a birds eye view 

*ruffles feathers*

its cold out here 

on this stupid 

branch in this tree

Freezing, watching 

the weeping old 

man sitting in 

his saggy old 

chair by the big 

bay window yank

his only thin 

brown blanket tight 

around his frail

shoulders and shake

*blink and shudder*

without feathers 

i would freeze too

but he has a

home to go with

that brown blanket

while i freeze here 

on this stupid 

branch in this tree


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.



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.


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

*möBius stRip*

It’s 2 am and I’m awake, again, repeating that same tired ass litany of silent cusses and pleading whines –

the small still voice soothes and whispers

everything is copacetic

its all irie BabyGirl –

but it isn’t.  little is…

the loudest thing in my world is my mind and while the world sleeps

I plod and blunder

I pace and wonder,

worry and mutter

only to realise that

nothing ever seems to be resolved

by continuously walking the worry circle



Thanks for the punch. Just what I needed.


🖕🏻 FUCK YOU.🖕🏻

😊 Thanks for playing!! 😊

 Aww are we stunned? Hurt? 
Wonder why?

Does it matter?

Fun,  isn’t it. Feels good huh.

Now you know.

How about….

👉🏻 Think 👈🏻

👉🏻 Before 👈🏻

👉🏻 You 👈🏻

👉🏻 Open 👈🏻

👉🏻 Your 👈🏻

Ever 👈🏻

👉🏻 Flapping 👈🏻

👍🏻 Yapper 👍🏻

Believe it or not – 😱 hmmm it’s a secret.😱  I dunno if you’re prepared. Are you ready? It’s a shock….
Perhaps you should have a seat.

👉🏻 The universe does not revolve around you 👈🏻

There’s a wealth of information available if one should one care to inquire. But hey, why? Right?

To what end?

Nothing much matters 
if it’s not about you.

Final Memory

The blackness of unconsciousness has monsters in it, slithery horrible things that resemble nothing close to peace. Floating in some breathless place, I wasn’t and then I was. Like a light flashing on, or a flipped switch. What is a light?What is a switch?

Flip the switch, blind the night.

The reality is that my eyes are sizzling in their sockets, and the white light aches in my head. What am I? Who…am I…? I have a name; had one before I was l lost in the noxious nightmare of comatose horror. I have an identity; a life, people who care – someone must miss me…

I heard my name spoken in whispers – while lost in my own head – by a voice that left me shivering as I recall it now, and it strikes fear in my chest. It can’t be true but I know my own ears and I thought that I was alone, then. I can’t remember the name now. Nothing works and I’m broken. I really am broke this time.  My head aches and I think it’s bleeding, from the sick, slick sensation of warm wetness on my neck.

The darkness is back and so is the voice, hissing slowly and clearly into my ear and I’m ashamed to admit that it makes me burn with desire. With knowledge.

My name is Bonnee Waitless.

I don’t know where I am, and that’s a big concern because my world is pitch, and seems darker because it was so blindingly bright before. I know that I am awake, aware at least; my eyes are open, and I can feel my nails digging into my cheek so I’m almost sure that this isn’t a dream. I think I know what the darkness is, but I don’t know why it is here. Wherever here is. There are too many questions and not enough answers; I can’t find answers sitting in my ass lost here in the dark. Why is this happening? Why now?

Time to take inventory:

I am afraid.  I know nothing yet it seems that I already know everything. I know that I need to move from the floor and find an egress of any sort,  but the air is molasses and my body doesn’t respond.

There is something else, as well.   I’m no longer alone. What is that sound? A panting in the shadows, frightened or maybe hungry. Perhaps it’s a dog, and if so, it’s probably frightened as well. “Here boy! I don’t bite!”

A breathless whisper seems to surround me; taunting, titillating, and that’s when I realize that the panting is no dog. I don’t know what it is, but I called it and it came with teeth and an agony tipped tongue that peels the skin from my cheek.

I wish I wasn’t.

And then it was light.

“Waitless.”  Bang.  The recoil on the recollection is like a cannonball to the gut.  The same baritone I heard in the cellar when I was a child that came with a stench and an itch that never subsided until after Father Ibriham came and –

It slithers, like fog, sinuously creeping as though it is alive, amd implausibly, it is.  I can’t scream; can’t even moan because my throat is ice and my lungs fire when its needle tipped tongue enters my ear and begins laying eggs of a different knowledge there.

Gods help me.

Praying for death only amplifies the pain in my head before it suddenly subsides with a manic giggle that bounces about in my brain . The betrayal of my body as it strains towards the horror as if in orgasm is a worse torture that anyone can imagine and I can feel a glow of soft, bitter pain that comes with being taken over. I have no power to resist nor the will to.

Lost in space, free will taken and given without reservation. The Devil finally found me, exactly as was promised long ago in that  cellar, in another time.  I can’t fight anymore. It just feels too good to battle a continuous, all-encompassing release. I wish…

I wish I were dead but it wants me alive – my throat!

“Now I am Bonnee Waitless. I’ll be seeing you soon.”



broken sky

My name is Triss Pettigrew, and I am sixteen years old. I live in a remote Village south of nowhere, and close enough to the underworld that the clear pools closest to the mountains are as hot as boiled water. It is picturesque and to the eye, perfect. I couldn’t find anything as wrong about my environment than the fact that everyone that I have ever known has grown up the same way: silent, but not out of some defect that had stolen our voices but by necessity, by choice even. The spoken word is used so sparingly in my smallish township and used so rarely that it carves the event into your memory. When I was very young, I was sure that we were a community of mutes, living in a world of unheard noises that only I could hear. The first time my father spoke I was stunned.

I remember every word that my mother had said to me, and in great detail. It’s hard to forget as each was an admonishment, and in every instance. I wasted so much time vying for her approval and pride against those of my brother and father, that eventually I gave up making any efforts. Even when she lay dying amongst her trappings, I had no need to go to her bedside, not until my father came and told me that she asked for me. Her last words were a liberation and my heart leapt in glee when she finally whispered on her last breath, “Not your mother.” The old bitch was nearly pretty in that last fading light, such a gem of hope. She begged for my forgiveness; I wished her consecutive sentences in Purgatory for the years she made mine unbearable. I’m not cruel by nature but even the kindest souls have a limit.

I’ve softened the edges over time, the memories of the older barbs have grown smooth as river stones by my own design. The hurt becomes too heavy a burden to carry and the cuts from those edges never see to heal until they are faded. The ache is easier to live with once it’s been smoothed away; liveable recollections. Because of her my life was quiet as the grave, and I despise the constraints I am forced to exist in. Father speaks even less than Mother ever did, and ‘normally not even in the traditional sense of speech; he expresses his wants by the way he flicks his eyes or the set of his jaw, and you must use a certain amount of anticipation.

He actually used words this morning as he sat at the table, staring at the sunrise through the dewy windowpane. He appeared reflective and even happy. My brother, Errol, was smiling stupidly to himself over the bowl of porridge I’d made him, with his eyes far away and dancing. My big brother is in love. The poor thing. An event of a such an odd happening in a home of unhappiness, and yet Father seems amused, pleased, rather than annoyed. In a tone I am unaccustomed to, he chuckled and met my eyes with a smile, and patted my hand when I tried to remove his plate to wash. “Tris, go relax. I don’t need you today,” and he shooed me from the house with no tasks, chores or instruction. A free day just for me.

There are markets that overtake the streets in town, and I wander with my mind twisting and turning as I search desperately for a handle on this situation. As the only female, it’s been my lot to care for the men of the home always and before myself. I haven’t had a day to myself in my life and I feel so disconnected with nothing to do and all day to do it. Every living soul in Harrow Haven has been marked as to have knowledge of its Citizens, and then there is me. As the sole, un-Mapped, un-Marked being among the body, mind and soul connected sea of humanity I am mired in, I find I just don’t belong here. I’m so damned lonely and I wish I could say so.

Purchasing nothing, nor laying hand on anything either, my collectible data is kept to my footprints in the san. I simply observe; my eyes covertly searching faces for contact, a glance of acknowledgment or an unexpected expression but there’s nothing. There’s is no need, so the experts say, when every person you pass in a day has their bio cross referenced with yours. A discreet ding announces a match and if both parties are interested, they are Connected. In theory, I think as I watch the couples walking together, never touching, never speaking. How is that a connection? I wonder if it is worth it.

My childhood and subsequent adulthood certainly has been less than ideal and I am destined to live alone, such is the way with silence. But If i had my druthers, I’d choose to spend it looking the person I’d chosen to be mine, in the eye.

Something is in the air, affecting the human robots around me. I’m less noticed than normal, which is both a relief and a burden. No one likes to be completely invisible, however it’s a blessing when I see old Madame Blanchette eyeing her chicken coop with a thoughtful expression. Last time the old building nearly collapsed in my head. I’d rather avoid a repeat performance and consequently duck between the market and the barbers and into the forest shadows.

The trees are denser here, offering a small respite from the realities of my world and I breeze amongst the tiny wildflowers and dry leaves, clearing my head. The smallish petals in pink and purple are sweet as honey on my tongue; the fragrance heavy lilies are irresistible, and so I weave several into my hair. My shoulder blades are twin itches, suddenly my breath feels frosty in my mouth. It’s  a strangely uncomfortable and sensual sensation that sends a shiver over my body that steals my air.


The word rings in my head, heavy like the funeral bells we are forced do listen to in the enforced classes we attend. More silence that breeds not education but hard feelings. I continue on my path, choosing not to respond. After all, perhaps I really am crazy, as I’ve heard from time to time in the kitchens.

I know you hear me. I can make you stop.

The shiver turns to chills when hands encircle my waist, holding me in place with no strength at all. Another like me. I hope he isn’t sanity-challenged, but truly don’t care. The relief of knowing I’m not alone in the world makes my knees weak. He can use me as bait as long as he is real, and as long as the rest of him is as warm as his arms. His breath tickles my ear with a whisper

Turn around.

I stiffen. and turn. I see that he smiles and it touches his eyes. Genuinely happy to see me. I don’t know what to say or where to look and so I just lift my knee and ram it in between his legs then run. He gasps and staggers, and he laughs and gives chase, pulling me tight against him. “Feisty. That hurt you know. Relax, Triss, You’re safe.”

Safe. I wonder about that. My insides are shaking, and I am still in his arms, straining to staring at his smile. Feelings I’d been taught to suppress under painful punishment surge in my guts, burning lower. I had yet to speak, old habits die hard. Today everything changes. In an instant, everything I know is no longer.

“There are others Triss. Do you want to meet them? You can speak, can’t you?” I nod, my hands pushing hard on my middle to smother the butterflies, “How do you know my name?” He smiles sheepishly, holding out a palm and waiting for my return greeting, “My name is Windsor. Win. You are on the Board. People we watch for signs of advanced thinking. Your brother is one of us.”

“My brother? Scott? No, you’re mistaken. He would never -” Win cuts me off with a shake of his head, “I have only one brother and I he would never keep your secret.”

“No, Triss, not Scott. Drew, your older brother. He is one of the original members, and he’s waiting. We should go now.” My Father had mentioned a Drew on occasion, in passing rarely and on nights where the chill forced us all to sip from Father’s prized whiskey bottle. I had assumed he was a dead friend.

“I have an older brother?” I can feel the smile growing wider in spite of my assurances to myself that I would find no pleasure in this situation. If it gets much wider the top of my head might fall off. Win nods and offers his hand, and gesturing towards the path ahead with the other. His hand is warm in mine and a comfort to my reeling thoughts. A random thought keeps bounce around my mind and with a lump of trepidation I ask, “Win? How old are you?”

To Be Continued….



The Papillote Princess

Her name is Byrne.  I met her tonight.  She is beautiful, that angel with the light brown hair, laying there in repose. Peaceful, she sleeps and I can’t help but stare at the stray curl that cuddles against her cheekbone. I dare not brush it away and spoil the perfection. Enveloped in blue – the color flatters her fair skin – giving her that resting vampire glow, and I find it a little humorous that she strives to be that dark beauty when she has been the very definition all along.

I work part-time as a cook across the street from The Third Eye Jazz Club on 52nd Street. It’s a hideaway, a forgotten place out of time that I like to visit on occasion after a long and arduous week.  It’s not easy to pretend to be one of the crowd day after day without going batshit crazy and frankly, I deserve an Oscar for my performance.  Sometimes, though, like today, it’s more than a chore, it’s a trial and I decided that deserved several drinks to celebrate not ripping the throat out of each and every person I came in contact with today.  I could swear the stupid was in full bloom..

It is cold out, unseasonably so for June and the fog was so thick that the headlights looked like will-o-the-wisps instead of the metal killing machines.  The lovely fog that turns everything into shadow and mist. The shadows and strange noises entice me, the pleasure of anonymity is like a sweet treat.  Normally, I would be walking, relishing the breathing space as I watched couples making  out in the darkness and nervous loners hurrying along pathways to wherever they were going, but tonight I wanted more and I wanted a drink, badly.

There was a woman there, alone, standing outside The Third Eye, endlessly shaking her lighter and cursing under her breath in a husky that made my mouth water. She lifted her eyes to mine as I approached and smiled when I offered a light; her face lit up like a candle in an instant, turning her eyes into an ocean. I can’t swim but I was willing to drown and after few seconds of engulfed silence and an aromatic exhale, her lips were on mine and she was alive in my hands.

A live wire with rapidly eroding skin, she vibrated and stole my breath;  I came to in an unfamiliar bedroom that smelled of sex and warm flesh, beside me lay Byrne, her chest rising and falling slowly. I wanted her again, in a bad way but needed to take a piss worse. Her bathroom was tiny and the pink walls were eye melting but still less horrible than my reflection in the mirror.

A haze of blue across my right cheek of my battered swollen face. Split lip and a scratch on my neck as well. Who the fuck puts a mirror behind the toilet anyway? “You hit like a girl, but you held your own. Wanna shake off so I can go too?” Byrne stated from the doorway, her perky breasts jiggling slightly when she laughed at my expression when I was startled out of my thoughts.  Time had passed while I stared at my own face with my dick in my hands. The sun hadn’t been yet peeking like a curious child at Christmas when I had gone in there, and now there was a line of light on the wall.

Washing my hands quickly, I brushed past her and she stopped me, entrapping me with those eyes that probed into my mind and made me drown again.  “Hurry up Bryne.” The memory of her on her knees sucking me off with those eyes on mine –  my cock twitched and she smiled and gave it a firm squeeze before gently closing the door.  I glanced at my watch and cringed at the time.  I knew I’d be late for work if I didn’t leave then,  but I wanted her again and be damned if I would leave. I was texting my partner when she was behind me with her coolish hands on my back and her teeth nipping at my shoulder.

Text:  I’ll let the Sarge know.  You owe me coffee. Tell Rita hello

“Lying to your wife? Put down your phone.”  Her hands slipped around my hips and slid down my stomach to grip at my dick and laughed when it lay limp in her grip.  “Whats the matter baby, you can’t get it up for more than one round?  Guess I’ll go back to the Eye and find someone who can.” If she hadn’t mentioned Rita I would have been fine but knowing that I should be at home with her instead of Bryne made any desire I had shrivel into nothing.

“Yeah you do that sweetheart.  I need to get to work anyway,” I tossed back at her as I slipped my jeans on and stuffed my underwear in the front pocket.  I heard her gasp and felt bad but it was a fact that I couldn’t exactly ignore, “Bryne, I’m sorry.  I really do have to go and I haven’t been home yet. I still need to find something to tell my wife.”  Her hand was cool on my neck and her lips soft on my cheek.  “I understand.  Apology accepted.   Will I see you again?” Her scent stirred the beast in my mind and it turned over in its sleep, suddenly restless, and so I quickly agreed and kissed her hard before I bolted out the door towards my car.

She stood with clutching the sheet from the bed around her slight frame in one hand and the other raised in a wave that broke my heart a little.  I knew that I would see her again.  I just didn’t expect it to be like this, her dead and wrapped in an odd package made of tarp and me standing over her body taking in the perfection of her face and wanting to brush the curl from her cheek.  After the scene this morning, and now this.  How the hell am I going to explain to my wife?




Everyone is full of advice
Yet few even know about my reality
Even fewer care.

It ain’t easy.
Life rarely is and I know it.
But dammit,

*deep breathe*

Between the squabbling and the meltdowns
and the whining and the crying and the dying
and that’s not even the kids…

Responsibility calls
and I come close to mainlining Java
while searching for shoes and agendas
while trying to breathe through a pole between my tits
while attempting to juggle knives
and dogs and the jar with my sanity-

I have no time for myself.
Like, none.
5 am *blink* 4 pm *blink* midnight
How the hell is it June?

It’s an illusion and one that works,
so far. But in all seriousness,

Goddess guide me.
I’m not taffy. Or Stretch Armstrong
Stop yanking and pulling.
I may be invisible, but
I’m only human, after all.

Carnival Cuisine

It’s all that she can think about; the memories of that night after the carnival are redolent,  like spider webs and herb.  Nothing had tasted so good

His name was Eliott White and he won her a black unicorn that she promptly christened Stabbty and kissed him soundly in thanks.  He was giddy afterwards, when she walked home in the dark with him, stopping here and there to kiss and let their hands roam.

Remembering his touch keeps her awake reliving the experience of him warm at her side, inside her, over and over. Her hand tingles with a needly sting and it is almost the same warmth as holding his.  She knew that he was thinking the same thing;  she felt it when he held her tight against him, and then pulled her into the tall grass beside the path. 

His, her, hands. Lips, skin raised, warm, then warmer. The verdure hid their rendezvous and the scattering night birds frightened calls hid her peals of pleasure, not that she made any effort to conceal them.   Eliott  joined his grunts to her softening coos and they filled the air while he filled her emptness with him until she could bear it no more THEN bore him further into her convulsing and shivering wetness.

Groaning and speaking in tongues, Eliott  jittered as she sighed.  She really did mourn when he died; his sweetness gone when she rolled him aside, giggling while she sobbed.   The demon inside her spat the mangled tissue away with a muffled moan and a lustful smacking noise that turned her stomach. Bit the fragrance of his barely scratched soul was more than she could bear

Later, after her meal, after a joint and in the shower, she thought as she rinsed, “every night is a one-night-stand.”  The soap made her lady bits slick and the demon swirled its nail studded tongue around her soapy fingers as thought to ask for more.  Shrugging, she let the pink tinged suds drains away with a smile, “I guess I can’t complain – At least I’m getting laid.”


The Eyeroll Game

Who left the bag of idiots open? Who is gong to take care of the infestation?
*Snickering wildly*
An idiot infestation
I’m surrounded by them
And there are no inoculations

It could just be my magnetic personality or
I’m the eye of the fucking storm
*tornado noises*
Perhaps I’ve accomplished
What took losing a body to succeed in doing
Don’t be daft. I haven’t killed anyone…yet
I’m taking gravitational pull here

Maybe it’s something in the air or
Poison in the water or *squee*
The zombie apocalypse, at long last

One thing is for damned sure
If things are going to shit
At least it will be quiet for a change



OPEN SUBMISSION: Alone With Your Fear

The Sirens Song

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce a new open submission for a horror anthology titled Alone With Your Fear!

The Call:

AloneWithYourFearIsolation… not just physical, but psychological, emotional; it plays with your mind, drags out your deepest fears, makes them larger than life and far more sinister.

For this call, we’re looking for stories that pit the main character against their own greatest fear. It seems deceptively simple, but be warned – it isn’t. We want the fear to be the overarching theme, so make sure your story contains a hefty dose – if we don’t feel it, the readers won’t either.

Perhaps the best place to write this tale is Alone with Your Fear…

Deadline: September 1, 2016

Word Count: 4,000 – 8,000 words

All submissions MUST be submitted to: Submissions@SirensCallPublications.com

Reading & Evaluation Period: Two to three months after close of the deadline


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Gorilla Glue

Heroes need not apply.
I grew tired of waiting for the fruition of folly
Whilst I educated myself on promises
and became my own Heroine
The only strength I need, I have covered
I’ve managed thus far on my own
Thanks all the same.
So maybe I’m scratched and dented
Gorilla glued back to a whole…
Less a heart
And several other useless organs
Still a breather folks!!
I’m still here.
I’ll survive without assistance,
as I always have
Really, just save it
you scream eye scream
For all the good it does
When some motherfucker hits mute


OPEN SUBMISSIONS: The Sirens Call – Issue #27 ‘Horror-ific’

The Sirens Song

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce the open call for the 27th issue of The Sirens Call

For this issue, we’re looking for your best horror stories falling under the theme of


Go psychological or slasher, creature or paranormal – as long as it falls under the umbrella of horror, we’re open to it. Make your tales creepy, kitschy, funny, romantic, or sci-fi – get creative and send us the kind of skin-crawling, bone-rattling story you’d want to read.

Your only limiting factors are your own imagination and the word count!


Submission Deadline: June 1, 2016

Short story word count: 1,000 – 2,500

Flash fiction word count: 300 – 1,000

Poem length: minimum 10 lines; maximum 50 lines (with a limit of five poems per author)

Drabbles: 100 words (limit of five submitted per author)

Reprints are acceptable as long as you currently…

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How I feel

I’m pretty sure that I’m fundamentally broken. It’s the only real reason I can even think of to explain why I’m so impossible to love. Why it’s so difficult to find the same respect in speaking to me as others receive. Maybe I expect too much, and that’s why. Or maybe I’m too thin now. Or too ugly. Or … maybe I just deserve all the misery. If Goddess exists, and I have no faith in that at all, if She hates me so much, I wish She’d end me already; save me the torture of doing yet another job alone.

I’ve never felt less beautiful, less useful, more worthless or more invisible than I do right now. I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror because I don’t want to vomit again. I have nothing left to give up other than my words, and those are next. Not because I want to. I have to. I have nothing left.

My dreams are dead and I think it’s because I’m not meant to have anything. People take until they have what they want, then leave. Everyone forgets that maybe I’m struggling, because I don’t exist until I’m wanted for something.

The insecurity is crippling. The knowledge that I let my dream die again because I’m not strong enough is agonising. That what someone I care about told me is  fact  and I was too blind to see it hurts.  You were right –  always with the truth bombs.

The truth in the eyes of those I should never have to ask support from that it matters to no one but me – that I can’t deal with now.  I wish I had never exhumed my desire. I wish I’d never listened to those who told me I could. Because I can’t.   I’m a failure.

How the hell am I supposed to teach my kids to teach for the stars chained to the rotting corpse of my own dreams? It’s not even an option, and I can’t fight. I don’t have the energy.

It hurts.

I hurt.

I fucking HURT!!

I fucking HATE to cry

and I’m sitting here weak sister with no balls or a backbone and powerless to do anything about it. I swore I’d never be helpless again. Idiot. I’m so fucking stupid to believe in anything. I don’t even want to talk to anyone anymore. What’s the point.

Women in Horror Month 2016 – Featured Author: Melanie McCurdie @MelanieMcCurdie #WiHM7

Thank you Nina for this wonderful article ❤️ #WiHM7

Spreading the Writer's Word

Melanie McCurdie


I am a Canadian based writer who resides in Calgary, Alberta and blessed with two challenging boys. A Warrior Mom of Sam, aged 13 and DaveyB, aged 9, wife, administrator with The Twisted Path Group, writer with Visionary Press Collaborative, supporter of Independant Film and Publications, and a horror junkie with a taste for words, and bloodsauce.

I am proud to be in The Burbs, a radio serial by Liane Moonraven as the friendly, coffee loving Maria Sanchez. Listen on Spreaker Thursdays at 10 pm EST.

I can also be seen in the slasher film The Orphan Killer 2, Bound x Blood written and directed by Matt Farnsworth, available to rent on Vimeo VOD.

You can find Melanie and her work in the following places:

Author Page on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Melanie-McCurdie/e/B016C68GYC
Website: http://melaniemccurdie.wix.com/slayfulstories
Personal Blog: https://malevolantmajesty.wordpress.com/
The Twisted Path Website: http://thetwistedpathgroup.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/proseinbloodsauce/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/melaniemccurdie
Google+: http://google.com/+MelanieMcCurdieslayfulstories
LinkedIn: https://ca.linkedin.com/in/melanie-mccurdie-270299ba


Guest Post by Melanie


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