That mouth hanging open
like a soiled dish rag–
–she is porn
–she is titilation
she is the repulsion that
with green fingernails and wet, dying eyes.
Sweet, cherry nipples
stuck on Tender breasts
limp with filth.
salty fingers on her tongue
alive again but at the bottom
–where hell is
Life says its safe to make her stink
to make her cry
She’s made for this.
On a good day
she feels numb
She knows how
A thing with no center
There, but not really.
a rusty red husk
in a shadow
by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Keith P. Rein & Cassidy Rae Limbach
A few nights ago, I was lucky (or unlucky) enough to view this horror short. It is about a cat who lives in a well and steals human body parts so that he can become a man. The film is loosely based on Mit Romney’s Life Story
Zombie Fiction is escapism that allows someone to become something more primal. Ironically though, I am not speaking of the zombies. It creates an environment of peril where murder is not only condoned, it is necessary. You are allowed to release your primal nature upon your fellow species without fear of moral or ethical judgement. Essentially, you are allowing the casual bystander to be a killing machine. No longer are they restrained by their sedentary lifestyles, now they are free to become survivors because, deep down, everyone thinks they can be badass if given the opportunity.
ENDING OF “HYPOCHONDRAWAY”
Lizzie gawked in horror as bloody tears wandered down my face.
” Oh my! Don’t worry, mam. You are just having an abnormal reaction to the- -oh dear.”
Her eyebrows crinkled as she tried to resist a frown. Her broken wincing face got smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see it at all anymore. I could feel my body losing itself, becoming more and more empty every minute, with every intense suck of the machine. All that blackness was seeping out forming small puddles of me on the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. Into the cracks between the tiles. Lizzie’s voice swooped in: “I can’t! I can’t! Everything is leaking out! It’s everywhere, she’s everywhere!”.
I fell back and stared at the snowy white ceiling. “You’ll soon be forgotten”,it said brightly.
by Angie Hoover- Hillhouse
There is a bloody rot in this place. It breathes beneath the floors. It lurks in the shadowy vents stalking the weak- hunting for meat until all the sick are swallowed whole. The thick smell of it made my vision go grey.
I’d been here as a child when it was a normal crumpled hospital for normal crumpled cirhossis patients and gangrenous feet. Thoughts of cancer crept into my ear, reminding me that there are poisons in this world that I can taste as clearly as the salt that rides on an ocean breeze. I wasn’t completely cured yet. Dark, unpleasant thoughts often swelled up in my head leaving no room for cupcake recipes or oven cleaning tips. Today’s Hypochondraway treatment would fix all that though. From now on, ALL my daydreams would be happy and light like lemon meringue.
Excerpt from unfinished science fiction story titled “Hypochondraway”
The concept of this fragment is inspired by a series of psychosomatic fainting spells I had. The imagery, which I will expand on in later posts, is taken from a dream I often have where I am sitting in the waiting room of a hospital in the early 1970s. Everything is yellow, linoleum, and humming with the sound of indifferent machinery.
by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
There are four red finger swipes essentially dissecting this girl, but these marks are simply there to set the mood, which they do. It’s an emotional piece… one that makes me think of abuse and how it leaves one broken.
Untitled Image by Vanessa Cate
Journal by Mitch Shiwal