Monthly Archives: March 2016

Jerusalem

JERUSALEM by Pen of the Damned’s Thomas Brown

Lambing season arrives with fine rain and the moan of distressed ewes. John has just sat down to dinner when he hears them, the sheep’s cries mingling with the whistle of the kettle. He hasn’t been through the door for an hour and his feet ache. Evening sun catches the dust and makes silhouettes of the shattered window pane. He eats alone with his thoughts and his chipped mug and the scratching of mice in the walls.

When his plate is cleared, he takes it to the sink and runs it under the tap. Brown water catches the worst of the stains. Outside, a crow laughs. Looking up from the sink, he stares out across the back garden to the bird and the plot where his father is buried. It isn’t much, but it means something to him, and it is ritual; the first day of every March he…

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Damned Words 16

DAMNED WORDS 16 by Pen of the Damned

DamnedWords_16

Fading
Christopher Liccardi

Mitchell sits on its broken foam seat, feeling the pain diminish. Blood loss pulls him from his cares and worries. He can feel his hands slipping from the sides of the chair. His choice was made by another, but not the one holding the blade. It was the demon in the chair that made the choice. It spoke to him and told him what it needed; more blood. He closed his eyes and the voice faded until it was a whisper. The last thought on Mitchell’s mind wasn’t death, but the chair. Who would feed it once he was gone?


Barbaric Elegance
Jon Olson

Nothing like this had ever been found before; the diggers unsure of their discovery. What is it? Excitement, confusion and terror glisten in their eyes. Months spent sifting through rubble, burrowing into the past with little to show for it; very few indications or evidence…

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4320 and the Hard 6

4320 AND THE HARD 6 by Pen of the Damned’s Christopher A Liccardi

As soon as he landed at McCarran, the heat-baked shimmer of city life was visible, vibrant. He stopped on the jetway to peer through the sooty glass. The reflection was breathtaking even from three miles away. This place really was a treasure trove waiting to be taken by someone brave enough to grab it.

He pushed up the ramp toward his new home and caught the smell of decay as he passed into the open-air walkway. Something must have died on the tarmac; it was faint but undeniable. For an entrepreneur about to open his first hotel in sin city, this might have seemed a bad omen, but not to him; he didn’t believe in that shit.

Two hundred hours: The casino business had been good. His first ten days were coming to a close and he didn’t see anything but the glitter and sex. Fuck if he could remember the…

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OPEN SUBMISSION: The Sirens Call – Issue #26 ‘Dreamscapes of the Wicked’

Open submission: Sirens Call eZine Issue #26

The Sirens Song

Sirens Call Publications is pleased to announce the open submission call for the 26th issue of The Sirens Call featuring all men! The theme for this issue is ‘Dreamscapes of the Wicked’ and for this issue, we’re asking for the men to bring us their best works of horror exploring this theme.

eZine_Submission_ImageMen of horror, here is your chance to be the featured villains… pardon us, we mean authors, in our ‘All Men – All Horror’ April issue of The Sirens Call eZine.

As is our tradition, we are putting a spin on the all-women’s eZine call, and offering the gentlemen a chance to write on a similar, yet varied theme. We are looking for submissions of stories, flash fiction, and poetry that feature Dreamscapes of the Wicked. What does this mean? It means your story must adhere to the following:

  • The main protagonist must be an individual who…

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In The Eyes Of A Victim

This week from Pen of the Damned comes IN THE EYES OF A VICTIM by Tyr Kieran

He waits behind the crowd, swaying in a corner—visible, yet perfectly forgettable. His incoherent mumbling is as much a disguise as the layers of filth he stole from the corpse of a homeless man only a few hours earlier. The corpse, when alive, had spent most of its time begging for change in the very spot this impostor now stood—both shuffling feet and jingling coins in a cup.

The bustle of men and women blindly swarms past, cramming onto the subway platform with a narrow, narcissistic awareness. Hot gusts of air swirl through the tiled alcove as trains rumble along distant rails, pushing and pulling putrid fumes that nearly mask the scent of urine on the man’s clothes.

I watch as he watches.

His eyes flit from face to face, searching for the right one, the right moment.

A train arrives in a whirlwind of garbage and air pressure. The…

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