- -
- 100%
- +
Alexis Child (Canada)
WHAT KILLED ALEISTER CROWLEY?
Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; home to dreams and nightmares. She worked at a Call Crisis Center befriending demons of the mind that roam freely amongst her writings. Alexis once lived with a Calico-cat child sleuthing all that went bump in the night and is haunted by the memory of her cat. She also had a small measure of underground success with her gothic rock and darkwave bands in the past. Besides having rare mystical experiences she hopes are not just short circuits in the brain, she continues to write dark poetry, starving in the garret with her muse. A starving child is a frightful sight. A starving vampire is even worse. Please donate non-perishable food items and B-negative blood (and make it a double!).
Alexis’ fiction has been featured in Danse Macabre, Schlock, Screams of Terror, and U.K.‘s Dark of Night Magazine.
Her poetry has been featured in numerous online and print publications, including Aphelion, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, The Horror Zine, ParABnormal Magazine, The Sirens Call and elsewhere. Her first collection of poetry, Devil in the Clock, a dark and sinister slice of the macabre, is available on Amazon.
Visit her website: http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/alexischild
He summoned Pan until the darkness ofchaos appeared, or a demonic counterfeitin vague and monstrous shapes. Crouchingnaked in a corner, stripped of magician’srobes, he is haggard and wild-eyed, gibberingin tongues; chained to the spirit of fear, a merereflection of his former commanding self.He descends into the deeper emptiness ofthe abyss, appearing to look upon thesleeping ocean, waiting for it to awaken,hoping to hear the bell of the God’s realm,yet knows the Old Ones are locked away,senile from neglect, dead or dying in alabyrinth of sewers rotting beneath the city.Still in a trance, the mystic departs tothe domain of the pagan dead, starslooking downwards with a holy glance.Terry Miller (USA)
UNHOLY UNION
Terry Miller lives in Portsmouth, Ohio. His work has been featured in Sanitarium Magazine, Devolution Z, Jitter, Rhysling Anthology 2017, Poetry Quarterly, Siren’s Call Ezine, The Horror Tree’s Trembling With Fear, Organic Ink Vol. I, the Dark Drabble Anthology Series from Black Hare Press, and O Unholy Night In Deathlehem.
She speaks syrupy sweetWorking a serpent tongueWords of velvet, indiscreet,In her unholy song are sung.In praise of Cernunnos,Her lust inwardly writhes.His legend the forest knows,Immune to the Reaper’s scythe.His scent upon the Autumn air,A pheromonal presence calls.She draws near his body bare,Submits to his immortal thrall.Bless the night as two are one,Otherworldly creatures praise;For unto them’s conceived a sonDestined to set the world ablaze.Victor Cabitchi (Moldova)
MIRROR
Victor Cabitchi is a young author from Chisinau, Moldova. He writes both adult and teen horror in Russian and English. Victor got his Bachelor’s degree from the American University in Bulgaria before deciding to come back and settle in his home city. He currently works as a project manager in a translation company.
1At the back of the antique shop,Covered by an inch-thick cloth,Stands a mirror on the floor,With a story to be told.Splendid shapes of dark wood frame,Surface just a little pale,Couple o’ scratches on the side,As a sign of years gone by.2It was made in the 1800s,In a studio in London,Its creator, a young man,Went by name of John McPhan.At the age of twenty-one,All at once he fell in love.John’s sweetheart, Susie Laurie—Pure example of grace and glory.Happy way over the moon,Thoughts of marriage coming soon.Little the young John knewOf a trouble to ensue.On the most important question,Susie’s harsh words left him staring.Disbelief, digestion, anger,Waved through as he heard the answer.Susie chose another manPlenty richer than McPhan,With his own estate in HamptonAnd a title of a baron.John himself was not a beggar,But could not do any betterThan contributing his fair share,To McPhan’s mirror affair.It is worth to point out,The affair was thriving stout,McPhan’s mirror’s getting praised,Well beyond the banks of the Thames.3Time has passed, the wounds healed,Or at least so John believed.After Susie left him hopeless,Work became his only focus.Shredded pieces of his heart,Like a mirror broken hard,Just could not be glued together,To forget and live, no matter.Once, on a sunny Tuesday morning,Servant walked into the building,Handing John a sealed letter.Stunned young man has smelled lavender.Letter was from Mrs. Leister.(“Who the hell is Mrs. Leister?”)Took some time to realize,Susie’s tidy writing style.She was hoping he’s alrightAnd does not hold any grudge.As a token of their friendship,Susie asked for his attention.She would like to get a mirror,Modern, with the use of silver,And a frame made out of oak,To be put on the bedroom floor.Knowing of his skills and passion,Of the family reputation,Susie simply couldn’t figure,Who else could assist her better.He also found a ten-pound noteAttached to the back of the envelope.Twisting money in his hands,John did not know what to say.Little thought, one of a kind,Crossed his mind time after time.Susie didn’t even come in person,Instead sending out her lofty servant.Strange enough, this hurt the worst,And reverted the outburst.Feelings all came back to life,Flames in his soul were burning bright.He squeezed the letter real tight,Thought to throw it outside.Then take the servant by his sleeves,And kick him out on the street.But John managed to calm down,As something else came to his mind.Cryptic smile, brightened cheeks.He requested time: two weeks.4After a few days, the mirror was ready,But a small thing was making John edgy.For this task he needed a full moon,The suitable night was going to come soon.The clock has finally struck midnight.The room was illuminated with candle light.John pulled out a leather-bound book,Opened it carefully, taking a look.He already knew the procedure by heart.Old pages were almost falling apart.He barely noticed, doing his part.The ritual was about to start.Procedure was simple: a few special words,Then adding some blood of his afterwards.Blood drops were dripping onto the silver,As John held his hand over the mirror.5Susie loved the mirror all along,Though she couldn’t enjoy it for long,Quarrels and arguments with her husband,Soon filled Mrs. Leister’s life in abundance.Half a year later an evening newspaperReported a tragedy in the Leister estate,Daniel Leister lost his mindAnd brutally murdered his beloved wife.It happened as she was preparing for dinner,The door slowly opened to let in a figure.The last thing Susie saw in the mirror,Was the steel axe in the hands of her killer.Blood sprayed all over the silvery surface,It drained from the walls and the velvet curtains.But the drops that landed onto the mirror.A few seconds later mysteriously disappeared.This was the start of a long wicked journey,Resulting from the revenge getting thorny.Incidentally John created a pure evil,A monster that would later affect many people.Accidents, murders, unfortunate cases,Followed the mirror and its sinister traces.With different men falling prey,To the object with blood in its DNA.6Many years have since gone by,To get us to this point in time,As we’re back to the antique shop,With a mirror draped in cloth.The mirror waits, and waits, and waitsTo reveal its darkest traits,Dusty, innocent and humble,Not a sign of any trouble.Suddenly the doorbell rings,A young couple’s walking in.“Welcome to the store of mine.”Salesman greets them with a smile.Man and woman look around,They’re curious, all smiles.“Honey, look at these fantastic dolls!”“Better check out the old-fashioned bowls…”Slowly they’re moving forwardAnd approaching the corner.“What’s out there, I humbly wonder?”The man points to the cover.“Vintage mirror? Must be cool,Any chance to have a look?”Cloth is falling as it’s twisted.The mirror meets its newest victims.Both just stare in admiration,For the old-school art creation.“Chris, it’s fabulous,” she mutters.“Likely costs a ton of money…”“Excuse me, sir, how much is that?A hundred bucks? That’s not too bad…”And so the mirror found a home,In the house of Chris and Jane Bown.7The hallway seems like a nice place,Lots of darkness to embrace.The Bowns’ house is not as bigAs some mansions where the mirror’s been.The elation of new owners,Can’t be hidden any longer.Though not so much over the mirror,As it is over each other.Chris grabs Jane’s waist and pulls her close,She kisses him on tiptoe.Caress, fondness, true affection,Their young eyes are filled with passion.Nothing new for the old mirror,If they knew it, they would shiver.Their feelings will soon change,To make Chris get rid of Jane.They’re not alone, by the way,There’s one more actor in this play,Grumbling somewhere on the floor,It was Marty, the pug dog.Marty isn’t too excited,Furthermore, he’s looking frightened.As the mirror got unpacked,The pug was barking in attack.“Come on, Marty, don’t be jealous!”Chris taps him lightly on the withers.“You’re still our favorite, remember?Be a good boy, cool your temper.”8In the middle of that night,The moonlight made the hallway bright,As Marty timidly appeared,To examine the weird mirror.It looked so ordinarily normal,That Marty thought his feelings wronged him.But then the surface’s gotten smearedAnd the reflection disappeared.Instead the mirror started showing,The scenes of horror that were goingTo happen soon in their house.The pug was trembling like a mouse.At one point Marty’s had enough,He couldn’t even dare to bark.At the monster in the mirror.He ran away and softly whined in fear.9Early next morning there was a quarrel,Something not particularly normal,In the family of the Bowns.Marty witnessed it – and frowned.The quarrel kicked off out of nothing.Silly reasons to start fightingChris said something, Jane fought back,Payback followed by payback.It happened in front of the mirror, of course,When Chris was hectically preparing for work.Tying his tie, straightening sleeves.“More will be coming,” Marty perceived.10The following weeks things got much worse,Family atmosphere becoming adverse.The Bowns have now started sleeping apart,And barely talking, with ice-cold hearts.Poor Marty, disturbed and confused,Had no idea what he could do.Meanwhile he tried not to go to the hallway,Scared of what he could see in his pathway.Marty loved his masters deeply,He wasn’t going to concede so easily.One day a thought creeped into his mind,He hoped it’d help leave it all behind.11As the darkness slowly covered,Like a blanket of black colour,Every corner of the building.In the hall there stood the villain.Things were going just as planned,The mirror had the upper hand.It could smell frustration brewing,Soon their life will turn to ruins.Suddenly a silhouette appearedIn the hallway by the mirror.The pug entered the moonshine.Didn’t he have enough last time?The surface started to get murky,But Marty acted fast and quirky.He walked past it without a whine,Then barked and snuck right in behind.The pug looked up, let out a grump,He barked again, and then he jumped.The mirror shook, leaned slowly forward,Then it smashed against the floor boldly.Bits of debris scattered over,As the blood of former owners,Leaked and drowned all in between,Made it look like a crime scene.Anxious whispers filled the hall.A hand reached out for the wall,Flipped the light switch. “Oh my, whoa…”“Oh my goodness, Marty. No!”“So much blood…” exhaled Chris,“I’m afraid there’s no chance…”Jane gazed at the dreadful trace,Tears running down her face.Chris pulled her close and tightly pressed,Jane buried her face in his broad chest.In this moment full of sorrow,They felt how much they needed each other.Both couldn’t say another word,As something smallish, brisk and blurred,Jumped at them from the right side,And the tears quickly dried.“Marty, buddy, you alright?”Chris excitingly blurted out,As both were patting the dog gladly,The pug itself looked more than happy.Jane examined Marty gently,“There’s nothing on his belly,Not a single cut or wound…”Chris raised his head and looked around.“Then where did all this blood come from?Nothing bar the mirror broke.It couldn’t come from there, right?Looks like a boxing ring after a fight…”Jane took her husband by the elbow,“Let’s clean it up, then let it go,Marty is fine, that’s all that matters,Who cares what really happened?”Chris nodded in agreement.There was no point in finding reasons.Chris didn’t know, nor did his wife,How bravely Marty saved their lives.Bits of the mirror ended up in a trash can,Soon the floor was clean again.The Bowns couldn’t help but give a hugTo their lovely naughty pug.The pug who managed to conclude,The story of a long-term feud,That had spanned for over a hundred years,Full of deadly, cruel affairs.Gary Hascal (USA)
I ONCE BELIEVED
Gary Hascal is retired and living in California. He was born in Ohio and lived the majority of his life in Texas. Became a pastry chef specializing in French pastry and switched to mainframe computer operations, programming and Oracle Database Management.
I once bought the story was a trusting foolBelieved right prevailed and my generation was coolFell into the trap of being controlledBelieved the world could be made whole.Born after the War and worldwide depressionGovernment propaganda made an impressionSpiritually seeking on the interiorMoon landing made us feel superior.Music expressed our deepest yearningA new world full of youthful churningBelieved we were special big changes comingLong hair, miniskirts and guitars strumming.Drugs to relax some to find GodWoodstock ideals girls with hot bodsLove grass helped us keep it togetherBraving the storm through all types of weather.Lost our way preferred seeking richesAbandoned enlightenment for profitable nichesBeatles and Hendrix morphed into RapMusic became twerking repetitive crap.Telephones became mobile and video recordersCamera, Internet and Siri to place ordersLife’s essential device all in one placeEverything we do became simple to trace.Climate propaganda kids think life will ceaseUnited Nations manipulated tyranny increasedLife to be made unlivable and worseDivide and conquer to destroy us on purpose.Blacks and Whites cannot live togetherBoth forgetting that they are brothersHatred of Whites and festering vengeanceA future together of this there’s no chance.Young take delight tearing down historySoon they’ll forget what made us freeBrain damaged purposely by governmentKids grow up to become compliant.The goal is one government for entire worldPeople will be forced to do as they’re toldNo possessions or countries like Lennon saidMost of the world’s people will soon be dead.Remaining slobs will play Hunger GamesFuture generations by genetic gainsHumans join AI become the CyborgThrough Hive Mind fetus umbilical cord.Privacy and joy will be eliminatedPrescription drugs to keep all satedTruth will become the first casualtyPeople will be told “there’s nothing to see”.My hope is that humans will wake upTake back their freedom with any luckPowerful people want total controlThey’ll stop at nothing to take your soul.Stephanie Ellis (England)
DO YOU HAVE THE TIME?
Stephanie Ellis writes dark speculative prose and poetry and has been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her poetry has been published in the Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volume 6 and her latest stories include Asylum of Shadows (Demain Publishing’s Short Sharp Shocks series), and Snowbooks industrial horror anthology, Thread of the Infinite. She is co-editor and contributor at The Infernal Clock and also co-editor of Trembling With Fear, HorrorTree.com’s online magazine. She is an affiliate member of the HWA.
Website: https://stephanieellis.org
Excuse me, do you have the time?You asked, in such a timid wayYes, I saidAnd you looked, you gave me a lookWhich I took and fashioned it for my ownTo be sewn into a maskReflecting back at youOh, you want the numbersDigital or analogue, GMT or PSTOr even PTSD perhapsMinutes, seconds, hoursTicking away like a bomb about to blowTake one, Take twoAnd… actionOops, sorry, you didn’t like thatMy little joke I seeStoked the fear in your eyesUntil the bell tolled the hourAnd you smiled at the thoughtOf a church nearby and safety…and escapeYou don’t have the time, I saidSnapping the trap shutListen, God has given you a clueLet’s count togetherAnd decide togetherHow long I shall take…Namiq Sadiyev (Azerbaijan)
THE DAY WAS BREAKING OUTSIDE
Translated by Oleg Hasanov
Namiq Sadiyev was born in 1997 in Azerbaijan. He graduated from a technical institute and works as an engineer. He has been writing dark fiction and poetry since his school years.
The day was breaking outsideWhy does everything happen so soon?I’m looking at my hands and I seeThe red glimmer of our bloodYour body was nearbyBut you weren’t beside meHang on, wait, and I’ll be thereHere in body, and there in spiritWe’re lying in the sea of bloodIt’s a pity you’re dead, and I’m still aliveYou can’t see any of this, but you waitI’ll come to you to say how beautiful you are in this wide seaOur beginning was so beautifulAnd so beautifully it all came to an endThis lovely beginningOf our sad end…Fiona Cameron (Wales)
ME AND LINDOW MAN
Fiona Cameron works as a Lecturer in Creative Writing at Bangor University, where she convenes modules in poetry, transformative writing and children’s fiction. Her first full length collection of poetry, Bendigo, came out from Knives, Forks and Spoons Press in 2016. Her second collection, She May Be Radon (also with Knives, Forks and Spoons Press) came out in May 2021. Her research interests include: eco-poetry, the domestic, and children’s fiction.
not really now not any moreyou’re still hereI’ve learned to accept youI supposeas a fragmentary friend moving in sheets of timeyou weren’t such a great friend back in ’87 when you wouldn’t let me sleeppushed your way into the stories I wrote at schoolpushed your way into my dreamsor any time in the early 90swhen I wanted to dance or write or singwithout youor your dumb head inmy peripheral vision’84 was your big yearthey unburied youthe news – not your preferred mediumI knowI knowI knowtoo grabby too fastthey gave you a stupid nameI get itIt was demeaningthe timing was all offyou were are all over the placebut oh! that coverage!made up for lost time right?but reallyI know that drama is your natural homethat’s where we found each otherwhen we came face to face in ’87a rain slashed school afternoon trees fighting the charged airbeyond bleak windowseducational school TV wheeled in on a trolleycountdown clock toyour headit appeared in the dark garden of a TV child at teatimea child like meyour bent form rose off TV marshlandturning then sloping toward the TV housethe TV windows andup close on the glassand black now blackyou reared up in my imaginationdid you have any idea what you were doing?those terrible fragments lodginghere there and everywhereyour brown leather crease faceshiny and wornyour propensity for surprisefor slimea love of black peat and your sticky tar heartbeating softand lowI know you followed me home in mygreen raincoat and williesI saw you in the storm strewn parkyou came to Brownies on cold pastel nightsyou followed mefollowed me into relationshipsreminded me I was untethered from the wholewhat whole I’d ask?why couldn’t you show me the big picture?today you’re often in the break room at work – you sit behind the dooryou like to remind me that this 60s build has a certain type of root structurea foot in earththat’s absolutely nothing to do with concrete and steel foundationsbut I’m too tiredandyou’re out there in the audiencemore often than I’m comfortable withand yesyou’ve walked beside me on other continentsteeth chatteringtrying to join in with the nowyou’re excitable but I know you prefer home turfandyou’ll pop-up on Twitter tomorrowyou’re nothing if not adaptableandnext week: back home in the England that was WalesLlŷnDdu / Lindow / Black Lakeoh!you uncover the night at middaytoo many unexpected revivalscelebratory unburialsyou’re turning somewhere in unseen versions of nowin some sort of syncopation of limbsurgh!you’re a broken time sequence!andyou’ll pop-up twice on Twitter tomorrowI know itorin a book about the low gradient circular walks of Cheshireorin the corner of my mind as I fall asleepyou’re parting the chaos of the reedsand watchingTil Kumari Sharma (Nepal)
LOST LOVE
Til Kumari Sharma was born in Hile. She is from West Nepal. She got her MA in English Literature from University Kirtipur Kathmandu. She published her first book, Glossary of English Literary Terms, in 2006. She has published over 6,000 poems and other literary works.
Everybody has lost loveThat isn’t genuine and pure.Lost love should be forgotten.Lost love is hidden and unidentified.True love is identified and glory.One is devoted, the other one is doing love to another.That isn’t true love and that is fake love.Lost love isn’t genuine love.It is fake and showy love.Lost love isn’t love at all.To remember it is bitter and it’s a torture to all.Lost love is nothing but death.Paulo Palz (Nigeria)
DARKNESS
Paulo Palz is a B. Tech in Polymer Science and Textile Technology and is currently a 300 level student of Biochemistry who hails from the southern part of Nigeria. He has written many poems and has also been recently featured in the anthology Nightfall and Other Poems.
There is in me a darknessFighting through my veinsA wilderness that once blossomedA dark flowered gardenIts beauty is inseparable from painHatred so deep in my heartFor all who left a scarThere is in me a darknessA dark nameless placeOf recessions beyondEvil so deep in my heartI was once lost in timeNow torn into piecesA deep mystery to be exploredNot just a mere hole to be filledMaxim Tsupkin (Russia)
DESCENDING INTO FLAMES
Maxim Tsupkin’s interest in extreme vocal sounds led him as a result to become a part of an underground metal band. But after its subsequent breakup, he didn’t start looking for other bands, but switched to making audiobooks instead, and his vocal manner left its imprint on his style of narration he uses in his audiobooks.
That’s why, though his vocalism is stuck on the enthusiast level, Maxim comes up from time to time with songs with his own lyrics and music, or he sets other authors’ lines to Creative Commons music.
For many years I’ve stood between the dark and lightFor many years I’ve tried so hard to reach thy sunToday I taste the demon’s blood and hear the angel’s cryToday I take my final step towards the burning nightDescending into flames where I can find serenityDescending into flames with no regret, no fearDescending into flames, no hatred in my heartDescending into flames, so bid farewell to meFor many years I’ve tried to be like you, oh like the restFor many years I’ve fallen short, no spark of hope for meToday I realize that I can’t find a path to Heaven’s LordToday I clearly see my road straight down to Hell’s GateDescending into flames in search for peace of mindDescending into flames with no regret, no doubtDescending into flames, no hatred in my heartDescending into flames, erase me from your memoryThis is the only choice leftFor the soul already burntThis is the only choice leftFor the soul burnt to the coreSayani Mukherjee (India)
GIFTS OF DOMESTICITY
Sayani Mukherjee is a budding writer and an ardent lover of literature hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. Currently, she is pursuing her Master’s in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Recently her writing has been published in the literary magazine of her current alma mater, and an international journal namely Fiction Niche. In her free time she likes to engage herself in the world of cinema, art and cooking.