October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No10

Kind of autobiographical. 

Patterns for Life

By Oonah V Joslin

It is a function of the human brain that we recognize faces wherever we see them; friend or foe, it is a prerequisite to survival. Alma it seemed was a well adapted child.

It all began with the wallpaper and a purple crayon.

Alma lay awake looking at the roses. Those same roses that looked so bright and cheerful in the morning took on quite a different aspect at night. One was an ugly dwarf with a great fat bulbous nose and scowling face. Another was a cruel witch, long-chinned, looking sideways at her, brandishing a branch as if at any moment she might turn and smite her with a sweep of her wand. But worst of all was a puppy dog with one eye hanging out of the socket and down onto its nose and it looked so sad and there was nothing she could do–night after night she watched it – wretched and undying.

So when Alma sneaked the purple crayon upstairs and hid it under the bed, it was with the express intention not of defacing the wallpaper, but of ridding herself of monsters. Her mother didn’t see it that way.

Worse than being scolded and sent to bed early, was the realization that the pattern repeated over and over again – as do all patterns – and that she had only obliterated one dwarf, one witch and one hideously deformed puppy. Silently, hundreds of others stared at her in rebuke. And what would they do when her eyes involuntarily closed in sleep? And what could she do about the undying fears that now formed the pattern for her thoughts and dreams?

Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No9

 I won 3 MicroHorror Prizes. This story was one. However it took on a life of its own, as befits the story itself, and ended up as a much longer series in Bewildering Stories as The Last Days of Coloc. So today you can follow the link above to a longer read if you want and find out who these creatures were and what became of them! My prize was this original artwork. I treasure it. It's not often you get to see your creatures come to life. 

Tegral as imagined by Sarah Clarke

The Final Chapter

By Oonah V Joslin

In the depths of the oceanic valleys there still was heat and light.

The heat came from fissures in the Earth’s crust, ever spewing forth lava and bubbling plumes of smoky gaseous fume that tunneled upwards through the long cold night of stilly waters.

The light emanated from creatures that few had ever seen and none had encountered; creatures which lived by their own light and feared no darkness. Electric flashes in the blackness heralded a shoal of swimming LEDs. Sudden white, a whiplash here; darting blue, a flash there; vermillion–changing–pink, a streak at the edge of perception. Neon, yellow, green, darting hither and thither beneath the Great Pacific Gyre.

The Sun that had once blazed no longer ruled the sky. It penetrated dimly mother-of-pearl clouds. Slowly it had carried on its work of photo-degradation upon the surface of the polymers left swirling on the waters and the corpses left strewn upon the land, but it was weak now. No fish surfaced to taste its rays and no animal basked in its radiating glow. The Earth lay under a dead blanket of thickened atmosphere, sick with poisons and all infertile.

***

Then came the day; that day that was bound to come, when the creatures that lay beneath rose from their ocean beds, close enough to the dark belly of the great petrochemical soup to taste its potential. Vast coils of plastic-coated wires, holographic interfaces, computer circuitry, components still intact within their plastic cases and yet sufficiently exposed for exploitation by those who could jolt them to life. The beings from the deep made their home there among those unnatural weeds and scales, among the flotsam of man’s legacy to Earth.

Gradually they built around them bodies, of indescribable intricacy and size, activated by elements from a trillion different machines and protected by a slurry of polymers, acetates and vinyls. Their glistening bodies shone as they took form and rose clear of their surroundings and they were given life, not from above but from below, from electric ocean depths that man had barely known and from his technological imaginings.

One by one, brand new creatures lurched onto empty continents to seek out the fills they knew must exist there. They towered over the landscape, striding a hundred meters at a time. They ventured forth upon the land of their creators and saw the devastation mankind had wrought. And the Techno-polymorphs saw that it was good.

Copyright: © 2008 Oonah V Joslin

In the leach from Landfills many bacteria that are as yet unidentified have been discovered. I wonder...

October 2020 -- A whole Heap of HORROR -- No8

 Yesterday -- a demon. Today -- an angel. Wherein real Horror lies, I'll let you be the judge!

On Angel’s Wings

Gabriel floated on a favourite cloud knitting with silver needles. He found it quite therapeutic, though it was also part of the job. When he’d finished knitting his wings, it would be time to call time. It wasn’t entirely up to him when that would be. He couldn’t knit his wings any faster than he could get hold of the materials and the yarn was spun on Earth.

Mankind had started spinning yarns long ago when they’d refused the gift of innocence and needed to cover-up. Since then they’d rejected many of the best gifts on offer, preferring the packaging. They had discarded reason in favour of woolly thinking and substituted vanity for truth, sex for love, fragrance for freshness.

One day Gabriel would take flight on wings of innocence, reason, truth, responsibility – the off-cuts of ingratitude – all the stuff man had thrown away. Heaven wastes nothing. These unwanted things would bear everything to its destiny.

In the beginning there had barely been enough to knit with, but recently supply had exceeded demand. Human beings seemed only to value things that brought intense sensation or immediate gratification. They no longer cherished a moment for itself. Packaging was paramount.
So Gabriel’s wings grew and shone ever more brightly day by day. They glowed white with all virtue – light as the air that had been displaced by pollution. His golden threads came from the tones of sunsets never contemplated and fruits not forbidden but uneaten. Soft grey tones were woven from dove’s breast, beneath which beat sacrifice and freedom now disdained in equal measure. Magnesium bright, his needles clacked and scattered light for all to see but so few looked to heaven any more and that was up to them.

Soon he would don his ceremonial wings and place the golden trumpet to his lips and shatter time. He would pull on the little superstring by his feet and all would unravel and return to the light.
The Archangel admired his new wings. He passed no judgments. The choice was not his to make. If a DIY universe is put in the hands of those who will not follow the maker’s instructions, the outcome is perhaps inevitable.

Copyright: © 2008 Oonah V Joslin First Published in Static Movement which is no longer extant.

This image is rather clever. It's my car windscreen frosted up and photoshopped into a sphere. 

I LOVE IT! 

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