“Our Music” by Tina McFarlane

Your kiss upon my lips
Holds broken promises

Your tenderness lies
A trick of the body and the mind

I listen to your heart
I feel it beating
To the sound of another

Read more ““Our Music” by Tina McFarlane”

As a writer, I have a dual nature, and love both the light and the dark. They each bring out a different side of me. Writing gives me the chance to explore both. Here, in this special place, you will find my darkness.

“Her Five Senses” by Tina McFarlane

Taste
She whispered in the angel’s ear
I ate your soul…it tasted of honey

Sight
She gazed into her child’s eyes
Unable to escape its void

Hearing
The sound enraptured her
And tore her spirit apart

Touch
The claws drew blood
The caress drew something else

Smell
His form smelled
Of strawberries and death

 

As a writer, I have a dual nature, and love both the light and the dark. They each bring out a different side of me. Writing gives me the chance to explore both. Here, in this special place, you will find my darkness.

“This Hallowed Place” by Toneye Eyenot

Read more ““This Hallowed Place” by Toneye Eyenot”

Toneye Eyenot writes tales of horror and dark fantasy which have appeared in numerous anthologies over the past two years. He is the author of WOLVZ: WHISPERS OF WAR, a novella as part of J. Ellington Ashton’s Project 26, a clown/werewolf horror novella titled BLOOD MOON BIG TOP, released with JEA Press, plus the ongoing SACRED BLADE OF PROFANITY series with two books, THE SCARLETT CURSE and JOSHUA’S FOLLY, also published through J. Ellington Ashton Press and a third currently in the works. He is the editor of the anthologies: DANCE WITH THE DEMON, INSECTILE ILLUSION, PSYCHO PATH, BLACK MAGIC MASSACRE, FULL MOON SLAUGHTER werewolf anthology, and FULL MOON SLAUGHTER 2: ALTERED BEASTS, also with JEA. Toneye lurks in the Blue Mountains in NSW Australia, with the myriad voices who tear the horrors from his mind and splatter them onto the page.

“A Story of Love” by Tina McFarlane

 

“Goodbye.”
With one word he carved my soul
And feasted on its flesh

My heart was strong enough
To carry the world
But fragile enough
To be crushed by loss

So delicate
That a wall of stone now stands to protect it

I may suffer
But never again for love
For my thoughts now lie in empty meadows
Of withered stalks and unhallowed ground

My wall now stands a dark castle
And I am queen

 

 

As a writer, I have a dual nature, and love both the light and the dark. They each bring out a different side of me. Writing gives me the chance to explore both. Here, in this special place, you will find my darkness.

DARK POETRY – “The Old Fallow Field. A Rhyming Horror Story” by John T. M. Herres

 

The Old Fallow Field

A Rhyming Horror Story

 

The land could tell tales, with these fallow pastures, and most of the stories would be considered disasters.

We know of the ones from the war, you see. Also the hangings from the old oak tree.

Some tell of hobos who camped on the edges, and how something had beat them, no mercy, with sledges.

One told a tale of a little boy, who had just gotten his wish for his favorite toy. He went to play in the field his Daddy just plowed, and later could be heard screaming real loud.

His parents had looked, as did everyone; none found a clue- not even one.

This event is not isolated. Not at all, by far. Did I tell the one of the speeding car?

It came ‘round the corner; careening, it seems. A mile away, one could hear tire screams. The car broke through the rail meant to stop them, and flew through the air- The people were locked in. It spun in mid-flight, the car hit the ground, the top ripped off as it tumbled around. If anyone saw it, telling loses its meaning, describing the sound of metal squealing and screaming.

The scene flipped stomachs of those arrived first.

But that isn’t even the tale that is worst.

A long time ago, in stories it goes; A farmer tried to get roots from the mounds as they froze. The rain posed a problem of another kind, and made the dirt in the valleys act like unrelenting slime.

He slipped and fell, and broke his left leg; right as his horse ran off with the sled. The man tried to crawl to the house far away; his wife would save him and keep Death at bay!

Before he made it, even halfway, he drowned in the mud in that field that day.

Through all of the stories, one thing is uncertain: One important fact, hidden behind a curtain. None can relate the strangeness thus; when most first hear of it, the first word is a cuss.

Oh! Did I tell you of the party thrown by teens? That night there were horrid, blood-curdling screams!

In the trees hid a convict, recently escaped. The dark of the night kept his presence draped. Only too late the kids learned he hid there, as he attacked before any had become aware.

A Priest got called, people thought it a Demon. He went in with his tools, ‘He’s safe,’ they were thinking.

He could be heard reciting certain rituals. The incense smoke rising in soft, gentle curls. The smoke began swirling with violent motion. The weeds swaying from such a virulent commotion. He could be heard, still, hollering over the noise, his cross held up high, perfectly poised.

The people standing on the edges of the scene, could not say what happened; none had seen.

Speculation revolves around the cursed location, on why there exist such heinous creations. Most deal with religion, or lack thereof, saying “The Devil slipped in, like a hand in a glove.”

The ones who don’t heed all of the warnings, are the ones who end up as new story adornings. For any who’ve ventured into that field, have gone missing regardless of weapons they wield. A pistol or rifle, knife or sharp stick, all rendered useless against dark forces so thick.

Whatever the cause of the patch of bad land, something dark, in the making, must have offered a hand.

Now that you’ve heard the history; I’ll tell you what this has to do with me:

My Sister had come over, late one night. We ended up having a terrible fight. She left while still mad, and slammed the door. Rattled the shelves, stuff fell on the floor. I felt some rage that she didn’t feel the same as I when bad things I revealed.

Her route took her by the Old Fallow Field; when that hit me, I hoped fate had not sealed her time as she went by that dreadful place, for I wanted that not to be the last I saw her face.

I jumped in my car, sped in pursuit; too bad I had no one else to recruit. I hurriedly chased her to keep her away from the Fields destined to take both of us that day. I neared the curve in the highway going way too fast. Like many before, I died in the crash.

Now for the thing I mentioned before; the thing that is stranger than all of the gore. Not one single body has been recovered, not even the farmer who the mud smothered.

So, I tell you outright, stay away, don’t go in! It just may spell your doom, your…

END


About the author

John T.M. Herres

John T.M. Herres was born May 26, 1965.
Born into a military family, he moved around a great deal during John’s younger years – which meant a constant change of circumstances.

He uses those experiences to add richness and realism to his writing.
Though as yet unpublished, John has written a number of poems and short stories.

Having lived in the Great state of Texas a majority of his life, he currently resides in Mississippi.

 


You can find him on:

My website http://johntmherres.com
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/JohnTMHerres
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LinkedIn https://www.linkedin.com/in/john-t-m-herres-47448777/

I'm Mar. Head of The Bold Mom. Promoter and compulsive thinker.