The Horror Zine
Bug on a person

Wesley Dylan Gray

The October Featured Poet is

Wesley Dylan Gray

Please feel free to email Wesley at:

Wesley Dylan Gray


On his skin they crawl;
as he sleeps they dominate
his flesh. He’s aware of them
in the deep corridors of
his dreams, running the gauntlet
of twisted nightmares.
The skittering sensations
penetrate his pores
as tiny legs tickle the hairs.
They scour across his eyes
and loom in the hot moisture
of his snoring mouth.
They find rest upon the
soft tongue, as dew from
slumbered breath settles on
the hard-shell frames of
their black bodies.
When morning comes, and he
rises from the abyss
of hellish sleep, there is no
sight of them, for with the
breaking dawn they find retreat.
But he knows they’ve been; he
feels the impressions left behind—
all the pulsing echoes of
The Skittering across his skin.


The ancient land had been a swamp,
formed by melting glacier;
and the Pine Hills and bluffs
overlooking might play witness
to the creature,

and the wind may whisper
of his mighty stature,
perhaps crawling

from the murky depths,
from out the mud-covered bottom
of clay-colored waters.
Or perhaps Neanderthal,

time traveler
carried by ice,
waking in a foreign land,
the same earth, now

alien world,
and survival
all that’s familiar.

We set out on expedition,
to find the giant,
unknown thing
with white hair
caked in mud.

Camo from the army surplus,
gray and brown smudges
on a child’s cheek and brow.
Helmet donned like a tortoise shell,
with leaves and branches
strapped for cover.

After dusk we trekked across
the field, spongy earth and
flourishing grasses beneath our steps.
A line of pines before us,
and banks of Big Muddy
just beyond the outcrop.

We heard the noises—screaming
and rustling in the brush;
frozen amidst the trees

we put out our lights,
and in the shadows of branching
hollows, I swear we saw
eyes of The Big Muddy Monster—
tall, stark, and gleaming
in the night;
hidden in its marshes,
wilderness, and mire.


Behold the bitter bite
Of winter’s hollow bark.
Hunter’s wolf is starving,
Lone in sheltered wood.

Catch a solemn scent
Upon a gentle wisp;
Sense the crimson drops
Sinking in the snow.

Rivers run through flesh,
Calm now with fading form.
Fair maiden rests,
With lover’s rose in frozen stone.


I’m in the house,
large and cluttered;
the dead body is
beginning to stink,
smelling like the water
once home to my pet fish.

The girl is there,
trying to eat a sandwich,
but the rotting smell
is getting too strong
for her appetites.

In the basement,
there’s another body,
and we must dispose of it
before it starts to decompose.

I’m handed something
like a black plastic sack,
or perhaps a tarp.
I could drag the
bodies with this,
but I swear they should
have placed them on the
plastic first!

Of course, they are
gone, and so these
bodies must remain—
here for now.

Wesley Gray resides in Florida with his wife, Brenda and daughter, Ellie Jadzia. He drinks his coffee strong and his wine from the box. In his spare time, he writes poetry, prose, and things in-between; with these words he attempts to exude a disposition of resplendent contrast, writing things of darkness and light, things beautiful and grotesque. Such writings can be found in various small press magazines and anthologies. Find him online: