Judson Michael Agla is an artist working in a lot of different mediums, like painting, drawing, sculpture, and writing in both poetry and flash fiction. His work has always leaned towards the macabre, and he’s been able to find a place for his voice in the horror genre.


I’ve been following the beast for days
Armed with vanishing politics and torn flags
I’ve got a can of gasoline and my monkey has the matches
Ever since the war ended, I’ve been delusional; it’s the clearest I’ve ever felt and aside from walking into random government buildings…screaming…it’s been quite beneficial

The footprints were getting fresher; I was close on its tail, I could smell it, a stench of death, lavender and gunpowder
They burned the books in the name of god, they burned the witches because they could, they burned the hopes that the new children would learn to burn
The castles offered little history and even less poetry, the rivers shone with glistening rainbows of oil, and garbage filled the banks, rat heaven. The corpses piled so high children used them as forts playing war

Me and my monkey found the fresh feces of the beast, it was here, I could hear the terra crackle under its feet, then its eyes, two bright yellow glowing eyes and fangs, white, shinning in the moonlight
I won’t kill for those greedy bastards anymore, I won’t plant the seeds of ignorance and I won’t slaughter for anyone

Death comes as a cool breeze, a friendly tap on the shoulder, a black raven watching, waiting for its meal.


I can hear breathing like calm ocean waves
Claws and teeth in atrophy somewhere close
One day I’ll build that Treehouse
A place where our thoughts won’t betray us
My enemy is waking
I hear labored breathing and claws digging through dirt and stone
You died before you became famous
Your absence born a silent revolution like those that they make documentaries about
I’ll have to start moving now
I am the hunted and my history will be painted black like coal
My enemy is here


The vines have stopped creeping, the walls won’t have them, and they bleed on the dead flowers that have lost their keeper, dust and rust are all that remains in this garden. I’d give my bones, my flesh and my crippled mind, just to see a single bud, a sparkle of color, but the bolt already flew and there are no other offerings because the vines have stopped creeping.