In my art and art history studies, we often compared and contrasted the work of different artists. When you compare an artist against himself, you deal more with his style than differences. If you look at the two pieces there are many similarities: the visual tension, the use of black and white to create an abysmal feeling, and an inability of the subjects to speak. One thing I thought curious, as Kubicki tends to deal with the darker, captive images, is the direction or flow of the two images. On the top image do feel the eyes trying to grasp what is beyond? I thought of a child staring out of a window on a rainy day – the pathos is so thick. Now look at the movement in the second image: There is a tense inner struggle. The bound figure is fighting and the more he fights the more inward he seems to be pulled. There is a great sense of a tug of war going on. No words are conveyed out of either’s lips, but one speaks with his vacant eyes and the other in his fight with the bandages.
There’s so much more I could say. I’ll leave you with this – what are beneath the layers in each of Kubicki’s subjects? Are there just more layers…
“That damned fog is thick, Jack. Chest high and dense enough to cut it with a knife.”
The bartender pours another beer for Fred and sits it in front of him. “Damned thick, Fred! I, for one, am not leaving here until it’s gone. Shit! You can’t see the *** road anyway. How could you get home in this?”
“Funny how it waited until the place was packed before the fog rolled in. It’s almost like the fog can think,” Fred says…
… A murmuring of approval spreads throughout the bar, everyone knowing that on nights like this, evil things happen, and it appears the Inn is smack-dab in the middle of a festering of growing horror. It’s not just the fog that’s thick tonight: the impending terror awaiting them all sits heavy in the air. The stench of old injustices and the need for retribution is everywhere. For some of them, it is difficult to breathe, the presence lying thick and heavy on their chests…
… Through the fog he comes, easily 6 feet 5 inches and broad as an ox. The heavy moisture falls below his massive chest, and his eyes, black as coal, focus on the Inn. A broad grin covers his square jaw and face, and he slowly walks towards the beckoning door. “
~ Blaze McRob is a regular writer for Pen of the Damned. The short story Old Van Tassel in its entirety is excellent with a twist. (click the link you can read the story in full)
you can find Blaze hanging out on Facebook
his blog is Blaze’s Blog
and on twitter @wyomingbob
The art by Jarek Kubicki is an excellent pairing with the Pen of the Damned horror writers. You can find his Numbers Collection here.
“A complete, debilitating darkness veils my vision. For several moments, I wait, hoping that my eyes simply need to adjust, but no details emerge from the ink-black void.”…
…”Where am I? Is this a dream?”
“I experience nothing but total darkness in either direction.”…
“Ice crystals bloom inside my skull and my eyes bulge, still seeing nothing. My ears twitch and tingle in wait of a sound. Then a sound came.
A muffled string of words calling from the void, too distorted to comprehend despite their utterance so close to my ear. My entire body jerks. Startled and instantly terrified, I start screaming. My shrieks, too loud in the confined space, shoot spikes through my eardrums, but that pain is overshadowed by the agony coming from my fingers as I pull at the seam. I feel my nails tear free as a paper-thin beam of light slices into my eyes.”
This story and the art went so well – I just had to show them off together. Beyond Trapped can be read in its entirety here. It’s a must!
Tyr you get some extra horror love this week.
Blaze McRob is not only an acclaimed writer of Horror but behind the mask he does much good for so many people and causes. He is the mind and heart behind Visionary Press.
Recent releases: Snow Blood
Beware the Mold released in the summer
Jarek Kubicki’s” The Art of Numbers” will be available for purchase on November 3rd!!!
I’m taking a moment to listen to the voice and the meaning of the two pieces of art. Do you hear it – The sound that is not allowed to escape the confinement of the box?
Munch gives it away in his title “The Scream.” I remember studying this piece by Expressionist Edvard Munch several times and having to make an educated guess about what was behind or in front. I personally hear footprints approaching the subject. In this work by Kubicki, there is a visceral scream that emanates from the pieces of the body that remain and the shadowy screams from what has been taken away. This piece reminds me of the opposite of Michelangelo’s captive where man is trying to escape the confines of the marble. This man (or woman) is being made a captive by what… a horrific parasite? Enjoy the words that you don’t hear and then read the words of Jon Olson and Hunter Shea.
“Let’s see you live through this, asshole,” Michael whispered in the Erwin’s ear.
With that he tilted Erwin’s head back and cut deep into his neck.
Erwin gurgled and blood gushed out. Michael held him for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of taking another man’s life until Erwin went limp. The gurgling slowed and then went silent…
…I can’t remember how many times I’ve died; how many times I seen the light, reached out to accept its embrace only to be pulled back into this fucking existence so that I may die again.
I have felt the pain that the body goes through as each internal organ shuts down. I have felt my heart stop more times than I want to remember. My body has been stabbed, crushed, and shot many times yet somehow it always heals itself.”
~Jon Olson is a regular writer for Pen of the Damned. Go to PEN to read Phantom Pain in its entirety.
Jon’s Blog: Monster Lane
You can also find Jon’s work at Siren’s Call Publications.
I needed light. It was impossible to face the ghoul in the dark. My spirit wavered between bravery and death by panic. I fumbled around the desk until I found the matches.I struck one against the desk. It sputtered for a moment, then fizzled out. The sounds in the corner stopped. I could feel the ghoul’s penetrating gaze cut through the dark. I grabbed another match, and with unsure hands, tried again. The match stick broke in half, falling to the floor. Clack, clack, clack, clack. Those odd footsteps again. Now a gurgling sound, a bubbling death rattle of a cry.
“Please, dear God, help,” I whimpered as I reached to pick out another match.
My cry was answered, as my thumbnail flicked across the match head, a brilliant flame roared to life. And in that same instant, I wished I’d never brought light into the parlor.
“Lucy!” My doll, my porcelain companion, stood on two small legs, leering at me. Its face had turned a mottled green, and bloody teeth sprouted from a mouth that was never designed to open…
…“It was the demon in Jessamine. It became a ghoul. When it left Jessamine, it hid inside Lucy. You can see it, right there!” I screamed, pointing at its lifeless body…
Hunter Shea is a writer for Pen of the Damned. He has several published works of horror. To read his short story Mercy in its entirety go here.
Hunter Shea’s Blog
“Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye…it also includes the inner pictures of the soul.” E. Munch
Hunter Shea Hell Hole on Amazon
The Montauk Monster on Amazon
So grateful to Jarek Kubicki for allowing me to use his art for Horror Week. It is exceptional art. I’m excited for his book release in 5 DAYS!!!
Before the blood dries why not take a spin around this year’s Coffin Hop
. Plenty of book giveaways!!!
Reflections in windows tease and haunt, showing what was, and what is no longer.
Demons, creatures, faces and things of terror live in almost everything.
It reflects her suffering, an enticing apparition. … begging for release.
My father told me they did ‘things’ to bad people on The Hill and I should stay away from there.
Their faces turn up, beseeching. I watch as they enter my opening maw.
Dark shadows of night interpose, greedily they suck the last drop of day.
Nothing will deny sky from its horizon.
Fingers clutch at the crumbling windowsill.
A picture forms in the panes of glass as it does every day before dusk becomes night.
I’ve realized that the window shows the truth. It only shows pain.
It was one of the few that still had glass in the barren building.
The writers for Pen of the Damned:
Jon Olson Zack Kullis Magenta Nero Craig McGray Nina D’Arcangela Leslie Moon Joseph A. Pinto Blaze McRob Thomas Brown Tyr Kieran Hunter Shea
The above is just a compiled teaser from this week’s selection of horror in 100 words. There are some tasty morsels at Pen of the Damned.
The photograph the work of Nina D’Archangela
my blood froths til it bubbles
Check out my latest piece of horror over at Pen of the Damned .
Hope you leave with a chill running down your spine 🙂
What will you find beneath your tree this Christmas?
a wonderland of snow
gifts elegantly circled with red satin bows
8 knives for carving
1 rope for climbing
a lifeless form
beneath the fresh-cut Christmas Tree
Read my “festive” poem “Beneath the Christmas Tree” over at Pen of the Damned.
Enjoy Pen of the Damned today as we have a treat for you. Each of us has written a flash fiction (100 words) based on the picture prompt (above). The words I have placed below is dark compilation. Come over to the Pen and feast in our dark banquet hall.
The weeping was for all who, on small feet, come, hands overflowing with offerings; the dead screaming in their endless burn. They prowl the shadows, “You cannot flee, ” says a voice that is not his own. Husks of comforting strangers fill my head with their thoughts.
“I always laugh last.”
~ and so they are all damned
Small Sacrifices ~ Nina D’Arcangela
Damnation ~Dan Dillard
The Ruin of Man ~ Tyr Kieran
Palace ~ Joseph A Pinto
The Lost Message ~ Leslie Moon
Ghoul’s Last Laugh ~ Blaze McRob
THE OTHER PLACE ~ Thomas Brown
Dementia ~ Daemonwulf
Photograph: “Monument” © Copyright Dark Angel Photography.
Death by pen or so the story goes –
Today enjoy my poem “My Damned Pen” at Pen of the Damned.
Here are a few pieces…
The black penumbra grows
rising, rising, rising
greying forms its shadow
pages turn unclear…
Pensive are the times
extra, extra, extra
read me between the lines…
Pendulum cold doth sway
left ,right ,right, left
endless sound so fey
will it never stop…
Pen away my life
scribble, scribble, scribble
black against parched white…