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Horror Without Borders. Volume 2

Hidden Realms

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Editor Олег Хасанов





Contents

Horror Without Borders
Volume 2
Hidden Realms
A World Anthology of Dark Poetry
Edited by Oleg Hasanov

Horror Without Borders. Volume 2: Hidden Realms


The authors of the individual poems retain the copyright of the works featured in this anthology.

All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.


© 2022 Oleg Hasanov

Cover Artwork © 2022 Infographics

A HORROR HAIKU FOREWORD

Do you have the time?

I’ve got a story to tell

About dead beauty.


I once believed that

Life’s a fairytale romance,

But no, I was wrong.


Life’s a ghost story,

It’s a cemetery walk

In winter. No doubt.


I remember that

Journey to Antarctica

Was like a red mist…


In a frozen ship

Is where we found these demons

By the night candles.


Unholy union

Chanting a spell for Satan

From a little black book.


Religions in ice…

A disentombed communion…

A cannibal house…


A girl was summoned,

Concubine of necrosis.

This book’s the portal…


A warm meal helped me

To regain my consciousness.

They gave me potions.


I see a raven

Through the barred window.

Landscape with a tower.


They gave me a pen

And a big stack of paper.

They want a report.


The long road to hell

Through the labyrinth of my

Memories, more like.


In the darkness of

My padded cell, all my thoughts

Go to Dorothy…


They got their report.

This diary of death is

A piece of my mind.


The revelation

In the asylum, a song

From the wailing tomb.


I want to escape.

My amygdala

Tells me I’ve got to.


If I stay any longer,

The lobotomy will be

The ultimate price.


In the waiting room

I hit the nurse with a chair.

Her brain’s a blood soup.


Here comes death. I eat.

No remorse, only hunger.

I am Nosferatu.


I grab the keys and

Open the door. I am free.

Vampire energy.


I am the ripper.

Beyond the dying stars I

Get my freedom.


I have to get home,

I’ve got to see Dorothy.

I hide in the moors.


The night in the swamp

Does me good. It covered me,

Saving from dissection.


I go through the woods

And reach a railroad station.

Red balloon floating.


Now! I slip into

The freight car and hide myself.

But I’m not alone.


Hidden behind the

Big boxes is the dark man.

He is watching me.


His hand slides into

The dark valise and comes out

With a little black book.


The black book I saw

In the demented ship.

He makes me read it…


I know everything.

What killed Aleister Crowley?

Now I know it all.


In her room at last.

My lost love under the sea.

Dorothy, save me.


The day was breaking

Outside. Footprints in

The snow… Not again!


Thought I have escaped.

The curse of the Internet!

They know where I am.


There is no escape.

I shave my beard looking in

The mirror. That’s it!


That’s it! The demons

Are acting on a par with

The government!


They’re here to harvest

Our citizens. Why am

I still pretending?


And Dorothy is

Their agent. I stop shaving

And wipe the razor.


She infected me

With thanatophobia.

Sweet dreams, Dorothy…


Better not take the

Train this time. They’re everywhere.

Don’t trust anyone.


There’ll be no escape

When the dark man comes. The Earth’s

Their inheritance.


I go to the cops.

The enemy within me

Tells me to do so.


Do you have the time?

I’ve got a story to tell

About dead beauty.


I ask for a pen

And a big stack of paper.

I’ll write a report.


They get their report.

This night has a thousand eyes.

So let them have it.


I include weird signs

And bizarre incantations

In this new story.


I write until this

Chalice is empty. It’s done!

The Black Testament.


For all I know they

Hid my little black book somewhere

In a frozen ship…


I know it by heart,

So let me be your darkness.

Feel the poet’s pain.

— Oleg Hasanov

February 13, 2022

Michelle Moroses (USA)
BLOOD SOUP

Michelle Moroses is an undergraduate student at Emerson College. She is on the management team for The Emerson Review and enjoys dogwatching and Wikipedia rabbit holes.

I’m making blood soup.

I’m letting a lot of blood out for it.

Enough to feed an army.


Here we are in the blue bathroom.

Cotton candy blue.


I will miss you when you leave me.

I’ll miss your oven mitts, your

garlic stained hands, your paring knife, the way you

separate skin from bone

the same way god must have separated man out from under his own flesh.

I will miss you even though you hurt me. This is the stupid thing, the part where the dinner guests you invited over get to clutch their full bellies and laugh. When they do, I will excuse myself to go out to the yard and beat the feeling back violently, with the biggest stick I can find.


It doesn’t work. It never works. My love is not so easily killed as my body could be. You wanted both of them, together, in a way you could consume. I’m afraid I’m not going to taste very good.

Nevertheless you want me, and I want you.

And I am fully clothed in the bathtub,

And the water has been shut off for days

yet the tub is filling up.

you’re making blood soup.

Michael Mulvihill (Ireland)
WRITER’S HEAD ON A STICK

Michael Mulvihill was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1978. He eventually, in his late teens, became a bookworm completing degrees up to the Master’s Level in Addiction Studies, Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and Social Sciences. His initial fictional work was surreal short stories of horror which have been featured numerously in Black Petals, an online horror science fiction zine. He branched out to write an apocalyptic, post-Soviet horror novel, Siberian Hellhole, which was translated and published in Georgia. His latest novel, Syriacide, features The Syrian War. He is an avid reader of history and is fascinated by world events, South Africa, the USSR, and the philosophical idea of a dystopian society. At the moment he is writing a dystopian novel. An avid martial artist and film buff, he trains constantly in Kenpo Karate and loves to also relax whilst watching films.

They used to shoot the messenger,

But this horde wanted gore,

A torture and a killing from the days of yore,

A piece were writ that had too much grit,

It told truth,

Stung a few living demons that wanted blood,

And thus was vowed there shall be blood,

Off went the writer’s hands thrown to starving dogs,

Plucked out of sockets went his pair of eyes,

Knee-capped by a shotgun as a chainsaw started on,

When all was done his body remains was fed to crocodiles in a zoo,

As this horde, this cult of death,

Raised their flag outside a mansion,

And placed the writer’s head on a stick,

A thick stick yes,

But none the less a stick,

The hurly-burly was done,

What was achieved in this?

Stephanie Ellis (England)
COMMUNION

Stephanie Ellis writes dark speculative prose and poetry and has been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her poetry has been published in the Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volume 6 and her latest stories include Asylum of Shadows (Demain Publishing’s Short Sharp Shocks series), and Snowbooks industrial horror anthology, Thread of the Infinite. She is co-editor and contributor at The Infernal Clock and also co-editor of Trembling With Fear, HorrorTree.com’s online magazine. She is an affiliate member of the HWA.

Website: https://stephanieellis.org

It’s important, the detail.


She sat, as I recall

Small, a doll, eyes daring

Beyond caring of the future


And?


She wore trainers, to run

Said she’d always been running

From men like me


Men like you?


Men like her father

Forever after possession

Paternal monsters, always hunting


And did you hunt her?


No, no need. She knew I would wait

I’d baited her, held the line,

Sedated her, reeled her in


And then?


I measured the length of her, the stretch of her

As communed without communion

Shrouded in scarlet


But you see her still?


Yes, she sits at my shoulder

My angel, my perfect angel

And she whispers, Daddy…

Norbert Góra (Poland)
CONCUBINE OF NECROSIS

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.

One-to-one trysts, which were too weird

to understand how those feelings appeared,

the light of beauty met the darkness of eyesore,

innocence tasted the filthy bitterness of gore.


In the arms of death she quickly forgets

about the sort of things that can upset,

she worships the smell of decaying meat

when the slimy tongue touches her teat.


Longing washes her body during the day,

at night she loves the carcass, to whom she obeys,

infatuated and blissful, the concubine of necrosis

submerges in the source of lifeless hypnosis.


With each grain of time her face becomes paler,

brighter than the fabric kept in the hands of a tailor,

with every sunset, such a visible difference

between them disappears, fatal severance.