Ebony Ghost (Horror)

Rated R for language and disturbing and violent scenarios. (489 words)


Every time Huck looked out into the forest to the north, he remembered. It was an involuntary remembrance, and what he wouldn’t give to stop it. Sometimes he even dragged all the wood to the front of the house, back to the forest, just to spare himself the sight. Still, every once in a while, he’d look. Accident maybe. Maybe he really did want to look. Maybe he wanted to remember her.

Soft. That was what her skin felt like. Smooth, shiny and ebony. Her lips, God almighty. Molly’s lips couldn’t hold a candle to them.

Molly, just another reason to shake off the memory. Whenever he got that distant look in his eye she’d get suspicious, wringing out her apron and pressing her thin lips together.

“What’cha thinkin’ about Huck. Wood won’t cut itself.”

Huck would just nod and grunt. Then he would shiver slightly, the memory of her fingers stroking down his back so tenderly, flooding his skin. She was innocent, sweet like a flower, but wet inside, like a humid New Orleans day. If he could have stopped himself from touching her. Well it wouldn’t be like this.

That was always when the memory turned bad. There he was, face to face, almost nose to nose with the figure. He could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the sweat beading under the white cotton, blue eyes peeking out from their peepholes.

“This nigger whore don’t deserve to carry your child!”

And all Huck had been able to say- “Please.”

Please what? Please, fucking, what?

He should have smashed the fucker in the face, told him to go mind his own business, go back to screwing pigs. But all he could do was watch, and when it was over, when they’d tramped away like ghosts into the woods, leaving him with her, then he could only hide his face against his knees. His Levi’s smelled like cow shit and mangled grass. He breathed it in, trying to imagine just for a second that he was out in the field, tossing hay bales off the truck. No luck, so he’d picked himself up, cut her down. No one deserved to just hang there, all exposed and forgotten. The crickets close by took up their deafening song again, so Huck did the only thing he could think to do, cradle her, humming a soft lullaby close to her ear, feeling her warmth escaping.

If he’d had the guts, he would have buried her, or better, avenged her. Instead he was here, five years later, chopping wood until his muscles burned.


A blow to the head.


That cotton would be soaked red now.


If he cut the shoulder sure enough, the whole thing would come off.


God almighty, have mercy.


On a wretched soul like him.


“Huck, suppers ready, haul that wood in before it gets cold.”


“In a minute Molly dear, just a minute.”


There is a red glow over the horizon
I stretch and bleed
I wallow and travail
The red glow seeps
Drifts like fog down the stony hillsides
Into the marsh of my soul
It is midnight
And I am death black
Breathing in the red glow
Like fine mist
Permeating who I am
So that I can feel
Something that is not fear
No, it is me you should fear
I’ve clawed at my skin, at my eyes
They bleed, all for my tormentors sake
But now I am picking at the crusts
Rubbing away the dark red dust

There is a red glow over the horizon
Perhaps it is day
Perhaps it is chaos
I rise and stagger
I tilt and plunge
Like a mad silhouette
Like a ship abreast a drunken sea
The red glow wraps about me
Like a tender embrace
It is a new day
And I am cloud grey
Grasping at the glow
Letting its sensation be mine
I shall not fear
For fear is not me
I shall not sorrow
For sorrow is not me

The Witch’s Bookshelf (Book Review): The Long Hard Road out of Hell

In my opinion the apocalypse… Must be primarily an internal, spiritual event, and only in a secondary way an external catastrophe. The gates of the Watchtowers… are mental constructions. When they are opened, they will admit [Satan] not into the physical world but into our subconscious minds…. The apocalypse is a mental transformation that will occur, or is presently occurring, within the collective unconscious of the human race.

-Donald Tyson, “the Enochian Apocalypse”, as quoted in chapter 15 of “The Long Hard Road out of Hell” by Marilyn Manson (with Niel Strauss)

The Long Hard Road out of Hell: Marilyn Manson, with Niel Strauss



There are few people in this day and age with the brutal notoriety of Marilyn Manson, which is ironic, since honestly all he’s done is create art, deep and sometimes disturbing art, but just art.

Of course the people who have made him so notorious are the same people who eventually put Gallello on house arrest for continuing to stand by his idea that the earth revolves around the sun. Not that Manson seems to mind, he knows very well that his popularity would be hard won without the churches constant opposition, much the same way that LaVey maintained that his church would not exist without Christianity. You could say that they are the unwitting, and unwilling catalysts.

With all of this uproar it sometimes feels difficult to separate the man from the legend. This book goes a long way towards that.

I’ll admit that I’m a big fan. Why? Because I can relate, as a person, as an artist, plain and simple. I am part of the apocalypse. Christianity had died within me, has been buried in a small unmarked grave in my soul. Why would I want to remember my torment anyways?

So I suppose it won’t surprise anyone that I really enjoyed this book. I don’t suggest it as reading for just anyone, but if you’re a fan, or you’re willing to take a trip into the darkness, then this book is for you.

Manson (Brian Warner) starts with his formative years, as any sensible person would. It is a story much softer than his namesake (Charles Manson, who’s formative years were full of abuse and abandonment of the deepest kind), but still no bed of roses. These formative years are often were we as humans begin to lose or gain our ability for things like empathy and emotion, and that seems to be the common thread throughout this book, Manson’s struggle to maintain his empathy and emotion.

His recounting of his childhood bleeds into a drug fueled rebirth as a godforsaken rock star. This centers chiefly around the struggle to complete Antichrist Superstar, which in turn portrays Manson’s rebirth.

It is here, in my opinion, that his true depth as an artist shines through. We all have our demons, and we all use our art to exorcise them. We all have something to say, something to share. This is our stage.

Turn away if you must.





Larger Burger (erotica)

Dear readers,

As I mentioned before my short story ‘Larger Burger’ was chosen to be presented in the ERWA (erotic readers and writers association). They’ve finally put it up. Well in fact they put it up at the start of the month, but I must confess it’s been quite a rough month for me. Sometimes I shy away from sharing my personal life here because,well, I’m shy anyways.

But as some of you may know, a while ago I shared the very personal story of my first pregnancy and the trauma I experienced (you can view it here). This is very important to me. I really hope my story can help others. I remember that for so long I felt alone, like the only one, but when I discovered that there were others like me, it helped a great deal.

That aside, I experienced my first (hopefully last) miscarriage. So I hope you guys will bear with me, since a lot of the projects I’m working on will be a little behind. My mind has been static for the last week or so. I feel quite a bit better now though!

Perhaps this story will make up for my absence. I apologize for sending you through a link to get to it, I know how few people take the time to click links, but I don’t think it would be fair to ERWA to post it on my blog instead of linking. If you like erotica this link is well worth your click though! Larger Burger is a bit of a ‘stroke’ story, which means it’s mostly to get you off and less about plot. It’s also the first story in my little collection I’m planning on calling ‘Three Threesomes for the Price of One’, so consider this your free sample. : D

Have a blessed day!


PS. If you do take the time to click the link let me know what you think!


The seed is gestational

Plump and ripe

But time touches it

How cruelly

The blight creeps

From the inside

Darkening even the shell

Till it cracks and falls away


Then I am left empty

A vessel only for desire

The poison that erodes the walls

So subtly


Mother moon how you turn

I take solace in your ever changing

I offer you my vessel


And you touch my desire

My blight

With the reassurance

Of constant transformation

For what I am today

Is not what I will be







The north star is calling my name

Out across the frozen tundra

And I am awake

To the howling of the vacant wind


I am peeling away ice layers

Scraping the crystalline star

From the soft frigid dome

Of the endless sky


It is calling

Communicating into my fingertips

Like shivers of cold

Shooting through my system


Until I know

Every whisper

And every nuance

Of the wilderness

The Men Who Dare To Go There In Erotic Fiction

Wonderful interview with some very awesome male erotica writers!! As you may, or may not know, erotica is often written by droves of horny women (yes, like myself), to be consumed by droves of horny women (again, like myself). People sometimes forget just how many talented male erotica writers there are out there! ; )


Lady Smut

By Elizabeth SaFleur

The evolution of Viagra’s marketing from Bob Dole to 40 something men during football games (so now she wants it) has given me further insight into the degradation that women experience every day, living up to impossible standards of beauty and sexuality. ~Spencer Dryden

You pretty much have to love a guy who emails you the above lines in response to your interview request related to why he writes erotic fiction. And then when he—and other male erotic writers—jump in with other awesomeness, well, it’s hard not to let pride swell one’s little heart that these gentlemen are part of our book tribe.

Authors DaddyX, Spencer Dryden, Daily Hollow and Ian Smith graciously shared their experiences writing erotic romance and erotica, including why (oh, why?) they went there. Few men do. Let’s hear from the few, the proud and the brave.

ELIZABETH SAFLEUR: Okay, guys, how did you…

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