Fearology: Screamers

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Ahhhh! Oh. Excuse me. Pardon the involuntary airy expulsion.

How come bipedal mortals (humans) scream when they’re scared? Have you noticed that? Perhaps you’ve been the victim of an involuntary airy expulsion. What caused it? One of them eight-legged atrocities? A scary movie that most likely simulated the demise of a stupid drunk frat boy? One second he’s lapping down a beer, hahaha, and then…CRUNCH! He’s dead.

And you scream.

Or perhaps you’re one of those lucky individuals who experiences an involuntary expulsion from their ass.

Screaming doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?

All kidding aside, screaming is a beyond stupid evolutionary defense mechanism. Kind of. Yeah. Sure. Screaming has its perks. If a hyena is biting your face off, then screaming will alert everyone within earshot to run away and save their own face.

But…

Screaming also shines a big ol’ spotlight on the individual doing the screaming, which may seem like that’s the point of…ummm…screaming. However…

This hypothetical hyena has pals. And they’re also very hungry. They also can’t see well in the dark, but they sure as shit can hear someone expelling sound-waves out of their mouth. And that’s not good for preserving one’s skin. Or face. Or legs. Or arms. Or stomach. Or bones. Or soul. Hyena eat everything.

Even when nobody is around—people still scream when they’re surprised by a broken ankle or leg. Falling from fatal heights, usually squeezes a scream out of someone, as if Superman himself is going to swoop down from the wild blue yonder and snatch them away from the grasp of death. Screaming worked for a descending Lois Lane, but it won’t cushion the fall of a 3-D mortal.

 

Hearing a person’s scream is like being raped by their demise.

 

The forceful cacophonous penetration twists and turns your guts. You may not be able to see who’s being devoured by the hyena, but you’ll be able to feel every bite—the screams awaken a primitive pain.

After all: everyone is on the menu.

Saber tooth tigers chowed down on our ancestors. And who knows what chowed down on our ancestors’ ancestors. Obviously something very hungry, because somewhere deep inside of us all, we’re still scared.

Speaking of deep inside, screaming can also be induced between the sheets.

Unexpected joyous occasions, or happy surprises (or endings…depending on the situation), may invoke an involuntary airy expulsion. There’s a fine purple velvet line between pain and pleasure, yet the audible expressions are often indistinguishable.

Screams of horror and screams of pleasure produce similar symptoms: moaning, groaning, begging…

So…

Is a hyena really doing the eating? Or is it something else? I’ll let you decide.

Screamers

Supplication

Poem By Phoenix Risen 

Oh, dark spirit, old and wise –
hearken unto me this night.
Give me thine ear, if only for a moment –
that thou might relieve me of my plight.

Look thou upon me in mine hour of despair,
for a woman hath beset me.
Another dark spirit like unto thee.
She is tempestuous, yet my desire is she.

Wherefore doth thou trouble me, oh, human?
Thou art but an insect unto me –
a rag doll to be consumed at my leisure.
What careth I for thee or thy pleasure?

Hath a dark spirit come unto thee?
A sister of mine own dark spawn.
A succubus to drain thee of thy will.
Let her be a plague from morning till dawn. Continue reading

Everyday Horror: Roadkill Blues

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Everything is fine and dandy until you see something dead on the side of the road.

Some kind of four-legged mammal…torn open…ruby tissue…chunks of mangled biology. A feast for the crows and worms. Roadkill is something many of us see everyday. This typical mammalian sun blasted gore may even blend into the environment. Oh…there’s a daisy patch over there…a piss stained fire hydrant near the mailbox…oh! And a pregnant deer that was eviscerated by something very heavy and traveling at high-speed.

I’ll let you guess what did the killing. Continue reading

The Maze

Poem By J.T. O’Sullivan

Tepid tapered streams seamlessly
Flow through rigid rivers in each
Creaking crevice of his mangled
Maze-like mind.

Each turning twisting twirling whirling
Step and stone through flesh and bone
Beyond the walls a man;
Alone.

Continue reading

Monster Art: Zombies & Trinkets

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Last weekend was a blast; creating three monster art items from inexpensive finds at a flea market!

Everything you see here cost me less than $10 to make.IMG_4671

The round metal box, embellished with glittery beads, had a lid that was difficult to remove.

IMG_4661I had these vintage 1950’s sour cream carton lids in my art studio, which I dressed up with glitter and a zombie (thanks for the zombies, Matt)!

The trinket book box has a nifty magnetic closure that keeps it tightly closed, so you can actually display it like a book! There was one last sour cream lid left, so I glued on a plastic skull and glass beads to make it shimmer.IMG_4643

The last find was a journal that I collaged and painted. A female zombie figure was glued on the top of a broken flower brooch which I fastened onto a metal lid. Continue reading

Slasher: Way of the Knife

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Red hands open a kitchen drawer, and then wrap around a wooden handle. A golden shimmer from a nearby streetlamp bleeds through a window, coating the edge of a serrated knife. Thin tapered steel extends from the red hand like a predator’s tooth ready to bite. Dirty boots ascend a nearby stairwell—blobs of soil drip from leather soles—while the predator’s tooth eats a gash across a nearby framed painting.

Red hands push open a closed door.

Golden luminescence betrays a pale face sleeping on a pillow. The soft rhythm of dream exhales as the red hand dangles a steel tooth above her eyelids. Continue reading

Grave Digging

Poem By AJ O’Brien

I awake within a black box
beneath sacred soil.
My heart hits a beat –
tiny tunnels fill with blood,
beginning to flow and boil.
I claw my way out
and happily arise
within a graveyard dark,
surrounded by the dead
and forgotten goodbyes.

Continue reading

Is There A Monster Underneath Your Bed?

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Mommy kisses you on the forehead. She pulls a blanket under your chin and then turns on a nightlight. The wooden floorboards squeal underneath her feet while you pull the cover underneath your quivering eyes. Mommy stands in the doorway—a black shadow creeps across the floor as she waves a hand.

“Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let those bedbugs bite.” Continue reading

Woodbine

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Story By Robert Emmet

 

Megan was an ugly girl.

She knew this, because everyone told her so. Even her mother.

“You’ve a crooked nose, a chin like a frog’s arse; no man will ever want to take you as a wife. But you have other talents. You do well in school; if you apply yourself, you could make money as a tutor; and then possibly become a teacher; but that’s all you’ll ever have in this life.”

She believed this, and so concentrated on her studies.

One day, Megan’s mother received a phone call from Mrs. McGuire; she asked if Megan would be interested in tutoring her son.

Megan knew the McGuire boy; he was very dense, poor at school, and notorious for having many girlfriends.

He was also very handsome.

“There you have it,” her mother said. “He’s thick as anything, but if you can make a little money off him, why not?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t like him. He’s an idiot, and he goes around with all the pretty girls. I don’t trust him.”

“You’re not one of the pretty girls, Megan. He’s not going to bother with you. Just teach him the best you can, and take his mother’s money.”

And so she approached the boy, nerves awry, and made arrangements

to meet him at his home for tutoring.

He just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright, then.”

She wasn’t so nervous when she went to his house; after all, he wouldn’t try anything with her; why would he?

She soon became frustrated, however, because he was a poor pupil.

“I can’t concentrate,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t we go for a walk, so I can clear my head a bit?”

Clear it of what? She thought. There’s nothing in there.

But she went with him all the same; keeping a few paces behind him, just in case. The farther they walked, the more concerned she became.

“Where are we going?” Continue reading