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[Inktober 2018 - Day 18] “LOOKING GLASS”

I could reach out and touch you, if not for the glass - the single, frangible barricade preventing us from becoming one. Each evening, once the sun has delivered its final kiss upon the earth, you present yourself to me. You tenderly clean your skin, your teeth - every stroke of splitting bristles a benediction. I thrash violently, spiderweb fractures exploding under my palms as you flick a switch, bathing me in darkness, heedless of my bitter anguish. You saw me once. You were young, artless. Now, I could rain a million shards of glass upon you, and you wouldn't even blink.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 17] “THE LAKE”

Father sent me out to the lake. I've made too many mistakes, He said - didn't clear out the sink, didn't make his bed, my hair wasn't blonde like my mom's was, so I need to be alone and think about all the ways I've failed him. I stopped being able to feel my toes around 3am. I push idly off a nearby boulder, teeth chattering. The water's frigid this time of year, and the wet hairs on my arms freeze and unfreeze as they bob in and out of the water. Soon, the birds are chirping, and the warm gold of the rising sun creeps along the beach, towards the shore. My eyes adjust, taking in the bobbing masses surrounding me - what I once thought were boulders - and I start, catching a glimpse of what looks like... hair? I get a better look as the lake is steadily illuminated, and my stomach turns to stone, because... those blonde curls look awfully familiar.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 16] “THE VISITANT”

The sounds started right before he fell asleep. Little tapping noises, barely loud enough to be heard over the reassuring hum of the furnace. It wasn't a big deal at first, but the more he tried ignoring it, the louder and more intrusive it got. Then came the scratching - rough, painful-sounding noises scraping against the walls and doors. Fast, frenzied knocking shook the windows, and now he was really panicking. Whatever was out there, he didn't know what'd happen if it got in. He did everything he could - locked the doors, shuttered the windows. It came in through the roof.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 15] “SANCTUARY”

Home is sacred. Safe. Sure, the outside world is terrifying, but here? You're less alert. Less milk in the carton than you remember? Must've had more than you thought this morning. Creaking noises? It's the damn wind again - you really need to fix that window. You miss every red flag, every news broadcast, because it could never happen to you. Ignore the missing shirts, the out-of-order albums on the shelf. Sigh and go to turn off the storage closet light 'cause Rick left it on again. Ignore the door squeaking open, the feverish panting as you approach. You're safe here.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 14] “A MYRIAD OF MONSTROSITIES”

Ladies and gentlemen, disciples of doubt! Behold, the foul creatures our world has allowed! Take notice, take pity! Take vigilant aim! Just five cents for entry - your life will be changed!

Come one and come all! Free your bodies and minds! Come witness the oddities God left behind! The Two-Headed Man and his towering height Leaves you retching and wailing and cheering all night!

Our Lady in White will have gentlemen swaying - A headless delight for your sinful surveilling! The spider-legged twins and the Girl Made of Leather, All caged and displayed for your own viewing pleasure!

Come on in, and you'll find a stupendous display - A museum of monsters, God's greatest mistakes.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 13] “THE WANDERER”

My parents are overseas for the summer, so it's just Grandma and me at home. It's alright, most of the time; Grandma has taken to wandering around at crazy hours of the night in her old age, but she mostly stays out of trouble. On this particular night, though, her pacing in the basement has been keeping me up for hours. It's pitch black outside when I finally huff and shove my blankets off. Guess it's gonna be one of those nights I have to tug her into bed myself. I blindly descend the steep stairwell, feeling along cold stone walls to avoid falling. 

"Grandma?" I call out, hearing her heavy footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. Huh. Maybe I should watch her diet; my 90 pound grandmother shouldn't be making those noises. "Grandma? It's 3AM, time for bed." 

She snuffles aggressively, the wet noise unsettling in the dark. My steps slow. "Grandma..?" As I approach the source of the noise, I see her dim silhouette, except... That's not right... She towers a good three feet above me, skeletal arms bent unnaturally at her side. I'm struck by the sharp scent of iron as I look down to see dark, viscous footsteps on the tile. Her neck twists, cracking with each incremental movement. 

Suddenly, a light flicks on upstairs. "Emma? Is that you down there?" And my stomach drops as I... slowly... turn my head back to meet a wide, spit slick smile that does not belong to my Grandma.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 11] “THROW ME A BONE”

The thing Coleridge had discovered about buses was: everybody has somewhere to be. Now, that may sound silly, but it's been a huge pain for him since his Shadowcoach was brought to the shop. He'd almost been late four out of five days this week on account of all the buses being full. He's jerked out of his thoughts as the head of the unkempt man beside him suddenly pivots, glaring away his unseeing gaze. Coleridge flinches, spinning around, only to be met with the cavernous eye sockets of the little old woman to his right. Her rotting teeth widen in an unsettling facsimile of kindness, but Coleridge shrinks away from her as well, raising his newspaper in an attempt to shield himself from the unwanted attention. He has the sudden urge to ground his daughter to a month in the Underworld for crashing the coach, and thanks whatever dark deities were listening that he had no cheeks, for they'd surely be flushed right about now. How embarrassing. Stiffly, Coleridge crosses his leg, settling in to read the latest article about questionable human inventions, but finds that he can't laugh as he normally would. He silently, illogically, hopes Satan is real, and that he's benevolent enough to save even a single seat for him on the next bus into town.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 10] “SAFEGUARD”

Brick by brick, my barricade is erected, mortar gritty under my hands as it spreads. On the other side, grotesque faces jeer, crooked fingers pointed in my direction. I've learned to ignore them. The wall's nearly complete. Soon, I won't ever hear those taunting cackles again. Growing up, I knew Grandma wouldn't always be around, so I learned to protect myself. S'alright though, I grin at the other brick casket in the room. I never needed Grandma. The sneering faces below turn fearful, steadily being encased in darkness. I smile, benevolent, and place the final brick. Ah... Silence at last.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 9] “CHARLES”

Since Mom died, the basement's become a horrible place. I guess it didn't bother me so long as she was there. But there'd been a storm. Nobody saw that truck coming. Now, when I'm downstairs, all I can do is stare straight ahead, grab what I need, and leave. Ignore the wet panting across my kneecaps, the stiff fingers caressing my calves, the pitter patter of palms on the concrete as I'm trailed. When I ascend the stairs, it's to the distinct sensation of cavernous eyes taking me in - a feeling that doesn't go away once I close the door.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 8] “CULL OF THE WICKED”

"Sharpen your pitchforks and rally your men The Cull of the Wicked is set to begin Mind not their tears, nor foul, retching wails Fear not their curses, and all they entail

Execrable sinners must reap what they've sown They'll burn and they'll hang and be buried in stone Our women no more - they gather in masses For no one's exempt of the Devil's morasses"

But prick up your ears, sweet Children o'mine, Lest you be submerged in that cruel, rushing brine Oysters will perish but we are the pearls For men can move mountains, but we shall move worlds

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 7] “THE BRIDGEKEEPER”

Beneath the unremitting maelstrom of Bronx traffic, beneath the squawking of pigeons and the hissing autumn wind, are deep, steady breaths. Here lies something primordial, born of the essence of reality itself. Leaves crunch carelessly as the quarry veers off a trodden path, descending further and further into the depths of the underground. Unsuspecting feet leave nary a trace in the giving earth as they fall. One step. Two. Three. The commotion of the city fades with the stumbling footsteps until nothing remains but echoing respiration. Bony fingers twitch, anticipatory, and fathomless eyes peel themselves open, waiting to be fed.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 6] “THE PHANTOM WALTZ”

Phantom forms twirl amongst one another, a desolate symphony of lost desires and forsaken souls. Wispy trails of noblemen, lords and ladies of the highest honour, condemned to a benumbed eternity of rigid collars and perpetually painted lips, finding comfort only in the briefest caress of spectral fingers. There are whispers of a grand waltz in the wind, the indistinct rejoicing of those oblivious to the fate to befall them. Watch as they are denied their rapture, soles coated in the blood of those they once stood proudly upon, trailing carmine ink in sweeping cursive along the frigid marble floor.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 5] “WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE”

Would that I were a screech owl, so that I might whisk you away to paradise, saccharine with the blistering souls of those who deny us our worship. A ram, to raze our path of earthly possessors that divide us. A serpent, so that I may entwine myself within you, entangling the threads of our being until you are parted from me and never parted. You are Creation itself, though the world blooms not for you as I would. Relish in the juice that flows from your lips. It is ichor on my tongue. Eram quod es, eris quod sum.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 4] "SWEET VELVET SURRENDER”

Be still, fair maiden, for you have yet to recover. There is no need to fret... You were on my doorstep, seeking solace from those who would harm you. I can make you forget them, for as long as you give yourself to me. Take comfort in the sweet velvet slide of my love. Rid yourself of their poison and welcome me into your lungs. I will sprout deep within you, as nightshade in rich soil. Close your eyes... Inhale me. No harm will befall you while I am here. Rest, for when you awaken, I will devour you whole.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 3] “IF ANYBODY CAN HEAR ME”

Are you there? ...Focus on the sound of my voice. Don't be tempted by the Fog. Pay it no mind. Even when you swear you can hear your sister's familiar squeal. Your father calling your name. The tinkling laugh of that neighbour who baked you cookies for shoveling her lawn. She always liked you. When you feel clammy fingers teasing your ankle, wet breaths moistening your eardrums, keep going. Don't stop. Don't even slow down. Not for the teasing scent of Nana's rhubarb pie, or your lover's sweet perfume. They're all gone. If you're not careful, They'll take you too.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 2] “THE GHOST IN MY HOUSE”

There's a ghost who lives in my house. He paces the hall, all white skin and sunken eyes. Every night, he stops at my door, but he never comes inside. I haven't slept much lately. In the morning, he makes strawberry pancakes. My favourite. He sets down two plates, but only puts pancakes on one, so I just watch him eat. He looks sad when he eats. Sometimes, he goes into my room and cries over my sweaters. I don't know why. Maybe they remind him of his family? I hope they find him one day. He seems very lonely.

[scribandscrawl]

[Inktober 2018 - Day 1] "NORTHERN WINDS"

When the winds blew in from the north, Mother did not waver. She curled around us, though she was tiny, campanulate, as the biting frost pierced her skin like glass. She did not waver when sheets of gelid snow pressed down upon her, their chill seeking our vulnerable stems. Even when the light returned, and we begged her to unfurl, she did not. Now it is spring, and new caps are emerging - tiny, campanulate - and I am afraid. Because I have never been without her. And I do not know if I can withstand the cold.