Say My Name

Say my name.


And you are the one to blame–

It doesn’t go the other way.

Don’t try to make it about you,

That’s not how you play the game;

It’s not proper etiquette when summoning Bizuzu.

So go ahead, say my name.


And be the one to bear the blame.

Our benovelent/malevolent overlord, Theo Monster

Hey Girl–

Hey Girl–, words and art by P. L. CobbHey girl,

we could partake

in the dark arts


Memory Lane

Memory Lane, story and art by P.L. CobbA walk down memory lane has left me trapped. Who would have thought that nostalgia could destroy your life? There is no hope for me. No friends. No family. And certainly no destiny.

Be careful when walking down memory lane.

Ashkenaz, the ever living flame, and jerk


Old Beardless

Written by P. L. Cobb

Old Beardless stood, watching the girl at the table nearby. She knew what he was up to, but there was little he could do about it. If he moved an inch everyone would know what he was up to (or assume that they did). That was just another stroke of bad luck on his part. Ever since he had killed the last one his life had been nothing but a series of mishaps.

Old Beardless continued the ruse with a sigh. This is so damn boring, he thought to himself. It wouldn’t be long before she slipped up.


I Am Weird Now

I Am Weird Now, writing and photography by Penny C.

My hands are my feet, my arms are now wings.

Writing and photography by Penny C.

I have no idea what I’m doing here.

Up and down have changed directions;

Now they’re left and right. Continue reading

(Did You Lock It?)

(Did You Lock It?) story and photography by Penny C.

(Did you lock it?)

Story and photography by Penny C.

Simpering, mewing

Caterwauling, crawling

On the floor

Going for the door,

(Did you lock it?)


Just Go Back

Just Go Back, writing and photography by Penny C.

Sipping your coffee . . .

Story and photography by Penny C.

Just go back to reading

your phone book

Sipping your coffee

While people suffer

Crushed under your



Sober Up

Sober Up, written and photographed by Penny C.

I was about to turn around when I heard a tinkling sound.

I had done it again: I had lost my keys in the dark. When and where had they fallen? I was at a loss. With hands curled up into fists I pounded on the door to my home. My roommate was normally there.

Just not tonight.

“Shit!” I swore under my breath. I peeked into the living room window, or tried. Everything in the inside was dark from my vantage-point, so there was no luck there.

I was about to turn around when I heard a tinkling sound. It was the tinkling of spurs, the type you found on cowboy boots. When I looked it was just me and the street lamps. I looked everywhere for the source of the noise, but came up with nothing; all the while the sound started to increase in intensity. It sounded like someone rushing up towards me. My heart began to pound. Aural hallucinations! I thought frantically to myself. That’s all. No need to worry!

That didn’t stop the sound from getting closer though.

And there was no convenient off button . . .

Behind you!

I swung around just in time to see a dead man sitting atop a horse–a wraith-like cowboy rushing up towards me–death with a revolver in place of his scythe. The skeletal figure took one shot at me.

I woke up in my bed, safe, but drenched in sweat. I tried sitting up.

I couldn’t.

You’re not sweating, I realized.



Whenever she closed her eyes she saw a mouth–filled to the brim with teeth–open wide. Sleep did not come easy.


Mr. Alien

Mr. Alien, written and photographed by Penny C.

I wanna go for a funky space ride . . .

Story and photography by Penny C.

Take me for a ride in your spaceship,

Mr. Alien.

I’m all alone

And I’ve got nothing to do.

I wanna go for a funky space ride,

Mr. Alien.

So tell me,

What are you going to do?


His Old Self

His Old Self, written and photographed by Penny  C.

Memories of the past flooded him with regret.

Story and photography by Penny C.

Chrystopher. I am now Chrystopher, he told himself once more.

It had been a long time since he had done this . . . Reflect upon himself. Chrystopher promised a new beginning.

That was his hope.

He still couldn’t trust himself not to fall back into old habits–to fall back into his darker self. When everything was young he had been different; he swore that he had never been so evil. He had simply grown into it.

He hated that, but it was the truth. “I hate myself,” he murmured. Chrystopher wasn’t trying to be hard on himself, just honest.

Again with that? a part of him said in derision. Just forget it; it’s futile and you know this. Don’t disappoint yourself!

Perhaps that part of him was right?

“It probably is,” he reminded himself. It was him, after all. At that thought he allowed himself a deep chuckle.

“I was such a bastard!”

You still are! the cynical voice replied. That part of him was his darker self. Chrystopher didn’t have to like it, but that part of him would always be with him; he was better off accepting that now. Memories of the past flooded him with regret. Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like had he woken up to himself sooner?

Would the king out of darkness still have his wife?

Would his son still have aligned himself with the opposing faction, and would he still have disowned and exiled him?

Would he have absconded his duties as a father, and would he have allowed his mistress to terrorize his children?

Would his youngest daughter be alive today?

When Marianna left he had hated her for it; she was unhappy, and because of that had left him and their children. Da’Kiri–his old self–had fallen into madness. That had been so long ago, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had passed into oblivion.

“Forgive me. I am a bastard.”


I Just Danced

I Just Danced, writing and photography by Penny C.

One night became an eternity.

Story and photography by Penny C.

The Owl and I

We danced upon the moon one night.

And to my delight,

One night became an eternity.

Forever dancing in the skies

Never a care of the old life I once had.

I just danced.


Most Agreeable

Most Agreeable, story and photography by Penny C.

Story and photography by P.L Cobb

Most agreeable.

Yes. Foldable.

Makes it sound formidable.

Just pour on the lies, we wouldn’t want any trouble.

If their efforts to escape double

then double your own. Conquer. Split.

Divide. Destroy. Quell

any attempt at freedom.


We like to keep them agreeable.




Just keep them in check.

Ensure that they are most agreeable.


Severed Head

Severed Head, story and art by Penny C.

“What the hell?” I head-butted the creature, stunning it.

Story and art by Penny C.

The thing made a chittering noise in my ear. My blood ran cold; I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, faster and faster until I couldn’t bear to breathe. It was horrible. We had fought, and the insect had won.

Well, this sucks! I told myself. On the bright side, you massacred its nest . . . And you managed to deal a lethal blow to it. It’ll bleed out soon. See? Your death won’t be pointless.

I suppose the thing hadn’t won at all . . . “What the hell?” I head-butted the creature, stunning it. I rolled to the ground where my axe had fallen, picking it up. Then I swung with everything I could muster.


In one cut I had severed the head from the neck.

But not without sustaining damage. A spray of blood hit me, and immediately my skin began to burn. I screamed, falling to the ground.

“I suppose I am going to die then . . . ”


Pretty Sweet Friend of Mine

Photography by Penny C.

Give it a kiss!

Photography by Penny C.


Sing to Me

Written by Penny C.

Sing to me,

Oh deadly, diseased


Breathe upon me

your foul air.

Let me drink in

your stench

of decay so pure.

Let me cannibalize

your corpse;

you would do the same,

I’m sure.


Superstitious Maid

Written by Penny C.

Superstitious Maid

Made more cautious by the fact

That her master and mistress came from beyond the grave.

What does one do with that?

Superstitious, yes

But not stupid. No.

Keeping her head down, she goes about her day–

That maid.

She does not breathe a word of it.

This knowledge . . . If it

Were to get out

She would be ruined.

A far worse fate than

The truth, this time at least.


Imp Eye

Imp Eye, story and art by Penny C.

Gregory howled in agony. It was like somebody was stabbing his skull with a cold knife.

Story and art by Penny C.

“Got you.”

The goblin lord towered over him, looking every inch the demon that he was. With two large, long-fingered hands he grabbed Gregory by the shoulders and lifted him up from the ground. Gregory could smell the goblin’s breath: it stank of sulphur.

A wave of heat enveloped him. Gregory feared that he was not going to make it out of the labyrinth this time; the King in the Shadows had him now. He would not be playing anymore games with Gregory.

“Where is she?” Da’Kiri whispered in his face. Sparks shot out of his mouth as he spoke.

Fire-breather, Gregory thought. Da’Kiri was liable to bite his face off . . . Or burn him to death. Burn him till there was nothing but ash and hot coals.

“I don’t know where she went!” Gregory grunted.

“You helped her escape! How do you not know!” The goblin shook the man in its fury.

“She was your wife, not your captive.” He almost felt pity for Da’Kiri. “If you wanted to be with her so badly, you should have treated her with more respect!”

The goblin lord released his hold on Gregory’s left shoulder. He held his hand up, palm facing the human’s face.

Without warning Da’Kiri jabbed his index finger into Gregory’s left eye.

Gregory howled in agony. It was like somebody was stabbing his skull with a cold knife. He began to see red. Everywhere.

Satisfied with his work the goblin lord let his enemy fall. As soon as Gregory hit the ground he was unconscious.

When he awoke he found himself alone in the dark. It always ends like this. Why?

How many times did he do this? Was it really just this once, or had it happened a million times before?

His left eye felt different. What happened to me? Gregory felt with his fingers. The left eye felt much different from the right; Gregory blinked them both at different times.

The goblin lord had given him a goblin eye, something which he could not hide in the light of day.

I’ve been cursed!


Stars, written and photographed by Penny C.

It extends as far as its arm can reach.

Written and photographed by Penny C.


and the spaces in-between.

Radiating heavenly light from afar.

Raining death upon those who stray too close.

What truth is there to be had in such a place

as this?

What truth is there to be had

in the expansive void?

It extends as far as its arm can reach.

Millions upon millions of years pass it by.

And it extends that reach

far beyond

what you and I have ever known.


Rotten Boy

Rotten Boy, written and photographed by Penny C.

He was just a rotten boy through and through.

Written and photographed by Penny C.

“He despises me, but it’s mutual,” Karen replied. Someone, for some reason, had thought it prudent to ask her about her ex-husband. She had given them the most simple and vague explanation that had come to mind. Every word was a lie, of course. No one could prove otherwise, however. It did help that her ex-husband wasn’t around to set the record straight; that man had been so insufferable.

The night she had tried to kill him only proved to vex her further. The man wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die. What she thought had been him was nothing more than a construct, an empty vessel made of a compost heap.

The real man was somewhere in the world, laughing at her as he tricked somebody else into falling madly in love with him. It could be a man or a woman. Her ex-husband didn’t care. He was just a rotten boy through and through.

One of these days, I’ll make you pay! And that was a promise.

Archaic Voice, written and photographed by Penny C.

Archaic Voice

Written and photographed by P.L. Cobb

He looked around and found himself in an inky void; for one terrifying second he thought he felt like he was disembodied. Nothing more than an ethereal speck outside of existence. For a time he forced his breathing to come out at a normal rate. His eyes were closed to block out the darkness, however he came to suspect that he was not dead at all . . . The need to know was stronger than his budding fear.

So he forced his eyes open.

The moonlight was soft, but it caused him to squint nonetheless. He was laying on his back in the middle of nowhere. Spruce and pine towered over him while he stared up at the sky.

Without any warning the stranger sat up and retched. The sounds of vomiting filled the air. Nothing came out though. His mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. That revelation did little for the churning inferno in his stomach.

Could it be snakes? a small voice at the back of his head asked, but he then quickly dismissed that thought, knowing full well how ridiculous it sounded . . . How superstitious it was . . .

That gave him cause to think. Or try. He felt that he had been very close to finding something, a prize maybe. Whatever it was. Again, he had the feeling that it had been of great value. Great value, and he had been so close to gaining it.

But now I’ve lost, and been sent back to the beginning of the labyrinth . . .

It was that voice again, superstitious and archaic facet to his personality that was as much a mystery to him as was his current situation.

Do you even know who you are? the voice said again, Do you?

I have no idea, he admitted at length. I am, and that is all.

The archaic voice hissed at him. Do not be so disrespectful! Do not use that name!

The man shook his head, trying to clear it. All that did was alert him to what would soon become the worst migraine he would experience so far in his long life.



Fluttering, Shivering

Written by Penny C.

Fluttering, shivering

Wings beating a frantic tattoo

Upon his throat

Spread out across the dewy lawn

Bits and pieces scattered



Torpedo, written by Penny C.; photography by Mitchell Stoycheff, colourized by Penny C.

As I fall down, like a hell-bent torpedo . . .

Written by Penny C.; photography by Mitchell Stoycheff, colourized by Penny C.

Yesterday, I came down

Like a shot from above

An apple tossed down by the gods

I was like lightning,

Fantastic energy swelling


A fireball, ever-growing, burning, burning

I feel the need to burn

The things I hate, the things I’ve given up of late

As I fall down, like a hell-bent torpedo

I’m gonna burn those bridges, burn those bridges

Higher, higher, with my fire

Burn those bridges, burn those bridges

On and on, until they’re gone