Nightmares with Nova: Issue 01

best monsters are our

given form.

make sense on the level of a dream— or a

LETTER FROM THE

DEAR READER,

It has been an arduous trek through the last couple of years. We’ve come a long way from being locked in our houses, forced to watch the world be set ablaze, and flourish once again. The world was quiet for a long time, which gave all of us time to convene and face our demons and our angels.

The theme of this limited publication is nightmares, which aims to confront the thoughts that roamed our minds in perhaps the darkest times our recent generations have witnessed. We have worked to create a collection of memories or thoughts that can make your heart flutter and your breath draw short, either from the terror of a nightmare unimagined or the relief of a horror now behind you.

Either way, the heart and soul that our contributors have poured into their works will continue to stand beside you as you journey through this zine, with brave faces and

THE CURE

by Marie Kallestad

THE CHILDREN OF CERNUNNOS

by Sarah Keener

In the dark, they bloomed

Delicate petals stretching outward to bask in the ethereal light Nursed by Cernunnos, the lord of the forest They bloomed in the pitch black

Where only the glimmering eyes of the nocturnal could gaze upon their beauty

And delicately he plucked them from their earthy home

Twisting their stems into slender arms and legs, Granting them wings upon their backs

Scooping clay from the banks of River Sullane, Then molding it into angled faces, Grasping the strands of moonlight and forming them into wisps of hair. Dressing them in dainty white petals

Which reflected the moonbeams onto piles of leaves and branches below. And with their delicate fingertips, They too cared for the flowers, And they bloomed.

REASSERTION

by Brayden Leach

With enough pain, knees become hands, hands become claws Nails sharpen and contort into crooked, jagged teeth Bone reshapened by violent mental contortion

Nature burns against the sinner’s hands, red hot and molten From years of self-righteous forges and ailing dissonance Uniqueness succumbs to the darkest of flames

Skin forfeits its softer side for fortitude harder than the Taskmaster’s steel. Harder than words sharpened by cynic teeth and the dastard’s forked tongue

Just as the Ironworker, hard and earnest, feasts upon her own blood. The crimson-soaked whip, brutally braided Laughing across her back. Licking at her dripping resolve

The worker laughs too, hard enough to tear skin and crack bone Her chest split open, ribcage reaching out like mournful Giving Hands It’s skeletal fingers, ivory and skyward, revealing a stolen heart.

ZOMBIE CRAWL

by Samantha Ingraham

APARTMENT 213

by Brooke Buchanan

SIGNED, YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE

by Alex Lyon

I know you better than your truest self, Having submerged myself in your deepest being And deconstructed each muscle and bone. So I can crawl through your vessels Until my claws reach your heart.

I will prey on your love, Scraping the joy from the backs of your eyes. Your essence under my nails, I watch it gather Into a form more human than you, Then disintegrate at my feet.

—Your Worst Nightmares

AN ODE TO OUR MOTHER

by Shaina Edmonds

Once, I imagined what life might be if I were free.

I was not free.

For as long as I could remember, I had been stuck up here, in this drafty attic, my only visitor the maid, who brought up my meals and set me a bath.

It was always the same young woman, with her blond hair kept tidy and pulled back, a crisp white apron, and shining black shoes. Anything I said to her was ignored. It was as if I was a ghost, or mute. Her eyes never met mine. She would unlock the door, set a tray of soup or whatever gruel they had prepared down on the floor, and immediately leave, once again turning the key in the lock. She was my only visitor, the only person I saw, for brief moments, twice a day.

It was lonely up there, wasting the days away by myself. I often found myself crying, wailing even, which was met with pounding on the door and beratement from my mother. My tears always felt like ice against my fiery cheeks, hot with frustration.

I didn’t—don’t—know what I did to deserve my mother’s anger. It has been so long, the girl I was then must have been very bad to receive such a punishment. Must have done something terrible. Perhaps something dangerous, to warrant my forced solitude. But I cannot remember. I try to tell my mother through the door that I am good now, but I never hear her respond, or even step up to the door.

I must have been locked up there for at least a year. The only way I could tell the time was the small window next to my bed–unable to be opened, and too small to jump through. I saw the trees in the garden below blossom, then leaves fall, and then one day frost crept along the glass.

I imagined myself, unbound, able to open the door and escape. Escape was all I wanted.

I imagined a girl, happy, a girl in my place, who lived a pleasant life. A girl with a loving mother, and freedom, and anything else she wished.

And, once upon a time, she lived.

At night, I imagined I was this girl, able to slip through walls, like a shining mist. I imagined I could observe the others who lived in this house, sleeping soundly as if I was not locked in a room above them. Their snores echoed off the old walls. My attic was cold and dark, but below, there were fireplaces that crackled throughout the evening, dying to embers by the time the sun rose.

The girl lived for me. She was able to pick the lock of the door, a skill I envied, and often beckoned me outside, but I refused, afraid of what my mother would do if I were caught. Yet still, again and again, she beckoned. The girl could slink down the stairs, steal fruit from the kitchen as a midnight snack, and sometimes, if I were quiet enough, I could hear the maids whispering through the walls the next day about missing food. Sometimes, I awoke with sticky-sweet fingers.

I imagined what I would do to my mother if I were free, if she loved me and changed her mind. Once, I imagined I would hug her, and she would weep for forgiveness. She would wrap her arms around me, cradle my head to her chest, and her baptismal tears would make me forget my imprisonment.

More often, now, I imagine the girl scratching her, jumping on her like an animal. Screeching. Using her claws to exact an unholy kind of revenge. And often, when I thought like this, I would feel shame within myself and wonder if maybe I deserved to stay up in the attic. Maybe the girl I was before had behaved in such a manner.

But one day, a day I remember well, the girl awoke me. The full moon was high in the sky, a sliver of blue light shining through my measly window. The girl brought a pale finger to her lips, and led me to the door. She opened the door as if it wasn’t locked, beckoned me to her, and traversed down the steps. She knew where every loose board was, skipping the steps that creaked, and made her silent descent.

I watched, curious, from the doorway. She slinked away without a sound, leaving me behind. I wondered where she was going and why she wanted me to follow. I have to admit, I was curious to see the rest of the house–had anything changed since I was forced into the attic? Sudden memories of family gatherings, of visitors in the drawing room, of holidays, swept through my mind, and I felt a tumble of emotions–sadness, grief, anger. How much had I missed out on? How much life was I missing? I could almost taste the memory of sugary holiday cookies and roasts, of hot chocolate and blue taffy from the shop a mile into town.

The girl returned.

Her skin was blue in the night glow. She wore a grin that stretched her features tightly across her face. There were circles under her eyes, and her dark hair looked like a bird’s nest, just like mine. She hid her hands behind her back, like a guilty child, slowly ascending the stairs. As she approached, I saw her eyes were bloodshot–her bones pushed against her thin skin, which seemed dull in the dim light. Her nightgown seemed torn, the dirty hem brushing the wooden floor, which felt like ice beneath our feet.

She stopped before me, and revealed what she had brought me, a glint in her eye. A knife.

Now, I am free.

CONSUME & DESENSITIZED

by Doniven Long

GASOLINE

by Laura Lucas

DEMONIA

by Miguel Wilson

some nights i sleep with coffee by my bedside so when i rise the darkness won’t keep me hostage otherwise i’m bound by the straps of slumber i feel them crisscrossing, tightening, constricting all while the light of my room fades away and i think of what might be lurking above me be it whispers or hums or scratching from far-off creatures and I stay the scary bits telling me to run but i’m safely lost in my bed and the cinnamon sticks under my pillow placed to save me to guard against what remains unknown have rolled beneath my bed and i’m no longer sure perhaps i never was safe yet it’s too late and as darkness envelops the corners of my walls meeting at endless sharpened points i wonder if i’m falling or ascending if finally i have been stretched enough to no longer feel human but some other thing a creature of my own creation only just before slipping away still bound to my bed i wake to the sound of my phone buzzing the worst nightmare of all a world outside of myself and life away from my bed.

LOOMING

by Arayah Sanders

BENEVOLENT MALEDICTION

by Grace Yochem

Monkshood, cattails, yew, and roe Bound together, to and fro Herbs swung down, treetop trundles Tucked in tiny little bundles Made for enemies far and wide That the Witch’s eye has spied Murderers, thieves, and larcens all Subject to the mortal call Of saccharine and honeyed buns Onion soup, ladled from The cauldron pot in blackest night Kettles’ ire and witches’ delight

Steaming, stewing, toil and boil, Witch wax endless on man’s new foil Hearty laughter in a once-great hall Rambunctious they, the answered call A dinner on this hallowed night From kettle’s ire and Witch’s delight

Deeply breathe the smoke and smell Of rosemary, thyme; finally quell The hunger that has built all day From evil deeds that cause dismay They slurp, slobber, suck it down Take their fill, head back to town

Tucked into their down-stuffed beds

Resting now on bile-filled heads

Gluttons take their last goodnight

Not for death, instead for sight

Blinded by their greed and guilt

Eyes glazed by the chamomile

Slumber’s end of given gifts

Dreams to sow irrevocable rifts

Between mind and body, body and soul

Sanity easily taken for toll Eldritch monsters lurk in depths

As dreaming lumbers evening steps

A town driven mad in one fell swoop Witch smiling gently, perched on her stoop Thoughts of her lark, torn-away daughter Persecuted, tortured, lamb to the slaughter Gentle, kind, no bone left un-good No bone left unburnt on the ground where she stood

The sightless squall of thronging men Screamed for mercy, for god, for ken Scratches on skin, on doors, on bark Waking provides no escape from the dark Witch dreams were haunted, now theirs too Nightmares live on; this she well knew

PROTECTION

by Scotty Townsend