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.


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.

Visions of the Reaper

The sky was so blue it hurt. Not a cloud, not a plane, not even a bird in sight. The air was warm, the humidity low and it smelled of jasmine and coffee. Corbin Adams walked with a skip in his step and a satisfied smile on his face. He considered it a perfect day. In his opinion, one of three in his entire thirty seven years. Maybe even his best day.

He’d been on a date the previous evening, and Ellie had kissed him full on the lips. Three hours ago, she’d called and thanked him for a wonderful evening and accepted his request for a lunch date. Corbin Adams was over the moon.

He’d longed for her ever since she’d come to his office, a new client, and sat in the marginally comfortable chair on the other side of his desk. A pudgy man, he’d had a tough time with woman. As a loan officer, he had a tough time with people in general, especially in the current economic climate. Ellie’s credit was sterling, her job secure, her income impressive, her hair soft, her lips full, her eyes dreamy and she’d agreed to a second date. It didn’t matter to Corbin that she was roundish as well. Nothing mattered because they were going to have lunch.  And if he didn’t screw that up, maybe dinner a second time.

It is a smashing day, the smashingest! he thought.

If only that dark figure wasn’t standing on the corner, all would’ve been perfect.  It made him feel uneasy and slowly deflating, like a balloon just untied and farting around the room in giant figure eights. He shuddered.

“You’re being silly,” he said to himself.

Three blocks away, it just stood there. Thoughts crossed his mind. Could it be a walk light with a trash bag wrapped around it, or a fallen awning? He squinted, trying to pull details from the distance, and walked another fifty paces. It didn’t flinch.

Corbin stopped, steadying his view, and smoothed back his thinning hair. Farsighted, he pulled his reading glasses down to the bulge of his nose and looked over them. It caused his double chin to stand out. A mannequin perhaps? Maybe a prop for a local theater version of “A Christmas Carol.”

Not in April, he thought.

It stood on the corner where he needed to turn to get to his second date with Ellie. He wouldn’t let anything interrupt that. Nothing could interfere with one of the three best days of his life.

There was no plastic bag wrapped around a traffic signal, walk-don’t walk or otherwise. It was a humanoid form, with black cloth draped over a thin frame. The few other pedestrians paid it no mind. Had it been there and he not noticed—an odd cigar shop Indian for some strange new store?

Then it moved. It shifted its stance and held up a gloved hand. The sleeve of its cloak slid down, revealing a pair of forearm bones, no skin attached. Corbin gasped.

It’s waving at me, he thought.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked around to see if there was an alien, or some other creature waving back…hoping a costume party was gathering and he was in the middle. The street was empty, save for a single car going in the opposite direction. When he turned, the figure was gone.

“Shit,” he said.

He didn’t often swear, but felt it was appropriate under the strange circumstances.

There were three blocks between him and Amato’s Deli—Ellie’s  choice. Three blocks to go. He checked his watch. There was still plenty of time, fourteen minutes to be exact. He liked exact. He liked order. He liked black and white. He kept walking.

Corbin turned the corner and saw the black figure again. It was in front of the deli, two blocks away. He glanced across the street and saw the usual bustling shoppers and dwellers of town, but the sidewalk between Corbin and the thing was empty. When he looked back, the figure hadn’t moved. Its black hood fluttered in the breeze, giving a glimpse of the bony grin beneath. Corbin stopped. He could move no further.

His heart pounded, exiled from his chest, it lived in his throat.

“You don’t want me. You can’t want me,” he said, clutching at his swollen and throbbing neck.

Not on my perfect day. Not now, he thought.

Gathering himself, Corbin turned and stepped into a corner bookstore. A bell jingled announcing him and a kindly old woman stepped forward.

“Thanks for coming in,” she said.

He saw her but didn’t speak. Instead, he moved to the book stacks in the rear. There, he paced, trying to slow his pulse. The old woman stepped from behind the counter and smiled at him.

“If you need anything, just ask,” she said.

“I need a shrink,” he muttered below her radar.

There were four rows of shelves in the back of the store and Corbin fumbled from one to the next. Absently, he fingered the various book covers. The longer he paced, the sillier her felt. His face flushed.

“I’m an idiot. This is just nerves,” he said.

The bell above the front door jingled again and he froze. Fearing, for a moment, it was the black-cloaked thing, coming for him. He held his breath, and then turned to see. The old woman was inches from his face.

“You’ll not escape death in here,” she said with moist, rotten breath.

But it wasn’t her face. What he saw was hollowed-out with holes its eyes should’ve been. Corbin screamed. He stumbled out the door and down the two small steps to the sidewalk. He rushed to his right, then looked back and saw nothing. There was no one on the sidewalk and no monstrous hag with missing eyes. There was no skulking reaper.

He released the breath he’d been holding and checked himself. His shirt was untucked and there was a patch of sweat bleeding through the chest of his short-sleeve button-down.

“Calm down, Corbin,” he said and allowed himself a nervous chuckle.

Again, he noticed the blue sky, a brilliant color that reminded him of Ellie’s eyes, of his lunch date and of his perfect day. Still rattled, he looked back toward the bookstore. Nothing looked back. He checked his watch again.

“Shit,” Corbin said for the second time in one day.

Only the direst of circumstances called for two swears in the same afternoon. Had an hour really passed? Was he late for their meeting? He yanked the handle, pulling the deli door open as if he meant to take it off the hinges. Inside, he found the dining area empty and a young man behind the counter gave him a nod. Corbin sat in the last booth and watched the front door while he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone.

He could simply explain. He could apologize for screwing things up and she would understand. Before he could dial, a shadow crawled over him and when he looked into it, he saw the boy from behind the counter.

“Can I get you somethin’?” the young man said.

Corbin looked out the window, hoping Ellie was also late and that he might see her rushing to the deli as he had.

“I was supposed to meet someone. Have you seen…”

He stopped because the boys eyes were hollow, and the skin on his face had shriveled to reveal a grinning skull. A plume of black smoke wrapped the monster in a grave hug as the boy-reaper-thing slid into the other side of the booth.

“You’re quite evasive,” it said.

Corbin couldn’t speak, he only stared. A sick feeling ate his perfect day and swallowed it whole.

“I rather enjoy a good chase,” it continued.

Corbin closed his eyes and found his voice. A single tear leaked out.

“I’m…not ready to die.”

The reaper laughed a most horrible sound. At the same time, Ellie emerged from the bathroom. Her face was wrinkled with anger as she looked around the room. She slammed the door, but it made no sound. She walked to the counter and spoke to the boy, now back at his post, but her high heels didn’t click on the tile floor, and her words were muted. Corbin looked back to the reaper. It was still chuckling.

“But you are already dead,” it said.

It was then Corbin noticed the blood smeared on his hand, the gash where his broken radius and ulna protruded. A greenish artery leaked onto the table. Then, he remembered the accident. He remembered being so giddy after Ellie’s phone call that he’d run a red light on his way to work. The mess the truck made of his tiny hybrid, of his pudgy body, was astonishing.

The reaper giggled again, like a maniac from a black and white horror film.

“I only wish to take you home,” it said.

~ Dan Dillard

© Copyright 2013 Dan Dillard. All Rights Reserved.

Sex-Starved Thing

Nails grate across stone; she comes for me.  Hellish echoes impaling the frailty of my senses through the back of my skull.  Scratch, ssssscratch.  Blistering pants herald her arrival from somewhere deep within my institution of darkness.  Blistering, born sodden with covet, sin.  I am unsure to whom those breaths belong.

She comes for me.  My sex-starved thing.


Limbs twist; these cords bite into wrists, offering little freedom, holding fast my famished body to this chilled limestone.  So chilled.  I strain to see her; this dark surrenders nothing.  I shudder with the callousness of a desperate want.  So desperate.  Nails grate across stone; ever closer she slinks.


“Choke me,” into obscurity, I gasp.

Nether’s inviting ledge…always upon which I teeter.  A void exists below, an oblivion so familiar; I will be lost should I fall.  Much the same as this thing…this thing the light of sun has never licked.  “Choke me,” mouth too careless, eager.  My dick throbs, pulsing with a life I wish I myself had known.

I will taste you first

Toes curl; shadows shift so subtly beyond blind eyes.  Fingers clench; shadows shift so subtly beyond screaming senses.  She is all around me, shifting so subtly beyond wildest imagination.


My sex-starved thing I never disobey.  Mouth parts; beads of moisture tease my lips.  I arch against my bed of gypsum, slam inhibitions atop stone, aching for her to break me.  Delirious, this wait.  I swallow dank air, the fester of her home; finally, her tongue fills my mouth with the sweetest taste I could ever despise.  Swirling, swirling over teeth, probing, probing deep into ragged throat.

Fire, raging through my head.  I gag; her tongue clogs my passage.  I desire more.  Always more.  “Choke…me…” I bite down upon pulsing meat in my mouth.  Chew upon festering wretchedness.  Deeper her tongue thrusts, sealing pharynx, sealing remains of wasted breath within my gut.  Endearing, her plague, burying my last wail deep into chest…snuffing life as I asked…interring me with the usual disclosure: she will never belong to me.

I have found the perfect end.  She was born to make me hurt.

Nether’s inviting edge beckons; body numbs, stars bursting behind my lids the only light mine.  From the cusp of unconsciousness, she gently rouses me.  I cannot see.  I am blind.  Her leer fondles; the skin crackles over her jaws.  Somewhere from deep within, the dissonant scuttling of things bloated with far worse than abandon.  She nuzzles my cheek; her tender, moist lips nuzzle my own, grazing so softly the diseased affection left unspoken.  With razor teeth, my sex-starved thing rends flesh from my face.

Sweet agony.  Howling…so desperate for her tease.  Fingers rake my heaving chest—Heaven.  Hades burns beneath her nails.  Squirm squirm squirm I do—her little slug.  These cords do not yield; in turn, she yields no hope.  Into my abdomen, sink her nails.  I spit the contagion of my devotion from reverent mouth, screaming for more.

Within the deadened, inky blanket of her lair, the fervor of her gaze singes my engorged organ.

“Consume me,” I offer.

My sex-starved thing snorts cruelly over my body; the chill she illicits delicious.  Breath swirls across pelvis.


Those bloated things, they scurry away.  Reverberating between the stalagmites, feelers seeking some other form of rot.  Done with me before even they start.  My beautiful destroyer, she has only begun.  “Consume me!”  A challenge from bloody lips.


“Please…”  Terribly deft fingers wedge a spreader bar between my legs.  “Consume…”  Cuffs snap, bite into ankle, nearly to bone.  “Me!”

I am numb to her affliction.

A chortle, repulsive beyond limits of known sanity.  Brutal, pitiless—a stony palm seizes my shaft, squeezing as her sadist mouth engulfs, razor blade tongue sucking, lapping.  Shredding skin from my dick, shredding as she bobs.  Coarse hair pricking my stomach, shredding shredding until I erupt; an orgasm of blood.  My essence, it escapes in rhythmic pulses, filling her mouth—the seed of all my sin.  Slowly I bleed out, for me, for her.  Body stiffening; this sensation of depletion exquisite, my only regret that no longer do I die virgin deaths for my sex-starved thing.  She has murdered me more times than I can count.

“Now steal me…”  Mouth betraying me always.

My sex-starved thing lies atop me, my death rattle commencing beneath her jaded eyes.  She laughs, the sweet music of all gone wrong.  Lowers her head.  Tears my throat apart.  She eats, she snickers; spits blood, semen back into the wheezing hole in my neck.  Taunts some more.  The joke is always on me; I love my sex-starved thing.

She slides along my body.  Nipples graze skin.  The stone, it chews spine.  I remain mutilated beneath her—an emasculated piece of nothing, a chunk of meat detained by her lure.  Broken, so willing for her promise.  Ruined, left yearning for more.

Blistering, the tortured pants between us.  Still unsure to whom those breaths belong.

“Steal me,” pleading to the worst of all I am.

She obliges; it is what she does.  My curse the blessing she delivers.  Fist deep she plunges into my chest, twisting, tearing at my very corruption.  Her brutality unmatched, rending my heart free of its cage.  The lump of flesh now my dick twitches.

It belongs to me

She devours my heart.

The gagging nearly immediate.

The gurgling incessant from her mouth.


Somewhere in the dark, she collapses.

“Never,” voice oily in her lair.  I wait until silence clots my ears, shred wrists free of her knots.  For all the Devil in me, I love my sex-starved thing.  I could never tell her of the poison within my heart.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2013 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Broken Dream

I came so innocent as a child

such wild and  fanciful play

I would often tiptoe in the night

 staying long into the day


Fortresses queen I’d be

sea castles in my mind

and as I older grew

I toyed in the sublime


 chance encounter that I had

mad he flapped and cawed

black cloaked raven-man

a twisted face, how odd


things were altered now it seemed

my dreams began to thin

 darkness seeped in and through

imagination’s walls  begun to spin


Bloodless echoes haunted me

“please” I’d close my ears

steel-like, frozen where I stood

terrorized by my fears


Malevolence stalked through the mist

abyss like were his eyes

vile dropped from his lips

his cloak rendered no disguise


“I take you as my victim

pinned – a voodoo curse

you cannot from it run

I promise it’s the worst”


No light lit his face

trace, there was no sorrow

 a hideous malignant sneer

little time left to borrow


There is no place that I know

to go or leave this thing

bound in a timeless shell

to none hope can I bring


For you, life-taker grows this hate

rape you may my world

but watch this as life’s child

her vengeance is unfurled


try with all my will to shake

awake I’d purge the dream

blood through fingers oozed

coagulated as I’d scream


my hands they hold a sanguinous flood

loves I cannot save

none could stem abhorrent tide

In their blood I am depraved


alert my plans, they have wrought

thoughts to kill my foe

the curse must be undone

for the sake of all I know


The maniac’s thirsty schemes

dreams that I now dread

 dealt a hand I cannot play

his crimes are mine instead


rivulets of a cursed flow

grow as I hold them tight

I stand so pale and aghast

her stream gushes in the night


this dreaded, foretold dream alas

last of those I knew

puddles form in ebbing streams

I can only mouth,” Adieu”


“Ha” he gasped “Gagnez – you win”

A pin thrust in my side

too late was lost his final breath

” no victory all have died!”


 keeper of nightmarish pool

fool I knew too late

this ghoulish fiend held a key

would have opened freedom’s gate


you, dream-waker come this way

as the noir play unfolds

ghastly gore spread neath your feet

“what evil is untold?”


Endless blood pools there it lay

off-stage a cloak is draped

 one lifeless human voodoo doll

nightmares he must shake


From the doll a pin he gently pulls

full of shape and life is she

cruelly manacled to a frozen wall

his aim to set her free


 “there must a way to make this cease”

“release me not,” I scream

I now am specter of both worlds

 leave me shackled to this dream”

~ Leslie Moon

© Copyright 2013 Leslie Moon. All Rights Reserved.