The Enigmatic Monster Project

Better Without You

Once upon a midnight dreary,

I watched from outside of myself

A boy who had pretended to be a man once–

His only friend his misery.

He had tried so hard to take me off the shelf.

That boy did not expect me to come alive in his hands, to pounce

on him. Once upon a night of misery,

There was a man wearied

by his past regrets.

In trying to re-live me

I imploded upon myself.

Ever since then he’s been alone

in hell.

Easy to Fall

poetry, art, horror, photography, photo manipulation

They are all liars . . .

People come and go

All wearing masks to hide their truest selves

They are liars

Easy to fall

Back on their old instincts

Back into their pits

And hide themselves

Falling away from their truest selves

They are all liars

They withhold truth from within

It is so easy for them to fall

Collection

writing, horror, art, short story

As my eyes became accustomed to the light I noticed at the same time that there was an awful smell that permeated everything.

I woke up not knowing where I was; I could not tell what was up or down. My body could not move, and I could not see. For the first hour or so (or so it felt) I spent all,of my efforts on calming my nerves; the pounding of my heart, and the rushing of blood was all I could hear. My imprisonment came to an abrupt halt when I realized I was in a room . . . Not a box, as I had feared. As my eyes became accustomed to the light I noticed at the same time that there was an awful smell that permeated everything.

I sat up off the hard surface I was laid on, and then stumbled my way in the dim light. As I did so, I bumped into a table. There was a sliding sound. My mouth went dry. By this time I had guessed where I was.

On the outskirts of the city there was an old house. There was an old myth about a strange ‘man’ who collected hands–specifically the left ones–and eyes.

The hands he kept for himself. The eyes he gave to his dead lover.

ashkenaz

Surrender Yourself

photography, poetry, art, horror

Let it take you to the other side . . .

Surrender yourself

To your unconscious mind

Let it take you on a journey

Across the great divide

Let it take you to the other side

You cannot hide

From your unconscious mind

Surrender yourself

No One

photography, photo manipulation, horror, short, writing, story

The creature was barking strange noises at him. Talking to him, he assumed.

He liked to stand at the very top of the hill and look at the landscape from all angles. It was nice, quiet, and lonely. Just the way he liked it.

He turned around to look at his catch: a squirming sack. His prey had managed to spit its gag too, he noticed. The creature was barking strange noises at him. Talking to him, he assumed. This particular prey always tried to talk to him. No one talked to him. He grunted.

He hefted a club and hit the sack once with it.

The quiet returned, and immediately he felt better. With no one but just himself he began to prepare his supper.

ashkenaz

Leave Me Alone

tradtional, art, poetry, horror

Leave me alone to range freely . . .

Leave me alone

All I ask is that you go

Give me back my territory

Leave me alone to range freely

Without fear of disruptions

I cannot stand to watch

And waste my space

Leave me alone

(I must regenerate)

coopid

Edge of the World

19_quote

It was as if when I looked into his eyes I was standing alone on the edge of the world . . . on a windswept ocean beach. There as nothing but the soft roar of the waves

–Anne Rice

ashkenaz

Free and Fancy

horror, poetry, prose, writing, art

I want to be free and fancy. So paint a picture of you and me.

Free and fancy,

that’s what I want.

Paint me like one of your dead girls.

Paint me like one of your dead boys.

Charles,

I want to be free and fancy.

So paint a picture

of you and me.

There now,

that’s not so hard now?

Well . . . that’s just fine and dandy . . .

Because you’re dead. How

could that be?

Does this mean that you’re fancy and free?

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.

coopid

A Kiss

A Kiss

I do not discriminate.

Yes, it is true that I am death.

With one kiss I shall buy your last breath.

I do not discriminate.

ashkenaz

Cuddle a Zombie

Cuddle a Zombie

You tell ’em, Norman!

I don’t think anyone wants to cuddle a zombie.

–Norman Reedus

Theo_icon

My Friend

My friend, I'll love you to the bitter end . . .

Where shadows are galaxies . . .

My friend,
I’ll love you to the bitter end,
When sparks fly and the earth soaked
With blood . . .
I’ll be there to send
You on your way
Where shadows are galaxies populated by the spawn
Of some unknown god who holds sway
Over its own law.
You listen in awe . . .
My friend,
I’ll love you to the bitter end.

coopid

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.

coopid

Operator, Operator

Operator, Operator

Operator, Operator

Send me a line

My lover is waiting

I’ve run out of time

Theo_icon

Outward Surge of Power

horror, weird, quote, Algernon Blackwood

An excerpt from The Man Whom the Trees Loved, by Algernon Blackwood

The outward surge of some enormous Power was what she felt . . . something to which every instinct in her being rose in opposition because it threatened her and hers. In that moment she realized the Personality of the Forest . . . menacing.

–Algernon Blackwood

ashkenaz

Epilogue

photography, poetry, digital, art, horror

In the long, treacherous night its keening rises and falls across distant landscapes.

Forgiven.

Forgotten.

Then forsaken.

(Didn’t leave nobody but the baby.)

Desolate, dead and dried up from

a long winter.

As it dragged through the months, tirelessly,

it whispered.

It whispered of unceasing

weeping, of whimpering souls

wailing.

In the long, treacherous night

its keening rises and falls

across distant landscapes.

Until it fades.

Until it dies.

coopid

art, horror, design, weird, dark photography

Personal Apocalypse

art, horror, design, weird, dark photography

It won’t let you go

Eternal

Infernal

Apollyon inside your dreams

where Gog and Magog

Manifest themselves as

So much more

So let us whore

Ourselves out to our darker halves

Give in now

It won’t let you go

(Anxiety)

(Self loathing)

(Fear)

You won’t let you go

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.

ashkenaz

‘Loose’ Lips

poetry, writing, horror, photography

I know, your eyes have lost the capacity to move.

Allow me just one moment,

just one moment to un-glue these lips of mine–

peel them apart with dainty fingers,

those little spider legs you hate so much.

Yes, those are my hands.

I know, your eyes have lost the capacity to move.

You just can’t help but watch as I tear those lips off of my dead-white face.

ashkenaz

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.

coopid

The One?

Infatuated with the One?

There is no turning back, it is done

now. Wait here for five days

drinking in the moonlight, learning the ways

of that which comes out at night . . .

Of that which is out of sight (and sight beyond sight).

If there were a god-like thing

and its essence filled the cosmos,

then how could it allow such things to bring

such knowledge to our collective conscience.

Even the lowly amoeba reels

at such knowledge.

It has driven us all up on to a ledge–

into the great beyond . . .

Places where we do not belong:

their playground, their abyss,

where deaths kiss

will show you everything that is wrong,

even the small things, the things you missed.

Have you caught the eye of the One?

Whether yes or no, I am done.

For the love of our strange existence

do not come any closer to me.

Because I can see

and have seen.

And now I am left with regret,

to put up with a life of futile resistance . . .

ashkenaz

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

ceremony.

The original origami man

falls lightly to the ground

without a sound.

No . . . A whimper.

As he’s stepped on

the story ends . . .

Theo_icon

We Fear Death

Horror, Quote, Alison Gopnik

We fear death so profoundly, not because it means the end of our body, but because it means the end of our consciousness – better to be a spirit in Heaven than a zombie on Earth.
–Alison Gopnik

ashkenaz