she’s toasting in nostalgia

The baron of apparitions drawls, the original stranger, the viper in a giftbox, the undulation behind an old moth-curtain in an empty taxidermy room. The stranger with the sweeping eyes enlivened as a glisten underneath an insomnia blanket, polished silver in a dungeon, grinning at the corners like a shedding portrait in a frozen castle. He has the sallow radiance of the wolf-moon overhead cringing into the stark lines of crow’s feet beside his unblinking set of alert, unnerving eyes; you can hardly tell that the statue-face has scant color of its own. Not when he steeples tall and dark like the shadow of a broadsword in a gravesite. He’s a pale witching mask, father gargoyle, held on by the slender fingers of fog that envelope and are drawn to him. Unmoving, yet somehow his presence seems to prickle, seems slippery, murky, oil in the heart-line of the palm, as if it is moving.




words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

she finds old characters

The Unexciting Chronicle
of Miles Glass to His Caravan
By Miles Glass, Reality & His Imagination

minute (1)one :
A falcon-feathered grenadine syrup birdbath, they say, commingled with a flippin’ your fin-splash of mermaid honey-colored, sparkling ginger ale (a medicinal concoction, mind you, brainchild of a Doctor.) +1V.I.P. glowing ember of a crimson ghost-dot maraschino cherry, could make the mathematics and tipsy geometry of any gypsy gymnastically blush. Oh, and it mixed so well and so fine, so fresh and so clean, with the dead purple ♥ hue of medical-grade molasses swash buckling in the sunken ship of his inside vaudevillian, striped vest pocket. Where cough syrup, shave and a haircut, two bits, and dance routines go to die. When Miles bristled, his fake, exaggerated mustache bristled with him.

minute (2)two :
As he hydroplaned through jackpot jumping jacks and stacking chips, bumbling his beeline through the casino with full intent to be insanely punctual and, if not woefully on time at least near so, he kept it all together with a red thread of equilibrium and practiced fumble. She was going to leave without him. She, his matchbook dear, was going to run off if he were to be late back to the room, thrust so many floors up, up, and away. BUT! there had unfortunately been some distraction(s) and obstacle(s) during the arcade course of his jack-be-nimble odyssey.

To put it simply, there had been a gaggle of tribal belly dancers hoarded by the lustrous, distractingly lion-gold elevators, drinks in their slave-bracelet hands and sequins dotting the avian-streaks of their shamelessly multi-colored accents, bells, tassels, pin-point climaxed eyes. Peacock turbans and silver toe-ring spins and back bends. He recognized one of them from San Francisco, and she made it a necessary witchery to delightfully inform the wild plume of the curious flock that he could make a great many things disappear easily, seamlessly, and pleasantly.

He blushed and trickled into the split gray thighs of the elevator door, waving with an overflow of Shirley Temple pink and hazy cough syrup jester grinnings.

minute (3)three :

are you a

minute (4)four :
And somehow, he arrived to the room in 4 measly minutes with a pocketbook of intoxicated smiles, stinking of lemongrass, patchouli and glitter, and having gotten a hold of a circus bear which he threw directly into the exposed hole of her tent (gently and whether she was in there or not.) Announcing with a midway roar:

“I won you a prize!”

words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

she reluctantly pastes together a short story for a submission

before growing too attached to the imagery, beware that this is a post-mortem photograph. unsurprisingly, it’s from the victorian era, which readily embraced the miry arms of feeble death, but with an identical, modern anxiety that has spanned all of mans clumsy life, for richer or for poorer. we are life and we’re married to death. and death does appear so mediocre, we see it peeking by hospital beds and sitting on chests, waiting for blood tests in filthy chairs, in the black eyes of the unforgettable.

with that sinking knowledge, her woeful expression might make more sense. a candle in a nightmare room. the swollen eyes don’t portray the living love of a mother employed full-time to her rosy babe, but rather the rip that love has made. a tear that can’t be seamed. the hand that has reached inside of her, through her, and took something out. something that will always be missing. her face is a funeral banner for eternal loss. as a mother, my heart collapses for her.

i use this photograph as a reference point for the short story i’m attempting to put together for an anthology that a small publishing company is looking for. i don’t even remember how i found out about it. it’s a strange concept of a ‘mountain pass’ cowboy/western and honestly, not one i’d usually think to contribute to (i love westerns, but mountain passes?)  then i remembered the above photograph, a few paragraphs came to me. i’ve decided to post a little bit of it here. because it’ll either be rejected (like all of my work.) and because maybe it’ll shove me into finishing it.

ACROSS LOTS – (excerpt)

Continue reading “she reluctantly pastes together a short story for a submission”

she finds old stories


a long time ago i was in the midst of a serial killer phase. i would read online crime libraries all night long and consistently be baffled, appalled, and intrigued. i couldn’t understand what brought them to do what they’d done. it’s still a mystery how people can be broken down so much, to sometimes something so little, that they lose their sense of self. others have never had a sense of self, and who they are was the criminal they eventually became. their whole lives lead up to that moment when they finally let go. and when they did, they were addicted to being themselves, because they at last felt significant.

others who were spirited dwindled, eaten away with time. and they became who they never thought they could, who they never wanted to.

the following story was written during that phase. it’s about 10 years old, and the writing style of it shows its age. shows my age when i wrote it. there’s no need for me to edit it or adapt it, because i enjoy seeing how my mind used to work.

it was inspired by the werewolf of wysteria, and of course, the supernatural. it’s a long read, and is obviously horror.


Continue reading “she finds old stories”