Ghast, etc.
By
Richard Simonds
Ghast
Sometimes death doesn’t always win.
Sometimes it is just the beginning.
As you scrape the inside
Of your cheap pine coffin,
And then claw it as it rots,
You dig through the dirt,
Emerging, night horror,
Stumbling through the graveyard,
Bony claws wrap around
A lonely wanderer’s neck,
You throw him on the ground,
Struggling and screaming,
And feast, feast, feast.
Bog Thing
Wind sweeps through the pines,
You are the dark sound in the dark bog;
The hikers are lost, they don’t understand
Why their compasses keep spinning,
Why the mountain on their map,
Is a festering swamp, where you wait.
They are frightened now, look at their faces,
They argue and swear, the sweat beads
On their faces, they go deeper and deeper in,
The ground softens, gives way, the panic comes,
They run and stumble and scream and fall into
Your open, gaping maw.
The Ouija Board
Young girls
Innocent fun
Impish words
Some laughs
Odd moments.
Then one night,
Cecily joined,
Odd clothes,
Weird hair,
Strange tattoos,
Who invited her?
And the board said:
I AM SATAN
And you were possessed,
And screamed and screamed,
And the planchette
Was a ruby-hilted dagger,
And you stabbed and stabbed,
And Cecily laughed and laughed,
And vanished in the air,
And everyone ran screaming,
They found you unconscious,
Thought you were dead,
Cecily was never found.
Richard Simonds is an imaginative writer and poet living in New York City. His poetry has been published in The Galway Review and Overtly Lit and poems will be published in the upcoming issue of Star*Line and the upcoming anthology Beautiful Tragedies 4. His speculative fiction has recently been published in Möbius Blvd, Bewildering Stories and House of Long Shadows. His Instagram page is @richardspoet.
By
Richard Simonds
Ghast
Sometimes death doesn’t always win.
Sometimes it is just the beginning.
As you scrape the inside
Of your cheap pine coffin,
And then claw it as it rots,
You dig through the dirt,
Emerging, night horror,
Stumbling through the graveyard,
Bony claws wrap around
A lonely wanderer’s neck,
You throw him on the ground,
Struggling and screaming,
And feast, feast, feast.
Bog Thing
Wind sweeps through the pines,
You are the dark sound in the dark bog;
The hikers are lost, they don’t understand
Why their compasses keep spinning,
Why the mountain on their map,
Is a festering swamp, where you wait.
They are frightened now, look at their faces,
They argue and swear, the sweat beads
On their faces, they go deeper and deeper in,
The ground softens, gives way, the panic comes,
They run and stumble and scream and fall into
Your open, gaping maw.
The Ouija Board
Young girls
Innocent fun
Impish words
Some laughs
Odd moments.
Then one night,
Cecily joined,
Odd clothes,
Weird hair,
Strange tattoos,
Who invited her?
And the board said:
I AM SATAN
And you were possessed,
And screamed and screamed,
And the planchette
Was a ruby-hilted dagger,
And you stabbed and stabbed,
And Cecily laughed and laughed,
And vanished in the air,
And everyone ran screaming,
They found you unconscious,
Thought you were dead,
Cecily was never found.
Richard Simonds is an imaginative writer and poet living in New York City. His poetry has been published in The Galway Review and Overtly Lit and poems will be published in the upcoming issue of Star*Line and the upcoming anthology Beautiful Tragedies 4. His speculative fiction has recently been published in Möbius Blvd, Bewildering Stories and House of Long Shadows. His Instagram page is @richardspoet.
