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

Brett Matthew Graham - Creatures

Linda Manning - The Blood Countess

Arthur Crow - The Gloaming

Roxanne Hoffman - Dream Lover

Thom Olausson - Black Witch of the Tomb

Pavelle Wesser - Orphans 

Deborah Walker - Old Mother Earth

Revea Shawley - Dark Side

Stacy Harclerode - Glass Pains

Editor Poetry Contributions:

Theresa Newbill - Just A Rose Petal

Steven Marshall - Used Car Salesman

Constantly crawling.

Tunneling through the husk of long dead bone,

searching for sustenance.

Writhing over one another,

giving in to frenzied bouts of emotionless fornication.

All of this happening in pitch black;

scuttling noises and the occasional snap of a neck.

So many are stomped in the dark,

broken down into legless, armless shells.

The perceived weakness only inspires hunger,

resulting in consumption of the screaming head.

The lifeless body is hollowed out,

serving as an incubator for the egg sacks.

Returning to the nest, gathering in a tight,

interlocking cluster that vibrates

with raw, mindless hatred.

The cluster takes shape.

It stands upright in the form of a man.

Tuesday morning:

Bob stares at himself in the mirror as he tightens his tie.

He kisses his wife and walks out the door.

He leaves me with ugly offspring,
rape duties of social marriage.
His chin tips those mocking
faces, grotesque reminders
of our contract. Ferret copies,
evil eyes unveil my privacies.

His battles are his lovers and I
have found my own. Aunt Karla tends
what he can never understand.
His cold bed, we anoint with the fragrance
of our love. Sings, this secret chamber,
when the cries of trumpets call.

Peasant girls fill our needs
as we writhe within our sheets,
while maidservants nurse those brats
betraying. Brush my hair, tend my bath,
send running to my lover crimson
peonies, reminder of our passions.

I struck the girl with yellow hair,
when her comb would not let go;
a trifle, dripping red innocence
lavished on my hand.

Sticky substance.
Slick brush stroke.

My radiant youth returned
beneath the girl's gift, hot,
metallic. My body needed more.

She was beaten for her crime
of pulling out my hair, but I
am merciful to servants who repay.
Sweet vanity aroused, surprise
to my lover, skin softened with blood
spilt by virgins bitten.

Bring me more the peasants, fresh
young girls honored at my presence.
Work for me in nakedness; satisfy
your countess in all that she requires.
Vixen! Tease me with your sin,
a slight that sends you to the maiden.

I will suffer no frivolities
for I am running out of girls!
Bathe me with the silk of splendid red
magic, gifts from ladies noble. 
Let their husbands go to war, blind,
impotent to my own.

I am Lizbeth Bathory, Countess of the Huns.
I come for all your daughters waiting,
hearts opened to my cup.

Trail they in halls of stone built on warrior's lust, recline
upon my table. Awash in their lifeblood, mine
eminent beauty takes all their breath away.

Each night is much like any other:
Tonight, she stands before him;
her naked body, tinged red,
by the fire behind her;
her loose hair, softly haloed,
by the full moon, shining above them.

He stretches out his hand to greet her –
a hand she takes most willingly.

Encouraged by her gentle touch to grow bolder,
he wraps himself around to enfold her to his heart,
and pressing his lips upon her shivering shoulder,
imparts the sweet wet kiss of an ancient lover,
only to find her colder than the frost,
and himself awake at the recollection of his loss.

A decade ago I gazed upon a breathtaking sight,
A fragile flower beckoning the frigid night
Foreboding tones of innocence lost
Sprouting out from Winter’s frost

Captivated by the warmth of a rare flower
Melting layers of Ice with radiant power
Hinting of an as yet emerging Spring
Untold joys the new season would bring

The season changed giving life a new start
For without this flower I was only a part
I loving held this fragrant flower in my hand
Glimpses of God’s Love in a once barren land

How I thought time would stand still
Spirits lifting the sea tranquil
A blossoming wildflower taking form
In the still night I didn’t see the storm

The allure of an untamed flower bittersweet
Holding on as the shifting season started its retreat
I lost the flower I loved like life
A beautiful flower I once called wife.

Orphans of a bankrupt culture
Bastard race, nowhere to turn
Here I rise from my sepulcher
Release my anger: Let it burn
I understand now why you hate me
It has to do with what went wrong
I’ve learned a lot of secrets lately
The uphill road is steep and long
The final act that I must face
Contains one prop and it’s a gun
Here I warn the human race
When they see me, they should run

I watch the rain trickle down on the glass pain

and follow a crack on its surface and see its pain,

This window and I have something in common we share:

We both look out on life and drink in the air.

We look out on the world and see people's lives

and reflect the actions of the moment in strife.

The glass is fragile and could shatter at any time

Like me, it serves as some kind of transparent shrine,

With violent impact little pieces would shatter

Making tiny little cuts hurt, just enough to matter.

The crack on the surface leads to the bottom of the sill

Like the crack in my heart and my broken will.

These windows no longer contain your refection

With tiny shards that cut and lead to an infection.

Just like my eyes no longer reflect your presence

They have the shattered image, now your essence.

This window sits alone in a cold dark room

This person sits in a small rectangular tomb.

This window shakes with the rolling thunder

This person sits and shakes in awe and wonder

This morning's gift of roses left me thinking of vibrant red,
the way one brilliant petal becomes clear only at its end
right after blooming, right before dying.

I've been shown so many things at once; the weakness and
banality of youth, the passionate drive of an old dancer as
he soft steps over the years gliding through air,

the way heel to toe comes to an abrupt halt, a victim of
dreadful gravity. I wonder about my own contribution to
the whole, my own passion and drive to dominate,

my impulse towards matters of the heart, career, flesh, the
way it has always been easier for me to dispense care than
to receive it,

the way I've always found beauty to be terrifying, condemned
to temporary attraction without receiving any depth from the
souls whose source you become an admiration to

those who take everything and give nothing in return. I can speak
in shameless length about misunderstandings and uncomfortable
silence, about the way we're so set in our ways,

that we become our own worse enemy. But I'd rather remember
the warmness I felt in fall, the fine wine consumed in springtime,
the way a ballerina's performance gathers momentum,

with wry declarations of grace that brought tears to my eyes;
the way I used to take the actual words of our conversations to use them in a poem.

Narrators retreat sometimes, we artists are a temperamental bunch,
we agonize over being reclusive, discuss and apply strategies for improvement, not realizing we have already been praised

by our critics, for our intrinsic loftiness to devotion, to commitment.
Unable to contain myself I'm often guilty of breaking free from the restraints, letting my red-nailed hands flutter over the keyboard,

where the electric arousals give us all a license to satisfy our desires
at shameless length, steadying joys of lives shared by the sweat and struggle of our mutual obsessions.

I could be learning to love myself, in my understanding of you. At least
that's a good thing, right?

I read your words last night, they were felt and defended by me, even as I remembered the casualness of broken promises, the minute
biographies of disappointment, of anguish, under the arch

of your personality, your heart. In the wild spectrum of things there is no
resentment at you letting go or the elaborate ruse you concocted to keep
me at arm's length. I know what you did and understand why you did it,

but please don't ever believe that there is something within you that is labeled
'wrong', for that is just not the truth. You are the spectrum of many colors
that flounces over pink glass, delicate and profound as a cool breeze in summer,

you revolve through seasonal prisms with honor, with pronouncement. If you
ever committed a rash act against my person, it has already been tenderly
forgiven. I want no more returns of affection, I will ask no more more questions,

instead I will marvel at the human glow of your essence among dancing waters
too delicate to line the face with any discernible features.

I ask for your
forgiveness in return, I never meant to define you, or us.

I echo the words of 'anymore lately', congratulating you on how splendid you've
taken hold of your life. You have more gentleness and consideration than what
I first realized in my blunder to be unconditionally loved.

And so at last neither one of us drifted away; we did not die, instead we embraced
the spirits of beauty, art, and progress, in a worldly way. In its entire enormity, life has
protected us, used our pain as a symbol of precaution when the trade winds blew

signs of hopelessness. I still do smile on those melancholy nights, when the city is rich
with the remnants of purple air that hold the beautiful memories of you before the
realities and fears came crushing down on us with astute aggression.

Sometimes I think people are like ships and love propels us all in different directions
even as we elaborate and romanticize over the pillar of death clouds and growling seas,
which we fail to comprehend yet secretly admire.

And that vibrant red, it's just...a rose petal. Right?

Methodically he descends upon her
Like a hawk circling a field mouse
Gliding smoothly between the shiny bodies
Of what may be her next method of flight

His talons are wide and exposed
But he’s not thinking of her throat
Rather her checkbook whose cover is worn
Hiding the rotting fruits of her labor

He smiles and nods, calculating her
As she quietly speaks of her needs
Then shows her things beyond her means
And she questions if he even heard her
Or just pondered his own take for the day

Eventually they retreat from one other
Her to her modest home and family
Him to his hollow halls and glass walls
Where he will sit perched in his little spot
Ever watchful for any movement in his lot