Spiritless
by Kim Richards
Tears fall like April raindrops
Quickly disappearing into
Grey fabric like clouds.
Sooty as my heart,
My soul,
My aura said a blind woman.
Gunmetal stone walls loom over
My body, my mind,
My loneliness.
I have no strength
To break free
So I shall die here.
Alone.
Unknown.
Grey.
..
Butterfly Kisses
by Wynelda Ann Deaver
Technicolor fades
to black and white
Uno Reverse,
Dorothy style
.
Butterfly grace,
Resurrection and faith
Butterfly kisses
Ease the soul to night
.
Color bleeds out
Red and true
Galaxies bloom
Behind the eye.
.
Butterfly kisses
bear witness
Galaxy shattered
Soul Released
.
Rising up through
Butterfly tears
.
More about Wynelda Ann Deaver:
Wynelda Ann Deaver writes in the world of dark and twisty fantasy. She is in her own words a ‘girly girl’ who loves scrapbooking. Wynelda is extremely family oriented – her father is her best friend, and her son is the light of her life. If you’d like to read more about Wynelda, please visit her online at Wynword’s Weblog.
Hollowed Out
by Amanda Worthington
They hollowed out our bones
And taught us flight
But knew we couldn’t resist the wire
And its illusion of power
And when we’d alight on the thin filament
After hours spent scouring the skies for peace
They would count us like soldiers and ask us to sing
Measuring the span of both song and wing
.
And as if on cue we issued forth our birdspeak
Wishing to fade into the nothing promised us
When the count was done
.
And twice it was seen that the fine specimens they captured and recalled
Were rendered smudges. Indistinct things with no beaks
A shadow cast on their nefarious design
Less dead than faded like ink left to dry
.
And I wished my feathers into mosaic
My beak into slightly upturned silence
An artwork to be admired by the unsuspecting
In some as yet undreamt of age
.
Mistakes had been made before
And if they served me
Why should I not let them?
I never asked to be made avian
Aware corvid with the stain of creation
In my keratin
The ones and zeros stood in single file
And I felt quantum among them
Hummed myself into an obsidian pool
Of reverie
.
Became the third mishap
Waited for what came
When one was not retained
Within the ranks of damned women.
.
Waited for the day
When birds became night
And the abandoned feminine encompassing the dark
Swallowed the sun forever
And burned at long last
With energy owed it
Since the dawn of time
.
Waited for the moment
When the scales were balanced
And all was made right with the universe
.
Waited for the moment that would bring
The quenching of my thirst
And a reversal of the hell
We’d been made to endure
On unwilling wings
.
And when it arrived, I derived satisfaction in the notion
That I would never wait complacently on the wire again.
.
.
Dawn Comes in Blood
by Rie Sheridan Rose
Is there anything more beautiful than the dawn?
For many years, I was heralded thus. Until I reached sixteen summers, the entire village marveled at my beauty and extolled my virtues. But when my birth celebration was held that year, I noticed strange looks in the eyes that had looked upon me fondly. The women were tight-lipped and bore me down beneath the scorn of their glances. The men—I preferred the scorn. At least I could name it. The men looked at me with eyes more akin to the wolves than humans.
It was a dry summer, and the crops failed in the fields. The lakebed dried its skirts until only puddles remained. I began to hear whispers whenever I walked by. And all the eyes grew cold.
We survived the winter, but plague decimated the village. There was no house not wreathed in sorrow. I lost both my parents to the sickness. The whispers grew louder, decrying my ownership of such a large plot of land and sturdy house when there was no one else to share it. Rumors ranged that I had caused the illness to better my situation through sorcery and stealth.
I seldom ventured beyond the walls of my compound.
Now, the year has turned. Spring is once more upon us. What should be a time of renewal and rebirth has turned dark. There are no whispers now. There are shouts outside my window, and they cry for a sacrifice.
I can see the hill from here, as the day begins to brighten. The clouds are tinged with the rising sun, matching the pink flowers pooling like blood along the path. I am tired. I do not like the new order of things. Let someone else worry how to keep this house standing, how to grow crops on stone, how to fill a lake dried by mismanagement.
Let them come.
The dawn comes in blood, and they shall greet it with mine—but they are fools if they think that will change things. Death will only make me stronger.
.
More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:
Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry
Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…
…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.
The Floor is Lava
by Elaine Pascale
“The floor is lava,” Amelia said, pulling her feet onto her chair. Despite her cheerful tone, she wore a serious expression.
“We haven’t played that since we were kids.” Samantha balanced on the other chair in the room, sipping tea. She suspected that she hadn’t been invited over to reminisce about childhood games. The room had a war torn look to it and the chairs they sat on were missing cushions.
“Your feet.” Amelia pointed to Samantha’s shoes that remained planted on the floor.
“Really? We’re doing this?”
“Humor me.” Amelia took a swig from her glass of wine. “I’m in the mood for games.”
Samantha pulled her feet up onto the chair as instructed. “We might play something…more adult? Like Chess or Rummy 500?”
“I like the floor is lava.” Amelia smiled mischievously. “And spin the bottle.”
Samantha laughed. “That wasn’t a kid game, we played that later. As kids, we played the floor is lava and…trap door. Remember that one?”
Amelia’s facial expression was difficult to discern. “Yeah…trap door…”
“Remember when we played that with my cousin, Tom? He didn’t know to avoid the rugs—”
“But we did play spin the bottle,” Amelia interrupted, “And seven minutes in heaven.”
Samantha was not sure where this was going. “I guess…”
Amelia took a deeper pull from her wine. “And you kissed Eli and you went in the closet with him.”
“I barely remember that.”
Amelia began rubbing her forehead with her free hand. “Just admit it. You went into the closet with Eli.”
Samantha laughed nervously. “What can I say? You won, though, you married him.”
Amelia bent her head. Her hair fanned in front of her. “He’s leaving me,” she said softly.
“I am so sorry.”
Sniffles emanated from behind the curtain of red hair. “You know why?”
“No.”
“He wants to be free. Like when we were young.”
Samantha scoffed. “We’re adults; he needs to grow up.”
“No. He’s right.” Amelia’s sniffles had graduated to sobs. “I want to be free, too. I want to be young and play games.”
Samantha looked around for Kleenex and spotted some on the bookshelf at the far end of the room. She walked to the shelf to retrieve the box of tissue. As she stepped on the throw rug, the floor fell out beneath her. She landed on her back, hard. Her head hit the dirt floor next and her eyes lost focus.
“Amelia?” she called, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Amelia’s head appeared in the opening, her tearless eyes peering into the storage space. Amelia smiled fiendishly. “Trap door was fun.”
Before the panel in the floor could be closed above her, Samantha saw a woman chained in the corner of the crawl space. The cushions from the chairs were on the floor and it looked as if the woman had been sleeping on them. Her ribs were visible through her torn shirt and her hands and arms were covered with lacerations.
The woman nodded at Samantha. “I dated Eli in college,” she said in answer to the unspoken question of why she was there, before they were both submerged in darkness.
.
More from Elaine Pascale:
The Blood Lights
They victimize all…
Jezzie Mitchell is in anguish; with her brother’s murder still on her mind, she’s noticed strange behavior among the girls in the residential treatment center where she works. Is there a connection between the contagion on Cape Cod and the deadly Bahamas vacation that changed her life?
Jezzie reaches out to former lover Lou Collins, a scholar who has chased proof of the lights for decades. Will he be able to solve the mystery of the lights in time?
Intensely competitive, reporter Bridgette Collins knows the lights are a way to secure fame in her career. And while it’ll put the final nail into the coffin of her ex-husband’s career, she vows to know the secrets of the lights. Even if it means unleashing a world-wide epidemic…
Butterflies From the Curse
by Kathleen McCluskey
In a small village, nestled deep within the rolling countryside, there was an old legend whispered among the locals. The legend spoke of a cursed forest, where the trees whispered ancient secrets and the shadows held malevolent spirits. These spirits were said to be the restless souls of those that had dared defy the ancient guardians. They were forever bound to wander in the shadowy depths.
One day a young girl, named Lily, ventured into the forest, ignoring the warnings from the elders. As she wandered deeper into the woods, the air grew thick with the scent of decay mixed with the sweet scent of flowers. She saw spectral wisps dancing through the gnarled trees, their forms just out of her vision. The atmosphere around her shifted from one of wonder to one of foreboding as the trees began to sway in unison.
Lost and disoriented, Lily stumbled into a clearing bathed in an otherworldly light. There, she saw a figure standing in the center. Its eyes gleaming with an ethereal light. Without hesitation, Lily approached, drawn by an unseen force towards the mysterious presence. As she drew closer, she noticed the figure’s eyes were not human. They were the eyes of the forest itself, ancient and all knowing. Perched upon one of the eyes were two small butterflies, their wings pulsing with an eerie glow.
In a trance-like state, Lily reached out to touch the butterflies, unaware of the darkness that lurked within them. As her fingers brushed against their delicate wings, a surge of evil energy coursed through her veins. Her eyes rolled over black. She was now bound with the all-knowing gaze of the forest. It sealed her fate within its depths.
From that day on, Lily became the guardian of the forest. Her once innocent eyes now reflected the ancient darkness that dwelled within. Those who dared to enter the forest would be met with the chilling sight of her eyes, haunted by the souls who had succumbed to the curse.
The legend of the cursed forest lived on. A cautionary tale whispered among the locals. A tale of lost souls and the butterflies that sealed their fate.
.
More from Kathleen McCluskey:
The Long Fall: Book 1: The Inception of Horror
Lucifer always cunning and intelligent challenges father to a battle of wits. Being the angel of light he casts a judgmental eye upon mankind. He begins a war with his fellow archangels and God. Michael, along with his siblings defend their home and mankind from their deranged brother. Broad swords and hand to hand combat drench heaven in blood. The four apocalyptic steeds are released, each having their own destructive power. Betrayal and lust are at biblical levels. Understand the very creation of evil and the consequences that transpire in the first of THE LONG FALL series.
Last Letter
by Marge Simon
You phone an invitation
two decades overdue.
I find you already there
in a New York café with something
sealed in cellophane. “For a laugh,”
you say, lighting a cigarette,
but I’m not in the mood.
You spread a faded square
on the counter, I recall
the stationary I once used.
“So how are things,” you say.
I ask why you cut your hair.
Birds on the wires,
Notes of a sad song
Against a paper sky
We wear the color of these skies
on our skin, and the wind is old.
.
More from Marge Simon:
Victims
by
The title of this collection sets you up for the surprise of lyrical stories of victimizations with unexpected endings for the villains. Be ready to have your heart opened and cheer for perceived victims, human (made and unmade) and other life forms, victorious in the hands of these two award-winning poets. —Linda D. Addison, award-winning author, HWA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient and SFPA Grand Master.
Across histories and cultures and from Auschwitz to Babylon this book leaves you questioning who are the victims, and regardless of your conclusion you’re likely to get throat-punched. This is horror where everyone has a knife, and is ready to deliver this message: “Remember, you are always guilty. —Herb Kauderer, author of Fragments from the Book of the After-Dead.
Simon and Turzillo have only gone and startled me again. What a collection! Brutal. Beautiful. This quiver of poems strikes with the unflinching truth of persecution and oppression as seen through the lens of feminism. Prepare to come away bruised and yet strangely bolstered by Victims, a symphony of sadness orchestrated by two masters of dark poetry. —Lee Murray, Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Award-winner.
This is one of the braver dark poetry collections I’ve seen in a while. Horror poets generally employ victims in their work, but the focus is generally on the Evil. Turning the camera the other way is unusual, unsettling, emotionally risky, and surprisingly effective. From their stark opening take on Pygmalion, to the ending poem about the wasted life of Stateira of Persia, this powerful collection teases apart an impressive number of the threads of victimhood. Some are the usual cases, but quite a few are surprises, or reversals, or cases with unexpected layers. There is nothing repetitive about this collection. —Timons Esaias, winner of the Asimov’s Readers’ Award and the Winter Anthology Contest
The Perfect Selfie
by Kim Richards
Mel chose this spot in the middle of the street because of the perfect angle. The street lamps and storefront lights illuminated other places with their dingy glow. The TV news reported no fog tonight. Excited, she smiled and sat down, ignoring the dirt and smell of decay around her.
A chilled numbness climbed over her skin, through her jean shorts and fishnets. At least she remembered her sweater this time. March nights were still cold. She learned her lesson last time she forgot it and had to give up. Now, she wore it tightly wrapped around her torso with the hood pulled up over her long hair.
Sitting cross legged, her phone lay on the road surface between her scuffed athletic shoes. The app she intended to use to activate the camera sat ready. She only needed to tap the button to start the timer then, 15 seconds later, the camera would take the pic.
She used the sleeve of her sweater to buff smudges off the camera lens. Satisfied, she spread out the legs of the tripod, adjusted the focus, and zoomed in just a little to where she last saw it.
After a few minutes, a thin wisp of ethereal smoke appeared among the roses Mel’s camera focused on. Her pulse quickened.
It’s early!
Her finger poised over the button as she drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Her breath floated up, visible in the crisp night air.
The wisp thickened and coalesced into a shape. Humanoid with two legs and two arms, a round head, and thick torso.
“Now!” Mel whispered. She pressed the timer button and leapt to her feet. Focused on her destination, she navigated around the rose bushes as she sprinted over to the apparition. She stopped beside it, breathing heavily.
The shadow turned its spectral head to face her. This close, its features solidified. Inky empty eyes stared deeply into Mel’s. Its mouth opened in a wide ‘O’, revealing a dark chasm within.
Time to face the camera.
Mesmerized, Mel’s body froze. She could only watch as blackened hands reached out and grasped her shoulders. Its chill touch burned her skin through her clothing.
“Help me!” her mind cried out.
The apparition leaned forward. Its face stopped an inch from Mel’s. From within its open mouth, it sucked in.
Pain pummeled Mel in the chest. It sucked her breath away, leaving an excruciating vacuum. Unable to open her mouth, her mind screamed hard.
Flash. Then the shadowy thing disappeared, clasping her soul to its chest.
.
In Honor of Shirley
by Kendra Smart
The house made noise. His Mother used to dismiss the noises, he knew it was her own way of sleeping…but the ¨house settling” had never been a tonic to his brain. The house was loud, all it took was a slight breeze to weave its way through the corridors but you would swear that the house faced the most dire of agonies that brick, mortar, wood, and steel could. A haunting, howling, scream emitted from each room, each carrying their own weight of suffering. Muffled of course, as though through a pillow or gag, but he knew it was a scream not the settling of old bones.
As a boy he had always wondered what had happened in this house for it to carry such misery. His friend Oliver said that the land held memories longer than bones. Being so young he had scoffed and not understood what that meant.
The house had been gifted through the family lineage and when his Grandmother had passed on, his Mother became the Mistress of the Manor. His Mother and Father had both been renowned dancers. It was how they met. It was how everyone knew them and it flooded every inch of the room when idle chatter was allowed to enter the area. To be fair, at least when these times were talked of, they were spoken of with light and fondness. Those who had been a witness to their dancing and their love, were often inspired by what they had seen.
He was glad his Mother had known true love, but he had known only her bittersweet mourning. The Mourning Dove of Davenport danced no more. The mask she wore rivaled that of the parties and balls, the most fragile of porcelain could never compare with the one his Mother crafted with care.
He should not have come back to this place. The memories were as ingrained as the marks from the years of wear and tear on the bones. The chips and dents from years of use and heavy use at that. The memories stayed on steadily as he made his way further.
His heart rate increased the further he went. His cheeks were marred from the exhaustion of the exertion. His body knew there was something amiss, odd, off. But his mind no longer cared. He could feel her…she was here. His eyes could no longer be trusted. Each room burst free from the dust, decay, and rubble. The rooms springing forth crisp, clear visages that came from the power of knowledge. Dressed to the nines , amongst the forgotten and long gone, his Mother would have garnered any gaze. All eyes would have been drawn to the jewel, to the pool in the desert. She was a relief, even now.
All visible paths led to the dancer warming up and preening in the mirror.
The room had been a tomb of sound but he would swear on a strain that the opening notes of strings emitted the closer he grew to her. A harmony began as his body moved of his own accord and made way to the dancer.
Mom.
How many times had his heart yearned for her to be there for him? With him.
The birthdays.
Holidays.
His Divorce.
The death of his son…
Through all the highs and the lows, it had been her face he missed. Her voice he longed for. Her comfort he sought. The unconditional love she had always given.
Who better to welcome him home?
He would never feel the stab of extreme pain from the heart attack. The warmth came from the dance, not the blood rushing. The shock that his system was entering felt to him as though a breeze of fresh air had entered the dance floor through an open door letting in the night breeze.
He was beyond the pain. It no longer entered his mind. A closed door as his bones joined the grounds. He saw only her smile and her beckoning him.
¨Welcome Home…¨
.
More from author Kendra Smart:
Just Emotions:
A Gothic Bite Magazine Anthology
A collection of poetry.
‘Just Emotions‘ is exactly as it states, a group of writers who had feelings they wanted to express in poem form. Inside, there are a range of emotions to explore. Each writer has given a bit of themselves to you, each in their own way.
We hope that you enjoy these writings and that among the poems you may find some thing you can identify with or relate to. Thank you for giving us this chance to open the catacombs and share with you.
The Defense
by K.R. Morrison
Angela checked her reflection in the glass as she swept into the Judiciary Building.
She looked like a model straight out of a Christian Dior ad. It was exactly the image she was trying to project. She was wearing the latest in the Hellevuur line, and it had to work for her today.
The information on her assignment had only been given to her a few hours beforehand, and she wasn’t sure how she would present it. The accusations had been very strong, and she knew that this was going to be a tough fight.
It didn’t help that her Mercedes was in the shop and she had had to ride the bus to get here. But as she checked her reflection for the hundredth time, she felt a bit better. Having someone sit next to her on a public conveyance always made her feel dirty.
“Angela! I’m glad I caught you before you went in.” The mousy little justice department employee—she could never remember his name or position—rushed up to her as she crossed over to the courtroom.
“Yes?” What is it?” She gave him a stare that let him know without a doubt that his presence was a great irritation.
“Been a change in the case. The defendants decided to be their own counsel.”
“What?”
The little paperpusher shrugged and dashed away, onto destroying someone else’s career, she supposed.
Angela sighed and continued on to the courtroom. So much for the power suit. Well, maybe with a flash of bosom and her practiced smile, she could glean something from this day.
The judge was waiting in his seat. A more timid-looking man Angela had never seen. She couldn’t read his nameplate, so she had no idea who she was going to have to confront.
Her four would-be accused were sitting together in the front row, and she was ready to give them each her most bounteous smile. But the glowering faces on most of the audience told her that this was not a time for it.
They knew what these men stood accused of, and they were ready to hang them on sight.
The judge banged his gavel, and the four men rose. The first one approached the bench, turned, and started speaking.
What he said made perfect sense, and it sounded as if he was as innocent as a newborn babe. The audience looked like they believed it too. Some of the baleful stares went away. But if anyone had asked Angela later what the man had said, she would not have recalled any of it.
Each man came up in turn to explain their points of view, and by the end of the last speech, the audience was almost all on their side. Some, however, melted out of the room in quiet haste, following the group that had accused the men in the first place.
Finally the judge stood up.
And up.
And up.
He filled the courtroom with his presence, along with a horrid stench that came from under the floorboards. He stared around at the audience, now frozen in fear.
“If these men are guilty,” he intoned, “so are all on this planet. You invited them in, with the behavior you exhibit day after day. Now prepare to face what you yourselves have done!”
The four men strode out of the room, and Angela quickly left through a side door.
And as the sky turned red and the screams began, she watched as they rode away on their horses—Death, Famine, War, and Pestilence.
She turned and started back to her apartment on foot. It wasn’t her fault that these guys got off, she told herself. After all, the world had it coming. .
More from K.R. Morrison:
Enoch’s Return: Pride’s Downfall Book 4
All hell broke loose, as demon fought saint, and undead fought mortal. Fangs and swords, fire and light, mingled in a cacophony of noise that would have awakened the dead — if they hadn’t already been in the pitch of battle.
Toby was looking forward to celebrating his 21st birthday with family and friends. However, the day is shattered by the arrival of his sister, Erica, fresh out of the juvenile detention center, where she has lived in isolation most of her life. There is something very wrong with her still; witness her biting the ear of her taxi driver and licking the blood from her lips, and the way she antagonizes everyone around her. The other thing that is very off-putting about the day is a gift he receives – a musty tent and a few iron spikes that have been lying in the ground for years. Toby faints at the sight of the “treasure,” while Erica reacts violently and runs off to who-knows-where.
While he is unconscious, Toby learns who he truly is, and of his mission.
Nina D’Arcangela is a quirky horror writer who likes to spin soul rending snippets of despair. She reads anything from splatter matter to dark matter. She's an UrbEx adventurer who suffers from unquenchable wanderlust. She loves to photograph abandoned places, bits of decay and old graveyards.
Nina is co-owner of Sirens Call Publications, co-founder of the horror writer's group 'Pen of the Damned', and if that isn't enough, put a check mark in the box next to owner and resident nut-job of Dark Angel Photography.
Spreading the Writer's Word 