Horror Without Borders. Volume 2. Hidden Realms

Perhaps it’s hard to take a vow with the hands,That once burnt in the squeaky gas fire.Tea pots rusted with bitter clouds of seeping,Once a gypsy visioned there a living hell fire.Twitching eyes unfolded of fluttering black moths.Roasted lips redden with brute-blades of smooches,Her back now an exquisite cherry orchard,buried with suppressed shrieks of happy conjugal.All comes with gifts of domesticity, they say:“Merely her figment of poppy dreams orSigns of acute malady of witchcraft!”resounded chatters thumped and stumpedOver barren wombs of nauseating petit deaths.Yesterday onerous drops came with her gusty punch in which floated sanctity of rings.Undone knobs, stranded curtains, cracked tubs,Now pinned on a long traumatic gyre.

Andrew Kurtz (USA)

THE PORTAL

One of Andrew Kurtz’s greatest passions is horror. He enjoys watching movies, reading literature, and now writing stories.

He is a very new author and has three published works as of now: Dark Valentine Holiday Horror Collection: A Flash Fiction Anthology by Eleanor Merry, Books of Horror Community Anthology Volume 1 by R.J. Roles, and Scary Snippets: Valentine’s Edition.

His favorite authors are Stephen King, Clive Barker, H.P. Lovecraft, H.G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Richard Matheson.

https://www.amazon.com/author/splatter

I have a new invention,It is opening dimensions.I want to allow the monstrosities from out there,To come to our world to destroy without any care.Are they beings with many arms,Or do they resemble animals found on farms?Do they have more than one head,Or eyes that are different shades of red?Do they want to be worshiped as Gods,And arrive here in life pods?What language will they speak,And will they appear very weak?Will they be twenty feet tall,Or the size of a ping pong ball?Will they eat us as a meal,Or make us slaves to turn a wheel?What colors will they be,And are they colors humans can see?The portal is open and I await,To see what emerges from this interdimensional gate.

Alan Dunnett (England)

BETTER NOT TAKE THE TRAIN

Alan Dunnett has worked as a theatre director, and as an acting tutor at several drama schools. He wrote/voiced Interrogation, Best Experimental Film at the Verona International Film Festival 2019. “Shot in the Head”, informed by Narratives from Columbians Displaced by Violence, is in The Very Edge, Flying Ketchup Press, 2020. Other poems have appeared in The Crank, Ink Sweat & Tears, The New European, Skylight 47, Stand, The Recusant, The Rialto. A collection, A Third Colour, was published by Culture Matters in 2018.

It is during the last days that I sitin the darkness of a train carriageunderground. Everyone is quietexcept for a baby. The monster’s bloodis dripping down the door like octopusink. The roof creaks as its viscous weight sprawledabove shifts. A woman breathes in quickly.Are you lost, little boy, said the nice ladya long time ago. I am smelling toaston bent fingers. The veins of a big eyepress against the windows. It is hot herein the damp stillness of bodies waiting.You are grappling with strangers in the night,crying unintelligibly for help.

Nerisha Kemraj (South Africa)

RED

Short-fiction author, and poet, Nerisha Kemraj, hails from Durban, South Africa. She is the mother of procrastination, and two beautiful girls.

She fell in love,the colour redsuddenly appealinglike the light red blushon her glowing faceA little red dress for a memorable dateRed roseson a red table clothRed wine and fine diningon the mountain-topKisses stained his lips redRed petals on a red bed-spreadLove-making – her red spreadMonths passRed heatof the Summer sun endsLeaves turn redmarking the beginning of FallAnd soon she findshe’s not taking her callRed eyes burnfrom fallen tearsNo word from himShe faces her fearsRed watermelonand red cherry pieShe sat watchingthe red sunset skyfeeding the seedhe planted withinMind locked shutShe wished she was deadLaws forcing her to havethe baby he leftThe smell of ironpermeates the airA baby’s cry—red everywhereCongratulatory flowers,Carnations of redA hopeless situationThe red stop sign—a signal telling her nobut she had no other optionwith nowhere to goA disgrace to her familyThe blade cut in deepshe was tired of the red nowwith the baby asleep—she closed her eyes,red turning black—her final sleep

Norbert Góra (Poland)

IS IT ME OR JUST A MACHINE?

Norbert Góra is a 29-year-old poet and writer from Poland. He is the author of more than 100 poems which have been published in poetry anthologies in the USA, the UK, India, Nigeria, Kenya, and Australia.

The pair is about tosuffocate the whistle,the clatter of the transmissionon a par with the heartbeat,I pull it off the conveyor beltand put it on again,there is a voice behind my back,“Faster, cut it short!”Gears grind in the background,life becomes too mechanical,my hands are like steel,I can hardly feel them anymore,these standards are not for a man,so I’m asking constantly,“Is it me or just a machine?”,I discover that I doubt my humanity.

Natalia Kuznetsova (Russia)

RAVEN

Natalia Kuznetsova is from Shchekino, Tula Region, the homeland of the great Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. Natalia doesn’t know if this fact has influenced her somehow but it is an interesting detail to mention anyway. She writes in English, Russian, and now also French. She takes interest in fantasy, science fiction, Slavic and Celtic mythology, and adventure fiction. Besides writing, she is also into acting, traveling, and photography.

Some of her favorite writers are Robert E. Howard, Rafael Sabatini, P.G. Wodehouse, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, and Terry Pratchett.

Natalia wrote her very first poem when she was only four years old. Of course, it was just a simple quatrain. At the age of nine, two of her poems were chosen to be recited during an Autumn School Festival. Nowadays she takes writing more seriously, and she is currently working on short stories and novels, but that is another story.

Ravens are circling above the tombstone,Rattling sabers still gleam from afar,Routinely Veles is spinning his wheel,Reuniting forever fathers and sonsAsk yourself in what you believe,Abandon the life that was never yours,A couple of birds soar high in the sky,Awaited by Vyriy to share its warmthVagrant and lost in havoc of days,Venomous snakes entwined for your road,Vowed to wait till the end of all times,Valiant echoes to lighten your sorrowEternal winter came close to your homeErasing the last piece of hope and mind,Exchanged your soul for a couple of wings,Evoking powers to disguise our flightNav realm’s always open for all its birds,Neverending summer like dreams we sawNaive drops of rain to dilute our tearsNourishing lives brought by Mother Earth.

Joshua E. Borgmann (USA)

NEVER LOVE, FOREVER LUST

Joshua E. Borgmann holds degrees from Drake University, Iowa State University, and the University of South Carolina. He grew up on horror and science fiction and had long intended to become a great master of the art form before he was sucked into the bottomless pit of academia. He toils away his days as an English instructor at a small community college and dreams of being able to escape into a world of fantasy and terror where there are no student papers to grade. He resides in a nameless rural Iowa town surrounded by terrible cornfields.

Living absurd day time dreamsfilled with vodka induced ecstasy,and somber longings for things forgotten,he waits in grim reposeupon his self-made throne of blackfor the lady who feeds him the colors,his vampire slut, his darling Poppy.He sees her filteredthrough some supernatural opium daze,an image from some dark album cover:“Bloody Kisses” or “Dusk…And Her Embrace”.From the first time he sawthe daisies woven in her hairand felt her cold touch,he knew she was wrong,something not for his time,more suited to Byron, Shelly, or Poe,but he’d wanted a devil’s plaything,an eternal whore of Satanic beautyand in that first frozenkiss he was imprisoned in joy,in pleasure, in the rapture of colors.Oh, the price seemed so little:a little pain, a little emptiness, a littledeath; he’d never thoughtit was cumulative. But lightheadedand empty he awaits her evening caressyet again.

Rich Rurshell (England)

LIFE TO DEATH, DEATH TO LIFE

Rich Rurshell is a short story writer from Suffolk, England. Rich writes horror, science fiction, and fantasy, and his stories can be found in various short story anthologies and magazines.