Damned Words
Enter. Sit before the Tale Weaver.
Heed: true beauty tis not in the eye of the beholder
but in the minds of the Damned.
Open yourself to us…
A Picture Paints 100 Words, by Dan Dillard
The knob creaked as I gave it a twist. The ancient sound of metal on metal made my ears ache and slithered panic up my spine. Funny it should do that. That anything was able to do that to me in this stage of the game.
It was brilliant that I even found this place, so fitting to my plan. Her body tucked ever so well into the old crematorium. The drugs working their magic until after I lit the burner and the flames licked up, tickling her with devilish hunger. My favorite part was yet to come. The screaming.
Poisonous Hope, by Tyr Kieran
Imprisoned behind an unlocked gate of decorative iron, I watch the world carry on without me. Each day I remain in captivity works on my soul as bacteria would on a slab of uncured beef. The breeze that swirls in and out of my chamber taunts of life’s sensations that could still be mine. Yet, intangible chains bind me to a rotting corpse while the sweet poison of hope corrodes my chance at eternal peace. It’s too tempting to ignore. I cannot rest, cannot let go. So, I wait for receptive prey to venture in and unknowingly forfeit their future.
Sacred Charge, by Nina D’Arcangela
Day after day I have grasped you, clung to your surface, held you as though you were yet a remnant of her. Many the night I sat below you, gazing upward; wishing, hoping, never praying. Have I made you my false idol? Perhaps. But in your solemn stance, you guard over all that was precious to me, how can I blame you? But I do. My mind bleeds for what should have been, for the chance never to have seen you. My tears shed upon your unyielding beauty only add to my remorse for what lies beyond your sacred charge.
Refuge, by Joseph A. Pinto
Refuge; before these iron gates I tremble. Words, long forgotten, muttered upon this unforgiving draft. Weary fingers graze lips; memory languishes. A song cries. Lost, what once remained. Balm to my wounds, these iron gates I clutch. To twist this handle, to enter into that which I have denied myself. A thousand angels mock my arrogance; their light I have shunned. Tell me godless thing, who haunts your starless nights? My thousand lies expired at last; hollow, barren, crumbled within. Shadows beckon; so soon shall I dance. Refuge beyond these iron gates; blackened tomb. Condemned both by heaven and hell.
Vacuum, by Leslie Moon
You ask me to grasp this? Enter something into which I cannot perceive meaning. Is there a way through this dim portal? Will I come to the end and find a vacuous self? Strain into a haze with no return?
Ask me not to open this sepulcher of doubt. Free my way, menial I will welcome. To touch this skeleton of all my fears, a repugnant notion. You bid me- go, no gentle nudge. I am plummeted to the world beyond my fears. Where all I cherish is missing. All I long for is past. All I was is gone.
Sleeping Dogs, by Thomas Brown
Higher and higher the dog-king climbs, advancing up the stairs. Where the brickwork fails, he catches light; small glimmers in the dark. Dawn illuminates the countryside, and at its heart his tower; a Gothic spike, a splinter, driven deep into the hills.
Steps crumble, break beneath paw-hands, and then he is outside. The rooftop glitters, wet with slime and sunlight on old stone. He crawls to where the guttering clings tightly to the slate, and where the new dawn sees his flesh, his broken face, his lolling tongue, it hears him laugh, breathe rancid breath, then turns him into stone.
Inner Sanctum, by Blaze McRob
From down the hall, the words do come, and with them now, a screeching hum. As door does open, telling all, that deep fears wait at beck and call. But now must I with no noise crawl, or parents both will make me call, out in the night as they will beat, the stuffing out from my small feat. For in my bed I am to be, and not in hall the place for me. As radio for this great show, within my soul is not to grow. But Inner Sanctum does arrive, and three year ears in story dive.
Welcome Home, Baby! by Hunter Shea
Shirley, I’m coming!
The words came out as, “Sssrlleee, mmmm cnnngggg!”
One foot stepped on the other and my forehead slammed into the grated door. It should have hurt, but then again, all the should haves were dead and gone.
Unlike me.
Unlike the other shambling wrecks in the cemetery.
Do I look that bad?
I twisted the iron knob. I’d been able to breathe last time I’d been here. I came to bring flowers, talk to the air.
The door opened with a steady creek.
Shirley!
Her skin slid off her face. So what? We had each other again.
Veneration, by Daemonwulf
The shrieks of the ageless faithful defile him, seeking restitution from an eternally deafened heart. Their history of torment, revealed in screaming admonition, scrapes the frozen memories and claws at cold, darkened walls, struggling for a chance to be heard.
Theirs is a multitude of ignored voices; immeasurable lives ending as grist to be chewed by holy teeth.
He slams the door as the suffering faithful yearn for salvation, choosing instead the false prophecies he utters in glorious silence.
Crying out for redemption, they clamor for their promised reward, only to find sanctuary within the warming shit of their God.
Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.
Ashes to Ashes, Blood to Blood
The breeze, gentle at first, carries the voice to my mind. “No, not again!” I think, cupping my hands over my ears, trying to keep from hearing its taunting, knowing that I can handle only so much of this.
Night after night it comes, and even though I expect it to surround me, it finds a way to sneak in when my guard is down. I’m leveled by its assault, barely able to think, and unable to retain any semblance of vertigo. I fall to the carpet, writhing in pain, and my mind gets ever so close to the abyss separating sanity from insanity. Nearer and nearer I approach the gash dividing reality from what does not exist. And the drop from the precipice to what lies below is long and deep. Yes, it is like a bottomless well, devoid of water and waiting to fill itself with whatever it can.
“No, you can’t have me!” I shout. “Go away! Leave me alone!”
Laughter . . . laughter joins in with the whispered words, knowing I will crack, that it is only a matter of time. If anything, the laughter is worse, forcing its way on my entire body, its vibrations rubbing against my flesh, working along the distraught hairs on the back of my neck and radiating outward from there. I retch from the sensations of thousands of bugs crawling over me, knowing they will bite, but not sure when. The remembrance of biting bed bugs from a long ago place and time reach my mind, and I fear that they are here in my study and attacking me with their taunting presence before they bite and suck out my precious life-giving fluid.
Slapping wildly against the onslaught, I know I have stepped over the line when their teeth find their mark and my body convulses in the agony.
Just enough biting; just enough blood removed; and just enough crawling. Always the push is ever so close, enough to push me to the brink, but not all the way over. Yes, the voice knows; it always knows. Enough of the voice! I must defeat it.
“You cannot ignore me forever, you know,” the voice whispers in my ear, the words moving the bugs to the side. “You will listen to me; you have no choice.”
“No! Leave me!” I holler. “You don’t exist.”
Silence . . . blessed silence, but it does not last.
“Ah, but I do exist. I existed before, I exist now, and I will exist in the future.”
The present; the future. I must not allow this creature access to these two-time continuums. If I do . . . No, I cannot even think of what might happen.
I force myself up, working against the vertigo problems, not wanting to subject myself to attacks from above. No more can I grovel before the beast. It must be dealt with from a position of strength. Heh, heh. This is how I will defeat it.
A clap of thunder encapsulates my room, and a rumbling beneath me rises up and splits it in two. One of my feet is left on one side, and the other one struggles to maintain balance on the opposite side of the tearing. The chasm becomes wider, and I push off with my right leg, attempting to propel my body to the other side, but my efforts are not enough. My hands grasp the far side as I slip and slide back, reaching for a secure hand-hold but not finding one. Ever closer I get to losing my grip and falling into the darkness below. My body flails against the side of the abyss, looking for a place where I can gain a foothold.
None is to be found.
Blood pours from my hands as I pull myself up ever so slowly, getting away from the forces waiting below. Every hand hold comes with a price attached, my body wracked in pain from the physical assault and the tearing inflicted on me. Finally, with a last heave, my entire body is out, and I am secure under my desk. The two sides slam together in defiance, as if to show me the power still resides within the room.
This time I’m not in any hurry to get back up. My body is beaten down, and I need to recoup. There is more to come; there is always more to come.
The breeze switches to a gale-force wind and blows a dense fog into the room. This is no ordinary fog: I’ve experienced it before. Now! Now is the time to get up.
My head demands release from the torment, but my body is not cooperating. I bob and weave like a punch-drunk boxer having gone one fight too many. Yes, I can’t conceive of fighting even one more round.
The fog is up to my chest, concealing what lies beneath. More suspense; more agony.
Serpentine entities wrap themselves around my legs, squeezing, relaxing their grip then repeating their torture. The veins and arteries in my already pummeled legs scream out in pain, not knowing what the next moment will hold.
“I take it you’re not enjoying the massage the vipers are affording you?”
Staring into the coal-black eyes of the horned beast speaking to me, his prominent brow and deeply creased face glaring at me, the hairs on my body once more tingle. All the stops are being pulled out tonight.
“I’m talking to you, boy” he says, “And I don’t like to be ignored.”
Rage replaces my fear. “Fuck you! Your presence is unwelcome here.”
Lightning and thunder reverberate through the room, being the outlet for his anger.
“Not welcome here? You have no choice in the matter. You don’t dictate what happens. I do.”
Scenes from days gone by play like a panorama of horror against the walls, ceilings, and floors of my room. And then . . . and then they become alive once more, the dancing, naked bodies and their conjuration circle; the altar with a frightened virgin laid out upon it, her virginity attacked mercilessly as demon after demon take her and inject their seed into her, so many of them that the blood from her womb flows out onto the altar and then to the floor, the rivers formed from the confluence of blood and juices beating a horrid staccato against the floor.
And they come to me, tearing my clothes off and leading me to the altar. As before, I am always the last one to penetrate the woman lying before me. I cannot fight it. The forces against me are too strong. How I am able to rise up and perform as a man is a mystery. I am disgusted at what I am forced to do, and yet, at the same time, excitement bursts from my loins and I do what is demanded of me.
She stares at me, still in shock at what has transpired, but her eyes tell me she understands.
“You are weak,” the horned one says. You have always been weak. But that doesn’t matter. You were not conceived for the purpose of your own strength. Yours is another facet of birth.”
His words fly into my mind, knocking my mental stability down even lower, but the anger in me from what he has implied – no, more than implied – keeps me from going over the edge. What is he saying? I must know.
He laughs. “No need for you to speak to me. I know your thoughts. Ah, it is not for me to answer your questions tonight. She . . . she will answer them.”
My mind swirls from all I have seen and done, my eyes closing, attempting to refocus. When they open again, my study is as it was before anything happened, and I am clothed once more. It is as if everything that happened was only present in my mind.
But I know better.
The voice returns to me again, this time more insistent, not attempting to convince me now. Demands are hollered into my ears, my head shaken by the impact.
No more can I hide in my study. It is time to confront my demons.
I follow the voice to the cemetery. Yes, I know where it is coming from. As much as I have feared this moment, I realize it is necessary for me to attack the demons running rampant through my mind.
The mist, the same fog as before, has settled over the grave, but it parts when I arrive, exposing a shovel resting against the headstone. Trembling with fear, I take it into my hands and start digging.
With each pass through the dirt, the voice gets louder, telling me to dig faster, echoing its need for release. Sweat pours off me, my confusion and fear melding together. What do I do when the source from which the voice emanates is laid out before me? Releasing the demon cannot be a good thing but, then again, how do I silence the voice forever?
Shovel after shovel removes the dirt until I hit the top of the coffin. Instead of an increased volume from the voice, there is silence. A trick! Yes, this is a ploy. I am supposed to be lulled into a sense of false security, but that won’t work. I can’t be tricked that easily.
But what do I do now! I need to open the coffin and satisfy my curiosity once and for all. If nothing is here to worry about, then I can put my mind at ease.
Then again, the possibility exists that maybe all of this does reside entirely in me. Am I losing it? Is my mind going?
I must find out! I must!
With a vengeance, I tear the shovel into the coffin, not caring about any damage I might incur. What difference does that make? She is already dead. When I’m done, I’ll cover everything back up again.
I grasp at the last remnants of the lid and tear it off. I must see her now!
Looking down, a bright moon at my back, I stare at her and smile.
There’s nothing here to worry about,” I think. “She’s dead. As dead as they come.”
Starting to shovel the dirt back in on top of the coffin, I stop as soon as I start. She sits up, pieces of flesh dangling down from areas on her skeleton, teasing me with their very presence. The musky odor surrounding her almost forces me to pass out, and her eye sockets, long ago remaindered to empty holes, take on a red glow and stare at me. A smile breaks out on her skull, flashing those perfect teeth she always had when she was alive.
“I knew you would come, my son,” she says. “It took you a while, but my faith in you never wavered.”
My heart beats faster than it has ever beaten before. Never have I been so afraid. All the things happening around me when I was growing up are nothing compared to this. My mother, dead for five years, is still alive: if you can call her condition anything close to normal. All these years, she has called to me, imploring me to come to her, but I refused. Until tonight. My supposed closure is anything but.
“I gave you life years ago,” she says. “Now . . . now it is your turn to reciprocate. You will give me life.”
My mind reaches for an answer to what she is saying, but none is forthcoming.
“You are confused, my son. Don’t be. I pushed you out into the world forty years ago, and now you will do the same for me.”
Horror burns through every fiber of my being as she grabs me and pulls my body into what remains of her vagina. She and I both convulse as my adult persona is totally absorbed into her birth canal. She writhes in pain as the size of me works past her vaginal opening and rejuvenates her long dead body, bringing life back to her once more. My blood pours out of me and into her, supplying her with the precious liquid she so needs to live once more.
I scream out in pain, the sounds muffled between her thighs and that part of her expelling me so many years before.
She lies in the coffin a little longer, waiting for the pain to subside and the transformation to become complete. Five years is a long time to wait for a second coming.
“He was such a good son,” she says . . .
~ Blaze McRob
© Copyright 2013 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.
The Enforcer
He stands before the large bay window, looking down upon the streets below, not really needing to see the evil happening. The visuals, courtesy of all his sensory perceptions, attack his mind.
And yet, The Committee condones such sadistic behavior as this. “Let them do as they will. It will all be sorted out later,” they say. “Their feeble minds can not grasp the concepts of good or evil: not enough for them to advance to an elevated status at any rate.”
“Elevated, my ass!” he thinks. “All of us on The Committee were once like these weaklings. We found it difficult to reason, to discard depravity and debauchery for the less than obvious elements of good inherent in humans and the world surrounding them.”
Pacing back and forth, the raw energy of evil present in this city sickens him. Someone in his position should distance himself from what is present here. After all, it has taken him many lifetimes to achieve his elevated status. Yes, he has evolved beyond the rabble scratching around to make ends meet, to find a reason for existence, and perhaps…just perhaps, to find at least some happiness from the filth which is ever-present here.
But through it all, he remembers. How can he possibly forget the times when he was beaten down by those wanting to keep him, and many others, in a state of abject slavery? Maybe the absence of freedom wasn’t slavery as many envision it to be, but when one’s soul is torn from the physical embodiment of humanity, what else would it be? One becomes nothing more than a Zombie, a dancing, unthinking, undead persona manipulated by a necromancer concerned only for his own welfare. And, his own power.
He laughs. Now the power belongs to him, an advanced being capable of an existence beyond human understanding. Yes, to those like him, the ones who have reached the “most perfect” stage of development, a utopian society exists, one in which Heaven is a state of glory residing within the minds of those fortunate enough to have reached the pinnacle of all that is.
Truth be known? They are Gods. And yet, should Gods look the other way when the unfortunate ones wallow around in ineptitude and suffer at the hands of the evil ones?
Ah, the Gods might have lost any semblance of previous humanity when their ultimate tableau was achieved.
Selchor, on the other hand, still retains compassion within his soul. It pains him when the unfortunate ones suffer as he once did. There is no reason for this. Those who can help, should help.
He dresses for the evening, donning the clothing of the time, and grabbing his walking stick when he leaves the apartment. Once he reaches the streets, he blends in with everyone else around him.
His cane beats a staccato along the sidewalk as he walks towards the place of supreme evil manifestations. For too long, this street has been a sinister one, hiding secrets, exposing pain . . . pain shoved upon those much too young to experience it.
A large man, easily 300 pounds, bald, and wearing an expensive suit, embroidered shirt, and fancy wing-tips, comes out of the adjoining alleyway and motions for him to stop.
“I take it you’re here for the young girls,’ he says. “Name your age, and we can fulfill your fantasy and allow you to live life to the fullest, doing what so few are able to experience.”
Selchor smiles at the man. “Yes, my good man. I am here for the children. Your fame has spread farther than you can imagine.”
The pimp gives the stranger a funny look, wondering exactly what this man is talking about. “And exactly what are you looking for, might I ask?”
“I would like to have all the young ladies assembled before me so I can choose.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them. I will gladly pay you up front if you are concerned about my intent.”
The big guy salivates at the thought of his entire assemblage being paid for. “Of course. Whatever you wish, sir.”
He grabs a cell phone out of his pocket and makes a couple of quick calls. Within minutes, a dozen young women of differing ages are paraded before him.
Selchor laughs and says, “I’ll take them all.”
“All of them?” the pimp asks.
Handing him the money, Selchor says, “Yes, all of them.”
The girls are shoved towards him, and Selchor says, “I am setting you free. Go and never return. There is nothing left for you here, and you need not worry about anything. I’m giving you your freedom.”
They are reluctant to leave at first, but something about the calm exterior of their benefactor soothes them, and they scramble away.
The procurer is upset and attempts to shove the cane-bearing man out of the way so he can retrieve the girls, but Selchor holds him, and his henchmen, back. In no time at all the former slaves are gone.
“But . . . but this is not what you asked for,” the bald man says, anger shoved from every pore in his body. “I thought . . .”
“You think far too much, I must say,” Selchor says. “I never said what I wanted the girls for. You merely assumed. You and your henchmen are evil people and should have your eyes opened to the truth of who you really are.”
The fancy-dressed pimp laughs now. “I don’t believe a man carrying a cane will be able to do much damage to the six of us.”
“Do not be deceived by me or my cane. Your time of reckoning has come.”
They charge en-mass, but Selchor touches a button on the cane’s handle, and a knife blade, easily a foot long, comes out from the end. “Looky what I have here, me lads. Guess what? I know how to use it too.”
The fight is brutal: blood, guts, and chunks of flesh fly everywhere. One by one, Selchor deftly removes their hearts, impales them on the blade, and places them in the hands of their owners.
Selchor watches as the spirits rise from the fallen bodies and stare down at what is now nothing more than food for the rats. He laughs, a most unsettling one, and says, “It appears that the time has come for you to go to Heaven or Hell. Which one is it?”
Confusion runs through the souls. This was not expected. Heaven or Hell is a choice left to them? How can this be?
“Yes, you have this choice,” Selchor tells them. “Tell me: which path are you taking?”
Even before they have the chance to say that Heaven is the obvious choice, thoughts jump into their minds, talking to them of all the evil they have perpetrated in their lives. How many times were people, some very young, subjected to pain to supply them with pleasure and a fulfillment of power? Too many times. They grab their heads and cry out in pain, trying to exorcise the demons present within them.
It doesn’t work.
All of them are dragged away to Hell. But…but there is not “one” Hell. For them, there are six Hells, and no two are the same. Selchor smiles as he watches their twisting, convoluted efforts to escape the grasp of the demons pulling them into the darkness.
Silence. The sweet sound of nothing takes over. The pimp and his crew are gone, taken into Hell on the wings of their own guilt. Justice has been served.
Selchor surveys the scene and his former humanity becomes more dominant. He loses none of the knowledge he has gained over time. If anything, he is more advanced than the others on The Committee. Knowledge, power, and humanity all belong to him.
Heaven and Hell are abstracts and reside within the minds and souls of those going to one or the other. If a person believes they have done good during their past life, they will advance to the next level of humanity, or they can happily exist in Heaven as they are. But those who are tormented by the guilt of the past evils they have committed will send themselves to Hell.
How sweet is this? Heaven and Hell reside within one’s self.
Selchor knows now he can not return to the lofty enclave of others of his kind. It is wrong to look the other way.
The world needs an enforcer. Selchor is perfect for the job . . .
~ Blaze McRob
© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.
The Steps Of Fear
Damn, Harry, you’re a fucking mess! There is blood all over you. Your clothing, face, hands, and feet are covered in the stuff. Remember, man! You gotta remember!
In a flash, I run to the patio door, following the bloody tracks my feet left. The trail of blood extends across the cement, vanishing at the start of the lawn.
Settle down, Harry. Maybe it‘s nothing. Could be some dead animal you found on the lawn, a poor creature trying to find a place to escape from its torturer. That’s it. Something like that. You merely tried to help it.
A search of the yard does not show any animals. Nothing that sports a coat of fur anyway. In the corner, the one next to the crab-apple tree, is where a dark form lies. The light is bad, but I can sense something is there. I am in no hurry to see what it is, yet I must.
The damned tweed suit of his, covered in blood, not at all in the prissy, almost effeminate way he wears it, but a crumpled mess, surrounds his lifeless body. His head, off to a rather obscene angle, greets me.
Now what? Did I find him like this? Did I kill him? I don’t remember.
For a while, I merely stand and gaze down at him, trying to force memories from out of my brain. Zilch. Nothing at all comes to me. I walk back inside the house.
I sit on the couch and put my head in my hands, staring down at the carpet. What the . . .
A syringe sits on the rug, almost under the sofa and out of sight but enough for me to see. I pick it up and see it is empty. He must have injected me with this, but why? Why was he here?
My head swirls, thoughts caught in a vortex of uncertainty. Nothing rams through into any order of reason. Conflicting paradoxes flit everywhere, changing what might have been to things which cannot possibly be and yet . . .
Reasoning is here, within my house, yard, and mind. Pieces of a puzzle to be put together, analyzed, and remembrance made. If I killed my doctor antagonist, there must have been good reason, especially for me to do it in a state of somnambulism where merely walking about after waking from slow-wave sleep should not push me over the edge of sanity.
I remove my shredded clothes and toss them into the trash. Slipping upstairs naked, I look in on my wife, peacefully sleeping, before I go in to shower. Ah, the power of hot water running all over my body, shoving the blood down the drain, is so comforting. Even as I allow it to wash over me, a relaxed, tired feeling embraces me.
After toweling off, I walk into my bedroom and slide into bed, my nakedness feeling good against the flannel sheets. My wife moves up against me, almost purring. Instinctively, I react but stop.
Something’s wrong, Harry. She hasn’t wanted you for a while; she has been as cold as cold can be. And she’s naked. She never sleeps in the nude. Even when making love, she has always worn something. But she’s naked now. Shit . . . shit, the air is heavy with the scent of her juices.
I glide my hand around and, not surprisingly, find the sheets to be very moist.
Lie back, Harry. You’re tired. You need to sleep. Everything will be better when you wake.
The voice makes sense and I give in to sleep.
Still dark when my eyes open, I once again feel the dampness of the blood and the dirt wedged between my toes. I am alone in my bed, so refreshingly solitary. It is over.
Not bothering to dress, I walk downstairs and retrace my steps from earlier. Her naked body lies across his, her head wearing that same twisted look her lover has.
I smile and go back inside. Two showers in one night. One must be clean.
~ Blaze McRob
© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.
Routines
Every day, never wavering, Stacey would go on her walk through the forest at the moment the sun started to burst through the ceiling formed by the tall trees. Virgin pines with broad branches of thick needles, they grudgingly fought the onslaught of the light’s invasion, resenting any intrusion into their domain.
This was Stacey’s chosen time to be alone and commune with nature. Even though hazards abounded in the deep woods environment, it was not enough to keep her out. She knew how to spot the signs of the denizens of the forests. This section had its share of bears and a few wolves, but she had never had any trouble with any of them. To be on the safe side, she carried a .38 sidearm and a 30/06. Couldn’t hurt to be careful.
From his observation post high on a tree along the trail, he watched her. Every day with the same routine could be a detriment to one’s health. Predictability. Not a healthy thing in a world where survival or death could hinge on minuscule trivialities. This went far beyond such minor imperfections.
He traipsed along the tops of the heavy boughs, keeping pace with Stacey, having to hold back even because of his prowess of walking from branch to branch and tree to tree. Up ahead it would all be decided.
The forest seemed very quiet this morning. Stacey kept her guard up, knowing that silence meant something large was lurking around, sending the smaller animals into hiding. Probably earlier they had been chattering around between themselves, sending warnings out to each other. Funny how humans couldn’t understand the animals, but animals of different species could communicate with each other. She undid the snap on her holster. This might be the morning she would need to use that hand gun.
The path crested and dropped sharply on the other side, blocking out the light and placing Stacey in a momentary state of blindness. Within a couple steps she found herself entangled in some gooey mesh-like material. The harder she struggled to escape, the more it held on to her.
Panic set in! What was she tangled in? How would she get out?
Once her eyes adjusted to the dark, she knew it was a web . . . a huge spider web. But there were no spiders that big around here, and the web was thick-like a sticky rope. Birds were caught in it as well as her. Damn it! This couldn’t be!
His days of observation had paid off in huge dividends. Finally he would have a real meal, much more than the snacks afforded him by birds and other small animals. This woman would be a prize. A screaming buffet just for him.
The enormous spider crawled down the tree and stared at his meal. She tried to reach her weapons, but she was too entangled.
Her scream shattered the stillness of the forest as the beast began feeding on her, sucking the life-force out of her.
The last thing she saw in life was his hideous red eyes coming closer and closer to her face . . .
~ Blaze McRob
© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.
Devil Dolls
Shadows on the wall so eerie, made the little girl grow teary,
Watching shapes of hideous evils casting their disturbing gloom.
As she shuddered , nearly crying, all at once she heard a prying,
Much like someone trying, trying to get in the room.
“T’was some evil thing,” she figured, prying to get in her room.
“More than this, it’s bringing doom.”
.
Oh, so clearly she remembered, all was safe when first she slumbered,
Yet ‘twas every scary trembler brought it’s fear into the room.
Thus it went she longed for freedom, away from all the bad to come,
In her spread, patchwork of welcome, welcome for the coming doom.
But the scared and ominous youngster felt the wrath from evil’s womb.
Much noise now within the room.
.
Thus the sunken fears around her, tearing at the edge of horror
Scared her, brought her awful angst that ‘round her head did loom.
So she took to calm the pounding in her chest; she tried retreating
From the gruesome evil sounds, gaining entry to the room.
Yes, the gruesome evil sounds, gaining entry to the room.
This it was, and so much doom.
.
Who is there, or what, she wondered, wanting now to enter room.
But the fact was, she was frightened, feelings of her fears so heightened,
That her heart was oh so tightened, tightened deep within her room.
So deep inside her frightened mind, she tried to run from the doom.
Deep angst there, inside the room.
.
List’ning to the scary prying, as she shuddered, thinking, crying,
Fretting, fearing fears no children ever had to face in room.
But the horrors were so eerie, and the darkness made her teary,
And the only thing she wanted was a happy place, ‘nought doom.
This she wanted, and her mind repeated of a place, ‘nought doom.
Merely this, inside her room.
.
She returned to blankets hiding, all the fears inside her chiding,
But this time the sound was grating, closer , closer to her room.
“I’m scared,” said she, “I’m scared about the things that lurk inside this place,
What could there be the fear to chase, and so much more ‘tis gloom?”
Why could her soul be yet so torn, and drawn to fears of doom?
‘Tis the angst, inside the room.
.
And no more fear could she handle, her heart aflame just like a candle.
Inside the room a scream so loud, brought her mother to the room,
And when the lights were turned on full, Demonic Dolls did on her pull.
With the force of dolls so awful, so many now inside the room,
Sat upon a floor so shiny, in the middle of the room.
Sat and sat, in room of doom.
.
Twins on toybox top were sitting, evil faces, twisted smiling,
Blond haired boy with knife so handy welcomed Mom into the room.
His bright white eyes were rimmed in black, and stared at her, all set to hack.
Her body not would he let back, for now this room would be her tomb.
And so the boy advanced to her, and blood tipped knife t’was spelling doom.
Said the child, “This is your tomb.”
.
She tried to run but was stopped short, for other dolls came to abort
Her effort now turned to failing, dolls swept o’er her like a broom.
Dolls with her were not agreeing with her plan of capture fleeing
And now from her was much weeping as she faced her final doom.
Many dolls did come to anchor her to floor of daughter’s room.
Anchor her in her new tomb.
.
And so the boy did end her life, no more for her to feel its strife.
With one move, he finished her, and no more would she feel the boom
Of all hardships she had suffered, and no more pain need be buffered,
For all the dolls ‘round her muttered, “No more will you feel the gloom,
Your life upon the floor will stay, incumbent not on the gloom.
Welcome now in to your tomb.”
.
And so more dolls from toybox came, involved for now in their new game.
Former playmate now did hover close to entry of her room.
Trapped by those now giddy dollies, intent upon newfound follies,
Licking lips ahead of jollies, thinking of the young girl’s doom.
Time it was, for her gloom.
.
Thus the dollies’ lips were smiling, inside their minds so beguiling,
Set upon the girl so fragile, blocking her from leaving room.
And before her eyes were blinking, the dolls had all started thinking,
Others on the floor were drinking, her mother’s blood inside the room.
All this now, unholy, ghastly, scant and horrible place of doom.
‘Twas the horror in the room.
.
As they came intent on stopping all the effort from her leaving,
Knowing now their thoughts had changed concerning changes in the room.
So now they planned on her having, a life in here everlasting,
As their playmate, keen on staying, lightened mood inside the room,
Yes their playmate, keen on staying, lightened mood inside the room.
Change from doom, though still a tomb.
.
They dragged her next to teddy bears, upon the floor they had no cares,
Though their innards had been torn by knife of evil boy in room.
Twin girl did jump from off her perch, on top of toybox did
She lurch. Horror—horror and regret from the girl t’was trapped in gloom.
Damn, oh damn this harsh regret, still within this horrid room.
Place of gloom, and still a tomb.
.
Twin girl in white upon the child, did force her face down mean and wild,
Into the blood of her dead mom, the evil girl with blood did groom.
And twin’s white dress, once so flaunted, dripped with blood, now undaunted.
In this place of horror haunted, much was kept within this room.
Nothing—nothing more of horror —kept here —kept here in this room.
Place of gloom, and still a tomb.
.
“A part of us you now will be, and never more will you be free.
Demonic Dolls surround you now, and all of us will share this room.
Become a part of what we are, and never will we wander far.
And so embrace what now you are, forget about impending doom.
For you will never go too far, forget about impending doom,”
Place of gloom, and still a tomb.
.
“Heed you now our words of greeting, friend or foe can be so fleeting.
So stay with us and be our friend, and we will have fun in this room.
And those against us who will come, will feel our wrath much more than some.
And all who rail that we are one, shall feel the strength within the room.
Together we shall conquer all, and ’round the rest our hate will bloom.”
Place of gloom, and still a tomb.
.
And so the girl, now is sitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the shiny floor of horror, deep inside the room of gloom.
And her eyes have all the knowing of the dolls around her showing,
And the knowledge still is growing deep within this eerie room.
And her mind becomes as eerie as the others in the room.
No place of gloom, or a tomb.
~ Blaze McRob
© Copyright 2012 Blaze McRob. All Rights Reserved.
You have found us
Enter.
Sit before the Tale Weaver.
You are now in the presence of the Damned. Within these pages, an eclectic gathering of dark writers and poets. Each a distinct voice. Each a bent mind. Each a tortured soul. Here, the fabric of reality twirls round our malevolent fingers. Here, light comes to die.
Our world is beautifully charred compared to your own. Beneath your polish lies our rust. Beneath your glory exists our taint.
We hide not behind masks. We cringe not from the raw. The Damned speak truths you dare not utter. The Damned expose all you shamefully hide.
Indulge upon our sanguine prose. Bloat with our anguished muse. Exalt in our blatant gluttony. You deserve it all. For the Damned are merely reflections of yourself, and portraits do not lie.
No longer are these your safe surroundings. Eternally damned you shall now be.
Until we choose to summon you again…be gone.
So the Tale Weaver speaks.
~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver
© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
Who are they…and what do they want?
damned
especially : to condemn to hell
fancied fault or defect
<I’ll be damned>
© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
blazemcrob
Daemonwulf
Nina D'Arcangela
Dan Dillard
Hunter Shea
Joseph Pinto
moondustwriter
The Tale Weaver
Thomas Brown
Tyr Kieran
