Issue Four: Greatness by ralph Piccolo

Ralph Piccolo

Mark P. Henderson 2

Managing Editor

Mari Sloan

Short Stories & Novels Editor

Tammy Hendrix

Poetry Editor

“Each artist takes the impossible from the deepest parts of the melding mind and sculpts it in a way that appeases the intellect. A brush, a word, a piece of clay, it doesn’t matter as long as the image that dazzles the brain fulfills our emotional desires. Do you know this artist? Of course, it is you.”

Genre

Art Art Short Story Poem Poem Art Short Story Poem Short Story Photography

Poem Poem Poem Art Short Story Art Art Art Art Poem Poem Poem Poem Poem Poem Article Poem Poem Art Poem Poem

Title & Artist Front cover: Eagle, paper sculpture by Calvin Nicholls Interview: Calvin Nicholls Calvin Nicholls: Paper Sculptures Ed Leonard: Sweet Marilyn Tip Lip Tango: Jenn Wolfe Schizophrenic Born: Dwayne St. Romain Octavian Florescu Art: Octavian Florescu Tip’s Ghost: Mark P. Henderson Beneath the Hill: Michael Night Angel: Phibby Venable Busy Bee, Grasshopper, Hummingbird Clearwing Moth, Spider Web: Sandy Gershenson Descriptions by Mari Sloan and Mark Henderson Old Women: Sherry Asbury Take Me: Tammy Hendrix A Vigil: Thomas Hoffman Sipill Kuhnke Art: Sipill Kuhnke A Toast to You: Ralph Piccolo Anime Art: Introduction Artist: RLac http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com/ Artist: Ivonne http://zoe-sp.deviantart.com/ Artist: Zoe http://animerckxx.deviantart.com/ Loki Coughed: Cutter Murdoch Where Did You Go?: Deana Marrs Hartman Dark Light: Jesse De Jesus At the Intersection: Allen Qing Yuan Innocent: Valentina vonAsh The Raven Speaks: Lawrence Baldwin Vampires, the Truth, Part III: Randall Stone The Rite of Spring: Anne Martin Duality: April Avalon Robert Eustace Art: Robert Eustace Pulling Away: Barbara Huffert The Space Between: David W. Moore III Back cover: Contact, oil on canvas, by Octavian Florescu.

Page

5 10 22 24 26 27 36 38 40

44 52 54 55 56 68 72 73 78 84 90 92 94 95 96 98 100 106 108 109 114 116

Calvin Nicholls

Calvin Nicholls, Creator of Beautiful Paper Sculptures Interviewed by Mark Henderson Calvin Nicholls graduated from Sheridan College, Oakville, Ontario in 1979 and opened his freelance design studio in Toronto in 1981. He began to experiment with paper sculpture three years later, and soon started to integrate his growing creative skill with his love of wildlife, especially birds. His first series of limited edition prints, launched in Ontario in 1989, and his success in shows during the years that followed, led to a series of commissions and a growing demand for his work. His sculptures have been exhibited by the Society of Animal Artists, New York, since 1994, and no fewer than 75 of his large sculptures are displayed in the Follett Library offices of Chicago. He created 15 sculptures of various birds and mammals for the National Trust and Scotia Bank in 1992. His red-tailed hawk won an Award of Merit from the Society of Animal Artists in 1996. In 2002, the children‟s book The World Before This One by Rafe Martin (Arthur A. Levine Press, New York) was illustrated by another 15 of Calvin‟s paper sculptures. There are displays of his work in many parts of the world from Canada to Australia. Calvin now works from his home studio in Lindsay, Ontario, where he and his wife can watch their three children developing their own artistic skills. He is a signature member of Artists for Conservation. A friend in Germany drew my attention to Calvin‟s art. I was immediately captivated by the intricacy and beauty of his paper sculptures and resolved to ask him to talk to U Magazine about his work. ------Mark: Is there such a thing as a „typical creative day‟ for you? For example, do you follow a regular routine, and do you do most of your work at a specific time of day? Calvin: Settling into a working day feels best after I’ve been out for a walk or run through the trails of a lakeside woodland near our home. I love the cool fall mornings, all aspects of winter and the transition of approaching spring. The area I visit offers great diversity in plant and animal life so I usually return home invigorated by surprise animal encounters and intrigued by observations of the changes imposed by season and weather on the trees and water levels. Time disappears in the attic studio of our 1880s brick house (a comfortably large space with an eight foot long half-moon-shaped window facing south into the twisted crown of a black walnut tree, a central work area 35 x 15 x 12 to the peak and a small dormer facing east that

houses my computer work station) from which my work day begins at 8:30 am and concludes at 6:00 pm. I rarely work late at night but do so in some cases to meet deadlines. However, my biggest struggle is to take breaks, which can play havoc as I become more aware of injuries resulting from long hours of work. Responses to email inquiries and orders go out on breaks while specific days and mornings are reserved for art time only. Mark: What are the main influences on your work? Are there other artists who have particularly inspired you? Calvin: Early in my adventure with paper sculpture I was directly influenced by Reinhard in the USA and Jonathan Milne in Canada. I had the good fortune to work with Jonathan on a menu that I designed for a Toronto restaurant. This gave me a first hand opportunity to watch paper sculptures emerge from sketches on which we’d collaborated. I began to experiment on my own soon afterward, excited by the possibilities. The subtle transitions from highlight to shadow and smooth form in paintings by Canadian Group of Seven artist Lawren Harris are often in my mind as I play with light prior to photographing my sculptures. My interest in the work of wildlife artists Michael Dumas, Chris Bacon and Robert Bateman inspires me in my quest to capture moments and aspects of the natural world around me. Another rewarding source of inspiration comes from my three children who are on their own adventures in illustration, photography and design. Mark: Living nature (especially birds) is obviously a major source of your creative ideas. Are there other important sources? Calvin: I am drawn to the vast array of textures and patterns in nature. The rhythmic flow of wood grain, crystal formations deep within the earth’s crust, rock fractured by freeze and thaw cycles or polished by wind and waves, and early morning sun lingering on the craggy bark of a giant hemlock or century pine. I grew up in rural Ontario so the urge to explore has always been strong. The pull to be outdoors is unrelenting and the time spent in the canoe or kayak, hiking by snow shoe, walking or biking always puts me in a good place. Mark: You‟re best known for your superb paper sculptures, and I believe you‟re especially intrigued by the interaction of light and shade on plain paper surfaces. But you‟ve also produced full-colour work. Can you comment on this? For example, do you find grey-scale and full-colour suited to different subjects? Calvin: I have always felt that the absence of colour causes a change in our state of mind as viewers. We see in colour for the most part so working in mono-chromatics does several

things. Initially it seems to pique viewers’ curiosity and secondly it asserts the nature of the medium. This is really important because I feel strongly that the medium can somehow become lost as the colour becomes more vivid. I’m fascinated by the possibilities of paper as an art material and want to share that directly. For me, it’s not so much a means to an end, but rather a medium to record an idea or moment and more about a shared emphasis on form and the paper itself. I want the viewer to be clear that paper is the medium. It’s all about simplicity of form and the interaction of light and shadow. White on white seems to accomplish that goal. Recently I have been experimenting with the idea of applying grey scale to my designs and subjects to place light and shadow throughout the sculpture. I’m excited by the possibilities of this process. However, I cannot set aside the clean pure effect of white paper. Full colour is fun but I rarely work this way, choosing to test the limits of grey scales and the application of spot colour. There are so many experiments ahead, I hesitate to be categorical about what can be successful and what cannot. Mark: Do you create work in any other areas of art (painting, writing, music, etc.)? Calvin: I have enjoyed carving, photography (especially textures and patterns in nature), stringed instruments only on an occasional basis - we’ve had lots of fun as a family sculpting sand at the beach, snow and driftwood - once making a life-size moose on a beach on Lake Superior. The early part of my career was devoted to design, which satisfied a personal problem-solving application of my art interests. The creative process always inspires me. Mark: What artistic goals do you feel you‟ve achieved, and are there other goals you‟re still trying to achieve? Calvin: I truly do marvel at where this adventure in art has taken me. I was initially trained in graphic design and photography, searching and hiring talent for my design projects, negotiating commercial licensing agreements, illustrating children’s books, and participating in gallery events. One idea always seems to lead to the next and I have been incredibly fortunate to have so many folks show an interest in my work. I never imagined that such diversity lay ahead of me in 1981 when I felt the pull to find my way, on my own, in the world of art. One of the greatest rewards has been to find an application for my art interest, which at the same time allowed me to work from home and to see my children grow up. It’s a challenging choice but the rewards have been too numerous for regrets. I’m feeling a keen desire to push into new areas of layout and finish. This may involve new materials and perhaps even a cause. I have seen many artists launch themselves into a new chapter of their career by aligning themselves with a species at risk, or an event, so I keep my eyes open and simply continue to nudge doors open and to find the courage to walk through.

Mark: How much does your creative work take out of you? Does the production of a new piece of paper art leave you emotionally and mentally tired, or do you immediately want to get on to the next piece? Calvin: The deepest sensation I encounter will sound odd: the “detachment” that comes from working too long. Finding a balance between the need to maintain the flow of a piece and the need to take breaks really is a struggle for me as I become immersed in a piece. The drive to continue can be overwhelming. It can lead to mental fatigue and to injuries as well from stressing my shoulders and elbows or hands and neck. I have gradually learned to counter this through a stimulating daily routine that includes exercise and frequent breaks. A feeling of excitement builds as I reach the final stages of each paper sculpture. I find the photography stage such a reward. Playing with light can take hours as I find the balance between highlight and shadow prior to capturing optimal form on 8x10, 4x5 film or on the dslr. I’ve enjoyed this since 1991 when photographer Tony Moore, who directed the photography of my sculptures, retired and guided me in the set-up and purchase of my own studio equipment. It is a true joy. I absolutely love the time spent “painting with light” and looking through the cameras. More importantly, it allows me to record the detail and form that I have laboured so intently to create. Mark: What are you working on at present? Calvin: Numerous things! Several private commissions including subjects from household pets to mountain scenes and that range in size from under 12” to over 84” in length. I’m particularly excited about a piece for a mountain home on Canada’s west coast, which will be revealed later this winter. It’s a very ambitious piece. There are many new contacts with collectors in the USA, Canada and Europe as well as gallery events that will keep me very busy in the coming months. My son and I just completed a commercial paper sculpture project for a prominent studio in Toronto that will appear in national magazines in early 2012. Mark: Where are the best places for our readers to access your art, apart from those we‟ve listed in our preamble to this interview? Calvin: The best source is calvinnicholls.com - I will be making attempts to add new features to the website including new work, events and perhaps a series of tutorials as time permits. BeHance, Society of Animal Artists in New York, and Artists for Conservation also have updates. --------

To see examples of Calvin‟s work and to explore his artistic methods, visit http://www.calvinnicholls.com/. You can find out more about him and his art via the Bēhance network, http://www.behance.net/calvinnicholls. His work is also featured in many other publications, such as Beautiful Life magazine (http://www.beautifullife.info/art-works/beautiful-paper-sculptures-by-calvin-nicholls/).

Canada Goose-4X4

For the other sources mentioned in Calvin‟s interview, see http://societyofanimalartistsmuseum.com/ArtAnimal2011/2011CatalogVirtual.pdf and http://www.natureartists.com/calvin_nicholls.asp

Assembling a Paper Sculpture: Hummingbirds Hummingbird Sequence 1

The cutting is never started until the drawing is completely developed. The component patterns evolve from this drawing. Each piece is considered in terms of its structure and the support it provides for subsequent pieces.

Hummingbird Sequence 2

The drawing is often then drawn again on tracing paper or bond, and then it is transferred to the back of the archival paper for the sculpture.

11 Hummingbird Sequence 3

Blades are changed frequently to ensure that the cuts and edges are crisp and clean. A rubber cutting mat helps.

Hummingbird Sequence 3b

Hummingbird Sequence 4

The pieces are textured and formed using metal tools. Archival glues are used to fasten the components to a base form.

Hummingbird Sequence 5

Fur and feathers are applied from the outside edges in finishing at the face.

13 Hummingbird Sequence 6

The sculptures range in size up to seven feet in length. The largest ones are about three inches deep while the smaller ones are one and a half inches or less. They are durable and strong; some are even displayed without frames or glass. Hummingbird Sequence 7

Calvin takes particular joy in the final stage of lighting the sculpture prior to recording digitally or on large format film.

Hummingbird Sequence 8

Gray-Jays-newer

Boreal Owl 6x4

Finches Giclee 4x4

Squirrel Sculpt 5X3

weet Marilyn By Ed Leonard

Struggling to concentrate on Engineering Studies while lamenting the loss of my hometown first love, I finally decided to take a weekend and try to shake the cloud of depression that hung over me. Marilyn was a girl from Kansas City. I‟d imagined a close relationship with her a few years before. I knew she attended Washington University in St. Louis, so I gathered my backpack, walked out to the highway and thumbed the 100 miles to St. Louis. I was dropped just south of the city and turned north along Big Bend toward Wash U. My first ride dropped me in Ladue, a rich, uppity little burg. The Ladue Police pulled up quickly. My blonde pony tail and backpack had brought out the prejudice in a self-important Barney Fife look-alike. With pockets emptied, and my backpack contents spread on the sidewalk, Barney was visibly disappointed to find no drugs. Who could afford them? With only seventy-five cents cash on me I was handcuffed in his back seat and hauled to the station to be booked for vagrancy. I would spend a night behind bars if one local phone call didn‟t bring help. He wasn‟t buying the Wash U story. He gave me a dime for the wall phone, and stood behind the glass with a Cheshire Cat grin, tossing his keys from one hand to the other. I fumbled with the white pages. There were two dorms listed! So I had a fifty/fifty chance. I flipped the dime on to the back of my hand, and dialed. Sweat beaded above my headband. After five very long rings: “Rubelmann dorm.” “Marilyn Anderson, please.” “What room?” My heart stopped. “I don‟t know.” “Wait.” With irritation. A long wait. “It‟s 322.” Click-click... Ring.

d Leonard describes himself as “an old hippie gone relatively straight,” and he has been a compulsive reader and writer for more than fifty years, with degrees in engineering and art. An Airborne Vietnam veteran who has been self-employed since 1972, he has worked as an artist, a laborer, and a grant writer, and has owned a tabloid newspaper, an antique store, a historical restoration company and a highend remodeling company. Never one for treasuring a dull moment, he has nine grandchildren, five of whom currently live with him and his wife of thirty-eight years.

Barney was now standing with fists on hips, evil eye throwing darts. I attempted to look calm and confident... ring seven..... ring eight... ring nine… “Hello.” Finally! “Marilyn?” “She‟s not here. I‟m her roommate.” Oh, the emotional roller coaster! With as few words and as rapidly as possible I told my story. “I don‟t have a car! Just a minute…” A long minute and another long minute. I heard background talking, and finally the phone picked up. “I‟ll be your Marilyn. What do you look like?” I told her I‟d a long blond ponytail, blue eyes, scraggly beard and bellbottom jeans... The only person in the holding cell. She laughed, “On my way,” and hung up. I should have thought to ask what she looked like. Barney was visibly upset and smoking one of my Camels. He finally went down the hall and left me alone. After an interminable wait the door burst open. The biggest black dandelion Afro I‟d ever seen framed her beautiful black smiling face. I was dumbstruck and my eyes caught on her breasts as she ran toward me and threw out her arms. She role-played that she‟d missed me. After several long moments we could only fill with a kiss, I squeaked out, “You look great, hon.” Now I knew why she‟d laughed on the phone. At seventeen, I‟d never seen a mixed race couple. My rebel soul was near to bursting with pleasure. Barney was red-faced and I honestly feared he would be violent. He unlocked the door and let us out. He kept my cigarettes, but I asked for my sketch pad and pencils back. My next shock was in the lot as she led the way to her dark gold 4.2 liter E-type Jaguar, her high school graduation present. We laughed and loved and enjoyed our way through the whole weekend. She‟d had to show her driver‟s license to Barney to sign me out. She told Barney that she‟d lied to me about her name. He couldn‟t arrest her for lying. The question we debated into the night was about Barney. Was he more upset about losing his hippie, or the fact that his hippie‟s apparent lover was black? Her Michigan parents were both architects. She had a serious boyfriend in Michigan. Her friends helped me sneak into the dorm for the night. They all brought food and I didn‟t get much sleep. I called her sweet Marilyn and we kept in touch for years. I never saw the real Marilyn.

ip Lip Tango By Jenn Wolfe

it is a dance a tango rhythm with a jazz spike underneath and the lady moves like silk floating down in the air hair billowing like organza feet moving light and swift like an angel on high and a sinner's smile graced and he a demon of dire desires hand cupping back with heat like capsaicin fire melted against her every curve hips guiding hips looking sly and slick candy stick cravings at one glance and together... the flow is fantastic frantic paced and flirting fantasy mark the night in panting hours until the cellos mellow and strings turn somber the piano lost its pluck so the candles burned out in fingers and the kiss still searing lingers nothing like a night spent dancing out on the floor sweep her off her feet and carry her in kick shut the door...

single mother to a young boy, a dog and a rampant imagination, Jenn lives in the southeast of the United States. Poetry has been in her blood since the tender age of eight, when the worlds of Poe, Wilde and Dostoyevsky would sing her to sleep. Immersed in literature since her childhood, the world has always inspired her.

S C

hizophrenic Born By Dwayne St. Romain

Now the test you stretch on my desk, Two snaps freed the heave in my breath; Feed the need for your mesmeric breasts Cleaving shocking chasms through my reason, Split the mind talk into chorus Seething porous treasons Calling to the simpler me, Falling in formation like a shore-bound sailor; All the while the calmer phony sweats To thread a distant chatter close to failing As my wailing starving essence commenced preaching, Beneath the rivulet copper fire falls of your hair. I strain to care who sees me love you And I am there, all in The shining, chocolate comfort of your eyes, The raging sin of giving in to set this fire outside When you need so much more from me, And I am sorry I‟m not wholly stronger. That I no longer live beyond the barest embrace Of my teeth tracing slowly From your shoulder to your lips The dance beginning in a kiss beneath your chin As all the breakers trip and I re-pose To settle down the throws Of blinding thirst for you, While being drunk with you, Of knowing I‟d expose this me To being nothing good or true, I pray to break my mind in two; A feral cauldron wild with wanting; And one authentic place for loving you Just to give you this charade And not betray the little bits of me you use, To rest the mess Of restless pathogenic cynics To my committed schizophrenic; There to love you At these splintered altars raised in me, So completely free.

ouisiana Storyteller Dwayne St. Romain is evidence that talent transcends medium. A musician who began writing poetry as a learning tool for song writing, his songs have been published for acts like The Neville Brothers. His poems are a visual and auditory orgasmic experience, best enjoyed when read out loud. Whether it is music or poetry, telling stories is his true passion. New work coming out soon: (poetry and fiction) The Tales That Care Forgot; (novel) A Groom‟s Tale (A Living Testimony of the One True Loup Garou); (music) Ghosts Of Harmony Church performed by Baba Fatz and The Thang.

Octavian Florescu Art

omanian born Octavian Florescu has spent his life searching for the human essence in his work, the link between the human reality and the spiritual one. He interrupted his university studies in engineering to study church painting and restoration instead, beginning a career in art that would lead him to exhibit work and win awards and recognition in Romania, Hungary, Austria, Canada and the United States. He lived in many of those countries before settling in Calgary, Canada where he creates dreamlike, surrealistic figures that use elements of music, dance and nature to express harmony and transition in vibrant color.

Emerald

Higher Dimensions

Beginning

Transcendence

Aurora Borealis

Universe's Eco

Symphonic Gateway

ip’s Ghost By Mark P. Henderson From Folktales of the Peak District

On the western side of Howden Reservoir in the Upper Derwent Valley there‟s a stone memorial to Tip, the faithful collie bitch who belonged to a hill farmer called Joe Tagg. Joe had tended sheep on the high moors for the whole of his life, and Tip was the latest of his long line of sheepdogs. She‟d grown old, like her master, though both master and dog were still fit and strong and equal to the work they did. But one winter day, snow fell heavily and gathered in deep drifts in a strong east wind. The sky was dark with the threat of further falls, and Joe was concerned for his sheep. He was well into his 80s, but out he went over Howden Moor with Tip at his heels to bring his flock to safety, just as he‟d always done. He‟d been on the hills in heavy snow for more winters than he cared to remember. But that day, the 12th of December 1953, he never returned. He lived alone, but his family lived close by and they soon noticed his absence and alerted the police. Rescue parties were called out and many volunteers joined in the search for Joe and Tip. All the moors were covered with deep snow, driven into great drifts by a bitter east wind, and although they followed every route that master and dog might have taken, the searchers returned day after day empty-handed. Joe was lost, and certainly dead, and his old dog with him. Not until fifteen weeks later, when the worst of the snow had thawed, was Joe at last found. A local man called Samuel Bingham was walking up to Howden Moor on the afternoon of the 27 th of March, 1954, when he noticed something moving feebly beside the path. It was Tip. Her coat was dirty and ragged, she was thin to emaciation and she was exhausted, but she‟d survived. Joe‟s body was beside her. For fifteen weeks, all throughout that bitter winter of wind and snow, the old collie had kept vigil over her dead master. Joe‟s niece, Mrs. Thorp, took Tip home with her and nursed her back to health. She cared for her and gave her a comfortable home for the rest of her life, but that wasn‟t long; the old dog died a year later. Soon afterwards, on the 30th of April 1955, a stone memorial was erected beside Howden Reservoir by public subscription, and there it stands today. So much is history. But the December 1964 issue of Derbyshire Life recounted the following (anonymous) story. If it‟s true, it might be no more than coincidence. But it might not. One winter‟s night, a traveller in the Peak District went into a public house near Bamford. He found the bar deserted, except for a large black and white collie lying beside the fire. He called to the dog but it didn‟t respond. Shortly afterwards, a farmer entered the bar and the landlord came out of his living room to attend to his two customers. The three men talked and drank together for a while, and then the visitor glanced towards the fire and noticed the dog had gone. “That‟s odd,” he said. “I didn‟t see the dog go out. It isn‟t very friendly, is it?” The farmer and the landlord exchanged glances. The landlord asked, “What dog?” “The black and white collie that was lying beside the fire.” The farmer immediately swallowed his beer, put on his coat and left the bar, with no explanation and no farewell. The visitor was surprised. “He seemed in a hurry all of a sudden.” “Aye, „e‟ll „ave gone fer t‟ fetch „is sheep down off th‟ „ill to th‟ lower pastures,” explained the landlord. “Yon dog al‟ays appears when there‟s bound fer t‟ be a bad snowfall.” From Mark P. Henderson, Folktales of the Peak District. Stroud, UK: Amberley Publishing; 2011: http://www.amberleybooks.com/shop/article_9781445601076/Folk. Reproduced by permission of Amberley Publishing.

Photos of the Upper Derwent Valley By Mark P. Henderson

ark P. Henderson, from the Peak District of Derbyshire, is a warm, dark-eyed knight who writes, edits, and heals broken souls with his loving concern and kind words. He is the author of an exquisitely complex fiction novel, Perilaus, which breaks new ground in writing style. A collector of local legends, he has also published a short story collection, Rope Trick: Thirteen Strange Tales, and a historical analysis, Murders in the Winnats Pass; and e-published a fairy tale spoof, Fenella and the Magic Mirror. Folktales of The Peak District was published in November 2011.

eneath the Hill By Michael Night

The moonlight through the eaves she sees And stars that twinkle mallow gold She sings an ancient lullaby Of summers lost and tales untold. Her tears of mellow irony Upon her face, they do descend And catch in pools of shimmering glass As silken strands ever ascend. The spiders spin their webs in white That glisten with the evening rain And weave her hair into their art As she weeps in her endless pain. Whilst fingers slide upon the lute That purrs in solemn reverence And plucks the notes to tell her tale Of hallowĂŠd remembrance Of golden halls and silver light, Of gardens tended with great care, Where peacocks echoed lonely calls And danced in colours oh so fair. A midnight mantle held so close And arms about her cast in love, His lips stayed closed lest he should lose His chance to regain home above. His face she sees now in her lull Remembers how he felt to touch. His life long gone on mortal earth Her heart, it aches, her longing such.

But years have passed, two hundred still Under the hill, beneath the loam, The cobwebs fill the golden halls Reminding that she is alone. Alone to think, alone to dream The whiteness of her skin, so pale It shines with perfect radiance And brings to mind another tale; One of the days when she was queen Of Fairyland and realms beyond, That struck the fear in mortal men Of whom she was so very fond But now she lies upon her bed Of leaves and down and silken moss And strums her lute, remembering A life too long and filled with loss. The wine she drinks no longer soothes Her aching heart and restless mind, Its fragrant taste upon her tongue Reminds of what she cannot find. Beneath the hill, under the loam, Where mice do play and insects bide Their fleeting life and mortal death, Whilst she, herself, must always hide, Hide from the Sun and from the breath Of winds that travelled from the North And brought the cold of Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x;s veil To bind her from trespassing forth. So here sheâ&#x20AC;&#x;ll stay, under the hill Within her tomb that long since made Her home a place of darkness kept Whilst all the light began to fade.

39 Her minions turned from grace to beasts And dwarves delved caverns far below. Her people gone, her kingdom spent The peacocks scream in vast echo.

Her tears of mellow irony Upon her face they do descend And catch in pools of shimmering glass. As silken strands ever ascend

She cries her tears that never stop As uillean pipes above proclaim, In lamentation ages gone, On emerald isles that speak her name,

The moonlight through the eaves, she sees And stars that twinkle mallow gold She sings an ancient lullaby Of summers lost and tales untold.

Which echoes yet in ruins and glens In mushroom circles gathering Deep in the woods and meadow flowers Gentle brooks still blathering.

Oh, Maeve, my queen, will you not sleep And ease your burden for awhile? You have bewitched me even now Your beauty always will beguile.

From tongues loosened by bitter ale Queen Maeve of old, her beauty told. Be careful what you may wish for Lest in her kiss your soul is sold.

I give myself to you, my dear, My precious queen, immortal love, Please take me now and with a kiss Banish my soul from up above.

No longer mortal shall you be But damned to life under the hill In golden halls and silver light Amidst the screams of peacocks shrill.

For nothing matters but your love; For you, my dear, I give it all. My tears may fall, but heed them not For you alone, I‟ll gladly fall.

Forget your life; forget above, Forget you ever had a name. You‟ll be her pet, her lovely slave, Bewitched you‟ll be, to your great shame.

Forget the sun; forget my name Under the hill I call my home, Upon your bed of leaves and moss I lie, myself, beneath the loam.

With just a kiss and gentle so The moonlight shining through the eaves Upon the puddle of her tears Your mere reflection that you leave.

Hand me the lute, for I shall play A tune to take away the pain And make you feel that you are loved Though man I be and not the same.

For Maeve is of another ilk, She is of earth and deep shadows Beyond the realm of day to day; Think what you will, though she still knows.

Hush now, Maeve, and feel me now Beneath the loam, under the hill; Upon your bosom I shall lie Forever, until time stands still.

ichael Night is a musician and writer who lives in New York's Hudson Valley with his wife and two Italian Greyhounds. Writing has been a constant part of his life since childhood, growing up in England in a house built in the fifteenth century. Most of his days were spent in the family library, lost in tales of faeries, knights and ancient histories. While many of his pieces are geared towards the darker side of the human condition, he does occasionally write a fairy tale, such as Beneath The Hill.

ngel By Phibby Venable

An angel was perched delicately on the straight back chair in the corner, but everyone pretended not to see her. At least it appeared that way to fifteen year old Katie, who couldn‟t take her eyes off the golden wings and slim figure. “Mama, don‟t you love angels?” Katie asked, pointing toward the one in the corner. The angel smiled, but Martha was distracted with serving so she barely responded, completely ignoring the angel. Katie‟s father never looked up. He continued eating while glancing at a book on his lap. Her two younger brothers were sitting at a small table in the corner taking random bites of food while striking at each other with action figure wrestlers. Katie left the table to go stand by the angel. “What are you doing? Why are you visiting?” “Katie,” her mother warned, “stop talking to yourself!” “I am here to help you, Katie. There is a visitor coming,” the angel told her. “What‟s your name? Who is the visitor?” Katie reached out to touch the soft feathers on its finely woven wing. “Just remember I am here if you need me,” the angel said as it disappeared. “I told you to stop, Katie. I need you to help me clean today. There‟s no school due to the snow, and your Uncle Ben is coming for a visit.” “Mama,” Katie asked, “Do you believe in angels?” “Yes, Katie,” her mother responded. “We often entertain angels unaware, or so it says in the Bible. Now I have a list for you. Be sure to check each thing off as you finish it.” She went into the bathroom to clean, and Katie checked her list. The boys went out into the back yard to play. By evening, Katie had completed her chores, and just in time; Uncle Ben showed up a few minutes later. Katie‟s mother took him to the guest room to settle in for his five-day visit. Katie took the opportunity to go outside. Her little brothers had built a snowman and were looking around the old oak for a piece of bark to use as its mouth. She went for a walk, thinking that snow must have been created in God‟s most frivolous moment. Of course it

41 served a purpose, the same as rain, but it was so beautiful. She thought that if He had chosen a different color, it would not have been the same. The purity and clean covering of the white made everything fresh again. The snow seemed to make people think of fresh starts, especially the first snow, when everyone had forgotten the lovely flakes of the year before and had grown used to the stark realities of life. The first snow of the season seemed to touch the heart with nostalgia and longing. It wasn‟t a longing for any particular thing, nothing one could name; more a feeling that could not be described. Of course if it snowed very long, almost everyone forgot the miraculous beauty of it, the uniqueness of its creation, and found a million reasons to wish it away. Maybe people could only take beauty a little at a time, Katie thought to herself, and if there is too much of anything they forget its value. She walked a bit farther, then turned and headed back toward home. When she returned, Uncle Ben had folded himself into a chair at the kitchen table. His long legs seemed to rise up around his body so it appeared he had blended into himself. Coarse gray pieces of hair stuck out from beneath his hat, which he always hated to remove even when he was indoors. His eyes were large beneath an overhang of heavy brow. He barely glanced at Katie. His eyes fastened on his sister, searching her face for answers. “What is it you think is wrong with me?” he asked. “You tell me that, Martha.” Katie saw the question had made her mother uneasy. Like Uncle Ben, she paused anxiously, waiting for the answer. “Well, Ben, I‟m no doctor and can only repeat what the doctor told us both. You have posttraumatic stress syndrome because of the war. You remember the war, don‟t you, Ben?” “Yes,” he said. “I‟m nervous, not retarded. Of course I remember the war! What of it?” “It seems you remember it too well, Ben. You can‟t get it out of your head. You shake a great deal, startle too easily at noises, flinch like something dreadful is about to happen. It‟s hard to find a job when you act that way.” Katie‟s mother spoke softly but Uncle Ben jerked as though each word swung a hammer. Somehow Katie could feel inside of him. She could sense the shame and fear that rose in a tart, sweaty smell through his shirt. She could also feel a great rage building in him that frightened her. She knew that her mother had more to say and was missing the signals from Uncle Ben‟s body. Katie could see the blood building behind his eyes, then regressing back inside his head. She also realized she was able to see inside his body and mind. It was a gift that had always frightened and angered her mother. For so many years Katie had believed that everyone could see the angel that randomly visited her. Now she wondered if anyone did. Uncle Ben‟s silence only made Martha speak more harshly since she felt he wasn‟t listening

Photo of Path Above Blackshaw Mark P. Henderson

to anything she said. Katie tried to intervene; she could feel the pressure building to rage inside of her uncle. “Mama, Uncle Ben has medals from the war. He was a hero.” “He was a hero when he came home. He could have worked any place he liked, but the war tinkered with his thinking,” she said. “And he‟s right here listening. Please talk directly to me… or better yet, say nothing at all. I‟m not sure why I thought I could talk to you. You have no concept of what I‟m trying to say.” Uncle Ben shrugged angrily and looked out of the window at the snow. At that moment the angel appeared in front of Katie. She was relieved to see it. But to her surprise, Uncle Bens turned and stared at the angel. Then he looked at Katie, searching her face as though he were seeing her for the first time. She decided to risk her mother‟s wrath because she had to know. “Do you see the angel, Uncle Ben?” she asked. He nodded. Her mother inhaled sharply, “Stop it!” she said. “Both of you! I can‟t take any more!” “Why didn‟t you tell me about Katie?” Uncle Ben asked. “You stay away from her. She‟s not like you, and she‟s not like our mother, she‟s just a normal girl.” “Katie,” her uncle said, “how long have you been able to see into others? How long has the angel been here? Listen, your grandmother was the same way. She said it was a gift. It has always been a part of our family, but only certain ones are chosen. It passed over your mother, but I have it.” “Stay away from her. It‟s all nonsense!” her mother cried. “You knew,” her Uncle Ben accused his sister, “you knew when she spoke of the angel that she was here to help her.” “I want her to have a normal life. Not like you or our mother or our grandmother. I haven‟t seen anyone with the gift who‟s had any happiness or joy in their lives. Look at you, Ben! Look at your life! You had no protection during the war. You were open to all those horrible happenings and it destroyed your nerves. I don‟t want that kind of life for Katie!” “It‟s a choice, Martha, and she has the right to make the choice. No matter what happened to me, I would not forfeit this knowing, this sense of connection to a higher being. It brings me hope. The gift did nothing to hurt me. It was the knowledge of humanity and the depravity and stupidity that discouraged my passion. The angel only meant there was hope.”

43 Martha stood indecisively looking from Ben to Katie. “All right. I gave her a normal life as long as I could. Maybe you‟re right, Ben. Work with her. I won‟t say anything more. I imagine having an angel to watch over her isn‟t a bad thing. I have my hands full with the boys. Maybe this gift will work out for her.” Katie could feel the sadness in her mother; she knew she wanted what was best for her. She hugged her tightly. Over the next five days she listened to Ben describing the advantages and disadvantages of the gift. He explained strategies he had devised to control the emotional impact and sadness at having access to the feelings of others. He spoke of a young woman he had once loved but had lost because he could see the insincerity and manipulative aspect of her nature once his infatuation had worn thin. He spoke of his time at war when the battleground flushed red with blood and his friends fell around him torn into a flap of uniforms. Their thoughts and the horror and fear of their impending doom had been too much for him. He had collapsed from the sheer weight of grief and death that had pounded him with a cascade of empathy that had almost destroyed him. He told her that the angel would always be available if things truly became too much to bear. She had never left his side at the veterans‟ hospital where he was taken after his breakdown. Katie was relieved to find someone who understood the confusion she was feeling. It was wonderful to embrace a sense of control and to perfect her blocking abilities. Uncle Ben taught her all he could. She grew more confident after he left. She knew there would still be moments of knowing that would break her heart, but at least she was prepared. There was also the angel that she could call on if things became too hard. All winter she practiced the techniques that Uncle Ben had shown her. By early spring she had learned to walk in crowds without the infringement of debris from the emotions around her. In most cases, she could choose when she wanted to see things. Sometimes, however, the pain was so great in others that it crossed the barriers straight into her psyche. Still, she didn‟t really mind because she realized that to cross her boundaries a person must be in very great pain. She learned to bump into them accidentally, to gently draw them out. It was incredible the amount of loneliness she encountered. It made her grateful for her family and friends. She looked around now with new eyes. There was something inside her proclaiming everything was a gift. The spring flowers that arrived like clockwork on the banks of the river were lush and vibrant with life. She could hear the petals sing toward the sun. The river itself had a deep, rushing voice that propelled it onward against the stones and soil. When the birds sang she realized each of them held an individual song. The nuances thrilled her. Her intensity seemed to hold her body in awe. She wanted to help everyone and everything that she could. Life was a small ship on clear blue and ebony depths. Each person floated with a handful of beautiful bulbs. She planned to plant hers as yellow daffodils in a wide expanse of sand.

hibby Venable's work has been published in 2River, Poetrybay, Southern Ocean Review, Sow's Ear, Voices, the Appalachian Journal and various other national & international magazines. Two chapbooks: On White Top, published by Poetrybay, George Wallace, editor, and Indian Wind Song by People Inc. The proceeds of Indian Wind Song were used to help low income Appalachian families with indoor plumbing and home repairs. Venable won the Virginia Water Project Award, and was nominated for the governor’s award for Volunteer Excellence. She is active in animal rescue. She was nominated by Goldfish Press for the Pushcart Prize in 2009, and in 2010 by Quill and Parchment Press.

Spiders

By Mark Henderson

piders are amazing creatures and their webs are endlessly fascinating. The picture brings to mind so many aspects of spider webs: their beauty, the complexity of their design, the brilliance of the material technology, the control of the process by which they're manufactured... In the spiderâ&#x20AC;&#x;s abdomen are at least three pairs of silkmaking glands, each equipped with a tiny spinarette through which the liquid silk is extruded, to solidify when it makes contact with the air. Each pair of glands makes a different sort of silk protein, and they work in sequence. When a spider starts to weave a web of the type shown in the picture - an orb web - she begins with the dragline and the outer frame, and then she adds the radials. The silk she uses for these parts of the web doesn't quite have the tensile strength of kevlar or carbon fiber, but it's close - and it's a lot more extensible than either; so in terms of overall toughness, it's greater weight per weight than any man-made material. The protein of which this silk is made has an intriguing crystal structure and is cross-linked to give it strength, but it isn't sticky: the spider needs to be able to travel over those strands without becoming stuck to her own web. When the frame and the radials are in place, she starts to weave the spiral, using a different silk protein from a different pair of glands. This silk has a lower crystal content but the protein is shaped like an ultramicroscopic spring, so it's about 1000 times less tough than the frame silk but incomparably more flexible. It's also covered with blobs of a glycoprotein glue (not unlike the mucus that lines your breathing tubes), and some of this glycoprotein binds specifically to insect chitin. An insect that hits the web therefore stretches the orb threads like a trampoline, which absorbs the insect's kinetic energy and stops it bouncing away again; then the glycoprotein glue secures it. It's a superbly designed trap. The spider can walk along the radial threads, using her clawed feet, to the helpless insect, and then inject venom to kill or paralyze the prey. The venom often contains enzymes that start the process of digesting the victim. So much energy goes into the manufacture of the web that many species of spider eat the webs again after they're past their sell-by dates. So the silk proteins are recycled. Also, much of the spider's nervous system is involved in controlling the web-building process, ensuring that each step in the construction is properly timed and placed appropriately within the sequence. Give a spider any of the various intoxicants that humans use for recreation or for seeking 'spiritual experiences' alcohol, nicotine, cannabis, LSD, etc. - and the effect on web construction is dramatic. Stoned spiders can't make proper webs. They produce a chaotic mess of silk that's more or less unfit for purpose... any purpose. Maybe there's a lesson or two there!

Nature Photographer Sandy Gershenson

ark P. Henderson, from the Peak District of Derbyshire, is a warm, dark-eyed knight who writes, edits, and heals broken souls with his loving concern and kind words. He is the author of an exquisitely complex fiction novel, Perilaus, which breaks new ground in writing style. A collector of local legends, he has also published a short story collection, Rope Trick: Thirteen Strange Tales, a historical analysis, Murders in the Winnats Pass, e-published a fairy tale spoof, Fenella and the Magic Mirror, and Folktales of The Peak District was published in November 2011. His beautiful photographs are often a part of this publication. When not in his castle, you can find him wandering around The Peak District enjoying its beauty and its people. You can reach him on his website: http://www.markphenderson.com/

It’s a Bird! It’s a Bee! No! It’s a Hummingbird Clearwing Moth!

By Mari Sloan

ften the Hummingbird Clearwing Moth (Hemaris thysbe) is mistaken for a RubyThroated Hummingbird, or, from the back, a large, fat honeybee. Its green body fur and burgundy wing scales make identification as a moth possible only if you get close enough to see its stubby antlers. Adults can look very different, too, and it behaves like our more common feathered friends, flitting from flower to flower during the daytime, sipping nectar through its long feeding tube of a mouth. It ranges throughout the Eastern United States and Southern Canada, and as far to the Northwest as Oregon and the Yukon Territory of Alaska. The caterpillars pupate near the ground in many of the native plants--honeysuckle, snowberry, hawthorn, cherry, plum and European cranberry bushes. The adults feast on the nectar of most of the native wildflowers in the region. In the southern part of their range they breed twice a year, March through June and August through October, but at the northern end they breed only once—April through August. Moths are insects that go through complete metamorphosis, meaning that each hatches from an egg to become a caterpillar, and then the caterpillar encloses itself in a pupa from which it emerges as an adult moth that lays the eggs for the new generation. The larval stage of this particular moth is a little green caterpillar with a sharp, light-brown tail. This beauty is only one of the gorgeous creatures that can result from a plain looking caterpillar, so watch where you step! Those big holes in your green shrubs may result in future visitors you‟ll value!

Nature Photographer Sandy Gershenson

orn into a Georgia family of eccentrics and visionaries, Mari Sloan carries her heritage of storytelling from the Deep South to the hills of Southern California. Educated in counseling, and formerly a family services caseworker with volunteer experience in disaster relief with the American Red Cross, she is no stranger to the perverse working of the human mind. Her latest novel, BEAUFORT FALLS, is a picture of humanity at its best, and worst, and sometimes its funniest.

The Busy Bee

By Mari Sloan

he lovely Western Honeybee (Apis mellifera) you see here is a female worker bee, busy with the tasks of summer. She will fly back to her hive, create and deposit a little honey, perhaps stick around to produce a few wax cells, then fly her same itinerary the next day. She is not a guard, but she does have a stinger. Contrary to popular belief she might not die immediately if she stings you. That only happens if her stinger detaches, and often it does not. Her hive is made up of worker bees, drones and one queen. All of these develop from the eggs of the queen bee, who lays thousands of eggs a day, spending all of her adult life after mating looking for clean cells and laying an egg in each one. The hive is laid out in different sections with many normally sized cells for worker bees, a slightly larger celled section for male bees (the drones), and a large chamber for the queen. A honeybee‟s life cycle is one of complete metamorphosis, and the queen lays eggs that become both workers and drones. Each begins as an egg and after three days becomes a larva. After six days for worker bees or seven days for drones, adult worker bees cap the cell with wax and the pupa stage begins. The length of this stage varies according to what sort of bee is going to emerge, twelve days for workers and fourteen for the drones. The future queen spends only five days as a larva and only nine in the pupa, emerging sooner than her siblings. Each type of bee serves a vital function in the hive. The workers‟ and queen‟s functions are well known, but the drones have very little use at all other than their brief flight that impregnates a queen. The act of love is so exhausting that it kills them immediately, and many manage to inseminate a single queen during the “swarm.” They have no ability to produce honey, no skill at collecting pollen, they can‟t engineer cells or make wax, and have no stingers to guard the hive. If they emerge at the wrong time of the year they are usually just pushed out of the hive to die of starvation or cold on some lonely sidewalk or the windshield of some passing car. It is a good thing to be a female bee, and even better to be the queen. Workers live for three or four months, wearing out fairly quickly, but a queen lives for three or four years. All hail to the Queen!

Nature Photographer Sandy Gershenson

The Grasshopper, One of Nature’s Musicians

By Mari Sloan

nterrupted during its crucial morning sunning, this big-eyed adult grasshopper could be any one of more than sixty similar species found in the northeastern part of the United States. They live on the ground, or they hop onto plants, strip branches or eat mulch, fly, leap or hop, but they have many things in common. They all have a life cycle that consists of simple metamorphosis, differing from the majority of insects such as bees and moths that develop through the more complete form. Grasshoppers hatch as small, simple versions of the adult called “nymphs,” and they molt every four to six days during their first month shedding their outer skin as they grow. When mature, the adult female will mate and deposit six to eight eggs in the dirt once every five days for another couple of months until the end of the summer, when they grow old and die. The buried eggs will grow into larvae that ride out the winter and hatch in the spring. They have a lovely life, as mentioned in the old folk story about the grasshopper and the ant. They awake, find a sunny spot and warm themselves, eat all morning or mate with other happy grasshoppers, take an afternoon nap and get warm, lay eggs (if they are female and the urge hits), then crawl into the bushes until the next day dawns. During the cool of the evening, grasshoppers and crickets have the unique ability to communicate with each other by rubbing their legs together. We can only guess at what they are saying, but they vibrate long trills and short clicks by shaking their legs and wings and producing a music that all of us have come to love. Perhaps they are warming themselves one last time against the impending chill, but pitches and sounds vary enough to indicate that this is not just casual shivering. Nature‟s musicians entertain us all, announcing the coming of the dark night.

Nature Photographer Sandy Gershenson

andy Gershenson, a long-time resident of Mahopac, New York, is the middle of a “Sandywich.” A middle child with two brothers who was born in The Bronx, she quickly learned to love New York State and to value the creatures that now surround her magical half-acre. Her favorite hat tells you her “children have paws,” and she is the human mother of “The Min Pin Gang,” eight little dogs who would never let her communicate with other natural life if they could prevent it. In spite of them, bird feeders in her front and back yards attract many wild creatures and she loves to sneak up on Nature and capture it in her incredible photographs. The wonders of rural New York come to life in images taken within her fenced space.

ld Women By Sherry Asbury

Old women are forgotten wombs whose graceless bodies have fed the world then been sent to sit in its shadows. Not quite seen -- unacknowledged and without nurture. Old women are crucified with the nails of oppression and poverty. Equality is a Damoclean sword when age freckles outnumber the soft, sweet patches of youth. Old women have scarred and calloused knees from kneeling in submission to lesser minds. A rosary of sorrows is strung though the weary fingers of old women. They are hung on the crucifix of youth and beauty, to wither into dust. Old women have crabbed and ruined toes from shoes worn too long, so that a child might have new ones. Alone in cubicles or corners, frayed photos beneath their coats; old women remember the children who have long ago forgotten them. Old women do not seek a man's arms, for that is not a place of refuge but a honeyed trap where souls are broken and burned. Old women talk to themselves because no one has ears to hear them. Even their echoes are faint and whispered. Such wondrous minds live in these libraries of living life; vision and experience left untouched because they are not behind a pretty face. Behold the woman. She is a wealth of wisdom and power, beauty and courage -- to those wise enough to seek her power. Her day will come. Until then -- she endures.

ixty-six year old Sherry Asburyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life has been an endless dance with mental illness and poverty, and she strives to live every day with dignity and purpose. Her starkly honest and emotionally sensitive poetry is written to provide support for the disenfranchised, the homeless, and fellow-victims of domestic abuse. Her work has appeared in many venues including Street Roots, a Portland, Oregon newspaper for the homeless. She lives quietly in Portland with her three cats.

ake Me By Tammy Hendrix

Take this confusion by the mind, a self-inflicted lack nurtured knowledge compromised for enduring physical necessity slowed enough to understand ignorance rules my life. In need of patient teaching to break through false learning and quench a thirst to know. Take this hollow by the heart, peace and joy inspired beats for me, for you turning cold like stone, a will dying, halting thumping efforts, bleeding tears of shame for apathy clotted caring and a life meant for giving. Take this yearning by the womb, deluge anointing like summer rain warm and cleansing. Fiercely fueled passion kept alive by imagination held sacred since sweetness dreamed of tingling kisses grown to heaving breaths exploring flesh and fantasy. Take this conflict by the hand, hold tight as faith spirals into fear, past influenced disbelief, determined like my need for certainty yet far stronger than I. Guide me through doors kept cautiously closed, peaked in by curiosities, slammed shut by pain.

ammy Hendrix, from Milton, New Hampshire, comes from an artistic family including her mother, a published poet and her father, a lead guitarist and vocalist who recorded five albums and played with Bill Haley. A Personal Care Provider for the handicapped and elderly, her greatest joys are writing, long rides on winding roads and cross country, and lying in wide open fields and stargazing.

Vigil By Thomas Hoffman

Every night I keep this vigil, often in silence, listening not with my ears--but my heart to distant suns chanting, it seems, of destinies greater than I am; this attentive student of their lessons only a clear night sky can teach. My lips burn for the kiss passed from lover to true lover; eyes welling with the yearning for a smile upon a friendly face. My heart trembles for the temporality that my distant prophets suggest, my body quaking with the effort. For all the lights in the sky proclaim it is my responsibility, discontent that I take up this charge on Earth: to know their call to arms, their gravity, the fire they ignite within my soul. So I may die in hope--never despair. In vigil, I see all is not terminal.

homas Hoffman writes fiction and poetry while dabbling in other creative media. He lives in Frederick, MD. Despite his lust for words, he is on a very solid career-track to become the odd man who lives with all the cats - when that position becomes available again, of course. More information is available at http://thomashoffman.net.

ree spirited Sipill Kuhnke often spends an entire night through splashing paint on canvas to create creatures that would be more at home in Disneyland or an enchanted forest than his simple studio in Roswell, Georgia. Bright, wildly original, they release the inner child in each of us while remaining the sophisticated treasure of the adult art lover. They beg to be reproduced in neon on the largest wall available, they scream to be loved--they proclaim that fantasy is far more fun than reality and life has no boundaries. They are amazing!

As the Eye Gets in the Groove of the Rainbow

Evil Jack in the Box

As the Snail Moves Slowly

The Dragon Fly in the Landscape

3 D Land

The Rain Forest

Toast to You

By Ralph Piccolo

I Today has been very challenging for me, and I would dread anything that could dampen my spirit. Anything from my health to political views on television could shock me, like a person walking across the carpet while reaching for the doorknob. I decided to try and relax, but with all of the complexities that life deals to us, that wasn‟t going to easy. Life can be wonderful sometimes, as long as you‟re geared towards it. Unfortunately, I reap no reward; instead, I write blogs and ponder the ho-hums of life. After a few hours of burning the daylight sun, I noticed an emptiness that surrounded my stomach. The grumbling from the void was deafening. I think it woke the dead; well, figuratively speaking. I grabbed a couple of pieces of fresh white bread and popped them into the toaster. Then I set the dial to dark. Of course, this is my favorite setting. I love the taste of dark brown toast… umm, yummy. The only time I like soft white or wheat bread is when it‟s fresh out of the oven… oh yeah! Umm; that aroma, the foretaste of flavor as it slowly drips to my stomach, played over and over again in my mind. Oh, come on, I‟m not prejudiced just because I love toast! But let‟s get back to the story. As the clock on the wall clicked with precision, my stomach let out a rumbling noise, then another, finally ripping and vibrating through my entire body. I noticed the clock had ticked away five minutes and the toast had not popped up. I could feel the heat rising from this ancient kitchen appliance, so I knew it was working. I decided to push the eject button, but nothing happened. Then I reached around to the wall plug and tried to unplug it. I received the shock of my life, one hundred and twenty stinging volts of electricity that rattled my nerves. I tried again, but the same result… ouch. I was so hungry I couldn‟t stand to play with this witty toaster, and of course this called for drastic measures. I decided to wrestle the toaster for my two pieces of now-burnt bread. I wrapped my arm around it and tried to pin it. Obviously, this was a big mistake considering it was red-hot. My screams were as whispers compared to the stomach rumbles, which seemed appropriate for a “B type” Saturday night horror movie. My hunger had the better of me and tears dripped from my eyes. Of course, salt tears and electricity couldn‟t be classed as good friends. I couldn‟t understand why this toaster would hold my bread hostage. I was about to give up when a sizzling sound, followed by an impressive array of sparks, flew upwards as the spring released. My eyes were glued wide in amazement when I turned to look at the toaster, and saw…

69 II While I slowly lifted my eyes to examine the toaster, a chilling ghoulish feeling overwhelmed my common sense. There was nothing in the toaster: No bread, toast or ash. I began to shake while searching my mind for answers. What had happened to the bread I‟d placed in the toaster, and why was there no reminiscence of the toast? I couldn‟t bring myself to touch the toaster, or even move my hand anywhere close to it. Confusion occupied my mind and soul. The heat from the toaster continued to rise, pinging as it rode the metal walls before escaping from the top. Sparks popped out of the wall socket, electrifying every item in the area around the stainless-steel sink. I had to jump back as the sound of welding spooked me, attaching the metal pot to the sink. The floor was now covered in water, with no indication of how the water had suddenly appeared there. Was it a pipe break or something out of the nightmare sequence that was overtaking my peaceful world? I froze in place, for if I had taken a step the frenzy of fear would have vanquished the small amount of sanity that remained to me, diminishing in the blink of an eye. I watched the water creep towards me as it covered the square tile blocks of my kitchen floor one by one. I stepped back until I managed to escape to the living room carpet and brushed the sigh of relief from my lips. Smoke oozed up, covering the room with a dark, gassy smell, repainting the ceiling a rich ruby color. It became so thick that light vanished and only an eerie darkness occupied the space between the four walls. The doorbell rang continuously as if someone with an over-excited finger had jackhammered the bell, but to me it was a sigh of relief. Someone was there, so reality would soon return and this deeply insane world would finally cease to exist. The bell continued to ring as I shouted, “I‟m coming, I‟m coming!” I fumbled with the lock while turning the doorknob, and as I opened the door, the vacuum escaped into the static-charged air, lighting up the sky. The ringing stopped and when I looked for who was there, I could feel a breath burning the hairs from my neck. My eyes caught a glimpse of what stood on the porch and I screamed. III As the chilling scream pushed its way out of my lungs, I could hear my heart pounding until my body shattered from its own sound. My eyes glossed over from the smoke that now filled the living room. The smoke crept out the front door, which brings me back to why I screamed. At first glance, the image that infested my mind reminded me of a hideous creature. Its face was inside out and dripping with blood, forming a puddle that filled the ground with a coloring of pinkish-gray. Its fingers were long and narrow with exposed bone and extremely long fingernails. In addition, as it grabbed the door, it cut the aluminum clean through as if a pair of shears had maneuvered its way along a cutout pattern.

I stepped back, and out of fright slammed the large oak door; that not only made a boom, it also fanned the flames in the room. I could see dancing orange embers that seemed to have their own agenda. They inched their way up the hallway and plucked the nails from the closet door before engulfing all my clothes. I was quickly running out of real estate and the creep on the other side of the door had me trapped in this forsaken inferno. There was only one way out of this mess and that way was up… up into the attic. I started climbing the stairs one by one as the smoke twirled its way up behind me, like a cyclone vacuuming the ocean waters. No matter how quickly I climbed, the fire would sneak around the corner and lance another structure until a void became imminent. I could see the smoke, like a dense fog, reaching and mounting each of the fourteen stairs, reminding my poor soul that life would soon no longer exist. The smoke alarm rang loudly through the attic, adding insult to injury and increasing my state of confusion ten-fold. I reached for the detector and slammed it to the ground, smashing it into a million pieces. Damn, I could still hear it, piercing my ears with its infuriating tone, and even at this inappropriate time I could complain about the person who designed the unwelcome system. The flames now engulfed the attic and were rapidly inching their way towards me. With my hands pressed against my head to protect me from the piercing sound, fire raging towards me instilling doom in my genes, and a hideous creep outside my front door, I realized that there was only one fire alarm in my house. Suddenly I woke up with the alarm ringing, as I choked on the smoke that filled the room. The last thing I remembered was putting a pot of water on the stove and sitting down to take a short nap. Now was the time to charge into action and turn off the stove, which I did without a moment‟s hesitation. I also opened the window and glanced at the toaster, which held two slices of bread. The doorbell was ringing as it did in the dream, and I wondered who was there. I didn‟t understand everything that had overwhelmed me during the fire alarm but I knew it had saved me. My arm hurt; actually, it burned, and I wasn‟t sure why it felt that way, but it began to annoy me. When I pulled my sleeve back I could see a large burn with the emblem of a “W” on my arm quite similar to that on my toaster. When I unbuttoned my shirt, I noticed a large burn on my chest. The fire was out, I had some unexplainable marks on my chest and arm, and someone was still ringing the doorbell. The question I had to ask myself, after all that I‟d just experienced, was do I dare answer the door? Suddenly, I woke up.

71 IV As I woke from this gnarly dream, I could taste the morning breath that labored away at my mouth. Sweat had soaked my shirt and layered my brow as my heart accelerated as though it had received an artificial stimulant. The time of day seemed irrelevant, for finding the answer was only moments away, so why trouble myself? How bad could it be? The doorbell was still ringing off the wall and for just that instant I recapped the nightmarish dream that beat all movies and placed me in the perils of hell. Finding the courage and strength to place my feet on the floor took some motor skill; it seemed that my neuron sequence was distorted or delayed. I wonder if I‟d fried a few circuits or somehow corrupted the wires that hinged my sanity together. I made it to the front door to see who was lurking on the steps. It was a milky white woman in her early twenties, with long blonde hair, jet blue eyes and a vivid smile. Her name was Christine, and her occupation was real estate. “Hello Mr. Cardozo, I‟m Christine, a real estate agent with „Homes Beyond‟. I wanted to take a little time to introduce these homes to you. Do you have some time available now?” “Sure, Christine, come in. Please call me Joey; I really despise the formal stuff.” “Thank you Joey.” Christine entered the gateway of the house. She wore a beautifully crafted low cut dress with rare, delicate flowers woven through it. Her figure was superb, really a wanted delight, but I reminded myself to be professional. As Christine passed me I could feel her magnetic force grappling with me, yanking at my arms, and then a sudden loss of energy as though it had been zapped from my soul. I did my best to ignore this, but in honesty, it just blew me away. I could smell Christine‟s musky animal scent as she sat down, squeezing her legs together so that I would not notice the attraction she exhibited for me. Her voice became hesitant and every aspect of her demeanor began to change. This was so weird that I spoke quickly and politely to her. I asked her if she could come back another time. Unhappily, she agreed, and what little blood had colored her face disappeared. As she stepped into the darkness, she vanished. I could not help but wonder whether I had just invited the devil into my lair. How had she just evaporated into the night air?

To be continued in the next issue of U Magazine

mischievous imp in the world of publishing, this magazine managing editor has written and published a children’s book, Chompy and is an avid fan of anime and a talented web and layout designer. Known for his whimsical sense of humor, he also writes highly unusual poetry and short stories. Ralph Piccolo is much loved by his staff and the members of Mind’s Eye, who are never sure quite what to expect.

Anime, a new art form that sprung from the Japanese animation characters of the 1990s, has become a hit amongst teens and young adults (and maybe not only young adults, because I‟m not so young). Anime comprises Original Characters (OCs) that lead the series into mystery, suspense, fancy and, of course, love. Many teens adore the characters and adapt their own OCs based on their own written stories. We are featuring some of these in the following pages of this issue: three young adults who create their own OCs that make their worlds a reality. Our first artist is http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com/ (Rlac), whose goal in life is to become a chemical engineer. She dabbles in the art of Anime, but unlike our other artists she specializes in Chibi, which is a cute adorable animation character. She has style like no other, and for a „newby‟ in this form of art she has caught on quickly and her commissioned work has become popular. She creates uniquely expressive eyes for her characters, my favorites! Our next artist is http://zoe-sp.deviantart.com/ (Ivonne), whose goal in life is to become an architect; she is currently studying architecture at college. She also creates OCs and her drawings often come from real life, but she creates emotional fictional stories too. Her anime characters are normally from the television series that she loves to watch. Our last Artist is http://animerckxx.deviantart.com/ (Zoe), who wants to become an artist/ writer. Often she writes about a young woman, challenged in battle, a beautiful heroine. Other OCs are an escape from the reality of everyday life for her. Oh - did I mention „escape‟? Anime creates worlds that give many young adults a needed escape from the tedium of ordinary life. In this issue we bring you some young talent - but just wait till you read the stories that go with these OCs. That is another story altogether.

Ivonne is 20 years old and from Guatemala. A student of architecture, she draws in her free time as a hobby, and it makes her happy. Her dream is to build a refuge for animals that have been abused or are living on the street, and to paint a huge mural on it with the theme of a heaven for animals. Zoe is from the U.K. She lists her hobbies as drawing, make-up, hair, gaming and occasionally video editing. She started drawing anime when she was 12-13 years old and suffering from depression/anxiety. She found she could pour her emotions into her drawings, and this helped her; but having started, she wants to continue, declaring that she has no other unique qualities.

Kiyoko By http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com

Rous By http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com

Tear Head Shot By http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com

Malfoyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Apple By http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com

Tearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Audition By http://rlacrouse.deviantart.com

Ameria By http://zoe-sp.deviantart.com

Starla By http://zoe-sp.deviantart.com

Gardevoir/ Walk Slightly (fanart of the Pokemon franchise, some of the beloved Pokemon with their respective human form) By http://zoe-sp.deviantart.com

She always waits for someone (A scene with my OCâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s) By http://zoe-sp.deviantart.com

Evil Seitansai By http://animerckxx.deviantart.com

Seitansai By http://animerckxx.deviantart.com

Demon Anime Girl By http://animerckxx.deviantart.com

Elizabeth Anime By http://animerckxx.deviantart.com

oki Coughed By Cutter Murdoch

Somewhere between dusk and the onslaught of heavy snow, Loki coughed. The sound was soft but the ripples were insidious. Nick the fireman, three stools down, slumped. His head made a hollow sound on the mahogany of the bar. He liked to brag of his eighty-three winters. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x;s all there would be. Outside, starlings exploded from a holly hedge like charcoal sparks from a deep, green blaze. In concentric circles like a waxing moon dogs and wolves began to howl in mourning, in rage, in the need to know that they were not alone. Poets woke screaming to scrawl on the walls of empty rooms before falling into the dust and markers where they would later rise to find masterpieces that they would never remember writing. Gargoyles and grotesques shifted, stretched and froze again, changed just enough to cause the faithful mild discomfort. Melanie Pine blinked a couple of times, sat up naked from the cold, steel table and did not flinch at the crash of the coronerâ&#x20AC;&#x;s blades. Ships were lost and causes found as it crossed the sea and washed up on other shores, where old women began to sing songs that only their bones knew.

And through the bitter rooms of a convent, orgasms curled the sisters fetal climaxes that must surely be divine but were never spoken of, just in case. Murderers died and others went free through open doors once welded shut. And many that began to climb would never descend to warmth again. Guide dogs heard the howls, raced like molten golden blurs into field, fen and deeper green, leaving the blind to be simply blind. Fruit pickers stared with wild wonder through every orchard, in every land, for the boughs hung heavy with aspen golden apples. Giggling children spoke in rhyme and stole in to the sleeping rooms with knives aglitter, hungry for a morning without mothers. Spider webs filled busy rooms and it would be thirty-nine years before anyone could find any reference to God. Things writhed up from the great, black deep to take swimmers like bobbing morsels and nothing flew, the sky was void of feather, fur and steel. All of the promises kept were ones of a sinister bent, and no bride or groom could say â&#x20AC;&#x153;I do.â&#x20AC;? It rained, it snowed and no where was it still, no where was it quiet, it was as if when Loki coughed that Being itself cleared its throat. In a tiny bar by the Atlantic sea Loki coughed, and though the ripples were insidious, they passed before the snow got heavy.

utter Murdoch is a poet, author, and gleefully dark vagabond currently living in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. He has a passion for snakes, nature, thunderstorms, indigenous cultures, traditional cuisine, sailing ships, varied textures of music, bonsai, gardening, artistic violence, old cars, canoes, arcane holidays, stabby things, spoon rings and peaches. He is not to be confused with the morose, melancholy, gothic poet that also uses his body on occasion for its own less than altruistic purposes.

here Did You Go? By Deana Marrs Hartman

Did you dissipate in the raging prairie winds, Caught in the tall rustling grasses? Did you leap from a hanging outcrop, Out of sight and out of mind to the rocks below? Did you slowly saunter down an open desert road, Listening to insect songs and coyote yips, only the moon as company? Did you dig a hole of despair and burrow into its depression, Melting back into the earth among worms and bugs? Where did you go? Perhaps you climbed a mountain of indifference, To slide down a stagnant glacier, creeping to the sea. Perhaps you still run an endless, desolate track, Legs trembling, lungs screaming. Perhaps you sit in a corner of a busy room Watching others, unnoticed. Perhaps you crouched in the sagebrush, hide-and-seek, Finally giving up to go anywhere else to play. Where did you go? Sometimes I see you from an abandoned barn window, paint peeling, rafters caving, Peeking through broken glass out over a fallow field. Sometimes I glimpse you among the trash heaps, Threading through discarded things, stench of rot and forgotten wants. Sometimes I feel you skitter across the keyboard, Writing traces of what was and never will be again. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, an apparition Fading as I turn a flashlight in your direction Where did you go? I feel a chasm where you were, dark, deep, endless. I grieve, no remnants of hope expanding behind your wake. I am paralyzed with indecision, wondering when I will leap, A small unnoticed splash sinking to the bottom, Ripples and bubbles blending back into the sea. Where did you go -Eros, Philos and Agape? Where did you go, love?

orn in the Midwest, Kansas City artist and poet Deana Marrs Hartman has been writing her entire life. She creates quotations and phrases for her fiber art and writes non-fiction blogs and expressive poetry, feeling most connected when writing. A graduate of Iowa State University with a major in English, she has recently been digging into her emotions and exploring the visual imagery words can paint.

ark Light By Jesse De Jesus

I want to explain But canâ&#x20AC;&#x;t find the words They hide in my nerves Slander disturbed Electric impulses Actionless verbs Withdrawn convulsions Leave me perturbed Too many herbs In one cup of tea Not what I need To leave behind So shut the blinds The light inside Is enough indeed For the darkness to shine I find no need For an outside source Except the energy Of the Universe The smile of my child Makes this fire within Burn hotter and brighter Than solar winds

t the Intersection By Allen Qing Yuan

Green, Yellow, Red, Step, Stop. Yet again I missed the light. What could have been? What should have been? My chance to burst to The frontier of the background, Defining the jagged shimmer Of the tender life force. But I wait, pondering: Is this a pre-carved destiny? Green, Yellow, Red, Step.

ixteen-year-old Allen Qing Yuan, born in Canada, currently attends Sir Winston Churchill Secondary School in Vancouver. His poems have been published, or publication is forthcoming, in Cannon's Mouth (UK), Istanbul Literary Review (TR), Contemporary American Voices, Taj Mahal Review (IN), MOBIUS, Zouch (CA) and elsewhere.

nnocent By Valentina vonAsh

Flames, moored by hunger to carbon-coated tips of ivory wicks; dancing slowly, swaying, as if moving to the melancholy lilt of her violin. She pulled her waxen bow in strokes, long and gentle, across the strings. Her heart‟s sorrow woven within each plaintive note of mourning. Music of memories; of love: innocent, beautiful, complete; of longing glances in a summer rain; of laughter, when hand-in-hand they ran for shelter; lingering kisses in a doorway that opened into a darkened place. They stumbled in and stayed… warm, drying in each other‟s arms, but wet with kiss and brush of tongue where touch met thrust and passion‟s heat. Sated caresses made peaceful dreams. And in love they passed the days, wrapped in happy hearth‟s embrace, „til the thief of souls grown greedy stole laughter, love, and life away. Forever gone. Loneliness consumed their love-lit home, leaving a hollow, darkened space that neither her heart nor will could light alone. She broke. Her soft playing slowed, the last haunting notes like roaming ghosts in shadows; trapped, dissipating in the flickering candlelight. She sat and stared with hind-sight eyes then sighing, she laid her violin aside. Heavily, she rose; skin and bones. Standing before the windows, she drew the sashes open wide, and cried, for the living she‟d forgotten, and the dreams that lived no more. Still, she imagined she‟d be torn But no! Innocence long abandoned, she was ready to let go. Her heart rose, slipping free of her grief, for in that moment she'd seen... the thief of souls awaiting hers, as her body fell to the rocks below.

alentina vonAsh is the love-child of Whimsy and Need. She is a student, a mother, a teacher, and a lover, and always will be. This is her first official appearance in a publication; however, some of her poetry lives at WordMachinist.com and some of her photography lives at http://www.jpgmag.com/people/vonAsh.

he Raven Speaks By Lawrence Baldwin

He has grown bold With his years and great beard. He is clearly a sage, Judging by his deportment, With black robes and regal pose. He tutors as we approach With such speech as we have Never known to come from birds. Guttural warnings and ominous clicks Emanate from his depths. There is an abiding urgency To the message as he maintains His perch to deliver the speech. He leans forward to stress a point And wings flutter a counter-balance. We stop to ponder and he sums up With many a flap and flourish. In silence now, his blinking eyes Slowly complete the cryptic code. For a second the mind meld holds. Then he fluffs up and, with great resolve, Pushes off from gravityâ&#x20AC;&#x;s shore With great gossamer oars, To mount the sky and soar. A message of such import delivered And a chance meeting to be revered.

hen Lawrence Baldwin retired, he began writing poetry, clearing the dusty skeletons out of his family closet. He honed his skills at Dreamerscafening.com and has published his work in The Rattlesnake Review, at WTF and in an anthology, Moon Mist Valley.

ampires, the Truth Part III By Randall Stone

Over the centuries there have been many attempts to explain what the learned deemed the „irrational fear‟ of vampires among the lower classes and the superstitious ignorant. It is true that vampire attacks and episodes were often linked with disease and epidemics. As far as the average man was concerned, such infections arose from the dead and decomposing bodies that came to haunt them in the night. According to eminent and intelligent men of standing - physicians, politicians, the rich and the nobility - the vampire was not the cause of the epidemics but rather the excuse. Diseases such as cholera and consumption (tuberculosis) mirrored the horrific symptoms widely believed to be the hallmarks of vampire attacks: pallor, bloodshot eyes, listlessness, sensitivity to bright light, continual sickness and the coughing up of blood. These diseases killed quickly and indiscriminately, passing from one family member to another and then on to nearby households, consistent with the folklore belief that a vampire would rise first to torment its family and then move on to its former friends and neighbours. Whole families could be wiped out in a few days and, as more and more people succumbed, especially in rural areas where education and medical aid were practically non-existent, the fear and panic would spread and intensify. In an age when the common man believed such epidemics were God‟s judgement upon their sins, it is easy for our modern thinking to understand how the fear of vampires, God‟s agents of His judgement, became so widespread. There were other causes that perpetuated and helped support the myth of the undead, of course. Beggars and vagrants in days gone by were ordered out of villages, towns and cities upon pain of flogging, branding, gaoling, being placed in the pillory and - worse - having their noses publicly slit or their ears sliced off. It is not surprising, then, that these unfortunate wretches sought shelter whenever and wherever they could. One of the most easily accessible and popular places of shelter for them was the churchyard. Covered tombs, either broken or deliberately broken into by the vagrant himself, would suffice, despite the risk of infection from the buried corpse. Better still were the mighty buildings of the rich -- the lasting monuments to their wealth and power -- the mausoleums. These afforded both shelter and room. The vagrants would stay there during the day, away from prying eyes and the threat of the bailiff, and would venture forth after dusk to forage and steal. Not surprising, then, that when seen creeping from one of these crypts by the local grave-keeper or the common man and woman who happened to be passing, the shadowy figure of the vagrant would initiate a new wave of terror within the community as tales of a rising vampire began to circulate.

101 But there was yet another cause of the vampire legend, one that is now believed to have been more common than previously thought: the state of catalepsy. Catalepsy is readily treated or prevented nowadays, thanks to high tech medical equipment and learning, but it still occurs and generates great terror, targeting our most basic fears and concerns. Most dictionaries describe the condition thus: Catalepsy; state resembling trance: actual or apparent unconsciousness during which muscles become rigid and remain in any position in which they are placed. The condition occurs naturally in diseases such as schizophrenia or epilepsy and can be induced by hypnosis or drugs. The body‟s muscles become rigid irrespective of external stimuli, and sensitivity to pain is decreased. However, some sufferers from this terrifying condition have reported that - although they were totally paralysed, even down to the movement of their eyes - they were fully aware at all times. The problem with catalepsy, apart from the paralysis, is that the heart and the breathing slow to such an extent that they cannot be detected with the unaided senses. Consider that nothing as simple and practical as a properly working stethoscope was available to physicians at that time and the condition takes on truly terrifying dimensions. If there is anything that catalepsy can be thanked for it is the writings of the great Edgar Allen Poe, but they came at a huge price. Poe was no stranger to disease and epidemics such as cholera and consumption, but catalepsy haunted and tortured his unique mind, so much so that the thought of premature burial terrified him. This was a massive influence on his writing, generating a priceless legacy for future readers. Unfortunately, it unhinged him. By the end of his short, tragic life, Poe became convinced that the subjects he wrote about were utterly true and his characters were out to get to him. One can‟t help but wonder what he would have made of current TV shows such as “I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here”, where contestants are buried alive in a casket while all manner of insects, maggots and rats are dumped into the coffins with them. With all this in mind, we move to our third and final scenario in the search for the truth about vampires. Unearthing The Vampire: Meduegna, Serbia, 1620 Darkness. Complete and utter blackness. You see nothing. Have you been sleeping? You can‟t remember. You are distantly aware, somewhere in the foggy recesses of your befuddled mind, that you are lying on your back, the surface hard and rough beneath you; but where you are is a complete mystery. Your breath sounds laboured and harsh and it reverberates off your surroundings. It doesn‟t take you long to realise that you are confined in a small, tight space. Slowly, tentatively, you swing your arms away from your body, your fingertips riding softly over the splintery wooden surface beneath you. Mere centimetres from your sides, your hands hit a wall on either side. You lift your arms and they strike a surface just inches above your face. Your worst fears are confirmed. You are in a box, a coffin.

Blind panic overtakes you. You begin to knock at the lid of your casket, knocking until your knuckles become bruised and sore. All the while you cry out: “I’m not dead, I’m not dead. Please help me, I’m not dead!” You push with all your strength against the lid, push until the muscles in your arms burn, but to no avail. Now, in the impenetrable darkness, your mind begins to torture you. You imagine tons of earth heaped upon you, weighing down on you. A crushing weight. Sobbing with terror, your whole body trembling, you begin to claw and scratch at the lid, not even noticing when you pull your finger nails off and embed splinters into your hands. Is it your imagination or is the air becoming thinner? Maybe it is your struggles that are making your breathing laboured. But what if it isn‟t? Again you scream and cry out, hoping, praying that someone, somewhere, will hear you. ******* The priest wasn‟t pleased and begged the crowd not to do what they were about to do. He told them it was a blasphemy before God, but their fear had made them deaf to his pleas. Milloi, the local hajduk and only military authority in the area, was irritable at being woken at such an hour. And Joachim, the grave-keeper who was at the centre of all the excitement, was still babbling incoherently. Through most of the early hours they had been arguing in the village church over what action they should take. Most of them knew what had to be done but no one in their right mind would approach the churchyard during the hours of darkness; far more prudent to await the first rays of dawn. The priest had been the first roused. He had gone to answer the fevered banging on his door and the unintelligible shouts. The grave-keeper, Joachim, had almost collapsed into the clergyman‟s arms as he had opened the door, his face ashen. After a glass of brandy that had almost choked him, Joachim had calmed down sufficiently to tell the priest that he had heard noises coming from a fresh grave. The grave in question was that of the miller‟s young daughter, Stana, who had died suddenly the day before yesterday at the age of twenty. The priest had thrown on his coat and had tried to get Joachim to go back to the grave with him, but the man had flatly refused. Instead, he had staggered out of the priest‟s house and made his way into the village to raise the alarm. Praying feverishly to himself, the priest had entered the churchyard alone and afraid, terribly aware of how dark it was. It wasn‟t just the chill of the night air that had made him shiver. Finding the grave in question, he had stood there and listened in horror to the banging and scratching below ground. He had returned home much more swiftly than he had ventured out. It wasn‟t long before there was a sizeable crowd at his front door. He had opened up the church to accommodate them and had listened, half dazed with confu-

103 sion, while they discussed what was to be done. Of course, he could not deny that he, too, had heard the noises described by Joachim, and he had seen the looks of horror on the faces of those around him as he spoke. Worst of all was the look on the face of the miller. Everything the priest had previously taken for superstitious nonsense began to challenge his mind and heart. He did not want to believe in such things as Upirs but he could not deny what he had heard. But to exhume a body that had been subject to a Christian burial under God surely it was sacrilege? Could he, as their spiritual teacher and leader, be party to it? Would he not be failing in his duties if he were to go along with it? But what if it was an Upir and other innocent people died as a result, a direct result of his inaction? Eventually, a group of local gypsies had been sent for. One of them was supposed to be experienced in hunting and destroying these demons. The priest didn‟t care for them; ignorant, ungodly people - thieves and criminals, every one of them. But they had come at the villagers‟ insistence and they had brought tools and weapons with them. As the first rays of dawn gleamed through the stained glass of the church windows, the crowd moved as one into the graveyard, armed with dried garlic flowers and bulbs, holy water and holy icons such as the crucifix and the Bible. Walking before the crowd, the priest tried earnestly to make them disband, to put off the sacrilege they were about to perpetrate, despite the war of emotions being fought in his own heart. Beside him, Staniko, the miller, sobbed quietly, wringing his cap in his hands. The crowd were adamant. The priest turned to the hajduk and pleaded with him, but the corporal shook his head. It was out of his hands; he was there only so that he could make out a report on the events to his superiors. Then, in the crisp December morning air, they were standing on the frost-hardened ground around the girl‟s grave. Parting to give the gypsies room to do their work, the crowd looked on as they removed the garlands and floral tributes laid there by the miller and his wife. ******* You can taste the blood in your mouth from your ravaged hands and fingers and your bitten lips. It is warm and salty and makes you gag. Your hair is wet with your tears and the biting cold is making your ill-clothed body numb. Shrouds were not made for warmth. Your lungs ache as they try to draw in the last remaining air. The horrors and agonies of suffocation are beginning. But wait… what‟s that? For a brief moment you hold your breath and become still. Maybe you imagined it? But no, there it is again: the sound of shovels biting into the earth! Someone is digging above you. Someone has heard you. Oh, praise God, they‟ve come to save you! You begin to pray that your air will last out. Pray that they haven‟t buried you too deep. You want to bang on the lid, to shout to your rescuers that you are still alive, but you are afraid of using up what little

air you have left, so you stay as quiet and still as possible. Your heart is racing, thundering in your chest and ears. You wonder if they can hear it above, it seems so loud. Now you can hear the muffled voices of those above. You wonder if your mother and father are with them. How wonderful it will be to throw your arms around them again, to feel their breath on your face as they shower you with kisses, to see the relief and utter joy in their eyes when they realise their little girl isn‟t dead, that she‟s come back to them. And what a story you will be able to tell your children when you eventually have them! Oh, this will indeed be a day of celebration. You urge them on with every stab of the spade. After what seems an age, you hear the tips of the shovels hit the coffin lid. Your heart leaps in your chest, and just in time. The air is almost gone and the roaring in your head is getting louder as your lungs strain. Then you hear a series of thuds and realise that whoever was doing the digging has jumped into the grave. You are rocked forcefully from side to side as you feel yourself and the coffin lift into the air. You can‟t help but gasp as it is slammed once more on to the frozen ground, jarring your whole body. ******* A deathly hush descended upon all present as the gypsies climbed out of the hole and set about prising the lid off the coffin with the tips of their spades. The priest looked on, ashenfaced, his lips moving feverishly with silent prayer. He was unaware that the palms of his hands were bleeding where his fingernails were cutting into them, so tightly were his fists clenched. And he was unaware of the top of his arm becoming numb, the circulation being cut off by the vice-like grip of the miller as he stared wide-eyed and fearful at his daughter‟s coffin. There was a terrible grinding of wood and iron as the lid and nails began to separate. As one, the crowd stepped back in fear, holding their protective trinkets before them. ******* Daylight, bright, beautiful daylight, hits you with its heavenly radiance. Crisp, cold air makes your flesh tingle and fills your lungs and they gasp of their own accord to take it in. Squinting in the brightness, you look round at the crowd of faces gazing down on you and you see your father. Your heart leaps for joy as you reach out to him with a bloody and tattered hand. You try to cry out to him but your throat is coarse and swollen from your earlier screaming. He recoils, a look of abject terror on his features. Some in the crowd cry out, the same look of horror etched into their faces. A shadow suddenly blots out everything and you gasp in pain as a heavy boot presses down on your neck. More movement: a second person kneels over you, a stranger, but with such loathing and hatred etched into his rugged, ruddy features. With indescribable horror, you see this second figure place the point of a large wooden stake against your upper stomach.

Its vicious point stabs painfully into your flesh but your terror reaches new heights as you see him raise his other hand and bring the hammer crashing down on top of the stake. Agony and blood erupt from your body as the stake is hammered home. Your body shakes and judders with every blow. Then the boot is removed from your neck, but you barely notice, so all consuming is the fire of your torment. The tip of a cold, icy spade is placed against your neck and you see the heavy boot come stamping down upon the shoulder of the shovel. The pain is suddenly gone as a curious numbness envelops you. As you rise into the air, light as a feather, you just have time to see your own bloody and mutilated body before the darkness takes you forever. ******* The miller buried his face in the shoulder of the priest while the clergyman looked on, awestruck, as the gypsy tossed the girl‟s head back into the coffin. Around them, the villagers cited the blood around her lips and upon her hands as proof that she was Upir. The priest made the sign of the cross over the poor girl‟s remains and on shaking legs led the miller away from the graveside. He knew that the stake had gone through her body and deep into the frozen earth, able to hold her down while the gypsies finished their work. He knew too that the miller did not need to see his daughter‟s heart cut out and burned on the fire they would build; neither did he. In a state of utter shock, he prayed the Lord to forgive them for what they had done. He also prayed for the miller and for himself... ******* Catalepsy, premature burials, and the vampire legend In Britain and across Europe, right up to the late 19 th century, there are documented cases of people, mainly felons who had been hanged, awaking upon the operating tables while they were being dissected. Graveyards the world over, when being relocated for whatever reason, have yielded proof of many premature burials, far more than previously supposed. How many times across Europe during the dark and dismal past did those poor wretches who had succumbed to cataleptic-type trances become the victims of inadvertent, undocumented murders? It is a terrifying thought. Writers such as Poe helped to highlight this unfortunate condition, but in doing so they unleashed an epidemic of fear equal to any that the vampire generated. ******* In this series of essays I have reviewed just three variations of the vampire legend. But - as the stage manager of the very first Dracula stage production told his audience at the end of the show - “Ladies and Gentlemen, don’t have nightmares. After all, there are such things…”

fter suffering nightmares at the age of seven, Randall Stone, from Skelmersdale, UK, began to fight back by seriously studying the things that terrorised him. As his knowledge of these horrors grew, the fear began to lose its hold on him. Since 1996, with almost forty years of research behind him, Randall has written three full-length novels and a host of short stories and poems.

he Rite of Spring By Anne Martin

The nightingale calls, wakes the chosen, bride of the harvest god in her first spring of womanhood. The flutes sing, she drinks the draught. The other girls, jealous of her fortune, preen her, prepare her for her nuptials. The pyre lit, the women paint her, robe her. The potion burns, fuels her desire. beat The drum sounds a slow pulse, a low growl, a heartbeat, the dance begins. She makes her first choice, dispatches her robe, circles him, touches him He reaches out to her. With her hand, she slaps him, for no mortal man may know her. beat, beat, beat The drum throbs ever quicker, entrances the circle, emboldens the men. A second succumbs to her lewd entreaty. She strokes his brow, tastes his flesh. He takes her hand. With a switch, she flogs him, for no man born of woman may touch her.

107 beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat Its mesmeric thump surges on, women push their beaus forward to feast the chosen. Her bawdy dance claims a third. She burns his cloak, bites his chest. He kisses her. With a whip, she lashes him, for no man who has suckled at his mother's breasts may love her. beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat The tempo races, men, women all under its spell caught by the drug. The fourth, a prisoner of her lascivious tease, she takes his sword, licks his lance. He embraces her. With a blade, she smites him, for no man who is not a god may possess her. beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat Touched by first light, she shrieks, stalks the fire in blind rapture. The Earth trembles in relentless oscillation. The god of the harvest, her willing slave, there, in the flame. Her womb awaits her hungry groom. He will provide, the harvest will be her child. The circle closes around her, the crowd aglow in carnal ecstasy. The chosen plunges herself into the bosom of her lover, surrenders herself for the health of her tribe. They will eat well this year.

nne Martin is a American writer, musician, and blogger. Equally facile in prose and poetry, her work is steeped in sensuality and the inner dialog of love and loss. Anne is currently putting the finishing touches on her first book, and hopes to finish her obsession, a fantasy novel entitled The Cult of Hahn, some time in 2012.

Photo By Mark P. Henderson

uality By April Avalon

The pleasure to speak is my lost privilege And now insanity dwells on a page, However, it's changing the color in days, Revealing the truth my white pencil portrays. But I'm getting sick of the poetess' fate. I only enliven the worlds you create, Denying the myths you don't want to believe, Or perpetuate every side of my grief. Today it's triangular, soon to be square, Or even linear, in case you are there. You skillfully play with my changeable mood. I'd steal such talent from you if I could. I paint reality but live in a dream, Duality kills me; I just want to scream. I'll find my salvation when holding you close. I'll speak of my feelings and keep them in prose.

pril Avalon sees the world through the eyes of a thinker, urging her readers to see beyond their bounds to speak their minds loudly! To be themselves! Not to be afraid to be different from the crowd! She creates to destroy stereotypes and to open minds to new truths.

109

Robert P. Eustace Art

orn April 1957 in Inwood - Manhattan, NYC.... the artist Robert Eustace attributes the influence of play in the surrounding Park System 'primeval wilderness'.... his discovery of mystery and wonder amongst the art, fragrances and shadows found in traditional Catholic church and his mentoring under the Primitive Expressionist painter Peter Dean towards his eventual calling in Art. His work evokes a mysticism of memory and yearning for the transcendent. Please see website: www.sainteustacefineart.com

'Annunciation' - from the Aenigmate Series, Combined Process on Wood and Metal, 25"h x 19"w x 2.5"d, 1992

111

'Mystery of Iniquity' - from the Aenigmate Series, Combined Process on Wood and Metal, 25"h x 19"w x 2.5"d, 1996

'Through Fire :Holy Center' - from the Aenigmate Series, Combined Process on Wood and Metal, 25"h x 19"w x 2.5"d, 1994

113

'Collapse' - from the Aenigmate Series, Combined Process on Wood and Metal, 25"h x 19"w x 2.5"d, 1992

ulling Away By Barbara Huffert

Standing on the platform Enshrouded in mist, Tears streaming down my cheeks As the best dream, the only dream I ever had, Is carried away from me. A scream wells forth from the depths of my soul Only to be lost in the shrill of the whistle. Perhaps it is for the best, My suffering lost in circumstance. So many questions Never to be answered: Why did you let me believe, Fill me with hope, Make me feel When you knew it was impossible? Before, I was numb Now I am not And the pain is too much to bear. I was on my own then and it was not awful Now I am more alone than I ever knew possible. My heart is crushed, shattered Bits scattered irretrievably in the dust. I was invisible before; Now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x;m even less. Fitting it is, being trampled beneath countless feet, Ground into nothing as I have been, Though in the end None of it matters, for with it comes your happiness, Which is all I ever wanted.

arbara Huffert lives in Pennsylvania with her adoring cats, which keep her company while she taps away at her laptop, purring to help bring stories out of her mind and on to the page. She has always been the black sheep of her family, horrifying her relatives by writing heartfelt, soul-rending poetry as well as short fiction and erotic romance, which can be found on her website: http://barbarahuffert.com/

115

he Space Between By David W. Moore, III

Hydrogen oxygen and nitrogen Roiling in cosmic fury Rainbow explosion in a hurricane ocean On infinity's stage. Universal hypnotic impressionist With oil on canvas, But pointillism is just dots With the space between. Chaos beneath the skin Wyrms coiling and sliding Clambering for escape, Tugging their nuclear leash in tether-ball tantrum On pandemonium's slide, Stain-shaded for identification, But touch they never can With the space between. A crowd six billion strong Roaring static turmoil Where echoes die in apathy's sinkholes; Kicked anthill confusion Want and need running rampant Reaching with pixilated, pixie desperation, Through the univirtual, With the space between.

117

avid Moore III was born in New Orleans, where the rich cultural history helped to flesh out his semi-surreal style. His first book, From the Midst of the Maelstrom, detailed his journey from early to current writings. His second book, Marie Laveau's Hot Pink Hearse, brought to stunning fruition his grasp on language, mythology, and culture. He married his wife, Amelia, in 1991 and has one daughter, Mary Elizabeth. They currently reside in Uptown New Orleans. Website: http://www.davidwmooreiii.webs.com/

Contact