Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Love Song by Max Griffin

Love Song
By Max Griffin

When our bodies and souls in the darkness of night
Lay together in bed and share rest and repose,
Then do whispers divine and exalted give light
To the life that we share and the love that one knows
Will forever be held in our bosoms and souls.
In the night we are naked, our hearts we reveal.
In our love and our coupling we long to dispose
That great distance between us that love can't repeal.

We first met in the spring when the flowers so bright
Were abloom in their beds, all in careful tableaux.
I was drawn to your beauty and sought to invite
You to join me and stroll in the trees that enclose
That fair glade where we met and where love first arose.
With a touch to my hand and a kiss you did seal
The one love that we share to protect and oppose
That great distance between us that love can't repeal.

As we age, for the span of our lives we do fight
To return to the days of our youth when the rose
Of our love first did bloom and before it took flight.
We are lost in the rush of a living that flows,
Of a life that is spent in the moment. It knows
Little mercy for love that we share, an ordeal
We endure to a song that is harsh, as it shows
That great distance between us that love can't repeal.

How I miss you, my love, both your highs and my lows.
Our two hearts, once so warm, now alone, mine is steel.
I endure to a dirge from the void, one that shows
That great distance between us that death does reveal.

© Copyright 2010 Max Griffin. All rights reserved.
Max Griffin has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

You get more of the great Max Griffin at his blog.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Fire to Ashes by Joy Cagil

"Damn the infidel!"

         He cursed at the splinter stuck to the tip of his index finger as if it was the enemy, but still he heaped the dry wood onto the fire. This wait couldn't be too bad; plus, what else could he do after making the deal...

         Once the fire died down, she would reappear and take him by the hand, and they would begin walking on air just as she had promised. She would lead him to the place where all spirits walked on top of something fluffy as if coated with moss, and the two of them would take a rest on a riverbank shining of iridescent light.

         He watched the fire surround him and he bit his lip. No, he shouldn't waver. He had to go there. A vision of her, gigantic and impelling, grabbed him.

         "That wonderful land," she promised, "is where people are always happy; nothing hurts; no one is sad; and lots of beautiful girls will be waiting for you, wishing to lie down with you. And the feast," she swore, "is nothing you have ever seen or tasted, because it is never over, never finishes; it is always fresh and always adjusted to your liking."

         "There is no other way," the girl told him, bereft of sympathy, as she carried the wood to the furrowed sides of the pit. "To go there, you have to have your trial by fire."

         "Let us hurry then," he said, bowing on his knees and opening his hands to the skies in supplication. He was afraid of changing his mind. Could his will fade away?

         But she had read his mind. "No, I won't let you," she admonished. "Once you have consented, you have to go through this. And you will. We will see to it that you will."

         "Who are we?" he had asked. "I only made a deal with you."

         "I am we." Without pausing, the girl walked away and disappeared into the air. His eyes followed her, but the horizon parted and stones as big as asteroids rolled into it, blocking his view.

         He couldn't see her at all now, but he heard her whisper: "Blow the smoke, blow toward where we will go."

         "But I don't know where," he yelled, so confused, and his body spiraled and curled as the fire rose to the heavens, consuming him.

         He rose from the fire light as a tune. Out of the darkness, he thought he saw her walking toward him. Everywhere was dark, but he could see. Not like before, when he had a body, but in a different way. He floated over the ashes...his own ashes that he had thought could not exist after him.

         He reached for her...for her lips. Something slippery held him in its grip. This wasn't the way she had explained the reverie to him, but maybe, this had to be the dream-think she had told him about.

         He ascended toward something flickering, a spark that had escaped from his own ashes, on a sky-path rising through curving clouds. But the sky, the sky he was in, lost its softness with an abrupt slash of wind. The clouds grew into stones, boulders, and mountains with ledges swarming with snakes, rattling, coiling, and uncoiling.

         Rapidly he began to shiver with a strange chill. He knew it then.

         "Snakes," he thought. "Snakes are biting me." Since he had lived in the wild among comrades who were also training to build their own fires, he had learned of snake bites.

         "I should be dead soon," he thought, but then, he corrected himself. "I'm already dead. How many times can I die?"

         "Many..." A gruff voice answered his thoughts. "Those who build wild fires die many deaths."

         "But I was promised..."

         "There are no guarantees in promises. You believed in the wrong promise."

         A dull, heavy thud struck the ledge he was on.

         "Where are you?" His scream returned to him in thousand-fold echoes.

         Where was he? He kept falling down, and down, and down. Gone was the lightness he had first felt when he was rising from the fire.

         "I will fall forever," he thought. The girl had tricked him. There would be no feasts, no happiness, and no young maidens waiting for him, because the land she had promised never did exist.

         Osman opened his eyes, sweating when nausea seized him. He leaned over as the warm, bitter bile spewed out of his mouth.

         He felt the throng move about him. "It is over now," someone said. "You are among friends." He heard no uncertainty in that voice.

         He stood up as someone gave him a wet cloth. Osman wiped his face. Two guards pressed against him. They walked together to see the official. Osman looked at the guards out of the corner of his eye. They walked haughtily, indifferently, probably for decorum.

         He averted his eyes. He would tell these people everything he knew. He had already died a thousand deaths, believing in false promises.

         Now, he was delighted he was alive.

         And he was so glad the grenade's pin had gotten stuck.

© Copyright 2010 Joy Cagil. All rights reserved.
Joy Cagil has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Feel free to read more from this talented author at

Monday, September 27, 2010

Evil Night: Review of DEVIL by M. Night Shyamalan

“The first in a series of collaborations from Media Rights Capital and M. Night Shyamalan comes in the form of Devil, a supernatural thriller based on an idea by the enigmatic filmmaker. Going off of a script by Brian Nelson is Quarantine director John Erick Dowdle, who handles producing duties with his brother Drew.”

I thought it odd that I couldn’t find any real synopsis of the movie although there were the teaser trailers. While it’s nice to know who wrote and directed the movies, as a connoisseur of horror and writer, I prefer getting a few details of the storyline.

All right, here’s what I discovered after watching the movie. Five people, who we later discover have unscrupulous backgrounds of sorts, get stuck in an elevator of a high rise. The lights go out intermittently and each time it does bad things happen. Legend has it that the devil takes on human form and when he’s ready to take someone, he likes an audience. (Yet another thing I have in common with the sultan of evil).

At first I wondered how the movie’s premise could hold my attention, but the collaboration between M. Night Shyamalan and Brian Nelson is good enough to keep me interested in the outcome of the characters because they were wise enough to show us the trapped victims’ rescuers struggles to set them free.

While the story was interesting, the low budget affected what I term sudden jump factor. In other words, how many times did the movie make me jump with surprise? This is usually because of sharp camera angles and a blast of music. The answer is maybe once. I can’t remember.

The movie DEVIL is definitely soft horror. Although there’s blood, the emphasis is not so much on gore as is the story. I like movies that tell a good story. This one did quite a bit of telling and not enough showing which is strange for a motion picture flick.

I would have liked to see bits and pieces of the character’s lives, particularly the people trapped in the elevator. Instead of being shown their lives, the narrator tells us. Eventually, we discover the movie centers on one horrible event from the past and two characters. I just wish the movie was handled differently. Nevertheless, if you’re looking to add a little entertainment to a boring evening, I recommend you watch the movie.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Here's the link to the movie sight for DEVIL

Friday, September 24, 2010

Trapped by Truth

Hunter Colby rode inside elevator three in Bellevue Hospital. He used the collar of his coat to try and shield his face from the only other passenger.

“You look familiar.” A nun leaned to the side, staring at Hunter.

He feigned a cough. “I have one of those faces.”

“And a beautiful face it is. Hey, I know you.” She snapped her fingers. “I remember! You’re Hunter Colby. I taught you sixth grade.”

He hated when his past caught up with him. He wondered if denial would work but he saw the old woman had a sharp mind. He nodded, “Hello Sister Helen.”

Her smile changed to concern when the elevator jolted to a stop. The lights dimmed. She pushed every button, but it didn’t move. “We’re stuck.”

The last thing Hunter wanted was to face the scrutiny of his favorite nun. She stretched her arms, leaving him little choice but to hug her. He grimaced, making sure to avoid solid contact.

She looked at his face and said, “Boy, you really need to see the sun more.”

“I work nights.”

She squinted, scanning him from top to bottom.

Hunter felt uneasy, “Is something wrong?”

Sister Helen stepped back, fiddling with her rosary.

Hunter moved away from her and toward the door. He needed to get out. He placed his hands on the door and grunted. “Perhaps there’s a mechanism I could release to slide the door open.”

“Forget about the door, Hunter.” She rested her back in the opposite corner.

“What’s happened to you? Last I heard you worked for the FBI.”

Hunter did his best not to meet her stare. He glanced at the ceiling and saw what looked like a trapped door. It was closed.

“Young man, let’s play a game.”

His gaze moved from the top of the elevator to the nun. Her red face seemed to lose its color. “What kind of game?”

“Let’s play Truth or Dare.” She grinned. Though her lips curled, her blue eyes were wide as if she studied a fascinating creature under a microscope. She lowered her voice. “Go ahead, ask me first.”

Hunter gazed at the ceiling again. If he wanted out of the contraption, nothing could stop him.

“Alright Sister Helen, I’ll play your game. Tell me a truth.”

The grin that looked pasted on her face faded. “I can see auras. I remember yours because most days it was orange. You were adventurous to a fault.”

Hunter kept his body still. Once again he glanced at the closed square lid.

She barely let out enough breath, but said, “Truth.”

He opened his arms as if they were wings. “I’m no longer an FBI agent.”

She rubbed her crucifix and managed to yell out, “Dare!”

He smiled. “I thought it was my turn.” He lowered his arms. “What do you want, Sister?”

She had a wild look in her eyes. “I dare you to tell me why you no longer have an aura and to let me live.”

He raised a pair of fingers, “That’s two more things. I’ve only gone once.” He extended his hands perpendicular to his hips. His body hovered a foot off the ground. “My adventures led me to my death.”

The frightened sister did the sign of the cross and prayed.

“Where was God when my maker ended my human existence?” Anger festered inside him like boiling water. He flashed his fangs at Sister Helen.

“No!” She lifted her crucifix as if to keep him away. “You must wait for the rising sun and pray God forgives you while you meet your end.”

Hunter glided closer to her, careful not to let her touch him. “You want me to commit suicide? That’s a sin!”

“In your case it’s a sacrifice. Hunter, have you taken human lives?”

He saw how his favorite nun transformed from a woman in total fear of him to complete disgust. Hunter should have listened to his maker and fed before leaving the secret lair, hidden in the subway tunnels. The hunger got stronger. Her rapid heartbeat called to him. He dared glide closer until they were face to face.

“Feed off me if you must.” Sister Helen sounded tired. She took off the crucifix and pocketed it.

Surprised at the woman’s change of heart, Hunter leaned closer until his lips caressed her neck. He bit hard. His fangs pierced her soft skin. Images of their time together in sixth grade bombarded his mind. Their interlude revealed secrets of lust never realized. She longed to be touched, to be taken by a man.

Hunter let go. He sliced his wrist open with a fingernail and allowed his blood to cover and instantly seal her wound. At her age, she would lose consciousness, but not her life.

“Thanks for the drink Sister.” He flew through the trapdoor, tearing it off, landing on the top of the elevator. He pulled down on a cable and the elevator went up until it drew even with the floor. He heard the door slide open. He jumped back inside and carried the good nun out to safety.

Hunter placed Sister Helen on an empty gurney that was in the hall. He wished the old myth about vampires not having a reflection was true. He made his way into the security room and flashed his FBI credentials to a security guard. “I need to see the video for elevator three.”

“You’ve got a warrant?”

Using his powers of persuasion, Hunter got the young man to erase the footage and forget about it ever happening.

As he exited the hospital, another voice from his past called out to him. “Hunter?”

When he turned in the direction of the deep voice, he remained stoic.

“It is you.” His ex-partner looked baffled. “Where have you been?”

Before he could answer, a woman’s scream pierced through the night air. Agent Miles reached for his gun, “Let’s go take a look, Hunter.” He sprinted in the direction of an alley. Again a woman screamed.

Hunter didn’t use his powers. He followed his old friend and watched as two thugs approached the elder agent with knives. He spotted a third man, pointing a gun, hiding behind a dumpster. The heathen aimed his weapon. In a flash, Hunter stopped the man from firing his gun, squeezing tight, crunching the would-be-cop-killer’s hand. Shielded by the dumpster, he drained the evil man of his blood.

Afterward, he saw Agent Miles had the other two men in custody and the woman was safe. He vanished before his old friend could realize what he had become.

As Hunter traveled back to his lair, he hoped his maker did not punish him for visiting his old neighborhood. His thoughts returned to Sister Helen. The amazing woman knew what he had become. She managed to trap him with the truth. He suspected that sooner or later, his master would know about his ill advised journey to see his mother as she passed on to a more peaceful existence. He realized that his mom was lucky to die. He whispered, “I’ll miss you, mom.”

- 1, 184 words 

© Copyright 2010 Nomar Knight. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Black Creek Crossing by Carla Ralston

As cold dark water rushes by
And storm clouds gather in the sky
The forest waits for winter's chill
The trees stand lifeless, bare and still.

A sad faced man stands by the creek
His shoulders sag; his legs are weak.
As brown leaves fall on cold gray stone,
Black raindrops freeze him to the bone.

He shivers in the icy rain
His lonely heart is filled with pain.
As tears and rain stream down his face,
He says, "I hate this cursed place."

His friends call from the other side,
"Just walk across.  It's not so wide.
Let's leave this place, escape this storm
And find a home that's bright and warm."

The sad faced man just shakes his head.
The raging stream fills him with dread.
The other side seems miles away.
He dares not try. He'll have to stay.

His best friend wades across to him,
Holds out his hand, "I'll help you, Jim.
Together we can walk across
And leave this land of death and loss."

Jim shakes his head and whispers, "No."
His sad friend turns around to go
And as the snowflakes sting Jim's face,
He whispers, "God, I hate this place."

He walks away, choosing to dwell
Here in this cold, familiar Hell,
His frozen heart an empty hole,
A black creek running through his soul.

© Copyright 2010 Carla Ralston. All rights reserved.
Carla Ralston has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Carla's command of traditional poetry is to be admired. Her words definitely bleed on the page. Thank you Carla for sharing your wonderful talent with us. If you want more of Carla Ralston's work you may find it at

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Bedside Ghost by Kotaro

Bedside Ghost
by Kotaro

Two hundred years of peace and prosperity had changed the samurai to seek the pleasures of the flesh.

Satomi was in the prime of life and she lived in fear.

There was no safer place than where she was; under the huge roof of the main temple of the Zen sect. NO ghost would dare enter to disturb her prayers. Yet, her conscious created vivid images of the ghost that shattered her sleep into shards that carved away what peace the Buddha had molded with her prayers.

Tatsunori Motoki let out a heavy breath as he looked into the lazy waters of the river. He lifted the rod and noticed he'd been fooled again. Certainly, this was a sign of the misfortune that was plaguing his life. His wife, Satomi, had bought a kimono that was of a quality beyond what his income could afford no matter how hard she had been saving. She had been careful enough to get his permission before buying the kimono, yet he knew better; someone had surely bought it for her.

This seed of suspicion was now a vine constricting all his thoughts and actions. Day after day, he could think of little else and his administrative duties at the magistrate's public office was found lacking. He was given three days off and told to come back with heart and mind free to concentrate.

His most honorable ancestors were certainly yelling at him to show some samurai spirit, confront her with his suspicions, and slay her. Yet, Tatsunori blamed himself, for he still loved her with a deep passion. The outline of her body under her nightwear or the scent of her perfume sent him into a heart thumping need. His most urgent desire was to send her into uncontrollable ecstasy, yet, after two years of marriage, he had still to achieve anything near it. Satomi now refused him more often than not, and when she did accept, he sensed it was with resignation.

This morning when he told her of his vacation, she asked him to catch some fish for dinner while she did the housework and shopped. She had prepared him a simple lunch, and so he was here under a willow tree. He removed the moist cloth covering his small basket of bait. Somehow, the worms disgusted him. He emptied it into the river. Wrapping the line around the pole, he pushed the hook into the wood then headed back home.

The morning fog still hugged the ground in places like puddles after rain. Soon, they would dissipate as he wished his gloom would. Tatsunori still had the rice balls Satomi had packed. Feeling bored, he took one out of its wrapping of bamboo bark to munch on as he walked. He hoped to get home before Satomi went shopping, for he needed to tell her there wouldn't be any fish. As he gulped down the last of his lunch, he saw the door of his home slide open. Satomi stepped out. Not wanting to shout, he quickened his pace to overtake her. At the first corner, she turned west. The market was east. Where was she going? Was she so brazen to meet her secret lover when he was off from work? He determined to find out.

She walked and walked, finally leaving the outskirts of town. Soon, she would reach the sea. Then, he saw where she wanted to be, a secluded shack just above the dunes. Hiding behind the last tree, he watched till she disappeared into the shack. He bit his nails, and agonized over what action to take. Minutes past, at last, he stepped out into the open and rushed to see the truth. His chest leaned forward and his sandals kicked sand to his thighs, so hard he ran. He was nearly there when he dropped to his knees. Resembling a wary crab, he
approached and stopped beneath a window. The paper covering its wooden lattice was old and torn.

He paused with his back against the wall, his heart pounding in his ears, yet it couldn't drown the heavy pants of exertion and cries of delight coming from within. Turning, he inched upward to the window till his eyes peered through a rent to stare in erotic horror at Satomi astride her prone lover. He watched unable and unwilling to wrench his eyes away till she reached the peak of ecstasy and collapsed forward over the body that should have been his. Tears flowed as he cried out in shame and anger.

His cries alerted the couple. Satomi rose off her lover and crept to the window. Peering through a tattered square, she gasped as she recognized her husband, "It's Tatsunori. Quick, kill him!"

Tatsunori raced to the door, his sword raised. As he slid the door open, a blade ripped into his gut. Pushed to the ground, the sword cut through his back and plunged into the sand. His face grimaced into a devil's mask of anguish. His hand gripped the blade impaling him. Blood spilled out of his mouth as he struggled with each breath, "Satomi, curse you!".

They gutted him from groin to throat like a fish, rowed out to sea, and released him into the cool waters of the bay. As the waves rolled over his body, his jaws opened and closed as if struggling to speak before he sank.

Returning to shore, they waded through the surf to cleanse their bodies of blood. They rushed into the shack. Murder was oil to the flames within their loins; their cries and moans the line and bait of a devil that lured Tatsunori’s soul away from the realm of eternal peace.

It's said that Satomi had one more tryst with her lover, and that they saw Tatsunori's ghost looking down upon them, his kimono swaying, as if floating among the waves. Worse of all was the leer on his lips and the glow in his eyes.

Satomi prayed till her death to assuage her husband's spirit. Yet, it found no peace, only a need to watch guided its existence, as it roamed the earth for the sounds of sexual pleasure.

They say, as the decades passed, the ghost slowly faded. Yet, if you feel a chilly breeze while entwined with your lover, it just might be the heavy breathing of the bedside ghost.

The End

I got this idea after going to a temple that has a gallery of ghost paintings used as props by a rakuten artist. Rakuten is the Japanese art of verbal story telling. He would have the paintings hanging in the background as he told his chilly tales. You can see some of them at

© Copyright 2010 Kotaro All rights reserved. Kotaro has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Thanks Kotaro for sharing that spooky story. You can find other stories by this gifted author in

Sunday, September 19, 2010

A Call for Terror: Your Poetry is Needed

Would you like to be the featured poet of the week on Knight Chills? Submit a poem or two and perhaps you can be the next poet of the week.

Top priority is DARK or HORROR poetry. However, any poem that invokes deep emotions regardless of topic will be given serious consideration. I favor poems with good rhyme and rhythm, but I also like free verse. Limerick’s, haikus and anything on the short side can be considered for inclusion in a future post as a part of a collection.

Poems should not exceed five hundred words.

7 Days of Terror

That’s 7 days of terrorizing talent will be displayed on the week leading up to Halloween.

Here’s the lineup as of today, Sunday September 19, 2010:

Monday October 25th 2010- W.D. Wilcox spins his horrifying tale STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

Tuesday October 26th 2010- Tania Walsh places a high price on love in ZOMBIE WALKING

Wednesday October 27th 2010- Five Terrifying Poets (Robin Moyer, Adriana Noir, Carla Ralston, 2 spots yet to be filled)

Thursday October 28th 2010- Carole Gill will tantalize us with THE SONG

Friday October 29th 2010- Nomar Knight loves to hear your SILENT SCREAM

Saturday October 30th 2010- Author yet to be determined

Sunday October 31st 2010- Adriana Noir will put you on the edge of your seat with PHILOMENA

Poetry Submissions should be put on the body of an email to
Come. Fall into my darkness and forever be free!

Nomar Knight

Friday, September 17, 2010

I Can See Clearly

The new neighbor flashes a smile. Yellow teeth intersperses between thin lips. Peach fuzz paints a thin mustache. Most girls would fall for a face like his, at least until he smiles, but something doesn’t seem right. At first I think one of his eyes is lower than the other, but the illusion wears off when he stops beaming. There’s something about the way he looks at me. I recall seeing that same stare when I was a child and I didn’t know any better than to hold the lion’s steady gaze at the zoo.

The guy brushes his black hair off his left eyebrow and says, “Howdy neighbor. I’m Ben,” extending his right hand. I don’t take it, concerned about the red stuff on his fingers. He chuckles, “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s ketchup.”

“I’m Morgan.” I leave him at his apartment door, alone with his stupid grin. I sense his stare penetrate my backside as I ascend the stairs. My internal evil detector works well.

Upon entering my studio apartment, thoughts of my ability to see people for what they truly are allows me to focus on my purpose in life. Ben lives in apartment 1A. He probably fools everyone else, but I know that on the first full moon he’ll turn into a werewolf.

I go to my nightstand and load regular bullets into my .38 caliber revolver. I’ve dealt with his kind before. The whole killing them with silver bullets is a myth. My attention deviates toward whimpers originating from the bathroom. I unlock the door and enter pointing the weapon.

The shower curtain is ripped off its aluminum pole. “Good morning Cassie.”

My neighbor from apartment 3B remains partially covered with the plastic curtain. Wide, brown eyes full of tears blink at a furious rate. I think about stripping the duct tape off her mouth, but I worry she might cast a spell.

I grin, “Cassie, you really shouldn’t have made that doll.” She had told me a lame story about it being a Barbie, but like me, it has red hair. My grandmother taught me that nothing’s a coincidence.

I turn on the water faucet, plugging the drain. “Is it true that in the old days they drowned witches?”

She whimpers, squirming in the tub, trying her best to slither out of her restraints. “Guess what Cassie? We have a new neighbor. He’s a werewolf.”

The evil witch pleads with her eyes. I check my watch. “Oh my goodness, there’s only an hour left before sundown. I have to go next door to your boyfriend Carl’s apartment before he wakes up. I never knew witches dated vampires.”

With gun in hand, I trot out of my apartment. I don’t have a wooden stake, but I am wearing a crucifix. Anyway, I believe a good old bullet through the heart will work just as well. I break into Carl’s place and am stunned to find him sleeping on a bed. I imagine coffins are too expensive, with the recession and all. Right then, I vow to get rid of the vermin in Washington as soon as I clean this place of evil monsters. It’s amazing how many people are blind to their surroundings, but not me. I can see clearly.

I guess it’s true what my grandma used to say. A woman’s work is never done.

- 560 words

© Copyright 2010 Nomar Knight. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Answer to Yesterday by Robin Moyer

Answer to Yesterday
By Robin Moyer

Beware, my child,
Look not to antiquated ideals
nor to antebellum expectations
for thee must obey the idols
of the noncommon man.
Be not like the flancloneter
whose thoughts flow
like septic cells down the
sewers of the dispossessed.
Trust not in they who draw the life tattoos
upon thy soul: Striped lines
of bars encoded speak to the great Decimator.
If thee would incline to read once printed word,
and more, if thee should dare to express
thy inner words in print,
thee must do so in great secret—
for creativity died in the great exclamation point-
ed at all who dare preserve us.

Be aware my child,
thee of green eyes in an earth of brown,
thee with sight that sees the surface beyond.
For thee still feels in an unemotional world,
still thinks with disprejudicial thought.
Thou art round, my child, in a place gone square.
It is the points; sharp, poisoned points and
the razored edges that slice to inner core
that will disembowel your heart, quiet your mind’s blood.
I am old, my child, near gone.
My cycle must now turn the final corner,
must make the last left turn to tomorrow.
Thou art my yesterdays. Thee has swallowed
mine answers, now I be empty of all.
Thee has all that is mine to give, and more.
Be thou a mask, hide in thy art, escape in thy wonder.
Perhaps, thee, dear child, shall rise, shall overcome
This sepia-ed sentence. Mayhap thee shall wordpaint
A brightness one day to enlighten the darkened.

Beware, my child.
Thee must survive the para-synmosis.
Be blank of slate, erased of mind for the dire
examinations that shall follow,
for thee art in the year
of thy becoming.
Insulate thy inner being from they that
think they look deep without.
Play the innocent game of the naïve,
remember the bishop’s pawn,
be patient for thy check to mate.
Draw from the elder’s wisdom,
their words are forever thine:
they cannot be stolen from thee.
Let not their screams silence thee
nor let their answers stay thy quest,
for thou art my hope, mine answer to yesterday.

© Copyright 2010 Robin Moyer. All rights reserved.
Robin Moyer has granted Knight Chills, non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Robin Moyer's wizardry with words is entertaining to say the least. She is an excellent poet who always manages to elicit emotions from the reader. Thank you Robin for sharing your talent with Knight Chills. You can read more of Robin's work on here.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Jacob's Well by Adriana Noir

I can’t help but regard Jacob with disgust. He’s everything vile about this world, an abomination. Even now, watching him scuttle to the center of the well, one hand lifted to shield his eyes against the sudden intrusion of light, I feel nothing but determination. Jacob must die.

“Please, father.”

His voice is a mere hollow rasp. The sun falls across gaunt features, revealing the layers of filth and grime encrusted into his skin. I wonder what his mother would think of him now—what she would think of both of us.

“I’m not alone down here. Please let me out.”

Loathing surges through my veins. It spreads through my system, roiling like molten lava, destroying everything in its path. Any semblance of love and sympathy died long ago along with that traitorous bitch I called my wife. I suppose all of the emotions that made me weak and blind now lay rotting beside her. She stole everything away, including my dreams of having a son.

“Pappa, please!”

He whimpers. The pathetic sound almost breaks through the fortress I’ve built around my heart. Jacob scratches the moldy cobblestones of his prison. Some of them break and crumble beneath his efforts, plopping into the shallow depths below. His nails split and rip down to the quick leaving crimson streaks in their wake.

“I’m not your father, boy.” The cruel reminder hangs heavy between us. Rage ices my voice. “You’re the devil’s spawn, sprung from the depths of your mother’s rotten womb. I wish you were dead!”

He sobs. The anguished noises pouring from his throat almost sound human. His mother used the same tricks. Clever ruses meant to bewitch and beguile. I will not fall for them again. Hardening my heart, I make the long trek back to the barn. Jacob’s pleas carry on the warm autumn breeze.

Moments later, I return. Hose in hand, I stand poised over the well. Jacob glances up, his eyes illuminating with a brief flicker of hope until he sees the green tube clenched in my grasp. Horror registers within those wide blue orbs and his jaw goes slack. The sight of him stunned stupid brings a satisfied leer to my lips.

“It must be done, boy. Your mamma brought this on you with all of her spells and tricks. Her womb was rotten, spoiled, and no amount of trying was ever gonna bring us a baby. The doctor told us so. That bitch made a pact with the devil. It was his loins you sprung from, not mine. Now I got to end it all.”

“You’re crazy!”

I laughed at the notion. Of course he would say such. What did he know about crazy anyway? “And you’s a bad seed!”

Dropping the hose over the rim, I listen to Jacob cough and sputter as the icy torrent rains over him like the wrath of God. The notion to pray for his soul comes and passes without action. There’s no use in wasting my breath on something like him. He’ll be where he belongs soon enough. Soon, this whole mess will be over and I can forget all about babies, Meg, and the hell she brought.

Shaking my head, I make my way back to the house. I doubt Jacob’s screams will ever reach beyond the sixty acres of land Willowscape boasts. The once vibrant tobacco farm now sits dead and vacant, poisoned by my wife’s blood. I should have buried her elsewhere. As I step inside, I make a mental note to not make the same mistake with the boy.

Dusk caves beneath the burgeoning press of night. Ink colors the sky, erasing twilight’s golden hues. Jacob’s screams are faint now, weak. They remind me of the whispered promise of a lover, a sound so fragile you wonder if it is real or a dream.

“Help me! Father, please! Help me!”

I smile. Soon there is nothing but the gentle, rhythmic symphony of crickets wafting beneath my window. Sleep comes without struggle. Slumber wraps me in her comforting embrace and pulls me into sweet oblivion. Dreams are where the day’s previous burdens are transformed into new potential. I welcome the metamorphosis, confident that Jacob’s demise will bring relief to my tragic existence.


I awake with a start, cold sweat trickling down my spine like the fingers of death seeking a victim. Shivering, I scan the shadowed recesses of my room, certain there is something sinister lurking in the darkness. My gaze flickers over the worn wooden planks of the floor, and my heart seizes into a painful knot.

No! It can’t be.

A sickening splat breaks the silence. It reverberates through every particle of my being. My nerves grate, grinding like raw steel cables, but I cannot tear my gaze away from the narrow puddles shimmering on the bedroom floor. The moonlight glints off their murky surface in menacing waves. They ripple and distort with invisible quivers.


The malevolent whisper brushes my ear. It carries a gurgling undercurrent, something inhuman and angry. I clamp my eyes shut, praying the voice will go away, but it grows louder, more insistent.


How did he get out?

Squish. Squish. Squish.

It’s the sound of rot and decay moving across the room. Fear collapses my lungs. My heart beats so fast it barely registers. “Please, son.” I open my eyes, hoping to reason with Jacob.

A fathomless chuckle vibrates through my core. It wrests away the last shred of sanity, leaving unbridled despair.

“You aren’t his father, Braden. You admitted it yourself.”

The stench of sulfur fills my nostrils and burns my throat. A keening mewl works past my lips. I understand now. Jacob’s frigid hand snakes out of nowhere and seizes my wrist. Trapped, I experience his final agonized moments, hear him calling for his father, summoning the shapeless beast beside him. His colorless eyes lock with mine and I feel them pulling, dragging me down into an endless, watery abyss.

God, forgive me, please.

~WC 999

Copyright 2010 ©Adriana Noir 2010© All rights reserved.
Adriana Noir © has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

I offer a huge thank you to the lovely Adriana Noir for sharing her extraordinary talent with us. I consider her one of the best writers I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Her use of imagery puts the reader inside the story. She is a great storyteller and I’m proud to call her friend.

You can visit her blog here. For more of her stories visit her at here

Monday, September 13, 2010

Chupa Cabra: Friend or Foe

Let’s put aside any personal feelings we may have about the existence of the creature called the Chupa Cabra. Eyewitness reports have more or less described a creature about four feet in height with a canine or boar’s snout and black in color. Some witnesses claimed the creature can fly and has wings. Regardless of sightings that seem to be seasonal in nature throughout warm climate locations, the possibility of the beast being a hybrid of some kind has ignited creative interpretations which have turned the beast into a legend.

I have personally interviewed two people who claim to have encountered the strange creature that others deemed the Chupa Cabra. One man came face to face with the terrifying creature while working in a dairy. The other heard a commotion in his yard, expecting to ward off thieves. Imagine his surprise upon discovering the culprit wasn’t human. I promise to detail these accounts in a short story that I’ll submit to a new medium called Chupacabra Magazine. In the meantime, I’d like to share a rumor I heard a few years ago.

Why the Chupa Cabra Doesn’t Attack Humans

In beautiful Puerto Rico, under a cloak of darkness, a drunk who worked in a dairy farm fell asleep. He awoke yelling and cursing because something bit his neck. A noise coupled with a stinging pain, set off his internal alarm that something malicious stood near. He discovered a wound as some blood stained his fingers. He rose from the chair with flashlight in hand and discovered a black creature with red angry eyes backing away from him. The drunk noted that in spite of his height advantage, his instincts were to retreat as well, too stunned to take his eyes off the strange creature, he said, “What are you?”

Their encounter was brief because instead of the beast charging at the man, it appeared to ascend into the trees. At first he thought it was a monkey, but the more he tried to recall the creature’s features, the more he understood, nothing like it was known to man. Nevertheless, the encounter left the man with two puncture wounds in his neck.

His boss arrived with the rising sun and when he examined the frighten man’s wounds, chuckled. “Looks like you got bitten by a vampire bat.”

They made light of the event until they spotted a cow lying on the ground. It wasn’t long before they discovered the cow was lifeless and had two puncture wounds similar to the drunkard. When they sliced open the cow they discovered it was drained of all its blood.

Rumor has it that because the Chupa Cabra attacked an alcoholic, it dislikes the taste of man and that’s why it hasn’t attacked another human since.

Of course, the rumor cannot be collaborated, but like myths, it is entertaining to the rest of us. I’m sure the drunkard would disagree with our assessment. So next time you’re in the wilderness. Watch out for the creature with the devil’s eyes. You may come face to face with the legendary Chupa Cabra.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Friday, September 10, 2010

Monsters Need Jobs Too

I stepped inside the unemployment office expecting people to react to my presence. Instead, I found everyone worrying about their own problems and distracting themselves with the latest gadgets. I waited behind a tall teenager with spikes for hair. His jeans looked like they were shot with an Uzi sub-machine gun. The random holes showed pale skin. He bobbed his head as if he had Parkinson’s. A set of skull faced headphones covered his ears. I thought about asking him to turn the music down when I picked up a foul odor. A woman in her mid fifties stood behind me jabbing her fingers in one of those high tech phones.

I loosened my shirt collar, annoyed that the multitude of destitute souls soaked up the air-conditioning. I decided to see if I could freak her out so I faced the woman and asked, “Excuse me Miss, but do you have the time?”

Without glancing at me she said, “It’s eight o’clock.”

I almost fell back when her breath hit my face. I wanted to peek inside her mouth to verify if she had a dead possum in there. Disappointment struck me again. I longed for the old days when my life had purpose. The fact she didn’t react to my charred face irked me. About forty-five minutes later, I stood in front of a Plexiglas window trying to look through the clerk’s dark glasses.

“I need your name and social security number.” The woman’s voice revealed she was three packs away from dying of lung cancer.

I gave her my number, but not my name.

Looking at her computer screen, the old lady said, “It says your name is Bogey Man.”

“No, that’s Boogey Man.”

She sighed, “What did you dedicate your life to doing?”

“Exactly what the name implies. I was a boogey man.”

She took off her glasses, rose from a chair and gazed into my eyes. “You don’t look scary to me.”

I balled my hands into fists, tempted to punch a hole through the glass. “I’m here because kids don’t believe in me anymore. All this damn technology’s driving me crazy!”

The crowd’s murmurs stopped. I hadn’t realized I was shouting. Lowering my tone I continued, “I used to hide under the bed and even tried shaking the darn thing, but the freakin’ kids played their video games, or stayed talking on cell phones for hours. Eventually, hiding under the bed turned into sleeping under the bed. So I tried hiding in the closet and making noises. They couldn’t hear me with all the loud music coming out of their ears!”

I had attempted to stop raising my voice, but I couldn’t. The woman put her glasses back on and sat down. She gathered a few forms and shoved them at me. “Fill these out. Times are bad. There aren’t enough jobs to go around.”

I wiped sweat off my brow and tried not to sound desperate, “There has to be something I could do.”

The old lady grimaced. I couldn’t tell if she was thinking or constipated. “There are two positions you might qualify for.” She struck the keyboard with two fingers. “You can become a priest which takes time to train.”

I knew most priests were good men, but after a lifetime of scaring children, I didn’t want to be labeled that kind of monster. “What’s the other position?”

She leaned toward the glass and gestured for me to get closer. “This is unofficial of course, but the government is looking for ugly guys like you who won’t mind torturing terrorists.” She flicked her fingers to create quotes around the word terrorists.

At last I could feel hope oozing out of my hairy pores. “How much does the job pay?”

She said, “You get room and board in a cell next to the captured heathens, a thousand dollars a month in expenses and all the sex you can muster with that woman.” She pointed at possum breath.

So it came down to becoming what many people distrusted—priesthood, or doing the zombie. “I’ll be a torturer.”

The clerk smiled and when I faced zombie breath again, she batted her eyes at me. I mumbled, “Oh goody.”

- 703 words

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Changes by Bren Freeman

By Bren Freeman

How do you change the world, through words or lines
A song of unity or a poetic rhyme
Tell me the course, and I will spread to all ears
I will scream it loudly, for all to hear

Give me the solution to feed all kids
Heal the illnesses and keep hatred hid
Discrimination .... would cease to exist
Prejudice ..... would no longer persist

Tell me the actions, the steps to take
I will shout from mountain tops for everyone's sake
No longer will bombs be killing for peace
Tell me before it is out of reach

Religions are killing in their belief's name
Using our Creator for blame, is there no shame
The One that created the heavens and Earth
That gave each of us our personal birth

If He wanted us dead, He could put an end
To every life if He wanted, He can transcend
Killing in the name of anything, is no excuse at all
Can't even go to a shopping mall

Without someone wanting to destroy or kill
Just to enjoy self-satisfaction, a personal thrill
We all should open our eyes and wake up
That we as humans must make up

Our minds to the future we choose
If we fail, every one will lose
I can tell you how to change the world, this is true
That we need a new value system that all must view
To change the world, to make gray skies blue
It must start with changes in me and you

© Copyright 2010 Bren Freeman. All rights reserved.

Bren Freeman has granted Knight Chills, non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Thank you Bren for sharing your wonderful talent with us. Your words are like magic and inspire us to strive to create a more peaceful world, one person at a time.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Hello Kitty by Sessha Batto

They met online, as so many couples do these days. Well, it would be a bit premature to call them a couple. He'd only come across her profile a few hours before. He had almost given up hope of ever finding what he was searching for, when, as fate would have it, her picture popped up. Slight, almost frail, with a blandly pretty face. 'Kitty wants to take care of you!' read the caption. His hand had hesitated for just a moment, weighing the pros and cons before clicking the link to send a message. Fifteen minutes later they'd arranged to meet for drinks at a downtown club.

He recognized her immediately, sitting at the bar looking vaguely uncomfortable as she sipped at a glass of ice water. Or maybe it was vodka – there was no way to tell for sure. “You must be Kitty. I'm Pete.” He held out his hand. “You're much prettier in person, I must say.”

She blushed hotly, eyes flicking down to her lap. “Thank you. It's nice to meet you, Pete. You'll have to excuse my paranoia for not letting you pick me up. I've been out of circulation for some time and I've never met anyone on-line before. You hear such horror stories.”

“I can assure you, you're safe with me.” He smiled a bit too widely, the dark part inside him capering wildly at the perfect prey it had found. This one he might keep for a while, at least if she continued to be so genuinely entertaining. Of course, he'd thought that once or twice before, but the initial glamour faded, and he discarded them after a few days, or weeks, and took up the search yet again.

“Aren't you going to have a drink?” Her voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Of course. Bourbon on the rocks, please.” He smiled widely when she took it on herself to order for him. It looked like this Kitten would be fun to tame.

Several drinks later and he was following her to the door, trailing behind to admire the picture she made walking away. Yes, she definitely looked like a keeper.

He only half listened as she gave the cabbie directions, already anticipating the play that was to come. His breath quickened slightly as he pictured Kitty naked and begging at his feet, her long dark hair spread around her like a veil. She'd be even prettier when she cried. He sighed, eyes sliding shut as he considered what he would do with his pretty Kitty.

He didn't recognize the neighborhood, nearly identical suburban boxes stretched out as far as he could see. Her muddy beige ranch blended in with the ones on either side, no sign of her personality apparent from the outside.

He swayed slightly as she fumbled her keys out and unlocked the door. Must have been that last drink, he decided as he stumbled into the dark house behind her. Then she was pressing another drink in his hand and her breasts into his arm.

“Let me help you with that.” She quickly divested him of him of his shirt, pushing him back into a nearby chair.

He sank into its embrace gratefully, squirming slightly as she climbed on top of him. He debated just calling a halt to her game right now and getting down to business, but decided she'd be more pliant if he let her have her way at first. Surprisingly strong hands smoothed down his bare arms, hairs rising in their wake, and he felt the first frisson of fear trace its way up his spine.

He shifted uncomfortably, reluctantly raising his hips so she could slide off his pants even as he berated himself for his hesitation. Usually it was a battle to get them to this point, he wanted to just relax and enjoy his victory, but something wasn't right.

He gave in to his brain's demands and tried to stand, only to realize his hands and feet were neatly bound to the chair that was now tilting back, throwing him further off balance.

“What's going on here?” Kitty ignored his shaky demand, casting a beatific smile his way while she busied herself at the far side of the room.

“I'm not into this kinky stuff.” The protest fell on deaf ears, and the little spark of panic in his chest blossomed into a raging inferno when she yanked the cloth off what he'd assumed to be an end table, revealing an assortment of shiny sharp instruments.

“What are you going to do with those?”

“Why, I'm going to take care of you, silly.”

- 778 words

© Copyright 2010 Sessha Batto. All rights reserved.
Sessha Batto has granted Knight Chills, non-exclusive rights to display this work.

A special thanks to Sessha Batto for sharing her wonderful talent with Knight Chills. She is a writer of Erotica and an exquisite storyteller. Click on her name to go to her website.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Show No Mercy

Mercy is for the weak until you desperately need it; then it becomes fashionable. – Book of Tortured Souls

Steve Andrews bullied everyone in elementary school. The blond terror outweighed most of us by a hundred pounds. I recalled my first run-in with the brute. He took my pencil and when I complained, he snapped it in two. He said, “Tell the teacher and I’ll do the same to you.”

Steve got bored often. There wasn’t a girl he sat behind that didn’t complain about him pulling their hair. For five years I watched him take what he wanted. Smaller, thinner boys suffered his wrath. He’d take their lunch by force if necessary to appease his enormous appetite. Steve never demonstrated an ounce of mercy for he often preached, “Mercy is for the weak.”

My classmates and I were beginning to think the business of God answering prayers was another myth until the new guy came into our classroom. Carmelo Miles stood silent as Sister Mary introduced him to us. A few girls smiled. Some of the boys whispered among themselves. I sat and studied his appearance. I glanced at Steve who scowled. Although the new guy was short, he carried himself different from the rest of us. I couldn’t pinpoint the special quality he possessed, but I suspected he’d change things.

At lunchtime it didn’t take long for Steve to try to impose his ways on Carmelo. “Hey new guy, give me your chocolate milk.”

Carmelo ignored Steve and chewed on his burger.

“Hey loser, are you deaf? Give me your milk.”

Carmelo smiled. “Sure, I’ll give it to you.” He lifted the table and pushed it on to Steve and two other boys sitting next to him. They landed on the floor, pinned by the table and all the food spilled on them. The blond bully puckered his lips as though ready to cry. His white uniform shirt spotted with brown, red and green stains.

The rest of us laughed at Steve as he tried to get up. When he finally did get on one knee, Carmelo rushed to his side. I don’t know why I thought he was going to help him up. Instead, the new guy pummeled the bully with a series of rights and lefts. His fists rained on Steve’s face, breaking his nose.

Steve cried, “Please stop! Have mercy!”


Turning the tide on a character brings about much entertainment. A good antagonist makes the reader feel like personally punching him out. Creating a character that people would love to hate takes careful planning. One of the key elements in play is mercy. If your villain enjoys toying with his victims and seems incapable of showing mercy, then when the tide is turned, readers will love to see the bad guy get his. It’s amazing how the evil foe begs for something he has no right to acquire—mercy.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Friday, September 3, 2010

Burning Love II

Here's the continuation of Burning Love

Tears of joy filled my eyes as I tossed my fiancé over my shoulder and watched him hit the floor with a loud thud. After three months of intense training, I was shocked that I had an uncanny ability to follow in Sam’s footsteps. My hit man lover promised I’d get payback against my uncle who molested me when I was young.

“I can’t believe how fast you learn, Candy.” Sam grinned as he rubbed his hip.

“Great, then I’m ready.”

He shook his head. “You can defend yourself well against a knife attack, but your sniper skills need improvement.”

I embraced my savior and kissed his cheek, whispering, “Honey, when will I get my revenge?”


He waited till after midnight to take me to the Canal Street train station in New York City. He led me into the men’s room. Newspapers were scattered on the dirt-filled floor. One stall had a missing door. Piles of shit stuck to the porcelain throne. When I faced Sam, he stared at me like a child studying an insect. I opened my mouth to speak, but he locked me in an embrace. Our lips touched. He ran his tongue along the outside of my lower lip. He lifted me on to the sink, sliding my black leotards down to my ankles.

As he entered me I couldn’t believe the rush. My senses heightened. The dim lighting did not interfere with my vision. Beads of sweat slid down his sideburns. His cologne mixed with my scent, overtaking the rancid odor. While he pounded me I realized he hadn’t locked the door. I wondered what would happen if someone entered and saw us. What would Sam do if that someone turned out to be a cop?

I kept to his rhythm, swaying my hips like never before. I wanted to soak in his essence, to allow his power to fuse with my hunger. We kissed, our tongues lashing together with reckless abandon. Before I knew it, moans filled the room. The echo played back my lust-filled cries as if I was singing in an opera of porn. When at last we reached a dual climax, I shuddered in our glorious embrace. When he let me go I felt dirty, yet satisfied.

Sam adjusted his pants and smiled. “Take out the Browning.”

He referred to the pistol he had given me. He handed me a silencer. I twisted it in place. “Who do I have to kill?” I was still a bit out of breath.

“Not who, what.” He grinned, putting on his sunglasses.

I followed him out of the bathroom, relieved we didn’t get caught. We walked to the end of the platform. The whole time I kept the pistol in the pocket of my blazer.

Sam pointed at a rat as it scurried near some trash by the rails. “Shoot it!”
“But that’s a rat.”

He flashed perfect teeth. I glanced around. We had the station to ourselves but a train headed into the station. I had to shoot the large rat quickly or risk the bullet ricocheting and possibly hitting one of us.

“Do it!” he said.

I aimed and squeezed the trigger. The top half of the rodent blew away. I saw an unrecognizable lump of fur splattered against a pillar. I said, “Are you satisfied?” The express train roared by as I put away the gun.

Sam took out a picture of a black-haired woman. She looked about thirty-years-old. “Anyone can kill a disgusting creature, but can you kill a human?”

“What did she do?”

“This one’s not business. It’s personal.” He took off his shades so I could see his eyes. Hatred filled those eyes.

“Who is she?”

He put the sunglasses back on and said, “She’s my wife.”

- 644 words

A Night With Mr. Right inspired Burning Love

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Adding Sex to Horror

WARNING: This post contains adult situations and graphic content. Not advisable for anyone under the age of 18.

I don't like to use deception when recruiting souls. Good old honest fornication does the trick.- Book of Tortured Souls

Let’s face it: SEX SELLS. Sometimes when you write a horror story, sprinkling in a steamy scene helps maintain the readers’ interest. I’m not that good at writing raunchy scenes because as some of my erotic writer friends tell me, I hold back too much. Here’s a small sample of one of my attempts to fog up the reading glasses. My protagonist, Lisa, hitches a ride with a young stud. They were both on their way to the same college dance.

Excerpt from “Moon Dance”

Johnnie and I made a dashing entrance. I caught him biting his lips when he spotted my legs flashing through the slits of my red gown. The fine silk hugged my round buttocks making me the envy of everyone present.

As we walked through an air conditioned lobby, my nipples pushed against my dress. I watched his eyes caress my curves. A knowing grin trickled out of my lips as the sting of other admirers added to the frenzy building inside me. From the corner of my eye, I caught him warding off other pups with his glare. I sensed he wanted me all to himself.

He ran his fingers down the small of my back and whispered, "God you're amazing!"

I nibbled his earlobe while he kissed my neck.

"You know my name.” He said, “What's yours?" His thin lips and boyish face added to his charm.

My fingers explored his biceps, then his chest until they settled on his solid abs. I whispered in his ear, "Lisa."

Our feverous exchange made my lips moist with contemplation. With his lips seeking mine, I grabbed my eager escort and led him to the dance floor. Our bodies pulsated to the rhythm of the music, much like war drums of ancient tribes. I found it strange how customs evolved over time. In the old days the males would lead.

The young partygoers stared in disbelief while we swayed as one. A white globe of light highlighted our movements. His muscular arms coddled me while his coarse hands massaged by belly. With the first pulsating shake of my rear, his boy-toy showed signs of life, urging me to rock to the steady rhythm. At one point, I floated in his powerful arms, my porcelain complexion a tantalizing contrast to his bronzed skin.

The heat we generated on the dance floor motivated us to seek refuge in his car. "Let’s go somewhere where we can be alone, darling." I purred.

The moon's glow enhanced his sandy hair. Our eyes connected. Our lips meeting, gentle at first, gave way to a swooping exchange of sweet tongue slapping. His energy pulsed through me like a thousand volts of electricity snagging an unsuspecting critter on a chain-linked fence.

Only the experience of royalty made me swoon in ecstasy with just one kiss. This boy, with the power of a legion of warriors and the robust expertise of his prodding fingers, infused my desire for lust.

Time escaped me while I mounted my savior. I guided his potent weapon inside me and writhed to the rhythm of his beating heart. With each thrust, the moon's supreme glow bathed me with power. As I moaned in exaltation, his heart vibrated through his chest and into mine, making me feel mortal again.

While in a state of frenzy, I whispered, "Do you love me?"

Johnnie stopped and realized something different about me. His eyes sparkled, raising my appetite.

What I enjoyed most about the male creature was that they never used their eyes to see. To Johnnie, my nails were sensual and long, not the sharp talons of a dark goddess.

Before he could give me the inevitable answer of no, I slipped one sharp claw into his neck, spraying his precious liquid over my face. Covered with his essence, I plunged the rest of my lethal digits through until his head dangled on his chest. With my free hand, I grabbed his hair, licked his magnificent hazel eyes and placed his head on the stick shift.

Again I moaned with delight as the moon's grace added to my extensive collection. The night was still young and there were other dances to visit, other boys to devour.

I guess with Lisa, a guy needs more than just stamina. I don’t believe in adding a sex scene to a story unless it’s integral to the tale. I believe the same thing pertaining to gore. In the end, the story is the thing. Give your readers a ride they’ll not soon forget and the souls will come back for more.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

The Anniversary by Summerlyn Guthrie

Talking to herself, she sat alone in the dark
with a tear streaming down her pale cheek.
A full year had gone by since his fateful embark
on his last tour of duty in Mozambique.

"My dear husband," she said weeping in clear disbelief
of her dearly departed Howard.
"I sit here with a flag from the Commander in Chief
that proves you were no coward."

She patted it as if it were his back
and tears flowed down even more.
"They gave you Medals of Honor with this plaque
that read, "A Marine to the core."

Howard meant much more to his grieving wife.
He was very kind, gentle and sweet.
With him by her side there was never strife
and because of him, she felt complete.

Today, however, marked another special day.
It was Twenty-five years ago they had been wed.
The same day another Marine came over to say
that her husband was now dead.

Special note

I dedicate this poem to those who have lost a loved one fighting in the name of "freedom", anywhere in the world.

© Copyright 2010 Summerlyn Guthrie. All rights reserved.

Summerlyn Guthrie has granted Knight Chills, non-exclusive rights to display this work.

A note from Nomar Knight: Thank you Summerlyn Guthrie for sharing your wonderful talent with Knight Chills. You can get more of Summerlyn on Click on her name to see her writing portfolio.