Hand Poised On Knob

Hand Poised On Knob

You’ve had your bags packed
For a very long time
No chance to think it over
Just grabbed your essentials
Essentially you’re gone.

But still you remain
For what or why
You’re not sure yourself
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

And that’s a problem
Isn’t it?

Remaining behind the door
Hand on knob
Certain of the monster behind you
Not sure of the monsters beyond
Duffle bag on your back
Mouth dry as cotton
Frozen
So you remain another day.

But your bags are packed
And in your head you’re gone
Living your life this way
One day at a time
One monster clawing at your back
God knows what waiting beyond.

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Complete

Complete

I‘ll take what’s left of you

And reassemble your pieces

No need for glue

No use for twine

For you’re perfect broken

Shattered

Pieces long gone.

I’ll lay you across the table,

my jigsaw.

The sum of your parts

Telling a story

Filled with gaping holes

That make perfect sense

Only for me.

Copyright © 2012 Joseph A. Pinto – All Rights Reserved.

Treason

Treason

(acoustic guitar)

 

My words they’ve been swept away

Feeling much the castaway

If only I could bring back yesterday now,

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

Your eyes blaze like July.

Still there’s nothing I remember

Of your cold heart December

Such subtleties whispering goodbye.

My thoughts they’ve been led astray

Searching for the right of way

If only I could have the right to say now,

What’s your reason

What’s your reason

Your eyes blaze like July.

Still there’s nothing I remember

Of our snowbound December

Such casualties of war and of lies.

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

Your eyes blaze like July.

Still there’s nothing I remember

Of your cold heart December

Such subtleties whispering goodbye.

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

It’s all treason

Such subtleties whispering goodbye.

Copyright © 2013 Joseph A. Pinto – All Rights Reserved.

‘Sex-Starved Thing’ on Pen of the Damned

Where do I even begin?  Maybe I should start by saying that I don’t “game plan” my writing.  I sit; I write.  It’s that simple.  I never steer a story’s direction, nor do I even attempt to influence it in any way.  I see images in my mind; I feel emotions wash over me.  Then I go about creating…  It’s not something I can easily describe.

Each story has life.  Each story is a life.  It’s my responsibility to birth it.  I allow each their own identity.  They are my children, and I am equally proud of them all.

Have you read Sex-Starved Thing on Pen of the Damned yet?  I have no issue telling you it’s quite the story.  It’s a depraved tale about a man and his Sex-Starved Thing.  It is brutal.  It is violent.  It is disturbing.  Yet it’s about as beautiful a piece of prose as I have ever written.

I created Sex-Starved Thing while sitting in my basement.  Ipad on my lap; wine on my table.  Stereo cranked.  No motive inside my head.  But there it was: “Nails grate across stone; she comes for me.”  The beginnings of a new life.  As I said earlier, it’s that simple.  No game plan.  No map.

But that only scratches the surface.  True, I had no idea how my story would develop.  But once crafted, I realized my subconscious screamed out on many darker levels.  Is Sex-Starved Thing a state of unconditional love or a condemnation to love’s conditions?  Hmm.  So many things unanswered; so many angles left to ponder on your own.

What does it stir within you?

Please enjoy Sex-Starved Thing on Pen of the Damned

My dearest THINK

I won my six-figure deal last week.

My contract signed inside my daughter’s preschool classroom of all places.  Her teacher asked if I would participate in Read Across America week, and I agreed.  It was a tough crowd; preschoolers know what they want and when they want it.  Straight shooters, these preschoolers.  Rougher and more critical than any literary agent or editor I’ve come across.

I settled into a rocking chair set solely for this purpose. Looking up, I saw their tiny faces scrunched before me.  Scrutinizing.  My daughter’s included.  Interested neither in adjectives nor metaphors, sentence structure as useless to them as a wrapper with no candy hidden inside, they waited.  Give them what they desire; magic! And you had better deliver in its telling…

Carefully and reverently, I opened the tome upon my lap.  “You can think up some birds…”  I began, my mouth dreadfully parched, fingers trembling upon the book’s gleaming surface.

“Excuse me, where’s your hair?”

Along my brow broke a bead of sweat.  My eyes flicked away from the tale for a moment; trepidation mounting.  Confidence shaken.  I tremulously stumbled, “Umm…that’s what you can do.  You can think about yellow or think about—”

“Athena’s daddy, I asked where’s your hair?”

All eyes…all narrowed, measuring eyes…upon me.  Did I mention they were a tough crowd?  I reached into my back pocket, pulled forth my last vestige of hope then extended a sealed fist to my diminutive blond heckler.  “Take this,” I croaked, engulfing his open palm.  “It’s my last hair seed.  Grow this for me so one day I can plant it back on my head.”

Silence. What had I done?  Awful, black tombed silence.  Time stood still.  Then an eruption of unearthly shrieks.  Earsplitting giggles.  Tiny bodies jumping in delirium.  My daughter beaming.

Give them what they desire.

“Think!  Think and wonder.  Wonder and think,” I proclaimed, nailing each verse to perfection, my inflection as never before.  Enchanting the room.  “How much water can fifty-five elephants drink?”

Magic.  It had better be in the telling.

I finished my book reading, ears humming to the roar of joyous children.  My goddess rushed to me and wrapped her arms around my neck.  “Thank you for reading to us, Daddy.”

I won my six-figure deal last week.  Signed and sealed forever in my heart.

I Just Want

In some past life, I lived in New Orleans.  I’m quite sure of it.

Perched on the stoop of a jazz club, guitar in hand.  Crooning some laid back melody.  A sultry connection of souls.

In some past life, I lived in New Orleans.  Sang for the living.  Made music for the dead.

I wrote this song some time ago.  Who knows…maybe even longer than that.  I fancy I was a silky tongued musician.  Nothing more than a smoky silhouette in a Big Easy doorway.

You might have heard me sing this before.  In some past life.

I’m quite sure of it…

I Just Want

I don’t want to take your clothes off, baby

I just want to lay here and look deep into your eyes.

I don’t want to take your clothes off, baby

I just want to lay here and look deep into your eyes.

Feel the magic grow between us, darling

A man never felt so alive

So alive.

(instrumental)

I don’t want to scare you, baby

I just want to steal your breath away.

I don’t want to scare you, baby

I just want to steal your breath away.

Feel your hair brush against my neck, darling

Melt this night down into day

Into day.

What you got I want a piece of, sugar

From your toes straight to your fingertips.

You know you’re always on my mind, sugar

I can’t wait to kiss your honey lips.

I’ll be the shoulder you can lean on

I’ll be the mountain you can’t miss.

(instrumental)

I don’t want to take your clothes off, baby

I just want to undress you with my eyes.

I don’t want to take your clothes off, baby

I just want to undress you with my eyes.

Feel you tremble beneath my fingers, darling

Make your tender heart come alive

Come alive.

I don’t want you to frown no more, baby

I just want to keep all your clouds away.

I don’t want you to frown no more, baby

I just want to keep all your clouds away.

Be the sun to keep you growing, darling

Be the music behind all you say

All you say.

Copyright © 2013 Joseph A. Pinto – All Rights Reserved.

‘Run’ on Pen of the Damned

For me, the most enjoyable part of writing horror fiction is not having a clue what you’re writing about in the first place.  Sometimes you’ll have an idea or sense of structure in terms of where a particular story will be headed.  And others come from the blue.  My story Run on Pen of the Damned is just that, and man, it was fun to write.

Flash fiction, contrary to belief, is not the easiest prose to create.  Your words require impact, all at a minimum.  The fat must be whittled from said prose’s bones.  The mood, the ambiance, it all needs to capture the reader at once.  It’s not a sparring contest.  You’re not trading jabs; you wish to punch the reader, knock their senses out.  Game over.  The trick, of course, is having them enjoy the assault.

Run is the story of a mysterious man known to locals only as the Runner.  When I was young, my father reminded me to keep my ego in check.  “There’s always someone stronger, bigger than you out there,” he told me.  His lesson immediately came to mind the first time I read my story back to myself.  I believe it was a lesson well learned.  I’m wondering what you will think…

Please enjoy Run, only at Pen of the Damned

Turkey Day Giveaway

Thanksgiving is nearly here, & I hope everyone has a safe & happy day.  Please take time to reflect on the individuals & families that may not have one this season, whether as a result of that cruel disease known as homelessness, or as a direct result of Hurricane Sandy here in the tri-state area.

I’m giving thanks to all you of by hosting a giveaway: a free Kindle e-book copy of two recent anthologies featuring my work.  My story “Memorial” in Sirens Call Publications ‘Of Myth and Monstrosity‘ and my story “Sweet Nectar of Life” in Cruentus Libri Press‘ ‘The Dark Side of the Womb.’  Each tale is written in an entirely different vein, and I have no doubt that each will chill you to the core.

All you need to do is leave a comment at the end of this post; something as simple as “hello,” even.  That’s it, kiddies.  I’ll be picking names at random; the more people who comment, the more winners there will be!  The giveaway will end Friday, November 23 at midnight.

Good luck & happy turkey day!

Of Myth and Monstrosity – you can be certain that ‘Memorial’ is no fable

The Dark Side of the Womb – inside lurks my tale “Sweet Nectar of Life”

‘Grieve’ on Pen of the Damned

Hello all!

I’m hoping you’ll take a few minutes and journey over to my writing group, The Pen of the Damned.  I’m the featured author this week, and I’ve penned (pardon the pun) quite an interesting piece of prose titled ‘Grieve.’  It stems from my love of cemeteries; not all places of death are as dark and bleak as they seem.  Within these final resting grounds await magnificent treasures of history long gone.  There are many voices longing to be heard, forgotten echoes with stories to be shared.  You simply need to be open and in tune to hear them.  It’s all a matter of perception.

I started Pen of the Damned about 6 months ago.  My intent was, and still is, simple: provide readers a place for free horror fiction and dark works of angst-ridden prose and poetry.  We have a very eclectic lineup of 9 writers…some you may or may not have heard of…all with varying backgrounds and styles.  Each week, a new writer takes the mantle, and trust you me, you’re never quite sure what freakish delight we’re going to serve.

Our site is simple and clean.  Uncluttered.  If you’re looking for quality works of horror, well here you go.  We want nothing to get in the way as your mind succumbs to us.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be introducing you to the members of the Damned (as we prefer to call ourselves) here on my blog.  It’s a really great group of people.  But that doesn’t mean we won’t scare the living hell out of you.

So take my hand this week and meet the being that channels through me from time to time – The Tale Weaver.  He always has a twisted play of words to present, and he always conveys a much darker truth than you’re willing to admit.  Enjoy ‘Grieve‘ and while you’re at it, please subscribe to The Pen of the Damned.

We’ll be waiting for you…

Water Runs Thicker

I don’t know

You say that you’re blood

But water runs thicker than you do.

You don’t disguise it that well

You’re as fake as hell

And you don’t fool me no more.

No, you don’t fool me no more.

Well thanks

Thanks for nothing

Should I commend you for your lack of support

I must admit I once fell for your lies

And all those kind thoughts you purport.

You go on living your life while you use mine as your dump

So pick up your litter, why can’t you just figure out

I’m sick of being the chump

I don’t know

I thought you were blood

But it seems I bleed easier than you do.

You don’t disguise it that well

You’re as clueless as hell

And I don’t want you round here no more.

No, you’re not welcome here no more.

Well thanks

Thanks for nothing

Should I commend you for your lack of support

I must admit I once fell for your lies

And all those kind thoughts you purport.

You go on living your life while you use mine as your dump

So pick up your litter, why can’t you just figure out

I’m sick of being the chump

I don’t know

You say that you’re blood

But water runs thicker than you do.

Water runs thicker than you do.

You don’t disguise it that well

You’re as fake as hell

And you don’t fool me no more.

No, you don’t fool me no more.

You go on living your life while you use mine as your dump

So pick up your litter, why can’t you just figure out

I’m sick of being the chump

So sick of being the chump.

I’m so tired of being your chump.

Copyright © 2012 Joseph A. Pinto – All Rights Reserved.