Magenta Nero is my Woman In Horror today! She has no books on Amazon yet, but if you go to her website magentanero.wordpress/ , you will find plenty of prose and poetry to stimulate your desires for things Dark and gritty! Magenta Nero is a fiction writer and poet. Inspired by the devilish, deviant and deranged, she writes tales of dark fantasy, gothic horror, erotica and gritty realism. Her work was included in Sirens Call ezine #13, February 2014, celebrating Women in Horror Month. She was born in Italy and has lived and worked in London, Tokyo and Sydney. She currently lives in the Northern Rivers, Australia, with her partner and two young daughters. Here is a story I took the liberty of stealing from her website. Bad Blaze. Sleep Walker April 17, 2014 · by Magenta Nero Eyes flicker, then open. I stare up at the shapes that form and disperse in the fluid dark. I am like water or smoke as I infuse this flesh, seep into it. I merge with muscle and bone. Then I rise. Feet land quietly on the floor. I feel cold skin resting on thin, worn carpet. Toes stretch and flex. I have been here before, I have seen this place. I stand up and begin to walk. Each step rigid and carefully considered by this body which has not yet warmed to me. I’m not sure how long it will allow me to remain but for a little while it is mine. I am staring down the long dark hallway, drawn towards the haze of light at the end. I brush past a large potted plant. It’s feathered leaves drag against me, as if trying to catch me. The sharp corner of a low table stabs me painfully in the calf. Objects, soft and strangely shaped, are trodden underfoot, plush toys perhaps. When I reach the end of the hallway I find myself standing in a large kitchen. The dim glow of street lights seeps in through the window. I look around, waiting as more detail becomes clear to me. The bench tops are cluttered with appliances. Cups are stacked carelessly on an open shelf. The sink is full of unwashed plates and pots. A vase of crowded flowers sits on the window sill. I catch sight of a most wondrous thing. On the wall, by the sink, there is a magnetic strip holding a collection of knives. An exquisite set of knives with polished handles of dark wood. Out of place in this tawdry decor, they reign with an understated glamour.The fraction of light in the room plays on them, illuminating the blades with a soft focus. I approach them and examine them more closely, observing them as you would a painting, stepping back, stepping forward, until I find the ideal spot from which to view them. I can see the quality of the steel, thick and gleaming sharp, and the wooden handles sculpted to fit the palm with balanced, comfortable ease. Stunning craftsmanship. Lovingly I gaze and admire them. A long thin blade that curves to a tip. Breath taking is the flat wide blade, a blade with which to cleave. Two smaller knives, one quite small and the other a good practical size. Daggers, light in the hand, for quick fast strikes. And a long serrated blade. To saw through stubborn things. They are in disarray, it fills me with sadness to see such majestic tools neglected. Tenderly I rearrange them. Then I stand back and admire their perfected order. I feel a deep longing to yield one. To hold that little dagger and drag it across flesh, nothing much, just a tiny little nip on the wrist, barely there, perhaps she would not even notice, a delicious craving uncurling…but then I am interrupted. I hear a voice, high and thin, like an echo reaching me from far away. It disturbs me. I feel this body twitch in response, threatening to wake. I must find the source of it and silence it. Slowly I shuffle back down the hallway. “Mummy? mummy?” the voice calls softly as I pass. I stop and turn suddenly, entering a small bedroom. It is afraid. It is asleep but it can hear me, it can sense me. The thick curve of sleeping lashes, paper thin skin stretched over eyeballs. It is restless, it wriggles and then it rolls up tight into a ball. I reach for it and lightly stroke the bony arc of it’s spine. The bodies are familiar, I feel them connect in some way, speaking to each other, and a sense of calm flows between them. The little thing settles and soon falls back into the breath of deep sleep. I walk to the large bedroom window and look outside. I would like to go outside. Wander this peculiar and beautiful place. Rain is falling gently and all is dark, quiet and still. Through the trickle of raindrops on the glass I see a row of identical houses and bare trees along the wet glistening road. Trees that seem to be cut from the night, delicate and intricate silhouettes. It is very pleasing. I feel this face crumple into a smile, the strange sensation of muscles tugging under skin. How long do I stand there, grinning senselessly as I gaze out of the window? Time passes differently here and I seem to get trapped in thought for endless moments. The darkness is changing hue, dawn is not too far away and I must return. Enough for now. I drag this body back to it’s bed and lay it down. Eyelids close and I am gone. In the morning she is standing in the kitchen drinking very hot coffee in rapid sips. It is burning her mouth but she doesn’t notice. Her daughter is sitting at the table eating cereal. The loud crunching is an unbearable noise, the rhythm of it is aggravating. It mingles with a subtle discomfort that is churning in her, a quiver of irrational fear. Those tea cups on the shelf, that is not how she stacks them. The vase has been moved on the window sill, she’s sure of it. The flowers themselves, there is something unfamiliar about them. She stares at them and realises they have been rearranged in the vase. They are fanned out elegantly and deliberately, in a manner she can’t relate to. She is beginning to feel a bit nauseous. This is not the first time these odd little things have happened. Things move around and order themselves in some foreign fastidious fashion. She has noticed it before. She is not imagining this. She glances over at the sink and her eyes fall on the row of knives. They are aligned from smallest to largest, evenly spaced apart and perfectly upright. The sight of them is confusing and then terrifying. The cup slips from her hands, shatters loudly, and scalding coffee splashes her bare feet. (C) Magenta Nero 2014 Majestic writing indeed. For more of her fantastic stories, go to Magentas website and read away. There will be more exciting news coming soon concerning Magenta. I will be posting it on my blog. Magenta Nero is a Woman In Horror! Blaze McRob
Posted on: Mon, 21 Apr 2014 21:04:56 +0000
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