Miracle Man

Poetry, prose, horror, weird, fiction, and art

“Take pity on me,” he says.

The Miracle Man


See his clockwork innards

Working twenty-four seven

For the rest of his life

No death for him

“Take pity on me,” he says

“All my friends are dead . . .

Swallowed up by the bitterness

Of the savage elements.

Ravages by time.

The centuries passed and even their

Skeletons died.”

But there shall be no peace

For the Miracle Man.



Party Time?

Writing, horror, weird, short story, and photography

The next night rolled around, and she couldn’t sleep at all.

She felt surprised and relieved to find that the front door was still locked. Lynda grunted in satisfaction.

She had been rudely awoken during the early hours of the morning to what seemed to be a wild party downstairs. Lynda shivered at the memory. “It was just a dream,” she told herself in a reassuring whisper.

When it happened again the next night she wasn’t so sure about it.

The next night rolled around, and she couldn’t sleep at all. As soon as the noises started up Lynda began to creep down the stairs. Halfway down she saw her living room swarming with creatures straight out of a nightmare. Her whole body froze at the sight. Lynda could feel the blood draining from her face too. What . . . ? Her mind went blank as her eyes scanned the room.

Was there anything she could do, she wondered, looking from nightmare to nightmare. Some were rather benign, while others resembled the demons pictured in Medieval texts. Others she had no word to describe them with . . .

Who is that? Lynda’s eyes stopped roaming and focused themselves on one of the creatures. He was one of the bigger ones, not the biggest, but still larger than her; he was one of the demonic ones too. What set him apart from the rest were the black robes he wore. None of the others had that. He is rather handsome, she realized, In an odd way.

His eyes met hers and the party came a halt. There were a few awkward minutes that followed, before Lynda worked up the courage to say anything.

“Get out of my house.”


Red Berries

Red Berries, by Penny C

A single whole that is composed of many parts.

It waits in your backyard: a thing. A single whole that is composed of many parts. One day you will find it. You will both look each other in the eye–a contest of wills.

Only one will survive.


The Systematic Cynic

The Systematic Cynic

“Eldritch, myopic diptych?” I asked, the thought of which made little sense to me.

“You see, the systematic cynic, well, he sat down at the picnic,” began the Cryptic Mystic. “He sat down beside the eldritch, myopic diptych of the flesh-eating witch!”

“Eldritch, myopic diptych?” I asked, the thought of which made little sense to me. “How could such a thing be worthy of my visit–forgive me– as I sit here cramped in your minuscule hutch?”

“Yes, I must admit that there’s not much to my tale. But believe me! That hag was . . . worse than an itch!”

“Ah,” I nodded my head as best I could without hitting it on a piece of wood. “Forgive me, but you did not answer the question posed: Diptych? As in a painting? Or something to write on? And if so, if one were to suppose that this is a very decent witch–or an itch, as you said previously–how would she be both a flesh-eating, myopic eldritch thing while also being a diptych? Should all of that not cancel each other out?”

The Cryptic Mystic covered his ears and said: “You don’t have to shout! Now what’s this all about? Are you telling me that you do not know the dangers of the eldritch, myopic diptych of the flesh-eating witch!”

I tried not to roll my eyes . . . “I now see what you mean by worse than an itch!”

“There now, see? That wasn’t so hard after all! Now, close your eyes . . . It’s time to feast!”

I stared at the Cryptic Mystic long and hard. “Do you mean to tell me,” I began, “That you are nothing more than a lowly beast? Thinking that I’d let you eat me? Why you–”

The Cryptic Mystic quickly cut me off. “For starters, I am not the real Cryptic Mystic. Before he left for the holidays we made a deal: that I would be able to have his most annoying visitors for my meals if I pretended to be him. I am in fact the heartless, gutless, two-headed ram-ewe.”

I screwed up my face in confusion. “The one who doesn’t chew its meals, and who likes to steal wheels?”

“The very same!”

This time I did roll my eyes.


Androgynous Mist

art, imagery, horror, digital, weird

It began to fade in and out, while changing its colours in a rhythmic succession like a gaseous cuttlefish.

The androgynous mist started to shrink, and the spaces between its particles shrank with it. It began to fade in and out, while changing its colours in a rhythmic succession like a gaseous cuttlefish. It soon became clear that the shrinking was in fact shifting. But shifting of what? Colour, smell, space?

It was the shape, however. That was the only thing that mattered to the mist.

Mist became man. Or hominid-shaped, at least. And then the androgynous mist became a masculine solid. Of course, it always choose this form. Why? Who knew what went through the mind of an androgynous mist . . .

The last act began as the mist materialized as a solid being. It grasped the shoulders of the young man, the object of its ‘affection’, and pierced his chest with a long draconian tongue. Without so much as a dying whisper the young man crumpled to the ground. He had lost his mind a long time ago. How fortunate for him, the being thought. Or, rather, it thought along those lines. Behind those milky white eyes there lied a treacherous, mysterious mind, with its own set of rules and its own inner workings.

It licked the blood off of its hand, slowly trailing that tongue down until it came to its elbow; that elbow ended in a sharp, bony spike. Why hadn’t it used that to kill the man? That would have been the more ‘humane’ method, but there would have been little in the way of personal pleasure offered to the creature.

After all, the creature was a demon.


Hostile Hallucination

photography, writing, horror, weird, fiction

She fell until there was nothing left of her being.

“I’ve forgotten the words already,” a voice said in as low a voice as it could muster; that voice was so deep, so distinct. . . So hostile.

“Why do you hate me so much?” She asked.

There was a long pause between words. When she had made up her mind that this was all a dream the owner of the voice answered her question. Finally. “How can you tell?”

“I just know. Don’t ask me how.” There was still the possibility of this being a hallucination. She had read about high frequency sounds and electromagnetic waves affecting the brain. There was that, and much more she reasoned. Ruling out insanity as the cause of all this gave her a small measure of comfort. Small, she reminded herself.

“So, after all these years something remains.” Bitterness broke through that thin layer hostility. Beneath it all was pain. And pride.

“You tricked me, and I died.”

A sharp intake of breath broke the silence. “You didn’t die. You became like me–like a god–immortal.”

She shook her head, attempting to dispel the turmoil within her. It were as if she were drunk. Nothing made sense anymore; She couldn’t think. “Stop!” she snarled. “You never listened! You never cared about anything but yourself!” Her voice, she realized, was different. She could not tell what it was that made it so different. That drunk feeling swept over her once more, and she fainted.

Down into the abyss she fell. Or that’s how it felt.

She fell until there was nothing left of her being.

She had simply stopped.


Little Paper Man

photography, poetry, writing, weird

Original, folded several times,

cut in half with uncanny precision–

little paper people

flutter on the wind like

aimless leaves falling

up into the hungry moon

on a cloudless night.

Original, but stolen?

Lonely little ragged,

sodden, ripped, and then

torn apart without


The original origami man

falls lightly to the ground

without a sound.

No . . . A whimper.

As he’s stepped on

the story ends . . .


The Undying Sloth

The Undying Sloth

The undying sloth
Crawling into your spine
Crick, crack, crunk go the joints
Grinding each other to pulp
Weighing down your shoulders

The undying sloth
Loathe to die, now Falling
Crick, crack, crunk to the ground
Now it’s lost its eyes
Sucking, slurping, smacking its lips
Leaching the calcium from your bones

Such a feast with legs!
If it still had them
It’s never going to let you go.


This is It


This is it,
The cup overflows.
Now drink it up,
To drown again.
Nothing’s going to get you.
No one’s going to save you.
This is it,
The end.


Two-Faced Harpy

Two-faced harpy with the dead white hair

Two-faced harpy sitting in a chair
Two-faced harpy with the dead white hair
Two-faced harpy screeching: life’s not fair!
In your nice comfy chair
Where the people don’t care
Two-faced harpy sitting in her lair
Sorry, little harpy, but you’ll just have to share
Devil-Woman’s coming, so you’re in for a scare
Go tell your little cronies about your greatest nightmare
‘Cause Devil-Woman’s coming, and you’re in for a scare
You two-faced harpy, I’m gonna show and tell
Gonna show you my storm cloud wings, gonna tell you all about hell
Two-faced harpy with the dead white hair, your dirty white wings, and your little wrinkled heart, I’m curious to know how you fell
So far, landed in between insanity and dreams, living in denial, but you just can’t tell
Two-faced harpy sitting in a chair
Sharing your space with your greatest nightmare


Swallowed by the Seasons

Succulent frowns skewing a face
And bloated hysteria teasing
A  spider web draped over a body like lace
A corpse swallowed by the seasons



Lice-like, they seem to him

To her, like worms

In and out they go

Weaving around outstretched hands

Until they’ve disappeared into the stranger’s mouth

A smiling mouth, enigmatic and uninviting



No One Wanted It Around


“Feed me, I am hungry, the beast said. It regarded its reflection on spoon as it awaited the answer. Perhaps he should just crawl into a hole and die–permanently. No one wanted a demon around.

As expected, the woman said No in a flat tone, followed by a: “Leave me alone.”

If only he could make her feel something . . . Then he wouldn’t feel so dead inside. It would never happen again like it used to, though; she had put her foot down–permanently. She didn’t want a demon around.


Soft Thoughts

Passionate zealotry,


illusions shaped like living people

or hallucinations?


Ashkenaz Loves His Spam

It’s true. Nothing pleases me more than a slew of disjointed comments and thoughts. My favourites are the ones about purses and watches; second on my list would be the faceless, nameless people who claim to love me (well, the team, but that includes me as well).

I have a story for you–it’s more of a parable, really, but who cares.

There were two chimps, and one baby sloth. Then they disintegrated.

Oh, you didn’t learn anything? Well, I did lie about this being a parable, but who cares. Nobody really cares much for my opinion. Not even Jake, and he was the one who discovered me. It’s all about Theo, and that Coopid thing. Coopid’s a parasite, and everyone denies that he exists. We don’t even know if he is a he. Somehow, even Coopid gets more love than me.

It’s not like I really care, or anything.

I’m going to morph into a cat now. Yes, and then someone will find me in their house.

Yessssss . . . 



It reckons

That you are worthy of its brilliance

So it beckons

For you to come; why do you refuse

You choose to display such resilience

to its uncanny power

So then its mood turns sour

You have insulted Vrogh-shov-veda

And now the situation has become dour

If Vrogh-shov-veda is alpha and omega

Then Crik-kro-taw is beta

Py-thag-rous is theta . . . so on and so forth

How–why–could a mortal thing deny its power

And now the god is confused

Crik-kro-taw has been summoned

And Py-thag-rous roused

Through space and time they come and

Take you to Vrogh-shov-veda


Over Ripened Blackberries

She picked up an unsuspecting fruit, and held it between her thumb and index finger. Infinitesimal insects crawled over and around each purple cluster; they were like little flying worms with legs. I’m going to masticate you all in one small bite, she thought offhand. Today was the first time she had noticed them on her fruit. One had been flying around the bowl; she had noticed it while she was working at her desk.

How many of these creatures had she consumed in her lifetime?

How many infinitesimal souls had she destroyed?

Her friends called her quirky. The old ones called her deranged. In her larval state she was capable of simple, paltry, human thoughts. And it was slowly driving her to madness . . . The fruit burst between her fingers.

The infinitesimal worms wriggled in the dark juices, contorting their bodies in agony as they suffocated.



I was downing a spoonful of tomato soup when my dad spoke up.

“Is that him?” he asked me. Looking up, I followed the direction his finger was pointing in. We were at the restaurant to kill a few hours before our show. The him, or it I should say, was someone I had dated once. I say that word tentatively because I was really just playing around . . . Being young and naïve . . . I don’t know what you’d call it. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind at that time.

He didn’t see us, or at least I don’t think he did. The woman he was with looked familiar. What is it with him and going after women who look like his mother? I should add that mother is also tentative. Master or mistress was more the correct term. Keeper would work just fine, too. She also reminded me of someone I knew in high school. Natalie? Or Madelaine?

“I never knew he was bi,” I murmured to myself. What did I care, though?

My dad seemed surprised. “What did you see in that schmuck?”

I shrugged my shoulders. To be honest I couldn’t tell him, because I couldn’t remember a single thing. I don’t think he really had that much of a personality to begin with.

Then again, he wasn’t that much of a human, if you follow me.

That poor girl was in for a rather nasty surprise.

“Oh well, he did you a favor, didn’t he?” That was my dad again.

“You have no idea,” I told him bluntly. “He’s on a whole different plane.” Despite being in the same general area as he was, I wasn’t really bothered that much by it. Thankfully.

That poor girl, I thought to myself again. Then I quickly reminded myself that this city was crawling with his kind. As I downed another spoonful of soup I heard my dad say something about cleaning up the riff-raff. I couldn’t help but smile.


Thursday is a Good Day

For some ___________________ (insert whatever).

Not the bees! An Extraordinary Glimpse into the First 21 Days of a Bee’s Life in 60 Seconds via Colossal.

Don’t eat while looking at this (I did, and my perogies suddenly became less than appetizing). From the Merrylin Cryptid Museum.


To Those Two . . .

Yes, you, you two.

You must think that I’m stuck up or something.

Or perhaps you should just stop.

I can’t help it if I seem to be watching you out in the public spaces of this miserable town.

(Everybody else does it.)

I’m not that sorry if my determination not to look at you bothers you both either.

It’s not my fault you both look frumpy . . .

Frumpy, old, young couple . . .

Such tragedy.

I’m not going to back down though; I’ve face demons and far worse than

two disgruntled youth.

Yes, although I am young like you.

I’m not like you two at all.

(By the way, disgruntled girl, your disgruntled boyfriend is actually a ghoul,

in case you were wondering what was so great about him:

it’s nothing.

I dated one once . . .)


So Sorry

She always hated apologizing for the things she had no control over. It was useless because she never meant any of it, and she hated it because it degraded her. She felt like the monster in the room. Always. It never stopped; so she made them stop. 

Their bodies piled up beneath the patio deck quick, and the smell became unbearable. She couldn’t pass it off as the smell of the septic tank any longer. The easy solution was to burn their bodies, or try. Saya wasn’t sure how that was going to work out, but figured that it would make no difference in her life.

As long as they couldn’t trace the deed back to her, she wouldn’t complain.

So, she burned the house down. She was leaving town the following morning anyway. As her car sped down the driveway, she looked back at the house. Where the patio was she head a loud BOOM as the demon corpses burst. Saya let out a little grin.

Sometimes people wondered why there were never any faeries or goblins–mainly the latter–but then those people didn’t know that she was slowly wiping them off the face of the earth. They had another world: hell. They could stay there.


What Were They Doing?

This past Saturday I had inexplicably found myself night-walking. The time was well after 12 pm (which means that I was technically walking by myself early on a Sunday). I was alone and free; I walked down the empty sidewalks, taking giddy steps and smiling as I did so. There was no one was to judge, no one to make their unfair, incorrect assumptions about me.

There are no stigmas in the night, I thought to myself. It was a good thought, if not weak. If the wrong type of person had suggested it, I would have torn it apart like a wolf. I knew that then as I know that now. Then, it didn’t bother me. There are no stigmas in the night; there were stigmas about the night, and unfair, incorrect assumptions about some of the people who walked it . . . But there were also no people to judge me about it.

Or, no one to incite my anxieties. My insecurities.

Those were the things that the gods in my sub-conscious warned me about. I didn’t want to think about them at the time. So I didn’t. Simple.

I had turned around, after dancing in the middle of the road for what had seemed like an eternity. It was time to go home. I heard the forlorn call of the loon; it echoed off the river (the St. Mary). Something caught my eye, and I glanced down at the sidewalk. A millipede was crawling on the cement, going somewhere, hundreds of little legs propelling it forward. As I came closer and closer to my street, I began to notice that there were thousands of them . . .

. . . Thousands upon thousands, upon thousands upon thousands . . . Millipedes crawling on the side-walk . . . Making their way towards some unknown destination.

That’s when I realized what those sub-conscious gods were desperately trying to say.


Competitive Tree Climbing

What a joke.

They think it’s all for fun, all for games . . .

I’m waiting for the moment someone loses an eye


They’ll cry red, instead of salt.

What a horrible thought; I must be deranged,

but what does that word do for me?

What would it do for you,

if you were chased up a tree

(by the hordes of _________)?

When your moment comes,

remember me; I was the first.

The first thing that taught you how to climb

(the second thing will be the one to teach you how to ________).

[die? lie? fly? die? die? die?]

In the beginning, no one ever climbed a tree for the fun of it . . .