The Woods

"When it comes time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.” - Chief Aupumut, Mohican. 1725

The woman screamed in anguish, fist pumping against her chest, “What are you doing! Stop…stop can’t you hear their screams!” She dropped to her knees in the middle of the clearing and crawled toward them begging, “What have you done? The forest bleeds…”

Rough hands dragged her away.

“Stupid Indian hag! Go home with your superstitious bullshit.” A man yelled after her, following close behind waving a wad of papers in hand. “Land’s mine brought and paid for. Git out of here and don’t come around here no-more!” He sneered, eyes gloated with victory. Dumb Injun actually thought he’d leave the trees standing. Lies, all lies.

He was privy to the rumors circulating through town, about the wild woman who rescued strays by the edge of the forest. Animals that is, not people. She stayed to herself, preferring the company of trees and beast over neighbors. The new land owner let loose a hard laugh; Too bad witch, to each his own.

To each his own, the raven haired woman whispered, tears streaming down her face. Her chant lifted by the wind, flew swiftly toward the four directions. With a dagger she carved her plea in blood upon her skin. While whispers echoed in the ears of ancestors long gone and those yet to be born. She called forth the forest phantoms each by their sacred name; she called them one and all.

In the silence which followed, the moonlight vanished behind a storm cloud of raven wings carrying the old ones answer. They descend in darkness to flood the woman’s mouth – choking, devouring her soul as they plundered the depths of what remained of her human shell. Her loyal dog ran the gamut and jumped into the swirl of wings and darkness; only to be swallowed whole. At night’s end a beautiful creature stood muddied and half skinned, a rabid beast beside her. For vengeance has its price…

Don’t go in the forest, for the forest contains secrets best left alone. The deeper you stroll; chances are you’ll come across the savage undead. With a demented smile, she’ll greet you warmly before tearing out your throat and leaving the remains for her loyal companion.

The woods they bleed no more.

"I cured with the power that came through me. Of course, it was not I who cured, it was the power from the Outer World, the visions and the ceremonies had only made me like a hole through which the power could come to the two-leggeds." - Black Elk, Oglala

*A bit of fun this Halloween. Pictures are thanks to MakeMeZombie.com. No animals were hurt in this retelling.

From One Coffin to Another

'Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world…Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

The above quotes belong to none other than William Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe. Don’t they make a haunting compilation - interesting dinner guest you’d invite to the table on All Hallows Eve? This time of year is fertile ground for a host of dead poets and authors to frighten one’s muse out of hiding.

Do you hear the chalkboard on nails screeching at the window, making the hair curl on the back of your neck and sending a chill up your spine like a Latino ghoul dancing a salsa? I do, shrill, bone deep enough for even my deaf ears. My candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye. (Mary Shelley)

Ah, but why take up company with the dead. Dead is dead. Besides they can always be dug up for a macabre dance or a séance. Why not visit with other dreadful (ghoul inspiring) writers of the uncanny and destitute or just plain horrifying? The living versions of course, although truly…frightening personas in their own rights. How do you come about such an invite? I’ll be glad to twist your spine and help decapitate all remaining brain cells of sanity…by sending you here --> The Coffin Hop. A place where you’ll find the likes of Anthony J. Rapino, Milo James Fowler, Aaron Polson - danse macabre friends of my muse, among others.

Oh, alright already, I’ll tell you what the Coffin Hop is, since apparently I twisted your spinal column a little (just a tad) too hard and cut off a few synapses. To be frank, you get a chance to visit multiple horror writers October 24-31st for a thrill fest of a time. Some I’ve heard are even offering up a few treats in place of tricks. To be honest, I would prefer a trick that would freeze a scream in my throat, but that’s me. No, no, there will be nothing from yours truly. I prefer to wait and skin myself alive down to pulsing vein and muscle sometime in the future. *Sly grin* You had no idea? Oh, you poor soul. It’s always the most innocent one you need to watch out for.

“I could not help feeling that they were evil things - mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss.” H.P. Lovecraft (Still visiting with the old ones, go on already breathe new life into the fresh bait).

Changing Skins

“I wake up, heart up my throat, a fear taste - getting ready for the changing skin.” Anne Marie Macari

The seasons eclipse and September’s damp foray crashes into autumn's crisp decay. Summer’s strangle hold on my muse unfurls one varying hue at a time. Almost overnight her green foliage gave up the ghost of a season and began dressing in shades of burgundy, gold, and burnished orange.

Breathe deep.

“In this everywhere of blunt and soft sinking, I am the heavy hollow snared.” Deborah Landau

An autumnal day where the musky summer warmth is wrestled in one last tussle to the earth and the road winds higher, lending autumn her due. Jaco Pastorius’s Opus Pocus serenades the warm scent of burnished leaves as they twist and turn in downward spirals and shades of rust grow deeper still. A woodland’s invite to the heart of the mountains sun dappled rapture.

Breathe deep. The writer begins to stir…

Summer’s opulence peels back to skin and bare bones grafted with a season’s worth of words. Bone deep the muse engraves her characters and instills them with life. Awaken psyche, the day grows late. Time for a change of skin - a costume of layered leaves and twigs with which to dance among the woodland sprites in autumn’s ballroom.

Breathe deep. Life is intoxicating. It’s also the essence and the soul of the writer’s muse.

Season’s change - What skin are you wearing and do you possess the courage to disrobe and expose that which needs changing? I’m learning. - Indigo



(Curious - how I would know what this sounds like since I'm deaf? It has to do with the acoustics inside a car and vibrations bouncing off every surface.)

Picture From Here