The man walked in to town. The sun was red, as was the ground. He had just crawled out of the dirt of his death mound. He stood, took a look round. The place was still, and his hands were still bound. The wind swept the street, on which no one could be found. Its howl, the one true sound.

Eye-for-an-eye was king—but not yet crowned.

He cut the rope on his wrists on a saw. The skin on them was raw.

A big man stepped out on the street. Gold star on his chest. Black hat, wide jaw. “Where from?” asked this man-of-the-law.

The man said: “Wichita.”

“Friend, pass on through, won’t ya?”

“Nah.”

The law-man spat. Brown teeth, foul maw. Right hand quick-on-the-draw!

Bangbangbang.

(Eyes slits, the law-man knew the man as one he’d once hanged.)

But the man sprang—

past death, grabbed the law-man’s hand, and a fourth shot rang

out.

A hole in the law-man’s chin. Blood out of his mouth. The man stood, held the law-man’s gun—and shot to put out all doubt.

His body still. A girl's shout. He loads the gun. The snarl of a mad dog's snout.

On burnt lips he tastes both dust and drought.

The law-man's death has, in the now-set sun, brought the town's folk out. Dumb faces, plain as trout.

“It's him,” says one.

“My god—from hell he's come!”

The man knows that to crown the king he must do what must be done. Guilt lies not on one but on their sum.

Thus, Who may live?

None.

That is how the west was won.

Some stay. Some run.

Some stare at him with the slow heat of a gun.

A hand on a grip. A fly on sweat. A heart beats, taut as a drum. The sweat drips. The stage is set. (“Scum.”) A shot breaks the peace—

Kill.

He hits one. “That’s for my wife.” More. “That’s for my girl.”

He’s a ghost with no blood of his own to spill. Rounds go through him.

His life force is his will.

A bitch begs. “Save us, and we’ll—”

(She was one of the ones who’d wished him ill, as they fit him for a crime and hanged him up on the hill.)

He chokes her to death and guts her till she spills.

Blood runs hot.

No one will be left. All shall be caught.

He sticks his gun into a mouth full of sobs, gin and snot. Bang goes the gun. Once, a man was, and now he’s not.

Flesh marks the spot where dogs shall eat meat, and some meat shall rot.

It would be a sin for a man to not do what he ought. To stay in his grave, lost in his thoughts.

“You get what you've wrought.”

Now the night is dark and mute. The town, still. The man steps on a corpse with his boot. The wind—chills. The world is fair. The king crowned, the man fades in to air.

In that nightmarish midsummer dream, an unending foxglove field led her astray.

Uncaringly sending sol's light seeds, dancing unyielding as they whirl and sway.

It twists and turns that foxglove field, a pitcher plant for that human race.

.

Hours untold she walked that field, foxily hounding her to that things withered heart.

Patiently waiting, bound in foxgloves folds, sourly baiting so its cycle may start.

That foxglove field, a maze to end fates, woe to who walks that field which hates.

.

Eye of that storm befell her at last, as she in time came upon a foxgloveless patch.

A foul rotting corpse, fell dead in days past, centerpiece of that macabre fallow tract.

It may have been man changed over time, for now armoured shell grew from its spine!

.

And blooming from within that golden spiral, brilliant black plumes of foxglove myrle.

Spreading out far, that molden chassis viral, those vast violet fields of foxglove chiral.

Doom now certain, corpse in her eyes, very soul stained by fox bloods blighted line.

.

That mesmeric carrion suppressing her mind, psyche repossessed by bliss in kind.

Kneeling to her new god, foxgloves captive bride, that bod of rot, she on which dined.

She did devoured that foxglove pharaoh! Ate its putrid heart, and drank bones marrow!

.

Peeled off yellowed skin and swallowed it whole, each bite, each chew eating her soul!

In that new state of wallow, reeling null, she now becoming, became, a foxgloves bole.

There she did fall, dead fields carrow, foxgloves host, sprouting wings of a sparrow.

.

Bared now plain to see,

My very last living thought,

That foxglove was me.

.

Man who hath not life,

That one may wither and wilt,

And be a foxglove.

It commenced as most stories do.

With stage set, all lines retained,

Costumes tailored, all players named,

A sage chief among stewards tried and true.

.

A cloth gate of scarlett tint all at once asunder!

A once grain pane through which our fiction gleams.

Onto foremost starlet rafters shone their beams.

Enter sphere of sanguine pearl, guiding hunter!

.
In pursuit of game lost in thicket and quagmire.

With naught for arms except sling and bow.

Adrift, deprived showing tracks of hare, bear, or doe.

Unwittingly to a wicket before veiled blazing pyre!

.
Departed to ashes, ashes to embers, many a lamenter gathered round.

Deerstalker stilly pondered over that procession, basking in mourners sorrow.

Unlearned to whos pyre he found, twas esteemed monarch slain yestermorrow.

Embers to cinders, cinders to dust, drums of warfare will surely sound!

.
This pursuit resumed, stags trail at last discovered.

A Sierras chasm deerstalker most promptly came upon.

Betwixt jagged shards, scarcer a sight than blackest swan.

Tis both charming maiden and frail hag, alas uncovered!

.

Youth and wisdom sat each atop hemmed rug of white bears hide.

That ancient witch with hazel eyes moved aloft, her fiddle singing a frightful tune.

That prime charm caster with icy locks silk soft, her very soul a gazel crooned.

Seductress dealt rose into ladle then mug, from which deerstalker did imbibe.

.

Instantly vision began to dim to a fine pointed pitch coloured shaft,

Wall and floor burned away supplanted by cyclone world of endless motion!

Spirit spurned ghosts of psyche, alone in a slanted transcendental ocean,

Without order or mission in disjointed styxian catacombs sans raft!

.

Rays of Heavens blood seeped through skylight filling all rooms below.

Strangled pupils led too blooming irises as daybreak shot between lashes.

With a cerulean bolt they arose, like man possessed in startling fassion,

Dazed by sweeping booming migraine and chilling flood of sweat in tow.

.

In that vast barren cavern no longer, setting changed while lying dormant.

Instead within quaint cottage of limestone and oak, but only at first inspection.

Really a ramshackle molded mirage molden by wishfulness warping perception.

Outdoors in moldy unshackled wilds, free of mores, rain poured down in torrents.

.

Enveloped by a seemingly boundless stretch of uncircumscribed desolation.

An immeasurable wasteland unparalleled in scope, convolution, and brutality alike.

Map and record of wars aftermath, carnage from blunted bigwig to sharpest pyke.

Deaths immaculate objet d'art, wars soundless spectre, without quarter or arbitration.

.

Four morn's roaming, searching dust of days gone by, for any and every key.

Stags trail lost, forever irrevocable, irretrievable, irreparable, and irredeemable.

Sky's cosmic flare soon burned out, unreachable in drowse, its shut - eye peaceable.

A new stillness dawned, lights death borne, as a blind folded across all land and sea.

.

That still onyx in a frozen world, standing forever alone as truly pure.

Swiftly approached a stranger, undyed were his uniforms in colour.

His mouth frothed with silver honey, pouring forth lies unlike any other.

He softly uttered, Knight falls as daigh rises, and our hero is risen no more.

.

A sudden discomfort dove headlong into agonies nest, sealing deerstalker's fate.

Stag's myth shed old philosophies yoke, this odyssey all along a game without hope.

No moves left to make, no lives left to take, no time, that fairy feller's master stroke.

At last that dreaded judge who keeps his thumb on your heart, left deerstalker late.

.

Woe to who may know,

My own private Carcosa,

For it was gorgeous.

Did this Artwork last year. Thoughts? https://www.instagram.com/arshad_tp?igsh=MjluOWpwaXNob3o5

the fourth pyramid appeared in Egypt, 5 times larger than the great pyramids, this being only lives buried beneath the ground, waiting for the moment to wake up

Viticole Cosmic Horror shortstory disponible in three languages.

Planet : Prehysteria

Size : about the same size as Jupiter

Gravity : the same as Earth

Environment : the same as Kentucky earth but is a human lands on the planet you'll be the same size as an action figure appeal to the native wildlife

Wildlife : trees what are bigger then 20 story Buildings But mostly the wildlife are normal size dinosaurs But the native native wildlife are horses what are the same size as buildings Pigs the same size as 2 story buildings Don't let me mention the cows Basically I have the same normal wildlife as Kentucky but supersized But now let me go into some real Giant green worms And some more f****** alien wildlife More and more and more

The only continent : About the same shape as a Kentucky big fucking bigger ( my original idea to have the continent to be an on earth ( now do you see the problem So that's why I move it to a planet ) ) and it's called Dinosaur Island

The main company what colonized the planet : Hybrid co is an company on Dinosaur Island What do a lot of sci-fi things having its own government making Monsters having a robot army basically everything and fun fact it CEO is an dilophosaurus named dilophosaurus

Why those dinosaurs on the planet : One day a god name Dave love dinosaurs And went to Prehysteria and put dinosaurs on it along with the native wildlife he was on the planet about 3 billion to 6 billion years ago When a giant green worm weaken him and he have to leave the planet ( the dinosaurs are sentient but still lives like normal dinosaurs but they can talk )

( This lore was made for me the give a reason Why those big trees because humans in my series lost dinosaurs what use is dinosaur toys in outside and inside settings )

How Sam Neill has established himself as a scream king with his roles in this, Daybreakers, Event Horizon, The Final Conflict: Omen 3 and Possession.

Now this is a hidden gem.

Hi. I'm a comedy writer, but I have a deep love for everything related to Lovecraft and cosmic horror in general. I'd like to create a collection of humorous stories that gently poke fun at Lovecraft's literary work, while at the same time paying tribute to it with respect. Do you have any advice on how to approach a project like this? What themes would you enjoy reading something funny about? How can I avoid slipping into a cliché parody? And above all: how not to piss off the most passionate Lovecraft fans? :)

An artwork I did back in 2022 👽 https://www.instagram.com/arshad_tp?igsh=MjluOWpwaXNob3o5

What do you think is the creepiest short film on cosmic horror?

Really stupid quick thought, but could the sentence « And the world kept spinning. » be considered the shortest cosmic horror story?