Saturday, 1 September 2018

Demon Food





Slashed by marks of demonic intent, and racked with pain, the parish priest trailed sticky ribbons of blood as he rolled over and faced approaching death.

Claws, extending and retracting, scraped the floor. The stench of torment and torture dripped, steadily, as it stalked him with brutal precision:  Black tongue flicking over yellowed teeth; tasting the scent of fear.

It’s maw widened into the gorge of doom, as it leapt.

Dog-like it shook him; bent and buckled him, then delicately, and slowly, butchered flesh from bone.  

His screaming self-diagnosis was correct; it would be a lingering bloody death.

Sunday, 26 August 2018

FRAYED


Punctured, and weeping, along the rutted racecourse of time,
Phantoms murmur in the darkle and watch
As stretched shadows roll inward, tremble,
And stutter toward decay.

Crudely carved onto broken ground, whispered silence is cast in ghostly silhouette.
It bites with sharpened, wraith-like, teeth,
trails the savaged, green, soul of the earth, with suffering,
and claims a puckered forfeit in rusted blood.

Saturday, 11 August 2018

The Fall




Bone-thin, molten-skinned, hackle-hunched and shackled
All gnawing after truth, and a place to rest,
They search the skies.
Eyes, cleft, yellow-red, and rolling inward
As white -wings descend from heaven and hide reality
in a snowstorm of purity and light against the dark.

Talons, marked by angel’s blood, scatter feathers
And eager tongues, split by lies, taste misted-memories
rising in forked wisps
from the ancient  quagmire of unborn hopes and dreams
spawned by daemons after the fall.

Friday, 27 July 2018

In The Gloom-Light



The half-bright, glimmer of liberated souls flicker endlessly in gloom-light,

calling for him to bring them home: The sound touches his heart and he weeps.

As the sad tone fills the air, the shadowy veil of gloom-light creeps   

 relentlessly over the earth and without exception obscures them from sight.



He bellows his rage at the golden one; The Creator of such suffering.

And his voice casts light upon the world, shining into dark places,

giving hope, creating strength, and growing, as it traces

a melody of hope, rising and touching a myriad upturned  faces, singing, 

Saturday, 26 May 2018

BARDEK




Before Bardek had come crashing from the starry sky, it might have been fog but now, as the pale vapour rolled out over the baked earth, it brought no dampness or relief. Nowadays, only death moved within its cloudy form.

Through the vent, Mace watched the smoky mist sending out soft, silky, tendrils as it trailed the crusted dirt of the cliff-top.

 Slamming the vent shut, he bolted it and crawled back down through five safety hatches, sealing and bolting them as he went.

At the last hatch, he spilled out onto the floor and looked up at Grayson.

‘She’s back, Gray, turn on all the defences. The mist’s pale. She’s not fed in a while and won’t go away this time.’  

Grayson complied and flicked all defence switches to full power. Then he disappeared down the tunnel   where others were boarding the waiting subs.

Mace guessed, by the slump of his shoulders, his uncle struggled more each time the damn soul-sucker found them. That tired aura of despair was starting to take hold of other down-dwellers too.

For almost fifty years, Bardek had roamed the surface, leeching life out of anything that moved, and she was always hungry.

Born in the years after her arrival, Mace knew no different but his uncle, like all oldies, had once lived above ground. They reminisced often about the glorious past, but those times were long gone. Contact with other groups declined each passing year and now hope struggled to keep a foothold in the bowels of under- earth and ocean as death stalked the dwindling survivors.   

When the steady thump, thump, vibrations began sending down gravely dust Mace knew she was attacking the defence system and braced himself for what came next. He plugged his ears with lichen just as Bardek’s alien voice slithered down through many feet of rock and earth, clattering at the hatches and chilling the stale air with a fouler stench.

‘Towen amai foras ganath, little souls … I smell your sweetness, and am come for you.’ Her tone was cold and hypnotic and the lichen did little to diminish her power.

 Mace hit all buttons with his fists, triggering the explosives to disrupt her vaporous shield.

Pulling the lichen from his ears, he darted down the tunnel after his uncle. 

Screams of rage and unintelligible alien language rattled after him.

Bardek would stay hungry today.

Wednesday, 23 May 2018

The Box



‘Is it intact?’

 ‘How should I know? The box was sealed when I acquired it. 

You said meet the man, get the box and deliver it here. You didn’t tell me I had to open the damn thing and check it for you.’ 

 He took the box from her.  

Made of dark wood, inlaid with delicate bone ornamentation, it appeared seamless and gave no sign of how to open it. As he turned the thing over to look at the bottom a faint humming noise started to sound from it.

He almost dropped it. ‘How long has it been doing that?’

 She looked as surprised as he did. ‘Only since you turned it over. What the hell is in it?’

 ‘None of your concern. Here’s your payment.’ He dug in his inside pocket and tossed her a small pouch.

 As she inspected the pouch’s contents, the humming from the box became more audible.

She noticed the look of concern growing on his face. ‘You have no idea what’s in it do you? Well, now  it’s your worry not mine. I’ll leave you to it.’ 

She turned and retraced her steps back to the dark undergrowth. Pausing, she turned and tipped her hat at him in parting. ‘See ya, or, not.’ Then she vanished.

He stood, gingerly holding the box as though it dripped venom. The humming now sounded like a swarm of angry insects. ‘What the hell is in it?’ 

Wednesday, 16 May 2018

THE ROOM




The smooth, rich, grain of old oak panels and doors coupled with the ornate rug belied the simplicity of this room.

It was a man’s room, sparse and plain, containing a large, comfy-backed, leather chair draped with the kind of plaid throw a sensible chap used. A pair of gents’ slippers lay abandoned behind one of the chair legs and ash dust adorned the left armrest.

There was no footstool, but a small table set with a tray, glass, and decanter sat in arms reach of the seat: The contents of the decanter rolled and roiled against the curve of the glass in a disconcerting manner 

The drapes were pulled shut and covered with dust. I guessed they had been closed for some time