Horror Author Chris Morey – Short Stories, Poems, Spontaneous Nightmares, J.M. Journals and much more!

Dancing Under the Fire Covered Moon

March 14th, 2011

Her veil down, silken, grey as the clouds above.

Her gown torn, covered in the dirt from below.

Her song a hymn of tragedy, of agonizing secrets.

He shuffled towards her with hesitance, cowardice.

He touched her veil loosely, feeling static, energy.

With terrible curiosity he lifted her covering.

This was the moment that his heart stopped, and he fell crumpled to the ground.

For beneath the veil was his daughter; rotten, exhumed from her grave. Her teeth clacked, crumbling and sable. Her eyes rolled loosely in their sockets, exploring the innards of their skull.

And in the final glimpses of his mortal life he heard his rotten daughter squeal:

“Daddy, they brought me back. Let’s go dancing Daddy, I want to see the way you dance under this fire covered moon.”

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This Chasm of Evil and Death

March 14th, 2011

There stood the beast, pulsing between two realities, staring at me with eight tremulous, bloodshot eyes. It demanded I sacrifice my first born to fill its belly for another day, but I defiantly refused. It hovered to me and pushed its body against mine, embracing me. It stroked my hair with twelve razor fingers and whispered upon my ear:

“If I cannot have your son, I will have you.”

I grinned into the ephemeral chest of the beast and told him I had been waiting. Yes, I had been waiting so long to join my father and his father before him in the obsidian depths of its stomach, a place where nightmares took form, ecstasies became agonies. A place where we would be reunited in mutual torture.

The beast opened his mouth, a maw of perpetual black and cold. With a final prayer I was consumed, and I smiled as I spiraled into the depths of this chasm of evil and death.

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Adding to the debt and deficit is bad, but only if you’re a Democrat!

January 19th, 2011

The Bush administration, eight years of being in control. What did they accomplish? Two wars, at least one that was based on a lie and continued for far too long. Our image on the international stage? Shattered. The security briefings warning of the coming 9/11 attacks? Ignored.

But what about the national debt and deficit? Surely they did a good job there right? Well, let’s look at a pretty picture to see for sure:

Click image for larger version

It looks as though George W. Bush raised the national debt by over four trillion dollars! Gosh, you know, only if there was some giant dedicated group of people, maybe a party of people… perhaps that enjoy drinking tea… that could possibly protest this irresponsible and dramatic raise in the national debt! Waiting…. still waiting… no? Nothing? Gosh! Well now Bush is out, and in comes our new president, Barack Obama.

Now the year is 2009 and it’s clear to save the economy something drastic needs to be done. Queue the Stimulus Package. Is it perfect? Of course not, but according to every objective analysis it prevents the economy from slipping into another great depression. But what’s that? It adds to the national debt! If only there was some kind of group… some kind of party… that perhaps enjoys drinking tea… that could protest this rise in the national debt!

Ah-ha! The Tea Party! Oh praise god, a completely bipartisan group here just to debate the issues and… wait a second… something doesn’t seem quite right here. Why are you guys holding up signs of Obama with a Hitler mustache and stamping communist on his forehead? Why are you only attacking Democrats in government and not a single Republican? Wait a second… why are you guys doing what Glenn Beck tells you to do?

Come to think of it, where were you guys four years ago during the Bush Administration when he was raising the debt by more than four trillion dollars?

That’s right kids, adding to the debt and deficit is bad, but only if it’s the Democrats that are doing it!

The Tea Party is here to protest the irresponsible spending of the government, but only during Democratic administrations! What a patriotic bunch!

The Tea Party is here to listen to universal leaders like Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh and Shawn Hannity. What an objective group of critical thinkers!

The Tea Party is here to protest tax raises even when no taxes have been raised. Who doesn’t like to play pretend?

What the media is too afraid to tell you is that the corporate funded fake grass roots group The Tea Party is not a party that protests the issues, it’s a party that protests the Democrats. The Democratic party could do everything The Tea Party wanted and they would still demand Republicans be put in power. The Tea Party is living proof of the power that Fox News and talk radio has over the lower IQ range of our population. So next time you see some asshole with teabags hanging from his hat, ask him where he was in 2006. Then, if you really wanna see a Teabagger freeze up, ask him what specific provisions he disagrees with in the Health Care Reform bill. His response will typically be:

Step 1. Freeze up for 30 seconds.

Step 2. Shout and call you a socialist.

Step 3. Go back to protesting imaginary tax raises.

The Tea Party. A party of Fox News watchers that only cares about the issues when the majority of the people in power have a D next to their name. Thank God for patriots.

Rating: 5.0/5 (1 vote cast)

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Crepes and Barrels and Fermenting Corpses (PREVIEW)

July 22nd, 2010

It was still for a moment, but then something started to form. From the air came stretching streaks of translucent black, spreading like three dimensional cracks in ice. They grew thicker and darker, stretching to look nearly like the legs of a giant spider, but there were far too many for it to have been that! Then the candles surrounding the room very suddenly blazed to life with flames of various shades of green and red. The blackness was growing still, streaking and bending abruptly, making a bizarre humming noise as it spread, until it stopped and hung in the air, taking up much of the center of the room, a pulsating translucent black mass, humming with hundreds of tentacle like growths coming from all sides. Through its form which gave a dark grey image of the other side of the room I could see the man grinning with two perilous dark eyes. The humming, as I listened to it, brought gooseflesh to my arms.

I looked into the black mass and I did not see images, no, nor did I hear sounds save for the humming. But as I stared into its depths, into its twisting and dark system of cloudy vein like innards, I felt an overwhelming horror devour my spirit. It was not any feeling I can rightfully explain, nor dare I try to relive it! But when I looked into it I felt sadness, I felt agony, I felt horror and dread and betrayal! I felt all the negativity in this world compiled into a single moment, and in that moment it paralyzed my soul.

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Some Mountains Leave Spiraling Dreams

July 22nd, 2010

He moved upwards, determined, angered, but more assured than anything else that what he was doing was the right decision. The robots at work didn’t believe him when he mentioned his escape plan. He told them, on multiple occasions, that one day he would leave all of it behind and scale a mountain with nothing but the clothes on his back. They laughed it off, of course. They waved their hands at him and went back to sipping at their coffee, staring into screens, conducting meaningless work that they would desperately hold onto as some pathetic purpose until their final years when they realized the finiteness of life.

But now Justin was doing it. He drove his car to the base of the steepest mountain he could find surrounding the valley, the one that had the least human involvement. He left everything, including his keys, in his car. His chest ballooned as he sucked in the fresh mountain air, each breath seeming to clarify the world and lifting his spirits further. He was doing it. He was actually doing it. The robots would wonder and perhaps even realize he had followed through with his plan when he didn’t show up for work for several days, but that’s not why he was doing it. No, he was doing it because he wanted to leave it all behind. The routine, the bills, the meaningless work. He wanted to escape from all the frivolous bullshit that humans had decided to define as life.

Justin grasped tree branches as the mountain became steeper. He felt pinecones and leaves crunching beneath his shoes. The smell of pine cleared his lungs, the sounds of birds chirping and squirrels rustling kept him scanning his surroundings in curiosity. He had brief flashes of the few things he truly cared for that he was leaving behind. His sister, Brenda, who had been his only true friend throughout his life. His uncle Nathaniel who had raised Justin as his own after Justin’s parents were killed. The woman he was in love with, the caretaker, who was watching over Uncle Nathaniel in his final years. He thought of them, briefly, and felt a slight twinge of remorse. But as he looked upward and saw the mountain slope stretching endlessly above him toward limitless possibility and adventure, his mind was captured once more. Justin was certain this was where he belonged.

* * *

The old man descended the mountainside with his golden retriever Emmy by his side. He had found her wandering high up in the mountain, sniffing trees and rummaging through leaves years ago. She ran to him barking and barking, as if she knew who he was. He fell in love with her instantly, and used her nose to track down food on many hungry nights.

But the old man had been on this mountain for many years, and a strange emptiness had begun to seep into his heart the past few months. He realized, eventually, that despite Emmy’s companionship he yearned for the company of others, of people. He was so certain for so many years that he would live the rest of his life in the shack he had built just above the brook that split the mountain in two. But over the past few months he found himself always gazing down the mountain slope. His sense of adventure, it seemed, was encouraging him to go downward rather than upward, and though it confused him he knew to follow his instincts.

As the old man descended the mountainside, keeping balance with his walking stick that he carved countless faces of those he knew into, he wondered if the few he truly loved would be waiting for him at the bottom, or if where once was the town would instead be an endless valley, devoid of everything he once knew.

* * *

Justin’s heart was racing after climbing a nearly vertical slope. It had flattened out a bit, luckily, and Justin sat atop a tree stump to catch his breath. As he did this a group of butterflies, all yellow and white, began fluttering around his head. He was too exhausted to try to shoo them away, so he sat and felt the soft pattering of their wings on his face and neck. They circled him like this for over a minute, and Justin became convinced there was something sticky or alluring on his face or stuck in his hair, but as he felt his head all around with his palms he couldn’t feel a thing.

A gentle breeze brushed against Justin’s shoulders, its coolness sending goose bumps up the back of his neck. He closed his eyes in pleasure of the sensation. When the breeze stopped he opened his eyes and found the butterflies gone. He looked above him and behind him and found no trace, shrugged and stood from the stump and resumed his journey up the mountain.

As Justin ascended the mountainside he looked upward, imagining what might await him when he reached the top. He imagined reaching the mountain’s peak and finding a staircase leading into a cavern full of lost treasures. He imagined finding a lone tree with a giant dragon’s nest and three rustling eggs. And all the while Justin dreamed what fantastic things could be awaiting him atop the mountain, he knew really that it would just be a mountain top, and that was just fine. It would be his land. It would be his place to materialize his own dreams, to discover who Justin Marsh truly was.

* * *

The old man knew he would reach the brook soon. In the past he had used it to bathe himself and drink from, but had not done so in years having found a water source closer to his home. He laughed as Emmy struggled to grip the downward slope with her paws, often drifting down the leaves like she was sliding on ice. He joined her, scurrying then flattening out his feet on piles of leaves to slide down the mountainside with her. He laughed and held out his arms for balance, often grabbing trees and branches to prevent himself from losing control.

Eventually the mountainside flattened slightly and sliding was no longer easily achievable nor nearly as enjoyable. The old man’s smile left him and he resumed his deliberation of his downward journey, frightened, wondrous about what might wait at the mountain’s base. He was doing the right thing, he knew, for his instincts were strong and they were pulling him down the slope. But the old man couldn’t help but consider the world he left behind so many years ago, and what kind of life he might lead once he was there again.

Then after clearing a bush the old man saw the brook, still flowing with glistening silver water after all these years. Walls of weeds and flowers stood alongside the edges, the grass denser and darker green. But there was something fluttering above the water that the old man hadn’t seen for a very long time: a flurry of yellow and white wings, swirling in circles, belonging to a familiar group of butterflies.

The old man sat on a tree stump just above the brook and stared at the butterflies, and as a unified spiraling mass they came towards him. Eventually they surrounded his head, and he felt the soft pattering of their wings against his cheeks and neck. He closed his eyes, and when he did so he saw himself as a young man, and saw the only woman he ever truly loved. Rebecca, that was her name, he remembered now. She had an amazing head of curly blonde hair, lying almost at the center of her back. Her eyes, green, her body, divine. He sat there, imagining the life they could have led together. They would have sailed to far off lands, and explored ancient ruins. They would have traveled the world and experienced countless adventures, before settling in a country home far away from any city or highway, where they would have had many children, and crops, and animals. They would have lived in happiness, together, for all of their days, and the old man he was now would only have been old on the physical plane, while his spirit would be forever young with the woman he loved.

The old man opened his eyes and found the butterflies gone. He looked above him and behind him, but found no trace. He looked downward upon the brook at his feet, and saw his own withered and bearded portrait wavering in its current. He connected both hands to form a bowl and scooped water from the brook and splashed it onto his face. A breeze brushed against him just as he did this and he sighed in pleasure of the sensation. He felt as if something lifted inside him, he felt feelings and emotions that he had not felt in so long.

The old man opened his eyes and looked back down at the brook below him. He saw the reflection and he smiled, it was the most warming and encouraging smile he had felt all his life. For what he saw in the brook now was not a withered old man, no, but something else entirely.

The old man closed his eyes and whispered to the wind.

* * *

Justin felt himself losing his breath again, but he was determined to make it further up before he rested once more. The trees were growing thick around him, and he had to grip their branches to pull and weave between them. His biceps and thighs were burning, but he assured himself only a minute more before he would rest again.

Then the trees suddenly cleared and a small field opened up before him. He could see something weaving in the center of the field, and realized quickly it was a brook. It had weeds and small flowers just sprouting to life on its edges. Justin approached the water, watching its silvery current reflect flashes of the sun and trees above him. He kneeled before it and scooped up the water in his hands, drinking some then splashing the rest on his face.

Suddenly images flashed into his mind of the woman he loved, the one who cared for his uncle now during his final years. She did not know how Justin felt about her, nor did Justin ever come close to revealing these feelings, but there was something that filled the emptiness in his spirit each time he saw her. Justin saw images of the playful smile she would always get when his uncle would tease her, and the way she seemed oblivious to the beauty of her own voice when she sang songs in the kitchen. He saw flashes of himself kneeling before her, and the robots from work applauding around them. He dreamt images of himself holding a newborn that smiled as it looked upwards at him, and watched flashes of a young man that walked towards an incredibly bright sun.

Justin opened his eyes and stumbled backwards, gasping. He looked all around him to remember where he was, and found support by grasping a low hanging tree. He looked towards the brook, almost afraid to approach it again, but let go of the tree and walked carefully towards it anyway. He reached the brook and slowly leaned over it, looking at himself in its water. But what he found reflected in its silvery current was not he, no, nor was it the sky or the sun or the trees. What Justin Marsh found reflected in the brook was something else entirely, something that made his face grow into the most genuine, most profound smile he had ever felt after decades of an empty existence.

Justin turned his back on the brook that divided the mountain and looked down the slope from where he came. He felt warmth, he felt a new certainty and an overwhelming joy. He breathed deeply feeling the pine clear his lungs and grinned wider as he imagined Rebecca’s playful smile. He spotted a yellow butterfly dancing in the air down the path he had just ascended, and with the wind at his back he chased after it.

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Tags: justin marsh, mountains, spiraling dreams
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Jack Moore Journals – Day 0

July 22nd, 2010

Preface

The following journals were originally hand written by a man named Jack Moore. I have no relation to the man, nor did I ever know him in life. Rather, I found these journals in a rusted metal box in the sands of the Oregon coast. The pages were damp and some of the ink had smeared, but somehow it was still for the most part legible.

I’ve taken it upon myself to transcribe Jack Moore’s journals from the hand written pages to typed pages so that others might find enough information within them to find Jack Moore’s whereabouts and how to save him and the others from their plight. I have taken the liberty of editing the journals to be more legible and more easily readable for the average reader. I do have the journals in their original form, but they are often extremely difficult to decipher, hence this being such a long and arduous project.

To this day I continue to find other metal boxes buried in the sands of the Oregon coast containing more journal entries written by Jack Moore, some strangely describing the same days in different ways. If you happen to visit the Oregon shores please do us a favor and keep your eyes on your feet, you may discover something of great importance.

If we all work together we may be able to rescue Jack Moore and the other survivors, which is why, my friend, I’m dedicating a large portion of my life to transcribing his journals. Now it’s your turn to pitch in on the effort

Jack Moore Journal Entry #1 (version 3)

My name is Jack Moore. I lived at 153 Herman Street, Dallas Texas. I’m thirty years old. I don’t know how I got to where I am and I still don’t know exactly what the hell this all is. All I know is that I need your help if you’re somehow reading these words.

I’m not sure what kind of information you’ll be able to get from this, but I figure it couldn’t hurt to tell you about the day before it all happened. Maybe you’ll find some of the things you read on these pages familiar, or maybe you’ve heard of the same things happening to someone else. I don’t know. I really don’t know if this is even worth it. But I have to try because as far as I can tell no one else is doing it and all that writing this insanity down can do is help, I think. Keep in mind I’m writing this long after the day you’re going to read about occurred, while most of the pages you’ll read in my journals (if you found the rest) I’ve written during the same day or night that whatever events described had happened. I’ll try to write as well as I can and make as much sense as I can under the circumstances. Luckily I’ve always been a little compulsive about writing down my days, so doing this comes naturally. If you somehow found these pages please share them with the world. We all need your help more than you can imagine.

And if you have truly discovered these pages, please give the following messages:

To my Mother: you were always an inspiration, always a soothing voice to keep me sane. I wish I could have had your wise words to guide me through these dark times. I love you Mother, with all my heart.

To my Father: your entrepreneurial spirit always inspired me to work hard to achieve my dreams. My motivation and self discipline I attribute to your life and lessons given. I only wish we could have spent more time together.

To my Lily: you know you can always call me Daddy, no matter what Jennifer says. I love you baby girl, thinking of you kept me going all the days I was in this place.

Day 0

I woke up around two PM, my usual routine, sadly enough. It was January 26^th 2008 if I remember correctly. There was something strange about that day right off the bat. I felt like I was in sort of a dream like trance. Nothing seemed quite as real as it should have. My queen sized bed felt like a static magnet pulling all the hairs on my body towards it. The ceiling seemed a little higher than it did before. The lights were brighter. I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe I was still half asleep. Maybe it was all a God damn dream. But I did what I usually did, shrugged it off and made myself a pot of coffee.

While the coffee was brewing I stood there staring at it. I watched how there was more steam rising from the coffee maker than there should have been. I watched how the coffee itself was almost a yellowish brown. Rubbing my eyes didn’t put things back to normal, but I kept trying anyways. But my black curtains, they were as normal as ever, blocking out every electron that dared try to enter my condo. You know, I often admitted to myself that those black curtains were my first step towards true agoraphobia, and yet I kept them closed anyways. Hey, at least I wasn’t in denial right?

For some reason I drank the yellow-brown coffee, and for some reason I sat on the stool that sank two feet lower than where it was the day before. I suppose I was convinced that it was all a dream or that I was still half asleep.

I decided to check the mailbox. I threw on my gym shorts, threw on a t-shirt and made the bold move of opening the front door. I descended the stairs and had to cover my eyes at the abnormally bright sun. The air had a taste to it that I’m not sure how to describe. But the mailbox was still there, gray and rusted and waiting.

As I walked towards the mailbox a black form was caught in the corner of my eye. I turned to look down the sidewalk to see a man in a black suit, with black shoes and black hair, staring at me with arms folded and legs spread. His stance was more than serious, it felt hostile. I gave a timid wave towards him and he didn’t respond. In fact, the only movement he made was his head and eyes following me as I walked closer to the mailbox. It might have been the sun playing tricks on me, but his eyes looked to be two enlarged black pupils with a complete lack of corneas. Needless to say I turned around and sprinted up the stairs.

After securing all three locks on my front door I collapsed in front of my computer, determined to finally find and eliminate the elusive bug that had been haunting my code. I opened all of the source files and did my usual scanning over the familiar blocks of code. It must have been the thousandth time I searched for that damn bug. Being an independent software developer had its perks, but when there were bugs as serious as that one I couldn’t release my product, and when I couldn’t release my product I couldn’t make money, and there were plenty of damn bills to pay.

Despite the blackness of my curtains I could see them glowing with the white light from the sun. There was a serious need for some natural light in the room, so I decided to open the curtains. The rings clattered together as I pushed the curtain to the left side of the window and let the sunlight invade through the glass. My eyes quickly squinted in reaction.

After my eyes adjusted I saw someone in the distance, or something, a form comprised of nothing but black. It had the shape of a human, but after all I’ve been through I’m not exactly sure what I saw that day. It stood there on the sidewalk two blocks away, shadowed arms by its sides and lightless legs locked together. It stood there facing exactly towards my direction, and somehow I knew it was staring directly at me. No, I could feel it staring at me.

I had gone back to bug hunting in my code. I was convinced it was some bad memory allocation in one of my functions, but for the life of me I couldn’t find what function was causing the problem. To my left the phone cradle blinked in red with three new messages waiting. Without thinking I pressed the play button.

“Hey babe—it’s me. I really wish we could talk things over. He’s gone now, we’re done. I wish you would answer your phone. I miss you,” the female voice said through the machine. It was Jennifer; ex fiancé, ex best friend, ex love of my life. She left me for her yoga instructor. Can you believe that? Her fucking yoga instructor. For two years she assured me that I was the love of her life. Apparently that was only the truth so long as she didn’t meet some prick that could touch his heels with his nose.

But whenever I heard Jennifer’s voice, I thought of the girl I really missed: Lily. That was Jennifer’s daughter, and mine. Well, if you want to get technical, she wasn’t actually mine, but I treated her like she was nonetheless. Lily would call me Daddy, but Jennifer didn’t want her to. Jennifer never seemed to like the idea of me and Lily getting too attached. She never gave me a reason.

I deleted the message and the next one started to play.

It was white noise. It sounded like a radio between stations. In the static noise I could hear voices, severely muffled, having some kind of conversation. I squinted my eyes in confusion and tilted my head closer to the answering machine trying to discern some of the words, and just as the static background noise was becoming loudest it was suddenly replaced with complete silence. Then, a voice deep with age and rumbling with gravel in its throat said a sentence that to this day I still don’t understand:

“And for now the paradox is there.”

Then silence.

Then, all at once, the silence was replaced with a painful, high pitched sound, like a siren. I hit the stop button and sat there staring at the machine in bewilderment with fear tingling up my legs. I tried to theorize and reason, and eventually came to the conclusion that I had somehow picked up a cell phone conversation on my answering machine. But now, after all I’ve been through, I think that muffled conversation was something much more important, something that I wasn’t supposed to hear.

After I became secure in my explanation that it was just a cell phone call I hit the next button and the last message started to play.

“Hey it’s me again, I—”

I hit the delete button.

My mind was twisting with a mixture of fear, confusion and anger. I tried turning back to my monitor screen, idly and patiently displaying the code I had read a thousand times before, but I couldn’t concentrate. I stood from my chair and walked to the window ablaze with the white light beaming from the sun. Hell, at that point my body was probably desperate for the vitamin D.

In the distance, still waiting there, still staring, was the shadowed form standing straight backed on the sidewalk. It hadn’t moved an inch.

My gut churned with fear as I looked at the silhouette in the distance, and that’s when the walls started to change.

The granulated texture of my bare white walls started shifting. Bumps and shapes moved around each other, swimming in an impossible sea of white paint. They scattered and rushed around each other like a colony of insects. I took a couple steps backwards.

My heart was pounding against my chest.

Turning I saw the lingering steam from the coffee maker begin to swirl and stretch, lathering countertops and corners, reaching for me like a morphing hand. I backed into a corner, closed my eyes and began assuring myself it was all a dream. I bit my bottom lip and dug my fingernails into my palms. That usually did the trick.

I felt a searing heat against my left cheek. Reluctantly I opened my eyes.

The tips of my fingers were beginning to feel numb. I lifted up my hands in front of my face to see that they were melting. The pink, liquid skin ran down my arms like candle wax as the melting process reached my knuckles. The pressure in my chest went up to my throat and I released my scream.

But before my scream was over the world turned to black. That is where my normal life ended, and my life in this endless hell began. That is when I became trapped in this place full of rotting fucking corpses, corpses that want me dead, want me with them. This is the place called Xapador City, the place where I’m convinced I’m going to die, but maybe you can help us. Please, whoever is reading these words, read everything we write, read every direction we give. I’m getting tired of sending out letters begging for help, but sometimes it feels like it’s all we’ve got. Please, wherever you are, whoever you are, get us out of Xapador City and bring us home, bring us to the people we love before it’s too late.

Rating: 0.0/5 (0 votes cast)

Tags: day 0, jack moore
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Detox the Paranormal

April 8th, 2010

I placed an egg on the tip of my roof. I hope someday soon it might hatch my aborted son.

The light in here has the color of ash. The light out there is poison.

I feel like I want the touch of leather. I avoid the couch.

His glass still has remnants shedding like otherworldly reflections. My throat feels parched.

The picture frame sits cracked, mutilated, corrupted. The photo is flawless.

I have the urge to smash my mirror then lick the shards. I do this. I bleed.

I gather the broken glass and place it in the bath. The water turns on. It is so cold.

My clothes are sinking into my flesh like a million porcupine barbs. I throw them into a lost corner.

I ease my left leg inside, then the right, then I lean backwards in slow motion. The shards pierce my legs and float around my chest.

I see myself wavering and flickering. I’m just candlelight, just a temporary flame.

I see him, I see her, I see them and him and that man and this man, they smile with me. They all smile with me.

The borderline reaches my eyes. No fear. I breathe. One of the smiles scrapes down my throat.

I see Mother. Making me lunches. Cleaning my face. She’s pointing at the large wooden wall. Its texture is like a maze. I look at Mother with boyish fear and confusion. She urges me to step forward.

I’m in front of the wall. I place both hands on the wood and they start sinking. I look back at Mother with boyish fear and confusion. She’s still pointing at the wall, she is still smiling.

My fingers reach the other side and are surrounded by warm liquid. I feel the form of a baby. I look back at Mother and her teeth are now reflectors. It shows him and her and them and the other man smiling.

Mother begins to drift backward into darkness. The wall begins to submerge into the invisible ground. My lungs begin to hurt. My fingers grow cold.

I call out to Mother. I see the outline of her white face before the darkness steps forward.

More smiles scrape down my throat. I feel liquid flooding my organs.

I call out to the egg to see if it has hatched yet. But all around me is black, and the egg doesn’t answer.

I get dragged downward with the wall.

I see my aborted son standing on a platform in an opening in the soil. He looks just like me, and him, and them, and the other man, and possibly, probably, her. He doesn’t smile, not even when I feel more smiles scraping down my throat. I beg him to smile as the liquid pours from my ears. He keeps looking at me. He doesn’t know who I am.

I pull a smile from my throat and offer it to him. He takes it in his palm and looks at it. Light shines onto his face. He shatters. It is now him, and her, and that man, and all of them, smiling at me again.

Now I reassemble my aborted son. He will smile with me. I smile as I say this. He will smile with me. I wonder, as you may be, what he will reflect when he is fully assembled.

I finish putting him back together. The light he reflects is the color of gold. I briefly look around for Mother. She would be so proud. I take a step closer to my son made of glass. I look into his chest.

He does not reflect me, nor her, nor them or the other man. He does not reflect himself or the life he should have led. He does not reflect happiness, anger, sadness, regret. He does not reflect visions of some unknown spiritual world.

Reflected in my son’s chest was the corner of a room: brown, blank, musty and old, with nothing but a rocking chair filling its space. I drop to my knees and sob in a spiral of bewilderment. I look up to my son, glimmering, and he shatters once more. I cry out, you see, cry out! And his fragments are sucked into the open embraces of my eyes.

© Chris Morey 2010

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Rating: 5.0/5 (2 votes cast)

Tags: detox, paranormal
Posted in Spontaneous Nightmares | 1 Comment »

Rogue Divine – 4. A Temporary Tool

February 17th, 2010

Amongst the spiraling rubble

stood a figure with a bladed maw

and slithering serpent fingers

staring at me with a complacent gaze

of orange and torturous fire.

I stepped through a puddle once a man

toward the statuesque concoction

of the realm of cradled torture.

The closer I approached

the more his body crumbled

yet it reanimated just as quickly

as my presence pulled it apart.

His blackened demon organs

were constantly revealed

as his flesh and bones continually

attempted to reassemble.

“I know where you’re going,” he said to me,

voice so liquid and guttural.

I allowed my Nectar to reveal their faces

to the swirl of speaking flesh.

Yet no true being

was sucked from his chaos

and he remained standing

with a vainglorious ever shifting grin.

“You cannot absorb me.

It is I, Asmodeus,

king of the demons,

proprietor of betrayal and misery.”

I reached my talons

into the chaos of his chest

and wrapped them around

the blackness of his heart.

My surroundings became absent

and flashes of a perilous eternity

swarmed my vision with painful color.

I stumbled backwards

talons freed from his chest

and held my balance

with the tips of my wings.

“I know your plan,

I know the path you’re going to take,

and knowing this realm as I do

I wish to lead you to your destination.

For I want the angel

overthrown as much as you.”

This of course was not my plan

but I allowed him to think it be.

And so this ever destructing column of matter

walked with me

through the disintegrating demon city

as a temporary tool,

an oblivious guide,

Rating: 4.7/5 (3 votes cast)

Tags: rogue divine, temporary tool
Posted in Poems | 3 Comments »

For the Beauty in the Void I Breathe the Black

February 17th, 2010

Rating: 5.0/5 (3 votes cast)

Tags: for the beauty, for the beauty in the void i breathe the black
Posted in Visions | No Comments »

Rogue Divine – 3. A Path built by Destiny

February 3rd, 2010

Where once my father lay

was now a drying puddle

of luminous crimson betrayal.

Remorse was absent

as I felt his screams

vibrating the tunnels of my eyes.

His essence fed me

the Nectar of the Watcher

to sharpen my talons

and strengthen my wings

and bestow ageless wisdom.

I took a stride forward,

sending the damned scurrying

in lamentable fright.

My full formed lungs

breathed deep

to fill my chest with the stench

of the realm of cradled torture.

Sulfur, feces, blood;

my teeth were licked by an interminable tongue

in pleasure of the ambrosial air.

Ahead of me was a man shackled in chains,

bare chested and splintered with rusted nails,

who stood his ground as I approached.

My cheeks pulled upward

in an amused grin

as I centered myself

with the forepart of his agony.

“What are you?” The man asked,

pathetically ballooning his chest.

With my grin still holding,

I allowed my Nectar to reveal

their screaming white faces

to the man so shackled in pain.

He stumbled backwards,

eyes blooming with terror,

and his chest sunk downward.

“What are you!?” The man screamed,

shedding invidious crystalline tears.

I spoke not a word but placed my hand

upon his peeling ashen scalp.

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments

then where once was the splintered man

was instead a column of smoke.

I felt his damned soul

splash into my sea of Nectar

and his screams joined the cacophony

of misery inside my skull.

His addition sent a surge

of energy throughout my form

and my wings flapped thunder

throughout the landscape of decay.

I took another stride forward,

and another, and another,

and for each stride I took

carnage was left in my wake.

Damned naked bodies torn asunder,

Demonic structures cracked and crumbled,

blackened mountains split and shifted,

as the maelstrom of chaos swarmed

around my every determined stride.

For despite the maze of destruction

my very presence laid before me,

my direction was perfect in clarity,

my path was built by destiny.

The forbearance of the obsidian throne

Rating: 5.0/5 (2 votes cast)

Tags: path destiny, rogue divine
Posted in Poems | 2 Comments »

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