What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine

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What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine Page 38

by Piers Anthony


  The farmer raised the gun and aimed.

  The field was lit by a flash,

  And the beast was maimed.

  The farmer had taken

  The strange creature's life,

  And before his very eyes,

  It transformed into his wife.

  PUPPET MASTER

  by Peter Steele

  The theatre was engulfed in an icy chill.

  The stage lay ahead, cold and still.

  The surrounding spotlights were all on,

  And like stars they brightly shone.

  Something quite bizarre caught my sight.

  There were ten figures up ahead dressed in white.

  Their pupil-less eyes seemed so cold and dead.

  And their lips were painted blood red.

  All of them I noticed had rose red cheeks.

  They could be dummies or even freaks.

  Strings held them upright in position.

  Or should that be—in superstition?

  They all bore expressions of total confusion.

  Or maybe their look simply reflected my intrusion.

  Their dainty puppet hands moved so gently.

  Oh how the eerie scene up front demented me.

  I did not know if I should stay for a while.

  Or perhaps I should just be polite and smile.

  Does it bother them, the fact that I am here?

  Or will my presence fill them all with fear?

  The puppets straightened up and walked toward me.

  Yes, those eyes of white really do see!

  And I noticed those eyes were focused on me.

  The puppets were walking slowly toward me!

  It was so strange they way their bodies moved.

  And their fabric hearts remained un-soothed.

  Like tentacles their hands reached toward me

  From within the very mind of insanity.

  The strange puppets held onto me so tight,

  And their secretive eyes suddenly shone so bright.

  I shivered coldly at the sight of ones smile,

  While he whispered, "Won't you stay awhile?"

  They took me up some steps onto the stage set.

  My delirious brow was suddenly coated with sweat.

  I felt totally victimized by his icy stare.

  And then they made me sit down on a chair.

  I said, "Can you please tell the time to me.

  I've got to go...someone might miss me!"

  But instead, their gaze penetrated so deep, so deep.

  And I was scared and my talk was cheap.

  There was suddenly a silent, almost ominous hush,

  While one of them went and fetched a paintbrush.

  With it he dabbed some white make-up around my eye,

  And gradually painted away each and every lie.

  A slow and infinitely weird hour drifted by,

  Until my face looked like a cloud in the sky.

  My very soul was overwhelmed with total mayhem,

  Because the puppet had painted me to look like them!

  I thought that maybe it was all part of a bad dream,

  But no—I could hear myself scream!

  They stared at me with a blank look on each face,

  Like the curiosity of an alien race.

  I asked one of them to tell me his name.

  He leered and said: "No longer any shame!"

  The world I had once known was lost in time.

  I felt like the perpetrator of a hideous crime.

  The puppet brought out of hiding, a knife,

  And with it he ended my miserable life

  Now, we all hang around on strings

  Waiting to see who tomorrow brings.

  Waiting for someone...perhaps you!

  About Peter Steele

  Peter Steele was born on November 5, 1961, in Gloucester, England. He started writing at the age of fourteen and has succeeded in getting extracts from his books, short stories and poems published in over 150 anthologies. He has also written three horror novelettes entitled Cannibal killer, Cloven Hoof—Mark Of The Devil, and Demon Slayer; a collection of short stories entitled 24 Tales Of Darkness and three collections of dark horror poems entitled A Primeval Child, A Thought From The Dead and Anarchy In Hell, all of which are available in Kindle on Amazon.com and on Mobipocket in Europe.

  Peter is the recipient of The American Biographical Institute's Golden Academy Award and Gold Medal of Honor. His biography has been featured in many biographical "Who's Whos" such as The International Authors & Writers Who's Who, Men of Achievement, International Book of Honor, and others. He has been short-listed twice for the Forward Prize. He also creates his own artwork that appears on his book covers and album sleeves.

  In addition to writing and art, Peter is also a composer, songwriter, musician and live entertainer. His albums include Alienator, Andromeda, Ectoplasm, Utopia, Phantasmagoria, Automaton, Omega, Ancient Realms, City Of The Dead, and many more, all available in MP3 on Amazon and iTunes.

  http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/petersteele

  LADY OF THE FLIES

  by Anna Taborska

  In the silent forest lies

  A small figure with sad eyes.

  In her dirty, matted hair

  Ants and beetles make their lair.

  Through the tear-stains on her face

  Spiders crawl at leisurely pace.

  Nobody knows when and why

  She came here, prepared to die.

  Crows perch nearby and wait

  For gentle death to seal her fate.

  The flies won't leave their new-found bed

  And circle slowly round her head.

  In her buzzing halo lies

  Martyred lady of the flies.

  SCAVENGER

  by Anna Taborska

  i collect your refuse

  i feed on your waste

  i find what you lose

  and remember

  what you want to forget

  i dig up your corpses

  and pick through your bones

  you shun me

  outcast and cold

  i watch you bleed

  and listen to you vomit

  i feel your heartbeat

  and hold you as you choke

  the more you die

  the more i live

  METAMORPHOSIS

  by Anna Taborska

  i left the safety of my solitude and followed you

  giving up all i knew for love

  (you said that you loved me)

  you left me groveling in the dirt

  my tears seeping downwards into the worlds beneath—

  no pain greater than love given only to be taken away

  the dark gods pitied me and took my earthly life

  giving me fangs and claws and perpetual hunger

  replacing the useless human soul that bled for you

  with eyes that see through your fortress walls

  and ears that hear the beat of your inconstant heart

  (you said that you loved me)

  i stalk you wolf-like

  your corridors of power scant haven from my revenge

  your ivory towers cannot hide you

  nor your indifference protect you

  for i will come in your nightmares

  in the shadow that falls across your window when you are alone

  the comfortable fabric of your world will crumble

  your self-assurance break like ice in the face of a new-born sun

  your cold sleep unravel and burn in my tormented fire

  (you said that you loved me)

  my pain has become my strength

  your betrayal has become my strength

  your leaving has become my gateway to a new kind of hell

  like a creeping sickness i will steal across your world

  beware my footfall beside your bed

  beware my breath upon your face

  beware the brush o
f my hair against your skin

  for i am love reviled and i have nothing left to lose

  About Anna Taborska

  Anna Taborska was born in London, England. She is an award-winning filmmaker and writer of horror stories, screenplays and poetry.

  Anna's films include: The Rain Has Stopped (winner of two awards at the British Film Festival, Los Angeles, 2009), The Sin, Ela, My Uprising and A Fragment of Being. Feature length screenplays include: Chainsaw, The Camp and Pizzaman.

  Short screenplays include: Little Pig (finalist in the Shriekfest Film Festival Screenplay Competition 2009), Curious Melvin and Arthur's Cellar.

  Short stories include: "Halloween Lights" (published in And Now the Nightmare Begins: THE HORROR ZINE, Volume 1, 2009), "Picture This" (published in 52 Stitches, Year 2, 2010), "The Wind and the Rain" (published in Daily Flash 2011: 365 Days of Flash Fiction, 2010) and three stories published in The Black Book of Horror, Volumes 5, 6 and 7 (2009-2010).

  Anna's short story "Bagpuss" was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award and is now published in Best New Writing 2011.

  Poems include "Kantor" (published in the Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism, "Fall 1995), "Mrs. Smythe regrets going to the day spa" (published in Christmas: Peace on All The Earths, 2010) and "Song for Maud" (published in No Fresh Cut Flowers, An Afterlife Anthology, 2010).

  http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1245940

  CRUISE MISSLE

  by Scott H. Urban

  After they were satisfied it was an accident,

  I moved to the opposite coast.

  I chose a city that boasted its public transportation,

  running like capillaries to every district.

  I brought the car, although I can't explain why.

  You'll tell me something about getting back up on

  the horse that threw you off. I leave the car

  unlocked in the hope someone will steal it.

  It took me two months to work up the nerve

  to touch the door handle. Another two weeks

  to sit inside. Why am I doing this to myself?

  I can't even remember where I wanted to go.

  I pull the seat belt over my shoulder.

  It feels like I'm strapped to a gurney.

  All that's left to do is shove the IVs in

  the bends of my elbows and let

  the potassium chloride drip.

  I tell myself, It's just a tool.

  It enables you to move. You couldn't have known,

  when you looked down at the vibrating phone,

  she'd choose that moment to dart between

  two parked cars in pursuit of an errant pink ball.

  Not your fault. Not your fault.

  Still, I can no more grip the steering wheel

  than I can force myself to touch

  a glowing stove-top burner.

  The key's between my right thumb and first finger.

  I can't make it go in the ignition. It doesn't fit,

  like the jigsaw piece of skull that wouldn't

  go back in the girl's cranium.

  And here I sit, still, still,

  stranded in the driveway,

  encased in a missile

  that's struck an unintended target

  and destroyed its pilot.

  MORE LOVE. MORE FREIGHT.

  by Scott H. Urban

  Brevard County, Florida. February 20, 2010.

  The narrow kingdom of Saturday afternoon

  spans sluggish Crane Creek

  with its penumbra of darting midges.

  Someone had the foresight to post NO TRESPASSING signs

  so the four despots can be left alone.

  Two take cell phone snapshots of the other pair

  balancing the rails and wind-milling their arms

  three feet above the letters proclaiming MORE LOVE,

  a spray-painted Tweet every American teen can get behind.

  Here is youth swaddled so tight

  in a warm cocoon of self-absorption

  they don't feel the thrum in the ties

  ignore the whistle slicing six-thirty

  disregard the second trestle only a leap away.

  Their realm is invaded by a black battering ram.

  You'll ask why they didn't just dive in the water:

  all I can tell you is the fixed nail wishes it, too,

  could jump to the side of the falling hammer.

  Here, the fisherman watches a car

  drag a blanket smearing red,

  a tattered swatch that once had a name.

  In memoriam:

  Ciara Malia Lemn, 14

  Jennifer Reichert, 15

  AMOR ASTRA

  by Scott H. Urban

  On November 3, 2009, a Jeep Cherokee containing the bodies of three women, Kyrstin Gemar, 22, Ashley Neufeld, 21, and Afton Williamson, 20, was pulled from a stock pond near Dickinson, North Dakota. It is thought they drove to the countryside to star-gaze.

  A hunger: not in the gut

  but in the dimple at the base of the skull.

  A hollowness that can only be filled

  when you tilt back your head and

  your eyes scoop up stars like ice cream sprinkles.

  You have to drive beyond

  the pixilated haze of streetlamps

  and the neon glare of Burger King signs

  to lose yourself in the sable shadows,

  the true night our forefathers knew.

  On your back on the Cherokee's hood

  you can get drunk on the Milky Way.

  Just like the branches of scrub oak

  you raise your hands, but there's nothing

  to hold onto. You wonder that the bats,

  the creeping vines, the dirt track, your friends,

  and the state don't topple into ether

  like a sidetable laden with a too-heavy platter.

  Deneb. Cygnus. Rigel.

  Names of exotic lovers who promise joy

  no flesh and bone can provide.

  Who would not pull forward past the point

  the SUV can be reversed up the embankment?

  The engine dies, of course, but the battery

  keeps the headlights burning. To the crane operator,

  it seems two stars have fallen into murky water,

  illuminating bladderwort and tadpoles.

  About Scott H. Urban

  Scott H. Urban is a freelance writer and poet living, appropriately enough, in North Carolina's Cape Fear region. His dark verse appeared in the collections Night's Voice and Skull-Job (Horror's Head Press); his most recent chapbook, Alight, from Shakin' Outta My Heart Press, appeared this summer. In collaboration with Bruce Whealton, Scott's vampire poems appear in the e-book Puncture Wounds (Word Salad Productions).

  His fiction has appeared in print magazines, horror anthologies, and online zines, including, most recently, Lost Worlds of Space and Time Volume 2, and The Witching Hour. With Martin H. Greenberg, he co-edited the DAW anthology The Conspiracy Files. As editor, he recently compiled Jean Jones' poetry collection The Complete Angel of Death (Skull Job Productions) and memoirist Ryan Miller's Circle of the Heart, Voices of Comfort Dreams (Elephant Showcase Press).

  Save the Depot

  April A. Taylor

  THE ARTISTS

  Techno Caro

  Thomas Bossert

  Thomas Bossert lives with his wife and two children in a little town in the Black Forest in Germany, at the border of France and Switzerland. He is a self-proclaimed audio-addict, listening to music and playing guitar. His favorite musicians are in the bands Pink Floyd, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Yes, Genesis, and Rammstein.

  Born in 1961, Thomas' great passion is painting and drawing, especially in the surrealism style. When he first saw paintings by René Magritte, Salvador Dali or Paul Delvaux many years ago, it touched him and he was fascinated. Those feelings have not let him go until this day and certainly his artistic creating.

  Mos
t recently, Thomas is inspired by the works of H.R. Giger. He posts on the Deviant Art groups and is a member of The Collaborative Corpse and The Exquisite Corpse.

  For Thomas, surrealism is about visions, about unconscious, around dreams, thoughts, symbols and perceptions. He can express himself by the surrealism without borders. His subconscious has the opportunity to express itself by itself, without him influencing it. Most important, the surrealism gives him artistic freedom.

 

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