October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No7

 

                                              

 original artwork by Walter Jack Savage 

with whom I have had the privilege to collaborate many times in Postcard Poems and Prose and whose work I great admire.

I have two of his paintings on my diningroom wall. This is a poem inspired by this particular painting.  Thanks for allowing me to use this image, Jack. I have to thank Shakespeare for the title of course!

All the World’s a Stage.

Of linen, cotton, silk and tulle

of taffeta, muslin and wool,

in every shade, for every part

the costume demon plied his art.

And actors came from far flung places

some wearing masks and others faces.

Some came for love and some for horror

wanting to dress for joy or sorrow,

gazing at costumes with envious eyes,

the drip of blood, the thin disguise,

the murder weapon cleverly hidden,

the priest, the whore, the guest unbidden.

Into each thread for every role

the master wove his heart and soul.

So, often is the price of fame

a curse by any other name.

Copyright: © 2019 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No6

 Today's Horror is only little -- but it goes a long way.

Name of the Ride

By Oonah V Joslin

They were queuing a hundred yards for the latest Halloween ride to open. It was completely enclosed–a nameless mystery.

A high helter-skelter it seemed with a long black tunnel in which to descend in darkness. The first customers were taken to the top. One at a time they set out on the long slide. Inside the tunnel no one could hear their screams as the sharp blades cut into their flesh and the surface became increasingly slippery with their blood.

At the bottom they kept on going down, down forever into Hell on The Blood Flume.

Copyright: © 2007 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No5

 I'd forgotten all about this one to the point where I don't recognise it but I wrote it... It was published. I suppose this is one of the horrors of a poor memory! 

Sole Survivor

By Oonah V Joslin

Solitude, searing sun and sweeping tide were my lot. I gathered my strength and dragged myself along above the tide line. Sand became my sunshield, seaweed and driftwood my splints and crutch. The vessel’s cargo was my hope. The Company would not abandon such cargo if it could be found. Cases and barrels were strewn along beaches and a few coils of rope. Despite the pain of my injuries, I gathered all I could: salt pork, ship’s biscuit, oil and rum. I could ration this for months at need and there would surely be fruit trees and fish. I only had to tell myself to wait, and I did.

The shadows of day were my companions and in them I confided my hopes. Gradually I became aware of shadows when the sun was yet too high. Colors distorted and shifted at the edge of vision. I concluded the bump on my head was responsible and it would pass.

A stream from the beach led me to a cave. There was kindling enough for fires washed up each day. I dried it and only set it alight when darkness and shadows encroached. I was increasingly aware of their shapeless forms, never there when looked for directly.

A barrel of diamonds washed to the shore. But the richest pauper cannot eat diamonds and diamonds offer no defence.

I became strong from the work I did. I paid heed to my security, sharpening sticks, gathering stones. If these Creatures decided to attack, they might be too many but I would die defending myself. My shelter had a small opening and a high shelf where I slept, but only in the day. At night I kept watch by my fire. Creatures I thought them. They were not human and they could not be ghosts, there where none had lived.

I began to discern their form as one sees a magnetic force by its effects. The shifting of the sands beneath them suggested fleshy appendages. From the brushing of lower branches, I perceived them as about six feet in height. At times I heard them, their communications consisting of clicking sounds and high pitched screeching as from a saw blade or the sounded rim of a crystal glass. Yet always, when I attended to these phenomena, they eluded definition and it struck me that I might be going mad. I had not thought to reckon the tally of days.

Then today I woke to see a man approaching. “At last!” I screamed. I cried. I danced up and down, laughed at myself for ever doubting. I waved my arms frantic that he might see me. I grasped the heft of the flag I’d made and waved it too, the better to be seen. Oh, that this day had arrived! They would take me back and take me home. Tears unbidden streaked down my happy smiles.

“You found me,” I said.

“We found you.”

“I have survived. I am safe.”

“You are safe.”

“But I suppose, in a way, I would not have survived had I not had to defend myself against the Creatures.”

This stranger looked around, laughed and melted away. The clearing rang with anvil sounds of laughter, so I thought, and was obscured by shadows moving dimly, all around. Real or imagined, only the rope can save me now.

Copyright: © 2008 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No4

 When I was a child, my sisters used to ask me to tell them a story at bedtime -- a made-up story, sometimes using elements they chose. A few years back my sister Esme asked me to write one for her. The woman in the story had to be called Maud and it had to include some elements of a nightmare Esme had had. It became Marrying Maud. I hope you like it.

Marrying Maud

By Oonah V Joslin

Twilight picked out blue forget-me-nots straggling the downward path. The rockery took on a sombre air and evensong absolved the day. Maud and her shadow, both of them grey, swept ghostlike towards the water’s edge where she stooped to lay flowers, picked along the way. This was where he’d proposed: her first husband. Mist covered the water and mallards settled onto the bank, their familiar calls like laughter. She thought she saw a rippling of the water, heard a faint plash but there was no breath of wind. It had been a long while since she’d taken the boat out on the lake. Well, not tonight. Dear Spencer… He’d never really understood her.

Summer always reminded her of Frederic–the most gracious host. There were post holes where the marquee had stood, first, for their wedding, then for anniversaries, birthdays, parties… Their last, according to Frederic, had been the best–a hundred guests, champagne, sparkling music, salmon, ices, strawberries… How Frederic had celebrated life! Maud had retired early with a headache but could hear laughter and music and ducks, protesting at the invasion of their territory. Later he’d come making conjugal demands. She’d suggested taking the boat out for a romantic view of dawn. She’d warned him to be careful. The rockery steps were treacherous enough when sober. Any little trip up could result in a tumble. She’d held a memorial in the marquee, had worn black that day. It would have pleased him–at least a hundred guests. Later, alone by the lake, she thought she saw someone waving across the water. It was just an illusion of the gathering fog.

The shed among the oaks was not a favourite spot for Maud but it had come in handy more than once. Saws were stored there, spades, hoes, sacking. There were… unpleasant associations. Maud had had a row with William here -- about money, as ever. The upkeep of the house and garden were enormous. She’d been quick to point out that it was her house and that the expensive furnishings and artworks were heirlooms but there was no reasoning with him. He knew a good dealer who would give them top price. She knew how to wield a pickaxe. She sawed off his head and buried it with the others by the lake. Then she rowed out to the middle and heaved the weighty sack overboard.

Maud looked up at the house. The rockery somewhat overgrown was still impressive. The bulbs she’d just planted would cheer things up in spring. She washed the dirt from her hands and contemplated the steep path from the lake. Maud’s trim figure belied her age. Her grey hair swept into a bun at the back was streaked with white. She had never used to think about that climb. Now she sighed. Something sighed back, the wind. She observed the trees. There was no wind. Out on the lake a miasma grew… the plash of an oar. Someone was out there. She saw an arm, a torso.

Quack ack ack ack ack. An arrow of mallards trailed a black slick across the surface of the lake. The ducks were green–green, jellied and putrefying, laughing as they came. Maud stumbled back from the water’s edge and felt a searing pain snap her ankle. She fell onto the burials of her three husbands’ heads. Spencer had that hurt look, always wanting love. Frederic’s convivial smile sickened her. William who’d married her for money only to discover that she’d married him for his, still looked disappointed. Their faces rose from the soil towards hers. Black daffodils grew from their eye sockets. Their hands reached for her across the oily black water. The high, sickly smell of decaying flesh was all around and the gelatinous horrors that approached laughed no more. She could not escape.

Maud looked up at her only true love but the house was shrouded from view. Her assailants drew close. She had corrupted all and corruption would have its retribution.

Copyright: © 2008 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No3

 Another little one today.

www

By Oonah V Joslin

Bill and Dave studied the photograph, taken at a distance using outdated equipment and processed by an amateur. For now it was all they had.

“We have to assume they are lines of communication.”

“Assume makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ Got to be a weapons system, I think.”

“What’s the spearhead of any campaign, Dave–establish lines of communication, right?”

“Well, I suppose they do look like satellite dishes but they could be part of a guidance array.”

“Did the boys at WADAS come up with anything? Do they know what they’re made of?”

“Nope. Stronger than steel, though, and flexible. Could have all manner of applications from medical to aeronautics and of course other properties.”

“And they just appeared overnight?”

“Three near every major city. Whatever else they’re doing they’ve grounded flights, jammed satellite signals, fried telecommunications, and radar might as well be scrambled eggs this morning.”

“Wasn’t it the solar flare did that?”

“We’re not sure, to be honest. Whoever put these there could have used the solar flare for cover but global communications are still down–local too, radio, TV. The good thing about that is panic hasn’t spread. The bad thing is some pretty wild rumours have.”

“Best we get over there and take a closer look,” said Bill.

***

The streets were deserted. The airport had been evacuated. They used one of the baggage trucks to approach the three dishes glittering out beyond the end of the runways. At this distance they reminded Bill of something but he couldn’t think what.

“They must be twenty feet in radius.”

The closer they got, the less like dishes the structures looked. The construction wasn’t solid. Each was made up of silvery wiry threads, so thin that the morning rain had weighted their bowls into a parabolic shape. Near the base of each, connected to the ground, a single cable ran beneath the perimeter trees.

Bill got out of the truck to take better pictures and Dave followed. He wasn’t sure he’d brought the right tools to get a sample. A sudden breeze shook the whole structure and it skewed then settled back into shape like it was elasticated.

Dave was in position.

“Don’t touch it, Dave!” screeched Bill, realizing what it reminded him of.

“Why not?”

Bill had paled. “These things catch more than messages. Look at the birds stuck in it. I mean, if that’s the size of the web… what size is the spider?”

Copyright: © 2008 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No2

 Another MicroHorror Winner. The voice of one of Napoleon's 'Grande Armee'

Smolensk–The Second Time

By Oonah V Joslin

Rather my mother had not borne me than that this grim remembrance be the price of life! I blame myself for horrors seen, my friend–for horrors merely endured. Such endurance was a sin itself. Had I had the courage of my brother Yves to end it, the first time at Smolensk, I ought. I recall the very musket shot that rang out in the woods. I see his tear-stained and beloved face beg for the mercy I could bestow, and I did, and stripped him there on the field and took his clothing for my sorry rags. His feet came away in his boots. I thought I would bring up my very lungs, so great was the stench. My heart I left there with him in the mud and blood and promised I would tell our mother only that he loved her.

We were an army of the living dead. Our glorious songs, long silenced in our parched throats, had been choked in heat and dust. Our eyes, painful and encrusted, saw only death, not battle. Columns before us foraged all they could take. Cattle behind us died of stroke and dearth. Then came the rains and wagons of supplies were swallowed, horses-whole in claggy mud.

Our enemy led us on a-dance. They stood to fight one day, then disappeared like spirits into the night, deeper beyond Smolensk, until we stood depleted in the midst of ruin in Moscow. Nothing of value was there. Great works of art, silver and fine goods there were a-plenty but what are those to hunger? I saw many a wagon laden with suchlike trinkets, abandoned soon upon the road. I took a Russian coat and some good cloth to wrap my feet against the coming cold. I ate a dog that was half starved like me–remembered how we’d thought ourselves so poor, back in my mother’s house where there was bread and beer. Now I wished only to see her face once more and feel her gentle hand upon my head and the warmth of her tears for my brother. That would have been sustenance enough.

We left Moscow burning and turned back along that desolated path whence we had come. Southern lands were full of plenteous harvest but our number was now small. We were forced to follow the Baltic Route west. The bloated corpses of those who had perished on the assault became pillows to bivouac. Discarded weapons littered the way. Men too weak to fight need no weapons. Many I saw drop and never rise again for lack of will. I saw them stripped naked before they’d exhaled their final breath, nor did they curse their looters. We did not smell or taste or feel or weep for we had no saliva or tears. Alas! I would cry yet if I could.

Smolensk the second time was execrable. I have not told you of the freezing cold; minus thirty on November 11th. My feet no longer hurt for want of feeling but remembering my dear brother, I did not remove my bindings; such was my fear. That night I wished to die but I chose to survive. I will never forget that night. I crawled towards a faint snorting noise in the dark and suddenly my body came upon the great bulk of a fallen horse. I felt its breath warm but uneven and knew neither of us might live out the night. So, I took my knife and slit its belly open and it screeched so that I cannot forget the sound. I put my mouth to its warm blood that oozed. I took its entrails in my hands and dragged them from it, living, and inside I crawled for warmth, curled up as it were my mother’s womb.

Ah, God forgive me! I cannot look her in the face again. After that date, I dined on human flesh. So tell me, of those 600,000 souls, can I truly say this soul survived?

Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A Whole Heap of HORRORS for Hallowe'en

 I'll post one a day 'til Hallowe'en and maybe I'll try reading one or two online. I won a MicroHorror prize for this one so I'll start with it.

Autumn Fruit

By Oonah V Joslin

Akimi posed naked on the banqueting table. She thought of the money as caterers arranged copious amounts of fruit over and around her.

Halloween guests arrived, witches, vampires, ghouls–spectacular costumes. Akimi hid her embarrassment as the fruit was consumed, exposing her. A cardinal proffered a drink “against the chill.” The amber liquid burned in her veins.

He crushed grapes over her bare breast and roved his tongue around the nipple. Powerless, she could neither move nor cry out, even when he bit deeply and tore away a mouthful of her flesh. The feast began at midnight’s first chime.

Copyright: © 2007 Oonah V Joslin