Spell Check

Don’t walk too near the woods, go ’round

Especially at night

And if you must, don’t make a sound

Keep low and out of sight

Don’t whistle, sing or kick at stones

Don’t stop to climb a tree

For, if you do she’ll boil your bones

And have you for her tea

Because The Witch of Oldham Woods

Takes little ones who stray

Extinguishing the childhoods

Of those who lose their way

Who’ll never hear a mother’s words

Before their empty grave

Whose names are rarely ever heard

Whose souls no man can save

Don’t walk too near the woods, turn ‘round

For, all I say is true

And pray you’re found on hallowed ground

When she comes after you

Dressed to Empress

Laughing, blue-eyed girl

Reconciled to fate

Ermine laced with pearl

Elizabeth The Great

Constellation Prize

The figure on the mountain knew
Far higher than the eagle flew
Beyond the sun and past the light
Were men who crossed the sky by night.
Soon after dusk their fires appeared
Then slowly, once a course was steered
Their caravan set out en masse
To make its empyreal pass.


Like beasts migrating on the plains
Like swarms that form to greet the rains
He found no word for the amount
Of travelers he sought to count.
A gallery would pass him by
Whose outlines seemed to signify
Proud emblems of a noble clan
Led by an even a greater man.


The bearing, always east to west
Suggested they were on a quest
Or maybe searching for a door
They’d passed through in a time before.
Each night the figure danced and prayed
Around the fire he had made
In hope his kin might see its glow
And teach him all he wished to know.


Then with the last beat from his breast
Great Spirit granted this request
And drew his outline in the sky
That men as he should never die

Mother of Invention

At Cana, water turned to wine

Delighting all the guests

And showed the world The Great Divine

Considers all requests.

Although some question Was it prayer?

Or did a son discover

The force behind a mother’s glare

Is unlike any other?

Knight Shift

silhouette photography of person

Take me to that fabled time

When destiny was more sublime

When noble quests were blessed by God Himself

Where crones intoned prophetic rhymes

While wizards read the stars for signs

And deep within each hollow hid an elf.

Take me to a time before

When magic could unlock a door

And conjurers cried out Abracadabra!

Where every frog tried to convince

Young maidens he might be a prince

And sonnets were composed by candelabra.

To play a brazen game with Death

One leap beyond the dragon’s breath

Dispatching ogres twice the height of men

And then, to lay beneath a tree

While my sweet Lady sings to me

For as she does, my soul’s restored again.

Take me to that fabled time

The course now clear

No more to roam

Astraeus, chart the stars for home

St Valentine’s Day Mascara

Monkey Waiting for a Kiss

I gave my heart to you, my love
One February night
Invoking all that’s up above
I prayed you’d hold it tight.
And after we had made romance
(for that’s what I still call it)
You rose and gave a loving glance
Then made off with my wallet.
The next day you were seen at lunch
With someone I don’t know
But looking back, I have a hunch
It was with your new beau.
I hope the roasted Cornish hen
And champagne went down well
Before they came right up again
And cleared the whole hotel.
According to my Visa bill
You both then saw a play
A great night out is greater still
When you don’t have to pay.
Despite the slight cost overrun
At least I’m not alone
For in your haste to kiss and run
You left behind your phone.
And so, my love, for us it ends
As does your victory lap
For you’ve just texted all your friends
To say you’ve got the clap.

The Abomination

Dark Russ Type Beat 'Praise' Freestyle Instrumental (Prod. By ...

Father Marc assumed his usual seat in the front pew of St Jude Church and unfastened his collar. Each evening after mass the old Jesuit liked to collect his thoughts for several minutes before extinguishing the candles and clearing the altar. His church had a cheery interior by day but sunset draped a grey cowl over the building which he didn’t like, entombing everyone and everything inside. Now peering into the shadowy recesses around him, he decided he’d turn on more lights for evening mass, even in summer.

In a grotto to the left of the altar stood a life-sized statue of The Virgin Mary, illuminated by several rows of red offertory candles. Earlier in the day an elderly parishioner had brought in a dozen crimson roses from her garden and asked if she might lay them at the statue’s feet. In the flickering candlelight the carefully arranged blossoms created a dramatic effect against the white linen which he now believed merited closer inspection. Genuflecting before the altar, he followed the raised marble railing which led to the grotto.

Weeping, growing Virgin Mary statue inspires Subang Jaya church ...

Father Marc gingerly lowered himself onto the wooden prayer kneeler before The Virgin. He could remain thus only briefly before his knees locked and he leaned forward to transfer some of his body weight onto the wooden book rest. The solitary figure studied the statue’s expression and thought she looked more melancholy than he remembered, while The Virgin’s gaze never wavered from the front entrance to the church. Reaching over the rows of offertory candles, Father Marc selected one of the roses to enjoy its scent but discovered it had none. Disappointed, he replaced it and began counting the number of offertory candles lit that day by the hopeful.

Nineteen… no, twenty. Will there be $20 in the donations box, I wonder? I doubt those three little monkeys threw in anything.

A deep, sinister chuckle rose from within the shadows behind him at this last remark. Father Marc tensed and the hair stood up on his arms; he was not alone. For a moment he thought he’d unknowingly locked in a straggler but dismissed the idea just as quickly. Every instinct told him this was not a believer. The laugh was not human.

“Let me blow those out for you, Father,” came the low, menacing snarl. “You know me… I prefer to work in the dark.”

This time the guttural growl came from much closer yet he’d heard no footsteps. His blood froze and his knees were now on fire as he tried to stand without success. Bracing his arms against the book rest, he looked to The Virgin for guidance but her gaze was fixed upon what was now approaching.

Help me, Blessed Virgin. What has come into my church?

“She can’t hear you, you fool!” the voice snapped angrily. “But I’m listening to your every thought.” It then softened in tone but couldn’t conceal an underlying rage. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve journeyed a long way to find you.”

In one final effort Father Marc managed to get to his feet and turned around but saw no one. The church appeared empty but he knew this was not the case because every nerve in his body screamed he was in mortal danger. Whatever was hiding was playing a game. Waiting. Watching.

“I need to make a confession,” the voice whined mockingly. “I’m about to revert to my old ways and you wouldn’t want that, now would you? Won’t you come in and join me? I really don’t want to have to come out there and get you,” it hissed.

Old-Style Confessional - The Sacred: Catholic Liturgy, Chant ...

At that moment the light above the confessional door lit up, giving the cleric a start. It was in there waiting for him. Father Marc took a tentative step towards the confessional then stopped. As a Jesuit he’d been trained not to fear evil and although every instinct was telling him to flee this was not an option. Whatever had entered his church had no right being there and he grew angry, not only at this act of defilement but its sheer audacity. As his anger grew, so did his resolve. All the years of training now took over and he advanced slowly forward.

Blessed Mother, stay with your poor servant.

“It’s only you I want for now, Father,” the voice threatened. “I’ll deal with her later.”

Father Marc was no longer listening to the demon behind the door. Whispering the Act of Contrition, he was imagining what God looked like. He hoped his creator would be forgiving and reward him for what he was about to face in his name. The priest also wondered where God was at this very moment. Was he watching events here on Earth? Was this a test? Was the plan to intercede at the last moment and then reward him for his faith? His mind now racing, he hadn’t noticed that the sun had now set, plunging the church into total darkness except for the candlelit grotto and the ominous light above the confessional door.

Small Church Lit Up At Night by RockfordMedia | VideoHive

His knees no longer hurt and he’d regained control over his breathing. The only sound was the loose change in his pocket which rattled with every step. He tried to visualise the demon that lay in wait for him and how best to fight it, fully aware the odds did not favour an old man. Martyrdom seemed inevitable and the priest accepted his fate as many others had before him, while his mind continued to release thousands of memories, one of which was a prayer his grandfather had taught him:

Aronhiate, onne aonstaniouas taitenr

“You don’t know which gods to call upon, do you?” the fiend tormented him. “How pleased do you think they’ll be to learn you’ve been playing them off against each other all these years? If you’re afraid now, wait until they get hold of you…”

When Father Marc arrived at the confessional the light above the door went out. Maintaining his composure, he pulled a plastic lighter from his shirt pocket and flicked it. He listened for any type of sound coming from inside the confessional but the church was shrouded in silence as if every living thing was hiding and holding its breath. His left temple ached and his stomach was turning.

God have mercy on my soul.

He reached for the door handle but his right hand stopped short and hovered above it, shaking, while the small flame from his lighter continually rose and fell, threatening to abandon him at any moment. Scarcely breathing, he silently closed his grip on the door handle and was about to turn it when he had a revelation.

It’s behind me.

Before he could turn around Father Marc was set upon. The old cleric was seized from behind and hurled across the church, landing in a broken heap beside the grotto. Disoriented and bleeding badly, he was again raised off the ground and slammed face down into the prayer kneeler before The Virgin. He clung onto the book rest with the last of his strength, realising this was where his enemy wanted him. Daring to open his eyes, he tried to focus but all he could make out was a pool of blood at the feet of The Virgin where the roses had once been.

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“We need to talk, old man,” rasped the voice, its breathing now heavy and laboured. “It’s coming and I know you feel it too which explains that prayer.”

Father Marc couldn’t speak but he knew his thoughts were no longer his own. He also knew these were to be his last moments on Earth, a prospect which now filled him with joy because he was ready to meet his god.

You thought it was me, that’s why you came here.

“Yes, I now know you were only a diversion, a fatal mistake on your part.”

We all have roles to play and I’ve played mine.

“I’m getting closer each time, Father.”

Time is against you. It’s started and you can’t stop it. No one can.

“I can make one night last a thousand years,” the demon reminded the Jesuit, “or have you forgotten that?”

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Raging it had wasted time pursuing the wrong quarry, the fiend had nonetheless gleaned vital information in its race to find answers, but it didn’t like being mocked and Father Marc would pay dearly for his defiance. All promises of mercy were now forgotten as the demon snapped the priest’s head back, breaking his neck, before bearing down for the final, frenzied attack upon Mary’s poor servant.