Cory DeAn Cowley
Founder/Owner of C.D.C. Works
Making disgusting, horrific, raw art and books is what I do.
The Foul Smell of Whores (finale)
"Put it down; don't touch it!" I yelled to him. My pleas fell on deaf ears, and this glittering diamond became a spiked sphere that shot its quills into his eyes. A shrill scream pierced my eardrums as he tried his best to pull the awls out of his eyes. The blood trickled down his cheeks and the streams of crimson intertwined with each other, creating a series of eights down his neck. It was beautiful--in an odd sort of way. I must admit, there was an art to murder, and though I could not fathom taking a living soul, a part of me desired to administer fine strokes upon a milk-white canvas. He could not pull the objects from his eyes; he resorted to taking his pinky fingers and proceeded to dig like a dog. All I could remember was the sound of grunting and the intense exhalation of breath. I prayed that shock would induce coma, leaving him dead in his slumber. Unfortunately, there was no such peace for him, and his fingers dug deep into his oculus and pulled these thorns from below.
My mom asked me if I would ever write a poem about you. She suggested that I recite during this night. I don’t know...it’s strange. I’ve spent years writing poems that now line the bottoms of old bags, covered in expired makeup, dusty hair ties, and old receipts. It’s 5:14 pm and it’s about 57 degrees outside. I came home early because you gave me another bladder infection from the rough sex the night before. Right now, you’re sleeping next to me, and your subtle snores are a sign that you’re resting with ease. You know, you always said that Gloria hated your snores, but somehow, I always look to that noise as a reminder of how peaceful you are. Your elbow is underneath me, and it’s so funny because I always have to be touching you in some way, shape, or form.
The Foul Smell of Whores (continuation)
The body of this devil slumped to the side of the pole she was tied to. Her knees were as cragged as the trees near her home, and her toes were not toes, but talons that came to a sharpened point. It was a common thing to smell burning flesh; the smell cascaded across the land and could be smelled for miles. Most of the children spoke of a hog roast, and out of innocence, they stuck their noses into the air to enjoy the aroma of what was mistaken for pork. The parents knew better but refused to ruin the illusion of innocence. At one point, they filled those tiny shoes and listened to the same orations of generations before them.
The Foul Smell of Whores
The pores on her skin popped like kernels in a microwave. I never once anticipated how loud that sound would be, nor did I think human skin could splatter. It's so bizarre, here we are--poking, prodding, kneading our skin, and yet...under intense flame it's as fluid as water. The pieces flew across the ground and attached to the grass like glue. I wasn't sure if it was her blood, or the evening dew shining against the fire. It was something of a rite of passage burning these whores.
Why I Will Never Refer to Myself as a Content Creator
(Before you read this riveting piece of literature, please keep in mind that this is entirely opinion-based.) With that being said, let us begin.
3 Ways to Transmute Your Mental Illness into Positive Writing: Horror with a Twist
When authors began the process of writing, the conquest to write those crucial first pages can be daunting. As I previously covered in my tips blog, I'll be shedding light on a very taboo subject--and for good reason. We all know or are someone who suffers from a mental illness. I think it's safe to say that it's one of the most debilitating things that can affect millions of Americans across the country. The mystery shrouding the way it works, along with the common misconceptions, prejudice, and neglect only accumulate into a ball of shit that rolls downhill. It's no wonder that so many people in the world hide their affliction out of fear of judgment; there are too many individuals that are treated unfairly by those who haven't taken the time to empathize and understand the importance of what a mental illness entails.
Do you know what I did? I stuck a paper clip into the cavity in my tooth. It was black and smelled of dinner I had over two weeks ago. Have you ever had the reluctancy to feel pain as it radiates through every nerve ending in your body? I did; feeling something as dull as such was a fit punishment. All I did was pull out decayed food that was brown with a tinge of black. I stood in the bathroom, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
4 Ways to Write Kickass Horror
Anyone and everyone who knows me, knows I absolutely love horror. As a writer, one of my primary goals is to persuade others into pursuing their desire to write. The common misconception about writing is that you have to have a strong command of the English language. While this is true (and believe me, people, don't skimp on the grammar), writing a good story is just as important. One of the main things I am asked as an author is "how do you come up with your stories?"