Kites

The
toy-kite
was named
after all of those
hovering
birds
of
prey
in
the
sky.

The
tyrannical
king, Macbeth–he
who’d killed
the wife
and
babes
of
the
Thane
of
Fife,

all
done in one
fell swoop–he
was likened to
a hell-kite
by
the
Thane
who
would
hack
off
his
head.

A
few fools
are out there,
admiring the wealthy
hell-kites
of
our
time;
they’d
fly
such
toys
in
the
sky.

The
fools will
try to identify
with their flying
toys, for they
imagine,
one
day,
they’ll
be
up
there,
too.

But
all of today’s
flying predators
up in the clouds
are swooping
down
on
the
wives
and
babes
of
our
age.

The
time has
finally come to
stop worshipping
all of those
birds
in
the
sky.
Instead,
let’s
cut
off
their
heads.

‘Furies,’ a Horror Novel, Part Five, Chapter 3

George Kelly’s 72-year-old mother was in bad shape. Just a few days before, she took a nasty fall down the stairs from the second floor to the ground floor of her apartment. She was already quite brittle, so one particularly hard knock on her upper right arm fractured it on the corner where the tread and riser of a stair meet.

Fortunately, George–who still lived with her–was there when the accident happened, having heard her scream from her apartment, which was right by the stairs. She’d meant to go to the grocery store just down the street to buy something, and she’d assured him that he didn’t need to accompany her; he could just relax in the living room and watch TV, for she’d be right back.

If only he’d accompanied her.

Instead of going to the grocery store, she of course went in his car to the hospital where he worked. He was a nurse, and he insisted on taking care of her personally.

She lay in her recovery room on a bed the upper half of which was raised up at about a forty-five degree angle. Her right arm was in a cast, going straight out from the side of the bed to the elbow, then going straight up from there.

George virtually never left the room. The rest of the staff liked and respected him enough to let him focus all of his care on her during his nursing shifts, and when his shifts were finished, he was allowed to stay with her even when she was sleeping and therefore not to be disturbed, which he of course would never do. He slept in a bed on the other side of the room, had a change of clothes handy, and food was sent to him as well as to her.

Why did he insist on being with her as much as possible? His love for her went far beyond the usual love of the most dutiful of sons. George, in his late thirties, never married. He was straight, but no woman could ever replace his sweet mother.

Though as a high school student, he’d bullied Tiffany along with Faye and all the others, George was far more of a ‘weakling’ (in the form of a ‘mama’s boy’) than Tiffany could ever have been. By calling her a “wimp,” he was really just engaging in projection.

His father died when he was six, so his mother’s burden of raising their one child was enormous. She’d been a timid, reclusive sort, with virtually no friends in the neighbourhood, so he became her best friend…in the Norman Bates sense, though without the psychopathy.

She was his entire world, and vice versa. Terrified of abandonment, she couldn’t bear the idea of him meeting a girl and marrying her, then moving away to some far-off city, his mother never seeing him again except for the ever-so-occasional visit.

So, in anticipation of such a scary prospect, his mother subtly manipulated her boy into such a state of emotional dependency on her that the idea of marrying and moving away would have been unthinkable to him. She even influenced his decision to become a nurse, so she’d have someone to take care of her in her old age…and now he would do just that for her.

On the third night of her hospitalization, he sat by her bed, his eyes tearing up. He knew in his intellect that with proper care, which she of course was getting, she would be fine and well again; but her fear of abandonment was something she’d managed to project onto him, so his emotions overruled his intellect, and any significant injury she’d sustain would put him in terror of her approach to death being at all pushed forward.

She lay there asleep. The medical equipment indicated, at a glance, that her heart rate and other vital signs were fine. He could see the rising and falling of her chest to indicate breathing; but the fear remained in his heart that that rising and falling would stop, even though he knew, in his medical expertise, that there was no reason for such a stopping to occur all of a sudden.

“Wake up,” he whispered in a barely audible voice. “Mom, please wake up.” He wanted her to wake up, but he didn’t want to be the cause of her waking up.

Her eyes opened. She looked at him and smiled.

“George,” she said in the frailest of voices.

“Oh, Mom,” he said, with a smile and a tear running down his right cheek. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, dear,” she said. “I just had a really good, long nap. I actually feel quite good, especially with you here. It’s comforting knowing my son, the best nurse in the world, is so dedicated to my recovery.”

“I am, Mom,” he sobbed. “Yet I’m so mad at myself for not insisting on going with you to the grocery store. When you slipped, I could have grabbed your arm and stopped you from falling.”

“We didn’t know this would happen. Don’t blame yourself.”

“You’ll be OK, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll be sure of that.”

“I’m sure you will, son. But if you’re so sure, why are you crying?”

“I just hate to see you get hurt, Mom. There’s always that fear, in the back of my mind, of something…anything…going wrong.”

“What could possibly go wrong, honey?”

“Well, we assumed you’d be OK going to the store by yourself, and look what happened.”

“Oh, just because one thing went wrong doesn’t mean all manner of other things will go wrong, too. George, tell me: what’s worrying you so much? You always seem so afraid for me, and that’s sweet and all, but you’re making yourself needlessly unhappy, and that will affect your own health. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, I guess,” he said, looking down at his hands, which drooped between his knees. “I guess I’m just thinking silly thoughts.”

“Well, stop thinking silly thoughts,” she said, giving him a firm look. “Oh, I’ve gotten sleepy again. Back to sleep for me.” She closed her eyes.

“Good, Mom. Get some more rest.”

Actually, his thoughts weren’t all that silly. He just couldn’t tell her about the voice he’d hear, from time to time, a voice that he’d been hearing over the past year.

A voice that said, You’re going to murder her one day.

…and the speaker of that voice, invisible, was at that very moment hovering right beside him.

Lines

You snort up all the snowy powder,
feeling more than Superman
for half an hour,
just to come
down.

Relish the initial thrill,
& the brief escape
from all of life’s
depressing
dumps.

You want to bring the pleasure back.
You chop another line
and snort it up
again, again,
again…

This wish for manic happiness:
a smiling mask to hide
the lines of tears
that run down
cheeks.

Clouds

Sometimestheskiesaresogreyandthe
cloudsaresothickthattheyseemlikethe
fogmachineBromdencomplainedofYou
can’tseeathingyouarefrightenedandblind
Willyoueveragainseethelightandtheblue?

Then, one day, you’re
surprised by some hope, for
instead of one infinite blanket of
grey, you see broken-up clouds,
with blue holes and white rays.

The grey breaks
up some more,
the blue widens, and
the sun smiles
her light.

Now,
the clouds
are just small spots
of ever-so-slight
imperfection.

The
blue
gleefully
rules,
and

the
sun
enkindles
our
joy.

No

more

grey

’til

the

next

rain

is

on

us.

Two Horror Short Stories of Mine Published in ‘A Book Without A Name’

I have two horror short stories published in a new horror anthology, compiled by B.L. Blankenship, called A Book Without A Name. These stories are of specific sub-genres of horror: western horror, splatter western, and southern gothic.

My two short stories are called “Ghost Town” and “The Lake.” Other writers in the anthology include Blankenship, Dillon McPheresome, C. Derick Miller, Megan Stockton, and such classic writers as Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, William Blake, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Mary Wollstonecraft-Shelley, and Jason Roberts.

So, if you like horror stories with a bit of a 19th century, cowboy feel, please check out this anthology. You can find it on Amazon here. Thanks again to B.L. Blankenship for the chance to be published! 🙂

Beds

I
fear
the end of the world.
We are on our death
beds, gasping for air.

A
dying
world is lying ill in her bed,
her nurses her murderers,
hastening her end with war.

A
ball
that is burning: her fever’s been
ignored by all of those who are
responsible, who made her bed.

I
will
die, as you will die, as will
everyone else, in our beds
beside our ailing Mother.

O,
break
in, you red revolutionaries!
Save us from these doctors
of death! Make the ill well.

O,
make
us rise up from our beds!
We’d swap the hospitals
for hope and happiness.

‘Furies,’ a Horror Novel, Part Five, Chapter 1

Faye Oliphant and Brad Rolie, her husband of nine years, had been trying for the whole length of their marriage to have a baby.

It wasn’t an infertility or sterility problem. Actually, Brad had difficulty getting it up for her.

There were two main reasons for this problem. One was Brad’s secret addiction to internet porn, and its bevy of flawless, photoshopped beauties causing him to be used to that lofty standard of physical perfection in women, which the vast majority of women outside the fantasy world, of course, haven’t a hope of even approaching.

The second reason was Faye’s size, as of her thirties.

She was rather chubby in high school, recall; hence Tiffany’s changing of Faye’s surname to “Elephant,” and earning Faye’s hatred, as well as giving her a motive to bully Tiffany. By the time Faye had reached her thirties, though, her size had ballooned to that of a woman weighing almost five hundred pounds.

When Brad was dating her, in her late twenties and weighing around three hundred pounds at the time, he was deeply conflicted between his sincere love for her as a person and his distaste for her looks. He imagined that, over time, he’d outgrow his shallow preference for women with the bodies of models, and would be able to have a normal sexual relationship with her, getting aroused in bed with her based on his love for her.

No such luck.

She was so deeply hurt, on their wedding night, by his lack of enthusiasm for her in the bedroom that she found herself eating the pain away.

Hence, three hundred pounds became five hundred.

…and he’d sneak off to his computer for a good wank every night after she’d gone to sleep.

Still, she wanted to have a baby, her own baby, not an adoption. And so did he.

So they attempted lovemaking in the missionary position, at least once or twice a week, every year from their wedding night until now, with Faye at the age of 38. It had been so frustrating for them.

Faye’s self-esteem was so low that she didn’t even consider exercising or dieting. Brad was so ashamed of himself for not being “man enough” to get the job done that porn was his only escape from his depressing reality.

But one night, after seeing his dear wife in tears after having caught him masturbating to a PornHub video, Brad was determined not to fail in bed with her this time. He had to make it up to her, after having disappointed her for so long; after all, in spite of his porn problem, he did sincerely love her.

So, as absurd and pathetic as this must sound, he got on top of her that night, closed his eyes, and imagined as vividly as he could that he was about to screw the porn star he’d been watching on that video.

…and a miracle happened.

He actually got enough of a boner to stick it in her and pump away until he came inside her.

But would she get pregnant?

Actually, she did!

Both husband and wife were so thrilled to find out that they were dancing together in the doctor’s office.

When she had an ultrasound, it indicated she’d have a girl. Both parents were perfectly happy about this: a daughter was exactly what they’d been hoping for.

Family and friends congratulated her, celebrating with a huge party. These were the happiest moments of their whole marriage.

As the months went by, full of delightful anticipation for both of them, she was for the first time in her life happy to see herself getting bigger in the middle, and her weight going up. She crossed off the days on the calendar, impatient for the time when she was expected to go into labour.

And finally, the big day came. It would have been difficult getting her huge body into a car and over to the local hospital, so they managed to deliver the baby with a midwife right in their home.

As she was struggling, groaning, and screaming to get their daughter through the birth canal, she had her eyes squeezed shut almost the whole time.

…and with her eyes closed like that, neither she nor Brad or the midwife, so focused on the birth, noticed the malevolently grinning apparition of Tiffany’s ghost looking down on the mother-to-be.

‘Furies,’ a Horror Novel, Part Four, Chapter 4

Furioso looked first at the ghosts of Alexa and Megan, then at that of Tiffany.

The first two of the three female spectres were in a kind of agony that made Tiffany’s pain seem almost like relief.

You shouldn’t be too surprised at the heightened pain you are feeling, Furioso said to Alexa and Megan. The vengeance you wreaked on your victims far outweighs their past cruelties to you when you were in physical form.

I wanted them…to know…what real pain is, Alexa said.

Her apparition was melting into a lava-like blob, as was Megan’s. The skin of theirs that wasn’t melting was flaking off into thousands of tiny pieces of ash that were blown all about in the steaming hot air of Hell.

They already knew what real pain is, he said. Everyone on Earth knows what real pain is.

I wanted them…to know…what my pain felt like, Megan’s ghost said. To be raped…by the one…you love…while another watches…and laughs at you. She and Alexa were groaning in pain, twice as loud as Tiffany’s groans.

They didn’t kill you, he said. Nor did they kill the ones you cared about.

Since when are you,…a demon,…lecturing us…about right and wrong? Alexa growled at him. It was your idea…to have us…get our revenge…on them…in the first place!

They made us want to kill ourselves, Tiffany said. Our own parents didn’t care about us. They all taught us that the whole world is uncaring; with no one to care about us, we found ourselves with no one to care about.

You killed innocent children, he said. People who had done you no harm. I never recommended that you do that.

We were innocent, too, Alexa said. We’d never done…any of them…any harm…before they hurt us, including our parents.

Still, he said, you are now so far in blood that sin will pluck on sin. When I offered you a chance for revenge, I’d never imagined you would go to such extreme lengths of cruelty. Instead of you enduring the suffering of Hell while gaining satisfaction from contemplating your tormentors’ own suffering, your new sins have added to your own suffering in a way that makes your revenge seem to have not been worth it.

As awful as I feel, Alexa snarled, it was worth it.

I agree, Megan said.

That is because your hate has grown to such a size that you imagine it will shield you from your pain, Furioso said. That shield will be only temporary; you will feel much worse later, for it will be your hate that makes you hurt.

I feel nothing but hate, Tiffany hissed. Hate for a world that hated me so unjustly.

I feel…the same hate, Megan said.

As do I, Alexa said. There is…no other feeling.

The world gave us nothing other than pain and hate, Tiffany said. It will make no difference to me to feel Alexa’s and Megan’s greater suffering; but vengeance will give me the satisfaction that at least Faye Oliphant and George Kelly will suffer, too.

Are you sure you want to do this? Furioso asked Tiffany. I advise you not to carry your revenge too far.

I’ll do what I have to to get my satisfaction, Tiffany grunted. Take me to where Faye and George are! I want them!

Very well, Furioso said.

The demon disappeared with Tiffany’s ghost, while those of Alexa and Megan continued their grotesque degeneration into disfigured, molten piles of unimaginable pain.

“Staring at a cloud,” a New Poem by Jason Ryan Morton

My poet friend, Jason Ryan Morton, has written a new poem with the first line, “Staring at a cloud,” which I’m using as a tentative title, for practical purposes as far as distinguishing this one from my many posts on his other poems is concerned.

This one is a pleasant departure from so many of his other poems in that it is more positive and hopeful; not that there’s anything wrong with the others, of course, but I’m always in favour of variety. As usual, I’ll put his poem in italics to distinguish his writing from mine.

Staring at a cloud
I watched the sun fold
Into tiny pockets of light
Like the third eye
Of a blind man
Came the wisdom of the age
Focus on today
Relax and play
Let all the darkness slip away

Ware though my friend
Where goes the end
Peeking round the corner
Will only make you bend
But seek thyself
Find the truth
The only person who deserves your loyalty
Is you
Tis true in a way the day is born for you

Just staring at a cloud
As the sun sang a sonnet
Awaiting the moon for a kiss of purity
Today and tonight belong only to me.
The moon embraced me
Wiped the tears from my face
Tears of joy not tears of sorrow
Kissed Luna goodnight in my prayers
Awaiting another tomorrow

And now, for my analysis.

“Staring at a cloud” can be seen to represent a ruminating over past sorrows, or a grieving over trauma. Such contemplation of pain is a common theme throughout Morton’s poetry, as I’ve observed in my previous posts about it; but here, something surprising happens, and pleasantly so. He continues: “I watched the sun fold/Into tiny pockets of light.” Light has come to replace the darkness of the cloud. When grieving over trauma is completed, happiness can return.

The theme of the contrast of dark and light continues, though in a different form, when he says, “Like the third eye/Of a blind man.” The third eye, like that of Shiva, a mystical eye that gives a kind of illumination beyond that of physical sight, replaces the pitch-black, physical darkness a blind man can only see. Sometimes in our darkness and sorrow, a special kind of light and happiness arises.

The “wisdom of the age” is that of our age today, not the ages of times past; for he advises himself to “Focus on today/Relax and play”. Only in the here and now, the eternal NOW, or the Unity of Time as I described it here, can we experience true joy and happiness, then we can “Let all the darkness slip away”.

We get a few archaic expressions in the second verse, a link to the past that contrasts the first verse’s “Focus on today”. These include the use of “Ware” (an archaic form of aware), “thy,” and “Tis.” To focus on the present, one must also reconcile oneself with one’s painful past.

“Ware” makes a pun on “Where” in the following line; one is aware of what’s going on, yet unaware of such things as “the end.” There is a dialectical relationship between knowing and not knowing; to know the truth, one must accept one’s lack of knowing. Therefore, one shouldn’t go “Peeking round the corner”, which “Will only make you bend” (i.e., twist your mind and make you believe falsehoods, untruths).

Instead of trying to find knowledge from out there, one should “seek thyself” and “Find the truth”. We find the truth within, not through trying to gain the validation and approval of others. Don’t seek the light outside, which will often lead to darkness; find the light within.

The contrast of light and darkness continues with a refrain of “Just staring at a cloud/As the sun sang a sonnet,” this being my favourite line in the poem. One is reminded of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 (lines 5 and 6 especially). The paradox of dark and light is given again in the switch from the sun to the moon, which he awaits “for a kiss of purity.” Again, the juxtaposition of light and dark is achieved with “Today and tonight belong only to me.”

We begin to see Morton’s leanings towards pagan mysticism and spirituality when he says, “The moon embraced me/Wiped the tears from my face.” Here, the personified moon is his goddess, even a lover, whose love causes him “Tears of joy not of sorrow,” for She has helped him heal from so much of his past pain. Therefore, in gratitude, he “Kissed Luna tonight in [his] prayers/Awaiting another tomorrow.”

I await another poem of this spiritually uplifting sort from my literary friend.

‘Furies,’ a Horror Novel, Part Four, Chapter 3

Lynne sighed softly at first, her eyes closed and her mouth wide open, as she felt Herman entering her in his usual slow, gentle manner. Then, suddenly, she felt a sharp, painful stabbing as he jerked the rest of the way in.

Her eyes came wide open. “Oww!” she yelped.

The look of pain and malice that she saw in his eyes was inexplicable. Herman was never this way in bed.

Well, that’s because he normally never felt the sensation of a strap-on dildo rammed up his ass.

Though invisible and ghostly, that dildo tore Herman’s anus apart as thoroughly as a physical one would when shoved in as aggressively as Megan the ghost had shoved it. And with a grunt of pain, he was forced, by that thrust, to thrust just as abruptly into Lynne as he’d received it.

The thrusting continued, though…for both him and Lynne. Indeed, in raping Herman, ghost-Megan was, as it were, raping Lynne by proxy.

Herman looked behind him to see what the hell was going on. He saw the Megan of those dreams he used to have. “Megan!” he gasped as he felt another ramming.

Her dishevelled hair, her pale, flaking skin, and her glowing red eyes, circled in black rings, were disturbing enough to see in themselves, but the malicious grin he saw was far worse.

That face being far too unbearable to look at, he looked back down at Lynne, meaning to apologize for hurting her; but instead of seeing his wife wincing in pain, he saw her laughing at him.

“That’s it, Megan!” he heard Lynne say. “Jam that strap-on deep in his ass! Ha! Ha!

“Lynne?” he grunted in disbelief. “Unh! What are you…Uh!…saying?”

Only Lynne wasn’t laughing or saying any of that.

She was yelping in pain from the ramming she was getting from him, as well as seeing a malevolent grin on his face that was no more real than the malice he saw on her face. She said, “Honey, stop! Uhh! You’re hurting me! Oh!

But he didn’t hear or see any of that, due to Megan’s manipulations. Both husband and wife were experiencing variations on the dreams they’d had for so long.

As the sodomizing of Herman continued, and as he continued hallucinating Lynne’s laughing at him, he was filling up with a feeling for her he’d never imagined he’d ever feel–hatred. Part of this hate came from the laughing Megan was making him see and hear from Lynne; part of that hate came from Megan entering his body and consciousness.

Yes, the ghost was shifting from sexual possession of him to outright demonic possession. Though he still saw Lynne laughing at him, she was really looking up in incredulous horror at the transformation of the man she loved into…some kind of…monster.

“Herman?” she sobbed, the tears in her vaginal walls getting excruciating, “What…are you…doing? Ah!

Now he no longer felt the dildo stabbing his ass. With Megan fully controlling him now, he was laughing at Lynne as he continued raping her.

He no longer saw Lynne laughing at him. He saw her real face, her tears, her fear, and the pain in her eyes. He was so inundated with Megan’s hate, though, that he felt no pity for his wife. He just continued raping and laughing.

She struggled, trying to push him off, but he was too big and strong. She could only hope he’d climax and get off of her soon…but he didn’t.

“Herman!” she sobbed with pleading eyes he wouldn’t acknowledge. “Why? Ah!

She gave him one strong shove, and though it didn’t get him off of her, it did reveal someone behind him, the one who would answer her question.

“Megan?” she gasped, now remembering her own dreams.

Indeed, now she saw the ghost laughing at her with Herman, just like in her dreams.

Megan’s a ghost? she wondered, still yelping in pain from Herman’s continued phallic stabbing. I don’t even believe in ghosts.

Suddenly, Herman pulled out. Before Lynne could even have time to feel a sense of relief, though, he flipped her over on all fours, then he aimed for her ass.

“Oh, God!” she screamed. “Please, Herman, no more!

Then, the sight of Megan’s grinning ghost just a few centimetres away from her face explained it all: this wasn’t her husband doing this to her; Megan was possessing him, getting her revenge on Lynne for having Herman do this to Megan back in the girls’ changing room in the high school gym.

Lynne screamed as he penetrated her the same way Megan’s ghost-strap-on had penetrated him.

Did Lynne deserve this?

Wasn’t the shared guilt between her and Herman, and their committed love as atonement, sufficient redemption? Didn’t their commitment to their Catholic faith, all their attending Mass, redeem them for that one sin?

Not in Megan’s opinion.

Mercifully, he came after about a minute of sodomizing Lynne, then he pulled out and lay on the bed in exhaustion. He no longer had that malevolent grin; instead, his face showed unmistakeable shame and remorse…yet he knew there were no words that he could say to ease the pain he’d caused her.

For a second, she acknowledged his guilt and didn’t hate him for what he’d done, knowing Megan’s ghost had made him do it. But that second of forgiveness was only for that second.

For Megan’s ghost had left his body and entered Lynne’s.

Herman now looked into the hateful eyes of his wife, not sure if that hate was all hers or all Megan’s. If it was shared by both, how much of it was Lynne’s? If it was ninety-nine percent Lynne’s hate, he knew he deserved it, regardless of Megan’s possession of him. He simply couldn’t bear the thought that his own body had hurt the woman he loved.

She walked out of the bedroom like a naked automaton.

He lay on the bed waiting, panting, his heart pounding.

In two minutes, she returned with a large knife in her hand.

She grinned at him as she approached the bed. He smiled back.

He lay on his back, arms stretched out, ready and willing to receive the knife in his chest.

He did.

Megan’s ghost left Lynne.

She let out an ear-piercing wail as she looked at the blood coming out of Herman’s chest.

Then she stuck the knife into her own chest.