Whoretopsy by Richard Bell

Warning: A bloody tale of horror for the weekend

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Lascivious urges and the lure of the downstairs pulse. There are places in this city of grey granite and half-light that will paint you neon red for a night and your filthy soul for a lifetime.
In those pockets of sin, the depths that you can plumb reach into to the basest desires of man and mangle the entrails decency into a splattered pulp.
Any perversion or twist of the psyche can be satisfied.
Anything for the right price, of course!
Behind the deadbolt doors are shells of humanity. These wretched souls are kept in service until desiccated, used up and milked dry of desire and will.
But death is not a release for them. It is a gasp before an encore.
When they die a whole new clientele appear from under the rocks and stones and out of their tailor-made trousers. They love the cold dead flesh, the unresponsive and totally servile.
They are the necrophiles.
Behind these red-painted doors are sights that were reserved for the grave robbers of the nineteenth century. The livid, humming bags of gut shredding stench. Animal mask wearing men in leather aprons drag the ‘all used up’ into these grotesque rooms and lay them out on a plastic mattress.
The room is chilled and they’ve had their hides filled with formaldehyde by Pete Mortem, the prep guy.
Pete runs the ‘Pine box office’ web channel or The Charnel Channel and supplements this with his sideline, the night safaris. He puts the customers into a van and drives them out to the slums. There the bored and wealthy can bag an orphan, get a Selfie and cut their own trophy.
Just another night in the grey granite city with the onion ghouls and bored, rich deviants.
But the blackest revulsion, reserved for the elite, underneath the obscene zoetrope, felt the ripples in their strands of the web. The curious can never peek through the windows of their country club of obscenities.
That’s where taboo ends and hell becomes access all areas.
But hell is a curious beast. It wants to see the aspiring monsters to grace it’s holding pens.
So hell released a siren with a ‘Y’ incision. It gave Pete Mortem the most putrid, stinking, rancid psychotic she-devil straight from the demonic slab.
This creature was a razor fighting, poison tongued, hard-drinking, hell raising demoness in life. She lived for every excess and screwed like she was riding a derby winner. By the time they found her in the motel room, rolled up in the sheets and jammed under the bed, she was a stinking purple swollen mess. But the star she carved on her chest with a blood curse, ensured her place to the left of the black goat.
When the leather aprons brought her in for the judge to violate, they never imagined what bone chilling terror would be unleashed once he sunk his teeth into the star.
Her black shining eyes glowing red inside, opened up to meet his gaze and, as he opened his mouth to scream, she sucked his tongue into her mouth. With molten bruises dancing across her jaw and cheeks, she sunk her razor teeth into his tongue and chewed slowly, drinking the blood and agonised convulsions. As she swallowed the shredded mess, he vomited into her mouth and filled her stomach with hot puke. It began to leak out of her incision and stab wounds. She threw him off her and onto the floor. Pete Mortem sat in his chair and cheered as the punters logged on in their tens then hundreds to see a rotten corpse snuff a rich bastard and defile him.
She sat up and belched out puke and stinking air. Her bloody star smoking with the fire beneath her purple skin. Reaching down, she slid her black fingertips inside her and pulled out a long, slim razor. That’s when she smiled a cold grizzly bear sneer with a panther’s snarl dragging her brow to push her black eyes back into the green depths of her skull.
The judge crawled back towards the bolted door, spattered with black blood and flesh pieces from previous shows and clambered up the frame. His bleary view through searing pain could make out a hate filled figure writhing towards him unfolding a glinting blade.
He tried to speak, to plead his case but the jury was out and the executioner called.
When the first slice came, it took both his eyes, folding them inwards and releasing reddy black goo spilling down his cheeks. The second took his nose and lips and the third cut a deep leer from his jugular to his jaw. The blood spurted out all over her, releasing plumes of black smoke and an even viler stench. The room began to frost at the corners then travel in snake-like splinters up to the table. The ear-splitting holler that followed saw the room crack in two and the table sink then fall into a cavernous abyss.
As the frost broke the door apart, she tossed the judge’s body into the darkness, scooping his entrails and slashed apart genitals to follow his wretched carcass to hell.
The leather aprons charged at her with machetes drawn, screeching from beneath their masks. But she was as swift as a hunting hawk and slid between them, slicing their hamstrings and Achilles’ tendons. They fell to the floor hollering, slipping about in thick blood as she wound around them slicing and slashing, black eyes wide and sharp toothed grin wider. Crawling about on their twitching bodies, she licked their flowing blood like a cat lapping up its milk. When they stopped moving, she dug the razor deep into their necks and sawed away, growling in rasps until both heads were off. Taking both their machetes she furiously chopped them into small chunks, stuffing the heads between the cheeks of their arses. As she strode towards the control room and Pete Mortem, she chew through the fingers of the leather apron fiends, spitting their rings onto the concrete floor.
Pete had seen events unfold on his monitors and barricaded the door with tables and chairs.
Whack! Hack! Smash! Splinter!
Two machetes working in tandem broke apart the door and, just like Jack Torrance, her hideous bloody grinning head leered at the terrified Pete.
Her eyes darkened to pitch holes as she licked the blades of the machetes slicing her green black vesicle ridden tongue. Then she spewed thick blood and stinking vomit. It ran down her chin and blistered the door, chairs and tables stacked against it. They smouldered and cracked then hissed like cockroaches before melting into thick lumps.
The lights popped and the door swung open. Pete looked at his screens and yelped in horror. A myriad of horrific images featuring all forms of diseased depravity flashed and melted from one to another as terrible scherzo music and screaming blasted his ears.
He backed away from them convulsing and covering his eyes only to stop still against the cold blades of two greasy machetes.
As Pete swallowed hard, one of the blades sliced through his Adam’s apple and he gaped like a landed fish. The second blade clipped the top of his skull off and fell onto the keyboard on the desk.
As his eyes rolled up into his head, the machete in his throat sliced down through his chest, slicing open his stomach spilling its contents onto the power points in the floor and emerging from his scrotum. Pete fell into two pieces in front of the demoness and she grasped his topless head, staring into his blinking eyes.
Slowly the flames behind the black holes shone through and Pete’s severed head screamed in terror without making a sound.
Her evil smile that never broke soaked in the horrors on the screens before they succumbed to the thick frost that followed her from the slab.
Silence moved from white noise to sibilance then the sound of two machetes being dragged behind wet footsteps echoed round the building. It lasted for thirty-eight paces until the deafening bellow sounded again then the whole building slowly slid into the abyss until it was a wasteland covered in black frost.
Somewhere close by a woman lay face down clutching two machetes.

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Original fiction 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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To the haters and the nefarious – by Richard Bell

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Mrs Buckley died today.

The weirdest thing; a deep black cloud settled over her ramshackle house and descended to shroud it in mourning.
The house of Mrs Buckley.
The house where Mrs Buckley had died.
It had a strange aloneness to it.
Like the child in the playground away from it all staring up into worlds beyond dreams, above the painful taunts and punches.
Nature had invaded the bricks and mortar with creepers and the shingles were weathered to splintered wafers.
The picket fence was a few sparse sticks that had not been claimed for firewood through the harsh winter and her black path to the deep green front door, a spattering moss clumps and snotty algae.
Inside the unremarkable home, her body hummed like electric wires in her chair by the fire. The last expression on her face was as though she had been kissed goodnight by a long line of life’s regrets. But it was the last regret, the one with horns and a tail and a story to tell, that left her a screaming skull, her eyes bleached and smashed with black threads.
In her bed, under her sheets, curled up in neat balls were the skewered tongues of her imperfect children.
Their bones and flesh were all ground and purged in mummy’s guts.
All except Delia, who lived in the cage with the words ‘saint inside’ carved above the door. She had been born a mute so never made the mistake of asking a question. She saw all her brothers and sisters fed the silence scone and chopped up into the boiling pot. She had to pretend that they were pigs from the woods and chew the meat from their bones.
She had to pretend that they had never spoken to her from the bars of the cage.
She had to pretend that she couldn’t taste the soap on the meat and the cries of pain in its juices.
Tap, tap, tap…claw, claw, claw…
Hour by hour her raw little fingertips and shredded nails picked at the bindings of the cage.
“I know where they live. The Tormenters and their kind. What I know is how to turn agony into fear like an alchemist. That is my gift to you my little caged saint.” Each time her mother spoke, more black threads invaded her dead eyes and Mrs Buckley walked further into the blackness of the far-flung horrors.
“I will travel with you my little caged saint. I will creep with you into their safety boxes and, once inside, you shall pick apart their bindings. I made this cage for you to find a way out. I took all the unworthy and fed you their nourished flesh. Know this, the worthless are there to feed upon.
Under this house, under its boards and into the stones are the Departers. They are the things that make the sperm so that we can find saints in our bellies. All of the worthless ones that talked as the Departers talked, before flying the nest and leaving us with their share of burden, ended more than bones but less than them.
As their part ended, so they ended and were put under the boards to stink then return to their fires under the soil.”
Days turned to electric night shine and Delia, with dulled nerve endings and a ravening for freedom, loosened the fastenings. The last day was quiet as her mother was lost in the blackness or so she assumed.
The bars of the cage fell away and clattered onto the cold tiles of the kitchen. They came to rest next to discarded bones, gnawed into the marrow by a hungry child and tied together to make the signs of saints.
Delia crawled slowly from her confinement and stood for the first time an equal to world. She wandered into the front room and sat at her mother’s feet staring at the vermin-chewed, stinking remnants of her body.
“My freed saint, you are ready to exact vengeance for your mother. My body is in ruin but my spirit is like our black cloud that has settled over the house. I will be above you in a cloud of shadows and we even the score. They were the wolves that every day blew at the piggy’s house. The Departers only want to rid their seed, everything before is seduction and everything after is reduction. Now go to the kitchen and open the cupboard with the red hand print and bring it all here.”
Delia shivered as a cold draught whistled in through the open window and curled an icy claw round her long gown. The post mountain at the front door had collapsed to a snow drift of white envelopes across the hall floor.
As she entered the kitchen, she swore her siblings ran through her screaming like bats emerging from the attic of a haunted house.
The large cooking pot was upturned and a dozen sharp knives lay around it. In the bottom, in the slurry of the last meal, were two jaw bones and one green eyeball. She reached in, plucked the eyeball out and slipped it into her mouth to swallow like a raw egg. The red hand print cupboard door was stiff but she pulled it open and pulled out a black bag which she dutifully took to her mother.
“Thank you my freed saint. Open the bag and take out all that is held within.”
The rain began to pound the roof and water poured in through the holes in the window. Delia opened the bag and tipped the contents on the floor at her mother’s feet.
“My last will and testament to you my child. This is what you must become to punish the vile creatures that tormented us and who stopped my heart with fright. Take off your saints robes and put on the skin of retribution.”
Delia put her feet into a black suit and rolled it up her body to the neck and over her shaved head.
On her feet, black ballet shoes and her hands black surgeon’s gloves. What was left on the floorboards was several tufts of hair, a paring knife and a syringe with a long needle. Inside the syringe a thick liquid writhed with parasites.
“On your body is the cover of night, as your weapon the infestation of squirm and the blade to take a trophy. On floor are my trophies. Tonight you will better them and scalp six. Remember my avenging angel, I’m at your shoulder. You shall deliver the poison and I will show them the red hand door to hell. We must go and do this before the dawn and I am drawn up into the cloud. Tomorrow you must build a life here and rid this home of all the skeletons and then me. It is then that you can unfold your wings and the up draught shall drive the blackness and spirits from here.
Come, follow me child and we will begin. The first stop is the house on the corner.”
Delia pushed the door, climbed the stairs as if she was thistle-down on the breeze and made her way into the room of the first of the six. She strode to his bedside and climbed under his sheets. Crawling slowly up his legs, across his belly and to his chest, her black shadow mother appeared at her shoulder and the fiercest grimace from the abyss blanched the boy’s eyes and froze him stiff. The needle slid with ease into his jugular and the twisting parasites flooded into his brain along with the whispered horrors of hell’s obscenities. He jolted and spasmed, snapping sinew and tendon then a sickening crack ended it all.
Each of the six visits played out the same and the morning broke with the last white-eyed corpse.
As she discarded her clothes and weapons, the cloud dissipated like ink in water and was gone.
Delia stood in front of her mother and drew a breath,
“I am free to speak as an angel and as a Departer. This world needs both. The angel to live a life with love and a Departer to destroy those who would stand against it.”
Delia rebuilt her home. It stood on the bones of father’s, brother’s and in the centre, Mrs Buckley.

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Original written work by Richard Bell

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Protected by The Grue Asylum Vaults 2015

Protected by The Grue Asylum Vaults 2015

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided.
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Run by Tony Norton

Forest Spirit by FilipeHattori .

Forest Spirit by FilipeHattori


Lifetimes
How they pass by so quickly
I grow weary of Eternity
I live Forever

I am the Spirit of Forest
I feel its bleeding beating heart
Pulsing
Rhythmically in Sync with mine
We are ONE
Hear me –
in the still of silence
I echo through valleys of creaking pregnant pines
Our frequencies are ONE
Smell me-
I am in the scented sweet sickly sap
that bleeds from the scratched bark
Our scent’s – ONE
Yield!!
Demon Piercing Howls
They reverberate
transcending vibrational bonds
Connecting us to the spirit world
Oh Gitchie Manitou –
I pray –
Grant my passage between our dimensions
That I may cross
To this world
To do your bidding
Let my hot billowing breath
Cloud the cold crisp air
Let me anoint this realm
Weak Man
you will…
Bow in AWE of My Powerful Jaw
for the burden of justice has been bestowed upon me
I am lycanthropus
I am the bringer of truth
I see through your transparent soul
Black Crystal Purity
He Has Bestowed on Me
I am the bastard child of the darkness
Come
soak into the darkness
Drench in the shifting shadows of the night
I come to you
in the shafts of silvery lunar moonlight
We are Children of the Moon
Stare into my cold cobalt blue eyes
And know this –
You are mine…..
I am a manifestation of Nature
I am human, I am beast
We two are ONE…
I am a Remembrance from your God
That wandering souls get lost to the darkness
That Natures spirit lives
I am the Lord of all Midnight souls
I take You
I take Your throat
I take Your sex
I take Your sweet lifeblood
I take all of You
I damn Your soul
I condemn You to the endless night
Exalt Me
I am Wolf
You will join Me
Let My howls
Haunt Your dreams
My music plays in Your screams
Run Wild
Run Rampant
Run Free
We RUN

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Featured image by Rafunsel  Jul 12, 2013 Hobbyist Digital Artist rafunsel.deviantart.com

Original written work by Tony Norton

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**

Queen of the Darkness by Tony Norton

Devil and the Deep Dark Ocean

Devil and the Deep Dark Ocean


Drowning in a Sea
Of Perpetual Motion
Moving Waves of Darkness
Are Alive
All Enveloping
A Constriction
It Cloaks
It Suffocates
Thieves Air
Choking
on the Fathoms Of the
Deep Decadent Darkness
So Vast …..
Enormous
Eternal
Exponential Expanse of Void
Hauntingly Vacant
Empty
Souless Black Canvas
of Nevertheless Blackness

Out of the nothingness
Crossing the Veil
Incantations flash
She,
Birthed
In Branded Black
Ancient Signs
They
Summon Her Majesty
She,
Queen of the Darkness,
An Apparition Appears
Beautiful and Black
Keeper of Hearts
She
Commands ….
Samurai Strokes
Purposeful Charcoal Strokes
Angrily Hand driven,
Owned….
Commanding strokes,
Portraying , drawing on the canvas of the Black Bastard Blanket
She,
Conducts the Dark
In Virtuoso
A Maelstrom Symphony of Sadness
Magnus Opus of the Hopeless
With a Pitiful Pallet of Sorrow
She Paints,
with every shade of black
Brushstrokes saturated with dark
Swatches swathed with despair
Every colour of misery
Of a Nihilistic purity
Your Soul cannot escape
Her commands
Mother of Maudlin Souls
Midwife of Shadows
She holds The Darkness
It Clings To Her Black Bosom
Sickly Suckling
She Moves the Darkness
In tandem…..
It saturates your soul
Waves over your hope
Haunting Dark Eyes
Cannot be escaped
Once You’ve gazed upon the Night
Once you have tasted the Darkness
You belong to Her
You belong to the Dark
You belong to the Night
You belong
to the Queen of Darkness
She owns the Dark
She owns Your Soul
She owns You

Queen of Air and Darkness by niko2137

Queen of Air and Darkness by niko2137

Original written work by Tony Norton

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**

***Featured Image belongs to and was created by The world is mine by ParalyzingLove/ dith-dw.deviantart.com ***

Unto the Water by Tony Norton

"Sacred Geometree" by visionary artist, Bonny Hut.

“Sacred Geometree” by visionary artist, Bonny Hut.


Shhhhh
Stop…
Stop thinking
Empty your mind
To the Darkness
Let it become blank
Close all the little doors
Shut them out
Pull the plug on
Firing Synapses
Shut down the circuits
Welcome in
The Seeping Void
The Black canvas
The Blank canvas
Of Consciousness

There

Lulled

Calm

Ready?

Three , two ,one……

Open!!!!

Sploooooooosh!!!!
Waves of blue,
Crashing and Smashing
Waving and Washing
Seeping and Soaking,
Startling the Dark,
Fire!!!!
Pictures do start…
To form
Celluloid to Cells,
Nothing to Nucleus,
Gravity, Bonding,
Foetus Forming
Growing
Living
Faster
Urgent
Thrashing
in the Amniotic
Waves of Blue
Waters Well
Swell
We
Stand
Eggs to Children to
Screaming
Bone Stretching Adults
In an instant….
In a Raging Storm,
At the Edge
Of this Angry Ocean
We created
I hold You
So Tightly
Waves Crash
Onto the Dark Rocks
At Our Feet
Rain Hammers us Wet
We find a solace
A cruel comfort in each other
Winds of Limbo
Roar!!!!
Screeetch
Howl in our Ears
Powerful Ozone
Charges
Ironically
It Doubles
soon to be gone
Oxygen
In preparation
Brave
Foolish
We
Stand Tall
Pathetic Humans
Against the rising tide
Against the ruthless enemy
Time…..
Time will not be denied
We
The Consumers of this Earth
are Consumed
By the rise
Of the Towering Tide
Of a Million Trillion Tears
In this Soaking Ocean
Of Sorrows
The Ocean We begat
I look to You
And You to Me
And We know
And so
the Swathes of Liquid
In coitus ….
where we began…
Now rises
Up
takes us back…
To our base
We go back
unto the Water….

Human Fetus In The Womb, Artwork Photograph

Human Fetus In The Womb, Artwork Photograph

Original written work by Tony Norton

 

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**

Gruedo by Richard Bell

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“Tonight, we have unmasked a dire and pernicious killer with a penchant for ze brutality…” chimed Hercule Poirot, in his clipped Belgian drawl, tweaking his moustache. His ‘little grey matter’ was being used as a razor to slice open this can of worms and watch them spill onto the beautiful chequered floor of the  Asylum.
“Penchant for brutality…what an ass hat” snickered Crash, forcing Ann to spit her coffee half way across the room.
“What’s your theory, you half-baked Columbo?” growled Gillian, her Quintessential truthful perception eyeing everyone with suspicion.
“Madame, I am Belgian…like ze waffle and ze chocolates!”
“And ze ass hat” muttered Crash, forcing Ann to spit a second mouthful of coffee across the room.
“No more Crash, I need my coffee” smiled Ann as Phoebe poured her a refill from the silver coffee pot that was engraved with the Dungeion Master’s blood.
“Thanks Phoebe! That’s one Firestone that always has a rich blend percolating, both in the pot and on the page.
“More coffee this way, please Phoebe” called Matt and Deno.
“Ooh please!” added Kim, Alicia, Spencer, Fay, Peter and Tina.”
“Let me tell you what I have uncovered tonight and we will see that my deduction is perfectly aligned with ze truth…” Hercule crowed proudly.
“Don’t know about Belgian waffle more like twatwaffle!” smiled Ann and Crash spat a full mouthful of coffee right onto Poirot’s highly polished black shoes.
“Well, Monsieur Prystauk, I got zees shoes from Voorhees & Myers of Hackenslash. Very expensive. Zey cost an arm and a leg!” Poirot cracked a smile hoping to be joined by the assembled horror squad but instead tumbleweed rolled across the room and out through the front door.
“Ok Hercule, go ahead and tell us who the murderer is and we can deal with them horrific style” said Gillian with a stern tone that betrayed no sign of trepidation.
“Well, you see that in each room there has been an assault but only one room has there been a murder. Candlesticks, rope, poison, axe, knife…all valiant attempts but not succeeding in a kill. No, I fear it all boils down to this clue…what’s in the box?”
Everyone present in the room cheered in unison,
“WHAT’S IN THE BOX?”
Poirot flipped the latches on the side and reached in, slowly raising the unseen object behind the lid with a foul grin.
“You see the murderer is right under our noses, in fact right in front of us…well…YOU…”
“Bloody murder in here tonight, folks” joked Christy, tongue firmly in cheek.
Poirot raised the machine gun and sprayed the assembled horror squad with hot lead, sending them flying back into a giant pile of twitching, super talented bodies.
“Hmm…The horror squad in the dining room with the machine gun by none other than…The Dungeon Master!”
Richard ripped off the Poirot mask and threw the gun onto the floor.
“You may have suspected the Keeper but you never suspected…”
The Dungeon Master grabbed the skin under his chin and lifted slowly…
“Emilie. And I’m French not Belgian, ass hats!”

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Original written work 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**

Night Hags by Richard Bell

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“She is…she really is…”
“What the…she’s not…”
“She is! She is definitely a CILF.”
“CILF?”
“Yes…Crone I’d like to…”
“Ok, dirtbag, you need to douse the fire down there and focus on the party.”
“The Golden Girls always did it for me.”
“You should call your cock Dracula.”
“Dracula?”
“Yes. Every time it rises there’s a coffin involved!”
“That’s dead funny. Let’s get the snacks in bowls and the kegs out of the van and set this place up with a Heff vibe!”
“Hey! Did you invite the goth girls from apartment five?”
“You mean the Fridges of Eastwick? No one’s ever got anywhere with them and the rumours are that they hunt after sundown and drink blood for real. Haven’t you noticed the town has no vagrants? I mean none…why?”
“Probably because of the Mayor’s ‘here’s fifty and a train ticket now move it’ policy. Have to say that they look like they should be in a Rob Zombie movie. Hot and creepy is not just the jungle at night!”
“Well I posted an invite through their door and I didn’t get it shoved in my face so I’m hopeful. I bought some vodka and tomato juice and they can have Bloody Mary drinks in the moonlight. Look, this building needs to rock and tonight it will do just that.”
“Right! Let’s get the playlist sorted and the bar set up and we can get the party started. What the…”
“It’s a bloody power cut! Can you believe it? Ok…we’ve got the candles in that box. Let’s get them lit and text everyone to bring torches.”
“Erm…you’re not going to believe it but my phone is dead and…yes…the home phone is too. The blackout must be an electro magnetic pulse or something? Everything is dead. Well,we’ve got candles, booze and…a knock at the door.”
“Hey, it’s the goth girls and everything behind them appears to be on fire. That’s normal…we might need the extinguisher from the kitchen. Can you whip up two Bloody Marys, please?”
“Do they want ice?”
“I’m thinking not as they appear to be on fire themselves but it seems to be a black flame and cold so…”
“Two Bloody Mary drinks and…”
“Where are we?”
“We’re in the bathroom. What happened?”
“I brought the drinks in and then…nothing. I blacked out.”
“I blacked out when they walked in. Where are they?”
“I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. Let’s go and see.”
“What are you doing, girls and what’s with the knives?”
“I think they want to kill us. Like I said, no vagrants in this town and now we know why.”
“Wait, if this is witchcraft then I can use my holy water from the vampire kit from Comicon, right?”
“It’s here in my pocket. I was going to impress them if they showed. Alright, girls, let’s see you melt like in the movies.”
“It’s working! They’re crawling behind the breakfast bar. What the…but how…they’re old hags?”
“I’m getting wood. Think I’ll have a wild night with a couple of CILF’s. Come and meet Dracula, girls!”
“More like WILF’s – witches I’d like to…we have to do somethi…”
“I’m feeling drowsy. I think they hexed us. We have to get out of…”
“Where are we?”
“Back in the bathroom.”
“Did I get some witch action?”
“Yes, I think we both did.”
“Are your pants gone?”
“Yes. Yours?”
“Yup!”
“What did they want from us?”
“I think they’re like the Praying Mantis. They screw then kill their mates.”
“But we’re still alive…so…we’re ok, right? Right? Right?”
“It’s too dark to tell…ha ha ha hu…”
“You still there? You still there…you sti…”

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Original written work 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.
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I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**

Living Under de Same Sun by Tony Norton

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Dude looking me over
why you give me dat poor vibe..
Brother You don’t know me
but there’s anger in your eyes
Outside we are different..
I see through your disguise

We are One
Living under de Same Sun
We are One
Loving under de Same Sun

I Live my life My way
A life that’s fit for me..
My eyes see da World
I see tings differently
We may nat be da same
Doesn’t mean we’re enemies

We are One
Living under de Same Sun
We are One
Loving under de Same Sun

Lets learn to live together
Lets Live in Harmony
Celebrate our differences
Celebrate were free

We are Free
Free
To Be
Be who we want
To Be

Free
To Be
Be who we want
To Be

We are One
Living under de Same Sun
We are One
Loving under de Same Sun

Holding on
For de coming of Zion
Holding on
For da Dawning of Zion

We are One
Living under de Same Sun
We are One
Loving under de Same Sun
Loving under de Same Sun
Loving under de Same Sun

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Original Lyrical Poetry Written by tony Norton

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**

When the Darkness Answered by Richard Bell

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Time can be a heavy corpse dragged into a shallow grave
Minutes whittled down to seconds
Sharpened into vampires weapons
I wish I could regenerate
Return from death an awful sight
Pressed upon the window pane
A grimace caught in candle light
Macabre diseased deformed reviled
A sausage skin filled up with rot
Pus weeps like a widowed bride
Stomach churned with worms inside
Maggots writhe on purple bloat
Blowfly larvae flee in plumes
Putrid stench a pungent gag
Bulge until expulsion sag
And then in full moon savage disc
A calling to the fang and claw
Transformed, the star will shift in shape
The wolf is out and won the war
And lightening bolt a million volts
A twitch a judder spasm jolt
Stitched and pieced from many folk
Connected by a carriage bolt
A monster crush obsessed am I
From child on up to man
When asked what fear excites in me?
The darkness answered tacitly
Perhaps my loneliness sought solace
In the realm of fear and dread
When asked what makes my warm blood freeze?
The darkness answered quietly
All manner of bizarre and foul
Changing forms and evil freaks
A monster made by harsh abuse
Unstoppable and never speaks
There’s evil that invades the soul
There’s evil from beyond the sky
Abhorrent abomination born
To bring about the prince of lies
A chilling tale obsessed am I
From child on up to man
When asked what haunts my
vivid dreams?
The darkness answered gingerly
Perhaps the sadness of my youth
Was manifest in gore and fright?
When asked what gives me morbid glee?
The darkness answered selfishly
And as I conjure horrors up
To fill my ghoulish needs
What is your deepest fear I ask?
The darkness answered
Come to me.

Dark Lord Morgoth by Leadedblade

Dark Lord Morgoth by Leadedblade

Original written poetry 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**