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The Road to Nowhere…

The Road to Nowhere…

Monthly Archives: September 2012

A Fouling Wind by Daemonwulf

30 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Cross Posts, Dark Fiction, Horror, Pen of the Damned, Short Stories of Horror

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angst, childhood, Daemonwulf, dark fiction, Death, Horror, isolation, Pen of the Damned, Short Story

Originally published September 18, 2012 on Pen of the Damned

Papa’s gone.  And I’m alone.  Again.

As dusk is swallowed by night, I peer through the glass of the front door at a world that carries on without me. In the dirty, etched glass that serves as my window into the world I rarely enter, the reflection I’ve grown use to stares back at me. As the years have passed, I’ve come to realize the face is mine. But I know it’s not the one I was born with.

There’s a smell in the air. It frightens me…

Outside, tall oak trees cast long shadows across the road that snakes past our home — sharp fingers scraping the pavement, desperate to crawl away from the setting sun. Their branches are engaged in an ages old battle, pummeled by the invisible fists of a foul-smelling wind. Between the rustle of leaves, I hear the roar of the metropolis that lives around me.  It must now stretch for miles beyond our neighborhood – a secluded enclave reserved for the city’s elite. We were once the families of the ruling class – the wealthy, the industrialists, and ‘the ones with the most to lose,’ as Papa would often say.

Automobiles rumble by in the distance, their angry horns bleating dissatisfaction. A trio of motorcycles growl, carving their own paths down paved streets far beyond where my eyes can see. Overhead, gleaming airplanes leave white streaks in their wake as they crisscross the sky. The patterns remind me of Tic-Tac-Toe played on scraps of paper with Mama, so many years ago. The din of the sleepless city invades this home that Papa built, as he says, ‘to protect us from the evils that dwell beyond our granite walls.’

Inside, my guts churn. Something’s coming…

Papa is a good man — a proud man. But even though he doesn’t say it, I know he’s also a very sad man. There was a time when Papa feared nothing. Now, it seems, fear consumes him. Sometimes I imagine I can see the terror that hides behind his eyes — wicked shadows living just below their surface. I can’t help but feel that he wants to make sure his fears find a new home, somewhere deep inside of me.

Papa doesn’t want me to go outside alone anymore. He never explains exactly why, saying only that so many horrors ride on the back of every wind, and that they’re particularly dangerous for a ‘little boy like me’ — a phrase he’s very fond of using.

While I often ponder what Papa sees on the wind, something tells me I already know, without him having to speak the words.

When the wind blows, I believe I can sometimes sense Papa’s fears. I smell their rotten odors as they arrive on the slightest of breezes. And their stench grows stronger as frenzied gusts howl through the trees. I like to believe that what I smell is simply the decay of the city; but deep inside I know it’s actually something far, far worse.

Deathhhhhh…

The thought turns my skin to gooseflesh.

While known for his honesty, I don’t know if Papa’s been entirely truthful with me. If nothing else, I fear he’s keeping things from me, sharing only what he wants in order to protect me from what he’s sure exists outside – ‘evils too dangerous for a little boy like me.’

I can’t count the number of times Papa’s told me how much he can’t bear to see me hurt. I know he’s talking about something much different than scraped knees or broken wrists. And I can’t help but think it’s my ruined face that has him so concerned.

Rather than risk his pain, I now try to do as Papa asks. I stay inside as much as possible.

Here, locked behind the door, I stare through the window and wait, watching day bleed into night and then back again. It’s an endless procession of time that marches past in a world that has forgotten I ever existed.

The wind blows harder. And the stench grows stronger. Oh, Papa, where are you…?

Today had been the same as most. Papa was dressed in a meticulously appointed suit — the creases of his pant legs pressed so sharp they looked as though they could slice a finger. Like clockwork, he placed atop his head a matching black top hat. When he dressed this way it reminded me of the days when he used to work at the bank. That was when Mama was still around.

“Son, I’m off to pay a visit to the Goldbergs. You remember Samuel and Rita Goldberg, no?” Papa asked. I nodded, even though I didn’t.

“I’ll be lunching with the Rubensteins, and then need to check in on the Schultz sisters before returning.  You know, they don’t have many callers these days, the poor, lonely dears.” I thought his last statement rather ironic.

This was almost verbatim what he said every day. Only the names changed from one to the next.

“And Robert, remember…stay inside.  Don’t open the door for anyone but me,” he said, pausing.  “You know how much I care for you, son. You’re all I have, and I don’t know what I’d do if anything happens to you…”

He stopped before uttering the final word, but I knew, even though unsaid, he meant to end his sentence with ‘again.’

Papa rubbed my head, mussing my hair.

“I’ll give Mrs. Rubenstein your best wishes,” he said, with a flash of a smile and a wink of his right eye behind which I was sure I could see the darkness that terrorized him. Then Papa was out the door.

He’s afraid. And so am I…

Hours had passed since Papa had left, and he was still not home yet. This was unusual, even for a man as busy as he.

Staring out into the dimming light, something felt strangely different about today.

That’s when I noticed the car approaching on the road. Anxiety chewed at my insides.

Oh Papa, Papa…you need to come home soon.

It was almost unheard of to have visitors these days. We never saw the friends or family who once streamed into our home for dinners, holidays, or simple chats. I suppose time takes its toll on everything, including the memories of those you once loved.

While not exactly out of the ordinary to see cars pass by on our private lane; it was a rare occasion when they actually stopped. Usually, they’d be filled with loud, drunken teenagers who’d roam across our lawn, not hesitating to relieve themselves behind hedges or at the base of our trees. This would continue until Papa grew weary of the cacophony and put an end to such escapades. He’d step through the doorway — voice booming — and send them scattering back to their cars where they were quickly on their way.

Taking special effort not to be seen, I hunkered down and peered through the bottom of the window in the front door.  Through the security bars bolted to the outside, I watched the car creep into full view. It was one of the late-model sport coupes that interested me so; but it was badly in need of a wash. Beneath the grime I could tell it was probably a brilliant red.

I gagged on the decay…

I breathed a small sigh as the car continued past, sure it would be on its way. Then came the tell-tale flash of red that erupted from its back end as the driver brought it to a halt. My heart slipped into my throat. I slid to floor.

The car was still, its engine rumbling in the early evening. A fine mist of exhaust belched from the tailpipe.

Then it backed up to our concrete walkway.

It’s coming here…

The shadows of the oak trees threw the car’s internal compartment into darkness. Somehow I knew this vehicle carried no mischievous teenagers, but instead something far worse.

The air around me was heavy with the smell of rot. It squeezed my body in its tight grip, choking me and calling to attention the hairs on the nape of my neck. The last time I had this feeling was so many years ago it was barely memorable. But the reflection of the gruesome face staring at me in the glass broke the dam that held my memories in check.

Oh Papa, Papa…WHERE ARE YOU?!

The windows of the car were tinted. It almost impossible to see inside. I noticed movement behind the darkened glass. It was nothing more than a shadow turning to look at me. Inside the darkness, a set of green eyes stared out at door behind which I cowered.

Cold fingers scraped my spine as its gaze located me through the thin layer of glass. My reflexes slammed me backward, away from the window.  I squeezed my body into the wall, willing myself flat, hoping to disappear and remain unseen.

Too late…

In the few minutes that my heart threatened to jump through my chest, an eternity seemed to pass.  Then, from outside, came the distinct sound of fallen leaves crushed by heavy footfalls as something crossed the lawn.

Then came the sound of leather soles on concrete.

Click… Clack… Click-clack…

No matter how much I willed it, I couldn’t summon the courage to peel myself from the wall and race to safety far from the door.

Click-clack.  CLICK-CLACK!

The shoes grew louder as they neared the door. Tears streamed from my eyes.

CLICK… CLACK.

It stopped.

Then the crash came, reverberating the door and echoing through the house.

My body frozen, I watched the knob on the inside of the door turn slowly — first to the right, and then back again to the left, creaking with each movement.

Drums beat loudly inside my ears, and my thoughts were a chorus of screams.

Again, the doorknob moved — this time a complete turn.

And the door opened. A foot stepped inside. Followed by a leg.

The crease in the pant was as sharp as a knife.

I ran to Papa, grabbing him tightly around the waist — an act I’d normally think better suited for a child than for the full-grown 14-year-old boy I was.

Rivers of tears flooded from my eyes. They flowed over the rugged landscape of my scarred face, salting my gums and dripping onto my tongue through the hole where my right cheek had once been.

Cautiously, I peered around Papa. The car was gone.

It was my imagination after all… Papa’s fears HAD found a new home.

But in the distance, the flash of brake lights caught my eye in the night.

A new breeze blew across the threshold of the open doorway. I could taste the hint of  rot as it dissipated into the cool, evening air.

It was then that I realized that Papa had been right. There are evil things in the world that are much too dangerous, especially for a little boy like me. And I knew it would be back.

~ Daemonwulf

‘A Fouling Wind – Part II ‘ – 11/20/2012

To read more works of fiction from this & other damned souls, visit
Pen of the Damned

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He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

24 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Anthologies, Pink Pepper Press, Romance/Erotica

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Tags

Anthology, Erotica, He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, OPEN SUBMISSIONS, Pink Pepper Press, Romance

Hello my pretties… (I love her inflection on that line!) ;}

Sirens Call Publications (aka The Mothership) has launched a new imprint, Pink Pepper Press to publish the Romance and Erotic bits that come our way that don’t quite fit in the SCP realm. We’re working on putting together our first anthology:

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Does he really love me? Or does he just love to toy with me? Tell us a tale of elation or woe. Romance us, make us feel like Goddesses; or tear our hearts to shreds with the atrocities that masquerade as ‘love’.

We’re not looking for anything too hard-core on this one, but we would like it to be nice and steamy – doesn’t every girl? You have until October 15th to (ahem) knock our stockings off. So, does he love me, or am I just a just an object of distraction… or is he?

click here for submission details and guidelines >>>


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The Steps of Fear by Blaze McRob

21 Friday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Cross Posts, Dark Fiction, Horror, Pen of the Damned, Short Stories of Horror

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Blace McRob, blood, cheated, Death, Peace, Pen of the Damned, Sleep, somnambulist

Originally posted on PenoftheDamned.com on September 11, 2012

The Steps of Fear

My feet: the damn things are cold again. Jesus, they’re frigid! Where was I tonight? What did I do? I feel dirt between my toes: clumps of something, half liquid, half congealed, beneath my finger-nails; and my clothing is shredded, not affording any perceptible function. I might as well be naked. The couch: yes, I remember now; I fell asleep here. Shit! My sleep already sucks; the sofa doesn’t help.I’m a somnambulist and have been for as long as I can recollect. Fancy name. Yeah, I know. Sleepwalker is what everyone calls me except that little prick of a shrink. The high-nosed, tweed-wearing, pompous jerk thinks he has all the answers. The idiot knows nothing. I’ve been seeing him for years, lining his fancy-pants with my long green. I still sleepwalk, though. Every night. Somnam man that I am irks my sweet, loving wife. One more thing for her to nag about. She told me to see Mr. Tweed, or she would leave. Stupid me: I should have helped her pack.I get up and go to the john, stopping to look in the mirror before I attend to business.

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

Visit PenoftheDamned.com for more of Blaze’s writing and posts from the other members!


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Cherish Your Indie Status

17 Monday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Rants, Spew

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Authors, Big Names, Indie Authors, Lost Friends, Publishing, Success

Cherish your indie status before you succeed…

There is a lot to be said for being a big name in the ‘look, I’m an author’ (aka publishing) world, and a good deal of it rightfully deserved. But there is so much have-to in that world, that I would postulate some of ‘the best’ of these authors have let their imaginary friends shrivel from a form of malnutrition, crawl off into a dark-forgotten corner, and grow a layer of dust a foot deep. Don’t misunderstand me, I have my favorite contemporary authors who I will devotedly read whenever they publish, but at the same time – I can’t help but wonder what the book might have been like if they weren’t a ‘big name’? What if they still had the freedom to write anything they wanted to without contractual obligations or a need to deliver on a deadline? Would a book that I liked, but maybe didn’t love, have been much better if it wasn’t for the success-imposed fate that it and the author have been trapped into supporting?

You see, I want a Golden Goose too… and do I want it now? Okay, I’ll take it if you’re offering. But I’m willing to work for it. My work involves seeing to it that the world gets to have a taste of something different, something a tad off-center, something a bit not-so-norm. I’m not talking about my own writing; I do that for pure enjoyment and a need for emotional release, not as work. You guys, the indie authors, you are my proverbial Golden Goose. Not one of you, but each one of you together who still have the drive, determination, and maddening devotion to your work to let it all out, hang from a limb, and scream Me, Me, Me!

You still have a chance to take a giant snarling bite out of that edge and spit it straight at those of us willing to publish it. So do it – grab the edge, sharpen it, and ram it down our collective throats. The truth is every writer evolves, and those that achieve fame, or infamy on the way, tend to end up with a diamond studded collar and leash they thought they were begging for. But once chained, soon realize that what was their own ‘work’, is now part of the mass consumption monster that expects, demands, and come holy hell, delivers – like it or not!

Spread your wings before someone realized that you’re actually talented enough to have them clipped. Don’t fight success, that’s not my point. If it comes your way, grab it, hug it, lick it, and choke it to death if it tries to get away. But right now, while you still have the chance – express yourself freely, openly and give anything you get your hands on a good hardy squeeze! You never know what will pop out. No fear, no hesitation, no holding back because you ‘may’ succeed, but don’t wish to be judged. Grab that edge and give it every last drop you have to offer. You don’t need to do it my way, or anyone else’ way – do it your way, and if you manage to become a ‘big name’, don’t forget to play with your imaginary friends, you may no longer need them, but they’ll still need you.

Yeah, sad – I know – the NFL, NHL and MLB know nothing of my powers of persuasion. Guess you chumps are just gonna have to hear me rant my lunatic ravings here on the road to nowhere.

This is Duck Dodgers, signing off …  ;}

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All Is Lost by Adriana Noir

14 Friday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Cross Posts, Dark Poetry, Horror, Pen of the Damned

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Tags

Adriana Noir, All Is Lost, Angels gently weep, Dark Poetry, Pen of the Damned, Sier

originally posted on Pen of the Damned September 4, 2012

So the moment comes, when redemption fades away.
It slowly curls like ashes beneath the light of day.
Darkness shreds my soul as I sink into the deep,
And somewhere high above me, the angels gently weep.

I rise, but I am Fallen; blackness taints my wings.
Cursed love, take my light and the agony it brings.
Don’t speak to me of lonely; I live upon its shore.
Bereft of all but anger, I ache for something more.

A loner among many, I crave the absent sun,
Chained beneath the burden of all that I have done.
Love is but a memory, a secret that I keep.
And somewhere high above me, the angels gently weep.

Humans dwell in darkness and bind it to their soul,
Unaware that greed and suffering are what will make us whole.
Their world falls to ruin, the consequences steep,
And somewhere high above me, the angels gently weep.

The Fallen dance and revel; their golden eyes do shine,
While they trace the scars that brand me—wings that once were mine.
Putrid demons rule, but my heart no longer cares,
My empathy has withered with vacant human stares.

Compassion is a gift, and once it’s thrown away
Nothing’s left to cage the Beast, and keep the dark at bay.
The Evil Prince of Lies awakes from his banished sleep.
And somewhere high above me, the angels gently weep.

So give into tragic fate, and let your heart grow sour.
Mourn the years that passed you by, and waste this very hour.
These are the things that please my kind and make them grow strong–
You’ll dance like puppets to the beat of their siren’s song.

My brothers I’ve abandoned to a deadly fate,
The hour is upon us, I fear it is too late.
Though the Light here has died, your memories they will keep.
And somewhere high above me the angels gently weep.

And somewhere high above me, the angels gently weep . . .

~ Adriana Noir

Visit Pen of the Damned for more dark, angst driven writing; and a link to Adriana’s on-line profile.

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Edgy Details

12 Wednesday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Editorial, Rants, Sirens Call Publications, The Sirens call

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Edgy, Editorial, Freak me, Sirens Call Publications, The Sirens Call, Writing

It’s all in the edgy details…

Honestly – it really is. Anyone who reads my Sotet Angyal blog knows that what I genuinely enjoy writing, what really touches me deep down inside, and what spawns my imagination isn’t the thing, it’s the words that allow me to form an impression of something in the readers mind. Would I like the world to ‘get’ what I’m saying when I write from my dark little heart? Hell no! Get your grubby paws out of my head and learn to use your own imagination! Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Inspiring and sparking someone else; knowing that a, not the, light bulb has just flickered into being for them; the feeling that someone else loves the highs and the lows you are able to drag them through because they chose to sink their claws into your little bit of ramble.

When I write for myself, I write very emotively. While I don’t expect a short story, novella or novel to be infused with so much emotional punch that it knocks you out cold in the first 1000 words, I do expect to find an edge to it – no matter what genre it is. But let’s face it; I’m a horror chick, plain and simple, that’s what I like. Be it straight-up, in-your-face, screaming-in-your-seat horror, or just the atrocities of the human condition and the inglorious abomination it represents against nature, it’s horrific; and that’s still horror. Horror needs an edge! At least it does for me… and since it’s my blog, where my opinion rules supreme, we’re gonna politely agree that it does.

Being a publisher, (and don’t read this as ass-kissing because that’s not my style) I really do have a unique opportunity to read an extremely diverse range of pieces that come from an array of brilliant minds. I’m speaking of the creative, imaginative, and emotional twists they travel. Minds that are genuinely open to expressing new paths to wonderfully horrific ideas.

This time, I actually do want you to ‘get’ what I’m saying, so I’m going to post my editorial rant in The Sirens Call eZine – August Issue #04


Dark and what was that? Oh yeah – Edgy: An Editorial

Sirens Call Publications is a Purveyor of Dark & Edgy Fiction. Hmmm… Kalla’s got Dark covered in this issue, so I think I’ll take a crack at Edgy.

We get asked by email all the time: what does Dark & Edgy mean? My response is always the same: it means different things to different people. But if someone really pinned me down and wanted to know what my personal take on edgy was, I think I’d have to reply with a question in return. What makes you the most uncomfortable? I’m not one easily frightened off by the dark, so edgy is the part that really fuels my fire.

Edgy isn’t a difficult term to define. Query it on any search engine and I’m sure you’ll find hundreds of sites that ‘define’ edgy.

The real question is: What does Edgy feel like? Edgy is more of an emotional response, a feeling that is provoked, than a quantifiable ‘something’ in my world. Edgy is a state of mind, a presence of being that makes me hum with excitement – not the happy crappy high pitched chattering of pretty little girls in pink sun dresses, or the tunes that matronly women with perfectly tended gardens croon. My humming is a vibration that penetrates straight to my core and shakes my very foundation.

Edgy makes me feel a little uneasy, a bit squirmy, a tad out of my comfort zone. Edgy makes my mind spin three times faster than the multitude of revolutions it’s already moving at. Ramp up my inner RPMs, that’s edgy; make me sit forward with my nose pressed to the screen while reading;  that’s edgy; force me to be so aware of my own eye movement that I have to consciously guard against a quick flick down the page to rush the end of the story, that’s edgy!

A really decent edgy piece makes my mind scream for more, while my eyes are begging forgiveness that the words have ended. It’s an intensity that drives me mad in the most spectacular fashion, while at the same time creeps its way up my spine and whispers wickedly into my ear you know, this could actually happen! That is freakin’ EDGY!

I consider myself very fortunate to be in the position I am, and to read the variety of pieces that pass across my electronic desk. The crafting of the wordsmiths I am privileged enough to read sing their tale through my mind as I absorb each and every word. Others shock me with the level of intensity they are able to draw from a few perfectly placed, yet poignantly significant terms. While other still, leave me breathless with anticipation at the edge of a cliff – my own imagination forced to finish the telling. There has to be an ending, right? You can’t just be left hanging there? You have to know what happens next, don’t you? All these questions, but only one real answer – Yes! You can be left dangling on the edge; the precipice the authors choosing, the plummet all you ladies and gents.

That, in no uncertain terms, is Edgy by my standards – and I love every second of it!


If you want to read more ‘edgy’, pick up the eZine on Amazon or our site, Sirens Call Publications.

That’s it for now, more of my lunatic ravings to come here on the road to nowhere.

This is Duck Dodgers, signing off …  ;}

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Precious Death by Jack Wallen

07 Friday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Cross Posts, Dark Poetry, Horror, Pain, Pen of the Damned

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Tags

Dark, Death, Jack Wallen, Pen of the Damned, Poem, Poetry, Precious Death

originally posted on Pen of the Damned August 28, 2012

Tell me something secret

Whisper into my ear

Make love to my damaged sorrow

With your self-defeating fear.

What little light you brought to life

Is forfeit now and ever

We’ll dance a twisted spider walk

To begin a new endeavor.

My rusted blade it dives and twists

Between your filthy breath

I’ll carve for you a new beginning

Some delightful precious death.

Weep now, my dearest lovely bones

Your tears I will consume

And before your light is extinguished

I’ll waltz you to your tomb.

~ Jack Wallen

Visit Pen of the Damned for more dark, angst driven writing; and a link to Jack’s on-line profile.

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Dissections 1

02 Sunday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Cross Posts, Dark Poetry, Horror, Pain, Pen of the Damned

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Tags

Anger, Dark Poetry, Hate, hurt, Joseph Pinto, pain, Poetry

Hand Poised On Knob

You’ve had your bags packed
For a very long time
No chance to think it over
Just grabbed your essentials
Essentially you’re gone.

But still you remain
For what or why
You’re not sure yourself
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

And that’s a problem
Isn’t it?

Remaining behind the door
Hand on knob
Certain of the monster behind you
Not sure of the monsters beyond
Duffle bag on your back
Mouth dry as cotton
Frozen
So you remain another day.

But your bags are packed
And in your head you’re gone
Living your life this way
One day at a time
One monster clawing at your back
God knows what waiting beyond.

Living Dead Girl

The dead ain’t for living
Still you’re living dead, girl
This six foot hole home way too long
Only so many ways to dig dirt
Before it piles up
Crumbles back down
And ruins all your hard work.

So many ways for living
Still you’re living dead, girl
You’re so better off going about it alone
But even then it’s a mockery
Having dirt thrown upon you
After you worked so hard
Cleaning up your hole.

But the dead ain’t for living
Still you’re living dead, girl
And that six foot hole is a long way down
It’s okay to close your eyes
Just drop in; you’re not alone
See I’m down here, too
Digging all the while.

Fakes Need Not Apply

The thing about this mask
Is that I choose not to wear it
I’m comfortable
Exposed.

Without this mask
You see me for all I am
So shame on you
For not seeing me coming.

But you
And your kind
You wear the masks I choose not to
You wear the masks I see through.

A brilliant disguise?
Please
Spare me.

I walk raw, naked and senses alive
Even while the rest of me dies
Just do me this favor
Only this one
When I’m gone
Display this mask alongside my casket
To serve as constant reminder
For the fakes who attend.

Husk

The call came
that you were gone
and all that remained
was the simple act of driving
to see you one last time.

But you left the party
long before last call
too soon
after the final hello.

Your own terms
abided
always
something I will admire.

You left me
a husk
something you never were
something hard to erase from memory
something unforgivable.

And during that simple act of driving
when all that remained
were your terms
I remembered the final time I lay with you
A husk
the party long over
the curtain long drawn.

Of A Darker Art

Got hell in mouth
Devil on tongue
Voodoo mama on brain
Demon in heart.

Dig bones from dirt
Bury spleens in hearth
Keep gris-gris round neck
Darkness never part.

Never sell this spell
But steal your charm
Tongue flick tail rattle, baby
Yeah, snake round arm.

But hell in mouth
Need devil on tongue
Voodoo mama on brain
You the demon in my heart.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

posted on Pen of the Damned on August 21, 2012

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01 Saturday Sep 2012

Posted by Nina D'Arcangela in Anthologies, Hello, Horror, Open Submissions, Pink Pepper Press, Sirens Call Publications

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Anthologies, Erotica, Home, Horror, OPEN SUBMISSIONS, Pink Pepper Press, Romance, Sirens Call Publications

It’s Labor Day weekend and I’m home hanging out alone – that royally sucks! So I shall blather on about what I’ve been up to…


Sirens Call Publications just released our August issue of The Sirens Call eZine which (if I say so myself) is awesomely fantastic! You can pick it up from us directly, or on Amazon (for the first time!).

We also have two anthologies open for SUBMISSIONS over at SCP –

Bellows of the Bone Box (Steampunk Horror)

Travel to a world where steam power is widely used, and weave a tale where Steampunk Horror rules the night.

Tell a tale of imagination, fascination and horror that will keep the reader enthralled by what was or might have been in an age dominated by clockworks of brass, pneumatic tubes, airships with ether screws, and leather worn out of necessity not vanity.

Stories of Steampunk Horror only please, and don’t forget to make your shine a bit gritty!

Mental Ward: Stories from the Asylum

Sanatorium, mental ward, psychiatric hospital – they’re all the same. Places where the infirm, the crazy, and the certifiable go for treatment… Or what passes for ‘treatment’.

We want stories of bedlam taking place within the padded walls of an institution. Give us stories of experiments gone wrong, patients revolting against the staff, or even the perspective of those charged with giving care. Make them sick, make them depraved, make them atrocious – these should be the kind of stories that rarely reach the light of day.

Are you brave enough to see what your mind conjures up… Or are you afraid you’ll be locked up for trying?

Visit the site for guidelines and details: http://www.sirenscallpublications.com


We also just announced our new imprint for Romance and Erotic publications! Lower the eyebrow; with the number of steamy submissions we’re getting, it was only a matter of time! 😉

Pink Pepper Press

And we have an anthology open for SUBMISSIONS on Pink Pepper Press as well –

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

The age old question: Does he really love me, how will I know?

We’d like a collection of stories that come down on both sides of the fence – some yes’s, some no’s. How does a modern girl know when she’s being taken for a ride, or maybe just having the ride of her life? Either way, remember to keep it nice and steamy without being crass or relying on excessively overt descriptions to carry the piece. We like a little meat in our Romance/Erotica!

(we’d like to end up with a half and half mix of ‘sparkly eyed bliss’ and ‘can you believe that piece of crap!’)

Visit the web site for guidelines and details: http://www.pinkpepperpress.com

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