Jessica Gleason

by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 1, 2014

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Jessica Gleason writes because Bukowski no longer can. She likes to break the norms, do some writing, drink some whiskey, and then repeat. Gleason has one published novel, “Madison Murphy, Wisconsin Weirdo” and an upcoming chapbook, “Sunset on this Town” which will be made available by Popcorn Press in 2013. Her work can also be found in Postcard Shorts, The Idiom, The Writer’s Eye, Fickle Muses, Misfits Miscellany, Citizens for Decent Literature and Verse Wisconsin. If you want to read more of her work, google her. You can find poems, prose and samples of her novel all over the internet, but you have to work for it. She also, occasionally, likes to sleep in a Star Trek uniform and has mastered The Song of Time on her Ocarina.

People Who Have Killed: A Register of the Infamous Serial Killers of the Mid-West

 

Herman Webster Mudgett…. AKA Dr. Henry Howard Holmes… during the time of the

1983 Chicago World’s Fair

he designed and opened a hotel with the purpose of murder in mind… hanged, May 1896.

 

John Wayne Gacy….The “Killer” Clown… raped and murdered teenage boys and kept their rotting

carcasses in the crawl space of his modest home… lethally injected, May 1994.

 

Herb Baumeister…. “Brain Smart”… kidnapped and killed gay men, burying them on his farm…

swallowed a bullet before being brought to trial, July 1996

 

John Edward Robinson…. The internet’s first serial killer… post-prison discovered the internet and

prayed on “sub” women under the screen name “slave master”… still on death row.

 

Dennis Rader…. The BTK Killer… an exhibitionist sending letters describing how he blinded, tortured and

killed his victims to the media and police… earliest possible prison release February 2180.

 

Velma Barfield…. Convicted of six murders… post hysterectomy began killing lovers and the elderly for

insurance money… wore pink

pajamas and an adult diaper during her lethal injection, November 1984.

 

Terry Blair…. Son of and brother to raping, sodomizing killers… murdered the pregnant wife and mother

to his two children, and snapped the necks of 6 other women… sitting in prison for life

no possibility of parole.

 

John Joseph Joubert…. Nebraska Boy Snatcher AKA Woodford Slasher… peeled the clothes from little

boys, stabbed them and lefts them to dry on the sides of roads… electric chair death, July 1996.

 

Alton Coleman…. The Orange River Killer… partner-in-crime to Debra Brown, soul mates on a mid-

western killing spree killed 20, maybe 30… injected while reciting Psalm 23, April 2002.

 

Jeffrey Lionel Dahmer…. The Milwaukee Cannibal… a fine conscious of

rape, dismemberment, necrophilia and eating his moist delicious victims…

beaten to death by another inmate, November 1994.

 

Walter Ellis…. The Milwaukee North Side Strangler… killed seven women with ropes and piece of

clothing… currently serving seven life terms.

 

Ed Gein…. our Hollywood movie-making inspiration… stole corpses and made trophies from their bones

and skin, and murdered a few women from his hometown

… died of cancer-related heart failure, July 1984.

 

Funny how so much of this glorified death is concentrated in the Mid-West.

Perhaps it’s something in the water.

 

 

You Don’t Know My Name, But That Doesn’t Mean You’re Safe

                Jessica Gleason

 

I used to trap them.

Small things at first. Squirrels. Chipmunks. Skunks. Possums.

I’d starve them. Listen to their whimpers. Watch them shrink. Until

the last remnant of life simply faded away.

 

With delight, I’d slice into them.

Painting swirls and designs onto my skin with their dead insides.

Sometimes licking the coagulated syrup from my young fingers.

 

Then I’d lure them.

Bigger things. Dogs mostly. The occasional dear, but only if I was quiet. Only if I was lucky.

They had to die quicker, or someone would notice. I’d tether them and

Slice. Slice. Slice.

 

Their blood would seep out and stain the ground with a deep rusty

red. And, eventually the twitching would stop.

I remember how warm their insides were when I’d thrust my hands in their gutted bellies.

 

Animals became boring; the thrill slowly dissipated.

So, I went bigger. Because bigger is better.

The drunk women were easier. Went quietly. With hopes

of being probed in their intimate folds.

 

Half-naked. Both in heightened states of desire we’d writhe on

those soiled hotel beds. Teasing until we could take it no more.

Then, I’d reach down and stab their wanton wombs with a serrated blade.

 

They’d scream, but no one asked questions in those places.

No one could tell the difference. I’d smile, watching them struggle to hold

on to life. Then, I’d wash my hands, stuff their panties in my pocket, and

exit back into the night.

 

The sober women, strangers on the street, would struggle.

They’d scream and thrash, really giving me chase. My stomach

would do flips as we’d play a dangerous game of tag in those

small safe suburban streets.

 

Finally pinning them, against a wall, next to an ATM, behind the green dumpster, I’d

slit their throats just to listen to the gurgling and gasping sounds they’d make.

Sometimes, the blood, it would spray on my face and I’d stick

my tongue out to catch those delicious drops.

 

Older now, and slower, I like to take out my collection of soiled panties and

sniff. I’m not sure they actually smell after all these years, but my nose hasn’t forgotten.

I wait, patiently, reading papers on park benches. Sometimes feeding the ducks.

Looking for one more kill. The last one, I tell myself.

Always the last one.

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