from growing jadedly cold. In the end; it’s the mystery of what happens when the threads of life are severed that keeps us instinctual invested in those that choose to stare death eye to eye.

The medium doesn’t matter: books, movies, video games, paintings—death’s message always ends the same way.

Death’s attraction lies in the core of our own mortality: we believe were impervious to the grave, but this is an illusion to preserve sanity. Death’s dance neglects no one; everyone will waltz beyond the veil of life.

Monster Theory: Faces in the Mirror


What is horror? Is it blood ‘n’ guts? Confrontation with the unknown? A forceful perspective on mortality? In a way; the face of horror fractures into many faces.

Horror doe’s not affect everyone the same: Some people flinch at the sight of blood, while others are unimpressed by its redden nature. Some people are stricken with vertigo, while others thrive on it. Some people cry at shadows that creep across their bedroom wall, while others investigate with a baseball bat.

Not everyone responds to a particular fearful stimuli. There for, in a way, horror reflects our own insecurities; it’s not an absolute distinction—that’s what makes horror tenuously definable.

This personal connection is what separates horror from other genres.

Science-fiction offers visions of technological superiority as romance deals with what makes hearts topple down the cliff of love. While it’s true, not every genre operates under a rigid formula; they non-the-less have absolute characteristics.

Horror can’t scare without your permission.


Horror is the face of reality that embodies: sickness, horrible luck, life circumstance—the stuff that takes up residence in our daily lives.

The roots of fear spread deep like a tendril spider’s web that seeps down into the depths of our self; the thread you struggle upon is dependent on the breed of fear that resides in you. This is what allows phobias to spoil our ability to reason.

Trauma or irrationality is a gateway to this personal hell.

Some people detest clowns with a hateful passion. On the outside, what’s to fear? Their goofy attitude should invoke feelings of laughter and happiness, not despair that throbs the heart. Pretty butterflies that flap across a grand azure sky has the potential to make someone shit their pants.

When is the last time a butterfly harmed you? Yet; the fear lives on in someone.

If fear were to look in the mirror what would it see? Its reflection would be fractured into constellations of our own irrationalities. We can’t completely fathom each others fear, but we could observe at a distance and attempt to see the pattern outlined in points of illumination.

The human race is cursed with fears that are placed upon us by evolutionary standards.

Without this echoing reminder of our mortality; humanity would be a naive species digested in some predator’s stomach acid. When alone at night, with not even the comfort of a gibbous moon, we all hate to hear that snap of a branch or momentary footsteps behind us.

Our heart pumps as breath becomes shallow, eyes scan in orbital sockets while our ears raise to the wind; symptoms of fear are the same for us all.

A disembodied noise allows us to paint a reality inside our mind with past experience and irrational paranoia. Often times that branch you heard snap did so under the weight of a scavenging skunk or some lumbering possum—not some stalker in shadow or monstrous entity that exists to gnaw on human femurs.

…Then again, shadows do provide a darkly estate for those that wish to inflict harm.

There’s a reason for fear’s existence; it’s not completely absurd to be scared of noises we can’t comprehend or visuals that upset are perception of reality. Those are the things that potentially can snatch away our mortality, unlike butterflies or clowns (Unless you’re John Wayne Gacy)

Horror is like an overcast veil that hides a sunset—where it begins and where it ends is an impossibility to perceive; the only certainly is tenuous existence.


What horror do you see in the reflective skin of a mirror? Feel free to scare the hell out of everyone in the comments!!!

Monster Theory: The Killer Within


What is it about a blade wielding maniac that we love to hate?

A simple knife has the potential to transform anyone into a slasher; a breed of monster that culls those around them with the edge of a blade. You’ve seen them portrayed in movies, literature, games—the proverbial stalker in shadows that wants nothing more than to cut you from ear to ear.

Usually, a knife is not all that fearful. Everyone has a drawer full of them, some diabolically massive. However, that simple tool, when in the hand of a constricted grip, manifests into an inanimate monster.

On the outside, a slasher can be the most ordinary person in the world: pleated slacks, button down shirt, charismatic grin, polished shoes. But maybe not, perhaps they’re gaunt, dirty and reclusive. Or they could be the pinnacle of beauty that baits every man’s (or woman’s) lustful desire.

A slasher has the potential to embody anyone.


When is the last time you been cut by a knife?

The occasion didn’t have to cause the need for stitches or even a bandage. Everyone is familiar with a blade’s unforgiving edge. We’re aware of the pain and red that spills when our flesh is unstitched—respect for the blade is forged at an early age.

When is the last time you saw a monster?

Something that truly embodies your definition of what a monster is. For some, they witness monsters everyday in the form of abusers. However, for the sake of the argument; let’s restrict the definition to something that has actual teeth and claws or some other otherworldly physiology.

Now the occurrence becomes more rare, if ever. Yet, despite this, I’m sure you have access to a knife.

The point is: no matter how fictional a monster can be, a knife will always be real, even in fictional situations. The personal connection that’s forged with a blade becomes a lifelong relationship devoted to not being cut. And when someone raises a knife above their head; we know what it feels like before the laceration takes place.

No one forgets when their kissed by a knife; a slasher forces this intimacy upon their victim.


In a way; the horror is the knife, not necessarily who’s holding it. Without an edge, would any self-proclaimed psycho be nearly as fearful? Doubtful.

Any personal connection that’s involved with the knife, also is involved with the person wielding it. They think, talk, feel, eat, shit, smoke: You know what a slasher is capable of because in a way, they’re you.

Everyone has been animated by anger at some point in their life; the feeling of veins incinerated by heat of frustration. I’m sure you’ve calculated a particular situation step-by-step in attempt to see all the angles before any are solidified into actuality. I’m sure you’ve done things for an unreasonably cheap thrill.

A slasher is devoted to:

  • Feeling
  • Reason
  • Calculation
  • Desire

We all can relate to a slasher in one or another (whether we like it or not).

There’s something to be said about someone who wants to get up close and personal when severing the threads of life. Death is not good enough for a slasher; they have to experience the process moment by moment until all vital essence is drained from their victim.

Every slasher has their psychosis that pulls them around as if they’re on a leash. We may not be able to fully understand what dictates their thirst to kill, but our humanly sympathetic bridge that connects us all together, enlightens shadows of obscurity.

In the end; what separates a slasher from a monster is the reflection seen in your mirror.


Do you have a vision of a slasher you want to express? Feel free to scare the hell out of me in the comments!

Monster Theory: Tooth & Claw


A very simple question, yet difficult to answer: What is a monster?

At first glance, it’s easy; a monster is a type of tangible/non-tangible entity that has sharp-tipped appendages and a mouth full of teeth. True, not every monster fits this rigid description. Generally, this hypothetical monster has some sort of distinctive, outward appearance to the point where we could point and definitively say: “Yeah, that’s a damn monster.”

Is it really that simple? Is a monster simply a collection of teeth and horns?

When boiled down to its nightmarish constituents; a monster embodies more than some outward manifestation—it embodies the unknown. Not only are sharp teeth and claws scary, so is a monster’s mere existence, fictional or otherwise.

When were presented with a particular monster that our senses haven’t had a chance to process yet, were forced to paint in the history with hues of assumption.

  • Maybe it came from a hellish planet from some distant star in some strange galaxy
  • Maybe it was bred in a lab by some fiendish scientist
  • Maybe it evolved along the outskirts of humankind

The questions that we ask ourselves makes any monster more menacing that its physical manifestation.


What about intentions? What use are teeth and claw without the motive to use them? In fact, you can say the monster is the intention; not the outward identity. Anything that has the potential to kill you also has the potential to hug you…if it has arms or tentacles.

The physiology of a monster is only part of the equation; psychology is the other. Go ahead and dredge up any monster from the past (movies, books) and you’ll discover underneath all the scales, teeth, horns and claws are blood-filled motives that are often more terrifying.

Not always.

Sometimes a monster seems to have a natural bad-attitude that wants nothing more than to rip into your flesh and drink the red substance that pours out. Although these monsters may seem shallow on the surface (which they are) they allow us to make assumptions about its character and nature.

We partake in an active process that is continually propelled with questions that are never answered.

The question remains: What is a monster?

Is it tooth and claw? Is it hellish intention?…or is it unanswered questions?

When boiled down to absolute chemistry; a monster is a concoction of all these principles. Humans don’t like the unfamiliar or things that strain our precious comfort. We prefer everything to be neatly boxed and labeled that way we know what to expect, especially at a distance.

People do this all the time: construct assumptions about others based on the visual stimuli we receive from them. Why? Because the distance of judgment is one of our best forms of defense.

After all, if something looks the part, it must act the part. In a way, humanity doesn’t have time to analyze everything in front of our eyes; otherwise we couldn’t live.

Imagine how difficult life would be if you tossed everyone under a microscope that crossed your path on the way to purchase a gallon of milk. No, that’s not what we do, right? As a species we scan the aisles not only for a product of desire, but for characters that look unsavory near the beer coolers.


Without this sub-conscious, thinly layered prejudice, we would be an exceptionally naive and gullible species out in the wild. Why investigate every growl in the dark when you may end up with canines in your jugular vein?

This same defensive mechanism is what a monster triggers inside us; the rise of fear that ascends one’s spine and induces trepidation.

In the end; it’s not tooth and claw that make’s a monster—unfamiliarity is the true monstrosity.


Do you have a vision of a monster you’d like to express? Feel free to scare the hell out of me in the comments!

Of Slashers and Monsters


FlyTrapMan is the heinous host of this continual glimpse into the absurd. He’ll hold your hand along the way if your brave enough to walk along the nerve of horror.

Will you be lacerated by the edge of a knife? Of course. Will you be devoured by unthinkable creatures? That goes without saying. Will you be mentally stunted by undefinable aspects of fear?

I’m afraid so.

Your safety or sanity cannot be guaranteed, but don’t let that stop you from becoming the monster you always dreamed of being!

Your hand will be held each step along the way as we venture into: hellish short stories, nightmare invoking topics, horrific subject matter—if it thrives in the dark—I’ll shed a light on it.

Are you certain you want to take this journey?

Are you certain you want to subject yourself to inner-turmoil or the dull ache of paranoia? These are the things that envelope us like a cocoon, which allows sadistic-metamorphosis to take place within. Who knows what you’ll become when exposed to the dark, but I have a feeling you want to find out.

Do you want the monster inside you to emerge?

Take the first step and subscribe! SlasherMonster will take you under its scaly-webbed wing.

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