Hope For Japan Issue 3 by ralph Piccolo

Ralph Piccolo

Mark P. Henderson

Managing Editor

Short Stories & Novels Editor

Mari Sloan

Ashley M. Eddy

Short Stories & Novels Editor

Graphics Editor

Tammy Hendrix

Poetry Editor

â&#x20AC;&#x153;We present talent from around the world that shares the joy and happiness, sorrow and pain, that we all experience. With a twist of a pen, or a stroke of a brush, our artists bring the world closer and make the pain easier to bear.â&#x20AC;?

Genre

Short Story: Painting: Poem:

Title & Artist The MEphone Boris Glikman Illustration by Michael Cheval Impression Mehriban Effendi Goddess in Gratitude Tammy Hendrix

Page

4 6 7

Tribute to the victims of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami Art work by Quentin Stempfel, Verónica Martínez, Isabelle Pelle, Bianca Howell, Miriam Jachs, Juan Miguel Iglesias, Romare, Andrew Ames, Sophie Cambridge, Serena de Zwart, Irene Tobisch, Teo Yi En Shawn, Lucia Fioretti, Paolo Canuto

8-20

Where Would I Go?/Requiem Mari Sloan Rainbow Lights Ablaze A Field Full of Roses Ann Noell As the Midnight Wind Blows SharonLee Goodhand Each Step Hurts Aida Tucek Flying Horses (a Young Man’s Turning) Dwayne St Romain Guinevere Eddie Mount Wind and Bones Cutter Murdoch The Flute Player Carl J. Tengström

14-16 21 22 23 24 25 26 28 29

Story: Poem: Poem: Poem: Interview: Paintings:

Soon Angels (Conclusion) Had the Years… I Let You In Colors Michael Cheval Featured artist – Michael Cheval

32 36 37 38 39 43-54

Drawing: Article:

Drawing by Elizabeth Earnest Vampires – the Truth (II) Randall Stone (Illustrated by Gabrielle)

55 56

A Small Bit Per Essere Bella Sometimes an Evening Drinks a Day

60 62 63

Art:

Poem: AD: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Story:

Story: Poem: Poem: Photography: Digital Art: Story: Paintings: Photography:

Tom Sterner Cheyenne Meadows Tom Stelmak Averi Fister Boris Glikman

Shai Adair Grace Jendritz Phibby Venable

Featured photographer – James McDonnell Art by Sliver Paintings by Photos by

Melissa Ferguson (Momo) J. W. Bouwman & Corey Rowley Elizabeth Earnest Tom Stelmak

64-72 73-83 85 87 94-97

he MEphone

By Boris Glikman One day a new type of phone that you could use to call yourself appeared on the market. All one had to do was dial a certain number and one would be connected straight away with oneself. The quality of the reception was so good that the voice on the other end of the line sounded as if it was coming from the very same room. Inevitably, there was some initial apprehension about using this phone, for no one quite knew what kind of a response they would receive when they rang themselves out of the blue for the very first time. What if their unexpected call was considered to be an impertinent invasion of privacy? Eventually, these fears subsided as most found that they were greeted with warmth and enthusiasm and their calls were seen as a pleasant surprise. Talking with yourself was just like talking with a dear friend you haven’t seen for a long time and conversation flowed easily. People rushed to purchase this new invention, which was marketed under the brand name of “mePhone”. Suppliers could not keep up with the demand and there were ugly scenes as customers fought amongst themselves for the last available mePhone. For mePhone to work properly certain rules had to be followed, and these were set out in the Owner’s Manual. First, the reception only worked in particular areas, access to which required an extra fee. Second, there was a strict time limit on how long you could spend speaking to yourself. And third, when using the mePhone, one had to wear special, rather cumbersome apparel that was sold separately from the phone. Also, due to the technical complexities involved in establishing a connection, the cost of a call was outrageously expensive, although some enterprising phone companies, hoping to capitalise on the popularity of the mePhone, for a while only charged it at a local call rate. However, these inconveniences were more than

oris Glikman holds the keys to an alternate universe, and through his work we share his world of Eternal Truths, Ineffable Questions, and Infinite Beauty. Writing is a spiritual activity of the highest degree for this gifted prophet from Melbourne, Australia. His stories and poems have been published in various online and print publications, and featured on national radio. "First published by Gilgamesh Publications in 2010"

outweighed by the benefits you gained from having a good chat with yourself, for no one had ever had the time to stop and take a good, honest look at their lives. Everyone was always rushing about, preoccupied with the mundane details of existence, trying to silence the nagging question of whether they were happy with their lives and if they were being true to their inner selves. And so it was an enlightening experience to be able to have a deep and meaningful talk with oneself. The users of the mePhone could now catch up with all the things in their lives they had never had the chance to think about before, to find out the vital news that fell by the wayside as they were speeding along the road of life. People found that talking with yourself was a lot like talking to an old confidant, with whom the most intimate matters could be discussed. Not infrequently tears were shed as truths one had been hiding from oneself for many years were conveyed in blunt and forthright terms. Conversations gained a confessional aspect as darkest secrets known only to oneself were divulged openly over the phone lines. Quite often, surprises were lying in store as people discovered what they were actually feeling inside. At other times, the voice on the other end of the line would remind you of your long-neglected dreams, of desires and needs you had suppressed for far too long. Many found out they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really happy in their places of employment. Some realised they had fallen out of love a long time ago. Others saw for the first time that they had deluded themselves as well as others into believing they had reached fulfilment, regardless of how they actually felt inside. Quite a few recognised that they had become so comfortable with being miserable and disenchanted that they shrank back in fear when contentment appeared to be within easy reach. The world became a better, happier place because of the mePhone as people at last began to be true to their own selves, for they knew they could no longer get away with lying to themselves. The way life had been before the mePhone was just a distant, faded memory and no person could imagine ever being without one.

Impression by Mehriban Efendi

oddess In Gratitude By Tammy Hendrix

The grass is damp and cool beneath me Wistful fingers play Fondling my neck, legs, The arch of my back, My dreams. I stretch for the heavens and sigh. Ocean vast with twinkling eyes Entranced, curious, I watch in awe of their beauty, Of their possibilities, Infinite. Stars swim the boundless sea Hypnotized, inquisitive. They watch in awe of my beauty, Of my possibilities, Infinite. What glorious freedoms offered Lying center an enormous naked field, Surrounded by serenading violins Played upon the legs of crickets. My imagination gifted with great breadth Lying bare mid this holy place, Serenaded by the rush of God's breath Played across my nakedness. The breeze chills me. An orgasmic capturing of breath, Eyes rush with tears of gratitude, Heavenly peace. I am guarded safely here. No need for a fig leaf. The Universe layers me As contentment sustains me. I am Whole. I am Goddess.

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

http://atknebula.deviantart.com/

Artwork By Quentin Stempfel

Juan Miguel Iglesias

lilyhbp.deviantart.com

Ver贸nica Mart铆nez

Quito Ecuador

Teo Yi En Shawn

Andrew Ames

Sophie Cambridge

Irene Tobisch

Romare Richard

here Would I Go? By Mari Sloan

Where would I go If I left Japan? She is my Mother. I am a cherry blossom. I am one of thousands strong. I am her rocky soil. My feet are planted when The ground shakes. When Mother is angry.

Where is my anchor In foreign lands? Who understands the voices That inhabit me? Who will find me lost among strangers? Who will know?

I will stand solid through the tumult. Honor the lost by continuing them. Mix the blood from my hands with theirs. Suffer the fury to keep what is mine. My tears. My pain.

My country.

Serena de Zwart

Lucia Fioretti

equiem By Mari Sloan

The wrath of God descended on our land. The fires raged and water scoured clean Leaving shrouds of once loved homes Where happy people lived. Death reigned in our proud land. Even the ground vibrated beneath Our trembling feet. Graves opened up to entomb the living Mud covered frightened mothers Who clutched children to their hearts, Drawing tortured last gasps of life Entwined together. Never to part. Next Spring as pristine snow Rolls down Mt. Fujiyama in crystal drops Of silver water. As leopards drink deep draughts of life And cherry trees shimmer blossoms on laughing lovers, And household gods are given new belongings. I will still hear the screams of the dying. I will drink salty tears. I will still mourn.

Bianca Howell

NeoThundeX NTX

Quentin Stempfel

Miriam Jachs

The contributors for Hope For Japan: Artist and writer Isabella Pelle is an independent high school student. She can be found on Fictionpress.net (username ShingetsuXMangetsu) and on deviantART.com (usernames ShingetsuXMangetsu and MangetsuYueSeether). Isabella is studying the Japanese language and her art is influenced by various styles and aspects of Japanese tradition and pop-culture. She also works as a martial arts instructor, and teaches at an art studio during the summer. Multi-lingual Bianca Howell has spent her almost twenty-one years absorbing languages and cultures. She began in New York City, and now lives in Bologna, Italy. She loves learning new languages, has Open Water Diving certification, hates sharks, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cook and idolizes Harry Potter. She is still studying! Miriam Jachs is a twenty five year old Austrian student, currently studying Media Design and 3D Animation. Since her childhood Miriam has followed her passion of drawing and her specialty is traditional illustration. A long time ago she fell in love with Japan and studied Japanese Studies. She believes that originality is one of the best features of her artwork. She strives for authenticity, spending extra time to convey the message that inspired her to create it. You can see more of her artwork at http://kizuna-cat.deviantart.com/.

Juan Miguel Iglesias lives in the Bulacan Provenance in the Philippines. This twenty-two year old artist loves Anime, and loves to draw in this style. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s deeply affected by the recent disaster and is especially concerned for the children. He hopes that his work can show his support for them. You can find more of his work at http://migs3331.deviantart.com/. Richard Romare (saverblade) is a Freelance Multimedia Artist and currently a Web Designer for a Top Korean Web-hosting Company based in the Philippines. His specialties are Graphic Design, illustrations, animations, and 3-D layouts, but his childhood dream has always been to be a Japanese Anime or to be a character/concept designer for a famous gaming company. You can see more of his work at http://saver-blade.deviantart.com. Serena de Zwart lives in a small beach town in the Netherlands. At eighteen she is already in her second year of art college, studying Media Design and Animation. She loves cats and Japan, having fallen in love with the country after a vacation there. She is a member of deviantART, and you can find more of her work at http://AngelXKairi.deviantART.com. Born 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, she is no stranger to the perverse working of the human mind. Five years of experience as a member of DSHR (Disaster Services Human Resources) with the American Red Cross has given her first hand knowledge of the suffering brought by natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s random acts of violence, as well. Nineteen-year-old student Teo Yi En Shawn, from Singapore, creates art and has a passion for photography. Special thanks to DeviantArt.com, Minds-eye.ning.com and all those who contributed to help support such a worthy cause.

Rainbow Lights Ablaze

An Anthology in Aid of the Survivors of the 2011 Disasters in Japan Authored by

Sixteen Global Writers and Poets

On March 11, 2011, a 9.0 magnitude earthquake struck the northeast coast of Japan, which triggered a devastating tsunami. To date over 12,500 people are reported dead and over 15,000 are still missing. The quake also crippled the Fukushima Dai-Ichi Power Plant, which added further to the grief, fears and danger visited upon the Japanese people - a crisis that is still ongoing. Inspired by an unusually bright rainbow that occurred on Barbados simultaneous to the earthquake, the title Rainbow Lights Ablaze is intended to inspire hope as focus on the disaster shifts from survival to recovery and rebuilding. All profits from the sale of this book are in aid of charity and will go towards helping survivors rebuild their lives through this humanitarian effort. This book contains poems, short stories, essays, motivational pieces, and excerpts from novels. Photographs of Japanese cityscapes, landscapes, and religious architecture highlight the works. Sixteen global writers and poets reside in such diverse locations as Australia, Barbados, Japan, Poland, Taiwan, the UK, and the USA. For most, their common ground is the Internet, where they interact as writers critiquing one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work or exchanging poems in conversation on a thread. Other friends responded to the call for submittals within days of the earthquake and production of the book took less than a month to achieve, as enthusiasm ran high. Authors include Quenntis Ashby, Debbie Bishop, Margaret Callow, Althea Charles, David Helsten, William Holt, Polly Johnson, Neville Legall, Zan McDowell, Lynne McLean, Mary Linda Miller, BL Milner, Paul Schoaff, Marek Stefanwicz, Ashen Venema, and Kenneth Wayne.

Publication Date: May 15, 2011 ISBN/EAN13: 1461082617/978-1461082617 Page Count: 392 Binding Type: US Trade Paper Trim Size: 5" x 8"

Language: English Color: Black and White Related Categories: Literary Fiction Publisher: CreateSpace Price: $19.99

Available for sale online at www.createspace.com/3586324 and www.amazon.com Contact Mary Linda Miller at maryinflusa@yahoo.com Orlando, Florida USA

Field Full of Roses By Ann Noell

I would not mind Being a rose in a Field full of roses. Down in the meadow Of honeysuckle and clover To sway and sleep Day after shining day In this small kingdom Of butterflies and bees. To lose myself On the silky breeze Of a warm night; To feel the soft rain Through leaves, blossoms and vines. Come with me into The field of roses, Sweet grass and dreaming To know its magic Where petals float upward Their colors exploding, Where butterflies ride Beads of dew. Have you ever known Anything more wonderful? As the sun reaches out? As it warms you? Swaying in the wind. Bright dust and lacy leaves, I would not mind being A rose in a Field full of roses.

nn Noell, from Visalia, CA, lives in the country, but is not a country girl. She began writing her beautiful, delicate poetry in 2007, after her children grew up, left home and moved to England. She loves to write fantasy, placing herself in different worlds, or dark poetry, applying words like subtle brush strokes across the shadows. Poetry is a way of expressing herself when she is alone.

s the Midnight Wind Blows By SharonLee Goodhand

I see poetry In the wizened faces Of old-timers, Smoking on the sidewalk of change Because they’re no longer allowed To light up in their Favorite pub anymore. Not even a backroom For men who fought In three wars. I hear poetry In the laughter of children, As yet innocent angels, Undamaged by The ways of the world. I hear it in the Scented rustle Of trees, bowing In the breeze. I feel poetry; In the sun That warms my naked skin. Hear it in the vibrations Of footsteps That hurry and scurry Through jaded city streets. See it in the vacant eyes Of the displaced And disenfranchised. I smell poetry In the sunrise. In the subtle fragrance Of nature; In the salted roar Of untamed oceans. I taste poetry In the ancient dust Of a deserted desert. In the succulence Of a mangoes flesh. I taste it in The memory of a lover’s kiss, And in the sweetness Of his caress. I see it, hear it, feel it, smell it, taste it In the convoluted rhythms of life, And when the sun has set On yet another day, When the moon owns the night And rides the Milky Way, I become poetry. Free-floating, With the ebb and flow Making love to my words. As the midnight wind Blows.

haron Lee 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, children’s stories and is working on a fantasy novel. Recently she has also become interested in photography and graphic art.

ach Step Hurts By Aida Tucek

I am walking Through the forest With my shoes Without a sole ... Every step hurts ... The people show me Their teeth, Their fur and Their boots ... Every step hurts ... You touch My sole With your lips ... The forest disappears ...

ida Tucek worked in science and industry but always loved and created art. She realized that art is closest to her identity and now she focuses on it. She is looking for publisher of "Unconsciousâ&#x20AC;?, her first book of poetry. You can contact her at aida.kerkmann@usanie-uangu.com.

lying Horses (A Young Man's Turning) By Dwayne St. Romain

Brashly paced death races; bursting like quasars Masked. Pitching carnival throws made of blessings Glass green and gold plastic beads fly like emeralds One day's importance, undressed then forgotten Trotting in plum moments high-chinned like Caesarâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Dixieland second line scarf-dancing Heralds Praising the cocky like conquering lover Emptying fierce notes of passion on nothing Puzzled by trash trails rank, withered and rotten, Raised straight-leg strutting past shit I stepped over. I pushed a blitzkrieg. Oppressing the willing Wast'd them in sensual ambushes waiting Rained blank emotions of uncrafted wailings Warm beating hearts ate like Lays, never sated. Beauty and youth to this hunger was traded. One question--mated! The answer was chilling. Bitch-slapped and stoned like a matted haired stray Searching through garbage for gods I betrayed. Gutted and bloated as Love crept away cloaked In thick quilts of dirt bags in ripe sleaze. I prayed. Given a decade for death and reliving Clawing at lines crawling out as I choked; Shivered in tears; whelping, tested and weighed Bare. Stripped and blooded I glared at my villains Strafed in hot anguishing failures I blistered. Thrashing as crushing blows stoked vicious cadence Laid out my arms, bowed my head and I lifted. Grabbing the beaten my back growing stronger I saw true love living only for giving Long breaths of longing but knowing the reasons One question answered. My dreams all cried treason! "Arbeit Macht Frei" blinked the carousel ceiling Cracked mirrors backlight the Reaper's kitana Paced like ball lightning I parried it harmless Ghosts of Hosannas rage flooded the stillness Back-flipping forward to kill this I bounded. Thankful to keep what I carried from drowning A nova of nature, a newly forged man Now strong, broken gentle, I know who I am. So straddle my shoulders we're rounding for home Calliope singing and never alone.

ouisiana Storyteller Dwayne St. Romain is evidence that talent transcends medium. A musician who began writing poetry as a learning tool for song writing, his songs have been published for acts like The Neville Brothers. His poems are a visual and auditory orgasmic experience, best enjoyed when read out loud. Whether it is music or poetry, telling stories is his true passion. New work coming out soon: (poetry and fiction) The Tales that Care Forgot; (novel) A Groomâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tale (A Living Testimony of the One True Loup Garou); (music) Ghosts Of Harmony Church performed by Baba Fatz and The Thang.

uinevere By Eddie Mount

Guinevere Lie beside me Let us lie upon silver clouds Huddled in blankets of rainbow Bathe in essential starlight Each point of light diaphanous portals To what never was But might yet come to pass Where this bitter world does not exist Where tears are never shed Each new day a mystery An unopened present A child's contented heart Guinevere Do not speak Words are clumsy useless constructs The mere cackling of crows Let the quickening of our hearts And the trembling of our flesh Sing our song Let angelic choirs sing rhapsodic counterpoint Let the maestros of yore Play celestial instruments Shaking the heavens In thunderous melody Where even the dour gods smile and nod Knowingly Guinevere I am lost in your eyes Falling helplessly to an essential core The eye of the storm The center of all things I am no longer who I was Merging, melding, blending Into something new Distinct Pure That never existed before Yet older than the ancient bones of Gaia Guinevere Your name is the soft caress of a midnight breeze A glorious spring day A gentle rain that succors parched earth A balm that heals a broken heart Guinevere... Guinevere... Guinevere A single tear rolls down my cheek It is my gift to you

ddie Mount is a writer who lives in the State of New Jersey. He lives in a small room surrounded by musical instruments and broken electronic devices. He believes even broken things deserve to be loved.

ind and Bones By Cutter Murdoch So quickly. Hours ago you were laughter, borne aloft by sighs between stories, your wings were gossamer, stained glass, ribboned with blood filaments through which I could see the movements, of your heart. Then I found you, crumpled to the ground beneath the quivering peridot of summer, too small it seemed for a spirit so large. I brought you water, clear and cold from where it bubbles up through the stones, the roots, the dark loam of our history. You drank one sip, turned your face back to the moss, and left me. How long I stood there fingers dripping, eyes shining, brimming, welling to overflow. No flowers here, no spreading trees, no birdsong lilting from the deeper green. I curse this place to be naught but wind and bones, until you laugh again.

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

he Flute Player By Carl J. Tengström

"Excuse me, Robert, I really have to go." She was in a hurry to get to her country house. Robert looked a bit annoyed. "Oh, you have better things to do than chatting with me."

"Hello, Doctor Niven!" A voice reached her ear as she walked across a place called Karlaplan. The voice was too familiar. It belonged to Robert Random, a very talkative man. She did not wish to speak to him at that moment. Gena Niven had just been shopping for some groceries for her journey to the countryside and she was going to her car. However, this man wouldn’t give up easily and she decided to sit down for a minute on a bench along the side of Karlaplan. Robert placed himself beside her and started to talk. "I have come to Stockholm again for some language courses at the University. They teach languages so much better than where I live in Aland." There was no demand for answers and Gena listened with only one ear. From a distance, she heard somebody playing a very melodic tune on a flute. Trying to locate the sound, she saw a man in shabby clothing sitting on a bench. He seemed to be in the wrong place but Gena could not tell why. Robert was explaining something about the water system in his country house, when suddenly the flute-man appeared in front of Gena. He handed her a piece of paper. She read a very poorly written text: Please, help me, I cannot speak and I don't know who I am. I can do every kind of work. Doctor Niven, please help me! The man was somewhere between thirtyfive and forty years old, unshaven, but with beautiful eyes. Gena found it astonishing that this strange man knew who she was. Perhaps he had heard Robert calling her name. Robert seemed troubled when the man appeared. "Don’t worry Robert, it’s okay." Gena looked at the flute-man and took the note, feeling somewhat distrustful. This message puzzled her. At that moment, she decided to call him "Nobody". At the same time she thought it might be better not to take any notice of what the man had written. She decided to leave before this stranger could make another attempt to persuade her to do something for him.

"No, but the summer vacations have begun and I must attend to my summer house on Varmdo," she said calmly. "It was nice seeing you again. Good luck with your studies." Having had enough of Robert’s boring monologue she waved goodbye and left. When she started the journey to her country house, she realized that it was far too late for a drive without encountering a traffic jam. This would be a long and tiresome journey. Driving along the route to Varmdo, Gena couldn’t stop thinking about the strange man with the beautiful blue eyes. Arriving at her summer house, Gena sensed that something was wrong but couldn’t say what it was. She took the groceries to the kitchen and began to prepare a meal. She took a deep breath and thought how nice it would be to spend a couple of days alone in the country house. Suddenly someone banged at the door. She hadn't been expecting visitors and felt a bit frustrated. She was looking forward to a nice evening with no company, just a glass of sherry, a good book and some soft music. She went to see who was rude enough to disturb her peace. She recognized a figure she least of all expected to see again. On the doorstep was the flute playing fellow. "How on earth did you find me?" Gena asked, a little startled. "Have you been following me all the way from Stockholm?" He shook his head and started to scribble on his pad. I overheard your conversation with the gentleman on the bench at Karlaplan and then I found out where your country house was. "What are you doing here?" He wrote again: Do you have some work for me? I don't need any salary, just a little food and a place to sleep.

orn in Turku, Finland, Carl J Tengström now lives in Stockholm, Sweden. He has been a criminal defense lawyer with his own law firm for thirty-four years. In 2000 he received a Masters in Law and IT from the University of Stockholm. He “netmarkets”, is a “happeneur”, and spends the rest of his time enjoying music, writing, film/theatre, gardening, tennis and golf. http://www.justlookfor.us http://nowlookfor.us

"Oh, my dear man, I don't really know if that would be suitable. I am a woman alone and how would it look with a strange man running around the premises?" she said, a little amused. Nobody started to write in a frantic manner. As soon as he had finished writing he gave the sheet of paper to Gena. In big straggling letters she read: Please, Doctor, you must help me. I don't know who I am, I don't know where I come from and least of all I don’t know what I am doing in this country! She hesitated a couple of seconds and then she said: "Oh, well, I will see what I can do, but I must ask you to come back later this afternoon. Then I will tell you if you can stay." The door closed before “Nobody” had a chance to answer. Gena waited a moment and nearly let him in again. But then she decided to let him be. The first thing was to determine what to do with this man. She found him quite attractive, good looking in a primitive way. His hair was black as ebony and very short, almost like a stubblefield. Nobody's eyes were very intense with a blue colour as from the deep blue sea. But she knew nothing about him, where he came from or what intentions he had; and most of all, whether he was a potential criminal. After three cups of strong coffee and several telephone calls to her closest friends, Gena finally found the heart to face “Nobody.” After all she was a grown woman with lot of experience of

Photo by Volkan Kovancisoy V olkan Kovancisoy was born in Eskişehir, Turkey in 1982. After university, he taught violin in a fine arts high school in Anatolia for a year, then spent seven years as an orchestral violinist. He is now a freelance photographer in Eskişehir, and he and his fiancée Raimonda plan to take street and fashion photographs in Paris this summer. To see Volkan’s work and contact him, visit http://volkankovancisoy.daportfolio.com/ and http://www.facebook.com/pages/VolkanKovancisoy-Photography/141077249259241?ref=ts

impudent students. Besides, Nobody could be a man in need of help.

into consideration, but make it short," she said, a little less unfriendly. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

She looked everywhere but couldn't find him. Perhaps he had left? Then she heard a noise at the corner of the stable. She turned around with her heart in her throat and a cold shiver ran down her neck. Then she saw “Nobody” near the stable door.

“Nobody” nodded again.

"I thought you had left already, as I didn't see you," Gena said in a very low voice. "Let us go into the house. We have to talk about this." "The house was built in 1897 and it was in a poor condition when I bought it," she said. "It has been very faithfully restored and it took me five years of hard work to get this far. I have done a great deal of the restoration myself. Of course I have hired craftsmen for the most difficult tasks. Take for instance the friezes in the living room and the dining room. They have all been made by a stucco worker. A new roof has been laid by a tinsmith and it has been done the same way as the original. The roof trusses have been changed because the old ones were quite rotten."

They sat down at a round table in the south west corner of the living room. On each side of the table was a window. From the window on the south side you could see the lake about a hundred yards from the main building. On the same side of the building there was a big porch with two sitting groups. The groups contained two big cane chairs painted in white and a sofa in the same material. Her favourite was a rocking chair, also in cane. She used to sit there in the evening watching the sun set, until she saw the sun dip into the sea. "Let me see, then, what you want," Gena encouraged her visitor. “Nobody” looked at her like a little schoolboy getting a question about a subject he hadn't prepared. He swallowed and then tried to look straight into her eyes. He started to scribble again. On his pad Gena could read: I have a story to tell.

The door hardly moved as Gena tried to open it. Nobody pushed it open and she stepped inside. Her heart was pounding when she listened to the footsteps behind her. What was she thinking, letting a complete stranger invade her precious home? She saw how “Nobody” looked around. Was he thrilled at what he saw? Gena saw his face and smiled. She understood that this man was obviously in need of help. But she didn't know how she would be able to give him the help he needed. During the time “Nobody” was waiting for Gena's answer he had prepared a long story on his pad of paper. Please, Doctor, listen to what I have to say before you throw me out. I understand that you are angry, but I don't know where else to turn. My situation is very complicated and I think that you are a person capable of giving me the support I need. "I really don't know about that," Gena said doubtfully. “Nobody” nodded energetically and wrung his hands. "All right, I will take what you have on your mind

oon Angels by

Tom ‘WordWulf’ Sterner Conclusion

sion. 'They're getting ready for me,' Judy thought. 'They know today is... what is today?' She faded away mercifully into a land of smoke and didn't come out until... "I figgered I might find ya here." "Where am I?" "Yer where I metcha."

The story so far…

"Those people... shapes in the fog..."

Judy, a 28-year-old cancer victim, dies in her hospital bed. Bewildered by her new status as a ghost, she encounters Henry, a ghost-boy of indeterminate age. Henry plans Hallowe’en fun for the patients in a ward for terminally ill children and Judy goes with him to make preparations, but contrary to his warning, she makes contact with a little girl called Loreli who is on the point of death. The previous episode of this story ended with Judy visiting her old room and watching her grief-stricken parents collect her belongings. Now read on… Back in Loreli's space, Judy sat in the chair by the bed. She found Loreli's hand under the blanket, willed herself to feel. A sweet little girl voice spoke into her mind, "It's okay, it's okay. You go ahead and cry." Judy felt the small child's hand, its offer of refuge, flesh on flesh. She gave herself over to it, allowed herself the peace and respite of Loreli's pillow. "Hi Baby. How's Daddy's special girl?" Judy drifted slowly away as Loreli's eyes looked upon the kind face of her Father. "Daddy," Loreli said sleepily, "I got a angel." Judy exited the room. She went through the wall, not even thinking about it. The thwop thing was there but seemed lesser now. The terrible sadness and loss she felt last night seemed to be fading as well. Frantic to recapture the moment, Judy went to her old room. It was vacant and antiseptic clean. The chair had been moved back next to the bed. Judy sat in it and was welcomed like a long lost friend. She went away to a realm of mists. Shadow shapes passed at the edge of her vi-

"Yer bound an' determined t' go there. I keep tellin' ya, they ain' ready for ya jus' yet. If they was, you'd a-been gone."

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.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Take me then," Judy said simply.

"Yer s'posed t' come with me. We got us a date, remember?"

"Jus' what I wanna hear from my date," Henry said happily. Judy had no time for a reply as Henry whisked her away to another world, Henry's world.

"Henry, can you help me out of here?" "Sure 'nough!" Thwop! Judy peered through the tenth floor window. There they were, the twinkling lights. They used to mean something to her. What was it? She

The room was indefinite in shape. Skeletons danced on a strobe-lit platform. Shrill voices cackled invitations from dark doorways. Judy pulled her hand back in alarm as something scratched it. Henry stood next to her, though you would never guess his identity by looking at him. He was some kind of bat creature. The long nails on his paws were what had scratched her hand. "Is this the Children's Room?" Judy asked fearfully. "Darn tootin' fig newton!" Henry replied. He hopped into the air and took flight. 'Round and 'round Judy's head he flew. "How did you talk the hospital into going along with this?" Judy asked. Henry shrunk himself to bat-size and lit on her shoulder. "I'm gonna tell ya once an' that's it!" he squeaked into her ear. "This is my Hallowe’en place. It's like my inbetweener's playground. I gotta set 't up t' fit somewheres real, then push myself hard t' make 't happen.” Costumed children were raking leaves into a huge pile while others dove in and allowed themselves to be covered up. "Careful there!" Henry squeaked. "We're gonna light that pile on fire perty soon now. We don' want no baked ghouls or boys." "This is going to be one big mess to clean up," Judy observed. "You aren't really going to burn those leaves in here, are you?" Henry flitted about a bit. "I jus' toldja, we ain' 'in here'. All the l'il sick kids is in their beds jus' like they're s'pose t' be. Now c'mon, les' go bob for glizzards.” Henry flew off in the direction of the children. Leaves and cornhusks flew up in the path of his wake. The happy music of excited children was everywhere, incongruous with the shrieking voices emanating from the dark.

was desperate to remember. Henry touched her hand. "C'mon, 't's time for the party. That l'il girl even woke up."

Judy glanced down at her hand and was shocked. Her fingers were impossibly long, skin white, and long black pointy fingernails. She held the hand up in front of her face and clicked the nails against each other. This wasn't stage makeup. The

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 Momma’s Rain.

nails were black through and through. She looked into a wall of glass or sheet of water, she wasn't sure which. "Oh no," she murmured to herself. "He's turned me into Elvira." A small hand tugged at her dress. "Will you go wif me to the costume contest?" Judy looked down into the face of a perfect fairy, pointy ears, wings and all. "Don't be afraid honey," she crooned. "My name is Judy. I sat with you last night."

"We got glizzards in a bucket," Henry offered. "They got sharp l'il needle teeth so you gotta bite 'em 'fore they bite you!" "We'll just wander around until we find the costume contest," Judy replied. "You've done a wonderful job here, Henry. I'm sure this is more fun than most of these children have ever had." "Wait'll next year," Henry squeaked, "I'm gonna do a prison."

The fairy fluttered her wings, looked away, embarrassed. "I know. That's why I want you to go wif me. I don't wanna lose you no more."

"You're too much," Judy said as her Fairy squirmed. "We have to go, Henry. This little elf wants to find the costume contest."

"Oh Loreli," Judy cried, "You sweet sweet little girl. I don't wanna lose you no more either. Would you mind if I held you?"

Henry nibbled Judy's ear. "Do a l'il somethin' for a guy first, wouldja? Pull that pin outa my butt."

The tiny fairy danced into the air and landed in Judy's welcome embrace. She threw her arms around Judy's neck and whispered in her ear. "Don't say my name so loud. Everyone will know who I am if you say it loud." Judy ran her fingers down the length of Loreli's long beautiful hair. "I won't," she promised. "Let's go find that costume contest." As they began to make their way through Henry's Halloweâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;enland, Judy realized how perfectly everything fit in its dark way. There were ten areas of activity, one befitting each child in the room. The spaces the two empty beds occupied were marked by a rickety sign above them. It read, 'Wasteland'. A large raven perched on top of the sign. It stretched its massive wings and spoke to them as they passed, "Caw Caw". Judy's fairy snuggled its face into her throat as she hurried past the threatening bird. A large furry bat flitted about as a blindfolded child tried to pin a tail to it. Youngsters yelled encouragement and direction to the child with the pin and tail. The bat paused and squeaked as the pin stuck it in the butt. The children laughed and clapped, clasped hands in a circle and danced around the winner.

Judy used her free hand to do as he asked. Henry took off like he was shot from the barrel of a gun. Judy and Loreli moved through the dry crackling leaves by the light of an October Moon. There was the mean nurse cackling like a witch, orderlies dancing with skeletons. Loreli whispered the names of the children in Judy's ear as they cavorted by. Judy was consumed with a feeling of overwhelming loss and regret as she realized she was no longer one of them. 'That's what Henry wants,' she said softly to herself, 'just to be part of the flawed and fragile stuff of humanity.' "Huh?" Loreli asked in a voice smaller than herself. "Nothing, Darling Child," Judy nuzzled the top of Loreli's head. "I was just talking to myself." "Can we go to my bed and lay down?" Loreli asked. "I don't really care about that ol' costume contest. I don't feel very good."

Henry landed on Judy's shoulder. "Wanna play?"

Judy crossed the room and stepped behind the curtain where Loreli's bed should have been. There was a throne there, white on white on white. Black light made everything white sparkle fuzzy. Loreli giggled weakly at Judy's blue-white teeth. Judy climbed up and sat on the huge chair, Loreli held close against her breast. "Sleep Child, if you can," she crooned. "You're very brave and now you must rest."

"I'm taking my Fairy Child to the costume contest," Judy said to the bat.

"Surprise!" The curtain flew open and all the revelers stood 'round the throne. Henry, the bat, was now

oon Angels

Henry, the handsome and engaging emcee, tails and all. "By unanimous vote, we find you, Tiny Fairy and you, Dark Angel, co-winners of the costume contest!" Everyone cheered and tossed confetti but Loreli wasn't having any of it. She kept her head buried against Judy's breast. Henry raised an arm and up came his dark satin cape. "Off with you now," he announced regally, "all you hobgoblins and ghosts. Read carefully those scavenger lists and hurry yourselves back! I will mark the hour!" "Henry, come here," Judy called in her whisper voice. He stepped up to the chair and Judy drew his head down with her hand. She kissed his forehead. "I know what's going on now." "Me too," Henry said softly. "This is your chance," Judy said. "My being a stubborn woman, bound and determined to sit in a chair, muffed it all up for you. I'll bet you could take my place with Loreli." Loreli wrapped her tiny arms tight around Judy's neck. Her wisps of hair fell off and her wings disappeared. Henry's magick wasn't strong enough to keep her. "No!" she cried. "Judy's my angel. I already tol' my Daddy. You can't leave me now!" "She's right," Henry said, "'Sides, I gotta finish this here party. I was t' leave 't t' you, no tellin' what'd happen. You'd jus' mess the whole thing up." Judy held Loreli tightly. Something was pulling at them and it was growing stronger by the second. "Henry!" Judy cried out,"Why didn't you tell me I was an angel?" Henry had begun to fade from her vision. "You hadda figger that our for yer own self!" They were in Loreli's bed proper now. They could hear the sound of a noisy alarm and frantic human voices crying, "Loreli seven! Loreli seven!" They drifted down the misty path, the lady and the tiny girl. Shadow shapes whose name was love gathered them up, gathered them up and away.

The End.

om â&#x20AC;&#x153;WordWulfâ&#x20AC;? Sterner 35

ad The Years â&#x20AC;Ś By Cheyenne Meadows

Had the years played out differently, should we? The snows of winter fallen at similar times. The sounds of our feet on hardwood in sync. The sun set on the same mountains. The same path taken by our feet. Had the years been placed more fairly, could we? The hourglass tipped just so, not a moving grain. The winds still, no shaking of the trees causing season's change. The salty waves lapping at the same shore. The freesias blooming on the similar eve. Had the years been offered more closely, would we? The hands placed in a delicate touch. The eyes met, tension in the passion-burned irises. The lips tangled in love, not pity. The love for you in my heart reciprocated in yours.

heyenne Meadows, from Johnson City, Tennessee, is an old soul. She began writing at age eleven and it has become her passion and a crutch through tough times. Her poetry and occasional short stories reach readers of all ages, asking universal questions that affect us all.

Let You In By Tom Stelmak

I let you in. Why did you do it? You posed as a friend, But then only Let me come to that Point of interest Before shutting the door In my face. Before I had the chance to Explain it was Only a friendship. Perhaps it is your shield From past hurt? Please open your heart If ever you hope To feel the warmth Of love from here. Or stay adrift in the sea Of forgetfulness. Where nobody cares, Like I do.

fter thirty-five years of working in healthcare, Tom Stelmak retired and now lives and works in Yellowstone National Park. He flies his own Cessna, which allows him to trophy hunt (photographs only), and to pursue his hobbies of photography, fishing and writing. His passion for flying takes him over and through the mountains of Montana and Alaska and his passion for health led him to develop his website http://www.drynaturalfoods.com

olors By Averi Fister

Red Red sounds like a fire, burning and fierce. It feels warm and strong And tastes spicy and sharp. Orange Orange is a bird, fast and loud. It feels bumpy and soft And tastes tangy and refreshing. Yellow Yellow sounds like laughter, joyous and free. It feels firm and smooth And tastes sweet and sour. Green Green is the breeze in the leaves, wild and rustling. It feels calming and plush And tastes crisp and juicy. Blue Blue is the sound of pounding waves, deep and untamed. It feels wet and safe And tastes cool and satisfying. Purple Purple is the flare of trumpets, true and proud. It feels silky and coiled And tastes dry and filling.

veri Fister (Ash) is nineteen years old and loves reading, painting, drawing and writing. She realized she loved writing during a school assignment when she discovered sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather create her own characters than to read ones invented by someone else. She learned what not to do by dabbling in fan-fictions and would like to create a collection of short stories based on a small cast of characters that run through her head. Her goal is to be a published author.

Michael Cheval

I hate emptiness: An Interview with Michael Cheval Interviewed by Boris Glikman I first came across Michael Cheval’s art on a social website two years ago. I was immediately struck by its power and technical brilliance as well as by the originality of his concepts. I could also see in his paintings an affinity to the ideas in my own writings, which was not surprising given that one of the most common themes in Michael’s art is “absurdity, an inverted side of reality, a reverse side of logic”. A personal friendship quickly developed between us and we communicate regularly via the latest 21st century technology. I never cease to be amazed by the depth and breadth of his work. Michael’s art has inspired a number of my short stories and this very issue of U magazine is featuring my fable “The mePhone” together with Michael’s painting “Local Call”, which was the source of its genesis.

that my learning process is not yet over. I'm still learning. BORIS: What inspires you? Where do you get your ideas? MICHAEL: This is the most common question that I get from my viewers. Ideas come from everywhere, you only need to be able to accept them. I try to read a lot, mostly historical and philosophical literature, journalistic material and classic literature from different countries. I love listening to music, going to theatre, watching the clouds in the sky ... The whole world around us is full of ideas, you just need to recognize them. You do not need to strain yourself, there’s no need to give yourself a special task you just need to keep your eyes open. BORIS: Are dreams an important source of creativity to you?

There have been questions that I have always wanted to ask Michael about his art and in this interview I got my chance to do so.

MICHAEL: No! Dreams have never been a source for my inspiration. This doesn’t mean that I do not have dreams. It’s just that I see no need to translate them to canvas. I like to invent stories, create logical or irrational connections. The process of creating a painting is most interesting and exciting. You couldn’t get that in a dream…

BORIS: Who are the biggest influences on your painting? Which artists do you respect the most?

BORIS: Are you creative in other areas like music, sculpture, writing?

MICHAEL: This question cannot be answered unequivocally. At different times I have been influenced by various, sometimes completely different, artists. Overall, I was influenced by Renaissance masters, Dutch masters of the XVI-XVII centuries, Russian masters of the XIX century and, of course, the surrealists Dali and Magritte. They are all my teachers and I believe

MICHAEL: I have dabbled in many areas. There was a time when I played and composed music, wrote poetry, wrote plays for theatre, performed in concerts ... Eventually I decided to concentrate on painting, because, I thought, it's the only thing that I'm doing well. However, the experience that I have gained from being engaged in different fields of art really helps me now.

BORIS: How much of an influence has your Russian background had on your art? MICHAEL: Perhaps it has given me creativity, which is the most Russian trait in art. And yet it also has bestowed upon me contemplation, the ability to see the eternal in the everyday, to have a philosophical view of the world. BORIS: Do you have any particular goals with your art that you haven't as yet achieved? MICHAEL: There is a saying: “It’s a bad soldier who does not dream of becoming a general.” Of course, I have goals and dreams that I have not as yet reached and I do not know whether I will achieve them in my lifetime. BORIS: What do you see the role of an artist in society to be? MICHAEL: Unfortunately, the role of an Artist in contemporary society is very small. The artists themselves are to blame for this. Art, in general, has ceased to be the spiritual vanguard of society. “If art is not entertaining, then it is not interesting, and if art is educational, then it gets boring.” That's the way art is perceived by most people. And that is very sad. BORIS: What does painting mean to you personally? MICHAEL: Each painting is an attempt to understand what is happening inside me and all around me. This is, almost always, a personal perception of the world. It is my way of communicating with the audience, an attempt to convey to them whether I am concerned, happy or just amused. And I'm always happy when I see that

a viewer understands me, when he/she has the desire to play my game. BORIS: How much does painting take out of you, emotionally, mentally, physically? MICHAEL: Interesting question! I have never been asked about it before. However, most viewers are rarely curious about the process of creating paintings, finding a plot, developing ideas, compositions, costumes, colours, searching for background scenery and models. This is a process that is always behind the scenes. Sometimes it is a painful process, sometimes the canvas remains unfinished for several months. But, sometimes, the picture is created in one breath, easily, and thus it does not lose its quality. Only the artist knows what it had cost him to create it. BORIS: Can you describe your typical creative day? Do you follow a particular routine when you paint? For example, do you prefer to work during the day or at night, how many hours a day do you spend working on your paintings? MICHAEL: Routine cannot be avoided. There are things that you do not want to do, but that need to be done. For example, stretching canvases, priming them, transferring a sketch to a canvas and doing underpainting. But I'm a pretty disciplined person, so I do it fast and it’s fun. Usually, that’s all that I'm doing in the mornings. I work on my paintings during the day. I work on two or three canvases at once. While one canvas is drying, I put another canvas on the easel. Usually my working day ends at 9:00 PM. But, in essence, it ends when I'm asleep. Because, after I leave my studio, my head continues to run and analyze things. And I like that very much. I like it when the day is full, when my mind has ideas and thoughts. I hate emptiness!

Melody of Rain 30"x24" oil on canvas

orn in 1966 in Kotelnikovo, a small town in southern Russia, Michael Cheval developed a passion for art in his early childhood. In 1980, Michael and his family moved to Germany. His new setting made a great impression on the young artist.

Lullaby for the Butterfly King 18"x34" oil on canvas

n 1986, he moved to Turkmenistan and graduated from the Ashgabad School of Fine Art. Absorbing Eastern philosophy and the character of Central Asia, he began working as an independent professional artist, shaping his style and surrealistic direction.

n 1998, Michael became a member of the prestigious New York's National Arts Club, where he was distinguished with the Exhibition Committee Award in 2000. He has been a member of the Society for Art of Imagination (London, UK) since 2002, and participates in annual European exhibitions held by the Association.

New Rules of the old Game 24"x38" oil on canvas

n 2008, he was accepted as a participant in the "Dreamscape 2009" exhibition in Amsterdam and was published in the "Dreamscape" book among 50 surrealist artists famous worldwide. In 2009, Michael Cheval was chosen as the Best Of Worldwide Oil Artists by the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Best Of Worldwide Artists Volume Iâ&#x20AC;? Book Series.

Solitaire Pantomime 24"x36" oil on canvas

Balance of Disparities 20"x24" oil on canvas

n 2009, the Palm Art Award Jury and Art Domain Gallery (Leipzig) certified Michael Cheval as the winner of the First Prize of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Palm Art Awardâ&#x20AC;?. Michael Cheval has published two full-colored art albums - "Lullabies" in 2004 and "Nature of Absurdity" in 2007. His work is internationally acclaimed and can often be seen in USA galleries and abroad.

Wake-Up Call in Wonderland 30"x30"

oil on canvas

Vintage of Joy 40"x60" oil on canvas

Midsummer Chirr 30"x24" oil on canvas

Elizabeth Earnest

Vampires, The Truth Part II

By Randall Stone

was little chance that they would ever see the dawn again. Another technique used by the vampire was to knock on doors in the dead of night. Should anyone answer, the vampire took that as an invitation to enter.

ollywood and modern literature have gone a long way in transforming the vampire. There are those who say that the vampire, as it stands today, with its dashing good looks and beautiful sensuality, is a natural evolution and has kept our interest in the undead alive - no pun intended. Today, the vampire is even endowed with a human soul and has become more romance than menace. What the vampire has become seems akin to taking a wild lion from the African plains and tearing out its teeth and claws so that it can be put on display and used for taking photographs with children, reducing the King of the Jungle to a cuddly toy. The modern vampire is far cry from the creature that held Eastern Europe in a very real grip of terror in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries.

Somewhere In The Moldavian Countryside, 1705

It is impossible for us now, with all our modern marvels - motor cars, computers and modern electrical lighting - to appreciate the fear our forebears felt once darkness had fallen, especially deep in the countryside. We cannot possibly imagine what it was like to look up at the stars and the moon and see them with the clarity they did, free from light pollution and the smog and smoke of our towns and cities. By the same token, we cannot possibly fathom the darkness our ancestors experienced when the moon and stars were obliterated by thick cloud cover, darkness so palpable that you would hardly be able to see your hand before your face once the candles and oil lamps had been dowsed. Every sound within that total darkness would be magnified. Your imagination would run riot as you remembered the talk in the village about the mysterious death, or deaths, of your neighbours. Talk that you were able to dismiss as silly superstition in the day would come back to haunt you, and now, in this accursed night, it would seem anything but silly.

A faint, watery moon guides your steps as they echo on the hard, unforgiving cobbles. Up ahead is the churchyard and you bow your head in sadness. It was only three weeks previously that you buried your father. You think back to that bad time; the time you found him hanging from the tree that overlooks your back yard. God, in His infinite mercy, will understand why you did what you did... surely? I mean, what choice did you have? The shame it would have brought to the family! You could never have subjected them to such a scandal. There was a time, though, however brief, when you thought your lie would not be believed. The rope marks around his neck were so livid. But the doctor was a good friend of your fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and he had been treating him for his recent depression. He went along with the lie. And you could not let your father go without a Christian send-off. Every man is entitled to that... surely? But a lie is a lie and you swore to it before your family, the priest and God when you convinced all concerned that your father had fallen from the roof and broken his neck while attempting to fix a loose tile.

With all of this in mind, we will now proceed to our second scenario, again based upon well-documented cases. This one covers the legend that a vampire had to be invited into a dwelling by the owner in order to do mischief. That is only partly true. In many of the folk traditions of Eastern Europe it is well attested that vampires did, indeed, have to be invited in, but this rule came about from some of the hunting techniques of these creatures. In parts of Serbia and Croatia, Poland, Czechoslovakia and some parts of Eastern Germany, the vampire, on emerging from the grave, would wander the streets and call out the names of neighbours and family. If anyone was foolish enough to answer the call, there

The taste of the furnace and the smell of the smoke are still upon you as you enter your hovel. You have worked late to finish shoeing the horses of the local Bailiff. Every muscle in your body cries out for rest and your belly aches to be fed. And the arid atmosphere of your smithy has given you a raging thirst and an itching throat. The sun had set an hour ago and the streets are empty. The amber flicker of candlelight within the windows of the houses catches your eye as you pass. They seem to beckon you warmly, but you ignore the feeling. Your focus is your own home and the company of your own family.

As if by magic, the pain, torment and sadness brought on by memories of your father and the lie you perpetrated about him are suddenly dispelled as you enter your home. The delicious smell of rabbit stew toys with your nasal senses and taste buds, and your belly lets out a healthy growl. Your wife looks up from the stove, her face flushed from the heat, and smiles. Your two youngest children, Ivan and Gertie, rush to meet you and hug your legs. Your eldest son, Jan, pours you a flagon of ale and sets it beside your place at the table, and your mother waits in her rocking chair for your customary peck

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.

Photo of Gabrielle by MaxTimofeev

on the cheek. She has taken the death of your father hard, but she tries not to show it. And your heart goes out to her as you bend to kiss her.

ble, dead features, and everybody seems to be holding their breath. It is at this point that you detect the faint scent of putrefaction.

By the time you have washed and freshened up, everyone is seated at the table and waiting for supper. You look longingly at the freshly baked bread, the steaming vegetables and the pot of hot, delicious stew. Your wife doles out the meal as your son cuts the bread, but nobody eats until you have said grace. For a moment, hands clasped, you gaze around at each one of the bowed heads before you in the flickering candlelight and your heart overflows with love for them. Shadows hang like cobwebs in the deepest recesses of the room, untouched by the soft, yellow glow of the flames. Your eyes rest on the empty chair at the head of the table, next to your mother. It rightfully belongs to you now as head of the house, but you haven’t the heart to take it. It’s too soon. Swallowing back the bitterness, you close your eyes and begin grace.

Finding the strength at last, you stumble, somewhat unsteadily, towards the table, your heart now doing its damnedest to burst out of your chest. You stand across from your father, your mouth agape in horror and surprise. You know you should say something, but your vocal chords seem paralysed. For a long time, expanded seconds, you gaze at your father. Then screams erupt all around, and the candle-lights flame with a sudden roar, as your father takes his seat. With no effort of movement on his part, the chair slides back under the table. Plates and crockery rattle as his chest hits the edge of the table.

The sudden knock at the door startles you for a moment. The others look up, their eyes drawn to the door. They stare at you as if for instruction or explanation but you are as baffled as they are. Sighing, you rise from the table and step towards the door. Without preamble you open it… and your heart almost ceases to beat within your breast. There is no emotion in your father’s face, as he regards you from the doorstep. His features are drawn and gaunt and his skin is alabaster. The rope marks, still red and livid, cut into the puffy, pallid flesh of his neck, and stand out horribly. His thin lips are blue and his eyes are sunken within cavernous sockets. Gone is the twinkle that you remember he had in life. Now, it is like looking into the eyes of a fish: totally dead. The clothes he was buried in hang raggedly from his emaciated form, the reeking dirt of the grave upon them. Behind you, you can hear the gasps and soft cries of your terrified family. So palpable is the fear that you almost feel it, physically. Without uttering a word, your father steps toward you and naturally, without thinking, you step aside and allow him in. Your fogged mind fights for a sensible answer to the situation as you watch the man glide slowly toward the table, toward his seat. His toes drag obscenely across the floor. Sitting between Ivan and Gertie, your wife throws her protective arms around them, and hugs them close. Instinctively, Jan places his arm around the trembling form of your mother. You want desperately to join them but your legs have suddenly become leaden. Your father’s chair slides out from the table of its own accord, the legs scraping noisily against the floorboards, as if greeting its old master. Standing before the table, your father regards each person slowly with those terri-

Nobody moves. All eyes are cast towards the abomination in the guise of your dead father. Everybody knows that the thing sitting with them is definitely not of God. Lifting a hand, the bloodless flesh spoiled and mottled, the nails broken and dirty, he reaches toward your plate and, like the chair, it slides across the table of its own accord. With slow, deliberate movements, your father begins to stuff the piping hot stew into his mouth. He chews with an agonised sluggishness, bits of meat, vegetables and gravy spilling disgustingly down his chin. There is none of the finesse or quiet manner that he had in life. He chews noisily, the sound sickening, and all the time he fixes upon you those lifeless orbs, never blinking, never moving. There is so much food in his mouth now that it spills out in great lumps into his lap, but he appears not to notice or care. You can tell that the others have noticed the stench of rotting meat now by the way they wrinkle their noses and place their hands over their mouths, utter disgust mingling with the terror in their eyes. Finally, after what seems an age, he stops eating and belches noisily. Once again he raises his hand, and your flagon of ale races towards him. He lifts it to his dead, thin lips and gulps noisily, the beer spilling down the sides of his mouth, soaking his clothes. He slams the empty vessel down with a resounding bang when he’s done. All this time, no one has dared to speak, including you. Only the soft, almost inaudible mewling of your two youngest children has marred the silence. Once again, without any visible effort on your father’s part, the chair he is in scrapes back noisily, away from the table. He stands slowly and sweeps the room with those terrible, unblinking eyes, and slowly he comes around the table towards your mother. Gazing down at her cowering form, he places one of those dead, icy hands on her shoulder. She shudders and cries out, and suddenly your father is gone. There was no flash of light, no popping or whoosh of air, he just isn’t there anymore. You begin to wonder whether you had dreamed what had

abrielle, originally from the Ukraine, attributes her fascination with vampires to a soul that is attracted to darker, more mysterious places. She has been fond of them since childhood, and is influenced by the creativity of the author Anne Rice. She loves to capture their somber beauty in her photographs. http://gabrielle-grace.deviantart.com/

Photo by Gabrielle just happened. But the continued, distraught wails of your mother and the sudden slamming of the door convince you it was all too real. And now you recall the old tales that you listened to as a child as you sat before a roaring fire on those long, cold winter nights, told to you by the very apparition that has just visited you. You have heard many names over the years to describe such creatures: Upir, Strigoii, Nosferatu. They filled you with wonder and terror when you were younger. Many were the times you awoke screaming in the dead of night from nightmares induced by these tales, and many were the times your mother soundly chastised your father for filling your head with such things. As the years went by you became older and wiser, and you dismissed such things as silly superstitious nonsense. Oh, how foolish you were to do that! Perhaps if you had believed, you would have taken such precautions as were necessary before burying your father’s remains, face down at the crossroads with a wooden stake through his back. It’s too late now, of course. As you look upon your terrified mother with horrorfilled eyes, you know that she will not see the dawn. She has been physically touched by evil and she is beyond all further help. And the sickening realisation hits you like a punch to the stomach. You must exhume your father’s remains and destroy them in the time-honoured way, and you must prepare your

mother for burial the way you should have prepared your father. If not, then your mother will become what your father is, and their cult will reach epic proportions and threaten the whole village and beyond. You hide your face in your hands and sob... This scenario is far more frightening than anything Hollywood or modern literature has dreamt up. Here we see the vampire in the natural state, so to speak: no fangs, no bloodletting, but able to kill with one touch after methodically and coldbloodedly choosing a victim. To have to dine with a corpse is one thing, but to have to dine with the departed cadaver of a loved one is something else; knowing without a doubt as you do so that one of those around you is about to die and join it, and you are utterly powerless to prevent it. This, then, was the true vampire. No dashing good looks or clever dialogue. No romance or human soul. In fact, the true vampire was empty of all humanity. It was exactly what it seemed to be: a rotting human corpse animated by an evil force; an insult to God and everything good and innocent. In the third and final part of our article, we shall look at one of the many causes that led people wholly to believe and to accept without hesitation the reality of these creatures.

Small Bit By Shai Adair

His walk led up to the steps of a shambles called "The Ritz Apartments." He pushed the button and his daughter called down.

"It's only a small bit of change," she said, tugging on her boyfriend's arm with a sweet smile. Reluctantly, he stooped and dropped a few coins into the man's cup.

"It's just me, Mandy," he replied. "Can your old man come up for a minute?"

"Bless you," said the man, who sat cross-legged on the ground. "My daughter will really appreciate it." He was middle-aged and looked convincingly deplorable. Before him was propped a tattered cardboard sign bearing the words: "Will work for food."

A man's voice sounded in the background. Mandy had obviously not let up on the call button.

"Jack's here," she said timidly.

"Who are you talking to, moron?" "It's Dad, Jack," she answered.

It was getting toward dark so the man gathered his few possessions and headed for a private spot in a nearby alley. "Not a bad day," he chuckled to himself as he finished counting his money. He tied the strings of his moneybag together with his dirty fingers. "It should be just enough." He put the moneybag in an old backpack and then donned the pack for travel. Walking slowly, he looked around the streets that he'd called home for nearly a year. He said good night to some familiar faces as he continued his reminiscent journey. He looked up at the tall buildings and apartments. He stopped to look in a shop window at a train set that ran its course endlessly. His heart ached as he recalled a similar set he had bought his daughter when she was young. They'd both laughed for hours as they took turns putting various toys on the train only for them to be knocked off at the bridge. An ache gripped his gut as he thought of the loss of her mother. "What would you do, Tilly?" he mumbled, staring at the train, his filthy reflection superimposed in the glass. "I know you'd scold me, but our little girl's in trouble and I don't know what else to do." He took a deep breath and returned to current time; reality. Horns honking. People talking. Arguing. Vendors trying to sell their wares, though they never bothered the man with the tattered backpack. They waved but did not solicit, knowing from experience the man would buy nothing. The shop was well known and respected, but it was the back door he used to make his purchase. He had thirty-seven cents left as he walked down the alley with his new prize; a gift for his daughter.

"It's okay, Mandy," said her dad. "I'd like to come up, if it's okay. I brought you a present. It won't take long." "Probably road kill," said Jack mockingly in the background. "Useless old goat. Let him come up I guess. For a minute. Worthless fool. Why can't he get a job?" "Come on up, Daddy," she said, and a buzzing sound declared that the building could now be entered. Mandy said nothing and barely made eye contact as she opened the door for her dad. He could see that her eye was black and she was severely underweight; gaunt. She was thinner every time he saw her. Before he could say anything, Jack showed up at the door, irritated. "A pan fell out of the cupboard and hit her in the eye," he explained. "Your daughter's a grade-A klutz." Mandy stared at the floor as her dad stepped past her. A haze of stale, cheap cigarette smoke filled the small apartment, mingled with what smelled like tacos and old coffee. "She's got a lot to do, Roger," Jack snapped. "The lazy cow didn't do a thing today. So make it quick, old man. I'm sure you've got more pan handling to do." Jack stood waiting and an awkward silence filled the air. As usual, there was no offer to enter the apartment further than just inside the front door,

hai Adair is a published author and mother of three. From her home in Ferndale, Washington she pens works of fiction and non-fiction, finding her main niche in writing motherly tidbits. Her work spans a variety of genres including poetry, prose, short stories and full length novels.

which remained open.

"Now he's in hell where he belongs."

"I got you something, Mandy," Roger said with a soft smile. He pulled out a candy bar; her favorite. He held it out to her and she reached to take it.

"So, you became police, judge and executioner. There are laws in place, Mr. Calvin. There are proper ways of dealing with men like Jack Bolton."

SMACK! The sound of Jack slapping the candy bar out of her hand jolted Roger.

"You mean, like the restraining orders that don't work or the calls to the police that only got the man more fired up and violent?" Roger spat out.

"Don't give her that garbage. She's fat enough! Get out of here, old man!" "Just one more thing," said Roger. Stepping in, he closed the door. ******* Sirens filled the streets as they always did on a Friday night in the city. Roger could see his daughter, Mandy, staring blankly out the window, tears dripping past a subdued smile. She had her arms crossed over the front of a baggy flannel coat with a broken zipper as she rocked back and forth. Roger's backpack sat at her feet. Roger couldn't help but smile to himself.

"Mind who you're speaking with or you'll make things a whole lot worse," Detective Brooks said. "Yes, sir," Roger said, lowering his voice and returning his gaze to his daughter. She looked so peaceful. She didn't stare at the floor as she usually did, but rather out the window. It felt to Roger as if she was looking into a hopeful future. "Well, you'll have your time before the judge. You'll probably never hug your daughter again. Was it worth it?" The officer was sarcastic and cold.

"Just today, sir." Roger was timid but truthful.

"I've done a lot of bad stuff in my life, sir. I've failed her so bad. But now she won't get the crap beat out of her any more for something as stupid as dropping a pencil." Roger spoke calmly and respectfully. "So, yeah, it was worth it. Even the death sentence would be worth it."

"Where?"

********

"In an alley."

Mandy walked out of the courthouse on a sunny day in July after she and her boyfriend, Ron, had visited her dad. They laughed as they talked.

"When did you purchase this firearm, Mr. Calvin?" The detective demanded.

The officer looked at him in disbelief for a moment before removing his glasses. "Why'd you do it?"

"Can you spare some change?" said a middle-aged man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. Mandy smiled at Ron.

Roger looked over at his daughter. "All I have is thirty-seven cents," said Ron. "Do you have children, Detective Brooks?" "Answer the question, Mr. Calvin."

"Sometimes all it takes is a small bit," she said, taking it from Ron and dropping it into the man's hand.

"The devil had my daughter," he said, looking the detective in the eye with a decisive, strong gaze.

"Bless you," said the man. "My daughter will really appreciate it." "I'm sure she will," said Mandy.

er Essere Bella By Grace Jendritz

To be beautiful... Is simply a process. A flower isn't just a flower It starts out as a seed. A seed planted in its soil And stage-by-stage it grows Until one day it blooms Into something precious To show who you are is beautiful. Be the leader And learn from mistakes. Take time to get to know You. Submit to yourselves. Then, once you've fully bloomed, Take a good look in the mirror Looking past all the scars And make the choice, A beautiful choice of accepting who you are.

race Jendritz was born in Romulus, Michigan, on a bright April morning. Currently she is being homeschooled but her future plans include law school. She likes playing sports and loves to dance. Her poems are inspirational, full of hope, and whatever she does, she does it for the Lord.

ometimes An Evening Drinks A Day By Phibby Venable

sometimes an evening drinks a day the mustard sun flattens to dark and falls behind horizon lines trees in blackened shingles freeze their outlines on a mountain top and there is left beneath the moon a solitude of nightly calls that pierce the dusk unseen as all that one can see for hours ahead are purple hills beyond the ridge in my house feathered moves of night drift the spearmint of my thoughts where I wait for the stars that hold bright galaxies of rodeos where I can spot with practiced eyes the fancy night show God provides and watch the day go down the throat of evening holding stars afloat

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, Sowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Ear, Voices, and The Applachian Journal. Her novel, Women of the Roundtable, was published in 2010; The Wind Is My Wine was published in 2011, and My Life On Little River is due out mid-year.

HD through the eyes

ames McDonnell has a passion for photography. He travels around the world and takes his camera with him, taking pictures in as many countries as he can. Through trial and error, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s learned design and image production and he credits the artists and photographers on http://www.deviantart.com with giving him the feedback and encouragement he needed to succeed.

s of James McDonnell

The Greener Side Of Life

Dragon Boat Drags

Marimbula Rock Pools

Sky High

All Aboard

ur teens are something that we all go through. We are at the peak of life, not a child, not an adult--but stuck in the middle. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re too old to do all that we want, but too young to get away with everything we do. We are told to make adult decisions but are still bossed around like a child. The teenage years are ones of complete emotional melt down. Love is lust and life is too hard, or goes too fast or too slow. Parents and friends push us in all directions. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a wonder that we all get through it, but we do, becoming adults in a world that doubts us because of our past mistakes.

erdy, fun-loving Melissa Ferguson has been drawing since she was ten years old. She is a tiny person who wants to accomplish huge goals, and she is never satisfied with her work. She loves the people around her, accepts them and hopes someday to be able to make a difference in the world. When not creating art, she participates in her schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s marching/ concert band.

Lyrics Of Airplanes by B.o.B feat Hayley Williams

Sliver by J.W. Bouwman and Corey Rowley

e stood on the pier, a boy inside a man suit, ten steps from the brink of being totally complete.

The girl inside the boat popped her head out of the cabin, a burgeoning electrical charge having caught her attention. She put her nose to the air and listened. What she thought she'd find was a summer thunderstorm - her favorite kind of rain. What she actually found was him, standing on the dock, looking at her with a dazed expression on his face. She knew immediately he was the source of the mysterious pain that had always lived inside her heart. To achieve maturity and the right color A soul will need to travel at least The distance of the eye to the heart, in slivers Taking with it the day’s accomplishments Sliding on broken dreams, stockpiling personal madness When he was born, his mother was the only one who saw the small sliver of his soul that broke off during birth. The sliver was beautiful and filled her heart with awe, mixed with a wee bit of fear that her child would be not be complete without it. As the splinter floated by her wide eyes, it found the tiniest currents of air to stay aloft. She reached for it, focusing so hard that the din of childbirth faded, the joy and pain surrounding her, suddenly not as important as recapturing this small part of her boy's soul - but she could not catch it. Being one of the most aerodynamic things in the universe, the sliver floated higher and shone in every color, all limned with silver, in the bright fluorescent rays of the birthing room lights. There it floated for eight years, needing only the slightest of air movement to keep from settling to the floor. The boy was incomplete, something he felt keenly as the years passed into adulthood. His mother apologized to him on her death-bed. “I tried to get it back for you,” she said as she passed, knowing that he knew of what she spoke. He said nothing. When arriving in its prone position The soul accepts everything new by kneeling Like conversing with a child on propped elbows, smiling

Judging intuitively, leaking innocence like a viscous new oil Grasping for what is perfectly solid, synergistic One day a baby girl was born, and her soul was as whole and as perfect as a soul could be. Her beauty and fullness of self coalesced with the joy of her mother and formed a moment. A moment in which time stood still just long enough, causing the sliver of soul to drop out of the air and land in the baby girl’s eye. The intrusion of the splinter made the baby girl cry for her entire first year. Her parents were frustrated and scared of the incessant wailing, but no doctor could diagnose the problem. One day an old woman on the subway noticed the baby girl's distress. She tried to tell the mother what the problem was and how to calm the little one's pain, because after all, it hurt to hold someone else's soul when your own was already complete. The mother dismissed the old woman as senile and cursed the wailing of the child. One day the sliver finally passed from the baby girl’s eye, slipping into her bloodstream and finally her heart, remaining there with only the occasional twinge. The baby girl grew into a lovely young woman, still possessing her perfect soul, having gained wisdom and strength from all the years of being the keeper of the boyman's sliver. From time to time, the sliver made her restless and overfull, giving her an unsettled ache somewhere in the region of her heart. The urge to share herself scraped at her, for she possessed no real knowledge of what there was to be shared, or even who it was she was meant to be sharing it with. If you try and hold it in your hands The soul will fill your thoughts with wonderful pencil sketches Of a life you could have if you only took heed, gracefully A roadmap of simplicity, sprouting the divine, easing worries Hold it too long and slip, addiction, death, loosen your grip Long before the sad day of the boy’s mother’s passing, she had sat in the garden every afternoon with tea in solitude. She whispered her secret to the wind hoping to ease the guilt she felt for not catching and restoring the boy’s soul the day he was born. One spring day, a raven caught her secret and like a silver chain took it back to his nest below the boy’s window. Every time the boy opened the window, the raven would taunt him, cackling (as all nosy

writerly poet-girl/music addict and artist, J.W. Bouwman currently lives in Vancouver BC, where she writes and creates her artwork to the rhythm of the waves under her sailboat. She loves collaborative works and this one with Corey is one of her absolute favorites.

ravens will, given the chance) that the boy had no soul, that his mother had stolen it at birth. The boy had believed the bird, because he'd always felt that there was something missing from his life. As he grew, a deep melancholy hung around his head and he searched for his soul, never knowing quite where to look. When the right one plucks at that part of your soul Meant for sharing and welds it, mixed media sculpture Bending it to fit theirs and coveting it mightily Time stop … rendering life as we know it useless Creating an aurora of beauty and bliss we don’t deserve All of this leads us to where we began: with the girl on the boat, with the boy clothed in a man's form, staring in silent stupefaction at one another. Breaking the stillness, the girl reached down and pulled him on to her boat, smiling so hard her face hurt. When their fingers touched, both of them jerked slightly, their fingers lacing together instinctively. Her heart felt as if it would explode. She looked at him, her eyes welling with tears. Everything that the girl was, was given to him in that one instant. He gasped for air as her beauty and perfect soul created a vacuum of sorts within his own, his mind humming at the perfect frequency for what seemed like eternity. As the unity of these two souls came into being, there grew a lightness so overwhelming, it made anyone within a mile radius of the boat reflect for a moment about all the things important to them. He looked down into her eyes and spoke for the first time, in a voice that felt like pure honey to her ears. What he said was, hello… What she heard was, I love you… What he meant was, I’m yours. Her soul trembled as the splinter in her heart slipped out through the tears in her eyes, to be kissed up by his lips from her cheek. They walked along the riverbank, hands and hearts and selves entwined. She felt peace as all her puzzle pieces fell into place, and he felt complete as his world finally slid into a place he knew was home. The penultimate place for the soul Is in her pocket tight, brought forth for playing For the ultimate place could be high in the air Gravity is no match for the aerodynamics The question remains, does it empty again?

n estimator for an environmental remediation contractor in Phoenix, Arizona, Corey Rowley writes poetry, short fiction, non-fiction and songs. He is inspired by the people around him and writes in support of the human condition. “J.W. Bouwman is a rare and unique talent, working with her was as easy and fulfilling as writing ever will be.”

lizabeth Earnest is a self taught young artist who just wants to draw cool pictures and to be recognized for her work. She studies the people around her and critiques her own earlier work to develop her skills.

Exploring Nature

with Tom Stelmak

Tom Stelmak