odium sempiterne altum cordis oculum claudet, tunc duo in somnis numquam non aperiat nec fleat veneficus: sic erit.
đŚ´â¨đЏđ§Ł

odium sempiterne altum cordis oculum claudet, tunc duo in somnis numquam non aperiat nec fleat veneficus: sic erit.
đŚ´â¨đЏđ§Ł
A coal-black tar
and feathered clinging
to your soulâit croons the sigil
ouroboros gnawing
at the moonâaghast and
punctured, fullâa rotting
gibbous runeâan end
of opalescenceâ
a stylus tipped
too soonâ
(c)2021 by Sanguine Woods
What hope do you have?
he asked the man
holding the sacrificial lambâit was
spotless not a
mark, virgin fleece
white as god-damned
snow. I know.
Youâve
heard
it all
before.
It curled at the corners,
pirate mapânot Where to
pillage, loot, and rapeâ
subscriptio, titulusâthose kinds of
things (there may have been an exchange of
old coins)âand
ink, not blood,
something darker, licked
the pageâpitch or
tar, acrid smoking a mile
underneath the
dead forest
floor
where things grew
once,
but not
anymore.
(c)2020 by Sanguine Woods
(Photo: Pinterest)
Mismatched outfits drenched in earl grey design,
the ladies stretch their legs,
their platform heels dusted with tea cakes
against a heralded cry for the haberdashery
as rogue buttons line the floor.
Move down! Move down!
They each float to new spots,
their honey-soaked spoons dripping nectar
on their plates,
such beehive gossip
against poison clouds and milk.
The clock strikes thirteen
inside strawberry hookah rings,
laughter and lullabies paint blueberry scones
on flying saucers,
their girlish whispers slathered in apricot jam,
sprinkled with pecans and preserves.
No room! No room!
They pin their hair back with shards of bone,
as soft curls frame their heart-shaped faces,
their fingernails tapping on both table and tea pot.
Uniformed in madness, they hold hands in sisterhood,
the women all a flutter on cushions stuffed
with soaked butterfly wings,
bodies rising, minds expanding,
their dresses swishing, dancing in the air.
Move down! No ROOM!
They crack their necks
remove their matcha-stained ribbons,
the scent of burning around them,
a boiling high-pitched hiss
amongst a table stained with tarot and tears.
They open their weeping eyes to blood,
sip the sacred tea as their heart beats slow,
each girl rising, never to stop,
forever a sleeping witch in the sky.
***
âImage: Vintage divination teacup , ca.late 1800s (Pinterest).
Originally appeared in Behold! Oddities, Curiosities, and Undefinable Wonders, Edited by Doug Murano (Crystal Lake, 2017)
Art by Devin Francisco (deviantart.com).
I have often heard it scream. No, I am not nervous, I am not imaginative, and I have never believed in ghosts, unless that thing is one. Whatever it is, it hates me almost as much as it hated Luke Pratt, and it screams at me.
If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of killing people, for you never can tell but that someone at the table may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest. I have always blamed myself for Mrs Prattâs death, and I suppose I was responsible for it in a way, though heaven knows I never wished her anything but long life and happiness. If I had not told that story she might be alive yet. That is why the thing screams at me, I fancy.
She was a good little woman, with a sweet temper, all things considered, and a nice gentle voice; but I remember hearing her shriek once when she thought her little boy was killed by a pistol that went off, though everyone was sure that it was not loaded.
It was the same scream; exactly the same, with a sort of rising quaver at the end; do you know what I mean? Unmistakable.
The truth is, I had not realized that the doctor and his wife were not on good terms. They used to bicker a bit now and then when I was here, and I often noticed that little Mrs Pratt got very red and bit her lip hard to keep her temper, while Luke grew pale and said the most offensive things. He was that sort when he was in the nursery, I remember and afterward at school. He was my cousin, you know; that is how I came by this house; after he died, and his boy Charley was killed in South Africa, there were no relations left. Yes, itâs a pretty little property, just the sort of thing for an old sailor like me who has taken to gardening.
One always remembers oneâs mistakes much more vividly than oneâs cleverest things, doesnât one? Iâve often noticed it. I was dining with the Pratts one night, when I told them the story that afterwards made so much difference. It was a wet night in November, and the sea was moaning. Hush! â if you donât speak you will hear it nowâŚ
Do you hear the tide? Gloomy sound, isnât it? Sometimes, about this time of year â hallo! â there it is! Donât be frightened, man â it wonât eat you â itâs only a noise, after all! But Iâm glad youâve heard it, because there are always people who think itâs the wind, or my imagination, or something. You wonât hear it again tonight, I fancy, for it doesnât often come more than once. Yes â thatâs right. Put another stick on the fire, and a little more stuff into that weak mixture youâre so fond of. Do you remember old Blauklot the carpenter, on that German ship that picked us up when the Clontarf went to the bottom? We were hove to in a howling gale one night, as snug as you please, with no land within five hundred miles, and the ship coming up and falling off as regularly as clockwork â âBiddy te boor beebles ashore tis night, poys!â old Blauklot sang out, as he went off to his quarters with the sail-maker. I often think of that, now that Iâm ashore for good and all.
Yes, it was on a night like this, when I was at home for a spell, waiting to take the Olympia out on her first trip â it was on the next voyage that she broke the record, you remember â but that dates it. Ninety-two was the year, early in November.
The weather was dirty, Pratt was out of temper, and the dinner was bad, very bad indeed, which didnât improve matters, and cold, which made it worse. The poor little lady was very unhappy about it, and insisted on making a Welsh rarebit on the table to counteract the raw turnips and the half-boiled mutton. Pratt must have had a hard day. Perhaps he had lost a patient. At all events, he was in a nasty temper.
I donât have too many favorite writers in horror and the like…but Eric J. Guignard is one of them. He is NOT a writer to miss! Link to this book is below.
Cover art by Christine M. Scott.
I never heard of basilisks âtil the night of Murrellâs barn dance, but that was the night I met Rosalie, so the basilisks sorta took a back seat in my thoughts. I think it was Ronny Loom who told me, though his brother, Carter, was there too, and theyâre one ân the same, being just a year apart and closer than spittinâ twins.
âPoppa told me basilisks are crossing the Nolichucky River,â Ronny said. âHeard Lilac and some men from Kingsport bagged half a dozen already, but more keep showing up. Lilac says theyâre worth moreân cougar pelts.â
âThat old trapperâs still around?â I asked, more interested in hearing âbout him than gabbing on new mountain game. Legend was, Lilac Zollinger had once been engaged to my great-granny Lizbeth, but Great-Grandpa Micajah dueled him for her hand and won, leaving Lilac with a bullet in the shoulder.
He healed, except for his pride, which supposing got wounded the most. âHeard Lilac caught the scythe two summers ago by way of momma grizzly.â
âHe survived that,â Carter said. âThought everyone knew.â
Me and the Looms passed under the banner for Murrellâs dance and into his barn. Its double red doors were shuttered open and breathing yellow light like a hell cat, silhouetting straw-hatted farmers and their bonnet-hatted wives.
âHarv Ridout says Lilac wonât sleep under a roof, but rather beds down amongst the trees each night so he wonât soften up like us townies,â Ronny said.
Carter added, âHarv Ridout says Lilac punched a wolf that was fightinâ him over a cottontail.â
I rolled my eyes. âHarv Ridoutâs got less senseââ
The sudden scream of fiddle severed my words, then the clang of guitar followed, and soon a gaggle of folks lined the varnished floor kickinâ up their legs like a train of asses. I never cared much for dancing and donât know what others see in it. Itâs not like kissinâ or anything, not even a little, and I should know âcause I done both. Dancing, youâre not even allowed to touch girls âcept on their hands, or Pastor Wrightâll whip your bottom scorched as Hellâs eternal fury for such a sin.
Thatâs when a girl I never seen before swung from the dance line, twirling delicate as a marigold bloom. Right away, my insides turned light and fizzy, like if ever I thought to float on moonlit mist, now would be the moment. She was tall and skinny, like me, but her hair went dark, and her eyes shone like copper pennies set in fire âtil they glowed and sizzled. She wore a dress pretty as first snow, and it clung to her in the middle and billowed out everywhere else as she moved.
Truth was, I never felt that way looking at a girl before, not even when kissing Aimee Greenwood last Harvest Day. I only kissed Aimee âcause she started it, but I liked it too, though how it felt didnât compare a blue belle to how seeing this new girl weave and bow to each man in line did. Suddenly I felt dancing would be the greatest thing in the world, especially if with her.
âNew girl in town,â Ronny and Carter said together. âHeard her name is Rosalie Jacobs.â
âRosalie,â I repeated, and I wondered where she came from. In Whaleyville, everyone knew everyoneâeven new folksâbut she was a puzzler.
Murrellâs barn was stuffy hot that night, and the back of my neck stuck to the shirt collar with sweat. I ran a checkered sleeve across my forehead and it came away damp and grimy, though I still felt my best in over two years, since that terrible day at the revival.
âIâm gonna ask her to dance,â I vowed. But no sooner had the words been spoke did that vow fall to bitter ash when I saw Rosalie link arms with Luke Holder.
Ronny and Carter shook their heads somber as grave diggers. Luke Holder was olderân us, sized the three of us together, and meaner than a pecker full of sin. It was the cruel joke of the county that he was good looking too, with a big, perfect smile that made gals do funny things, and with eyes blue as winter quartz: cold and hard and sharp enough to cut, should you fall on âem the wrong way.
âHellfire,â I muttered.
…
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