Monsters sleep where monster dare,
Beneath a bed, under a chair,
Around a corner in the dark,
Within the shade of a rainy park,
On windowsills at dusk of night,
In dark closets out of sight,
Behind a curtain at lights out,
In the shadow of a doubt.
To rouse them or worst to wake,
Could put your soul and life at stake.
The sound of children in the night,
can be somewhat overblown,
except for the fact the lights are out,
and I live alone.
A TOWN CALLED HELL
The Gunslinger gigged his horse
Into a town called Hell.
Another station along a trek
Where he hoped to rest a spell.
On his trail were countless ghosts
Who had fallen by his gun,
All looking for another chance
To take back the lives he’d won.
His horse was weary, tired and sore
Kicking up dust in mid-day heat.
They walked toward the livery,
At the end of Hell’s main street.
He removed the saddle from his horse,
And once in an empty stall,
He fed his bay an apple,
Before heading to the tavern hall.
As he got close to “The Last Call,”
He released his hammer strap;
His Colt was low and tied down
Prepared for any scrap.
He moved up the steps and peaked in,
Before pushing in the batwing doors,
He walked in to see The Man,
Asking the barkeep to pour.
The Man with a deep growl said,
“I have been waiting a long time
For you to finally arrive in Hell—
Your end of the line.”
The Gunslinger said, “Let’s get this over with.
Let’s begin this show.
I have many other lives to take
And many places left to go.”
They both stepped out into the light,
The Man revealed a scared red face,
His smile showed blackened teeth --
He was a true Hardcase.
The Gunslinger did not react,
He simply stood his ground.
He watched and waited for a “tell,”
To let his pistol sound.
He felt a push at his chest,
Through the smoke he heard a blast
The death rattle coming from his throat,
Was the breath that proved his last.
The Man told the barkeep
To fetch the undertakers barrow,
To take The Gunslinger to Boot Hill,
To be placed within the narrows.
The Man went back to the bar;
Where he would wait for the next One.
He was the keeper of Hell’s Gate,
And the Devil’s right hand gun.
D.L. Dioses is a freelance writer and poet. He has contributed poems to the e-zine, Dark River Press. He was also included in the e-book Tales from the River, Volume 1. He has also been included in previous editions of The Horror Zine. He attributes his many shades of grey to his childhood fear of the dark and his curiosity of what lie in the shadows. D.L. continues to search for the truth behind the shadows along with the enjoyment of its mysteries. He has come to embrace all the monsters under the bed and the dark behind the door. D.L. enjoys hearing from those who seek to investigate the darker side of life.