Category Archives: ODDtober

Egg Horror

An ODDtober leftover!

by Laurel Winter

White Eggs in Carton

afraid of heights
in the cold, dark carton
to the rest of the dozen.

They are ten now.

Any meal is dangerous,
but they fear breakfast most.
They jostle in their compartments
trying for tiny, dark-veined cracks-
not enough to hurt much,
just anything to make them unattractive
to the big hands that reach in
from time to random time.

They tell horror stories
that their mothers,
the chickens,
clucked to them-
egg salad sandwiches,
that destroyer of dozens,
the homemade angel food cake.

The door opens.
Light filters into the carton,
“Let it be the milk,”
they pray.
But the carton opens,
a hand reaches in-

Before they can even jiggle,
they are alone again,
in the cold,
in the dark,
new spaces hollow
where the two were.
Through the heavy door
they hear the sound of the mixer,
deadly blades whirring.

They huddle,
the eight,
in the cold,
in the dark,
and wait.


Ghost Post 31: Treacherous Trio

English: Tomb of Rosario Castellanos in the Pa...


Over the dead body of a woman I am growing,
on her bones my roots are coiled
and from her disfigured heart
emerges a hard, vertical stalk.
From the coffin of an unborn child.
from its stomach shattered before the harvest
I rise up, tenacious, definitive,
brutal as a gravestone and on occasion sad
with the stony weariness of a funeral angel
who hides a tearless visage beneath his hands.

Rosario Castellanos

The Street

Portrait of Octavio Paz
Octavio Paz (Photo credit: DanAllison)

A long silent street.
I walk in blackness and I stumble and fall
and rise, and I walk blind, my feet
stepping on silent stones and dry leaves.
Someone behind me also stepping on stones, leaves: if I slow down, he slows;
if I run, he runs. I turn: nobody.
Everything dark and doorless.
Turning and turning among these corners
which lead forever to the street
where nobody waits for, nobody follows me,
where I pursue a man who stumbles
and rises and says when he sees me: nobody.

Octavio Paz

Jane Goodall
Jane Goodall (Photo credit: nick step)


Eyes mad with fright, their lids torn off
That, helpless, they must watch the red-hot iron
Creep closer, closer, through the oozing blood
Each fiber tight with horror for the end,
The angry hiss as deep into each vital orb
The red-hot metal bores. The scream that issues
From the womb of agony herself.

Jane Goodall


Daily Prompt: Trick or Treat:
No tricks, just handing out tricked out poetic treats today.

Ghost Post 29: Wet Dream

2:45 AM.
Her eyes flew open.
“Do you hear that music?”
He rolled over, harrumphed. “No, babe. I don’t hear anything.”
She lay very still, wide eyes staring at a sliver of light cast on the wall by a gap in the curtain.
“Da da-da da-dum, da da-da da-dum,” she intoned. “The Cure?”
“Go to sleep.”
“It sounds like that song of theirs.”
“Yeah, the one about the nightmare in the pool.”
“No. Your nightmare. You’re dreaming.” He punched his pillow.
“But I really hear it.”
“Robert Smith is not serenading you. Go back to sleep.” He rolled over again, turning his back on her. He exhaled loudly.
The sliver on the wall shimmered, grew brighter. She lay, transfixed, watching to see what it would do.
The light waxed and waned with the faint melody, as if gentle waves splashed over its source in time with the music. It consistently grew brighter until at last she could stand it no more.
If this is real/
I have to see.

She slipped from the bed and went to the window. Drawing back the curtain, she looked down into the pool, all black and gray in the moonlight.
Wait…was something moving there?
Quietly she made her way downstairs and out the back door. Crouching beside the deep end to get a better view, she was suddenly grasped by an invisible hand, pulling her faster than she had time to react. Before she knew what was happening, she was underwater, frantically feeling for the hands that dragged her down, but finding nothing in her fingers.
Air rushed out of her lungs before she could stop herself from attempting to scream. What is happening to me?
She kicked, flailed. Lights flickered, flashed across her eyelids and she fought the unseen force pushing her down.
A nightmare of you of death in the pool/
Wakes me up at quarter to three.

This isn’t happening, she thought. Jon’s right, it’s just a nightmare.
As she let her arms relax, forcing herself to believe it was all a dream, the invisible hands let go and she floated to the surface.
Gulping air and trying not to panic, she swam for the edge, hoisted her body out of the pool, and ran for the door. Back inside, she leaned against the glass, shivering.
Am I awake? She pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a wet heap on the kitchen tile. Shakily she made her way upstairs, only to collapse on the floor before reaching the bed.
“Jon. Jon, help me,” she said, clawing at his hand.
He groaned and tried to shrug her off, but she wouldn’t let go. Climbing up his arm, holding on for dear life, she tried to pull herself toward him, but instead his body fell forward on top of her.
“Jon. Jon!”
No use. He was unconscious.

6:45 AM.
The clock radio roared to life.
I’m lying on the floor of the night before/
With a stranger lying next to me.

Jon felt stiff. Reaching for the snooze button, his right hand slammed into the leg of the nightstand and he realized he was not on the bed, but on the floor, his left arm pinned by a dead weight.
It’s so smooth/
It even feels like skin.

He opened his eyes and turned his head.
“Ahhhh!” he screamed.
Jon scrambled to get out from under the corpse beside him. The trembling hands of the trembling man reached for his phone, dialed as fast as he could.
“Hello? Hello? Yes, it’s an emergency! There’s a stranger on my bedroom floor! I think she’s dead… Hello? Hello?”
On the other end of the phone, what seemed like an eternal silence was finally broken as a thousand voices whispered, ” It’s true.”
Jon sank to the floor and the dead woman wrapped her arms around him.
It feels good.

Ghost Post 25: Buried Alive

WOODSTOCK, Ontario, Jan. 18. — Recently a girl named Collins died here, as it was supposed, very suddenly. A day or two ago the body was exhumed, prior to its removal to another burial place, when the discovery was made that the girl had been buried alive. Her shroud was torn into shreds, her knees were drawn up to her chin, one of her arms was twisted under her head, and her features bore evidence of dreadful torture.

The NY Times, January 18, 1886

Inventors addressed the fear of being buried a...
Inventors addressed the fear of being buried alive. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)