To Wallow in Ash & Other Sorrows

by Sam Richard

  Pulling them out, my fingers were speckled with globs of thick, white fluid. I thought of grave wax. I wondered, in her simple pine box, how long it would take my wife to be coated in the stuff. Was there a personal scent to rot, or did it all smell the same? Are we as unique in death as we are in life?

  Rubbing the anal mucus on the head of my cock, I pressed myself into her wet asshole. The air around us grew cooler and my testicles pulled tight to my body. Her breasts were covered in goosebumps; her nipples harder than I’d ever seen. Warm, rancid breath blew towards me every time I pushed inside of her. The smell made me nauseous. I pushed my fingers into her mouth, down into her throat.

  She gently coughed through them but held them in place with one of her hands. The cough constricted her anus, making my dick jump slightly. It felt good. Sucking my fingers further and further down her throat, I wondered how far she could take them. It felt like I was in a filthy cartoon, her throat opening and dilating wide enough to accommodate my whole hand, my wrist, perhaps my elbow.

  The cold pulled me away from this cartoon vision. I looked down and she was trembling harder, faster. A sheen of sweat covered her chest, welling up between her breasts. I thought of a lake of tears; I thought of rotting mounds of fat surrounding a grease-coated skeleton like a chalk outline. She sucked hard on my fingers, stifling another coughing fit, and I came hard into her asshole.

  Shivering from the cold and trembling from the force of the ejaculation, I pulled myself out of her, watching a silver strand of semen stretch from the head of my dick to her warm, loosened anus. I imagined my cum crawling up her intestines like a cluster of maggots. A cold, empty grave flashed in my mind and the strand of loose cum decoupled and splattered on the edge of the dirty, faux leather futon.

  I hadn’t realized how dirty it was until she stood up and put on her lacy underwear. Her shoulders, back, and upper ass were smeared with black dirt interwoven with lines of sweat. I went to brush it off and my shockingly and newly re-hardened cock jammed into the back of her soft thigh, leaving a small bit of moisture on her cold, taut skin. Brushing the dirt off was useless, as I was just smearing the filth onto my hands and shifting it around her back. She asked to use my shower.

  Once the water was hot, she invited me in to help wash her back. It felt awkward, like something I would have done with my wife. I thought of her cold, unresponsive flesh. My erection hadn’t left, so I let it brush against the cleft of her ass as I lathered a washcloth with soap. The bottom of the tub was filling with browned liquid and grit as the water rolled off her head and down her back. Filthy rain on a porcelain tomb.

  I scrubbed the dark layer of dirt off of her in silence, occasionally feeling my dick brush against her ass and thighs. The longer this went on, the softer I got until I was rubbery and limp with another trail of cum sliding out of my urethra, into the darkened, murky water below our ankles. I thought about the gagging smell of rot as I scrubbed the filth off my legs and feet. Once we were clean we laid down in my bed.

  As before, we didn’t say much, opting instead to sit in the quiet darkness. I could hear and feel her breathing, her dry, warm scent filling the room. She hadn’t brushed her teeth or gone to the bathroom. The thought of my semen crawling back down her guts, worming out of her anus, and settling into the mesh of her sexy, lace underwear made me rigid once more. Our naked thighs touched and she stirred, moving closer to me, but her flesh was too warm and her cough had all but disappeared in the moisturizing steam of the hot shower. I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing, but my inner vision was filled with snapshots of rotting meat, vacant doors of mausoleums and the impenetrable blackness within; writhing worms in heavy rain, and unresponsive skin.

  For weeks after, my guts felt cold and dead again. Unceasing storms of grief, guilt, and sorrow pounded at my soul. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Barely eating, I felt weak, listless, exhausted. Every night was spent crying myself to sleep and each day melted away with nothing to show for it. I watched tv without watching, read books without reading, and drank booze without ever feeling drunk.

  My friend texted me, asking to hang out. She said she was feeling much better, that the illness had passed. I thought about the warmth of her body and didn’t respond.

  My wife’s grave called to me at night, beckoning me to join her. Holding my eight inch chef knife to my wrist, or throat, or inner thigh for hours at a time, I assembled a rough collection of minor cuts, nicks, and scrapes; though I couldn’t ever bring myself to press down and cut. I needed to see my wife again. I needed to touch her face and taste her essence. I needed her. I needed her, forever; just like we promised.

  I found my grandpa’s old, antique shovel in my basement.

  For the first time since her funeral, I visited her grave. Her small, granite headstone was miniscule compared to the vast impact of her short life. It felt perverse, she deserved so much more; but it was all her family and I could afford. The sun was going down in the distance, pink and orange hues radiating out across the darkening sky. As far as I could see, I was the only one in the expansive cemetery. Like this ocean of loss, I felt empty and alone. The dead, forgotten flowers next to her grave reflected these feelings back at me. They were dry and brittle, having long since lost their color and scent. We were the same.

  ABOUT THE STORIES

  As I mentioned in the Introduction, TO WALLOW IN ASH was the story I wrote 16 days after Mo died. I was overwhelmed with shock, sorry, loneliness, and anger. This was my first attempt at putting into words the chaos and disbelief that was swirling around my head and shattered heart. I saw the open submission call of NihilismRevised’s Strange Behaviors anthology and forced myself to come to grips with what had happened. Subbing to the anthology was the excuse I needed to at least try. I read this story that November at Bizarrocon 2017 and it Madeleine Swann sob. I later thanked her. It means a ton. Until then, I wasn’t sure if I was able to articulate the fucked up feelings and trauma of losing Mo in a manner that made sense to anyone else. Madeleine’s tears told me all that I needed to know. (And again, thank you Madeleine!)

  When I wrote LOVE LIKE BLOOD I was trying to reconcile the fact that in widowhood you are forced to grieve many deaths. All the things Mo was to me. All the things I was that I no longer could be for her. This story is about grieving intimacy and the death of our sexual relationship. I need to specifically thank Ben Margis for some of the inspiration for this story, as part of it is loosely based off of a dream he told me about a decade ago.

  THE PRINCE OF MARS was written for, and published in, The Junk Merchants – A Literary Salute to William S. Burroughs. As I mentioned in the Introduction, Mo loved this story. I do too. Burroughs was an early influence on me and it felt great to explore his writing style in a more overt capacity. Plus, I got to cram him into Edgar Rice Burroughs, so that made it extra fun and pulpy. I hesitated in putting this story in the collection, but honestly it’s fairly on theme. I’m also pretty sure that despite having a forward by Graham Masterton and a bunch of great stories by awesome writers, almost no one even knows the book exists. This is my way of getting more eyes on this story.

  Initially written for a Filthy Loot zine called Teenage Grave, a tribute to the 80s/90s splatterpunk genre, I KNOW NOT THE NAME OF THE GOD TO WHOM I PRAY was a purge of the idea that there would ever be any way I could bring Mo back. Those stories are always terrible and heartbreaking. I wanted to do my version of that story-type. Maybe the horrible lie is the better reality.

  I wrote THE VERDANT HOLOCAUST for Hybrid Moments: A Literary Tribute to the Misfits, an anthology that I co-edited with Emma Alice Johnson. I just like this story, so I included it. I remember getting home from a long day with Mo at the Minnesota State Fair and writing the rough of this as she drew a tattoo for a client, just on the couch next to each other. It’s one of the more subtle things that I miss daily. This story reminds me of that time.

  Also mentioned in the introduction, I wrote WE FEED THIS MUDDY CREEK the day
after To Wallow in Ash. The distraction and yet also submersion-therapy of writing at that time was essential, so I kept myself busy. I wanted to write something that was as much about loving her as it was feeling the loss. We Feed This Muddy Creek appeared in Dark Moon Digest #29.

  I was working on and editing the Zombie Punks Fuck Off anthology (co-released between my own Weirdpunk Books and Clash Books) when Mo died. She had been an incredible support system for my writing (and music, and career, and every-fucking-thing else in my life) and when she died I didn’t know how to come back to the book. Some time passed and with the unending patience and support of the contributing writers, I was able to finish the book. I had already written a different story, but I needed to do something else, something about what I was going through, so I scrapped it and wrote NATURE UNVEILED. Mo was an anarchist and a Satanist (Temple rather than Church) and a witchy-type. I wanted to write something that explored that and gave her witchy powers after her death. I wanted to write about her burial (this story is incredibly close to the truth on that) and process through those emotions. I also wanted to remember our lives before the pain.

  THOSE UNDONE was written for another Filthy Loot zine, Fucked Up Stories to Read in the Daytime #2. Up until this point, almost all the stories I’d written in the wake of Mo’s death have been a similar story to my own. I wanted to still retain the grief and loss aspect of my own experience, but to also start applying it to stories that aren’t sad, spooky tales of widowhood, but rather other kinds of sad, spooky tales. I took cues from my own childhood in a weird, cult-like faith and let it run from there (though we didn’t worship a cool stag-god).

  I left DEATHLIKE LOVE for the end of the book because it fucked me up to write. As I mentioned in the Introduction, this story was a purge, and exorcism. As I wrote it, I physically hurt me. But it hurt in such a way that as I was writing it, I knew I had to keep going, so I leaned into that pain. I wrote this to get rid of guilt I have over a passing thought in that small room - the thought that cried out to share physical intimacy with her one last time. The kind of thoughts that I have no doubt other widows and widowers have had, but rarely speak about. That brief moment brought so much guilt for so long, so there it all is, bled out on paper.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book wouldn’t exist without the following amazing people:

  S.C. Burke of NihilismRevised. Your unending support and patience while I figured this whole thing out has been unreal. Thank you a million times over. You aren’t just my publisher and editor; you are my friend and brother. Massive hugs.

  Emma Alice Johnson, for being one of the best friends in the whole goddamn world and routinely making me a better writer. Thanks for all the encouragement, direction, and help over many years.

  Don Noble, for so perfectly brining my visual ideas to life. Thank you, friend!

  Jes, for everything. And being so understanding.

  The Freddy’s Crew: Brendan Vidito, Charles Austin Muir, Ian Muller, and Mark Zirbel for all the encouragement and debauchery. Y’all are the fucking best.

  My weirdo-writing community, you’ve all been amazing and encouraging: Andrew Wayne Adams, Lucas Mangum, Katy Michelle Quinn, Sam Reeve, John Wayne Communale, Leo X. Robertson, Andrew James Stone, Garrett Cook, Christoph Paul, Leza Cantoral, Danger Slater, Tim Murr, Madeleine Swann, Christine Morgan, Austin James, and so many more. I’m sorry I can’t list you all. (Read these people!)

  Chris Kelso, for being so fucking awesome and open with someone you barely know who lives on the other side of the world. Thank you, friend.

  Nicholas Day, you’re my brother and I always look forward to the 4-hours a year we get to hang out. Thank you for everything.

  Gwendolyn Kiste, your support and kindness have meant so much to me.

  Robert Devereaux, my fellow writing widower, for all your time and kind words.

  Ira Rat, Max Booth III, Lori Michelle, and Dean Drinkel, for taking chances with some of these stories.

  Jeffrey Molson, for your support at an intimidating level.

  Kari and Brad Johnson, for always having my back.

  My Dad for being my biggest fan.

  My Mom and Step-Dad, who just recently realized that this whole writing thing is fairly serious and isn’t going away anytime soon.

  Tom and Mary, and all the Elliot clan for still being my family after everything. I love you all.

  To all my amazing friends, there isn’t enough space in the world to list you all and everything you’ve done for me. Thank you!

  My widow family: I’m sorry we all know each other through these awful circumstances but I’m so glad that we have each other.

  Everyone who supports either my writing or Weirdpunk Books, thanks! I couldn’t do it without you!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sam and his late-wife Mo Richard – Tintype taken approx. three weeks before her death.

  Photo Credit: Carla Rodriguez of Blkk Hand.

  Sam Richard is a writer, editor, and the owner of Weirdpunk Books. He is co-editor of The New Flesh: A Literary Tribute to David Cronenberg, editor of Zombie Punks Fuck Off, and co-editor of Hybrid Moments: A Literary Tribute to the Misfits. His writing has appeared in such varied publications as Lazermall, Strange Stories of the Sea, Breaking Bizarro, Dark Moon Digest, and many others. His primary focus is on writing weird and transgressive horror with an emphasis on grief. Widowed in 2017, he slowly rots in Minneapolis, MN with his dog Nero.

  EXCHANGE WORDS WITH US:

  NihilismRevised@outlook.com

  www.facebook.com/NihilismRevised

  COVER ART/DESIGN by Don Noble

  www.RoosterRepublicPress.com

  NR-0030

  ISBN: 9781696823326

  First Printing by NihilismRevised 2019

  Copyright Sam Richard 2019

  All Rights Reserved.