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



photography, poetry, digital, art, horror

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



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


In the long, treacherous night

its keening rises and falls

across distant landscapes.

Until it fades.

Until it dies.


art, horror, design, weird, dark photography

Personal Apocalypse

art, horror, design, weird, dark photography

It won’t let you go



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


(Self loathing)


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.


‘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.


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.


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 . . .


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 . . .


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


Listen to Them!

quote, horror, Bram Stoker, vampire

Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!
― Bram Stoker


The Irony that Kills Us

vampire, quote, Anne Rice

The world changes, we do not, therein lies the irony that kills us.
― Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire


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.


Cut Up

“I don’t see why you’re so cut up about it–oh . . .” As he turned around he noticed his partners lack of life. They had literally been cut up. But by what? was his immediate question. Who could have done this, or–he made a loud gulping sound–what could have done this?

On the one hand he was scared half to death.

On the other hand he was trying so damn hard not to burst out laughing. The situation was so ludicrous he was almost in denial. For crying out loud, this was exactly what happened in B grade in horror flicks!

Well, he said to himself. You can always join them, and then beat them later! Feeling strengthened by his new resolve, he straightened his pristine lab coat.

Then he filled both pockets with every sharp object he could find.

Before leaving the room he turned back to his partners corpse. “Promise me you won’t turn into a zombie and I promise that I will avenge you.”


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.


Dead Man’s Epiphany

Some form

of boredom


over my world,

like a blanket

hurled over me.

It is so dark, there

is nothing to see.

I try to move but cannot.

Cramped. I feel cold.

I feel hot.

It stinks of mould.

Why should it not,

as I lay here to rot?


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


We’re on a Kick!


Werewolves were far more terrifying than vampires. It is probably the idea of seeing the human within the beast and knowing you can’t reach it. It might as well be a great white shark. There is no sitting down and discussing Proust with it, which the traditional vampire model seems to leave room for.
–Glen Duncan