POETRY BY CHRISTOPHER SARTIN

Christopher Sartin is a social worker hailing from the haunted hollows of southern West Virginia. He shares his humble abode with his beautiful wife, daughter, and canine conspirator Milo. You can find his most recent work in the anthologies Strange Tales of Terror, The Best of New Myths Vol. IV: Cosmic Muse as well as Sand, Salt, Blood: An Anthology of Sea Horror. His work has also appeared in Lovecraftiana: The Magazine of Eldritch Horror, The Sirens Call, and others.

STARLET

She stands upon the precipice,
Contemplating her next move.
The water below, a callous grave.
The jagged rocks, a means to an end.

They called her a starlet,
The new “it girl.”
Said her fame would be long,
Her rise, meteoric.

They never talked of the sacrifices,
Both literal and symbolic,
The nights of blood and fire,
The dances in the desert.

She would erase the ink if she could,
Sever their serpent tongues,
And close her ears to their fallacies.
However, what is done cannot be undone.

Tomorrow, they will write about her
And all her indiscretions.
One more beauty swallowed by ambition,
Another casualty of the screen.

MIDNIGHT LANE

When darkness falls,
And the fog sits in,
They gather on the outskirts.

Their shapes, perceptible
Only by the dim glow
Of the harvest moon.

They have nothing to prove
And nothing to lose,
For death has already claimed them.

They choose sides,
Hiding amongst the shadows
And the empty tombs.

As dawn arrives,
They count their victims.
Tonight, the game begins anew.

AT WORLD’S END

When the hordes came,
We unleashed bullets and curses.
Flesh, blood, and sinew flew
Like confetti and streamers,
Reminders of celebrations long past.
We were prepared
And well-fortified,
An impenetrable citadel,
A beacon of hope
At World’s End.
At least, we believed we were.
However, the undead proved themselves
To be master tacticians.
Though they lacked in mobility,
They compensated with volume
And a hive mind.
We were soon forced
To abandon our posts
And flee to the interior.
We would live our final days
Surrounded by the dead,
Fighting amongst ourselves
And eating our own.

THE HOUSE HAS EYES

It watches as they pass
Beckons them closer
Dares them to breach its gates
Knock at its door
Enter its forlorn façade
Wander its cavernous chambers

It wants to light the fires
Make them to feel comfortable
To feel safe
To forget their pain
When they are at peace
It wants to burn away their dreams

And suffocate them in despair