black abjection


“You will always hesitate”

By Camilla Taylor
Ceramic, graphite, linseed oil, wrought iron, and synthetic hair

photo by Mike Reynolds

I reinstalled this in my home studio in preparation for a few visits.  It took ages to make and I learned a lot about logistics in its construction.  I get a little thrill of pride when I see it up.



Here they come again, the brave ones. Another Halloween night, and the kids are back, here to prove their fearlessness. The old house’s floorboards creak beneath their sneakers.

Only half an hour until midnight, so I have to work fast. I start with their flashlight, blowing lightly against it, so that it flickers, but this inspires little more than a nervous giggle.

Fifteen minutes until midnight. Time to take things up a notch. I hover up to the ceiling, and will my body into flesh. My every nerve is on fire, but they’ve given me no choice. I force drops of blood to trickle out my nose, but the boys below don’t even notice. I knock against the ceiling, but they won’t even look up.

“I thought this place was supposed to be haunted,” says the leader. “What a joke.”

Five minutes until midnight. I’m running out of time. With the last of my strength, I scream—so loud that they finally turn to look up at me. I like to think I put on a good show: I sway on an invisible noose, and the blood flows freely from my nostrils now. A couple of drops even hit a skinny one with a crew cut. The boys scream and run into the night, just in time.

Below me, I hear the Thing turn, its disappointment palpable. For now, it sleeps. But one day, I will fail. The boys will be too brave, and I won’t scare them out in time. One day they will wake it.

Credits to: scarymaxx


The heat from the burning cave engulfed him. The man fell to his knees gasping for breath. As tears raced down the lines in his aged visage, he cried out in disbelief.

“I don’t understand. I lived a virtuous and faithful life.”

The bright red flames stood out in stark contrast against the abject blackness of the cave’s gaping maw. Stalactites bared as the rotted teeth of a rabid shark, waiting to snap.

The Reaper may have scoffed or even guffawed at this statement but he had heard it too many times before.

Countless pleadings amongst countless ages, it mattered not.

A dreadful voice filled the man’s head.

“You ever have that feeling that you were meant for something more? Something bigger? Or that you were someone very special in a previous life.

That is because you were.

You humans have it all backwards. You believe that you are born and, if you live your life piously, then you ascend into heaven.

You are gravely mistaken.

We all start as angels. Those who fall from Grace plummet down to Earth into mere human shells. Angels, much like man, can also fall under the heels of temptation and sin. The devil’s reach is far indeed.

God created the hope of eternal salvation to further punish his lost children. You were damned the moment your mother’s womb vomited you into this counterfeit of illusion. It is time.”

The Reaper extended his hand.

Credits to: Huntfrog

Action Comics vol.1 #53 - Cover date October 1942

The Class of 1942 has no member more dedicated to the archetypal super-villainous behavior of “committing to your theme” than THE NIGHT OWL, a gangly, bald-headed figure in coke-bottle glasses who commands his criminal empire crouched on a swinging perch. His weapons – the ability to plunge even the sunniest day into abject blackness, and the freedom to move confidently through it by dint of his specially treated goggles. He also commands trained attack owls. There was certainly still steam in the concept – perhaps The Night Owl could have returned with owl-like talons instead of hands, sort of some robot owls, owl-themed henchmen – you know, the usual. Too bad he never made it past this first appearance.