SNM Horror Magazine

Theresa Newbill made her chilling debut here at SNM Mag with her hauntingly realistic story "Children of the Trade." After reading her poetry and seeing how concise her writing was, it only made sense to have her host our new dark poetry theme as a selecting editor and a regular contributor. Theresa has been involved on staff with another press, doing interviews and has excellent background credentials. She is a former elementary school  teacher turned "dark fiction writer." Her work has been widely published in other print and online magazines. She has received numerous awards for her writing. She is self-described as a free spirit and has quite a vision for poetry. Theresa will be a regular short fiction and poem contributor here at SNM Mag

 myspace.com/isabelleann123

                                      Theresa Newbill

    Getting in Touch with Your Dark Inner Voice.

Bleeding an Odyssey of Love -- Arthur Crow

Once Bitten -- Roxanne Hoffman

Come To Me -- Inca Indian

Retribution -- Thuy Nguyen (*See Goth Girl Page)

The Artist -- L. David Scott

Flee-Winged Fate -- Ash Krafton

No Sympathy -- Ewan Lawrie

Into The Dark -- Kevin Simolke

Unconscious in solitude
My soul lay frozen in time staring out
Into pastel reflections of liquid rainbows.
A thousand years of heartache ebbed through
My veins before a faint sound became a single
Drop of light, piercing my eyes.
Out of the tides of midnight
I awoke, draped in the
Warmth of a
Turquoise
Sun.

As the cold released
Its grip from my weary heart
Sparkles of destiny exploded into
A pathway glistening over the ocean
Caressing my spirit in waves of glassy fire.
In the softest whisper of a new day
I felt your love awakening next to
Me, spilling into the fragrance
Of a new dawn, haunting
Me upon the breath
Of eternity.

I fell into the sky when I reached
Into your touch, swirling in a tapestry of
Multicolored horizons, melting into passion’s
Odyssey. You held a sea of love in your first
Kiss, drowning my lips, flooding my eyes.
Suspended in the depths of velvet
Heart song, I lay captive in
A chorus of longing
And enchantment
Drowning soul
Deep.

In a circle of red candles
I carve the notes of my heart in stone
As I become seduced deeper in the scent
Of your perfume that burns like a faint echo
In the twilight of delirium. Dreams become
Lucid inside spectral falls of rain that saturate
Our skin coveting swirls of bliss to gently
Nourish the flow of our passion
That ignite the skies
Into immortal
Sunsets.

My heart bleeds an eternal ache
Of love as the supernatural bestows the
Wishes of my desires with divine sustenance.
I remain still in the rapture of silence staring into
You, marveling at all that I see. I feel your
Kisses bellowing in the wind sending
Ripples of lust over my skin
Like starlight grazing lilac
Fields under a night’s
Sky, seducing every
Breath I take.

I peer into the
Chalice that I hold before
Me and raise it towards the sun,
Basking in its splendor, for the nectar of
Your love within shall always be.
And in each day I will bring
It to my lips cherishing
You, drinking your
Soul. And all the
Good I have in
My heart, you
Shall have
Forever.

It’s been written, though never proved
that once bitten, by one less than thrice removed
from the source of the venom – the plumed serpent rattling –
each night thereafter, your soul alights upon black crepe wings.

You hear the hyena’s laughter howling insidious in your ear,
and though your flesh may crawl, goose-bumped with fear,
you’ll seek another bite to assuage the first bite’s sting
though you know in your heart of hearts it will only bring
you closer to the very deadly devil you dread,
but there’s hunger gnawing at your gut that must be fed,
a tumultuous torrent of anguish that never wanes
with no bedrock or floodgates so solid to keep it contained.

So each night you cry out demanding relief,
seek that exalted moment no matter how brief,
drawn to an elusive elixir to salve your wound,
but once it’s relished, you’re forever tainted, forever ruined.

It’s been said, but never been proved
that once fed upon, by one more than twice removed
that the craving can be conquered and the heartache endured
if your love for a woman is steadfast and hers self-assured.

If for three days and a fortnight she stays true at your side
the blood lust within you may completely subside,
but if she succumbs, falls prey to your peril,
you’ll run with the wolf pack, invoke savagery feral.

Rising from the fiery pits of hell

I'm ready to devour

the unsuspecting soul.

Red-hot fire

licking at my feet

as in the distance

the toll of the death bell.

Sinners of damnation

I so love thee and thy wailing.

Screaming brings me joy so I bid you,

"Come to me, I am your dark priest.

I will enjoy the desecration

of your soul."

I am madness

I will eviscerate you deeply from within

dining on you with no recourse.

You belong to me,

my feast begins.

Your soul is mine,

come to me,

you cannot win a fight.

Take this dark journey with me

for there will be no escape

on this dark flight.

Your writhing heightens my desire

I sink my teeth into you

sucking the sweet nectar of life.

You are my food,

I am your farmer.

I savor the taste of your soul

as I rip you apart piece by piece,

blood dripping into my hot mouth

like fine wine.

Your taste is divine.

Rejoice for me

I am the seeker of pain and sadness.

Come to me

in your weakness

place yourself in my care…

you shall be mine.

I was young when I lost my innocence.
Children are cruel but we deny it.
Only when we are older do we know the truth.
And we never forget the trauma they caused us.
No, we don’t forget.
Some people say we do, but we don’t.
Flashbacks of being punched, hair being pulled,
Backpack is glued and your homework ruined.
I cried, yes I cried.
Every night I cried.
Until I began thinking.
Pulling their hair until they bled.
Punching them until they coughed up blood.
Pulling their heads back and forcing glue down their throats.
Not just the contents of the glue,
The whole bottle.
I would laugh thinking of these things.
So I thought would I laugh if I did them?
Again I laugh as the blood on my hands drip on the floor,
And their bodies convulse at the pain I caused.
Will they remember this?
No, they won’t.

He sat quietly, staring in the direction of his latest masterwork. This was art in its truest, most basic form. They wouldn't fill their little local rags with scathing reviews this time. This time, it would make the big papers and magazines. This was nothing less than history in the making. He rose smiling, and walked towards his latest construct. The air was thick with electric and the faint odor of spoiled meat. The artist gently put a green satin sheet over his work and exited the room. Tonight when he had the private showing for all of his "peers" and "critics" he would be showered with praise instead of insults. Hours later he was putting the finishing touches on the set-up for the piece. White pillar candles flickered around every point in the loft apartment creating an interesting visual effect of living shadows upon the stonewalls. The light, clean scent of lilac floated through the air. As he finished putting out little trays of snacks and cheap champagne, the sound of the doorbell rang its tiny chime. He was giddy with anticipation. Thirty minutes later, the meat and cheese trays empty and the champagne gone, the artist called everyone into the back room for the unveiling. His private sanctum, illuminated with only a circle of candles cast an eerie presence. The guests made their way to the cheap folding chairs set out for them and waited. The artist could hear them muttering of boredom and banality under their breath. This made him smile as he turned to face the group. "Tonight, you will bear witness to a work of art so profound in it's understatement, so powerful in it's simplicity, so permanent in it's message that you yourselves will benefit from the fame which is sure to come from what I have brought into this world." The group didn't look the least bit impressed. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you my latest and final work. I call it, "The Price of Immortality." The artist reached for the sheet and with the dramatics of a great magician uncovered it. There were gasps and the woman from the local art review magazine began vomiting violently. They all stared fish-eyed at what lay before them. The recently murdered corpse of the man's wife, posed upon a cross of animal bones, skinned. Her intestines ran from her belly and into her mouth, exiting out of her eye sockets. And the artist. The artist just stood there beaming with pride. The people quickly left their seats and went to exit the room, only to the find the door to the tiny space locked. "Let us out, you sick freak!" They seemed to cry in unison. "I'm sorry, but you see, you are also a part of this exhibit. A dear friend of mine has bricked the door up from the outside". He walked towards the circle of candles and began blowing them out until only one flame remained. The effect upon the artists face was of evil, of something demonic. "And now my friends, we will walk side by side into eternity. The world will always remember this as the greatest achievement of our time. Immortality awaits!" And with that, he blew out the last candle, and the screaming began...

In showers of flame the dragons will rise,
wielding claws and teeth and armor-like squame.
Beware and prepare; they bring our demise.

Within an old book the prophecy lies—
future predestined by man’s wicked fame:
in showers of flame, the dragons will rise.

The last storm approaches. We’ll look to the skies,
dreading the dragons that no man can tame.
Beware and prepare; they bring our demise.

Too late we shall wail with repenting cries.
If we hide or fight, our fate is the same.
In showers of flame, the dragons will rise.

Judgment shall summon the gods in disguise
and our sins will feed them—they feast upon shame.
Beware and prepare; they bring our demise.

Man’s treacherous heart should not be surprised.
He moves his own hand, so there’s no-one to blame.
In showers of flame, the dragons will rise.
Beware and prepare; they bring our demise.

A Crater pulled, in any circumstance,
is most definitely not chance:
but yours truly in one or other guise.
I was a spanner-monkey on the Spirit; way
before Lindburgh's baby left the light of day
- but you have seen my footprints
by a thousand scenes of crime,
my work untrammelled by the reins of time.

In Algonquin I was Child-Eater
and I took her, the first-one, from Roanoke:
they said I wouldn't dare, but I
slaughtered the others as I watched her choke.
My names are many and ill-spoken by
the fearful, while debating my
presumed and possible existence.

I was a deck-hand on the Patriot: worse
for Theodosia who screamed in Greek and Latin verse,
until she hit the breakers.
Benjamin Briggs lost a poker hand
aboard a celestial Mary, a ship unmanned
by me: the sea has been my acolyte
in many serious matters.

Ambrose and I argued over ownership of a
dictionary and I vanished him one sweltered day
yonder there, down Mexico way.
Earhart, Miller and lucky Buddy's friends
I've helped them all to meet their ends
one way or another.

Just look to me for Flight 19
-I don't care where the plane was last seen.
Gremlin, Demon or plain bad luck,
I saw Jimmy Hoffa leave the back of a truck.
There is no tail -as someone once sang-
there are only tales, and taller than trees.

I need no introduction, nor permission:
you'd know me now if you'd just listened.
There's nothing in any kind of name,
by nature: this is no guessing game.

Into the dark land we thrust, so let us ride ahead
With the darkness our companion, our compass and our guide.
Shout defiance, promise death, so let us ride ahead
To seize the grail of blood and pain, trade life for life til done.
The dread lord calls in mocking tones, so let us ride ahead.
Strike the smile from skeletal face, yet still more legions rise.
An endless wave of darkened rage, so let us ride ahead.
Away on the dark marshal’s hill, the end of pain awaits.
Too far, too few, too late to turn, so let us ride ahead.
Here at his feet the last man falls, the last blade thrusts in vain.
So sound the horn and spur the steed, in darkness ride ahead. 

*

Without Resolution - Theresa Newbill

A Thought in the Black - Steven Marshall

There's a watering can I use to paint with,
especially when I'm back to thinking
differently, when words just don't cut it,
and images run freely challenged by my
hippie heart.

Sometimes thoughts are like doors in the
summertime, that you close just for air
conditioning, sometimes rooms are like
interesting reproductions of a generic
picture,

where shades of blue depict the smallest
things, accidentally, simply, determined
by the appropriate ending to a day that
prohibits a lot of attention to detail.
Restoration is too schizophrenic for me,

I like the flaws, the extremes of the soul,
when I'm outside myself, manifesting a
personality split in order to understand
what I'm comfortable doing. I arrive with
no plans,

taking a deep breath, slowly, slowly,
without a clue as to why I am here. The
paint is porous and acts much like skin,
with it are new customs, new ideas, new
languages.

Today the healing is quiet, more at peace,
the colors, more dignified, against a piece
of oilcloth. I'm painting a woman with
covered head, an act of humility over the
source of pride.

I stare at her, she stares right back at me
with a sense of continuity, but nothing
happens. I continue reading her face,
attentive to nuisances, to throwaway
penances,

in this process of confession; deeply
immersed. I don't care much for social
interaction of scene or even for the more
crucial aspects of life; within us is a
standoff,

and we are both exhausted. There's
a molecular split that seems to believe
there is benefit in hindsight, even
when your artwork makes you cringe,
and your alignment dead ends

onto a wet canvas where the oil
paint has been thinned with turpentine
and has a runny consistency. There are
no power hang-ups here, no translations,
or empty explanations,

the work is more effective this way and
feels solid. I like the essence of just
being with no aftershocks of vibration,
or forced timing. I like the way my fingers
dip into energy, without resolution.

Within a world all it's own

It's secrets are held secret

It's best when they're not shown

Something there behind its eyes

Touching the depths of its soul

It wants to rise to the surface

Reality keeps it under control

Its mystery enchants the mind

That's why it hides from the light

Its thoughts make its soul restless

Keeps its body awake at night

Its hand reaches out never touching

Its tear a message from its heart

Its laughter but a false pretense

Holding together what's coming apart

It yearns to seize the moment

But never finds the time to act

So until its words are spoken

It remains a thought in the black