Speculative Fiction Centre

"The soul sets its own horizon..." --Alexander Dumas

Monster

 

 

Castle walls

lost in traveling gloom,

treasured eyes

and lucid tongues,

villagers on full attack.

 

The monster's path

chosen for him

by deceit,

loosed upon the

virginal countryside.

 

His steps measured,

eyes seeing

but not understanding.

He disappears

into the fog.

 

When the sun rises,

burning off the residue,

will you be dousing a torch

or

reaching out a hand.

 

 

Incursion

 

 

The dipper angled down

scooping black sky,

dripping it like oil

over challenging stars below.

 

 

Benevolent One

 

 

Benevolent one,

for you I stole the sun.

Healing soul,

for you I played the fool.

Caring not about retribution

my thoughts soared only to you.

But eons have passed

and I am waiting,

waiting,

kept waiting.

Where are you?

Imprisoned for you,

I wait for your freedom-bearing touch.

Benevolent one, accept my plea

as I accepted your greatness.

I have done thy bidding.

Free me, take me . . . what?

White wings . . . over my head,

beating so slowly the air remains still.

Benevolent one, you have returned.

My tears, an offering for you.

Lift me away from the unknowing world.

Benevolent,

why am I in pain?

Angel's wings ascending,

but my healer, you've taken

my soul.

Benevolent one,

for you I stole the sun,

for you I have played the fool.

 

 

The Despairing Sea

 

 

 

Along the water’s edge, she

                        breaks

                                    the surface, searching for a moment in time

to steal.

The forest grows quiet. Ancient trees

extend their gnarled branches,

                                                entwining them

into a net

to capture the sunlight.

Darkness descends.

The animals lie still. And quiet. Their shallow breaths

                                                                                    a halo

                                                around the Goddess as she searches.

 

Ylaine’s underwater home is dormant.

She rid herself of them all. Creatures

                                                            large and small

male and female.

Their bones paved the seabed. The water is silent,

save Ylaine’s howls of loneliness.

 

She wanted the seas for herself and no one else.

She is a Goddess.

She must be respected and feared.

She is a Goddess.

Now all beasts who would live in the water are afraid.

She is a Goddess.

 

Beautiful. Radiant. Like a star fallen to earth,

                                                                        Ylaine searches

the forest. For a perfect moment. An instant

of time teeming with life to take back home.

It has been a millennium.

The wails begin,

echoing off the crackling bark of the tree-guardians.

Branches snap and fall to the ground.

Beams of sunlight stream through. The animals

                                                                        stir, awaken.

Morning is here, the premature night is over, and

the Goddess waits.

 

The trees stretch farther to patch the holes in the net.

Roots explode from underground,

the rumbling imitates thunder.

The sunlight is extinguished. Confused, the animals

                                                                                    lie still.

The Goddess collapses. Weakened,

she crawls back to the sea.

Entering the water, she cries out

                                                            in hatred of the forest

and disappears into the black deep of her home.

 

 

Invasion (Roger Corman, Where Have You Gone?)

 

 

 

Spider’s legs

hairy and brown,

flicking at you

from the ground.

 

It moves closer,

panic sets in.

If you look close

you’d swear it had a grin.

 

Backed against a wall

you want to scream.

Go ahead,

it wants you to scream.

 

One leg at a time

pulling along the fat body,

as thick as a tick

delerious and bloody.

 

Move! Run.

Get out of the room.

Find a newspaper,

grab a broom.

 

Oh . . . my God,

too late.

His friends have arrived,

enemies at the gate.

 

The carpet turns brown

moving toward you.

You can’t run,

there’s no one to scream to.

 

Sink to the floor

and allow it to happen,

open your mouth,

let them in.

 

Prickly legs brushing your lips

as they enter your mouth.

Dream of heaven

before you pass out.

 

Filling your body,

organs spun in silk.

Laying eggs in the veins,

nesting from the light.

 

We all must prepare

as we look on in sorrow.

You were the first,

but what of tomorrow.

Bio

Christopher Hivner lives and works in south central Pennsylvania where he feeds his obsessions with football, music and the TV show "The Office". He has had a few hundred stories and poems published over the years and a collection of horror short stories, "The Spaces Between Your Screams", was published in September as an ebook by eTreasurespublishing.com