They Bleed Ink

The ideas flow from his mind,

Words spilling out make room for more,

Creativity courses through his being like a virus,

Being eradicated from his soul,

Writing is a compulsion,

It’s his life.

 

Plots and characters, dark and sinister,

Come forth to tell their stories, relentlessly,

They won’t rest until they are released, freed,

Letting them escape onto pages,

She can’t stop writing,

It’s a passion.

 

The realm opens, darkness sweeps through,

Setting free the worlds invading their thoughts,

Bloody corpses, creatures of the night, and day,

Inspiration abounds, a tomblike process,

They know what it’s like,

To bleed ink.

Poetry

     Poetry (from the Greek ‘poiesis’/ποίησις [poieo/ποιέω], a making: a forming, creating, or the art of poetry, or a poem) is a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning. (Taken from Wikipedia/Poetry http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry )

Poetry may evoke different interpretations to the words or evoke emotive responses. Poetry often leaves readers with multiple interpretations of the poem. Poetry may not always rhyme, may have styles, techniques or forms from different cultures, languages, but it is as much an art form as storytelling or any other art form.

Here at Bleeding Ink Anthology, we accept all forms of poetry, but they should leave the reader with reason to pause and ponder what is being said in the poem. It could include dark, supernatural, occult, or creepy elements, or it could contain an element of humour, but it must invoke a response of some kind and perhaps leave us wanting more.

Feel free to send us your scary, dark, or twisted poems. We’d love to read them and consider them for this anthology.

And may all your dreams be creative and useful,

Ever Yours,

The Ink Babes 

 

 

 

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What IS this thing called Dark Fiction

Truthfully, it varies across the web by definition, but here’s our general take on what it means to us.

Dark Fiction can be highly entertaining, funny even, BUT it should always maintain an element of depth. It should be thought provoking enough to accomplish one thing; make us stew over it for days!

In the hands of one writer, it could be full of blood and guts and gore, while in another’s, a quietly creepy emotional journey.

Long story short, dark fiction should leave us feeling disturbed, but in all the right ways.  So send in your submissions that’ll make us quesy, make us cringe, surpise us, make us a little green around the gills.

Do your best make us sleep with one eye open…or better yet, not at all.  

We DARE you!

Happy writing Darklings and may your words make you unforgettable. 

Ever yours,

The Ink Babes

Friday the 13th at Bleeding Ink

 

A child born on a Friday is doomed to misfortune…

The old wives tale crept into my head as I leaned against a crooked tree nestled in the heart of Briar Forest, pen in hand, contemplating life. Sometimes, I came here alone to jot down ideas or write little, dark tales. It was good therapy, a way to channel my angst, and something I needed to do.

As I doodled in the margins, I wondered how much worse it could be if the Friday’s Child also happened to be born on the 13th. I pondered it, making notes as I did and added more to my story.

I smelled trouble in the air but deep in thought, I dismiss it. Then a shiver crept up my back like an icy finger.

I froze, reined in my nature sure to betray me in a heartbeat, and stopped breathing.

Immovable, like the rooted tree I leaned against, I realized what had chilled me was no breeze but a human finger.

“You’ve lost your way?” the voice attached to the frosty digit, asked.

“No,” I replied, willing myself to remain still no matter how much I needed to explode from the forest floor.

“What brings you here?” The male peered over my shoulder at the tale I’d begun weaving. “Are you a writer?”

“No. Not really,” I replied, my eyes shifting to better catch a glimpse of the drunken intruder as he slinked his way around me and the tree trunk. “I like to dabble.”

“In what?” The young, golden-haired man asked. I knew him from school – the jock who fancied himself a scholar. Brawny and rugged, his face promised everything dangerous. He didn’t know me.

“Things that wouldn’t interest you,” I said, my tone uninviting and curt. Perhaps my cool disposition would discourage him. I could only hope, for both our sakes.

Quick-handed, he ripped the journal from my grasp. I jerked forward, reaching for my story – the one I planned to submit to Bleeding Ink – and then I changed my mind.

Let him read a little. It might make him think…

“Ah, I see you’re interested in myths and lore.” He smirked after he skimmed over a few lines from my tale.

“Yes,” I said, biting the inside of my mouth. I wanted to punish the idiot for trespassing all over my sanctuary. Anger rose. Careful, I simply said, “I am.”

“Anything in par-ti-cular?” He annunciated.

“Dark fiction, mostly.” I had no idea why I felt the need to converse with him. Go away, leave me in peace. “It’s just about a guy born on Friday the thirteenth.”

“Friday? The thirteenth?” He laughed. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m not,” I said, glaring up at him. He’d made himself comfortable on the musty ground in front of me. I didn’t like it one bit. “What’s your name again?”

“Josh,” he cocked his head, gave me smile like he’d done me a great big favor. He didn’t ask me mine.

“Well, Josh, right before you barged in here, I’d been wondering what kind of life someone born on that day would lead.”

“Don’t believe any of that it’s-unlucky-stuff,” he said, his eyes darting to where branches snapped about a hundred feet behind me. “It’s a charmed life.”

“It is?” My senses picked up Josh’s buddies who’d finally caught up to him. My blood heated up. My body tingled and I knew what he was going to say right before he said it.

“I was born on the thirteenth.” He grinned. “’And I’m a Friday’s child.” He shouted the words like they were lyrics to a rock anthem and not just the title of my little dark story.

“Really…” My voice took on a honeyed tone, all dripping wet. The boys stumbled out from behind the trees.

“Yeah, really. Take this moment for instance. Not only is it Friday the thirteenth, but you’re here all alone and lonely, writing a story about a guy born on Friday the thirteenth.” He waved my journal in the air. “And guess what? I’m a horny guy born on Friday the thirteenth here with a few of my friends. All of us together – makes a partay!”

The drunken crew cheered.

“Now, how lucky is that?” he asked, advancing toward me.

“The answer to your question is in the last paragraph, Josh.” I pointed to my journal, fisted in his hand. “Why don’t you read it out loud for everyone to hear? I think the InkBabes are going to love it.”

“Babes?” he said, flipping through the pages. “Freaking good idea.”

“As he approached the young woman – with cold-hearted plans to take everything from her – he had no idea he faced a soul-eating demon. Unable to deny her hunger any longer she could not resist his Friday’s Child soul. With glowing eyes the color of death and blood, she ripped the young man apart swallowing his soul and devouring his black heart. Then she turned around, looking for more.”

Blood-curdling screams filled the air as I dined on pickled sweetmeats.

Dig to the bottom of your soul and stretch to the dark corners of your mind…

Do you have a juicy bit you’d like to submit to our Dark Fiction Anthology?

 ~Submissions open until filled~

Ever yours,

The Ink Babes

Enter 2012

Ten…nine…eight… 

Michael watched intently as the crystal orb ascended from the depths.   With each faint moonbeam that reached it, it began to glow. It was so beautiful. Finally, humans would learn what Area 51 was really all about.

Seven…six…five… 

Nearly at the surface now. Soon, so very soon. Hundreds of researchers, government officials and security members stood gazing at it in wonder. And why wouldn’t they be drinking in the last vision they’d ever see. It was only right that it should be something of such ethereal brilliance.

Four…three…two…

Now miles high, it floated in place until the power of the full moon set it on fire. Every single sparkling facet now beheld its own individual flame. Billions, upon billions. So massive, yet so intricate. No man could have made this. No mere mortal could have ever even dreamed it. Michael had spent centuries wondering how humans could be so willing to believe in the ridiculous, yet remain so blind to the obvious.

ONE. 

The ball exploded. A flame shot to every beating heart. The earth was daylight everywhere now.

Here at Bleeding Ink Anthology, we love a darkling. Even a New Years Eve tale twisted into something unexpected. If you have stories, poetry, or flash fiction with a dark edge, a supernatural theme, or something just downright scary, we welcome you to submit it to our anthology.

We know you have something important to say, so send in a darkling of your very own.

Happy New Year, and Ever Yours

The Ink Babes

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