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The Hole in My Head by Nicky O’Connell
There’s a grave in my pocket, a hole in my headPocket buries dreams, pride, and trust—While the hole swallows what cannot be named. I reach to remember—but then I forgetTrying triggers the shifting of colours,Spinning wheel—blurring, obscuring— What I saw, breathed, bled into the soil.It strikes between the lungs— Crimson rings my eyes—then burgundydrags mars…
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The Principle of Threes by Nicky O’Connell
There is a man who speaks for the dead,Who listed the threes of dread:Air, water, food—Miss one and you’re screwed,He’ll weigh you and measure your head. Nicky is a South African artist and writer whose work weaves together dark energy, human emotion, and the hidden threads that bind consciousness. A member of Mensa, she explores…
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Creature of the Night by Audrey Schmidt
Blood red, myFingers dripWith wantingWhat runs away—So far.I chase you like aLike an owl. Quiet as the nightI swoop downHoping to catch youOnce more,Under the moonlight.We dance our—Last dance.Because tonightYou are caught—In me.And no matter how hard you fight,Claw or beg—You are just a mouse.And you cannot scream.Blood red, myFingers dripNot with my blood,But yours,…
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Birthdays and Death Certificates by Jason Krawczyk
It should be raining. Days like today call for overcast skies and wet pavements. Yet the sun is shining, and I’m eating eggs Benedict topped with avocado. Why are there so many mothers in this cafe? Moms work these days, right? Why are so many moms trudging around with their luggage with a pulse during…
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I Think, Therefore I Am by Nina Munoz
Frail, and already damaged, Nolan’s body remained limp. For the seventeenth time in his life, he awoke to his mother hovering above him, a large present in hand. His body had been aching and traumatized for some time now, with part of his abdomen red and engorged. It felt as if something was probing him…
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Intertitles by Megan Denese Mealor
There was a skeletal continuity to the greasepaint proceedingsin the battered copy of a copy Jobyna Theater on dropout Vaudeville Avenue, the feral homeland of late-blooming flower childrenand the stillbirth of muted trains.Shadows toned with silver salts capered asplucky shopgirl Clara Bow darkened her lipswith the memory of her mother’s madness,a thousand butcher knives forever…
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Welcome to the New Macabre Magazine!
For a publication dedicated to showcasing exceptional horror and macabre works, the reading experience is paramount. The vessel holding the work must be as carefully crafted as the pieces themselves. As we looked to the future, we evaluated the standard digital publishing platforms—WordPress, Ghost, and Squarespace. While functional for many, it quickly became apparent that…
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A Named Storm by Pete Ward
We agreed: it had to be a drifter, an outsider. That much was clear. Our town wasn’t small, but it wasn’t big enough to hold, to hide, an appetite such as this. We knew this to be true. We knew this because we knew everyone. Of course, the first person we would have suspected—the only person—was her brother. But…