That’s right! FearFront Publishing will be releasing it’s 3rd wave of authors in mid to late April! These spooky and terrifying tales will have you begging for mercy! Yours truly is proud to be the designer for Fear Front Publishing and I am equally proud to show you the covers for the new wave of Authors! In my line of work judging a book by it’s cover is a must, therefore it is my pleasure to scare you, to leave you in a state of terror.
All titles will be available @Amazon.com
By all means enjoy these horror filled volumes in book or ebook form! Release date Late April on Amazon.com
Edge of your seat folks! More like edge of the bed Live screaming Live streaming tears Talk about true horror It’s so loud Too loud Round and round Only the hammers of hell drown They fade out the noise
Stop beating yourself! but how? How when your brain hates you
Dredging up an old fleshy skeletons And they snap snap snap They snap and snap and It laughs while I squirm While I scream and plead Snap snap snap Beat my own fists Against the floor Forehead against the bones But it’s all agony from there
Alone at 4:48 am and I can’t breathe Shiver and shake like a fever seizure Listen to a voice suggesting solutions But antidepressants are not the answer They don’t stop the nightmares; The clawing for leverage To keep myself from falling The gasping for air to keep from drowning The search for glue to keep from falling to pieces Or the quicksilver pain that follows on waking
In the small burg of Skull Creek, a death is on the prowl. Some say it is a copycat killer, out for his moment of fame, but Jacqueline DePasse and her diligent crew of detectives soon learn that it is so much more than a tribute to the only known and convicted female serial killer in captivity. Cathleen Carson. DePasse, with the assistance of crime reporter Jake Michaels and her team, soon discover that one victim survived and she will be the key, the one who must Roll the Beautiful Bones and stop a killer before he strikes again.
Thirty-two: there are thirty-two and they hang on the wall. What you ask? My collection of grisly souvenirs, the last one is barely a month old and frankly, it’s starting to show little signs of decay and putrefaction. No matter what I use, I can never stop that first biological rebellion that would keep them perfect.
The walls are pristine white, at least they were once, but now they are marred, stained and marked by the drippings and droolings of crimson that remind me somehow of Dali. Not that I care about much than the fragrance it leaves behind. It is art, and it is gorgeous to me.
Am I insane? Perception counts for much I suppose. We are all beasts, extent hominina and we were given teeth for a reason; to rend flesh from bone and ingest the delicious plasma proteins that sustain life. Are you any different? I know that you eat too. Are you better than I? Anyone would do what they had to, to survive if they were starving.
Granted, my actions would be frowned upon in boring polite society. They would call it cannibalism, but I call it, living. It is not society’s opinion that matters to me, and it never has. The only judgment that I fear comes from the ones whose thoughts of me really matter and they are the only ones who have the right to judge. Who? Those whom I grilled and gormandize, of course. They sacrificed their lives to feed me. And they stay in here, where I come to pray at their feet and beg for forgiveness.
This is my sane sanctuary, my quiet place and the only space of reflection that I have in the world. Only here can I be myself and lay myself bare before those who know me best, and beg forgiveness of the ones that are a part of me. Everything about them was delicious; their memories, their minds and their bodies. They were so tasty and the recollection makes my mouth water.
They aren’t all unknown. Several, admittedly, had people who loved them and that I will regret til the day I die. I wonder, though, did they have the same concern for the steak they ate off the grill on Sunday afternoons? One doubts it. The majority, however, have never been reported missing, or have had people on television with tearful eyes pleading for their return. Sad, isn’t it?
The first one though, she is my favorite, my best girl and I mean that. We lived together for years while I hid my all but rabid desire to devour her. My Love, she was so beautiful with her laser beam eyes that always managed to melt my defences. All she had to do was put her always cool fingers on my cheek and smile into my face and I would turn into a puddle of goo.
My Angel; I met her when I was already dead and her life had just ended. At first, she never seemed to stop weeping, and all I could do was wrap her in my arms and wait for her sobbing to slow and her bright bright eyes to meet mine in a clear and direct manner. Eventually, the weeping ceased and her clear stares eventually became something of a signal to her desire. Not that I complained, and never to her.
Now, her eye sockets are empty , devoid of the once vibrant colour that sparkled there. It happens with decay, but I didn’t let them dry and roll back into her empty noggin. I couldn’t do that to her. The holes leave a vacant glare that shivers my spine. I hate when she looks at me like that.
She watched me suffer, disgusted and horrified as I suppressed that need, when died inside night after night laying next to the woman I adored and smelling the luscious scent of her sleep warm flesh. I smothered my desires while I loved her, and chose to bite and never to tear flesh. I drew blood but I never drank what I spilled, although sometimes the urge was so overwhelming that I would shake with the paroxysms of bottled passion.
My Angel, I miss her so much that I swear I can still taste her on my lips. That night, I tried to be gentle and I succeeded, at first. I devoured her with my eyes until she was the one quivering. I remember the way her skin ran with goose-flesh and her breasts quivered and the way she looked up at me with those wide eyes that always made me wild with need. And then, she whispered inconceivable words that both stunned and made my fly a little tighter.
My Love, I had never truly wanted to – never her; I wanted to taste her but I couldn’t live without her. There was no other option and I clenched my fists and howled at the ceiling. Angel insisted I explain, allowing me to pull her into her arms and sit her nude on my lap while I stumbled through the horror that I had been holding back for so long.
Only then, feeling my anguish, did Angel see the error of her ways and her thoughts, and she repeated the same words she’d said before, this time with that sweet, secret smile that made my heart throb in its cage. She gave herself over to me, willingly as her final act of love, as my first meal. Angel lay back on the bed with her legs spread slightly and waited for me to begin. She volunteered herself to my strong jaws, and smiled as I nibbled and licked along her inner thighs and screamed when bit into her supple skin, tore into it and buried my tongue as though it were her forever wet well.
She screamed in pleasure at her ecstasy and mine, begging and pleading at first then just howling nonsensically. It was getting a bit much, the noise and she came alive beneath me when I punctured her eyes, and sucked them from her head like some rare delicacy. They were as delicious in my mouth as they had been watching me from her beautiful face.
The release was too much for her, the delicate flower that she was, and her heart staggered its last beats like a trapped bird in a cage while her too white hands danced a final pas de deux in the air over my heart. Ah memories.
You never forget the first, and she, my fragile Angel, was the first taste of freedom that I had savored. Just as her kiss had been the one I based all others upon, the flavour of her young, lean healthy muscle was one that all others have paled in comparison of. Angel, her hair was like spun glass, and she tasted like spring after a long, hard winter. Her blood was reminiscent of early morning dew, so much so that imbibed it like a fine wine and the vitality danced on my tongue for hours after the fluid had been digested.
Gently, I filleted her lean flesh from her bones, and carefully wrapped her so that I could ingest her piecemeal over time, and I made her last as long as I could, until there was so little left that I cried when she was gone. Angel was no more, in life but she still lives on here, hanging on the wall. She, though Angel’s head does not hold grey matter, not now but it is certainly not empty. She had the most amazing mind and now her skull holds a secret, a hidden treasure.
Small jars, not quite canopic although I did get the idea from a documentary I watched on the television a few weeks before she gave herself to me. It took sometime to find them, and eventually ordered a large number with the future in mind. The first ones I filled with portions of her puréed organs and her exquisite, perfect brain. The rest I ate in a stew with spring vegetables that turned out so well, I have used it repeatedly.
No other woman has come close to Angel, yet. Some have resembled her, but that only occurred when I was missing her desperately. Not one was her, or even had the same flavor. They have all have tasted tainted, spoiled somehow, and the last made me vomit for days on end. I had to dispose of the meat as I suspected that it was poisoned and nearly ended up in jail when a pissed off police officer decided my car looked worth inspecting. It worked out for the best, however, and I convinced him to come home with me for a beer and a home cooked meal.
i was home to my family
my body housed life and suffered death
i lay in solitude, listening to him breath
listening to the quiet ticking of the clock.
it was Tuesday, late when
he staggered to our bed
still wearing that damned fedora
and her perfume
and nothing else
i was lonely, and miserable that night
crying in the dark with my eyes closed,
while he rode the waves of pleasure
and i could smell her all over him
i felt so small
my fingers tracing the scratches she left behind
when he came, it was inside me
calling her name and
it scalded like tears
when he rolled away,
murmuring her name again
as he drifted to sleep.
i lay alone, last Tuesday
shivering in the lightness room
in an effort to be silent, in mourning
i just wanted contact
i needed to be warm
i needed to feel something
other than the numb cold
stuck struggling with the knowledge
that he was elsewhere, often
wondering why i’m not enough
trapped here, while he snores
it is Tuesday evening, again
i pace the gleaming wooden floors
eyes on the clock on the mantel
eyes on the front door.
I made this hell a home
there are no children
to fill the empty hallways
the long empty days last forever
and when night falls,
the cobwebs flutter and
the ghosts flitter through
the in-between spaces
they dance and knock on the walls
sometimes they cast shadows on the glass
they become people with the endless chatter
unable to grasp my sorrow
but with a solution
so today, I hid in the darkened parlour
choosing to stop the insistent fight
and let my sanity skip and slip
I drank champagne and ate oranges
danced barefoot on the thorny line
where my sanity capered and
cried until I laughed
i’m still laughing
he begs and pleads from the bed
wearing that stupid fedora
there, where I said my last goodbye
where I painted it with my tongue and
carved my name into his flesh
when he filled me with his tainted seed
the air is heavy
with the scent of fire, and ringing screams
Outside the sirens wail and
inside, he thrashes and writhes
burning in our bed
i watch him struggle
fingering the stem
of my champagne glass and
lift my other hand
placing it under my chin
in thought and reflection
Sometimes, when i’m alone/
almost by myself cos ghosts/
i wear pink with no makeup/
and let my hair go curly/
and pretend that i’m a warm/
blooded, a soft hearted girl/
instead of the cold minded/
all but invisible weirdo/
laying shrouded in bubbles/
adding salt to the water/
that is the truer image/
floating on the razors edge.
Thighs spilled over edges
Although not a lot
And my gut filled my lap
More than the kids ever did
Shortness of breath from walking
Down the street was more common
Than breathlessness for any other reason
Today I sat in the same place
On different furniture
In the corner and
I barely filled half of the cushion
Nothing to spill over
And there was room on my lap
for my bigger baby boy
And the mutt
Although not a lot
Having no air comes from
Beauty rather than fear of death
From lack of breath
Somehow, even with my hands
Resting on the new points
and jutting edges
And the image that the mirror shows
I still don’t feel like me
I first saw her reflection in the shop window of that absurd little doll store. The one on 5th and Main?
Tragically gorgeous in that B Movie kind of way, I couldn’t take my eyes from her curves and edges. The porcelain perfection of her complexion and those lips. full and pouty – red in that almost garish porn star way. But on her it was fresh cherries from the tree and I was willing to bet that they tasted as good
And there I stood, stunned into silence with my cock at full mast and holding a half-naked children’s toy in my hand. It felt like I was smiling but likely I was leering and be goddamned if she didn’t return my lustful stare, flicking her tongue out like some living thing to taste the right of the lollipop she’d been playing with before pushing it slowly between her wet looking lips. She never dropped her eyes once.
I thought I had died, just then when she smiled at me and called me forward with one black tipped finger. And I came, then went to her with burning cheeks and the front of my jeans beginning to show a dark spot. I wanted to run but she put her hand over it and put her mouth on mine. I was sure I was in Hell but man it felt like Heaven.
When the shopkeeper cleared his throat, she stopped licking my teeth to look at him, with her hand squeezing my tortured dick. Heaven.
She nodded and released me, whispering in my ear, “come see me if you want company.” Hell.
The man snickered and finally guffawed before staring me soberly in the eyes and shaking his head. “Take an old man’s advice,” he said, lighting his match with a worn fingernail and holding it to his home rolled cigarette. “She loves company. Don’t be her next conquest.” I handed him the doll I’d ceased fondling while embarrassingly thanking him for his sage advice and his time. Turning to leave, I saw the most amazing thing in a small room off to the side.
Full sized dolls, dressed in 50’s clothing and so realistic I laughed in spite of myself. The shopkeeper chortled grimly, “remember what I said.”
I didn’t listen, of course. I followed her home in my old green pickup and watched her struggle with her playthings, cursing and spitting vile and deviant admonishment.
It shocked me, intrigued me so I jumped out of my truck and ran to her rescue like some brain-dead Lancelot. She smiled and kissed me full on my mouth and pressed her firm breasts to my chest. But all the while, I could hear the shopkeeper’s raspy words in my ears.
I wondered about how much company she kept. I wondered what her name was. I wondered how the old man knew. All this as I stepped through her front door That was forever ago, just before I discovered that I loved her. My Captor, my Daemon. My wife. And my questions were eventually answered in far more detail than I care to remember.
Mustn’t frown! She wants smiling happy people.
My father-in-law, you have already met, albeit briefly. You really don’t want to make his acquaintance or hers, because it’s like Pops, the Shopkeeper says, my wife, Misery?
It’s easier in the dark. Alone doesn’t feel quite so isolating wet cheeks go unnoticed Somehow, the bleakness seems a comfort Not unlike a pair of warm arms.
She doesn’t know I’m watching Lost in her rain cloud I’m positive that she’d prefer an embrace To the cold silence
There she sits Cross-legged, nude, Tragic beauty she cries, face in a pillow The mirror covered in linen I know she is wishing for the strength For the courage set right the horror show That she sees in the mirror reflection
But, much like me, she’s a coward A loser done up on codeine and weed Practically paralysed, poor thing And all in an effort to achieve peace Much like me, she’s achieving nothing close to it. These are the nights I can’t help but hate Because what other choice is there I can hardly barge in, now can I? Invading her misery by pulling her close I want to take it away, if she’d let me If I could,
Instead I watch her turn it inward It’s a simpler method to live with Mechanisms to emancipation I write the steps to her freedom
It’s all about weights and measures The balance is off The telemetry is fucked Knowing so doesn’t calm a racing heart Or stop the tearing desire to howl
Soon, so soon, Impatience cries I’m sick of waking each day Gasping because I’m dying of suffocation It all comes from bottling The anticipation is agony
She rises, long and lean Her lips rippling as she chants the same ugly litany Telling herself; It’s stupid to be in fear of nothing idiotic to be afraid of long dead monsters What are you, 12? Trembling with like a child No desire in the dark Are you so desperate to be swept away? Just take the pills and shut up
Pacing, bare flesh flashing Her hair flies static Staring out at the street below Tonight its defenestration she battles
I know how she thinks i know all this as well as I know my own heart The idea of that beautiful body Splattered like red velvet vomit Horrified and aroused
Blood spilled spells oxygen. The weight of biology is lifted Swiftly slipping to press against the glass She stares, pondering and My temperature burns hotter The daemon salivates, Its venom fills my mouth Such a glorious gluteus maximus It calls my palms with a sirens wail So long she’s teased me Pleading for release from her glass tower Tonight her prayers are answered Blood is life.