This week: The Beauty in HorrorEdited by: W.D.Wilcox
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“I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded,
Without knowledge, or lustre, or name.”
― H. P. Lovecraft, Nemesis
“The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance;
We find delight in the most loathsome things;
Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings,
And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.”
― Charles Baudelaire
“Which is the true nightmare, the horrific dream that you have in your sleep or the dissatisfied reality that awaits you when you awake?”
― Justin Alcala
“The shortest horror story:
The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.”
― Frederic Brown
The Beauty in Horror
Horror can be beautiful. In the same way a person can be beautiful, inside and out, although if they wore their insides on the outside it would be a little messy. The beauty in horror lies in the way we see that overly bright full moon, the description of a haunted forest, or the perfect plan for a killing. Writing horror is just words strung together to make your reader see fear, but mainly it is to make them feel it as well. We use words like decapitated, decay, stench, rot, and death because we want the reader to SEE the horror, SMELL it, TASTE it, HEAR it, and then FEEL it.
Draped in darkness and knocking at Death’s door,
reality leaves off and madness begins;
down twisted streets paved with human skulls
to the City of the Dead.
It is built upon the communal decay of the dearly departed,
who endlessly toil in barren gardens filled with cobwebs, memories, and whispered reminiscence,
among crouched buildings collapsed in huddles of rotting roofs and toppled steeples,
and perverse abnormalities of flesh and bone.
The city looms stark and queerly proportioned, leaning at perilous angles against a jagged and festered sky;
its blight-shadowed structures made of squalor and putrefication,
spew an overwhelming smell of wet earth, worms, and death,
as sightless and silent as an unnatural stillness of night that will never end.
I saw someone come down along the road.
among the crumbling buildings and stench-cursed streets;
walking beneath the blasphemous decapitated steeple of an ancient black church
that held the twisted face of a clock with no hands.
A humped man, he was, with a gait so familiar that it pained me,
an unspeakable menace more disquieting than the dismal architecture.
I felt his hollow stare burrow into my flesh, his eyes gaping like dark windows into my past
and stealing the very warmth from my blood.
Then as he approached,
it was . . . me.
Until Next Time,
Some Beauts of Horror
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Thanks for including my story "Ailurophobia" in the Newsletter. I am honored.
You're welcome Joe, it's good writing.
Editing is BLUE screams:
I need that "little voice." I feel like a poor writer with an assignment who has to slog through metal(mental) drawers filled with worn files. The tabs are bent and sometimes the holder is so stuffed, papers can't fit and are bent and torn. What am I looking for? Characters? plot lines? clues for where my story should go? Memories of books and articles that might be useful one day, but which file were they in? 67 years of living, reading, and a few years of writing. Can you just send a little assistant's voice to tell me what I want to know or feed me great scenes that will rock the reader? you can just email me.
We're roughly the same age, so you don't need me to tell you what's what. Besides, if I sent my little voice over you'd probably go mad, and we don't want that. You are a wonderful author, just keep it up.
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