Clown Challenge- Under The Canopy By Phoenix Fiery

Spooky circus tent
What the hell time is it anyway? Lifting my head slightly from the pillow to look at the alarm clock, its soft blue glow reading 3:33am. Why am I awake now I thought, sitting up in the bed. Shadows cast from the faint glow of the clock making the reflections in the mirror opposite the end of the bed, look very haunting. The terrible feeling that I was being watched made the hair on my neck stand straight up. Glancing around slightly giggling. “I am being watched” I whispered to the room, glancing at the clown masks hanging on my walls. Currently only a dark blurs upon my walls. Giggling once again I laid back down and snuggled close to my pillow.

I hadn’t been laying on my side for 30 seconds when I caught an ever so slight movement from the corner of my eye. My heart began to pound inside my chest as I realized that there is someone in my room with me. I laid there, heart racing, trying to keep my breath steady and not scream. My head was swirling, who was in my bedroom and what do they want. Unable to see the clock wondering how much time had passed. It’s possible that this person was a figment of my imagination after all.  They hadn’t moved again and surely 5 minutes had passed by.

Pretending to relax I rolled to my other side, now facing away from the figment that my mind imagined. The dark has never been anything that I have ever felt terrified of, on the contrary it has always been a safe place for me, to hide away. Just then a rustling of movement from the back corner of the room caught my eye. Sliding my hand under my mattress oh so cautiously as to not rouse my visitor suspicions, I felt at ease as soon as I had the hard, coldness in my hand.

On high alert that my back was turned to this intruder, I slowly began turn onto my back. Not a great position to be in either, wrapped in a swaddling of sheets and blankets, with no hope for a quick escape. Shifting ever so gently the cold hard handle into my right hand, I was now on my back. With eyes only slatted I was able to see enough of the form that had come to invade my home and a very faint glint of something in his hand. Without so much as a second passing he was sitting on the end of my bed. Did he just sigh?

Opening my eyes now that his back was to me, able to see the top of his head, it was bald, There were long tufts that hung over the sides of his head and down his shoulders and he had a large collar wrapping around his neck. Without thinking I moved my leg under the covers and the movement gained my intruders attention. He was caught off guard as was I, when in a split moment, he was right on top of me, his hand on my left collar-bone. His face pressed against mine, unable to utter a word as his eyes entranced me, they had just the faintest glow of green.

Sppoky Clown

“Why did you wake, sorry to have scared you. You have never woken up before.”. His breathe smelled of peanuts and popcorn as he uttered his words. Panic began to take over as my mind no longer was able to comprehend. Slowly bringing up my hand, holding the dagger, sharp and sleek, one made for moments such as this. The strength at which he pushed against me almost took my breath. His eyes growing ever brighter as his hand grasped my face as he drew me near. “I’ve watched you every night, every day, for years I’ve just watched. Only at night I am able to manifest and I am here now. With a gift, just for you. See you had me hanging there for all the years, I’ve watched your every move perched up there and It’s now time I say…”

His face couldn’t have gotten any closer unless he was going to meld into my skin. His hand grasping so tight on my face, my lips were numb. His shoulder pushing hard into mine. I cut his words off with a quickness and a hard jab square into his throat, his eyes rolled back in his head as he began to convulse and a cold wetness spattered across my face mixing with the tears now streaming down my cheeks. His jerky movements ripped his hand from my jaw, with a loud snap inside my head a jolt of pain shot up my temple.

Watching in the darkness as his body shook and revolted against his own attempts at grasping for his throat. In horror and disbelief as his large solid body seemed to melt away. Reaching for the bedside lamp, retching at the scene that became evident to me. There, where the clown had laid was now only a mask, a ceramic mask now shattered and a ring, a sparkling yellow diamond ring. Falling to my knees I wretched and screamed as I caught a glimpse in the mirror on the wall. Dressed in tank top and shorts covered in a green goo, dagger still clutched in hand. My jaw surely broken and I became aware of the other masks covering my walls.

Clown mask

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Infected by Peter Joyce

thethingscript444

Here’s your writing Prompt:
The man leans into you. There is a dark red almost black colour to the whites of his eyes. He is so close his nose is almost touching your nose. You can feel his breath when he says, “We all have it in here. We are all infected.”

**********

The man leans into you. There is a dark red almost black color to the whites of his eyes. He is so close his nose is almost touching your nose. You can feel his breath when he says, “We all have it in here. We are all infected
.Are you eyeballing me boy?
I said “are you eyeballing me boy?”
Look I don’t know how you got in here and why you are here but I really do have a thing for personal space so can you please back the f**k up.
Thanks, now can you tell me what the fuck you are doing in my bed?
Cool contacts by the way.
“I am Goron from the Termina valley in Hades, I have come to claim your soul are take what is rightfully mine. You will offer no resistance”.
Ok, Ok, I hear you we all going to hell, you are my demon guide, what does this have to do with me?
“I am Goron from the Termina valley in Hades, I have come to claim your soul are take what is rightfully mine. You will offer no resistance”.
You know you really have a winning personality; I am going to get dressed now and go downstairs. I’d prefer it if you leaved.
! I …….
Look we haven’t even been formally introduced yet and whilst you seem like a really nice man I am going to have to ask you to leave.
! I have travelled through a thousand Hells to bring you this message. You will come with me. I have earned your soul.
I beat a number of others like me to gain your living soul. You will replace me in Hell and I will move into another realm.
It is a realm of peace and love, of understanding and empathy a realm without hate and deceit a place like no other.
I liked it when you better when you were admiring my eyes.
Your insolence will not be tolerated I demand you pass me your soul.
No worries I left it under the kitchen sink I’ll just go and get it. Wtf are you talking about? I am going to call the cops, your twistin my melon man.
This is the San Diego Police Department, Office Daniels speaking What is your name?
What is your name?
What Hi, my name, is Tim
What is your surname?
Jones
What appears to be the problem?
Yeah officer I have an escaped loony in my bedroom.
Has he harmed you?
No,
Has he threatened to harm you?
No,
Have you had a drink tonight?
Yes I had a few pints I watched the game with my friends. I woke up and this guy was in my bed.
Do you usually wake up with men in your bed?
No, No man I am not into that.
Have you taken any drugs tonight?
No I never touch the stuff, look can you please send someone over I am getting freaked out.
Look put the man on the phone if you can.
It’s for you
This is the Police department Officer Daniels speaking I have had a complaint you are harassing Mr Jones, What do you want with him?
Officer Daniels I want Tim to give me his soul so that I can be free from this waking hell.
Look I don’t know what is going on but If I give you my soul will you leave Mr Jones alone.
You will give me your soul in return for Mr Jones.
Yes, Yes If you will get out of the house. Do we have a deal?
Yes I will be right over.
The phone falls to the ground and the demon disappears, I pick up the received and hear ” I…..

THE END

Original Written work by Peter Joyce

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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Out of the Frame by Richard Bell

Cloud-out-of-frame-4fc8c90f16e4e_hires

Imagine if these legends held inside their picture frames
Could step into the world we know once more to entertain
Would our planet be a better place?
Would we recognize their worth?
Would integrity and sacrifice surpass a Facebook dearth?
Imagine when we saw them through a brand new pair of eyes
The presence and the circumstance much larger than their lives
Would we love them in the zeitgeist?
Would we hang on every word?
Would it be enough to hail them in the land of the blue bird?
THE WONDERMENT, THE MYSTERY, THE PAGE FOLD IN OUR HISTORY
THE PATH THEY WALK WE WALK BEHIND IN STARRY EYED INTENT
THEIR TRAILS BLAZED, THE TEMPLES RAZED AND EVERYTHING THE PAPERS SAY
THEY LEFT US WITH A CRATER HOLE AND FOREVER TO LAMENT
AND WHEN WE THINK ABOUT THEM WE SMILE IN SENTIMENTAL PAIN
JUST FOR ONE NIGHT WOULD THEY STEP OUT OF THE FRAME?
The love we have will never die
If passed along the line
The genius and madman walk forever will be fine
Would we stop a city moving? Would we reinvent our dreams?
Would hearts be in our voices when we see them and we scream?
And the beauty of their actions understated by their words
They look as us as people not a market driven herd
Were they more than all the stories or the ages they have spanned?
Would they tell us all the secrets to a brotherhood of man?
THE WONDERMENT, THE MYSTERY, THE PAGE FOLD IN OUR HISTORY
THE PATH THEY WALK WE WALK BEHIND IN STARRY EYED INTENT
THEIR TRAILS BLAZED, THE TEMPLES RAZED AND EVERYTHING THE PAPERS SAY
THEY LEFT US WITH A CRATER HOLE AND FOREVER TO LAMENT
AND WHEN WE THINK ABOUT THEM WE SMILE IN SENTIMENTAL PAIN
JUST FOR ONE NIGHT WOULD THEY STEP OUT OF THE FRAME?
Imagine if these legends held inside their picture frames
Could step into our lives once more
And set our hearts aflame
Would we see them in a new light?
Would the magic still survive?
Would their message be a sound byte or a call to unify?
THE WONDERMENT, THE MYSTERY, THE PAGE FOLD IN OUR HISTORY
THE PATH THEY WALK WE WALK BEHIND IN STARRY EYED INTENT
THEIR TRAILS BLAZED, THE TEMPLES RAZED AND EVERYTHING THE PAPERS SAY
THEY LEFT US WITH A CRATER HOLE AND FOREVER TO LAMENT
AND WHEN WE THINK ABOUT THEM WE SMILE IN SENTIMENTAL PAIN
JUST FOR ONE NIGHT WOULD THEY STEP OUT OF THE FRAME?

crawling-out-of-the-frame-o

Original written work of Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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Our wild world is under threat by Richard Bell

Forest Spirit by FilipeHattori .

Forest Spirit by FilipeHattori .

I kill it just because I can

Power corrupts and absolute power swallows all
The driven ego pushed to overdrive beyond the wall
The garden planet is a place to tend not strip to bare
Modernity made tyrants whose wealth created deep despair

And when they have all that they want they must kill the king
Upon their walls the pelts of angels and the songs of spring
Inside their hearts love is a shipwreck on uncharted land
Their mantra blazing lights I kill it just because I can

The hunter gatherers are monsters on a terror trail
Their boasts of conquests covers wildlife in a mourning veil
How can they stand in pride above the rarest beasts?
Their moral famine kept apart from obscene bloody feast

And when they have all that they want they must invent new pain
Upon their walls the pelts of angels for their beauty slain
Inside their hearts the depths are plumed we’ll never understand
The devil’s calling card I kill it just because I can.

Original written work of Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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Nervaco by Richard Bell

the-problem-of-evil

“Father…Father…wake up, Father. You passed out and fell two flights of stairs. The library lost its precious hush in the hullabaloo. Here…sip this water slowly and imagine a field of susurating lavender.” Coco stroked the dazed Priests head like it was a pedigree cat. His hands were shaking amidst a pile of splayed books, most of them dealing with the occult. In his left hand was a small book that was grasped so tightly that his knuckles shone white above his ruddy, sausage fingers.
“Father, let me gather your books up. Are you ok, father?”
“Coco, we are all….we are…please, my jacket pocket…I need a pill from the bottle. Thank you. I have to get back to the church. Will you help me?”
Coco’s stare met his ice blue, terrified eyes and understood the urgency instantly.
“Of course, Father. I’ll close up the library and get you over to Evangelico. Sit there and take some soothing breaths through the nose and out through the mouth with a hiss.”
Coco climbed the two flights of marble steps to the glazed gothic doors and swung them open to evacuate the library before she locked it up.
Standing in the stone arch, dappled in mid morning light from the long roof lights, she gulped a fright from her gut to her nostrils. The shelves had been emptied of books and huge, crooked towers stood in menacing heights. Row upon row of stacked knowledge, balanced on long tomes, formed inverted crosses.
Then she noticed the book cases.
Smouldering bodies lay across the thick oak shelves, crackling and popping, as the flesh blistered from an unknown fire.
“Lord protect us. What have you found, father?” Coco murmured, afraid she may disturb what had done this should it be lurking in the dusty recesses.
She slammed the door shut and shoved the large key in the lock, turning it with force then kicking it to snap in the lock.
“It stays in the mercy of silence!” whispered Coco as she bounded down the flights to pick up the vicar from his daze.
“We need to go, Father. Whatever you found in these wants to keep its secret. Come on…NOW!”
The two made their way out of the atrium and into the packed main street of ambling fools.
“I’m parked in Calder Avenue. It’s just two streets over. Father, we must fly to consecrated ground.”
As they crossed the busy street, the manhole covers began to explode like they were party poppers. Vehicles slammed into one another forming a huge pile of twisted metal, peppered with mashed cyclists and shredded drivers. Bodies slid in fits and starts down the edges of the mass. They were horrifically broken, chopped and on fire like they were chunks of molten lava from an erupting volcano.
The whole grotesque pile cracked and splintered folding like origami into a huge horned skull that leered through bloody grills and headlamp eyes.
“Lord bless us and keep us. Coco, we have to move quickly. He will do anything to stop us from reaching Evangelico. I found him in the texts. I found him between the verses and in the subtleties of translation. He is the source not Lucifer. We have been misdirected to the Angel of Light. He deceived us. He is the evil in the world. Coco, take this book and fly to the blessed earth. The library beneath Evangelico will give you the answers. RUN!”
The priest sank to his knees as Coco grabbed the little book and fled the scene. When she reached the corner of Calder Avenue, she glanced back and froze.
Her whole body was consumed by the terrible sight and loud sobs drew retches from deep inside of her.
“We are illuminated. We are aware. You shall be uncovered before your grand deception and
the armies will not meet at Magedo at your command. We will unmask your serpentine lie down the ages.
Nervaco – NERVACO!”
Each word that came from his swollen lips forced a bone out of his slight frame and simple suit. His dog collar had mottled with black mould and began to peel away with the breeze. Necrosis moved in threads up his neck and across his face, filling his eyes with jet horror and distending his purple throat and tongue. As he forced a smile towards Coco, his neck snapped back sending his head onto his shoulder blades, turning a kneeling priest into a grotesque, shaking bloody fountain.
Coco threw her heels off and ran for her car as if…as if the new-found devil was chasing her.
“Open, open, open!” She furiously pressed her key to unlock her tiny yellow vehicle and, as the locks popped up, she yelped in hysterical relief.
The drive over to Evangelico was hellacious. Obstacles appeared from out of nowhere. Children threw their toys, cyclists dismounted and threw their bikes and birds slammed into the screen with a chilling screech. By the time she hit St Paul’s district, she was shaking in sheer terror, trying hard to peer through the cracked screen past the mangled wiper blades jammed with bloody wings and feathers. Windows shattered out into the road as she swerved on shredded tyres, avoiding many collisions with overturned vehicles and tumbling street lamps.
“Lord deliver me unto your safe earth and deny this downcast fiend his awful victory. Hear my prayer, sweet merciful Christ.”
It was as she uttered “Christ” in panicked desperation, that the Tarmac tore up in front of her and plumes of red and black flames roared from the crevice.
“Marklund Street detour. Thank you Lord!” she screamed as her rear window shattered and two large sets of jaws pushed through the bloody glass barking and salivating profusely.
Coco swerved the car into a large rose-bush at the roadside and the searing yelps from behind her were followed by bone crunching thuds.
Her little yellow vehicle was almost ready for the breakers yard when she saw the shining spire of Evangelico. Her eyes widened and she let out a piercing shriek of relief, punching out her front screen to see beyond the matted mess.
In front of her appeared a congress of charred figures hell-bent on stopping her from reaching her destination. But Coco was resourceful and she jammed her shoe into the accelerator and rolled out of the vehicle onto the blood soaked street. She spun quickly to see the car slam into the bodies and blow them into black powder and screaming rage.
“Ahh…child of the pages wherein lies the deceit of man’s assumptions. Be not afraid to honour another deity. I am Nervaco. I was the shadow twin to Lucifer. His dark half to balance his light and beauty.
When he fell, I fell also.
Each day light rises to praise the rejecting god, my darkness finds new depths to conjure evil. Now the world is in imbalance and I can claim the paradise from he who charged creation. I will overturn the will of love and break apart the mountain laws of man. Be supine in my presence, child and I will spare unending agonies in my realm. On your belly, Eve and make ready for the serpents kiss.”
Coco covered her ears and ran up the little alley that lead to the rear gates of Evangelico. Inside the wrought iron boundary, the graves were emerging from the ground and emptying their contents on the ground. She scaled the gate and shredded her clothes on the black spikes before dropping into the graveyard to be confronted by dozens of reanimated dead. All at once, they converged in a dead skin dust cloud, bones clattering and burial garments scattering to the corners of the yard. As the powder cleared, Coco glared at a grotesque sight as a graveyard of dead had made one mighty creature, dripping with the fresh dead and crumbling with the long since passed. The creature lunged towards her forcing lightening reflexes again and Coco fell backwards into the vestry door. The great oak frame heaved and, with the sound of a heavy latch giving way, she tumbled inside, dazed and facing the vaulted ceiling.
“I beat you, filth!” gazing at the pouting bone monstrosity heaving at the door.
A black shroud passed over it for a moment and it was gone.
“Maybe it is all a trick, a glamour to show me the futility of resistance against the first evil? I must find the library and discover the secret.” Coco sat up and looked at her leg. A long, deep graze tore up her calf like the Tarmac road and she winced trying to stand up.
“It’s no glamour. It is very real!”
Coco limped across the transept and looked lovingly at the simple display on the altar. Crisp white sheet covered an oak frame and tarnished silverware showed a faded interest in worship and the trust in a god that didn’t appear on their money. The world was glamourised with distractions from faith and only in desperation is this dowdy relic a last hope. A tear spilled from the corner of her right eye and Coco let it fall at the moment she uttered “God, be my guide. I haven’t lost hope or trust in you. Let us end this darkness this day.”
The tear hit the floor and an awe-struck Coco watched as a shaft of light streamed through the one plain pane in the stained glass window and hit the first pew.
Coco saw the dancing dust in the ray sparkle around a wooden peg protruding at the side and she pushed it firmly with her right hand. The sound of stone grinding on stone forced her to spin on her heels and there, in front of the altar, the steps had receded to a small opening leading to complete darkness.
“Praise be!” Coco exclaimed and ran her fingers through the shaft of light before it vanished.
After a brief search of the vestry and Sunday school room, she found a torch and a box of matches and headed into the opening under the altar. She fully expected thick webs and choking dust but to her surprise the way was clean and a small staircase down to a green door became a pleasure not a chore.
As she reached the door she noticed two wrought iron torches either side of it and she lit them with the matches she had found upstairs. On it was an inscription, that was a cryptic question and she quickly opened the book the priest gave her to be ready. It was in old English but she deciphered the text as this:
Are you true to gods love? Answer in verity and the way to the light shall be yours.
Coco closed her eyes and skimmed a stone across the pool of memories. Then she smiled at the inscription and spoke clearly,
“I am not. I am the weakness of flesh. Forgive me and guide me to your light of wisdom.”
The green door shuddered and creaked opening the large iron handle as the inscription rearranged to form a brand new question. Coco shone the torch into a circular room filled with old books, parchments and illuminated manuscripts. In the centre of the floor was a pile of brown rags that twitched as she stepped inside.
“Do you have the book?” a little voice came from under the rag pile. Coco leaned forward and tugged at a corner of the thick material. As she did a tiny figure stood up and smiled through a mass of tangled black hair and piercing green eyes.
Coco stepped back startled then stopped. She felt a wave of love pass through her like she was sat in the breaking waves of a warm ocean. Tentatively, she reached out to touch a slight hand, a child’s hand and her terrified heart was at ease.
“I am Kyrie Eleison. I am the will of the God, Yew and we will find the words to undo Nervaco.
Do you have the book?”
Coco blinked and nodded at the child in reverence.
“Good. Then let us begin this moment.”

ws_Holy_Book_1280x800

Original written work of Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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Pathogen by Richard Bell

Chemtrails_Andrea-Ursini-Casalena

The sweet scents soured quickly when the hot stench rose with the scavengers and harrowing gusts.
The chocolate box idylls peeled apart and were infested with the same gut wrenching hum as the now festering cityscapes.
Aimless husks wandered the gulch streets, unhinged and clinging by the fingernails to the last shred of sanity.
Into the cross hatched poisoned skies, bereaved ash plumes smudged the blue, seeping into a smoke mottled horizon.
Orphaned vehicles, smashed and bloodied, sat pining for their masters. Their radios hissing and crackling the last call into the ether before dead air.
When silence fell, it was the tree in the abandoned forest. It made no sound and had no impact.
Everything was already dead.
It was the fourth day after the silence that the infected humans began to regain consciousness. They gasped first, coughing up the stagnant phlegm and juices that had begun to coagulate in their lungs and chest and swollen throats. The iridescent eyes opened to take in the glorious colours of the night and their tongues, shrivelled to burned offal, offered no form of communication.
Then came the thirst.
The exasperating craving for live blood. The warm bitter metallic syrup that flowed in live veins, pumped by a live heart and filled with the umami of terror.
They wandered the endless highways and byways at night until the dawn spat needles of molten dread at their grotesque forms. Their new consciousness had gathered that the sun was a patient and deadly enemy, reducing to scarlet ash any exposed flesh.
Through their night eyes they were beautiful alabaster stingrays that glided gracefully in unnatural gravity. Their hands and feet stiffened to black tipped talons and all but two long, deep yellow fangs resided in their vesicle ridden mouths.
If monsters had filled the dark thoughts of humanity from creation, then they had become their worst nightmares.
After the twelfth night, the new breed of altered species became a pack. This was quickly followed by the pecking order.
The strongest bite, the harshest scream, the fastest movements and the fiercest thirst became the leader.
It was one night later that she named herself after a challenge to her leadership.
She was Bequestia and she was the new domination.
Her pack, who had outwitted the first light eradication, grew around her in their voracious and hypnotic night swim. Street after street was lit with the full moon shine of their skin. Into the broken buildings they flew and settled on the resilient alive ones. Their long chilled fangs would puncture tough leather clothes and the drinking caused their glorious eyes to bulge with crimson succulence.
In the silence, in the hush that was after a lullaby, the squeal was not unlike a mouse skewered on the fangs of a tarantula. The limbs would flail, spasms forced joints to crack and arch and spines to pop and lurch in the draining death throes.
Finally, the limp exsanguinated corpse stared in open-mouthed terror at the blood drunk hunter. But even monsters show the dead mercy and their long black talons gently shut the eyelids with a solemn touch.
This was their way of lowering the shutters on the soul and a mark that this one was empty of beautiful liquid life.
In two months Bequestia and her five silhouettes had cleared the parched city and the hinterland. Huge carcasses of beached sea dead filled the air with a rancid stench that blew kisses into the city like a nostalgic lover.
As they stood on the shoreline looking across to the immune lands, their craving for blood flew through their bodies as locusts had done in the crop fields before the sky poison.
Rising slowly over the stagnant boiling waters, the six Reivers headed towards the resonant heartbeats held inside the fortress of the immune lands.
Beneath them the waters cast only reflections of a hot, red moon and the chemical lattice trails carved into its awful orbit.

RedwoodRiverRhodamineInjection_l

Original written work by Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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Fallen God, Risen Man by Richard Bell

nature-graphics-wallpaper-7

Heresies emblazoned on the crass design to shape the world
The passionate and stoic sporting death’s profound identity
Propaganda war machines they blast the media with hate
Crimes that sicken to the core the gagged who want their speech for free

Shelter for the dispossessed are barriers round deadly chance
Bodies from the overspill of vicious wars with mixed intent
Beasts they prey upon the stark and desperate in exodus
Merciless, their terror trade is
plied by moral dissidents

In the desecrated ruins lie the effigies from history
Imprints of a culture taken out of future hands
Rivers in the streets run red from conquerors with empire minds
An end to all philosophies as fury fires the molten sands

Hope is more than comments from reactive public outrage
The world is spinning on a slant that feeds the diatribe
Ashes of a burning flag melt into clouds of anger
A fallen god and risen man now need each other to survive

Obscenity is more obtuse when those in power turn their backs
Creeping up behind are margin monsters and their creed
History is punctuated by the
grand theatricals
To prove their faith is stronger than the innocents who don’t believe

Fallen god and risen man, can there be no common ground?
Do we erase all traces and begin before belief?
Does a fundament require a sponsor to be justified?
Fallen god and risen man have both been callously deceived.

Sunrise under Mesa Arch

Sunrise under Mesa Arch

Original written work by Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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Open Wound World by Richard Bell

bloody eyesPictures slice my eyeballs frame by frame with shallow cuts
Lacerate the psyche and then gouge into dismay
Horror show is rated by a drive by voyeur media
Slanting our opinions and then pissing on our graves
Open wound world you are sore and you are festering
No time to coagulate as another slice is taken
Transfixed terrified by your vulgar gut wrenched news alerts
The politics behind the propaganda unmistakable

Scary tv
The media make monsters to deter the truth behind the lie
Slaughter, hell and acts of god are indivisible
Starvation and disease are just exasperating sameness
Reconstituted slop served in a bun to make it plausible
Sexuality is a dead weight that drags behind us all
As though it is achievement or a reason to divide
The wonderment of life that is a spark lit for eternity
Instead a paper ticket for a cheap amusement ride
Faith is hope and glory for the simple life of piety
Twisted into anagrams and seared in deep mistrust
What use is a promise of the nourishment of afterlife?
When swollen bellies pray for life to grow out of baked dust
Predators, provocateurs, liars and idolaters
Swathed in precious metals and gyrating ignominy
Branded for the clones that are not friends but merely followers
Each more ludicrous than the last hypocrisy
Vultures sit atop a stack of wasted flesh by murder
Megalomaniacs make threats and the weapons race is on
Security by numbers in a sequence behind firewalls
What would we inherit if the whole world launched a bomb?
Fertile ground receding from a desert and a poisoned sea
Fields of Frankenstein food sway in weather that’s man-made
One half swills in gluttony a bloated self- indulgent breed
The other half surrendered to a charity charade
Open wound world you are sore and you are festering
No time to coagulate as another slice is taken
Austerity drives down the poor and bolsters those with riches
And silent preparation is the task for those awakened.

ripping face

Written by Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided. All images are found using Google Image Search and are not always labelled I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**

Under Babel By Richard Bell

Creepy forest

Schiele stood on the edge of his masterpiece and looked deep into spiraling abyss. His once shining green eyes had glazed over grey with abject misery. He addressed the five shining markers arranged in star formation with a courteous nod. Ibris Swain, Ibris Salk, Ibris Susse, Ibris Sove and Ibris Sarg were huge pointed crystals taken from a deep cavern and brought here to the Convergence. This was where the magnetism of the forest land came to a point and where Schiele built the tribute to his god.
Thirty three years of incessant planning, conversing, digging and construction was a cathedral’s height beneath his feet.
The stone masons carved alcoves peppered with crevices, splendid gothic arches, solemn secret rooms and ornate contemplative balconies. All of these were accessible by the most impressive spiral staircase that wound round and down, connecting every room to its serpentine majesty.
He stared into the graduating gloom, toes precariously over the edge of the stone flagged brim and sucked in a mouth full of juddering air and salty tears.
“I see you as the ages have shaped these lands under leaded skies and scarlet revolutions. I must travel your twisting splendor at the speed of the hunting hawk and, in my death throes, be complete in my satisfaction. Lord, I have built this tribute to your trust in our love. But your people have grown content and idle. They look elsewhere for your magic that fills the spirit though joyous praise. They gorge themselves on the excesses of your bounty and have forsaken the purity found in simplicity. Lord, I deliver unto you my tribute and, in your mercy, catch me before I’m smashed apart. I surrender myself to you.”
As he turned his back to the hole, Schiele placed his hand on Ibris Swain and the crystal glowed with a pulsating blue light. One by one, the other crystals lit up in different colors that fired into the blue sky, exploding a dazzling rainbow that spanned the far lands.

Scary forest alter
Closing his eyes tight, Schiele leaned back, stretched out his huge arms and entered his creation with abandon.
He opened his eyes as the hurling stones flashed the dreams of life between the pitch of oblivion. The sky was still full of colors and, as he descended further, the nightmares engulfed the beautiful dreams with juicy tentacles and ferocious snarling fangs. Into his mind’s eye strode the fiery goat lord, Zamiel.
“I see your sacrifice as imitation and nothing more. You will not catch the eye of the pious god with your stunt. He is too busy smashing worlds apart to notice your paltry tribute to him. You are all abandoned and your act is too little and too late. But I will continue your work into the fires and blackness. Surrender your allegiance to me, Schiele and I will make you magnificent in my legion. You shall be my architect of pain in the keep.”
Schiele smiled at the entity and peered into every secret room with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. Each circular niche contained graven prayers set out in neat rows between ordered scriptures and glowing relics. The tower descended into the heart of darkness but it was a spear tipped with innate goodness. In his hands was the name of The Lord of the light and he was to drive it into the blasphemy and end the war between good and evil.
A myriad of winged beasts flocked around his descending form as he smiled into the pin prick of rainbow light so far above him.

castle cave
His body slammed into the black rocks between a lava flow and stopped still. A deafening blast of horns rung across the obscenity and into the channels filled with the agonizing cries of pain, drowning them out completely.
Thunder filled the huge tunnel and Schiele’s body began to rise towards a blinding light flooding in to the top of the tower and the stones beneath him followed his smashed body. The tower beneath the earth was rising above and into the sky, as below him, hell was being swamped with beautiful colors. He was conscious but still in a cocoon of light and silence. Schiele rose above the hole in the earth as the great stones piled around his body, rearranged by a supernatural force of tremendous power. He was aware that, at his extremities, the great crystals had gathered and were transporting the star shaped man into the cloud and above the shield around the earth. In his mind’s eye, the tower in all it’s magnificence, had ascended to a great height and stood proud on the garden planet that had extinguished the evil inside the core.
Hell was dead.
Space was vast like the beautiful oceans and the blast of starlight reflected, was the sun dancing on the hypnotic waves.
The crystals and the man slowed to a stillness in front of a pulsating nebula.
“My son, you have shown true belief and sacrifice for love. Only the purest shall rise to be one amongst the throng. There is another garden that needs a protecting eye. You shall be that. You shall be the life giver for the planet.”
Schiele and the five crystals began to move at great speed, spinning until the five and the one became fire and light, settling in an orbit in view of a green and blue ball.
Sometimes a soul ascends to be a star but the truly blessed become the sun.

SupernovaWritten by Richard Bell

Includes art via Ann Thraxx

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided. All images are found using Google Image Search and are not always labelled I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided.
All images are found using Google Image Search and are not always labelled
I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**

 

Resurrect the Screaming Silence By Richard Bell

Trilogy of Terror #1.

scary thingUnder the doorstep, a small iron grate was the only light into the cellar.
It was also the only way for the darkness to escape into the world.
Sometimes at night when returning home, I’d catch the shine of cats eyes for a second. They’d burst inside the wrought iron slit then gone in the flash of a shooting star between shutter clicks.
The house was the last building on the park road not ransacked and ravaged by vandals and squatters. Right next to it, ancient graves peered out of scrub grass, towering weeds and skeletons of discarded modernity. The graveyard was merely fifty feet square with dilapidated railings and a gate pulled from its hinges. Around the top of the railings were dolls heads of varying sizes and states of decay and, on the large stone flags leading into it, crude pentagrams had been carved and plastic figurines melted into the middle of them.
The worn headstones had long since succumbed to the indignity of graffiti and those souls marked by them had the pleasure of partying teens congregating six feet above.
I lived alone in that house.
That strange house on ‘desecration row’.
It was my bolt hole when I told my wife that I couldn’t love her or anyone after the suppressed horrors of my childhood came calling in my forties. The time bomb exploded and a deep depression was a giant redwood felled on top of me. It pinned me to the floor as the world sped by in time-lapse fury and my world dwindled to a broken shell addicted to coffee.
That house had seen so many tenants depart in a frantic hurry.
The landlord suffered a heart attack at my kitchen table handing me the deeds. His last words were,
“You stayed the longest and you won.”
The cellar had its own nocturnal menagerie of unusual noises. I looked so many times but couldn’t find a door. It’s like they built it and sealed it up by putting a house on top.
Only the iron visor under the step gave a clue that there was a room beneath; A pitch black room filled with restless phantoms.
Things began to disappear and reappear elsewhere.
Voices moved like shadows in pockets of stale air.
Cold drafts accompanied terrible smells, creeping into the crepuscular gloom like the ivy from the graveyard walls.
But my mind was overgrown with flickering images of the past.
The scorpion sting of the buckle end of the belt, the crushing blow of spiteful words slung callously from measured lips. The final kick to the backside as I was cast out a black sheep, never to darken their doors again.
A terrible childhood is like a boomerang. Eventually it comes back around to take your head off your shoulders. You turn your anger inwards and it insidiously seeps out through your pores and tear ducts and manifests in awful outbursts and floating despair.
One night, wrapped in silver dust sprinkles from a half-open curtain, I caught a sentence from the whispers. It said,
“Under the melted children and headless dolls are woken spirit eyes.”
It played with my head for days, and, between the graveyard hooligans and the cat’s eye shutter meteors, I sank exhausted into my mattress and was pulled under the floor like a melted plastic figurine.
Melted and running down into the cellar. Beyond the reach of salvation.
“Do you think that you are real inside this box?” a voice in the ink called to me. I tried to find a clear space in my vocabulary but could only muster a terrified grunt.
“We are the unkempt and disturbed dead. Our resting place offers no peace and who we were has been wiped away by time and an obscene disregard for the once alive.
You will be our vengeance!”
The voices crashed like tiny cymbals in my neck behind the ears and slithered into the heart on dark scales of dread.
“Your vengeance? Your vengeance against the desecrates and defilers? I am to be your hammer blow to the disaffected youth.” I whispered.

scary people

“We will be at peace. They knock upon the coffin lid each night and we must rise and walk until the next big moon.” The voice circled me slowly.
“Who will offer me a cure to my darkness without limits? Who will chisel out a stone to mark my sadness? Who will rise for me when they surround this house with guns and finally shine a light into this hole?” I hissed at them through re-flux coffee phlegm.
Silence crackled like the end of a vinyl record before the needle glided across the smooth black sheen to rise above the platter with mechanical indifference.
“Grant us our peace and you shall be well rewarded. There are two that lead the sheep to our sacred earth. We will lure them to you in the sleeping hours. We were blessed and then forgotten. Do this…yes…do this…do this and we will take away the darkness in your soul. Are we agreed?”
“We are…we are agreed”
I crowed as the sensation of the mattress beneath me returned and a morning sun hooked its talons under my eyelids, prying them apart rudely.
Wearily, I trudged down the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast and stopped still in the doorway. All the plates were piled up round the edge of the table and the spoons were evenly spaced in rows upon it. A salt trail snaked in between the spoons and cruet marked the corners.
It was the layout of the graveyard.
I moved to the stove to pour a coffee from the pot and add a little cream from the fridge. An uneasy feeling jarred my senses and a cold draft move behind me, teasing a shudder from my hackles.
Turning slowly, a blue flash nipped the corner of my eye and three orbs sank beneath frosted floorboards.
Without a sound, in the center of this macabre model, was my way for them to find peace.
It was a large stone masons hammer and was sat across two dead rats with their heads bashed in as a ‘how to’ guide for killing punks.
I grasped the thick handle in my left hand and lifted it onto the cabinet. Thick black smoke wisps trailed from the bulbous head and an inscription in the iron shone red. The words ‘ultionem ab inferis’ burned through the black smoke and flashed an evil grin. A deep shudder stampeded through my upper body and slammed into the back of my neck like a train wreck.
I googled the phrase and vengeance from the grave appeared instantly.
Three suns dipped and three-part moons rose before the big silver eye in the star strewn shit storm appeared. It pushed through a huge burning disc from behind a curtain of dirty clouds. Suddenly I was aware that the pillow next to me had a deep indentation. I reached in and found the evil hammer, cold and pulsing, ready to be bloodied.
“Tonight’s the night is it, folks?” I muttered as a fleet of orbs popped like champagne bubbles into the ceiling.
“Be our hammer blow to the desecrates. Give us peace at last.”
There was a knock at the door and I jumped out of bed, taking three stairs at a time and opened the door to see a tall, hooded teenage kid standing there. His eyes were rolled to the back of his head and he was hovering above the ground enough to let his toes drag as he moved. I stepped back and fell against the door allowing the figure to glide past me and into the kitchen. He was raised high and lowered onto the table. As his eyes rolled and his blue lips quivered, a deep ‘X’ shaped gouge appeared in his forehead.
“X marks the spot, eh?” I could feel the handle of the hammer fill my left palm and I left no time for deliberation. The skull cracked after one blow and the subsequent pummeling folded the skin into a splintered cavity, tearing it open and spraying brain matter and shattered bone onto me. The gag reflex gave way to thick vomit that poured into the hole in his head and ran into his open mouth. Bright orbs showered the scene congregating inside of his flattened skull. I fell to my knees as he stood upright and walked to the small rug near the doorway. It lifted and a trapdoor opened up. As he was lowered gently beneath the floor we were, momentarily, eye to eye. This is when his eyes popped from his socket and sunk into the gooey vomit just above his mouth.
That was when I blacked out.

Scary House full moon

The next month leading up to the full moon was a little like the scene from American Werewolf in London where David is bored inside the flat just waiting for the transformation.
Only I wasn’t a werewolf!
I was a stone cold killer with a hammer from beyond the grave. The night came thundering into my skull with loud banging on the front door and the hammer nestled in the pillow next to me. It was ready to taste blood and I was ready to be rid of this madness.
I bounded down the stairs and slid open the door carefully.
No one there.
Then an upside down face slid right in front of me and I realized that the last victim was hung upside down like a slaughtered pig.
“Come into the parlor” I murmured in a Lurch voice and the white-eyed hooded creep floated through the hall and onto the kitchen table.
I took out all the pent-up hate on this kid. Pounding and smashing, pummeling and tenderizing until he dripped over the edge and slopped onto the floor. As before, the silent shadows opened the trap door and the slop oozed into the darkness followed by a fleet of orbs.
As the grandfather clock struck three in the morning, a low rumble was followed by a ripple of tremors and finally the earth shook violently. The whole house cracked and trembled, shuddering as it tumbled down along with all the other derelict dwellings attached. The street split and began to sink into a huge hole that belched giant clouds of silvery red dust and hundreds of bright orbs chased me into the graveyard. I passed the etched pentagrams and stared at the melted figures which had disappeared and were replaced with the inscription on the hammer. As the dust cloud dispersed and the sunrise cast an orange glow over the area, I stared in disbelief at the cemetery. All the dolls heads had disappeared from the railings, which were straight and as new. The gateway was repaired and the stone path without carvings or vandalism. The gravestones shone in their original condition, free from graffiti. The grass was trimmed and edged. I looked into my hands and the hammer’s inscription faded and was replaced with the inscription Eternal rest, forever at peace.
“I still feel hollow. I did what you asked and now, what about me?”
“Drop the weapon!” A harsh voice rung out from behind me. I looked down at the hammer to find it thick with blood and hair and bone fragments. Spinning round, I could see the two victims on the path splayed out and battered. I raised the hammer above my head, shaking and gasping for breath.
The first bullet went through my arm and the second released my orb.
“Eternal peace” they whispered from their plots as the light faded to a cat’s eye flash in a dark iron grate.

Bloody hammerWritten by Richard Bell

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided. All images are found using Google Image Search and are not always labelled I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided.
All images are found using Google Image Search and are not always labelled
I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**