Бесплатный фрагмент - Horror Without Borders. Volume 2

Horror Without Borders
Volume 2
Hidden Realms
A World Anthology of Dark Poetry
Edited by Oleg Hasanov

Horror Without Borders. Volume 2: Hidden Realms

The authors of the individual poems retain the copyright of the works featured in this anthology.

All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

© 2022 Oleg Hasanov

Cover Artwork © 2022 Infographics

A HORROR HAIKU FOREWORD

Do you have the time?

I’ve got a story to tell

About dead beauty.

I once believed that

Life’s a fairytale romance,

But no, I was wrong.

Life’s a ghost story,

It’s a cemetery walk

In winter. No doubt.

I remember that

Journey to Antarctica

Was like a red mist…

In a frozen ship

Is where we found these demons

By the night candles.

Unholy union

Chanting a spell for Satan

From a little black book.

Religions in ice…

A disentombed communion…

A cannibal house…

A girl was summoned,

Concubine of necrosis.

This book’s the portal…

A warm meal helped me

To regain my consciousness.

They gave me potions.

I see a raven

Through the barred window.

Landscape with a tower.

They gave me a pen

And a big stack of paper.

They want a report.

The long road to hell

Through the labyrinth of my

Memories, more like.

In the darkness of

My padded cell, all my thoughts

Go to Dorothy…

They got their report.

This diary of death is

A piece of my mind.

The revelation

In the asylum, a song

From the wailing tomb.

I want to escape.

My amygdala

Tells me I’ve got to.

If I stay any longer,

The lobotomy will be

The ultimate price.

In the waiting room

I hit the nurse with a chair.

Her brain’s a blood soup.

Here comes death. I eat.

No remorse, only hunger.

I am Nosferatu.

I grab the keys and

Open the door. I am free.

Vampire energy.

I am the ripper.

Beyond the dying stars I

Get my freedom.

I have to get home,

I’ve got to see Dorothy.

I hide in the moors.

The night in the swamp

Does me good. It covered me,

Saving from dissection.

I go through the woods

And reach a railroad station.

Red balloon floating.

Now! I slip into

The freight car and hide myself.

But I’m not alone.

Hidden behind the

Big boxes is the dark man.

He is watching me.

His hand slides into

The dark valise and comes out

With a little black book.

The black book I saw

In the demented ship.

He makes me read it…

I know everything.

What killed Aleister Crowley?

Now I know it all.

In her room at last.

My lost love under the sea.

Dorothy, save me.

The day was breaking

Outside. Footprints in

The snow… Not again!

Thought I have escaped.

The curse of the Internet!

They know where I am.

There is no escape.

I shave my beard looking in

The mirror. That’s it!

That’s it! The demons

Are acting on a par with

The government!

They’re here to harvest

Our citizens. Why am

I still pretending?

And Dorothy is

Their agent. I stop shaving

And wipe the razor.

She infected me

With thanatophobia.

Sweet dreams, Dorothy…

Better not take the

Train this time. They’re everywhere.

Don’t trust anyone.

There’ll be no escape

When the dark man comes. The Earth’s

Their inheritance.

I go to the cops.

The enemy within me

Tells me to do so.

Do you have the time?

I’ve got a story to tell

About dead beauty.

I ask for a pen

And a big stack of paper.

I’ll write a report.

They get their report.

This night has a thousand eyes.

So let them have it.

I include weird signs

And bizarre incantations

In this new story.

I write until this

Chalice is empty. It’s done!

The Black Testament.

For all I know they

Hid my little black book somewhere

In a frozen ship…

I know it by heart,

So let me be your darkness.

Feel the poet’s pain.

— Oleg Hasanov

February 13, 2022

Michelle Moroses (USA)
BLOOD SOUP

Michelle Moroses is an undergraduate student at Emerson College. She is on the management team for The Emerson Review and enjoys dogwatching and Wikipedia rabbit holes.

I’m making blood soup.

I’m letting a lot of blood out for it.

Enough to feed an army.

Here we are in the blue bathroom.

Cotton candy blue.

I will miss you when you leave me.

I’ll miss your oven mitts, your

garlic stained hands, your paring knife, the way you

separate skin from bone

the same way god must have separated man out from under his own flesh.

I will miss you even though you hurt me. This is the stupid thing, the part where the dinner guests you invited over get to clutch their full bellies and laugh. When they do, I will excuse myself to go out to the yard and beat the feeling back violently, with the biggest stick I can find.

It doesn’t work. It never works. My love is not so easily killed as my body could be. You wanted both of them, together, in a way you could consume. I’m afraid I’m not going to taste very good.

Nevertheless you want me, and I want you.

And I am fully clothed in the bathtub,

And the water has been shut off for days

yet the tub is filling up.

you’re making blood soup.

Michael Mulvihill (Ireland)
WRITER’S HEAD ON A STICK

Michael Mulvihill was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1978. He eventually, in his late teens, became a bookworm completing degrees up to the Master’s Level in Addiction Studies, Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and Social Sciences. His initial fictional work was surreal short stories of horror which have been featured numerously in Black Petals, an online horror science fiction zine. He branched out to write an apocalyptic, post-Soviet horror novel, Siberian Hellhole, which was translated and published in Georgia. His latest novel, Syriacide, features The Syrian War. He is an avid reader of history and is fascinated by world events, South Africa, the USSR, and the philosophical idea of a dystopian society. At the moment he is writing a dystopian novel. An avid martial artist and film buff, he trains constantly in Kenpo Karate and loves to also relax whilst watching films.

They used to shoot the messenger,

But this horde wanted gore,

A torture and a killing from the days of yore,

A piece were writ that had too much grit,

It told truth,

Stung a few living demons that wanted blood,

And thus was vowed there shall be blood,

Off went the writer’s hands thrown to starving dogs,

Plucked out of sockets went his pair of eyes,

Knee-capped by a shotgun as a chainsaw started on,

When all was done his body remains was fed to crocodiles in a zoo,

As this horde, this cult of death,

Raised their flag outside a mansion,

And placed the writer’s head on a stick,

A thick stick yes,

But none the less a stick,

The hurly-burly was done,

What was achieved in this?

Stephanie Ellis (England)
COMMUNION

Stephanie Ellis writes dark speculative prose and poetry and has been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her poetry has been published in the Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volume 6 and her latest stories include Asylum of Shadows (Demain Publishing’s Short Sharp Shocks series), and Snowbooks industrial horror anthology, Thread of the Infinite. She is co-editor and contributor at The Infernal Clock and also co-editor of Trembling With Fear, HorrorTree.com’s online magazine. She is an affiliate member of the HWA.

Website: https://stephanieellis.org

It’s important, the detail.

She sat, as I recall

Small, a doll, eyes daring

Beyond caring of the future

And?

She wore trainers, to run

Said she’d always been running

From men like me

Men like you?

Men like her father

Forever after possession

Paternal monsters, always hunting

And did you hunt her?

No, no need. She knew I would wait

I’d baited her, held the line,

Sedated her, reeled her in

And then?

I measured the length of her, the stretch of her

As communed without communion

Shrouded in scarlet

But you see her still?

Yes, she sits at my shoulder

My angel, my perfect angel

And she whispers, Daddy…

Norbert Góra (Poland)
CONCUBINE OF NECROSIS

Norbert Góra is a 29-year-old poet and writer from Poland. He is the author of more than 100 poems which have been published in poetry anthologies in the USA, the UK, India, Nigeria, Kenya, and Australia.

One-to-one trysts, which were too weird

to understand how those feelings appeared,

the light of beauty met the darkness of eyesore,

innocence tasted the filthy bitterness of gore.

In the arms of death she quickly forgets

about the sort of things that can upset,

she worships the smell of decaying meat

when the slimy tongue touches her teat.

Longing washes her body during the day,

at night she loves the carcass, to whom she obeys,

infatuated and blissful, the concubine of necrosis

submerges in the source of lifeless hypnosis.

With each grain of time her face becomes paler,

brighter than the fabric kept in the hands of a tailor,

with every sunset, such a visible difference

between them disappears, fatal severance.

Kevin J. Kennedy (Scotland)
THE CURSE OF THE INTERNET

Kevin J. Kennedy is a horror author & editor from Scotland. He is best known for his 100 Word Horrors & The Horror Collection anthology series. He is also the man behind the Collected Horror Shorts series and an editor on multiple other anthologies.

He co-authored You Only Get One Shot & Screechers and has two solo collections available called Dark Thoughts & Vampiro and Other Strange Tales of the Macabre.

His stories also appear in a wealth of anthologies from a variety of publishers.

He lives in a small town in Scotland, with his wife and his two little cats, Carlito and Ariel.

Keep up to date with new releases or contact Kevin through his website: www.kevinjkennedy.co.uk

In a world where internet is king,

We often forget it’s just a thing.

It takes over lives every day,

We had no idea it would get in the way.

It seemed like a marvel at first,

That was until the bubble burst.

Our future is grim at best,

Leaving social media and apps the real test.

No one knew it would own us,

All the info seemed like a bonus.

We are zombies in front of a screen,

No one’s internet history clean.

Mankind was destined for annihilation,

The machines an abhorrent violation.

We can never turn off and go to bed,

Not to worry. Not long till you’re dead.

Vyacheslav Kotov (Russia)
MIDNIGHT

Vyacheslav Kotov wears many hats. He is a poet, writer, translator, screenwriter, film director, animator, songwriter and singer, and also the one who you can call the most popular catchword of today, a YouTuber. Vyacheslav is an award winner of several film festivals including in particular Dollar Baby Film Festival Russia where he won second place and audience choice award. He is the author of several songs for animation series released by Riki Studio (creators of Kikoriki series. His YouTube channel was given a Silver Creator Award. Vyacheslav is also a representative of The New School of Translation and Interpretation. He has more than a thousand translated films to his credit.

Midnight. Alley. Victim. Knife.

Struggle. Stab. The dusk of life.

Thunder. Scream. “No! Oh, my God!”

A rain of tears and a rain of blood.

No one near to make a call,

Only me and him, that’s all.

It is over. Quick. Too bad.

He has left and I am dead…

Paulo Palz (Nigeria)
THE RIPPER

Paulo Palz is a B. Tech in Polymer Science and Textile Technology and is currently a 300 level student of Biochemistry who hails from the southern part of Nigeria. He has written many poems and has also been recently featured in the anthology Nightfall and Other Poems.

Do yourself a favour

When he hurts you

Do not come for a hug

My arms would be tied

When he abandons you

Do not seek refuge in me

I would have gone abroad

When he despises you

Do not come for my love

I would be short of feelings

My love has gone sour

Bled out cold and dead

My humanity’s been shut

I have gone all black and grey

My heart seems to be missing

Emotions are long gone

I have accepted grief and pain

Sadness and misery now clothe me

Love’s been sent out of my window

When he abandons you

Do not ask for clemency

Mercy is for the weak

I am ruthless now

Even the French call me

La Bête dans l’ombre

My penchant is your blood

The scent and taste of it

Rolling down my tongue

Your flesh stuck in my teeth

All I see is darkness

For I am the ripper

Linda M. Crate (USA)
YOU BAKED THIS PIE

Linda M. Crate’s poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has ten published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press, June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon, January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019), the samurai (Yellow Arrowing Publishing, October 2020), Follow the Black Raven (Alien Buddha Publishing, July 2021), Unleashing the Archers (Guerilla Genesis Press, August 2021), and Hecate’s Child (Alien Buddha Publishing, November 2021) and three micro-chapbooks Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018), moon mother (Origami Poems Project, March 2020), and & so I believe (Origami Poems Project, April 2021). She is also the author of the novel, Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018).

you thought you were the

only predator,

you thought wrong;

the only thing that will be music

to my ears is the beating of your heart

and the quickening of your breath as

you run out of places to hide—

tried to give you peace,

but you wanted a war;

so i left behind the magic of me

that whispers in flowers and light to

adorn myself in the battle armor

of my wrath and rage—

here i am fangs and claws out,

i will rip you to ruin with a smile;

after all you told me i should be happier—

i hope you like the apples,

you baked this pie of misery.

Sam M. Phillips (Australia)
COVERED

Sam M. Phillips is the co-founder of Zombie Pirate Publishing, producing short story anthologies and helping emerging writers. His own work has appeared in dozens of anthologies and magazines such as Full Metal Horror, Flash Fiction Addiction, World War Four, and Dastaan World Magazine. He lives in the green valleys of northern New South Wales, Australia, and enjoys reading, walking, and playing drums in the death metal band Decryptus. You can find out more about his books and publishing at www.zombiepiratepublishing.com. He is also a prolific poet and his poetry can be read on his blog
www.bigconfusingwords.wordpress.com.

A light source,

I force

Myself up from a deep pit,

Sit on the edge of a new world,

I hate it,

Want to be hurled

Back down into the pit,

Grit my teeth

And bear it,

Bury myself beneath

The soil,

I toil

To be free,

But now I see

The light,

I fight

To be covered once more.

Maxim Kabir (Ukraine)
LANDSCAPE WITH A TOWER

Translated by Oleg Hasanov

Maxim Kabir is a Russian-language horror writer and poet based in the Ukraine. He has penned eight novels. His latest novel, Wet Worlds, was co-written with Dmitry Kostyukevich. His short stories are included in various genre anthologies. He also has eight collections of poetry under his belt. Maxim’s poetry has been published in various countries of the CIS, the USA, Georgia, Israel, and other countries.

She woke up in a casemate of a tower, which had been built at the seaside by the Venetians hundreds of years ago.

The concrete mole was ablaze with lights in the night. The ships were cuddling up to it, like the young pigs to their mother. The nets were drying. The guest flags were droopy. The fishermen had hastened home to shuffle out of their oilskins, to snuggle up to their wives, to have dreams about the sea at the speed of 5/6 knots.

The resort city was pouring neon into the water. The trattorias and bars were noisy. But here, at the anchorage, it was peace and quiet. And the moonlight was dancing on the solar panels. The moorings were creaking, the waves were lapping, and a Smart TV was broadcasting a football match. Denmark vs. Czech Republic. The yacht’s owner drew himself a glass of Chianti. He fried a tuna. He checked the weather report. He sat back and cast a casual glance at the tower.

And above it, above this monolith, a shape rose up. She came into the world; she emerged from the casemates like a two-horned moon. The yachtsman was looking stunned, as the horrible giant was walking across the sky, going down the invisible stairs to the sea. The glass fell to the deck.

Her stomping hoofs went through the motorboats and yachts, through the cutters, schooners and yawls, and in a flash she was on the ground. And the city began screaming. The stupefied yachtsman looked, as the beach was blazing and the marina was being filled with blood. The Danes lost two-one. But there was neither sense nor the viewers to appreciate the tally of the game.

The tally was a shadow over the promenade.

The tally was the victorious clatter of hoofs.

And in the morning the sun crawled from the east to stare at the dead gulf. The yachtsman sliced his wrist with a piece of glass, and on the concrete of the mole he scrawled, “She woke up in a casemate of a tower.”

Yevgeny Abramovich (Belarus)
IN HER ROOM

Translated by Oleg Hasanov

Yevgeny Abramovich was born and grew up in the city of Novopolotsk in the North of Belarus. He is a civil engineer by training. Since 2014 he has lived and worked in the city of Minsk. And since about that time he has written fiction. He works primarily in the horror and science fiction genres. His short stories and novellas have been published in the anthologies, The Scariest Book, Aelita, and magazines DARKER and RedRum. In 2018, he wrote his debut war zombie horror novel, Cutthroats.

In her room

Under zero gravity

I’m drowning in the whirlpool

In her room

Whispering biting words

Stroking her hair

In her room

Her hair

Smells so good

Of lavender

Soon it’ll smell of incense

We’ll all be there one day

And nothing at all

I want

Everything will stop

In her room

In the closets

She has her blouses

The boys are screaming

Through the fortochka

Doesn’t respond

No time for that

Life’s dissolving

In her room

Like cascades

Strewn all over

Oh, this hair

Her hair

And the ice floes

The eyes are pretending to be

With dark red

Cobwebs

Half-lidded

They do not close

The living are pretending

To be dead

And vice versa

They are pretending

The doors and fortochkas

Are closing

What used to live and grow

Is decaying

With a blue fingernail

Her little fingers

The boys are screaming

The boys are screaming

Motionless

Her little fingers

Hiding her nakedness

In the skirtalls

If you can love

Then love desperately

If you can float

Under zero gravity

In her room

In her room

Any vulgarity

And all the liberties

In her room

In her room

Oleg Hasanov (Russia)
THE DEVIL OF THE SANDS

Oleg Hasanov is a writer and translator, and also the founding editor of the international literary project, Horror Without Borders. He lives in the city of Chelyabinsk, where men are so tough that they light cigarettes off meteorites.

Don’t believe in what you see, or madness will creep into your soul

      like grains of sand, and waves of dunes will hide your tracks.

              The thirst for blood has led him to you — keep going,

              don’t look back, or you are doomed to be imprisoned,

                   to be swallowed by this ghostly world of dreams…

                    Your caravan vanished in the desert of deception,

                            taken by storms blowing for fifty days,

                          these blinding, suffocating walls of dust.

                                       And the fine sand castle,

                                          which you have built,

                                              will now become

                                                    your home

                                                       forever.

Michael Mulvihill (Ireland)
LIFE BLOOD

Michael Mulvihill was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1978. He eventually, in his late teens, became a bookworm completing degrees up to the Master’s Level in Addiction Studies, Psychology, Psychoanalysis, and Social Sciences. His initial fictional work was surreal short stories of horror which have been featured numerously in Black Petals, an online horror science fiction zine. He branched out to write an apocalyptic, post-Soviet horror novel, Siberian Hellhole, which was translated and published in Georgia. His latest novel, Syriacide, features The Syrian War. He is an avid reader of history and is fascinated by world events, South Africa, the USSR, and the philosophical idea of a dystopian society. At the moment he is writing a dystopian novel. An avid martial artist and film buff, he trains constantly in Kenpo Karate and loves to also relax whilst watching films.

In the meantime,

Take of my life blood,

Drink it whole,

It is all I got to give,

You have asked for everything,

It is there with a noose.

Laura McGlashan (England)
INHERITANCE

Laura McGlashan is a mature creative writing student, mother, and lover of written word. Laura is a poet and passionate about bringing a raw renewal of energy to creative nonfiction.

At five I am freckles and pigtails.

I inherit Marvin Gaye from my mother.

My father disappears the way cotton candy does when a tongue turns itself inside out.

At Twelve I am Donnell Jones.

I drink a fifth of Vodka and find my father between the sheets of other people’s beds.

Do you wanna love me?

At Sixteen I am DMX.

I am sewn back together after she’s born.

My mother’s indifference tastes a lot like the colour a fist paints itself when it unclenches.

Is you with me or what?

At Twenty I am Wu Tang Clan.

People who love me give my father’s violence back to me in mirrors.

Bring the motherfuckin ruckus.

At Thirty I am a mixtape from the 90’s.

I have cellotaped my inheritance to my collar bone.

I am 2 parts Htown, and one part sin. Isn’t sin just sagacity anyway?

Gimme some good love.

Same song, different headphones.

Artyom Maksul (Belarus)
NOSFERATU

Artyom Maksul is a translator of English and Scandinavian languages. He founded the Leo De Nord publishing house and is the creator of the music project Alhor Ern. His hobbies include music, history, Viking Age re-enactment, and martial arts.

Babe, can you recall who I am?

Do you remember who we are?

Standing inside of this burial vault,

Watching for another bleeding sunset

With ravenous, lucid emerald eyes.

Dense twilight’s creeping,

As a black wounded panther,

To the strong orphaned

And unprotected huts of men

Beyond all its nocturnal power

And we will follow it

We’re Nosferatu,

Infants of the best-forgotten,

Beasts of the howling wilds

None can’t recall where we have come from.

I know nothing, but my hunger

Of disrupted human flesh.

Can you smell their fear,

It’s awesome, like a drug,

May you perceive the taste of gore,

So delicious, so eternal?

Upon our paly iced-blue lips?

And black and arcane constellations

Always shine on our way.

Light has come from the dusty pleats

Of our moonlit cloaks.

That is a path,

Per aspera ad astra…

Would you be there,

Would you stay here with me,

When they come,

Armed to the teeth,

To wash our immortality away?

Because if they fail, we can say to them,

“Join us…”

Alexis Child (Canada)
WHAT KILLED ALEISTER CROWLEY?

Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; home to dreams and nightmares. She worked at a Call Crisis Center befriending demons of the mind that roam freely amongst her writings. Alexis once lived with a Calico-cat child sleuthing all that went bump in the night and is haunted by the memory of her cat. She also had a small measure of underground success with her gothic rock and darkwave bands in the past. Besides having rare mystical experiences she hopes are not just short circuits in the brain, she continues to write dark poetry, starving in the garret with her muse. A starving child is a frightful sight. A starving vampire is even worse. Please donate non-perishable food items and B-negative blood (and make it a double!).

Alexis’ fiction has been featured in Danse Macabre, Schlock, Screams of Terror, and U.K.‘s Dark of Night Magazine.

Her poetry has been featured in numerous online and print publications, including Aphelion, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, The Horror Zine, ParABnormal Magazine, The Sirens Call and elsewhere. Her first collection of poetry, Devil in the Clock, a dark and sinister slice of the macabre, is available on Amazon.

Visit her website: http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/alexischild

He summoned Pan until the darkness of

chaos appeared, or a demonic counterfeit

in vague and monstrous shapes. Crouching

naked in a corner, stripped of magician’s

robes, he is haggard and wild-eyed, gibbering

in tongues; chained to the spirit of fear, a mere

reflection of his former commanding self.

He descends into the deeper emptiness of

the abyss, appearing to look upon the

sleeping ocean, waiting for it to awaken,

hoping to hear the bell of the God’s realm,

yet knows the Old Ones are locked away,

senile from neglect, dead or dying in a

labyrinth of sewers rotting beneath the city.

Still in a trance, the mystic departs to

the domain of the pagan dead, stars

looking downwards with a holy glance.

Terry Miller (USA)
UNHOLY UNION

Terry Miller lives in Portsmouth, Ohio. His work has been featured in Sanitarium Magazine, Devolution Z, Jitter, Rhysling Anthology 2017, Poetry Quarterly, Siren’s Call Ezine, The Horror Tree’s Trembling With Fear, Organic Ink Vol. I, the Dark Drabble Anthology Series from Black Hare Press, and O Unholy Night In Deathlehem.

She speaks syrupy sweet

Working a serpent tongue

Words of velvet, indiscreet,

In her unholy song are sung.

In praise of Cernunnos,

Her lust inwardly writhes.

His legend the forest knows,

Immune to the Reaper’s scythe.

His scent upon the Autumn air,

A pheromonal presence calls.

She draws near his body bare,

Submits to his immortal thrall.

Bless the night as two are one,

Otherworldly creatures praise;

For unto them’s conceived a son

Destined to set the world ablaze.

Victor Cabitchi (Moldova)
MIRROR

Victor Cabitchi is a young author from Chisinau, Moldova. He writes both adult and teen horror in Russian and English. Victor got his Bachelor’s degree from the American University in Bulgaria before deciding to come back and settle in his home city. He currently works as a project manager in a translation company.

1

At the back of the antique shop,

Covered by an inch-thick cloth,

Stands a mirror on the floor,

With a story to be told.

Splendid shapes of dark wood frame,

Surface just a little pale,

Couple o’ scratches on the side,

As a sign of years gone by.

2

It was made in the 1800s,

In a studio in London,

Its creator, a young man,

Went by name of John McPhan.

At the age of twenty-one,

All at once he fell in love.

John’s sweetheart, Susie Laurie—

Pure example of grace and glory.

Happy way over the moon,

Thoughts of marriage coming soon.

Little the young John knew

Of a trouble to ensue.

On the most important question,

Susie’s harsh words left him staring.

Disbelief, digestion, anger,

Waved through as he heard the answer.

Susie chose another man

Plenty richer than McPhan,

With his own estate in Hampton

And a title of a baron.

John himself was not a beggar,

But could not do any better

Than contributing his fair share,

To McPhan’s mirror affair.

It is worth to point out,

The affair was thriving stout,

McPhan’s mirror’s getting praised,

Well beyond the banks of the Thames.

3

Time has passed, the wounds healed,

Or at least so John believed.

After Susie left him hopeless,

Work became his only focus.

Shredded pieces of his heart,

Like a mirror broken hard,

Just could not be glued together,

To forget and live, no matter.

Once, on a sunny Tuesday morning,

Servant walked into the building,

Handing John a sealed letter.

Stunned young man has smelled lavender.

Letter was from Mrs. Leister.

(“Who the hell is Mrs. Leister?”)

Took some time to realize,

Susie’s tidy writing style.

She was hoping he’s alright

And does not hold any grudge.

As a token of their friendship,

Susie asked for his attention.

She would like to get a mirror,

Modern, with the use of silver,

And a frame made out of oak,

To be put on the bedroom floor.

Knowing of his skills and passion,

Of the family reputation,

Susie simply couldn’t figure,

Who else could assist her better.

He also found a ten-pound note

Attached to the back of the envelope.

Twisting money in his hands,

John did not know what to say.

Little thought, one of a kind,

Crossed his mind time after time.

Susie didn’t even come in person,

Instead sending out her lofty servant.

Strange enough, this hurt the worst,

And reverted the outburst.

Feelings all came back to life,

Flames in his soul were burning bright.

He squeezed the letter real tight,

Thought to throw it outside.

Then take the servant by his sleeves,

And kick him out on the street.

But John managed to calm down,

As something else came to his mind.

Cryptic smile, brightened cheeks.

He requested time: two weeks.

4

After a few days, the mirror was ready,

But a small thing was making John edgy.

For this task he needed a full moon,

The suitable night was going to come soon.

The clock has finally struck midnight.

The room was illuminated with candle light.

John pulled out a leather-bound book,

Opened it carefully, taking a look.

He already knew the procedure by heart.

Old pages were almost falling apart.

He barely noticed, doing his part.

The ritual was about to start.

Procedure was simple: a few special words,

Then adding some blood of his afterwards.

Blood drops were dripping onto the silver,

As John held his hand over the mirror.

5

Susie loved the mirror all along,

Though she couldn’t enjoy it for long,

Quarrels and arguments with her husband,

Soon filled Mrs. Leister’s life in abundance.

Half a year later an evening newspaper

Reported a tragedy in the Leister estate,

Daniel Leister lost his mind

And brutally murdered his beloved wife.

It happened as she was preparing for dinner,

The door slowly opened to let in a figure.

The last thing Susie saw in the mirror,

Was the steel axe in the hands of her killer.

Blood sprayed all over the silvery surface,

It drained from the walls and the velvet curtains.

But the drops that landed onto the mirror.

A few seconds later mysteriously disappeared.

This was the start of a long wicked journey,

Resulting from the revenge getting thorny.

Incidentally John created a pure evil,

A monster that would later affect many people.

Accidents, murders, unfortunate cases,

Followed the mirror and its sinister traces.

With different men falling prey,

To the object with blood in its DNA.

6

Many years have since gone by,

To get us to this point in time,

As we’re back to the antique shop,

With a mirror draped in cloth.

The mirror waits, and waits, and waits

To reveal its darkest traits,

Dusty, innocent and humble,

Not a sign of any trouble.

Suddenly the doorbell rings,

A young couple’s walking in.

“Welcome to the store of mine.”

Salesman greets them with a smile.

Man and woman look around,

They’re curious, all smiles.

“Honey, look at these fantastic dolls!”

“Better check out the old-fashioned bowls…”

Slowly they’re moving forward

And approaching the corner.

“What’s out there, I humbly wonder?”

The man points to the cover.

“Vintage mirror? Must be cool,

Any chance to have a look?”

Cloth is falling as it’s twisted.

The mirror meets its newest victims.

Both just stare in admiration,

For the old-school art creation.

“Chris, it’s fabulous,” she mutters.

“Likely costs a ton of money…”

“Excuse me, sir, how much is that?

A hundred bucks? That’s not too bad…”

And so the mirror found a home,

In the house of Chris and Jane Bown.

7

The hallway seems like a nice place,

Lots of darkness to embrace.

The Bowns’ house is not as big

As some mansions where the mirror’s been.

The elation of new owners,

Can’t be hidden any longer.

Though not so much over the mirror,

As it is over each other.

Chris grabs Jane’s waist and pulls her close,

She kisses him on tiptoe.

Caress, fondness, true affection,

Their young eyes are filled with passion.

Nothing new for the old mirror,

If they knew it, they would shiver.

Their feelings will soon change,

To make Chris get rid of Jane.

They’re not alone, by the way,

There’s one more actor in this play,

Grumbling somewhere on the floor,

It was Marty, the pug dog.

Marty isn’t too excited,

Furthermore, he’s looking frightened.

As the mirror got unpacked,

The pug was barking in attack.

“Come on, Marty, don’t be jealous!”

Chris taps him lightly on the withers.

“You’re still our favorite, remember?

Be a good boy, cool your temper.”

8

In the middle of that night,

The moonlight made the hallway bright,

As Marty timidly appeared,

To examine the weird mirror.

It looked so ordinarily normal,

That Marty thought his feelings wronged him.

But then the surface’s gotten smeared

And the reflection disappeared.

Instead the mirror started showing,

The scenes of horror that were going

To happen soon in their house.

The pug was trembling like a mouse.

At one point Marty’s had enough,

He couldn’t even dare to bark.

At the monster in the mirror.

He ran away and softly whined in fear.

9

Early next morning there was a quarrel,

Something not particularly normal,

In the family of the Bowns.

Marty witnessed it — and frowned.

The quarrel kicked off out of nothing.

Silly reasons to start fighting

Chris said something, Jane fought back,

Payback followed by payback.

It happened in front of the mirror, of course,

When Chris was hectically preparing for work.

Tying his tie, straightening sleeves.

“More will be coming,” Marty perceived.

10

The following weeks things got much worse,

Family atmosphere becoming adverse.

The Bowns have now started sleeping apart,

And barely talking, with ice-cold hearts.

Poor Marty, disturbed and confused,

Had no idea what he could do.

Meanwhile he tried not to go to the hallway,

Scared of what he could see in his pathway.

Marty loved his masters deeply,

He wasn’t going to concede so easily.

One day a thought creeped into his mind,

He hoped it’d help leave it all behind.

11

As the darkness slowly covered,

Like a blanket of black colour,

Every corner of the building.

In the hall there stood the villain.

Things were going just as planned,

The mirror had the upper hand.

It could smell frustration brewing,

Soon their life will turn to ruins.

Suddenly a silhouette appeared

In the hallway by the mirror.

The pug entered the moonshine.

Didn’t he have enough last time?

The surface started to get murky,

But Marty acted fast and quirky.

He walked past it without a whine,

Then barked and snuck right in behind.

The pug looked up, let out a grump,

He barked again, and then he jumped.

The mirror shook, leaned slowly forward,

Then it smashed against the floor boldly.

Bits of debris scattered over,

As the blood of former owners,

Leaked and drowned all in between,

Made it look like a crime scene.

Anxious whispers filled the hall.

A hand reached out for the wall,

Flipped the light switch. “Oh my, whoa…”

“Oh my goodness, Marty. No!”

“So much blood…” exhaled Chris,

“I’m afraid there’s no chance…”

Jane gazed at the dreadful trace,

Tears running down her face.

Chris pulled her close and tightly pressed,

Jane buried her face in his broad chest.

In this moment full of sorrow,

They felt how much they needed each other.

Both couldn’t say another word,

As something smallish, brisk and blurred,

Jumped at them from the right side,

And the tears quickly dried.

“Marty, buddy, you alright?”

Chris excitingly blurted out,

As both were patting the dog gladly,

The pug itself looked more than happy.

Jane examined Marty gently,

“There’s nothing on his belly,

Not a single cut or wound…”

Chris raised his head and looked around.

“Then where did all this blood come from?

Nothing bar the mirror broke.

It couldn’t come from there, right?

Looks like a boxing ring after a fight…”

Jane took her husband by the elbow,

“Let’s clean it up, then let it go,

Marty is fine, that’s all that matters,

Who cares what really happened?”

Chris nodded in agreement.

There was no point in finding reasons.

Chris didn’t know, nor did his wife,

How bravely Marty saved their lives.

Bits of the mirror ended up in a trash can,

Soon the floor was clean again.

The Bowns couldn’t help but give a hug

To their lovely naughty pug.

The pug who managed to conclude,

The story of a long-term feud,

That had spanned for over a hundred years,

Full of deadly, cruel affairs.

Gary Hascal (USA)
I ONCE BELIEVED

Gary Hascal is retired and living in California. He was born in Ohio and lived the majority of his life in Texas. Became a pastry chef specializing in French pastry and switched to mainframe computer operations, programming and Oracle Database Management.

I once bought the story was a trusting fool

Believed right prevailed and my generation was cool

Fell into the trap of being controlled

Believed the world could be made whole.

Born after the War and worldwide depression

Government propaganda made an impression

Spiritually seeking on the interior

Moon landing made us feel superior.

Music expressed our deepest yearning

A new world full of youthful churning

Believed we were special big changes coming

Long hair, miniskirts and guitars strumming.

Drugs to relax some to find God

Woodstock ideals girls with hot bods

Love grass helped us keep it together

Braving the storm through all types of weather.

Lost our way preferred seeking riches

Abandoned enlightenment for profitable niches

Beatles and Hendrix morphed into Rap

Music became twerking repetitive crap.

Telephones became mobile and video recorders

Camera, Internet and Siri to place orders

Life’s essential device all in one place

Everything we do became simple to trace.

Climate propaganda kids think life will cease

United Nations manipulated tyranny increased

Life to be made unlivable and worse

Divide and conquer to destroy us on purpose.

Blacks and Whites cannot live together

Both forgetting that they are brothers

Hatred of Whites and festering vengeance

A future together of this there’s no chance.

Young take delight tearing down history

Soon they’ll forget what made us free

Brain damaged purposely by government

Kids grow up to become compliant.

The goal is one government for entire world

People will be forced to do as they’re told

No possessions or countries like Lennon said

Most of the world’s people will soon be dead.

Remaining slobs will play Hunger Games

Future generations by genetic gains

Humans join AI become the Cyborg

Through Hive Mind fetus umbilical cord.

Privacy and joy will be eliminated

Prescription drugs to keep all sated

Truth will become the first casualty

People will be told “there’s nothing to see”.

My hope is that humans will wake up

Take back their freedom with any luck

Powerful people want total control

They’ll stop at nothing to take your soul.

Stephanie Ellis (England)
DO YOU HAVE THE TIME?

Stephanie Ellis writes dark speculative prose and poetry and has been published in a variety of magazines and anthologies. Her poetry has been published in the Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volume 6 and her latest stories include Asylum of Shadows (Demain Publishing’s Short Sharp Shocks series), and Snowbooks industrial horror anthology, Thread of the Infinite. She is co-editor and contributor at The Infernal Clock and also co-editor of Trembling With Fear, HorrorTree.com’s online magazine. She is an affiliate member of the HWA.

Website: https://stephanieellis.org

Excuse me, do you have the time?

You asked, in such a timid way

Yes, I said

And you looked, you gave me a look

Which I took and fashioned it for my own

To be sewn into a mask

Reflecting back at you

Oh, you want the numbers

Digital or analogue, GMT or PST

Or even PTSD perhaps

Minutes, seconds, hours

Ticking away like a bomb about to blow

Take one, Take two

And… action

Oops, sorry, you didn’t like that

My little joke I see

Stoked the fear in your eyes

Until the bell tolled the hour

And you smiled at the thought

Of a church nearby and safety

…and escape

You don’t have the time, I said

Snapping the trap shut

Listen, God has given you a clue

Let’s count together

And decide together

How long I shall take…

Namiq Sadiyev (Azerbaijan)
THE DAY WAS BREAKING OUTSIDE

Translated by Oleg Hasanov

Namiq Sadiyev was born in 1997 in Azerbaijan. He graduated from a technical institute and works as an engineer. He has been writing dark fiction and poetry since his school years.

The day was breaking outside

Why does everything happen so soon?

I’m looking at my hands and I see

The red glimmer of our blood

Your body was nearby

But you weren’t beside me

Hang on, wait, and I’ll be there

Here in body, and there in spirit

We’re lying in the sea of blood

It’s a pity you’re dead, and I’m still alive

You can’t see any of this, but you wait

I’ll come to you to say how beautiful you are in this wide sea

Our beginning was so beautiful

And so beautifully it all came to an end

This lovely beginning

Of our sad end…

Fiona Cameron (Wales)
ME AND LINDOW MAN

Fiona Cameron works as a Lecturer in Creative Writing at Bangor University, where she convenes modules in poetry, transformative writing and children’s fiction. Her first full length collection of poetry, Bendigo, came out from Knives, Forks and Spoons Press in 2016. Her second collection, She May Be Radon (also with Knives, Forks and Spoons Press) came out in May 2021. Her research interests include: eco-poetry, the domestic, and children’s fiction.

not really now not any more

you’re still here

I’ve learned to accept you

I suppose

as a fragmentary friend moving in sheets of time

you weren’t such a great friend back in ’87 when you wouldn’t let me sleep

pushed your way into the stories I wrote at school

pushed your way into my dreams

or any time in the early 90s

when I wanted to dance or write or sing

without you

or your dumb head in

my peripheral vision

’84 was your big year

they unburied you

the news — not your preferred medium

I know

I know

I know

too grabby too fast

they gave you a stupid name

I get it

It was demeaning

the timing was all off

you were are all over the place

but oh! that coverage!

made up for lost time right?

but really

I know that drama is your natural home

that’s where we found each other

when we came face to face in ’87

a rain slashed school afternoon trees fighting the charged air

beyond bleak windows

educational school TV wheeled in on a trolley

countdown clock to

your head

it appeared in the dark garden of a TV child at teatime

a child like me

your bent form rose off TV marshland

turning then sloping toward the TV house

the TV windows and

up close on the glass

and black now black

you reared up in my imagination

did you have any idea what you were doing?

those terrible fragments lodging

here there and everywhere

your brown leather crease face

shiny and worn

your propensity for surprise

for slime

a love of black peat and your sticky tar heart

beating soft

and low

I know you followed me home in my

green raincoat and willies

I saw you in the storm strewn park

you came to Brownies on cold pastel nights

you followed me

followed me into relationships

reminded me I was untethered from the whole

what whole I’d ask?

why couldn’t you show me the big picture?

today you’re often in the break room at work — you sit behind the door

you like to remind me that this 60s build has a certain type of root structure

a foot in earth

that’s absolutely nothing to do with concrete and steel foundations

but I’m too tired

and

you’re out there in the audience

more often than I’m comfortable with

and yes

you’ve walked beside me on other continents

teeth chattering

trying to join in with the now

you’re excitable but I know you prefer home turf

and

you’ll pop-up on Twitter tomorrow

you’re nothing if not adaptable

and

next week: back home in the England that was Wales

LlŷnDdu / Lindow / Black Lake

oh!

you uncover the night at midday

too many unexpected revivals

celebratory unburials

you’re turning somewhere in unseen versions of now

in some sort of syncopation of limbs

urgh!

you’re a broken time sequence!

and

you’ll pop-up twice on Twitter tomorrow

I know it

or

in a book about the low gradient circular walks of Cheshire

or

in the corner of my mind as I fall asleep

you’re parting the chaos of the reeds

and watching

Til Kumari Sharma (Nepal)
LOST LOVE

Til Kumari Sharma was born in Hile. She is from West Nepal. She got her MA in English Literature from University Kirtipur Kathmandu. She published her first book, Glossary of English Literary Terms, in 2006. She has published over 6,000 poems and other literary works.

Everybody has lost love

That isn’t genuine and pure.

Lost love should be forgotten.

Lost love is hidden and unidentified.

True love is identified and glory.

One is devoted, the other one is doing love to another.

That isn’t true love and that is fake love.

Lost love isn’t genuine love.

It is fake and showy love.

Lost love isn’t love at all.

To remember it is bitter and it’s a torture to all.

Lost love is nothing but death.

Paulo Palz (Nigeria)
DARKNESS

Paulo Palz is a B. Tech in Polymer Science and Textile Technology and is currently a 300 level student of Biochemistry who hails from the southern part of Nigeria. He has written many poems and has also been recently featured in the anthology Nightfall and Other Poems.

There is in me a darkness

Fighting through my veins

A wilderness that once blossomed

A dark flowered garden

Its beauty is inseparable from pain

Hatred so deep in my heart

For all who left a scar

There is in me a darkness

A dark nameless place

Of recessions beyond

Evil so deep in my heart

I was once lost in time

Now torn into pieces

A deep mystery to be explored

Not just a mere hole to be filled

Maxim Tsupkin (Russia)
DESCENDING INTO FLAMES

Maxim Tsupkin’s interest in extreme vocal sounds led him as a result to become a part of an underground metal band. But after its subsequent breakup, he didn’t start looking for other bands, but switched to making audiobooks instead, and his vocal manner left its imprint on his style of narration he uses in his audiobooks.

That’s why, though his vocalism is stuck on the enthusiast level, Maxim comes up from time to time with songs with his own lyrics and music, or he sets other authors’ lines to Creative Commons music.

For many years I’ve stood between the dark and light

For many years I’ve tried so hard to reach thy sun

Today I taste the demon’s blood and hear the angel’s cry

Today I take my final step towards the burning night

Descending into flames where I can find serenity

Descending into flames with no regret, no fear

Descending into flames, no hatred in my heart

Descending into flames, so bid farewell to me

For many years I’ve tried to be like you, oh like the rest

For many years I’ve fallen short, no spark of hope for me

Today I realize that I can’t find a path to Heaven’s Lord

Today I clearly see my road straight down to Hell’s Gate

Descending into flames in search for peace of mind

Descending into flames with no regret, no doubt

Descending into flames, no hatred in my heart

Descending into flames, erase me from your memory

This is the only choice left

For the soul already burnt

This is the only choice left

For the soul burnt to the core

Sayani Mukherjee (India)
GIFTS OF DOMESTICITY

Sayani Mukherjee is a budding writer and an ardent lover of literature hailing from Chandannagar, a former French colony in West Bengal. Currently, she is pursuing her Master’s in English literature from Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. Recently her writing has been published in the literary magazine of her current alma mater, and an international journal namely Fiction Niche. In her free time she likes to engage herself in the world of cinema, art and cooking.

Perhaps it’s hard to take a vow with the hands,

That once burnt in the squeaky gas fire.

Tea pots rusted with bitter clouds of seeping,

Once a gypsy visioned there a living hell fire.

Twitching eyes unfolded of fluttering black moths.

Roasted lips redden with brute-blades of smooches,

Her back now an exquisite cherry orchard,

buried with suppressed shrieks of happy conjugal.

All comes with gifts of domesticity, they say:

“Merely her figment of poppy dreams or

Signs of acute malady of witchcraft!”

resounded chatters thumped and stumped

Over barren wombs of nauseating petit deaths.

Yesterday onerous drops came with her gusty punch in which floated sanctity of rings.

Undone knobs, stranded curtains, cracked tubs,

Now pinned on a long traumatic gyre.

Andrew Kurtz (USA)
THE PORTAL

One of Andrew Kurtz’s greatest passions is horror. He enjoys watching movies, reading literature, and now writing stories.

He is a very new author and has three published works as of now: Dark Valentine Holiday Horror Collection: A Flash Fiction Anthology by Eleanor Merry, Books of Horror Community Anthology Volume 1 by R.J. Roles, and Scary Snippets: Valentine’s Edition.

His favorite authors are Stephen King, Clive Barker, H.P. Lovecraft, H.G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Richard Matheson.

https://www.amazon.com/author/splatter

I have a new invention,

It is opening dimensions.

I want to allow the monstrosities from out there,

To come to our world to destroy without any care.

Are they beings with many arms,

Or do they resemble animals found on farms?

Do they have more than one head,

Or eyes that are different shades of red?

Do they want to be worshiped as Gods,

And arrive here in life pods?

What language will they speak,

And will they appear very weak?

Will they be twenty feet tall,

Or the size of a ping pong ball?

Will they eat us as a meal,

Or make us slaves to turn a wheel?

What colors will they be,

And are they colors humans can see?

The portal is open and I await,

To see what emerges from this interdimensional gate.

Alan Dunnett (England)
BETTER NOT TAKE THE TRAIN

Alan Dunnett has worked as a theatre director, and as an acting tutor at several drama schools. He wrote/voiced Interrogation, Best Experimental Film at the Verona International Film Festival 2019. “Shot in the Head”, informed by Narratives from Columbians Displaced by Violence, is in The Very Edge, Flying Ketchup Press, 2020. Other poems have appeared in The Crank, Ink Sweat & Tears, The New European, Skylight 47, Stand, The Recusant, The Rialto. A collection, A Third Colour, was published by Culture Matters in 2018.

It is during the last days that I sit

in the darkness of a train carriage

underground. Everyone is quiet

except for a baby. The monster’s blood

is dripping down the door like octopus

ink. The roof creaks as its viscous weight sprawled

above shifts. A woman breathes in quickly.

Are you lost, little boy, said the nice lady

a long time ago. I am smelling toast

on bent fingers. The veins of a big eye

press against the windows. It is hot here

in the damp stillness of bodies waiting.

You are grappling with strangers in the night,

crying unintelligibly for help.

Nerisha Kemraj (South Africa)
RED

Short-fiction author, and poet, Nerisha Kemraj, hails from Durban, South Africa. She is the mother of procrastination, and two beautiful girls.

She fell in love,

the colour red

suddenly appealing

like the light red blush

on her glowing face

A little red dress for a memorable date

Red roses

on a red table cloth

Red wine and fine dining

on the mountain-top

Kisses stained his lips red

Red petals on a red bed-spread

Love-making — her red spread

Months pass

Red heat

of the Summer sun ends

Leaves turn red

marking the beginning of Fall

And soon she finds

he’s not taking her call

Red eyes burn

from fallen tears

No word from him

She faces her fears

Red watermelon

and red cherry pie

She sat watching

the red sunset sky

feeding the seed

he planted within

Mind locked shut

She wished she was dead

Laws forcing her to have

the baby he left

The smell of iron

permeates the air

A baby’s cry—

red everywhere

Congratulatory flowers,

Carnations of red

A hopeless situation

The red stop sign—

a signal telling her no

but she had no other option

with nowhere to go

A disgrace to her family

The blade cut in deep

she was tired of the red now

with the baby asleep—

she closed her eyes,

red turning black—

her final sleep

Norbert Góra (Poland)
IS IT ME OR JUST A MACHINE?

Norbert Góra is a 29-year-old poet and writer from Poland. He is the author of more than 100 poems which have been published in poetry anthologies in the USA, the UK, India, Nigeria, Kenya, and Australia.

The pair is about to

suffocate the whistle,

the clatter of the transmission

on a par with the heartbeat,

I pull it off the conveyor belt

and put it on again,

there is a voice behind my back,

“Faster, cut it short!”

Gears grind in the background,

life becomes too mechanical,

my hands are like steel,

I can hardly feel them anymore,

these standards are not for a man,

so I’m asking constantly,

“Is it me or just a machine?”,

I discover that I doubt my humanity.

Natalia Kuznetsova (Russia)
RAVEN

Natalia Kuznetsova is from Shchekino, Tula Region, the homeland of the great Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. Natalia doesn’t know if this fact has influenced her somehow but it is an interesting detail to mention anyway. She writes in English, Russian, and now also French. She takes interest in fantasy, science fiction, Slavic and Celtic mythology, and adventure fiction. Besides writing, she is also into acting, traveling, and photography.

Some of her favorite writers are Robert E. Howard, Rafael Sabatini, P.G. Wodehouse, Ray Bradbury, Robert Heinlein, and Terry Pratchett.

Natalia wrote her very first poem when she was only four years old. Of course, it was just a simple quatrain. At the age of nine, two of her poems were chosen to be recited during an Autumn School Festival. Nowadays she takes writing more seriously, and she is currently working on short stories and novels, but that is another story.

Ravens are circling above the tombstone,

Rattling sabers still gleam from afar,

Routinely Veles is spinning his wheel,

Reuniting forever fathers and sons

Ask yourself in what you believe,

Abandon the life that was never yours,

A couple of birds soar high in the sky,

Awaited by Vyriy to share its warmth

Vagrant and lost in havoc of days,

Venomous snakes entwined for your road,

Vowed to wait till the end of all times,

Valiant echoes to lighten your sorrow

Eternal winter came close to your home

Erasing the last piece of hope and mind,

Exchanged your soul for a couple of wings,

Evoking powers to disguise our flight

Nav realm’s always open for all its birds,

Neverending summer like dreams we saw

Naive drops of rain to dilute our tears

Nourishing lives brought by Mother Earth.

Joshua E. Borgmann (USA)
NEVER LOVE, FOREVER LUST

Joshua E. Borgmann holds degrees from Drake University, Iowa State University, and the University of South Carolina. He grew up on horror and science fiction and had long intended to become a great master of the art form before he was sucked into the bottomless pit of academia. He toils away his days as an English instructor at a small community college and dreams of being able to escape into a world of fantasy and terror where there are no student papers to grade. He resides in a nameless rural Iowa town surrounded by terrible cornfields.

Living absurd day time dreams

filled with vodka induced ecstasy,

and somber longings for things forgotten,

he waits in grim repose

upon his self-made throne of black

for the lady who feeds him the colors,

his vampire slut, his darling Poppy.

He sees her filtered

through some supernatural opium daze,

an image from some dark album cover:

“Bloody Kisses” or “Dusk…

And Her Embrace”.

From the first time he saw

the daisies woven in her hair

and felt her cold touch,

he knew she was wrong,

something not for his time,

more suited to Byron, Shelly, or Poe,

but he’d wanted a devil’s plaything,

an eternal whore of Satanic beauty

and in that first frozen

kiss he was imprisoned in joy,