By Loris John Fazio
And I remembered what she said, her eyes gleaming white as a dead girl's toes: "Beware the west wind when it carries songs of mourning – no wall is high enough to hide you. Don't expect it at night, when your cries bounce hollow on the walls of your brain. It will come in the daytime, unannounced, like a curse springing forth from a bridesmaid's lips; and your flesh will bear the etchings of the gospel of pain when the storm tears the frame from the house you call mind. Shadows taunt the half-light as bloodclouds swelling like boils on the sky dispel the fleeing sun. A cry like thunder fractures the air – no hand will rise to shield you. Let the deluge dye your hair, let it wash your face with scarlet ichor, let it clot in your throat like scorching words you'd sooner die than utter. And when the ground is shaken by a desperate sob, when you spin like a vessel coughed out by a whirlpool, you will know that it walks this earth once more, you will know that its mark is upon you – and you shall tremble. It hears the fear squirming like frenzied eels in your tissue, it tastes your scream in the wind. How can you resist the pull of the waters? How can you fight the undertow that drowns in darkness? It will drag you where chaos burns and the lurker of the deeps peers into you dreams with its ever-waking eye – and then you will know: we are but lost children feeding a forest's old hunger."
About The Author
Loris John Fazio lives in Catania, on the sunny island of Sicily, where he earned a B.A. in Philosophy. He has felt a fascination for the horror genre ever since reading Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Terror at age twelve.
He writes both in English and Italian and some of his poems have appeared in publications such as Black Petals Horror Magazine, Frogpond, The Heron’s Nest and Better Than Starbucks.