My laugh hurts as it rips its way out of my throat.
It bubbles over my body like a fountain of blood,
Then it stops.
I see you.
You stare at me with a look of shame.
Not horror, no.
Though I have seen much of that.
You look guilty. Remorseful. Like it is all your fault.
Like I am all your fault.
Perhaps it is.
You have made me this.
You never loved me, so I never loved myself.
Darkness bred in my gut, hidden behind a facade of happiness.
I was who you wanted me to be.
Or so I pretended.
Until I broke.
I shattered, wrecking myself in an attempt to break free.
Now I'm the nightmare,
hunched, monstrous, unforgiving
And you just feel ashamed.
What will this do?
It will not help me.
It will not save the children.
You will continue to shape them, to break them
Hurting them the way you hurt me.
The making is easy, it's the living that's hard.
Sometimes I can't help but wonder
if it's worse to have a skeleton in your closet
or an urn full of ashes
These bones outlasted Halloween
My everyday is October
My ghosts follow me around the world
You may rave about spring cleaning
but some doors are best left unopened
These secrets have a stench
I've heard all the horror stories
All those bones hanging
The silence could wake the dead
Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever grow up
and stop being afraid of the dark
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow
I can see an isolated house whose doors move to and fro
But sometimes I wonder how can the doors move if there no wind blows
And if there is something than why there nobody goes?
And in the night's darkness if there none of us lives how the bulb glows
Sometimes I am able to hear the voices flow
And it makes me scared and I get in need to go to my mamma's room door
And sometimes in the morning I can see there a black crow
Which till the night rapidly goes
It sometimes make my mind say "lets go"
And then the wind blows
And it whispers " please stay here, there nobody goes"
I was digging in the garden.
Turning the soil ready for planting.
A voice suddenly said “Dig deeper”.
I looked about but could see no-one.
Continuing to dig I hear once more
“Dig deeper, right there, dig deeper”.
I still see no-one.
Moving along a little the voice
once more, insistent.
“Go back. Dig deeper”.
No longer able to ignore the voice
but unable to see the speaker,
I go back a few paces “There”!
Pushing the spade in, I dug.
Thud! The spade hits something.
A wooden chest. No, a box.
About 18 inches square, and just as deep.
Carefully digging around I clear the earth.
Laying the spade on the ground,
I finish scraping the soil with my bare hands.
Lifting the box from the hole
I see an iron key and lock.
“Open it” the voice says.
Again I look, but not a soul do I see.
With nervous trepidation and excitement
I slowly turn the key.
I lift the lid to take a look
at the last thing I ever saw,
as the spade sliced through my neck.
And the last thing I ever saw?...
Was my own face staring back at me.
© Pagan Paul (2017)
Hung by aching twine,
She rests in silence.
Shadowed eyes sinking into leather skin,
Like craters dredged into stone.
Born from the trembling fingers
Of a withering spirit,
Colors bleeding deep into a tortured canvass,
With brushstrokes harsher still
Than the coarsest grains of blackened sand
Or the whetted edge of a spiteful blade.
With malice and fervor
She studies the room.
The magnetic draw of her malignant form
Capturing the pensive gaze
Of every visitor in her domain.
What began with timid laughs
Of misguided reassurance
Turns into anxious peering
Over quivering shoulders,
For a hesitant view.
Just one subtle check
To rid the feeling
The feeling that someone is watching.
Watching with wicked intentions.
Repeating a desperate mantra
"It is just all in my head”
Repeating a desperate mantra
“It is just all in my head”
the hour is late and upon the wall
i see words written in some
other worldly scrawl
and a part of me knows
I should probably be afraid
yet the only fear I have
is being swayed
to the side of the darkened gloom
that seems to penetrate
every corner of my room
and though I know
the morning will bring the light
it doesn't help me
while I'm here
in this blackened night--
peering at the writing on the wall
which is etched
in some other worldly scrawl
and finally I am able to decipher
and clearly read what is written there:
"Those who sleep here
must become aware
that when the night grows dim
and light shines through--
there will be death and horror
lying in wait for you."
Evil strung across her face, flaring
Yellow eyes glaring with
Hunger in her sparkling smile
Fangs protruding waiting
Ever so patiently...
Im in terror.
She promises the end of me
As I turn to flee, helplessly
Weightless as gravity fails
I flail fighting the sky, but
To no avail...
I am alone now.
Left in the scaffolding
Its baffling, what was she?!
I can still hear her laughing?!
Why not just kill me?
Was I not prey? More of just a play thing?
Way up here, alone...
Im as good as dead.
‘Twas not into action, adventure, or fantasy.. or some kind of fiction...
‘Twas neither into space, time.. nor romance, or even into some sort of mystery...
‘Twas beyond cyber & digital.. It encompasses ..everything. There is no substitute for this....
Erotica may weakly-attempt to understudy, as comedy may try to distract... ..Even coin
will eventually aim to venture into the scene.
But all shall fall short.... There is no substitute for this.
“You cannot re-create ..the reality this... brings.
It shall forever haunt you,” their own minds sang.
....GhOsts-sss, then appeared.
Fear only grew, as their thoughts.. began to turn on them, to almost give in on themselves...
but they did not spoil; as badly as they wanted to, they did not consume one another
like their sisters & brothers & saturnine forefathers
..had done before them. For they were not sardonic. There was no convulsive laughter, ending in death or any kind of slaughter...
Each of them had followed her ...to the narrow mouth of this wet den. She slowly began to dip herself in, feeding the nibbling shadows.
“Do not EVER give in!” ..She finished declaring,
to her ..brave-brigade, as they watched her venture onward...
as they watched her devouring.... as she was swallowed -- whole -- by the subterranean,
& then.. each who tiptoed behind her --- -- -inhaled, pursuing their movement forward-- through reality ..trailing her; each ..holding-g-g... their collective-breath.
“It is.. ...into ...horror ....we now-go,”
the last voice to be heard echoed.... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... ....
that everything I will be teaching shall orbit the concept of submission.
If I am successful... you shall come to understand the variant form of ..giving in,”
the instructor announces to the class,
deeply inhaling, after - before exhaling again.
Only this time... in silence, ever so quietly...
yet still loud-enough to be heard ----
like some keen-edged blade finely slicing... making wisps ..of the air.
She inhales ..yet again.
& upon her exhale says, “Everyone,
we will now begin as we begin most journeys ..with Salutations.”
Closing her eyes ..she does the motions, breathing deeply, forming ..slowly, exhaling again,
Emanating, from lips-of-mist -~ she then says,
“We shall now move into a Mountain pose.”
She makes the move, but for this execution..
her eyes do close. | She stands tall
..& mighty, though, upon completion.
“From this stance ~ I shall teach you everything ..every pose,
from that of the Child’s,
all the way to the end -- to liberation --
to a much-needed deliverance ..to that of the Corpse.”
Her eyes do not open; she still stands mighty,
like burning, oaken seas .. & tall, like trunks with limbs, & leaves...
in bloom -- lotuses on fire --
positioned right underneath the eye-of-the-storm,
submitting __ to the harvest of fall..
edits will follow. still in the process of transferring pieces.
A man approached through the middle of the two lines of crippled legion-esque worshippers whom symbolically were parallel to each other as well as their predecessors. Heels clicking rhythmically upon the cold floor, a twisted tap dancer tAp-Tap-tAp-TaPping!
He was different. Wearing dark, matt black sunglasses even though it was clearly not shining in here
-probably to hide his identity, because let’s face it, hiding your eyes always hides your identity, I remember that from the cheesy superhero films I watched as a child. They blocked out his soul, made him cold and threatening.
His hair was greasy, not in the way of someone not showering, not a natural grease, but from hair products: it was slicked back with a charismatic shine and a single rebellious lock flopped down across his forehead.
He was wearing a suit. A superbly tailored one (probably from a now non-existent Savile Row) which fit his body shape perfectly (of which it was crafted by the god's with elegancy).
It had white pinstripes flowing
down, contrasting the matte black of the suit itself; his skin also contrasted the shiny black of his hair and the matt black of his suit and sunglasses. This created a Yin & Yang with his existence. Black shoes. Black watch. Black laces. Black suit. Black hair. Black sunglasses. White skin. White stripes. Grey soul.
The only thing which expelled colour was his lips, his red lips.
He walked like a businessman, each step graceful yet intimidating. He probably talked like a businessman, but he hadn’t yet so my inferal is invalid.
Once he reached the front he stopped,
analysing the line of misfits and me with, critique: using his non-existent eyes, the ones hiding behind the matt black of his sunglasses.
He went to
his sunglasses, stopping with his fingers touching the rim of the frame, but he only adjusted their uneven existence on the bridge of his nose.
He sniffed, not
by the mixture of vile aroma, which filled this room, but also not impressed.
He licked his lips,
a glimpse of his perfectly white teeth next to his red tongue.
Three colours: red, white, and black. He broke the Yin and Yang cycle, he was more than that.
He looked down at his watch; probably made by Rolex or some other Bourgeoisie company. He examined the time and smiled.
The grin was not one of happiness or humour, it was empty, only revealing his perfectly. white. teeth.
He looked at us one more time.
No one dared speak.
C l a p p i n g his hands assertively (probably winking at the same time, but I cannot tell) he pivoted on his matt black shoes and took his red, white and black persona out of the room.
The juxtapositioned elephant in the room had gone, leaving the cripples and misfits alone in a questionably smelling and aesthetic room.
The man in black had gone.
No one dared speak.
- extract from my novel cannibals with cutlery.