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    Odds And Ends: A Dark Collection
    Odds And Ends: A Dark Collection
    Odds And Ends: A Dark Collection
    Ebook514 pages5 hours

    Odds And Ends: A Dark Collection

    By Lori R. Lopez

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    An assortment of the weird and wonderfully grim are displayed for your fear and amusement. Whether you like quiet horror, humorous horror, stark horror, monstrous in-your-face horror, you’ll find what scares you here. Twenty-six diverse tales and clusters of flash stories or drabbles fit together between dark poems and brief witfully pithy essays on women writing Horror like pieces of a macabre jigsaw puzzle devised by a single madwoman, Lori R. Lopez.

    Among the ODDS AND ENDS . . . a devilish Jack-In-The-Box helps a young woman get even. Two little girls face-off in “Nemeses”. A very old baby is released from its jar at a museum in “Jar Baby”. Spaghetti comes to life in “Bloodwyrm”. A trainride takes one fellow on a harrowing journey toward “Fate”. A man and woman are reunited by the same curse that tore them apart in “The Fruit Of Thy Womb”. A weakling finds a dreadful “Cereal Box Surprise” at the bottom of the package. Ladies play a lethal hand of cards in “Mindless”. A couple wakes up to discover an enormous cobweb filling the house in “Spider Soup”. Falling asleep could end the world in “Awake”, while painting portraits takes a nightmarish turn for an artist in “Deathbed”. A girl watches her friends disappear on a darkly sinister beach at “The Vanishing Point”, and much much more. This edition features peculiar illustrations by the author.

    DISCLAIMER: “ODDS AND ENDS isn’t necessarily a collection of happy endings. Not even the fairytales I write always end happily ever after. It will make you think and feel. If you want an uplifting book, go read HOW TO TRAIN YOUR GERBIL.” ~ Lori R. Lopez

    WARNING: This collection is a mixed bag, and a few of the stories are not for the more squeamish!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLori R. Lopez
    Release dateDec 30, 2014
    ISBN9781310759864
    Odds And Ends: A Dark Collection
    Author

    Lori R. Lopez

    Lori R. Lopez wears many hats as an Author and Speculative Poet of Horror, Fantasy, Suspense, Humor and more. She illustrates her books and has written songs, while being an Activist for animals and children. Growing up, Lori roamed graveyards and conducted funerals for dead birds, squirrels, insects and spiders. Her offbeat books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, Darkverse: The Shadow Hours, Odds & Ends, and The Fairy Fly. In 2023 Lori won Third Place in the Long Category for the SFPA Poetry Contest for "Wake Unto Death". Her Poetry Collection Darkverse was nominated for an Elgin Award and a Finalist in the Kindle Book Awards. Her poems "Crop Circles" and "Nocturnal Embers" were nominated for the Rhysling Award in 2020, "Social Graces" and "The Whistle Stop" in 2021, "Biting Sarcasm" in 2022, "The Whippoorwill" and "If Houses Could Talk" in 2023. Poems "The Maw" and "creatures of the macabre" received Editor's Choice Awards among other honors. Stories and verse have appeared in The Sirens Call, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, Spectral Realms, JOURN-E, Weirdbook, Bewildering Stories, Dreams & Nightmares, Impspired, Altered Reality, Aphelion, and anthologies such as California Screamin' (the Foreword Poem), HWA Poetry Showcases II, III, V, VI, and IX, Journals Of Horror, Grey Matter Monsters, Dead Harvest, Fearful Fathoms I, Terror Train I and II, Trickster's Treats #3, Speculations III (Weird Poets Society), and In Darkness We Play. A member of the Horror Writers Association, Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association, and Lewis Carroll Society Of North America. Visit the Fairy Fly Entertainment Website Lori shares with her two talented sons, and their YouTube Channel @FairyFly. They have a Folk Band called The Fairyflies.

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      Book preview

      Odds And Ends - Lori R. Lopez

      ODDS AND ENDS

      A Dark Collection

      Written and illustrated by

      Lori R. Lopez

      Fairy Fly Entertainment

      All rights reserved

      No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

      media without written permission from the author, except

      brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles.

      This is a work of fiction. Any and all references to real persons, events, and places are used fictitiously. Other characters, names, places, events and details are fabrications of the author’s imagination; any such resemblance to actual places, events or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Copyright © 2014 by Lori R. Lopez

      Artwork by Lori R. Lopez

      Cover Design by Fairy Fly Entertainment

      Author Photo by Fairy Fly Entertainment

      Illustrated E-Book Edition

      Table Of Contents

      ODDS AND ENDS

      Table Of Contents

      The Odds:

      A Little Dark Verse

      Headcase

      The Vanishing Point

      Bonehenge

      The Eye Has It

      Crumbs

      Jar Baby

      The Door

      Chill Factor

      Don’t

      Awake

      Drop Dead Fred

      The Dead Thing

      Mindless

      The Dim Bulb

      Deathbed

      Crumbles

      Cereal Box Surprise

      Bloodwyrm

      Flashes Of Fright

      The Fruit Of Thy Womb

      Spider Soup

      Nemeses

      The Blame Game

      Fate

      Odds And Ends

      The Last Word

      A Little More Dark Verse

      The Ends

      About the author and artist

      More works by Lori R. Lopez

      What terrors lurk in the blackest regions of a cellar, amidst dusty cobwebbed shelves, in the glass jars and metal cans of a hopelessly abnormal mind? These odds and ends are both odd and contain endings. As in the real world, not everything ends well. Sometimes it is all about finding a glimmer of light in the shadows, or being forewarned. Sometimes, the candle’s flame blows out!

      An assortment of the weird and wonderfully grim are displayed for your fear and amusement. Whether you like quiet horror, humorous horror, stark horror, monstrous in-your-face horror, you’ll find what scares you here. Twenty-six diverse tales and clusters of flash stories or drabbles fit together between dark poems and brief witfully pithy essays on women writing Horror like pieces of a macabre jigsaw puzzle devised by a single madwoman, Lori R. Lopez.

      Among the Odds And Ends . . . a devilish Jack-In-The-Box helps a young woman get even. Two little girls face-off in Nemeses. A very old baby is released from its jar at a museum in Jar Baby. Spaghetti comes to life in Bloodwyrm. A trainride takes one fellow on a harrowing journey toward Fate. A man and woman are reunited by the same curse that tore them apart in The Fruit Of Thy Womb. A weakling finds a dreadful Cereal Box Surprise at the bottom of the package. Ladies play a lethal hand of cards in Mindless. A couple wakes up to discover an enormous cobweb filling the house in Spider Soup. Falling asleep could end the world in Awake, while painting portraits takes a nightmarish turn for an artist in Deathbed. A girl watches her friends disappear on a darkly sinister beach at The Vanishing Point, and much much more. This edition features peculiar illustrations by the author.

      DISCLAIMER: "Odds And Ends isn’t necessarily a collection of happy endings. Not even the fairytales I write always end happily ever after. It will make you think and feel. If you want an uplifting book, go read How To Train Your Gerbil." ~ Lori R. Lopez

      WARNING: This collection is a mixed bag, and a few of the stories are not for the more squeamish!

      Praise for Odds And Ends:

      ODDS AND ENDS is a fabulous collection of horror and weird tales as ever devised, and we have Lori R. Lopez to thank for putting it all together. This is a wonderful array of terror and characters on the outer limits of the outer limits of pure horror, and it’s such fun! ~ Robert W. Walker, author of the BLOODSCREAMS Series

      Lori R. Lopez’s characters leap off the page and claw their way into your brain. She is a writer to watch. ~ Eric S Brown, author of BIGFOOT WAR and KAIJU APOCALYPSE

      [The] way Lori writes, chooses her words and arranges them is great. The further I went into Odds and Ends the more I enjoyed it. The Dim Bulb may be my favorite story of them all. A man has been hired to sit and guard a corridor. It’s a simple task, just sit and make sure the lights stay on. He and his co-workers work around the clock for the company to ensure the lights are always on. At the conclusion of the story it becomes painfully obvious why the lights need to be on and the twist is fantastic. If you want a book full of stories that aren’t the usual or typical horror stories then this is your book. It was full of surprises and I loved the time I spent in Lori Lopez’ world. ~ David Spell, THE SCARY REVIEWS

      Lopez is an amazing artist and wordsmith! In this full-length bundle of ODDS AND ENDS, expect everything and be prepared for anything. Lori R. Lopez makes me smile from deep inside. There is no denying this author never fails to captivate me. I adore her style ... her witty darkness ... poetry and creative tales ... artful imagery and out-of-the-box multi-dimensional writing. Her work makes a worthy contribution to our literary world and the horror genre. But even if you aren’t normally a horror fan, I recommend you give her a try. You will not be disappointed! ~ Tamara Fey Turner, Goodreads Reviewer

      (Although she admittedly likes wearing them) Hats off to Lori R. Lopez! Her eclectic collection of horror includes something for everyone: poems, micros, and short stories, as well as her own envisioned illustrations. This collection on the whole is a testament to a woman, an author, who not only loves the horror genre, but is also a valuable contributor to it. ODDS AND ENDS contains some real gems. Lopez has an in-your-face, hard-hitting style. Her stories are smart, and her characters are presences brought to life on the page. She is a top-rate writer who knows all the (supposed) rules of writing. Her choice to, at times, break those rules, as well as the imaginative ways she does it, is very refreshing and makes this horror author (me) both a little envious and a life-long fan at the same time. ~ Edward Kenyon, author of A COLD SLEEP

      I thought the stories just as good as the poetry. From the poor fellow who has a gift for exploding heads in Headcase and the weird case of the Jar Baby in the museum at night to The Fruit of Thy Womb, a strange and horrible story that is not as persuasive in its character development as many other entries, I realized myself to be in the presence of a writer worth watching. I appreciated that I was reading a writer who has clearly worked hard on establishing a voice in the horror genre. ~ Judge, 23rd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards.

      The author gives you a variety of horror mixed with humor, just plain horror and then the horror that has a sassy side to it. Some of the stories are towards the realistic side. Did you ever think how mean and difficult we can be towards others and how they can be to us? Sometimes Ms. Lopez mixes in a little jab at society and our government. Sometimes that can easily be understood. This is when the humor shows through. You may find yourself smiling a little at how real it is. Some of the stories have a dark, evil side to them, which makes you think of the dark alleys, the damp, dim cellars, the evil thoughts that we all think at times. Ms. Lopez has written stories that are far from your usual horror stories. Many are so alike but Ms. Lopez doesn’t do that. She [gives] you the outer most, the unusual and yet, they are sometimes stories you can picture as real. If you’re looking for a different kind of horror world, then enter Ms. Lopez’s world and it will become yours. But, this isn’t for the faint of heart nor the squeemish. So BEWARE! ~ Gayle Pace, Goodreads Reviewer

      For my true fans and supporters

      with sincere gratitude

      Author’s Note

      I am something of an anomaly as a horror author, having been published in anthologies and magazines alongside tales with foul language, gore, and other crude content. My stories are generally far less gross and explicit. Therefore, it always surprises me that they will be accepted, included.

      I like to use large or old-fangled terms, break or bend the so-called rules of writing, challenge subjective views and standards. I do various things that others contend are incorrect or obsolete.

      I will take risks — use words that are not in a dictionary (yet); apply my own code of punctuation and capitalization; go to enormous lengths for the sake of flow and stamping out unintended redundancies . . .

      I do not simply tell a story. I put a lot of thought and effort into how it is told.

      Making matters worse, I prefer to edit my own writing rather than rely on someone else’s vision and expertise to make it readable or polished. I even design my covers. I don’t wish to offend people. This is just the way I am, a quirky individual.

      So if you see things that do not appear normal by current conventions, please understand that it is part of a carefully crafted style. I firmly believe there is more than one way to write.

      "Typewriter", published online in 2009.

      The Odds:

      Why Ladies Write Horror

      There really isn’t a type of lady who pens Horror. I’ve met all kinds. The fact is that there are a lot of us, so hear us roar. A nice frightfully monstrous roar. The manner of roar that can split eardrums and bleed brains. And when the blood is pouring out of your ears, remember that you heard it from us.

      Play nice? What do you mean by that? We don’t have to play nice, unless we choose to. We’ve been told that for too long. As a kid, I coveted a plastic model of The Mummy that my brother had. He gave it to me since it meant so much more to me than it did to him. I prized it for a whole night or so before the thing mysteriously vanished. I recall that mummy vividly. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t approve of me having it. To her relief, I had finally outgrown my obsession with Where The Wild Things Are, but now I wanted monster magazines and weird comic books. I pestered her once at a store until she allowed me to get an issue of Famous Monsters Of Filmland that had Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s Monster on the cover. I cherished it. That, too, would vanish. Try as she might, she could not excise (or exorcise) my fascination with Horror. Luckily for me there were shows like The Addams Family and The Munsters on television. I remember an uncle showing us a Frankenstein film on his home projector. And I was able to see other great horror films like The Blob and The Birds, Night Of The Hunter . . .

      In First Grade The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow had been read aloud by my teacher. I was enthralled. I read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in Fifth Grade and wrote such an in-depth book report that the School Principal was invited to hear me read it to my class, then he posted it on a bulletin board in the Office. Around a year later I would write a very gruesome and detailed description of the ancient Egyptian mummification process for a class. Eventually I could stay up later and watched eerie horror films hosted by bizarre characters on weekends. I hung out in graveyards since small. What can I say? I loved Horror. It wasn’t a phase. It was part of me.

      There were horrors in real life too, and those changed me from a little girl who stood up to bullies. Yet traces of that fighter still lurk within. I can also be incredibly delicate, afraid, shy, and squeamish. I’m a woman, and there are all types of women as there are all types of men. Some of them write every bit as gritty and gory as the guys, and use language just as foul. That isn’t my style; I can, however, write some pretty dark horror. We’re not asking for any favors, for special consideration. Don’t judge us because we’re female. Judge us as horror authors. That’s all we ask.

      ~ Lori R. Lopez

      A Little Dark Verse

      Crime Scene Footage

      (First published in the anthology

      SPLATTERPUNK SAINTS, 2013.)

      There are some jobs that a Germaphobe should really never do . . .

      Sewage Worker. Trash Collector. Window Washer. Repossession.

      Hospital Staff. Dry-Cleaning. Of course, a Crime-Scene Cleaner-Upper.

      So naturally, one of these would have to be my profession!

      I am not the sort who does a thing that is actually my choice.

      It is usually the other way, by accident or compulsion.

      I wade in, donning hip-boots and a gas-mask for good measure.

      Rubber gloves, a plastic jumpsuit; carting plenty of strong emulsion.

      A ten-foot pole, a garden hose, trash bags and deodorizers.

      Antiseptics, disinfectants, antibacterial soaps and sprays.

      You can never be too prepared for something you abhor.

      Like Vegas, at a crime scene, everything that happens stays.

      It can’t be expected to be pleasant; for me it is especially nasty

      To step into a germ-filled lair slick with ripened body fluids,

      In an atmosphere crawling with plague and the rich stench of decay,

      As if I were the Janitor for the gory altar of pagan Druids.

      Removing tape, forensic dust, spilled coffee and donut crumbs;

      Powder burns, a ruined rug, the shards of a struggle interrupted;

      Picked-over remains not collected, bagged and tagged for evidence;

      Vacuuming the scraps of a life miserably corrupted.

      You probably seldom think about behind-the-crime-scene heroes

      When glimpsing lurid headlines of the latest sensational mention.

      Folks like me can go unnoticed about our daily tasks and torments,

      Mopping up messes while the creepy killers claim all of the attention.

      Thankless nameless individuals who tend to blend into the woodwork;

      Poor souls like me who slog away at a job they shouldn’t undertake;

      We keep the tide of filth at bay so nobody else need bother,

      Yet for me it is more than mere career, it is something I can’t forsake.

      I must scrub the walls ten times or more, the floors thirteen at least,

      Then use a blacklight to inspect for stains otherwise unseen,

      Since the thought of leaving a trace of grime or crud will cause a shudder,

      And a job well done is the best reward, once the place is squeaky clean.

      I can heave a sigh of vast relief to know I accomplished something —

      That there is less disgustingness at large for one brief and shining minute . . .

      That’s what makes me smile as I face the horrors of the next atrocity

      And hum merrily as I make the world a little better for being in it.

      Dark

      (First published in THE SIRENS CALL,

      Issue Thirteen, Women In Horror Special Edition, February 2014.)

      A black hole is etched in my soul

      Space has no end, no beginning

      It bounces to the knife-edge of Nevermore

      And beyond, perhaps too far

      Past the scary old tree

      At the end of the road

      That you reach now and then; a dead end

      I’ve been there. Have you?

      Yet I always seem to keep going

      Over the barbed-wire fence, into tall grass

      A stark field, the kind that’s just there

      For no apparent reason

      It’s always the same, like a dream

      Tromping in black and white

      Approaching a house

      I wish I could stop

      I am drawn inexorably to disaster

      Like insects flock to a window or burning bulb

      Please stop. Why won’t you listen?

      I climb the steps, cross the porch, turn the handle

      Forgetting to knock, as if I already know

      The answer

      Crossing the threshold with bated breath

      Asking for trouble, fearing the worst

      We never fear the best

      And the house is so dark

      Inside and out

      It chills my veins and spine

      Forgive me, I can’t look

      But must and shuffle toward the parlor

      The man in his chair, eyes staring

      At something that isn’t there

      Doesn’t notice me

      Or hear the clock tick on a mantel

      Crimson staining his white shirt

      From numerous cuts

      Splatters the cortex of my brain

      I doubt it will wash out

      His eyes haunt me as I retreat

      Seeing them in my skull

      I fumble down a hall

      The dinner table is set

      A lady and two children sit

      Like a museum exhibit

      Faces on their plates

      I don’t stay for dessert

      Fleeing upstairs as if to hide

      Under the bed of an elderly matron

      Stretched primly on the chenille spread

      Fully dressed in sensible shoes and hat

      Eyes closed, her expression passive

      No sign of blood but I’m too late

      A door crashes in below me

      And I stand frozen next to a corpse

      As boots echo through the house

      He’s coming and I can’t move

      I can’t wake up

      It isn’t a dream

      It’s dark

      I should have kept it to myself

      These memories

      I crouched in the closet

      Listening while he entered the room

      And found me

      I sneezed from the dust

      And nervousness

      Slapping palms to my mouth

      Tardily, after the fact

      With a growl he yanked the door

      I was never good at Hide-And-Seek

      He always won . . .

      We are eternal

      That’s the first thing you realize

      On the other side.

      Mirror Image

      (First published in THE SIRENS CALL,

      Issue 15, 2014.)

      The beast was born a mere splinter

      Fractured off a shattered looking-glass.

      It grew from shard to handmirror,

      Reflecting the zits and hairs and warts

      On the aspects of viewers who held it

      To inspect themselves for flaws

      And discovered many more defects

      Than were noticed the day before —

      Becoming hideous in their own eyes.

      The creature enlarged to the size of

      A dresser mirror, displaying the vanity

      Of its preening owner, presenting a jaded

      Image increasingly distorted and grotesque;

      Sprouting humps and spots in the worst of

      Places, fashioning a monster that only the

      Woman could behold, but that she would

      Physically turn into, transformed by

      An attitude of self-hate and loathing.

      Then the mirror moved on to its next

      Shape, a tall narrow full-length model

      Attached to a closet door, where a female

      Would stand in profile and squint at the

      Magnified and overly exaggerated fun-house

      Dementions of her fanny, which seemed

      Bigger and bigger with every outfit tested;

      At last ballooning to a blimpish eyesore

      Of a posterior, jutting from a slender frame.

      Chortling darkly, the sinister glass gremlin

      Shifted to coat the sides of a dance studio,

      Where slim ballerinas pranced and twirled

      Or posed with feet in the air, always noting the

      Reflections, examining their style to check for

      Lines and flow, the perfect extremes of grace

      And poise, the purest form; that delicate

      Swan-like distinction between beautiful and

      Ugly, judged by a harsh set of standards.

      The goblin showed them atrocities, a garish

      Spectacle in which dainty pirouettes were spun

      So fast the dancers twirled to mere stick figures

      Honed down as if by a mechanical grinder.

      And leaps landed on the feet of frogs, throats

      Baggy and croaking, eyes bulbously flitting,

      While tongues unreeled to snatch a passing fly.

      A dipping bow would tip to a handstand,

      Then a series of goofy acrobatic cartwheels . . .

      Followed by rolls and tucks and tumbles,

      Rendering the ballet troupe into a goggle

      Of strident blatting honkers that flocked

      With the dignity of geese to caper clownishly

      And then contort, stretched until their limbs

      Were spaghetti, their heads huge in comparison,

      Bodies rotund like pears, out of all proportion!

      A puddle of silvery spite, the creep would infect

      A building’s exterior and mock the world going by.

      The menace bounced their insecurities back

      In their faces, exemplifying the deepest horrors

      And most critical versions of themselves imagined,

      Warping their scrutiny to manifest the visions they

      Most reviled. And thus the abomination remained

      Along a well-traveled street visited by countless

      Numbers of the human population, planting seeds,

      Cultivating monsters. But the broken mirror’s bad luck

      Wore off in seven years; cracking, the goblin split apart.

      Eulogy

      (First published in my volume of verse

      POETIC REFLECTIONS:

      THE QUEEN OF HATS, 2014.)

      There was something in the basement . . .

      A girl cowered in her bed at night and listened

      To a mournfully somber wail that echoed

      Through the floor of her room, imprisoned.

      A phantom’s moan, a grim horrid sound

      Risen between floorboards like a dreadful bane.

      Then too was the scratching, an insistent rasp

      Of claws on cement, of something in pain.

      After tossing side to side, her hair in knots,

      Lacy approached the door unable to sleep

      And stretched hand to knob in trepidation,

      Wondering what secrets the darkness might keep.

      Hinges croaked as she padded to a crude set of stairs

      And peered toward a gloom denser than Midnight.

      Bare feet hugged the steps, which softly groaned,

      While she descended the slope filled with fright.

      Swatting blind the air, breaking cobweb strands —

      Fingers located a length of chain that swung

      Wild in the dimness until her fingers grasped

      A metal string of balls that from the lightbulb hung.

      Illumination didn’t still her drumming heart;

      The basement reeked fetid of ancient mold

      As if the house, quite recently constructed,

      Were possessed by a presence rancid and old.

      The sandpaper rakes of talons grew louder

      And the baying of haunted moans increased,

      Drawing the child to the innermost corner

      Where lay the ruins of the frantic deceased . . .

      Whatever had beckoned her to its remains

      By commotion and noise, an unholy din

      That Lacy heard in the bedroom above,

      As her family slumbered like distant kin.

      The floor was cracked, an uneven foundation;

      Soon the urgent scrapes would breach a firm seal,

      A hardened mantle poured atop the gravesite.

      At its final resting place the girl did kneel . . .

      To search for a resonant pulse within

      The surface that harbored an active spirit

      Abiding dormant a lifetime of moons,

      Ere a sympathetic soul could hear it . . .

      Pawing, scratching, clawing its way out —

      Causing fissures to spread, a crust to crumble;

      The floor to yield that barred re-entrance

      To a world it had craved from a tomb so humble.

      The girl placed her palm to the cold cement

      And through her flesh rippled an electric surge,

      From pent-up energy trapped under the lid

      Of a coffer that entrenched a funereal dirge . . .

      A woebegone eulogy of festered pathos,

      For here lay the shards of an abandoned hound

      Long ago interred, love and loyalty forsaken;

      Digging out of a hole, not the other way around.

      It was now a buried cache of treasured bones

      That yearned for a playmate to resurrect the days

      When the canine had fur and a flapping tail,

      A bark ringing with glee, eyes moist with praise.

      In this cellar-keep languished an essence so rich,

      The force emanated beyond Death’s curtain

      To summon a companion who wished for a pet,

      And united by kismet their bond was certain . . .

      Whittled down to a howl of forlorn despair,

      The skeletal frame scrabbled from its cavity

      To frolic in the cellar with a lonesome child —

      It would be their secret, this morbid depravity.

      A Hard Rain

      (First published by the

      INDIANA HORROR REVIEW 2014 anthology.)

      It rained bones

      The world was pliant

      Springy or fluid

      Without edges and boundaries

      There was no anger

      No cuts to make them bleed

      They had no pain or trauma

      And the bones landed

      Gently in a soft society

      Without harming anyone

      Dissolved by the soup

      Of a crackerless ocean

      Or bouncing upon

      Some gooey plain

      Falling through the substance

      That once was life

      Or down the gaping chasms

      Of its bottomless wells

      Where lay the cast-off emotions

      Like clothes that didn’t fit

      Or were inconvenient

      Filling cisterns with tears

      And the anguish of old stones

      Invisible, insubstantial

      Ignored and disbelieved

      As if they did not exist

      Rolling like ghosts through

      The fields of melting Time

      A surrealist’s landscape

      But the bones were genuine

      Perhaps the only thing

      Accepted yet often rued

      For spoiling the clarity of day

      Though sorely needed

      For they replenished this swampland

      Fed its wobbles and waves

      Quenched a mad desire to be dry

      And firm, to step on solid ground

      Not flow or ripple or quiver

      Watching the sky

      With fervent anticipation

      A sense of joy at the tapping

      The storm’s rhythmic patter

      When at last bonedrops showered

      Breaking a drought of sogginess

      The lengthy wet spells between

      Their flood, their exuberant clamor

      Bumping together in the air

      A cascade of windchimes

      Tuned and melodic with hope

      Their knocks echoed, a solid drizzle

      In a deathly quiet world

      Of mushy quagmire sentiments

      The supple bend of wills

      And squishing of resolve

      A wishy-washy bubble

      Of mist and vapors

      In a spiritless heaven

      Waiting for the bones

      Of petrified ways

      To burst its balloon

      With a hard rain.

      Deadman Tales

      (First published by the

      INDIANA HORROR REVIEW 2014 anthology.)

      Bones can tell a story if you listen

      To their pithy piteous clink and clatter

      Seemingly devoid of substance

      Yet voicing no false notes of chatter

      Of wasted breath and hollow chords

      They speak of death in a guttural rasp

      And reek with the stench of solemn despair

      Hark the scarce audible hint of a final gasp

      That bleeds through lips no longer whole

      Revealing a grin to hide their silent grief

      Each bone will sing its shard of History

      Once shed to earth like an autumnal leaf

      I doubt any of them died without regret

      At the loss of open-eyed chances never known

      There’s no telling how uncomfortable it is

      To lie eternal, in one position, prone

      And I wonder too if it pains them to be jarred

      Each time the Earth gives itself a quake

      We tend to worry about the living in disasters

      Nobody asks the dead if they withstood a shake

      Yet since I was a child I felt a kindred spirit

      Between myself and those interred below

      I prowled their resting places curiously

      In a reverent quest to spy a wisp or glow

      The thing about skeletons is underneath

      We look the same, regardless of skin or health

      Of color and scars, age lines or weight

      The differences of class and wealth

      Everyone’s closet holds a suit of bones within

      For it is what a ghost will wear to sleep

      Like a pair of pajamas for lying in their tomb

      Do not disturb the dead or they will creep

      Through the fog and dark with clanking bones

      And you may suffer an excruciating fright

      That chills your whim, curdles blood to slush

      Then tears you limb from limb by jacklight

      Pay heed to the dreadful deadman tales

      As they wail with a clash of fury spent

      In frustrated ruts and rites long gone

      Beyond the grave’s guts where Time is bent

      And the deceased are never in a hurry

      Everything takes forever and a day

      Pick them clean like a flock of buzzards

      Glean what you will, they have much to say

      In the death-rattling groans of polished pieces

      Like a poltersnake that is coiled to strike

      There is wisdom in a pile of bones

      And yet none of them sound alike.

      Headcase

      (First published in the

      SPLATTERPUNK SAINTS anthology, 2013.)

      FOR AS LONG as I can remember, I’ve been able to make heads explode. It isn’t really an ability as much as a debility. My life has been sorely limited by it. I might be chatting with a friend or relative and splat, their brains and blood are decorating the wall. It is especially frustrating on dates. Wearing shades seems to counter it, keep it at bay. But sooner or later I have to remove them. Women like to look into your eyes rather than address their miniature reflections. And walking along the street at night in dark glasses can make me a target. Lowlifes either take me for blind or an idiot. I wind up tripping a lot. I also tend to get beaten and robbed by villains who enjoy kicking a supposedly blind man when he’s down. Even with them I don’t belong. Perhaps if they knew what I was capable of, they would view me differently — with respect. But it’s always too late once their heads disintegrate. I should say if. It isn’t like I can use it to defend myself.

      I just want to be a regular guy instead of a freak. But that will never be possible.

      Neurologists and brain surgeons were consulted. None of them could decide what to do with me, how to correct this malfunction. A general theory was that it could be some form of psychic power . . . a variation of Telepathy or Telekinesis. They further conjectured that it was caused by the umbilical cord being wrapped around my neck when I was born. In the haste to cut and untangle it, my slippery body was dropped once the cord released. The nurses and physician all thought someone else was holding me. I landed on my head, like the old wisecrack.

      Ironically it’s natural for those with terminal conditions, with no hope for the future, to sink toward melancholy and contemplate suicide. You would think a person would appreciate life all the more, cherish every minute. But waiting can be the worst torture. In my case, not waiting for death but waiting for the next head to blow. I never know when it will happen, you see. The only control is the sunglasses. And even that is only psychological. I guess I feel secure behind them. If I could actually control this, I might turn it to good. I could be a secret weapon. Or a superhero, fighting crooks in a mask with M.B. on my chest for Mind-Blower.

      They tested me. And rejected me. The military specialists concluded: He would be a loose cannon, unpredictable. So here I am. Abandoned by the medical community, and considered a liability by the government. There are agents assigned to keep tabs, to ensure that no enemy or extremist group gets their hands on me. The few friends I managed to make (not necessarily maintain) in a brief nineteen years that seemed interminable have been casual acquaintances at best or imaginary ones. People are frightened of me when they find out. Nobody wants to risk getting close. I don’t blame them. I’m the first one to avoid contact. I’ve isolated myself, and for my protection I try to be anonymous in public. I go to other towns just to sit on a bench in a park or shopping mall and watch the world flow by through tinted lenses. I have fun trying to ditch my tails and blend in. The crowds surmise I’m a loner. Most simply ignore me.

      The stuff about talking to friends and going on dates was wistful. I don’t do that.

      I did converse with relatives growing up. Until the ones left alive, scattered cousins, shunned me. My parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents . . . no matter how careful they tried to be, it took years to figure out that there was nothing anyone could do. The majority didn’t survive my infancy. Someone had to babysit. It was like drawing straws. Consequently, I grew up not knowing what it was like to have a family. I was quite young when they died. And when there was no immediate kin left to take me, I was sent to a Catholic home for waifs, although I have never felt at home. Ever. There was an incident with a priest attempting to stage a divine intervention. An exorcism. You know the drill from movies: a lot of chanting, holding up a cross or crucifix, ordering out the demon. Only there was no demon inside my head. Just me. And I couldn’t get out, unless . . .

      I tried. Multiple times. Depressed and lonely, I attempted to end it all. In despair I at last focused on directing my demons and blowing up my own head, with my eyes shut, then by staring into a mirror. Yeah, I’m still around. Swallowing bottles of pills, aiming a gun barrel at my temple, even building a homemade bomb, the spies would intervene and stop me, spare me from myself. I repaid a couple of them for their consideration in the usual manner.

      Why couldn’t one of them have shown the compassion, the decency, to look the other way???

      So here I am, like I said. A human incendiary device . . . the same as if I strapped dynamite or plastic explosives to my torso. An accidental terrorist. An inadvertent homicidal maniac. I may not seem horrible when I remove my glasses and reveal my eyes, but I am. The sensitivity in them, the soulful yearning for acceptance that shines through is the ghost of who I could have been. It isn’t me. Don’t romanticize my aspect as some type of handsome tragic saint. I’m a monster. That’s all you should see. That is all I have to offer. And here you are, the Angel Of Mercy who will free me from this living Hell.

      Please don’t cry. It’s what I need. I wish from the bottom of my heart that you and I could have met under better circumstances. As a boy, I dreamed of having a true friend. A boy or girl, a dog or cat. Birds were exquisitely fragile. I couldn’t pass near without affecting them. The poor things toppled from electric lines, plop plop plop. Decapitated, curled feet in the air, feathers drifting to the ground. I hated myself. For a long time. I thought it was my fault. Thought I must be evil. I have since realized that I may be cursed, may be unlucky, yet none of this was intentional. I cannot be judged or held responsible for something that is out of my control. I’ve attempted to forgive myself and can’t.

      I killed a girl. It was selfish. I was curious, and she noticed me trailing her.

      You’re him, aren’t you? she accused, boldly approaching. The kid who makes heads burst.

      You left out killer of birds, I added. One had plunked the dirt between us.

      It isn’t funny. You should be arrested, not allowed to walk the streets, the female disdained. My father said you’re a menace to society. My mother said you’re a disciple of the Devil.

      They could be right. I heaved a sigh. It shouldn’t have surprised me that my reputation would spread. I ought to be incarcerated, I agreed. I had requested to be, in fact. I strolled into a Police Station at age eight. They scoffed. An officer’s grin was wiped off onto the wall and floor. The other cops rushed back and forth, yelling, waving pistols. I was thrown into jail, and there was a big debate whether to transfer me to a padded cell of an Insane Asylum . . . or to Solitary Confinement in a high-security prison. The story leaked, and a lawyer became involved from an organization for civil liberties. The issue went before a county magistrate. I was deemed rational, not to mention a juvenile. The local authorities had to relinquish custody. In the eyes of the law, I committed no crime. Manslaughter required negligence. I had done nothing wrong. And I was too young to commit myself. Anyway, drugs didn’t prevent the violence unless I was knocked out, constantly sedated. They couldn’t do that to a child.

      The girl was entitled to her opinion, her parents to theirs. I couldn’t argue. She sure was cute . . . that was all I cared about. Headcase! She jacked a haughty nose in the air and stamped off.

      The nickname persisted. Soon everybody in the area was calling me that. I didn’t object. If the name fits, bear it.

      The girl and I met again. I was lingering outside the building where she attended ballet classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Sighting me, the teen marched over to demand, What do you want, Headcase? She smirked in

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