Paradise Forsaken

 

GOD HELP US, PLEASE. WE HAVE FORSAKEN THEE.

Like ancient blood dripping ‘cross the shattered

Frothing sea of glass, high above my head

I saw the painted plea. The author of

Such simple eloquence a soul long-lost

To the silent war versus fearsome foe

A mortal  disease, life-bereft virus

Gorging the veins of man, Her name Apathy.

Ill-gotten doppelganger to Emotion.

Her dark domain a grave umbra stretching

The world ’round, causing the sapient race

To retire from care and regard of

All but for their own and moral nature

Trapped deep within that which conjures from

Fondled grasp a muted light unshining.

Yet today Her numb touch could not be felt

By me, transcending the clinical gaze

As the tears slip gently to fall upon

The gray and placid form in my embrace.

My only seed, my beloved daughter

Like beloved mother before, stolen

Untimely from life (and me) on the wings

Of the pernicious Reaper, who watches

With a sickle of a smile the loss

Of all my life’s worth, that I could not save.

Slowly the world begins to crash and burn

Yet I alone am aware and aflame

With grief and all the while ignored by

My unattached neighbor passing me by

We are all alone now in this dim void

Staggering through our paradise forsaken.

An Enduring Nightmare

The street before me was utterly still and silent as I ran its course, a few spectral lamps being my only source of illumination from the night that settled on the neighborhood like inky, pervasive smog.  

“Help, please!” I would occasionally cry out to the looming houses as I passed them by.  No answer would ever come. So I ran, on and on, because I knew somehow – though I never dared to look – that not far behind was my nighttime stalker, keeping pace with me all the time.

This is a recurring dream I had as a child, for years on end. The details would change ever so slightly over time, but it always ended the same … my finding no solace from whoever was pursuing me. It is gone now, back to wherever those pernicious bad dreams go, yet the memory of how it made me feel still brings me chills. Perhaps one day I will even turn it into a story, but until then …

I was wondering if anyone else would like to share something of this nature that they have experienced? By all means, my dears, do.

I love scary stories.

 

The Monster of Frankenstein

He ascended the icy slopes to the summit of Montanvert, fear rampant in his heart. For he knew what he would find, knew that the very harbinger of all that was nefarious awaited him just beyond. Yes, he was terrified, but  it was his creation, his harbinger, and would die trying to destroy it.

A bitter wind rose as he reached the summit, and immediately spotted his quarry, a dark hulking mass in the distance veiled by flurries of falling snow. “ This ends now, unnatural demon,” Victor Frankenstein whispered, nearly collapsing from his exertions. He was ailing, his body expiring, yet all he could see as he trudged on were the faces of his family and friends: William, Justine, Henry… God, his Elizabeth! All dead, killed by what his own hands – through ignorance and conceit- had wrought. A fire burned fierce in his soul, keeping his mortal shell aloft for this last act of setting right what was wrong.    “ Upon this mountain, I shall send you back from whence I dragged you.”

The monster, unable to hear his words, sat stolid and unmoving. The doctor’s weakened eyes could not make out its features, yet he could tell its back was turned. This was an advantage he would need, for he was not nearly as strong or swift. Only by the element of surprise would he have enough time to sneak up and hurl it off the peak. He would die in this endeavour, no doubt, but he was dying all the same.

He thought he heard the heavy breathing above the howling of the mountain air, thought he could see the undulation of its massive shoulders and the fiery hatred grew hotter. He quickened his step;  closure near enough to reach out and touch. ‘ That thing had wanted me to make him a companion, another killer just like him. As if I would ever agree to such an abomination.’ Victor rallied his remaining strength, preparing to lunge …

It wasn’t his monster. Instead, a looming monolith was before him, a gray slab of granite that seemed to silently mock his dismay. For a moment he stood trembling, his mind a blank frame. Then it struck him, the pieces that were his tormented existence at last falling into place.

“ No,” he moaned. “ No, no-”

It wasn’t his monster because there hadn’t been a monster.

“ No, no, noo -”

His experiments with the corpses, the attempts at reanimation, it had all failed. The failure had turned him unstable, and he, Victor Frankenstein –

“ No, not true, not true-

– had killed the little boy, then framed Justine for it. He’d killed William. He’d killed his father. He’d killed Elizabeth. Then he’d created, not with his hands but with his mind, an imaginary monster to take blame for his actions-

– “ Not true!” he screamed at the air, tearing at his hair.

But it was. All of it was true. He was a murderer, and now that there was no demon conjured by his guilty conscience, he couldn’t stand it.  

He walked to the edge of the summit, staring down at the swirling darkness below. ‘ Ironic’, he thought. ‘ I was going to push the monster to his death.’

He jumped.montvert

Top 10 Horror Films of All Time ( In My Opinion Anyway)

  1. A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)
  2. Psycho (1960)
  3. Scream (1996)
  4. Halloween (2007)
  5. Last House on the Left (1972)
  6. Black Cadillac (2003)
  7. The Exorcist (1973)
  8. The Mothman Prophecies (2002)
  9. Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare (2000)
  10. Oculus (2013)

Extra: Freddy v. Jason (2003)

By all means, feel free to comment – whether negative or positive – or question my choices. I would also love to see lists of your own, my dears.

The Psychological State of Writers(?)

I would like to pose a question, my dears:

A loved one once said to me that ‘writers like to twist things in their minds’. Naturally, I denied this, since it was at my expense that this was being said. However, I later began to brood over the possible accuracy of this statement. Do we indeed ‘twist’, is that how the gears in our minds grind? Or is this mistaking creativity for something else?

Feel free to give your own perspective. I truly would like to know, especially from those whom this statement is directed.

Come on in … but mind the demons, please.

Welcome to The Devorian, home of the Horror Element. My name is Devore and I am the proprietor of this haunted establishment. I am also a writer of horror and you will find much of my work here on this site, along with anything else that curdles your blood.

Oh,and by the by, and there hasn’t been house-keeping since 1984, so the rooms might be a little…decrepit.