Author Archives: Nina D'Arcangela

About Nina D'Arcangela

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Nina D’Arcangela is a quirky horror writer who likes to spin soul rending snippets of despair. She reads anything from splatter matter to dark matter. She's an UrbEx adventurer who suffers from unquenchable wanderlust. She loves to photograph abandoned places, bits of decay and old grave yards. Nina is a co-owner of Sirens Call Publications, a co-founder of the horror writer's group 'Pen of the Damned', founder and administrator of the Ladies of Horror Picture-prompt Monthly Writing Challenge, and if that isn't enough, put a check mark in the box next to owner and resident nut-job of Dark Angel Photography.
October 24, 2012

Coffin Hop 2012: Inside – Day 1

By Nina D'Arcangela

Inside – Day 1

I can hear them scratching – almost ticking, always clicking, as they move around inside my head. It’s maddening. Their tiny little feet always touching, testing, feeling their way about. Each hair coated limb sliding between the soft tissue and bone – scuttling through the crevasse in between. Growing in and feeding off the fluid…

Sometimes, when I’m looking in the mirror, in the worst moments, the moments where I have to hold onto the basin to support myself and can barely catch a full breath, I swear I see a shadow scuttle behind my eye. The quick darting of a grotesque form moving swiftly past before I can fully focus on it. My own visage in the mirror is a horror in itself; long hair a greasy tangled mess, cheeks sunken and hollow, skin a sickly yellow hue from their rancid poison. Sinking to the floor, scratching at my face to be rid of them, I gouge my eye sockets with filthy, torn nails. Will they find their way through the opening if I offer one? Covered in blood oozing from the destroyed tissue around my eyes, forehead slashed bare, with flesh caked beneath my fingernails, I crawl on hands and knees to the bed, where I cower beneath the covers seeking refuge, hoping to hide. But there is no refuge, nowhere to hide, they are always there with me – inside me, there is no escape from what is inside…

 

A dark and angst filled road we have chosen…

Come with me over the next week, as I spin my tale for Coffin Hop 2012. This will be a story told day by day – on the final day, encapsulated into one post.

In honor of the tour, I’ll be giving away a goodie per day to one random recipient who leaves a comment on each post. My prizes will come in the form of e-books, print copies, eZines, and an unending subscription to The Sirens Call eZine as well. (plus there may be a rubber duckie or two) All prizes will be randomly selected on November 1st, as per the Coffin Hop guidelines found here on my Coffin Hop 2012 page, along with a list of the other bloggers. Please don’t forget to visit the Coffin Hop Blog for news, updates, delirious ramblings, and magnificent posts from the other bloggers as well!

19 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Coffin Hop 2012, darkness, Flash, Flash Fiction, Horror, muse, pain, Quirky, twisted

October 20, 2012

She Watches

By Nina D'Arcangela

My watcher gazes upon me, great despair and longing seeping through her gently fluttering lashes. She lives a life of torment, a life filled with a depth of pain and depravity that rivals my own. Closer she wishes to draw, trying – always trying, but the measure of her success is a cruel and harsh one that denies, not grants, the wants of those like us. Unable to do more, she watches.

She watches as I sink ever further into the squalor that is my self-imposed exile, my place of preciously preserved pains, the darkest recesses of my mind where even I cannot find respite from my own deranged ramblings. Gasping for a breath that will never come, hope a thing lost to a moment that can never be regained, I will forever dwell in this chasm of nowhere. Capable of infusing life into me once more, yet unable to wade such a distance, she must simply watch as I succumb.

She watches as I prance about in this tattered garb, seeming to most a thing so giddy; a toy bright and shiny – all the while, inside… nothing but a fool. She sees my cracks, my flaws, all that makes me unworthy. She is witness to the tarnish that dulls my plating, the rust that flakes my surface, the debris that hinders my step. She gropes at the pile of destroyed dreams, hoping in vain to free me; the more she digs, the deeper the rubble becomes. She must watch as I succumb to what others have done, and what has become of me.

She watches as I shatter into innumerable shards, only to suffer my tears as I collect each delicate fragment to me; insistent upon rebuilding my ruined castle once more. Tears of acid crawl down my cheeks, the madness that accompanies them the crumbling of the world – my world – should they ever truly be unleashed. A steady stream of tangible harm inflicted by so many, each droplet a testament to the life I bear. Her desperate plea for me to hush heard only as an echo in my ear. Her arm stretched towards me, wanting so much to offer reprieve, is hindered by obstacles both beloved and unfair. She must watch as I succumb to what others have undone within me.

She watches as I flay open my own flesh for allowing moments of weakness, glimpses of joy, lies of happiness that happen in an instant, gone all too quickly. Brief encounters, an hour, perhaps two. Touching, loving, seeing, hearing; feeling – breathing; for the first time in so long, breathing. A small step that leads to a brighter existence, a false step placed upon undulating ground. A promise of the sweetest forever, but no promise ever made, a faith always held – a mourning that shall never end, my forever, my reality.  This she must watch as I succumb not to what others have undone, but what I have done to destroy me.

Would I give so much more for even a lie of something less, if that lie was not this? With all the wasted remains of me, I would…  But my watcher stands as guard. She will not allow one to crumble, for the other would fall, no longer even the loathsome wreckage that now exists. Scalding tears pour in a cascade of deafening silence from her eyes. She must always watch me from behind a glass wall that cannot be allowed to shatter for all that would be lost.

A pile of forever swept to the side so that the tendrils of this now never break for what should have been.

 

Originally posted on Pen of the Damned on October 2, 2012 – shoot on over to PenoftheDamned.com to read more of my mad ramblings, the exquisitely pain filled and deliciously horrific works of my fellow Pen members!

5 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in loss, muse, pain, Pen of the Damned

September 26, 2012

Stone Cold

By Nina D'Arcangela

Stone fucking cold – an awareness that emanates from within. I’ve always believed the most grievous pain would come from what is held inside, from emotional wounds that take more than what forever is offering to heal; but no, I was wrong – the worst pain of all is being empty – drained, becoming a vacuous core, a dull resonating hollow that allows for nothing, not even the sting of its own frigid harshness.

What then remains?

The echo – that part remains. The thunderous slamming of logical thought, things I know to be true and by virtue of their own truth, to be right – just no longer right here.

The shadow – of what was conscious feeling, a memory… The memory of warmth, reaching out to it, grasping it; confusion at being sliced to ribbons on its brittle fractured edge, its tensile strength less than that of my own – for once I make contact with it, it can be nothing more than what I am; cold, empty, invisible, alone – the reality of full awareness.

The roar – perhaps the worst part of all, but no – the echo is the worst of it. Self-recrimination screaming in my head that this is my mind, my sacred territory, my imminent domain to control – well, my folly so it would seem.  Comical, though I have no laughter to spare it in this moment, the thought that my own strength of will, my conscious pattern of thought exerted under strict control for so long – what I consider to be my euphemistic beating heart – would never grow cold. The mocking echo is utterly relentless.

I am a creature of science, one who ascribes to chaos theory – in chaos there is random order to be found that given enough time becomes specified; thus specified random order within chaos. Some would argue the merit of this statement to be the antithesis of chaos itself, simply order if it is to be qualified as specific; and order is not chaos. But if chaos creates order, and order forms pattern, is it not then a foregone conclusion that the rigid stricture of order will in all occurrences destroy the fluidity of chaos thereby no longer allowing for the existence of the chaos that created the order that formed the pattern that left me stone fucking cold?

Well, that’s a tough one to answer. I’ll opt to believe in chaos, in the randomness of the order and the disorder that it also brings. I’ll choose to feel the nothing that gnaws a pit through my existence as there is something worth feeling the nothing for. What that something is – left undefined.

It’s something that was created by chaos, and is being consumed by the stricture of random structure. It is a string that unifies me with a plane that is a more desired reality, a place where warmth still exists… where an echo is to be feared no more than a comforting howl carried along with the breeze.

– oh, by the way, welcome to my happily never after.

23 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in muse, pain, twisted

September 8, 2012

Decay

By Nina D'Arcangela

All things born must eventually die, withering in decay. What is the value of living if there is no risk of loss? What is the joy to be gathered from the most beautiful smile if it might never fade? What is the ecstasy of being if not eventually to be undone?

There is still beauty in decay. Pain to be clutched, tears to be licked, madness to be grasped and devoured. All things with breath must twist in torment, scream in agony and pain, heave a final sigh when crushed below the heel of perfection.

A blossom that has bloomed must wilt. Laughter heard on the breeze fades to silence. Brightness tarnishes with time.

Time kills all things of beauty, time and the beauty that exists within it. Destiny sees to its demise. One thing certain in this found life, time will see it trampled to ruin.

But time does not bear all the blame. For time will only do with it what you will. When that time has been shattered, there is only one other to thank, and I thank this other fully. Knowing her like no other, wishing not to know her at all, living this life in a decrepit box, who else could be to blame? Yes, I speak of me.

My choices all, made with only one regret – time. A vicious circle, this I know as well. Disbelief, shocking pain, trembling in fear – broken, always broken, never unbroken.

I am to blame for all that has decayed, all I have allowed to wither, all I have wished for that has wilted – the blossom trampled before its time. Time’s accomplice – truth; wielded as my weapon, held weak as my shield, ignorance in believing… but the believing of immeasurable worth, the cost: only yet one more piece torn away. I give it willingly; I cherish its meaning and cannot diminish its loss with regret.

Time I thought to lay the blame upon, but time was only doing its lot. I am all that is left to blame, so I thank myself for all that may have been lost.

12 Comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in loss, pain

August 31, 2012

Echoing…

By Nina D'Arcangela

Dark halls echo the sounds of the past. I put my hands to my ears, but cannot block them from intruding.

Bloodied and covered in filth, I cower in the murky dankness of my corner. A ray of sunlight leaks in just within sight – yet so far down the hall. Do I dare crawl to it, or will they come for me again? Unsure and frightened for my own safety in this house of illusions, I shiver with indecision as the glow slowly fades away, the hours tick past.

The last vestiges of light receding, my hope of sanity dwindling, I begin to crawl toward the retreating beam of hope. Nearing the doorway, I pause to make sure all is safe; clear for my passage. One splayed hand laid upon the long wooden floor before me, my body follows, curling around the frame as I begin to emerge from the room. My other hand is near to landing upon the hallway floor when I see a figure move through the arc of light.

No! On hands and knees, I quickly scurry back into the corner, but not quickly enough. They know I tried to escape, they know I reached for the brightness; they know my intent was to abandon them.

Enraged by my daring, they begin to assault my every sense as the light is snuffed. It’s always worse at night. Half crazed I scream for leniency, none is granted.

As my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness, I see the black shadows moving about me. “Please,” I beg of them, “please don’t hurt me anymore.” But they only laugh. The nearest whispers a rotted warning in my already damaged ear, as the others close in upon me for yet another night of terror. Cold fingers grasping, my screams echoing…

****

A sneak peek at my comparative flash piece in our August issue of The Sirens Call eZine. 300 words of flash fiction inspired by an image.

14 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in darkness, Flash, Flash Fiction, Horror, The Sirens Call eZine

August 8, 2012

The Slip

By Nina D'Arcangela

The texture of the brass dials a thing so fetching, feel them spin, with a tick and a click, tightening ever so slightly as the prize is nearing.

Nimble fingers twist knobs , first left, then right, and back yet again. Feeling for the slightest shift, as slowly they spin.

A tick, a click, the slip. The first dial is set. How these tired tips work at gaining entry, their art lost to time, man’s arrogance a false sentry.

These fingers you see, they are for hire, they spin, they click only for the most discriminate buyer. What lies beyond the beauty of this contraption of brass, these fingers care not – their job only to spin, to click, to find the – slip.

Ah, the slipping of the final pin into place, pride to be had for a task well done. These fingers find no pride being named thief, only in the triumph of yet another breach.

Never touching the treasures concealed inside, the gift is in the spinning, the clicking and the glorious sound of the decisive slipping as the lock disengages, and the tomb readies to release.

The thrill done, the game complete, the mastery of infiltrating the impenetrable is what these tired digits did seek. Their desirous splendor being the one called to task, no other hand as capable on the brass.

These fingers, they are old, and worn with time, slowly they reach out and gentle the slide.

A slight pop, the pressure released, the door opens a mere chink, allowing for those who would have the briefest of peeks.

The thrill these old finger have felt now past, gone on this final releasing of brass. This buyer untrue with intentions corrupt, these fingers have felt for the final time the tick, the click, the magnificent slip!

*****

For those of you who don’t know, in each issue of The Sirens Call eZine, we do a Comparative Flash amongst ourselves with fairly strict guidelines. We choose an image, and each of us writes a flash piece of 300 words – no more, no less – that is inspired by the image itself. We don’t discus the topic each has chosen, nor do we reveal our pieces to each other until everyone participating has completed their flash. Here is the image, and my piece that ran in the June issue – Kalla and I went head to head on this one. I hope you enjoy it! I had a ton of fun writing it… and the picture, what is it exactly? You tell me  ;}

8 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | posted in Flash Fiction, muse, Quirky, Sirens Call Publications, The Sirens Call eZine

July 11, 2012

Fated

By Nina D'Arcangela

Bloodied by my own thoughts and that which rages within me, I suffocate in the nearness of my own mind as it ruthlessly brutalizes what some would consider a soul.

Living with such agony is now part of my nothingness; I cannot avoid the anguish that comes to me through doors that should be well sealed, shielded from such hated devastation. I beg this putrescence with which I exist for the briefest moment of solitude, longing to be unaware for an infinitesimal reprieve, yet it will never be granted.

I am fated to grasp that which I would avoid knowing. Trapped by what adores me with an innocence my very inhalation of breath betrays, longing all the while for an existence that remains lost to me. My mind is my confinement, escape a possibility that will shred all that I cherish.

All that I cherish… these words said with such conviction only prove me more the fool than I know myself to be. The jester’s role I choose willingly for the eternity that it shall be mine, as I would not wish its anguish nor bestow its grandeur upon another. What shines with blinding clarity from within gnaws its way toward the surface never to escape, ensuring my absolute isolation from the magnificence that would sing me to sleep and offer a world of brighter murkiness which dances just beyond my reach.

Torture, this is within my reach. It engulfs my entirety, dulling each glimpse of the gleam caught by another’s eye, muddying every surface that would shine as the me who might have been had I not been locked away in this dungeon of madness. The key to my lock? I see it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eye to. It is sentient – it  knows of the sway it holds over me. Entranced, I watch it dangle and shimmy in a breeze born of the hollow cavern that was once a thing of childlike promise within me. Yet sway further away it does with each passing eon encapsulated within the fraction of a moment. One upon another these waves of time pound relentlessly against my consciousness. Each moment stretched into an infinity while watched from below.

Ahhh, from below – that is where it crouches, watching and waiting for a chance to slip my guard; a minuscule crevasse in the wall though which it can seep. This night I believe it has gained entry for the echo of silence is all too deafening to allow feigned ignorance the opportunity to shield the undeserving such as I. Quivering bravado the only weapon against this consuming hatred.

I hear the thunder begin to rumble, I feel it resonate through my damaged psyche, I sense what is coming. Alone I will face all there is to conquer, all there is to fear. Tonight, something of greater menace stalks through the shadows of this storm.

10 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in darkness, muse, pain, twisted

June 22, 2012

Deluge

By Nina D'Arcangela

The crack of the loudest thunder clap roars; my body vibrates with the echo, an untamed longing for more.

The joy washed away; a vile deluge now pouring, the razor’s slash of the cruelest tongue.

Pain inflicted with intent to harm; ripping at my sanity in an unjust tumult of words, the harshest weapons of all.

My mind torn to pieces; this voice carries devastation, wielded with nary a care for the moments yet to come.

A shattering silence; how loud the quiet has become, how lonely this false sense of solitude.

The patter of a different storm; a shedding that cleanses, gently this time in a subtle downpour.

If only you’d count the raindrops with me; do you see – they are beginning to fall…

7 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in muse, pain, Quirky

June 9, 2012

The Versatile Blogger Award

By Nina D'Arcangela

I have been nominated for The Versatile Blogger Award by Matt Williams at storiesbywilliams.com! Thank you! … and now my twist:

***

Thank you kind sire, in keeping with my babble-log’s prose, I shall respond to thy bestowment with what I most reverently desire to be a level of grace and amusement.

This honor bestowed me by the sire of clan Williams reigning most aptly upon his throne, I cannot help but kneel humbly before my name-sayer . Tattered skirts lifted to just above scuffed and torn knees, dirt smudged cheeks rouged with a blush of humility, I gracefully take my place in supplication as the undeserving and yet kindly glanced on Dark Angel that this man of gentle nature has so graciously seen fit to credit with this tribute.

Seven – this is the number of which I must divulge, and so I shall extend to thee secrets yet unknown, things yearning to be told that have not yet found their place into this world of madness where I surely be queen, my parchment stained with words unclean!

Of the First: The way to my heart, be it love? Nay, most would say, and right they would be. I declare it a confection of tantalizing delight that shall put a stretch to all lips that touch it, all teeth that sink into it, all tongues that lick of its most decadent of pleasures. I am a wretch who cannot in any passing refuse a cupcake!

The Divulging of Two: Bathed in mother’s milk – drown in her tears, all that was wrought by hand of man shall revert to her desirous state. Given unto me is a longing to seek out these things. My lover be not man nor woman in this vein, it be the swirl of fascination and depth of virtue to be found in time. Unlike the gleam of polished metal of gold or silver that would turn the head of most wenches, I am a lover of all things reverted to glorious rust.

Telling of Three: Carved by the roughened hands of those long past, a craft nearly lost to time, I too may find my lonesome self lost among the stones of old; fashioned with sweat, blood, and probable tear, I seek, I respect, I mourn, I do not fear. To lurk in daylight or under shine of moon, you shan’t find me frightened of the potter’s field, for I am a cemetery tramp of the most devout virtue.

Four be Before us now: To scuttle on hand and foot, crouched near to dragging stomach to floor, I traverse the darkened spaces left only to the mind’s eye of those lacking a taste for the darker corners of this orb. The sign a warning, desire dawning, do I stay my hand and stray – nay of this nonsense. I shall see with mine own eye through the grounding of the glass all that has been denied the world. I am a photographer of things abandoned and forgotten, and a seeker of what believes it cannot to be seen.

Five Bees Buzz In the Hive: The hive is a place of much wonderment and nimble furry, a place most would step only a toe before quick retreat made! My hive buzzes day through night, night through day, my voracious seeking desire knowing no bounds, conceding no obstacle, recognizing no limit. I am a creature of science who studies the way of all things Quantum.

Six Sticks: A waft carried with the breeze. A tantalizing aroma of what may have baked in your mother’s own oven. An olfactory response that speaks to you of the third season, the season of harvest. Should this scent scarce tickle your nose, is it I who have passed you by? Perhaps, only the purist will know. For I am not scented of flower, powder, or musk, but of spice that burst of baking apples in your mind. I wear a mist of Thieves.

Seven Screaming into the Night: Born of the witch’s eve, who better to celebrate in heart and spirit the goose that shall bumple your flesh as though it would be peeled back from your carcass to expose beneath the skeleton that hides. Discard the hide and bring me the bones, for in this spin I shall reveal two tellings in one.  The eve of my glee, be the one you scream before me, for I am a macabre mistress who shall give your children a fright and candy on this night. Celebrating Halloween in the grandest of fashion is a tradition my family has long since enjoyed, and the date of my birth rolled in makes it all the sweeter. Be sure to pen your next of kin as you enter, we guarantee no safe passage here. I promised two secrets would be divulged, bones be true to scare you on the eve of which all shadows stalk; but be they all hollow and plastic? Not in my world. A cabinet of curiosities holds small treasures, no flesh nor sinew left, I do so love a cleaned petite to add to my collection. I am fascinated by skeletal remains and the pose in which they departed. Prepared, cleaned and properly mounted, I hold them dear as gleaming gems.

Now, to point my finger and brand seven more to settle the score…

Julianne Snow – This brilliant and incredible woman is the author of Days with the Undead, as well as many published short stories. She has been featured in multiple publications, and as far as I am concerned, she is the Zombie Minx the world needs to keep an eye on – her knowledge, extensive research and passion are without measure. She is a woman of great inner strength and many hidden talents including editing, proofing, and reviewing other authors work. She also happens to be my evil twin, and a fellow SCP minion when needed!

Colin F. Barnes – An author whose work inspires a feeling of being comfortably wrapped in a favored blanket on a stormy night, he is a gentleman of the highest caliber, and a rapscallion whose playful wit will keep you entertained for hours! Editor and founder of Anachron Press, he has produced such works as Day of Demons,  City of Hell Chronicles Vol. 1, and published short stories such as Dark Metaphor and Vex.

Hunter Shea – A Monster Man with sparkling eyes, his natural ease and sense of self immediately engenders a feeling of comfort and genuine kindness. He has an evident love of not only life, but his family as well, coupled with a fabulous sense of humor (see Monster Men and you’ll understand why). An incredibly talented horror author who is on the cusp of a world wind success with his latest novel Evil Eternal, he is also the author of Forest of Shadows.

Jack Wallen – Jack is nearly indescribably! He’s an incredibly talented writer, multiple-blogger, interviewer, a radio/podcast DJ, and a devoted family man. He is an unstoppable force whose momentum will carry him in whatever direction he chooses to go. The author of the I Zombie and Shero series, success is just waiting for him to bump heads with it!

Joseph A. Pinto – Not only is Joe an amazing human being with a heart made of gold (or rust in my case), but an author who’s words twist in such a way that my soul twists with them. He is the author of two published books, Dusk and Summer (a beautiful tribute to his late father) and Flowers For Evelene. A very proud Mr. Mom to a gorgeous little girl, he is the co-founder of Pen of the Damned, and did I mention part time Lycanthrope!

Adriana Noir – A beautifully talented author whose words speak directly to my muse – I often wonder if her muse sneaks in late at night to run off with mine, playing in the woods doing their best to horrify one another! I find her very much a kindred soul. This lady is an incredible force to be reckoned with, and destined for greatness – I have no doubt!

Daemonwulf – This man has a personality that is larger than life itself. An author of truly beautiful and disturbing words, his talent for horror is only beginning to feel its way into the world. Beyond enjoying his searing writing and quick witted banter, he is a genuinely good soul to know – though just to be difficult, I’m sure he would argue this last point to the death, much the way any wulf worth his fur would!

There are many others I would like to incriminate in this list of fabulous nominees, but I’m trying to play by the rules, so seven it is! I hope you enjoyed my twist and playful take on the award parameters, and if any have taken offense, please know I certainly meant none. And once again, Thank You Matt Williams! 

;}

10 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Author, Award

May 25, 2012

Blinding Insanity

By Nina D'Arcangela

Slashed open in a fit of uncontrolled rage, my gouged and bleeding thigh is nothing but ravaged flesh; it is the thrill of his attention upon me that is beyond compare. As my blood races, he hears it pulse; as my body quivers, he feels it vibrate; as my mind screams, he hears it echo through his own damaged being. He is ever present – this beast, this creature, this untamed demon that stalks me.  Believing me to be no match for the power his darkness wields, he has been gentle with me till now, wishing not to frighten me with what he truly believes himself to be.

Clawed arm raised to strike again, his breathing is heavy, as labored as my own – his from restraint, mine from fear and desperate longing. He pauses, his hard stare boring into that of my own, gauging if I go willingly or as that of a cowering fool who knows nothing of what she asks of this dark madness. In his eyes I see a confusion of longing coupled with the enamored glee of wanting and the unsure knowledge that he has finally found what he has been seeking – acceptance.

This shatters the final piece of me.

My choice made, I bare my soul with complete submission in the hope of receiving his mark and my eternal salvation; the death of one dim existence, the birth of yet another. I sense still the indecision with which he watches me, unsure if this is to be allowed, or yet another cruel joke in a life fraught with pain, agony, and harsh deception. Do I genuinely offer what I promise? His eyes beg to know. This most gentle of beasts that shall rend me to pieces in a glory of blinding insanity.

His choice yet to be made, my only option to nurture it. I see what lurks behind his mask, I shall not shy away from it. I will forever choose to embrace it, though the beast believes it still hides itself behind his reflection.

For now, I shade the glistening pools that reflect all I see at the expense of my own damnation, for I wish only to belong to this coupling; though my wish is of little consequence, he’ll take what he will and leave the rest to rot in its own undignified remains.

8 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in darkness, muse, pain, the beast