What Fears Become Part 34

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 superst.i.tion?

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 s.h.i.+vered 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 ent.i.tled Cannibal killer, Cloven Hoof-Mark Of The Devil, and Demon Slayer; a collection of short stories ent.i.tled 24 Tales Of Darkness and three collections of dark horror poems ent.i.tled A Primeval Child, A Thought From The Dead and Anarchy In h.e.l.l, all of which are available in Kindle on Amazon.com and on Mobipocket in Europe.

Peter is the recipient of The American Biographical Inst.i.tute'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 alb.u.m sleeves.

In addition to writing and art, Peter is also a composer, songwriter, musician and live entertainer. His alb.u.ms 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.

n.o.body 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 G.o.ds 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-a.s.surance 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 h.e.l.l 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 of 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 Compet.i.tion 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 St.i.tches, 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 pota.s.sium 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 Sat.u.r.day afternoon spans sluggish Crane Creek with its penumbra of darting midges.

Someone had the foresight to post NO TRESPa.s.sING 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 coc.o.o.n 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 d.i.c.kinson, 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.