Tuesday, April 22, 2014



Today is Earth Day. Let's stop the rape of Earth Mother! Now!

Your Harlot Weeps (This Is A Poem For Adults)

Your Harlot Weeps

A virgin yet, she was sweet and pure,
only wanting her gifts to share;
asking 'naught in return.

Your harlot weeps.

You came along, this mighty man, intent on harm,
not caring for love, your greed your God,
taking was your game.

Your harlot weeps.

Your manhood shoved into her gash,
you twisted and you turned, 'til blood poured out,
a raging river, and still you did not care.

Your harlot weeps.

Deeper, deeper in you went, a wicked smile upon your face.
Your thrust was brutal, causing pain,
but were you not the Lord of all?

Your harlot weeps.

Devastation was your job, a task you handled well.
And soon it was that your sweet lady,
was dragged so close to hell.

Your harlot weeps.

You fucked her over, of that I'm sure,
her face no longer young and sweet,
having now a sad, gray pallor.

Your harlot weeps.

She can not return to days of old,
it is too late for that.
But yet there is still chance for her to atone.

Your harlot weeps.

The oceans rise and take out cities resting on its shores.
Volcanoes blow from deep within the core,
and crops go dead from salt and heat.

Your harlot weeps.

You rush and try to flee her wrath,
but that she'll have no part of.
You had your chance, yet you would not see.

You harlot weeps.

And now that sweet revenge is hers,
your hope is lost and gone.
She is the winner now.

Your harlot weeps.

For Mother Earth, fucked high and low,
is getting the last word, as bastards fall and die,
their reign here now is through.

Your harlot weeps.

But yet she cries, her spirit broken,
for all she ever wanted, was peace and joy upon her lands,
and now that will never happen.

Your harlot weeps.

Blaze McRob

I wrote this poem three years ago. Today is Earth Day. As you can tell, I abhor the raping of Earth Mother. This is the perfect day to post this on my blog. We can not constantly take and not give back. The language is gritty, but it must be. Nothing less will do.


Damned Words 7



Ah, the flow of turbulent waters added to the majesty of the words written by The Pen Of The Damned. It does not get any better than this. I have to admit that I was my usual evil self and gave a rude welcome to one of our new members Craig McGray. Let's call it tough love. Heh, heh. Our other new member, Magenta Nero, was spared from my brutal justice. Welcome our two new members and welcome all those who love reading what the Damned have to say.

Visit our website and read many more short stories and poems that will unsettle you before an evening's rest.

Blaze McRob

Anger Falls
Zack Kullis
It trickles at first, barely perceptible, moving slowly towards an inevitable end. Heat blooms, melting what once was controlled in an icy grip. The trickles collide, begin to coalesce, mingle and fuse.
The calm silence swiftly flows towards a thundering rumble. It pushes against its boundaries with a hint of its violent potential. There is no damn to hold back the deluge.
Anger swells, mounting, growing exponentially as I yield to the unstoppable. I feel the precipice as the fury carries me over and plunges me into the tumultuous abyss of wrath. This is fury’s terminal velocity – Anger Falls.

The Pool Below
Jon Olson
My heart beats rapidly; anxious with excitement. I brought the children like it told me to do. That was so easy. The water is still, like glass, before spilling over into the pool below. Somewhere in those depths, it’s watching, waiting; and hungry. It wants them. Laughing, the little ones are unaware. The movement is ferocious, the scaled grey hand frightening, the laughter silenced; and I am alone. I pull my eyes away from the violence, back to the calm. A deep breath, an exhale and I relax. It’s over, for now, until it grows hungry again. And it will.

Amber Vision
Nina D’Arcangela
Sluicing beneath the calm amber surface, she admires her own form; long sensuous limbs encased in umber scales glinting iridescent, claws meant for rending soft flesh, eyes the barest taint of rust. She floats these waters from another time, another place – all but forgotten. Spying one wading to catch its meal, she allows the flow to carry her near, masks herself as that of something much smaller, permits her seeming capture. A smile parts her lips as her hooked fangs insure its death. She playfully rolls onto her back, the two tumbling head first into the raucous waters churning below.

Joseph A. Pinto
This; this place where first I laid eyes on you, beckoning from atop the crest. I would rip gods from the skies just to be with you. I fight the currents. I swallow deeply our Acheron; your vile taste leaves me reborn. Thunder in my ears, cascade a veil cross my eyes. I cannot refuse you; how I relish the way you bloat my throat. Allow me rest; but for a moment, will you…the gravel bed serves me well. Speak my sacrifice at the headwaters; slice free from me my spawn. Let me swirl like detritus amidst your feet.

Tyr Kieran
In this moment, I am keen. Saturated. Aware. A dominating flourish of life swarms my senses—every detail becoming known and prominent. The breeze caresses my face. Bugs and birds chirp in merry discourse. Dazzling, the sunlight peaks through the foliage overhead and crystallizes brilliantly in the water below. The wood planked bridge behind me sways ever so slightly, subtle creaking that hums in harmony with nature. I feel alive. My heart swells, pounding faster and faster, blood surging. Then, the gurgling lullaby of the creek and everything else ends suddenly as the bristled rope around my neck snaps taught.

Craig McGray
Even as a young boy, I’d often wondered what was beneath the roiling water of the falls. Mesmerized by the clarity, clear and untainted before cascading onto the rocks below, crashing into the time-worn rocks huddled at the bottom.
Life, like a crisp mountain stream, starts as something pure, innocent, before running its turbulent course, eventually reaching a precipice and plummeting to something else, something we can’t be positively sure of.
Over the years, I’ve tossed many screaming souls from this very spot, and I’ve yet to hear back as to what they found at the bottom of the falls.

Trespass No More
Blaze McRob
Unseen hands hold Craig’s face beneath the swirling waters below the dam, rubbing it to and fro, the jagged rocks on the river bottom cutting his face to shreds. The unseen entity lifts Craig’s face from the river and says, “You fucking anglers think you can disregard signs. Stay out means just that. You’re not special. This river is mine.”
Enraged at the blood pouring into his beloved river, he shoves Craig under once more, slamming his head repeatedly against the moss-laden saws designed by Mother Nature. His job completed, he releases Craig’s body.
“You will trespass no more, mother-fucker…”

No Swimming
Thomas Brown
From the outside it doesn’t look like much: three warehouses painted a pale cream. Sometimes there is a van or two, parked in the vacant bay beside the river. Plumes of white smoke. A sign, announcing where I am:
The Dream Factory.
Visitors report to the holding bay for guided tours.
You couldn’t pay me to cross the low wire-mesh fence. I’ve seen what leaves this place; not in the vans, but the adjacent stream: transparent fat, pinkish globules, and if you look closely, long, effervescent faces, mouths stretched, eyes wide: nightmares, skimmed from the vats into the quick current.

Magenta Nero
The all encompassing roar of the water, a frothing primeval anger that rises from deep within the earth, takes back each useless tear as it rolls off my cheeks. I have spent a lot of time here lately. Poised on this edge. Thinking. Your body slapped against rocks, broken and swept away downstream. Like waste. From the split in your skull leak your extravagant lies. You remember this place don’t you? The place of our first tender kiss. And now our very last. Your mouth open but silent. Your eyes, wide, incredulous, staring back up at me. As you drop.







Mary Genevieve Fortier is my Woman In Horror today! This post has many links attached. For good reason. Mary not only writes some fantastic tales of horror, but she does many other things as well.

Some of you know I do some research when writing these little posts of mine, and do I ever come up with some fantastic stuff! Go to  http://www.stayingscared.com/Nighty%20Nightmare.html  and read what Mary has to say on this website she shares with Wee Willie Wicked and Fester Bones. She is Nighty Nightmare on the site and starts out with NIGHTY AND HER “TEMPORARY SKELETONS” GUESTS. This is a Q&A done with authors but in a most intriguing style. Think as if you're sitting on a wobbly wooden chair with dust and co-webs everywhere. Ah, now you feel at home, don't you?

Her discourse on Horror is definitely going to provide some valuable insight. She discusses clowns, spirits, screams , hissing, laughter, shock, icy touches, and much more. Then she adds in the sense of smell and all the goodies lurking about ready to latch onto you. And in addition to talking about all the senses, she talks about the absence, the loss of these senses. Does the word Dark mean anything to you? Yes, I thought it would.

Haunted houses play an important part of the joy Mary shares. When I was a young child we did not have TV and I would sneak down the hallway and listen to Inner Sanctum on the radio. Remember that show with that creaking door? Sakes alive! It was grand. Mary re-enacts creaking doors, flickering lights, voices, laughter and more to make you feel uneasy in your surroundings. Yes, Mary, scare the crap out of your fans!

Mary discusses superstitions and ghost busting, but she really comes into her own when she talks about cemeteries. Such a lovely place to be, don't you think? Tombstones, grave markers, mausoleums, are all discussed, as well as that ever present chill in the air, fog, and gloom. She speaks of physical planes and soul-less entities. She mentions the fact that maybe not everything thought to be without a soul actually is. And our guide through the Dark realms gives you links where you can further enhance your knowledge. Bacon once said that knowledge is power. People walking around in cemeteries at night could use a little power. You are one of them, are you not?

These are only a few of the delights awaiting you if you merely venture to that succulent page of Horrific Glory. Nighty Nightmare has this and so much more to stimulate your morbid desires. To be quite honest, I was, and still am, quite flabbergasted at the wonderful tales waiting for me. You will be too. Visit, read, and Stay Scared!


Author; Columnist, Editor, Reviewer and published Writer of Poetry/Prose of various genres.

Imagine and Dream… two words that best describe the mind of this poet. An avid lover of the written word, Mary has penned many poems of various genres since the age of seven, having first been published by nine.
Mary grew up reading, watching, loving anything horror; Her darkside so to speak.
Classic authors, whose pens have etched greatness in works that not only create shivers down the spine but inspire movement of the soul — Such remarkable writers as Poe, Shakespeare, Browning, Gibran, just to name a few, gave Mary that special element that drives every poet to place their essence upon parchment. This became the ethereal foundation of her poetic form.
Writing as such gave way to countless poems/prose and other works, many of which found publication in anthologies. Today she has not merely found a new voice but added an intrinsic octave to her repertoire; The genre of Horror, both poetic and fiction.
Mary’s poetry has been described as mystical, melodic, flowing with a unique grace that at times has been likened to the old world poets.
Her horror poetry has been deemed as “Poe-esque” by many.
She has most recently been accepted for publication in five horror anthologies, “Bones”, “Satan’s Holiday,” “Welcome To Your Nightmare,” "Blessings From the Darkness" and One of her poems will be used as the Intro to the soon to be released, "Temporary Skeletons" Anthology by Chupa Cabra House Publications.
She has two poems in the January 2014 issue of "Shadows & Light Magazine," one of which is a photo caption award winner.
In addition to being in print, Mary’s poetry is featured in “The Wicked Library,” (a podcast available on iTunes, Stitcher.com and hipcast.com) Season 3, Episodes 307, 307.1 Bonus and The Christmas Episode "Christmassacre 2."
Currently, Mary has a position as a columnist, “Nighty Nightmare”, for http://www.stayingscared.com/, a Horror website.
In addition, she is a partner/editor/author for Black Bed Sheet Books and a reviewer for Hellnotes and Dark Regions Press.
Mary is working on a personal website, tupelohoneyhugger.com.
Presently, you will find her at http://www.stayingscared.com/Nighty%20Nightmare.html and on Facebook at
You may also find an interview on Mary at
"A Knife and a Quill"


“American Poetry Annual” – The Amherst Society
“Visions” – Iliad Press
“Poetic Voices of America” – Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum
“A View From The Edge” – The National Library of Poetry
“The Best Poems of the 90’s” – National Library of Poetry
“Expectations” – Iliad Press
“Impressions” – Iliad Press
“Allusions” – Iliad Press
“Celebrations” – Iliad Press
“Visions and Beyond” – Creative Arts & Sciences Enterprises
“Bones: An Anthology” – James Ward Kirk Publishing
“Satan’s Holiday” – Compiled by Yvonne Mason
“Welcome To Your Nightmare” – Compiled by Yvonne Mason
“The Wicked Library” season 3 – a podcast Episodes 307 & 307 BONUS
"The Wicked Library" Chrismassacre 2
"Temporary Skeletons"- an Anthology soon to be released Feb. 15, 2014
"Shadows & Light" Jan. 2014 issue

 Did you read all those links? Did you see all the great things in the world of horror that Mary is involved with?

Mary Genevieve Fortier is a Woman In Horror!

Blaze McRob

Blessings From the Darkness by Nicholson, Scott, Powell, Rick, Sinclair, Sage and Platt, Shawna (Jan 13, 2014)


Bones by Publishing, James Ward Kirk (Sep 20, 2013)


Temporary Skeletons by Timm Tayshun (Feb 14, 2014)


Formats Price New Used
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Satan's Holiday by Mason, Yvonne and Koch, Kelly J (Sep 30, 2013)



Monday, April 21, 2014




Magenta Nero is my Woman In Horror today! She has no books on Amazon yet, but if you go to her website http://magentanero.wordpress.com/ , you will find plenty of prose and poetry to stimulate your desires for things Dark and gritty!

Magenta Nero is a fiction writer and poet. Inspired by the devilish, deviant and deranged, she writes tales of dark fantasy, gothic horror, erotica and gritty realism.
Her work was included in Sirens Call ezine #13, February 2014, celebrating Women in Horror Month.
She was born in Italy and has lived and worked in London, Tokyo and Sydney. She currently lives in the Northern Rivers, Australia, with her partner and two young daughters.

Here is a story I took the liberty of stealing from her website. Bad Blaze.

Sleep Walker

Eyes flicker, then open. I stare up at the shapes that form and disperse in the fluid dark. I am like water or smoke as I infuse this flesh, seep into it. I merge with muscle and bone. Then I rise. Feet land quietly on the floor. I feel cold skin resting on thin, worn carpet. Toes stretch and flex. I have been here before, I have seen this place. I stand up and begin to walk. Each step rigid and carefully considered by this body which has not yet warmed to me. I’m not sure how long it will allow me to remain but for a little while it is mine.
I am staring down the long dark hallway, drawn towards the haze of light at the end. I brush past a large potted plant. It’s feathered leaves drag against me, as if trying to catch me. The sharp corner of a low table stabs me painfully in the calf. Objects, soft and strangely shaped, are trodden underfoot, plush toys perhaps. When I reach the end of the hallway I find myself standing in a large kitchen. The dim glow of street lights seeps in through the window. I look around, waiting as more detail becomes clear to me. The bench tops are cluttered with appliances. Cups are stacked carelessly on an open shelf. The sink is full of unwashed plates and pots. A vase of crowded flowers sits on the window sill. 
I catch sight of a most wondrous thing. On the wall, by the sink, there is a magnetic strip holding a collection of knives. An exquisite set of knives with polished handles of dark wood. Out of place in this tawdry decor, they reign with an understated glamour.
The fraction of light in the room plays on them, illuminating the blades with a soft focus. I approach them and examine them more closely, observing them as you would a painting, stepping back, stepping forward, until I find the ideal spot from which to view them. I can see the quality of the steel, thick and gleaming sharp, and the wooden handles sculpted to fit the palm with balanced, comfortable ease. Stunning craftsmanship. Lovingly I gaze and admire them. A long thin blade that curves to a tip. Breath taking is the flat wide blade, a blade with which to cleave. Two smaller knives, one quite small and the other a good practical size. Daggers, light in the hand, for quick fast strikes. And a long serrated blade. To saw through stubborn things. They are in disarray, it fills me with sadness to see such majestic tools neglected. Tenderly I rearrange them. Then I stand back and admire their perfected order. I feel a deep longing to yield one. To hold that little dagger and drag it across flesh, nothing much, just a tiny little nip on the wrist, barely there, perhaps she would not even notice, a delicious craving uncurling…but then I am interrupted.
I hear a voice, high and thin, like an echo reaching me from far away. It disturbs me. I feel this body twitch in response, threatening to wake. I must find the source of it and silence it. Slowly I shuffle back down the hallway.
“Mummy? mummy?” the voice calls softly as I pass. I stop and turn suddenly, entering a small bedroom.
It is afraid. It is asleep but it can hear me, it can sense me. The thick curve of sleeping lashes, paper thin skin stretched over eyeballs. It is restless, it wriggles and then it rolls up tight into a ball. I reach for it and lightly stroke the bony arc of it’s spine. The bodies are familiar, I feel them connect in some way, speaking to each other, and a sense of calm flows between them. The little thing settles and soon falls back into the breath of deep sleep.
I walk to the large bedroom window and look outside. I would like to go outside. Wander this peculiar and beautiful place. Rain is falling gently and all is dark, quiet and still. Through the trickle of raindrops on the glass I see a row of identical houses and bare trees along the wet glistening road. Trees that seem to be cut from the night, delicate and intricate silhouettes. It is very pleasing. I feel this face crumple into a smile, the strange sensation of muscles tugging under skin.
How long do I stand there, grinning senselessly as I gaze out of the window? Time passes differently here and I seem to get trapped in thought for endless moments. The darkness is changing hue, dawn is not too far away and I must return. Enough for now. I drag this body back to it’s bed and lay it down. Eyelids close and I am gone.
In the morning she is standing in the kitchen drinking very hot coffee in rapid sips. It is burning her mouth but she doesn’t notice. Her daughter is sitting at the table eating cereal. The loud crunching is an unbearable noise, the rhythm of it is aggravating. It mingles with a subtle discomfort that is churning in her, a quiver of irrational fear. Those tea cups on the shelf, that is not how she stacks them. The vase has been moved on the window sill, she’s sure of it. The flowers themselves, there is something unfamiliar about them. She stares at them and realises they have been rearranged in the vase. They are fanned out elegantly and deliberately, in a manner she can’t relate to. She is beginning to feel a bit nauseous. This is not the first time these odd little things have happened. Things move around and order themselves in some foreign fastidious fashion. She has noticed it before. She is not imagining this. She glances over at the sink and her eyes fall on the row of knives. They are aligned from smallest to largest, evenly spaced apart and perfectly upright. The sight of them is confusing and then terrifying. The cup slips from her hands, shatters loudly, and scalding coffee splashes her bare feet.
(C) Magenta Nero 2014

Majestic writing indeed. For more of her fantastic stories, go to Magenta's website and read away. There will be more exciting news coming soon concerning Magenta. I will be posting it on my blog.

Magenta Nero is a Woman In Horror!

Blaze McRob

Sunday, April 20, 2014




Juliet Blackwell is my Woman In Horror today! Juliet is probably better known for her super Art Lovers Mystery Series which she writes as Hailey Lind with her sister Carolyn J. Lawes. This series is about an ex-art forger trying to go straight by working as a muralist and faux finisher in San Francisco. The first of these, Feint of Art, was nominated for an Agatha Award; Shooting Gallery and Brush with Death were both IMBA bestsellers, and Arsenic and Old Paint is now available from Perseverance Press.

If Juliet can write mystery tales, why not Witchcraft mysteries? No reason not to, so she does. Her Witchcraft Mystery series is quite charming: to a point, of course. Add in witches and the supernatural, and we have a great genre overlap of the best kind. I appreciate the fact Julie takes the things she is most interested in and knows the most about and weaves her magic into her stories.

I am intrigued with the premise for the Witchcraft series. San Francisco and Haight Street have so much history already, but Julie tosses in a Witch who operates a vintage clothes shop. Imagine the shopping experience there. But once again, we read about witchcraft from the complex and all encompassing mind that is Juliet. She has been around the world and studied many cultures and, of course, within these cultures resides many urban legends and mystical practices. Julie is especially intrigued with Latin America, which I am as well. Maybe if we all ask her, she will write some specific stories about these settings and spin the witchcraft in. Hint, hint! 

Juliet's Amazon bio: