Posts Tagged ‘edgar allen poe’

Flash Fiction – “The Little Death”

May 21, 2014 5 comments

“Sleep, those little slices of death – how I loathe them.” – Edgar Allen Poe

Time seemed to stand still. No one can see your desperation in the dark, when sleep never comes. Being locked in here, not in this building, or in this room, but in this mind… it’s a wonder I’m still alive. The snoring beside me breaks the silence, as does giggling from the hallway and the faint sounds of the oldies station on the radio. You would think this late they’d have turned that crap off, listening to Elvis again is enough to make a person want to slit their wrists. Ok, well, again.

I must have counted the ceiling tiles a hundred times. The number doesn’t matter, I’m sure I’ll forget and start all over again. Rolling over I glance out the room’s only window lit by a single glaring orange street light. They can’t see me, the passing cars, the wandering drug dealer or the random prostitute. Oh no. Couldn’t afford the nice place across uptown, I had to end up here.

It’s been six days since I’ve slept. Even longer since I last dreamed. Dreams don’t have a place here, behind these walls. They won’t let me go home until I sleep, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take. I can’t relive what happens in the darkness behind my eyelids. Nobody needs to see the things that I see. The night brings the unspeakable, the undefinable, the unknowable, clawing at the inside of my skull, screaming to get out. Digging at my skin to find some kind of release, to tear away what traps this evil inside me, all I found was blood and tears. That’s how I ended up here.

They won’t let me go home until I sleep, but nothing they try will overcome my will to survive. What waits in the night can’t get me, as long as I don’t close my eyes. They don’t understand, and how could they, ignorance being bliss and all? If they could see the things I see, they would break out their scalpels and slice their lives away as well.

I’m not afraid of dying, it would be a welcome release from what lurks beyond mere human perception. True terror isn’t death. What you can’t see is far more terrifying than anything that you can. I can hear them, scratching and scrambling behind my eyes, and I know that one day they’ll find an exit, a way to crawl out from behind flesh and bone. Death of the body is nothing. Consumption of the soul, of everything that makes us human – now that is true horror.

The first rays of dawn cut a dagger across the far wall, and I’ve survived another night. They’ll bring me another chemical cocktail in the hopes of bringing the little death, but it won’t work. I have to be stronger than the pills. Stronger than the voices. My strength will keep me from that oblivion that waits for me when the lights go out.

It’s been seven days since I’ve slept. Even longer since I last dreamed. Dreams don’t have a place here, behind these walls. All that exists for me here is my own extinction, when the night comes that sleep takes me, and drags my soul to hell.

I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

(555 words)


Found Poetry: Ill Angels

July 28, 2013 1 comment

Lonely angels
reached an ultimate space —
bottomless and boundless —
that drip into restless skies of fire.

Murmuring by the dismal spot
each melancholy shrouded form
sigh in agony.

The woes for the shadow
may not dare its mysteries.

The sad soul, obscure and lonely
haunted by ill angels
wandered home.

(ref: Dream-Land by Edgar Allen Poe)

Found Poem: Heaven

June 7, 2013 Leave a comment

Childhood’s passions
have not taken my joy alone,
in the stormy depth of mystery,
its tint of gold sky pass’d me,
the thunderstorm of Heaven in view.

(Ref: “Alone” by Edgar Allen Poe)

Found Poetry: Tormentor

May 17, 2013 Leave a comment

Mad indeed, my senses dream.
Today my soul, plainly tortured,
my phantasm excitable with causes and effects.

So conspicuous this peculiar pleasure
entirely black at heart
not superstition as witches remembered.

Alone through the streets
day by day
others suffered my personal violence.

One night haunts my presence:
In fright at the fury of a Daemon possessed
no longer my soul
a more fiendish, damnable atrocity.

I experienced horror (at best)
plunged into a frightful appearance.
This spirit – my soul – lives!
this spirit of perverseness
my final unfathomable nature.

Most terrible the destruction
between the disaster and the atrocity.
Strange and graven was my terror, extreme.
My cruelty the substance of my conscience.

More than infamy,
the very creature itself
rose in the bitterness of hatred —
MY hatred – my simplest and purest pleasures.

Let me confess of physical evil;
I should be almost ashamed
that the terror and horror inspired me.

The strange beast struggled –
loathed and dreaded –
a ghastly thing of agony and death.

High God of insufferable wo,
knew I the blessing of unutterable fear,
the hot breath upon my heart!

The pressure of torments
became the darkest thoughts;
my wrath, the childish dread
more than daemoniacal.
I was not deceived
for I had put it to its fate.

Still my tormentor came.

The monster of my dark deed
looked upon my future.
My heart beat in rabid desire with God
and the throats of the damned
who exult in terror and awe.

(ref: The Black Cat by Edgar Allen Poe)

Treated Found Poetry: Hell

May 16, 2013 Leave a comment

Death himself lingers
in strange, time-eaten towers —
nothing that the winds forgot.

The melancholy night-time
silently gleams;
a Babylon-like shrine.

Resignedly the shadow
looks down upon gaping graves.

Luminous waters
ripples of polished glass
so hideously serene.

In the air
there is a movement
as if a void
now breathing faint moans…

Hell shall do it reverence.

(ref: The City In The Sea by Edgar Allen Poe)

Found Poetry: Breath Of God

May 15, 2013 Leave a comment

Thy soul shall find
dark thoughts of secrecy;
solitude not loneliness —
in death be still.

Night stars with light
like a burning fever —
visions from thy spirit
like the breath of God
still the shadowy mystery


(ref: Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allen Poe, see below for breakdown)

Thy soul shall find itself alone
dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone —
Not one
, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour
of secrecy:

Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again

In death around thee — and their will
Shall then overshadow thee:
be still.

For the night — tho’ clear — shall frown —
And the
stars shall look not down,
From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given —
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever :

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish —
Now are
visions ne’er to vanish —

From thy spirit shall they pass
No more —
like dew-drop from the grass:

The breeze — the breath of God — is still
the mist upon the hill
Shadowy —
shadowy — yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token —
How it hangs upon the trees,
mystery of mysteries! —

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