Burning Embers: A Haiku, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Burning Embers: A Haiku

Burning embers catch
Like soft lofty mushroom spores
I’m swallowed in fire

Madness, by M. Stoycheff.

Madness

What truths do you behold?

What visions do you see?
Madness is often uncontrolled
When fueled by atrocities

What say you?
Do you wish to speak?
Shall your vision ensue?
Shall we take a peek?

So speak your words
That’s it, don’t be shy.
Shout it from your innards
Let your voice amplify

Hmm, how amusing that your voice is voiceless
You’re but a phantom in your mind
Your actions too, are useless
Your free will has been confined

It’s okay to cry
Humans often do.
The truth is: you don’t want to die
However, there is no other avenue

There is that truth: now behold
That reality you now see
Your madness has awakened tenfold
You shall commit terrible atrocities.

This Is What Little Girls Learn

This Is What Little Girls Learn

Little girls learn fast from their fathers, their mothers, how to bottle up feelings until they chew their way out, making tiny holes, burrowing through delicate skin–like worms, like moles.

Little girls turn into ragged little dolls, eaten from the inside out. They learn to wield bitter feelings like knives, and cold anger like steel hammers, but without knowing how to release them.

Petty fathers teach little girls nothing good, nothing new, not what a good father should. Harsh mothers don’t teach them anything at all, just sit on kitchen chairs, a cloud of resentment, a cloud of despair.

And what should they care about it?

Little girls grow up fast, not knowing how they came to be, how they got from point A to B. They hollow out like metal tubes, a natural progression, pent-up aggression. Hollow tubes–though full of wind–are still empty. Riddled with holes, they corrode. Unable to stand, they collapse.

And little girls turn into women, maybe nothing, and what should we care about it?

We can always make more.

 

Expunged, written and illustrated by M. Stoycheff

Expunged

I feel nothing
No spark to animate me
I feel nothing
No hope that I can see
Anger, bitter, and unbridled
Burns in my core
I am unsettled
Like the sands of the shore
Cold eyes are gleaming
Feeding lies: through smiles
Selfishly scheming
Benefit for their guile
I feel nothing
As the world strikes against me
I feel nothing

Ire: A Definition, by P.L. Cobb

Ire: A Definition

Noun |ˈī(ə)r|

  1. an intense display of anger, openly displayed.

View our source.

Don’t shy away,
step into the smouldering light,
feel the torrid heat from eyes all ablaze.
One million eyes fixing you with an ireful gaze …

You’re naught but a dream,
a cruel nightmare, a colourless haze,
of Azathoth’s imagination, or so it would seem.
Daemon pipers play a hideous tune, the type which stays
embedded within fragile mortal memory, like an echoing scream.

Like seething fools they dance
around their atrocious lord and master
to stay his wrath, prolong their lives, and to entrance
Azathoth, the daemon sultan, recalcitrant and wrathful, an imminent disaster.

Night of A Burning Heart, by M. Stoycheff

Night of A Burning Heart

Cold blood runs a feral heart
As anger rises, it fractures the mind apart
A bloody trail from bare feet
A glimmering knife; a heart’s racing beat
A solemn task you must complete
Spurned by vengeance, its guiding heat
You see them walking, laughing in the night.
Like shattering glass, your anger takes flight
Lunge quickly: take their life
Silence the screams and end your strife
Lock out the sobbing and finish this path
Strike again: give in to Wrath
Now walk away, enjoy the dripping blood
Your heart is free, lost in the flood

Fury, by M. Stoycheff.

Fury

The heart is beating

The mind aching

The calm is gone

All broken bonds

As thoughts dawn

Your conscience is withdrawn

You breath in the fury

A breath of harsh flurries

The shallow are seen

Actions become like daydreams

A flash of red. A spark of the moon

Now silence: a deathly tune.

Eibzorm, God of Scorn, written by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Eibzorn,God of Scorn

Eibzorn, a god of scorn
And haunter of quarry past.
He seeks out those that mourn
To break them from their fast
–To harass.

Eibzorn wears them down
Reveals a hidden rage;
It adorns his head like a crown.
He appears at once sage.

But only time will reveal the truth
That he pursues, with zeal, truculent emotion,
With a ruthless devotion
–Forsooth.

That which he wears upon his neck,
Like teeth upon string: sour feelings,
Acrid sensibilities, dour sentimentalities, alack!
Such is Eibzorn and his dealings.

The god of scorn is no fool
Yet his victims pay the price,
Each one a tool–
A well sucked dry by trenchant avarice.

Eibzorn, a god of scorn
Ingratiates, manipulates, and denigrates
Strangers, challengers, and enemies sworn
To satisfy a lust incarnate.

Truculence: A Definition, by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Truculence: A Definition

Noun |tru-cu-lence|

  1. The quality or state of being truculent.

Truculent
Adjective |tru-cu-lent|

  1. Feeling or displaying ferocity: cruel, savage.
  2. Deadly, destructive.
  3. Scathingly harsh: vitriolic.
  4. A thing that shares a bed with Wrath, amongst other things.

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The Mask, by Mitchell Stoycheff; art by P.L. Cobb

The Mask

Deception smiles behind its mask
A facade of joy; a troublesome task
Lying dormant: calculating
As it waits to strike, unsuspecting
Gazes flicker behind the mask
Beware: for in the glory which you bask
For vivid tales can not atone
And towers crumble from single stones

Wrath: A Definition, written by P.L. Cobb. Photography by Mitchell Stoycheff.

Wrath: A Definition

Noun |raTH, or rawth|

  1. Strong, stern, or fierce anger.
  2. Vengeance or punishment as the consequence of anger.
  3. A thing so caustic, so toxic, that it can destroy a person’s sense of self-worth.
  4. The slumbering beast within each of us.

View our source.

Lust: A Retrospective

Like all things, words and their attributed meanings are more intricate on closer inspection. What a single word actually means and what someone may think that word means could likely fill up an etymologist’s afternoon … If this article were about etymology I doubt I would have finished it on time!

For now I’ll stick to the concept of these past two months: lust. Between Rhonda, Mitchell, and I lust was depicted as an outright destructive force–the doom of mortals–that grew to have its own personality through insatiable sirens, murderous men, inanimate objects …  And other malevolent things.

Our jobs were not to tell you what lust meant but more to convey what we thought it could mean, what it could be. After all, this project is an exploration, a meditation, on horror. So why shouldn’t we take the same approach to our latest project?

From draft to concept, each story forced us to think (I’m sure Rhonda and Mitchell will agree with me) of new ways to incorporate the theme without it being too cliché. I’ll admit that this was a struggle at times and even though our theme was abounding with possibility, we still fell into the same traps. Was that a bad thing, though? No, I don’t think it was; a large part of exploration means trodding into well-known territory before expanding into the unknown. Hopefully we didn’t get too lost.

One of the larger struggles was sticking to a schedule, which is mostly on me. As the project administrator it’s my job to make sure everything is as good as it could be. It’s a work in progress, I will admit. Things have changed for the better now.

Before we venture on into new territories, dear reader, we want to know:
How did we do?

And before we soak ourselves in our own wrath:
What should we do?

P.S: Before we begin with the next theme I would just like to say: Embrace your anger!

A Portrait of Lust

A Portrait of Lust by Mitchell Stoycheff

Ember flowers

All these lost and hopeful desires

Drift like tufts of dandelion

Wayward dreams, whose light expire

Settle like ash on crumbling bastions

Voices scream aloud for answers

Pleading cries in the breeze

Like flowers of burning embers

They are lost among the seas

What Evil Lives In The Shadows...

What Evil Lives In The Shadows…

Night comes to envelop you in your sweet slumber. The cool winds outside rattle the windows. The lights go out and only the shadows are there to comfort you as they slink across the floor and come out of hiding from their safe havens. They live and breathe in those dark corners of your room where dust and other evil things lurk.

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As a child I would always linger in my doorway. The closet had to be securely shut. I would peek under my bed, which rarely housed anything but dust. I never wanted to give the monsters a reason to come back again with food or toys. I would jump into my bed. Run and jump in.

My sheets still tucked under the corners of the top mattress. I didn’t believe in god but I prayed. Prayed that I would make it through the night and the monsters would stay at bay or bother someone else. I would wiggle into my bed sheets, pull them up to my neck, and wait for my mother to come in to tuck me in. She would check the closet, check the corners, and check under the bed. She would tuck me in and leave the night light on and the door open.

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My imagination would play tricks on me. Forever would I hear noises that I was certain bared teeth and glowing red eyes. Not once had a monster ever visited me, but that never stopped me from keeping my feet and limbs from hanging off my bed at night. You just never know!

As an adult I just don’t see the sense of taking an unnecessary chance.

Sweet dreams!

From your,

Riveting Jacked-In Dreamy Mind-Bender

R. J. Davies.

Afternoon, by P. L. Cobb

Anxiety Evolves Into Something Else

This is part of an ongoing series exclusive to my Patreon: A Huntress of Beasts.
The entire series will be available to patrons only.
You are currently reading draft 3, any suggestions for edits are welcome!

She left her body, dazed, confused. At the other end of the room her body was slumped against the wall. A bright red gash stood in stark contrast with her lemon yellow shirt. From her left ear all the way down to her navel oozed a line of blood onto the bleached-white linoleum. Her face was blurred, as if it had never been.

It was odd how one could feel so free and yet so unfinished at the same time. The body had served as a varnish for her soul; from the corner of her eye she caught herself in a mirror. A shadow stared back at her.

Having the ability to feel things outside of her body was different. Right now she felt a level of anxiety that was so much more intimate with her than if she were alive. Now that everything was bared for the cosmos to gawk at, there was nothing to hide, and Anxiety–pure emotion personified–was given free reign over her. Slowly it began to break away from her corpse, a distinct hum radiating from the thing as it crawled to her, the spirit. A morbid fascination stole over her as she watched.

When It was close enough it began to grope her.

And then it began to dig inside of her.

The Anxiety moved with a such a violent fervour that she was forced to dart away. Running was a mistake. It was useless because there was no where to go, which served as encouragement for the rabid beast. Anxiety just came back again with renewed vigour.

Then it reached the the spot where the choicest of morsels hid–the place where every unsavoury aspect became her–in a crack upon her soul. She did not relish that, in fact it tasted sour, like acid. And she hated it. All she could do was flit back and forth, not unlike a caged bird.

Anxiety’s mouth grew wide, a hiss escaping its great maw, conveying deep-seated frustration. For the first time it had been forced to show something other than its namesake. The creature hunched in on itself, quivering with rage now. Rage coloured the creature, who had been no more than a grey shadow moments before, into a poisonous shade of blue. Blue became purple and purple became red. Then without warning the colour shift began anew, this time erratic.

As the changes slowed to a stop Anxiety’s hunch became severe, more akin to a folding-in on itself than a hunch. It was creating a cocoon. In the flickering lights of the kitchen she saw the cocoon shell glitter, obsidian-like. Beneath the shell she caught a flicker, the creature inside very much alive. She inched closer and spied the outline of a nymph.

For the first time since she had died she could breath. In its frenzy Anxiety had given her the chance to escape. There was no doubt in her mind that it still lusted for her, nor was there any doubt that it would violate her if given the chance.

For the second time since her death she looked into the mirror. Why did she have a mirror in the kitchen? She couldn’t recall. Deep within the glass was the shadow.

The shadow was her.

Without the glamour of flesh or bone she was grey, the same grey as a pigeon. In the kitchen light she even caught an iridescent shimmer.

Was being grey so bad? When she was raised she had been raised to believe in absolutes, blessed truths and abject lies, black and white . . . When she could think for herself she realized that it was all a lie. Life was not black and white. Sometimes it was the shimmering green of a hummingbird, the fiery orange of a tiger, the brazen sheen of an eagle’s eye . . . And sometimes it was a muted grey, like a pigeon.

No. There was nothing wrong with this.

She gave the obsidian cocoon a farewell glance. When she had said her goodbyes she kissed her body on each cheek, and found the open window above the sink. She flew into the night sky, free for the moment. She knew that as soon as Anxiety emerged it would be on the search for her. It was not a pleasant thought. Even more unpleasant was knowing that it would not be the same: Anxiety would evolve into something else.

Anxiety always did. After having its fill of angst it would crave something of more substance. Before it killed her that had been the air from her lungs, the hormones of fear, the tissues of her brain, and then her blood. Perhaps that was why she saw no face, because there wasn’t one to be seen. What had she kissed then? Her skull?

She shivered.

In all of this there was something which was not quite right. Throughout her life she had always experienced Anxiety as a feeling. Feelings didn’t kill, they didn’t lust after you. Whatever had attacked her–

–No. No! A new breed of thought–tasteless, ominous–reared an ugly head at her. None of it stuck, as if she were incapable of comprehension. Fear made her waiver in the sky until all control was lost to her and she dropped like a rock. The thought of closing her eyes did cross her mind, but when she saw the woman below her she couldn’t. A woman below her, looking up at her, and a black aura.

No, not just black. The aura radiated from the woman, much like sun rays, only with an obsidian glitter, eerily cocoon-like. Even with her lack of body she still felt the instinctive tightening of her chest. I can’t breath!

Lust: A Desire

Lust: a desire for success
in excess.

Early mornings
and late nights,
half-baked, strained
lizard brains.

Bright white,
flashing lights,
stale smells, bland hells,
and watered down caffeine≠
genius.

“Learn your lesson yet?”
A simple ask.

“Whatever.”
A typical response
from an egoist,
an ass.

“All right then!”
Flippant, unconcerned.
Our parliament adjourned.

Back to business:
unhindered mediocrity–
the territory of
draconian alacrity.

Failure comes along dully,
full-circled,
from lack of sleep and wistful dreams.

And a desire for success,
in excess,
ultimately.



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Go on, lover.

Go On, Lover

Go on, lover,
lift up my skirts
feast your eyes where the sun never shines.

Who is it going to hurt?

People like you, they complain
about the agenda of the gays.
“They’re nothing like you and I, beautiful!”
Or so you claim.

I disagree with such statements
false as they are.
In saying them, what do you gain?

They’re almost like me, darling.
They want to love, they want to live.
They want to eat, darling!

You became a part of my agenda
the moment you fell victim to my sultry gaze,
lover.

So go on, lift those skirts.
Let me show you what I live for.

Go on, lover!

I’m gonna eat you up,
maybe more.
Go on, lover, feed this whore.

Licking the Softness, by P.L. Cobb

Licking the Softness

Licking the softness,

tasting the sweetness–

that sugary goodness–

“Oh, sweet flesh of mine!”

(Devouring)

(Engorging)

Licking and sucking,

greedily lapping

warm bodies quivering–

“Oh, you spoil me, Richard!”

(Licking)

(Licking)

(Licking)

Sanguine streams flow lazily

across eyes rolling crazily–

(Biting)

(Sucking)

(Lapping)

“Oh, I could eat you up, Richard!”

Licking the softness . . .

 

West Coast Adventure by R.J. Davies; photography by Mitchell Stoycheff

West Coast Adventure

Bea felt like she was on top of the world. She had just moved to Vancouver after mulling it over in her head for months. Her worldly belongings were packed. Then Bea did the unthinkable and moved across the country to a city she was a stranger in. Her daughter was off at college in Montreal and Bea needed a distraction, an adventure. Ever since the divorce several years ago Bea wanted to do something … She hadn’t known what but knew she needed to mix things up for a bit. Bea decided that the move would be temporary; she’d stay out on the coast for a year and then return to her home town.

What she hadn’t counted on was Jarrod.

Ten years younger than her, two feet taller, and the body of a god. Turning the coffee on she stopped and wondered again what he saw in her. She was pretty, but he looked like a model, the type of person who could have anyone they wanted. They had been dating for three weeks. When they were out in public women were swooning over him, slipping him their numbers–but she noticed he had eyes only for her. Bea felt special. It was something she hadn’t felt in decades. He made her feel young, vibrant and sexy. He was exactly what she needed. In the back of her mind she heard her mother’s nagging voice, he seemed too good to be true. Too perfect … Was he? Nah, she was just lucky to find this amazing guy.

“Coffee’s on,” she called out to him.

“Thanks babe!” he shouted back.

He was in the bathroom. She strolled down the hall to check up on him. It was something she did every so often. Checking her good luck out. Sneaking peeks of him when he wasn’t looking. Looking for some tell tale bad habit to prove the nagging voice in the back of her mind, something that would show that he wasn’t perfect, but he was a lovely in every way. She leaned against the wall and watched him brush his teeth. He didn’t see her watching. He rinsed his toothbrush. He picked up her hairbrush, slowly raised it to his face, and inhaled deeply. A grin creased her lips. God he was so sexy. Then he carefully pulled the hair from her brush, gently holding it in his hand he pulled out a plastic bag and stuffed it in. A knot in her stomach told her that was an odd behaviour. Kind of. Wasn’t it? Maybe he was saving it … To take with him … For what?

“Hey babe I didn’t see you there,” he came out grinning at her.

“I was watching you brush your teeth.”

“Yes all the better to eat you with,” he laughed as he wrapped an arm around her waist scooping her into a warm embrace as he nuzzled her neck. She suddenly forgot what she was concerned about.

Picking her up he carried her back to the bedroom where they had just finished marathon sex. Going in for a replay was so exciting. He had an insatiable appetite that she found overwhelming and exhilarating. They spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped up in each other, corporeal, hungry, experimenting with Karma Sutra moves that left them drained and tired. He pulled her close and nibbled an earlobe.

“You are the most exciting woman I have ever met,” he whispered.

She moaned in agreement.

“You are the only one who gets inside my head and gets me. I have never felt this way with anyone.”

She grinned. “I feel the same way baby.” Bea felt content in his large muscular arms. Jarrod held her close to his sweaty hairy chest and it felt like heaven. She had never felt safer in her life. The little voice in the back of her mind whispered, We don’t know him that well, don’t be so trusting, you’re always so trusting Bea!

She was heading home from work and felt the little hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. The unsettling feeling of being watched haunted her all day long. Working for a bank at the customer service counter she was openly visible to everyone that came in. Bea loved her job and the customers that she dealt with on a regular basis. Today she felt edgy, apprehensive and nervous. She kept watching the clock and couldn’t wait for her shift to be over. At times she was even a little jumpy. She didn’t like that feeling. In all honesty she couldn’t wait to get back to her apartment and close all the curtains. It was the oddest feeling … She hadn’t noticed anyone giving her any extra attention … Nothing more than normal. It could have been that there was another missing woman reported on the news this morning. Same height, hair colour, complexion, and age as she was. People were getting a little anxious: it was the fourth one in the last three months according to the news.

Trying not to give it any thought she stopped at the little corner store. Outside there were bins of fruit and a basket. Picking up a basket she surveyed what was available. She grabbed a pineapple, some strawberries and bananas. Then went inside. The bakery section was all homemade fresh pastries and breads made by the storeowner’s wife. She picked through and found some tarts and a loaf of grained bread. Near the back of the store was the meat section. One of the greatest things about living in the big city there was a slaughterhouse just down the road and the meat in this store was sold cheap. Jarrod actually worked for the place, she could have went there and picked it up directly but this was more convenient. Picking out some beef and chicken she headed back to the check out.

“Hi Bea, how was work today?”

“The usual. How was business today for you?”

“Steady, so I’m not complaining.” He laughed.

She passed him some money and he handed back her change and bagged up her goods.

“There is going to be a street festival tonight maybe you can bring your guy down to that. They will be closing off the street, there will be music, drinking, and a lot of partying.”

“Well, count us in,” she laughed and gave him a wink.

Heading back outside she walked two doors down and entered the door that led up to her apartment. She hurried inside and locked the door. Sighing she looked around her apartment and heaved a sigh of relief … Safe, she was safe. Home safe. No eyes watching her here.

“Hey babes,” Jarrod came out of the bedroom. She screamed.

She nearly dropped her bags. Laughing, she looked at his startled face. “Sorry baby, I didn’t know you would be here.”

“Let me help you with those.” He came over and took the bags.

“There’s a festival going on downstairs tonight. Do you want to go check it out?”

“Sure.” He began putting things away for her.

“How was your day?”

“It was alright. Nothing eventful, how about you?”

“Same. I’m going to go grab a quick shower and change.”

“Sure I’ll make us something to eat.”

The hot water felt like heaven on her tired skin. Bea let the day wash down the drain. She was at home, safe in her apartment, Jarrod was there and making dinner. What more could a woman ask for?

The thought of someone watching her began to feel absurd. An over active imagination … Maybe it was watching too many of those CSI shows. The thought of watching Jarrod take her hair and put it in a baggie popped into her mind. Why would he do that? She laughed at the thought. Was he being romantic? Perhaps she should just come out and ask him. What if it embarrassed him? She knew from experience that some men didn’t like to be embarrassed. Should she just let it go?

Turning the water off she stepped out onto the bathroom mat and began drying off. Staring at herself in the mirror and decided not to let it bother her. Shake off those weird feelings; unless she had proof of something … Then there was nothing there but her imagination running wild. Taking the blow dryer out she plugged it in and dried her hair. There was going to be a party downstairs, maybe that’s exactly what she needed: to take her fella out on the town, have some drinks and go dancing. It was beginning to sound like a lot like something that she didn’t want to pass up. Running the brush through her hair she pulled it back and tied it up in a knot. Gathering up her cloths she dumped them in the laundry basket then headed to the bedroom. Slipping into lace underwear and her skinny jeans she leafed through her soft satin and laced blouses that hung in the closet. She picked out a soft blue that would bring out the colour in her eyes. Bea slipped it on and joined Jarrod out in the kitchen. He was just finishing up dinner so she set the table.

“Looks delicious,” she sat down beside him. Jarrod filled her plate and then his.

“Thanks,” he began to dig in.

“Did you hear, another woman went missing?”

He nodded and continued eating as if she was talking about the weather.

“Someone at work pointed out that these ladies look like me. What do you think?”

He paused, looked at her and finished chewing slowly. Shaking his head. “No baby they don’t look anything like you. You’re my angel.”

She half smiled, “Thanks baby.”

“Stick with me babes, you’ll be safe.” He changed the subject and talked about a couple new movies that were coming out that he wanted to see with her. She enjoyed the distraction and let the subject go.

They danced and drank with new friends until four in the morning. Dragging themselves upstairs they couldn’t stop laughing. As they stumbled into her apartment, he pulled her into his arms.

“You’re the best time I have ever had,” she grinned at him.

He looked at her like she had just slapped him then his features soften. “I have never been anyone’s best time.” Jarrod danced her to the bedroom and she fell asleep in his arms feeling content.

Rousing awake she felt chilled and disoriented. She tried to stretch but her hands, arms and legs were restricted. Bea’s eyes blinked as she looked around her. She was sitting on a cold floor … Where was she? It looked like an empty cellar. It was a 12 by 12 room, all cement. There was a dim light in the corner, the only light that was provided. She couldn’t see a window, only a large metal door. Bea began to scream but her mouth was gagged. What was going on?

The door creaked open and a large man stood in the doorway wearing a rubber clown mask. The light glinted of the cold metal of the large knife he held. What happen? The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in Jarrod’s arms. Jarrod! Oh god, this man killed him! Her mind was racing all over the map. Jarrod was dead somewhere and here she was about to die. All she wanted was a little adventure. The man came into the room and slowly walked over to her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed, pleading with him to let her go. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, a small part of her brain understood this, but she couldn’t stop herself.

He came to a stop and knelt down beside her. The tip of the blade he caressed against her cheek, which sent her into another fit of wailing. He gently dragged his knife down her body to her shirt, cutting her favourite blouse. Blinded by fear and tears she felt the blade caress her breast as he ran it over and down to her lacy bra. With one quick movement he cut her bra. The cool air licked her skin.

He leaned in close to her and pulled the mask up part ways as he licked the tears off her cheek. That tongue felt familiar! Oh god Jarrod? Could it really be him? Blinking back the tears she tried to focus on his eyes.

The man chuckled, “I know you know.”

Jarrod! NO!

He pulled off his mask and her heart sank as she realized that this was her boyfriend. By the look in his eyes she wasn’t leaving this cellar alive. 

March 18th, 2012 by P.L. Cobb, written for the Enigmatic Monster Project

March 18th, 2012

It’s Sunday, and I am at the same place I always end up on this day: church.

I don’t talk to God though; I don’t give him the attention they say he deserves. All around me people whisper, saying things under their breath like ‘Jesus, please forgive me’ or ‘Help me to forgive, so that I may be forgiven.’ Somehow I’m able to sit like a statue, unmoved by the subtle heartbreak that surrounds me. Everyone here just wants to be loved.

So, what is love? How do I understand all the ways in which a person can love? Or, how about all of the ways the congregation claims I am loved: selfless, sacrificial love–but not truly free–surprise!

So, how would I describe love? Maybe as a mystery of the deep, or deeper than deep, an enigma. All the why in the world could not contain it. All the how would never explain it. No man-made gods could ever give or withhold it, but we just can’t accept that. If we could we would all possess it by now.

The sermon goes by in silence, sometimes someone coughs. I nod my head, not out of agreement with anything that the pastor is saying, but because I am starting to fall asleep. When the pastor ends his speech the congregation bows their collective head in prayer. My head lowers out of respect, but my eyes and my heart are focused on the blue carpet. I wriggle my toes just to make sure I have not fallen asleep. The collective gets up to leave, me trailing along behind them.

Another Sunday has come and passed and I am still waiting for an answer. Are my questions so difficult that even the good god above cannot answer them, or is this LOVE truly that abstract?

Longing

Longing:

The desire for something greater

Imprisoned:

Forever repeating mundane cycles

Stabbed, prodded, pushed, pulled and beaten

Following paths of a decaying heart

It beats in time with cracking ice

So thin its facade of serenity

Lanterns burn black, encroaching the light

It’s swollen pulse pumping it’s black poison

Lost: forever in longing

In shadows that all lead to despair

ABCs of Horror Screenshot

Pity

“How can I ever repay you?”

As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them.

The demon, however, was delighted. He listed the options on his fingers. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You can do two things for me: bear my child or give me your blood.”

She fought the urge to cringe. Neither choice was pleasant. The last one, though, sounded like the lesser of the evils. “I’ll take option B.”

He gave her a mysterious look. “Pity.”