American Psycho by Nick Trussler

…and she knew when she saw him that he was different and she knew she would end up back at his place but she realised she didn’t care. She enjoyed the hunt. And he came over, as she knew he would, and he gave the same story as everyone else and asked the same questions and she replied like all the other girls did and laughed at his teasing which, when she really thought about it, wasn’t funny at all and a very easy thing to do but it made him look clever and made him feel confident and was supposed to make her feel insecure so she let him think she was, for that was how the game worked. And so the inevitable happened and he leaned in for a drunken kiss and his mouth tasted bitter because of the beer but she tried to ignore it and they continued like this for some time until he whispered in her ear, slurring, to go back to his dorm and she agreed and then the hunt truly began. And she followed him back like a shy and nervous freshman, who had had too much to drink and a long distance boyfriend, should follow a confident and drunk senior and she entered his room and there were socks and boxers littered on the floor and there was an unusual aroma of processed cheese in the air. And he pushed her down on the bed and pulled down his jeans and she gave it a few tugs and he murmured something about the alcohol so she put it in her mouth and it soon became hard and it tasted salty which was a better taste in her mouth than his tongue. And after her jaw had become sore and he had grabbed and pulled at her hair she pushed him gently onto the bed and pulled down her panties and took off her top and bra and climbed onto him and he grabbed and slapped at her ass and she pretended to be lost in ecstasy and her hands ran over his chest and then rested on a pair of scissors on his bedside table and she wondered why he kept them there and then looked down and realised he trimmed his pubes and she couldn’t help but laugh to herself and he laughed too and called her a bitch and she carried on laughing and didn’t stop even when she had picked the scissors up and plunged it into his chest and stomach, her hand rising and falling with each thrust she gave him and though he screamed and tried to get her off him she pinned him down with her thighs and carried on laughing and with each fresh spray of blood that covered her bare breasts and body her orgasm grew and before she climaxed she slit his throat open and finished as the cloud of blood that had erupted from this last cut fell down onto his body and through into the soaked bed sheets beneath them.

Hook by Nick Trussler

Hook: A Short Play

The scene takes place on a pier. JAMES is trying to hold ELISE’S hand.

ELISE: Let me go you creep!

JAMES: God’s sake, Elise! I may have a hook for a hand, but is that all you care about, a piece of metal?

ELISE: It is when you’re trying to grab my hand with it!

ELISE lets out a piercing scream

JAMES: Oh god…it’s happened again!

ELISE: It’s gone through my hand!!!

JAMES: Well, you said lets hook up

ELISE: What?? Get me to a hospital you freak!

JAMES sighs and pulls his hook out of ELISE’s hand. She runs away crying.

JAMES walks to the end of the pier, holding his bloody hook with his other hand.

JAMES: Maybe I should just become a pirate and go and find a remote island, far far away but where somehow children have formed a stable island community, managing to survive and thrive in a place with very little natural resources and without bothering to hunt or farm…and no one ever ages though no one bothers to find out why, and I could vent my repressed sexual desires by having an irrational fear of crocodiles and an ineptitude when it comes to sword fighting and actual pirating…yes…that sounds like a plan…

Frozen by Nick Trussler

Her body lay already frozen on the ice when the doctor approached. She was about eight years old, dressed in a winter overcoat that was too big for her. Her lips were already blue and her blonde hair was stuck to the ice. It made it difficult for the doctor to turn her on her back without ripping her hair out. A small breath escaped her mouth. Despite the futility of it the doctor bent over and blew hot air into her mouth and tried to shake her awake. Her lips were frozen. The doctor picked her up with some difficulty, for someone so small she was surprisingly heavy. He walked along the ice trying not to slide, treading carefully. The sudden sound of the cracking of ice sent a shiver down his spine, leaving him frozen on the spot.

Family Man by Nick Trussler

I’m a family man. Through and through I love my wife and kids. Sure sometimes my eyes may wander, my hands too, and my lips and tongue and other various body parts but apart from that I am a solid, 100% family man. And okay I may occasionally go to a certain seedy hotel on Friday nights to meet with girls and married women from online but I’m still a family man and I’ll be there for my kids and wife anytime and anyplace…except of course if there’s football on, I wouldn’t want to take them there, it cuts into my time with the boys. Oh and Sundays of course because that’s when I meet my mistress at her house but apart from those times I’m a dedicated family man. I’d never miss a holiday or a birthday unless it crosses with my evening classes and any dates I have and the aforementioned things of course but I’m still a family man. And okay I may not come home after work at all some night but when I am there I am a family man, everyone knows me as such I mean just because I like to eat my meals by myself in my own room doesn’t mean I am not a family man right? I’m still in the same house with the wife and kids and we’re still eating at the same time just not in the same room. And okay I may never have wanted a family, and just because my wife started as a one night stand that turned into a friend-with-benefits situation that turned into an accidental pregnancy, still I’ve always wanted to be a family man. From day one I was a family man, sure I went to the occasional party by myself, I still do of course but only on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and I may have missed all of the births of my children but I did give my wife flowers eventually. Just because they were picked from my mum’s garden doesn’t mean they mean any less. So yes, I would say I am a family man and that is what I shall say at the divorce hearing.

Build God, Then We'll Talk by Nick Trussler

‘Build God, and then we’ll talk,’ he said. I didn’t know what he meant. So I went out and got a job. When I came back he asked me again, ‘Have you built God?’ I told him I built houses for a living. He shook his head. ‘When you have built the house of God then we’ll talk.’ So I waited for a year and managed to build a small chapel in my back garden. Well, it was really more of a converted shed.

I went back to him and said, ‘I have built a house of God, now can we talk?’

He shook his head again, ‘It is easier for a poor man to squeeze through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. To build God you must first have nothing.’

So I sold my house and all my possessions save for the clothes I was wearing and came back to him. ‘I have nothing, tell me how do I build God?’

‘To build God you must suffer with his people. Go out and suffer.’ And so I wandered the country for two years and I suffered; I suffered cold, hunger, thirst, heat and, surprisingly, chlamydia.

I returned three years to the day since I first spoke to the man. I was thin, I was ill, I was hungry, I was poor, I was tired, I was dirty. I said to him, ‘Now can we talk?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Now we can talk.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We have meetings Tuesday and Thursday evenings, with prayers and songs and coffee and biscuits to follow. Friday evening is film night where hot cocoa is served, but you will need to bring your own food. Is this something you would be interested in at all? He added, smiling, and passed me a leaflet.

Now I think about it, it was really quite a lot of an effort just to please a street preacher.

Lullabye by Nick Trussler

Go to sleep, go to sleep

Daddy has got a shotgun

Go to sleep, go to sleep

He’s pointing it at your heads

Go to sleep, go to sleep

Before the bank repossess our house

Go to sleep, go to sleep

There’s no need to wake up

Accidentally in Love by Nick Trussler

‘You’re so beautiful,’ the boy smiled to the other.

“You’re so beautiful,” the other replied.

The boy stared at the other dreamingly. He tried to reach out and touch him but the other boy disappeared.

‘Who are you?’ he asked the boy.

“Who are you?” replied the other.

There was silence between the two, but a happy silence. Both smiled the exact same smile

‘I wish I could be with you,’ the boy said.

“I wish I could be with you,” the other replied.

The boy could not bear the pain of separation any longer. He leaned forward, getting closer and closer to the other boy’s face until he fell into the water and was lost to its depths.

Nuclear Family by Nick Trussler

‘Could you pass the potatoes please darling?’

My father asks, though the words come out muffled through his radiation suit.

I pass what I think are the potatoes but when you have three eyes, purple skin and no tongue everything looks and tastes the same. Sometimes it’s hard being part of a Nuclear family.

No More Sorrow by Nick Trussler

‘Don’t cry! Men don’t cry,’ I receive a slap on the back of my head from my father for this.

But I can’t help it. It is my mother’s funeral after all. I close my eyes so he can’t see the tears. I must be a man. I must harden my heart. There must be no more sorrow, so at least when it’s time for that bastard’s funeral I won’t let even one single, accidental tear to roll down my cheek.

Unsaid Things by Nick Trussler

‘So, that’s it?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ she said, looking down at the floor.

‘Is it because-’

‘No.’

Silence.

‘Look, I know I wasn’t the best…’

‘It’s not that. That doesn’t matter.’

‘I mean the end doesn’t have to mean the end does it? I mean-’

‘Don’t, just…don’t.’

I can’t bear to look at her face. So I look at her feet instead.

She painted the nails red today.

‘I can change you know…’

When you don’t know what else to say you rely on clichés.

‘There’s nothing for you to change’

I’m half expecting her to add: “it’s not you, it’s me.” But she doesn’t.

‘Well…we’ll be friends though, of course?’

‘Mmm, yeah of course.’

Silence.

‘Maybe what we need is just a little time-’

‘No.’

‘But-’

‘No. I’m sorry, but after…’

Pause.

‘…after…all of that…I mean…I think you understand, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. No, I…maybe one day I will.’

‘Yes.’

I breathe in. I can smell her perfume. I feel a little sick.

Silence.

‘So I guess…’

‘Yeah…I should be going…’

God how to end this? It was nice knowing you? Good luck? Better luck next time?

So I say nothing. Sometimes leaving things unsaid is the only thing you can do.

Where Did the Party Go? by Nick Trussler

Empty slogans and meaningless banners,

Badges that once had pride of place,

Now have little worth.

Capitalism now dominates the hearts and minds,

The populace is seduced by the things they don’t need

And now those whose heads were once filled,

With dreams of a better future,

Of working for the greater good,

Now ask themselves,

Where did the Party go?

Jamie's Got a Gun by Nick Trussler

Jamie’s got a gun. Well, not really. More a metaphorical gun. A metaphorical gun pointed at the bookseller. He also has a knife except that this knife is actually a knife, and at this very moment it is pointed at the bookseller’s throat.

‘Now, I’ll ask again, I want a book with no pages.’

The bookseller stared wide eyed into the simple and plain face of Jamie.

‘But, Sir, I told you all our books have pa-’ the blade was pressed tighter against the bookseller’s throat, causing a tiny trickle of blood to swim on the edge of the blade.

Jamie started to twitch, his left eye opening and shutting with surprising speed.

‘No paper, no paper…’ he started muttering.

The bookseller’s eyes started to roll in the back of his head and then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted the solution to his problems.

‘Sir, sir – I think I have it!’ he cried, stretching slightly to his left to pick the object up.

‘A Kindle! You see, no paper!’ he cried and he gave the Kindle over to Jamie with shaking hands.

Jamie looked down at it for a second and then quickly withdrew the knife from the bookseller’s throat.

‘Excellent, excellent!’ he cried, and began to shake the bookseller warmly by the hand. ‘You see,’ he said, pointing the knife excitedly at the bookseller as he talked, flicking specks of blood all over the bookseller’s nice, clean counter, ‘ the customer is always right.’

He began to walk away before quickly coming back. ‘Oh, where are my manners?’ he said, and took out a crisp £20 note from his wallet. ‘Will this suffice for our transaction, my good shopkeeper?’

The bookseller nodded vigorously, ‘Oh yes sir, absolutely sir.’

‘Capital! Capital,’ Jamie said and then added, ‘incidentally, this knife – it was always more of a metaphorical knife you know…you do know, don’t you?’

The bookseller nodded.

‘Knew you would! Knew you would…’ Jamie muttered, and with a wave of his hand and a fond, ‘Cheerio!’ he exited the bookstore.

Barricades by Nick Trussler

‘Hold the barricades men! They won’t come in yet!’

The men looked to their leader for inspiration. He was a man of the old school. He had been in this bloody business for 40 years and he knew all the drills, all the situations, all the tactics of the enemy.

He stroked his moustache in anticipation of the oncoming horde. They would make a fine stand here, he thought.

The doors began to shake and rattle. Despite his earlier cry he knew they would not, knew that they could not, hold them. He looked to his men, smartly dressed though this would not help them much in the face of what was to come.

The doors rattled more violently and the barricades began to shake. It was useless to offer any more resistance but orders must be obeyed.

He sighed and looked at his watch. It was time.

‘Move the barricades and open the doors!’ he shouted, and the order was carried out.

Almost instantaneously the horde of Boxing Day shoppers exploded into the furniture store.

Flesh and Bone by Nick Trussler

Cannibal wanted. Must like flesh and bone. Previous experience not required, but please bring your own knife and fork.

Cherry Cola by Nick Trussler

Cherry cherry cold. Your lips taste like cold soda. Cherry cola.

I pull back and look over your bright red lips, painted fresh for this occasion. I kiss them again, this time I slip my tongue between them. Your teeth are in the way. I could always knock them out but you look so beautiful, like a painted portrait. I don’t want to disturb one hair on your body. Nothing must be out of place. You are perfection. You are my marble Aphrodite. I rub my cheek against yours. It is rosy, painted blush on white skin. I kiss both cheeks, leaving my damp imprint on your timeless skin. I want to climb in beside you, no, on top of you. But I dare not. I cannot disturb you too much. So I explore your body, with my mouth and my hands. Every orifice, every dent, every crook and every hair. Like a sculptor carving living tissue out of lifeless marble I am engrossed in my work. Time passes and I am done. I walk slowly away from you, leaving as quietly as I can and, with a last glance at you, I leave and close the morgue door behind me.

Dark Paradise by Nick Trussler

Vampires and things. That was his summary of this girl’s novel, ‘Dark Paradise.’ He tossed the book scornfully into the pile of Best Sellers. If I could burn this fucking bookshop down now, he thought, if I could stand here and watch the flames consume these dregs of literature, then I would truly be in a Dark Paradise.

Exit Wounds by Nick Trussler

God damn it. God damn that son of a bitch. That’s all he could do now; swear. Call upon some false idol to curse the man that had shot him. He staggered, like a man drunk, a man whose vital organs are failing him one by one, like some cruel game of dominos.

“Motherfucker,” he whispered. Damn it. That couldn’t be his last word. But it felt good to swear. No, not good. Nothing felt good anymore. It was a relief. No. Damn it, his thoughts were becoming confused now. Obscure memories floated in his head, songs from a wild youth cascaded and broke their melodies apart in the blinking of an eye. Was this his life flashing before his eyes? A broken kaleidoscope of thought, not the fluid chronological progression you saw in films. Damn those films. They never showed dying as it really is. A man staggering, grim faced before turning and saying one final line through gritted teeth before falling to the floor. A hero’s death. It was not his death.

He felt numb. The sickening pain wanted to make him crawl in a ball and shed his skin like some snake. His mortal flesh destroyed and wounded but his soul would live on. But he was numb, numb inside his head. The pain as something separate, to be confronted later. He leaned one hand, palm outstretched against the damp underpass wall. The smell of urine hit his nostrils. He looked down. Thank God, it wasn’t his own. Not yet. That would come later. When Death finally cut him from this world then his body would void itself of all the slime and of all his humanity. An animalistic orgasm in the throes of death. His body would become a carcass, no different from any other animal. That higher intelligence that separated his species from the rest of the world would matter not one drop.

He hand slowly slid down the wall and his face gently fell forward, pressing his forehead against the damp of the wall. He breathed deeply, causing a trickle of blood to weep from his mouth. His eyes closed. He wanted to feel alive and indeed he did feel alive, more alive than he could ever remember. At least, in recent memory. He allowed himself a bitter smile. At the very moment of death he felt more alive than he could have ever thought possible. Death was ironic.

“Fuck you all, and damn you all to hell,” he murmured to the wall. Good last words, he thought. In one simple, perhaps crude, phrase he summed up his attitude to the world and to those that had now brought his demise from it.

His knees were the first to fail him. They buckled, like a tower collapsing from the inside. He fell, his hand still clutching the exit wound that the bullet had made.

LATE ENTRY Russian Velvet by Nick Trussler

I love her Russian velvet, a dark forest spanning the Ural mountains,

Let me ski, dear devushka, on those white slopes of yours,

Falling into a dark crevice,

A gulag of the soul.

Let me wander along your Nevsky Prospekt,

Smetana on the pavement.

Champagne by Nick Trussler

Champoem
Let your sweet tingling bubbles massage my tender lips,

cascade your sweet alcoholic scent along my palate,

evaporating in my mouth,

a drunken cloud arises into my head, swimming, swirling in decadence,

you wouldn't get that from a bucks fizz.

LATE ENTRY Fireside by Nick Trussler

The fire roared and cracked as the old man poked it absentmindedly. He coughed and spat a dark spittle of phlegm onto the hearth. He smoked too much. People said it was good for your health, cleared the lungs and body of ill humours but he had seen enough men coughing, being blinded by the smoke on a far distant battlefield, to know that it was nonsense. Still, out of habit, his hand reached his tobacco pouch. Empty. It had been empty for a long time now as had his belly. He poked the fire some more. Each stab into the crackling wood was replayed in his mind as some enemy now long dead, but who still returned nightly to haunt his dreams. He would not sleep tonight. It was not just the hunger keeping him awake. All the glory had gone, if indeed there had ever been any. And now he just sat here, a shell of who he used to be. He sighed. He could not even remember what he had looked like in his youth. He could not afford to be painted, like some gentleman. Not even a rough sketch of him was ever made. It was all vanity anyway.

The fires of hell would come for him, he knew, to punish him for all his wickedness in youth. He had laughed in the face of the evangelical then, but now he knew he was damned. He could face the devil fighting but what was the point? In a way he welcomed death. There was nothing for him here anymore. He poked the fire more vigorously now, each strike sending a wave of sparks that grew perilously close to catching his clothes on fire. He grinned and poked some more.

Later as the hours of night slowly drew back and let dark blue morning slowly reveal itself the fire had already spread to the lower part of the house. From a fluttering ember landing on a table cloth it had grown and roared into life as it ate the possessions of one person’s life.

Now the smoke choked the night air.

The old man lay in bed and did not open his eyes. Hell had come for him at last. As the smoke filled his lungs, he welcomed the pain. Breathing deeply, trying to hold the coughs that were now ravishing his chest he wore a sardonic grin. Let the devil come, he thought, let the devil come.