Exquisite terror, heart that beats;
I take my flesh, I take my meat,
To hunt, to kill, the pleasure black,
Lose oneself, when prey to track.

Pitiful pleading, knees that bend;
I take my blood, to hell I send,
To chase, to catch, the horror dark,
Find oneself, when prey is marked.

Animal feeding, life that goes;
I take my joy, the devil knows,
To eat, to drink, my need is true,
Be oneself, when I see you.


Black Flowers

Walk the path with me,
Where nightmares lead the way.
The path is cracked, and
The windows dark, with
No one home;
Just shadows hidden from
The day.

Through the door with me,
This portal old and grim.
A hallway dark, no
Light abroad;
Crooked the floor, warped
The boards;
Who knows what evil lies

See this room with me,
With dust and dirt about.
No laughter now, to
Lift the beams;
The moving shapes, not
What they seem;
With silent mouths they wish
To shout.

Lay and stay with me,
To still your beating heart.
Give up the ghost, let
Loose your soul;
Let bone and flesh,
Grow ever cold;
Like black flowers grown in
The dark.

Creatures Of Sleep

What pageant of creatures
dark as pitch,
would visit a mind
foul bewitched,
to torture dreams
in wretched night,
and cause the peaceful
rest take flight.

What armies of
the blackened sea,
would scream with horror
beseeching me,
to follow down
to nightly shade,
and cause the light
to ever fade.

What leathered wing
and gnarl-ed claw,
would shovel flesh
to gaping maw,
to strip the skin
from every bone,
and wrest the heart
from in it’s home.

These terrors from
the sleeping world,
with eyes of tar
and blackened pearl,
never once
grant sweet respite,
from in the watches
of the night.

I know for sure
that dreams do fade,
and darkly beasts
into shadows made,
but journey where
these creatures live,
and nightmares they
will surely give.

The Lady With The Trolley – Part 3

The first piece of meat he chewed upon delivered on the promise that the scent of the stew had made. Tender yet firm, a joy to masticate and satisfying to swallow. He had taken three or four big spoon fulls without even breathing. He paused, and looked across at the old lady who now sat opposite him. “This is amazing” he said, “I’ve not had food like this in so long”.
“I’m so glad you like it” she replied, “now tell me, how did you come to end up where you are in life?”
So in between delicious mouthfuls of the warming, filling stew, Ron told the tale of his life from professional, respected man to where he was now. Reliving some of the details, he was surprised that a tear or two formed in his eyes. It was such a long time since someone had shown any interest in hearing his tale, and speaking about it in this way made him realize just what it was that he had, and what he had lost.
By the time he had finished his story, his spoon was hitting the bottom of an empty bowl. He slowly sat back, thinking that all he’d need now is a few mouthfuls of the vodka in his pocket and he could happily snooze for hours.
“Mrs. Clarke, that was amazing. Thank you so much” Ron said.
“My pleasure dear, it’s always nice seeing someone with such a good appetite especially when it’s food you’ve prepared yourself”.
Sitting in this woman’s kitchen, with the sun somehow feeling stronger through the window by which he sat, Ron started to feel quite sleepy. His head began to feel at once heavy, as though hard to keep upright, but also light as though he could float away. He looked across at Mrs. Clarke and saw her sitting there, smiling gently at him.
He realized something wasn’t quite right when she seemed to move further away from him and then up close, even though she was sitting perfectly still. She was also blurring slightly, then coming back into focus, as though she were an image on a TV that was having trouble keeping the signal.
Ron had been on enough benders in his short street life that he knew when his brain had been affected by something external. He started to feel a cold sweat seeping between his shoulder blades and on his brow.
“Wh..what’s going on?” he stammered. “I don’t feel too good…”
Mrs. Clarke simply sat and watched him. He gazed across at her, and with an effort of will her face came back into sharp focus. Her smile was gone. Now she looked cold, hard, as though he had upset her somehow or made her angry.
In a voice much different to before, this one filled with venom, she spat “People like you make me sick. You have it all, you have so much to live for and so much to give, yet you selfishly squander it all and let yourself live like pigs. It’s disgusting”.
“What the fuck is going on?” Ron groaned. He could feel his body becoming heavier as though someone was pouring liquid led into him. He staggered to his feet, knocking the empty bowl to the floor with a crash. His feet tangled in themselves, and he pitched forward with a shout of surprise. As he fell, he grabbed the shopping trolley that was still where he had left it by the door, and pulled it down on top of him.
The top of the trolley came open as it fell and as Ron lay on his side, head on the floor, he saw what he’d felt moving about in the trolley earlier.
Heads. Severed heads. Two of them had fallen out, and one of them landed inches from his own face. The mouth was frozen open in a scream and the eyes, though open, stared at the endless abyss of death.
A scream erupted from Ron. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His body, now feeling like a puppet with it’s strings cut, responded enough to his movements to let him flop onto his back. Mrs. Clarke was now stood over him.
“This is what you get. This is what you deserve. You eat of your own kind and you go to feed your own kind so at least you’re giving something back”.
Ron stared in disbelief at the large carving knife held in Mrs. Clarke’s hand. All he could now move were his eyes in their sockets, and they followed her as she slowly knelt beside him. He could no longer feel anything. Not the floor he lay on, not the vodka bottle in his pocket, nor the urine that seeped onto the front of his trousers.
Mrs. Clarke slowly leaned down, so she was nose to nose with him, and whispered “I now take your head, as I took the others, and you will feed the next miserable wretch I meet. It’s all you deserve”.

Ron didn’t even feel the blade as it sliced into his throat.

Friday Flash Fiction : The House

Come with me. I want to take you to the house on the corner. It’s that house, you know the one, with the boarded up windows and funny graffiti. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.
Come with me, it’s just down this road here. You’ll notice there aren’t many cats or birds around here. Do you feel that? That kind of encroaching silence as we approach the corner, as though someone were turning the volume down on the world ever so slightly.
Here we are. Take a good look at it. Notice the lack of rubbish that should, by all accounts, be strewn across the front lawn. It’s an abandoned house, so surely people would use the front garden as a dumping ground? But no. There’s no rubbish here. Oh, there are things in the front garden… small white things, with funny (yet somehow familiar) shapes, but no rubbish. No.
Now you can see some of the graffiti. Kids, eh? They’ll put their tags on anything if it keeps still for long enough. But take a closer look… you’ll notice something funny about some of the words and phrases on the walls and boards in the windows. You see? No? We’ll come back to that then.
Take a look at the boards in the windows, and the thick one covering the door. They’ve been there a long time. But you’ll notice holes in some of them, where some of the wood has rotted away. But other holes… well, don’t they look forced? As though something has broken in? Or out?
And now we’re stood close enough, can you smell that? No, it’s not nice is it. Kind of rotting, mildew, damp… but with an underlying sweetness. Yes, I know, it does set the stomach rolling and churning a little doesn’t it.
Me? No, I’ve been here once or twice before so I’m more used to it. Shall we move closer? It’s OK, you can trust me, I want you to have a closer look at that graffiti and, well, we don’t want to attract too much attention by standing in the street staring, do we?
Do you feel that, as we walk along this path? That crunching? No, it’s not stones. No, nor glass neither.
There. Now you can get a better look at the graffiti. Look here, and this piece next to the front door. Tell me what you see. That’s right, it does look like whoever was doing it slipped as they were writing… as though the spray can was halfway through a word and was… dragged away from finishing. Almost as thought the person writing it suddenly… moved. Violently. Snatched? Yes. That’s almost how it looks isn’t it.
Sshh. Can you hear that? That fluttering noise? It sounds like a bird doesn’t it, flapping around in there. They do that, you know, usually pigeons. They fly in out of the weather, or to roost, and then can’t get back out again. Although I’m sure it’s down to not being able to find a hole to fly out of, rather than any other reason.
What’s that? No, I’m not cold. Do you feel cold? Yes, it is strange isn’t it – I mean it’s a nice day, but there’s something about the atmosphere here that sends a chill trickling through the bones, isn’t there?
So… would you like to take a look inside? Yes! I’m deadly serious. Honestly, it’ll be OK, I’ve done it before.
Look, we’ll just ease the board back on the front door, and you can just look into the hallway. How do I know it’s loose? I just…know. Come on, trust me.

Goodness, it’s gotten stuck again… hang on… there. Come closer, take a look. Really, it’s OK.
There. See? It’s spooky isn’t it? Yes, you do get used to the smell, don’t you?
What’s what? Oh, yes, it does look like a pair of child’s shoes doesn’t it? No, I don’t know how long they’ve been there. A child still in there? No, no, of course not, that would be… wrong.
Yes, I can hear the scrabbling noise too. It’s probably a cat or something, I mean, there are mice in there I’m sure so I have no doubt a cat would see this is a fertile hunting ground.
You know, there’s something very cool in the lounge in there. Yes, really, there is. It’s amazing.
Well no, we wouldn’t be able to see it through the window. If you want to see it, you’d have to come with me inside. I know, I know, that sounds really dodgy, but trust me, it’s well worth a little dirt and dust to see it. Shall we?

There now. That wasn’t too bad was it. Why am I whispering? Well, it’s like being in a church isn’t it – I mean, you don’t have to whisper in church, but you just… do.
OK, OK, you want to be quick. The lounge is just through that doorway there. No, I’ll stay here and keep the board open, so we have light. You’ll see it as soon as you go through the doorway, it’s fantastic. Really it is. OK, I’ll keep talking while you go. Now, as you go through the door look to your left. See it? No? Well, can you see the marks on the floorboards? No, no carpet in there, it would have rotted away by now. Now, can you see the marks? Yes they do look like scratches. Claw marks? No, that’s silly.

Well yes, it has got darker. The board over the door has been closed. Why? Well, you can’t leave now. No. No, you can’t. I know you can’t see your way out of the lounge, just relax, I’ll come find you. Look, just stand still. You’ll hurt yourself. What’s that? Something around your feet? Possibly. Relax. Relax. Goodness, such loud screams. It’s easier if you relax, honestly. Trust me.