Rob Bliss

by Horror Sleaze Trash on July 22, 2012

Rob Bliss is from Canada and writes to get the hell out of Canada and go somewhere warmer for a few decades.  He’s incredibly old but looks young for his age.  He feels that horror writing starts with being spanked as a child (and as an adult) and will continue on into serial killing. His stories have been, or will be, published by SNM Magazine, Microhorror, Schlock Webzine, Black Petals Magazine,Pulp Metal Magazine, 69 Flavours of Paranoia, Blood Moon Rising, Smashed Cat, Weird Year, and Razor Dildo.  He thanks you for your concern, but it’s just too damn late….

 

Full Moon

by Rob Bliss

A dark cloud with edges tinged blue slides passed the full moon.  A clear night, cool, a slow breeze left over from the dead winter.  The cloud is the shape of a long dagger without hilt or handle.  It slips away leaving the full face of the moon looking down on me.

At night everything’s a shadow.  Black trees and their every branch, the silhouette of fence posts lining my fallow field from my neighbour’s corn, my house and his just dark shapes on the landscape.

A single light from his upper bedroom window.  The distance between us focussing the shine to a pinprick.  He and I are too far away to hear the night noises of the other.

But I know he’s killing her.  Beating her like he beats the dogs.  They bark their echo across the fields, but are soon made silent.  The window must have went up, a silhouette of his naked form in the light, his grizzled voice bellowing down to the beasts.  Slams the window shut, and it is a quiet night again.

And here I am, staring at the dagger of cloud, wishing the face of the moon would transform me into some better beast, some monstrosity with claw and fang and the will to kill.

Instead, I sit on the back porch and sweat.  My shirt soaked through, dark islands lining the centre of my chest.  Fingers comb back my wet hair, and I light another cigarette.

I blow smoke up to the moon, chasing the dagger, fogging away the night and its silence.

If, on one of these nights, when the clouds are thicker than the face shining down on this black earth, I can stand up and walk, maybe then it will end.

Maybe the moon behind the clouds will turn me into the beast I have inside, which I can never release at the right time, the moment always passing like a cloud.  Perhaps the clouds will shut away the light illuminating my trek through the corn.

If I kill him, will it save her?  Or will she scream louder, seeing two beasts in her house, both hunters of her?  Is she too indoctrinated in abuse to see a saviour when one appears?

Will the day come, the sun burning off the cloud, which will give her and me a final rest?

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