“Act 1, Scene1” Dark Poetry by Prithvijeet Sinha

Sshhhhh.....
Put your ears on the wall.
There's a vile element in the concrete,
A phantasm of the moors.

This scullery is built atop
what once was a necropolis
and they buried masses of all hues six feet under.
Surely, the children have played here
and even spotted a finger bone or two
near the tree.

Listen,
stand here.
Somebody gargles,
hisses a curse,
then
'Deux Ex Machina'
or invokes a native sermon.

It thrills me
but grips like a vice
like how Master's eyes
lock with mine,
a tinge of forbidden desires
in the slow steps he takes
towards the kitchen door.

 ***
Sshhhhh....
Hear.
Nuns and sinners alike
speak various tongues.
Confessions afoot
with the decaying yellow haunting
of the afternoon.

The very light is stricken,
diseased,
separate from the entities of the night that lurk like
Lizzie and Bridget,
their secrets bitten under every lip.

The cat sits there,
breathing
and seeming as placid as Granny
on her rocking chair.

The phantasm from the moors
glows in the shadowed veil
of this room
and then whispers a dirty secret in my ears.
Stone cold
and frigid as the history of this town.
Did you hear it?

Previously published in Visual Verse. 


The writer’s name is Prithvijeet Sinha from Lucknow, India. He is a post graduate in MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama(https://anawadhboyspanorama.wordpress.com/)  

Besides that, his works have been published in several varied publications as Hudson Valley Writers Guild, Piker Press Online, anthology Pixie Dust and All Things Magical published by Authors Press( January, 2022), Cafe Dissensus, The Medley, Screen Queens, Confluence- South Asian Perspectives, Reader’s Digest, Borderless Journal, Lothlorien Poetry, Live Wire, Rhetorica Quarterly, Ekphrastic Review, Chamber Magazine, The Quiver Review, Dreich Magazine, Visual Verse and in the children’s anthology Nursery Rhymes and Children’s Poems From Around The World ( AuthorsPress, February 2021), among others. 

Three Darkly Humorous Poems by K.A. Williams: “Lunch at the Lake”, “Cal and Kay”, and “Night Caller”

Lunch at the Lake

Summer sun
Hungry rabid dogs
Running 
Running
So hot
So tired
A lake
Safety
Jump in quickly 
So cool
Dogs hate water
Splashing   
Oh, right
That’s cats

Cal and Kay

His name was Cal,
he lived by night.
If you met him,
you'd get a bite,
and wished you had
stayed in till light.

He met a girl,
her name was Kay,
but not like him,
she lived by day.
He sought a witch,
and had to pay.

The spell did work,
his fangs won't grow,
and his eyes lost
their bright red glow.
Cal looked for Kay,
she had to know.

Where did she go?
Cal had no clue.
When Cal found Kay
her new fangs grew,
and her eyes had
a bright red hue.

Night Caller

Mist entered the open window
and hung in the air,
transforming into a vampire
with a red-eyed stare.

Moonlight shone on the
woman lying in the bed.
The vampire glided forward
and bent over her head.

Startled, the woman screamed,
then looked at her clock.
"You're late," she scolded.
"And you forgot to knock."

“Cal and Kay” and “Night Caller” were originally published in The Creativity Magazine in 2020.


K. A. Williams lives in North Carolina. Her stories and poems have been published in many magazines including The Chamber, Black Petals, Corner Bar, Tigershark, Page & Spine, Altered Reality, View From Atlantis, The Sirens Call, and Trembling With Fear. Apart from writing, she enjoys rock music, and CYOA games.

“Voice in the Casket” Dark Poem by Bernadette Harris

Good night and hello, my wandering one,
Deep in the moors, and whence did you come?
Quaking and pale, cheeks kissed from the winter,
Frost in your hair, lips frozen and splintered.

Step over my ’thresh, blackened by mold,
Smothers the spot of whitening gold,
Tortuous star in celestial tower,
A shriveled heart, now ashen flower.

Surely you pity this human-like form,
This diet of red, this home among worms,
Prostrate the dust, alone with the slaughter,
Stretched upon bones of unfortunate daughters.

Why do you shrink, my sweet little meat?
My body has ceased, but eyes still may weep,
Take hold of my fingers, sink into the clay,
For shame, wary boy, you now turn away?

Come to this corpse, breathe into the tomb,
I came from the fire, torn straight from its womb,
Throat withers within, I gasp for the veins,
Along with the twilight, a stolen life wanes.

Bernadette’s work has appeared in a variety of literary magazines, including Ruminate, Braided Way, Introvert, Dear, and The Mindful Word. When she isn’t exploring her latest existential crises, she dabbles in writing children’s literature as well. She can be found at https://www.bernadetteharris.net/


Three Dark Poems by Callum McGee: “Black Oracles of Anfield Cemetery”, “Black Taxi”, and “Four Years of Hell”

This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.
South Catacomb, Anfield Cemetery, 12 September 2018, photo by Rodhullandemu, This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.
Black Oracles of Anfield Cemetery
Raven’s cry in broad daylight
twiggy corpses holding black oracles, bright sparks in a sea of melted wax

Sanctuaries of hope 
dance with death, candles ooze pale essence, moss feasts decaying stones

Singular sparks 
returning to black, crooked branches, shriveled skeletons, inky feathers stain my suit

His thunderous voice
silent forever, a fiery passion dead silent, the red stadium’s heart forever still

Wretched symbols 
of the inevitable, Valkyries watch through beady eyes, sharp scythes snuff out lights

Life demands sacrifice
for eternal youth, rigor mortis seals an obsidian prophecy, ashes to ashes, oracles await

Reaper’s devoted 
disciples, messengers of a terrifying truth, tax collectors for precious time you owe 

Black banshees cry
for the damned, winged shadows flocking in the night, final debt paid
Black Taxi
Lifetime ago.
black taxi makes its stop.
Passengers await.

A small patch of gold.
Maple ripples on sweet bread.
Food packet feasts mine.

Bright blue brings out green.
Light in merciless sea.
Toasty bungalows.

Bounties of wisdom. 
Candles melt away at night. 
The black taxi makes its rounds.

Traceless wheels screech. 
White homes fade, life source leaves now.
Lone bungalows weep. 

A new sun arrives.
Shadow tires gone; mark left.
Passengers aboard destination unknown. 
Four Years of Hell
I am charred black
soul bitter. Demons in all shapes fractured my mind
contaminating my soul. My pure heart shriveled sweet and sour.

Like the Messiah
kindness was rewarded with cruelty. A crown of thorns
piercing my brain. Judas’s disciples blend in menacing groups.

My ears bleed
from the lies of the foul tonged. Satan’s legacy flourishes here
lies, serpents, and rumours. Power hungry vultures linger around every corner.

The foul stench of evil
contaminates my nostrils. The sheep huddle together
to look powerful. Guardians turn a blind eye to the foulest creatures.

The light of a soul
fades like the sun in this cold, dark place. Surrounded by monsters
and demons, masking as human beings. They infect the weak with their childhood sickness.

The Prey perish
as the Predators pounce. Kindness is rewarded with cruelty here,
the defenceless punished and banished. Four years is a torture chamber here.

Hope of many
is forever trapped here. Long gone, long perished even after the four years ended.
I never believed in Hell, but a place as evil as this, only proves such a place exists.

Callum McGee is a passionate BA creative writing student at Edge Hill University. His short horror story has been published on the official EHU magazine/newspaper The Quack’s blog. Callum is working on a debut fiction novel based on many Native American tribal cultures and beliefs. However, he also writes poetry tackling societal issues such as pollution, bullying, and inequality. Callum prefers writing from 1st personal point of view across his writing genres. However, he can write in 3rd or 2nd person points of view to expand his writing craft. 


Three Poems by Joseph Farina: “fever planes”, “simulacrum”, and “what we leave behind”

fever planes
heat and sweat salted grit on my neck
the cocktail ridge of loose blown sand
black feathers glean high on black mare's head
eyes wide nostrils open in the hot dust
the single caw of a raven above
all somehow in this room in hours
unknown, between the fever and the heart
that fears a landscape seen only in photographs
but owned by time blood and tears
does it call me or am I the caller
voices in two tongues
the lamentation of my birth voice
and its evolvement to some shattered hybrid
warning of raven and  lizard whispers
a place of measurement and balance
do I answer or  have I been already charged
simulacrum
coyotes howl
at the full wolf moon rising
loose dogs prick their ears
the silence of the cold night air
descends on those who
are half in their beds
waiting for mercy
like a lullaby to blanket them

outside the moon rises higher
cold coyote eyes
follow it to its culmination
knowing there is no mercy in its light
to either men or pack
what we leave behind
I have known all the days
their low and high appointments
the mornings, evenings and afternoons
each sunrise's different colour
each sunset's imitations
measured my time by the sun's chronometer
the lengthening and shortening of shadows
the phases of the moon
from wolf to harvest to cold
the wind's voice in each season
the telling scent of autumn
the frigid kiss of winter
my greatest moments
like shooting stars
flash and disappear
leaving nothing
not even a scar
to say that this was me

Joseph A Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. An internationaly award winning poet. Several of his poems have been published in  Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine,The Chambers Magazine, Ascent ,Subterranean  Blue  and in   The Tower Poetry Magazine, Inscribed, The Windsor Review, Boxcar Poetry Revue , and appears in many anthologies including:  Sweet Lemons: Writings with a Sicilian Accent,  Canadian Italians at Table,  Witness  from Serengeti Press and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century . He has had poems published in the U.S. magazines   Mobius, Pyramid Arts, Arabesques, Fiele-Festa, Philedelphia Poets and   Memoir (and) . He has had two books of poetry published— The Cancer Chronicles   and   The Ghosts of Water Street.


“The Auctioneer’s Daughter” Dark Poetry by Olga Alexandra

amidst hide-covered bones she rides him around the smell of death
greasy lips frozen with inexplicable mirth
she rides
little legs pasted against foul, matted withers 
her beast tripping hooves, like a clown ready for market

she moves him on with chubby hands clenched at raw twine
looped carelessly around and through a gaping mouth and frightened eyes
rolling, lurching with her astride
pounding thin-skinned flanks
rocking an angry child
rubbing 
a hobby horse parading
caught in her own
the knacker’s thrill 
around and around rocking the dying pony

and she never asks where he went

HUMAHNAH HUMAHNAH
daddy’s singing the auctioneer’s song

in stained concrete 
through rat-maze wood and beyond
sawdust clumped with blood
echoing outside where cowboys stand
the girl now a woman 
watches worn animals with curtained eyes

her rough hands mounting 
once again the auctioneer sings “she’s on” 

now squatting in dirt
she meets the gaze of another in pain
a beast, shifting crippled weight broken-
it waits
she hides
no longer creatures of interest 
repulsed freaks
they cannot speak and their bodies rattle numb

daddy’s gone 
and the knackers don’t bid

Olga Alexandra lives in the steamy South and writes horror and crime fiction. She has stories forthcoming in Shotgun Honey and Amazon Kindle Vella. For more info please visit http://www.linkt.ree/olgaalexandra.


“Memories of You” Dark Poetry by Gavin Turner

You are a wallet photo, unseen,
 Dusty atoms of carbon,
Clinging to the plastic strand of a hand brush,
Returned to its place after all was undone
beneath the sinks

You remained, an oil print on my birthday glass,
Whose pleasing shape you drank from,
Had I cleansed myself of you, almost,
A fingertip would reveal itself weeks later,
Uniquely yours, apparently

The dining room rug rolled up, but
Only at the corner, from slipping feet
Retained a trace of flawless skin,
A single hair strayed there too,
The morning trickle of the light made it less visible,
Refusing to be extinguished

I discovered these memories of you,
an infinite desiccation, evidentially
To always be there, with our treasured last words
an indelible truth, typed in hard print,
In the forensic report

Gavin Turner is a writer of dark fiction and poetry. Some of his work is published  via his website gtpoems.wordpress.com