The Eyeless Prophet

I swear this is mostly a true story.   I’m in the kitchen and there’s a man in the lawn. The same eyeless prophet outside my window that I always see.  He shimmers, shivering, just standing there watching me with a mindless smile. Tonight, every night, and he’s everywhere, I swear it, in every place I go.  Behind the door or on the stair, in the mirror glare.

No matter where, impossibly, he’s there and I sense this seemingly sane man would speak if given the platform but he never utters a word. Not one. Not once. Not of grievance nor gratitude; he offers only silence as reward for concern.

But I digress. It’s a mess and I’m beginning to feel nervous and somewhat fretful. Prophet he may be – he told me once in a dream where we were sipping cocktails on the Vegas strip that Prophets aren’t in it for Profit. I told him he was a weirdo and then I woke up – he was human then and maybe still is, I’m not sure.

He doesn’t frighten me. I’m no mewling kitten afraid of it’s own shadow, and I suppose I have reason to be worried a smidge. But he doesn’t frighten me … not nearly as much as the knife wielding freakazoid sneaking up behind him.



Reasons why I’m not allowed out…

Reasons why I am not allowed out: 
This is from a real convo, between two people that love and respect each other. One of us is a might more on the religious side… 

This is me…

“But again how do we know that Jesus was perfect? He was human, and there is historical evidence to support this. Also, there are those years of his life that are missing from all bibles. He could’ve been out there swinging his sheepherder’s hook at every single woman or married woman that he encountered, for all we know. 

We don’t know what happened. The bible was interpreted by man, written by men;  but let’s look at it this way.  Seeing as that He was human, the reality is that he, during those 15+ years,  was probably out there doing some less than prophet type stuff….what… I don’t know what a prophet does all day. No one can say that THEY don’t have certain things they wish they could hide…” 

Thankfully, she loves me 😊 and laughed ❤️ before responding …

4 …3 … 1 fin

I’m unhappy.
Deeply so, and
there’s not a damn
-ed thing to do
that can be done
to ease the ache
rather, the sting.

go ahead
shake your head.
it’s quite fine.
though, that life
can be a
royal twat
and her choice
of torture
for your pun-
ishments or
is very much
from mine.

they rarely
involve just
the one who
is making





Ye fecculant maggots
Such slithering horrors come to
Roil on the putrid shores
Where the polka-dotted crackles fly
Why, Hell is salty as lonely tears
This sandy reclamation serves no purpose
But to be agreeably macabre
Maid, she laughs, in chilling madness
Like a million bootfalls in unison
And it stings with flares on full alert
Inhale water and breathe fire,
She sings, and snickers
Knowing that it’s an egregious error
To giggle at death, unless you’re his girl



Razors: The Return of Jack the Ripper

It’s no secret that I love a good horror with a soupçon of f history and humour thrown in to offer levity.  As a writer myself, if I were offered an opportunity such as we find in the film I just devoured with glee, there is little doubt that I would willingly immerse myself into the situation with little concern for what may be haunting the location.  But that is me.  Imagine, the darkened stairwells and hallways, walls lit by firelit torches that throw meager light for the group of young writers that are trooping ever downward into a Victorian era building that has seen better days.  The walls whisper and barely audible over the sounds of your footsteps, the lilting voice of a young girl singing a nursery rhyme that is just creepy enough to send a chilly finger up your spine.  Flashes of bloody hands and maniac howls punctuate the child’s lonely song.

Welcome to Razors – The Return of Jack the Ripper, a deliciously dark tale written and directed by Ian Powell and Karl Ward.  This film was a delight to watch…twice.  I submerged myself it the horror that they created with pleasure and a touch of trepidation.   Not to worry, I will elaborate, but where to begin?  I think the beginning is best.  Jack the Ripper. Three words that ignite curiosity and have inspired many films and books regarding the brutal murder of five women in Victorian London.  But what if it wasn’t five?  What if there were more victims?  Not much is truly known about this enigmatic serial murder, mostly speculation and perhaps literary licence.  He has remained a salacious spirit of malice that remains in the shadows of our histories.


This brings us back to Razors.  This film takes a unique twist on an old mystery hooked me early on with the line, “I just need someone to believe me.”  These words, spoken by Ruth Walker (played by Kelby Keenen) are echoed throughout the film.   Ruth, a young writer is challenged along with several other attendees, to write the ultimate horror movie during a writing workshop held in a deteriorating Victorian warehouse by the abstruse and charismatic screenwriter Prof.  Richard Wise.

Razors begins with a couple lost in what appears to be a drug fueled nightmare, and nightmare it is, for both of them and for the dreamer. Her fellow writers, James, Zack, Denton, Sadie and Jane,  arrive into true horror without knowing that the walls whisper and the shadows are truly able to kill.  Ruth Walker, a young writer in possession of a script and a surely haunted piece of Murder Memorabilia, the Holy Grail of Horror,   joins Wise and her colleagues with a box that she claims contains the knives used by Jack the Ripper.  There are rules, of course.  The box must never be opened lest it release the spirit of Jack and thus his recrudescence into our world.


Early on, you will notice small movements in the background shadows that marry nicely with the suspense.  I found only once that it was too dark to see properly, otherwise the lighting is wonderfully done, and the use of firelight to add ambiance definitely appealed to this viewer.  The dialogue well written and the flow was easy to keep pace with, as was the humour.  Again, only once did I have an issue hearing the actors and that was when the words were drowned out by the sounds of their footsteps.

This film has some marvelous lines in it, some that are so eloquent that I had to rewind to listen again.  For instance, “Horror must be balanced with beauty.”  A nugget of truth that is exceedingly true in my eyes.  I particularly enjoyed the little bits of homage paid to horror classics such as Nosferatu and the line, “Welcome home Eleanor,” made me laugh out loud.   The cast was likeable and I found I was invested early into the story, lost in the world that these gentlemen have created, and voluntarily, I returned to watch again.

The one thing that was brilliantly done and honestly has me shuddering even still is the doll.   when that child’s plaything made its appearance on the screen, I wrote in my notes exactly this “if that thing opens its eyes….”     Those that know me know of my extreme dislike for  dolls in general, and this one creeps me out so much more than Annabelle ever could.   I won’t spoil the film for you, but I can tell you this much, I don’t think I will be sleeping much tonight.


Stills from 'Razors'
Stills from ‘Razors’


Visit Breaking Glass Pictures

Breaking Glass Pictures on Vimeo



I’m terrified to fall asleep again.
It’s no joke, kid, I swear I ain’t laughin’

It’s like waking up underwater and
you are barely able to tread water
you’re so close enough to ripple the surface
that your fingertips dance lightly across
but no matter how hard you fight to life
the glass ceiling won’t yield for the dying
It’s about the desperation just to shatter the physical reality
hon, it’s no dream – I need to breathe again.

I despise 3:01 a.m. more than
the non-existence of it at all;
time is a human concept of torture.
but when the great horn’ed owls take flight
from piney bough to greener pastures
and I’m standing in the fucking window
trying not to drown instead of drowsing
the whole real/unreal thing is a moot point


When it’s not déjà-vu

She laughs like a bird in flight

Rusty and soft as the underwing

Gently chiding and kindly

Cruel Fate

It’s a feeling of déjà vu without

The sensation of reliving it

Signpost or seductive lull

One wonders what to expect

When the body screams on a cellular level


And inexplicably one finds oneself





Title photo Seppuku by Spanish artist Pejac

The flight of geese outside my windows heralds the small death of Mother Nature; She, having fed on the vitality of summer, soon will lay dormant under a blanket of snow. So will I.   I’ve  tried to ask for help the only way I know how, and my call has gone unanswered. No one cares. Not even me.  Those times that felt that I mattered to someone are priceless. I hide them away much like Gollum hid his Precious, a jewel in my chest. They mattered to me. It matters, because that’s what I will hold onto at the end. Don’t misunderstand, there is no blame, unless it’s on me. It falls squarely on me.  Its my own fault for having faith, that sanguine expectation I’d avoided for so long it was second nature.

It’s not just emotional agony. There is more that I conceal and it eats at me, the black mass of my soul that just can’t stand the thought of waking up another day in this personal prison.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the small phial of white powder I’d procured earlier today in desperation for something, anything to take the pain away. Opening it means goodbye to sobriety, goodbye to the years of effort and self-discipline it took to kick it. It also means I can finally sleep, because there is more in the old coffee container above the kitchen sink. If I open the phial, I won’t stop until my heart does. Even though I’m not even a blip in your thoughts, I still feel your disapproval and hesitate.

But it  was you, then; you, who insisted I was worth something more than just being considered a pussy with a hank of hair and pair of legs. You were the one who kept me here when I was sure I wanted to die, even after I tried to end my life.  It was you who told me I was beautiful, that I was desirable and that you loved me. It didn’t matter how that love existed, just that it did and I want to hold onto that.  I felt real and it kept me awake days and sleepless nights, until my sanity creaked.  I still can’t understand how you could see me when I withdrew, or how you could see something in the mirror that I couldn’t and still can’t see.

My Hero, you swooped in and rescued the drowning psycho with a smile and pretty words, and like a fool, I believed the repeated insistence that you’d never leave. I wanted to believe in you.  I needed to believe in somebody after so many reasons not to but was afraid because I knew deep down one day I’d be alone again  after the vanishing act occurred.  It was inevitable I suppose,  just  like every other person in my life who has made the same promises. Lo, behold, my fear proven correct. Again.

The phial is empty, as am I.  My heart pounds a noiseless earthquake in my ears like a drumbeat.  A bullet would be quicker but the exhilaration of knowledge that  I am about to be free from my mortal bonds is a relief and nothing else matters except for the hunger that ravages my veins and makes my nose burn.  The one thing that I have never been able to resist was the Siren call of the White.  My chest hurts so badly that I’m panting. I’d forgotten that; it feels like life, and smells like Reaper. Soon she will be here, I hope. I’m afraid again. What if there is noth-



For more Slayful News – Click here

Coming October 2016 to paperback and eBook

The Clangers

Truly, I wasn’t sure he was real at first. Those wide guileless eyes, so full of truth; oozing sweetness and youthful innocence. Full to the brim with unfulfilled potential that it makes me ill. That alone is suspect. The confused cocked head, much like a disoriented puppy married with a glazed gaze that is meant to convey stupidity does the exact opposite. No one is really that naive, not in this century anyway. How could one remain so when a world of debauchery and horrors can be found at the simple click of a mouse?

I think he is so much prettier than she was and that annoys me for some reason. Why that is I’m not sure, nor do I care. Maybe I care a little. It’s that stuffed toy expression, or the fantastic lack of personally that somehow fits perfectly with the former; I could rattle his chains some, enough to cause him to drop the act. Perhaps it’s all just one of those things not meant to be explored. Jesus, that blinking blankness is unnerving me and he knows it. Calculating bastard; you can almost see the wheels turning behind those false front soul windows of his.

He’s obviously intelligent; that, paired with the devastatingly handsome features is a heady mix and a dangerous one too. Lucky bastard. I’d be jealous, if it weren’t expected effort that I can ill afford to expend.

Such a high maintenance exposure as well and for what? To put myself in the forward momentum of a killer, whose cradle of purpose is solely to separate Spirit from Soma. I wonder if Siobhan Clanger had had any idea about the monster that she gave herself to. I wonder if it was a wiling sacrifice.

“Why did you mutilate that lovely young woman, Frankie?” I ask offhandedly, tapping my pen against the metal table top In a less than legal beat. In some circles I’d be lynched already.. Across the table, Francis Oliver Marrs narrows his oddly coloured eyes and frowns slightly. Point for me. There is no response, and I chuckle under my breath. “We found your fingerprint Frankie Boy. You’re clever, I will give you that, but not that clever. Dr. Jeckle down at the morgue is a bit of a strange duck, but his experiments work. Says he found your print on her eyeball. On her eyeball Frankie? What kind of sick malarkey is that?”

The room is quiet but for the steel fan that keeps us from dying of the heat, and the occasional squeal of a belt that desperately needed replacing. Francis sits still, his eyes on mine with no expression on his smooth features. I got plenty of time. My wife left last year, took the kids and the dog and left me in an empty house. I haven’t bothered to replace the furniture or the woman but I do miss my kids. I can wait all day, as long as there is a pot of Joe on the brew.

“C’mon Frank. We have your print, her blood was on your hands and on your underwear. I still can’t understand that. What kind of sicko are you? You cut her up and then wet your willie? Huh Frankie?”

“Please stop with the pen.” I’d been tapping it insistently on the table top during this whole one-sided conversation, knowing full well it irritated him. I don’t stop.

“Answer the questions, and I’ll think about it.” Marrs just sits quietly with his head down while I up the tempo into an epileptic beat that I can see is irritating  him as much as me, but his fists are clenched tightly on the table and his jaw is too. Another point for me. A knock on the door breaks the tension, and he laughs just a little under his breath. “Funny stuff eh Frankie Angel? You like banging dead twirls? Like it when they’re not fighting you anymore huh? WHAT?”


Someone is still rapping at my chamber door and it’s a seriously inopportune moment. The door opens just a crack and a voice full of femininity and fight asks to enter. “Relax kiddo. Let me see what’s what and I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere no, hear me Francis?” Stupid bitch, interrupting me when he was about to break. Closed doors mean do not disturb, everyone knows that.  There is a stunning blonde at the door, complete with a vacant smile and tearful doe eyes that would make any man weak in the groin. She is the spit and image of that  dead ginger, Siobhan, the one that Marrs and I are discussing, complete with the beauty mark below her right eye and that monumental rack. Jesus, I’d give my right nut to face plant between them.  I can hear Francis fidgeting behind me, and the small clink of the chains that he is in. A quick glance shows me that he is thrown off kilter as well.  Good; maybe this is a blessing in dusguise

“What can I do for you sweetheart? We’re kinda in the middle of something here.” Her smile is angelic, sweeter than a surprise visit to the candy shoppe Sunday morning instead of church, and admittedly my zipper on my pants is getting a little tighter. Maybe after this is done – “C’mon beautiful, I got work to do. What do you need?”

“Your keys, Detective, and one … more … thing.” Her hand  on my crotch and incredibly warm as it squeezes and releases.  Taken by surprise at her boldness, I back into the room with my hands in her hair  and sporting a throbbing whistle like I haven’t experienced in since my wife left   Francis is sitting with his mouth hanging open, no longer pulling at the shackles but open mouthed shock. “Just one small thing, Detective, and you can get back to work,” she whispers in my ear with a painful nip on the lobe that somehow makes me harder

“Yeah, what’s that? I don’t mind an audience, honey, and he’s not going anywhere.” Blondie just smiles and keeps playing rub and tug.    I can’t help myself and make a grab for her luscious melons while attempting to pull her close with the other  in hopes of getting my hand at that snug skirt    She is bare underneath, judging  from the lack of lines on her ass, and this is something I intend to make use of.  Holy Hannah,  this woman has no inhibitions and spreads her stems enough for my fingers to slip between her ample thighs. The squeak of the fan makes this all the more unreal but it’s been too long since I’ve gotten my wick wet and she is ready to make the scene. “Detective, that one other thing,” she gasps as my index finger slides into her moist warmth, then another “before we continue.”

“It can wait.” Her body is a playground and my hand is having a ball. I can feel her small palm sliding along my shoulder as her hips move hard, and the wet sound of her pleasure is almost louder than that stupid fan. Francis is quiet, but I can hear his short aroused heaves when I push her against the wall and cover her mouth. Her hand is fumbling at my belt and I shove it away, releasing the beast with ease. It’s been so long since I’d felt this burning and she is so near, I can’t help myself from shoving he skirt over her hips and impaling her onto the wobbly warhead.

She quivers as I pound into her body, the soft sighs making the familiar sting of close climax ache at the nape of my neck, like it does every time it’s very good. Her legs are strong, crossed over my ass and pulling me deeper with each thrust and that burn is almost too much to bear. It’s agony in my head and in my balls when she screams against my hand and I unload inside her tight cavity. It’s heaven and then hell. The burn isn’t backing off, as it always does after, and my knees aren’t holding me up either. What the hell… I pull out of her as my body hits the floor. The burn isn’t pleasure but breath stealing pain and all I can do is lay on the floor and stare at her beautiful face while she yanks her skirt down with a smile.

“Sorry Detective. You are a very good lay. It’s a shame that we won’t see each other again, but I know Francis appreciates the opportunity to continue his work. My sister, Siobhan, was an experiment, and no great loss. You underhand, don’t you? My name is Gwen Clanger, by the way.” I can see a long drip of my seed making its way down her thigh as she stands over my face and takes my keys. “The knife won’t yield any fingerprints but yours. I took it from your pocket. How sad for your family that your death will be unsolved. And in a police station too. Tsk tsk.”

Francis is on his feet and rubbing lightly at his wrists. Gwen smirks at him then kicks me hard in the ribs before stepping away and out the door with a laughing Francis in tow. I can’t breathe enough to call out for help, the pressure is like an elephant on my chest. All I can do is move my hand to tuck my shame back into its place, and am doing just that when someone shouts in horror at the door.



Wet Stone

These are the truth tools;
these which I use to torture myself.
The sharpening stone must be wet and
the tools sharp to hit home.

I think I’m insane,
or at the least,
not so far from that ledgefall
into hell or beyond.
Thanks be Gods.

No emotion,
but that needling hot nothingness
and a bucketload of tears and fears
with nowhere to direct them.

I have nothing to say because –

I have no control.

Nothing will change the inevitable.
I cannot change the inevitable.
I have no control over the inevitable.

And I fucking hate it.


-anthropophagus airborne –


*an excerpt from Slaughterhouse Stories,  coming in October 2016*

Airports.  A concrete pen full of rules and fragrant with the scent of human animals.  It is certainly not the place Abbegael Clermont wants to be.  She was supposed to be on a tropical beach with a drink in her hand, but her employers disagreed, as usual. Instead she is stuck in the middle of nowhere in this box, drowning in a sea of humanity and she is already bored.  Everything about these places rubs her the wrong way and having to face spending half a day on a flying hunk of metal over some vast ocean was not Abbee’s idea of fun.  In fact, she is quite irritated about being forced to blow off some much-needed fun for this job. “Right now, I could be lying on my back being serviced by a local stud,” she grouses under her breath, “I need that lay worse than the paycheck.” Thankfully, flying First Class has its benefits and before long she is comfortably seated and in the air.

She should be at ease, but something feels off and Abbegael takes note of the seemingly empty cabin.  It may appear that way but a pair of eyes is watching her intently, and she surreptitiously pats her left side, feeling for the familiar weight of her weapon and immediately whispers, “Fuck,” before dropping her hands to her lap again.  “I can use my hands, if need be.” There is no way to ascertain who was doing the observing without being obvious, an annoying issue but easily solved.  Rising to her feet, Abbee walks slowly  up the aisle to the lavatory, adding a little extra stagger in her step, and  hoping that the lavatory would be occupied so that she could look around while waiting.

Sometimes Abbee wants to wring Lady Luck’s scrawny neck, “Bitch never has my back,” she growls, pulling open the narrow door and stepping inside.  Engaging the lock immediately, she glances in the mirror.   Her reflection looks haggard, the critical eye harping on the fine lines that etched the corners of her eyes and the dark circles under them. “At least my hair looks good. Silver linings do exist ” she shrugs while washing her hands.

Her cool fingertips ease the burn of her fever flush that have risen on her cheeks and the redness dissipates lightly. “What the hell is wrong with me? It’s the damned plane. I hate planes.”   Abbee open the door abruptly and steps  out into the galley, her eyes scanning the cabin for any sign of another passenger.  That intent stare is back and it is crawling all over her body in a predatory manner and she wishes absently again for her weapon.  She feels preyed upon;  it makes her nervous and still, she likes it well enough to feel that familiar flutter gush between her thighs.  It’d been a while. In her  line of work,  romance and relationships are not the best of bedfellows. on the left side of the first class cabin, her eyes meet a pair of dark glittering ones,  frankly staring back with hunger, causing her to startle and stumble backwards.  Attempting to catch her balance as the flying tin can she is trapped in rumbles down the dirt road of the surprise storm.

He was on his feet in a blink;  truly, she  misses it, and  then he was at Abbee’s side, steadying her with his hands firmly on her ass as the plane bounces up and down, making them rock together in some sort of strange dance.  She thanks him, unable to move away.    He holds her tighter, surprising her into a momentary flutter of panic thrill when she looks up at him, choreographing her next action when the stranger  places a kiss gently on the corner of her mouth.  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Abbee struggles, her nails sliding against the slick material of his shirt; she hitches in a breath to scream when his next words freeze them solid.  “There’s no one else on board.  Only you, Me and a very small, discreet and loyal flight crew. But go ahead. I love it when my meals scream.”




OPEN SUBMISSIONS: First Hand Accounts | #Horror #OpenCall

The Sirens Song

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce a new open submission for a horror anthology tentatively titled

First Hand Accounts

Anthology_FHA_ph.pngWhat does horror look like through the eyes of the witness? Whether the pivotal event is psychological or physical, we want it to impact us, to affect us; to make us never want to see it come to fruition.

For this anthology, we’re looking for stories of first hand accounts of horrific acts, unimaginable horrors, and terrifying moments. Take us into your worse nightmare and make us feel your fear, your pain, your frustration; show us what it looks like through your eyes. The setting is yours to choose, just make sure you chronicle what’s going down when the proverbial shit hits the fan and the world becomes a much uglier place to exist in!

Tales for this anthology must be written in the first person perspective. Feel free…

View original post 100 more words

mind junk

I don’t want to sleep yet

Funny,  I’d forgotten all those sweet sleepy sounds
That come after smiles and laughs
and –  and –


I’m forcibly reminded tonight
about how life is fleeting
and it’s damned difficult to accept the concept of just how fast things change.

Time travel isn’t impossible?

Are you sure?

Just blink and a decade is gone. Two.
How fast things change …
I just don’t want to miss a second
When time keeps slipping through my fingers
It’s already half passed
I don’t want it to be and I hate it

Sometimes there are no choices,
Just that helpless feeling
that there’s nothing to be done
But worry and wonder and wait

I just – It’s that –

I don’t want to sleep yet.