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Eldritch TearsThere's icy peaks and mountain slopesEldritch Tears by AlmostWhitey
In this, my dreams of fading hopes,
In which I die until I wake
To muffled screams and unknown ache.
To windows barred and doors sealed tight
In sunless days and nights of blight.
Outside I hear the ocean roar
And in my mind there swirls the lore,
That drowned me in my darkest fears
Like glossy pools of eldritch tears.
And all that's left for me to see
Is just this thing that must be me.
Dia de MuertosI yearnDia de Muertos by prettyflour
for the gates to open
for the spirits to take flight
into a glimmering onyx sky
and pray for the dead to descend
everything I have
and surround it with candlelight
at the cotton candy clouds
demanding they take a different shape
when the moon shows it’s face
and the clouds vanish behind its light
the blade and push it deep
because I need to see her
into the sand
beneath the land
endless rows of stones
a forsaken bag of bones
Merciless NatureDisclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author owns exclusive rights to this work.Merciless Nature by RogueMudblood
I stand alone. In the field of grass high enough to tickle my bark three feet above the ground, I stand and I wait. It doesn't take long – it never does. My knotted branches fascinate them, and they come ever closer. If they're in large groups, I simply wait and do nothing. Too many, too fast, and they'll notice. They'll know what I am, and I have no defense against fire or blade.
So I wait, until it's only one or two that come. And then – then I smile inside as they spread out a blanket beneath my branches and set out their baskets with food and drink. I let them sup, having learned long ago that they're far easier to kill when they're full and lazily drifting to sleep with the warmth of the afternoon sun. That's when I strike.
Few notice that darkness is closing in on them as my branches bl
a hauntingIt’s in the air...a haunting by prettyflour
the sudden chill
that prickle of fear and fantasy.
There’s that fear again,
so intense and strangely alluring.
It’s kind of beautiful…
shining porcelain lips,
glowing softly in the dark
I am in awe-
she’s right there, but she’s not.
Luminous and rippling like water
she moves, floats
The First ProblemThe door wouldn’t open; that was the first problem. She had the right key. She knew that part. And she’d pushed. Hard.
The girl twisted her hair between her fingers. She should have a magic saber saw, something. Something always in the stories gave the heroine a chance. But the door wouldn’t open, and she didn’t have a magic saw.
She plopped on the porch step. No key. No saw. No knight on horseback. She glanced around, half seriously, for a bottle that said “Eat me” or “Drink me”—even a caterpillar with a hookah.
The girl whistled, pulled out a copy of Archie and Jughead. A one-eared white cat butted its head against her leg. Then, she stomped up to the door. “Pretty please, door—open?”
Nothing. The cat butted her again. It was worth a try.
The girl lingered in the sun, kicking at the rocks on the sidewalk. Something hard glittered beneath her feet. She leaned over and saw a raised, silver button, sli
Into the Dark SeaIra was a man I once knew who wore seashells in his hair. He smoked cigars until the vapors clouded around his dread-locked head, and he told once-upon-a-times to us town kids. Ira believed the stars were really fireflies. “They’re the brave ones that done flown too high. Got stuck up there and now they shine all night,” he said.
Ira was a man I knew who made a boat and sailed across the sea. “I’ll see you ‘round now,” he said to me. He was a magic man on a paper ship, off to find a neverland of our dreams. “If you are good, I’ll send for you someday.”
I watch fireflies now and wait. He left seashells on his porch. I kick them into rain puddles.
PoppiesHe dreams of her
and bleeds out -
the secret life of poppies
and visions that
have lost their way;
of cardinals thrashing
in the branches
and the pricking of thumbs
like last rites.
He has forgotten himself
a thousand times -
the soft glint
of bone and skin
bristling behind the thick
where she gathers
the lines of his palms
and leans back into
waiting for a key
to find its fate
in the wrong doorway.
Jacq the Lad/Jacquotte the LadyAt least she wouldn't to sink this time. Storms were worse at sea. However, when her hat blew away and revealed her trademark red hair, she knew she had to get undercover.
There was wind, rain and a bar. In the bar were a bartender, and a woman at a corner table who hadn't touched her wine.
'Raining, is it?' said the bartender.
'Oui,' said Jacq, then realised he had spoken English. 'Rum, please.'
'Do me a favour,' said the bartender. 'Speak to her. She's been through something, I can tell.'
One look, and Jacq knew he was right. She took her rum to the woman's table.
The woman looked up. Jacq saw the pain in her eyes. She sat down, remembering how she had wanted to be spoken to when she was hurting.
'I need a new hat,' she said conversationally. 'I must be a man, for I am hiding.'
The woman looked at her, and Jacq understood.
'You hide too? It is hard, non? Since
RemnantI am what is and was and what shall remain
When all is rust and lashed with rain
The dreams of man echo with silence
Hushed by the clock ticking with lament
Gears still wind and fingers revolve
The hourglass turns with heartless resolve
Monuments crumble as they're ravaged by time
A civilised plague to my tendrils and vines
All are gone but whispers remain
No-one left to mold the clay
Empty rooms of life bereft
For whom does the clock tick when mankind has left?
lapse lamentif you were a mollusk in my ocean bed, resting green,
I'd tell you sweetly in a white wine whisper
not to go, not to go
to the ocean that sings
down sycamore way, where the grouper jump
the wet waves rushing up the mouth
those epinephulis girls- the frilled skirt goddesses-
they'll take you through time on a bent blade
and I can't stand to lose you so
No Face, He Had No Face!It is another dreary Monday outside of Summit View. The heavy grey clouds again shroud this dismal asylum in darkness. For Nicola Markov it has been six long years since he was sentenced to life inside the Mason Psychiatric Institute; six long years since Markov was arrested and tried for the brutal murder of two young campers on his property.
“He had no face, that damn bastard, the man of cloth, had no face,” Dr. Alexander said to his colleague George Stephens. “Those are the only words Nicola Markov has spoken in his seven years here at the hospital, and I still have no idea what they mean. He just stares at the wall repeating that statement. That is why I called you in. Your hypnotherapy experiments have shown tremendous results, and are becoming more widely accepted.”
“Thank you, John, but my studies have not been perfect, and there have been some extreme side effects that have popped up.” George replied, “Are you sure you want to attempt t
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