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

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.

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!

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. 

Tearing Them Apart From the Inside Out

The grisly task began thusly: lightning quick his hands shot out from the shadows headed straight towards the intended mark, the lone girl. Her scream was cut short as one large hand covered her mouth, while the second dug into her chest. With three fingers he broke a hole through her rib cage.

Once her heart gave out he began to relax. Phase one was completed, now phase two could commence at a more leisurely pace. It was always the initial killing which disturbed him the most; it was one of the few things which made him feel anything. What was reflected in the victims eyes always made him recoil. No matter the direction he attacked from, they always saw him.

Blood sprayed onto his face. He blinked. Three ribs stuck out in the air at odd, jagged angles and he was already bored. Lately he had been loosing interest in his hobbies. Maybe he had gone through the motions too many times? His methods had always been from the top down, he realized. Perhaps now it was time to shake things up . . .

He stood up and paced around the body. It took all of his will power to do this. First he needed to think things through; he pondered, exploring the many avenues. By many, that meant two or three. Or just one. He stopped to let out a sigh.

Then stood for a few silent minutes staring at the wall. Nothing of note went through his mind during that small period. It was . . . Mildly pleasant, he realized.

Also, he had already known what to do before he stood up, it just didn’t seem interesting enough, or enough of anything to carry out. Leaving the body was an option. It had always been an option. What the people of the waking world thought or felt about his work made little difference to him, and besides that he had always left a grisly remnant.

His large form leaned over the body again, and thus began his second task. Lightning quick hands took hold of the ribs and refolded them over the girls lungs. Then he folded the skin back over her chest, and whispered a few words. Skin began to fuse with skin. Personally he thought it looked better in shreds.

He forced the mouth open and breathed into it. Then he did what he was best at and disappeared. From behind a bush he watched as the woman sat up. Her hands began to trace her body, her ripped clothing, then as the realization hit her she began to shake. He let her shake for a bit. It was good for the heart. Without making a sound he crawled from behind the bush and began to slither up to her back.

The woman whipped her head around. A pair of accusing eyes burned him. “Leave me alone,” she gasped.

Well that was new!

Already his interest was beginning to renew itself. She remembered him, but how? Humans had no souls, from what he understood. Did he just prove himself wrong? Was it just that humans had no afterlife, and their souls went to a place where they could be forgotten? A soul but no real afterlife. Now that was intriguing. This was merely one explanation for what had happened. More were just waiting for him, he could feel it.

He watched as the corners of her mouth turned down in disgust, horror, confusion. Maybe he’d like to kiss that mouth, see what would happen then. His tongue would slither down her throat up to her nasal cavity where it would then bore a tiny hole up into her brain case. Then he could see for himself how she felt about him.

In one night he went from doing things from the top down, to the bottom up.


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Sloth & Apathy

sloth |slôTH, släTH, slōTH|

noun

1 reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness: he should overcome his natural sloth and complacency.

2 a slow-moving tropical American mammal that hangs upside down from the branches of trees using its long limbs and hooked claws.

apathy |ˈapəTHē|

noun

lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern: widespread apathy among students.

The Old Year is Dead, But . . .

It all started last year, when they shot a mighty beast,

The overlords of the media had a hearty feast,

And that was all the West seemed to care about, while children were slaughtered

But news like that doesn’t bring you a profit,

Now does it?

So their truth was watered-down, forgotten . . .

Then there’s the matter of the US election.

Our smug liberal faces received a mighty thwack.

When the unthinkable happened, and now there’s no turning back . . .

The moral of that story: some things are better left to natural selection . . .

The old year is dead, but it left much to be desired.

It’s 2017, and we’re so damn tired.

We want change, but are too apathetic to achieve it.

I want 2016 back, but I’m too lazy to retrieve it.

 

Sorry About Your Dad, written by P.L Cobb with art by Jake Zaccaria

Self Reflection #1

Please answer each question to the best of your ability. Honesty is optional.

Honesty is sometimes a curse. Survival is your prerogative.

1: Who were you the day before?

2: Is this statement true or false: At the beginning of each day you are a different person.
Explain why this statement may be true or false in essay form.

Bonus Question: What type of person do you think I am? I mean, who in their right mind would think to ask these kinds of questions.

Sin

Sin

Sin,

I am sin, and no more than that.

Trash, trash, trash.

I am death, because I am trash.

Sin, sin, sin.

(Let the goat-man in.)

Say it seven times,

You filthy heathen.

Sin

sin |sin|

noun

an immoral act considered to be a transgression against divine law: a sin in the eyes of God | the human capacity for sin.

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Pop Quiz #1

Please answer each question however you like. Metaphysical answers will receive double the marks.

1: What are the seven laws of Necromancy?

2: How does one go about assembling a golem. Give detailed steps.

3: Where are the nine monoliths located in trans-dimensional earth 5?

4: When is a duck not a duck?

Our benovelent/malevolent overlord, Theo Monster

ABC’s Of Horror Preview

Theo demands we show you a project we’ve been working on, so show you we shall.
J. Kruschack tries his hand at alliteration for this entry.

“W”

J. Kruschack

Walk into a room where you see the weeping forms of worgs,
being worked over by weary, working-class werewolves wearing flat caps.
The walloping leaves the creatures wary of wondering into the winter night. 

Whilst this occurs, far off in a war-torn land, a veteran wakes up to work out
that he’s become a wendingo, asking “What did I do?” and “What could be worse?” Walking off into the desert, wishing to die of the hunger that will never cease.
This worries him.

Elsewhere, wading into the deep water, a worshipper waves her arms ceremoniously
as chanting wafts through the sunken cavern. Awoken, the wyvern rises, full of ancient wrath. Wreathes of flame envelope all but one, who graciously offers her flesh,
arcanely wrapped white tattoos, to the barb-tailed creature. It’s wings spread wide as it’s mouth whips open to reveal row after row of teeth. The sound of it’s wail would cause all others to spend their final moments wallowing in fear but not her.

The Dreaded Monday Has Returned–

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–And Nothing Has Happened

It snowed again today.

It’s always cold on a sunny day.

Blue skies over me,

Looking down, mockingly.

Small things, that.

Eyes in the clouds–

Watching the people milling about down below,

Half-asleep, unaware.

This is why I remain indoors.

A single speck,

Looking up,

From down below.

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Stringing Together Memories

Stringing Together Memories

Some days he wondered why he was still going; ever since his wife had left him, life had taken a turn for the worst. George held his head in his hands as he sat on the back of his truck. There was literally nothing for him other than the truck, and that was a particularly lousy thing to live for. There were no kids to speak of, and the dog had died years ago.

His wife had left him nothing.

What was more: she had left him for his sister.

Well, half-sister, he reminded himself. But still . . . His thoughts trailed off into the murky depths of his mind. Ever since that revelation he hadn’t been himself. He was thinking of seeking out professional help, but work came first. At least he hadn’t lost his job. Sometimes he almost enjoyed being single again, when his head was clear enough to think.

She’s really my step-sister, he thought. When his mother had remarried she had insisted that everyone refer to her as sister, or half-sister. He’d never been able to like her, she had somehow managed to get whatever she wanted; her father he had hated with an unbridled passion. He was another thing altogether. What his mother saw in that man, he had no idea.

No one had liked his step-father. Mother didn’t even like him. She just needed someone who could take care of her family. There were nights where he saw his mother crying in the kitchen still vivid upon his mind.

And then there was the son they had together. George shuddered at the thought of his own mother slipping into bed with that man. What was his name? His brow furrowed. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember his step-father’s name. It was bad enough that he couldn’t remember what his step-sister looked like off the top of his head, although he always knew her when he saw her, and always remembered how unpleasant it was.
George recalled details about them, but nothing of consequence. He had known them for a better part of his life too. Why?

Why was it impossible to remember anything about them?

The answer slowly dawned on him. When he first saw his step-father, the man had no face. His step-sister had a hole where a heart normally went. And his half-brother had been born dead.

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Galling, Gruelling Eternity

Galling, Gruelling Eternity | The Red Raven Part 5

Cold, stiff, skeletal . . .

“How long do you suppose he’s been dead?” the woman asked. She refrained from nudging the body with her boot.

“It’s hard to say just by looking,” the other man replied. “He’s been here for weeks, or months. We’ll have to get him back to the laboratory for further analysis.” He scratched his beard.

“It looks like he’s been bitten,” she motioned to the neck of the corpse. “Everything about this case screams that it’s been staged. Do you suppose that this is a ritualistic murder?”

“Yes,” the man replied without so much as a hint of hesitation. “I know this man.”

“He’s the thief, then?”

The professor–Alec A. Chamberlain–sighed. “Yes.” It was always the thief. He had seen DeCorvi dead so many times that he had become accustomed to it; the first few times he had dreaded the outcome–it was always the same–until he stopped thinking about it. Alec was not heartless. No, far from it. Pragmatic? Yes. So far his theory had been proven true.

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