Just One Look Issue 2 by ralph Piccolo

Ralph Piccolo

Mark P. Henderson

Managing Editor

Short Stories & Novels Editor

Mari Sloan

Michael Joseph Dovers

Poppy Silver

Poetry & Music Editor

Ashley M. E.E

Short Stories & Novels Editor

Graphic Arts Editor

Backgrounds & Layouts an

Whenever an artist lifts a brush to paint a mural that dazzles the eyes; or a writer lifts a pen to take you on a journey to another world, another dimension; or a photographer captures a priceless moment that entrances the mind; itâ&#x20AC;&#x;s all here, inside the world known as U. It's all about ... U.

Genre

Title & Artist

Page

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

MacBeth: The Sequel by Hank Quense Mark’s Art by Mark P. Henderson Pain by Eliac before you say “Good night” by Bradley L. Bodeker Anna’s Art by Anna Grossi Scattered Moments of Perfection by SharonLee Goodhand Define Love by P. Lelitte A Day With Poppy by Poppy Silver

4 8 14 15 16 24 25 26

Short Story: Poem: Poem: Short Story: Art: Music: Art: Poetry:

Buried in a Hundred Places by Ray Neighbor I AM by Rory CJ Frankson Mummys Don’t Say Goodbye by Bubo Soon Angels by Tom ‘WordWulf’ Sterner Featured Artist by Janey Emery Interview: Behind Closed Eyes Macri Art by Maria Christina Detoni Nation In Chaos by Ashley M.E.

34 36 37 38 44 52 55 64

Short Story: Photography: Article: Poem: Poem: Short Story: Poem: Poem:

My Dearest Reginald by E.A. Irvin Mari In Chinatown by Mari Sloan Vampires, the Truth by Randall Stone Hope Is The Ground You Walk On by Kale Wilson Beaudry Experimental by R.G. Johnson I Killed the Bedroom Door by Ray Neighbor Unicorns and Dolphins by Anthony Hines-Tecoy Lamentations To Mother Time by Dane Osborne

66 68 76 80 81 82 84 85

Short Story: Art: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Short Story

Putting On A Play by Phibby Venable Cyntiamilli Art by Cyntiamilli Santillan Angels’ Gifts by Deborah Shepard Pearled by Poppy Silver A Tribute to Hani by Mohammadali M. Shoja Flowers and Tears by Tammy Hendrix Trotting Between Trails by Cassandra Violet Murphy Colored Stars by Aline S. Iniestra Self-Inflicted End of the Voices by Ray Neighbor

86 88 96 97 98 99 100 101 102

ACBETH: THE SEQUEL: SCENE ONE By Hank Quense

Agatha opened the door to the Grubby Shoat. She paused, and, while her eyes adjusted to the gloom, a gust of wind blew a squall of rain through the door. Despite the fog of candle and fire smoke, she saw the elderly barkeeper turn pale. “Be at ease, old man. We seek more virile prey.” She waddled to the bar, a roughhewn plank set on empty barrels. The water dripping from her hooded cloak left a wet trail on the moldy rushes covering the dirt floor. The mildew stench from the rushes mingled with the odor of fetid ale to produce a miasmic bouquet. She spotted five village men sitting on a bench. Exactly what she hoped to find, a flock of potential bed partners. The men sucked in their breath when they saw her, but she refused to let their reaction dampen her excitement. When Bertha and Carla -- her sisters -- entered the tavern, a collective groan came from the table. One of the men jerked his knee, kicking the rickety table in front of the bench and scattering their leather ale cups. Agatha opened her cloak. Underneath, she wore a dark kirtle a few sizes too small for her ample thighs and stomach. The men sobbed. Bertha smiled at the table. “Some of you lads will have an unforgettable experience tonight.” She and Carla opened their cloaks. Both were dressed similarly to their sister. Agatha ignored the panicky response to Bertha‟s announcement. Men always looked like doomed cattle when the sisters were on the hunt. She didn‟t understand the reaction, but assumed it was quite natural. “Good eve, Sisters Wyrd.” Having regained his composure, the elderly man behind the plank nodded to them. “What can I serve you?” “A round of mead with raw eggs on top,” Agatha replied. “Tis a celebration.” Carla, a svelte two hundred

riginally published in Written Word, December 2010. Also published in Tunnel Vision, a collection of twenty of Hank Quense‟s previously published short stories.

pounds and the thinnest of the three, grinned at the old man. “Aye, a great day.” Bertha leaned on the plank, bending it into a deep arc. The barkeeper watched the plank with a look of alarm. “We avenged an insult to our Granny,” Bertha added. “You witches talk in riddles. I do not ken your meaning.” “When Granny learned that Malcolm had killed MacBeth and was now king,” Agatha said, “her coronation gift was an offer to become his Royal Sorceress.” “And the fool rebuffed her,” Carla said. In the fashion of the younger witches, she had let her nasal hairs grow long enough to braid. “An insult to all witches and even Hecate, our goddess.” “Men are simple in the brain, methinks.” Agatha shook her head at the unfathomable ways of men. “Granny is not as pert as we three, but she‟s no beldam and would have graced the royal court. The king now regrets his refusal.”

questioning look. “‟Tis a mystery and beyond the ken of all here.” Agatha hugged herself in joy. “And so, my pretties and I want to celebrate and have a bit of fun.” She hefted her mug, took a sip, and savored the sweetness of the mead for a moment before swallowing. “What‟s next?” Carla said. “This lot doesn‟t appear very interested in us.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the men. “I‟ll offer them a choice and then they‟ll show some interest.” Bertha winked at her younger sister. “Prithee, what choice?” Carla asked. “Watch.” Bertha turned to the table and swiveled her hips. The men, woodcutters and swine-herders, were young, but looked middle-aged, worn down from work, poor food and disease. They shifted in their seats and glanced at one another. Two had trouble breathing. “What will it be, laddies?” Bertha batted her eyes. “Pleasure . . . or pain?”

“Aye, you should have seen the look on Malcolm‟s face.” Bertha gave the barkeeper a gapped-tooth grin. The man shuddered. Once a week, Bertha used a herbal cream that made warts grow. She had a fat, cucumber-colored one on the tip of a beak-like nose and a smaller, amber one on her left cheek. She called them beauty spots.

“Pain.”

“Dark of mien, he was,” Carla said.

“What are the choices again?”

“What did you do?” The barkeeper placed the drinks on the plank.

Bertha scowled and tossed her head. A small twig fell out of her brown locks.

“We placed a powerful curse on Malcolm and his spawn.” Carla held a hand over her mouth as she cackled. Agatha clapped Bertha on the shoulder, splattering water from her soggy cloak.

Agatha suspected their plans for the night had gone awry, as usual.

“Me too.” “I can use a bit of pain.” “Pain, if you don‟t mind.”

The barkeeper shook his head. “It takes a rare talent to be an unsuccessful slut.”

“Is the curse secret?” “Nay. One of the Malcolm‟s descendants will be the first married man to leave a toilet seat standing,” Bertha said and giggled. “What‟s a toilet seat?” The old man gave them a

“How would you like to spend the rest of your days as a toad?” Bertha glared at the man. “What news, old man?” Agatha changed subjects before Bertha did something rash like casting a spell. She wasn‟t the sharpest spell-caster in the

ward-winning author Hank Quense refuses to write serious genre fiction, insisting that there is enough of that on the front page of any daily newspaper and on the evening news. He and his wife Pat live in Bergenfield, NJ, sharing two daughters and five grandchildren. When not creating humorous fantasy and sci-fi stories, he also pens an occasional article on fiction writing or book marketing.

family and could easily set the place on fire by mistake. “A monster has appeared by the village in the loch. And the fisherfolk refuse to go out on the water.” One of the men at the table approached the sisters. He trembled as he said, “What does this portend, oh Sisters Drearie?” “Drearie, is it?” Bertha boxed the man‟s ears. “It means Nessie has finally molted and now wants to play.” The man retreated. “Nessie is Hecate‟s pet monster,” Carla said to the innkeeper. “Hecate gave it into my care on my fifth birthday. It was a wee tadpole and she charged me to raise it and protect it. I loosed it in the loch last year.” “The Laird of the Loch has vowed to kill the monster,” the barkeeper said. “Kill Nessie?” Carla scowled at the man. “How dare he threaten a defenseless pet.” Agatha gasped. If something happened to Nessie, Hecate would hold the sisters responsible because of her charge to Carla. She would be in no mood to listen to explanations or excuses, and her retribution would be harsh. This Laird of the Loch had to be stopped before he imperiled their safety. “We must hasten to the loch to see what is amiss.” “Bah!” Bertha exclaimed. “Every time we try to lose our virginity, something comes up.” “Hah!” Carla scoffed. “Our maidenheads are intact because nothing ever comes up.” Bertha heard merriment, wheeled on the peasants. “See if you think being cockroaches is funny.” She extended her hand. The men dove under the table just as their leather cups turned into flower vases. “Oh, bugger this.” Bertha placed both hands on her hips and stamped her foot. “Attend me!” Agatha said. “Let us fetch our brooms and fly to the village and see what is amiss.” “Aroint thee.” Carla sneered. “I hate flying at night. I always get lost.”

antasy and Science Fiction Stories Told with Humor & Satire http://hankquense.com Latest Release: Tales from Gundarland A 2011 EPIC Finalist

“If you had memorized the star charts you wouldn‟t get lost.” Agatha wagged a finger under Carla‟s nose. “And we must go to the loch before something happens to Nessie.” “And how do we see the stars on a rainy night?” Carla‟s voice dripped with sarcasm. “We shall use landmarks tonight. Follow close behind me.” “But, Nessie is Hecate‟s pet,” Bertha whined. “Why do we have to fly to its aid?” “Hecate placed it under Carla‟s protection. The Goddess will hold us accountable and will cause us grief.” “The fisherfolk are lusty lads,” one of the men said. “Aye,” another said, “randy they are.” “Insatiable, I hear,” said a third. As she left, Agatha heard the men guffaw and slap each other on the back.

Our Mark December 3rd Mark walked his elderly neighbor's Patterdale terrier, Sam... and took a periscope so he could see over the snow.

Photos 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.

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 is set to be published this year. His beautiful photographs are often a part of this publication.

hen 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/

Sam Sam delights in disturbing ducks, chasing chickens, terrifying turkeys, frightening pheasants and persecuting peacocks. But on days like December 3 he chases snowballs instead.

Upper photo--Paul's farm with Sam on guard. Lower photo--Mark is a bit confused about his garden.

ain

By Eliac Pain. Like the butterfly Falling Swiftly. And just in time It lets us up. Hope. Like the sky That the butterfly Flies to In the midday sun, Waiting for the clouds. Rage. The storm That confuses our butterfly Red and roaring, Dark, and sedated, Creating the clouds. And then, The sky That re-emerges Because the butterfly sees another And suddenly, love is all that matters. Suddenly, the storm is passed. Love-The rainbow of The butterfly, This melting afternoon.

liac tells people that she lives life like a light bulb. This sensitive young woman from Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, considers love to be the driving force that lets her create her poetry, and when even one person is disappointed or angry with her, her heart flickers and that light temporarily goes out. Sharing these feelings results in beautifully empathetic verse, because, as she says it, my light bulb has had many cracks.

efore you say “Good night”

by Bradley L. Bodeker before you say “Good night,” before that last kiss, before that cool sheet is tucked within, before you say "I love you," do you know how their day went? what their memories of this day were? how they will remember you? on this day, did you spend some time with them? play games or dolls with them? did you talk to them? really talk? did you hug them enough? did you kiss them enough? did you say something that may have hurt them? or were you too busy doing dishes, doing laundry, cooking supper, paying bills? did you take a moment out to get lost in those innocent eyes, listen to those wondrous queries? how will they remember this day before you tuck them in, say "Good night," kiss with an "I love you," before you say "Good night"...

awaiian-born poet Bradley L. Bodeker has been a police officer, an artist, a radio disc jockey and a copywriter. With “reflect shuns in a broken mirror” published and “another shard of glass” submitted for publication, he spends his spare time playing guitar, or reading a diverse group of poets including Shel Silverstein, Charles Bukowski, and Jack Kerouac. His current home is in Southern Minnesota.

Series constellations Antenna, braccio di galassia - Mixed media on canvas 100 x 70 cm- Anna Grossi

Expansion to Immense 2. Mixed media on canvas 100 x 80 - Anna Grossi

nna Grossi, an Italian artist born in Rome and now working and living in Corinth, uses light in her paintings to transcend reality. Whether her brush captures a simple scene or the cosmos, it is a breathtaking burst of emotion for the viewer.

Lagoon Nebula - mixed media on canvas - 120 x 80 Anna Grossi

Expansion to Immense -Mixed media on canvas 120 x 80 - Anna Grossi

idely exhibited and reviewed, Anna organizes cultural events and is the President of Capricorn Cultural Association. She is also a fine pianist, and members of Mindâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Eye have had the pleasure of hearing her play Chopin.

Sigh of the world, 2 - mixed media on canvas 120 x 80 By Anna Grossi

ROMA Sigh of the world 3 - mixed media on canvas 120 x 80 By Anna Grossi

Seven Sisters, the Pleiades and nebulae - Mixed media on canvas . 100 x 70- Anna Grossi

cattered Moments of Perfection

By SharonLee Goodhand A flawless spring sun melted behind the darkening hills; Between lengthening shadows the last rays spill Over the dense forest of flowering trees That rustle ever so softly in a fragrant breeze: A wonder that almost brings me to my knees, Such an exquisite transformation to herald the end of day. I sigh at the sweet perfection but don't know what to say. How can any words of mine in any way convey The feeling in my soul to witness what has come my way? Standing on a cliff top looking out at the sea, Standing there alone, just me and only me, I listened to the rare silence of a rare land Knowing I was truly free from society‟s demands. No one knew where I was or even how to find me, Alone on a cliff top looking out to sea. For a week I had been walking, at my own pace. I had nowhere to be, this was not a race. Just me and a deserted road my heart decided to follow With no urgent needs hounding me Except to see the sun rise on the morrow. Me and he beneath a faded blanket, flickering TV the only light, We were watching “Ghost,” I remember well that night. Nothing between us except our warm naked skin; Only two drinks missing from an open bottle of gin. You cupped my body snugly in your own. Doors were locked, curtains drawn, disconnected was the phone. Your breath a hot moist whisper whispering through my hair, A soft tingling in my ear that gave me wicked chills. You are my only one, I love you, and I always will.

haronLee Goodhand is a gypsy traveler, a pacifist, an “aging hippie,” and is passionate about Australia, the environment, and writing. A widow who has raised four children, she still finds time to create hundreds of poems, short stories and children‟s stories and is working on a fantasy novel. Recently she has also become interested in photography and graphic art.

efine Love

By P. Lelitte Love is many things To many people But should it be? Has the verb „love‟ Become diluted In a world where it Is used as often As please and thank you? What makes us special? Is it knowledge of self? Or the ability to love? Or both? I long for a time When love is as pure As it‟s meant to be, For love Is not jealous Or possessive, It does not judge. It has been used as A reason to start wars But never to end them. It is abused in a crime of passion. What fool believes love Would cause us to act that way? Obviously a whole society! Wake up your hearts! Shake your souls! Release your mind From the chaos of human Understanding! Feelings are your true windows. Start looking through them.

ublished poet P. Lelitte (Poetic Justice) has been writing for twenty years. Living in Buckinghamshire, England with her wonderfully supportive husband and family, she hopes to complete her long-planned children‟s novel by the end of the year.

A Day with Poppy Silver “Such beauty lurks in a ray of light as it floods the church with a rainbow of colors”

Photo by Poppy Silver

Sunrise “Capturing the moment as she snaps this breathtaking shot.” Photo by Poppy Sllver

Such Beauty “Fingers reaching for the sky.” Photo by Poppy Sllver

Ducks “Poppy’s not the only one out on this brisk winter morning?”

Photo by Poppy Sllver

Natural â&#x20AC;&#x153;Nature paints this tree in the ripples of a lake.â&#x20AC;?

Photo by Poppy Sllver

uried in a Hundred Places By Ray Neighbor

t is said that everyone has a skeleton or two in their closet. I have a graveyard in mine. Open my closet door, and the bones of years of turning down wrong alleys will come rattling out and lie at your feet, like brittle branches of a tree slowly dying. The maps and designs showing where those skeletons came from are buried in more than a hundred places along the path I‟ve followed. I began writing when I hopped my first freight train back in June of 1964. I began burying my thoughts in that month, in that year. It was a fleeting idea that became a personal ritual. I wrote all of what I‟d seen, felt, and experienced, then found a proper place to bury it. There was no thought of preserving it. I didn't find an airtight box or anything to protect my restless ramblings, that was not my intent. My thoughts were to dig a hole. Sometimes I would make it like a burial

site, rigging a cross of sticks and weeds, scattering stones, to mark it. But many times it was just a hole dug with the edge of an empty can, papers folded tightly, shoved to the bottom, then just covered, with nothing to mark its place. It was kind of my "Kilroy was here" scrawl, except in the ground instead of on some filling station's bathroom wall. Most of what I buried was written in some empty diner's corner booth, or under a bridge trestle, or under a highway overpass. Most of it was crap — quickly-scrawled notes about a bizarre or dangerous encounter with a guy who‟d picked me up. Most of my writings, though, were just about how I felt being on the road. I wrote about being hungry; the kind waitress I met who served me a meal, knowing I had no money to pay; the long cigarette I pulled from a theater lobby's sand-filled ashtray - little things. That's why I loved the boxcar. An open boxcar door was like a whore standing in a doorway to a sex-starved salesman. And like the whore, you

nine-year pancreatic cancer survivor living in Milford, Ohio, Ray Neighbor is from everywhere. God loved him and wouldn‟t let him die. He‟s wrestled with life‟s emotions in jail, in psychiatric care and on the rails, burying his writing in the ground so that it might someday mingle with his ashes and leave a legacy behind.

“From the wild and straight Rt. 66 over and through the Colorado Mountains, I suppose I have buried me in a hundred spots.”

had a price to pay. There are no free rides on the road. My heart and soul are buried everywhere, in every state the path took me. I wish to hell I could go back and reread my thoughts. Somewhere out there I might have buried the secret to life. Some place, buried a half foot down in the soil, lie the decayed, decomposed, rotted remains of the dreams and schemes of a restless soul, which may hold the secret to what this whole damn thing is about - and I buried them. Sometimes, I do wonder what I wrote and left behind. Must have written something good, some time. From the wild and straight Rt. 66 over and through the Colorado Mountains, I suppose I

have buried me in a hundred spots. My foolish thoughts will live forever in the earth of this country. That's something no published author can say. It is also fitting that my writings have decayed and melted back into the ground where I'm destined to do the same. Maybe some day my ashes will mix with the withered and forgotten feelings of the young man who once thought it profound to leave himself in the ground. Now wouldn't that be something? I don't know what comes after all this, I don't even know what any of this thing they called life is about. I just know that after all these years of living, I haven't learned a damn thing. Everything I've ever learned, I buried in the ground a long time ago.

“Now wouldn't that be something? ”

arried to the woman he always loved, and a father, he is working on a book based on his experiences, which will definitely be smudged by the tears of those of us who will remember him, and many who will meet him for the first time through his words.

By Rory CJ Frankson I AM Perfect... Is never done, for others. Perfect is your love, expressed. Loneliness addressed, not pressed to attain... something, that just IS. You. Being. Breath, share your Air. Let down your hair. Feel the warmth of that new light. The inner shine that dissolves, solves, and moves. To change. The power of attraction, to re-arrange. It will come as a natural flow, as that is how nature goes. As the ebbing seasons, just are... you, are. Nurtured. LOVED. Say to yourself, three times over.. (I am in the universe, and the universe. Is in me. I, and the Universe. Are one.) The love of yourself is power, and light. Love is the key - to your heart - sets you free. Free to be who you are... this, will bring that someone, or something, meaningful. That finds fulfilment. There was no waiting, no demand... you allow this. To take place. Breath, share your Air... I, and the Universe, are one. I am LOVE.

o create is, I believe, the greatest gift given in our creation,â&#x20AC;? says artist Rory CJ Frankson, from Vernon, British Columbia, Canada. This veteran rock band lyric writer now spends his spare time writing creative poetry and prose, when not busy running his company, Creative Standard Productions, or promoting other artists via Romonx Artists Associated. Write on!

ummys Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Say Goodbye

By Bubo Should I go away and not return I leave you this to carry you on: A world of heavenly richness Pulsating wonderful bounties If you just open your eyes and look around. My sweet child, Oceans of opportunities you will find. Take life with both hands and understand We are all here on borrowed time, But do not fill it with sorrow, Fill it up to overflowing authenticity, Explore the waking mysteries With love, respect and history. Never cry for what is gone, for every ray of sun Is a pulse of my heartbeat for you to warm yourself on. Every crashing wave is sent to chase away your pain. For my hand will stretch over oceans to carry you. In each whisper of the gentle breeze It is just me, kissing you. And every phase on earth you tread I'm tracing your footsteps, But will always be up ahead, guiding you. Every soaring bird you see Is my soul being set free. Flying into heaven on blissful poetry. So don't sit with me. Don't cry. It's been my life, and I won't say goodbye. Don't tend my nails, or comb my hair. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x;s not what I intended when I came here. Don't place your lips on my cold skin. I am already beside you, tucked in. No sad songs, no recitals of days gone, No blackness adorned, or heavy coffins, Just let me live on. As I follow you on your journey Remember my song. Let me be heard As you enter a crossroad where life can hurt. For I have loved you more than anything on earth.

ubo was born and raised in Jersey, Channel Islands and has two almost-adult children. She lives in London, now, and tutors young children. She discovered in her early years that she could write as a form of self-expression, and as a way to rant. An avid lover of art and photography, she collects hundreds of photos and images that fire the imagination and bring contentment to the soul. Please visit her at http://www.writerscafe.org/bubo http://www.bubosbasement.co.uk

oon Angels by

Tom ‘WordWulf’ Sterner

Continued The story so far:

Judy, a 28-year-old cancer victim, dies in her hospital bed. Bewildered by her new status as a ghost and saddened by her parents‟ grief, she encounters Henry, a ghost-boy of indeterminate age. Henry describes their status as “in-betweeners” but does not explain what he means. Judy is irritated by his behavior and his cryptic remarks, and Henry threatens to leave her to float around the hospital without guidance or help. The previous episode of this story ended as follows:

"Looky here, girl, alls I know is this. Yer body got away an' now yer stuck, jus' like me. I like bein' stuck an' you don' seem like yer gonna take to 't very well. Tomorrow's Hallowe„en. That's like, my main gig as the cool cats say. I was hopin' t' hook up with them kids downstairs but now I ain' so sure. I gotta feelin' yer gonna mess stuff up for me." Judy studied Henry for a moment. "You don't really know what's going on with me, do you?" "I

met some like you before," Henry replied. "I got away from 'em quick as I could and that's jus' 'bout what I'm fixin' t' do right now."

"It's a lot," Judy said through a sob. "It's a lot to get used to. I mean, I'll never see my parents again. I'll never..." "Quit it!" Henry interrupted. "You'll get over all that stuff. Lots o' folks do. I ain' never seen mine since I died a long long time ago. It don' bother me one l'il ol' bit!" "I think you're lonely," Judy observed. "Under those freckles and that smart aleck attitude there's a lonely little boy." "I ain' neither," Henry insisted. "I'm gonna do this Hallowe‟en thing here. It's too late t' change my mind. I was hopin' mebbe you'd help me. It'd take yer mind offa bein' a dead person." "And I suppose this is your way of talking me into it?" Judy said, deadpan. "I'm doin' 't," Henry said. "You go ahead an' do whatever ya want. Wander 'round up here bein' a dead woman if that's what ya want. I got stuff t' do." Judy touched his arm again. "I'll make you a deal, Henry. I'll go with you to see the children downstairs. I'll help you if I can. If it's too much for me, I'll..." "Good 'nough!" Henry butted in. "Let's get shakin' bacon!" Judy followed Henry from the room. She stopped abruptly, realizing she had forgotten her things. She went back into the room and attempted to take the portable book shelf from the window sill. Her hand passed through the shelf, books and all. She willed herself to feel but couldn't get a grip on her possessions no matter how hard she concentrated. She sat down in the chair, sadder than ever. "Whatsa matter witchu now?" Henry was back.

Now read on…

"I came back to get my things but I can't make myself feel them. It will break my Mom and Dad's hearts if they have to move all my belongings."

"Hold on a minute." Judy willed herself to touch his arm and was as surprised as Henry when she actually did. "Oh!" she squeaked.

"I thought you were followin' me," Henry accused. "I got all the way down and there you weren't."

"Yer catchin' right on," Henry allowed.

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Judy asked. "I can't will myself to grasp my things."

om Sterner lives in Redding, California and Arvada, Colorado with wife Kathy. He has been published in numerous magazines and on the internet, including Howling Dog Press/Omega, Skyline Literary Review, The Storyteller, and Flashquake. His internet pseudonym is WordWulf.

"You ain' got no things," Henry said slowly as if Judy couldn't hear him. "You are dead an' ain' gonna feel nothin' like that no more. You can touch other ghosts 'less they don' wantchu to. You don' live here no more. You are dead. You might's well get used t' the idea, ain' nothin' ya can do 'bout 't." Judy rose from the chair, resigned anew to her fate. "I'll follow you." Henry went through the open door and Judy followed. He disappeared into the floor and Judy made her way to the elevators. Soon he was at her side. "Whatchu doin' now?" "This is just too much for me," Judy whispered. "You go ahead. I'll wait until someone takes the elevator down and catch a ride with them." "Ya don't have t' whisper!" Henry screeched. "I know, I know," Judy whispered. "They can't hear us or see us. We are dead. We are ghosts." "Now yer catchin' on. Oh, an' don' go tryin' t' find yer body," Henry warned. "You shouldna got outside 't in the firs' place. Ya gotta find another way or jus' go 'round an' have fun like me. It's too late for you t' die normal now." "I was a lot of things in my life," Judy said. "Believe me, normal wasn't one of them. I guess it's fitting that I can't have a normal death either." "Yeah, yer a real riot," Henry commented. "I'm goin' t' the kids now, that's on the secon' floor. Whatever you do, don' leave this hospital an' get lost. Ain' nothin' sadder 'n forever than a ghost losin' its way." Henry dissipated like a wisp of smoke. Judy decided to walk the corridor, maybe see what was happening behind a few closed doors. She ended up going to the end of the hall where she stared through the sliding glass doors that opened onto an outdoor patio area. She pushed her hand against the handle. The door didn't budge but Judy almost fell through it when her hand met no resistance. "Don' go out there." Henry stood next to her. His face wasn't wearing its usual smirk and, well, he seemed almost human. "I don' know whatsa matter with me," he said. "I ain' never worried 'bout nobody my whole time. I got lotsa stuff t' be doin' but

I can't concentrate knowin' yer jus' gonna go an' get yerself in a jam." "Why can't I go out there?" Judy asked. "It's windy out there," Henry said. "You get yerself sucked up 'n end up jus' any ol' place. Outside ain' no favorable place for ghostin'. Come on downstairs. I'll meetcha at the elevator on the secon' floor. I don' really need much help but if yer with me I won' have t' worry 'bout you gettin' in trouble." "You're really quite a nice boy when you drop that devil-may-care attitude." Judy reached out and touched his face. "Henry, I do believe you are blushing." "I ain' nothin' nice," Henry hissed. "See ya 'round!" He fell through the floor. Judy took one more wistful glance out the glass then turned away. She followed a couple onto the elevator. She had to ride down and up a few times because most of those on the upper floors were going down to the main floor. She had to wait for someone to stop and get off at the second floor. The stairs were tempting but she couldn't get used to the uncomfortable feeling when people moved and stepped through her. At least in the elevator they stepped in and tended to stand in one place. Henry was waiting for her when Judy finally made it to the second floor. He behaved himself and stayed within sight, then stopped at a set of double doors. A sign above the doors read, 'Children's Wing'. "Here's what we do," Henry began without preamble. "There's eight or ten kids in there. They're allays gettin' tests 'n stuff so I ain' sure exac'ly how many there are. We'll touch each one of 'em, like hold their hand or somethin'. I woulda picked out one of 'em, made friends an' had 'im help me but now I ain' got time." "What will transpire when we touch them?" Judy asked. "What will what? Hey, don' use those ten dollar words on me." Henry was impatient and could hardly stand still as he spoke to her. Judy repeated the question: "What will happen between me and a child whose hand I touch?"

native of Colorado and proud father of five children and a stepdaughter, he writes lyrics, sings and composes music with his sons. He is winner of the Marija Cerjak Award for Avant-Garde/Experimental Writing and was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2006 and 2008. Published work includes two novels, Madman Chronicles: The Warrior and Mommaâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Rain.

"Yer jus' gettin' a feel for 'em," Henry answered. "They're mos'ly older kids, nobody under ten 'cept one l'il girl but we won' worry 'bout her. Ya jus' give 'em a feel so I can figger out who's gonna do what tomorrow night." Henry stepped toward the entrance. "C'mon, follow me through. Yer gonna have t' learn t' do this or you ain' gon' be able t' do no ghostin'." Henry walked through the steel door and Judy followed. She felt a 'thwop' sound while passing through and meant to ask Henry if he felt the same thing but he was already off down the hallway muttering something about just getting the job done.

"I'll be out in a few minutes," Judy assured him. "Be patient, Henry. I need to sit and rest a bit." "I ain' no patient," Henry mumbled as his head withdrew from the curtain. Judy returned her attention to the little girl. "Loreli... that's a beautiful name," Judy mused. She touched the child's face and her eyes popped open. "Oh my!" Judy exclaimed. Henry was wrong about this one. She was full of energy and definitely aware of Judy's presence.

Judy forgot her own problems, even the fact that she was dead, when she entered the roomful of terminally ill children. There were twelve beds in the rectangular room, arranged six to a side. Each space was equipped with a curtain track on its ceiling so the patients could have a modicum of privacy if they chose to. Only one of the spaces had the curtains pulled shut. Henry was moving from bed to bed, holding hands, touching a face here and there. 'This is no place for a Halloween party,' Judy thought. The wall behind each bed was decorated with pictures obviously drawn by the occupants of the beds. There were ghosts and goblins in the pictures, witches flying through the air. Judy drifted toward the space with the curtain pulled. "Don' bother with that one," Henry advised. "She's too l'il an' too sick." Judy stepped through the curtain. The bed, a replica of the one Judy had spent the past three weeks in, seemed much larger because of the tiny person it held. Judy was unable to determine the gender of the child by looking at its face. Thin wisps of hair lay like fine thread on the pillow. Judy pulled her eyes from the child and saw a picture of daisies on the wall. 'Loreli' was scrawled across the bottom of the drawing. Judy looked upon the child's face once more, entranced by the fine web of veins on the closed eyelids. "So you're a little girl." Henry poked his head through the curtain. Judy almost warned him to be quiet but remembered that no one living could hear them. "C'mon," Henry urged, "Don' mess with that poor l'il girl. C'mon out an' see my plans."

Loreli's lips moved but no sound came from her. "I know, I know," Judy said. "Don't try to talk, Sweetheart. I'll just sit here with you for a while so we can get to know one another. I know what you're

oon Angels

feeling. You don't have to speak." Henry's head popped through the curtain again. "Oh no you didn't! I knew it. I toldja don' go messin' butchu did it anyways. You better c'mon out o' there. I gotta tell ya some stuff." Judy touched her lips with her free hand, a gesture meant to tell Henry to wait. She assumed he understood because his head backed out through the fabric of the curtain. Loreli's eyes slowly shut and Judy whispered to her, "Hush little baby; don't say a

found Henry standing by a boy's bed across the way. "I thought you said they wouldn't feel us," she said to him. "That little girl definitely knew I was there. She spoke to me and I sang her to sleep." "You one goofy ghost," Henry said, "I toldja t' leave that one alone. But, oh no, you gotta go an' do exac'ly what I tell you not t' do, then you act like I lied to ya or somethin'. That l'il girl is ready t' go over, I tell ya." "Let's not argue," Judy said. "I didn't mean to imply that you were a liar. I thought you meant all of the children wouldn't be aware of us. I still don't understand why you prefer that I ignore Loreli." "That's it!" Henry exclaimed. "That's jus' it. You don' wanna make no bonds with live people, 'specially ones like that l'il girl who ain' gonna be alive too long. You shouldna learnt her name. An' I am a liar, so there! I jus' don' like nobody accusin' me o' lyin' when I ain't." He stepped closer to the boy's bed. "C'mere an' touch this boy's hand." Judy did so and shook her head. "I don't feel anything. It's like pressing my hand against a brick wall." "There ya go," Henry laughed. "Now yer gettin' 't. Jus' tell this boy he's gonna have a fine time Halloweâ&#x20AC;&#x;en night. Say that to him three or four times." Judy felt silly as she did Henry's bidding. "Now what?" she asked. "Now go 'round the room. There's nine kids not countin' that l'il girl. Jus' tell 'em all they're gonna have a real good time come Halloweâ&#x20AC;&#x;en night. You tell 'em Henry said so an' yer his bestest friend in the whole wide world." Judy went from bed to bed. She found it difficult to convey Henry's message to these poor sick children. When she came to Loreli's curtained space she felt compelled to go in but found Henry blocking her way. He stood in front of her shaking his head. She went around him to the next bed and finished the round. "Now what?" she said to Henry.

word..." There was most definitely a connection here. Judy was filled with a sense of peace as Loreli drifted off to sleep. Judy arose and melted through the curtain. She

"Yeah, now what," Henry parroted. "Now what is this: Us spirits, we got lotsa energy. We can save 't up, then use 't t' make stuff happen for us. That's why we hadda tell all these kids 'bout tomorrow. That way they'll be ready t' have some fun."

oon Angels

"Henry, what're you going to do?" Judy asked softly. "These children are very ill. You have to be careful with them." "You jus' gotta wait 'n see," Henry grinned. "We jus' checked 'em out, you 'n me. We gotta rest now. Tomorrow night, nine o' clock, we gon' rock this joint!" "So we have to sleep at night just like when we were alive?" "Nah, nothin' like that. We don' need t' sleep. We gotta save energy when we're plannin' somethin' big. I save up all year an' you'll see what that means tomorrow night. Right now I'm gonna rest in the ladies' restroom." He chuckled. "Get 't... rest in the restroom?" Henry wiggled his eyebrows. "Wanna go with me?" "No thank-you," Judy replied. "As exciting as that sounds, I think I'll go sit with Loreli." "You ain' gon' be in no mood t' party ya go messin' with that l'il girl. I keep on tellin' ya an' tellin' ya," Henry warned. Judy drifted toward Loreli's bed. 'I'm drifting,' she thought, 'Just like Henry. He doesn't really walk. He drifts from one place to another.' "I'll be okay," she said to Henry. "Tomorrow's my birthday. I'll spend it with you."

room. The door was ajar so Judy peeked in. "Oh God," she moaned. There was her Father holding her Mother. An empty box sat on the bed. They must be here for her things. Judy's Father rocked his wife gently back and forth, speaking all the time, almost a chant. "Our Jellybean is with God now... there is no more pain… Don't cry… Don't cry… Our Jellybean is..." Judy began to sing in a voice they were unable to hear. "Nights in white satin." They began to dance as Judy sang the words. She didn't think she knew them all but they came on their own, each and every one of them. She hummed the lead notes in the instrumental bridge of the song. When she reached the end, her mother had stopped crying. She was kissing tears from a face Judy had never seen cry. Judy walked into them, felt the incredible strength and love each had for the other and both for her. Judy sobbed as only a ghost can sob. "There is only one of them." They gathered her belongings quickly. Judy went with them to the elevator. She rode it to the first floor and, just before they reached the doors to the hospital, a man entered. A gust of wind carried a host of leaves in his wake. 'I'll be blown away,' Judy thought. She watched her parents go out the door. She held them in her sight until they were taken by the night. Judy made her way, entranced, through the lobby to the stairs. She felt them passing through her, thwop, thwop, thwop, pedestrian traffic. She was too sad to care.

"You know that," Henry chortled. "You'll be one day old an' we got us a date!" He had his ogle face on as he dissolved into thin air. A couple of nurses were making their rounds in the Children's Room, dispensing meds and good cheer. Judy couldn't help but feel that they would, in some way, be able to detect her presence. On a whim, she followed a maintenance man down the hall to the elevators. She had a bit of luck as the man pulled out a key and opened the 'Hospital Staff Only' door. She went right in with him, then realized her mistake as he punched a button for the sixteenth floor.

More Soon Angels coming Next Issue

Judy was frantic to visit her old room. The maintenance man stepped out and Judy watched the floor indicator lights on the wall of the elevator. When ten lit up, she took a breath and walked through the door. 'Thwop' and there she was, standing in the hallway a couple of doors down the hall from her

oon Angels

om “WordWulf” Sterner

painter of delightfully tranquil, realistically styled paintings in oil and acrylic, Janey Emery, from Narrogin, Western Australia, first became interested at age two. She focuses on lovingly capturing the human spirit, often in nostalgic situations. Painting full time since 1991 and largely self-taught, she has won many awards for her work, at home and abroad, from the Koorda Agricultural Society first and second prizes in 1992 to the Arthritis Society Popular Choice award in 2010.

his painting (oil, 1 m x 1 m) is entitled Gypsy. As in most of my work, it‟s intended to portray a story and to evoke an emotion in the viewer. People buy my paintings if they feel a connection with them.

his painting, Serenity (oil, 1 m x 70 cm), is of a beautiful young lady named Azura. There is such peacefulness about her that she was the perfect model for my “meditation princess”.

he has had solo exhibitions in Sydney, Melbourne, Freemantle and elsewhere, and has received several commissions from both corporate and private customers.

This is a scene from Pemberton, Western Australia's south-west region. It is entitled Waterâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Edge (acrylic, 120 cm x 120 cm).

This is a scene from Pemberton, Western Australia's south-west region. Road to Pemberton (acrylic, 1 m x 1 m)

his is entitled A Dogâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Life (oil, 120 cm x 1 m). I love painting animals and I love to create my own backgrounds, so this was a pure dream to paint. Letting my imagination play is one of the best things about being an artist.

his painting (acrylic, 1 m x 1 m) is entitled Little Artists and is one of a series. These bush babies are brothers, Ky Ky and Ty Ty, that have been told by their father to go out into the bush to hunt for food, but instead of killing the animals they befriend them and the animals teach them how to find food from the vegetation. It was intended to be the last in the series, telling the brothersâ&#x20AC;&#x; story on the wall as our aboriginal ancestors did, but owing to popular demand Iâ&#x20AC;&#x;ve painted more of my bush babies. I would love to write a children's book about them some day.

rom my imagination. I wanted to capture the viewerâ&#x20AC;&#x;s attention with her eyes, the window to our souls. An alluring stare, to invite and reflect. Exhibited in July, 2010. Just One Look Oil 130 cm by 80 cm

Music interview: Behind Closed Eyes

usic is an important part of everybody‟s life, but so many unsigned bands or artists are never noticed and there are a lot of talented people out there! In this issue, we meet Julian, from Behind Closed Eyes. U: First of all, I would like to ask how you would class your music, Julian? J: I would class it as experimental. At the moment it is electronica based, though I would like - and fully intend - to diversify by experimenting with other genres of music. U: Do you ever create music with other artists? J: Yes, I really enjoy working with other musicians and artists. Two or three heads in the creative mix are better than one. People can bounce ideas around... I have had song-writing partners the past, though the songs I have written with these people were mainly of an upbeat indie nature. I am currently looking for other artists and musicians to take an active part in creating music with Behind Closed Eyes. More than one head can make a musical project evolve and grow, and ultimately that can only be a good and productive thing. U: Can you tell us what instruments you play or have a love for? J: I don't play an instrument, but I can convey musical ideas. I love all instruments and the sounds they are capable of making. If an instrument is played well, any instrument, it can only be a

joy to the ears, for all people, and transcending all language. U: Are you self-taught or have you had a musical education? J: I have had no musical education, but I was brought up in a very musical family. I cannot recall a time when music was not a massive part of my life. It has always been there, it's as simple as that. U: Without a major record deal, it is very hard these days to promote one‟s work and fund one‟s musical activities. How do you fund your dream, and what is your point of view about mainstream record labels? J: Behind Closed Eyes, as a band/concept, began as an offshoot of me working with other musicians on other projects. It began as a hobby, and funding, as such, doesn't really happen. It has been and continues to be very much a labour of love; as long as people listen, watch and hopefully enjoy what they see and hear, then for the moment that has to be enough. As for major record labels, we live in a world where money talks, economics and the profit margins involved are the beginning and the end. There don't seem to be any risk-takers; instead, the majority tend to go with the mundane, talentless and sometimes dross, or that which is guaranteed to put money in the coffers of the big conglomerates. U: I noticed that “Another Girl, Another World” is quite poetic. What kinds of music, art and poetry have inspired your work? J: “Another Girl, Another World” is one

of the songs I have written that I am most proud of. It took over a year to find the right female vocals to use on the song. She was then a 15-year-old girl - I heard her on a school performance video. The song itself was what the original concept of what Behind Closed Eyes was all about, a love affair that could never come to fruition, a love between a terrestrial man and an extra-terrestrial female. The only way to consummate their love is Behind Closed Eyes. Some of the instrumental tracks and subsequent videos explore the theme further. I am inspired by many things: personal experience, snippets of conversation, man's relationship with his fellow man, the natural world - the latter especially in the art I create, be it on a canvas or in my sculpture. Musically, I have had a world of music to inspire me. As I have already said, I come from a very musical family, and as I grew older, my musical taste grew increasingly esoteric as I reached out and embraced new musical genres. If music tickles my ears, then it is good; if art excites my eyes, if poetry or literature makes me think, then again, it is good. U: I notice there is a very philosophical element to your words. Are you a spiritual person, or do you have another viewpoint? J: As I get older, then the teachings of Buddha tend to strike a chord; but no, I don't really class myself as spiritual. I have an awareness of what is right and wrong. I have morals. Maybe if more people on the planet had them, the world would be a much happier place.

Thus endeth the first lesson :) U: Do you play live shows at the moment? Or have an album available anywhere just now? If not, is there anything on the horizon? J: Behind Closed Eyes does not play live shows, or at least, we haven't done so as yet. I would love to do one, though the funding involved for what I have in mind is not available. I have a live show in mind, and it grows bigger in my mind all the time. It would certainly involve the use of visuals as well as music, but, as I've said, at the moment, that is far too expensive a project to contemplate. There is no album either. One was due to be released in early 2010, but for various reasons I am not going to go into, that did not happen. Hopefully an album will happen in the future, though as yet there is no set date. One track, 'EBB', will be released on a compilation under the provisional title "Dreams of the Mysterious" on Dharmaharmony records, released simultaneously through Arabesque (physical) and digitally through Sony/IODA, due for release in the early summer of 2011. U: I know you have a Myspace profile at HYPERLINK "http:// www.myspace.com/ anothergirlanotherworld/music" http:// www.myspace.com/ anothergirlanotherworld/music. Are you a member of any other websites that promote your work? J: Not much else, really. I have a YouTube page, although I am working on pages on Zapto, Reverbnation and

Facebook. U: And that question that always has to be asked - what would you say are a few of your all time favourite songs/albums or bands? J: The list is potentially endless; everything from Beethoven to Zappa. But to name a few: The aforementioned, and Grieg, Pink Floyd (The Wall, Dark Side of the Moon, Final Cut and Animals), Roger Waters, Velvet Underground, Keith Reich, The Rolling Stones, Peter Gabriel, especially solo, and especially his first four solo albumsâ&#x20AC;Ś anything Damon Albarn has a hand in, he is a musical genius... King Crimson, Moby, Foo Fighters, Kings of Leon, Curved Air, Jethro Tull, LadySmith, REM, The, Pearl Jam, ZZ Top, Ed Alleyne, Paulo Nutini, Ian Drury, Plan B, 2-Tone, Cowboy Junkies, 20s Jug Bands, David Bowie, Ry Cooder, Paul Weller, Aphex Twins, Clapton, Rory Gallagher, Plaid, Crowded House, Boards of Canada, Bob Calvert, Brian Eno, Tangerine Dream, Crowded House, Midnight Oil, Levellers, Kraftwork, The Waterboys, Focus, Argent, Golden Ear-ring, Talking Heads just to name a few. The list could go on forever!

In mezzo al nulla

aria Christina Detoni, or Macri, as she prefers to be called, was born and lives in Trieste, Italy, with her thirteen-year-old son. Her passion has always been photography. Her home is filled with boxes of pictures; old photos, scanned prints, folders of pages from her packed hard drive. Knowledge of photo editing transformed her hobby into something more, and now her exquisite captured moments may be purchased on Facebook or on her website, http://macridetoni.it/riflessi-reflections.html.

Un regalo inatteso

Affetto

Al Bagno Lanterna

reathtaking! Luminous! Clarity so real that you reach out to touch, only to find that these are photographs which shine like their Italian creator.

Quasi surreale

shley M. E., a sixteen-year-old self-avowed “shorty” from Akron, Ohio, has been writing since she could “hold a pen in her hand.” She battles dyslexia as she creates her poems, novels and short stories, and refuses to let it compromise her goal of becoming a published novelist by the time she is eighteen. Her talent and determination make this a very real possibility.

ation In Chaos

By Ashley M. E.

I find myself in a situation of Chaos. My mind mixed-up and cluttered. It's a reign of terror stuck with unruliness. So many riots and rebellions but no revolution. All there is uneasiness and unrest. So much disorder trapped with confusion. It's a free-for-all, a holy mess, A trap that I find myself stuck. By the time the evil is done There will be no triumph. No one will rejoice. The pride that had once been will never be again. There will be no celebration. No victory that the world is no longer at war. There will be sadness, loss. All the symbolic statues, All the characteristics that the flags stood for, The significant of all the things we were; Everything will be lost. The flag‟s stars and stripes will be turned. No one will look at the large green statue. No more comfort in what it used to stand for. Freedom will never stand as its message. There is no more amiable. No more friendliness in what once was a peaceful place. Nothing will be easy. Nothing will be cozy When you‟re sleeping on the ground, Praying for the simple things, Home-cooking, warmth. Leave them all behind because they will never come again.  Here it is, the signal of death, the signs of Nazis, in sight of what was a great nation. The death of all--fire, prisons, torture. Tell me please, this isn't my future; A place of gray Can no one else see? Are my eyes the only ones? I want them to notice. Our nation is no longer great.

Photo by Seante Mattson

y Dearest Reginald

by E. A. Irwin

My Dearest Reginald; It has come to my attention I will be dead within the next twenty-four hours. Obviously it is not a very positive thing to dwell on, yet there it is. You have always prided me on my ability to accept situations that are stressful and unbelievably difficult. I thank you for that since the trait may come in handy, although I think I may have found my undoing with this little tragedy. Today, I visited a psychologist to work through all of the emotions this diagnosis has dumped on me as if I were a refuse pile waiting for another load; similar to the way you handled your life and unloaded on me. However, knowing your depth of caring, I thought you might be interested in the doctor‟s good thoughts regarding this trifling obstruction to happilyever-after. His suggestion was that I write this letter, explaining my feelings for you and voicing any concerns or regrets I may have had throughout our marriage. So, once I am deceased, passed away, crossed over — any of the tactful euphemisms used to describe the dearly departed (actually I prefer the word dead) - you will finally know a few of my most deeply felt moments. Please forgive my reticence in sharing these last few oddities, but you must understand this whole dying scenario is really putting a crimp in my day. I was scheduled for a facial but alas, that foray into vanity doesn‟t seem important now. First, well, I suppose I love you. If I haven‟t told

you enough, I am sorry. Though I must admit my little tête-à-tête with the good doctor revealed this to be merely an infinitesimal regret. Honestly, I have tried to be the best wife possible considering your lackluster way of showing emotions and blinding dedication to your ego. In addition, there is the fact you have had a mistress for most of our marriage. Long ago I gave up trying to muster any bit of anger at her interference in our lives; however, I finally came to the conclusion I was only mystified it had taken me this long to admit I didn‟t care. Perhaps this working-through-the-dying-routine is adding encouragement to my otherwise lifeless day. I am beginning to understand why all of those people leave letters when they end their lives, not that I‟ll get that chance since my demise is already pre-ordained. But the act of relating my concerns has become quite freeing. Nevertheless, silly me, I was talking about my feelings for you. There are so many emotions I‟m struggling with, many of which I‟ m not sure I want to leave in a letter for just anyone to find. Suffice it to say — most are not good. Take for example the time you gambled away our life savings and Father had to rescue us from your stupidity … and the Mafia, for pity‟s sake, as they laid claim to my country estate. Reginald, I never relished being a character in a Dickens‟ novel. What made you think I would enjoy a pauper‟s prison? Moreover, did you really think you would get away with giving your mistress my jewelry in order to hide your pitiful assets? You‟ve been very naughty, Reginald. Very naughty indeed. I do remember, with a certain sort of fondness only familiarity breeds, when you thought you had discovered an enchanting new way to enhance your appearance. I never had the heart, or interest, to explain to you that your toupée and mustache re-

alifornia writer E. A. Irwin creates fiction and poetry, often blending genres to keep life interesting. Author of the Myth to Life: The Rise of Riley McCabe series, her short stories and poetry have been published in various anthologies, magazines, ezines and online. Visit her personal website at http://pamatthews.webs.com.

minded me of Hitler at his worst. No, I allowed you to continually sport that image, not desiring to damage your delicate psyche in your search for perfection. Frankly, I was hoping the trollop you slept with would rip it from your head during what I can only imagine would have been boisterous sex. Alas, I failed you in this, another thing for which I apologize. My dear, there are so many of these tidbits of married life of which I have grown fond, though none can quite be compared to your incessant whining and backstabbing nature. Each day found me listening to the voices in my head rather than the tripe you felt the need to deliver in high-pitched squeals lobbed at me, sounding rather similar to your cats in heat serenading me beneath my bedroom window. At least their calls promised action on their parts â&#x20AC;&#x201D; which I supposed you accomplished as well, with your dominatrix. Yes, I languished in that serene place you could never enter, a place so far removed from your insolence and childish ways. This is where I found true wedded bliss and felt I had been crowned Queen of a new Reginald-free realm. I shall close now, my sweet Reginald, for time grows short, like your stature. Life with you has been mundane and ordinary, elements of which I cannot forget despite my imminent demise. I do not regret most of my lifetime with you, or many of the circumstances by which you constantly embarrassed yourself, since I deemed you invisible long ago. That, in itself, would be a righteous punishment for your distressingly boring existence were it not for this one last concern. My greatest regret in all of this is that I will not be able to see your face as you are murdered. When you least expect it, someone will be there to do the deed, compliments of your now depleted trust fund. My dearest Reginald, did you think I was never going to exact my revenge on you? I leave you with these moments of my life culled from my last dying wish. Affectionately, Cecily.

Mari in China town Los Angeles â&#x20AC;&#x153;Art is such a wonderful aspect in life , and in the heart of the community lies such beauty.â&#x20AC;? Photo by Mari Sloan

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, BEAU-

FORT FALLS, is a picture of humanity at its best, and worst, and sometimes its funniest.

Another World “China town a world inside a world.”

Photos by Mari Sloan

The Path “Each step contains art that you won‟t normally see.” Photo by Mari Sloan

Colors â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mesmerizing, a breathtaking world with designs and vivid colors.â&#x20AC;? Photo by Mari Sloan

UFO reports describe Encounters of the First, Second, Third and Fourth types, so there are three major kinds of encounter with vampires. With all the modern conveniences that we take for granted, elecBy Randall Stone tricity, modern lighting, digital radio, television, the motor car, trains and planes, etc., we tend to dismiss these encounters and make light of them, looking for rational explanations. In times gone by, however, when none of these modern marvels existed, In 1819, Dr. John Polidori‟s “The Vampyre” appeared in the April issue of the New Monthly Maga- such hauntings took on truly horrific and terrifying zine. It was the first vampire story to be published in dimensions. Remember that each part of the sceEnglish and was followed up by John Keats‟s poem, nario that follows is based on well-documented accounts told by survivors of the attacks. “The Lamia”, based on legends of ancient Rome, which in turn had assimilated the folklore of their Greek antecedents. In 1897, Abraham Stoker pubThe Old Hag Syndrome lished the greatest of all vampire novels, “Dracula”, and following close on the heels of this literary mar- It has been another long day. The harvesting of povel came the poem by Rudyard Kipling entitled tatoes and turnips from the frozen, wet, October soil “The Vampire”. Thanks to these three giants of the has been back-breaking. Your simple cotton shift writing world, and all those in between and since, and pants have hardly provided any protection from the stereotypical character of the vampire was set, the biting winds that whistle down from the nearby finally becoming sealed by Hollywood‟s first outing mountains and even less from the stinging rains into the world of the Undead with Todd Browning‟s they bring. Even your fur jacket made from wolf 1931 masterpiece, “Dracula”, starring a littlepelts was not enough to keep you warm and became known Hungarian actor called Bela Lugosi. With cumbersome when wet. You seemed to spend more his thick Eastern European accent, sometimes hard time blowing into your red and glowing hands in a to understand, together with Hollywood, the charac- bid to generate warmth and feeling than you did in ter of the archetypal vampire was cast in stone, and actually harvesting the vegetables. From the crack every written story and film since has built upon of dawn to the fall of dusk you worked with only a and expanded that concept. few minutes‟ respite to eat your meagre rations of

ampires, the Truth

The vampire, a creature that once terrorised the whole eastern region of Europe with a fear so intense as to be almost palpable, had now become a blood-sucking playboy of the rich nobility. Tall, dark, suave and devilishly handsome, he targeted beautiful, virgin maidens and took their blood in more of a lovemaking activity than a diabolical and savage attack. Women would forever become breathless and powerless to resist his wiles as he held them in his hypnotic gaze and, as Hollywood continued to push the boundaries of this creature‟s abilities, so too did the writers push the limits of their imaginations. The vampire inevitably evolved and even gained a human soul, which enabled him to fall in love; a far, far cry from the creature that spawned these ideas. So, what is the real basis of the legend of the vampire? The following scenario is based on seriously and widely recorded accounts of such hauntings. It should be explained from the outset that, just as

cheese and bread, washed down with barely a mouthful of ale that you carried in your sheepskin; and to top it all, your damned hat kept blowing off. Now, sitting at the dinner table in your tiny, one roomed hovel, your back aches. Your aging wife, God bless her, ladles hot soup, made from the scant vegetables and herbs you have grown in your garden, into a wooden bowl. As you gaze at her through the feeble light of the small oil lamp and tallow candle with its sweet, musty scent, your heart breaks. She looks so tired, so worn. She should be taking things easier now but you have no children with whom to share the burden. The last one of your five, your eldest daughter of just seventeen summers, died eight months ago. You know your wife never really got over her death. She took it harder than the deaths of your other children. Maybe that‟s because they had all died relatively young, in their infancies, so she had developed more of a bond over time with her beloved daughter. Maybe it‟s because, just three weeks previously, she had lost her mother, whom both of you had cared for in this very home.

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.

You eat your supper of bread and soup in relative silence. Both of you are simply too tired to talk; you because of your long labours in the field, your wife because of her daily toil in the home, cleaning, mending, gardening, baking and cooking. Perhaps, at the week‟s end when you receive your paltry wages, you will be able to buy a little ham and more cheese. Oh, what a feast that would make! With this thought in mind, you limp over to the cot you share with your wife, with its straw-stuffed mattress and wool and fur blankets. Your wife joins you after putting away the bowls and spoons and blowing out the candle. As she climbs in beside you, she extinguishes the oil lamp and your simple home is plunged into darkness; a darkness so black and total that people three hundred years from now will never be able to comprehend it. Despite your aches and pains, the weariness that has invaded your entire being claims your senses and you fall into a deep sleep. Suddenly, you‟re wide awake. What has awoken you, you do not know, but you are definitely wideawake. Strange, then, that apart from your eyes, you are completely paralysed. You hear your wife‟s gentle snores beside you, can feel the warmth of her body only inches away from you, but you are unable to move your hand that infinitesimal distance to touch her. And now your other senses kick in, senses that three centuries from now will have become so diluted, so attenuated by science, they will barely be fit for use. This sense, this hyperawareness, tells you that besides you and your good wife there is another presence in this room. Panic begins to overtake you and your heart beats like a drum within your breast. You can actually feel it hammer against the inside of your ribs. Your eyes dart from one side to the other and you desperately try to move, to cry out, to utter even the slightest sound, as you sense danger from this other being. But like your limbs, your throat too is frozen. Cold, clammy sweat sheens your forehead and tears of intense fear roll from the corner of your terrorstricken and bulging eyes. Again you try to move your hand towards your wife, to cry out to her, to alert her to the presence, but to avail. And all around, the blackness is impenetrable. Horror grips your heart with an icy fist and squeezes as you feel the edge of the cot dip. Someone - something - is pressing down on it, sitting on the edge of the bed. Your eyes dart towards it but still you see nothing, yet that all-encompassing feeling of fear intensifies.

Suddenly, the weight lifts and you feel the edge of the cot rise again. You are breathing heavily now and panic has taken complete hold on you. Your mind races and your body attempts to fight the paralysis but to no avail. And then - movement. For the first time, your eyes detect movement, directly above you. A darker, more solid looking shadow separates itself from the darkness and hovers above you. As it descends, mind-numbingly slowly, the shadow takes on a faint luminosity. Now you can see the soft, white folds and ripples of a gown growing out of the blackness. It shimmers in and out of the shadows, as if moving in a slight breeze. It is a figure; a figure in a gown with its arms spread wide, cross-like. And the gown has a hood. But within the raven-pitch confines of the hood you can see nothing. And then you realise you have seen this gown before. Only it is no gown. It is a burial shroud. The same shroud you wrapped around your wife‟s mother just three weeks ago, before putting her into a box and burying it in the nearby church yard. Your body trembles as your terror intensifies yet again. Oh dear God, what dark and terrible secret did your mother-in-law take to the grave? What dire sin did she fail to admit to the priest as he gave her the last rites, a secret so frightful that it has allowed her to

come back to the realm of the living as - an Upyr. Yes, the tales they tell in the taverns and the village and the fields are true. They exist. You can only watch helplessly as the thing descends and sits on the edge of the cot, close to you. You are desperate to close your eyes but they remain open, following every movement of the thing by your side. It leans forward, towards your face, its features still shrouded in deep shadow. But as the thing comes closer, that strange, soft, luminosity lights up its terrible visage. „Oh, merciful God, no!‟ your mind screams. Oh, how you wish you could recoil, hide, from this hellish monstrosity! Your heart is doing its damnedest to burst forth from your chest. Even your pulse is trying to burst from your wrists. So intense is your fear now that your chest physically hurts. Your whole attention, despite your best efforts, is focused upon the terrible features above you. The slack and deathly pallid flesh of your mother-in -law‟s face leaves you in no doubt that she is indeed dead. Her eyes are starkly white, no pupils, no irises. There is no sense of recognition in her features, no compassion or mercy. The stench of putrefaction is all around. You feel the need to vomit but your stomach, like all the rest of you, is frozen. Her face is mere inches from yours now and she moves her hands to your chest. You can feel the icy coldness of her flesh through your simple woollen shift

as she presses hard. Her slimy, rotting fingers feel like slugs as they snake and wriggle across your chest. Nausea makes your head swim, and yet unconsciousness is brutally denied you. Her lips tremble as she mouths strange, unintelligible words. You feel your mouth begin to open involuntarily. Desperately you try to clamp your jaws shut, but still your lips part. Within moments it is yawning wide. Breathing becomes more difficult as the pressure on your chest increases, becoming painful. Long, yellow ropes of saliva hang from her lips and drip into your open throat, making you gag and retch at the same time as you taste the sickly sweet putrefaction from her obscene kiss. With her cold, dead, sluglike, slimy lips clamped on yours, you now feel the very essence of your being, your very life force, being drawn from you; and mercifully, at long last, your mind succumbs to darkness and you black out. This horrifying scenario is based on accounts of vampire visits by the survivors of such attacks. One would expect to find these tales in the dusty accounts of long-ago Eastern Europe, but in fact similar terrifying events continue to be reported to this day. During the early part of the present decade there were three of these reports in the U.K. in Liverpool, all relatively close to one another. Attacks of this kind come in three different stages, just as the UFO encounters come in four:

Stage One is sensing the presence while being paralysed. Stage Two is feeling the depression of the bed as if someone is sitting beside you. Stage Three is the full-blown assault as described above. They are known as â&#x20AC;&#x153;Old Hag Syndromeâ&#x20AC;? and are also reminiscent of visitations by witches, except that in the Upyr case a total lack of bodily and mental power is experienced that can last for days afterwards, leaving the sufferer pale and listless. Contrary to the popular belief that vampires survive on the blood of the living, it was more likely that they imbued the life force, or pranic energy, as it is more correctly known. Nowhere in the folklore of Eastern Europe are fangs of any sort mentioned. True, many of the survivors of vampire attacks have complained of and have displayed bite marks upon their necks, breasts, wrists and legs, but there has been nothing unusual about these teeth marks, and in no case were major arteries punctured. All survivors, however, have complained of the paralysis - something that Hollywood perhaps grasped to give the vampire its hypnotic stare: a crushing sensation around the chest, and difficulty in breathing. To be continued in our next issue!

ope Is The Ground You Walk On

By Kale Wilson Beaudry okay, tea you can be sipped tepid or cool steam rising or falling like the rising or falling of your smooth chest turned upwards exposed to the naked of the night. yet still, you can be still in the stillness of it all stars in shortened stride you are the moon rising or falling on my horizons spilling rubies rising or falling in my diamond studded sky. Let me reach you, the blanket over my shoulders the cord to my creation the incandescence of things to come for lovers playing cards.

Illustrated by Mike Dovers

exist in the body of a twenty-year-old Canadian named Kale Wilson Beaudry, and have been on the writer's path since I was very young. For instance, I knew the alphabet before I could speak. You might think it impossible, but the right word is improbable. Enjoy my words.

xperimental

By R.G. Johnson

Masked strangers take notes as I struggle to breathe. If I had a good reason I‟d scrap it for parts and save the old frame for a picture of God to hang from the rearview of my ‟84 hearse and remind me why I keep on driving. Firefly in a jar blinded by its own glow trapped with my fresh lacks and losses. I want to shine until the eyes have to hide and escape from the cage while they falter. If I had a true love I would paint it with lies just to keep the mangy dogs sniffing. Then eat her drugged kisses until I sleep hard in a cubby hole hidden from sunlight and lust. But alone onstage of stages and symptoms I swim in piss-warm apathy and buzz about with regrets and hurt that suck oxygen from stale air. I wonder how long I must choke on my loneliness before my bulb flickers and finally forgets. I look for a break in the eggshell-thin walls while masked strangers take notes as I struggle to breathe.

misfit with whom normal folks don‟t associate, R.G. Johnson lives in the piney woods of Texas. It‟s rumored that he once bit the head off of a live rattlesnake, but in spite of that he‟s been published in many e-zines and journals.

Killed the Bedroom Door By Ray Neighbor

one of us are the same as we were thirty-five years ago, thank God. I have never struck my wife, unless you call flicking the top of her hair „abuse‟. I have been, for the most part, a kind husband. However, when I was younger, I did have a quick temper. I often took out this immature anger on the walls, and because I couldn't fix drywall, we would hang pictures over my flaws. The apartments we lived in began to look like art galleries. We had just bought our first home; a slab-style ranch that looked like every other house on the street. I did not want to move from the apartment, with the tennis courts, swimming pool, recreation room and lots of no-children friends like us, into a “house.” It just seemed like moving from a carefree, no-responsibility, have-fun situation into an it's-time-to-get-serious mode. I don't recall what the fight was about, but Sue and I have different ways of handling such events. I want to talk about it; clear the air, get things settled as if nothing had happened. Sue? She prefers to stay silent. I mean, like, middle of the Mohave Desert silent.

Anyway, she bolted for the bedroom, with me right behind her yelling "What did I do? Let's talk about it - come on! Let's not blow this thing way out of proportion." I heard the door shut. Let's say I felt the door shut, just missing the famous Neighbor nose. Then I heard the click. She‟d locked the door. "Sue, I'm sorry! Just unlock the door and let‟s talk." I do remember feeling a little pissed that I was once again apologizing for something but I had no idea what for. This one-sided conversation lasted about ten minutes until finally I blurted out, "Sue! If you don't unlock this door so we can talk I'm going to knock it down!" Well, I didn't knock it down. I punched it. Was it stupid? Yes. Did it feel good? Yes. In fact, I punched until the lock broke free, but also left three fist-size holes in the now barelyhanging door. Whatever we were fighting about was ended in fifteen minutes, thanks to my apolo-

ay started out with dreams of being a writer. He began by jumping freight trains in 1964, trying to experience and write about his life on the road. As often happens, life got in the way. He says he can't tell you the right path, but he can point you to a hundred wrong ones.

“I was a killer, not just a killer, but a killer who cut his victims into small chunks and put them in garbage bags.”

gizing, and plenty of hugs. But now we had a problem: the door. "Ray, Mom comes over all the time. She‟s going to know what caused those holes," Sue said, her voice still shaking. "Don't worry, I'll just take the door down and throw it away and we can buy a new one." She shook her head in agreement. I took the door down and proceeded to take it out to the trash. "Ray, no! The neighbors will see it, they'll know we got into a fight!" “Well, how do I get rid of it then?" I asked, confused as to what should come next. "Can't you just cut it up and put it into bags?" she asked. All of a sudden we had become a team. We both started laughing at the bizarre situation we found ourselves in. There was only one other option. I got two saw horses, placed the door on them, and began sawing. It did not go smoothly. Cutting

through the hollow plywood door was a nightmare. I paid for my stupidity. The pieces had to be little to fit into the small plastic green garbage bags. I felt I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I actually would peer around to see if any neighbors were watching. Sue supervised. I became so frustrated with the difficulty and noise of sawing I went to a huge sledge hammer. Sue got the CD player and played Bruce Springsteen to mask the sound. "Baby, we were born to run." I was a killer, not just a killer, but a killer who cut his victims into small chunks and put them in garbage bags. It took forever; a hundred pieces of splintered wood had to be gathered. We couldn't leave any evidence behind. That was over thirty-five years ago. I haven't killed a door since. The anger, the frustration, they have all long since faded away. But sometimes my mind wanders back, and I remember the horror of it all. I am haunted by the unanswered question: Can you get the chair, for killing a door?

nicorns and Dolphins By Anthony Hines-Tecoy

Though you can see meat times you won't. You create me to complete the self that you are afraid to beBeautiful. Simply, vulnerably beautiful, are the traits you give me, As my protection extends outside and atop my head. In another form if I lie, I die For my nose never grows, so the story goes. I am the protector of the sea below; What protects us is the will to believe in us. When it stops, there goes the glow. When caught in a snare done without care, Vulnerably beautiful are we In a land where one is freeIf we tell ourselves, to let it be.

orn in Orlando, Florida, Anthony Hines-Tecoy began writing about angels and heaven at the age of seven. A Buddhist who loves acting and who writes about true life issues, he‟s never afraid of constructive criticism, believing that it is the writer who should make sure that the reader understands the point of a piece. A graduate of State University of New York at Albany (SUNY Albany), he lives in Atlanta, Georgia now, and won “Hotel of the Year” for his workplace with an essay.

amentations To Mother Time By Dane Osborne

I sat with mother time, the loving, kindly mad-slut creator of the beginning and the end. Her eyes were made of stars, and from her breath I felt the warmth of the womb. She promised to give me the keys to all dreams if I paid her gas bill and helped cover her bar tab. O! mother time, why do we experience the laughter of electric youth amidst the morning dew, only to suffer the decay of bones and the fearsome expiration of our soft breath in the empty night? "You praise the sky, but you can't see past it. Your sight is controlled by selfish delusion" is all she would say, sipping heaven hill with diet pills. O! mother time, you know all the secrets and the answers to the riddles. You turned on this massive machine. Why can't you turn it off and free us of tears? "Spot me a few dollars for the slot machine and I’ll tell you later" is all she said, and she walked away to catch her bus.

y name is Dane Osborne and I was born in eastern Kentucky in 1985. I have never had much taste for the traditional third person bio, so I will express myself directly in the first person. I have been published before in the anthology "Cafe Musings" and the literary blog „antilachian poets‟. I view a lot of my work as an interactive process with my subconscious mind interacting with my logical aware side and what comes out is the result of the interaction. It usually has truth to it afterwards, if it is successful.

utting On A Play By Phibby Venable

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it was actually a full moon over Georgia night, but I was trying for a little drama in a new play I was making up for my best friend's birthday. Her name is Stella, and, when she isn't carrying on at the mental hospital, she is asking for two-act plays. She likes the first act full of drama, and the second one with a good death scene. She doesn't just hang out at the hospital, she makes colorful potholders and paints those “Paint by Numbers” paintings of birds. Her insurance is pretty flexible, so at least once a month she commits herself.

untrue assumption that I am any better at relationships. I have what I inwardly refer to as “sympathy affliction.” I meet men that are wholesome. Well, at least they are laughing, witty, enjoying life and tossing money about like confetti. I laugh, I sing, I dance; I offer a shoulder to cry on. Pay close attention to that last part. Within a month, sometimes two, these men lose their jobs, their charm, and their health. I am now supporting a crippled, snarling creature with high blood pressure, heart problems, and a claim in at

It is lonesome without her, so I go visit and try to entertain her the best that I can. Last month I read her articles from some antique Reader's Digest that we found in the lounge. We chose the I Am Joe's Gall Bladder article, slipped the word “crotch” in instead of “gall bladder,” and had a fine time. It went a little something like this: “I help Joe filter poisons from his liver.” (I said this primly and with serious intent.) “That is where Joe downed a twelve-pack every day for fifty years!” (Stella mimicked our local newscaster, as narrator.) “I remove all the waste.” (Plodding on, sternly. After all, an oversupply of bodily waste is a very serious situation.) “Why?” (Stella, howling, not that inappropriate a behavior for her current environment.) “Did Joe crap himself?” Anyway, you get the picture. We had a fine visit and she promised to be home for her birthday, if I promised to do a play. I always drag in my cousins as collaborators on these productions. They are natural actresses, which is obvious from the men they date. There are two cousins, Dana and Debbie, and their choice of man is based purely on the shape of the guy‟s bottom in his jeans. When these men suddenly turn into complete asses, they are always shocked and astonished. Every time. Of course I would not want to give off the totally

social security for disability. Of course, it is a guiltproducing situation since they were not broken until I found them, so I let them hang out while they are waiting for their checks. These men aren't pleasant either. They resent living off a woman, and eventually leave, but it usually isn't until they have money again. You have probably heard of the Black Widow, but in my case it is the Black Weeper. Everything that ever haunted them in their lives catches up with them just at that moment that I acquire tender feelings. Not a pretty picture. But I digress ….

strong believer in the strength of women, Phibby Venable, living in Abington, VA, has been published in a series of national and international magazines, including Poetrybay, Southern Ocean Review, Sow‟s Ear, Voices, and The Applachian Journal. Her novel, Women of the Roundtable, was published in 2010, and she is in the process of completing a collection of poetry, The Wind Is My Wine.

Now, my other prospect for the play was Irene. She‟s a loyal, tough, steel-knuckles kind of woman with a large gusto for life and tequila. The men she acquires wait on her hand and foot, and no wish is too ridiculous to fulfill to please her. Stella said she keeps them on valium, and she does have a pretty big stash of pills in her bureau. The only problem with Irene was that she always wanted the leading lady role. This was difficult sometimes, especially when the leading lady was supposed to display a certain degree of ladylike

on the floor, delighted! Once I had my actresses lined up, I had to think of the perfect theme. Since Stella was so enamored with the hospital, I decided on a windy night at the clinic, where the leading lady is rushed into emergency surgery for an unknown stomach complaint. Instead, she would receive a lobotomy and come out as gentle as a lamb. Then she would receive the hospital bill, and in a lust for revenge, would attack the doctor who performed the surgery with a twenty-eight-dollar bottle of lotion. Since those little bottles of lotion are small, I would have to create a scenario where she makes him swallow it. I was pondering the fine points of the production when my latest man shouted from the bedroom. “Stop that damn clicking! You know the keys bother me!” “Turn the fan on,” I shouted back. He was in no mood to barter. Just last month he had been a fine figure of a man, but now he was on the verge of death. Once a two hundred pound carpenter, he was now a two hundred pound package of depression. His hammer lay in the cobwebs on my front porch.

behavior. For example, in the Miss America pageant play I wrote, she insisted on being the winner. When it came time to walk down the aisle, she was blubbering like a fool, and dragging the roses. Her tiara was a bit tangled in her high-rise, teased hair and she was determined to make the walk in threeinch heels. Since she is usually shod in hiker's boots, this took some getting used to. Unfortunately, she wasn't one to practice anything much. She just stalked right out, teetering like a tall line of blocks, waving one arm madly to retain her balance. The play was a big hit anyway. Stella rolled

I was working overtime at the laundrymat. It was a second job and I loved the way people were always dropping quarters. Obviously, they could not hear over the roar of the dryers, but I could hear the ping of a quarter at a hundred feet. My new man loved quarters. When he was able to ride into town with me, he liked to play the machines at the entrance of the stores. We had a bunch of stuffed animals now from the Grab A Prize. I usually waited until he had forgotten about them, and then I took pictures and sold them on E-bay. Apparently, lots of folks out there had been done in by those machines and were willing to get the prizes any way they could, because the stuffed animals went like hot cakes. What they did to them after they acquired them was not my concern. It was getting late, so I put the play aside and fixed some green tea. The fan had performed its mission, and my new man was sleeping peacefully. Looking out of my window, I ignored the spider webs in the window frame and focused on the stars. I saw some beautiful fat ones and tiny ones, way back in the sky, beaming like a beautiful cast supporting the star performer, as the evil doctor drank his lovely bottle of expensive lotion.

FAMILIA FELIZ

TRINAR MAĂ&#x2018;ANERO

orn in Mar del Plata, Argentina, Cyntiamilli Santillan began her career as a law graduate, but her interest in Human Rights led her to devote herself to research into international trends concerned with the humanization of Martial Law, and a project associated with Amnesty International.

LA JINETE X

SERIE NATURE

he is also a writer, a digital artist, and the creator of BRIK Art. Her work has been presented in online galleries as well as in galleries in Europe, America, and Italy.

TIGRE FOSFORESCENTE

ABSTRACT

PAISAJE MARINO

ROCÍO

ESOS AMANECERES!

CARACOL DE MAR

ngels’ Gifts By Deborah Shepard

Delicate blossoms , songs of the beautiful loving spring. Dollops of white and golden spheres, each chime will ring. Angels filling each message in heart, wrapped soft in light Each cherub‟s sky etched hummingbirds in flight. Angels‟ gifts. Beautiful angels. Vines with roses stream each hall. Light of hope for faith is strong. Sterling fallen leaves, hearts entwined, Hearts designed for his mom. Angels‟ gifts. Triple lighthouse. She stands in awe. Her beautiful children shared each aura. Always and forever, unwavering lords love. Angels‟ utterances surround.

eborah Shepard, from Yelp, Washington, writes poetry that inspires others to dream. Her poems are about the beauty of fairies, the compassion of angels; fantasy journeys filled with hope. As a teacher, writer, mother and wife she hopes to offer each reader the chance to experience a spiritual awakening as they reach for their goals.

earled By Poppy Silver

Honeysuckle sinew Fragranced, steel embrace Musk undertone Desires more textures Through pearled Perfect contortion Inhale And the sin is ours To fuse Manipulate Exhale A little death I saw your eyes explain At the pinnacle Endless chasm Your rose Of heart Sipped Tasted What is mine Yours And the petals remember With still luring scent Linger Over ghost of backbone On tracing paper Now, calm white linen

oppy Silver of Ether, United Kingdom, creates poetry and writes and performs lyrics, breaking new ground in musical performance art as part of O. R. M. E. (Orbitally Re-Arranged Monotomic Elements). She is also a gifted photographer, spending her spare time as an administrator on several literary websites, including Apollo Blessed and Mind‟s Eye, and as the Poetry Editor for Mind‟s Eye‟s U Magazine. O. R. M. E.‟s website is at http://www.myspace.com/ormestarfire.

Tribute to Hani By Mohammadali M. Shoja

I hear the cry of my soul, From the darkness of my unknown, To the insurgencies of my desires, To the infinite depth of wonders, I see you, I feel your love. You are my dreams; you are my truth. You are the day; you are the night. Every quantum of my heart beats with your hopes, with your wishes. I will burn my whole being for your joy, I will burn it to shine for you, I will make you a shadow with my ashes, I will give it to the morning breeze to write your name on the tops of the mountains, on the bottoms of oceans. I will come to you.

ohammadali M. Shoja, MD, a twenty-nine year old Iranian medical school graduate, is now a research fellow at Indiana University Departments of Ophthalmology and Neurosurgery, Indianapolis. With more than two hundred sixty publications in peer-reviewed international journals, he edits several scientific journals and has received several national and international awards.

lowers and Tears

By Tammy Hendrix

I gave flowers once. Pretty as Momma. Placed with loving care in an album I was not pretty enough for. Found 'em in the trash. Climbed in to be with them. And I never gave flowers again. Held a flower in my hand After the last "no more" again. Pretty red petals trembled To the rhythm of my shaking will. Surrendered to a love of more hope than lived. Lying face down on the floor. My red demand was little to ask. Never so lovely as his crimson apologies. 'Til the day I accepted flowers no more. Their message lost through the years. Pure perfect mutated into symbols of sorrow. A fragrant whimsy of true love expressing Always just... out of reach. Lying here, surrounded with love. Wrapped safe and warm by you My eyes open to wild sweetness. Daisies on the nightstand Given, just because. And it makes me want to cry. Staring into bright yellow hearts Always knowing their place in this world. A gift, once tossed and abused, My flowers have come home To a heart that always adored. Waiting to be adored With flowers With love From you. They are so close I could reach out and touch them But I would rather turn and touch you. "Good morning my love."

ammy Hendrix, from Milton, New Hampshire, loves the world and everyone in it. Her vulnerability translates into sensitive poetry reflecting her heart and the beauty of the natural world around her. She is an emotional poet and writing is a form of therapy she needs and enjoys.

rotting Between Trails By Cassandra Violet Murphy

Often times I see glimpses of my heart‟s thoughts, pumping passionately in dreams, but my mind is a cave shading the beats seeking in shadow, selfish, stubborn, afraid. It peeks at the glimpses of the risky road my core flashes, gazing breathlessly at the cryptic colors, the strange precious tints, the illuminated images of the incessant, but right when my feet step off this street of the known, they retreat. They flee deeper back to the journey of predictability, pacing wildly down the cracked pavement, staring sadly between that of the voluminous vast and that of the visible, the road in which I now walklinear lines marching mechanically to a mountain in front of me, the sight I‟ll have to watch until my breath stops. My dearest thoughts, my conscious mind, my reason, you have to make a decision. Will you live and die on this gravel? Listening to the successive echo of your soles, drowning in angst at your fate, the destination of this direct drive; or will you listen to the song of your soul? Will you let your heart gallop, Gliding in the glow of adventure, Swaying in the shimmers of excitement, Kissing the sphere of sky‟s secrets, And finally feel what it means to be living?

assandra Violet Murphy is a California-born writer and poet who travels the world recording her experiences as an observer of the richness of the human condition. She has lived in San Diego, Hawaii, Mexico City and currently resides in Boston where she attends Suffolk University. Her collection of poetry, The Song of the Universe, is ready for publication.

olored Stars By Aline S. Iniestra

Darkened skies with colored stars That dance around the full moon Talk to me in crazy twinkles Saying that this is the night. The moon stays still and looks at me With a hypnotizing beam That captures my soul And makes me want to fly. This is the night when I will rise And capture all that has escaped. My loving hands and darkened heart. This is the night, they are my guidance. The stars dance faster and come down to me As the moon draws the path for them. I open my arms and close my eyes. Lie down on the grass and wait for the rite. Crickets sing as they lift me. And the moon waits to embrace me. I feel so light, I feel the joy, I feel the breeze and the warm glow. It‟s me down there. The physical me on earth. It‟s me up here. A soul in the universe. Darkened skies with colored stars That dance around the full moon; I am a star that glows and floats In this darkened firmament. I‟ll twinkle for you Whoever you are. It is peaceful here. It is the home I‟ve found.

rolific poet Aline S. Iniestra loves to read and writes poetry of every genre, telling her stories of romance, fantasy, Goth, horror and adventure in rhyme. Many of her works are fueled by her love for music, which inspires her and moves her through life.

t was Christmas Eve, as Steven cautiously and tediously loaded the nine millimeter, as he sat crossed legged on his bed. It was the perfect time to end this madness. This is stupid, he thought, as he pushed each shell into the chamber. It would only take one shell to end this haunting that had tortured his life for so many years.

"God, forgive me," he muttered, as he raised the cold metal barrel. Steven squeezed the trigger and the tragic earshattering sound could be heard for blocks. The remains of the demons were splattered and embedded on the wall... silent.

By Ray Neighbor

He was ready. He had been ready for so long. He just hadn‟t had the courage. Tonight it was different. He didn't fear the repercussions of his act. Tonight, the incessant voices would end. The nightmare that had driven him to the edge of Hell would be no more. He was sick of the doctors who prescribed his pills, the pills that would ease his depression, the ones that never worked. One doctor had even admitted that there was nothing that could stop the voices. He had to learn to live with them. He‟d tried. He‟d really tried, but they were always there, telling him the dangers he faced, the horror that awaited, the demons that stalked him. Tonight, on Christmas Eve, when lost things are found, the demons would die, and at last there would be peace. He no longer cared. He had tried to warn his friends, but they all believed it was an idle threat. In a few seconds they would know: it was not an idle threat. Steven pushed the last shell into the chamber. It was time. He wouldn't back out this time, like he'd done so many times before.

When the police found him, he was lying motionless on his bed. It was over. They stared at what little was left. The officer looked at his partner. "What drives people to do such senseless acts?" he asked. "His landlady said he talked of being tired of the voices," his partner replied. "Look, get someone up here and clean up this mess," he ordered. "I don't want to take a chance of cutting myself on this glass." "Jesus Christ, an almost brand new wide screen TV, too,” the officer uttered, shaking his head. "Son, I got to take you in. It's against the law to fire a weapon in the city limits.” Steven had a smile on his face as they cuffed him and led him away. At last he was free of the hellish voices.

ay loves life, and tries to surround himself with human beings who have character, and good hearts. His best friend is a successful Writer and Publisher who is editing and helping Ray publish a book based on his experiences.

e y E s â&#x20AC;&#x; d n i

m o c . ing

n . e y s -e

d n i m w.

w w / / ttp:

Ap http

ollo

://a

pol

lob

les

Ble

sed

.nin

sse

g.c om

Available through ITUNES and Amazon

Coming through ITUNES and Amazon

Help us Help Them

http://www.magcloud.com/browse/Issue/158125