Anger-It Might be Cliché, written by P.L. Cobb for the Enigmatic Monster Project, an original horror blog.

Anger–It Might Be Cliché

It might be cliché, but hey: anger is a part of our life now.

It’s bad, but can be good, somehow. Good in the way controlled fires are. Left alone, and who knows what chaos it shall mete out. Destruction by the metric tonne.

Also, when driven by anger, you are master of none. No one. Zilch, And there’s no way to change that.

When anger owns your ass, you’re better off as food for the worms, or the grass.

But it all depends, and in the end isn’t that all we can hope for?

If I could pay my bills in rage, perhaps I’d be less than poor. But loathing takes its toll, and always asks for more. So much so that every inch of me feels sore. It’s as if anger has had me whipped, saying: “This is it, bitch!”

Bleed me till I’m dry, let me spend myself until I’m empty. Strip away all my layers, questioning why I pretend to be so complex, so human, when I am really Anger’s whore.

In the end, isn’t that what we all are? Whores?

Recalcitrant, They Call Me; a poem written by P.L. Cobb for the Enigmatic Monster Project.

Recalcitrant, They Call Me

Adjective |rəˈkalsətrənt|

  1. having an obstinately uncooperative attitude toward authority or discipline.

And this is how my story begins,
Not with a bang, no glamorous symphony orchestra
But a sad whisper, a murmur upon the wind:
The shocking tale of a deadly sin,
Wrath is his name–and the love which my mother, and him, must have made
To warrant me such an illustrious name …

Yes, they call me Recalcitrant.

My mother, she must have been the demon of Pride,
For my reputation has superseded me, far and wide!
And I cannot help but gloat.
For it must have been Wrath and Pride, combined
To have created the likes of me.

I could wax on, but that is all, there is no more to see!
And as you go, remember me …
Wherever there is life, I am eternal;
I am recalcitrance: a thing infernal.

Recalcitrant, they call me!

Can I? Written by P.L. Cobb

Can I?

Can I,
Chew my way out of this cocoon,
This thing in which I’ve been marooned,
Or can I,
Join the birds–might I fly
Into the lonely void of the sky?

Or must I remain
Trapped, to grow insane,
Or may I walk free
Beneath the churning seas?

Is it solace I seek,
Or is it vengeance to be eked
Out from this miserable soil?
My cup is so full, it overflows, and boils.

I am wild rage, encased,
The result of a fair lady disgraced.
If I must, I shall wait within this cocoon,
For it would not do to taste the sweet honey of your judgement … Too soon.

Mossy, photography by Mitchell Stoycheff

Puppeteer

A smiling face hides more
A facade that one can front
Various tricks can a smile implore
Where truth will only stunt

There is a curtain that hides the plots
A veil of devious mind racing
How can we withstand the onslaught
When we don’t know who we’re facing

Lives are wasted, to men who hold the power
Where what is precious is profane
An obstacle to simply conquer
Until to ashes we all remain

In the end we are tied to falsehood
Forced to hide our truths within
How many waves have we withstood
When we are constantly searching to begin

How can we find the solace
When we don the masks we admonish
How do we wipe clean the canvas
To cut the strings and vanish

Wrath

Deep inside a spark endures
Waiting for the overtures
Borne of beastial burning bustle
I am the bane of bliss and warning council

I wait in silence, a volatile catalyst
I wait in silence till my move is clearest
Whispering thoughts and emotions deep
Until you plunge, in anger you’ll weep.

Oh yes you’ll sob those salty tears
Until your mind slowly disappears
Grinning, I will take my fill
While feeding the seed you tried to kill

Oh yes, feed these flames: the seed within
Now feed me instead, with your oxygen
Ignite your soul, down its fiery path
Until all is lost to the heat of Wrath

IMG_1227

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Do Not Shriek

Spiral down, the dark awaits

Hear its sound, the heart pulsates

Softly whisper, hear them speak

And if you answer: do not shriek

Set Fire To Something, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Set Fire to Something

The acrid smell of gasoline was as strong as it was heady. It pervaded the air like a poisonous cloud assailing the senses. My nose burned from underneath it, and my eyes watered as I continued to pour the liquid my hands shaking.

Around me the night screamed in alarm: every bug was a siren; every bird was mortal. They peered out at me through the darkness of the night. Their accusing glares matched the beating of my heart. They were everywhere, and they pounded against my thoughts like hammer.

I focused on my task, the smell of gasoline. The smell of vengeance and the smell of justice. There was nothing left to my world; all obligations forfeit. Splashing the last few drops I tossed the container aside and fumbled in my pockets for my lighter.

This was it.

As I went to flicked it on I looked up to the face of the scarecrow, his split fibrous grin was dark and slick with liquid. Its eyes were unnaturally focused. Could this demon smell it? Did the scent of the gasoline lead it here. I stumbled back slipping in the slick grass, fear bubbling in the back of my throat. It’s head cocked to one side rolling awkwardly.

It shuffled toward me, almost unstably. Its was a game it played. I had seen it move and I had seen it kill. My eyes looked to the gleaming meat hook stuffed in its right arm, recalling how It strung up Sally from the rafters, how her screams were cut short.

My hand clenched the lighter, almost as tight as my chest heaved. There was no time left, no air left. I was going to die. Would it do the same to me as it did to all the others? Would it hurt. My vision blurred, I was the only one left after all, who would bury me?

The demon lunged at me and I screamed and tried to roll away. The pain was immediate. My fingers dug haphazardly in the earth as struggled to pull myself away from the fiend, knowing that I was within its clutches. It tugged, and my left leg screamed in agony. Terror and pain erupted from my lips in an anguished fearful cry. Tears blurred my vision, as I fought its supernatural strength. It pulled again my body sliding in the slick grass with ease.

Twisting I swung my leg at it in desperation. It took the blows with ease, its feral grin unflinching. Instead in leaned forward, tearing the hook from my leg with ease sending shock waves that splintered up my body. I screamed in pain, I screamed for God, even as the black spots formed in between my tears.

Despite it’s blurry form its soulless eyes were in clarity. It was the eyes of death. I struggled backward as it angled itself even closer, the bloody hook dripping with bits of ragged flesh. I whimpered pleas of sorrow as I continued to struggle backward against the pain. The rough skin of the tree ended my retreat, and I was forced to look up to the demon that loomed over me, like a carving of statue whose eyes glittered even in the night.

I had so many regrets, so many plans for the future. None included this haunting menace. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want any of this, but it was all I had left. The scent of vengeance and the scent of justice. Could they be the same, when the nightmares of the world came crawling out. My hand trembled as I flicked the lighter, bringing a spark to the darkness.

The demon pealed, the meat hook flashing brightly in the moonlight, but the flash of fire was faster as it consumed him and tree that tethered the demon to this world.

The Enigmatic Monster presents …

The Brute Spews Hateful Words

The Brute spews hateful words

–Which are only considered hateful to us.

To him these insults are like

Shimmering red jewels,

Blood red–his words mean death to me, to you, oh insanity …

For this Brute, this beast …

… This ten eyed troll …

Revels in cruelty

Of the animal kind,

And by that I mean humanity.

How would you like to be a purse?

He’ll reason, nodding to his cronies.

Oh irony of ironies!

Aren’t you the little victim?

The Brute will laugh, he just can’t help it,

And to be fair, as prey, we are his favourites.

You had it coming! And maybe a lampshade, a wallet,

Human leather shoes! They’ll fetch a fine price!

And with a hideous smile, says the words, Skin ‘em!

And now we’re dead.

It’s not so nice to be on the losing side,

But maybe the Brute’s right?

Maybe we DO deserve this.

The Enigmatic Monster Project presents.

The Worm King

The worm king

Grovels at me feet, licking my toes

And I cannot look

It makes me sick

The king of worms is quick

To crawl up my legs

And then I am paralyzed.

My temple is compromised

To those who are wise

Why have you forsaken me

Am I simply rubbish

Now that my treasure has been stolen?

Your excuse: I did not guard myself.

Damn you.

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

Rubies

Feel the pain

The sting of the knife

Forget the stain

Of what was once a hopeful life

Let the rubies drain out

Along with thoughtful dreams

Lose yourself in doubt

Tear apart your seams

Posturing Prick, by P.L. Cobb

Posturing Prick

There are gals and guys

Who we just can’t stand–god!

They like to cock-off, that’s no lie

Pretending to be more than the truth of what they are.

That’s no surprise though, no, we know you know,

Why–it must be exquisite fun to walk around–I don’t know, maybe–sit around

All day–hissing like cats, gnashing rat-like incisors … What?

(Or this and that)

Mincing words, inelegantly, riling you and riling me,

And there’s no way out!

Stay put, hunker down, cover your ears

Unless you’d like to drown in bullshit:

The choice weapon of the hypocrite.

We’re alone, left to fend for our own

In the cold of the wilderness, against our society’s finest…

The posturing prick,

The rotten scumbag.

And perhaps the prick is just a bag of scum,

Dressed up in a tie, with two button eyes…

(Yum!)

 

tradtional, art, poetry, horror

Dirty Boy

There’s another term for that arrogant son, another name. It’s not chum, or scum. Just Dirty Boy.

Yes, those are words that describe the sum of the parts of our arrogant ass. Dirty Boy likes to be picky, petulant, petty. If he could he would his waste time–and yours–with confusing–and perhaps–accusing rants. This and that he’ll shout about. A fleck of spittle will hit you in the corner of the eye. You might flinch, I mean, having someone’s spit in your eye is disgusting.

That’s just how Dirty Boy operates. What he has for a brain is more like a sponge, porous and moist … It teems with life. Yes that’s the twist, our arrogant son is not his own man; the boy is just human suit, a host. Once he was normal, maybe even wholesome.

Parasites can’t distinguish between good or bad; morals make them laugh, where the laughs can be had.

These creatures, these mites, work together, the sum of the whole. A macrocosm, Dirty Boy, mites, and all that bites. Perhaps there’s more. Dirty Boy, to weak to resist it … He’s a host to more than one party. Spooks and kooks, with their demoniac grins and their esoteric kinks, wink beneath his flesh, dancing upon useless corneas like hopelessly wild things.

Why, though?

Because why the hell not, that’s why. If Dirty Boy’s going to fall, he’s going to do it his way. He’ll make it a crash and burn to remember, if there ever was one. The mind’s been gone for a long time now. When the body goes, when he truly is dirt …

We will rest in what we think is peace. If it’s good enough.

Until the next weak-willed fool comes along, makes a pact with absolute evil, or whatever. Who really cares?

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.

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

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.

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

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!

These Words, story and art by P.L. Cobb

Blood Between the Sheets

A couple moved in time with one another, their passionate groans calling out in eager whimpering pleas. As they twisted in the sheets, a subtle yet assertive knock sounded at the door.

“Who’s that?” The man stopped and pulled himself back. She could see the nervous tension racing through him. He was young even by her standards, but she was still in accordance with mortal law. 18 human years was adult enough. Far older than a few hundred years ago.

She shushed him, and drew him close. “Pay it no mind baby,” the woman crooned as she traced a line down his muscular chest. She always enjoyed a fair amount of muscle. He relaxed and bent in with a sloppy kiss, his hips shifting forward.

The knock came again, this time it was no longer subtle. It was demanding.

He moved up and off of her, alert with nervous tension and the undercurrent of anger. Poor things get frustrated oh so easy! The woman sighed and turned so that she faced the door propping her head on her hand. She didn’t bother covering herself with the sheet. Naked, her young lover answered the door in an angry huff. Obviously proud of himself. A man stood on the other side, tall and muscular. She felt flush, seeing him, as her eyes traced downward. Her lover’s chest puffed out. “What’s the problem man!” He barked, leaning forward. Despite being tall himself the man on the other side was still a head taller. Looking down at the boy before him the man smiled, before looking to woman in the bed. She gave a flirty wave.

“You were suppose to be ready to leave a half hour ago.”

She shrugged caressing her waist. “I was craving something–” she paused, glancing at her lover who was looking a bit angry at the sudden twist “–big.” She finished with a smile.

The man smiled, and caught the eyes of her lover, before looking downward. The young lover stepped back under the sudden hungry gaze. “Finish up here, Luce” he told her, smiling again at her lover. “She always finds the pretty ones” he murmured before shutting the door behind him.

Sitting up Luce positioned herself seductively. Invitingly. As her lover turned back to her. She could tell they had lost the mood. She pouted to herself. Well, that wouldn’t do. “I think I better go.” He mentioned grabbing his underwear from the floor. “I don’t want to intrude in whatever that was.”

Luce gave a little laugh. “Vee? Pay him no mind. He’s the perpetual jealous type. But hardly a good tumble between the sheets.” He stared at her. She could tell he was sitting on the precipice. She could feel it. Part of him wished to leave at once, while deep inside his burning lust ignited as he traced her body with his mind. She just need a final push. Standing up she walked over to him and pressed her breasts against him. “Don’t go.” She whimpered, kissing below his jaw. He shivered and she could feel his resistance fade as a hardness shifted below. Luce smiled and pulled him downward to kiss him. He complied, the heat returning to his body. She grinned, as he pulled her closer, the hungry carnal heat retaking him. It would do her no good to be on edge. Oh no, she liked to savor the heat of the moment.

She gave a slight moan as she felt his arms lift her, making a quick transition to the bed. As he shifted below her, ready to continue their previous romp, she stopped him with a suggestive grin. “Let me be on top.” He gave a wolfish grin and pulled her onto him. She let out a soft moan of pleasure. Tracing his muscular chest, feeling the strong beat beneath, she gave in to his proddings. She smiled at him through heavy eyes as he moved his own hands up her trembling body. Eager to explore, his hunger burning deep inside him.

Oh he was ready, she could feel it. Nothing was better than the heat of desire burning out conscious reason. With her right hand still on his chest, she reached up with her left, playfully covering his mouth. “Don’t scream too loud.” She purred at him.

He looked at her confused, but Luce smiled wickedly. He grinned himself, his own thoughts bringing delicious fruit.

Oh, but not his kind of fruit!

In one swift motion her left hand clamped over his mouth while her right tore into his flesh, boring into his ribs with a deafening snap. She groped a moment in his chest cavity until she felt the warm thick pulse of his heart. Her lover screamed in agony beneath the supernatural strength of her hands, but she would not allow him to move. Oh no, she was looking forward to this. His cry soon ended.

She carefully pulled an enlarged heart from his chest and gazed at it lovingly. Oh yes, she was definitely hungry for something big. Luce looked at the man beneath her, a ragged hole in his chest. He had no idea. Cardiomyopathy was genetic after all. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his before pulling herself off of him. “Thanks for the lovely Valentine.” She smiled and then bit into the heart like an apple.


If you love what we do, spread the word about our project!
Show Theo some love by following our blog!
Follow us on Facebook, or Instagram.

Become a Patron!