U-Debut by ralph Piccolo

With Ralph Piccolo

Shay Morrow

anything is possible!

Managing Editor

Michael Dovers

Graphic Arts Editor

Mark P. Henderson

- a crafty elegant shape, transparent in color, that is imbued with knowledge, love and compassion, conveniently used as a portal to disburse creativity from the mind along a narrow path as it streamlines towards an opaque bend. The acceleration caused by sheer desire, slingshot ideas, wavering designs, patterns and colors around this bend propels it up the delicate path, as it slows while struggling to escape from the tiny portal for others to see.

, on the other hand, sees this well-crafted design of colors, patterns, and shapes through optical windows as light travels down the corridor with such enthusiasm. The exhilarating thrust swings these images up the narrow path, exploding into an array of electrical impulses that stimulate the mind in awe.

Managing Editor

Poppy Silver

Poetry & Music Editor

Mari Sloan

is unique as it shapes and paints words of thought, canvases of colors and sculptures of clay: Each a pure representation of YOU! YOU

Short Stories & Novels Editor

- Ralph Piccolo

Short Stories & Novels Editor

Genre

Title & Artist

Page

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

Will o’ the Wasp by Sam Dickens The Art of Octavian Florescu Triangular Angel Kisses by Amber Purvis Reel in the Passing by Veera Spinnt Moments in Fall by Ladysue I am a Verse of Love by MagiCrystal Dear Sapphire by Lex Balaguer Devil’s Folly by Ian Green The Soy Sauce Bottle and Noodle by Rachel Fielder Soon Angels by Tom ‘WordWulf’ Sterner (Part 1) Fine by Jeff Loquist

4 11 18 19 21 22 23 23 24 26 32

Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Photograph: Poem: Short Story: Graphic Art: Poem: Short Story: Visual Art:

Write on Love by Corey Rowley Aura on the Edge by Sunflower/Sara Kendrick In the Quiet of your Eyes by Craig Froman Footprints by Donna DeLong Matthews Riding Down the Twister by Christopher A. Cooke Fishhook Barrel Cactus flower by Susan Hyatt A Poet Died Today by Zachary Fisher Tattoo Love by Mari Sloan The Captain and The Two of Them by Michael J. Dovers Blood Red Moon by Alicia R. Beckett Private Oasis of Dreams by Lena M. Pate Geisha Art by Denise Humphrey

33 34 34 36 38 40 43 44 46 47 48 50

Novel Excerpt: Graphic Art: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Poem: Visual Art: Poem: Interview: Short Story:

Peterson Estate by Amber Grosjean (Chapter 1) Ahrea and Nyfaria by Michael J. Dovers North American Dedication by Shiloh Darke Early Insomnia by Aaron Thomas Muse by Truly Ross-Wisehart Rest Now my Fallen Son by M J Goodnow My Heart Print by Doc Wilde From the Aenigmate Series by Robert P. Eustace Go Ahead, Ask Me by David Nelson Peace Wilson interviewed by Poppy Silver Christopher Early by Tom ‘WordWulf’ Sterner

56 63 64 65 65 66 69 70 74 76 80

Superseding Moon's Eye Magazine

because they make organ donors out of you. Maybe this will cause you to think twice before getting back on one.‖

‗

Blasphemy! I gave the ridiculous old biddy an evil glare with my one good eye. Quit riding motorcycles? Yeah, right. Maybe she should quit applying her makeup with a trowel. She handed me a clipboard with some forms on it and said, ―Please fill these out and return them to me.‖

must have looked like some kind of mutant half-Chihuahua humanoid with my right eye all swollen and bulging out. Yeah, go ahead and stare at my messed-up eye, everybody! God, I hate emergency rooms! ―How may I help you?‖ asked the apparently blind nurse behind the counter. I lowered my hand, revealing the lemon-sized protrusion where an eye used to be.

Paperwork. God, I hate it. And with only one good eye! I took a seat between the man with his head bandaged up and the woman with the sniffles. I was hard-up and hadn‘t had a date in six months. Hey, she doesn‟t look bad — she could give me her germs any time.

―Is there a problem with your eye, sir?‖

―Hey man, what happened to your eye? It looks awful,‖ said the guy with the wrapped-up head.

How did she guess?

―A wasp stung me.‖

―Does it look like there‘s a problem to you?‖ I asked.

―A wasp?‖

―Yes, sir, it looks rather irritated. Were you grinding metal without eye protection?‖ ―No, ma‘am. I was riding my motorcycle down the road and a big red wasp flew right into my eye with his stinger cocked and loaded. Now it hurts like hell and I can‘t see a thing out of it.‖ ―Oh, so you were riding your donor-cycle without eye protection. We call them ‗donor-cycles‘ here at the hospital — that‘s

―Yeah, a big red one. I was riding my motorcycle down the road and the darned thing flew right into my eyeball like a kamikaze. Damn near knocked me off the bike.‖ ―Did you crash?‖ ―I almost did! I was nearly blind from the pain, so I pulled to a stop in the middle of the road before I hit something. Cars behind me screeched their tires, so I guess

orn 1948, Sam Dickens wrote his first short stories and poems at ten but moved on to become a talented sketch B artist and musician, and didn't try writing again until six years ago. A twenty year US Navy veteran, he saw the world, but returned to a small Arkansas town not far from where he began.

some of them had to stop kind of fast to keep from running me over.‖ ―Damn, man — you‘re havin‘ a helluva day! What kind of motorcycle have you got, a Harley?‖

She rolled her eyes and replied, ―Oh, it‘s terrible! My husband brought it home from work last week and gave it to me and the twins. We should own stock in Kleenex for all the tissues we‘ve been buying.‖

―No, I ride a Moto Guzzi.‖

―That‘s just some rotten luck, isn‘t it?‖

―Who makes those?‖

Yeah, rotten frigging luck for both of us! She‟s got twins?

―Uh, Moto Guzzi does. They‘re Italian.‖ ―Never heard of one. My cousin has a Harley, or, well, he had a Harley, but his ol‘ lady made him get rid of it. What a bitch, huh?‖ ―Yeah, really. What happened to you?‖

A nurse came out and called a name. ―Mrs. Williams?‖ ―That‘s me,‖ said the pretty, sniffling, married lady with twins, and she got up and went with the nurse.

―I said ‗What happened to you?‘ You‘ve got your head all wrapped up.‖

Dang! I‟m just not having any luck today; but then again, this is an emergency room. What kind of idiot thinks he can meet girls in an emergency room? A desperate one like me, that‟s who.

―Oh, I was tryin‘ to fix my nail gun and it went off. There weren‘t supposed to be any doggone nails in it!‖

―Hey man — you got any aspirin? I‘m starting to get a little headache,‖ asked the guy with a nail in his head.

―Yeowee -- how long was the nail? Did you pull it out?‖

―No, I‘m sorry, I don‘t. You might ask the…‖ Whoa! What‟s this? A good-looking female walketh this way!

―Oh, just a three and a half incher. I got a claw hammer and tried to pull it out, but it wouldn‘t come. Mom always said my head was made out of wood, so I guess she was right.‖

―Is this seat taken?‖ asked the attractive young lady holding a handkerchief over her eye.

―Huh?‖

I‟d say so! Now why did I sit here? Oh yeah — I‟d hoped to get a chance to strike up a conversation with the pretty lady, but then Mr. Woodenhead got hold of my ear. Getting on to my primary mission, I turned toward the lady and said ―Sounds like you‘ve got a bad case of it.‖

―No it isn‘t — help yourself!‖ ―Thank you.‖ ―Hey man, those aspirin…‖ Shut up, Woodenhead!

Will O’ the Wasp

―Mr. Naylor! Is there a Mr. Naylor out here?‖ called the nurse.

―Okay. Uh, do you need a tissue or something?‖

―That‘s me,‖ replied the pest with a nail in his head and he went with the nurse, much to my extreme joy. I couldn‘t help it. I let out an uncontrolled snicker.

―Yeah, that should work. Do you have one?‖ She reached into her purse and handed me

Turning to the lady that had just sat next to me, I said ―I‘m sorry, I shouldn‘t laugh, but that guy that just left is named ‗Naylor‘ and he‘s got a nail in his head!‖ ―Oh my God, no — that‘s funny!‖ she said, and we both shook with subdued, hysterical laughter while holding our afflicted eyes. ―Hey, we match. We‘ve both got a screwed -up eye!‖ she chuckled. ―Yeah, we sure do! A wasp stung mine. What happened to yours?‖ I asked with a gleam in my one good eye. ―Some idiot stopped his motorcycle right in front of me a while ago, and I poked myself in the eye with a mascara brush when I stomped on the brakes to keep from hitting him.‖ ―Oooo, yeah… that must have hurt.‖ Egad, I‟m that idiot! She mustn‟t know, or I‟m toast. ―Oh, it does, it hurts, really. Could you look at it for me and see what it looks like?‖ ―Sure; let me see.‖ a tissue. She lowered her handkerchief and I looked close. ―Umm. Uhuh, uhuh. It looks like there‘s a little bit of mascara in there. I‘d better get it out.‖

―You know, what I really need is some good light so I can see in there better.‖

Will O’ the Wasp

―What do you want me to do?‖ ―Could you just sort of twist around in your seat and lay your head on my lap?‖ ―I think I can do that,‖ said the lady, and I soon had her pretty face looking up at me.

―You must have. It feels better already. What did you say your name was?‖ ―Frank,‖ I replied, mesmerized by her rather dissimilar-looking eyes. ―And yours is?‖ ―Margaret, but people call me Meg.‖ ―I‘m very pleased to meet you, Meg.‖ ―Likewise. Do you want me to look at your eye now?‖ ―Sure, if you don‘t mind.‖ She sat up and we switched positions. I laid my head on her soft lap and felt my heart go pitterpatter. ―Oh, yes—I can see where it stung you-right beside your eyelid.‖ ―It didn‘t get my eyeball?‖ ―No. It just missed it. You were lucky.‖ ―I sure am… I mean, I sure was!‖ Meg smiled and gave me a look. She knew what I meant. ―So how did this happen? Were you swatting at the wasp and made it attack you?‖ Oh crap! What do I tell her? She‟s staring into my eye with her eye! I can‟t ruin this. I‟ll cross my fingers — sometimes honesty isn‟t best.

Twisting the tissue into a small point, I carefully swabbed the mascara from the corner of her eye.

―Uh… I was in the bookstore down the street when I saw a wasp in an old lady‘s hair. I was afraid it might sting her, so I just grabbed it and carried it outside. It was stinging the heck out of the inside of my hand, but I endured the pain until I got out

―There, I think I got it.‖

Will O’ the Wasp

of the store with it. When I turned the little demon loose, it attacked my poor eye.‖ ―Oh you brave, brave man! You sacrificed yourself for that little old lady!‖ ―Well, it was the thing to do, you know.‖ Apparently overcome with compassion, she bent down and kissed my boo-boo. We gazed long into one another‘s eye while small sparks of electricity ricocheted all about. There was no doubt that much more than a little first aid had just transpired. I could have lain there forever, but then the nurse called my name. ―Francis Martin! Is there a Francis Martin out here?‖ Curse you, father, for naming me Francis! I pried my head from the pillows of ecstasy, gave Meg an apologetic smile, and then reluctantly allowed Nurse PartyPooper to lead me away. ―Wait right here,‖ she said, directing me to a little curtained-off cubicle. I hoped they‘d make it quick so I could catch up with Meg again before she left, but they didn‘t. I was made to wait and wait. What I thought should have taken fifteen minutes took two long hours. Finally, with giant eye-bandage in place, I ran back to the ER to look for Meg. Where is she? Oh God — she‟s gone! In a near state of panic, I asked Nurse MortarFace, ―The lady with the injured eye — do you know where she is?‖ ―The one that had to endanger the public by putting on makeup while driving?‖ ―Well, I — I guess… Her name is Meg.‖

―She left here about an hour ago, hopefully a little wiser. She‘s lucky she didn‘t kill somebody.‖ You‟re lucky I don‟t kill you! I walked briskly out to the parking lot and scanned it, knowing she was long gone. I‘d failed to get her last name, her phone number or anything. I was screwed, blued and tattooed. Feeling very down-hearted, I walked to my bike and stood there digging in my pocket for the key. What‟s this? There was a little piece of rolled-up paper stuffed into the crack between the seat and gas tank. I anxiously pulled it out and read it ―479-8838. Call me.‖ Woo-hoo! I did a little dance! I sang ―Meg wants me to call her, Meg wants me to call her,‖ but then it hit me. Hey, wait a minute, she knew this was my motorcycle. If she knew that, then she must know it was me that stopped in front of her, too. And the cock „n bull story about saving the old lady from the wasp — she must know that was a lie. Ohhh, I‟m busted! I‟ll call her and apologize. That must be it; she‟s so outraged at me that she wants me to apologize for leading her on and being such a lying bum. I took out my cell phone and dialed the number. ―Hello,‖ said a male, slightly familiar voice. "Uh, yeah; this is Frank Martin. Did you leave a note on my motorcycle? ―Yeah, yeah! Hey, man, it‘s me, Hacksaw remember we was talking in the ER today?"

Will O’ the Wasp

"Oh, yeah, the guy with uh... the nail stuck in his head." "I saw your bike. It was parked beside my pickup truck and I remembered that funny name — Mojo Goosey. The engine looks like a sideways Harley. It‘s cool, man.‖ Easy, Frank. The good book says you must be tolerant of old people, fools, and morons who drive nails into their heads.

Geeezzz. Lord, give me strength! Galadriel would never have passed that test. Strangle him with real elvish rope, she‟d scream telepathically! It was getting dark. I felt tired and defeated, so I started the bike and rode slowly home.

―Hey, thanks. I‘m glad you like my bike. Did they get the nail out?‖

One-eyed, no depth perception, no girlfriend me, feeling my way home in the dark. What a pathetic loser I am. I should become a blind monk and devote my life to the study of cobwebs.

―Nah, I got tired of waiting and came over here to my cousin‘s house. I just said screw it, man -- you know?‖

With the ―Mojo Goosey‖ safely stowed in the garage, I moped around my quiet, lonely abode.

―You probably need to get it out of there, don‘t you think?‖

Guess I‟ll watch TV. Oh look, my favorite — “Survivorman” aka “Starvingman” is on. Not only does he not have a girlfriend, but he has to go for a whole week in the wilderness with nothing to eat but two dandelions and a slug. That reminds me, I‟m hungry. Better order a pizza. Think I‟ll try that new Pancrazio‟s Pizza with the crust that‟s foot-tossed by virgins. Mmmm… v-ir-g-i-n-y.

―We already did. Remember those western movies where Randolph Scott bit down on a bullet while they pulled the arrow out? ―Yeah.‖ ―Well, that‘s what we did. I had to drink a bunch of beer first, but I bit down on the dog‘s squeaky toy and my cousin just yanked it out with a dent-puller. The hole is leakin‘ a little bit, but it‘ll be OK.‖ ―Well, that‘s real good, man. I‘m glad to hear that. Listen, uh, I gotta go, alright?‖ ―Yeah, dude! Keep it cool. Maybe I‘ll see you around!‖ ―Hey, yeah, maybe so. Uh, bye.‖ ―See ya around, bro.‖

I ordered a large and they said it‘d take thirty minutes or else it was free. I waited. Thirty-seven minutes had passed when the doorbell finally rang. A lonesome, visually -challenged pathetic loser in desperate need of some female foot-tossed pizza can get pretty darn cranky, so I jerked the door open and growled, ―You‘re late!‖ ―I‘m sorry, sir. I had a lot of difficulty finding your house in the dark with this darned patch over… my… eye…‖ ―Hi, Meg.‖

―Click.‖

Will O’ the Wasp

―Frank!‖ I took the pizza from her and sat it on the coffee table. Had God finally heard my plea? I would level with her and beg her forgiveness. ―I know you know it was me on the motorcycle today that made you poke yourself in the eye.‖ ―That was you?‖ ―Yes, it was me. And then I made up that big whopper of a story about saving the old lady from the wasp. It was all because I didn‘t want you to get mad at me and… because I think you‘re pretty and…. could you please forgive me?‖ Meg smiled a smile as big as Texas and said, ―Yeah, sure, Frank, I‘ll forgive you.‖ I wanted to jump up and down! She forgave me! I had to seize the moment. ―Would you come in for a while, Meg?‖ ―Sure, why not? They told me I didn‘t have to work tonight if I didn‘t feel up to it.‖ ―That‘s good. That‘s great. Thank you, thank you — please, sit down.‖ She sat on the couch and I sat beside her, but not too close.

―Oh, no thank you. I never eat the stuff. It‘s the sauce… Well, you don‘t want to know how they make that.‖ ―Thanks for telling me,‖ I replied, scooting the now-suspicious pizza aside. ―What do you like to eat, then?‖ ―Hamburgers are good.‖ ―Would you like to go get a hamburger?‖ ―Sure. Can we go on your bike?‖ ―Gulp… We sure can,‖ I replied, trying to choke back a tear. I rolled the bike out of the garage and steadied it while my precious new companion climbed on behind me. We rode to the ―Bull Burger‖ for hamburgers, where we enjoyed our all-beef patties and exchanged looks of adoration. I gave her a one-eyed wink. She grinned and winked back. Afterwards, we went back to my place, sat on the couch and watched ―Starvingman‖ on TV. He stole the sled dog‘s meat. I stole a kiss. He slept cold and alone. I did not.

Author: Sam

Dickens

―I‘ve been dying to try this pizza. Is it really tossed by the bare feet of virgins?‖ ―I tossed it myself,‖ she giggled, kicking off her flip-flop and raising a flour-covered foot in the air. My eye grew as large as a saucer. Thank you, dear God! Thank you for this priceless treasure! She‟s perfect! ―Would you have some pizza with me, Meg?‖

Written By Sam Dickens

Music of Creation

he resonance of the soul with the vibrational dance of enchanting figurines in artistic motional enthrallment; contorting, twisting and transmogrifying inwardly and outwardly within the raptures of a divine music from the light of pure inspiration. They dance and metamorphose internationally within this music of divinity, towards a translocating intertwined harmony of creative perfection. It's a magnificently beautiful and musically evolu-

Venetian Dream

tionary metamorphosis of motionally conjured musical perfection from the very highest of dimensions.

Enlightenment Dance

he search for the Human essence, for the link between the human reality and the spiritual one are the leading ideas in Octavian Florescu's work -The elements used by the artist are almost real; the characters are fluid and in motion; they are spiritual, radiating an energy on the point of merging with the Universe. Each work is a story, a rhapsody, a vision into spirituality. The artist is trying to suggest only the idea of departure in meditation

The Dimensions of Sound

toward perfection, without creating the image of an absolute world. The suppleness of his human symbols, the movement, the soaring toward the infinite try to introduce the spectator into a system of perfection. The translucence, spectrum of colors, accuracy of his drawing make Florescu a great master of both, oil and acrylic techniques. -All of Octavian Florescu's work is a real introspection of life.

Water Grace

ransitions- From an interdimensional whirlpool of sound and light, a vibrationally ocillatory transitional enthrallment of human symbols dance intertwined violinically with rapturous sound, light, energy and movement of a transitional state of musical evolution. Above this vibrational ensemble the blue storm of a hyperdimensional gate, of lightning and thunder, coalesces into existence out of symmetrical honor to the power being vibration-

Transition

ally wielded by this triadically exotic and electrically charged musical energy below. It is a work of art that depicts the arrival of a transitional, transcendent, vibrational musical dimension of combinative, intertwinational and integrational energy, sound and movement that prophetically beckons forth the way towards the future of music and thus the inevitable evolutionary transition of humanity itself.

riangular Angel Kisses

By: Amber

Purvis

There's a spot right next to the eye, at the outside, where three freckles live. You've no idea how charming that is, do you? Noticed them over my beer that was better than Guinness. (I know!!) When you said something that made me laugh (No, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t remember the words) you looked up, and there they were. Upon closer inspection, I opened my eyes when you kissed me, I found them more charming than before. I think it was a mix of sun, street, and my poetic musings

fferton Hall is a 17th century manor house in an architectural style typical of the Peak District (North Derbyshire, England), with twin projecting gables and mullioned windows. It is set among pasture land on the southern side of the Derwent valley; high above soars the bleak landscape of Offerton Moor, a boggy plateau of peat and heather and rough sandstone outcrops.

mber Purvis was not born in the Lost Generation, nor did she go to school at Harvard University before dropA ping out to become a rodeo clown. Ms. Purvis didn't discover a cure for pelvic cancer. Thousands do not flock to worship at her doorstep daily. Ms. Purvis is, however, one damned fine writer.

eel In the Passing

By: Veera

Spinnt

Forget all subtleties! For hundreds of windows are open, As I simply choose to pass them one by one Closing each with deliberation Like lessons from experience. I can‘t close them all at once But I can slowly make my way up the steps To close them one by one, According to my pace: For I embrace deliberation with separation, Like separating yesterday From today, For my tea is brewed differently Everyday, But I would never hesitate to have A full cup – Yet enough Is enough.

Photography By Mark P. Henderson

he present building dates from 1658, but the original house is said to have been one of the seven that Nicholas Eyre of Highlow built for his sons during the reign of Henry IV (1399-1413); in fact, a house may have stood on this site since the 12th century. The main staircase is lit by an Elizabethan-style triple -lancet window under a single arch, and the kitchen contains a huge medieval-style fireplace (suitable for roasting a whole ox) surmounted by a square chimney with a circumference of forty feet. There are 17 th century wood carvings in several of the rooms. eera L. Spinnt (Veeraya Leevongcharoen) has been writing since the age of nine, spending her primary years V in London and developing a love for the great European writers. After a year at UCLA as an exchange student, she now attends Thammsat University and is concentrating on literature as part of her degree in British and American Studies. She also is an aspiring painter, who specializes in portraiture, and she sponsors a poetry group on Facebook called "Parcels of Fading Memories”

Photography By Carl J Tengstrรถm

orn in Turku, Finland, Carl J. Tengstrom now lives in Stockholm, Sweden. He has been a criminal defense B lawyer for thirty-five years and he has his own law firm. In 2000 he took a Master in Law and IT at the University of Stockholm. His hobbies are music, writing, film and theatre, gardening, tennis and golf. http:// www.nowlookfor.us , http://justlookfor.us http://oneforthe.ne

oments in Fall By

Ladysue

From my window I watch a solitary leaf begin to float complacently in a stream of whistling notes It moves with grace as if in peace, nor here or there A moment of being, animated It circulates with an air of freedom between heavenly blues and earthly palettes as its breath consumes the atmosphere The petal drifts as if discerned eternal pace adagio Its unspoken language imbued with a sway of a glorious wave

Photography By Carl J Tengstrรถm

Inhabiting spaces of belonging in relevant time its chestnut coating reflects amber tones as if a soul diffused A connection created with a brush stroke view, thoughts ascend, poetry flutters as if moments in fall

uzanne Burke (LadySue) is from New York. She loves to write poetry and is driven by the muse who ponders in her mind.

am a verse of love By MagiCrystal

â&#x20AC;&#x153;THERE'S NO POET WHO CAN RESIST YOU, THERE'S NO OTHER VERSE OF LOVE LIKE MINE, NOT ONE.â&#x20AC;? Your body I see your body... dressed in silk I see you... caressing your wavy hair I stop my steps and breathe your aroma I don't want to break the dreams of my vision I don't want to see the ashes of your fire inside my soul Your beauty is my Gold I am not a prophet... I am your prayer, your genius YOUR VERSE OF LOVE You leave in my chest The pain, The desire to have you One love that turns into a verse There's no poet No verses Who can deny your beauty But I dream of you You stop the time Because you are my drink of love I break the glass and I drink your love There's no poet That can resist your beauty You are a torrent of desire And I am One verse of love

vguenia Men was born in Saint Petersburg in 1967. She finished Junior Art School in 1983, and graduated E from Leningrad (Saint Petersburg) State University in 1989 with MD (chemistry) and from the Cinematography and Television Institute in 1996 with BD (movie director). She moved to the USA in 1995 and immigrated to Australia in 2000. She has made 5 short films and has had 11 personal and 25 international exhibitions. Her works are in public and private collections in many countries. evmmen@yahoo.com , www.evmmen.com

ear Sapphire By Lex Balaguer

ear Sapphire, We were nothing more than sunset-gazers in winds of changing voices. One by one they fall to the sea, like you and me. So deep. The cloth above unending, of grey to blue, a fragile hue, the field daisies we lie on. We killed them as we rolled, your cherub lips to mine, chapped, but who cares? Forlorn tonight, we share. Not a touch unspared. Angel, your task is to mourn, a flight of wings broken; promises never spoken. Streams of aurora to our foreheads-- cigarette smoke gracefully soothing, toward the breath of you. And the words of afterglow, unending, the cloth below us tattered, but who cares? Not me, nor your sapphire eyes.

evils Folly By Ian Green

or my soul this vow is made. Let dwell this fear I hold.

Never break this pact I make, for in life death is but true.

Photography By Evguenia Men

For to death I make this vow, kiss my arse then feel no pain, then you know my life is true. Bitter sweet is my repent, your revenge you need to take. Distaste to me is your liquor, I know life is bitter pure. Hold me. Touch my lips so sweet. Challenge, then embrace my love. Devil or puritan of dream, embrace me then let me live.

Alexis Balaguer, eighteen-year-old Filipino poet and author of the "beautifully eccentric" published poetry J ohn anthology "Lyrical Penalty," is attending Ateneo del Manila University pursuing a degree in Communication, specializing in Media and Cultural Studies. From his home in the Phillipines, his writing and interests range widely, from personal insights to societal commentaries, to romance and fantasy, and even to the strange and occult.

he Soy Sauce Bottle and Noodle By:

Rachel Fielder

eople think I‘m weird, being a noodle of course, but I think it‘s wrong to assume that I don‘t have feelings. I mean, yes, I spend my time day in, day out, sitting, waiting, just wanting to be moved. My love lies somewhere in aisle thirteen. I glimpsed her in passing. I am a lonely noodle, my packaging a little torn. Inside my heart is broken; dropped once too often. I‘m avoided just as if I am defective goods. I‘m in aisle eight. It‘s a long way for a noodle. You taller creatures with your long legs and big feet never realize just how far away that is; minutes for you, but hours, days, a lifetime for me. It wouldn‘t take long just to pick me up and carry me across to aisle thirteen. I know she‘s waiting for me. Our labels met in one instant of pure happiness. I bet she pines for me, like I pine for her. Her label is a deep navy blue, her bottle‘s so smooth and contoured, and her lettering is a golden yellow; beautiful. He‟s over there, somewhere in aisle eight. It was a bit odd; my label had never been so drawn to another one quite like that before. His package is a deep red, bold, if not a little crooked. He stood out from the rest of them with their perfect little ways and their tiny little hearts. Although broken, I could tell his heart wanted me. He set my sauce all a-flutter! I‟d thought that I might spill if my hat hadn‟t been on straight. It‟s not far for you long-legged beasts, just a

page.

achel Fielder proudly lives the life of an artist, free within her imagination. She expresses herself through her poetry, her stories and her art; where her passion‟s released as gracefully as ink upon the

few steps but for a bottle like me it would take an eternity to reach him. Oh, can‟t one of you carry me to him? The time has come, has it? I know not how long has passed, only that now you choose to eat me. But wait, you open the That‘s it. Just walk on by, again and again, door and light floods my label. Am I dechoosing the more perfect packages with ceived, or is that you, my Soy, sitting so their hearts intact. What‘s wrong with me elegantly on the table? Oh Soy! All the anyway? Do I not look tasty to you? I mean, pieces of my heart call out to you! And I face it, you‘re gonna have to eat me, eventu- see a twinkle in your label; your sauces ally. Put me out of my misery caused by the sent all a flutter. We will be one soon, my distance between Soy and me. Sometimes I Soy, just let me bathe and be ready for think I hear her in my sleep, calling out to you. me, her own lonely noodle. I listen for her, hoping that one day we‘ll meet again. Soy and the Lonely Noodle become one, served with a stir-fry of vegetables. I wonder if he can hear me? I call to him Happy at last! again and again as the darkness deepens, revealing a green glow from not too far away. I call to him again, and again, but no answer comes. My poor, lonely, noodle, I have not forgotten thee.

Author:

achel Fielder

Photography By Mari Sloan

You picked me? I wonder why, after so many days spent lonely on my little shelf, the last of my kind? I wonder if Soy still remembers me? Her label, her bottle, her little hat, all imprinted forever on the pieces of my heart. I wonder if she still remains on her shelf, in aisle thirteen. Oh wait! You‘re heading there now. You‘ve dropped me roughly into your trolley and I can see all, my label pressed against the bars. We are-we are heading to aisle thirteen! Oh my love, my desire, my Soy, please be there! Finally, I see the bottles lined up all neatly on their shelves, looking down. But--but where is she? My Soy, where are you? What cruel world would take you from me? I resign myself to the loss of my precious Soy. You can cook me, and you can eat me, and I will be tasty but first I will sit in your cupboard, alone in the darkness, until you fancy some lonely noodles.

here is a side that no one sees, it lives deep within; where she becomes the characters, and brings her stories to life. Being no stranger to challenges and fears, Rachel fights to overcome her dyslexia and prove that writing comes from the heart and not just the mind.

oon Angels by

Tom ‘WordWulf’ Sterner

"There are those who write things down and those who don't." Judy giggled a bit as she realized she was talking aloud to herself. "And a whole lot o' people in between who do a little of both," she continued. With a sigh, she snuggled into the chair next to her bed. "If you don't write it down, then it didn't happen." Where had she read that? She closed her eyes and unconsciously massaged her left wrist where the bullhead IV lay in her vein. That damned thing hurt worse than the cancer she had fallen prey to, worse even than the chemo, its retching and wretched fingers tearing her body apart a single hair at a time. She could make her way past the Big C most days, both of them... Chemo. Cancer. Caca. The IV though, it was a beast that gave her body no rest. Lights twinkling outside the window danced for her eyes, calling out to her to notice them. She willed herself into a necessary melancholy, a survivor tool she had developed of late. From the tenth floor window of her hospital room she had learned the winking and blinking pattern of a world that seemed to have little to do with her any more. Three weeks from her twenty-ninth birthday, twenty-one days spent in this room, offered little else. There were tests, biopsies, MRIs, EKGs, UA drops, Xrays... blood… blood… blood. The mean nurse would come tonight to torture her with the terrible stabbing tools of her trade. She was a witch and Judy her victim. Judy refused to learn any of their names, these white-cloaked monsters with their patronizing jabber and containers for 'points'. She felt like one of her grandfather's rabbit stew rabbits. As a small girl, she had watched him hang them by their ears from the clothesline in the backyard. He would coo-coo them and pet their fur, kind executioner that he was. Like hell, as soon as they relaxed, he would punch them at the base of the skull with the hard edge of his hand. "Jellybean, tender-meats when they're relaxed, we don't wanna eat no wild blood," he had explained to her. That's what these people did, chatter, chatter, chatter, punch, stab, stab.

Judy had wanted to sit up from the first day she‘d spent in this awful room but was tied to the bed by tubes and wires feeding and recording, liquid gurgles and mechanical chirps, witnesses to her frail hold on life. The visitor's chair beckoned to her. 'Yes, and the chairs have voices,' Judy thought; and it said, 'Never mind all that and any necessary apparatus confining her, she should just get up and drag it to the chair with her.' She had finally done so, and it felt wonderful to have claimed such a small victory. No more would she settle for an extra pillow, the buzz and whir of the bed adjusting its envelope to the wishes of its enclosure. "I don't care about ‗Ms. Pokes-a-lot‘ either," she whispered to herself, "She'll just have to torture me in the chair tonight. Tomorrow I'll mark another year." "Tonight is my last night as a twenty-eight-year old," she continued, "I'll spend it asserting myself as an independent woman." She gripped the arms of the overstuffed chair and smiled sadly at her maudlin thoughts of yesterdays. She didn't consider such thoughts memories. As far back as she could remember, she had been blessed and cursed with the foreknowledge of what was coming next. This was especially true of that day of days, her birthday. Having been born the thirty-first of October, she was just one more holiday child. Hallowe‘en owned what should have been her day. She had spent each of her birthdays in costume as a cat, a fairy, a princess, a nun. The list was endless and her mother kept a perfect chronological record, 'Judy's Hallowe‘en Birthday Book'. From the look of things here, there would be no thirtieth birthday. She would finally wear the ultimate costume, sure to win any Hallowe‘en contest. She would be in the skin of the dead. Her prognosis was not good. The doctors spoke in terms of days and weeks. The more optimistic ones even said months once in a while. No one uttered the year word. Judy touched her smiling lips with her fingertips. "I look stupid when I smile," she giggled to herself. Her smile grew as she realized it didn't make any difference now. She was alone in more ways than she had ever thought possible. Divorced, no kids, Mom and Dad wonderful and oh so sad. They were the pain in her heart that the IV was in her arm. Their suffering was much worse than hers and she knew it. Daddy's 'Jellybean', Momma's 'Missy', their only child, was soon to leave them. Everything that could be done had been done. Judy had run out of strength and, at some level, the three of them were aware of it.

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. A native of Colorado and proud father of five children and a stepdaughter, he writes lyrics, sings and composes music with his

Still Judy smiled. Had they changed her pain killers without telling her, she wondered? She felt wonderfully free of physical pain. Even sympathy for the awful pain of her parents seemed to have taken a back seat to this new euphoria come to possess her, body and soul. She had worn herself out earlier, talking them into leaving her for the day. Tomorrow was her birthday. They could come then and help her celebrate. She had made them promise to go out and have dinner then go home and get some rest. How was she supposed to rest when they refused to do so? She felt a pang of guilt for pulling that one but it was the truth. Judy settled deeper into the luxurious embrace of the chair, it being what a bed could never be. Once comfortable, she implemented a new process she had conceived of sometime during her three weeks of institutionalization. A song by the Moody Blues, 'Nights in White Satin', was her parents' favorite. It was 'their song'. They were a very romantic couple, even after thirty years of marriage. They had danced to the tune the night theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;d met. Judy's trick was to become her former little girl self so she could once more watch their dancing silhouette. A tear ran down her cheek as she repeated the thought that had come to her as a child, the dream that always came to visit when they danced: "There is only one of them". A sound from outside the room interrupted Judy's reverie. 'The mean one is here,' she thought. 'Gotta get back in that bed!' But there was no time as the stodgy old nurse pushed through the door with her clattering cart full of probing and poking instruments of torture. "Hope you're not sleeping, Dear," she said in her cigarette voice. "Doctor has you scheduled for a procedure tomorrow. He had a cancellation. I have to begin your prep work tonight." "Oh God," Judy mumbled under her breath. Procedures and prep work, the terrible Ps, poke and prod would be closer to the truth. At least the old bat hadn't said invasive, PPI was as bad as it got in her experience so far. Invasive could be anything from a relatively simple breast biopsy to a camera poked up her butt to who knew what they would think of next. "Depending on the results of tonight's workup," the starchy old woman continued as if she had read Judy's mind, "well, you know how it goes, Dearie. These workups will determine whether tomorrow's procedure is invasive.â&#x20AC;&#x2013;

'She acts like I'm taking a test,' Judy thought bitterly, 'like I have some control over how positive or negative the tests come out. What she means is that she wants me to behave like a good dying girl and make her job as easy as possible.' Judy was amazed that the old hag hadn't seen her yet. The lights in the room were dusk dim but 'Ms. White on White' was only a couple of steps away. She watched in disbelief as the nurse touched something on the bed. "Come on now, don't be difficult. I know you can hear me." Judy peeked around the nurse to get a look at the bed. She gasped as she saw what looked awfully like someone lying in her bed. How had that someone gotten into the room without her noticing, not to mention climbing into the bed? She had been deep in thought and comfortable for once, having achieved her desire to sit in the chair. She got a little ticked at the thought. Whoever was in there had better damned well get up and find another place to lie down. She didn't like the hospital one little bit but found she had proprietary feelings toward her place within its confines. The nurse stood between the chair where Judy was sitting and the bed. "Oh dear," she choked as she drew her fingers back like they had been burned, "so young and pretty..." She pushed the red button on the wall and bright lights stabbed at Judy's eyes. In seconds the room was filled with people and carts loaded with last ditch resuscitation equipment. An orderly pushed Judy's chair into a far corner out of the way. She looked straight into his face and he turned as if he hadn't seen her. Judy used every bit of her resolve not to rise up out of the chair and yell, "Hey, it's me... you know, the one who is supposed to be in here. I don't know who that person is or how they got in!" She couldn't get up, of course, because she would tangle the tubes and wires snaking from her body. She watched in fear and awe as half a dozen doctors and nurses worked feverishly on the person in her bed. One stabbed a long needle down into the middle of the still figure. Nothing happened. A doctor took a set of those clapper things she had seen them use when watching ER. He raised them frantically as everyone stood back. He yelled "Clear!" then brought them down on the flesh of the corpse. He repeated the procedure until Judy screamed, "It's dead! Get it out of here! All of you, just go away and leave me alone!"

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.

Judy realized in an instant of crystal-like clarity that they couldn't hear her. Then the room was still, more still even than the smoking corpse on the bed. The main participants in the gruesome charade began to file from the room. A gurney was wheeled in by two young men. They lined the gurney up with the bed and stood by, one at each end. "Okay," breathed the one at the head of the bed, "on three, count." Then they chanted together, "One, two, three and lift." On 'lift' the body was picked up and bundled on to the gurney. They began to roll it toward the door. Judy recognized one of them as he said, "Just a sec."

Henry stood there ogling her. "Hey Sweets, is dem real?" Judy slapped his face. "I don't like you. If you can't behave yourself, just go away." She sat back down, held her face in her hands, and wept. "Now don' get carried away." Henry moved as if to

Maybe he had seen her... but no. She watched enraptured as he pushed the hair gently out of the face on the gurney. He bent and kissed the face on its cheek. "Ya know," he said to his helper, "sometimes this job gets to me. I kinda liked her." He pulled a sheet over the face and they rolled the gurney out into the hallway. Judy touched her cheek. 'I'm dead,' she thought, 'I'm toast and now they have taken me away.' "Don't worry 'bout 't, lady!" Startled, Judy turned toward the sound of the voice. A boy of indeterminate age stood before her. "Hey, my name‘s Henry!" He offered Judy a hand. She took it and relief washed through her. She could actually feel the flesh of his hand. "Wha... wha happened?" she asked tentatively. Something about the boy's appearance bothered her. 'He looks like the face on Mad Magazine,' she thought, a quite uncomfortable thought, especially considering the circumstances. "Well," the boy replied, "by the book I'm s'posed t' give ya a bunch o' closure stuff an' lead ya through the um... uh, oh yeah, the transition. But hey, tomorrow's Hallowe‘en an'… Oh well, see I was hopin' for a babe closer t' my own age. Hey well, age don' matter, not t' us anyway. Am I right, Sweety?" "Who are you?" Judy asked weakly.

put a hand on her shoulder.

"I toldja once," he replied. "My name's Henry. My friends call me... well, I ain' exac'ly got no friends." He offered her a mischievous smile. "If I did, they could call me Henry."

Judy took a deep breath and raised her head. The look she gave Henry would have stopped his hand all by itself. "Don't you dare touch me!" she warned.

"Do you know what's happening to me?" Judy asked.

S oon

Henry touched his face where she had slapped him. "Women!" he said and turned to leave the room.

Angels

"We?" Judy hung the word in the air between them. "Wait!" Judy cried. "Do you know what's going on here? Can you help me?" Henry glanced back and gave her a wink. He walked through the wall next to the door and returned immediately through the wall behind the chair where Judy was sitting. "Boo!" he said playfully into Judy's ear.

"Yeah, we," Henry said, "we bein' ghosts." "But I felt your hand," Judy argued, "when I first saw you, I... I felt your skin." "Yeah, well," Henry snickered at her, "I been in 'nis bizness a while an' I got control over some o' the things mos' ghosts don' know nothin' 'bout. Yer a perty woman an' I didn't 'magine you'd wanna haul off an' slap me one or I wouldna puffed up my skin." Henry took a poke at Judy's breast and her first reaction was to strike out at him. "Go ahead an' gimme yer bes' shot!" Henry taunted as her hand passed through his face. "Oh God." Judy sat back in her chair. "You 'n me is inbetweeners," Henry explained. "I been a inbetweener for a long time. I like 't but mos' folks don't." "If that's my choice," Judy looked at him askance, "to be like you or dead, I think I'd prefer to just be dead." Henry stuck out his bottom lip. "Now that ain' a nice thing t' say to a child. You ain' gon' get across talkin' t' me like that!" "Across?" Judy asked. "Yeah," Henry answered, "across. See, dead is dead. Ya can't go back an' be alive. Ya have t' help someone or somethin' like that, do somethin' nice. Then mebbe ya get t' go t' the other place. I ain' never been there so don' go an' ast me 'bout 't." "So you're here to help me?" Judy inquired. "Nah," Henry licked his lips. "I came t' see the kids downstairs, mebbe do some Halloweâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;enin' tomorrow. Then I felt you dyin' an' came up t' have a look -see. I'm good at feelin' stuff like that. I wouldna come up if I knew you was outa yer body." "You're not a very nice boy, are you?" Judy asked.

She jumped from the chair and turned to face him, arms akimbo. "That's about enough!" she cried, close to tears. "If you can't behave yourself or help me, you'd better just leave."

Henry stomped a foot. "I ain' no boy an' you ain' no girl. We is ghosts; that's all there is to 't." Judy leaned back into the chair. "What am I sup-

"You're dead, lady," Henry said, exasperated. "I was jus' tryin' t' show ya some o' the cool stuff we can do."

S oon

Angels

posed to do, Henry?" she asked. "And if I'm a ghost like you, why can't I choose to feel or not feel? Why can't I control the tactile sense like you can? I don't believe I'm the same as you."

Tom “Word Wulf” Sterner’s Published Works

"You'll learn the tricks. We can feel each other if we want," Henry explained. "Else we can..." Judy shivered as he strode across the room and walked himself right through her and the chair. "Ya shouldna lef' yer body." "I didn't do that on purpose." "Don' matter," Henry twinkled his eyes at her. "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."

Momma‘s Rain is available for purchase here! http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=searchalias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Momma% 27s+Rain&x=20&y=19

******** Soon Angels will be continued in our next issue.

Don’t miss it!

Author: Tom Sterner & Family Learn more about Tom and his work @ wordwulf@gmail.com http://minds-eye.ning.com/profile/tomwordwulfsterner

S oon

Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available from author http://wordwulf.weebly.com wordwulf@gmail.com

Angels

T om “WordWulf” Sterner

manuela Di Stefano is a painter, sculptress, art critic, photographer, and art promoter living in Rome, Italy. http://arteinlineaconitempi.ning.com

ine

By:

Jeff Loquist

"It's all gonna end," she cries. Her friend with the floppy blue hat places a hand to her forearm and consoles. Two-bound by fear they speak of terror, oppression and sorrow on a weather-worn wooden bench. The sun breaks from the clouds and warms my neck. Cool spring winds blow colourful leaves still hanging around from the autumn last. A flock of sparrows sing overhead and I think everything is gonna be just

eff Linquist, gifted writer, photographer, artist and web site writer, lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He's written for several magazines and has a knack for being able to empathize with the needs of others. His unique voice draws readers in and holds their attention while his poetry delights.

rite on Love

By:

Corey Rowley

Don‘t let me tell you what to write On the hill, beneath your sweetheart tree The night blooming freesias open and close on your command The wind blows sweet words to flow from your pen … smoothly. It‘s your heart that flows red, then bright orange, pumping As it bleeds a picture of what you might become The breeze, just a kiss of dandelion fuzz Tickles your lip and lets you know that everything will be alright. Don‘t let me tell you what to write On the hill, that overlooking your love and longing A rolling green field giving way to sometime azure waters Lapping at the shore that seems the same, but changes … sweetly It‘s your eyes that allow a man to enter your thoughts And feel the excitement of the day unbridled, senses firing keenly Wringing hands made for grasping, supporting, stroking, Looking into a soul that supports an emotional payload. Don‘t let me tell you what to write On the hill, gazing into the pool where every woman finds her inspiration Pulling phrases like fishes, slick and shiny, deadpan eyes Releasing inhibition, believing in the turn of a phrase … softly It‘s your words love, deep and crucial … tender. It‘s your words love, surpassing expectation. It‘s your words love, fire and brimstone … exhilarating It‘s your words love. They mean the world.

orey Rowley grew up on the Western Slope of Colorado and is currently an Estimator for an environmental remediation company located in Phoenix, Arizona. He gathers inspiration from the people he meets everyday. He writes poetry, short fiction and non-fiction.

ara Kendrick from Thomaston, Georgia, a minister's wife with degrees in Human Services and Christian Ministry, is now taking care of her grandsons and working on her doctorate. She began writing and photographing last year as the result of a health crisis, recording her life in poetry and pictures.

n the quiet of your eyes

By: Craig

ura On The Edge

By: Sunflower/Sara

Kendrick

Froman

In the desperate hour, when hope is cloaked in shadowed substance, when worlds collide in frantic feelings of scarlet skies, I walk and wait and listen for life, breathing the fragile, frosted air of mortal lungs. And piercing the fated fabric of misery unvoiced, listening for deeper melodies and seeing near silent hues, I survey eternal treasures in the sea, the sand, each drifting, clouded sky. I view those sacred glories in the quiet of your eyes ...

Out next to the Weeping Willow Tree The half-full moon still shines in early morn Amazingly the glow gets brighter As the sun on the horizon rises But the sun earlier was shrouded Obscure because of the fog and mist The birds did not seem to mind at all For their chirping was very shrill ... brisk The sun rises over the horizon In a fireball of red-red this day As the sun appears everything Seems to speedily move on their way The clear light that is on the moon now Much brighter with a glow that's silver There's an aura on the very edge That reveals itâ&#x20AC;&#x;s time to go so soon Time for me to go as well as moon Duty calls ... responsibility The chores of the day to care for home To see that family's needs are met

raig Froman grew up in Northern California, struggling with suicidal depression through his teen years. Out of that experience he wrote the novel, "An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness" (mixed poetry with prose). He now lives in Arkansas and works as an editor.

F By:

ootprints

Donna DeLong Matthews The burden is heavier with each passing day. For it to be lightened to You I do pray. Which way to turn I do not know? Where is it that you bid me to go? Oh, my Savior I am so tired please help me along the way to your feet I do humbly fall as I go to you this day. Am I searching for what is not meant to be? Am I over looking what you wish me to see? My precious Savior please light my way. Is it this course You wish me to stay? My faith in You has never faltered. I'm just not sure is it I that altered? Oh, Lord please just show me the way or take me home with Thee to stay. Your will for me I know is divine but where I trod is it Your will or mine? The light at the end I can not see. The path I trod I pray to be set free. But if this is where You feel I will most grow Then down this path I will continue to go. (Dedicated to Wendy Steadman because Footprints In The Sand is her favorite poem... God Bless you my oldest daughter.)

onna Delong Matthews started writing in August 1997, composing poems for her eldest daughterâ&#x20AC;&#x;s birthday and her youngest daughterâ&#x20AC;&#x;s wedding, and has discovered that poetry provides a way of working through her emotions and reflecting her life experiences. She thanks Jimmy Mac (JHeart) and Lesa (Aspiring Angel) particularly for their help, support and encouragement.

iding Down the Twister by Christopher

A. Cooke

Dark clouds in the evening sky, Dark thoughts on my broken heart, Seeing her lips pressed again his, Her arms wrapped around him. Her eyes are open as she watches me Craving the painful flash from within She smiles when she's done with him But more importantly…done with me. "Good bye," she says, "Goodnight and take care, "There's a storm coming here tonight." Enjoying the allegory as lightning flashes And he gropes her breasts from behind. Numb I return to my truck And start the engine Back out And…go. I don't remember turning on the radio I don't recall tuning in the weather I didn't even know I was listening Until I heard the word. Tornado. Here is the location. Here is where it is touching down. Here is where it may go. Everybody batten down. It's not far from me. It's not far, but moving away. I'll be safe if I don't move. I'll be safe…outside the storm. The pickup engine revs. Like a shot the truck jumps forward Tires squeelchering on wet pavement As I shift into second gear and set a course To intercept the dark terror that means only death and destruction. My heart beats slowly. My nerves are calm. What matters most is seeing the beast. Already…I have died.

The truck races through fallen trees Weaving in and around on silvery pavement Fishtailing but keeping the heading I see it ahead of me as lightning flashes Only a couple of miles away, following the road The truck bears me forward towards it Carrying me without question to the cyclone. The twister turns its massive body, And I turn the truck into its path, Inexorably drawn towards each other Jousting for who has the most turbulent core. My heart is still beating slowly. My hands calmly touch the wheel. My foot presses down on the pedal And I rocket towards two lovers in my mind. It does not stop. I do not stop. We will be…one. As if sensing the pain and anguish in my soul And knowing that it could do nothing worse to me It raises its body into the darkened clouds above And with one flash of lightning leaves me alone. I stop the truck and get out. I look into the sky sobbing. Shaking with despair and rage. Even the storm will not take this poison from me. A pair of headlamps light the night And the trooper's car pulls up behind. He gets out of his car and walks to me And stares into the sky, silently. Together, we watch the storm, No longer swirling and rolling. The twister has vanished. My marriage has ended. "It's gone now," the trooper says. "But there will be others. "There are always storms to weather, "But the skies behind them are always clear." He looked at me and smiled. A friendly smile. A knowing smile. On a dark Texas road Only we two know the truth. "Go back to your hotel, son." He casually tips his hat and walks away. Back into his car, back onto the road.

hristopher has been writing for as long as he could string two words together and is currently working on publication of his first novel, Dragonfaerie. Born in Texas, he currently lives in Connecticut where he works as an IT consultant.

A one-time visitor in my life and this story .returned to my truck and wept openly And cursed whoever for leaving me alive And beat my hands against the wheel And rent my lungs with my howls of sorrow. Then, clean of the poison, I started the engine. I headed back to my hotel. And wondered until late that night How the trooper knew I had no home. Merely a boy on a mission to ride down a twister Who'd come out changed for not catching it.

iding Down the Twister

Fishhook Barrel Cactus flower (Ferocactus wislizenii) Taken by Susan Hyatt (pen name Desert Dreamer)

ZACK FISHER

achary Fisher ("Revolution"), from Queens, New York, has a degree in Legal Investigation and works for the NYS Department of Law. Familiar with life gone wrong, his poetry strives to make sense out of the pain, unfairness and absurdities in our day-to-day existence, and to show how we can transcend these on a continued quest for personal growth.

A POET DIED TODAY By: Zack

Fisher â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Revolutionâ&#x20AC;&#x2013;

A poet died today His name doesn't matter And so it I will not say Of him most people did not hear A poet died today His words in obscurity They will soon fade away Few read this poet Or the words he had to say A poet died today I guess it matters not anyway He saw the world as it was And it hurt and pissed him off He had trouble seeing the sun He saw only the rain No one truly understood him He lived in constant pain Feeling things he felt few others can He never knew why the questions he asked Weren't asked by every man His world was a sullen place Rarely was a genuine smile Found upon his face His dreams never came true He wanted so bad to make things right But no longer knew what to do A poet died today Because he no longer cared to live A poet died today Hating how so many wanted to take And so few cared to give A poet died today Because no one cared anymore A poet died today So sick of killing and war And the way they were justified and made excuses for A poet died today He will be found dead upon his floor Illness did not kill him Do not blame the drugs he took It wasn't a bullet either Or a blow to his head No, the reason he stopped living Is because peace and love in the world were dead

attoo Love By:

Mari Sloan

"I'm really glad it isn't anthrax, 'cause anthrax scares me!"

illy rubbed the heart shaped splotches that had popped up on her neck and arms as if she could rub them away. They didn't itch but there were plenty of them, and they were huge! The doctor at the free clinic had looked at them and scratched his head, after carefully removing his protective gloves. "I've never seen anything like these. Every one of them is perfectly formed. Are you sure you didn't fall asleep in a tattoo parlor?" She'd giggled, then shrugged. As if she could afford this sort of tat job. Since she'd moved out, she hadn't been able to afford food, much less ornamental body art. It was ironic that after leaving the tattoo studio that had been her home, breaking off the relationship with her beloved mentor and teacher, Alfredo von Hersler, (real name Alvin Hinksletter, but who cares in the art world?), she should develop a rash that rivaled any creative effort she had ever achieved. Even more ironic that it should have formed on her. She created tattoos. She never had her own body desecrated with the craft. It was against her religion and, besides, it hurt. Briefly she wondered whether Alfredo (or Alvin or whatever his name was) had mutilated her in her sleep, or drugged her and had his artistic way with her in a petty display of revenge. She thought, given the winces and groans that came from her willing victims, that

ari Sloan loves to tell people that she was born into a family of eccentrics and visionaries and she carries her heritage of storytelling from the Deep South to the hills of Southern Califor-

she would have remembered it. Certainly having pins sticking her skin would have jolted her awake no matter what sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;d been slipped. It was just not possible. She was not going back to ask him. The tools of the trade that they had owned jointly were in her suitcase. She guessed he would have to buy his own or go back to pharmaceutical school. Laughing, she pictured him in a lab coat working in some local hospital or lab. It would have to be a full body covering because she had seen his tats, and they were everywhere. Well, they were everywhere she'd seen, anyway.

hundred hearts all say you are my own true love." He did this? With the Bloody Mary?

He had a touch of mad scientist about him, and she had to admit she found that very attractive. When he wasn't designing new and improved body art for brain-dead teenagers, he was down in the basement of the rundown duplex that made up their home and studio playing with chemicals, and who knows what he had concocted down there. Even his mixed drinks steamed and foamed like a mad dog eating dry ice. Just last evening he'd fixed her a Bloody Mary that ... uh oh! Ducking behind a building she tried to fade into the fire escape, but it was too late.

Well, she had to admit that possibly being Mrs. Alvin Hinksletter looked a lot better with money involved.

"Can you make other stuff as well? Uh, will it come off?" "It will always be there to pledge my love to you, darling angel partner. Just think of the life we can share. Painless tattoos! We're going to be rich! Rich beyond our wildest dreams! Marry me, Sweet Milly! I have a wedding ring tat all ready. Just a sip of my special Champagne!"

"Let me think about it." Rubbing at an especially large heart one last time, she followed her entrepreneur mentor into the nearest coffee shop and prepared to let him feed her. She guessed she was lucky he hadn't accidentally branded her face. She'd have to talk to him about that before accepting any more homemade cocktails from him.

"Milly! It's you! Hang on a sec!" Oddly enough, the tattoo baron didn't seem the least bit angry. She thought he'd at least be put out that she'd stolen his tattoo gun and all of the high-grade needles. Instead, his face was a study in rapture, delight she had not thought possible before the apocalypse and its pick-up of the blessed and pure. He had her by one arm and was stroking her funny looking splotches with delight. "It worked! I'm going to be a millionaire! Do you like it? No more pain! And you are mine, heart of my heart, love of my life! A

Author:

Mari Sloan

nia. 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 strange working of the human mind.

H A

The Captain moment of quiet reflection for Marcus Josephson, ship's master and commander of the blessed and honorable frigate, the HMS BONAVENTURE. BONAVENTURE. The coming storm he must face will arrive all too soon..

The Two of Them e is a stranger in a strange land. Having crossed vast oceans, he found a love he never knew existed. Together, Marcus and Aiko find themselves pitted against the armies of an insane warlord; one who is prepared to tear a nation apart in order to keep the two lovers from each other's arms. As he does with many of his recent pictures, Mike used more than one program to create the images found in this issue of U Magazine. While the model rendering is always done in Poser, the backgrounds are typically created in Photoshop, and the final image is also composed there.

lood Red Moon

Alicia Beckett (A.K.A. Blackdimondwido)

As I walk along the darkened corridors of the cemetery, I can feel the cool grass beneath my feet. As I walk alone under a blood red moon, the night grows colder and colder. I give a comforting smile and pull my black satin shawl over my shoulders. For tonight is my wedding night, and I wear a low-cut, spaghetti strapped gown that sparkles in the moonlight. As the train is carried by two of my children of the night, a single blood red rose is put in my long black hair. It starts to rain lightly as the mist rolls in. I hear the announcement from the hounds of hell inviting all creatures on this joyous night. While walking beside the mist-covered water, I feel a darkened presence touch me gently, yet painfully. Showered by gifts, I am made ready for the one that I love. For now I am given the kiss of evil beneath a blood-red moon.

licia R. Beckett lives in Tacoma, Washington, with her husband of four years and her beautiful little girl of five, and is working towards her GED at Tacoma Community House. When she graduates she plans to pursue a degree in drawing and business at Tacoma Community College in order to further her career as a writer and illustrator.

rivate Oasis of Dreams By:

landish. I didn‘t just read the stories; I lived them. I read excerpts, spoke the lines, shared the emotions of the characters, knowing their lives better than those of my own relatives. I would tear apart each sentence looking for meanings hidden by the authors. I took classes in school that revolved around the hidden meaning buried in poetry, children‘s fables, and songs. I would read biographies of the writers or histories on the time periods of the

Lena Pate

mid the ruins of life there are those special tidbits that make one stop and smile; some remembrance tucked deeply among the cobwebs we fear to visit. Caught up in the day to day mundane, the special moments lie tucked away. Like thieves we have buried them deeply, afraid that if we remember too clearly someone will sneak in and take them away. Such is the memory of a childhood spent huddled in a basement, alone with my books and music. I had my own small apartment of privacy cut out of a house with too many emotions running rampant. Nestled in the deep cool recesses where the IronRite was stored, next to the corner that still held my Barbies to my Bride doll, was a special place that had an old worn out couch, some cherry wood end tables, discarded lamps, a pool table off to one side, shelves over-stacked to the top with books, and my phonograph. It was my quiet oasis where my imagination was allowed to rush about freely, running amuck into whatever adventure I chose that day. I would crank up my records, headphones attached so that only my eardrums were punished, listening to all forms of melodies; singing along with them, from ballads to opera, pop to country. Tears would stream down my cheeks as I sang in languages I did not understand but felt all the emotions of each note. I languished over stories told in ballads as if their fates were my own. I danced with partners from the books I devoured, pretending to be willowy with thick wavy hair that hugged my shoulders, wearing sophisticated evening dresses that sparkled as we moved in unison. We would gaze into each other‘s eyes as I dropped witty stories about my travels through Spain or enthralled him with my adventures in Italy. I refused any mirrors in my perfect world; the reality of standing little more than four feet tall would not invade this Xanadu I had created. On rare occasions my friends were allowed to invade my peace but never to books. The written word spanned everything from religious to share in its secrets. If my friends knew they would have poked ridiculous, from romantic to lewd. Controversy was my life‘s fun; but in my basement, this part of me was private. blood, mystery Pablum to my soul. In my youth, I already demanded reasons for my existence and for the atrocities allowed in In my underground room I read every word I could put my hands the world. Starvation, bigotry, unfairness, sexual inequalities, on. It didn‘t matter where the stories came from. Magazines, lit- contradictions of faith and the failings of love were all issues for erature my parents had collected over the years, Reader‘s Digest me to dissect and resolve. All this, and I hadn‘t yet reached the short novels, Charles Lamb to Nancy Drew all the way to Valley age of fifteen. of the Dolls. I begged or borrowed books from relatives, friends, and libraries. Nothing was too long or short, no subject too out-

ena M. Pate, from Desoto, Texas, is a writer, reader, poet and artist. In her spare time, she has been a medical technologist and health instructor for a prominent children‟s hospital for the last nineteen years. Her technical work has been published in the New Texan Journal of Medical Technology; she has spoken at AMT conferences, is their Lab Education Coordinator,

It was at this bleak time of my life that I found the astonishing world of art and writing. Although I had always tinkered with art, my love for writing took hold. With each outlet, I could build my worlds the way I wanted them to be. I could draw from my heart, paint colors the way I felt, working from washes to strokes of sharp color, sketch or charcoal faces of my real and imaginary friends, inscribe from the deepest recesses of my soul and create

become the person I was slowly growing into; it was my private oasis in a confusing turmoil called life. I lived through the tragedies of losing my best friend and my long time boyfriend, both to drunk drivers in the same year. Detroit and I survived the racial riots rife with hatred and misunderstanding. I watched in horror the murder of the Kennedys and of Martin Luther King. I gazed at the television in awe as man walked on the moon. I watched girls burn their bras and boys their draft cards. I read Roe versus Wade and watched Madalyn O'Hair remove prayer from schools, totally unaware at the time how the repercussions of these two moments in history would affect my world. I avoided being sucked into the vortex of drugs rampant in the sixties, which took many a friend. I released the breath Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;d held for two years until my brother walked in the back door one night returning from Vietnam. One atrocity that ripped my heart from my chest was when schools started banning books, even burning them. Churches dictated which movies we were allowed to watch while they contradicted the teaching of the Christ theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;d pledged to follow. These champions of piety protested abortion and birth control but turned their backs on the sinful hussies who dared to conceive out of wedlock. All this while we pledged our allegiances and read stories about the origin of the Constitution, wondering where we had gone so terribly wrong. Through all of that chaos, I created: some good, some not, and yet all pieces of the puzzle of who I am today. I still define myself by my creativity, in my work and in my play. I do not judge my successes on what I have sold but rather on what I have treasured. On dark nights, in the corner of my private dreams, I dance again on cement flooring with heating pipes above my head, to an imaginary partner who sings Summertime in bass to my soprano as we waltz past my drawings and book shelves lining the concrete walls. We end the night on Weâ&#x20AC;&#x;ve Only Just Begun as dawn awakens me and my dreams are again locked away in my heartsafe of fondest memories. Author:

Lena Pate

places and periods of time I could only read about. I played albums in the background, as I arranged a door my dad had made into a table as my own studio. Paints, palettes and pens adorned the surface along with charcoals, pastels, and crinkled starts of stories or pictures discarded. Lumps of clay to palettes dried with acrylic littered the surface next to jars of water muddied from used brushes. I was my own worst critic, taking each piece and analyzing it as I once had all the atrocities of the world. The freedom to create, the ability to spend hours uninhibited, the time to their web editor and the editor/publisher of their newsletter. Married for thirty-five years to the love of her life, she is the mother of two and the grandmother of three. When not busy, she loves animals and works on her unpublished (yet) manuscript, which she expects to be the first of a series of five.

lot of Denise Humphrey's digital work is influenced by Japanese art, both modern and traditional. Other influences include manga, ukiyo-e and especially by some of the artists of the Superflat movement. She is interested in visually fabricating the emotions, beauty and mysterious lives of Japanese Geisha, using Adobe Illustrator. ~Denise Humphrey

enise is also intrigued by the wood block artists of 17th Japan and pictures of the floating world (ukiyo-e). She adores the evanescent, impermanent, fleeting beauty and simplicity of this style and tries to recreate the intensity and colours used in these pictures in her own artwork, using the medium of Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop with the help of Bezier curves to create her characters. View the latest at www.spankyspanglerdesign.co.uk

―May I help you?‖ ―No, you can‘t.‖ The woman vanished before Emily uttered another word. Emily suddenly became frightened, never seeing something like that before. She fell back, dropping her bags. Emily always thought the stories were just stories until that moment. Upon seeing the woman, she finally had the questions but no one to ask them. Aunt Jane was dead, her funeral had passed, and now there would be a will, saying who got what. It was final. The journey Emily thought she was on had taken a turn and without guidance from the one person she trusted with her own life.

Chapter One

eing something other than the ordinary woman she had grown up to be wasn‘t something that was on Emily‘s mind when she opened the front door. In fact, it was the last thing she ever thought about. Growing up at the Peterson Estate was as normal as it would ever get, so Emily thought. It wasn‘t until her aunt‘s death when she began learning how ordinary she really wasn‘t. She was told stories of her home so she should have put the pieces together while she had a chance to ask questions when her aunt was alive. Now the chance was gone and she only had her memories to cherish. When Emily finally made her way upstairs to unpack her bags for the short stay, she suddenly saw a woman dressed in a white gown. She thought the castle was empty until that point so she was shocked to see her standing by the window peering out.

Suddenly, through the fear, Emily was asking who she was and where did she come from. The stories her aunt had spoken of were of spirits, death, and unexplained wonders of Peterson history and beyond. If the stories were true, did that mean she was a part of that history too? Or did she just miss Aunt Jane so much she was just imagining things? What did that mean for her? Was this the reason she never met her sister? Did her sister even exist? Emily dropped to the floor as she looked into the opening of her aunt‘s room. Her brown hair fell into her eyes as she closed them. She imagined how life would‘ve been if she hadn‘t left ten years before. Maybe Aunt Jane would‘ve still been alive. Maybe her friends would still be talking to her. As she thought of her uncertain future, Emily decided to call her mother and let her know she had arrived. It was the only thing to get her mind off of what she had just seen. And then she began hearing the noises as if something was trying to scare her away. **** The next morning, Emily felt a soft touch

mber Rigby Grosjean is an imaginative author with many stories tangled in her mind. At age eleven she realized that her calling would be to write, and since then she has produced many books including Cursed Blood, Stolen Identity, and Spawn of the Curse. Her website is http://www.argrosjean.com

on her leg. She removed the blanket from her face and looked up. ―Oh thank God, it‘s you, Mom.‖ ―Of course it‘s me. Is everything all right? When you called me last night, it sounded like you had seen a ghost.‖ Emily sat up, still shaken up from the night before. ―No, I‘m not all right. This place is haunted or something.‖ Mandy just laughed, shook her head, and placed her hand on Emily‘s shoulder. ―You‘re the one who listened to all those stories growing up. You didn‘t think they were made up, did you?‖ ―Are you serious? All those stories were real? Mom, I can‘t believe that.‖

mirror along the way. She glanced and noticed how bad she looked. Normally, Emily took pride in her appearance. Her hair groomed, usually up in a pony tail. Her rubber band was somewhere in the sofa, she figured. She quickly twisted the long strands, found a pencil, and put her hair up in a bun to get it off her shoulders as she continued to the kitchen. She prepared a little something to eat for the two of them without even asking if her mother ate yet. ―So what‘s the game plan?‖ ―Well, you and I are going to clean up the place and get everything ready for Monday. The lawyer will be here tomorrow morning early. Don‘t ask me why but she was requested to spend the night here.‖ ―Really?‖

―When was the last time I ever lied to you, Emily?‖ Mandy ran her fingers through Emily‘s hair as if to straighten the mess. ―And you enjoyed hearing them so don‘t complain about it now.‖ Her mother took the blanket and began to fold it. She tossed it on a chair and sat back down. ―Was your night really that bad?‖ ―It was fine until I went upstairs and walked into Aunt Jane‘s room. I saw a woman vanish right before my eyes and then could feel something watching me as I unpacked my bags. And then after I called you, I heard noises like she was calling out to me.‖ ―Well, I‘m here now. I‘m sorry I made you stay in this place alone. I really needed to get some work done before I came down here. Are you going to be all right?‖ ―I think so. Just don‘t ask me to stay here alone another night, please.‖ Emily stood up and walked to the kitchen, passing a

―Yeah. Janet sure does have surprises, doesn‘t she?‖ ―Yes, she does. Anything else I should know about?‖ ―No.‖ The look on Mandy‘s face appeared to show that she was hiding something as she looked away. ―Anyway, after this is said and done with, you‘re welcome to return to New York if you want to.‖ ―That would be great. Aren‘t you going to eat, Mom?‖ ―In a minute. Put it on the counter and I‘ll get to it in a bit. I just wanted to clean off this table first. It‘s so dusty.‖ Emily stood there, watching her mother clean the table as she ate her breakfast. She knew how her mother was about cleanliness and hoped she wouldn‘t be stuck cleaning all weekend even though that

wouldn‘t be possible. ―Would you like me to run to the store? I haven‘t been into town yet.‖ Emily sat down at the table and continued to eat her breakfast. ―No, I need to check to see what we have first.‖ Her mother sat down and began eating. Emily had a bond with her mother so she felt confused about her reactions that morning. The castle was filled with secrets only the family knew so Emily began wondering if the family kept secrets she didn‘t know. The look on Mandy‘s face made Emily wonder even more. She knew nothing of her life before they moved to the castle after her parents had divorced. ―Are you sure those stories were real?‖ ―Emily, what has gotten into you? I told you they were, didn‘t I? Please, let‘s change the subject. There‘s so much we have to do before Monday. We can talk about that.‖ ―Why bother? The lawyer is going to come over, read the will, and then we can all leave.‖ Emily heard what she was saying and couldn‘t believe she actually said it. ―I‘m sorry; I didn‘t mean it like that.‖ ―I know. This is hard on all of us.‖ The rest of the day was spent in preparing for Monday. Everything reminded Emily of what she had left behind to move to New York with her mother. It wasn‘t something she had wanted to but she was just seventeen and still in school. At the time, her mother‘s plans out-weighed her own and she had no way of winning the fight. She missed the life she had in Goodview and always thought of returning someday. This was not the reason she wanted to come

home for. Everywhere Emily looked, she saw pictures of herself, and some of them were crazy while others were just school photos. And then she saw a picture that made her skin crawl. ―Isn‘t this Erica?‖ ―Yeah, I can‘t believe you remember her.‖ ―How could I forget? The last time I saw her, she was such a bitch.‖ ―Emily, watch your mouth. She‘s your cousin.‖ ―Not by blood, thank God. What is she up to now?‖ Emily picked up the picture and turned it over so she didn‘t have to see it again. ―I don‘t know. After we moved out, she left without saying a word to anyone. She‘s still being located.‖ ―You mean she was invited too?‖ Emily soon realized what her mother was trying to hide from her. She couldn‘t believe it. ―Emily, it doesn‘t mean she will show up. Please, stay calm. I know the two of you didn‘t get along. If she does, for Janet‘s sake, please act responsibly,‖ Mandy told her. ―I still can‘t believe she was invited.‖ ―You know, it‘s been ten years. Maybe she‘s changed.‖ ―I doubt it,‖ Emily said under her breath. ―What was that?‖ ―Oh, nothing. So when will I be meeting Tabetha?‖ Emily knew changing the subject would help her feel a little better. She

had to get her cousin off her mind some how. ―She‘s going to be here sometime on Monday. I‘m so glad you agreed to meet her finally.‖ ―What do you mean, finally?‖ ―Well, there was always an excuse.‖ ―It‘s not my fault timing sucked.‖ ―Yes, that‘s true but you never made the time. I can understand studying for those exams but you could have taken a day off from work.‖ ―Don‘t bring that up again. You know I had to work.‖ Before they knew it, silence was the only thing between them as they continued to clean up. Emily hated arguing with her mother. Monday finally came and Emily became nervous about the whole day. Was she going to like her sister? Would Erica come and ruin the whole day? If only she could‘ve been prepared for what was to come. As Emily waited for the lawyer to read the will, she passed out appetizers. She talked with the guests, learning more about her aunt when she heard a woman yelling in the hallway, just outside the den. ―Where the hell is everyone?‖ Erica yelled angrily as she slammed the front door. ―We‘re in here,‖ Mandy yelled back. Everyone was talking so yelling was the only way to communicate. ―Why did she have to come, Mom?‖

―Emily, please. She has just as much of a right to be here as everyone else. Besides, she was requested to be here so we have to allow it.‖ Erica stormed into the den as if she owned the place, throwing her coat at Emily as she entered the den. ―Put this away.‖ Emily quickly noticed how much she had changed over the years. She considered her a bitch before but now she seemed so much worse. Emily knew if Aunt Jane was alive, Erica wouldn‘t have been speaking in that tone of voice, acting like she was queen and the world was simply there to serve her. Physically, she hadn‘t changed that much. She still wore make-up like it was the end of the world and there wasn‘t enough time to wear it all. Her hair was gelled down like she was caught in the eighties. She was a mess and it took everything in Emily to stop herself from laughing at her appearance. She was trying hard to remain mad at her. ―So are we going to get this started today or what?‖ ―Just have a seat. When Aunt Jane‘s lawyer is ready, she will let us know,‖ Mandy said as she took the coat out of Emily‘s arms. Everyone calmed down when Aunt Jane‘s lawyer walked into the room. Mrs. Thornbeusch appeared sophisticated with her neatly worn suit. Emily noticed how she was dressed right off. Her suit was red and black with a striped blouse underneath. She carried her briefcase to the desk and sat down. Emily listened to the lawyer and her stories of Aunt Jane. She hung on every word, hoping for some clue as to why Erica was even there. And then she heard it—to col-

lect her father‘s things. Emily felt relieved to hear something as minor as that. As the minutes drifted by, Emily heard her part of the will and felt even more nervous than before. She wasn‘t expecting to inherit the castle and the family‘s fortune. ―I was her only daughter and she got the castle!‖ Erica yelled. At least she waited until Gloria had finished reading Aunt Jane‘s will before she threw her fit. Emily was glad of that. ―You know you never did like this castle anyway, Erica,‖ Mandy said. ―That doesn't matter. I had plans for this castle. This dump was going to make me a fortune. I was going to have a condo built at the top of the hill. The graveyard was going to be removed and turned into a small golf club. Those dead trees in the back were going to be leveled out and a fancy pool area was going to be put in,‖ Erica said and she stormed out of the room as the others watched, including Emily. Moments later, she returned. "Emily, you‘re a bitch. I am going to make your life a living hell. When I‘m done with you, you will be begging me to take this shit hole away.‖ She picked up her coat and began to leave. The guests began whispering amongst themselves and Emily could hear them. She followed Erica out of the room and stopped her halfway out. ―Now you wait a minute, Erica. Aunt Jane loved you like a daughter and she gave you everything she was. You threw that away like it was garbage. It tore her apart seeing you act the way you did. This castle was the only thing that kept her sanity. Yeah, I inherited but that was because I loved it just as much as she did and she wanted to keep that passion alive. I didn‘t know that

made me a bad person.‖ It was at that moment when Emily realized what she was saying and she was right. She really did love that castle. How much she loved the castle would soon be her test. After the fight ended, Emily turned to return to the den. Just as she did, the woman in the white gown appeared before her once more. At first sight, Emily passed out and fell to the floor. When she opened her eyes, Mandy helped her stand. ―What happened?‖ ―I saw that woman again. Mom, you really have to tell me what‘s going on?‖ Mandy helped Emily sit down in the den. Everyone stood and watched. ―I‘m sorry, everyone. Emily needs to rest.‖ Emily watched everyone leave as she continued to hear gossiping in the background. When everyone was gone, Mandy called out to Emily‘s sister. Tabetha walked down the stairs and looked at Emily. The three women walked into the den and sat down. ―Emily, this is your sister, Tabetha.‖

Bakewell Church Cross Photograph By Mark P. Henderson

Published Works by Amber Grojean

All Books are Available For Purchase @ http://lucyrosepublishing.com/AmberRigbyGrosjean.aspx http://www.argrosjean.com http://writing4all.ning.com

hrea and Nyfaria are two of the latest in a line of visual imaging from Mike. This time, instead of helping to highlight some of the type-written tales he also creates, Mike has chosen to do his interpretation of two characters from the online game, World of Warcraft.

hrea is the Blood Elf Paladin that Mike plays, while Nyfaria is a Blood Elf Death Knight controlled by a friend of his. Hunting together, the two have turned out to be quite deadly as a team. In the images, Ahrea is shown as having a quiet moment of downtime, but still ready for anything, while Nyfaria is shown deep in the thick of things; a place where she finds herself most comfortable.

ike Dovers uses several programs to bring to life the other worlds he sees in his head. At any one time, he uses Open Office, Poser, Photoshop and Bryce to help visualize his imagination. He was born in Joliet, Illinois and still resides there, surrounded by family, a basset hound named Sherlock, and several almost sentient computers..

Native American Dedication By Shiloh

Darke

My life is a story, That is seldom told, It reaches through time, To touch both young and old. My forefathers are the Eagle, The Hawk and the Wolf and the Bear. Not that you‘d give a damn, It‘s not like you care. So many tell only one side, Of our tale. Only certain things, But not the truth so well. Savages. That‘s how we were seen. Heathens, But that‘s not what we be. I am someone‘s father, And another‘s friend, Also a son myself, Before my people met their tragic end. We were denied our way of life Because mere strangers didn‘t approve. Then when they wanted our land, They forced us to move. They put us in places, They would never want. Infertile, barren, deserts. Away from the land they sought. If you ever seek to know the truth Look past the white man‘s lies. To the stories of my ancestors And hear their ghostly cries. But even in the midst of all this, I myself will never question why. Because the history of my people. Can be found anywhere under the sky.

hiloh Darke loves unique love stories; she retains her childhood fondness for Beauty and the Beast, though she puts her own distinctive spin on it. Wife, mother and soon to be grandmother, she writes novels, short stories and poems, entertaining her readers with the perennial question “What if?” http://www.theorderofeternals.com

aron (Chundar) Thomas, living in Oxfordshire, United Kingdom, was born in the east end of London, and has an unquenchable interest in the Dark Ages. Although his neighborhood was rough, he did rub elbows with a couple of now famous poets, and he performs his art in front of live audiences for fun.

Early Insomnia By Chundar/Aaron

Thomas

In the morning without warning awakened from my sleep. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s not light yet. The ground; darks met. My dream will never keep.

Muse By Truly

Ross-Wisehart

Muse does flit about Demanding complexity Accepting no less Pushing her to stretch Reach beyond her boundaries Grasp for something more Convinced of her strength Casting light upon her doubt Seeing how she soars Muse does stop to smile In quiet satisfaction Watching her with pride.

Photography By Poppy Silver

ruly has been writing poetry of one sort or another for as long as she can remember. A difficult journey has made it so that she views her writing as "her heart in print". She writes from inspiration, memories, and desire.

est Now my Fallen Son By:

MJ Goodnow

Rest now my fallen son. Slumber in your peace. Dying from all of the pain your life has been put in restraint. Now itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s beginning to fade. Please, do not die in vain. No healing power for injury Blood stains like water Escape with all of my tears and that fear. Oh, the candles they drip and burn. To keep out all the danger Tears continue with your cries. You'll cry...before death. You'll cry...before death. Before death... No little smile From those lovely eyes Even in your cries. I never can blame you A motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s love will never end. Even in those cries I hold you to me. Even at your end No reason to fear My loving dear. You are here with me. I shall never let you go. Rest now in the light, my fallen son.

y Heart Print By:

Doc Wilde

My heart print is my signature, for the entire world to see. For all the friends that I have met, who mean so much to me. It's my way of saying, if you need something, please call. So many folks have touched my life, I'm grateful for you all. Where would I be without my friends? Thanks for your love and understanding, In this hectic world today where life is so demanding. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;ve been there for me, through thick and thin, and in my time of need. Without my friends and family, how on earth would I succeed? Time doesn't wait for anyone, oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s life goes by so fast. Cherish every moment, make every moment last. Tell your loved ones that you love them, take time out to kneel and pray. Be thankful for the blessings that God bestows on you each day. Enjoy your surroundings, the sun, the stars, the moon. Enjoy the rainbows and the sunsets, and the flowers that you see in bloom. Mother Nature and her miracles are there for everyone. Live life to the fullest, be proud of who you have become. God gave us all a heart print, he said, a heart is a beautiful thing. Don't ever change the way you are, don't be a puppet on a string. My heart print is my signature, for the entire world to see. Won't you share your heart print and come and spend some time with me?

oc "Wildecat" Wilde was born in Utah on a farm, survived Vietnam, attended Utah Technical School, writes poetry and has had his own band for twenty years. Married to Sammy (his soul-mate), he loves Harley motorcycles and kids. He and Sammy share seven children and twelve grandchildren.

Auracourt

By: Robert P. Eustace From the Aenigmate Series, Altarpiece Construction /Combined Process on Wood and Metal 25"h x 19"w x 3"d, 2003

The Canticle of the Celestial Night Rose

By: Robert P. Eustace

From the Aenigmate Series, Altarpiece Construction /Combined Process on Wood and Metal 26"h x 20"w x 4.5"d, 2006

Image : Seed of Divine Life

By: Robert P. Eustace From the Aenigmate Series, Altarpiece Construction /Combined Process on Wood and Metal, 25"h x 19"w x 3"d, 2003 (revised 2008)

The Celestial Rose : Circles of Sanctity

By: Robert P. Eustace Experimental Room Sized (Temporal) Installation/ Photo Documented, Approx. size area: 72"l x 60"w ,

orn April, 1957 in Inwood - Manhattan, NYC.... Robert Eustace attributes his eventual „calling‟ in Art to various central roots: playtime in the surrounding Park System‟s 'primeval wilderness'; discovering mystery and wonder amongst the art, fragrances and shadows found in the traditional Catholic church; and being mentored by the Primitive Expressionist painter, Peter Dean. His work evokes a mysticism of memory and yearning for the transcendent.

o Ahead, Ask Me

By â&#x20AC;&#x153;Gomer LePoetâ&#x20AC;? AKA

David Nelson I was walking down the street just the other day, when this gentleman stopped me right dead in my tracks. He said he was wondering if he could inquire how the world got this way? I told him this was quite a complicated question. There were so many factors involved, it was impossible. Let me grab my straw hat and dancing cane. Darfishy! Some music, please. Maybe some razz matazz piano. One, two, three, four If you wanna know what times it is, go ahead and ask me. If you needed to know what day it was, I would most surely reply. Are you curious about stocks and bonds? You may certainly inquire. But the condition of this world? Please, don't ask me why. If you wanna know who sang that song, go ahead and ask me. If you want directions to the moon, I'll point it out for you. If you need to know the atomic weight, of a cosmic ray bombarding. But the conditions of this world, nary one single clue have I. So please, don't ask me why. Things just seemed to be more simple in the past, but we had to make a change, we knew it wouldn't last. If you wanna know the confetior' go ahead and ask me. I'll most gladly sing it for you, you just pick the key. Where to find a grocery store, on South highway 98? Just how the world got this way, I'm totally clueless. But go ahead and ask me why. Yes, go ahead, ask me.

D D

avid Nelson

avid Nelson (our very own Gomer LePoet) joined Mind's Eye early this year. A musician and songwriter, he is learning to write poetry and prose, finding them a challenge after a career as an IT Consultant. A veteran at writing lyrics, he will soon be the master of song, poetry, prose and computer code.

Peace Wilson Interview by: Poppy Silver

usic is an important part of everybodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s life, so many unsigned bands or artists are never noticed and there are a lot of talented people out there!

Q. What kind of music has inspired you in your work? A. Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, David

This interview is with Peace Wilson from Minds Eye, who is both a poet and musician. Q. First of all, I would like to ask how you would class your music Peace? Do you create music with other artists at all? A. I made an album with another muso several years ago. Since then I've recorded solo live. I gravitate to the crossroads of alternative and classic rock -- laced with jazz, r & b, ska elements. That said, I don't mind being utterly sparse. Q. Can you tell us what instruments you play or have a love for? A. Vocals, guitar, bass, a dash of keyboards, drum machine programming -- getting interested in hand drums.

Bowie, Rolling Stones, The Police, Joni Mitchell, Sonic Youth, and a plethora of influences too numerous to name.

Q. You write poetical lyrics, it would seem Peace, Could you tell us a few of your favorite authors or literature that inspires you?

James Ellroy, Steve Erickson, Jorge Luis Borges. The cumulative gist is some pulp meets modernist/ postmodernist literature meets integral studies meets the Nondual wisdom tradition. I also find the Godard film, Alphaville; the Tarkovsky film Solaris; and the Haynes film I'm Not There particularly talismanic. Q. I noticed, listening to â&#x20AC;&#x2022;Looking Glass Worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2013; that there is kind of wake up call theme to the song, a recognition that peace is pure love. Is this something your other songs carry too? Or do you just go with the mood so to speak? Vocally, you remind me slightly of Nick Cave!

A. Octavio Paz, Jean Gebser, Kathy Acker, William Gibson, Donald Barthelme, Adi Da, Osho, Tom Robbins, Richard Brautigan, Anais Nin,

A. Vocally, I've heard feedback re Leonard Cohen, David Bowie, Jim Morrison, but never the idiosyncratic Mr. Cave. He's another muso that writes books though. His recent The Death of Bunny Munro was interesting. His rendition of Cohen's "Tower of Song" is whacked! The recurrent themes in all my songs, are the same as what propels my primary prose: parables of love, desire, awareness, meaning. As Osho said, Love and Awareness are two sides of the same coin. If you're devotionally inclined, you'll eventually find Awakening via Love; if you're contemplatively inclined, you'll eventually find deep

Love via Awareness. Obviously, one usually has a strongly developed background sense of Reality in this consideration, an intuition that the world is rather half-baked, as the Gnostics always knew. Cognitivelyaffectively, though, I'm comprised most consistently of Zen Mind, and Gnostic/Camus-like scorn. After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, too. Not knowing is one thing; refusing the permeatively obvious is another. And the species has very little credibility in that regard. I can have a conversation with a wellmeaning person, poet, even, and they might show interest in the perennial wisdom. However, as soon as it comes against habits of acculturation, the examination stops. I'm not talking about idealism or perfection, I'm talking about the fundamental lack of credibility re conscious exploration everywhere extant. Platform Spirit Intelligence has been immanently, imminently, and eminently available for about 5000 years. Especially clear for 2500 years, since the advent of Gautama Buddha. Integral studies, via Jean Gebser or Ken Wilber, affords a living psychoarcheological sense of the assumptions of key worldviews: archaicmagic-mythic-mental-integral, and thus a well-differentiated approach to transparency, that essence of Nonduality, Tao, Zen, Advaita Vedanta, and all the wild card manifestations therein. Given the facts, you'd think

more people would enter the zone of relevance instead of repeatedly being baggage-handlers. James Joyce wrote "History is the nightmare from which I'm trying to awaken." For how long, is anybody's guess. Q. I know you are a member of http:// Minds-eye.ning.com, are there any other websites that you are a member of where you promote your work? A. WritersCafe.org/Paxxx5, Scribd.com/ Paxxx5, SoundClick.com/ peacewilson. . .Facebook, MySpace, Gaia under Peace Wilson. Q. Do you play live shows at the moment? Or have an album available anywhere at this moment in time? A. Not currently playing live shows. Plan on redoing a video documentary. Earlier CD available at cafepress.com/peacesongs. Plan to make a CD of new songs as well.

Q. And that question that always happens to be fitted in - what would you say are a few of your all time favourite songs? A. "The Future," by Leonard Cohen; "Diamond Sea" by Sonic Youth; "Jumpin' Jack Flash," Rolling Stones; "Invisible Sun," The Police; "Heaven's in Here," David Bowie; "Knives Out," Radiohead; "People are Strange," The Doors; "Amelia," Joni Mitchell; "No Ordinary Love," Sade; "Love Minus Zero/No Limit," Bob Dylan; "Beautiful Day," U2; and many more.

eace WIlson

WilderSoul Song Lyrics by Peace Wilson

Sweet lips, she gives me radiohead see stars, Mars is on a code red I don't recall the name of any torment amnesia's cool postmodern moment Twilight sudden fever blast forgotten goal Alien love handmade to last for Wildersoul Sonic confessions take me over that chord's the perfect midnight lover Grrrl moans more blue note fresh tomorrows pure joy's complete excess of sorrow Twilight sudden fever. . . Alone again while phantom memories linger wonder why the goddess has a stinger Will-o-wisp yet fleshly pure emotion hot & tight & sighing like an ocean Twilight sudden fever. . . (c2003, 2010 Peace Wilson

C C

hristopher Early By Tom Sterner

hristopher likes to wake up early. He presses the red button on the coffee maker so Mommy’s coffee will be ready when she gets out of bed. He goes to the cupboard and gets his favorite bowl. It has a smiley face in the bottom and ‘Christopher’ written in cursive on the side. It’s kinda crooked cause he made it himself last year in the second grade. His teacher, Mrs. Garcia, said it slipped when she fired it. Still, it’s a good bowl. He likes the way it makes him feel. There’s a special box Mommy keeps with her sewing things just for Christopher. It has a spool of thread and a large sewing needle in it. On special early mornings he gets it and sets it next to his bowl on the table. He climbs up on a chair and takes a box of Froot Loops from the high shelf. He puts the chair away and fills his bowl with his favorite cereal, smiling at the goofy bird on the box. Finally he sits down. He opens the tin sewing box and takes out the spool of thread. He rolls out a length of it, just right, then breaks it off. He licks the end of the thread, twists it between his fingers, guides it carefully through the eye of the needle. He stabs the needle through the

holes of the Froot Loops in his bowl, then holds it up and releases them, watching them wiggle down the string. When there is only about six inches of string showing, he holds the ends together and makes a knot. He slips the circle of thread over his head and hums a little song his Daddy made for him. He repeats this procedure thirteen more times, except the new circles hold only five Froot Loops each. Christopher carries the thirteen tiny necklaces in his cupped hands to the window of his bedroom. He sets them of the sill, then slides the window open. He arranges the necklaces in a nice neat row, then proceeds to wait for his Winter friends. They always come, first one, then two, then all the rest. They hop and twist their tiny heads, wild eyes and Christopher flies.

He used to play outside. Daddy and Mommy would hold his hands and swing him, one two three, up in the air. Mommy would push him in the swing and sometimes, when Daddy went, he would grip the back of Christopher’s swing and run all the way under him, flinging Christopher high into the air. Christopher would beg for these ‘cannon balls’ and Mommy would finally give him and Daddy one of her ‘serious’ looks and say, “Just one!” That’s how Christopher’s leg got broken. When Daddy went under him, Christopher felt a whoosh of air between his bottom and the swing. Then he hung there for a while, suspended in the air. Sometimes he can still feel himself there, floating, before falling to the ground. His leg was twisted and it hurt real bad so Mommy and Daddy bundled him up

and rushed him to the hospital. Sure enough, his leg was broken. The doctor set it and put it in a cast but that wasn’t the worst of the problem. Christopher was a bleeder, a hemophiliac. So they kept him in the hospital for a couple of days, helping his blood and monitoring him. No more ‘cannon balls’. A year later, when Christopher began to feel very sick, no park either. He had a big grown-up disease and people were afraid of and for him. That’s when he began to make necklaces and fly away with his new friends. Mommy and Daddy weren’t happy anymore. They wore sad smiles and talked and wept late into the night. Christopher heard them but pretended not to know. They took him to lots of doctors and hospitals and sometimes when they returned home and Christopher felt a little better it almost seemed as if they could all be happy again. Until the next time. One morning Christopher’s legs hurt so bad he had to use the walkerthing to make it from the bedroom to the kitchen. He climbed painfully onto the chair and almost fell getting his Froot Loops from the high shelf. He made it though. The pain tried to make him cry but he wouldn’t let it. The house was already full of tears. He started the coffee and made his necklaces. This time, only this time, he forced his stiff aching fingers to

make two extra big ones. He put them in a circle around Mommy and Daddy’s coffee cups. He put the thirteen tiny necklaces on his fingers, wearing them like happy delicious rings. He gripped the walker-thing, careful not to damage the gifts he had made for his friends. He was kneeling on his bed, arms resting on the window sill, small hands palm up and reaching out the window. He was too tired to take the rings off but it didn’t matter. This time, only this time, his friends flew to him, their wings fluttering kisses against his face, their tiny mouths careful not to injure him as they walked his palms, then flew away with the gifts he had made. And this time, only this time, Christopher flew away with them. Christopher’s Mommy is mad. She drives her car with tears in her eyes, her face a mindless contortion of pain’s window. There are seven directions to go, she knows, East and West, North and South, Up into the Heavens, Down into Mother Earth, finally into Self. She ignores all six of the former and swims her tears into the latter. Mommy, what’s the matter? She drives to the car park and walks in her trance to the place with the marble stone. Out of her bag comes a crooked little bowl, a tiny tin box and a colorful carton of breakfast cereal with a car-

toon caricature of a goofy bird on the front. She sets the bowl on the stone and sits herself down in the snow. Her dress is old and her legs are cold as she makes a necklace for Christopher, then one for herself. She drops hers over her head, then makes a circle around the bowl with the other. She proceeds then to make the small ones, how many, how many, she wonders. She is mad for the answer as if it might fly her Christopher back into her starving arms. Christopher’s Daddy is sad. He drives his truck with fear in his eyes. He drives North and South, East and West, but never ventures into the haunted worlds of the remaining three directions. He always finds her there, after all, at the far ends of the path of those four, physically anyway.

against the silence of the dawn. He tries to talk to her, to make her wear a blanket against the dark early morning chill. He loves her too much and forever and she pulls him down and down to sit next to her in the cold snow. She takes his face in her hands and asks him, â&#x20AC;&#x153;How many, how many?â&#x20AC;? He sits with her, joins her forlorn and lost agony. They weep in their Winter hearts like two mad and lost, unhappy children, beseeching the Gods.

They lay down as the sun comes low and flat, out of the East, one on each side of the stone. These are the places they have made Photograph Provided for themselves, By Allison Drake their hands ww.room-mom101.blogspot.com reaching, fingers touching, over the mouth of the smiling bowl. The sun brings his tiny messengers, with their sweet songs of the crisp winter morning, wings smooth and fast

Their bodies are numb and that is good. The dumb pain of their mutual loving and hating, lost in the freezing sorrow of endless waiting. Dear God, forever is here. Christopher likes to wake up early. Christopher Early won the short story contest and was published by Writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Room Magazine 2003.

To find out more about Tom Sterner and his works Visit: http://wordwulf.weebly.com

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