“Ouija Board” Short Story by Bogdan Dragos

The Chamber Magazine

Well, when you’re desperate you’re…

“Me,” he said. He was alone in the room and lonely enough to have bought one of those Ouija boards from some old woman who called herself a medium. It was time to try it out.

All he hoped for was a sexy ghost that would haunt him, maybe hurt him a bit, he wouldn’t mind. Anything just to take away the soul-crushing loneliness. Anything!

He said the prayers exactly as the medium instructed and did the breathing exercises and was ready to use the board. He moved the piece to spell HELLO. Got no answer. Looked around the room. Nothing. Again, he spelled HELLO. IS ANYONE HERE? ANYONE AT ALL? ARE YOU FEMALE? Nothing. Nothing new at least. Only more loneliness and more frustration and deeper down the rabbit hole of misfits he slipped.

WELL FUCK YOU! he spelled, and jammed the pointy side…

View original post 150 more words

“Mother forbade feeding the poor thing” Short Story by Bogdan Dragos

The Chamber Magazine


There was a dog outside and it kept barking for some reason. Ah yes, it was chained and the chain was terribly short and the poor animal was hungry.

Mother wouldn’t bother feeding it. No, mother wanted it to die because it had been father’s dog, inherited along with the house after father died. Mother forbade feeding the poor thing.

Her child stood next to the window and listened to the poor thing barking outside. It was better than listening to mother drinking and talking ugly words with her boyfriends.

He opened the window and the dog saw him immediately and barked at him. He wanted to cry. Tried talking to the creature but it wouldn’t listen. It kept barking.

“Mother would cut my hand off if she caught me stealing food for you.”

But he was a smart kid. He leaned over the window and thrust two fingers down…

View original post 82 more words

vomiting snake by Bogdan Dragos

Gobblers / Masticadores

 in nights like this he would just drink in the dark and smoke and lie on his side and hallucinate about a snake vomiting vibrating colors on a white wall   Maybe the snake had eaten paint   But it was a small snake no bigger than a worm and the amount of dancing colors it vomited all over was astounding   Enough to paint the whole house   But the colors would never stay on the things they fell upon The colors would bounce around and dance and vibrate mingle with each other and part and mix again   and the small snake would vomit some more and it would make a sound like babies crying   All he wanted in times like these was to crawl over to the poor snake and comfort it in some way pat its head, place it in his armpit to get warm…

View original post 65 more words

“the veins” Short Story by Bogdan Dragos

The Chamber Magazine

Something wasn’t quite right in this small, barren room. The man sitting across the square table, dressed in a white coat, seemed a little to calm for someone in reaching distance.

‘I could just reach for that bald head and snap the neck real nice,’ he thought as he watched the man. ‘What does he want from me? More questions?’

It was indeed more questions.

“So,” said the man in the white coat, “if you are ready to speak, I am ready to listen. I am here for you.”

“How come you’re still alive?” he asked the man.

And the man answered, “What do you mean?”

“Are you one of the few who adapted?”

“Adapted? That’s interesting. Please, explain. What do you understand through this adaptation you speak of?”

He shrugged. “I just… thought I’m the only one who adapted. To the new life.”

“I see. And what about your…

View original post 375 more words

“A spider web full of butterflies. Shaking in the wind” Short Story by Bogdan Dragos

The Chamber Magazine

She stretched on the bed and reached with her long leg and placed her foot on his desk, before him, on the notebook he was writing in.

“Wow,” she said. “Your place is so small, like a box of matches. And so empty. So lonely. Why don’t you ever have anyone over? I never see or hear you talking to people. Why must you be like that?”

“I don’t like people,” he said.


“Don’t ask silly questions. For the same reason I don’t like hotdogs. I just don’t like them.”

“Do you like me?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know a lot of things, boy. I came to you because… I wanted to have a place from which I’d be missed if I left. I thought the heart of someone as lonely as you would be…

View original post 218 more words

Rocky Vs 2020

Gnome Appreciation Society

Aaaah! 2020 the year of dressing like a bank robber, the year where we all realised our political leaders were a bunch of muppets and we wished we could clone Jacinda Ardern and let her rule the world….it was also the year that Twitter moved into reality and everybody showed just what arseholes they could be. I am reviewing my year from my throne of toilet paper, who’d have guessed that when I grabbed 700 rolls back in March that I’d still have enough left over to make my own furniture, in 2021 I vow to only panic buy 600 rolls. Each year I’ve tried to get somebody famous to hand out the awards to my favourite books of the year and for 2020 I had President Trump lined up, all was going to plan until he dropped out to play his 320th game of golf this year, so you’ve…

View original post 703 more words

Ol’ Bloody Brush… by Bogdan Dragos

Gobblers / Masticadores

Picture taken from Pinterest

the old man stank

but he

stank more

of booze and cheap

tobacco than


his mouth missed

a lot of


and his eyes

would never


in the same

direction at once

but worst of

all were his hands

Now those were

really messed up

He claimed he had

paint tanks

under his nails

and he wasn’t lying

he was mad

but not a liar

He could paint

wherever he was

on any surface

And he did

pressing the stump

of his fingers

against walls and


triggered immediate


and then he

would trace on and

draw something

Usually a penis or

some hairy cunt or

some silhouettes

fucking or

something like that

Then he’d step back

admire his creation

and laugh

and suck at his

bloody fingers

Ol’ Bloody Brush

was a celebrity

around the


He never had

to buy a

View original post 73 more words

“Thick Glass,” “Twist the Blade,” “Pink Paint,” and “Good Boy, Kyu” – 4 new poems featured in TERROR HOUSE MAGAZINE

Four new poems featured in TERROR HOUSE MAGAZINE:


Thick Glass

Twist the Blade

Pink Paint

Good Boy, Kyu

click any of 'em (ಠ‿↼) 

From sand to ashes… by Bogdan Dragos

Gobblers / Masticadores

Picture taken from Pinterest

It started with sand

from the sandbox

and because it felt good

and they weren’t bothered

by it getting into

all kinds of places

they kept at it

and eventually upgraded to

cigarette ashes

They were making love in a bed

full of them

and it didn’t bother neither

Ashes were far superior to sand

“Ashes are far superior

to sand,” she said


“So let’s promise then. Promise that

whoever dies first will have

their ashes snorted by

the one who stays alive.”

“I promise.”

They embraced each other and felt

the ashes in each other’s hair

and kissed

knowing that the day will come very soon

They were both 28


Visit the author’s blog at:https://drbogdan.home.blog/

View original post

Unlovable trash… by Bogdan Dragos

Gobblers / Masticadores

Picture taken from Pinterest


there’s plenty of cutesy names to

call one’s children

but his was ‘unlovable trash’

He remembered it from the time he was in the crib

They held him there

for longer than most parents

held their kids in cribs. Though only dad

called him so

because he constantly claimed he wasn’t his

unlovable trash

he had the wrong skin tone

was too pale

with curly orange hair

and freckles

but mom always pretended she didn’t


the words

unlovable trash

she would act as if they were never uttered

and growing up

he thought

unlovable trash was a good thing

thought it was how you show love to your loved


“Mom, you’re unlovable trash.”

she was so happy to hear it

she burst into tears and went into the

kitchen and uncorked a bottle of wine

and drank it all by herself. What an

View original post 35 more words

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: