Ashmore on Cult of Ashmore

On the Third Moon

Tue, 07 Jul 2026 13:07:30 +0000

Father! Mother!
I cannot move!

The parents came to see their child.
You must be strong, get up.
But the boy stayed in bed.

The teachers came.
You must open your books.
But the kid just cried.

The elders came.
You must meet your friends.
But he stayed in bed.

When his friends came to visit,
he could not play.

Word spread.
Doctors came from everywhere.
They gave herbs
and made tinctures
but there was nothing they could do.

On the third moon,
the parents buried their child.

Many people met at the grave
to grieve with them.
They had much to say,
but not a word was uttered.

Mother went into the water.
Father drowned himself
in wine and wandered.
Never returned.

The Ropes

Tue, 24 Mar 2026 16:16:41 +0000

A young man fell dead from his horse, and nobody knew why.

The villagers watched for other bad omens.
Many birds were born too weak, and the weather was too cold. The moon hid behind shadows for nine days.

At a council, they wondered about its meaning.
"When the crops don't grow fast, we must starve. It must be punishment," said a farmer.
Some reached for their loved ones' hands, fearing the hunger.
Soon, their whispers turned to noise.

Ministry of Speech

Tue, 10 Mar 2026 20:11:23 +0000

That day, I arrived at the Ministry of Free Speech.

People had begun to disappear without warning.

So I came to obtain a speaking license.

After all the rain, my clothes were soaked and cold. I froze as I stepped into the dark and endless aisles that led from one room to another. Countless people sat before closed doors, and nobody talked. They stared at the floor, as if trying to remember happier days.

Ravens Mouth, Crying Chains

Tue, 03 Feb 2026 14:49:22 +0000

They say when the ravens leave the courtyard, the kingdom will fall.
I watch one now, eye to eye. His feathers look black at first, but in the sun they seem different, a shimmer of blue perhaps, as if he hides the truth before the gods. How can he stare at me for hours, while my eyes are forced open until tears flow down my cheeks and wet my clothes.
Black in black, dressed for mourning, here, now, tomorrow, and for all times. He attends an endless funeral, with no reason yet to leave the banquet.
I cannot leave him or his kin, as they don’t leave the courtyard. Bound to their magic spell, a poisonous blend of beauty and graveyard dust, their eyes forever judging my deeds and thoughts.
My eyes can now see what the ravens see; the truth made them wise and blind at the same time, and in their agony, they decided that they no longer believe in the mercy of colors and turn black.
When the kingdom falls, it will fall not quietly, but with the devastating heartbeat of a dying moon. Fish may travel the sky, and gray snow will cover birds' corpses.
I don’t care if the ravens leave or not.
Black sees black, one is mute, the other has a voice.
A monstrous beauty with a mouth that forever screams:

Coda

Thu, 29 Jan 2026 14:00:40 +0000

A new god
stood on heaven's edge.
They called him Naj.
He slew the Gods.
He buried the Witch.
Aeons died.
Aeons born.

Behind him
burned the ruins of Skreiburg.
He stared
at what he had done.

Steps approached Naj.
Needlebones arrived.
A thousand cogs—
ancient clockworks,
all alive—
came to rest beside the God.
He waited, again.

Tick. Tock.

A child was born.
A second.

The mothers brought their children.

Son of a rebel.
Daughter of a rebel.
You have slain their father.
You have slain our husband.

Who was their father?

Dog-beast stared back from the children.

The stars mirrored themselves in the daughter's tears.

I return this child to her father.

The daughter understood and fled.
She took her rightful place:
next to the stars.
Her strength broke the endless night.

The son envied her and cried.

Naj drew Mutemaker.
He cut the night in two,
kissed the blade goodbye,
and threw it into the Gap.

I cannot kill one while the other lives.
The son understood and followed the exile.
His kingdom was far from hers.
Burning anger
flashed in mortal eyes.

Sun ruled the day.
Moon lit the night.

The children's rage
formed a battlefield
between summer and winter.
Many shadows woke
beneath melting ice
and burning sand.
Naj saw their cause.
He dropped to his knees.

I feel the weight of the throne I tried to burn.
Advise me.

Needlebones,
older than the gods,
grabbed the God
and threw him into the Gap.

With an aching sound,
rusty claws
built a gate of metal
from dead soldiers' armor
and sealed the Gap.

He broke a piece of his spine,
locked the gate,
and forced it back into his body.

It is shut.
I will not break my bones again.

Mortals feared.

Needlebone went far away,
seen by many,
survived by few,
but sensed by every mortal.

Nothing can be so Okkult.

That's how

Mon, 26 Jan 2026 14:20:15 +0000

The master knew:
What is empty must be filled.

He soldered an iron heart
and planted the seedling.
It grew from drips of ivy juice
and feasts on human souls.

Eyes pierced by coins.
Ears rotten by words.
No light nor music
can touch them.

A scent like molten metal,
rust
and blood
is everywhere.

Tyrants

Wed, 21 Jan 2026 15:00:05 +0000

Sometimes, late at night, I hear the whisper of a demon or bird from outside the house. Its voice, sweet like dates ripening in the Mediterranean sun, but also salty like its ocean, tells me things that I don’t want to hear; I cannot excuse myself from the tyranny of my ear which laughs at the limitations of my cold and detached eyes, a constant drumbeat in my head, echoed by the many thoughts and fears the sound brings up:

No More Gods

Tue, 13 Jan 2026 15:00:02 +0000

Godslayer entered.
Seven grey gods expected him,
breathing fog.
At the window, Vindman watched.

Moments or aeons might have passed.
No stone moved.
Trees stopped growing.

Imirdostan broke the silence:

What will be–
When there is more than grey?
When humans are born, not given?
Revenge is what must pay debt.
We killed time.
It cannot turn shards into glass.

Godslayer saw only the burning stakes.
Smoke. The smell of burning flesh.

The second, Anagostan:

No good can come
when everything is different.
War pretends to rest.
Peace is not king.
Smell or taste, even color
are metal for the forge.

Equaristhadan, the third:

The Grey remember what was.
Agur built the world.
Egir drowned it in fear.
Igar carved will to bone.
We crucified the mother of decisions.

Burning feet, dancing quietly.
All the pain, swallowed, mute.

The fourth, Norzostan:

Fire burst from titan bones.
All directions burned at once.
Chaos.
We, the Grey alone,
keep mortals safe
from joy and color.

The fifth of them, Mauauristan:

Madness.
As if we all deserve the same.
As if we were all the same.
You are a thief
who steals a slave's chance
to grow and prosper.
Tyrant dressed as a rebel.

The child is dying with its mother.
No sound.
There was never a chance.

The sixth, Xytholostan, spoke:

Slay us. Make room for the next.
What was, will be.
Life does not live in chaos.
The wise teach with pain.
Gods must be paid.
Destroy the Grey.
The next asks the same price.

A bird on earth dared to whisper.
It fell dead from the tree,
Vindman would not give it air.
Silence must be complete.

The newborn stars watched from above.
Godslayer had no tongue to answer.
He had no eyes to see a god.
All words were wasted upon him.

Imirdostan stepped forward.

Listen!

Godslayer grabbed the God by his neck,
tore off his head with a pull,
followed by a snakelike spine.
Convulsing. Blood spread far.

Down to earth, like rain,
a color returned,
touched the grass and gardens
painted flowers into life.
Roses, spined.

The first of the seven gods had died.
Silence died with him:
Bells sounded down on earth.
The end of an era had begun.
Blood drew roses on Godslayer's bones.
Burning spines.

The seventh God, Barabuktustan:

We are purity and order.
We prevent degeneration.
Women lie with women.
Men lie with men.
Different tribes mix their blood.
We alone know what—

Mutemaker fell.
Barabuktustan's head split in two.
His eyes stared east and west.
Vindman understood.
Down on earth, a storm came up,
carrying no water—
a whirlwind of chaos.
Godslayer's right eye turned blind.
He did not stop.

Xytholostan reached for his sword.
Godslayer pierced him with all his strength.
Mutemaker tore through the body,
broke through clouds and winds,
and killed a valley far.
Earth trembled in pain, moved.
It never forgot.
All memories came to Godslayer;
he remembered every word
and every scream.

Anagostan shot a burning arrow.
Godslayer pulled it from his body.
With swift steps, he lifted the God
and rammed the arrow in her left eye.
Her voice turned into a Stitcher's blade:
Mountains lost their heads.
They spilled the burning bowels of Earth.
The heat burned the lungs of Godslayer
until he didn't need them anymore.

Stench of blood.
Mutemakers wailed in joy
while cutting Equaristhadan's limbs.
They broke through the walls,
fell into the ocean.
Waves built up as high as trees
and drowned many mortals.
Godslayer heard the screams of thousands.
He could not close his ears.

Norzostan attacked with claws,
like a bear, he grew beyond himself.
Godslayer got hold of his hands,
cut them off,
and slipped into them like gloves.
Then he opened the God's breast.
There was no heart—
but millions of locusts
fled to feed on earth.
Never felt Godslayer such hunger.

Mauauristan trembled.
Her time had come.
She knew.
Her mind grew dark.
Her body grew old.
And before Godslayer could strike,
she turned to wax
and died of fear.
And so did many of her heirs,
now and in future.
Godslayer coughed.
Blood stained his hand.

All bodies dropped.
Where the grey once stood,
balls of light grew.

Earth rumbled.
Ancestors had withdrawn their heritage.
The Gap widened, but there was no one left to eat.

Chaos turned to Kaoz.
Nothing kept its shape.
Fog turned to a dream.

Godslayer swallowed a seventh of each light.
He sent a seventh to the stars and made them eternal.
He sent a seventh down to earth and broke red into three.
He sent a seventh to the trees, and their roots grew deep.
He sent a seventh to the woman, and breath returned to them.
He sent a seventh to the world, but it was not enough to heal.

The rest he cursed and sent to earth.
To dwell in cats forever,
and grieve their sins
and seduce the weak.
Their era was forgotten.
They live as echoes of a dark age.

The seventh of the seven lights.
A light shone down on Godslayer.
He was no longer mortal, no judge.
No more gods.
Godslayer was dead.

He who gave birth to himself,
who ate seven shards of God,
became God.

Sleepneedle

Mon, 22 Dec 2025 16:42:21 +0000

A long, familiar needle tore into his eyes again.

Max called it the sleepneedle. He knew what brought it back, but he couldn’t get rid of it.

4 a.m., again.

He could hardly move. Melissa grunted on the other side of the bed and turned away.

Snowflake

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 14:30:36 +0000

The sun didn't wake up this day, and it was cold, but the man left for the town anyway.
Snow had fallen for days, and the roads were difficult to travel on.
A white blanket muffled the noise of the world, and the moon shone through the clouds.
At the bridge, he stopped.
The moon lightened the play of the snowflakes.
It was here that he asked his wife to marry him.
He remembered her, as if he had seen the moon.
The world was not fair.
Last year, she got weak in the summer, and with the first snow, she died.
"Are you waiting for someone?" said an old voice.
The man turned. At the end of the bridge stood a stranger, leaning heavily on a walking stick.
"May I enter this bridge?"
The man nodded, and the stranger came closer.
He smelled of cinder and sage. His clothes were made of fur, and he had all sorts of bags knotted on him.
The two started talking while the snow continued to fall.
The man spoke about his wife, and said things he couldn't even share with his friends.
"What do you ask for, truly?" asked the stranger.
"A child," said the man, "a daughter, so I see my wife in her."
"There was one waiting for you. Give me your life, and I'll lend her mine."
The man hesitated, watching the snow. The stranger waited for minutes, without saying anything.
The man could no longer go to the pub this evening. His cold home would wait, but he'd be alone.
"Yes"
The stranger spoke, but no longer to the man. The smell of ash and coal overwhelmed him, and the man's vision blurred for a while.
And up there, far away, there was a special snowflake, meant only for the man.
It grew as it slowly fell, its color more blue than the others. Strong. Gentle in its movement.
"This is your daughter," said the stranger.
The man could not see, but felt. Laughter, when it should be silent.
"Yes, this is my daughter. I can see her now."
She came so close the man could almost touch her, and he reached out for her.
But the stranger blew her away.
Before the man could do anything, the snowflake fell into the river and vanished.
"Snowflake to a drop, drop to river, and the river to ocean. The bargain is fulfilled."
Two men left the bridge.
The woods devoured them, like a snowflake on the water.

Godslayer

Sat, 29 Nov 2025 14:59:21 +0000

The ceiling of the Hall of the Horned
is my only home,
where they made me
crown
and slave

I serve my sentence
in a time without time
chained by duty
forever.

The Stitchers broke my legs,
bound them into circles—
beautiful.
I cannot move.
I hang here,
a chandelier of human bones.

They gave me arms
to hold their candles.
No longer can I lift a sword,
no uprising can I lead.
What remains of me
is doomed to light
the darkened days.

In the center of all bones
sits my skull,
forced to stare down
at those,
who broke my spine.

I must watch the hall
and cannot die,
cannot cry.
Ears forced open
to their laughter—
their songs
of rape
...and death.

Sometimes my jaws break,
the crown howls
like a dog in pain.
Their crossbows spit arrows,
splitting bones,
twisting hope.
Reminding me
what I am
and where I belong.

Could I only cry
tears would flood the fog
drown this castle
a vast ocean
devours all earth.

No mercy.
Stitchers have no mercy.
I am not entirely dead,
and nothing in me is alive.
I became a thing
that traps my soul
in bone.
I am an outsider
even to the one
who gave me birth.
A flaw to her,
and wrong,
in the eyes of the gods.
Prayers are useless
in Skreiburg, the house of gods.

So I stare,
and stare,
and stare.
No tears.

·†·

First, the sound of battle:
trumpets, drums.
Stone walls rumbled.
Skreiburg ached.

Horned warriors
stood side by side
black armour, heavy shields—
born to die this day,
shivering
behind the gates.

Heralds:
Dog-Beast has fallen
The Gap has opened
The gates will open to the slayer

Westskrei opened—
rumbling, slow, groaning.
Centuries asleep
broken for this day.
Dust fell.
Ancient timber gave way.
The smell of rot
forbade the future.

Only one man enters—
the one who slew the beast.
Mortal father once,
judge and executioner today.

He has no tongue.
He cannot forgive.
He has no eyes.
He is blind to suffering.
He has no ears.
He is deaf to their calls.

No battlecries in the hall.
Vindman’s boneflutes lament outside.
Thunder crawls across the crowd.
Mutemaker draws itself.

One scream:
The Judge descends.

Arrows fly and bite him.
A hundred times,
a hundred stings.
Every time
he sees the quiet Witch
and her burning child.
They called:
Circle of the thousand blades
whirled by the breath of many
cutting deep.
But the Judge cannot die.

One by one is offered
on the altar of Mutemaker.
No wound can end the Judge.
Limbs and heads—freed from life.
Deaf.
Blind.
Mute.
He welcomed them
into his world.

When it was done
the walls were red
and the air hung stale.
The Stitchers
would have loved
to return
and craft
in such a place.
The Judge fell on his knees.
Renewed his oath.

All gods I slay.

Godslayer.

·†·

Skreiburg is no longer forever.
No longer am I.
The Judge came, as once foretold.
Perhaps I am not forgotten.

A wounded man moves in shadow,
dagger in his hand—
to end the rebellion,
to kill the newborn Godslayer,
to chain me for aeons.
All repeats
when steel finds its heart.

Once I was the Judge.
With what remains,
I break my own bones.
My arm, free at last,
I tear the candle
from my wax-flesh
It burns
Hot blood runs over bone.
I return to battle.

I throw the candle.
My final strike
hits the assassin’s eye.
He screams once
before my weapon
pierces his skull
and he is gone.

Now all are dead.
If they had not cut my lips,
I would smile.

The Godslayer turns to me,
and I cannot hide from him.

He sees me.
He knows me.

Now he draws Mutemaker
and cuts the rope that holds me up.
The merciless grants mercy.

I fall.
I howl.
I scream.

Oh, bless you, brother.

·†·

The chandelier hits the floor.
Bones break like glass,
rising through windows, walls, and stone.
They whirl into the air,
like ash,
ein Funkenflug,
reaching for the sky.
A thousand little lights
mark the end of an aeon.
From now on,
the day is cut in two.

Chandelier of the sky.
I call you stars.
You died with purpose.
I hope I die the same.

Sakrikruzifikation

Tue, 18 Nov 2025 10:19:04 +0000

I. Genesis

Vomit of the earth
Altar slaughter
I became an algebraic rule
that must not exist.
I speak to you;
You don’t need to listen.

II. Star

The first few screamed for my blood
All listened. No answer.
Voices sharpened into needles
I sought the stars
While unshaken hands stitched
them through my breast.

III. Dehumanize

They have turned me into a rat.
Made me fiction, made me sick.
They inked their truth.
Humanity stared
when I unearthed my heart
and found it black.

IV. Reality

Automated hate
Industry of killing
Every shadow births a shadow
Every cut leads to cuts
In your life—in your death:
Only you

V. Declaration

Blood on my altar.
Minds on the pyre.
To crucify all words.
To sacrifice fear.

This is
Sakrikruzifiktion
This is
Kruzisakrifize.

VI. Sakrikruzifiktion

Crucify the spectacle.
Cut down hollow discourse.
Noise devours itself.
I become the hammer.

Sacrifice doubt.
Bury your tears.
Burn hateful words.
I follow the ancient law alone.

VII. Finale

You are the temple.
You are the altar.

Choose.
Or let them choose.

The Last Fräulein

Sat, 08 Nov 2025 22:07:01 +0000

Trigger warning: Contains references to historical violence, racism, and gun violence.

Note: This story uses historical language and figures to confront inherited ideology; the position is critical and condemnatory.

You think it’s fake news?

Mathilda chewed her nails.

Sure it is. All AI, Mat. Deep fake.

Submit to Apocalyptic News

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 20:13:48 +0000

After decades buried in the catacombs, I returned to the world of mortals. I turned on the machine of moving images and learned a single truth:

The news does not end.
Even when the world does.

If mortals invent their news, why shouldn’t we invent ours?

Basement Phonecall

Fri, 31 Oct 2025 17:00:17 +0000

Some echoes are better left unheard. Listen with caution.

Audio File / Audio Transcript
Case File: Hallowtide #G004
Date: 10/31/2025
Submitted: Anonymous
Status: Under Review

Transcript

Hello?
How does this work?
Can you hear me?

Fuck.. ok, I think it’s recording.
Listen, if you hear this.
I am in the basement.
I can’t talk for long.

It’s up there.
It’s in the second.

I didn’t let it in, OK?
The power went out, and the window was open.
It’s not my fault.
Fuck, it moves!
It slips!
It doesn’t walk!
It slips!

You need to come and get me.
But not after dark.
Never come after dark.
Never!

Fuck man, please.
Get me out.
I can’t move.
It’s all around me.

I saw its fingers.
They are like snakes.
And they stink.
They smell, I can’t say what it is
old beet roots?

I tried to look at it
it had no eyes.
No eyes!
No eyes!
It had no eyes
But a tongue, fucking tongue

Shit... sh sh sh... quiet.
It’s above me.
Kitchen creaks

I am sending now
Please hurry.
I am serious

If you can’t find me—
tell Sarah I love her.
Tell Edda I am sorry.

...wait.
Can it open locks?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Where’s the send...

Skreiburg

Sat, 18 Oct 2025 14:36:11 +0000

Stormghosts call a name
Vindman, Wanderer
Wake, time unfolds
Unburied bones
turn to flutes
A melody born
twisting minds
Calling the world
Axetime

Hailstorms
tore through fog and breath
With a KLANG
a furious blacksmith
hammered ice to flame
With a KLANG

No orchestra of ancient pain
could mute eight hooves
Hide, Silence, flee.
Bloodwing
Lightning ignites his path
Thunder—
when he touched the ground

At the Gates of Skreiburg
Festung stark
Built of thorns and wounds
Skulls and bones
And steel and fright
Glued by pain

Vindman—louder! Blow your bonepipes!
The once-mortal came—
blinded.
Deaf.
Yielding battlecries
He cannot hear
Mutemaker on his side
craving souls
Your end—or mine.

Skreiburg!
No longer stronghold
Mausoleum, Tombstone, Deathbed

Old stones moved in ache
The heart of the sky
forgot its beat
But time moved
So did Skreiburg

Armored men gathered on the walls
Spears, arrows, swords, stones
No-one dared to attack
the blinding fire
anathema
and ire
staring from the two holes
in the eternal judge’s skull

Igarth! Igarth!
Prevent the bloodshed!
The ever-flying snake
crawled behind the moon
They knew the signs

Mjöln! Come to aid!
Carrier of disease
Body-Dweller
Buried deeper into caves
They knew the signs

Unheard calls
warriors’ fear of death
One step of Bloodwing
made the bells shiver in terror
their unholy sound
called one long forgotten
one who once broke the fog
dwelled in the chambers—
too long, without a name.

Gates of Skreiburg—
opened wide
Warriors greet your brother—
fellow hunter—
with whom you reigned—
with whom you asked for worship—
as he hailed you
with a grim look
And a soul long withered

Dog-Beast!
Once a rebel
A Stray
Hero of this world
You cut the fog
Became the first father
of this blasphemy
we call home
Walk away
Be free
You deserve
our bows
not my sword.

The beast roared
voice formed by pain
muted by his own blood
Teeth ground
Tired
Weary
Already gone
The Vindman blew
his funeral tune
on bird bones

Too long have I been gone
Nothing good dwells in me
I forgot the new world
But with the old, I must leave
A needle necklace
cuts me every day
Pay your debt:
remove it from my dead body
Or I’ll rip out your heart
Chew it
Spill it
Swallow it whole
and return to my warm cell
to drown again
in the spring of blood
the slave necklace opened.

Dog-Beast howled;
an army of a thousand voices
Earth shattered
His wives on earth
Felt their husband—
for the first time in endless eons

Warriors on the wall
Joined his battle cry

Trembled down the heavenly path—
Kill. Or die.
Massive body, grown through centuries
Flower of regret
Odem of pest
Smell of molding flesh,
dead bodies, cold blood.

The judge drew Mutemaker—
breath of doubt
Hands shook
After all these sacrifices
Fatekeeper! Hast thou forsaken me?
No man could stand against this beast
Prepare to die
Void awaits
All is lost

Thunder rolled over heaven
but the clouds didn’t dare
to make a sound
Hammer-hooves struck the beast
Yellow teeth buried deep
in horse flesh torn
Neighs in pain
Clouds turn red
Raining blood—
Spoke to mortals, down on earth:
Time has come.
Screams of the beast
echoed the halls of Skreiburg
As its skull broke
And its eyes oozed out

The senseless judge
was deaf to pain
blind to pain
He watched over
Bloodwing’s sacrifice
Mutemaker growled in hunger
Not yet
Not yet
Your turn will come
to feast on warriors
and Gods.

The forgotten beast
and the newborn hero
Remnants of the old
cracked in heaven’s dome
broke up its cloudy skin
Holes formed everywhere
The judge saw the earth
and mankind stared at him
Some openings
lead elsewhere
into the pitch black:
The Gap.
Even he shivered
when he saw the beginning
of the ancient
and its end

Gods, beasts, mortals

feared.
Fear.

Fear the Gap.

A final howl of pain
and hunger
Dog-beast cut a throat
Eight hooves knew they’d die
But not alone
Strong Bloodwing
spread his blood-soaked wings
noble, pushing one more time
Both beasts lost their hold
entangled they fell
Warriors lacked sight
through the fog of blood
No one ever knew
which hole they have chosen
But their screams
turned to laughter
and echoed on for years

Skreiburg.
Your gate opened for me.
Now you are mine.
Warriors on the walls:
Let me pass
Or give Mutemaker
what it demands.
You, in whole.

A shadow moved across the battlefield.
Passed holes, passed blood
Mankind hailed
The walls remained in silence

Fatekeepers, you kept your promise.
Now it is time to keep mine.

Skreiburg.
Heart in the cloud.
Now you beat for me.

The once-mortal man entered.

You'll go, then I'll go

Wed, 08 Oct 2025 20:47:58 +0000

Two soldiers stood before the black hole in the heart of the city. Rubble everywhere. The heat and smell of molten iron crept into their nostrils, ripping out the moisture with tiny needles. Dust turned their tongues into leathery snakes. Glasses shielded their eyes from the fallout. They saw the darkness, the wound where they once dwelled. Thousands died when it came down. Hundreds burned like torches. Their charred flesh made it hard to breathe. Others were buried under the bones of a once pulsating city. Many were just dragged down with it. They alone knew what was inside the hole.

The Demon Talks

Thu, 02 Oct 2025 17:00:41 +0000

On May 11th, 2025, I called the voices of Substack to sacrifice their demons to the altar.

Seven truths, seven writers, but one voice.
The demons were chosen one by one. And so they were recorded.

It cost me more than I thought. Reading all the words, again and again, I saw the pain and experience carved into them. Finding the right voice and sound for what was given took many nights. But the strength of the demons made me strong, and so I could complete the ritual.

Bloodwing

Fri, 12 Sep 2025 20:13:00 +0000

Vomit of the earth
Abandoned by Death, by Worm
His burning heart stares upwards–
The dome of the gods, too far.

Animals died from his touch.
He built stairs made of corpses.
Stitched goose wings on his back—
Yet none could lift him close.

In his despair, an Ashflower grew.
Its grey surface—
the memory of a girl,
veiled in a ghostly shimmer.

Do you dream of me?

He plucked her.
Killed her.
breathed—
upon the ash-corpse bloom.

Return.

From root grew a green-eyed cat.
He fed her goose bones—
breathed again—
upon life's false face.

Become.

Flame beast dance for me.
My moth and bride
I am the candle—
yet you turn away.

Be gone.

The stitchers made it once—
stitched the gray gods,
stitched the world.
Now he must stitch his own.

He slew his older self.
Took grim old bones,
stitched rotting flesh to bone,
poured his blood to its veins.
Conquered the realm of roots,
flooded his dry body—
taken from Earth's ancient wound.

Black fluid pumps his
slow,
beating,
heart.

Be one.

A gentle breath.
Ashes burn again.
Kiss of the dead.
Birth where none should be.

It grew into a horse.

Blood-red magic,
stolen from the sun
Eyes—empty depth,
sealing the wells of earth.

One wing of a swan,
one wing of a goose.
Eight feet—three ears.
Fur of a cat,
eyes of a woman.
One head.

Where hooves hit the ground,
Ashflowers rise again.
Not now—
not yet—
then.
Somewhen.

Be mine.

Flesh-eater horse,
tore the dead bird's wings.

No.

No friend—only a carrier.
Debt of birth, I pay in full.
Nothing more.

I pay the price
for an unasked birth.
You pay the price
for an unwanted revenge.

I serve you only once.

Bloodwing born.

About

Mon, 08 Sep 2025 23:20:58 +0000

Cicada Cult is not a newsletter. It is a transmission.
Aurelian Ashmore is its voice.

Successful–but disappointed–from another life, he vanished into caves.
For years, silence.

Then, the death scream of a cicada woke him.
Called him to return to the world of mortals.

Kingdom

Fri, 29 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A man drifts in the sea
far from any home
his cold blue hands
clutch the remains of his ship.

Parching in the kingdom of water,
encrusted eyes closing with salt.
His head burning in the far sun,
His feet freezing in the dark waves.

Heavens turn, clouds hide the sky.
Endless mirror, grudging kingdom.
The far is near.
Betrayed of all hope.

Forgive.
Help.
Lie.
Just save me.

Alone, all cries wasted.
Greedy sea, friend turned bile.

Lungs know what they soon breathe.

The stars climb, the sun is bored.
They pierce the sky one more time.
Not for him, but for lovers far.
Moon stares empty from his throne.
Nothing sees him drifting.

The fish circle him.
Bite him gently, taste his skin.
One beast from the depths
makes itself known,
fins cleaving the waves.
Strong, where he is weak.
It returns, ready to feast.
Water roars its secret name.

The moon reflects in the sea.
Golden and wide, veils all terror.
Reflection breaks truth—
but the shards are wise.

The piece of wood,
the last thing he never owned:
his fingers let it go—
and he vanishes—
into the kingdom of fish—
without a trace.

Human once, memory then.
No one cares.

Unbirth

Wed, 20 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A dog sat chained in the garden.

His owner was a noble warrior. Guests came for tales of giants slain and to see the heavy armor. When they left, the warrior turned into the beast he claimed to fight.

He threw rocks, dragged the dog by its legs over stones. Sometimes, a whimper. More often, only his yells and the wind in the woods.

Needlebones

Sun, 17 Aug 2025 20:10:00 +0000

Every inch of him—
To stitchers, worth a needle.
Stitched his rotting flesh.
Pierced his mind.
Forged a patchwork
of their fouling dreams.

His new house of burning pain
kept him warm—and alone.
But not alive.
Centuries passed
until the sun forgot to rise.
He shed his last tears.
Needles grew their rust.

When the stitchers
vanished into leather,
their broken faces
ruled his dreams.

He turned to mortals:
God of desert winds.
Made by nameless makers.
Forged from remains and rust.
Carved into curse.

A forgotten relic now.
Unburied ruler.
Not a king—
A nest of metal and bone.

Echoes haunt the woods.
Who screams his name,
so the world won't forget?

In the stitcher's ruins
He sits on a ruined throne.
Rats stare at what won't die.
He glares back—
and feeds on a screaming spider.
His metal mouth grants no mercy.
The candles blow themselves out.
Even rot recoils
from old Needlebones.

When he comes:
Ravens lose their voice.
Frogs’ throats seal.
Birds unlearned his name
aeons ago.

When the Earth falls mute,
rivers poison,
even stones turn to sand.

Listen—
—
—

The thunder is the bell
and the lights cut the sky.
He aches,
rising from his crumbling throne.

A spine of rusty clockworks
clatters.
Eyes—endless holes. Unblinking.
They see too far.
They stare up high.

The stars flee in terror.
Night breaks—
bleeding dark,
burning bright.

He takes the
human skin
that serves as coat
and kneels
on thorny plates of steel.

He is only one—

Every needle a soul.
Every bone a life—
that should have lived.

—He is many.

Wake, you clockworks:
Wake and grind!
TICK—TOCK—TICK—TOCK—
Scream, Iron!
Clang.
Rust slain to dust.
A choir of pain,
with every turn.
Time must face him now.
When the hour comes.

My wait was eternal
But their death is forever
Unbirth the fog.
No ash. Tyrants! Fall!
Bloodsoaked earth—
womb of the unborn.

Laughter grows in bellow-lungs,
leather-forged,
stitched in pain.
No voice of men.

Cats go blind, singing terror.
Horses fall, their hooves bleeding.
The sign has come.

Star blood is black.
Life vomited him.
None will remain
but dirt.

Nailday

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

When you arrived, again, I knew you'd serve me your foul words. Drop them like acid rain, shoot them from your fleshy lips.

Again, you reminded me how smart you were, and that I was not. You shaped me with a cutting tongue and a thousand little cuts.

Unholy Duality

Tue, 22 Jul 2025 20:07:00 +0000

Down here in the dark
alone—with you.
Some call it grave,
I call it womb.

I can't breathe anymore.
But your heart is pounding—
glowing in the dark;
my tired eyes,
open wide.

Did I bring you?
Or did you lead me?

My sacred mind, yours to dwell.
Let me be your skin—
a slave to shield the gaze,
armour made of flesh and bone.

Whispers from a tongue—
so long to touch the Earth and Sun.
You speak no right, no wrong.
So do I. So do I.

Mouth—a hole so dark and deep,
full of snakes and empty words.
You say nothing that is warm;
my mouth turns as cold as yours.

Your eyes reflect cold and gray.
A pit of dogs, a grave of kids.
Your backbone is made of folded steel.
Stop. Now you look me in my eyes.

I sacrifice my wasted body,
carve out my soul,
fill it with fog
so they can't see.

I cut myself:

Ears—I cut them off.
No need to hear the screams.

Eyes—shut by piercing.
Nose—gone are the flowers.
Lips—stitched.
Tongue—ripped.
No more curse to say.
Ribs—broken, a dug-out grave.
Wrists—emptied river of blood.
Again, the lips.
I cut. And stitch.
It never ends.

And then I take what makes me man
and what makes me human
what makes me sane
and finally alive.

Whirlwind of your blade:
I, the father,
offer you what is left of the mother's milk—
blood.
grow, feed on me.
Your cold arms—
shelter me with steel.

My name is yours—
and yours is mine.
Melting stars—
nameless light.

You grow on me, I grow into you.
I planted my pain.
Sickle: cut what's yours.
And time—
Are you time?
Or fog?

While the worms claim my flesh.
I see the temple at last—
not buried in the mud
but built in your rotting womb,
the host of souls.

A Temple.
Of no gods.
No light.
Nothing may remain.

I am you.
And you are me.
No longer human.
No longer sword.
Did you drink my soul?
Or did I drink yours?

When you die.
I die.
When you live.
I can't.

All that lives—eat my flesh.
I no longer need this husk.
Useless—
blind, I finally see.

Then the stars again.
No more mud.
I no longer breathe earth—
farewell, kingdom of dirt.
You led?
I led?
Who thinks about this?

Ah—
I breathe.
Night air.
Owls.
Let me fly with you.

I return.
Reborn as sword,
not man
nor woman—
something in between.
Made of human meat—
or what is left.

You? Me? Us.
Hunt is on.
I come for you.

Desert Wind

Sun, 06 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Eat your heart.

Her voice was a whisper. Yet I heard every word in my bones. The desert winds were cold, but my skin longed for cool. The sun punished me for being in this place that was not mine. The sand, though, didn't change.

Mutemaker

Mon, 23 Jun 2025 20:05:00 +0000

No woman bore me.
Woven was I,
from fog and breath–
an ash-child.
Her lullabies–
echoes from kin long dead.
A lie named dreams.

In this world of pain and ash,
I found a flower.
Like me: made of mold,
burning like the fabled sun.

Loved her. Kissed her.
Called her name.
The Gods exhaled–
and wove us a child
that binds us both,
and forever
makes us worship
those who breathe the fog.

With her,
and my child,
I forgot
to dream.

Horned riders–
executioners of my hopes–
sitting high
on their pale horses.
They show their teeth;
their grin:
dead wolves.

They do not ask–
they do not search–
they just take her–
and the unborn child.
Toothless mouths howl in joy
as they watch them burn to ash.

She did not dance–
but her ash sealed my lids.
She did not scream–
but the noise made me deaf.

While she smiled, burning:
the charred child was
reborn inside my breast.
Whispers lullabies,
soaked in blood.
While I should be the one
to speak of fairies.

Her eyes are strong,
but I want to die.
I am nothing without you.
Helpless fool.

May I carve out the pain,
open the wound,
release the pus–
with steel:
Mutemaker.

Blade of steel, black as wind,
your edge cuts fog itself.
Pommel heavy, shaped for skulls,
yet your weight—a sparrow’s breath.

It tears tongues;
unburies lies;
blinds eyes;
deafens ears.

Mute my enemies.

The smell of iron
drowns men in fear.
And calls the grief
once drowned in silence.

Made by the man of stitches:
brother of Needlebones–
abandoned long ago.

Man and Woman
stitched as one.
Muscles and womb,
formed as one.
Son and daughter
of the Stitchers.

A letter from the son of trees

Sun, 15 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Dearest Friend,

I asked for your help like a child seeks a father–
yet I never told you how deeply I love you.

Today, once again, I saw the omens of your death.

Your breath:
so weak it could not move a leaf.

Witchdance

Thu, 12 Jun 2025 19:53:00 +0000

Fog and pain make omens travel fast–
When the old seeress entered–
the rift of Alfir–
united with the slain giant–
returned bearing sight–
and opened her eyes–
as her servants dug her grave.

She saw:

the stray
unleashed
howling in the pitch-black darkness

hunting
feasting

Hunger
Lust.

She carved the prophecy
in the undying willow.
The ink, her blood.
Her nails, the quill.

Children will be born–
To end what never ends–
To bear oblivion–

Fog crawls back to soil.

The Grey sent the stray
to the hall of broken limbs.
Their horned soldiers search
women who broke the only law:
no love–but only fog–
shall birth what serves the Gods.

Swords sharp, made by cutting tongues
in the pit of the firesnakes.
Armor made of hardened bones,
from distant Skullhunters.
Their horses pale and gray as ash–
like remains,
from witches burned.

Then they found one.
And she knew.
The mountains
did not echo her voice.
Her shadow
had already left the mirror.
The memories of the dead
rose strong and heavy.
She neared the bonefields,
and those who once were–
remembered her.

A wood-made woman,
crafted from wild oak,
without a womb,
spit her poison:

Uncut, uncut!
You were grown!
What is made of lust
wears an unblessed womb!

Venom in her eyes,
needles in her heart.
The old envy the young–
none shall have
what she cannot.

Deathspells from a Dead Womb

Thu, 05 Jun 2025 19:51:00 +0000

Nor night nor day was known to men.
All that lived was made, not born.
From animal dead they built my body.
And their foggy breath gave me life.

Not made a son–I am a walking corpse.
Their soldier. Warrior. A dog of war.
Who can love a beast of fog?
All shudder at my stench and form.

Brothers of fog and grey, gathered at one table—
feasting on mortals’ pain, between gamble and wine.
Fed me their bones, adorned me in steel–
Chain of needles forged from torment, a necklace of pain.

Drunk from wine, they dream of golden times
I took the keys from Needlebones' spine
The chains of a slave silently kiss the floor
I run free. My howl–an omen. The days will come.

The necklace burns deep.
Scars don't know time–
Like their brothers:
Stars, yet unborn.
No end to endless pain.

Yet freedom dies quickly.
They'll find me.
Return me.
Bind me.
Again.

May they sleep in dreamless nights,
wander through the woods
they have emptied of life,
and never return.
Haunt forever.
Ghosts.

The smell.
Blood on the wind.

I smell. I remember.
Forgotten is my ruin.

No swords split these veins.
Bloodshed! Women's spell–magic gift.
The only blood that brings life.

All thoughts burst like glass.
The beast is all I am.
No longer can I see.
My vision blurred.
My heart, a war drum.
I am possessed
by lust and agony.

Here I am, the stray,
lover to the grey gods' wives.
For decades, their slave;
When they sleep,
tonight, I rise as their god.

Manifesto of Kraft

Thu, 22 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Klarheit gave me eyes.

I saw:
Eyes torn open.
My mother sewed my mouth shut.
Still, I refused to love her.
Villagers threatened me with fire.
But I chose the witch's dance.
Because I see.
Because I remember.

Kraft gives me fists.

I will not kneel before a master.
I don't beg to feel whole again.
I will make myself one.
Become a pitch black forge.
Hammer pain into Kraft.

Submit your demon

Sun, 11 May 2025 22:13:00 +0000

The Demon talks in seven tongues

† Call for Voices: The Demon Talks Ritual
Ashmore opens the circle.

Seven mouths. Seven truths. Seven writers, carved in sound.
I invite all writers to submit a monologue in the voice of a demon.

Theme

Not necessarily evil or blasphemous.
But traumatized. Ancient. Exiled. Unseen.

Summoned by a dying world.
A personified pitch black.
The demon inside you.
The demon that hunted you.
The demon you became.

Yael lost her name

Wed, 07 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Yael sat before the window.

The storm outside turned to heavy rain. Heavy. Urgent. It hammered on the glass–zack, zack, zack–like a sewing machine. She looked for cracks. But the glass held better than her life.

Her room was cold.
She was alone.

The Light That Death Rides

Wed, 30 Apr 2025 21:58:00 +0000

Late evening light fell through the window once more.
It made the room look like an old photograph. It was like fluid that painted the walls.
A guest from the secret brother of the Sun.
On its back rides death. I saw it once in 1993, on a bus.
When you see a man die under it, it tells you its secret name.
And when it talks, you can smell its breath–and remember it forever.
But I hope it forgot me.

The Dying Man

Mon, 28 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Even the candles were too bright for what had to come.
When mortals count their breaths
There is only one riddle
Every man and woman
every breathing
earth-bound soul
needs to solve.

The dying should not see the way we do.
If they are blinded by what we feel
loss and promise,
they cannot go home.
And we cannot be left alone.

Winter comes

Tue, 22 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Winter comes earlier than I thought.
Trees still carry their leaves,
but I already smell the icy cold—
the breath of the mountains, far.
I freeze.

There is no time to make things right.
I feed on the agony of leaves alone,
and spring water—once so clear—
has lost its taste, turned bitter.
No hunger.

Tourists of the Wall

Sun, 13 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Death makes people uncomfortable. And the wooden wall smelled like dead oak.
The scent makes the air go stale in the lungs. People breathed but felt as if drowning in the river. The wall took all that meant life and fed it to the bugs, its residents.

About My Lies

Wed, 09 Apr 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I sit on a stone in the middle of the forest.
It's still warm, though the sun is long forgotten.
Moonlight makes it shine–like a bone.
I have become a guest of this tiny home.
A moment's breath–no more than a fly
in the endless life of this ancient witness.

The Manifesto of Klarheit

Sun, 30 Mar 2025 18:57:00 +0000

I know this road.
I know every stone, every tree, every shadow.
I know where it leads.
I know what it means.

I am not my family.
I am not my friends.
I am not driven by fate.
I am not a victim of life.

I can break the circle.
I don’t have to walk the same path until I die.
I don't have to repeat other stories.
I can write my own.

Little Light

Sun, 16 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

"Little light, little light, don't leave me."

Yasuko first saw it near her grandfather’s grave. A small blue flicker rose from the stone like a firefly. It floated in slow circles, harmless at first.

Then, it changed.

Up and down, up and down—too fast, too sudden. Not like an insect. Like something searching. Frantic. Desperate.

Necessities

Tue, 04 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The Cicadas shrieked like never before, carving into Wade's skull. Wade's lips were dry. His eyes bulged against their sockets. And his head felt ready to burst the next moment. The Cicadas were like tiny needles stabbing his ears. They were stuck there, and they made his ears ring.
The heat was different today, too; it didn't even burn only on his skin or nostrils. It burned down his thoughts to ashes. Made them fragile, useless, and absurd.
Where do Goats go to die? Do they welcome their death?
Every breath was painful; every thought was like a cut.
"Home. Tomorrow. Just this last one left." Wade grabbed his tools. His hands hurt from the work. "I need to..."

Whisky Demon

Wed, 19 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Frank lost everything to Whisky.

He hated his first drink as he hated his Mom. A friend handed him a small bottle of Bourbon and told him to take a sip. He put it to his lips and drank. And drank. Drank it almost up.
His friend's eyes went wide. He cursed. Then he lunged at him, trying to give Frank the beating of his life for drinking all his liquor. Somebody grabbed him, yanked him back.
Frank hated the drink. Disgusting. Sharp as fuel. Smokey as burnt wood.
Soon after, he went to the next store and bought a bottle.
When he grew older, he had bought many bottles. When he married, he bought some bottles to have fun. When his wife Mary would leave him, he bought even more.
After she ran from his misery, he lost his job as a teacher. The students didn't like a drunk math teacher. The parents hated him too.
Life threw rocks. Never missed.
He had only a few friends on this shit-hole planet, and they were called Jack or Jim, or whatever was cheap. They would cheer him up.
With every up, with every down, a new bottle would stack up in the corner, looking like a broken tombstone. Bottles boiled up everywhere in his room.
And then, he woke up in puke. Again. The smell was unbearable. His head hurt.
He couldn't get rid of his Mom until she died. He couldn't get rid of drinking until he died.
At that moment, he decided he would at least die trying.

Goats of Gaza

Thu, 06 Feb 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Gomez drove the truck on rocky paths through the plains. He didn't like driving so far outside civilization, but there was a job to do. Gomez was lucky Mike and Billy were with him. Mike was their commander, and his instincts and experience prevented terrible things. A guy you can rely on. A true friend. One who would go through machine gun fire to get you out of the hot zone. Billy, on the other hand, was just a kid. They called him back in the camp: Billy, the Kid. He was funny and friendly and didn't shoot as much as the original. Billy told Gomez he had signed up for the Army because he wanted to earn some good money to pay for his college at some point. Fool. Gomez was sure Billy would never make it to college. Army breaks you, somehow. It doesn't leave any intellectual bones in your brain. No matter what, Gomez was happy to have them as a team because Mike could get very serious, and Billy always had a joke in his pocket. Gomez was more of a doer, not a talker. So everybody had their place. It was a good team.

Push the button

Mon, 03 Feb 2025 18:37:00 +0000

Gerald was only seventeen years old. He shaved every morning accurately because his beard would not grow respectably. A beard would make him look more audacious, like some of his comrades. "It is what it is," he thought, like his father would say. One has to accept the facts. And the facts said, Gerald would look like a young man, a sensitive thinker who'd listen when you'd tell him something. A man not born to work on construction sites but one who would study philosophy and poetry. He was the dream of every young lady but the nightmare of every father who thinks a man should earn money with hard work.

The Devil's Sand

Tue, 28 Jan 2025 17:20:00 +0000

Whisky contains a secret ingredient that nobody knows about, but everyone feels. Like everyone, I have no idea what this thing is called or if it even has a name. Everything needs a name, so I called it "devil's sand." When you sip your Whisky at night, the alcohol carries the sand into your blood, and when it is in your blood, it also seeps into your brain. The brain fights back; God built it too, but as you grow and drink more Whisky in your life, the barricades of the brain weaken, and the Sin enters, drop by drop. As a young man, you can drink five glasses of Whisky and have only a little sand in your brain, but over time, you'll lose God's protection that gives all the young ones, and you are alone. One glass might be enough to get you a full dose.