Alice Wellinger. Men and Women. The Mighty Father.

And she returns …

By thestrangethingsblog on Saturday, January 5th, 2013

Hello strangers :) I’m starting my little project back up again and would love for you and your friends to submit something. I look forward to reading/seeing/watching/hearing your lovely work! 

xx Ash

To one of the first writers who made me love the wild and strange things. RIP Maurice. 
Whatchu guys think of the new poster? I’m going to distribute these like a phantom around Glasgow in the hopes of getting more amazing submissions. Boop boop. 
Hello my little strangers :) It’s Ashley (the one on the right) and I’m here to tell you I’m going to be uploading my own video pretty soon. It’ll look a little like this. And remember, submit your own art, video, writing, poetry, photography, and I’ll put it up if it’s strange enough. Love love. 
- Ash
Turn the TV off at Night — Chris Zombieking. misanthropist. zombie. artist.
Find more of his work here:  http://brainzzzorgtfo.wordpress.com/ and here http://brainzzzorgtfo.tumblr.com/. 

The Porch Poems — Matthew Laffrade

By thestrangethingsblog on Saturday, April 28th, 2012

Is you is I want you

The sewage seeps from me.

As physical as shit,

as psychological as voodoo.

Anger only for self.

Throw gasoline, point at you.

They stay, I flee.

These old bones, broken tree,

can’t hold up - much more of it

is needed to complete you.

Manuals on a lonesome shelf.

Is you is I want you.

My mind betrays me.


Read More

Poems from the Sarsenet Sarcophagus — R.A. Sputnikoi

By thestrangethingsblog on Wednesday, April 25th, 2012

A silent and oftentimes psychotic poet. Part Irish and part Dutch, he loves the taste of cyanide with his rum and his affinity to the paintings of Van Gogh makes him sigh too much and turn cyanotic. He adores blending the dark, the decaying and the dead with love, lust and desire. He is the paramour of r.a. sputnikoi and he insists on keeping his life private because of severe personal and criminal reasons and just having his works published under the name of his beloved. Please see: 

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5768055.r_a_sputnikoi for the joined endeavors of these two lovers and more.


When you lie there,

Bend down, don’t turn around –

Be my own love-ground.

The sands will never

Push you down, dear sardonyx.

For I shall always be the sun

That shall make all

Those little white flowers blossom.

The mosses may come soon.

They shall cover you like sarsenet

With the balm of the chrysanthemums,

And make you whiter than the bones

You will become too.

The nights fill with your perfume.

stay close

Stay close, dazed eyes but mouth

Pursed open with no sound –

Breathe like a stray cloud

If yours could still be called breathing.

The ashes are following you,

Or are they finally freeing you?

And the smoke of this pyre shall melt

The traces of the earth from your skin.

Stay close when your bones

Let your marrows out to gleam.

Things are not always what they seem.

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The Thief — Thomas Crawford

By thestrangethingsblog on Tuesday, April 24th, 2012

Every year Sleeping Beauty came to town, but this year they were finally showing The Nutcracker.  It was nine pm and the show was already underway.  I had no one to go with, so I stayed at home.  I ran a bath and threw in some bath salts.  The bathroom sweltered like a sauna and the room shrank.  The air was crisp and cold outside so I opened the window to let the steam and cold air intermingle.  The warm, fuzzy yellow of the streetlight filled the room and coloured the walls.

I watched the streetlight as it buzzed and occasionally flitted in the night.  I couldn’t see anything below the lamp, which was reassuring as it meant people passing in the lane below couldn’t see me.  All I could see was the window frame, the pulsing head of the streetlight and the sky above.  And some ladders.  That appeared propped against the lamppost.  Cold air blew in through the open window.

As I saw the top of a man’s head climbing the ladder I sank lower into the tub to hide my modesty, while he worked away on the lamp.  As I dropped lower he climbed higher and occupied more or less the same place in my vision.  He looked directly through the window.  He didn’t seem in any great hurry.  It then occurred to me for the first time that perhaps he might not be a certified council employee.  Nine o’clock at night did seem a strange time to be changing light bulbs.

I was too old to be of any interest to a paedophile but I still felt young enough to be emotionally scarred and psychologically compromised.  Perhaps he had a camera.  And the only way for me too close the window would be too stand up in all my glory to reach out and push it down.  The walls of the tub were my only sanctuary.  I clasped my fingers over my nose and mouth, took a deep breath and plunged back to the bottom of the tub.  I knew now that he couldn’t see me.  Water swirled and danced through my ears.

Realistically sinking to the bottom of the tub wasn’t a long term solution to my problem but when I re-emerged for air after only twenty seconds the ladder and man where gone from the lamppost.  Instead I heard a clunk against the wall of my house, like ladders resting upon a wall.  The man soon appeared at my window holding a large axe.  The open window sliced my vision of him in two.   He had a steady mad look upon his face, as if the situation was completely normal and he looked in towards me casually with a glimpse of natural curiosity.

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A submission of my own

By thestrangethingsblog on Monday, April 23rd, 2012

One of the many photos I took on a Halloween photo shoot I did with some friends here in merry ol’ Glasgow. This is Gina. Here’s a very wee story to go along with it:

There was a girl at the end of the hall. She looked at me with eyes like keys. I heard a door behind me open. She was gone. 

… Also, if you have anything (fiction, poetry, video, photograph, etc.) that you would like to submit please do. You’ll find where to submit at the bottom of the page. Thanks for popping by :)